Tainted Lilies Read Online Free Page A

the war with the British finally found us? Or Governor Claiborne’s troops from New Orleans? Who? What?”
    Laffite ignored Xavier, who chased after him, trying to give him a clean linen shirt. Dominique You followed in his brother’s wake, his large feet looking like twin pirogues and his bearded chin as gray as Spanish moss after a hard freeze.
    “See there,” Dom said when they reached the wide veranda. He focused a spyglass on billowing columns of oily smoke rising over the Gulf. “Silas Browne and his crew of vultures took the Sea Raven out scavenging before dawn. They fired on an American ship.”
    “An American ship? Armed or unarmed?”
    “A merchantman, Boss. No guns,” Dominique answered in a grave tone. He paused, a nerve twitching beneath one of the powder bum scars beneath his eye, waiting for the explosion sure to come from Laffite.
    “Those goddamn, filthy bloodsuckers! They know my orders: ‘No attacks on American ships or merchantmen flying any flag but Spain’s.’ Did Vincent Gambi send them out, or is this Browne’s own idea?”
    Dominique gave a Gallic shrug. “Who knows? And what difference will it make? The same will happen to the passengers and crew either way.” You drew his forefinger across his throat with a slitting sound.
    “I’ll be damned if that’s so!” Laffite growled. “Let’s go!”
    Laffite’s boots ate into the sandy soil with great, angry strides as he headed for the beach. The tall privateer, whose features bespoke his mixed French, Spanish, and Jewish heritage, stopped short, breathing hot curses when he reached the shoreline. The American ship lay like a wounded sea bird on the waves, her cannon-mangled sails flapping in the slack breeze like broken wings. Heavy layers of smoke roiled skyward, obscuring the morning sun.
    “It’s too late, Boss,” Dominique said quietly.
    “Not too late for me to hang Browne from his own yardarm! Come on. He’s had his fun; now we’ll have ours!”
    The dying merchantman had drifted toward shore, riding the incoming tide. Not waiting to board and set sail in one of the larger vessels, Laffite leaped aboard a long boat near shore. Dominique Youx, Reyne Beluche, and several others rushed to join him. All were silent as muscled arms plied oars, stroking their way toward the crippled ship. Soon they were bumping through flotsam—bits of torn deck, smashed wine barrels, shredded sail, a waterlogged Paris gown.
    “At least we haven’t sighted any bodies,” Laffite mumbled, as much to himself as to the others.
    The words had hardly passed his tight-drawn lips when he saw a white turban bob above the water some ten yards to starboard. A dark hand groped skyward, then the figure sank beneath the waves again.
    Not bothering to remove his boots, Laffite dived overboard and pulled with strong strokes to the place the victim had surfaced.
    He circled in the turquoise water for a moment, drawing great drafts of air into his lungs before he plunged under the waves. The salt water stung his eyes, but eerie sunlight penetrated the clear depths, allowing him fair vision for his search.
    Down and down he swam, letting a fine trail of bubbles surface from his flared nostrils. In no time, it seemed, his air was almost used up. He would have to go to the top in another few seconds. His lungs ached. His eyes and throat were on fire. Then he spotted her, thanks to the white tignon about her head. She hung suspended like a limp puppet in the water. With forceful kicks and amazing will, he coerced himself to stay under long enough to capture the body and drag it through the water to air and life.
    His men, sure of their Boss’s ability to catch up, even with a drowning victim in tow, had rowed the short distance away to the jacob’s ladder hanging over the side of the disabled ship.
    When Laffite hoisted the woman’s head above water, he spotted Dominique starting up the rope ladder, his dagger clenched between his teeth. The others were