Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  “Please,” she moaned. “Take me.”

  “No.” His voice was strained with longing. “I won’t take you. I’m going to make love to you. There is a difference.”

  “Show me.”

  “My pleasure . . .” He kissed her lips, and his ardent tongue explored her mouth.

  Her hands wound beneath his arms, crossing at the wrists to allow her fingers to explore his scarred back. Neither he, nor she, could take any more. But he stopped at her maidenhood.

  “Don’t stop,” she pleaded.

  Clenching his jaw, he claimed what was only his to possess.

  Pain, deep and searing, shot through Emma as he passed the point of no return. Her body torn in agony, she bunched her fingers and beat her fists against his shoulders. “Stop it!”

  His movements ceased. “I can’t.” He brushed his lips against her cheek. “The worst is over now, ma bien-aimée, all that’s left is the better.”

  And it was. Within seconds, she began to respond to his thrusts; then she met them with ardent passion. She moaned, but these sounds were not the kind to elicit pity.

  “So wonderful . . . so wonderful,” he said, groaning, before he took her lips once more.

  Her legs wrapped around him as the most heady feeling assailed her—a strange sense of euphoria she had never before experienced. A shower of pleasure, comfort, closeness, happiness, exaltation—all gathered into one climactic frenzy.

  Her ankles digging into his hips, she rose to meet his final thrust. “Love it . . . love it.”

  And when it was over, Paul whispered, “You all right?”

  Her love-swollen lips curved into a smile; her eyes were drowsy with satisfaction. “Does the sun set in the west, sweetheart?”

  The endearment drew a smile from him. Unwilling to relinquish Emma from his arms, he kissed her eyelids closed, and felt her soft breath, in the cadence of sleep, against his chest. He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, his thoughts centered on being the luckiest man in the world.

  None of that shy maiden business—not for his Emma. How he had relished her instinctive, wanton responses . . . and overtures. Their bodies had been in tune, as if God had created them for each other. She was under his skin, no doubt about that, and he realized it was going to take a long time to get his fill of her. Now, with the scent of her clinging to him, she was bonded to him spiritually; he was certain of it.

  Emma was beautiful. And feisty. That lapdog Franklin Underwood wasn’t worthy of trailing at her heel; Paul knew she could have her pick of men. But she had chosen him for her first lover. He smiled, and looked forward to their married nights.

  A tickle of guilt nagged at him. His plan to use Emma to further the Texas cause made him a bit of a scoundrel. Well, he wouldn’t abuse her. He’d be a faithful husband, which would be no difficulty; he wanted no woman save for her.

  While he had had more than his share of women in the past, in only one of them, besides Emma, had he been interested in more than mere sex. That had been a long, long time ago, and he realized Aimée Thérèse didn’t compare to the woman beside him now.

  Emma moved in her sleep, sliding her leg across his thighs. He swallowed as her flesh touched his manhood, bringing him to instant arousal. Then he eased her leg to the side and brushed the golden hair from her temple.

  “You aren’t asleep,” he said, drinking in her wide eyes.

  The side of her thumb drew a circle around his nipple. “Not at all . . .”

  “We’ll have to do something about that.” He drew her earlobe between his teeth, and felt her shiver . . . before making love to her again. Slowly, tenderly, reverently.

  In the afterglow Emma was satiated. No thoughts were on her mind except for how enchanting it was to lie in Paul’s arms.

  His fingers grasped the top sheet and ran it between her thighs. Gently. Cleansing her as if she were a babe, he furrowed his brows.

  “Don’t be such a fussbudget,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  A grin pulled at one side of his rugged face. “Ah yes, my Emma . . . but you’re more than ‘fine.’”

  “You, too.” Stretching like a lazy Persian before a glowing hearth, she giggled. She never thought this could happen! But then, she had never thought a lot of things could happen.

  “Vixen.” He chuckled. “Are you thirsty?”

  “For what? Another kiss?”

  “Woman, I’m a man not a steam engine. And even a steam engine needs power.” He slapped her delectable derrière. “I was talking about champagne!”

  He leaned an arm over the side of the bed to produce a glass and a bottle of the sparkling wine. Not bothering to cover himself, he sat cross-legged on the bed. She followed suit.

  There was something nice, she decided, about this shameless intimacy. “Imagine . . . a picnic at four A.M. And in my own bed.”

  Paul uncorked the bottle and filled the glass. Holding the now-tepid refreshment to her lips, he said, “Why be conventional?”

  “I agree.”

  A drop of champagne slid down her chin, and Paul leaned over to lick it away. He then took her face between his palms, tilting her chin upward with his thumbs. “But there are occasions, ma bien-aimée, when convention should be respected.”

  “This is a strange time and place to be speaking so.” There was no malice in her words. “And it seems even stranger that such a thing should be said by you.”

  “Hush up, Emma Frances Oliver. I’m trying to ask you to marry me.”

  This should have been the happiest moment of her life, for she loved Paul Rousseau. There. She had admitted it. And it felt good.

  But the image of Paul running from the burning ruins of the Oliver Factor House clouded her happiness.

  His hold on her tightened. “Marry me, Emma.”

  “Do you propose to all the virgins you deflower?”

  “I won’t honor that with a reply.” He frowned, his expression dark and hurt. “Just say yes.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “I won’t stop you from being a doctor, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She was aghast. “You wouldn’t?” Suspiciously she asked, “Why not?”

  “I know it’s important to you, and I wouldn’t wish to take your happiness away.”

  “That’s a rather strange thing for you to say. If I were to say yes, shouldn’t I expect our life together to bring total happiness?”

  “Does this mean you’re not as dedicated to medicine as I had imagined?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not. I intend to devote myself to the infirm of this earth.”

  “Tell me about your work,” he urged.

  “Perhaps another time.” She was pleased by his interest, but at this moment she would not be sidetracked from the issue he had posed. “I question your motive in this proposal.”

  He seemed to study the pillow where her head lay. “Marriage doesn’t keep two people in bed twenty-four hours a day. You’d have to have your own interests.”

  “And what would your interests be?”

  “Sugar planting.” He eased back against his own pillow, and slipped his arm beneath her shoulders to bring her to him again. “I’m set to inherit a plantation on the banks of the Bayou Teche. From my grandfather. I want to take you there as mistress of Feuille de Chêne.”

  “Ha! Being a planter’s wife is a full-time occupation. Where would I find time for my medical practice? And besides, my apprenticeship has only begun.” She gave him cursory details of her work with Dr. René Boulogne. “You’d take me up the bayou, and I’d find myself overwhelmed with the responsibilities of the mistress of Feuille de Chêne.”

  “Not so. I’ll find adequate help.”

  Needing time to think, she pulled away from him and inched to a sitting position. She drew her knees beneath her chin. How could she fulfill her dreams in an isolated part of Louisiana?

  Yet, she thought, people there got sick, they were hurt, had babies. If Paul stood by his word an
d relieved her of the mistress’s responsibilities, she’d have ample time to pursue her career. But a niggling worry prodded at her. His proposal sounded like a business arrangement. There had been no declaration of love. She remembered her own words, spoken hours earlier to Franklin. She had talked of sparks between lovers and wanting to be with that other person. Those things, she knew, were true of herself and Paul. Yet . . .

  She pulled the sheet up to cover her nakedness. “Have you forgotten you’ll face judge and jury?” When would he? she wondered. “Very soon you’ll answer to the State of Louisiana over the fire.”

  “I resent the accusatory tone of your statement.” He quaffed more champagne, then looked her in the eye. His expression was sincere, yet wrought with hurt and anger. “The State of Louisiana will see me a free man, Emma Oliver . . . soon to be Emma Rousseau.”

  “Your confidence overwhelms me.”

  “I intend it to.”

  “What about the Texas Navy, Paul? Will you forsake your adopted country for marital bliss?”

  “There are many ways to demonstrate patriotism. I will serve my country in the manner I feel best, have no fear.” He grimaced. “Don’t trouble yourself with my plans. You won’t suffer unduly for them.”

  She buried her face against her drawn-up knees. “You must leave, Paul. Dawn’s going to break soon, and the servants will be here.”

  “I won’t leave until you say yes.”

  “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Can’t is a different word from won’t. You can. Why won’t you agree?”

  “I won’t agree because I don’t want to be your wife.”

  His ego bruised, he shot to his feet. Ironclad determination filled his eyes. “When I make up my mind to have something I get it. And, as I warned you before, I give no quarter in the getting. You will be my wife, and I intend to employ any means, fair or foul, to accomplish that end.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By ten o’clock in the morning Emma had cast aside Paul’s threats about marrying her. She had done much since he’d pulled on his breeches and left. All evidence of his nocturnal visit hidden, except to her person and memory, she had dressed, had breakfast, and been driven into the city, had looked in on Myrtle Ann, who was progressing well, and was now walking down St. Peter Street toward the factor-house grounds. Mind in a turmoil, she asked herself: What do I really want?

  Her quest to be a doctor was progressing well. And she had come to the conclusion that Louisiana was her home. Paul was the man she loved. Why fight him?

  By marrying him she’d sacrifice nothing. He’d allow her the freedom to pursue her doctoring endeavors, though the backwaters of the Teche would be the setting for her endeavors rather than New Orleans. But she still had several months of apprenticeship under Dr. Boulogne. To leave now would mean losing an important part of her training.

  Be that as it may . . . Under no illusions, she realized that fellow physicians would scorn, if not deny, her use of the appellation of medical doctor. Yet it was not uncommon for men of medicine to simply hang out a shingle. She shuddered at the thought. Many of those who called themselves healers were nothing more than unschooled charlatans who had never seen the insides of a textbook, never examined a specimen through a microscope.

  She journeyed on. Less than a block separated her from Uncle Rankin and the building site—both reminders of the chasm separating her from Paul. If only he hadn’t maligned her family . . .

  “Oh, Paul!” A tug of longing pulled at her heart. She resented the inner fears that stood in the way of their happiness. Standing at the edge of what used to be her uncle’s cotton warehouse, she forced herself not to think of her lover . . . or of his proposal.

  Lumber, freshly sawn and pine scented, was stacked near the street. About thirty dark men, singing a tune flavored by the Gullah of their African homeland, toiled bare-chested in the humid sun. An overseer, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and carrying a whip, walked among them; he shouted an order. His raised voice disturbed the egrets perching on the ground, and the workers picked up their pace.

  Emma caught sight of her uncle as he stepped out of the temporary office that had been erected.

  “Uncle Rankin!” She waved a greeting when he turned and smiled. “Good morning.”

  “And it’s a good one to see ye.” A smile raked his weathered, yet handsome, cheeks as she stepped next to him. “What brings ye here, girl?”

  “Oh I just wanted to . . . to check the construction progress,” she said. “I thought a few minutes alone together would be nice.”

  A steamboat docked along the levee, and to announce her arrival, she blew her whistle.

  “My sentiments exactly.” He put his arm around Emma’s shoulders. Surveying the site, he was full of enthusiasm. “Now that they’ve cleared the rubble,” he said, “today we begin raising the new building. It’s going to be bigger and better than the old one, Emmie,” he said, using his pet name for her. “And I’m going to put up another. Think I’ll add ship chandlering to my enterprises. I’ve been doing a bit of that in the past,” he went on to explain. “On an informal basis of course.”

  “That’s marvelous, Uncle. But aren’t you spreading yourself a bit thin? Besides your cotton factoring, your sugar plantations keep you busy.”

  “I thrive on being busy, Emmie. And traveling does me good as well. Gives me breathing room.” He paused. “Well, I enjoy being out of town.”

  “Between here, St. Martinsville, and the West Indies, how do you manage it all?”

  “Come on in the office, and I’ll tell ye.” He guided her into the boxed room and took a seat behind an impressive mahogany desk.

  Emma sat beside it. Still thinking about his comment, she urged him on. “I’m all ears.”

  “I keep my overseers indebted to me.” He leaned forward to chuck her chin lightly, then laced his fingers behind his neck, pushing the brim of his hat forward. “And let me give ye another hint—I pay them well.” He leaned back. “My managers stay loyal because I keep them in my pocket. If ye’ve enough gold, ye can buy anything.”

  “Even love?”

  “Especially love,” he answered with a melancholy tinge.

  Curious about that, Emma frowned. Several years earlier she’d asked her mother about the feud between Uncle Rankin and Étienne Rousseau. When Rankin was a penniless young man, Noreen had told her, he’d been in love with Angélique de Poutrincourt; but she’d married a French expatriate, not him. “Rankin made a fool of himself over her,” Emma had been told, “and carried on in the most awful way. He never put the blame where it belonged—on the woman who had her choice, and made it, for money and position. Oh no, it was always the rich Mr. Étienne Rousseau’s fault.” Noreen had never liked her brother-in-law, for reasons her daughter didn’t understand, so Emma had chalked her hostility to Rankin to sour grapes. Always, she had believed her uncle’s version of events: Étienne had slandered Uncle Rankin’s character for a petty insult that had occurred in St. Martinsville many years earlier.

  Now she wondered if her mother had been right about the source of the feud. Did her uncle still pine for a woman long dead?

  And what about Aunt Tillie? Surely he loved her. With no parental pressures, such as Emma had experienced, he had made his own choice. What other reason would he have had for marrying? “Did you buy Aunt Tillie’s love?”

  “Everything I’ve ever acquired has been through money.”

  Emma pushed herself off the desk and walked to the window. “Didn’t you . . . do you love her?”

  “Not as she deserves,” he said tiredly. “But I respect her, and would never dishonor her with harsh words or a raised fist. She’s been a loyal wife and a good mother to William, but if the”—he paused to stare at the ceiling—“if the spark is not there, a person can’t force love on another person.”

  Unthinking, she said, “Too bad Aunt Tillie wasn’t richer than you, then maybe you could’ve been bought.”

  R
ankin’s jaw slackened. “You wish to shame me?”

  “Oh no, Uncle, not at all!” He was a paragon in her eyes, and deserved better than trite disloyalty. “I meant . . . in other words she tried to make you love her.”

  “Yes.” He doffed his hat and studied the brim. “That’s why she thinks she’s sick all the time. But—ha!—if she were as sickly as she allows, she wouldn’t be alive, much less be able to carry on with her duties.”

  “She’s a hypochondriac.”

  “What is the meaning of that word?” he asked, and after Emma explained it, he said, “I agree, but her maladies get my attention, and they take her mind off . . . Well, I think ye understand, Emmie.”

  She was overwhelmed with love and pity for both Uncle Rankin and his wife. Wedlock should be based on love. How horrible marriage must be for both of them.

  Her palms suddenly felt clammy. Never had Paul mentioned love. But some men, she knew, had a difficult time saying those words, and she hadn’t expressed her love yet, either. With nothing to gain monetarily by marrying her, surely Paul loved her! His fiery, though sometimes gentle, passions of the night before proved that he cared for her.

  Their relationship in no way resembled the one between her uncle and aunt. She realized that Rankin had never gotten over loving Angélique Rousseau. From his startled expression, she realized she had spoken the thought aloud.

  “How do ye know about her?” He pursed his lips. “Never mind—I think I know.” To bridge the gap in the conversation, he finally added, “And I also know ye’re involved with Paul Rousseau.”

  Emma was speechless.

  “Don’t give me that wide-eyed stare, girl. I’m not going to throttle ye, though I should.”

  “Your changing the subject so quickly says something for my statement about Mrs. Rousseau,” she retorted, her equanimity gained. “And I’m not involved with Paul,” she lied, unable to confess the whole truth.