The Return of the Prodigal. Кейси Майклс

profit. Besides, now that England had won the war, the Comte could find himself dangling at the end of a rope for attempting such a trick.

      Then again, he might have thought Rian’s family could be his entrée into London society if he were to escort him home to England. Was that too far-fetched a notion? The Comte wouldn’t be the only Frenchman eager to make a splash in English society. Especially one who would appear to like to be allied with the victors? Yes, this prospect made more sense.

      There had to be a reason that the man had taken him in, kept him here for four long months. A hope of some reward. Certainly, from Lisette’s description of the man, he was not a saint. The man could be nothing more than an opportunist.

      But old habits die hard, and the one of looking at every unknown person with suspicion harder than most, especially for a Becket.

      “If you say so, Lisette, then I imagine I have to believe what you believe. One way or another, the Comte sees me as a paying guest. We leave tomorrow evening, all right?”

      She nodded furiously. “You will stay here, in your bed all of the day, and I will tell everyone not to disturb you, that I am in charge, caring for your new fever. You will rest, take your medicine without arguing with me, and I will bring you food, more than enough for your needs, so that we can pack it, take it with us.”

      “No more medicine, Lisette.”

      “But you must, Rian! You know you’re not yet entirely well. What would I do with you, on the road, if you really were to fall into another fever?”

      “Leaving me behind would be one answer,” he said, smiling at her fierce expression. “Very well, another thing for us to discuss at some other time. We should probably delay our departure until after dark.”

      Once again, she nodded, and then smiled, as if delighted that he shared her opinion. “We’ll walk to the outskirts of Valenciennes, where we should be able to hire a coach. Not a good one, I’m afraid, as that might raise suspicion, but one that will serve our needs. From there, we’ll stop whenever you feel the need to rest, until we arrive at the coast. A pity your fine English uniform was ruined. Does a ship passage cost a terrible amount of money? There are twenty-two gold coins in the Comte’s purse, but I don’t know what English coins are worth.”

      “More than twenty? We should be able to hire our own small boat, Lisette, with that much money. One that can take us across the Channel to Dover in a few hours. Will you feel safe from the Comte then?”

      “Oh, yes, I will. And then I will be English. And then you will take me to your family and they will shower me with kisses for bringing their prodigal home safe to them. I will be the heroine, Rian,” she said, snuggling against him. “I like that.”

      It was so easy to smile when Lisette was being silly. So easy to forget anything else when she slid her hand onto his belly, then trailed her fingers lower, teasing him, arousing him, taking him out of this world and into one where he was still whole.…

      CHAPTER THREE

      “LORINGA, YOU FRIGHTENED ME!”

      “Nothing frightens you, devil’s child. If you fail when you leave us, it will be that lack of respect for fear’s warnings that will be your destruction. But you are wise to fear me while you are here.”

      Lisette watched as her father’s constant companion, the self-proclaimed Voodoo priestess, plodded across the carpet and sat down heavily, glared at her in the candlelight.

      “Don’t be silly. I don’t fear you,” Lisette protested as she continued to pack a small portmanteau, hastily shoving in the few bits of simple clothing she had carefully chosen for her journey. “I should have said that you startled me. That is all, Loringa. Because I don’t believe in you.”

      “You say you eat only from the common pot,” Loringa reminded her, smiling, the gap between her front teeth seemingly growing wider by the day. “You believe.”

      “I believe you are capable of drawing up potions, poisons. I believe that it’s you who keeps my own papa chewing on those strange leaves, so that he rarely eats, he rarely sleeps. I believe you are evil pretending to do good. But none of that makes you a priestess.”

      “I am Dahomey. Your maman, she was born in New Orleans, she understood the power of the Voodoo. She entrusted your life to me, remember? Voodoo is powerful. And I am the most powerful of the powerful. I saved that boy, didn’t I? Nobody but me. He was as good as dead when he was brought here.”

      Lisette didn’t have an answer for any of that, so she continued her packing, sweeping her brushes and a hand mirror from the dresser and tossing both on the bed.

      “Not those, servant girl,” Loringa scolded. “A teacher’s daughter, an orphan working as a lowly servant, does not have pretty silver brushes.”

      “I’ll simply tell him I stole them.”

      “And that will explain away the initials carved on their backs?”

      L.M.B. Lisette Marguerite Beatty. Lisette replaced the brushes and mirror without further comment. She supposed she should have thought about that herself. Truth be told, the woman really did unnerve her. Still, the brushes and mirror had been her papa’s first gift to her. She longed to take them with her, have something of him to look at, to remember why she was doing what she would do.

      After Loringa left, she’d pack them. The old woman worried too much.

      “Don’t you have something else to do, Loringa? Sticking pins in one of those strange dolls, saying your rosary while you burn feathers and stroke that ugly fat snake of yours? If the nuns knew what goes on here, they’d be telling me to run back to them before lightning strikes from the sky, cleaving this house—and your head—in two.”

      The old woman sat back in the chair and laughed, the sound rich and full, belying her years. “You mock me because you do not understand. I have the power. Your papa, he knows this, and is grateful. Who do you think keeps him safe all these years?”

      “So you say,” Lisette grumbled, closing the portmanteau and fastening the two leather straps. One day she would succeed in convincing her papa to send Loringa away, and theirs would be a normal life, the sort she had dreamed of as she grew up alone and lonely in the convent, believing herself to be without family. “So you seem to have convinced him. It makes my stomach sick.”

      “Sick with the jealousy you feel. Because he needs me, and he does not need you, devil’s child. You merely amuse him, even now. But you wish to make him love you,” Loringa said, pushing herself up, her colorful skirts covering feet she could no longer house comfortably in anything other than a pair of man’s slippers she had cut holes in so that her misshapen bones could protrude in places. Her coarse, graying black hair was in a thick braid wrapped tightly about her head, her round cheeks had begun to lose their fight with the years and her hands were large, like a man’s, and gnarled, like old tree branches.

      If Loringa was so powerful as she kept saying, why didn’t she fix herself—her hands, her feet? In her body, she was an old woman.

      But the eyes? Loringa’s black bean eyes were alive. Too alive. And they saw too much, just as the ears heard too much.

      Loringa was, to Lisette, a malevolent spirit. At the same time, it was Loringa who told her stories of other days, years ago, and of her father’s bravery, of his daring adventures in the islands. Of his sorrow.

      “I do more than amuse him. He needs me, Loringa. He came for me as soon as he could. And he has allowed me this most important mission.”

      The priestess shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose so. He loved the mother of the child. He is curious about you. A man grows older, and he begins to think about death, and who he might leave behind to remember him. A man is never dead, while someone remembers him. I will go before him, to make ready for him, so it will be left to you to keep his memory.”

      Lisette