Arms of a Stranger by Danice Allen Read Free Book Online Page B

down as many goblets of Madeira as the next man. I don’t know why I feel worse than usual after a little brew tipping.” Bodine rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “My head is throbbing.”
    “I had the sorry task of waking you this morning with that damnable news. Learning you were robbed by Renard again must surely contribute to your feelings of misery, n’est-ce pas? ”
    Bodine dropped his hands to the tabletop, where they formed into fists. A look of hatred radiated from his bleary, bloodshot eyes. “If I ever manage to get hold of that bastard, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!”
    Lucien pretended to look slightly awestruck by Bodine’s vehemence. “ Mon Dieu , I can only thank the saints that I’m not the man who inspires so much anger in you, Bodine.” Lucien casually crossed his legs. “Pray tell me, just how many times has the Fox crept into your henhouse?”
    Bodine looked truculent and did not reply. Smoothly, mercilessly, Lucien rubbed salt into the adeptly inflicted wound. “I think the henhouse a most apt metaphor, don’t you? He frequently absconds with females you’re interested in. Too bad you weren’t able to have your way with that fetching little wench before Renard took her.”
    Bodine bristled. “What makes you think I didn’t?”
    Lucien shook his head. “Ah, mon ami , you forget. I helped you to your cabin last night. I assisted your manservant in pulling off your boots and tucking you snugly into bed. You are a large man, and last night you were—how shall I say?—less than graceful? You were snoring long before your head hit the pillow.”
    Bodine hadn’t the energy to dispute what was indisputable. His head sunk into his hands again. Lucien pretended to be instantly contrite. He reached over and clasped Bodine’s hulking shoulder, ignoring the revulsion he felt at merely touching the man. “But what kind of friend am I to remind you of such frustrations? I wonder that you do not take a mistress and save yourself the trouble of seeking your … er … comfort in the inexpert arms of child slaves. Settle some beauty in her own petite maison on Rampart Street and come and go at your leisure.”
    Bodine shrugged out of Lucien’s light hold and started rubbing his eyes again. “I won’t buy a whore her own house. Once I’d grown tired of her—as I surely would before a year was out—she’d expect me to leave the place to her, just as our damned chivalrous custom demands. That doesn’t sound very money-wise to me. The slaves I already own cost me nothing when I bed them. Besides, I like variety, and I like them young and virginal, if possible.”
    “I see. Your tastes run to the pure and innocent,” Lucien remarked agreeably, hiding his disgust, strangling his urge to spit in Bodine’s face. “You must eat. Mademoiselle Weston assures me that the beignets are divine today.”
    “Coffee. All I want is black coffee,” Bodine mumbled, laying his balding head on his folded arms on the table.
    Lucien waved for the server. When the uniformed black man hurried over, Lucien ordered coffee for Bodine and a substantial breakfast for himself. Last night’s escapade had left him ravenous. If the smell of eggs made Bodine nauseous, well, that was regrettable.
    “Oh, one more thing, boy,” said Lucien, purposely using the denigrating form of address, “send a plate of beignets to that table, with my compliments.” He gestured toward Anne’s table and in so doing, caught her eye. Her look was scathing. He smiled and winked. She turned away, pretending not to have noticed him at all. He chuckled to himself. Pretending. Everyone was always pretending.
    Compared to the reserved elegance of London, New Orleans was an eclectic paradise, Anne thought. From the bustling port to Katherine’s house across Canal Street, they traveled by carriage through the Vieux Carre, the oldest section of New Orleans, which had been rebuilt after a fire in 1788. The pastel stucco