Free Josette by Kathleen Bittner Roth

heel and disappeared into the night. Cameron headed in the opposite direction, to Antoine’s, where he was about to give Michel the shocking news that Cameron had sired a daughter—a Cajun bastard from Bayou St. Laurent.
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    It was late when Cameron exited Antoine’s and turned onto Royal Street. Midway down the block, he reached the family town house where he’d been born and grown up. He slid the key into the lock of the wrought-iron gate leading through the porte cochère and into the darkened courtyard. The scent of roses filled his nostrils.
    The grating turn of the lock, the chink of the gate closing, the lock turning again echoed in the silent enclosure. Such a hollow sound. It left an equally hollow feeling inside him. How his life had changed. With only Michel around and his uncle Justin squirreled away on his plantation upriver, Cameron’s solitude burned like acid in his stomach. That two women had died because of him caused the burn to chew its way up his throat.
    Once inside, he made his way through the darkness and into the parlor. Removing his jacket, vest, and cravat, he plopped onto the divan, and with a heavy sigh, leaned his head against the sofa’s back. He shoved his legs out in front of him and rubbed at his shoulder where Trevor had put a bullet through him when last they were in town. It still ached whenever the weather took a turn, or if he was bone weary, like tonight.
    Merde, Cameron had asked for what he got, but thankfully, not even the duel had broken the bond the cousins forged as youngsters. What foolishness, instigating a battle over the woman who was now Trevor’s wife. Damn. It took getting shot to realize that as an only child, Cameron hadn’t known the difference between a form of sibling love and the love for a woman he wished to be bound to. It wasn’t until Dianah came along that he’d finally understood.
    He groaned, and the sound echoed back to him in the utter silence. God, he missed her. Theirs had been a robust blending of two strong-willed people who thought nothing of disagreeing one minute and settling their differences in bed the next. Or on the floor. Or at the seashore. It made no difference where they landed if the moment was right. Life had been good back then. Better than good.
    With another heavy sigh, Cameron rose from the divan and mounted the stairs to his chambers. He was growing damn tired of climbing into bed alone every night. And what did he have to look forward to when he got there? More tossing and turning? Only now he’d be burdened with a new problem to mull over—a daughter he didn’t know what the hell to do with.
    Odd, but the door to the master suite stood partially open. He distinctly remembered hearing the soft click when he’d closed it earlier. He mentally shrugged. The housemaid had probably turned down his bed. He made his way into the room and to the fireplace, where a spill and candle always stood on the mantel. Setting the candle aflame, he took it in hand, turned, and nearly stumbled. There on his pillow, candlelight glinting off its golden chain, lay his pocket watch.
    â€œDamn you, Alexia!” He crossed the room and swept it up. Still ticking.
    How the hell did she know he’d moved from the hotel? She had to have broken in sometime after dark, when he’d left for Madame Olympée’s. It was one thing to have her steal the blasted thing, but now that he’d acknowledged her, the idea of her being out so late at night did more than rankle him. He burst into a litany of curses. Candle and watch in hand, he dashed down the stairs and back to the parlor. Moving the table in front of the sofa aside, he rolled back the rug, lifted a loose board, and opened the hidden safe, where he deposited the timepiece.
    â€œShe’d only steal the blasted thing again,” he muttered. He’d keep it there until he left New Orleans for good. He replaced the board, the