The Creole Princess by Beth White Page A

of the older man’s weight, and started hauling him across the drill field.
    “Niall?”
    But Papa was laughing drunkenly. “I remember now. Boy, you’ve thrown your leg over a wild mustang this time.” He looked over his shoulder at Lyse. “Young Niall here convinced his commanding officer not to arrest his betrothed’s papa.”
    “Betrothed?” She darted around the two of them, planted her hands on Niall’s chest, and shoved. “Are you as crazy as he is? I’m not marrying you!”
    Three or four men came out of the other end of the barracks to stare. “Is that a girl?” asked one of them.
    Niall planted his feet wide to keep Papa’s unbalanced weight from pulling him down. “Lyse, be quiet. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.” He looked around. “I’ll explain when we get to—”
    “We don’t need your help!” Wildly she grabbed her father’s other arm and started hauling him toward the gate, Niall supporting him on the other side. She could hear the soldiers behind her laughing. Humiliation stung her eyes and the back of her throat.
    They made it to the gatehouse, where the guard let them out with little more than a yawn. Lyse paused to lean against the stockade, her shoulders aching from the effort of keeping pace with her father’s stumbling gait. He had fallen into a morose stupor. “We’ve got to have a wagon. It’s too far down to the quay.”
    They stood there for a forlorn minute, resting as foot traffic proceeded up and down Esplanade. One or two inhabitants on horseback clopped by, followed by a well-dressed man and woman in a carriage.
    Niall took off his hat and swiped his sweaty forehead against his sleeve. “I could maybe go to the livery . . .”
    She gave him a scornful look. “You can’t afford the livery any more than I can.”
    Even more doubtfully, Niall said, “You want me to go for Simon?”
    Another carriage approached and came to a halt in front of them. “ Buenos días, señorita ,” said a cheerful voice. “Perhaps I may be of assistance?”
    Lyse squinted against the sun. She knew that voice from somewhere. She shifted, tilted the brim of her hat to block the glare. “Don Rafael? What are you doing here?”

    Rafa could see that his little Creole saucepot was not happy to see him. And, indeed, he could hardly have run across her at a more inopportune time. Brigadier-General Bernardo de Gálvez, governor of Spanish Louisiana since New Year’s Day, impatient with former governor Unzaga’s good-hearted but chaotic method of handling diplomatic relations between Britain and her rebelling New England colonies, would court-martial Rafael if anything happened to the cargo waiting at the Dauphine Island port.
    But an engagement with pirates encountered off the coast of Dominica had left the main course and mizzen course sails damaged, and they must be repaired before the Diamante could put back to sea and head for New Orleans. And, since information could be as valuable as gold in these days of pre-war, it was incumbent upon Rafa to make good use of the time.
    However, as he looked down into Lyse Lanier’s uptilted face, shaded by the wide-brimmed felt monstrosity she probably intended for a hat, he could not bring himself to abandon her to the dubious protection of these two ruffians—a stout young redcoat with a spotty chin and rusty hair dribbling from beneath his tricorn, the older one belligerent and, to all appearances, at least three sheets to the wind.
    He saw no reason to answer her question directly. Instead, he wrapped the reins around the horn and jumped lightly to the ground. “As you can see,” he said in English, since the other three had been speaking that language, “I have once more arrived to rescue the damsel in distress. I will not ask why she is dressed like a page boy in a penny opera. Instead I will introduce myself to her escorts and offer the use of my carriage, should it be required. Sirs, I am Don Rafael Maria Gonzales de