Read Bond of Darkness for Free Online

by the scruff of his neck and lifted him bodily from the Mississippi, as if he'd been a child. Something shifted nastily in his side and he passed out, a curse slipping from his lips.
    Georges came to, stretched out on a fancy sofa in a very grand saloon. Polished brass everywhere, and teak glowing as if it wanted to be a mirror. Ducks were carved into the furniture and woven into the upholstery, yet everything was sturdy enough for a man's frame, not flimsy and stupid.
    It was a rich man's palace, probably somebody who knew the governor and would start yelling as soon as they recognized him.
    But how much did it really matter? His head ached, his throat was sour and sore as if he'd poured acid down it. His leg had no more feeling in it than a dead snapper. His body was icy cold, his clothes stiff against his clammy skin.
    "Who is he?" a woman asked.
    A woman? A
genuine
Frenchwoman? He tried to turn his head toward her voice.
    "We just finished cleaning his face and don't know yet. He hasn't said anything, mademoiselle."
    He managed to open his eyes just as she arrived beside him. She was a small woman, with ivory skin, raven hair, and the most superb breasts he'd ever seen, unashamedly displayed by a green silk dress which clung to her curves. She was beautiful, definitely not a respectable woman, and absolutely perfect.
    "
Bon soir, ma cher madame
," he greeted her, offering her the highest accolade he could award, something he'd never willingly given another woman—the honorific of
lady
.
    She smiled, red lips curving over sharp white teeth.
    Lovely, truly lovely.
    "
Bon soir, mon brave
," she cooed, her long black lashes magnificently framing her eyes.
    She called
him
brave? Why was she being polite, let alone complimentary? Who the hell cared, when he felt like he could tap dance across the Mississippi?
    A long shadow fell over them. A tall, blond man was watching him, his good looks insufficient to mask his deadly calculations. Two more men stood beside him, one an impassive dandy with the lightly balanced stance of an experienced knife fighter.
    The third was the most dangerous. Massively built, his hooded gaze, crooked nose, and scarred face bore witness to the deadly fights he'd already won.
    "Georges Devol," the blond announced flatly.
    "The Bayou Butcher?" the lady squealed.
    Damn. Now she'd run. He kept his eyes fixed on the men but couldn't stop stealing quick glances at her.
    "Are you sure?" the big man asked.
    "Look at him. Average features, average coloring, but very strong. The perfect camouflage for murdering thirteen women, the officers and board of St. Mary's Orphanage."
    All of those bitches had been liars and worse, pretending they knew nothing of the goings on there. The boys and girls used for slave labor, or worse, raped night after night in their beds. And every month, those respectable vouduns had visited the orphanage for their fine luncheon, smiled at the children—while ignoring their bruises!—and left.
    Georges kept his mouth shut. Talking had never helped, not from the day he'd been born at St. Mary's. But killing those female hypocrites had made him feel a damn sight better.
    He concentrated on breathing slowly and pushing back the pain. The longer he lived, the better chance he had of escaping.
    A woman's slender fingers curved over his wrist. His eyes shot up to her face, startled.
    She smiled down at him, her small red tongue teasing her lips. "You'd fight that hard for me, too, wouldn't you?"
    "I'd do anything for you,
cher
," he assured her fervently. Unlike most Cajun men who used the phrase freely, he'd never called a woman sweet before. But she was finer than whiskey or honey. Perhaps there truly was a God, to have allowed him to meet her.
    "You wonderful man." She sank down onto the sofa beside him, still holding his hand.
    "Get away from him, mademoiselle," the blond ordered.
    "No." Her retort was machine-gun sharp. "He'll be my first hijo."
    "The Bayou Butcher? The man who tied