Magic and the Texan

by Martha Hix

“I’m a bastard.”

  She laughed, the sound tinny. “Don’t be ridiculous, sir. You are anything but a scoundrel.”

  “I mean literally a bastard.” Bastardy being the next thing to felony in these modern times, Jon Marc fixed his gaze on the ceiling support beams. “My mother may have been married at the time of my birth, but a devil named Marcus Johnson sired me.”

  “Don’t you keep whiskey in here?” Beth thumped the ebonized cabinet. “How about a glass of something stiff?”

  “Don’t spare the horses,” he answered dryly.

  Beth poured generous portions.

  Lord, did it feel good going down. It gave Dutch courage to tell about scandal, death, and being rebuffed. “Georgia Morgan took up with Johnson again, around the time I turned six. She figured to desert her sons—even Johnson’s get—and take off with him. Daniel O’Brien put a stop to that. ”

  “How awful that must have been.”

  “Not as bad as witnessing the final argument between my mother and her husband. When he killed her.” Eyes slammed closed, yet visions of blood and death remained. “The next day Daniel took me with him to Johnson’s house. Figured to pawn me off on my blood father. He turned the gun on himself. Blew his brains out.” Jon Marc downed the dregs. “I saw it happen.”

  “Poor darling,” Beth whispered, her sympathetic tone downplaying the platitude. Rising from the settee, she refilled his glass; handing it to him, she curled at his feet. “What happened to Marcus Johnson. Did he not do anything to aid you?”

  “Turns out Johnson wasn’t planning to take Georgia Morgan anywhere. He moved on, even before the smoke had cleared.”

  “How could he do that to his own son?”

  “Apparently with ease. Leastwise, he was out to save his neck, since he might’ve gotten blamed for Daniel’s death.”

  Beth rested a cheek against Jon Marc’s knee. “How awful your childhood must have been.”

  “It had its good moments.” He stroked Beth’s head idly. “Daniel’s father took us in, me and Connor and Burke. Daniel’s sisters raised us.” Contrary to the pain of recounting the doomed triangle of his mother and her men, Jon Marc felt a smile lifting his facial muscles. “Tessa and Phoebe never favored any of us. We were all the same in their eyes.”

  “Then why do you never open their letters?”

  “Ah, ha.” He tugged on Beth’s ear, not feeling anywhere near as jovial as his light reprimand, when he added, “Better not let me catch you going through my things.”

  “I’m red-handed. I saw unopened letters from a Tessa Jinnings and a Phoebe Throckmorton. I wondered who they were.”

  “Now you know. I suppose you read Pippin’s letters?”

  “Seems he’s your nephew.”

  “Yes. Pippin’s a good boy. Reckon someday he’ll visit.”

  “What about the aunts? And your brothers? What about your, well, your grandfather?”

  “It’s best they stay on the Mississippi. I like it that way.”

  “Why?”

  He told her everything, save for the magic lamp that seemed too ludicrous to bring into such a serious discussion. He brought up the alienation from his half brothers; from Connor, who’d never been close; from Burke, who resented Jon Marc’s interference with Rufus West. “Burke pins a pet name on everyone. He even got Connor to calling me Jones.’ When I was little, I assumed I got that name ’cause I had no right to O’Brien. Was thirteen before Burke set me straight.”

  “How straight? Tell, Jon Marc. I want to know.”

  “It was just a corruption of Jon. That’s all. Made me feel a damn—darn—sight better, knowing the truth.”

  “Are you doing the same thing now, making too much of your brother’s stance toward you?”

  Jon Marc assumed that if any O’Brien, save for Pippin, thought of him at all, they did it with disappointment. Each seemed to demand more than he could give.

  “I would like for them to think kindly toward me, but I can live without what passes for family. Had twelve years alone. Whatever’s left to me, I can take the same way.”

  “I think there’s more to it than what you’ve told me. You wouldn’t have left Memphis, simply because you and your brothers didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “You got that right, honey.”

  He next told her about the rift between him and Fitz, ending with, “Up to the moment he tossed me out of his home, I thought he cared for me. Like I was his grandson. But he drew himself up—no mean feat, considering his rheumatism—and rattled his old silver-handled cane. His eyes were like pieces of marble, they were so cold.

  “ ’Ye’re wet behind the ears, laddie,’ ” Jon Marc mimicked in his best impersonation of the immigrant O’Brien. “ ’Why would I be wantin’ t’ give me company t’ ye? ’Twill rightly go t’ Connor. And if he willna have it, Burke will take Fitz & Son, Factors.’ ”

  “But they didn’t?”

  “They didn’t. Connor had an army career, early on. Burke’s been a steamboat baron since he turned eighteen. There’s no one to take the factor house, not until Fitz’s great-grandsons are grown, which won’t be for a goodly number of years. It’s doubtful Fitz will live to see the day. How ’bout another shot of whiskey?”

  Beth poured; Jon Marc guzzled.

  He spoke in a voice that began as a rough whisper but evened into a monotone. “Fitz may have sent a scared kid into the cold of night, yet he thought I’d forget all that. I can’t.”

  Beth put her hand over his. “Would you like to be close with the other O’Briens?”

  “I tried.” Jon Marc scooted out of the chair to sit on the floor next to Beth. He slid his arm around her shoulder, hugging her with a closeness that asked for understanding, not carnal promise. “When Connor’s wife needed help to get out of the mess I’d made for them, I had no interest in seeing anyone named O’Brien again. You see, I’d undermined Connor and India, although I didn’t know it at the time. India—she’s Connor’s wife—ended up being court-martialed. Phoebe—nobody’s fool, that one—figured out I played a part in the intrigue. She sent a letter, begging me to help. I gave a deposition. Lost my cover as a Confederate spy over the incident.”

  Beth said not a word on the subject.

  “He’s got a nice wife, Connor,” Jon Marc allowed. “Once the war was over, India discovered I was living here at the Caliente.” Her sister, Persia Glennie, had been the one to tell India where to find him. That came after Jon Marc attended a poetry recital in San Antonio, where the now-departed Tim Glennie served as reader. “Then India asked me to visit their plantation in Louisiana. Guess I was lonesome. I went.”

  “What happened?”

  “I landed in a hornet’s nest. Made the mistake of stopping in New Orleans to call on Burke, is what I did. Had thoughts of mending fences with him, too. Instead, I got involved in his problems. That came to a bad end. I tried to save Burke’s hide, and his wife’s, by shooting the man who would’ve killed them. Burke wanted his own revenge.”

  Beth tensed. “You shot a man for your family?”

  “Like I once told you, I protect what’s mine. The O’Briens aren’t, but I didn’t stop to think. Anyhow, Burke is my brother. Blood tells, you know. Even if it’s Georgia Morgan’s.”

  Beth got quiet, very quiet.

  In this far, Jon Marc wanted the rest of it out. He must mention how he couldn’t be free of them, since Tessa and her genie played a part in getting Beth here on his past birthday.

  But she asked, “Why do you read Pippin’s letters?”

  “I’m fond of the boy.”

  “You need children of your own.”

  “Do you want children, Beth honey?” Frankly, Jon Marc was relieved at the chance to talk about the present, not the past. Her ways with Sabrina recalled, he suspected she’d make a willing mother. He would find out for sure. “From your letters I think you see motherhood as wifely duty.”

  “You are wrong. Beth Buchanan may have felt that way in Kansas, but I don
’t. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, you know. I want children. Several. I wouldn’t mind adopting a needy child. But I mostly want your children.” She laughed gently, then teased, “And they better all have hair like old pennies, or we’re sending them back with the stork!”

  A smile jacked up Jon Marc’s face. “Then I guess we’d better do some serious talking with the padre.”

  Bethany awoke by dawn’s light, cuddled on the floor with Jon Marc! The drinks must have gotten to them last night. Not a minute after he suggested talking with Padre Miguel, he had dozed off. She, too, had closed her eyes. And here they were.

  Still, Jon Marc slept. She leaned up on an elbow to gaze into his remarkable face. He appeared younger, innocence itself. Yet he’d known suffering and heartache, disappointment and rejection. He needed a woman devoted to giving him a family to be proud of. A family who would be proud of him.

  Beth brushed hair from his brow. I’ll be twice the wife you’d have gotten with Miss Buchanan, who would’ve preferred the veil.

  “I love you,” she whispered from the bottom of her heart.

  Had he heard right? Was that Beth whispering love? Or was this just a dream? Surely a dream, surely. Beth, smelling like vanilla, all cuddled up close. He disliked vanilla. But he did like Beth. She was soft where he was hard. Very hard. Hair tickled his nose; a breast, his midsection. Wonderful dream. Jon Marc snaked out a hand . . . and got an armload of woman.

  That was when he opened his eyes.

  This was Beth, dewy-eyed and mussed and smiling. She was a dream come true. Comely, diligent, never afraid of a challenge. Perfect for the Caliente. And for Jon Marc.

  “Kiss me,” was what she said.

  He tightened his arms around her shapely form, his hands crossing over her back to cup her behind and bring it closer to the hardest part of him. His lips met hers, soft at first. Then with more insistence. Hands were everywhere, both his and hers. He moved his lips to her cheek, to her eyelid, to her ear.

  He uttered a sweet nothing into that flesh-hued shell. The devil made him nip her earlobe; she didn’t complain. In fact Beth grasped the hair of his head, keeping him at his task.

  “You might claim not to want any of those book frolics, but I think you lie,” he murmured and traced the tip of his tongue down the column of her throat.

  “I lie.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m glad about that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Then do it—have your way with me,” Bethany whispered, her entreaty defying the silent voice that begged for reason.

  “Do you think I play tiddlywinks?” Jon Marc, growling a chuckle, blew a stream of breath across her collarbone that sent her to more shivers of expectation.

  Her laugh sounded near to a giggle. “Don’t stop.”

  Yet he listened to his own silent voice. He stilled, here on the parlor floor. His mouth stretched taut, his eyes closing, his grip lessening on her hips. “I must . . . I promised—”

  “Hush,” she whispered, not wanting to think what might happen after this was over. “Don’t deny what we want.”

  “Crazed foolishness, woman. But . . .”

  His fingers set her shirt buttons free, his lips trailing to the rise of her breast. Drunk with need, she pulled material away, baring one mound to his gaze. A strong browned hand circled the fullness as his lips descended.

  Goose bumps rose on her flesh when his stubbled face tickled tender skin. She bowed toward the juncture of his groin, as he gave full attention to the aching need in that breast. She yearned to give everything to the man she loved.

  Her hand pressed his head to his task. “Yes,” she hissed through clinched teeth. “Feels so good.”

  And he wanted her. She knew it, even before he guided her leg over his hip. Full and ready for her, Mighty Duke pressed her inner thigh, nudging in the rhythm of lovemaking. A smile wide with desirous contemplation hovered on her lips.

  Yet honor got the best of him. He rolled to his back and rubbed a palm down lips white with control. “Promised to treat you with the utmost respect. Gotta get you to the padre.”

  What he said had reason to it. I don’t want reason! But it had to prevail. That didn’t make it any easier for Bethany, stopping short of fulfillment, but she, too, must collect her wits. “We . . . ? Shall we discuss wedding plans?”

  “I’ve got a brick between my legs.” He was breathing hard. “Can’t think, much less talk.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “Don’t know about you, but I’d best get myself to the river for a quick cooling off.”

  He jackknifed to his feet, but bent over to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you, honey.”

  He loped outside the cabin.

  “I love you, querido, ”she whispered to his shadow. “You peculiar mixture of rascal and gentleman, I do love you.”

  She rolled into a ball, hoping to retain his lingering warmth. Dear Jon Marc. Her darling. Her beloved. A man much maligned by life. He deserved better than a woman of experience. But a woman of experience was his destiny.

  “I’m tired of lying,” she bemoaned to parlor walls. “But if I don’t lie, I’ll hurt him.”

  How much could she tell, without wounding him?

  Bethany took care of her toilette, then went to the kitchen, where Isabel was preparing a breakfast of huevos rancheros, fried eggs with a slathering of tomato-and-jalapeño relish. A sample proved to hold enough hot peppers to turn a mouth inside out, even Bethany’s.

  As she set the worktable with cutlery, Jon Marc strode indoors. In dry clothes, his hair damp.

  He ordered the quiet servant to leave, which she did.

  Pouring coffee, Bethany swept her free hand to indicate he should sit down. She stole a peek at his expression, wondering if he, too, were thinking about their moments in the parlor.

  “There’s more,” he clipped out.

  “Excuse me?”

  Their past intimacy, and breakfast, got ignored.

  “Before I get down on my knee and ask you properly to become my wife, you need to know everything,” he said.

  Sitting down, she studied his strained expression. “Are you guilty of a crime?” She tried to prepare for the worst, yet had too much faith in him to expect an affirmative reply.

  “I’m no criminal. You just need to know what needs to be known about me.”

  “Maybe you ought to keep some things to yourself,” she suggested. “I’ve heard it said that marriage is better, if you keep a part of yourself a mystery.”

  “Secrets lead to trouble.”

  This wasn’t what she needed to hear. But she’d decided to be as honest as possible. “I have something to confess.”

  He shoved his plate to the middle of the table. “What would it be?”

  “I don’t like poetry.”

  His coffee-brown eyes grew puzzled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “How so? How can you write poetry, yet dislike it?”

  Bethany was tired of lying, but what else could she do but pose a scenario that she would have employed, had she been a talentless Miss Buchanan? “I knew you had an appreciation for rhymes. So I paid a schoolteacher to write them. They were pretty awful, I thought. But anything was better than nothing.”

  The laugh that heaved his chest brought with it a shake of head. “Those poems won’t be remembered as classic.”

  “Are you . . .” She swallowed. “Are you disappointed?”

  “A mite. But if that’s all you need to confess, you can breathe easier. I can, too.”

  If she’d believed in prayer, she’d have given one in thanks for his temperament, but how far would good humor stretch?

  He reached for his coffee cup, asking over the rim of it, “What about the day I overheard you speaking with Sabrina? You had a rhyme on your lips.”

  “Verses with odd twists appeal to me,” she replied, never more honestly.

  “Does this mean you don’t enjoy hearing great poetry?”

>   She laced fingers on her lap, aligned her shoulders with forthrightness, and eyed him with as much dignity as she could muster. “I have no rapport with pastoral prose.”

  His features showed a myriad of emotions. “I’ll be doggone.”

  “Jon Marc, I am not the woman who wrote all those nice things in letters. I have defrauded you. And I have lied to you. I am not the Beth Buchanan you sent for.”

  There. It was out. Bethany felt better. Arguably, she’d told the truth. Vagueries didn’t express the whole truth, of course, but he could never say she hadn’t warned him.

  He reached across the table to caress her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Honey, you’ve overlooked my sins. I’m willing to overlook a few white lies.”

  That was the best she could hope for. Now, if he’d only overlook the rest . . .

  He gazed across the table at the lady he would marry. Luck and planning brought her here. He, a man too often ill blessed, counted himself lucky for her forgiving heart.

  Beth isn’t a poetess. Jon Marc found it odd, trying to reconcile to that news, but, as he’d said, he’d look past it. After all, her aversion to poetry, and her prevarications along that line, didn’t compare to his wild romps with Persia Glennie.

  It almost got wild this morning.

  His eyes went to the swell of Beth’s bosom, a surge of desire hitting his sensitive places. How good she’d tasted. How good she’d looked to him. How superb she’d made him feel, once he got a sample of her passion. Yes, he was one lucky fellow.

  His head spinning with anticipation of the rest of their lives, he quit the chair, walked around the table, then went down on a knee to take her hand. Looking up into long-lashed eyes, he asked, “Beth, will you be my bride?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes!” She smiled, with worry? “When?”

  “As soon as Padre Miguel will marry us. ”Jon Marc folded her into his arms.

  They kissed deeply, lustfully. His veins afire for more, he didn’t want to stop, but smarts—and a sense of honor—had a word with desire. Wouldn’t it be better if they consummated their union in a fitting manner?