Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  It wasn’t going to be easy. They were alone in an isolated neck of the woods. Very alone. Her honeyed locks were swept into braids and curls—his fingers were itching to free them—and she wore a white organdy frock trimmed with aqua satin that contrasted with the green surroundings. Stooping to the side rather than bending at the knees, she flicked his knife across a cattail stem. He caught a glimpse of a well-turned ankle above a satin slipper. He swallowed hard.

  “Look,” she said. “A squirrel. Isn’t it delightful?”

  “Exceedingly.”

  She turned and straightened, the cattails near her bosom. “Would you hold these for me, please?”

  He swallowed again. “Just, uh, put them down.”

  To retreat from the disappointment that dashed into her April-leaf eyes, he made a volte-face and strode to a spreading oak. Squatting back on his heels, he broke a blade of grass, sticking it between his teeth. And tried to ignore the swelling in his groin.

  Emma placed the load of furry reeds on the ground, then swept over to him. “Are you having an affair wih that sloe-eyed hussy?”

  “Might be.”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Might be.”

  Her fingers shook. “You are.”

  “I never said that.” He relaxed against the broad tree trunk. “But I will say this: some of these hot summer nights get mighty cold.”

  She lowered her eyes and moistened her lips. “They wouldn’t if you were sleeping with me.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Yes.”

  “No thanks,” he replied, yearning to say the opposite. “It’s best we do not.”

  “Why? Because I said I was going to divorce you?”

  “Could be.”

  “I don’t want a divorce.”

  “What do you want, Emma?”

  She stepped closer, the hem of her skirts touching his forearm. “A reconciliation.”

  “The terms haven’t changed.”

  “I know.” She knelt beside him. “But . . . I can’t stand living without you.”

  He was at the brink of succumbing, but she wasn’t going to win that easily. The tips of his fingers moved to rest at the juncture of his thighs. “Or is it, you can’t stand the thought of Aimée Thérèse having this?”

  Anger flushed Emma’s cheeks. Her shoulders drew back. For a moment he thought she’d flounce away, but she didn’t. As she straddled his hips, he surrendered.

  “Tell me you’ve missed this,” she implored, pressing her pelvis against him.

  He lifted his legs on her derrière, bringing her face to his. His words were rife with meaning. “I’ve missed it. Every hour, every day, I think of our couplings. I remember how good it feels to have you tight around me.” He framed her adored face with his hands. “But most of all, I’ve missed you. Your sharp tongue, your god-awful ways. The angel you are at other times.”

  “Let me be your wife again,” she whispered.

  “Gladly.”

  They parted for just enough time to dispense with one another’s clothing, which fell in heaps on the leaf-strewn terrain. If there would be regrets later, Emma wouldn’t consider them now.

  All she wanted was his embrace . . . and she had it. She watched him as his amber eyes devoured her naked body. Basking in his worshipful gaze, she took in his male perfection. Her fingers itched to comb through the black chest hair that grew in whorls to his stomach . . . and downward. His olive skin was hard with muscle.

  She raised her arms to his neck. “How about a hot kiss, husband?”

  He complied. All the while his fingers were loosening the confines of her hair. After it fell to her shoulders, the two of them dropped to the bed of oak leaves, Emma atop him. As her nails found the crisp hair that fascinated her, the pads of his fingers trailed across the swollen peaks of her breasts. Then his mouth replaced those fingers, which moved to the most sensitive nub of her womanhood. Gently, rhythmically, he imparted exquisite torture. A wave of agonizing pleasure crested within her.

  Throwing back her head, she murmured, “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Amoureuse . . .”

  His strong hands spanning her hips, she lifted herself upon his turgid staff, enveloping him. His groan of pleasure elicited a moaning response. At this moment he was hers, and she was his, and there was no yesterday or tomorrow.

  Light-headed, she set the pace, moving slowly, then faster. His hands cupped her breasts, his fingers thrumming her nipples. She heard him moan “Mon dieu.” as another wave of orgasmic euphoria peaked within her. This power she wielded was wondrous.

  She felt him tense, and knew his own satisfaction was near. And she was frightened. Semen could beget a baby. Her heart despised what common sense bade her do, but she lifted herself away.

  He surged to a standing position and towered above her. “Why did you do that?”

  She gulped before stuttering, “I . . . we . . . it’s—There could have been a child.”

  Turning his back, he stuck one leg, then the other into his trousers. He buttoned them. “We’d better get on to the house. Your uncle will be wondering where we are.”

  “Paul . . . please understand—”

  “Get dressed.” His eyes guarded, he tossed her pantaloons onto her lap. “I don’t want to be late for Aimée Thérèse’s birthday fete.”

  She deserved his anger, and she tried to make amends, but he was close-mouthed and grim for the rest of the afternoon—even while he dressed in his finest attire . . . for Aimée Thérèse.

  That night they attended the birthday extravaganza. No matter that Emma had spent months in the area, she remained amazed at grandeur amid wilderness. The Salle de l’Union, a brick building of two stories and a dormered attic, sat high above the oak-lined west bank of the Bayou Teche. A place of elegance for certain, resplendent with chandeliers, gilding and finery. The residents of St. Martinsville were proud to call their town Le Petit Paris, and the Union Building did much to further that image.

  The local aristocracy was there in full force, but Emma’s arrival caused a stir of excitement. Her two-seasons-old gown, teal silk and low cut, enhanced her blond good looks; she knew it and was glad. She wanted—no needed—to be appreciated on this night. But that need could be assuaged only by one man who paid her no heed. Paul.

  Emma turned her attention to the festivities. The honored Mademoiselle Goyette had not yet made an entrance. Holding delicate Oriental fans in their equally delicate hands, the women present wore satins and lace and twinkling jewels. Liveried footmen passed delicacies and champagne to the ladies, which they sipped while cooing at the gentlemen, and the objects of their attention were served liquors of the first quality. Under swinging, ceiling-fastened fans manned by small black boys, they danced to the music of great composers.

  Men of all ages and levels of attractiveness sought Emma out. She consented to dance with each one: waltzes and reels and minuets. Her laughter and chatter were forced, but no one sensed how insecure she felt.

  A blond man, Philippe St. Jacques, bowed low as the last chord of a waltz faded. “Merci beaucoup, madame. I’m honored by the pleasure of your company. May I have another dance?”

  “Actually, monsieur,” she said, eying her husband who was engaged in conversation with an elderly gentleman and a dour-faced woman she knew to be Monique Carteaux. “I do believe I should see what my dear husband is up to.”

  “As you wish. Thank you again for the dance.”

  Emma strolled up to Paul and took his arm. He turned, and for a moment she thought he was pleased to see her. But a guarded look crossed his face.

  “Hello, Emma,” Monique said.

  Emma responded easily to the greeting. Monique was an unmarried schoolmistress, a no-nonsense person, and she had done much to ease the townspeople’s minds about Emma’s “witchdoctoring,” though she and Emma were but passing acquaintances.

  “May I present my grandfather Louis Carteaux?” Monique asked. “A
duke and formerly military adviser to Louis XVI.”

  Emma dropped a curtsy. “Pleased to meet you, your grace.”

  “And you, madame, but I’ll have none of that ‘your grace’ business,” he said, resting his arthritic hands atop a silver-handled cane. “This is Louisiana, not France.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Paul offered no conversation, merely stood with Emma’s arm looped around his elbow.

  “How are you liking St. Martinsville?” Carteaux asked.

  “It pleases me. Before my marriage, I’d never been to this area, but I’ve grown quite attached to it.” Emma meant those words. “It’s home, and our future. I’ll be forever thankful my husband brought me here.”

  Carteaux smiled. “It warms me to hear this. For many years I’ve hoped Paul would return to St. Martinsville.”

  The subject of their discussion cleared his throat before arching a brow at his wife. “I know you’ll be interested in what the three of us were discussing. It’s a topic near and dear to your heart, the Texas Navy.”

  “Discussing?” Monique said. “You mean debating.”

  “Debating,” Paul conceded.

  “Are you, like your husband and my grandfather, a supporter of Texas? I would assume you are, but I’ve learned over the years never to rely on assumptions.”

  Emma wouldn’t publicly embarrass Paul with the truth. “I respect my husband’s opinion,” she responded. In matters not pertaining to Texas, that was true.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw puzzlement in her husband’s face.

  “I’ve followed the Navy’s activities through the newspapers,” the old duke said. “I’m interested in all that goes on. But, with your lovely lady in our presence, we must change the subject.”

  “Oh no.” Paul raised his crystal glass; its brilliance caught the gleam in his eye. “Do go on. My loving wife has shown much interest in the fate of my adopted nation. I’m certain she wants to hear all about it.”

  Emma did not correct this brash falsehood. “Oh yes, Monsieur Carteaux. Please tell me more.”

  “I was explaining to Paul here that I am concerned about the situation in the Gulf. The Centralist vermin in Mexico City have invaded the Yucatán, and we shouldn’t allow them to get away with it.”

  “I don’t see why the two of you worry so,” Monique said, her thin lips drawn into a line. “The Mexican peninsula is far from our shores.”

  The ancient royalist’s grooved face took on a perturbed expression. “All far-thinking residents of Louisiana must be concerned, Monique. President Santa Anna seeks victory over the Gulf of Mexico and if his goal is accomplished, we’ll all feel the repercussions. There’ll be no shipping in or out of our State.”

  “Perhaps”—the schoolteacher strung out the words—“you worry too much.”

  Carteaux’s face took on a purplish hue. “As usual you use me for sport, Petite-fille.”

  Emma was uncomfortable with this exchange between the duke and his granddaughter, and something strange happened. She suddenly felt the urge to defend the Republic she had visited but once.

  “Santa Anna must be stopped before he takes any more lives in the Republic of Texas,” she declared.

  Paul turned his head in her direction, astonishment on his face.

  “I doubt it will come to that.” Monique sipped her glass of champagne.

  “You are young and haven’t known the horrors of war,” Carteaux said. “Almost fifty years have passed since I was forced out of my homeland by the Terror, but even if it were ten times that number of years, I wouldn’t forget how it feels to be crushed by an enemy.”

  “Alarmist,” his granddaughter retorted. “Did you ever stop to consider that Texas might do well to capitulate to a stronger power? After all, the revolution of ’36, no matter how venerated in most American minds, was led by upstarts who’d sworn allegiance to the Mexican flag. They stole that land.”

  “Whether or not you speak the truth, Texas was victorious at San Jacinto.” Emma was quivering with anger. “Nothing gives the Centralists the right to capture Texas towns or to terrorize and kill their citizenry. Yet Santa Anna’s forces have done that.

  “His navy is aimed toward the Yucatecan peninsula, but the Texas Navy has vowed to keep them at bay. Its presence occupies Santa Anna in those waters . . . and keeps him away from ours. At least for the time being.”

  “Thank you, Emma. I appreciate those words,” Paul said. Then he added, “Forgive me, Monsieur Carteaux. I’m afraid I skirted the truth. You see, my wife didn’t share my views on the Navy to which I’ve sworn allegiance. In the past she scoffed at the cause, and I merely wished to rile her.” He exerted pressure on her arm and stood taller. “It pleased me to hear her speak those words.”

  Emma was thrilled. She had made her husband happy, and that made her happy.

  “I see.” The elderly man clicked his tongue. “I’m glad you’ve come over to our side.”

  Yes, Emma was on their side, but the sacrifices Paul was making for Texas remained a point of contention between them.

  Carteaux imparted a smile to Paul. “My fortune is not what it was, but I’m willing to give my fair share for freedom.”

  Paul grinned triumphantly at Emma. “Thank you, sir. Now I have two financial backers for my cause—you and the honorable Howard O’Reilly of New Orleans.”

  “My uncle Howard has always been your supporter.” Emma wanted to support him, too. Suddenly, a decision was made. Uncle Rankin’s money was going to be spent on the Texas Navy. It would free Paul from fund-raising, and might save Feuille de Chêne from the sale block. As soon as they were home she’d tell her husband. “I must praise Howard at our next meeting.”

  “For that I’m thankful,” Paul responded.

  Apparently Monique knew she was outnumbered. “Grandpère, you’re looking a bit tired. Shall we sit down for a few moments?”

  The elderly Carteaux agreed, and they walked over to a table.

  Then the music stopped, and all eyes turned to the entrance. Emma watched her husband’s face; it was unreadable. A round of applause and a tribute from the orchestra filled the room.

  Mademoiselle Goyette had arrived. Dressed in jewels and silks, she nodded at the assemblage, then swept into the ballroom, her head held regally.

  When Aimée Thérèse caught sight of Paul, she changed course, making straight for him. “Paul”—she held her jeweled fingers aloft—“I’m so glad you could attend. You, too, Madame Rousseau,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

  “Happy birthday.”

  Emma kept her eyes on Paul. The words he had spoken to Miss Sloe Eyes had been murmured sweetly. Was he simply being cordial? Or was he, in truth, having an affair with her?

  “You know I’m expecting a present from you, chéri,” Aimée Thérèse said. “Later perhaps?”

  Jealousy stabbed Emma as he kissed the woman’s hand in a gallant manner. Would he go from an unfulfilling bed of leaves to one of satisfying down all in a single day?

  An even stronger emotion tore at Emma’s heart when she got an eyeful of her rival’s bodice. Angélique Rousseau’s brooch was pinned to it!

  Baffled, Emma stepped back, her fingers going to her lips. Then realization dawned. After all the heartache Paul had given her over that despicable brooch, he’d given it to that strumpet!

  Horror gripped Emma. This proved how little Paul cared for her and what a mockery their marriage was.

  She forced an “Excuse me . . . I need a breath of night air” past her dry throat and whipped around.

  “Of course,” said Miss Sloe Eyes, and she turned to acknowledge the greetings of another.

  Several feet from where they had stood Paul caught Emma’s arm. “We need to talk.”

  “Leave me some pride,” she whispered, hoping no eyes would turn toward them. “Grant me a moment alone. And don’t follow me.”

  He leaned toward her ear. “I’ll give you two minutes. Then we’re leaving for home
.”

  His breath roused an involuntary tremble within her. “Two minutes, Paul. That’s all I ask.”

  Her back stiff, she cleared the French doors, glancing over her shoulder to make sure his word was good. She had to get away! Putting distance between them was the only way she could sort through her heartache.

  Blindly she hurried to their pirogue, took up a paddle, and rowed south toward Feuille de Chêne. She strained her eyes to navigate, for it was dark, deep dark, on the bayou. Night sounds mocked her over and over again. Yet she had nothing with which to light the lantern that could have helped to guide her. Lost on the bayou, she also felt lost regarding her future.

  Something snapped at the wooden boat. An alligator? Her heart jumped into her throat, and she rowed harder. Suddenly realizing she might be paddling in circles, she cried out in exasperation. “Why, Paul . . . why?”

  Drat him! Hadn’t he known, or at least suspected, that Aimée Thérèse would wear the brooch on this night? Was it his way of showing that he’d never accept her terms? Or had he, like the night sounds, simply mocked her?

  Pledging that he wouldn’t get the best of her, Emma again took up the paddle. By her leave-taking she had shown him how much he had hurt her, but never would that happen again.

  Paul was frantic. Emma had no business being alone on the Bayou Teche—she knew that—and he was concerned about her emotional state. He had to make her understand about Aimée Thérèse.

  With swift, sure strokes, he guided a borrowed pirogue through the bayou. A lantern was hooked to the prow. Caws and coos filled his ears. He heard an alligator flop into the water and glide toward him.

  His heart and mind screamed reproaches for allowing her those two minutes. Another five had been added to them before he’d secured this pirogue; most attendees had arrived at the fete by carriage. And his progress wasn’t as swift as he would have liked. Each foot of the way required careful study. Her pirogue could be overturned at any bend or tree stump, her body . . . What would he do without her!

  It seemed like hours later, yet it was only minutes, before Paul cleared the last bend separating himself from home. Please let her be there! As the lantern’s glow illuminated the pirogue tied to the quay, he exhaled and his shoulders wilted with relief. In the same breath heart’s ease was replaced by aggravation.