“Bring the husband. The captain will want to inspect him,” Felix called over his shoulder as he mounted his horse and situated himself behind her. “And of course we must give him a proper burial,” he added more softly for, Rebekah assumed, her benefit. She shifted forward in the saddle as much as she could. Oh, dear. She had hoped to leave the body behind entirely to avoid further inspection, but that had probably been unrealistic. The patrol arranged the wagoner on a roll of canvas secured with rope, and Rebekah hoped that her late “husband” was fat enough that the ropes would break from his weight.
Even with the extra burden of the dead man, the encampment was only about a half hour’s ride. Rebekah was relieved, as it quickly became apparent that she had drastically overestimated her lieutenant’s charms. No matter how many hints she dropped about her new status as widow, he had little to say aside from clumsy attempts to console her. She hoped that his captain would demonstrate a little more imagination; she preferred to save compulsion for emergencies rather than relying on it for every little thing.
There was no doubt which tent was his: It stood proudly in the center of the camp and fleur-de-lis decorated every available surface. Rebekah had to remind herself not to dismount too fluidly, instead falling into her gallant soldier’s waiting arms with deliberate clumsiness. The horse helped by shifting and shying away as she moved; it was better trained than the cart horse had been, but it was no more fond of her. “Please be brave, Madame,” Felix whispered as he released her hand, and Rebekah stifled a laugh.
The short blond man must have run on ahead to alert the captain, because Rebekah noticed him hurrying back toward them on foot, and he was not alone. The new arrival crossed the camp in long, easy strides that indicated effortless authority. Although there was no doubt in her mind that he was in charge here, he was younger than she had expected; maybe not even over thirty.
The French had a sizable army stationed outside of New Orleans, so either he was an unusually adept commander or extremely well-connected. Or, most likely, both. His hair was thick and brown with just a hint of gray at the temples, which Rebekah immediately decided was attractive. His eyes were a warm hazel shade, and surprisingly kind—with an alluring hint of mischief. When he looked up at her and smiled, she felt so protected and reassured that she forgot she wasn’t in any real danger. Rebekah knew that a man this handsome could only lead to trouble, and she felt herself already starting to travel down that dangerous path. A striking Frenchman in a position of authority was exactly her type—and she’d been long starved of it.
“Madame,” he said, his voice rumbling and powerful. “I am sorry to learn of your circumstances. You will be safe here until we can arrange for your passage home.”
“Home,” she repeated softly. Her brothers were the only home she had. Their parents had made them immortal and then turned on them, believing that their own children had become monsters—that saving their lives had been a terrible mistake. What kind of home could she build with that shadow constantly hovering over her? In truth, she was even more adrift than the character she was playing for the captain.
“We will search for your family and your late husband’s,” he clarified. “Or we will find something else. Please don’t worry about all that now—you have already been through so much this evening.”
“Thank you,” Rebekah said.
He smiled again, as if weapons and death didn’t surround them, but his eyes flickered to her hands as if he was looking for something—and then she realized that she had forgotten to take that damned woman’s wedding ring, and her daylight ring sat on her right index finger. The ring allowed her to be in sunlight, and she dared not take it off even though the sun was already beginning to dip below the horizon. She chided herself for being so careless, and hoped that no one would wonder that bandits had left such a striking gem on her hand. “My name is Captain Moquet,” he told her. “But call me Eric. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your attackers? I think that they have stolen your ring?”
“Yes,” Rebekah replied with deliberate eagerness. “I feel so strange to suddenly be without it.”
“I understand, Madame,” Eric assured her with such conviction that she wondered if she had inadvertently compelled him without realizing it. Then his hazel eyes turned to the dead wagoner, and every trace of softness—everything human—disappeared from his face.
He approached the corpse, and the soldiers stepped back. He leaned down, his long fingers tracing the wounds Rebekah had inflicted without quite touching them. “Bandits, you said?” he asked, pointing toward the short blond soldier without looking away from the dead body.
A few of the men glanced nervously at Rebekah and then away again. Some shifted uncomfortably. She had heard one of the men refer to him as “the new captain.” How well did he know his new post? She decided it was best for her to say nothing and wait.
“No,” Eric said at last, bringing one fingertip down on the edge of the long slash across the dead man’s throat. “The marks are almost hidden, but they are here. This is not the work of any man.” He looked up finally, his eyes burning into Rebekah’s so deeply that she couldn’t possibly look away. When he spoke again, it was as if the words were meant only for her. “There are unnatural and cursed things in those woods. You were lucky to escape with your life.”
CHAPTER FOUR
KLAUS MOVED ACROSS the cobblestones, grimacing at the chattering roar of hooves and carts passing by. When the Mikaelsons had arrived in New Orleans, there had been nothing except dirt tracks, but civilization had not left their grimy little French outpost alone. In addition to the elegant manor houses and villas that seemed to spring up like weeds, there was now a bona fide town center, with cobblers, jewelers, a surprisingly up-to-date milliner, and a few taverns.
Progress marched onward, Klaus supposed philosophically, but not everything was an improvement...especially not after the dizzying, skull-shattering night he had just spent on the town. New Orleans may have grown more sophisticated, but its whores were just as raunchy and wild as they had ever been. And the brand of whiskey served at Klaus’s favorite brothel, the Southern Spot, was almost enough to drive the residue of discontent from Klaus’s tongue. Almost.
There had come a point when he could no longer see her glittering black eyes, when her mocking smile no longer broke in on his every thought. But, to his intoxicated vision, every neck he had tenderly bitten had looked like her slender and marble-white throat; every drop of blood had tasted of her. Niklaus drank because oblivion could not come too soon and, given his headache this morning, it had probably come far too late.
The sun was high and the locals were bustling. He kept reflexively touching the daylight ring on his finger, willing it to somehow work more. Everything was too bright and too loud—until suddenly it was perfect. He didn’t need to glimpse more than the merest sliver of her profile to know who it was. With the way she fit into her white muslin dress, she might as well have been created with Klaus alone in mind.
Her. She glowed; she pulled the light in. It was as if he’d made her appear. No matter what people whispered about the cursed fate of vampires, at that moment, he felt positively blessed.
Luckiest of all, she was unchaperoned. Vivianne stood alone at the side of the high street, gazing into the window of a couturier, who boasted of having just arrived from Paris. There was no one to interfere in their conversation, unlike at that miserable engagement party.