Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  Creed also had been awakened by the sounds of the sailors’ ritual but kept his eyes closed. His body hurt from wanting Cricket. He was tempted to cross the distance between their cots but knew she would fight him if he did. She always fought him at first. It would have been easy to let her initial, token resistence sway him from his goal, but he was determined to prove to her she was all the woman he ever wanted or needed. And he’d found it to be the truth. When he touched her she turned to fire in his arms, blazing with anger that became fiery passion, and finally a bed of white-hot coals that took him to levels of pleasure he’d thought beyond mere mortal beings.

  He would have welcomed the tussle with Cricket this morning, except they were due to reach New Orleans, and he needed all his energy for the argument he knew was coming when he met Angelique LeFevre again. How many years had it been since the last time he’d seen her? Almost five, he thought grimly. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

  Actually, she’d cursed his soul when he left. She’d wanted him and he’d turned her down—but not because he hadn’t desired her. That witch knew how to touch a man so he found himself aroused despite his best intentions.

  He heard Cricket moving restlessly in her cot and casually turned so he could watch her from slitted eyes.

  “I know you’re awake.” Cricket bunched her fists under the covers, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

  Creed’s lips turned up at the corners, acknowledging her statement before he let his eyes blink open.

  “Good morning, Brava.”

  Cricket sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the cot. “Why can’t I stay on the Austin while you go talk with Beaufort LeFevre?”

  “I’ve already explained that to you.”

  “And I told you Angelique LeFevre is welcome to you,” she retorted.

  Creed’s eyes went stone cold. “Be careful what you wish for, Brava.”

  Cricket’s chin jutted forward, and her lower lip pouted like a spoiled child’s. Before she could argue further there was a knock at the door and a youthful voice announced, “We’ve sighted New Orleans, sir. Commodore Moore wishes to know if you and Mrs. Creed would like to meet him on deck.”

  “Please tell the commodore thanks, and we’ll join him shortly,” Creed replied.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Creed rose languidly from his cot and stretched, his hands almost touching the ceiling. Cricket found herself watching him despite her better judgment. He was long and lean and naked. Her eyes dropped to the line of black hair that arrowed down from his waist to that particularly male part of him. To her dismay, an amazing and instantaneous transformation occurred. She dropped her eyes and flushed when she heard Creed chuckle.

  “Perhaps you’d rather stay here in the cabin,” he murmured, his voice husky.

  Cricket jumped out of bed and grabbed her buckskin shirt and trousers, yanking them on. She was out the door in minutes and headed up the stairs for the spar deck without Creed. As soon as the breeze hit her face she knew they were near land. She could smell it. Magnolias. And offal. She climbed the rigging to get a better look.

  In the distance she could see the harbor, teeming with sailing ships and steamers. She could imagine the noise and bustle, probably double what she’d heard in Galveston harbor. She looked again and tripled the sound in her mind. Deafening. Cacophony. She closed her eyes and listened to the crash of waves against the hull and the snap and pop of the Austin’s sails in the brisk wind. Quiet. Harmony.

  When Creed came on deck he knew where to find Cricket. She’d spent most of the trip floating above them all. He fought the fear that haunted him every time she took one of her dangerous rides in the rigging. He looked up into the cloud of sails and found her leaning out as far as she could over the ocean, her unbraided hair blowing freely in the wind, the fringe on her buckskins whipping to and fro. Her eyes were closed. Her chin was tilted up and her nostrils flared to bring her the scents from land. Her lips were curved in a joyful smile. He felt desire so strong it made him tremble.

  “A beautiful sight.”

  Creed wasn’t sure whether Commodore Moore referred to Cricket or the port of New Orleans. Both were equally breathtaking. “Yes, beautiful.”

  “We should reach the harbor within the hour. Will someone be meeting you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Creed said. “I sent word overland when I knew I’d be making the journey, but I don’t know whether the American chargé received it.”

  “No matter. There’ll be a carriage at my disposal. You’re welcome to use it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s been a pleasure having you and your wife on board,” Moore said. “Cricket is—” The commodore searched for a courteous way to describe the unusual woman who’d captivated his officers and crew and astonished him with her uninhibited behavior. “—a natural-born sailor,” he finished.

  Creed smiled wryly. “Tactfully spoken, Commodore.”

  Moore grinned. “She’s one hell of a woman, man. How’d you find her?”

  “She found me.” Creed’s smile broadened in remembrance. “Stark naked in a pond.”

  Moore whistled in appreciation, then gazed up at Cricket. He wondered how she’d fare with the belles in New Orleans. He was saddened to think they’d scorn her, but he didn’t hold out much hope they’d treat her otherwise. “Will you be staying with Beaufort LeFevre and his daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they know about Cricket?”

  There was more than one level to Moore’s question, but the answer was the same no matter what he was asking.

  “No.”

  Moore pursed his lips and made a steeple of his hands, a habit Creed had observed whenever the commodore had something serious to say.

  “I’m probably interfering where I’m not wanted,” Moore said, “but have you thought about letting Cricket wait for you aboard the Austin?”

  Creed swore under his breath before curtly replying, “She’s coming with me.”

  The commodore steepled his hands again. His eyes shifted up to the admirable woman who’d carved a niche in a heart which had previously belonged only to the sea. “I’d hate to see—”

  “Damn it, Moore.” Creed drew rein on his temper and repeated firmly, “My wife will stay with me.”

  The commodore knew when to back away. He changed the course of the conversation as deftly as he changed the course of his ship. “How long before you’ll be ready to return to Galveston with the chargé?”

  “How long will your business take?” Creed countered.

  “No more than a week.”

  “If LeFevre’s coming back with me, we’ll be ready to leave then.”

  “I’ll send word to the chargé’s home in the French Quarter when we’re ready to sail.”

  “Fine.”

  The two men stood at the ship’s rail, each lost in his own thoughts, unaware they converged on the same woman.

  “A mistress of the sea,” Moore murmured, his gaze on Cricket, who arched out over the water like the graceful carved maiden on a ship’s bow.

  “My mistress,” Creed replied tersely.

  Moore chuckled. “Perhaps.”

  Creed snorted. “If you weren’t such a gentleman—”

  “—we wouldn’t be standing here so amicably right now. I trust you’ll be as cautious of your wife in New Orleans, sir.”

  Creed’s eyes narrowed on the commodore. “You can bet on it, Commodore.”

  Moore grinned. “I shall.”

  Angelique LeFevre held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, but it wasn’t doing much good. New Orleans harbor stank as bad as the pigs she’d slopped when she was a country preacher’s kid. Fortunately, her father’s gift with words had propelled him beyond the pulpit of his church and into Louisiana politics in time for her to be educated in one of the best eastern schools. Nowadays the closest Angelique LeFevre ever came to a pig was eating a slice of the honey-sweetened, clove-laced ham her father’s kitc
hen slaves baked for Easter dinner.

  Angelique clamped the handkerchief down tighter over her nose and breathed through her mouth. In her other hand she carried a parasol which provided shade but did little to relieve the humidity causing perspiration to gather in her armpits and run down in ticklish streams between her breasts and shoulder blades.

  She was beginning to think she should have stayed in the carriage. On her way to the edge of the wharf she’d stepped into a pile of refuse and the hem of her silk gown was soiled with . . . well, God only knew what it was. If the Austin didn’t dock soon, she mused, she wasn’t going to smell any better than the weaselly drunkard who’d been leering at her for the past ten minutes. Stubbornly, she remained where she was. She planned to greet Jarrett Creed with a kiss so passionate he’d be sorry he hadn’t made her his wife when he’d had the chance.

  She’d been outraged when Creed had left her in Boston five years ago, spouting some nonsense about having a Comanche wife. It was the most imaginative excuse she’d ever heard for breaking an engagement. Of course, they hadn’t actually been engaged, but she’d known it was only a matter of time before he put a ring on her finger. She’d waited a long time for this second chance to become Mrs. Jarrett Creed.

  The years in the interim hadn’t been empty. She’d always been a hungry woman, and it would have been folly to think she could have lived without the sexual sustenance other men provided. But there was only one man she truly desired. The Boston bitches might have polished off her rough edges, but Angelique LeFevre, the digger-poor preacher’s daughter, knew how to fight for what she wanted. When Jarrett Creed left New Orleans for Texas, she intended to be his wife.

  As the Austin berthed and the lines were made secure, Angelique scanned the decks for Jarrett. She found him standing next to a short man in a gold-trimmed blue uniform, who was constantly being consulted by other officers. She removed the handkerchief from her nose and, ignoring the offensive smells that surrounded her, forced a cheerful welcoming smile to her face. She waved her handkerchief just vigorously enough to catch Jarrett’s attention. When she was certain he’d seen her she posed prettily and waited for him to come ashore.

  Cricket saw the blond woman dressed in lavender silk wave at someone on the Austin. She followed the direction of the woman’s sparkling eyes and ended up on Creed and the commodore. With a sinking feeling Cricket admitted the woman on the dock was probably Angelique LeFevre. Did she have to be so very beautiful? For a reason she wouldn’t have cared to acknowledge, Cricket decided that when Creed left the Austin she would be at his side.

  Moore had seen the frankly sensual look the American chargé’s daughter had given Jarrett Creed. “It appears you may have some quick explaining to do.”

  “It looks that way.” Creed glanced over his shoulder at Cricket. Maybe it would be best if he disembarked before she did, so he could talk with Angelique privately for a moment. He didn’t think she was going to be pleased to find him married. When he’d sent his message to the chargé he’d been an unmarried man and had asked about seeing Angelique. Her appearance at the dock could only mean she’d received his message and interpreted it exactly as he’d meant it.

  Cricket couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Creed striding down the gangplank without her. She gasped when the beautiful blond woman threw her arms around Creed’s neck and passionately kissed him. It was the kind of intimate greeting long-lost lovers share. Creed did nothing to stop her. In fact, he lifted her completely into his arms so their two bodies became one.

  Cricket was unaware that the sailor next to her bristled in outrage. Nor did she notice that the entire crew of the Austin had gone silent. The eyes of every seaman on board shot from the embracing couple to Cricket. Her face paled, but her back stiffened noticeably.

  Creed had been surprised by Angelique’s sudden action. She hadn’t even taken the time to say hello. When he tried to free himself from the unexpectedly explosive kiss, she dug her fingernails into his scalp and at the same time bit down hard on his lip. Had he really enjoyed this five years ago? It only disgusted him now. The only way he could avoid being clawed and devoured was to draw her closer into his arms and completely off her feet. He hoped Cricket wasn’t watching.

  At last Creed untangled himself. He whipped his head around to search the deck of the Austin for Cricket, only to discover her standing right next to him. She’d neatly braided her hair and put a leather band around her brow to keep it in place. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were the darkest gray they’d ever been. She’d never looked more beautiful to him.

  He’d thought he would be glad if she weren’t angry. It was more distressing than he could have imagined to discover no emotion at all on Cricket’s face. Didn’t she care that another woman had kissed him? He sure would’ve raised Cain if she’d kissed another man!

  “Are you going to introduce me?” Cricket asked.

  “Of course.”

  Creed sounded angry to Cricket. She was the one who should be angry. However, she wasn’t allowing herself to feel anything at all, because when she did, what surfaced was garden-green jealousy. It was a new emotion for Cricket—and one she decided she didn’t like—because it meant she cared more for Creed than she had any right to care, under the circumstances.

  “Angelique LeFevre, this is my wi—”

  “My purse!”

  The weaselly drunk skulking nearby had snatched Angelique’s silk reticule and started to run past Cricket. She reacted as she always had, on instinct, putting Rip’s lessons to use without thinking of the impression she’d make on the chargé’s daughter. She reached out a hand and caught the thief by the arm, jerking it in a circular motion. It was essentially the same throw she’d used on Creed, but at the speed the thief was moving he turned a complete somersault before landing in a heap on the garbage-littered ground.

  Cheers rang out from the Austin. Cricket turned and bowed like a gentleman, then grinned back at the dozens of friendly faces beaming down at her. The thief saw his chance and, abandoning the purloined purse, made good his escape.

  Creed reached down and retrieved the reticule. It looked a little the worse for wear, but he handed it to Angelique anyway.

  Angelique pointed a dainty, white-gloved finger at Cricket. “Who is that?”

  Creed fought a grin and lost.

  “Angelique LeFevre, I’d like to introduce Creighton Creed, my wife.”

  Chapter 22

  ANGELIQUE CRITICALLY EYED HERSELF IN HER handheld mirror. What she saw was not a beautiful woman. Individually her features were each a bit too large or too small or oddly shaped. Together they made her stunning. Add to that her education, her proper Boston manners, and her insatiable sexual appetite, and she was the perfect wife. She didn’t understand how Jarrett Creed could have ended up married to a woman like Cricket—not only married to her, but maybe even a little infatuated as well.

  Cricket. What kind of nickname was that for a wife? Her clothes and her manners were equally strange. Cricket didn’t fit any traditional feminine mold, that was for sure. Which was why Angelique now found herself stuffed into the surgeon’s stateroom on the Austin headed for the Texas coast. If Jarrett Creed had been married to anybody else she might have given up and gone on to greener pastures. But because Cricket was what she was, Angelique believed she would eventually get Jarrett back. No husband could be expected to put up with Cricket’s antics for very long.

  Cricket’s behavior at the formal dinner Angelique and her father had hosted the evening before they’d left New Orleans gave ample proof of Angelique’s point.

  It wasn’t that Cricket hadn’t looked lovely. She had. She’d worn a silk dress in a green and red and gray tartan plaid that hugged a waist so tiny a man’s hands could easily span it. Her breasts were, contrarily, large enough to barely fit a man’s hands. Her shoulders begged a man’s hands to curve around the tawny flesh, and the curls in her lustrous auburn hair summoned a man’s hands to tangle in them. In fac
t, whatever part of Cricket you chose to look upon seemed made for a man’s hands. If Jarrett hadn’t stood guard at Cricket’s side before they sat down for supper, Angelique shuddered to think how many of the statesmen and bankers and merchants at the party would have been tempted to actually touch.

  Nor could Angelique fault Cricket’s manners at the table. She observed all the amenities and unerringly chose the correct utensil and laid it down at the proper time. It was during the dessert course, when Jarrett had leaned over to whisper something private in Cricket’s ear, that things seemed to go so deliciously awry.

  Cricket’s response to Jarrett’s unknown remark had been loud and succinct.

  Jarrett’s warning “Bra-va” was ignored, and there poured from Cricket’s lightly rouged mouth such a stream of bitter epithets that even Angelique, who’d made a study of such terms from the Bible, had trouble understanding some of them. To say that the gentlemen at the table were shocked would have been to underestimate the effect of Cricket’s tirade.

  Angelique had quickly suggested that everyone retire to the parlor for cigars and brandy. If there had been any additional women other than her and Cricket at the dinner, the ladies would have retired to a separate room and left the gentlemen to themselves. As it was, Jarrett never let go of Cricket’s hand, and Angelique wasn’t about to be the only one excluded. Little did she know the show was only beginning. Cricket had—

  A knock on the door interrupted Angelique’s thoughts. When she answered, one of the commodore’s several dapper young lieutenants stood there.

  “Dinner will be served shortly, Miss LeFevre. Will you need an escort?”