Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

  There's only one way to find out, Rafe! He reached over for the towel slung on the chair and stepped nearer the tub. He could smell the lavender fragrance that blended so delightfully with her own unique essence and his heart began to hammer. He felt his desire rising as he draped the towel artlessly across his arm, holding it out in front of him. “You’ll shrivel if you stay in that water any longer, Moon Flower.”

  Deborah's eyes flew open and she sat up in the tub with a splash. “How dare you—” She stopped and slid beneath the water as a crimson flush stole across her naked breasts.

  “Keep your voice down, you'll wake Adam,” he said softly.

  “How did you—oh!” Her eyes flew to her son's door. She'd completely overlooked that possibility!

  “Here, stand up and let me dry you,” he offered solicitously.

  She slipped lower in the tub. “No! I mean, I can dry myself. I made up your room at the end of the hall, where my assistant used to sleep.” She eyed him warily to see what he'd do.

  He smiled slowly, as if humoring a half-bright child. “Why should I take another room when my wife has this big, comfortable bed right here? Everyone will expect us to sleep together, Deborah. That is still my ring on your finger.” He looked at the delicate, filigreed gold band she'd worn all these years—for convention, she had always told herself.

  “What if I say I'm not ready to begin where we left off, Rafael?”

  “This isn't where we left off. We're in Texas, in case you forgot. And we're both very different from the people we were six years ago,” he argued persuasively.

  “All the more reason to wait,” she whispered as he knelt by the tub's edge.

  “I've waited for six years, my love. I can't wait any longer,” he said, his voice roughened in passion as he curved his dark hand around her pale arm. He could feel her trembling as he gently helped her stand up. When she did so, he wrapped the towel around her and massaged gently up and down her spine, across her shoulders, down to her breasts and belly.

  Deborah stood still, shivering, but not from cold. His warm, callused fingers burned through the thin linen towel, working their old, familiar magic on her.

  “I think you're dry enough,” he said thickly, letting the towel drop as he scooped her from the tub. He set her down next to the bed but did not release her. Rather, he looked deeply into her eyes, willing her acquiescence until her arms came slowly up to touch his chest, then curve around his shoulders. Only then did he tighten his grasp and draw her to him for a savoring, devouring kiss.

  His tongue raked across her lips until she gasped and opened to him. Moaning low in her throat, she reached one hand up and buried it in his long, curly hair, pulling his head down closer, deepening the hungry kiss. Slowly, laboring for breath, he broke off the kiss and once more slipped his arm beneath her knees to lift her and lay her gently on the bed. Then he silently began to strip off his clothes while she watched.

  If he had looked dark and muscular before, he was sun-bronzed and sinewy now. As her eyes traveled over the familiar patterns of his body hair she saw the scars on his chest, arms, and even a wicked-looking one that slashed across his left thigh.

  “A souvenir from an uncooperative mustang I was breaking,” he said and smiled as he noted her staring at the long-healed tear.

  “Did the Indians...?” Her voice trailed away in horror . as she imagined the pain some of the larger wounds must have caused. She reached up to run her fingers over the arrow scar on his side.

  “Yes, the Comanche gave me that one and a few others,” he whispered as he leaned down and ran his fingertips across her hips and up her belly, tracing the tiny white lines that radiated from her navel.

  “I, too, have scars,” she said, “stretch marks from your son. Do they displease you?”

  He leaned down and traced the delicate patterns of the marks with his tongue, kissing her flat belly and nuzzling it. “No,” he replied, “they don't displease me at all. Do mine displease you?”

  Deborah pressed her lips to the whitened scar across his side, as her hand stroked downward to caress the slash on his thigh. “I think you're beautiful.” She could feel his heart pounding as he pressed her down onto the bed. His hands stroked and teased her nipples to hard points until she arched up and cried his name.

  “Rafael!”

  “I never wanted anyone to use my old name because it reminded me of who I used to be,” he breathed. “But I love the sound of it on your lips, Moon Flower.” He buried his face between her breasts now, using his lips and tongue to caress one, then the other. “Say it,” he whispered against her neck, his breath warm, his lips searing.

  “Rafael,” she whispered in mindless compliance, “Rafael.”

  Feeling her buck and arch toward him, he groaned as he spread her legs and poised above her, gathering a small measure of control before he entered her. She was wet as she opened to him. He slowly penetrated her, gasping in surprise at how virginally tight she felt; he was afraid he would hurt her.

  Far from feeling pain, Deborah felt only a consuming, desperate need. Tightening her legs around him, she arched up, drawing him deeply into her and whimpering in joy as he stroked her aching, hungry flesh with his own. They rode, letting the pleasure spiral up in ever-increasing waves. She clasped his back and buried her mouth where his neck and shoulder joined, muting her moans and gasps against his hot, sweat-slicked skin. He whispered words in her ear, urging her on, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, needed her, how good she felt to him, as no other woman ever had—and for the first time in six years, he unconsciously slipped back into his native language.

  Deborah had been so long without his touch, without feeling the glorious pleasure that only this joining of flesh could give, that she did not consciously realize he spoke French. She sensed only that it was like going back so many years to the good part, the beautiful communion of their marriage in this wild, primitive joining. Soon, too soon, the rippling waves of orgasm gripped her, sweeter and stronger than any memory could ever recall. She gave in to them, letting the blissful fulfillment wash over her like a warm summer tide rushing over a Nantucket beach. When she felt him swell and stiffen, she knew he, too, had joined her in the blinding surge of ecstasy.

  With no other woman did this happen, this completeness, this tenderness fill every fiber of his being. Gradually, as his blood stilled its wild racing and his breathing slowed, Rafael gazed into Deborah's eyes, still darkened violet from passion. “Some things are too perfect to ever be merely remembered,” he said, kissing her throat softly. Unconsciously, once more, he had reverted to English.

  Even though he echoed her thoughts, Deborah felt herself growing fearful. For all he was changed into a Texian, he was still the wild, volatile Creole she had loved so helplessly in New Orleans. Part of him would always be that Rafael, arrogant and manipulative, using her, controlling her. Resentment welled up in her, but his soft, persuasive caresses as he cradled her against the heat of his body made her give in to an overwhelming satiety and exhaustion.

  * * * *

  Daylight. The morning was bright and warm. Deborah awakened slowly, hearing sounds from downstairs and boarders walking in the hallway. She had overslept! Feeling the scratch of Rafael's beard and the warmth emanating from his long body, which was wrapped possessively around hers, Deborah tried to free herself without awakening him. Here they were, both naked in her bed, with half the boarding-house right outside their door—and Adam! Oh, Lord. Her son always came in to wish her good morning as she was finishing dressing and putting up her hair.

  Just then Adam's door opened slowly. The creaking noise apparently did what her squirming had not done, for Rafael was instantly awake and sitting up. Adam hesitated in the doorway, uncertain of what to do. His big black eyes were wide as he saw his mother still in bed—with his father. He had never considered his new papa would sleep with her! That was something reserved for him on nights when he had bad dreams or when it stormed.
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br />   Rafe looked at his son's face, which clearly mirrored surprise, embarrassment, and jealousy, all mixed in equal parts. Smiling, he patted the edge of the bed and said, ‘‘Morning, sleepyhead. Looks like we all overslept. Come here.”

  The smiling welcome was all he needed. The boy bounded across the floor and catapulted into his father's arms. He was still welcome. “I waited and waited, but I didn't hear you wake up, Mama. Are you all right?” He looked questioningly at his mother who was huddled with the covers pulled up to her neck.

  Suppressing a chuckle, Rafe answered for her. “Your mother's fine, son, she's just been working too hard.”

  Deborah reddened and sputtered but could say nothing in front of Adam to rebuke his father. “Adam, why don't you get dressed and see if Sadie needs any help fixing breakfast? Tell her I'll be down shortly.”

  “Since this is partly my fault, I'll go with you,” Rafe added, hoisting the boy up and sitting him lightly on the floor. Throwing back his side of the covers, he slid from the bed and stood up, splendidly naked.

  Adam stared enviously. “How come you don't got any—have anything on? Mama makes me wear this icky ole nightshirt.”

  Reaching for his pants, Rafe smiled and replied, “Well, several reasons. First of all, boys have to mind their mamas and wear what they're told. And, since papas sleep with mamas, that helps keep them warm.” He winked at Deborah's scarlet face. “Some day when you grow up and get married, you'll understand. Just wait.”

  Adam digested this as Rafe rummaged through his saddlebags. He fished out a clean shirt and some toilet articles. “Get dressed real quick and I'll meet you at the men's washroom so you can clean your teeth,” he instructed.

  “Can I watch you shave, too?” Adam asked, eyeing the darkening growth across Rafe's face.

  “Only if you hurry and dress.” The boy vanished in a flash. Closing the door, Rafe looked over at his wife and said, grinning, “You can come out from your burrow now, little mole.”

  She responded by throwing a pillow at him. He ducked agilely. “Watch so you don't break anything. How would you explain it to your son?”

  “Why should I explain anything? You seem to have ample explanations for every situation that arises!” she spat furiously. “All you had to do was walk into his life and snap your fingers and he leapt into your arms.” All you had to do was touch me and I did the same.

  Rafe stopped buttoning his shirt and walked over to the bed. He sat down and pulled her into his arms. “Don't be angry. Adam was naturally jealous of my being in your bed—and it's time he began to understand the simpler facts of life. He needs a father as well as a mother, Cherie.”

  She stiffened at the old French endearment. ‘‘Don't speak French!” she blurted out, then could have bitten her tongue.

  Rafe looked puzzled. “Cherie? Calling you that is scarcely reverting to my old evil ways, Deborah...” His voice trailed off as he recalled how he had spoken French to her last night, revealing his need, his weakness. His face became shuttered. “So, you still choose to dig up the past and cling to it. It seems, wife, I'm damned for being a stranger, and I'm damned for being the man you married. Maybe I'm both at once. You're still the same suspicious hardheaded Yankee—that's not changed.” He sighed and stood up to button his shirt. As he glanced in the mirror, he could see Deborah's eyes following him avidly as she sat frozen on the bed. “Some other things don't change either, do they, Moon Flower?”

  Rafe sauntered from the room after unbolting the door. Then, he paused at the sill for an instant to whisper, “And don't ever lock a door against me again. Adam wouldn't like the explanation I'd give him for breaking it in!”

  Rafe cajoled his son into cleaning his teeth and even washing his face, loathsome tasks for a six-year-old boy. As he combed Adam's unruly, black hair back and gave a mock inspection, he realized how much he had missed of his son's life. He could not bear to think of losing either the boy or his mother now.

  Yet he knew he had handled things badly with Deborah this morning. He swore to himself. Adam needs a man's hand, dammit. She's coddling him. Only just now, he had learned the boy had never been up on a pony! Every Creole boy received his first pony as soon as he could sit up and hold on, one of the few things they had in common with Texians. He would remedy that as soon as they arrived at Renacimiento.

  “How would you like to go with me down to the stables later this afternoon and meet Bostonian?” Rafe asked the squirming child as he finished combing his hair.

  Adam's eyes lit up. “The big sorrel stallion you told me about! Oh, yessiree!”

  Ignoring Sadie's smirking expression when she made her tardy appearance in the kitchen, Deborah began pulling tins of biscuits from the oven and piling links of browned sausage onto a large platter. As she took the food to the dining room, she noticed Rafael and Racine Schwartz lounging in the front hall, talking intently.

  “You watch thet polecat, Mr. Fleming, mark me. No more'n Miz Deborah went out ta see thet General Woll, thet Flores feller come sniffin' back here right after her like a randy mustang. He's a rattler.”

  “You say he was out back again this morning?” Rafe asked casually.

  “Yep. Askin' the hired man Chester if ‘n yew'n Miz Deborah wuz really married 'n where wuz yew now—real nosy like. ‘Course, Chester didn't tell him nothin' 'n I come out fer my mornin' trip ta the jakes 'n run him off good 'n proper,” the old man finished with glittering eyes. He patted an ancient flintlock pistol inside his coat pocket.

  Rafe nodded, realizing that by acknowledging Deborah as his wife, he had put her and Adam in grave danger. Flores would not hesitate to use them as pawns to gain an advantage in killing the man who had sworn vengeance against him.

  “I'm meeting the general today. Think I'll inquire about Enrique's job assignment while I'm there,” he said to Schwartz.

  Deborah overheard and felt a premonition of dread. She swept into the hall. “Do you know this Captain Flores, Rafael?”

  “Let's just say I bear him a grudge,” he replied evenly.

  “You're going to kill him, aren't you?” Looking at his shuttered, hard features, she knew it was so.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  “I understand you have an Enrique Flores under your command?” Rafe said casually as he speared a piece of the excellent rare beef General Woll's cook had prepared for their noon meal.

  The Frenchman paused to think for a moment as he sipped some wine. “Ah yes, a captain, one of the irregulars who volunteered under Colonel Antonio Perez. But of what interest is he to you?” Woll’s gaze was keenly assessing.

  Sidestepping the question, Rafe replied, “I told you that I have been reunited with my wife and son who were separated from me during the insurrection in 1836.” He paused, then continued, “It was quite a surprise after six years to find them here.”

  “A joyous one, I am certain,” Woll added. “Having met your lady, I can certainly attest to her beauty.”

  “That's part of the problem,” Rafe said carefully. “You see, her beauty is what has drawn Flores to her.”

  “If Captain Flores’s conduct toward your wife has been in any way improper, Mister Flamenco, I will take steps—”

  “No, please, I assure you, General, I do not want any misunderstanding between the military and the citizenry during such a volatile time. The captain did not realize Madame Fleming was married when he paid her compliments. If you would be so kind as to explain to him that she is under your protection, I'm quite certain the matter need go no further.” As the general nodded in understanding, Rafe breathed a sigh of relief. Such a reprimand would put Flores on guard against involving Deborah and Adam in his schemes. First Rafe must get his family to safety, then he'd deal with Enrique.

  “I regret there is no word of your sister and that Anglo villain, Mister Fleming.”

  Rafe shrugged expressively. “So do I, but I have searched so many places, I was doubtless merely on another false trail this time. But it was a kind fate t
hat brought me to San Antonio and reunited me with my wife and son.”

  As his orderly poured more wine and cleared the table, Adrian Woll thought it most odd that a man like Rafael Flamenco should have such difficulty keeping track of the female members of his family. But he forbore mentioning it.

  * * * *

  “I have a responsibility to those prisoners and I won't shirk my duty because of some petty vendetta between you and Captain Flores,” Deborah stormed at her husband that evening on the back porch of the boardinghouse.

  “The man is a deadly killer, a comanchero. You've lived in Texas for six years. You know what that means,” he replied levelly.

  Remembering the big ugly brute who had abducted Charlee, Deborah shivered in revulsion. “I know what kind of men comancheros are, but I don't see that Flores fits the mold. You hate him for some other reason and I don't want to get involved in it.”

  He gritted his teeth in impatience. “You are involved in it simply because you're my wife. He'll use you and Adam to get at me. That's why you have to stay away from the prisoners. Flores is in charge of them.”

  “I can't hide in the house and hope they'll leave, Rafael. You've made friends with General Woll. Ask him to deal with the captain,” she said, her voice laced with scorn.

  “For what it's worth, I did tell Woll that Flores was enamored of you and the general said he'd reprimand him. But that doesn't mean it's safe for you to parade around the streets.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Oh, so now we're down to it! Parade around the streets—unescorted. I've been on my own for the past six years, Rafael, making my own way, unescorted, unchaperoned. I'm not the twenty-year-old girl who fled New Orleans in tears six years ago.”