Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

“No.”

  “Yes!” She grabbed his forearm and yanked with all her might.

  In his weakened condition Paul swayed forward before pulling away, but not before she saw his back.

  He heard the sharp intake of breath she tried to hide, and he didn’t want her sympathy. “You’ve seen the sideshow—now go home. Go.”

  She didn’t comply. Instead, her equanimity regained, she unbuckled the satchel. “I want to help you, Paul. You need medical attention. If you’ll allow me, I’ll treat your wounds.”

  “This doesn’t involve you, and I don’t need you to champion my cause.”

  Her silence was heavy with affront. “Very well,” she finally said. “I’ll be going. Goodbye.”

  Feeling the loss even before her departure, he said without sarcasm, “Wait! I . . . I’m sorry. You’ve no business here, and I’ve no business accepting your help, but I do appreciate it.”

  She studied him for a moment, then said, “Good.” She unpacked a jar of salve and a clean, white rag. “And it’s good to see you humble—for once.”

  He got a whiff, just a whiff, of her flowery perfume. It was wonderful. She was wonderful. He didn’t want to wonder if she had ulterior motives. “I didn’t know you were a nurse,” he said, for lack of something better to say.

  “Don’t call me that.” She punched the rag into the jar of salve with more force than necessary. “I’m not a nurse.”

  “Why do you protest? Most women would be honored to be called an angel of mercy.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Paul Rousseau.”

  “I’d like to know them.” He offered his back. “I’d really like to—Awgghhh! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Applying salve.” She stopped her ministrations long enough to place a piece of horehound candy between his lips. “Shhh, it’ll be all right.”

  He yearned to hold her fingers to his mouth, but she drew them away.

  “I’ll try to be more gentle,” she murmured as she touched his torn flesh once more.

  The bitter mint, sugared by the sweetness of those fingers he longed to kiss, worked its way around his tongue, and he felt no more pain as Emma eased the medication into his wounds. Her touch was as soothing and mild as sweet Havana tobacco. She took the chill off places that not ten minutes earlier he had doubted would ever be warmed again. No woman this kind, this alluring, could be as rotten as he had supposed.

  He reached behind him to cover the top of her hand with his palm. Turning his head, he locked his gaze with hers. “You’re very good at this.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  A smile lit her face. It was the first genuinely happy smile she had given him. He wanted to see more of those smiles. A lot more.

  “Thank you,” she said, her tone strangely hoarse.

  She took his fingers, and her hand was soft yet strong; he was transported away from the miserable surroundings. Instead of misery there was beauty all around him. There was Emma.

  Unaccustomed to kindness, Paul relished the moment. And he made a decision. He would give up blackmailing her over the brooch. When he held her in his arms, it would be because she wanted to be there, not because he had forced her into it. “Emma, about the brooch . . .” Her shoulders stiffened, and he hurried to add, “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

  “You’re willing to forget I stole it from you?”

  “Stole what?” he asked innocently. “I don’t know anything about a theft.”

  “You’re benevolent, too? Wonders never cease.” She shook her head in amazement and got to her feet. “Do you . . . are you strong enough to walk out of here, Paul?” she asked, and he loved the way she spoke each syllable.

  “Yes,” he answered. “But where are you taking me?”

  Smiling, she held her hand out to assist him. “To the St. Charles.”

  Chapter Nine

  They reached the hotel well after dusk. While Emma was glad that Paul had released her from worry over the brooch, she was not pleased by his physical condition. Dr. Boulogne couldn’t attend him, and she had dismissed the idea of taking Paul to the hospital. Hospitals were no place to be sick.

  She led him to bed and pulled back the comforter. “Lie down.”

  As she tugged the boots from his feet, he didn’t protest. His body hit the mattress heavily.

  “I’ll get the lamps,” she said.

  She moved about to light the room. In the street below revelers were making the most of Fat Tuesday, but as soft candlelight cast a golden glow over the room, Emma had no wish to celebrate this final evening before Lent. This was her place, here with Paul, seeing to his injury.

  In a swish of gray woolen skirts, she turned to him. Aboard ship she had seen his sorry state; nevertheless she wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing him in the full light. His eyes told her not to pity him, as he rested on his side, but the gauntness of his cheeks accentuated the jagged scar on his right jaw, despite the bristles of his three-day-old beard. His black curls were plastered to his head, and ribbons of sweat separated the thick dark hair on his bare chest, woven through with crusts of grime. Paul’s blue trousers now seemed a size too large. She was determined to make him well again.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said gruffly.

  “I must look if I’m to treat you.”

  “I’m all right. Feel better already.” A muscle working in his throat, he levered himself up on an elbow, but the movement was too much and he fell down against the pillow. “Shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “There’ll be trouble at the ship. Need to be there.”

  “It’ll have to wait.” Her tone brooked no defiance. “Right now you’re going to have a bath, medication, and more to eat.”

  As if to reinforce Emma’s edict, the chambermaid arrived with a pail of hot water and a kettle. The kitchen maid following on her heels bore a tray laden with a bowl of thick gumbo, a loaf of bread, a pitcher of purified water, and a teapot of hot water. The two women left the provisions and departed.

  The liquids had to be taken first, Emma insisted, so he drank a glass of water in two long gulps. As he handed her the empty glass, she touched his skin. It was hot. Too hot. Fear sliced through her with the force of a cat-o’-nine. An infection could kill him! Were her pitifully few doctoring skills enough?

  She withdrew a packet of herbs from her bag—the brewings for a fever-fighting tea—and dropped them in the teapot. Once the brew was down his throat, she perched on the edge of the bed, bowl in hand, to spoon the piquant okra stew between his lips.

  He pushed her hand away. “I can feed myself!”

  “All right.” She had to leave him some pride, so she returned the spoon to the tray. The room was chilly, so she set about making a fire in the fireplace. Too soon she heard the spoon clatter to the bowl.

  He groaned, pushed the food tray away, and turned onto his stomach. His white-knuckled fist eased open as sleep, deep and heavy, overtook him.

  Emma carried the pan of water to the bedside table. This was her first opportunity to assess the full extent of his injuries. Pulling up a straight chair, she sank onto its velvet-covered seat. Six gashes cut through his once-smooth back, puffy and red. First, these wounds had to be cleaned. Emma took up a soapy rag and touched it to a gash on his shoulder. He flinched and groaned but didn’t awaken, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Paul was peaceful now, and her heart opened to him. Even in his deplorable condition she found him handsome. She smiled, took up the wet rag, and cleaned his back. Then she coated it with salve, and washed his neck and face. That done, she found a jar of talc and began to comb powder through his coarse, ink-black hair; those strands felt nice, so nice beneath her fingers. His ear—she could only see one—was finely shaped, and the ebon-hued lashes that lay on his cheeks were thick and curled, perhaps too much so for a man but not too much for Emma’s pleasure.

  In his fretful sleep he rolled onto his side
and she seized that opportunity to cleanse his chest. His neck was tanned a rich bronze, as were his torso and arms. It seemed strange to see a body darkened by the sun. Undoubtedly he stripped to the barest necessities when sailing the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Papa,” he mumbled, “Help you, Papa.”

  Emma’s hand stopped. Why was he dreaming of his father? She told herself not to be silly. Even though Étienne Rousseau had been her uncle’s nemesis, he was Paul’s father. It was natural for a person to dream of a departed loved one.

  She wondered about the type of man Paul was. Had tears ever moistened those lashes? Surely they had. After all, he was human. Had he ever been in love? Jealousy, pure and simple, reared its head.

  Just that afternoon Howard had accused her of loving Paul. She felt . . . She felt what? It couldn’t be love. She respected his principles, insofar as the men aboard the San Antonio were concerned, but she admired many people. And she didn’t feel this way about them!

  It was physical attraction, that was all. She couldn’t deny it. Wanting him was a hurting thing. No man had ever touched her naked flesh, yet she ached for Paul to do so. A primitive urge heightened her awareness of the tense aching in her breasts and in the secret place of her womanhood. She was his for the taking.

  Her palm slid over the corded muscles of his shoulder, and she murmured, “Oh, Paul . . .”

  Waking from pain-heavy sleep, he heard her dulcet voice, felt her hands on him. They were cool, yet warm, and sure and gentle. They aroused him. He didn’t move for fear she would cease stroking him. She was making love to him by running her fingers down his right forearm, closing them around his wrist. His breath was shallow now, his blood hot for her as her seductive skills held him spellbound.

  The big fingers of his right hand closed around her small hand, bringing it close to his hips. He felt her knuckles move to the bulge of his manhood. Then breath left him as she ran them across it. He removed the pressure of his hand, and her shaking palm cupped him. Paul, his heart stilled, believed that death had taken him and he was in heaven.

  He opened his eyes, and Emma leaned forward on the chair beside the bed. It was dark in this place; only the dancing flames from the fire haloed the lovely honey-blond hair falling around Emma’s shoulders. Those enchanting green eyes of hers watched him closely. He was just this side of heaven.

  She moistened her lips, and he was dying to taste them. Later. If he didn’t slow down, Paul realized their lovemaking would be over too quickly. Getting what he desired was a heady thing, even though he had imagined it differently. But there was more than his own pleasure to consider. For Emma he would take it slow and easy.

  “Come closer, sweet angel of mercy. Know what I want?”

  She blushed. “I . . . I—”

  “I want a shave.”

  “A shave!”

  “Yes.” He locked his gaze with hers. “I’m going to kiss you . . . and more, you know that. And when I do, I don’t want these chin bristles getting in the way. Will you shave me, Emma?”

  She grinned. “I have kept the water hot.”

  “My, uh, gear’s in the top drawer of that bureau over there. No need to strop the razor,” he added, glad for his habit of sharpening it after each use. He wanted her close to him, with no further interruptions.

  He watched her cross the room, her delectable rear swaying as she moved, and his manhood responded even more—how was that possible?—to her movements. Paraphernalia in hand, she returned. As she lathered his brush, her bosom swayed. He swallowed hard. Damn the high-neck dress she wore! His hands were aching to touch her generous breasts. Yet he gave thanks for the buttons that went from her neck to below her waist. Buttons were made for provocative unfastening. Still on his side, Paul laid his head against the pillow and presented his throat.

  “I’ve . . . I’ve never shaved a man before.” She knew he was unaware of her studies and of her work with Dr. Boulogne. Would Paul make jest of her if he knew her usually sure fingers were now unsteady? “Aren’t you afraid I’ll cut you?”

  Responding to what he figured to be innocent hesitancy, he replied, “Not in the least.”

  Totally enraptured, he reached up to lift a lock of hair from her shoulder, his hand lingering on the curve of her throat. “Just use the same touch you used when you bathed my back. Nice upward strokes. Take it slow and easy.”

  She grazed the brush across his throat, his cheeks. “How did you get that scar on your jaw, Paul?”

  “Don’t think I’ll tell you. It wasn’t honorable.”

  “I’ve never thought you honorable, anyway”—she tugged on his earlobe—“so go on.”

  “A mistress’s dagger, my sweet.” His hand moved to cup Emma’s cheek. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  “You’ve scorned many,” she surmised aloud.

  “Not nearly as many as you imagine. I’m particular about those I take to my bed.”

  “Liar.”

  “Guess it would appear that way to you.” With his thumbnail he outlined her delectable lips. “Now, how ’bout that shave?”

  Wordlessly she set to his bidding, and he forced back a grin. The tip of her tongue was caught between her teeth, and her thinly arched brows were pulled together in a frown of concentration. The razor moved up Paul’s neck, and her motions were smooth as glass. She was close, so close. He savored the scent of her perfume, enjoyed the sensuous “Oh my” that escaped her lips once, and then again. His eyes never left her face as she carried through his request. The ache in his loins was bursting for release.

  “There’s something very intimate about shaving a man,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

  “And there’s something very intimate about being shaved. It’s a trusting touch.”

  “I’m surprised you trust me,” she said, setting the shaving gear aside. “After the brooch, you know.”

  “What brooch?” he asked, seeking no reply and hoping to remind her that the pin was past remembering. “Thanks for the shave,” he said, to change the subject.

  “You must shave often.” She studied his face. “Your beard grows heavy on your cheeks.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Oh no. I think it’s very manly.” She laughed. “I’m going to give you a terrible case of conceit.”

  “No, amoureuse,” he murmured, sliding his hand past her waist. She wasn’t wearing a corset! She didn’t protest when he cupped her derrière and urged her to the bed beside him. Levering himself above her, he leaned over to say in her ear, “You’re going to let me kiss you.”

  And she shivered with delight.

  His pain and fever forgotten, Paul possessed the lips that fascinated him beyond reason. Moving to deepen the embrace, he gripped Emma’s hair. There was fire between them, a fire that raged into an explosion of desire. His leg was between her thighs and her muscles gripped him. How long they savored the tastes of each other’s mouths, Paul didn’t know. It could have been seconds, but it was probably minutes. It was wonderful. He leaned away just enough to unfasten her dress. Her fingers cut into the flesh of his arms. With his chin he pushed away the fabric, exposing the thin chemise that covered her womanly treasures. Then his lips trailed kisses along her collarbone, and down to the rise of her breasts. Through fabric, he captured a swollen peak. Laving, tasting, cherishing.

  She held his head to her breast. “So good,” she moaned.

  “So good,” he echoed, gathering the folds of her skirt between his fingers. At last he found the sleek skin of her thigh, and skimmed his palm along its rich satin. “I want you, my sweet,” he whispered in French. His mouth slanting over her lips anew, he continued in English. “Want you so much.”

  He was touching her most secret place, and she experienced a moment of panic. Her palm flew to the top of his hand, stilling the caress. She wanted this lovemaking, but wasn’t there pain—a lot of it—the first time?

  “What’s wrong?” he asked tenderly, looking into her eyes.

&nbs
p; “I . . . I’ve never been with a man before.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am.” She closed her eyes to shut out his shocked expression. “I didn’t mean to spoil it. Maybe if you kissed me again . . .”

  From the moment he’d met her, Paul had figured Emma to be a woman accustomed to lovemaking. And blushing maidens didn’t fondle a man’s private parts, as she had done. Yet she couldn’t be lying. The proof of that would be apparent only too soon. Should he claim her maidenhead?

  He wanted it—oh how he coveted it!—yet he refrained. Women and society were strange about virginity claimed. But binding ties were not Paul’s primary concern. Honor stood in the way. Maidenhood hadn’t stifled him in the past, nonetheless he would not dishonor Emma.

  He sought revenge against her uncle, not Emma. He intended to avenge his father’s death and be gone. Out of New Orleans, and most certainly out of Emma’s life. And though she had offered him a woman’s most treasured gift, he wouldn’t take it. She deserved better than the terms he could offer.

  “What’s . . . what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t make love to virgins.”

  Her face registered disbelief; then a flush crept onto her face. “I see,” she said, her voice brittle. She got off the bed and buttoned her dress. “How wise of you.”

  Was it? Paul was regretting his chivalrous behavior already; the fever must have gone to his head. And he was sorry for bruising her ego. More than anything, he yearned to tell her that he wanted her—craved her more than he had wanted any other woman. But he wouldn’t.

  “I’m, uh, feeling a little weak,” he lied, rolling onto his back. “Awwgh! Sacre bleu!”

  Serves you right! she fumed inwardly. She had never imagined that he would turn away from her. What had she done wrong? Surely men enjoyed the conquest of maidenly females! What was wrong with her? Why didn’t he want her? She wasn’t ashamed to touch him intimately, and hadn’t he seemed to enjoy it?

  Anyway, that was a bother she didn’t need. Her aim was to be a healer. Period. It was best not to forget that. Why, if they made love, it might overtax Paul, and she’d have that on her conscience.