Lily

Book 3: Bayou Bad Boys

by Kathleen Bittner Roth

Genres: Southern; Historical Romance; American Romance

Synopsis

For fans of Rosemary Rogers and Janelle Taylor, a sweeping New Orleans romance of wild passion, dark secrets and forbidden love . . . Returning home to his beloved New Orleans after months in Jamaica, Bastien Thibodeaux reluctantly agrees to take two passengers on board his ship—an older English gentleman tending his ailing younger wife, Lily. That’s their story, at least. But as Bastien uses his skills as a Cajun healer to help Lily, he becomes convinced of two things: She is not who she claims to be. And though she may be out of bounds for the illegitimate son of a bayou priestess, their attraction is decidedly mutual. When Lily’s father bequeathed her his entire estate, he unwittingly made her a target. She barely escaped England alive, aided by her godfather. New Orleans holds both temptation and danger as she convalesces in Bastien’s lavish residence. A single night together is all she dares allow. But once they succumb, there can be no denying this desire, or how much they’ll risk in its name . . . “Roth brings the heat of New Orleans right through the pages in both the romantic chemistry and appealing descriptions of the area.” — Booklist

Release date: June 29, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 448

Sample

Chapter One

Kingston, Jamaica—1859

“Like hell we’ll be taking on passengers!” Clad in nothing but a pair of low-hanging linen trousers, Bastien Thibodeaux barreled down the gangplank, bare feet slapping wood, sweat beading his arms and chest. He landed on the shipping company’s dock with such force it trembled. “In case you failed to notice, Monsieur Fellowes, my crew and I are loading bananas and coconuts, not people.”

Fellowes, the Englishman he’d hired to replace him as manager of the shipping company, stood before Bastien, unruffled. “A mere two persons—an English gentleman and his wife.”

Bastien shoved a hand through his hair and huffed. “Why did you not consult me before booking their passage, s’il vous plaît?”

Fellowes shrugged. “Mr. Talbot has urgent business in New Orleans and is eager to be on his way. They arrived from England late yesterday.”

Bastien shot Fellowes a hard glare. “They are traveling from England to N’awlins via Jamaica? Vous n’avez pas trouvé inhabituel cet itinéraire?”

“Indeed, I did find the route unusual, so naturally, I inquired. According to Talbot, the crucial timing of his aforesaid business matter caused him to take passage on the first available ship. And in case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Thibodeaux, you are near to shouting. And once again, you’ve slipped into that lazy Cajun parlance of yours, which I find most irritating.”

Bastien cursed under his breath. “You do not have my permission to use the word Cajun, monsieur britannique. To you, I speak français acadien.”

His accent grew thicker with each degree of irritation. He knew it. He didn’t care. “As if I haven’t had a bellyful of those hautains Englishmen lording it over everything and everyone on this damn island…not you, Fellowes. You be the only decent Brit I’ve dealt with my five months here.”

A corner of Fellowes’s mouth twitched. “Mayhap that’s because you’re the one who hired me?”

“Humph.” Despite the man’s glib tongue, employing Fellowes had been a brilliant move. Intelligent and well-bred, he interacted easily with the high and mighty controlling the island. Come the morrow, Bastien would sail back to New Orleans and leave the management of the Andrews Shipping Company’s Caribbean offices in good hands.

“You know the only reason I sought to captain the Aria back home was for the sheer pleasure of seeing the expression on my brother’s face when I sail this fine vessel into port. I am of no mind to take on the added responsibility of passengers. Especially a couple of rigide Britishers expecting to be catered to. You should’ve consulted me, damn it.”

“And have you turn them down?” Unperturbed, Fellowes stood his ground. “Talbot also mentioned he’s an old school chum of the man who founded this shipping company.”

“A schoolmate of Monsieur Justin Andrews? Mon Dieu. Andrews departed England some forty years ago. How damn old you figure this Talbot to be?”

“Late sixties, perhaps.”

Bastien moved to the edge of the dock and peered into turquoise waters so clear, it seemed as if he could reach out and touch the white sandy bottom. A sea bottom that actually lay some thirty feet below the surface. A quick dip would be just the thing to cool off both body and temper. He reached for the top button of his trousers. A school of barracuda, their silver backs flashing in the sun, darted out from beneath the dock. Never mind. He’d take his final swim later, in the isolated cove he favored.

He whistled to his assistant, who was standing near the Aria’s stern. At the signal to join him, Henri scampered off the ship, raven hair tangling in the breeze, a wide grin splitting his face. Son of Bastien’s no-good cousin, Henri had been the errand boy for their N’awlins shipping offices until this trip. Barely sixteen, he’d taken to seafaring life as if he’d been born a sailor. “You looking forward to heading home?”

“Oui,” Henri replied. “I had me a mighty good time here, but I have a powerful yearning for some of Maman’s filé gumbo, don’cha know.”

Bastien chuckled.

Fellowes cleared his throat. “There’s something else you should be made aware of before your departure.”

Bastien let go a litany of Cajun curses. “What the devil now?”

“Mr. Talbot wishes to board the Aria later this evening. Preferably after midnight.”

The hair on the back of Bastien’s neck stood on end. “Why the odd hour?”

“The gentleman indicated his wife has been ill and has a sensitivity to the sun—”

“Mon Dieu! I will not risk bringing a disease-ridden passenger on board.”

Fellowes shook his head. “Talbot says it’s her weak heart, not a sickness.”

Some intuitive sense prickled Bastien’s gut. “Did you check his papers? Make sure the man is who he says he is?”

“But of course, thorough man that I am.”

When Fellowes grew silent, Bastien settled another hard scowl on him. “What you be leaving out?”

“He would like separate lodgings for Mrs. Talbot and him.”

“Sacre bleu. Next you’ll be telling me to bunk with the crew because he wishes the captain’s quarters for himself.”

The corners of Fellowes’s mouth turned up. “Can I offer you a brandy to celebrate your last night here?”

Bastien snorted. “You mean from my own supply?”

Fellowes glanced over Bastien’s shoulder. “Looks like your crew’s finished loading the fruit. Come, join me. A few good swallows of your fine liquor and you’ll get a better night’s sleep.”

“Non. I shall meet with the Talbots before taking to my bed. If it’s her heart and nothing infectious, then I will allow them to board. But only because he claims to know the company owner. As it is, I’ve a mind to set sail early in hopes of leaving them behind.”

Fellowes cocked a brow. “You’d leave behind an ill woman? Tsks tsk, tsk. I got the impression Talbot doesn’t care for Jamaica any more than you do. The heat and all, he said.”

“What the devil does he think the weather in N’awlins be like, Northern England?” Bastien turned to leave, then paused to glance over his shoulder at Fellowes. “If I agree to the Talbots’ taking passage, then you’d better have a personal maid lined up for the lady. One who speaks English and is willing to travel to N’awlins and back.”

Fellowes folded his arms over his chest and smirked. “Already seen to.”

“Humph. Come along, Henri. Time for our last swim in this beautiful water since there won’t be any bayou swimming back home. Not unless you want those gators making a meal of you.” Bastien strolled into the shipping office, donned his shirt, snatched up his shoes, and with Henri by his side, headed for the private beach he preferred.

As they made their way through town in silence, thoughts of Louisiana occupied Bastien’s mind. He’d be glad to get back to N’awlins. Five months on this island with the British and their rigid rule over Jamaica had been about four months and one day too long. When he’d offered to act as temporary manager for the island offices, he’d not given thought to how controlling the British might be, or how much he would resent their self-important hierarchy. One would never know slavery had been abolished here years ago, seeing the way those louts treated hired hands.

Bastien and Henri reached the isolated cove with its white sand backed by a stand of palm trees and waist-high ferns. While Henri stripped and hurried into the water, Bastien paused to watch the sun dip to the horizon, sending swaths of orange and pink flying across the waters. His breath caught at the splendor of it all. Despite his constant clashing with those in authority, the beauty of this lush island had turned out to be a soothing tonic for Bastien’s thirsty soul. But now, it was more than time to head home.

* * * *

With every bump and rattle of the carriage, pain shot through Lily’s head. Despite her efforts to control herself, she moaned aloud.

“Hold steady, dear. We’re nearly there. Then all you need do is manage the few steps from the carriage into the shipping company’s office while the ship’s captain makes a few inquiries as to your health.”

“The captain…I…I cannot,” Lily managed, barely above a whisper.

“You can, and you must. Soon, you’ll be aboard ship and in your own stateroom. Then you can take to your bed for the duration.”

It took all the energy she possessed to form words. “Oh, Uncle, I simply do not have the strength.”

The arm he held around her shoulders tightened. “Listen carefully to me, Lily. No longer can you call me uncle. What is my new name? Tell me who I am.”

All she could manage was a sigh.

“Oh, this simply will not do.” He gave her shoulders a shake. “Stay awake, Lily. You must forget your pet name for me. Who am I now? What is my new name?”

At her godfather’s words, she sighed. She couldn’t think. “Yes…no…Charles…”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “My name is now Percival Talbot. You must never again speak my given name.”

His words echoed through her head in a jumble. No matter how hard she tried, she could not string them together to make any sense.

“Do you hear me?” He shook her again. “Lily, buck up. Your very life could depend on this short interview with the captain.”

“Can’t think. I…I’ll remember when the time comes.” She collapsed into the crook of her beloved godfather’s arm, wanting desperately to drift away, to not have to think. “Why can we not go to our staterooms direct?”

“The captain is concerned you might have an infectious disease. He insists on examining you before he’ll grant us leave to board ship. I told Mr. Fellowes it was your heart making you weak, not some disease that would be of concern to others. Of all the dratted luck. Fellowes claims this Captain Thibodeaux is some kind of Cajun healer out of a bayou in New Orleans. You must make it to the shipping office and cooperate, Lily.”

The carriage pulled to a stop. One side dipped as the driver scrambled off his perch. Lily was able to make out glimpses of a ship afloat in the harbor. Her blurred vision made it look as though the vessel was wrapped in a gossamer mist. The thought of sailing on turbulent waters yet again sent a wave of nausea washing through her.

The door to the carriage opened and a footman lowered the steps. Her godfather slipped out ahead of her. Leaning back inside, he fitted the hood of her cape over her head, obscuring her face within its folds. Straightening her spine, and with all the strength she could muster, she stepped from the vehicle and into her godfather’s arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered. As they moved toward the shipping office, he raised his voice. “Shall we, my dear?”

With gas lanterns lighting the way, she kept her head lowered, her hazy vision focused on the wooden planks beneath her feet lest she stumble. As she stepped inside the office, her befogged gaze landed on what appeared to be large, booted feet, then traveled upward, past the tops of leather boots to long legs clad in tight breeches. And from what little she could make out, a trim belly and broad shoulders.

“Bonsoir,” came a deep and resonant voice.

She jolted. The captain was French? Weren’t they supposed to be going to America? Confusion engulfed her once again.

“And a good evening to you, as well, Captain Thibodeaux,” her godfather replied.

Heart pounding, Lily kept her head bowed. She’d let Uncle…no…she must forever wipe that word from her mind. In vain, she tried to remember to call him…to call him…what? She’d simply call him husband until—or if—her mental faculties ever fully returned.

“If you wish to make this journey with us, I must insist on examining your wife,” said the captain.

Was he truly a Frenchman? What an odd accent. Nonetheless, she found his deep voice with its melodic cadence rather soothing.

The sound of a chair scraping across the wooden floor caught her attention. And then, thank heavens, someone eased her onto its hard seat. Conversation between this captain and her…her husband…ensued, but the words escaped her muddled mind. Someone slid back the hood of her cape, then fingers, gentle but firm, touched beneath her chin, nudging it upward. Eyes closed, she drifted off into sweet oblivion.

“Madame Talbot,” came the same lyrical voice. A feathering of breath landed upon her lips. “Open your eyes, s’il vous plaît.”

Startled out of her reverie, she did as she was told and found herself staring into the captain’s face, fuzzy though it appeared.

“Tell me how well you can see. Can you make out my face?”

How did he know? Had he guessed it was not her heart distressing her?

Oh, dear.

“A bit,” she managed.

Were his eyes really so blue? Was he truly so handsome? Oh, what did she know when everything was such a blur? No man could be so striking. She was tired, so very tired. Her eyelids, excruciatingly heavy, refused to remain open. She held out her gloved hand, desperate to find her godfather’s…no…her husband’s. She felt his steady grip and relaxed. She needed a moment, just a moment to rest. Leaning her head on his shoulder, her nose and mouth settled against his throat. So comforting. So very comforting.

You smell so good, she thought.

“Merci.”

That magical, deep voice rumbled through her. She sat up straight. Had it not been her godfather’s hand she’d clutched? His shoulder she’d leaned on? Had she actually spoken aloud? No, she couldn’t have. Hallucinating again. She’d only imagined he’d spoken. She went back to leaning on her godfather’s shoulder.

“Madame Talbot,” came the deep voice.

Fingers, firm but ever so tender, slipped under her chin again and lifted her head away from…oh, Lord, it had been the captain’s shoulder she’d leaned into. “Please,” she said. “I must rest. It’s my heart…”

“Look at me.” He tilted her head upward. “I need you to open your eyes one more time. Henri, hold the lantern closer.”

She flinched and used her hand to shield her eyes from the painful light.

“Take a breath and exhale, madame, then tell me your name.”

She breathed out as he’d instructed. Had he actually sniffed the air? “My name’s Lily.”

“Your full name.”

“She’s my wife, Mrs. Percival—”

“I asked her, monsieur.” Irritation clouded the captain’s words. “Madame, give me your full name, s’il vous plaît.”

If I please to give you my full name? No, I do not care to please anyone, for nothing gives me pleasure. She sifted through the cobwebs in her mind, found the name in a dusty corner. “Lily…Mrs. Percival Talbot.”

“How old are you, Madame Talbot?” While he spoke with that same lyrical accent, his tone had grown stern.

“Five and twenty. What does my age matter?”

“Are you here of your own volition? Has your husband forced you into taking this journey?”

“Now see here,” Percival put in.

Panic flooded her being. Her free hand flailed in the air, this time to her left, seeking her godfather’s. “Oh, please, do not leave me…Percy.”

He grabbed hold of her hand. She clung to the familiar grip, knew it was his hand she held this time around. “He takes care of my every need, sir. Please do not think ill of him.” A sob left her throat. “He is all I have in the world.”

She felt the pressure of her godfather’s hand, a signal to stop talking. Don’t over speak, he’d warned her. People get suspicious when one talks too much.

The captain grew silent for a long while. At least it seemed a long while, for her mind floated here and there.

“Madame, do you think you have strength enough to make your way onto the ship?”

She managed a nod.

He was silent for another long while. Or maybe not so long. If only time wouldn’t escape her so.

“Henri, see to fetching as many oysters as you can to bring aboard before we sail. And pineapples. She’ll need pineapples, and ripe bananas. Not the green ones we’ve stowed away.”

“Oui, Captain.”

Oui? Yes? And the captain pronounces the name On-ree? So, this person is French, as well. Fatigue stole what little strength she had left. Oh, she’d think about everything later. The fog took over her brain as sleep overwhelmed her. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember where she was or where they were headed, only that she desperately needed a bed.

Strong but exceedingly tender fingers curled beneath her chin once more. With a slight nudge, he raised her head. “Your lips, they are dry and split, madame. With your permission, I would like to tend to them.”

“Yes, of course,” she managed.

“Henri, open my bag and retrieve the balm I use on cracked lips.”

“Oui.”

She caught the scent of something sweet yet a little pungent. Then a tender, soothing touch slid across her mouth before thought escaped her altogether.

* * * *

Bastien studied a pale face with cheeks far too rosy and pupils so dilated they obscured the color of her irises. Dull, flaxen-colored hair hung limp about her face and shoulders. More than likely, her locks had once been shiny and soft, framing a now-lifeless face that still held the remnants of remarkable beauty. The young woman was near to dying from the poisons coursing through her veins.

He stood, his thoughts running in circles. He considered the portly, balding man who called himself her husband. Despite his efforts to mask his panic, a muscle twitched in the corner of Talbot’s left eye. Had he done this to his wife? Poisoned her? He would seem the likely culprit, yet somehow Bastien doubted it. And Bastien trusted his senses. After all, his very existence had once depended on his ability to read people. But whatever the hell was going on here, he wasn’t about to take any chances.

“Monsieur Talbot, have you had occasion to carry your wife any distance of late? I see now that she is too weak to make it aboard ship on her own.”

At being told they would be allowed passage, relief flooded the man’s countenance. “Indeed. I can manage.”

Like hell he could. “With your permission, I should like to be the one to transport her. Since we’d not planned on passengers, the boarding plank was meant for loading cargo only. It is narrow and has no side railings. Also, I know the location of her stateroom. I can take her there directly.”

Talbot’s head bobbed up and down and the muscle in his eye ceased to tick. “I would be most grateful, sir.”

“How long has she been ill?”

“Going on four months, sir.”

“Then we need to isolate her, monsieur.”

“Why is that when it’s her heart?”

“Because three weeks aboard ship from England is too damn long for her to still be carrying this much poison in her.”

Talbot sucked in a breath. “I…I don’t understand.”

“I think you do understand something, Monsieur Talbot. If I am not mistaken, which I very much doubt that I am, she is full of both arsenic and belladonna. The last thing I needed was to be transporting passengers, let alone one near death. Under the circumstances, I am not about to refuse the two of you passage. Not when I have a duty to try to save her life. But I’ll be damned if you, Monsieur Talbot, will have a moment’s access to this woman while she is under my care. You’d better hope to hell she doesn’t pass away aboard my ship.”

As he carefully lifted Lily into his arms, Bastien gave a nod to Fellowes, who stepped from the corner of the room along with the woman he’d hired as Madame Talbot’s personal maid. Speaking in his Cajun tongue, Bastien directed Henri to fetch one of the guards watching over the ship and have him escort Monsieur Talbot to his quarters. Once there, the man was to stand sentry in front of their passenger’s locked stateroom door.

Monsieur Talbot was about to become Bastien’s prisoner.

Chapter Two

Bastien stood on the aft deck of the fast-moving Aria, his eyes on the dazzling rays of the rising sun as they shot into the heavens from behind a low bank of fleecy white clouds.

Henri sidled up alongside him. “Mon Dieu, what a sight. We have us the promise of a fine day, non?”

“Oui,” Bastien muttered and fell silent.

As the yellow globe slowly climbed above the clouds where it would spend the day shining down from a clear, blue sky, a subdued Henri spoke again. “Madame Talbot, does she still live?”

Bastien kept his gaze fixed on the horizon and the fast-disappearing clouds. “Last time I checked.”

“You are much worried she will not survive, non?”

Bastien nodded. “I am trying to reckon some things which make no sense.”

“My apologies for approaching you with such cheerfulness when you have much on your mind.” Henri shifted from one foot to the other. “I do not wish to displease you.”

Bastien stole a glance at Henri’s crestfallen face. Christ. He cast an arm around his young cousin’s shoulder, gave him a quick hug, then released him. “You’re doing a fine job, don’cha know. I could not ask for more.”

Satisfaction lit Henri’s face, removing all signs of dejection. “I am mighty grateful you allowed me to sail with you on this trip.”

“Your maman, she will be proud.” Bastien looked him over, noted the sparse bristles dotting the boy’s face, his unkempt hair. “You do not yet have the makings of a beard. You need to shave.”

“I didn’t have time.”

Bastien cocked a brow at him.

Henri flushed. “Pardonnez-moi. You be far busier than I am, but you—”

“Found the time.” Old memories niggled at Bastien. “You wish to become successful in the world of les Américains, non?”

“Oui. Like you and René.”

“Then, like my brother and me, you must never forget your roots. You must never forget you were born and raised in a bayou shanty. People like us must try harder, work harder, and be smarter than the Américains we deal with.”

He gave Henri another once-over. “And you must learn to be fastidious about your person. Wear only the finest clothing. Keep your hair clean and neat.”

Henri glanced at the top of Bastien’s head. “But I wish to wear mine long like René’s, not as short as yours.”

A corner of Bastien’s mouth twitched. “Mais oui, it is your choice. However, my brother keeps his trimmed just so, not ragged like yours. Once we reach home, I shall take you to my tailor. Then to Monsieur Dupere’s bookstore to collect the right books to give you a decent education.”

Bastien removed his superfine jacket, his brocaded vest, and spotless cravat. Carefully folding them, he handed the stack to Henri. “Already the day grows warm. Take these to my stateroom, s’il vous plaît, then fetch Monsieur Talbot and bring him to me. Tell the sentry at his door to station himself at Madame Talbot’s stateroom.”

Henri nodded and trotted off, carefully balancing the clothing in his arms.

“Also bring my bag of medicines,” Bastien called as he watched his young cousin hurry away. Wouldn’t their relatives be surprised by Henri’s transformation. Not only had he been quick to absorb all Bastien had taught him, but gone was the scrawny boy he’d hired five months ago. In his place stood a young man nearly as tall as Bastien’s six feet. Rigorous physical labor had turned gangly awkwardness into solid muscularity. Still unaware of the imposing figure he now cut, Henri had yet to notice that the ladies eyed him with a barely disguised hunger—a hunger Bastien knew all too well.

But unlike naïve Henri, Bastien had never been innocent of much of anything. Though he’d risen above what he’d once been, his shadowy past haunted him to this day. Probably always would. At least his growing years hadn’t been entirely wasted. Not only had he earned a certain status in the shipping world, he was also known as a fine traiteur—a healer—a talent passed d. . .