Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)

by Shirl Henke

She hesitated for only a second, considering her father's threat. Rafael was deadly with rapier or pistol. With a heart-wrenching sob she whirled and fled upstairs.

  Caleb clenched his hands impotently at his sides. “This is not the time or place to continue this discussion, but the matter is not closed,” he said rigidly to Claude. Turning to Deborah, he nodded politely. “Good day, Mrs. Flamenco.”

  As she watched his retreating back, she heard Celine call to Claude, “Has he gone, dearest?”

  While looking at Deborah, Claude replied to his wife, who was now standing in the parlor door, “The American will never set foot in this house again.”

  Recognizing the slur implied against her in his epithet, Deborah walked calmly up the steps without a backward glance.

  * * * *

  “Oh, Deborah, what will I do?” Lenore was lying on her bed, her eyes red from weeping. “Caleb's no duelist. Rafael will kill him!”

  “Perhaps not. If you were already married and there was nothing more to be gained, I doubt even Rafael would want to make his only sister a widow,” Deborah said quietly.

  Lenore turned on the bed and rolled into a sitting position, hope lighting her face. “But you heard Papa. He can't ever come here again and if I try to leave, they'll stop me...” She hesitated, waiting for Deborah to continue.

  “No one will think it odd if I go riding on Saturday morning. You said Caleb often spends his free time at his lake house in the summer. I can give him a message from you, saying you accept his proposal—you do still want to marry him, knowing it means cutting all ties to your family?”

  Lenore looked determinedly at Deborah. “You did it, didn't you? If a woman loves a man enough, she has to make the sacrifice.”

  But what about the man? Doesn't it cost him anything? Deborah thought. Aloud she replied, “Yes, Lenore, I did it, and I'll help you and your Yankee.”

  * * * *

  Claude and Celine were watching Lenore as if she were a wild thing ready to bolt, but slipping out for a ride alone the following morning was not difficult for Deborah. Rafael, who had spent yesterday upriver carousing with friends, was still abed in exhausted slumber. He had returned late last night, long after everyone else had retired.

  The ground was still cool and damp from a late night rain and the rich moldy earth smelled pungent and refreshing. It was a cloudy morning with a brisk breeze stirring. Deborah urged her mount on, eager to get the deed done and return undetected to the house.

  It took nearly an hour to reach the back entry to Caleb's property and another to discuss Lenore' s note and their elopement. Caleb was overjoyed that Lenore wanted to marry him, but honorably resistant at stealing her away from the haughty Flamencos.

  “What would you rather do—kill Lenore's brother or have him kill you? Claude wasn't making an idle threat, Caleb. I know him and I know my husband. They'll never give in. Right now, Lenore is listening as Celine and Claude plan a big betrothal party. Georges Beaurivage will arrive on Friday and the engagement will be announced that night.”

  Caleb's big body was tense with anxiety and anger. “Why? Why in hell are they so dead set against me? The du Mays and Gautiers have sponsored me into their rarefied Creole circles. I'm certainly wealthy enough to provide for Lenore.”

  Deborah smiled sadly. ‘That's exactly the point, I'm afraid. You are rich. Your Creole business partners wanted your money and skills for their failing bank. But the Flamencos are as rich as you. They don't need your money and they don't want their precious blue blood diluted any more than it already has been by unsuitable marriages.”

  He looked at her with compassion written across his face. “You know who'll pay the highest price of all for this subterfuge, don't you?”

  She shrugged in resignation. “Considering the state of grace I find myself in now, there's little I can do to worsen my image in the Flamencos' estimation.”

  “Even Rafael's?”

  She sighed. “Especially Rafael's.”

  By the time she left Caleb, it was nearly eleven. If she were not home for luncheon, she'd be missed. The sun was high now, having emerged from behind the clouds to cast its brilliant rays in a patchwork of gold over the secluded woods. It was so cool and peaceful that she hated to break away from the forest's spell.

  Then she heard the underbrush snapping and muffled hoof beats approaching. Panic seized her as she recalled Rafael's warnings about the riffraff who occasionally inhabited the deserted backwoods areas around the lake houses of the rich. She had taken a very out-of-the-way route so no one would see her. Now the danger of discovery paled in comparison to this unknown menace.

  She tried to head her mount off the trail into the dense foliage, but she had never been an accomplished horsewoman and could not manage it before the rider saw her and called out.

  “What in hell are you doing riding alone in the middle of nowhere!” Rafael pulled his big black alongside her smaller chestnut and grabbed the reins.

  Wanting to divert him from her secret mission, Deborah asked, “Why are you speaking English?” Seldom since they had left Boston did he do so.

  “Your native tongue is so admirably equipped for swearing, which is exactly what I feel like doing now, Cherie.” He proceeded to demonstrate with startling fluency.

  Damn you, Rafael, let me go.” She tried to twist away from his bruising grip, but he held fast to her wrist.

  “I awoke an hour ago and was told my wife had ridden out at daybreak, heading into a trackless bayou area. You could have been alligator meat by now if not worse—raped and killed by the trash that happens through here!” His eyes were glowing with black fire. He had been terrified that she was injured or lost in the woods. Now, to find her calmly cantering back home infuriated him beyond reason.

  Deborah recoiled from his wrath, half-angry with him, half-afraid of him. “How convenient for you if I broke my neck,” she spat. “It'd save you the trouble of an annulment!”

  “Don't tempt me,” he ground out. When she tried to pull free again, he reached across the saddle and hauled her, kicking and screaming, off her horse onto his.

  Now, she really was frightened. His grip was viselike, squeezing the breath from her as he attempted to subdue her. Deborah was a strong woman for all her slimness. In vain, she thrashed and writhed, refusing to give in to the pain he was inflicting.

  The more he felt her body pressed against his and smelled the sweet lavender fragrance of her moonlight hair, the more he wanted her. It had been all he could do to lie in that big bed with empty space between them, forcing himself not to touch her. “Well, it had to end sometime,” he muttered beneath his breath as he dropped her to the moss-covered earth beside his horse and swiftly dismounted.

  She turned and tried to run, but he was on her in a few panther like strides. “Let me go!” She raised her hand and slapped him a stinging blow across the cheek.

  “You're repeating yourself, Cherie,” he responded as he grasped the offending hand by the wrist, pulling it behind her with a hard twist. Quickly, he imprisoned the other with it and held both slender wrists behind her back in one of his large strong hands. He pressed her breathless body against him and then tangled his free hand in the silvery skein of her hair.

  At what point her furious struggle turned to breathless trembling, she was not certain. All at once, they were staring into each other's eyes, black and violet locked in a silent duel. Neither wanted to expose what each knew the windows of the soul revealed.

  They were both breathing raggedly and trembling, both silent and desperate. Very slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers and she raised her lips to him. It was an oddly gentle kiss at first, experimental, hesitant. Then, with a groan he tightened his hold on her thick hair and pressed her face to his, deepening the kiss.

  Deborah opened to him, accepting the offer of his tongue with a soft cry of surrender. She arched her whole body against him. When he released her wrists, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. Slowly, they sank to the s
oft mossy ground. Side by side, locked in the intensity of the kiss, their arms and legs entwined as their passions grew.

  She could feel his skillful fingers inside the jacket of her riding habit, quickly and deftly unfastening buttons, then cupping and teasing her breasts through the thin silk of her camisole. The soft pale tips hardened to points instantly and hot flashes of pleasure shot through her.

  He wore only a thin white lawn shirt and tan trousers. Following his lead, she quickly pulled the shirt open and buried her palm in the thick black hair on his chest. She could feel the furious thrum of his heartbeat.

  With a few swift yanking movements he freed her of the jacket and skirt, then shed his shirt in one fluid movement. He ran his hands down her lacy sheer undergarments, unfastening the tapes to her petticoats and swishing them off her legs. When he had undressed her, he kissed a wet hot trail over her slim ankles and up her delicate calves. She lay breathless and trembling, her hands tangled in the curly black hair of his head.

  One of his hands slipped higher, between her thighs to stroke the ache that was growing there. He could feel the wetness through her sheer pantalets. She gasped and arched as he applied massaging pressure. When she whimpered, he raised his head and pulled her face to his for another sealing kiss. All the while his hand continued to stoke the frantic need at her core.

  The world receded in a whirling vortex of pleasure and hunger. Deborah held onto Rafael, so afire nothing else mattered but that he join his body to hers.

  Then he rolled abruptly into a sitting position. She watched him strip off boots and pants in a few swift ripping movements. When he turned to her again she reached up to embrace him feverishly as he peeled off her pantalets.

  He took her small pale hand and lowered it between their bodies to grasp his phallus. The hot hard flesh sent a thrill of need shooting through her entire body. She could hear his sharp intake of breath as she stroked him and guided the tip of his shaft into her.

  The heat and hunger were unbearable now. In unison he thrust in her and she raised up to envelop him. They were lost in one another, joined and unified in mindless spiraling pleasure, panting and thrusting toward a hard swift release that came to both of them with electrifying force.

  He rolled her over so she lay on top of him. Then, he raised her upper body and slowly suckled her breasts as they hung suspended before him like pearly melons. She clamped her thighs tightly around his hips and closed her eyes, throwing her head back to revel in the renewal of spent passion. Long moments later he lowered her down on his hardness. She quickly caught the rhythm, controlling their movements, rolling, undulating, twisting until she felt she would go mad with the pleasure. He laid his head against the ground and arched up, thrusting into her as she rode him.

  This time they went slowly, neither wanting it to end. His hands slid from her hips, up her spine, then around to tease her swaying breasts. She raked her nails down his chest, felt the flexing hard tension in his shoulders and biceps, then caressed his swarthy, sculpted jaw line and brow. Finally, when she could-hold back no longer, he seemed to sense it and tangled his hands in her hair, pulling her down to him for a hard deep kiss as she stiffened in climax. In rhythmic pulsing bursts, he released his seed deep within her.

  Neither could have said how long they lay, sweat-soaked and exhausted, tightly fused together, each unwilling to break the joining. Finally, he stroked her cheek softly and felt the wetness of tears. At his gentle caress, she raised her face from the curve of his shoulder and their eyes locked.

  “Oh, Rafael, what do we do now?” she asked brokenly.

  “I don't know, Moon Flower, I don't know,” he whispered in reply.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you think it will work?” Lenore's face was taut as she surveyed her sister-in-law.

  Deborah was dressed in Lenore's costume for the masked ball. Lenore had convinced her parents that if she were to announce her betrothal to Georges that night, the festivities must be of her choosing. She wanted a masquerade. Creoles loved such costume affairs; and her father, delighted that she was finally willing to comply with their plans, quickly endorsed the idea.

  The plan was Deborah's, not Lenore's. Now Deborah stood dressed in Lenore's elaborate shepherdess costume with its frilly, flowing overskirts, long lacy gloves, and huge wide-brimmed bonnet. She wore a wig of long yellow curls and a mask. The costume was chosen with care so as to conceal every distinguishing feature of either woman.

  “Be sure you don't let anyone see your feet,” Lenore admonished. She was a good four or five inches shorter than her sister-in-law. However, if Deborah wore flat-heeled slippers instead of the very high-heeled clogged shoes that Lenore had chosen, the height difference might go unnoticed. Deborah had always observed that people see what they expect to see. Celine and Claude had watched Lenore twirl and mince all week during fittings for the frothy costume. In secret, Deborah had practiced the same flirtatious movements.

  “I do declare, you can use your fan as adroitly as any Creole belle, Deborah,” Lenore said in amazement as she watched her double practice a coy gesture.

  “Well, let's hope I can get by with your ‘sore throat’ voice as well,” Deborah said darkly. That morning Lenore had feigned a sudden cold, but insisted the ball must go on as planned despite a problem with her voice. “If I only can keep Georges talking, he shouldn't notice the substitution until it's too late.”

  “Just let him talk about himself. He'll be amused for hours,” Lenore replied acidly, then begged reassurance. “You're positive Caleb will be out behind the dairy house?”

  “Sure as you're in love with him, and he's in love with you,” Deborah said soothingly.

  That afternoon when Georges arrived, Lenore had pleaded her nervousness over the night's festivities as an excuse not to greet him. Deborah had stayed upstairs, as well, sending word that she, too, had caught Lenore's ailment and would not attend the gala. If Rafael was irritated with her refusal to participate, his parents were relieved.

  “You're sure Rafael won't come up to see that you're all right?” Lenore still saw all manner of pitfalls to their scheme.

  “Just before he went downstairs, I provoked a bit of a tiff,” she replied grimly. As if I needed to make him angrier, she thought desolately. “He won't be concerned about me. All his friends and cousins are downstairs reveling with him. I'm sure Minnette Gautier has wasted no time batting her eyelashes at him either.”

  Lenore put her arm around Deborah's slim shoulders. “Minnette doesn't mean a thing to Rafael.”

  Deborah swallowed and said with false brightness, “Oh, bother the silly twit. I have to remember to hide my feet and keep my eyelashes lowered so my eyes don't show violet.”

  Lenore dimpled. “Just stay away from the chandeliers. Let Georges think you enjoy huddling in romantic dark corners with him.” She paused and said thoughtfully, “Strange, now that I think of it, he never seemed to want to—well, you know, get close to me that way. Only when he wanted to control me would he really touch me—” She dismissed the distasteful memory and said “Caleb and I will never forget what you're doing for us, Deborah. If there's anything we can ever do to help you, you know to come at once.”

  The two women hugged fiercely. Then, Deborah gave Lenore a quick shove toward the open doors at the rear of the house. “I must face the lion's den downstairs and you must slip through the kitchen and out to Caleb. Now, go.”

  The room was crowded with richly costumed men and women. Greek muses simpered in silver and white robes, outlandish pirates dripped with gold chains, sporting gleaming sabers. Deborah saw Rafael at once, standing across the room, a head taller than the men and women who surrounded him. He was resplendent in the burnished breastplate and leather breeches of a Spanish conquistador. Idly, she wondered if he had chosen the costume to remind her of his ruthless ancestry, or if he had done it only because it became his bold, swarthy looks so well.

  Minnette Gautier wasn't the only one hanging on him
, Deborah thought acidly. All the women seemed to appreciate the Spanish mercenary in their midst. Well and good that he was occupied. In her disguise, she must avoid him at all costs. She might fool Georges and her in-laws, but she could never deceive her husband.

  Almost at once, Celine swept across the floor, with Georges in tow behind her. Because of the crowd, the noise, and the flickering lights, Celine did not penetrate Deborah's disguise. She gushed when “Lenore” placed her gloved hand timidly in Georges' and curtsied.

  Georges held her stiffly, not at all the way Deborah would have thought an eager fiancé would hold his beloved. Even Oliver Haversham was a far better actor than this, she thought as her irritation changed to a prickling uneasiness. However, her subterfuge was working, for he talked of his plans for the tour of Europe they would take after their marriage.

  Deborah tried in vain to reassure herself that it was only his resemblance to Rafael that bothered her. She cast quick appraising glances at his face through her mask, careful to hide her eyes. His picture-perfect features were too pretty, his gestures too precise. There was none of the bold virility she had always felt tenuously leashed in Rafael, although the same arrogance and haughtiness were certainly present in Georges' manner. Something was wrong. Lenore must be married before this night was over, safe from this enigma!

  Deborah was relieved when Monsieur Gautier cut in on Georges but not as grateful, she suspected, as was Georges. He fled toward the punch bowl and a group of his friends while she made hoarse, desultory small talk with the kindly old man.

  “How does your fiancé find New Orleans after spending two years in Paris?” He inclined his head to hear her raspy voice.

  “I suspect he misses Europe. We're to take a grand tour on our honeymoon.” Georges will have to tour alone, which I suspect will be more to his liking anyway.

  For the next two hours, Deborah danced, flirted, and talked as little as possible. She avoided Rafael and his parents, spending a great deal of time with casual acquaintances who were unlikely to notice the subterfuge. As for Georges, he danced with her only as often as it seemed he must for appearances. The rest of the time he spent in conversation with his friend Paul Ravat, a fellow student from his university days in France. If she were uneasy over Georges, she was outright repelled when Paul's chilly gray eyes followed her across the dance floor. It was as if he knew some secret Lenore didn't.