The commotion drowned out his pain for the second until two rough hands yanked his wounded leg to the side and repositioned it, the movement set off another cycle of pain. Another man walked up, his white coat not as dulled by red splatters as the rest. He wore a pair of spectacles on his nose and a weary look across his face. He yanked out a long metal rod, the end coated in white.
“Let’s see what we got, shall we?” the man said, taking Francois’s foot and twisting it.
Francois couldn’t stop the cry of agony evoked by the manipulation of his foot. The dull hurt of before turned drastically sharper. Confused, Francois tried to retrace where he was and how he was wounded when another series of lightning bolt pains shot up his legs to his hips, back, shoulders and head, settling into his ears. Unfortunately, the sheering sting didn’t stop the man in the white coat from prodding his ankle.
“Reed! Bring me that bag,” the man called. “Need to amputate this…”
Amputate? Francois blinked hard, the scene around him blurred. They’d take his foot?
“Emma!!!”
Chapter 1
“Bury your poor dead and say nothing more about it.”
—General Robert E. Lee’s response to Lt. Gen. A.P. Hill’s report of the slaughter of his men at Battle at Bristoe Station, VA, October 15, 1863
October 1863
Francois Fontaine tipped the glass up, pouring the whiskey down his throat, the flavor skating over his taste buds to carve a burning path down to his stomach. He closed his eyes, relishing the flavor, hoping it would send him down the road to forgetfulness once more. Swallowing the end of that shot, he refilled the glass.
“My darlin’ Francois, you plannin’ to spend another day downing my liquor, or will you spend time with me?”
Francois smiled slowly. The seductive purr from across the room came from the only woman he knew who could put him in his place, and he’d love every minute. He glanced up and found LaJoyce giving him one of her warm and inviting grins.
“No, ma’am, I hadn’t plan to do so,” he drawled, putting the shot glass aside. He stood, circling around the table to meet her. “That is, if I could get a chance to show you what you’ve been missin’, of late.” He smiled, hoping he wasn’t as tilted as he feared he was getting.
She stared at him, a slight curve to her lips capturing his attention. “Thinkin’ you best sit down before you fall,” she commented, walking away.
LaJoyce was a beautiful negress. No, he corrected himself. She was a freewoman with one of the best reputations in the area. Her house was clean, her clothing exquisite and those lips ruby red and inviting. Short enough, she was easy for him to pick up and carry to bed. High cheekbones on a full face, her dark brown eyes gave a glimmer of her strength and her capacity to love deeply. He respected her, which was a rare emotion to pass through him. LaJoyce had seen him through his younger years, when he was a strapping boy, trying to control feelings and fears that popped up as he grew. She was the first woman who taught him the ways of love and how to bring a woman pleasure with the reciprocal measures. The fact she wasn’t Delilah, the lady of ill repute his father or brother visited, gave him the silent joy that LaJoyce was all his.
“Instead of drinkin’ my cupboards dry, I think you need to go find yourself a pretty little white girl to marry,” LaJoyce continued, closing the bourbon bottle near him.
“Why, when I have such a lovely woman as you?” he countered.
LaJoyce grinned. “I know you favor a darker hue, but a paler version is all your family would approve of. And you ain’t going find that sitting here all day, not even enjoying any of the finery.”
Francois snorted. It was that just that issue that drove him here. He needed to find a way to escape, to forget about the one woman he could never have. After all the bottles he’d consumed and intercourse he’d had, she still haunted his dreams. A flare of frustration raced up his spine and his fingers tightened around the glass. In a flash, he downed the fiery liquor, trying in desperation to drown the vision that hovered in his mind, of a beautiful Southern belle who would never be his…
“Fontaine, been lookin’ high and low for you! Dang-naggit man, you ever not goin’ drink?”
Francois glanced up at the man whose shadow clouded his view. It was Randolph Morris, from the Pear Plantation, just down the river from Bellefountaine, Francois’s family estate.
“Randy, don’t you have something else that’s needs harassing?” Francois snorted, grabbing the wrist of the ebony girl who passed him. He pulled her into his lap, enjoying the lilac scent on her skin and the ivory cotton lace-trimmed chemise that she wore, with the ruffle from her pantalets peaking under the hem. She was bare-armed, no stockings and scrumptious to hold. When she giggled, wiggling in his seat, Francois grinned.
LaJoyce swaggered over to him, the curve in her hips and the sway of her silk dress beyond enticing. She hadn’t looked interested before, the reason he grabbed Lucy but the shooting glare from the woman towering over him told him that was the wrong decision.
“Lucy, I believe Mr. Fontaine has company,” LaJoyce stated firmly. “And I do believe, Mr. Cartier has just arrived. I think you remember him well, as it were.”
Lucy scrambled out of Francois’s embrace. “Yessum, ma’am.” And she darted for the hall in the front of the house.
Francois gave his mistress another glance. “You appeared busy, ma’am.”
LaJoyce shook her head in apparent disbelief. “Gentlemen, I fear running a business like a bordello requires a great deal more attention than you might conceive.”
Francois chuckled. “Well, my dear, yours is one of the best.”
“Merci. ‘Tis truly amazing, considering the Yankee presence.” She shook her head and leaned closer.
