by Martha Hix
Marian’s back stiffened. “I don’t care what people back home say, Emma couldn’t be at fault. She’s a dear person. Surely she’s done nothing morally wrong.” She colored. “I’m not acquainted with her former fiance, but his reasons must’ve been groundless.”
I’ll bet, Paul thought. “Forgive me for prying, Marian.”
A sly grin stole across Paul’s features. Any guilt that he had felt about following up on his intentions toward Emma—there hadn’t been much—flew out the window. Marian had said more with her weak defense than she could have by telling him the whole story.
That chatterbox now said, “Though Emma defies convention she’s a lovely person.”
“How so?”
“She goes out of her way to please others.”
He hoped Emma would go out of her way to please him. Of course he wouldn’t mind reciprocating.
“I think it’s because she’s caught in the middle of a large family,” Marian was saying. “Two older brothers, an older sister. And a younger one, too.”
“Her parents don’t give her the attention she needs?”
“Do not misinterpret my words. Quentin and the poor crippled Noreen are fine people, and they love all their children, but I think Emma behaves wildly because she needs someone who is all hers. Like a man.”
“Wallflower, is she?”
“Heavens, no! Emma’s the belle of Richmond. Or she could be. Well, could’ve been . . . before this awful scandal with Franklin arose.”
“And she made this trip to New Orleans to get away from it?”
“Probably. But I hear tell that she had an argument with her father over something to do with her ambitions.”
“She’s ambitious? For what . . . a husband?”
“All women want a husband, sweetness! My goodness, that’s what we were put on this earth for.” In puzzlement, Marian bit her bottom lip once more. “But I don’t think that’s why Emma was fighting with Quentin. She agreed to attend finishing school and do all the other things proper for a lady, but she has a notion for higher education. Why, to hear her talk you’d think she was a man!”
During his interlude with Emma, Paul had never once likened her speech to a man’s. He smiled. She was all female, and he was all male and he wanted her.
“Paul, sweet, enough about her. What about me? You’re not throwing a bit of attention my way.”
Since it seemed unlikely that he’d see Emma that morning, Paul saw no reason to stay at Magnolia Hall. “Thank you for breakfast, Marian, but I really must get back to the city.”
“Must you leave so soon? I do want you to meet my dear cousin. She’s so special to me—and to my dear departed William . . . or was.” She withdrew her arm from his and steepled her fingers under her chin. “Perhaps we could join Emma for her morning ride.”
Paul’s senses became alert. “I suppose I could stay awhile longer.”
“I’m so-o-o-o pleased. Excuse me. I must change. I have a new coffee-brown riding habit. Do you like brown?”
“Adore it,” he replied, half hearing.
“Wonderful! Well, wait for me right there, darling.” She pointed to a settee in the foyer. “I’ll see you have more wine.”
He raised a palm. “I’ve had enough, thank you.” His demur was for naught.
“Becky, oh Becky!” Marian craned her neck around a doorway. “Get Master Rousseau a refreshment. Where is that good-for-nothing? Probably lazing about in her quarters with those children of hers.”
Paul shook his head. Marian didn’t have children, so he supposed she had no maternal instincts and couldn’t understand her servant’s need to be with her offspring.
“I’m so excited about tonight.” Marian started up the stairs, blowing him a kiss from the landing. “I just love Mardi gras!”
It was amazing. Marian had the ability to talk about several things at once, making little sense of any of them. Except when it came to gossip. But he supposed she was a necessary evil for now. He needed her to get to Emma.
He figured Emma Oliver wouldn’t show up in his room again without a fight. But she would be there! Soon. And as for her morning ride, she could ride him or he would ride her, or preferably they’d take turns. Whatever the lady preferred.
Emma had spent two sleepless nights and one long day worrying about that brooch—and about Marian. Not to mention herself. Each time she thought it propitious to mention her meeting with Paul Rousseau, she had been interrupted. The longer she hesitated over making an explanation, the harder it got.
As for her offer of money to Rousseau, the previous afternoon Emma had written a note to the banker who held her Letter of Credit in New Orleans, instructing him to release one thousand dollars in currency to Cleopatra. The mammy had then gone straight to the St. Charles and had left the cash with Paul Rousseau, demanding a receipt.
Since he had said nothing about the pin to Cleo, Emma decided Rousseau didn’t know it was missing. Forcing herself to be cheerful, she looked on the bright side. The morning was sunny, albeit brisk. What good would it do to fret? This was a perfect day for an invigorating ride atop a magnificent stallion.
At the bottom of the outdoor staircase that descended from the gallery Emma stood motionless, her heart beating wildly as her stiff fingers clutched her riding crop. Paul Rousseau, and Marian, stood in the carriageway!
How dare he show his face at Uncle Rankin’s home? Emma fumed. She had paid him in currency to quit his claim! But why was her heart fluttering at the sight of him?
Marian slipped her arm through the crook of Paul’s elbow, Emma noted, then touched his midnight-blue coat at the breadth of his wide chest. Emma wished to tear him limb from limb!
“Good morning, dear,” Marian said to Emma. Her brown eyes dancing, she smiled up at Rousseau’s arrogant face, made hasty introductions, and rattled on.
Rather than snap at her cousin, Emma clamped her teeth and marshaled patience. Marian was such a silly, helpless twit! But she was family, and family was paramount to Emma.
Her attention was suddenly caught.
“. . . and isn’t it lovely that Paul and I will be able to join you for your morning ride?”
As far as Rousseau was concerned, Emma silently determined it wasn’t.
“Did you sleep well, cousin dear?” Marian asked.
Emma hadn’t.
“Oh, I’m so looking forward to tonight’s ball. I mentioned that Paul will be my escort, didn’t I?”
“It slipped my mind.” Emma couldn’t even enjoy the prospect of the upcoming event since he’d be present, his pockets stuffed with her money.
“Paul sweet, don’t be rude. Please say something to my darling cousin.”
“Believe me, I didn’t mean to slight you, Mademoiselle Oliver,” Paul said in his rich baritone as he stepped away from Marian. “I have the strangest feeling about you.” Mockingly he bowed toward Emma. “You know, as though I’d met you somewhere before. Have you ever had that feeling?”
“Certainly not,” Emma replied haughtily. She’d have given her eyeteeth to let fly with the scathing truth about Paul Rousseau, but this was neither the time nor the place.
“Isn’t he absolutely charming! And, Paul, doesn’t my cousin look stunning this morning?”
“Absolutely charming,” he replied, a low tone to his voice that could have been a tease, or a caress.
Marian touched Paul’s arm possessively, but spoke to Emma. “I never thought the clouds would part and I’d have sunshine in my life again. Oh, cousin dear, isn’t life grand? Isn’t Paul grand? Now, now, don’t be embarrassed, sweetness. And you, Emma—I do hope you’ll find someone you can love, someone even half as stupendous as Paul makes me feel!”
“Marian, for heaven’s sake, don’t place me on a pedestal,” he admonished. “Some call me less than virtuous.”
She threw back her head and chuckled. “Woe be to the one who speaks false of you!”
Emma realized Marian’s last words had been spoken in
jest. Yet a chill penetrated her bones, for obviously Marian loved this scoundrel, and the truth about him would crush her. How could she tell her cousin what he was really like?
Until Emma found a way to thwart Paul, she could only hope that Rousseau’s advance to her had been made in a weak moment. Two days had passed since his proposition and despite his covert words spoken only moments before, Emma held on to the hope that she had made a mountain out of a molehill.
Marian plucked a blossom from a bush. “My goodness, aren’t the azaleas beautiful? They’re blooming early this year,” she chattered, dancing out of earshot to garner another bloom from a different bush. “I do hope my costume will be ready for tonight!” she called over her shoulder.
Paul stepped closer to Emma and inquired in a whisper, “What fashion will you be wearing this evening? Courtesan? Ah, yes, something gold adorned with diamonds would do wonders for your, um, complexion.”
“Get away from me.”
“Now, now. Why not wear the split breeches of a thief?” They’d be tailor-made for you. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Gold adorned with diamonds. Thief. Emma’s heart sank. He knew about the brooch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Rousseau.”
“Don’t you now?” He winked and said teasingly, “I don’t blame you for wanting a remembrance of our first meeting. I’m counting the hours until our next one . . . then I’ll have something of yours.”
She had been wrong a moment ago about Rousseau. “You have something of mine already. One thousand dollars. Either return it, or live up to the stipulations.”
“I believe this is yours.” He reached inside his coat, withdrawing an envelope. “And my word stands.”
“You’re out of your mind.” Emma tried to disregard the bold cast of his eyes, the dark shadowing of his cheeks. How did he get that scar on his jaw?
“Undoubtedly.”
His big hand tucked the money in her jacket, at the rise of her breast. The familiarity of his touch was outrageous, provocative.
“Out of my mind lusting for you,” he whispered.
Standing so near to him, Emma’s senses were aroused. His scent was alluringly warm and slightly herbal. Why couldn’t he have bad breath or body odor or some repugnance befitting his low caliber?
To Emma’s relief Marian returned. “When are we going to start for the stable? And what were you asking my cousin?”
His eyes never left Emma. “About her costume for tonight.”
Emma met his gaze defiantly.
“Oh, Paul.” Marian giggled. “Don’t be silly! You know it spoils the surprise to tell.”
Still centering his attention on Emma, he grinned sardonically. “Something tells me I’ll never cease to be surprised by you.”
“Why, Paul Rousseau,” Marian cooed, daintily lifting the hem of her skirts a mere inch, then pirouetting. “What a wicked one you are.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Emma mumbled to herself.
Thankfully the conversation was broken when a young servant boy ran up and tugged on Marian’s hand. “Mistress Tillie’s lookin’ for you and Massah Rousseau. She feelin’ poorly agin. She be needin’ you to cheer her up!”
Although Emma adored her aunt, she knew this latest disorder was nothing to be concerned about. Aunt Tillie was always “feelin’ poorly.” From clandestine reading of her father’s medical books Emma had long since diagnosed hypochondria in its purest form.
But what a marvelous excuse to get away! With a quick “Pardon me” she passed the two and made for the stable. If she was lucky, she’d be gone before Rousseau and Marian returned from cosseting Auntie!
Walking the path to the stable, Emma railed against Paul Rousseau. Apparently he had no intention of making an exit from Marian’s life. Or from hers. Drat him! He held the trump card—the theft. She had to buy time, hire a detective, do whatever it took to find Katie and Packert. After all, Rousseau hadn’t seen her take the jewelry; any number of people had access to his room. He suspected her but couldn’t pin the theft on her.
Emma was infuriated with Rousseau and with Marian. But mostly she was angry with herself. She was, as Cleo had charged, smitten with the man. With his black hair, dark eyes, and rakish appearance, Paul was certainly attractive, but only on the outside. For he was less than genteel, and he was a lecherous rake. Emma Frances, surely you have better taste in men than that! she chided herself.
Pressing her lips together with determination, Emma decided that though she was curious about, and fascinated with, Paul Rousseau, she was going to ignore him when they met again.
A few feet short of the stable, she felt a tug at her headdress; then it was pulled from her head. Swinging about, she placed her hands on her hips. Rousseau had her hat in his hand, twirling it around his forefinger.
“Running away, chérie?”
Chapter Four
“I don’t run from anything or anyone.”
“Don’t imagine you do.” Paul grinned at the spunky woman.
Emma looked beautiful, from her blond sweep of hair to her narrow calfskin boots. The holly green habit fit her shapely body like a glove.
Running the tip of his finger along the silly leghorn hat’s plume when he’d have rather been stroking her velvet-smooth, oval face, he said, “I don’t run from anything or anyone, either. In my thirty years of living I’ve never backed down from a challenge, and I don’t intend to start with you.”
“Is that so?” Emma raised her riding crop slightly.
“I ask no quarter,” he replied. “And give none, either.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Paul eyed the riding whip, which she was now waving, then directed his attention to her light green eyes. “If you think lashing me with that thing will do it, you’re mistaken.” Moving closer to her, he placed the hat on her fetching blond curls. “You know the terms, chérie.”
She reached up to secure the hat pin. “I cannot meet your price, Mr. Rousseau.”
“Let me help you . . . with your hat, that is.” He started to assist her, but she swung away from him and made for the stable. He was right behind her. Once inside the building, he said teasingly, “How nice we’re alone.”
“Not in my opinion.” Glaring, she whirled around. “Two thousand dollars cash, and that’s my final offer.”
“Your money doesn’t interest me. You interest me.” He lessened the space between them, taking her tiny hand between his callused ones. “And I don’t want to take anything away . . . I’d rather give than receive. In this case I’ll give you pleasure that won’t cost a picayune.”
She wrenched her fingers free of his grasp. Holding her head high, she whipped the crop against her skirt. “The only pleasure I could possibly derive from you is lashing this quirt across your ugly face!”
He knew the little spitfire was angry enough to do it. The thought didn’t frighten him, but he decided to ease up on her. “I’ve never had a taste for suffering, chérie.”
“Only inflicting it,” she retorted hotly.
“You’re wrong.” Paul crossed over the straw floor to a stall where a white Arabian stallion was penned. Patting the horse’s sleek head, he addressed his next words to the animal. “Say, boy, how are you today? Ready for a ride?” The stallion whickered and bobbed his head twice, as if he’d understood. “Yes, the pretty lady with the blond hair will accompany us, mon ami. I’ll saddle your lady friend for Mademoiselle Emma Oliver.”
Emma’s brows drew together. It was perplexing to hear him speak kindly to an animal. Considering the trouble he had given her and Marian, Emma never thought a horse would bring out his gentle side. And despite her anger, she was interested in Paul’s behavior, both laudable and despicable.
Her tone lacking its previous edge, she commented, “I didn’t think men of the sea were horsemen.”
Paul warmed to the soft sound of her voice. Leveling his gaze with hers, he saw that she was peering at him quizzically, and realized ther
e was much to be learned about this woman who mesmerized him with the fire of her personality. She could be cunning and devious. Yet he did not fault her for either; life had forced him into the same path, for survival and to achieve his goals.
He wanted to know more about her inquisitive side, and her tender one. Answering questions about himself didn’t hold much appeal, but it might help him get close to her . . . and gain her confidence. “I haven’t been a sea dog all my life.”
“I’d argue the ‘dog’ part.” The twinkle in her eyes matched the mirth in her voice. “I’ve heard many things about you,” she said seriously. “You seem to be an enigma.”
Paul folded his arms in front of his chest. “How so?”
“I’ve been told you’ve been a pirate—uh, privateer —yet you’re now on the right side of the law, insofar as your naval adventures are concerned anyway.”
Paul was reluctant to defend his past, yet he didn’t want to lose ground with Emma, even though he enjoyed the positive turn this conversation had taken. “I don’t deny I’ve been a privateer, and I feel no shame about my years in that pursuit. I’m on the right side of the law, as you put it, because of the patriotism I have for the Republic of Texas. I won’t bore you with the details.”
“Who says I’d be bored?”
He chuckled and leaned back against the stall gate. “When I was seventeen I set sail from this place and ended up at Jean Lafitte’s old port of call in Galveston. Learned to love Texas almost as much as I love a salt breeze at my face and the roar of the ocean in my ear.”
Texas had given shelter to his troubled heart. Paul had been lonely and alone after his parents died. On the heels of losing his mother and then his father, his grandfather had turned him off the family sugar plantation—with good reason. Texas had been a good place to come to grips with himself and get on with being a grown man.
