The Creole Princess by Beth White

hadn’t seen the insouciant young Spanish merchant since their tour down the bay on Simon’s bateau. If he had returned to Mobile for trade purposes, he hadn’t sought her out. Which was just as well. She had no time for lazy popinjays.
    Niall halted, and she realized with a jerk of awareness that they had stopped outside a barracks whose door stood open to the fresh spring breeze. Smoke curled from the chimney, dissipating into a cloudless cerulean sky, and the smell of fish stew wafted from a kettle over the fire. Lyse’s stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since a dried apple gobbled at daybreak. The time must be near noon.
    “Wait here,” Niall told her. He disappeared inside the barracks, and she heard him address someone within. “Lanier, it’s time to go. Lyse and I are going to take you home.”
    There was a groan followed by an unintelligible mumble.
    “Sir,” Niall said loudly, “you can’t stay. My sergeant—”
    Niall catapulted backward through the door.
    Lyse caught him, stumbled back, and nearly fell under his stout body, but she managed to break his fall, letting him roll hard onto his stomach.
    He got up spitting dirt. “You crazy old bear! I’m trying to help you!”
    Lyse went to the door of the barracks. “Papa! It’s me! What’s the matter with you? Why did you hit Niall?” After the brightness of daylight, the room was stuffy and dim, filled with shapeless forms of furniture, hanks of tobacco, ropes, and tools hanging off the walls, the smoke and smell of the stew strong enough to choke.
    Something on the closest bunk shifted, growled like the bear Niall had called him. “Lyse? What you doing here?” Papa’s French was slurred, rough.
    “I’m taking you home. You can’t stay here.” I can’t either, she thought, uncomfortably aware that she stood in a bachelor dwelling. Her reputation, shaky at best, would collapse if anyone else knew she was here, dressed in her brother’s clothes.
    “Can’t go home.” Papa flopped back onto the bunk with an arm across his eyes. “Poor Justine. She hates me.”
    This was absurd. When had she turned into her father’s confidante? “No she doesn’t. She just wants you to come home tonight. She misses you.”
    “The children need shoes. You need shoes. But I lost yesterday’s shrimp money, and Michel Dussouy’s given his business to the British pigs. I don’t know what to do.”
    Lyse gritted her teeth. She loved her handsome papa, but he was the biggest trial on two continents. He hadn’t even the common sense to keep his controversial political comments to himself. No wonder Justine had sent him fishing.
    “The weather is getting warm enough so none of us will need shoes for long. Let’s go home, Papa. We’ll pray about it and figure out what to do.”
    “There are some things praying won’t fix, little one.” But he sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. Apparently he had cat eyes, for he gave her a disapproving look. “What are you wearing?”
    “I was working with Simon at the dock.” And I wasn’t the one who lost all my money at cards, she wanted to add, but she held her tongue. “A dress isn’t practical.”
    “No daughter of mine walks about in male attire.” He rose, swaying, and stumbled toward the door. He brushed Lyse aside and glared at Niall. “ You still here?”
    “Yes, sir.” Niall stood his ground. “I escorted Lyse. Sergeant Adamson told me to make sure you both made it home.” He gulped. “He said you’re not to come back to town until you’ve paid your taxes.”
    “What is he going to do, arrest me?” Papa’s expression folded into belligerence.
    “Yes, sir, he will. In fact, he was going to this time, but I—I—” Niall’s face suddenly flamed as he glanced at Lyse. “Come on, let’s just get out of here. It doesn’t matter now.”
    “Niall, what did you do?” Lyse clutched his arm.
    “Nothing.” Pulling away, Niall shoved his shoulder under Papa’s armpit, taking most