by Martha Hix
“An advance?” he teased, then mocked her earlier words. “You flatter yourself.”
“Oooh!” Losing the battle with her temper, she jabbed the tip of her forefinger into his chest. “Stay away from her. You’ve nothing to offer. It’s a well-known fact your father was a no-good gambler, and you sailed under the skull and crossbones of piracy—”
“Letters of marque,” he corrected.
“Pirate, privateer—I see no difference between the two.” Emma thrust her arm down. “You may have Marian fooled with tales of your so-called noble endeavors with the Texas Navy, but I’m not so gullible. You’re nothing but a lowly vagabond!”
“Who keeps the Mexican Centralists from blockading the Gulf sea lanes.” He perused her form. “Thus allowing the import of fine silks to cover full breasts . . . and tiny waists that can be spanned with two hands.”
She wouldn’t be sidetracked. “You’re not right for her!”
Amusement colored his tone as he retorted, “Who am I right for? Perhaps a sabre-tongued temptress who smells of lilac and has hair the color of honey? Maybe a vixen with irises like the first blush of green in April, yet full of the storminess of March?”
His callused finger, not the finger of an aristocrat by any means, grazed the curve of her throat and moved upward to her earlobe. Beneath his touch she tingled.
“Such a comely woman spellbinds this lowly vagabond, making me itch to pull those ivory combs from her hair.”
“How can you play games with Marian’s heart? Don’t you have any sense of decency?”
“None whatsoever.” His fingers loosened the tie of her cloak, and it slid to the floor at their feet. “There are many varieties of wine, Emma. Perhaps you’ve never tasted a fine French vintage. Would you like a sip of one?”
As her eyes collided with his, his arms circled her waist, pulling her to him. He was strong, she realized; his strength, no doubt, hewn from physical labor. Heady aromas clung to his clothing—the manly scent of tobacco interlaced with his flesh’s warmth. Then slowly . . . ever so slowly . . . he tilted his head, his nearness assailing her senses in a strangely intoxicating way. He murmured something in French that she didn’t understand. Yet it sounded wickedly seductive.
Once, and then again, he whispered her name as he lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. He explored their texture, taste, and shape as if her mouth were a precious delicacy. Then, groaning, he slid his tongue past the barrier of her teeth to claim the intimate recesses. A shudder of emotion ran through her, grand and wonderfully wanton.
But to enjoy his embrace was wrong. He was the sort of man who trifled with a woman’s affection, and Emma refused to allow him to dishonor her or William’s widow, or to let him know how much he affected her.
She wrenched free of his arms, drew her hand back, and cracked her palm against Paul Rousseau’s jaw.
Chapter Two
The sting of Emma’s hand reddened Paul’s cheek, but his composure did not waver. Never would he give her the satisfaction of knowing she could inflict pain, though she packed a mighty lick for one so small!
She rubbed his kiss from her lips. “Step back, Rousseau.”
“I’ll not.” He renewed his grip, his eyes delving into the light-green ones that mesmerized him. She felt good in his arms, and he was pleased that she had responded to his kiss . . . before having second thoughts.
He smiled as she protested the embrace and twisted in his arms. He smiled at his luck. Ah, yes. She was much fairer game than Marian. He would enjoy himself while wooing Emma, which was not possible with her empty-headed kinswoman.
He would entice Emma to him . . . and keep her innocent of his motives.
“Let me go . . . please,” she murmured.
That simple request was appealing, and he allowed space between them. With a sweeping gesture, he then bowed from the waist. “Your wish is my command, Mademoiselle Oliver,” he declared, yet his voice held the scrape of sarcasm. “For the moment.”
“Mr. Rousseau, if I cannot appeal to your sense of decency, may I appeal to your monetary sense? I’m prepared to offer you the sum of one thousand dollars in return for your agreement to leave New Orleans straightaway.”
Paul was stunned. The conniving little wench! Of course he should have expected nothing less from an Oliver.
His pride injured, he squared his shoulders and ran splayed fingers through his hair before wheeling away. In two steps he was beside a marble-topped bureau. Did she think him a man who could be bribed for a few coins? This viper must think all men as easy prey as the concierge.
And what of Emma Oliver? How far would she go in her quest? He knew her to be a woman without scruples. She had visited his chambers sans chaperon, which showed this tiny spitfire was less than virtuous. Though he had been bored with Marian’s prattle, Paul now confirmed one choice tidbit he’d gleaned from her: Emma lacked respectability. He watched her as she paced back and forth, glancing at him from time to time.
Back in Virginia, Emma had been jilted by her fiance, Marian had said. Paul surmised the man had discovered her lack of virtue and propriety. That mattered not.
What did matter was that she was unscrupulous. A thief. Surely there was a maxim that described a person of means who stole for the thrill of it, but the word escaped him.
The piece of jewelry in her pocket was worth much more than money could buy, certainly more than her bribe. Save for a miniature portrait, the pin was the only tangible reminder Paul had of his mother.
Yet he had said nary a word at the time it was stolen, and he wouldn’t now. The theft might prove advantageous.
Emma abandoned her pacing and stood her ground five feet from Paul. He leaned back against the bureau, crossing one ankle over the other.
“One thousand dollars, Mr. Rousseau.”
“I heard you the first time. I suppose that kind of money is mere pocket change to you.”
“I’m not wealthy in my own right, if that’s what you mean. The money is a large part of the inheritance I received from my cousin William. I believe he’d approve of my spending it for his widow’s benefit.”
“Aren’t you noble?” Paul asked coolly. “So you think I can be purchased like fruit at the market.” He straightened, and his laugh was low and cynical as he strode toward her. The air crackled with tension. “Well, I can be,” he lied, intending to find out just how much she was willing to sacrifice. “Everyone has his price. But one thousand dollars isn’t nearly enough. If I deny myself Marian’s pleasure, how much is it worth to you?”
“I’ll not give you a cent more.”
“Then let me name my figure. My price is one evening with you in that bed over there.”
“You snake! Your black heart will burn in hell before—”
“My, my, such language from a lady. But you’re not a lady, are you?”
“And you’re certainly no gentleman!” Emma gritted her teeth. “I’ll have the money delivered on the morrow.”
“Money isn’t a part of the contract.” He watched her glare at him. “When will you deliver yourself to me, Emma Oliver? Now perhaps?”
Retrieving her cloak, Emma clutched the garment to her and charged across the room.
“Well, when?” he taunted.
“Never!” The word was punctuated by the slamming of the door as she exited.
Her answer echoing in his brain, Paul threw back his head in laughter and then dropped onto the bed. Oh yes, you will.
The vixen thought she had the better of him. That wasn’t so. Relaxed and confident, Paul relit his cheroot. He ought to hate her, ought to loathe anyone with Oliver blood. For some odd reason, he didn’t. But he warned himself not to let his feelings for Emma get out of hand. After all, she was an Oliver.
Since she had stolen the brooch, he’d have a reason to see her again. That appealed to Paul. Closing his eyes, he chuckled. She deserved to be prosecuted for her thievery, yet if he turned her over to the police, his plans for the Olivers would
be torn asunder. Such a move would gain him nothing. And the thought of her comely little body behind bars held no appeal, but she didn’t have to know that. Her thievery, Paul decided, even more confidently, could be used to his best advantage.
And though Emma tantalized him, arousing his passion, he would never trust her. But what a delightful little lagniappe, a delectable little bonus, she’d be in his pursuit to vindicate his father.
Wanting to get as far from Paul Rousseau as possible, Emma hurried through the long corridor and down the hotel staircase. The very idea of him! It galled her, his suggestion that she compromise her virtue to his blackmail. What did he take her for, one of those painted strumpets who paraded along the levee?
“An evening in his bed,” she muttered under her breath, as she sailed past the venal concierge who had demanded a twenty-dollar gold piece before producing a key to that scoundrel’s room, “I’d rather cuddle an alligator.”
Once in the pungent-smelling night air, she whipped her cloak around her shoulders, tied it beneath her chin, and checked her pocket for the brooch. Drat! She’d be forced to see Rousseau again when she returned it.
Looking down St. Charles Street, first east, then west, she searched for her carriage. It was nowhere in sight. Over the sound of street music, a group of drunken sailors called to her. Their message was obscene. Well, what did she expect, since she was unaccompanied?
She detected heavy steps behind her just as a body lurched against her. Reeling, Emma grabbed her attacker’s skirt. A woman! The young female, whose hazel eyes were as bright in the gaslight glow as her face was beautiful, shoved Emma forcefully, and Emma stumbled into the clutches of the woman’s corpulent male accomplice.
“Get your hands off me!” Emma struggled against his grip, eager to be away from his whiskey-fouled breath.
“Hear that? She wants me to unhand her, Katie.” The wrinkled man sneered, showing his gapped, rotten teeth. A filthy black patch covered one eye, and he peered at his captive with the other. “I want not to unhand the pretty little piece.”
A carriage turned the corner at nearby Common Street, and Emma spied Uncle Rankin’s majestic grays in the leads. “Miss Emma!” she heard Jeremiah yell. The hoofbeats clomped faster. A savior, saints be praised!
“Packert!” The woman pulled frantically at the big man’s arm. “Let her go! We must leave.”
“Get away from her,” the coachman roared. Jumping down from his seat, he flew to Emma’s aid, yanking her away from the cutthroat.
Emma tried to strike Packert, but he and the woman disappeared into the shadows, the ruffian jeering.
“You okay, Miss Emma?” Jeremiah asked as he opened the carriage door and handed her into the interior.
“I . . . I think so, thank you.”
Emma dropped onto the seat, exhaled a loud breath, and disregarded the sniff of disapproval of her companion in the carriage. As the horses set a pace for the three-mile journey to the Oliver plantation, Emma’s equanimity returned and she gave thought to the disturbing situation of how to deal with Paul Rousseau’s demands. How could she protect Marian from him? How could she protect herself from him! Obviously he was a man who wouldn’t quit without a fight.
Moreover, he was not above pitting two women of the same family against each other. She shivered. Oh, how she despised him. Paul Rousseau was rotten to the core, as rotten as that awful ruffian’s teeth!
Since Rousseau had proven he had no sense of decency and he had spurned her offer of money, Emma realized she must confess all to Marian. Surely then William’s widow would see the light. Nonetheless, it pained Emma to think about bruising Marian’s fragile emotions. And it would be humiliating to recount an adventure in which Emma had, once more, shown a lack of social decorum.
But it had to be done.
“Went and got in trouble, didn’t you?”
Emma glanced at her mammy, who sat straight as a pencil on the seat beside her. “Where have you been, Cleo?” Not giving the woman a chance to answer, she chastised her. “And a lot of help you were when you did show up. I could’ve been killed, and you wouldn’t have stuck your nose out the window.”
“I know exactly where not to stick my nose.” Cleopatra, her face set in a scowl, crossed her arms over her spare chest. “Besides, I knew you’d be all right. Satan hisself’d know better than to tangle with you.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Emma replied caustically. “As usual you’ve no qualms about ‘tangling’ with me.”
“Somebody’s gotta try to keep you in line. And listen here, missy, you be entrusted to me when you were a babe—oh, such a pretty little thing you were then!” The servant smiled, then shook her head in disgust. “But you ain’t been nothing but trouble since the day you was born. I’ve had twenty years of your sassing and talking back, not to mention your habit of taking in every stray you can find.”
“Spoken by a person elevated at an early age to the high station of mammy,” Emma shot back. “A free woman of color with faint regard for the unfortunates of society.”
She might as well have saved her breath; Cleopatra ignored the comment.
“Now you’ve taken it upon yourself to mind Miss Marian’s business, and—” Cleopatra curled her lip—“been visiting a man in his hotel room to do it.”
“Hush.” Emma sighed. Cleopatra had been especially testy of late due to the haste in which the two women had left Richmond. Emma didn’t want to think about the events that had led up to their departure.
“Ain’t gonna hush! Why, in the first place, the very idea of you huffing up, then leaving your poor mama and daddy was disgraceful. And your coming to this wicked city and taking up the ways of white trash makes me sick, plumb sick.”
“I had my reasons, and you know them,” Emma reminded her.
“Huh! Reasons, my foot. You just got a streak of rebellion running through you. You been raised to be a lady, but what do you do now? I’ll tell you what you done; you ain’t in this town two days and you be sneaking around to meet Miss Marian’s man.”
Emma squeezed Cleopatra’s hand. “You’re making it sound worse than it is. My only motive was Marian’s welfare.”
“That be Master Rankin’s responsibility.”
“Well, he’ll be in St. Martinsville until who knows when.” Emma clenched her fist. “No telling what Marian or Rousseau—especially Rousseau!—might’ve done between now and then.” Or what he might still do, she added silently.
“If you were so set on talking to him, why didn’t you wait till he come out to Magnolia Hall?”
“As I told you before, I have to help Marian, and it was best not to bother her with my . . . with my—”
“Meddling,” Cleopatra finished for her. “Still think you done right? You gonna tell her now?”
“I don’t know. And yes.”
Minutes later Cleopatra tilted her head. “Well, is you or ain’t you gonna tell me what happened?”
Emma had never kept a secret from her beloved mammy, but she sometimes kept her in suspense. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a busybody?”
Cleopatra’s eyes drilled into Emma. “Just a certain youngun I know who needs a good switchin’!”
“If anyone needs a switchin’, it’s Marian.” Emma rubbed her brow. “If she had the sense God gave a goose, my calling on Rousseau would not’ve been necessary.”
Although innocent of the intimacies shared between men and women, Emma was woman enough to know the importance of physical love to happiness. She wanted William’s widow to find contentment again, but not in the arms of a Rousseau. A Rousseau who was a lecher at that! Why was Marian so blind to Howard O’Reilly’s attention? He was a man of sensitivity and grace; and being noble and solicitous, he’d provide a strong shoulder for the dependent Marian to lean on.
“You heard her, Cleo. She refuses to listen to reason—”
“Sounds familiar.”
Emma continued undaunted. “She sees absolutely nothing impro
per in the advances of that . . . that . . .” She couldn’t think of a name nasty enough.
“Miss Marian’s old enough to know what she wants and how to handle it!” Cleopatra smirked like a Cheshire cat. “Just like you’re not old enough to figure out what’s good for you.”
That particular look spelled Franklin Underwood, and Emma’s former fiance was a subject best avoided. “Rousseau tried to molest me,” she said quickly.
“You be as dumb as Miss Marian. He’s a man, ain’t he? It wouldn’t be natural if he didn’t get the wrong idea. Hmmph. I remember him from when I visited here in ’29 with your mama and daddy. Why, that beanpole come to Magnolia Hall and wanted to call Master Rankin out! ’Course the master laughed in his face, said he didn’t duel with children.” Cleopatra chuckled. “That black-eyed Frenchie ain’t nothing for either one of you to be troubled over. He be ugly as those mud-sucking crawfish they’s always eating around here.”
“Well, he’s not ugly or skinny now.” Try as she might, Emma couldn’t suppress a grin. “He’s tall and quite handsome. Furthermore, he was born on American soil, not in France, and he’s a citizen of Texas.”
“I’ve heard about those Texians—they’s rough as cobs.”
“I’ll allow he lacks gentility.” Why she was going to the scoundrel’s defense, Emma didn’t know. “But for your information, Marian told me he’s her brother James’s second-in-command on the schooner San Antonio.”
“You’ve sure changed your tune, missy. Sounds like you’re smitten just like Miss Marian.”
With all her heart Emma hoped not. Yet she couldn’t forget the feel of his lips . . . his tongue. She pushed that remembrance aside. “You know why I’m worried about her. When William was in Virginia, dying of yellow fever, he made me promise to look out for Marian’s interests. She’s my duty.”
“He musta been sick.”
Ignoring the pointed barb, Emma spoke. “Not so sick that he didn’t want to protect his widow from the likes of Rousseau.”
“Umm-hmm.”
“Oh, Cleo, don’t be so smug.” Emma looked out the window. “Right now I wish we’d never left Virginia.”
