by Martha Hix
“Is that all?” Emma asked. “Tell me why you became a part of the Navy.”
“The war with Santa Anna came along, and I signed up with the first fleet. We Texans were victorious at San Jacinto, so I went back to privateering.”
“But you’re now in the Navy. What happened?”
“I met Ed Moore down in the West Indies. Over a bottle of my best cognac we discussed our mutual interests—Texas’s problems with the Mexicans being at the forefront. President Lamar was looking to reinstate the Texas Navy, and he’d offered Ed the post captaincy. By the time we got to the bottom of the bottle, Ed decided to accept the offer. And I gave him my word I’d serve under him.”
“Marian’s brother is your commander on the San Antonio.” She lifted a brow. “I would’ve thought you’d be in charge of your own vessel.”
“When the next ship is commissioned . . .” Paul hesitated. There was no use saying another ship probably wouldn’t be commissioned, thanks to the Big Drunk. “When the next one’s put in service I’ll be at the helm.”
“You’re very sure of yourself and your endeavors.”
“Granted,” Paul said calmly. Yes, he was sure of himself. Of the Texas Navy’s future, he wasn’t as confident.
“James tells me your president doesn’t approve of the Navy.”
“Sam Houston is a legend in his own time, and he’s given his all for the betterment of our Republic; but he’s a mountain man and an Indian fighter. He’s not perfect.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I respect him. For the most part I admire his leadership abilities. I don’t agree with his policy toward the fleet.”
“There’s not much you can do about it, right? He gives the orders for you to follow.”
“That’s the scheme of naval life, chérie.” With the toe of his boot Paul pushed aside several blades of straw. “Enough about that. Tell me about you.”
“I’m not through with you.” She placed the quirt on a shelf. “I’ve only heard one side of the story about your father. Pardon my saying so, but he was disgraced here in Louisiana, yet you’re welcome in society. I find that strange.”
Disgraced? Paul begged to differ, but he had no urge to discuss Étienne Rousseau, especially with Rankin Oliver’s blood kin. He admitted inwardly that his father had had faults, but then who didn’t? Étienne had been weak in many ways, spoiled by his mother, fine looks, and too much money, which had been spent unwisely at the gaming tables. Nonetheless, strength had been a part of his character, too. He was loyal to his friends and country, kind to all and fiercely loving of his son and his wife Angélique.
As for society circles, Rankin—an interloper, a tinker turned planter and merchant—had done his best to malign Étienne’s character, but most people had taken the slurs for what they were: petty backstabbing. However, if Paul were to call Emma’s attention to the truth, she’d know he harbored ill feelings toward her uncle. “This isn’t your home in Virginia. New Orleans makes its own rules.”
“How do you know I’m from Virginia!”
“When your name is mentioned, chérie, I’m all ears.” He grinned mischievously. “Perhaps you’d like to hear all I know.” He hoped he could get her to discuss Rankin Oliver with candor. And—who was he trying to fool?—Paul Rousseau wanted to get Emma Oliver alone so that he could enjoy more of her. “The St. Charles would be a good place for further discussion.”
“There won’t be a time and place!” In exasperation she dropped her arms. “This game of yours has gone far enough.” Her determination was voiced in each syllable. “I’m going to tell Marian that you’re playing her false.”
“I forbid it!” Paul needed to end the charade with Widow Oliver, and quick. It was causing more pain than gain. Almost sorry for Emma’s change from curiosity to anger, he stepped closer and took her elbows; she didn’t pull away. Rather than taunt her, he ached to make love to her, but time would take care of that. “If you do, I’ve my own story to tell.”
“What are you implying?”
He felt the small quiver of fear that ran through her. “Emma, you seem to have forgotten something.”
She drew her shoulders back. “I’ve forgotten nothing.”
“What about the property you took from my room?”
“I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“The devil will take you for lying, Emma Oliver.”
She swallowed hard. “I didn’t take your brooch.”
“Au contraire. You did.” A wide grin spread across his face. “I never mentioned it was a brooch.”
“Drat,” she muttered. Defeat seared through her. “I didn’t mean to take it.” Her voice was quiet. “You startled me when you walked in, and I dropped it into my pocket. Unfortunately it was stolen by two pickpockets when I left the St. Charles.” Looking him squarely in the eye, she added, “I’m prepared to make restitution in the event it can’t be recovered.”
Paul had been confident that its return would be simple. Now it had become complicated. He might never see the brooch again. He should have said something about it the moment it was stolen. “How do you put a price on a family heirloom? It belonged to my mother and to my father’s mother before that.”
“Oh no,” she whispered, dropping her lashes, then looking up at him once more. “It will be found . . . somehow.”
“I’d say the prospects of that are doubtful.” Lifting her chin with his forefinger, he stared into her troubled eyes. He would give no quarter. “I’d say you now have two reasons to visit me at the St. Charles. To make me forget Marian, and well . . .”
“Why are you doing this to me?’ she asked pleadingly.
“Because I want to make love to you.”
“I should slap you for saying that.”
He winked devilishly. “You won’t.”
“What makes you so certain?”
He stepped even closer. “Your words lack conviction.”
“Well, then let me put some conviction into my words. I’ll never allow you to make love to me!”
“Never is a long, long time.” The desire to kiss her overwhelmed him. He took her hat from her head once more and dropped the leghorn onto the straw. “Emma, beautiful Emma . . . let’s not argue.”
His palms framed her face. He parted his lips slightly and tilted his head down to hers. She was braced between him and the wall, and he loved the feel of her warm, soft, womanly body. Her lips were sweet and tinged lightly with coffee; her lilac-scented skin drove him wild with desire. He heard her moan as he kissed her tenderly, felt her arms steal around his back. A flash of heat swept through him and settled in his groin, and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted another woman.
“I dreamed of you last night,” he whispered between kisses, confessing the truth. “You were lying naked in my bed. Your skin was hot from our lovemaking, and you called out my name as I made you mine. Say it, Emma, say my name.”
“No,” she murmured brokenly, moving her face to the side.
“Say it.” He pressed his body solidly against her, forcing her to look at him, and kissing her once more. “Now.”
“Paul,” she whispered in surrender, her fingers curling into his shoulders. “Paul.”
Her words poured through him like rich cream, and he ached to take her right then, right there. But he wouldn’t. He wanted her in his bed, with all the time in the world for each of them to savor the delights of their lovemaking.
“I’ll call for a carriage,” he said huskily.
Defiance flared in her eyes, as she stiffened her shoulders. “Don’t be absurd!” She ducked under his arms and grabbed her plumed hat. Several feet separating them, she crumpled the brim in her palm. “Do you always have two women at the same time, Rousseau? Two women of the same name, this time. Have you considered the pain you’ll cause Marian by trifling with her affection?”
“Marian who?” Paul walked slowly toward Emma.
“Oooh! You are a rotten blackg
uard, Rousseau.” She thrust her hand out. “Get out of my way and let me pass.”
“Have you forgotten you’re indebted to me?”
“Mr. Rousseau, I’m indebted to no one.”
“Ah, but you are. To me. Of course we can settle the matter at my hotel.”
“I won’t go!”
“Yes, Emma, you will.”
“Over my dead body!”
“Your dead body is not what I want.”
She started for the door, but he caught her arm. “If you’re not willing to share your warm body, then I’ll call the police when I return to the city . . . about the matter of the brooch, you know.”
“I’m not frightened of you or of your extortion. You can’t prove I took the pin. It’s your word against mine.”
“Then you’re not as astute as I had pegged you. I have a material witness.” He paused for emphasis. “The night you visited my room, you bribed the concierge with a gold piece. He remembers you. And he’ll gladly testify you were in my quarters,” Paul fibbed. “It’s two against one.”
“You vulture. I’m not surprised you’ve drawn that venal hotel clerk into your wicked scheme. He’s as reprehensible as you.” She curled her lip. “My mother always says birds of a feather flock together!”
“Then you and I are a matched set of lovebirds.” He extracted a piece of parchment from his coat pocket. “This note, written by Castillo at the hotel,” he lied, “implicates you as a thief.”
Wordlessly she grabbed the document, ripping it to shreds and stuffing the remnants into her skirt pocket.
“Remind me to check your pockets often.” Arms akimbo, he chuckled. “He’ll be more than agreeable to sign another one.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment.” Emma clenched her fists. “I can’t return the brooch unless I find it. Give me time to search for the thieves, and you’ll get it back.”
“Why should I give you time?”
She glanced at the ground, then up again. “Because I asked for it.”
Paul could feel himself being wrapped around her finger, and he pulled away from that velvet bond. Shaking his head, he said, “Your time is up.”
“Do you have any redeeming qualities?” she yelled.
Remembering Marian’s words about Emma’s love for dogs and cats, Paul answered, “I’ve never been cruel to animals.”
“Too bad that quality doesn’t extend to humans!”
“All right,” he acquiesced. “I’ll give you three days to return the pin. Three days, and that’s all. I’ll expect you at the St. Charles by Tuesday evening, no later than sunset.” Bending down, Paul gave her a quick kiss on the cheek . . . and it tasted like more! “Do keep your dance card open tonight. I’ll expect a waltz with you—if I’m not completely occupied with your dear cousin, that is.”
He whipped around and left the stable. Perhaps he had been unnecessarily harsh, but Emma could take it. Of that, he was certain. He had the distinct impression that she was the type who wanted a challenge, just as he did. He was beginning to rethink his assessment of her former fiance. In all probability, the man had been so enraptured after he’d lifted Emma’s skirts that he had started following her around like a little puppy dog until she’d given him the boot. If Paul were to start yapping and begging, letting her think she had won about Marian—which she had—and about the brooch, she’d lose interest in him.
Paul didn’t intend to let Emma lose interest. Not yet. Not until her words ceased to deny him and she succumbed to the wanton language of her body.
A voice in the back of his brain screamed, “You’re letting desire get in the way of logic! This isn’t courtship, it’s war. If you want information on Rankin Oliver, you need to play the game Emma’s way.” Yet he couldn’t, for realization hit him. He yearned for her body as much as he yearned to right the wrongs Rankin was imposing upon the Republic of Texas—not to mention his obsession with avenging the deaths of Karla Stahl and Étienne Rousseau.
Marian Oliver had hurriedly hidden around the corner of the stable. She had heard everything, and her mind was in a dither. So much to comprehend! Pursing her lips, she attempted to sort through those overheard revelations.
Since Paul was obviously so taken with Emma, she supposed she should be insulted, but she wasn’t. Well, she couldn’t allow anything to upset her, not with tonight still ahead! Who could be angry when there was a Mardi gras ball to attend?
And Howard O’Reilly would be there. Oh, what a lovely thought that was! But Howard was such a stick at times, he didn’t see that she had played up to Paul Rousseau simply to make him jealous.
Heavens, she hoped he’d recognize her disguise tonight. Venus, the goddess of love, was going to get Mr. O’Reilly’s attention—and his betrothal!
Emma certainly had Paul’s attention. Such a strumpet, that one was! But Marian upbraided herself. Emma had been kind to her, always, and sweet William had loved Emma. Poor Emma just didn’t seem to realize when she was bringing disgrace on herself. Falling back into her former way of thinking, Marian decided that surely Emma realized it was sinful to steal, and certainly she had gone to Paul’s room to protect her. But didn’t she realize how shameful that was!
Oh, if Marian didn’t love Emma so much, she’d go straight to Tillie with the information. Poor thing. Tillie was in such frail health Marian expected her to pass away any sundown!
Heavens, when that happened she’d have to go back to wearing dismal mourning weeds! Marian frowned. Black did nothing for her coloring, and she had, at Rankin’s insistence, mourned William’s passing for three long years. Not that she didn’t pine for him—she did. But black!
Emma, since she was fair-complected, looked lovely in black. Let her do the mourning; let her hold Rankin’s hand! On second thought, Marian wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy. She decided, with a nod, to visit her mother as soon as propriety allowed.
But that was no good. If Marian left for Virginia, how would she get to see that red-haired attorney? She chewed at a fingernail. She’d stay. And since Emma—Howard’s niece, it shouldn’t be forgotten—was in residence at Magnolia Hall, why should Marian not avail herself of each and every opportunity to see her future husband? Marian was extremely proud of her decision.
Oh, my gracious, yes! She and Howard O’Reilly were made for each other, just as Emma and Paul were. Marian had seen the sparks flying between those two! Fluttering her hands, she conjured up images of a double wedding. It was about time Emma settled down and married, Marian reflected sanctimoniously. The poor thing was twenty years old! Paul would save Emma from spinsterhood.
“Oh, won’t that be delightful,” she whispered gleefully.
A beautiful gown—no, two of them!—would have to be commissioned. Champagne and delicacies and a stringed quartet would be arranged for the nuptials. She was going straight back to the drawing room to start work on a wedding gift for Emma—a nice embroidered handkerchief would be lovely.
The widow Oliver literally danced back to the house.
Chapter Five
In the privacy of her room, Emma sat down at the writing desk to ponder her predicament. Drat Rousseau! Drat him and everything he stood for, which was the miserable Texas Navy.
He had admitted more than once to being less than honorable, and she cringed at the thought of languishing in a prison cell! What was the answer to her dilemma? Emma didn’t want to lose her virtue to him of all people. That should be preserved for her future husband.
She wanted a home and husband someday. She doubted that a tall, dark, handsome stranger would sail into her life and sweep her out of her slippers. Even if some man did, he probably couldn’t and wouldn’t accept her radical ambitions.
The devil transposed her thoughts: Paul. Sail. Tall, dark, handsome. Rousseau had sailed into New Orleans; he was everything a maiden dreamed of—in a rugged way. Emma grimaced. Yes, he was all those things. But the nays outweighed the yeas. He was a Rousseau—and a double-crossing womanizer at that.
So much for girlish musings about the ideal man. No, he wasn’t for her or for Marian.
And if it became common knowledge that Emma was a felon, no sensitive man—was there such for her?—would take her to wife. Should she give in to Paul Rousseau?
After taking three deep, calming breaths, she felt much more rational. Suddenly the clouds in her mind cleared and sunny skies broke through. An attorney! That’s what she needed, legal counsel. But the only lawyer she knew in New Orleans was her mother’s brother, Howard O’Reilly. The mere idea of confessing all to him sent chills through Emma.
But Paul had given her three days’ grace. A decision about speaking with Howard could wait. What about the planned talk with William’s widow? It was out of the question now. If she did that, Paul Rousseau would take his pound of flesh.
She needed to occupy her mind. Betsy had been absent that morning, and this worried Emma. Dependability was Betsy’s watchword. The servant had been a gift from Emma’s father to the Louisiana Olivers, and since she had a special place in Emma’s heart, a visit to the slave quarters was in order to call on the house servant and her children. Emma waited until Paul was safely away from Magnolia Hall before walking to the row of small houses situated two hundred yards from the big house.
The quarters were clean but Spartan. Two cornshuck mattresses; a walnut crib and rocking horse, both of which had been gifts from Emma’s mother; a rough handmade table; and two chairs were all the furnishings. A few garments hung on nails sticking from the whitewashed walls. Emma’s heart went out to the family as she took little George onto her lap and handed the toddler a piece of toffee.
“I wish my mother could see your children, Betsy,” she said earnestly. “Your babies are beautiful!”
“Thank you.” The mulatto woman, who was about Emma’s age, got a faraway look in her light-brown eyes as she rocked her sleeping baby. “Sometimes I miss being in Virginia, and I sure would love to see Mistress Noreen! Your mama be the finest lady I ever met.”
That was true. Emma’s mother, despite her handicap, did much with her life. Maybe too much. Noreen Oliver gave her all to husband, duty, and children. But there were too many young Olivers. Emma was merely one more daughter to marry off. She tried not to think harshly of that. Her mother loved her, she was certain.
