by Martha Hix
From the corner of her eye, Emma spied Aunt Tillie and Marian making an exit. They had offered to help her change into her traveling suit, so Emma surmised that now was the time to do as Cleopatra had suggested, and as both she and Paul wanted. “I’ll just be a moment, amoureux.”
Bouquet in hand, she made for her room. After topping the staircase, she floated down the hall. Raised voices from behind her bedroom door stopped her.
“Someone ought to tell her!” Marian said.
There was a moment of silence before Aunt Tillie spoke. “Oh Lordy, my head is aching over this. Can’t think straight.”
“You never think straight, Tillie Oliver. But try this time for Emma’s sake. One of us has to tell her about it.”
Her hand shook. What was going on? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. She turned the knob and pushed the door open with the heel of her palm. “What do I need to know?”
Chapter Fifteen
“It’s about Paul,” Marian said slowly, too slowly, as she shook her head.
“What about him?” Emma crossed the room, stopping in front of her cousin-by-marriage. “What about him!”
“Now, Emma, I’m sure it’s not as bad as it sounds,” Aunt Tillie said. “Dear me, I need to lie down. My head is pounding.”
“Well then, lie down,” Emma said, abandoning her usual patience with her aunt. She turned back to the widow, and brushed a tear from Marian’s cheek. “Tell me.”
Marian sank into a chair and buried her face. “It’s . . . Oh, I don’t want to hurt you.” Troubled sincerity was evident in each word. “I—I’m not a learned woman like you are, but my years with William taught me a few points of the law. His being a lawyer like Howard, you understand.”
“Does this have to do with the fire?” Emma asked, and, from the bed, Aunt Tillie exhaled a sob.
“In a way.” Marian rubbed her eyes. “Ever since you announced your engagement, I’ve been worried. You see . . . well, it’s just that . . . a wife can’t testify against her husband in a court of law.”
It was as if Emma were suddenly removed from herself. She felt hollow, bloodless. “H-he . . . Paul’s not a lawyer. He doesn’t . . . he probably doesn’t know about it.”
“I think he does. A few minutes ago, I asked Howard if it were true. He clamped his mouth shut—you know how he can be sometimes. Anyway, I put it to him as if I knew Paul was aware of that point of law. He . . . he admitted something when I pressed him about it. Days ago, he told Paul you couldn’t testify against him if you two were married.”
Her wedding ring suddenly heavy on her left hand, Emma dropped the bouquet.
“Paul’s too nice to use our girl,” Aunt Tillie said.
“I hope my fears are groundless.” Marian raised her head and locked eyes with the bride. “I mean it.”
“I’m sure you do.” Emma shed her veil, throwing it to the floor. “But I would’ve appreciated your mentioning this before the wedding, not after.”
“I wanted to be certain before I made accusations. I . . . I’m sorry.”
“Not nearly as sorry as I am.”
Unmindful that she hadn’t changed from her wedding dress, Emma turned on her heel to stomp out of the room and down the stairs. Along with the other guests, Paul, smiling and expectant, was waiting at the foot.
“Let’s go,” she said tersely.
The wedding party gasped in unison.
No matter how much Paul tried to pry the problem out of his wife, she refused to speak to him as they rode to the St. Charles. He was stymied. How could so warm a woman suddenly turn into an iceberg?
In the room that had been his, and was now theirs, she kept her mouth clamped. Her silence, Paul realized, was much more effective than the most fiery argument.
Posture straight as a poker, Emma sat down on a chair. He bent to take the dainty white slippers from her feet and tried to touch her ankle. She kicked his shin.
The kick added little to the physical discomfort he was feeling; he was suffering. And he was furious with her, but this was their wedding night, a time to hold and be held. He didn’t want either of them to look back on it with regrets.
Watching her try to ignore him, he stripped away his coat, cravat, and shirt to place them neatly in the armoire. His evening shoes went in next.
“Perhaps,” he said, going down on one knee in front of her, “if we discuss what’s troubling you, we can work it out.”
She shook her head and started to cross her arms over her chest, but he wrapped his fingers around her right hand. He felt her flinch at the pressure, but he placed his opposite palm over her wrist. Her hand was so small and delicate within his big, rope-roughened one.
Beautiful, that was Emma. His fair-haired wife. The spitfire who had enchanted him from the moment he’d laid eyes on her . . . in this very room.
“The management’s gone to a lot of trouble to make this night special for us. Candles, champagne, a plate of cold meats and cheese. Smooth silk sheets. Shouldn’t we make use of those amenities?”
She gritted her teeth in response.
“You’re right.” He brought her palm to his lips, brushing it lightly. “Whatever is special has to come from us. Me and you.” He released her small hand. “We’ll have but one wedding night, and wouldn’t it be better to make it one to cherish?”
At once, she yanked her knee upward between his thighs, striking his chin. He reeled with pain, and she pounced from the chair.
“There. Now you have a special memory of your wedding night!”
By degrees he uncoiled to a standing position. He had never struck a woman in his life, and he wouldn’t now. But he was mighty close to doing it. “I’m going to ask you one more time. What’s the matter with you!”
Hugging her arms, she stared out the window. “I hate you.”
“No. You don’t. Far from it. Hate is nothing but a word spoken in anger. Your body speaks a different language.”
“That’s just a weakness. I’m sure I’ll recover from it.” She paused. “But I don’t know if I’ll recover from what you’ve done.” She whirled around, and her eyes were chips of green ice. “You used me.”
“What!”
“You married me to stay out of jail.”
The memory of Howard’s suggestion washed over him, and he lowered his head. “Did Howard tell you that?”
“Never mind where I found out.”
“It’s not true. Whatever you heard. It’s not true.”
“The odds aren’t on your side, Paul. But aren’t we lucky? You have what you want—the prosecutor’s case against you is weak. And I have a name for my child, in case there is one, though I pray there isn’t.”
She was lashing out due to her pain, he knew, and he understood her anger. “I’ll admit Howard told me a wife can’t testify against her husband, but I told him I wouldn’t hide behind my wife’s apron. I didn’t set that fire, so I have nothing to hide.” Well, not quite nothing. “My legal problems aren’t related to why I asked you to marry me.”
“Why—and please be honest—did you force me into this marriage? Surely you didn’t do it just to give me protection from social censure.”
“I wanted to be with you,” he replied, half in truth. “You’re . . . you’re the woman I chose to share my name”—he grinned and motioned toward the tester bed—“and that, too.”
Yearning for his lovemaking, Emma considered his answer. With all her heart, she wanted to believe Paul’s tender words. She turned back to the window, raised the sash, and threw open the shutters. The slightly mildewed scent of the riverside city fluttered through the room. She thought about her own reasons for marrying.
Crazy though it was, she loved, and wanted to be with, Paul. But that hadn’t been the primary reason for this match. In a way she was using him, too. If there was a child, she wanted it to have a father—a full-time father.
To make this marriage work, she had better show some trust. Placing undue emphasis on trouble was asking
for more of it. Why ruin their wedding night further? Now that she had given the matter some thought, Emma realized that Marian was a gossip—many of her tales lost credibility in the retelling. Paul might be speaking the truth.
Resting her palms on the sill, she said, “I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you physically.”
“And I should’ve told you, before we wed, what Howard had to say.”
She sighed, then glanced over her shoulder, a sorrowful quarter-smile easing her features. “Did you mean it . . . about marrying me because you wanted us to be together?”
“I won’t repeat myself. You heard me the first time.” Paul closed the distance between them, and clasped her elbows. Leaning to her ear, he felt her quiver as he whispered huskily, “Let’s go to our marriage bed. I long to make you Madame Rousseau in fact as well as name.”
Her cheek touched the hard strength of his arm. “I . . . I’d like that.”
“Ah, my angel. . . thank you.” Paul swept one hand beneath her knees, the other cradled her back; and he carried her to the foot of the bed.
As he released her to stand before him, their gazes met. She fingered his arm; he, her cheek. They both yearned to ignore the past and enjoy the present.
“As lovely as you look in your wedding gown, I ache to see you without it.”
“It’s your right . . . and my wish.”
Slowly, treacle slowly, he unfastened the top button of her gown, then worked his way downward.
It was impossible for Emma, hungry with anticipation, to breathe. His fingers were lingering, caressing her flesh. As if she were a precious doll, he undressed her. As he freed each lace, he placed a kiss behind its hook, on the chemise’s soft lawn. Finally, the corset fell to the floor at their feet, and he pulled the underdress over her hair, undoing the mass of blond curls. The ties of her pantaloons gave, and to steady her, he placed her palms on his back as he took that final garment from her ankles.
“Mine, all mine . . . You are so beautiful.” Squeezing her hands, he stepped back.
“And so, my darling, are you.” She stepped closer, felt the hardness of him. “Now it’s my turn to undress you. . . .”
Her hands weren’t nearly as steady as his as she worked the buttons of his breeches or as she bent to help him step out of them. Her face near the crisp hairs of his shins, she felt the urge to flick her tongue against his leg. Why not? They were husband and wife. She leaned forward. Why be inhibited?
Hearing his masculine moan, she smiled and looped her arms behind his calves. She felt his fingers comb through her tresses. Her tongue made tiny circles on a tanned, hirsute shinbone. His flesh tasted clean and manly, and the short black hairs tickled her nose.
“You fire me, m’amoureuse.”
Leaning her head back, she smiled again. Her vision was impeded—and she liked it.
“Enough of your teasing,” he murmured, bringing her against his chest before placing her on the bed.
The mattress dipped as he settled himself into the cradle of her arms. It felt so good, so right to be there!
His kiss was at first gentle, but she urged aggression. She ached for their joining, yearned to drown in that place where there were no thoughts of yesterday or tomorrow.
“How about some of your . . . teasing? Now! I’m afire for you, husband.”
Like a man possessed, he touched his lips to her cheek, her ear.
She quivered as he whispered, “Are you sure, ma bien-aimée, you want me to finish consummating this union?”
“If you don’t, I think I shall cry.”
“I’ve never seen you cry,” he said, his voice low and deep, as he poised above her.
“I don’t cry. Usually.” She teased his legs with the inside of her ankle. “Are you going to force me to tears, Paul?”
Running his lips across hers, he said, “No!”
He pressed his manhood against her as she raised for him. Inhaling, she sheathed his bigness. “Don’t be so reverent,” she chided, her voice husky with passion. “You should know by now I won’t break from your ardent touch.”
He grinned before leaning to bite her earlobe. “Lusty vixen!”
Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her voice was laced with unbridled desire. “Yes . . . oh yes.”
Losing control, they were wild for one another, neither able to get enough. He drove and drove and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Their rhythms meshed, completely attuned, as time swept onward. Once, and then again and again, explosions of euphoria radiated within her. And finally she felt his body tense even more as he gripped her hips. Groaning a phrase in French, he reached his climax.
Still tangled in his arms, she asked, “What do you call it, Paul, when we . . . when that funny feeling assails us?”
“Lust.”
“Not that. I’m talking about the explosion I feel . . . and when you become the most excited?”
“Ah, Madame Rousseau, in French it’s le petite mort.”
“The little death?”
“Yes.” He grinned and bent to kiss the rise of her breast. “And you’d better get used to it,” he said, holding her.
“Is this any way to start a honeymoon?” Paul asked the next morning. In the afterglow of lovemaking, he lay on his back amid the rumpled sheets, Emma astride him. “You’d rather go to that chamber of horrors called a clinic than to be with your poor sex-starved husband?”
“You are pitiful.” She chuckled and tickled his ribcage. “You promised before our marriage that I could pursue my career, as I remember, and I do have a good memory, you insatiable beast.”
“You’re a fine one to talk about insatiable, and if you don’t stop tickling me, dammit, I’m going to renege on my promise . . . for today anyway.” He insinuated his hips against her derrière. “On second thought, please don’t stop.”
“Have to. I should’ve been seeing patients an hour ago.” She took her hands away. Combing her fingers through her hair, she swung her leg off Paul and jumped out of bed. Shamelessly, she lifted her breasts with her palms and moistened her lips. “Nevertheless, eat your heart out.”
She had never seen him move so fast.
Two more hours passed before she set foot in Boulogne’s clinic. In an understated frock of gingham and with her hair pulled back in a bun, she was cool and professional in her duties. Though perhaps the canary-eating cat’s smile that kept curving her lips was a giveaway that she was newly married.
Emma rewrapped a bandage, moved to the next bed, and looked down on little Myrtle Ann. “Feeling better today, honey?” she asked while bending to check the dressing Dr. Boulogne had apparently already changed.
“Yes, ma’am. I guess. But my leg hurts—sorta like it’s still there.”
“That’s to be expected.”
Myrtle Ann’s lower lip quivered. “Once I get a whole lot better, how’m I gonna get around without my leg?”
Did this sort of question ever get easier to answer? Emma wondered. “You’ll be fitted with a peg. It’s going to take a lot of practice and even more courage, but you’ll learn to walk just fine.”
“No! I can’t. I don’t want to. The other children’ll tease me and call me Peg Leg. And boys won’t like me.”
“It won’t be as bad as you think. Be thankful you’re a girl—your skirts will cover the peg.” Emma put a comforting hand to the girl’s brow. “Besides, you’re too young to be thinking about boys; and by the time you’re old enough, you’ll be a master at walking. I’ll bet my bottom dollar some nice man will look past your handicap and see the goodness inside you.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“How can you be sure?”
“My mother lost her leg when she was seventeen. My father was her doctor . . . they married a year later. Now she has a houseful of children.”
“Well, I can’t marry you.” Myrtle Ann grinned. “You’re a girl.”
“Myrtie?”
“Katie!”
/>
Emma looked around to spot the source of the interruption, and the blood rushed from her face. Standing beside the child’s bed was the woman who had stolen the brooch! The woman Paul had retrieved it from. Katie!
Apparently she didn’t recognize Emma. She merely nodded, set a basket beside the bed, and pulled a chair up to sit by Myrtle Ann. “I brought you something to eat, little one. Those fruit cakes you like so much.”
“I’m not very hungry, but thank you.” Myrtle Ann turned her eyes to her doctor. “This is my friend Katie. She used to take care of me sometimes, but she moved away and she’s living too far from me to come by my house very often.”
“I see.” Emma was itching to get Katie the Good to the side so she could ask her a few well-phrased questions.
Myrtle Ann turned her freckled face toward her visitor. “And this is Dr. Oliver. She helped cut off my leg, but I’m not mad at her about it. She put a piece of gauze on my face and I had to smell some stinky stuff, but I went to sleep and didn’t feel it when they chopped off my leg.”
Katie’s hazel eyes rounded. “Asleep?”
“Yes. The doctor, she’s nice.”
“You’re a lucky young lady to have so nice a doctor,” the visitor said while smoothing the girl’s brow.
“Oh yes, I think so.” Myrtle Ann then said, “Guess what! Her mother’s a peg leg, too!”
There was no use getting into that, so Emma extended her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Emma Rousseau.” The name sounded strange on her lips. Strange, yet nice. And the mention of it drew no reaction from the woman. “Perhaps I could have a word with you, after you’ve visited with Myrtle Ann?”
Having received Katie’s polite consent, Emma moved on to the next patient, but she kept her within sight. Ten minutes later she spied Katie obviously dodging out of the proposed meeting. She followed her to the street, catching her a half a block away.
Grabbing Katie’s arm, she said, “Remember me?”
“No. I’ve never seen you before.”
“Then why were you running?” Emma received no reply. “Shall I refresh your memory? It was night. In front of the St. Charles Hotel. You and your—” Emma had been about to say accomplice, but had thought better of it. “You and Packert stole a brooch from my cloak.”