Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (35 page)

      
Charlee hugged the taller woman exuberantly, then broke free with a giggle and pirouetted around. She was dressed in an old black shirt of Jim's and her ever-faithful boys' breeches. “Sometimes it pays to dress like a boy, especially if you're an old squirrel hunter on a secret mission in the dead of night!”

      
Deborah was not mollified. “But there are sentries posted everywhere, and they have orders to shoot anyone out after curfew!”

      
“They have to see you to shoot. Hell, Deborah, I could take any of those sappers into the best squirrel woods in St. Genevieve and they'd never bag a thing! Anyway, I'm real good at squeezing through small places.”

      
“Still, it's dangerous. Now that you're here, you'll have to stay. Unless Jim is—”

      
“Jim isn't with me,” Charlee cut in. “He'd skin me if he knew I sneaked in here. He and Lee are off chasing Comancheros. We only got word today that the city was occupied. I came right away. Is Adam all right?”

      
“Yes, he's fine. Overjoyed, in fact,” Deborah rejoined in an oddly agitated voice.

      
Puzzled by her friend's demeanor and words, Charlee looked at her face. Deborah's lavender eyes were almost purple, dilated in fright or fury. Charlee had never seen the cool, composed Mrs. Kensington look so tense and nervous before. “Those Mexican soldiers really have you strung up tight, haven't they?”

      
“Oh, Charlee, it isn't that, it's—oh, you have to get out of here! It isn't safe. You'll be missed at Bluebonnet.”

      
“I second the motion,” a deep masculine voice interjected in a low, silken growl.

      
Looking over Deborah's shoulder, Charlee saw a man framed by the kitchen doorway. With pantherish grace he came into the room and put one arm possessively around Deborah's waist.

      
Charlee stood mute, staring at the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He had longish curling black hair and aquiline, sculpted features taken straight from a Renaissance painting of a Spanish grandee. In spite of his rough buckskin clothes and the brace of pistols at his waist, he carried himself with the assurance of a born aristocrat. A wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat set with silver conchos was pushed to the back of his head. He took it off and tossed it absently on the table, never letting go of Deborah's waist.

      
Finding her voice, Charlee squeaked, “Who are you?” embarrassed at her gawky reaction.

      
He looked down at Deborah and some subtle interchange took place between them. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, willing her to do so. When she did, Charlee was stunned.

      
“Charlee, this is Rafael Beaurivage Flamenco, my husband.” The words seemed dragged out of her.

      
“Also known as Rafe Fleming,” he added dryly. A dazzling smile lit his face, which was oddly enhanced by several intriguing small scars.

      
“You're Adam's father,” Charlee fairly shrieked. The nagging familiarity of his swarthy beauty suddenly came into sharp focus. No wonder the boy didn't favor Deborah! “But how...why...?”

      
“It's late and we'll have a long ride tomorrow, Miss...you never did introduce your friend to me, wife,” he said, turning from Charlee to Deborah. His low voice held a softly taunting note that was not lost on Charlee.

      
“Charlee McAllister. I used to work for Deborah,” she replied quickly. “She and Adam are my friends, “Charlee said protectively. Something very odd was going on here, and she meant to get to the bottom of it.

      
Just then Adam came bounding down the hall and burst through the door to catapult into the stranger's arms. “Papa! You been gone,” the boy shouted, hugging his father. Seeing the two of them together, there was no doubt of the child's paternity, nor any doubt that Kensington was not Deborah's married name. What had she called him—Flamenco, Fleming? Charlee’ s head was abuzz in confusion as she said hello to Adam. The boy returned her greeting, but he still would not relinquish his place in his father's arms.

      
“I'll explain it to you later, Charlee,” Deborah said, taking her friend's arm. “Can you get her safely out of here, Rafael?” She looked worriedly at her husband.

      
“It'll be no problem. I have a safe conduct from the general. I should be able to escort an old family friend back to ‘his’ parents,” he said, quirking one black brow wickedly.

      
“How did you get a pass... Oh!” Charlee felt her cheeks go pink in embarrassment.

      
“You're mistaken in your assumption, Miss McAllister,” he said coldly.
 
“I'm not part of General Woll's army, regular or irregular. Merely a Texian rancher from up north.”

      
“What Rafael means is that he's from an old Creole family in New Orleans. As one of French-Spanish ancestry, he has no love for the Yankee usurpers in Texas,” Deborah said bitterly.

      
“At least that's what the general thinks, and I'd be a fool to disabuse him, wouldn't I, love? Now, why don't you see to getting your friend some food and a place to rest while I tuck this sleepy young rascal in?” He tousled the black head resting quietly on his shoulder. “I'll be waiting for you in our bedroom.” Without another word he strode imperiously from the kitchen with the tired child.

      
“Have you eaten?” Deborah queried of Charlee, all the while watching the retreating figures.

      
“Yes, before I got to the outskirts of town. Deborah...if there's anything I can do...” Charlee felt awkward and uncertain of what to say.

      
“No, there's nothing, but thank you, Charlee. I...I guess you must be wondering why I changed my name and lied to everyone here, saying I was a widow.” Deborah's eyes were cloudy, and she turned to pace across the kitchen floor, attempting to regain control of her emotions.

      
“You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Deborah,” Charlee said softly, sympathetic to her friend's distress.

      
“I need to talk, Charlee, to face it all myself, I guess. You see, we were married in Boston nearly seven years ago. It was a whirlwind courtship and we never really knew one another. I went with him to New Orleans, to live with his family.”

      
“They didn't approve of a Yankee foreigner. You weren't Southern, weren't French, weren't even Catholic,” Charlee supplied, recalling many cryptic comments Deborah had made over the past months. Now they all made sense.

      
“Yes. His family heartily detested me, but the real problem was between Rafael and me. I...I wanted different things from a marriage than the traditional Creole wife was entitled to expect.” She sat down and put two slim, trembling hands over her face for a moment. “Anyway, we quarreled. I knew he wouldn't change, and I couldn't compromise my principles that way. So I fled. But I couldn't go to my father in Boston. It's the first place Rafael would have followed to retrieve me. Even under enlightened Yankee law, we women are chattel, you know,” she said in an attempt at ironic humor, belied by the wistful sadness in her eyes.

      
“And Rafael wanted you back? Would he have followed you all the way to Boston?”

      
“Oh, yes!” Deborah's eyes flashed. “You see, I tried to leave once before, openly. I got no farther than the bottom of the stairs at our summerhouse.”

      
“But if he was so adamant, maybe he really did love you,” Charlee said uncertainly, finding it hard to imagine Jim Slade traipsing half way across the United States to retrieve her.

      
Deborah's beautiful face hardened into cold, patrician lines, set with determination. “No, he only wanted to keep what he considered was his...his property! He would have lost face in Creole society if his wife deserted him. Anyway, he knew about Adam, that I was pregnant. He wanted his child, his heir. And now he's won,” she finished with a sigh that tore at Charlee's heart.

      
“Adam, I take it, is overjoyed to have his papa materialize out of nowhere.” At Deborah's nod of resigned agreement, Charlee considered the picture of father and son. “Deborah, you said Rafael Flamenco was a planter, a New Orleans Creole from an old French-Spanish family?”

      
“Yes, Rafael's parents can trace their bloodlines back centuries to Valois and Hapsburg princes. By comparison, the Manchesters of Boston are mere nouveau riche upstarts.”

      
“I understand the competition, believe me,” Charlee said, recalling her feelings of woeful inadequacy as a St. Genevieve farmer's daughter in love with a Slade from Virginia. “But then why does he...”

      
Charlee fell into embarrassed silence when the soft footfalls of the tall Creole echoed down the hall. Almost immediately his long-legged stride carried him into the kitchen, where he stopped behind Deborah's chair. With one brow quirked at Charlee in a faintly insolent challenge, he put his hands on Deborah's shoulders. “Past time for bed, wife. Adam's sound asleep, and I'm sure after her adventure Charlee here is tired. Better show her to her room.” It was a command, not a suggestion, and both women knew it.

      
Not wanting to be drawn further into the confusing emotions she felt swirling around husband and wife, Charlee rose and said, “I guess I am tired. I know the way to my old room, and I can help myself to sheets and make up my bed.” When Deborah nodded, Charlee turned to go, feeling oddly embarrassed to watch the Creole trace soft, sensual patterns with his thumbs across Deborah's shoulders and up the nape of her neck. From those small caresses and Deborah's unconscious response to them, Charlee understood that there was desire, tenderness, perhaps even love. She knew herself how it felt to want a man's touch even when she knew she would pay bitterly for it.

      
She found the bed in her old room already made up. Depositing her armful of linens on the table she decided to wash off some of the trail grime before slipping between the clean sheets. Charlee stepped silently into the hall and walked down to the far end, where the ladies' washroom was located. After a swift sponge bath from a porcelain basin, she felt much refreshed. She unbraided her hair and brushed it, then dumped the dirty water in the bucket for Chester to empty in the morning. “I’d better refill the pitcher for Miss Clemson or I'm sure she'll complain to Sadie about there being no water for her morning ablutions,” she mumbled.

      
Charlee slipped downstairs and out the kitchen door. Barefooted, she made scarcely a sound as she padded to the pump. Just as her hand touched the handle, she heard voices coming from the side veranda. Unable to move without betraying her presence in the shadows, she became an unwilling audience to the scene unfolding in front of her embarrassed eyes,

      
“Hiding out here won't solve anything, Deborah. If I have to, I'll carry you kicking and screaming to bed; boarders, neighbors, the whole Mexican army be damned.”

      
Rafael's voice was a low growl that carried across the yard with knife-edged intensity.

      
“I am not hiding. I just wanted a breath of fresh air before retiring,” the angry female voice answered primly, eliciting a snort of male disbelief.

      
“Come here, wife.” The words were low, seductively spoken, like velvet. Charlee couldn't tear her trespassing eyes away as she watched the way Deborah moved into his embrace. He stood still, willing her to come to him, not touching her until she stood directly in front of him and placed her hands tentatively on his chest. Then, he enfolded her in a fierce embrace, lowering his mouth to her neck, nuzzling and kissing her throat as he tangled his hands through the long hair falling down her back like a silvery waterfall.

      
Deborah melted against him and let out a weak cry as she surrendered to his kisses. After a long, torrid embrace, they broke apart, both breathless and trembling with unspent passion.

      
“You may have taught me desire, but you care nothing for my spirit, my soul,” she said in a poignant whisper.

      
He laughed or gasped, Charlee could not tell which, as he said, “It is your spirit, your very soul that I wish to possess most of all, Deborah.”

      
“Then you will leave me nothing!” Her soft cry was desolate as it carried on the still night air.

      
He murmured something indistinguishable as he scooped her up and carried her down the long side porch and into the house. As the lovers vanished from the moonlight, Charlee could see the outline of Deborah's slim white arms twined unresistingly around Rafe's dark neck and shoulders.

Chapter Fifteen

      
Charlee slept restlessly that night. In her dreams she saw Rafe and Deborah locked in torrid embraces; the visions quickly blurred to ones in which she and Jim were the lovers. She could feel the warmth of his breath and the soft, sweet persuasion of his kisses, when just as abruptly it was Tomasina's glossy black head he cradled, caressing her, loving her. With a sharp cry of “No!” on her lips, Charlee awoke at daybreak, her covers kicked off, her flesh sweaty and warm despite the cool dawn air.

      
Nervous about how she would react when she faced Deborah and Rafe that morning, Charlee prayed that she would not betray her unwilling role as intruder the previous evening.

      
Having brought no respectable clothes with her, she rummaged through the chest in her room and found the hideous old red gingham dress Deborah had not packed for her when Slade took her back to Bluebonnet. Grimacing at its ugliness, she donned it and made a makeshift belt from some extra hair ribbon to give herself a waistline. How vain she had become since learning that she wanted to be a woman!