by Martha Hix
“Careful where you step,” Paul said, taking her elbow. “This mud is bottomless.”
“Really.”
Emma thumbed her nose at this border of civilization. Houston, Texas. Paul had been ordered here by Commodore Moore, and in turn he had insisted she accompany him. Not stopping in Galveston, the Virgin Vixen had carried them up the narrow, magnolia-lined Buffalo Bayou to the temporary capital, a frontier town fifty miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico.
“We’re nearly there. That’s the Capitol Hotel at the end of the street. It’s the best in town.”
“The Capitol?” Emma eyed the two-story frame building. “Isn’t that a pretentious name for a dilapidated hotel?”
“Careful. Your snobbery is showing.”
Her face colored. “You’re right.”
She still wasn’t impressed after they took a look at the interior. The lobby was a large room with white walls. An iron stove dominated the middle, and a few broken chairs were the only furnishings. The atmosphere wasn’t improved by the “guests,” who were expectorating tobacco juice into chipped spittoons. If this was the best Texas had to offer, she shuddered to think about the worst.
Thankfully, the upstairs parlor and the dining room were more pleasing. Behind a screen in their Spartan bedchamber she dressed for dinner. Thinking about the hotel had kept her mind off the reason for their visit. The Texas Navy. She resented the idea that a band of seafarers kept her apart from Paul.
And he was obsessed with Texas’s dire situation. Several days earlier he had received word from Ed Moore, asking him to meet with the commodore in Houston. Due to Mexican aggression, the Big Drunk had softened toward the commodore and the Navy, and had requested that the fleet sail back to home port for further orders. This time it seemed as if the vacillating Sam Houston would support his naval forces.
Confident in that thought, Paul got into his brass-enhanced dress uniform. He was ready ten minutes before Emma stepped from behind the moldly screen. He took her hand—it was chapped by chemicals—and led her toward a small private room. Tomorrow he’d purchase a tub of ointment for those hands!
“You’re especially beautiful tonight, Madame Rousseau,” he commented, taking in the upsweep of her blond hair, the rosy tint to her cheeks, the emerald green satin gown that dipped low at the bodice. “Though I don’t know if I want the Commodore and the President to see quite so much of your attributes.”
“I don’t want to see Moore or Houston at all, so why don’t I just go back to our room? Then we’ll both be happy.”
At the top of the staircase he stopped and drew her into the shadows. Despite her icy demeanor she was warm against his body, and he grew hot. “Is there a fraction of you that can concede?”
“To what? To playing the good little wife in front of your compatriots? Or to—Stop that!” When he took his hand from her behind, she said, “Just as I guessed. You want me to let you into my bed.”
“We share one tonight. And there’s no guard dog to protect you.”
“Because you forbade Woodley to accompany us, and . . . well, your pigheaded pride wouldn’t allow you to rent two rooms.” She straightened her creamy shoulders. “I didn’t make a scene in front of the desk clerk, but don’t make too much of that. I’ve no desire to argue in front of outsiders.”
“What do you desire, ma bien-aimée?” He took her hand and touched it to what hurt the most. “This perhaps?”
“Is that all you think about?”
“I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t think, daily and hourly, about holding you in my arms.” His words were sincere. “You’re under my skin, and my thoughts are on you constantly. When we’re apart, you’re on my mind. I remember everything about you. Your scent and your hair. Your skin. The way it feels to be inside you. My mind draws a sketch of the places where we’ve made love.”
“Don’t . . . please don’t,” she moaned and dropped her cheek to her shoulder.
Paul gentled his lips against her neck. “You’re trembling. I remember how you shivered when I used to blow in your ear.”
“There you are!” Commodore Edwin Ward Moore said, walking up to them and slapping Paul on the back.
Emma silently thanked the saints above for the interruption as Paul made introductions. She had been near—so near—to succumbing to her husband’s magic.
“The devil you say,” the commodore said. “How did an ugly fellow like yourself win such a lovely wife?”
Paul was not ugly. But Emma realized this was the usual bantering males engaged in. “Oh, Commodore Moore, believe me, he can be very persuasive.”
“Ed. Please call me Ed.”
She gave him a once-over. The commodore’s hair was parted at the side, and his long square face was elongated further by the beard growing below his chin. He, like Paul, wore dress uniform—white stockings, white breeches, and dark blue fitted jacket with gold epaulets. He carried a tricorn hat. Trim but not slim, he wasn’t a tall man; her husband topped him by half a foot. Yet Ed Moore’s bearing commanded attention, as did Paul’s.
“My best wishes for your continued happiness.”
We’re going to need a lot more than best wishes, she thought ruefully. “Thank you, sir.”
“Paul, before we go in . . . let me brief you on the mutineers. They’re still fighting extradition. The governor in Baton Rouge flatly refuses my requests to give them over without Houston’s signature.”
“Add one more demand to our list,” Paul replied dryly.
Emma sighed and took her husband’s arm. “Enough of that. We shouldn’t keep the President of Texas waiting, gentlemen. I suggest we repair to the dining room.”
Ed hiked a brow. “Woman of spirit, eh?”
“Oh yes,” Paul replied dryly. “Woman of mighty will.”
Holding her head regally high, Emma led them to President Sam Houston, who waited in the dining room. He was big, dark and handsome. Charming and magnetic described him, too. Though probably in his fifties, he looked younger. From what she had heard his third wife—his first had divorced him; the second had been a now-deceased Cherokee Indian—was several decades his junior. He had to be a rake, and was almost, she thought, as appealing as her husband. Almost.
Though she didn’t care much for the Texan cause she was drawn to its leader. He gave no quarter and asked for none either. Neither did Paul.
She could tell, despite Houston’s polite conversation over dinner, that he liked neither Commodore Moore nor her husband. A pained expression never left his face.
Houston waved the serving woman away. “No more food for me, thank you.”
“Our President has a hole in his stomach,” Paul explained. “An Indian’s arrow pierced his gut years ago.”
“Cease your indelicate talk.” The President scowled. “You’ll have your lady fainting at the table.”
“Emma doesn’t faint. She’s a physician. A good one.”
“Is that so?” Houston commented, leading the conversation to her medical pursuits.
“Mr. President, we’re not here to discuss the science of Hippocrates,” Paul said. “Are you, or are you not, going to sign those extradition papers?”
Houston frowned before saying, “I will.”
Placated, Paul asked, “What orders do you have for us?”
Taking a long draught of Madeira, which Emma figured couldn’t be good for his delicate stomach, Houston said, “With Mrs. Rousseau in our presence, I don’t believe military talk proper.”
“Mr. President,” she said, “I live in the backwaters of Louisiana. My hearing this conversation won’t jeopardize security.”
Paul agreed and so did Ed Moore.
“All right.” Houston leaned back in the chair, which creaked under his weight, and eyed his subordinates. “I’ll be honest. In the past I’ve thought seriously of having you and your men branded pirates, Moore. You ignored my recall order, and that is a court-martial offense.”
“We sailed out last December under your o
rders, sir,” Moore reminded him. “And I didn’t receive word to the contrary until mere weeks ago.”
“I’ll turn a deaf ear to your insubordination . . . as long as it doesn’t happen again.”
“And what guarantees do we have that you won’t rescind more good-faith orders?” Paul interjected.
Houston refilled his wine glass and downed its contents. “I’m sure you men are well aware of the present situation. The Santa Fe expedition was captured to a man, and marched to Mexico City in chains.”
“I know,” Moore said. “While our Navy was in the Gulf—unauthorized, I might add—I received word Frank Lubbock had escaped from a Mexico City dungeon, and I dispatched the San Antonio to Laguna for his rescue.”
Houston shifted, obviously in discomfort. “You’re to be commended.”
Moore pushed his plate forward and braced a forearm on the table. “We don’t want commendations, Mr. President. We want your support.”
“No doubt.” The former Indian fighter grimaced. “You Texas Tars . . . well, as I was telling Andrew Jackson, I don’t like the idea of fighting on the high seas.”
“You don’t believe in navies?” Emma asked, confused.
Houston cleared his throat. “Not particularly.”
“I don’t need to remind you, sir,” Paul said, “that General Vasquez and his troops captured San Antonio.”
“Somervall retook the town.”
“Yes, but you’ve invited shipowners to apply for privateering commissions,” Moore said. “You’ve moved the capital to this place and evacuated your wife to safer territory. Yet you’ve made no move to retaliate against the Centralists.”
“I’ve heard lynching parties are out to get you.” Paul brushed his jaw. “Over your hesitation to follow up on our people’s mistreatment.”
“I’ve never allowed public opinion to stand in the way of what I believe right,” Houston announced.
“Is it right to place our citizens in jeopardy?” Paul appraised the president coolly. “Sir, what are you after?”
“Statehood for Texas.”
“Don’t tell me you’re hoping the U.S. will intervene in all this!” Moore appeared aghast. “I’ve nothing against joining the Union, but annexation is years away.”
“And you believe all the answers are yours, Moore? I beg to differ. You may be a superlative naval leader, but your navy is comprised of nothing but brawlers and duelers. Diplomacy, not fists and swords, will bring peace to our Republic.”
The air was electrified with tension. Like a satisfied Cherokee after a coup, Houston waited for a response. Moore clenched his fists. Emma’s eyes flew to Paul, who rose slowly to his feet.
“Mr. President, Santa Anna is a warrior not a statesman. Several months ago Ambassador Ashbel Smith warned you that two new powerful Mexican warships were being laid down in England,” Paul added. “The Centralists won’t use those ships for mackerel fishing.” He stood straight and tall. “They’re taking on a rented crew, sir. Well provisioned and keenly supported.
“The Guadalupe and the Moctezuma are standing for the Gulf of Mexico. With their guns mounted. . . to invade our waters, and crush our people.” He leaned forward. “Will you allow the Republic of Texas to go without the ‘brawlers and duelers’ who can keep those war steamers from our shore?”
Chapter Eighteen
The air remained tense in the Capitol Hotel’s private dining room. Paul waited for President Houston’s response. Moore was trying to hide his smirk. Emma feared her husband had pushed the president of Texas too far.
Houston rose from the table. “All right.” He was less than enthusiastic. “Reinforce the Gulf blockade.”
Emma sighed in relief. Paul wasn’t in danger of a court-martial. Yet she didn’t notice an appreciable amount of gratitude on the naval men’s side. She should take her husband’s stand in the matter, but she couldn’t help thinking that President Houston was an experienced leader. Surely he knew what he was doing. If he didn’t like the idea of using the Navy, he might be justified.
“We can’t renew the blockade,” Paul said at last. “The entire fleet is in dire need of refitting. Some of our vessels should be scrapped. We can’t confront the enemy with disabled ships.”
Moore scratched his beard. “Another thing. An extended cruise with fo’c’sles full of short-timers is folly. Without the support of our President and money to back it, we cannot recruit new sailors. Issue funds to put the Navy to rights, and we’ll go. Posthaste.”
“Perhaps,” Houston said, condescension in his tone, “the two of you could learn something from the Indians. They finance their battles from the spoils of their last victories.”
“Until lately we imposed upon our allies in the Yucatán for cash,” Paul reminded him, a muscle working in his jaw. “The Navy has sailed by its own devices.”
Moore’s face had turned florid. “Lieutenant Rousseau has gathered some financing, and he and I have both used our own reserves to keep the fleet provisioned. There is a limit, though, sir, to what we can do.”
“The Treasury is bankrupt,” was the presidential reply.
“Sir,” Paul said, “freedom is on the line. Will you have your infant son wearing the yoke of Mexican oppression?”
Silence fell. Emma’s eyes went from Paul to Houston and back again. Though she was ambivalent toward the fate of Texas, she had never respected her husband more.
“You’ll have your money,” Houston replied, each word strained. Acceding to the men he despised was not an easy thing. “Bring the Navy up to snuff. Then renew that blockade.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Paul and Moore. They both clipped a salute.
“But I’d suggest you keep something in mind.” Houston’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll be watching you, and I’ll allow no further disobedience. Follow my orders, or I’ll see you both punished.”
Emma’s heart pounded in fear, for she knew that Paul would follow his convictions whether or not they coincided with Houston’s. She prayed he’d be obedient.
Later that night she lay on her side of the bed they shared, her body not touching Paul’s, yet she felt his presence as fully as if he were lying atop her. He radiated heat. She yearned to turn and see his tanned face, his brown eyes. It would be so easy to reach out a hand to him. She heard his breathing, even and sure. Feigning sleep, she rolled onto her back and deserted her marked impassiveness by opening one eye slightly.
“You’re not asleep,” Paul said.
“Neither are you.” She indulged in a full appraisal of him. He was nude, no part of the sheet covering his maleness. Her fingers had to be restrained from reaching out.
He started to touch her, but spread his fingers through his ebony hair instead. “How can I? I want you, you know. More than anything.”
“More than your quest for the Texas Navy?” She knew that had been a nasty thing to say.
“I’ve been falling-down drunk once in my life,” he said. “That night we claimed Feuille de Chêne. Are you going to send me to my grave regretting the words spoken by a liquored tongue? A tongue that should’ve stayed in the back of my mouth.”
“This has nothing to do with that.” She slid her arm behind her neck. “I’m worried about what’s going to happen with Houston.”
“There’s nothing to fear.” He punched his pillow, wadded it into a more comfortable shape. “He’s given us what we desire.”
“And what if you don’t kowtow to his wants?”
“You’re borrowing trouble.” Touching the pad of her ring finger, he whispered, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you don’t want anything bad happening to your husband.”
“I don’t.”
“What”—he took that finger to his mouth—“do you want?”
She was unnerved by his touch. She should be strong and get up. But how could she? He was nibbling her neck now, and her senses were honed in on him. She was weak with desire.
He repeated his question. “What do you want?”
/>
“Peace of mind, the joys of being married in spirit, a home for both of us. Children.”
“The last part’s easy enough to accomplish.”
“But selfish to consider until the others are a fact.”
“A naval wife has no peace of mind, Emma. It doesn’t go along with the territory. It’s only a matter of time till I’ll be looking down the business end of a Centralist cannon. If you can accept that, I’m willing to make a few concessions.”
“Like?”
“While I’m here, I’m all yours. My spirit will be totally married to yours.”
“Where’s your promise not to sell our home and livelihood?” she asked, bunching the sheet’s hem with her hand.
“If Houston makes good on his word, it won’t be necessary.” He pulled away. “But I don’t trust him. I’m going forward with the mortgage plans.”
“I see,” she said, but she didn’t. “What will we do after you’ve sold the plantation? Live in the gutter and beg for alms?”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
Her heart cried out for a better answer. “What about Uncle Rankin? Can you promise with all honesty that you’ll never seek to discredit him?”
“I wish I could.”
She rolled to a sitting position and hugged her knees. “Then there’s not much hope for us.”
“I think there is. Once your eyes are opened to the truth, you’ll understand what I’ve been going through since my father’s death.”
“There can be only one person right, the other wrong, in that feud. But what difference does it make at this point? Your father is gone, Paul, and nothing will bring him back.”
“It makes a difference to me, and nothing will change the way I feel.” He turned to her, then slid his arm around her waist. “But you are my wife, and . . . I can’t stay celibate forever.”
Longing to be his woman, she savored the moment. His free hand was working the ribbons of her nightgown; his breath was hot against her cheek. If she allowed herself this pleasure, at dawn she would still face today’s stumbling blocks.