by Shirl Henke
Rafael could feel her gradually accelerating response as she touched and kissed him, tasting and exploring in unpracticed natural curiosity. He rolled over her and lowered his head to capture her lips. Now, she eagerly opened to his invading tongue, recognizing and welcoming the pleasure. Slowly he guided her, showing her how to use her lips, teeth, and tongue to tease and arouse him as she kissed him back.
When she was breathless from that exercise, he broke away and lowered his head to her collarbone, running his tongue along the ridge of the delicate bone while he untied the ribbon at the neckline of her gown. She gasped in pleasure when his fingertips circled one upthrust breast, then the other. He could feel her arch her back as the tingling mounds strained against his palm. Her nipples became hard buds beneath his hand and then he caught one in his mouth. The hot wet feeling of his lips enveloping and suckling on the sensitive tip broke down the last of her inhibitions. Deborah let out a low keening moan.
She was breathless now, unthinking, awash in thrilling, new sensations. His questing mouth moved down her belly, trailing after his hands as they peeled the gauzy night rail down, then slipped it over her hips and finally discarded it.
Rafael levered himself up and admired the view of her alabaster and rose-hued flesh. When he pulled her up to him and kissed her, she responded with a whimpered cry, fastening her fingers in his hair and pulling him back onto the pillows with her.
As they kissed, he ran one hand slowly down between her legs and began to stroke the soft hot core of her body. She opened to him, unconsciously arching against his skillful fingers. When he felt her wet, eager response, he withdrew his hand.
Deborah was afire with hot rippling waves of pleasure. She responded shamelessly. Then when he suddenly pulled away, she let out a low cry of protest; but before she could do more, his hand had grasped her slim wrist and guided her fingers to him.
“Now, touch me,” he panted, as he fought to hold himself under control. He placed her hand around his shaft, steeling himself for the raw jolt of ecstasy when she complied. Then he guided her, showing her how to stroke him, but only a few times, fearful he might explode. Once he had caught his breath, he guided her hand, still closed around his pulsing phallus, until it was pressing directly between her legs.
Slowly, he rotated the tip against her wet pink flesh, now hot and eager to receive him. She moaned, calling out his name like a plea. Then, he pulled her hand away and entered her, gently, until he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. Pausing to kiss her lips and to murmur an apology, he completed the penetration in one fast, careful stroke.
Deborah felt a sudden, unexpected stab of pain, but it was over quickly and just as quickly forgotten. Rafael set a slow, steady rhythm that she quickly followed until she lost all sense of time. She knew something wondrous was happening to them both, but his reactions were keener, quicker. She could feel him tremble and begin to shudder suddenly; then he gave several hard, long thrusts in rapid succession and collapsed on top of her, gasping in satiation. Radiating waves of pleasure washed over her, paradoxically mixed with want. Unwittingly, she felt her hips still grinding and straining when he slowly withdrew.
Crooning to her in French, he stilled her frantic movements and pulled her close to lie beside him. “I am sorry, my love. You see, I've wanted you for so long, I could not wait, not yet.” He caressed her burning flesh and soothed her, until she began to uncoil, relaxing against the solid comfort of his body. Finally, she slept.
Rafael watched her delicate features, so beautiful and innocent in sleep. Lord, but she had passion! He could sense her need and desperately wanted to fill it, to fill her with all his love, body and soul. His love! He lay very still, amazed at the sudden flash of insight and more than a little alarmed at the realization that he would be forever bound to this slim Yankee girl who slept so securely at his side. He kissed her softly on the lips and pulled the covers over them, settling down to drift off himself.
Deborah awakened after a couple of hours, still excited by all the new experiences the evening had brought. She could feel the warmth and weight of her husband as he lay with his hard body pressed full length against hers. One arm was thrown possessively across her waist and one leg entwined with her own. He slept on his stomach with his face turned toward her. She considered the strongly chiseled features in repose. With those unsettling obsidian eyes closed, she felt more at ease as she studied him. He was like some Grandee from a Goya painting. His face was classically perfect, even beautiful, in a virile way. Her eyes traced the arched brows, thick lashes, and high cheekbones. His mouth was wide and the jaw cleanly squared. She could see the beginning shadow of his beard. He must have to shave often. She fantasized about how it would be to watch him shave, then reached up to run her fingertips lightly across his cheek.
Suddenly, his arm tightened and pulled her closer to him. “Madame Flamenco is no longer sleepy, mmm?” He spoke in a silky, suggestive whisper, then kissed her languorously as she melted against him. They rolled across the bed until he was flat on his back with her lying directly on top of him.
“Like sweet ripe melons,” he murmured in French as he slowly kneaded her buttocks. While his skillful fingers were busy tracing patterns up and down her spinal column, teasing a breast, caressing her derriere, his mouth ravaged hers with increasingly fierce and bruising kisses. Where before such harsh caresses had frightened her, now she returned them, matching his passion with her own.
Rafael continued the devouring kiss, feeling her excitement build as they rolled back and forth. Finally, he reached between her legs, stroking the quivering eager flesh until she was on fire, mindless with fierce, hungry wanting.
When he raised over her and spread her legs, she opened eagerly to him, arching up to meet his swift entry with no preliminary testing necessary this time. As if her body knew a secret her mind did not, Deborah found herself straining with every glorious thrust he made. He held her hips to slow their frantic movements and prolong the ecstatic torture until he could sense her cresting. Her eyes, closed in concentration an instant before, flew suddenly open as her nails sank into his back and she emitted a strangled sound of surprise.
“That's it, ma petite, just let it happen,” he breathed, feeling her body's long, slow release as the velvety walls that sheathed him contracted over and over. When he could hold back no longer, he joined her, pulsing his seed deep inside her in great shuddering waves, then collapsing on top of her.
They lay still, unwilling to break the communion of their joining. Finally, he raised on his elbows to allow her easier breathing. The pale skin across her throat and breasts was delicately stained with rosy splotches and her eyes were wide in wonder, open windows to the love that she ached to confess to him.
Deborah looked into his eyes, for once not dancing with mirth or accusing in anger, but alight with a tenderness she had never seen in them before. “I love you, Deborah,” he said simply.
She kissed him softly. “And I love you, Rafael, more than I ever imagined I could love anyone.”
For a moment suspended in time, neither one spoke. Their eyes and their bodies said everything for them. Then, a sharp rapping on the door broke the spell. “I believe that's our supper,” she said.
Rafael rolled off her with a quick kiss, scooped up his pants by the bedside and said with a devilish grin, “Are you hungry?” Before she could reply, he added with a wink, “You ought to be. I know I am.”
Deborah blushed furiously as Rafael opened the door only wide enough to take the tray from the steward while she remained huddled beneath the covers on the bed. After setting the lavish repast on the table, he walked over to the armoire and ran long dark fingers across the various gowns. Finally, he found a robe of deep violet velvet, which he removed.
“Here, this will be warmer than silk. Save that for when we get free of this accursed North Atlantic chill.” He held the robe for her to slip into, noting her shyness and hesitation. “You have a lovely body, meant only for me t
o see, Cherie. Come,” he coaxed softly.
She slipped from the bed and slid into the robe, grateful for its warmth. When he wrapped it around her shoulders, she put her hand over his and drew it to her lips, kissing his fingers. “You don't like our New England cold, do you?”
“No, I don't, but I do like some of your food.” A heavenly blend of aromas wafted across the room as he lifted the linen cloth from the tray. With a flourish he seated her and began to dish up the feast.
As they ate in companionable silence, she found that she was indeed ravenous and wondered idly if making love always used up so much energy. Madame Flamenco was too embarrassed to ask, however, for fear of her husband's teasing. She decided on a safer topic. “How long will it take us to reach New Orleans?”
“It depends on the weather,” he said as he cracked a large, succulent lobster claw. “Several weeks this time of year, I'd estimate. We'll have a real Creole honeymoon.”
At her look of puzzlement, he explained. “Traditionally, a Creole couple spends the first five days after the wedding in a private bedroom in her parents' house. They are left completely alone. Not even servants intrude except to leave food trays at the door and bring bathwater.”
Deborah was speechless for a moment as the realization sank in—they were virtually in the same situation, alone on the high seas with only the ship's stewards in attendance.
Seeing his devilish pleasure in teasing her, she retorted, “Well, I have a head start in being a proper Creole wife. I suppose the custom was necessary to allow partners in an arranged marriage to become acquainted after rather than before the wedding. A way of making up for lost time.”
He reached across the small table and took her hand, then planted a sensuous kiss in the soft palm. “Oh, I plan to have us become very, very well acquainted before we reach New Orleans.”
In spite of herself, Deborah could feel her face heating again. Changing the subject she said, “Tell me more about your family. I have so much to learn.” Oh, damnation! There I go again with my silly goose tongue!
Rafael laughed softly at her unintentional double entendre but answered straightforwardly. “As I already said, I am my father's only heir. That means I have a great deal of responsibility.”
“I thought you said you had a sister?”
“Yes, Lenore, a beautiful child. You will like her. She has blue eyes and hair like old Spanish gold. A throwback to Mama's French ancestors, or the Castilian side of Papa's family.”
“Won't she be your father's heir, too?”
He smiled dismissively. “No, not in the way you are your father's heir. She will make a good marriage into a proper Creole family and have a large dowry settled on her at the time the wedding contract is written. It has been understood for years that she will marry our third cousin from Mama's side of the family, Georges Beaurivage. But I have no brothers, so I alone must carry on the Flamenco name.”
Deborah didn't like his fondly patronizing attitude toward Lenore and she liked the role he intimated for her even less. “And, as your wife, I am to provide you with lots of male children for the next generation of Flamencos.”
He noticed her tone and acknowledged it with a question. “You do want children, don't you, Deborah?”
“Of course I do, but I think girls are just as welcome as boys and I'd love to have both.” She forced herself to look into those unsettling black eyes.
His smile would have melted Arctic icecaps. “We will, ma petite. You don t realize how much we dote upon our daughters. Lenore was always our papa's favorite. But girls cannot carry on the family name or manage business affairs.”
She let the latter remark pass. It was a sore subject since she had often argued with her own father about working in his bank. It seemed he and his son-in-law agreed on at least one matter! “I suppose Creole honeymoon customs do guarantee a head start in producing lots of heirs!”
He threw back his head and laughed as he began to rise from the table. “I never considered it just so, my practical New England wife, but you may well be right. Come here and let us do our proper Creole duty.” His eyes were glowing with a different light now and his hands on her shoulders were warm and compelling. She could refuse him nothing.
* * * *
Their shipboard honeymoon was every bit as cloistered as if they had been a traditional Creole bride and groom. Even more so because they were on neutral territory, so to speak, not in her family's home, nor in his, but in the midst of the ocean. All their fellow travelers were strangers, so the two of them were completely dependent upon each other for company. It was a delightful idyll for Deborah, who found her initiation into the physical pleasures of marriage breathtaking. There was so much to learn and Rafael was a skillful and patient teacher, overcoming her prim Boston inhibitions and convincing her that she was indeed beautiful and desirable.
Deborah had always thought of herself as unconventional looking, if not downright unattractive and unappealing. Nonetheless, she obviously appealed to her husband, who made love to her during the scandalous hours of broad daylight, as well as under the respectable veil of night. She found herself more and more drawn into his sensual web. Indeed, when he put his hands on her and kissed her with sweet abandon, she felt herself oblivious to all the principles, ideals, and causes that had heretofore shaped her life.
Since Rafael had been initiated into sexual pleasure at the age of fourteen, he did not find their lovemaking new, but the way he felt toward his wife was disturbingly different from what he had felt toward any other woman. His discovery that he loved her had been a shock, but even more troublesome was the way she filled his thoughts. It was delightful to trade witticisms with her, to debate and enjoy her lightning quick intelligence. Even when he felt her opinions woefully wrongheaded, he admired the logical way she could defend them. For the first time in his young life, he was intrigued by a woman's complete personality, not just her body.
He was a man most blessed, especially considering that most Creole men married teary-eyed virgins who lay cold and stiff in their marriage beds, merely doing their duty. His own parents had such a relationship. Yet, his intense emotional involvement with Deborah left him distinctly uneasy. No woman should have this much power over his heart and mind. With the careless optimism of spoiled youth, Rafael simply decided to enjoy the delectable honeymoon and face the problem of Deborah's place in his life after they arrived in New Orleans. Once he was back in his own world, surrounded by people and customs he understood, he would be able to put this obsession in perspective.
Rafael looked forward to their arrival in New Orleans, but Deborah dreaded it more as the distance lessened. She feared his parents' reaction to a Yankee. To humor her, Rafael agreed to switch their conversation exclusively to French. Then, she barraged him with questions about the whole social registry of Creole New Orleans. It was a cast of thousands that made her head swim.
“I shall never be able to remember all your relatives,” she wailed one morning as he described a boyhood prank he and several of his male cousins had played on their female counterparts. “Was Jean the same one you took fencing lessons with?”
He put down his coffee cup as he answered, “Yes. He and I were often in trouble together. He is my Uncle Francois's eldest son, the oldest of six boys and three girls.”
She noted a fleeting expression of regret pass across his face. “All your father's siblings seem to run to large families, especially to boys.” Suddenly, recalling that Rafael was his father's only son, she wished she had not said that.
However, he shrugged philosophically. “Yes, it would seem my parents were not so blessed as the rest of the Flamencos and Beaurivages. We shall simply have to remedy the situation in the next generation,” he added with a grin.
She smiled, conjuring up images of dark cherubic faces with glowing black eyes and bouncing black curls. “I can picture half a dozen small replicas of you, God help the women of this world,” she said teasingly.
“Ah, bel
oved, I'd rather think of tiny gilt-haired daughters, as dainty as porcelain princesses,” he replied. “God help the men of this world.”
“I do wonder what our children will look like. You said your mother has chestnut hair and your sister is a blonde. You must take after the Spanish branch.” She blushed, and confessed, “I first imagined you were some sort of romantic figure from the past, a conquistador riding on a white horse.”
Rafael threw back his head and laughed. “Well, it's true I do resemble my Spanish forebears. Grandfather Flamenco used to tell me about our illustrious ancestors from Toledo. Our family name and coat of arms was granted to a mercenary who served with the Duke of Alva in the religious wars of the fifteen seventies. Flamenco means Fleming in Spanish.”
Deborah's eyes widened. “You mean your ancestor served with Ferdinand Alvarez, the ‘Bloody Duke,’ on his reign of terror in Holland and Flanders?”
He smiled darkly. “Leave it to you to know every detail of history, even one best forgotten. I suppose Alva was an unpleasant sort, and my ancestor probably was too.”
She sniffed in conciliation. “Well, it is best forgotten by the Spanish because they lost the war. Anyway, that was over two hundred and fifty years ago.”
With an exaggerated leer, he rose from the breakfast table. “Still, you never know. I may be a throwback, another bloodthirsty ravisher of women, worse than Alva.”
She chuckled and threw her arms around his neck, happy to forget the tangled web of the past. If they loved each other enough, nothing else would matter, not even those thousands of relatives.
Chapter Six
They would be landing in less than an hour. Rafael had gone above deck to talk to the captain and Deborah was finishing the last of their packing. She scooped up a satin robe and began to fold it, then discovered Rafael's razor strop lying beneath it. He must have forgotten it when he shaved earlier that morning. She picked it up and walked over to the small bag in which he carried his toilet articles. Opening the bag, she placed the strop inside and attempted to refasten it. It would not lock. Puzzled, Deborah reopened it and riffled through its contents. A long velvet case was jammed edgewise in the bottom. She pulled it free and it popped open in her hand, spilling its contents across his shaving gear.
