Frontier Woman (31 page)

Float on Navy, whilst a foe
To Texas breathes in Mexico;
Till every tyrant on her shore
Shall tremble at the name of Moore.

Much to Creed’s chagrin and the captains’ delight, Cricket had heartily joined in drinking a cup of grog to Moore’s success.

Now that she’d met him, Cricket found herself willing to believe that the stories she’d heard at supper about Moore being a small man with a big heart were true.

“It was thoughtful of you to make your cabin available to us.”

“It was my pleasure, although I apologize the accommodations aren’t more suitable.”

“The cots are fine, Commodore.” She wondered what he’d think if he knew she’d often spent the night on a bed of straw in the barn . . . and once on a bed of bluebonnets beneath the Texas sky.

Cricket had been dreading this first night on board ship because it would force her into the kind of close contact with Creed they’d somehow managed to avoid the entire trip from Lion’s Dare to Galveston. Creed hadn’t touched her since the night they’d consummated their marriage. She’d made up her mind under the pin oak not to let Creed touch her again as a woman. But the moment had never come when it was actually necessary to tell him so. It appeared their bedtime confrontation wasn’t far off.

“It’s beautiful this evening, isn’t it?” Moore said, interrupting her thoughts. “There’s something about the sea at sundown, with the spars making shadows on the water, and the gulls soaring overhead for one last dive at the fish, that I find relaxing.”

“It’s not as quiet as I expected it to be,” Cricket said. “The harbor’s so noisy.”

The commodore laughed. “I guess it depends on what you’re used to.”

“I hope it didn’t cause any problems for us to be so late arriving.”

“Not at all. Of course, Mr. Summers threatened dire consequences if we left without you,” Moore said with a chuckle, “and his letter from President Lamar requesting passage to New Orleans for a Texas Ranger on government business was difficult to ignore. But I must admit I’m anxious to set sail. The sooner we pick up that load of Colt repeating rifles in New Orleans, the sooner we can begin our voyage to Campeche to bedevil the Mexicans. By the way, I take it Mr. Summers found your husband earlier this evening and delivered his message?”

“Luke Summers is on board this ship?”

“I sent him below to my cabin when he arrived, while my lieutenant searched out your husband. When I saw you here, I naturally assumed he’d found him with you and—”

“If you’ll excuse me, Commodore, I’d like to speak with Luke before he leaves.”

“Certainly, I’ll escort you to your cabin.”

It surprised Cricket how easily all the polite conventions had rolled from her tongue. It appeared Amy’s deportment lessons were going to stand her in good stead. Unfortunately, she’d also learned other lessons which Amy hadn’t intended. Cricket had learned from Amy’s loving relationship with Tom that the rewards of caring were great; but she’d concluded in the aftermath of Amy’s rape that the risks of caring were even greater. She had shared Amy’s pain as though it were her own, and Tom’s accusations had burned an indelible brand in her mind.

It was far safer not to care, far safer not to love.

When they arrived at his cabin door, the commodore nodded and said, “Good night, Mrs. Creed. I’ll see you in the morning when we set sail.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Commodore.”

Cricket didn’t bother to knock, she simply opened the door and walked in. Creed was standing spread-legged next to the table where Luke was seated. Luke stopped talking abruptly when she entered and stood to greet her.

“You’re looking well, Cricket. Marriage must agree with you.”

Cricket shot a look at Creed to see if he might have said something to Luke about the tensions between them, but at his slight shrug she realized the young Ranger was only being polite. She refused, however, to be distracted by formalities. She marched up to Luke and, placing her fists on her hips, got right to the point. “Have you satisfied yourselves that Sloan is not working with Antonio Guerrero?”

Clearly discomfited by Cricket’s blunt question, Luke’s eyes slid to Creed for guidance. When he nodded grimly, Luke sighed and admitted, “Yes.”

Cricket whipped around to face Creed. “Then I can go home.”

“It isn’t quite that simple, Brava. Sloan isn’t out of hot water yet. Tell her the rest, Luke.”

“On several occasions Sloan has unwittingly delivered messages to the rebels that Antonio had hidden in her saddlebags,” Luke said. “Our man inside the camp has been present and seen how it works.”

“I can’t believe it,” Cricket said. “If only I could talk to her. . . .”

Luke put a comforting hand on Cricket’s shoulder. “That’s exactly what you can’t do. The key word here is ‘unwittingly.’ Sloan doesn’t know she’s being used, and since she’s apparently in love with Antonio, there’s no doubt she’d warn him if she got wind of what we’re up to and thought he was in danger. If she were to help him escape—no matter what the reason—we’d have to arrest her for conspiring with the enemy.”

Creed tried to ignore the jealousy that curled in his stomach when Luke put his hand on Cricket’s shoulder, and he fought the urge to yank Luke away and take his place. He’d been relieved when it had turned out Sloan wasn’t working with the rebels and then upset when he’d realized he might have to send Cricket home. Sloan’s tentative situation had given him the excuse he needed to keep Cricket at his side until they could work out their differences. He loved her. He had no intentions of letting her go.

“What happens now?” Cricket asked.

“It seems President Lamar wants to make an example of Guerrero.” Creed’s lips thinned to an unpleasant line when he added, “And he wants the American chargé to be there when he does.”

“When he does what?”

“Hangs Guerrero.”

Cricket paled. “And Sloan?”

Luke took Cricket’s trembling hand in his own.

Creed’s fists tightened again, and he clenched his teeth when Cricket looked anxiously up into Luke’s face as the young man reassured her, “Nothing’s going to happen to Sloan. She’s just a woman who’s been used as a pawn by her lover.”

“But if I talked to her—”

“Luke will keep an eye on Sloan,” Creed said, then tempered his voice to keep his irritation with Luke out of it as he explained, “You’re coming with me to New Orleans. You can help me talk Beaufort LeFevre into coming to Texas with me.”

“What makes you think I’d be any help?” Cricket asked, reacting to the irritation she perceived in Creed. She could find no reason for it except that he was still stuck with her. It was just as well he wanted nothing to do with her—especially since she’d decided trying to be a woman was something she wanted no part of anymore.

“LeFevre’s a bit of a free spirit himself. You two ought to get along fine. President Lamar is convinced that if the American chargé sees the towns we’ve built and the land we’ve settled in the four years since San Jacinto, he’ll realize how advantageous it would be for the United States to have a few trade agreements with Texas. Publicly hanging Guerrero is Lamar’s way of proving to the chargé that Texas is a sovereign nation that can handle any threats from Mexico.”

“When do you think you’ll be back with LeFevre?” Luke asked.

“According to Commodore Moore, the trip to New Orleans can take anywhere from four days to two weeks. With luck we can convince the chargé to travel back to Texas with us on the
Austin
. If so, we’ll arrive at Three Oaks a little over a month from now.”

“We’re taking the chargé back to Three Oaks?” Cricket asked, startled.

Creed smiled wryly. “When Rip found out the American chargé was coming to Texas he volunteered to put him up at Three Oaks. With the state of the Texas treasury what it is, President Lamar was only too happy to accept his offer.”

“I’ll be looking for you in a month or so, then,” Luke said. “Meanwhile, we’ll be watching Guerrero. He rarely does his own dirty work, but things seem to be building toward some kind of major military operation. If that’s the case, he’ll be meeting with the Mexicans. When he does, we’ll be waiting for him.”

“Do what you have to. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

“Oh, by the way, Cricket, Rip sent a message to you.”

“He did?” Cricket was surprised, but pleased Rip had thought of her after the way she’d spoiled his plans to marry her to Cruz Guerrero.

Without blinking an eye Luke responded, “He said to tell you not to worry about anything. He’ll handle the situation when you get home.”

Cricket shook her head incredulously. Leave it to Rip to call her marriage to Creed a “situation.”

“Is that all?” Creed asked sharply.

“Yes, sir,” Luke replied with the deference due to his commanding officer. “So long, Cricket.” Luke leaned over and kissed her on the cheek as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It never occurred to Cricket how unusual it was for her to have allowed Luke to touch her so casually during the past conversation, and she turned her cheek up for his kiss good-bye without thinking. It was just—Luke was different. She didn’t try to explain it, she simply accepted it.

But Creed didn’t understand or accept it. When Luke left the cabin he whirled on Cricket.

“You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length for three weeks. What’s Luke Summers got that I haven’t?”

Cricket was stunned by Creed’s outburst, even more by the fact he’d suited word to deed. She found herself jerked out of her chair and enfolded in his embrace before she could do more than stutter “W-w-what?”

“I told you once before, Brava, if anyone’s going to put his hands on you, it’s going to be me. I’ve kept my distance because—”

Creed stopped abruptly because he wasn’t sure how to explain exactly why he’d stayed away from Cricket. At first he’d stayed away because she tensed whenever he came near. He’d thought perhaps what she’d seen happen to Amy had frightened her, or maybe even disgusted her. Then he’d feared she must be remembering how he’d hurt her that first time. . . . No, he refused to believe she was afraid of him.

“—because of what happened with Amy,” he finished. As soon as he spoke Amy’s name Cricket stiffened in his arms. So, he thought, he was right in his conjecture. But she was his wife, and he wouldn’t allow her to hide behind her fears indefinitely. “It’s past time you started acting like my wife.”

“I tried it your way, Creed,” Cricket spat. “I tried being a woman, and look what happened. I think it would be best for both of us if you admitted I’m not what you thought I was and left me alone.”

Creed couldn’t hide his surprise and didn’t try. “You didn’t believe that babble Tom was spouting about your not being a real woman, did you?”

Cricket remained silent, but her face flushed.

“Yes, I see you did. He was hurt, Brava, and lashing out at the nearest target. He didn’t mean what he said.”

“He was right.”

“
He was wrong
. You’re more woman than most women ever dream of being.” Creed’s arms tightened around Cricket, pressing her breasts into his chest and cradling her leg between his thighs, letting her feel his arousal. “See what you do to me?”

Cricket could feel exactly what she was doing to him. In fact, from the state of her puckered nipples against his chest, he was having the same effect on her. For the barest second she allowed herself to wonder what would happen if . . . Then her sense of self-preservation came to the rescue. She placed her palms on Creed’s chest and shoved with her not-inconsiderable strength. Creed merely tightened his hold.

“It won’t work, Brava. In a contest of strength I’m always going to win, and I’ve learned too many of your tricks for them to work anymore. Face it. Accept it. You’re my woman, and nothing anybody says can change that.”

Cricket jerked her head up to argue, but found her lips captured by Creed’s. He held her firmly against him with one ironbound arm, while his other hand came up to cup her head and hold it steady. Under his punishing mouth, her lips parted so his tongue could thrust its way inside. His thigh came up between her legs to keep her off balance, lodging against her mound of Venus and then subtly moving, abrading, the delightful friction bringing a groan of protest from Cricket.

“No,” she begged when Creed released her mouth, his lips tracing a passionate path across her cheeks and throat to the racing pulse beneath her ear.

“Yes, Brava,” he rasped as he lifted his head to peruse her troubled face, his hooded eyes bright with need. “Most definitely, yes.”

Chapter 21

WHEN CREED’S LIPS CAME DOWN TO COVER Cricket’s in a dominating kiss, an image of Amy being raped flashed before her eyes. The thought of Creed taking her as the Comanches had taken Amy made her stiffen in terror. As though reading her thoughts, he instantly released her and sought to allay her fears.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you, Brava.”

Cricket could feel the terror dissipating as his lips came back to cherish hers in a tender lover’s caress.

“We can go as slowly as you want.”

His strong hands gently roamed her body, soothing, exciting, then soothing again. He rocked her hips into his, giving her time to accept the way they would soon join together.

“We’ll be a man and a woman giving themselves to one another. You’ll feel only pleasure.”

“And enjoy myself . . . immensely?”

She watched Creed’s lips curve in a fond smile. “Yes.”

He reached down and lifted her into his arms, carrying her the short distance to the captain’s bed. There he laid her down before him. Slowly, carefully, with infinite patience, he kissed the last of her fears away. His lips teased hers, then traced a tingling path down her throat. His hands stroked her through her buckskins, preparing her for a more intimate embrace. He slowly undressed her, as though her body were a precious gift, to be enjoyed as much in the anticipation as in the actual receipt.

His caresses removed the hateful images from her mind, and she discovered there was no resemblence whatsoever between Creed’s loving possession and what Amy had endured. Gradually, he increased the tempo and intensity of his touches, until finally she needed something. . . .

“Creed . . .”

He looked into her eyes, then took her palm and placed it against his broad, muscular chest, holding it there for a moment before he took his hand away. “Touch me, Brava. I need for you to touch me as much as you need to touch.”

She reached out for him in wonder, her fingers skimming the warm flesh, appraising it. Her ardor increased a hundredfold as she perceived the greatness of Creed’s need, which he held in abeyance till she should say the word that would join them.

But she wasn’t ready to release him from her thrall. Her hand reached below his waist to touch what she had only seen. He was hot and hard, and she wanted him deep inside her. She gloried in the desire she saw in his hooded eyes as her hand caressed him.

And then his hand found her, his thumb teasing her until she was gasping with pleasure. His lips found her breasts and then moved down to her belly and beyond.

“Creed . . .” she breathed.

“I know, Brava, I know,” he rasped.

And he did know exactly how to bring her to a plane of excitement, of possession so beautiful it made her cry out to him.

“Come to me. Now, Creed. Now.”

He seated himself deep inside her, filling her, making her his.

“You’re mine. Now and always.”

“No.”

“Yes, Brava. Most definitely, yes.”

And then Cricket had no rational thought left with which to deny him. There was only incredible, wonderful sensation, as Creed proved she was his woman.

Half asleep, Cricket heard the drum-and-fife reveille followed by the striking of eight bells and the piping of the boatswain and his mates that signified the day had begun. The sun had not yet risen. She waited, cozy in her cot, for the cry of “All hands!” followed by “Up all hammocks!” The routine was familiar after the four days she’d spent on board the
Austin
.

The morning they’d left Galveston port she’d escaped Creed’s possessive embrace and joined the sailors on deck. She could see them now in her mind’s eye. They’d straggle up from the berth deck, each one with a hammock slung over his shoulder that was rolled and lashed and ready to be stowed on the hammock rail by the quartermaster.

According to Commodore Moore, the dialogue which preceded the order to strike the bell eight was an ancient ritual also used by the United States Navy and by the British Navy before that.

The quartermaster touched his hat to the midshipman and said, “Eight bells, sir.” The midshipman reported the message to the officer of the deck in the ward room and was ordered by the officer of the deck, “Report it to the commodore, sir.” Commodore Moore then commanded the officer of the deck: “Make it so, sir, and pipe to breakfast,” at which point the officer of the deck “made it so” by ordering the quartermaster to strike the bell eight.

“Grog!”

Cricket smiled. Before breakfast every sailor drank his tod, a tin cup of grog served from a grog-tub at the larboard gangway. On the second day out she’d snuck into line and surprised the master’s mate, Thomas Riley, when she arrived at the grog-tub. The sailors in line behind her, and those who lounged nearby, waited to see how Riley would handle the situation.

Riley was clearly perplexed. On one hand, he knew a woman had no business drinking grog. On the other, Cricket had proved by climbing the rigging with the captain of the tops her first day at sea that she was no ordinary woman.

Jenks, the purser’s steward, stood with his ladle poised to fill a cup, awaiting Riley’s order. He’d seen Cricket scramble like a monkey in the rigging. He thought perhaps she’d bitten off more this time than she could chew. The grog was strong stuff. But, by a mermaid’s tail, she’d earned the right yesterday to be served her tod. From the rueful look on Riley’s face, it appeared he’d come to the same conclusion.

“Serve the seaman, Jenks,” Riley ordered.

Cricket’s face lit with a pleased grin, and she lifted the cup and emptied it all at once. It was different from the whiskey she was used to, but no stronger. When she was done, she turned the tin cup upside down, and when a drop of grog fell into the palm of her hand she rubbed it into her hair, as she’d seen the sailors do.

At that moment Cricket won the heart of every seaman on the
Austin
. She was one of them. Over the next two days they taught her every sailor’s skill they knew. There had never been any question of disrespect to a lady. Cricket was no lady. She made that clear by the buckskins she wore, by the sailor’s oaths she gleefully blasphemed, and by the capable way she mastered every seaman’s job she tried.

She further proved her mettle when she broke up the fisticuffs between Timothy Owen and Alexander Trigg on the berth deck. She tripped up Timothy and then threw Alexander over her shoulder in an intricate move that had the watching sailors roaring with laughter. Timothy and Alexander smiled sheepishly and chose to shake hands rather than deal with a wrathful Cricket.

In the background, broodingly watchful, stood Cricket’s husband. The seamen could see the relationship between Cricket and Creed was fraught with tension. Sparks flew when their eyes met. It was also clear that while Creed clearly didn’t condone his wife’s actions, neither was he willing—or perhaps able—to control them. When they hung up their hammocks and retired for the night every sailor on board the
Austin
imagined what was going on in the captain’s cabin.

What would it be like to have a woman like Cricket in your bed? Though no man would admit it, the thought was as frightening as it was exciting. It would take a hell of a man to handle a wildcat like Cricket. Sometimes in the morning her mouth was so kiss-swollen it made a man ache, and her eyes had that dreamy, unfocused look of a well-loved woman that choked a man with envy. Then the picture came to mind of Timothy and Alexander sitting whipped on the floor of the berth deck. Jarrett Creed must be one hell of a man.

Cricket turned enough in her cot to see the outline of Creed’s shape in the predawn light. He slept on his side with one knee drawn up and his cheek resting on his arm. She’d tried everything to convince him over the past four days she was no fit woman for a wife. During the day she rejected the role with a vengeance. At night he allowed her no doubt of it. Worst of all was the knowledge that when he took her in his arms she didn’t want to fight him. By the time he thrust deep within her, claiming her body, she’d already given him her soul.

Cricket shifted on the cot to accommodate the melting heat which had built between her legs. She’d woken wet and ready—from a dream of Creed’s lovemaking. She closed her eyes and ground her teeth. Lately she was always ready. She would catch Creed’s eye on deck, and her breasts reacted as though his tongue were licking the tips. Her belly would tighten at the thought of his mouth at the juncture between her thighs. She’d nearly fallen from the rigging once as a result of one of those potent stares.

Creed also had been awakened by the sounds of the sailors’ ritual but kept his eyes closed. His body hurt from wanting Cricket. He was tempted to cross the distance between their cots but knew she would fight him if he did. She always fought him at first. It would have been easy to let her initial, token resistence sway him from his goal, but he was determined to prove to her she was all the woman he ever wanted or needed. And he’d found it to be the truth. When he touched her she turned to fire in his arms, blazing with anger that became fiery passion, and finally a bed of white-hot coals that took him to levels of pleasure he’d thought beyond mere mortal beings.

He would have welcomed the tussle with Cricket this morning, except they were due to reach New Orleans, and he needed all his energy for the argument he knew was coming when he met Angelique LeFevre again. How many years had it been since the last time he’d seen her? Almost five, he thought grimly. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

Actually, she’d cursed his soul when he left. She’d wanted him and he’d turned her down—but not because he hadn’t desired her. That witch knew how to touch a man so he found himself aroused despite his best intentions.

He heard Cricket moving restlessly in her cot and casually turned so he could watch her from slitted eyes.

“I know you’re awake.” Cricket bunched her fists under the covers, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

Creed’s lips turned up at the corners, acknowledging her statement before he let his eyes blink open.

“Good morning, Brava.”

Cricket sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the cot. “Why can’t I stay on the
Austin
while you go talk with Beaufort LeFevre?”

“I’ve already explained that to you.”

“And I told you Angelique LeFevre is welcome to you,” she retorted.

Creed’s eyes went stone cold. “Be careful what you wish for, Brava.”

Cricket’s chin jutted forward, and her lower lip pouted like a spoiled child’s. Before she could argue further there was a knock at the door and a youthful voice announced, “We’ve sighted New Orleans, sir. Commodore Moore wishes to know if you and Mrs. Creed would like to meet him on deck.”

“Please tell the commodore thanks, and we’ll join him shortly,” Creed replied.

“Yes, sir.”

Creed rose languidly from his cot and stretched, his hands almost touching the ceiling. Cricket found herself watching him despite her better judgment. He was long and lean and naked. Her eyes dropped to the line of black hair that arrowed down from his waist to that particularly male part of him. To her dismay, an amazing and instantaneous transformation occurred. She dropped her eyes and flushed when she heard Creed chuckle.

“Perhaps you’d rather stay here in the cabin,” he murmured, his voice husky.

Cricket jumped out of bed and grabbed her buckskin shirt and trousers, yanking them on. She was out the door in minutes and headed up the stairs for the spar deck without Creed. As soon as the breeze hit her face she knew they were near land. She could smell it. Magnolias. And offal. She climbed the rigging to get a better look.

In the distance she could see the harbor, teeming with sailing ships and steamers. She could imagine the noise and bustle, probably double what she’d heard in Galveston harbor. She looked again and tripled the sound in her mind. Deafening. Cacophony. She closed her eyes and listened to the crash of waves against the hull and the snap and pop of the
Austin
’s sails in the brisk wind. Quiet. Harmony.

When Creed came on deck he knew where to find Cricket. She’d spent most of the trip floating above them all. He fought the fear that haunted him every time she took one of her dangerous rides in the rigging. He looked up into the cloud of sails and found her leaning out as far as she could over the ocean, her unbraided hair blowing freely in the wind, the fringe on her buckskins whipping to and fro. Her eyes were closed. Her chin was tilted up and her nostrils flared to bring her the scents from land. Her lips were curved in a joyful smile. He felt desire so strong it made him tremble.

“A beautiful sight.”

Creed wasn’t sure whether Commodore Moore referred to Cricket or the port of New Orleans. Both were equally breathtaking. “Yes, beautiful.”

“We should reach the harbor within the hour. Will someone be meeting you?”

“I’m not sure,” Creed said. “I sent word overland when I knew I’d be making the journey, but I don’t know whether the American chargé received it.”

“No matter. There’ll be a carriage at my disposal. You’re welcome to use it.”