by Martha Hix
“Don’t stop me, sweet Jandra. I want to taste you here.” His head moved; his mouth descended. He took the tip into his mouth.
“Don’t,” she said, but her plea was disobeyed.
Drawing and sipping, laving and loving, he stayed there. His fingers closed around her hip. And he pushed his manhood near the thatch of her womanly place.
They felt wonderful, these things he was doing to her. Yet she bucked away, and pushed his head from her breast. “I asked you not to do that.”
“Why not?” he whispered, his voice jagged with desire.
“Because I don’t want to be touched there.”
Question in his Nordic-blue eyes, he looked at her. “Why?” Moving his calf between her knees, he repeated, “Why?”
“It is perverse.”
“Excuse me?”
“Only a babe should be there.”
“Sweetheart, who filled your head with such nonsense? Didn’t your hus—well, never mind about him.” Reece moved aside and cleared his throat. “It’s not wrong, what I was doing to you.”
“You didn’t listen to what I said.” She moved out of his reach and hugged the side of the bed. “I’ll not succumb to your perversions, and that’s that.”
Exasperated now, Reece heaved a sigh. “No wonder you never had a child at your breast. As inhibited as you are, you probably never gave ole Miguel the opportunity to father one.”
She rolled over, causing pain in her arm. She ignored it. “Villain! You have no idea what went on in my life before I had the misfortune to meet you.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
The sheet pulled above her bosom, she bit out, “Then you must know I did have a child. Or would have had one.” She didn’t want to cry. But she did. Scalding tears coursed down her face. “I lost it when Miguel went away.”
Reece’s thumb moved to dry her tears. And then he was holding her. Tenderly, gently, protectively. “I’m sorry, Jandra. So sorry.”
For the longest time he held her while she cried for her losses. And then he was kissing her eyelids.
“Would you like me to stop?”
She watched his eyes and knew he would move away if she asked him to. The thought of his leaving caused a feeling of emptiness to hollow through her. She couldn’t take another loss.
Reece’s lovemaking was something she wanted. If only for the closeness . . . if nothing else.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered, then realized that she wanted more than just closeness. Before, she had never longed for the act of mating, had thought it boring in its physicality. Now she wanted, needed, and yearned for Reece.
Sure and arousing, his hand stroked her hips, then her flat stomach. She felt the soft texture of his breeches at her thigh. Beneath the doeskin, he was hard and ready. Her trepidations vanished. She wanted him. Right here in the lamplight.
Her fingers moved along the strong lines of his back before curling into his coarse flaxen hair as he began another luscious assault. He kissed her throat, her collarbone, the rise of the breasts now sheened with beads of moisture. Placing his ear between the cleft of her bosom, he listened to her heartbeat. She couldn’t recall it beating this fast, ever.
“You smell so good,” he murmured against the womanly curve, “taste so good . . .” He started to close his mouth around a puckered crest, but he moved back. “Kiss me,” he ordered softly.
Raising up slightly, she parted her lips. And when the kiss was done, he said, “I shouldn’t do all this in pantalones.”
“You shouldn’t.” And she certainly didn’t mean for him to stop.
His grin was wide and sensuous as he eased to his feet. Slowly he worked the laces and freed the doeskin breeches from his hips. She drew in a breath when his manhood reared from the confines. Tiny bumps rose on her arms. Despite Mercedes’s gossip, Alejandra had never imagined that Reece could be so well-endowed.
The sight of it sent a surge of excitement through her. Her nipples further tightened. Passion, warm and churning, painted her insides and settled in her nether regions.
“Oh, my, Reece,” she said, “you are a . . . a, well, a . . .”
He chuckled. “A stallion primed to mount the most beautiful mare in the pasture.”
Being so compared enticed her, yet it also brought a memory forward. Outside, Moscada awaited. Just like Alejandra was waiting for Joaquin Navarro and Erasmo de Guzman. At this moment, she didn’t care whether they ever arrived.
“Oh, Reece, the light.” Frantically, she motioned toward the hurricane lamp. “We must douse the light. I don’t want to be caught . . .”
“Querida, mi alma, mi ángel, I yearn to watch every expression in your face as I take you, but . . .”
He moved away to extinguish the flame, yet not the one burning in Alejandra. The protective night enfolding them both, she became more bold. Again, he reclaimed his spot beside her. Again, he began to caress her. Once more, his lips claimed hers.
“I want to taste you . . . everywhere. I shouldn’t, I’m sure . . . but would it bother you?”
She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but there wasn’t a trace of shyness left within Alejandra. “I won’t stop you,” she murmured.
Imparting kisses on her fevered skin, he descended to her thighs and between them. His experienced tongue and that ever so soft mustache invoked tremors within her. Her eyes were wide with the wonder of it all. Did men really do that to women? How could anything so wicked feel this marvelous?
Sliding above her, her scent on his lips, he murmured, “Touch me. Feel me. Know how much I want you.”
Her finger moved to a flat, hair-surrounded nipple. She could feel his heartbeat, true and fast and strong. His palm flattened over her hand, moving it against his chest. Then he guided her hand to his swollen manhood.
“I’m dying to be buried within you, sweet Jandra,” he said in almost a groan. “Let me inside. Let the stallion fill his mare.”
Nothing had she ever wanted more.
He shifted. She accommodated. With a groan he entered her. He was large, so big. But after a moment of adjustment, she made room for him. She felt the power and heat, the hardness and bridled passion, and it filled her as she had never been filled before.
“Reece,” she murmured, bringing her uninjured arm around his back. “Shouldn’t you . . .”
“Shouldn’t I what?”
“Be m-moving?”
“Like this?”
“Oh . . . yes!”
Balancing on his palms above her and undulating his hips in a rhythm that made Alejandra gasp and moan, he thrust. Again and again and again. The scent of his body, sweaty and manly, drifted to her and she breathed the heady aroma of sex. Her legs went around his hips.
“Jandra . . . my sweet, oh God! You feel so good.”
With a wildness she never knew possible within herself, she met his plunges. He kissed her. She kissed him. For long, long minutes, perhaps even hours, she reveled in all her bliss. Her eyes became unfocused, so much was she in thrall. And then . . . her breath went shallow, her pulse careening. She heard him calling her name once and then again, as if each syllable was a litany. Everything in the universe was suddenly centered in that part where he joined her. Ecstasy gripped her.
As it did Reece. His spine arched. His essence flooded into her.
Smiling, she had never imagined that lovemaking could be this wonderful and satisfying. And to think she had found it boring and a waste of time.
He lay atop her, yet he was careful not to place too much weight on her body, especially on her arm. His fingers, so long and wide and beautifully formed, swept up to her cheek. “Those were some of the things I shouldn’t have done. But I intend to do again. And again.”
And he did.
Later, they slept wrapped in satiation and contentment. Joined like this, neither wanted to remember the problems separating them.
He slept no more than an hour, and awakened thinking of Alejandra with t
ears in her eyes. It hurt him that she had lost her baby. It hurt him because it hurt her.
As for Miguel, well, Reece couldn’t mourn him. After all, Alejandra wouldn’t be in the bedroom of Casa Montgomery if her husband were still alive. Wouldn’t she love to know you’re thinking that?
He tried to go back to sleep. He had no idea of the time, but figured it had to be the wee hours before dawn. Damn! He had a rendezvous at Santa Fe, the fort on the easternmost outskirts of Vera Cruz. There, strategies would be finalized for Antonio López de Santa Anna to gain command of San Juan de Ulúa.
Getting inside the fortress walls was of utmost importance to Reece. His brother might be in the dungeons.
But finding Garth was a problem for the light of day. With darkness filling his sleeping quarters and rooster-crowing a while from now, Reece had another problem. His promise to Alejandra.
Even though he had had no intention of fulfilling his commitment to keep her posted as to Antonio’s plans, Reece realized everything had changed. She was a Federalist, not a spy for the cur of Manga de Clavo.
That, along with Reece having realized his dream to make her his woman, roused a feeling within him. A certain obligation to honesty. A side of him wanted to honor his word. The more practical side prevailed.
He couldn’t appear honorable, not with so much at stake.
With his arms wrapped around her, Reece considered an equally important factor. He needed to protect Alejandra from Federalist insanity. The danger of it all was just that, dangerous.
She must remain out of harm’s way, and if it took his intervention, so be it. He owed her that much, considering his double-cross.
He considered his options and decided it would be best if she backtracked to Campos de Palmas. Let her think that Antonio’s designs were on Mexico City alone.
As for now, though, what should he do? Steal out of her arms, and go on to Santa Fe? That idea went down like a big wad of sodden, salty bread. The last thing he wanted was to leave his woman—and she was his, there was no doubt about that—but duty beckoned.
Duty be damned.
It wasn’t too far to Santa Fe. And Reece could ride as if demons were chasing him, so why not . . .
“Let me love you again, querida,” he murmured into her ear, awakening his darling. “I want to feel myself buried in that sweet secret place of yours. Would you like to be surrounded by this?”
He took her hand, guiding it to the turgid evidence of his need.
“You are so wicked,” she said in a sleep-drugged voice that trailed into an intake of breath.
And was that a girlish giggle?
He blew a stream of air over the heavy fringe of her lashes. “You’re right. I’m wicked and wanting more of you.”
“How can you be?” She laughed, low and sweet. “We have already . . . Tonight . . .”
“I know.”
“How can you?” she asked, wonder evident.
“Easily. And after we’ve finished, I will have you again before dawn breaks.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He wasn’t surprised. She had been, in their loving, almost as innocent as a maiden. He felt pride in having introduced her to his brand of wild lovemaking. Her inhibitions—thank God they had vanished—had him stymied. Alejandra hadn’t been a maiden for years.
“Alejandra, are you trying to tell me your husband couldn’t get it up more than once at a serving?” he asked, wondering what in the hell had been wrong with the guy’s libido.
“Let’s not discuss my Miguelito.”
He didn’t like the way she said the dead man’s name.
“Good idea,” he returned. “From here on out, your memories are going to be of my lovemaking.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but it dropped open in horror. Quickly, she crossed herself.
Reece turned his gaze to the point she looked at. He heard a rustle of feathers, then a “hoo . . . hoo.” Round eyes blinking, an owl perched on the bureau.
“Death.” Alejandra wadded the sheet in her fingers. “The owl brings death.”
“Now that’s a bunch of superstitious malarkey. I—”
“Montgomery . . . ?”
Recognizing the voice from the other side of the French doors, he froze. Damn! “Hold your horses,” he called in Spanish, hoping to fool Alejandra and alert his idiot cousin not to do something stupid, like say something else. “I’ll be right there.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Just one of Antonio’s men.” He tucked the covers around her naked body. “Stay right where you are. I’ll–”
“What about the owl?”
“I’ll chase him out as soon as I find out what Antonio’s man wants. You stay abed, you hear me?”
She nodded.
Breathing easier, Reece yanked on his breeches. He took giant steps past the door and out to the patio. A young man, dressed in ducking and a sailor’s beret, saluted him. He was blond and tall, as were all LaTouche descendants with the exception of black-haired Garth Colby.
Reece hustled the cousin from Caen to the shed fifty feet away, fastening the door behind them.
“Comment ça va?”
“I’ve no time for small talk. What do you want, Jacques?”
Jacques LaTouche pulled a Havana cigar from his pocket. “The prince said you must come with me to the Néréide.”
“What for?”
“He does not confide in me, cousin.” Jacques’s cheeks puffed with smoke. Blowing it out, he said, “He gives orders and I obey.”
“You don’t care much for your prince, do you?”
Jacques shrugged. “It’s not for me to consider. France fought a revolution to get rid of his kind. But we have them again.” He flipped ashes on the earthen floor. “Anyway, what difference does it make? I’ve orders to escort you to the flagship, so let’s go.”
“Can’t do it. His Excellency Santa Anna requires my services. Tell the prince the two of us will be calling on Commandante Rincón this morning. I will get a message to the Néréide as soon as possible.”
“I see.”
“Good. Now, be gone with you.”
Jacques turned to depart but stopped short of the door. “There is something you must know. Admiral Baudin has decided to carry through with the attack. Before I rowed over here, I was among the boat parties that made soundings beneath San Juan de Ulúa’s batteries.” He took another puff from the Havana before exiting. “The assault will be perfect.”
“So be it.”
In truth, Reece wasn’t as blasé as he would have it appear. Unless the Mexican government met the king’s monetary demands, and it seemed unlikely, Mexico would suffer. So would the French. While Charles Baudin led an exceptional fleet, all Texans could attest to the might of the Mexican Army. Blood, be it European or native, was going to be shed.
What would war do to Alejandra?
Not liking his answers, Reece left the shed and approached Alejandra’s mare. Munching beach grasses, she waited below the patio.
“Hello, beauty.” Comfortable with the innocuousness of man conversing with beast, he stroked the sleek neck. “You’re almost as lovely as your mistress. What is your name?” From the recesses of his memory, he recalled it. “Ah, I know. Moscada. That’s nutmeg in my language.”
Moscada whinnied and pranced. Her proud head moved in the direction of his bedchamber, and Reece, looking to the right, followed her line of sight.
Alejandra, dressed in her skirt and one of his shirts, stood at the French doors and held her injured arm.
He waved, then sprinted up the steps. “Thought I told you to stay abed.”
“I shooed the owl,” she replied, her voice uneven.
“Is he gone?”
“To whom do you refer, Señor Montgomery? To the owl or to the Frenchman?”
Damn! Reece stood close to her now. Close enough to see the disappointment in her eyes, to hear the brittleness in her voice, and to smell the scent of gardenias an
d sex and woman. A funny, tinny taste was on his tongue.
“You’re a fine one for games,” he said, trying to parry his way out of this one. “Frenchman? That boy is—”
“French. I suspected as much, so I called to him. And he answered.” Alejandra took a step backward. “In the beginning, I figured you might be a spy for Admiral Baudin. Then I was told you are Tejano. You tell me—and the Mexicano leader who saved you from the gallows over your treason against Tejas!—you are a Santanista. The words that pour from your mouth come from both sides, Señor Montgomery.”
“Jandra, it’s not like you think.”
“It is exactly as I think. You are aligned with those who would conquer my country.”
“How the hell was I to know that boy speaks French?”
The look in her verdant eyes, now completely evident in the breaking dawn, was intractable and condemning. “Before, you were my enemy. Now you are the foe of all Mexico.”
“Now, Jandra . . .”
“The penalty for treason in Mexico is death.”
Reece knew that hers wasn’t an idle mention of capital punishment. Protecting her from harm might not be in the realm of possibilities. Beyond all that, her anger cut him like a scythe did wheat.
“So, what are you going to do? Turn me in?”
“Mark my words, El Cazador, you will face a firing squad.”
Chapter Twelve
They sang “Ave Maria” over him on the morning of Tuesday the twenty-seventh of November.
When the requiem was over, some of the mourners said the choir boys sounded as if they were a band of archangels. The priest then led them all to the graveyard of Catedral Metropolitana de Jalapa. Rain, the biting chipichipi, was falling. Murmurs such as “Isn’t it a shame, he was so young and handsome” could be heard around the priestly intonations. More than one person cried as the dead man was laid to rest.
His widow shed not a tear. Twenty minutes after she had urged her family and friends to leave her be, the priest’s incense still stung her nostrils, making her dizzy.
Mercedes Navarro’s head was lowered in sorrow and shame. In her own way she had loved her husband. Of course she had married him to spite the peasant lover who had abandoned her for his windmill chasing in Tejas, yet Joaquin had been a good and faithful husband, deserving more than she had given him.
