Silence reigned between them once more, and they stared together up at the moon. Comfort and calm wrapped Grace, like the moonlight and Luc’s clasp of her hand. The dogs returned, settling at her side, waiting politely for her attention.
She scratched, rubbed and stroked “Did you have a good run, boys?”
“Woof,” they both chorused.
Beside her, Luc grinned. “I’d best be on my way. I may work at night, but my hours are long nonetheless. I need my rest.”
“Oh.” She wanted to ask him where he lived. Even more, she wished she could visit him, perhaps get to know him better—if she could overcome her reluctance to be close to anyone. Propriety as much as doubt prevented her from asking. “Then I suppose I’ll retire as well. These boys will have me up early.”
He helped her stand and walked her all the way to the back door.
“Will, I see you again?” Grace whispered, soft as the bayou breeze at sunset. Luc shrugged. “Be safe, be careful. Goodnight, Grace. Sleep well.” He turned on his heel and disappeared into the night, with that quick stride of his.
In bed with the ship’s log on her lap, it hit her that he’d ignored her question about seeing him again. Luc Flynn was definitely an enigma.
And I have too much going on in my life to try to solve mysteries about a man who doesn’t want them solved.
Now that was a revelation. He appeared to speak openly about nearly everything. Yet, each new detail she learned about him only made Grace more curious. One mystery was the woman he claimedto love. He’d not said her name once. Then, there was his work. He’d told her he worked for the government.
Or had he? She couldn’t recall, after all the events of the past months, whether he had said, ‘I work for the government, or if she had surmised it from his working hours. What he worked at shouldn’t matter. She, better than anyone, understood personal boundaries and the need to keep some things private.
Other questions revolved around his reasons for never returning to Ireland, even after his father had died and his beloved had found him. Why hadn’t he been able to make a life with that woman?
Grace forced the questions out of her mind, directing her focus to the ship’s log. The story of ‘L’ had gotten much more interesting since his arrival at Barataria. The conversation with Jean LaFitte had amounted to posturing between two strong men. LaFitte had suggested that perhaps theOnly Lovemight prefer to find a berth in a different location.
So that’s the name of the ship this log is about.
L had responded that he intended to do so, but wished to be certain LaFitte had no interest in the same site. The captain had been at pains to hint to LaFitte that theOnly Love’s holds were empty and any attack would benefit no one.
LaFitte had laughed and reassured the other man that “I have much bigger fish to fry than one small American privateer. Your letters of marque are current, yes?”
“Why would you care?” L had asked.
“Oh, I do not care at all,” LaFitte had claimed. “However, New Orleans now requires presentation of all papers for vessels heading for that harbor.”
“I appreciate the information,” L responded. “I must be on my way. My crew are eager to sample the delights of New Orleans. We’ve been at sea entirely too long.”
A few more pleasantries had been exchanged.
The next thirty pages or so of the log book had been taken up with information about cargo, the misadventures of the crew, and a number of encounters between L and the hoi polloi of New Orleans.
Grace had been fascinated, and was eager to learn what happened to L and his crew next. Tonight’s entry was dated 20 June 1814.
I saw G… tonight. I could not believe my eyes when she entered the drawing room at the mayor’s soirée. It’s been nearly five years. She is still beautiful, and I still love her. I must remember she wed another man. I have no claim. The mayor brought G… over to me and introduced us. However, before my host spoke a single word, I could tell G… recognized me. Oddly, she did not seem surprised to see me. We sat together for a while during the musical performance of some young lady by the name of St. Cyr-Duval. The lady’s father is a very influential plantation owner. He’d never condone a union between a privateer and his daughter, which suits me just fine. Sadly, her father’s opinions seem to stir rebellion in the daughter. Perhaps G… can advise me how to discourage the girl. G… always gave me excellent advice. Too bad I ignored most of it….”
Chapter Thirteen
February 22, 1912 Waxing Crescent Moon
Sweet Dreams Plantation House
Three weeks later, as she sat at her kitchen table and made a list of items to have delivered, Grace was still trying to push Luc from her mind. The man was as inconstant as the moon, changing with every encounter. Yes, he answered all her questions, but not with any real information.
He had confessed to being Irish.
I figured that out before he told me.
Luc had never really explained what he did for a living, and despite his confession of a troubled past—a lost love and an argument with his father—what did she really know?
