Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (22 page)

      
The jaunty exchange between Caleb and his friend did not fool Deborah who could see by the strain on his face how much her brother-in-law had suffered. To distract Lenore she said, “Why don't you see to some nice consommé and stewed fruit for our patient.”

      
The patient groaned in disgust. “Broth and mush are for babies and old men. What I really want is a steak!”

      
By the time Deborah rode away from the Garden District it was late afternoon. Caleb was restive, but the seriousness of his injuries quickly quelled his protests for more solid food. He slept while Lenore lovingly sat at his bedside.

      
Deborah prayed that he would recover. If he died, Lenore, now completely cut off from her family, would be totally alone.

      
Preoccupied, Deborah cantered her horse through the deepening shadows on the deserted road. She had stayed longer in town than she had intended and now realized it would mean another ugly scene when she returned to the lake house.

      
What's the use? I can't please Celine and Claude no matter what I do anyway. Of Rafael's brooding reaction to her lately, she thought not at all.

      
Just then her horse whickered and began to favor its right foreleg. “What is it, Chamette?” Deborah quickly dismounted and checked the limping filly.

      
Hoof beats sounded on the road coming from the lake. Someone to help, or some riffraff who might pose a threat to a woman alone? Before she could even attempt to hide behind the dense roadside vegetation, the rider saw her.

      
In a lisping, insinuating voice Georges Beaurivage said, “Well, imagine the coincidence. I just paid my respects to your husband and his parents, but you were mysteriously absent, little cousin. And here you are, unattended on the road like a common streetwalker.” His face twisted into cruel lines, distorting the pretty features.

      
She scarcely flinched at his crude insult, expecting no better from Celine's vicious cousin, but when he dismounted, a real tremor of fear coursed through her. They were alone on a deserted road at dusk and she was the person responsible for helping Lenore escape his clutches.
What might he do to me?

      
In answer to her unspoken question, he sneered, “Since you insist on acting like a harlot, perhaps I should treat you like one.” With that he reached for her with one slim, pale hand, yanking her brutally by her wrist.

      
Deborah grabbed for the pommel of her saddle to keep her balance as she twisted away from his icy, repellent touch. As soon as her hand was free, she raised it and delivered a smashing backhand across the side of his face. As he staggered, she clawed at the sidesaddle, reaching across it for the quirt, which she never used on the gentle filly. She would have no compunction about using it on Beaurivage.

      
Recovering from the blow, Georges muttered several curses in French and lunged for her with both hands. “You will pay for that, you American slut!”

      
He ripped her riding jacket and blouse exposing a pale gleam of collarbone and breast, but before he could further undress her, Deborah freed the quirt and began to wield it in a stinging frenzy. Georges released her instantly to protect his face from the razor-edged cut of the little whip.

      
Chamette whickered and reared up in fright as they fought. Deborah was able to throw herself clear, but Georges, busy covering his face, did not see the flashing hooves until it was almost too late. The filly narrowly missed him as he lunged sideways and tripped.

      
Quickly, rolling up from the dusty ground, she grabbed frantically for the reins of his gelding, which stood patiently alongside the road. As she pulled herself into the saddle, Georges yanked a fistful of coiled hair free from its pins but was unable to get a firm grip. She urged the horse forward, clinging to the animal as it galloped toward the lake house.

      
It was almost dark when she trotted the gelding up the drive. As stealthily as possible she rode to the stable, where a wide-eyed slave took in her appearance with mute amazement as she handed him the reins.

      
After negotiating the path to the rear door, Deborah began to hope she could get to their quarters undetected. She made it as far as the back stairs when her husband's furious voice cut through the silence. “Where the hell have you been?” he hissed. “I just saw you ride up on Georges' horse. Why in hell would he let you have his best racer?”

      
Her eyes darkened in fury as she held the torn remnants of her jacket across her shoulder. “He didn't exactly ‘let me have’ the horse. More like I stole it from the depraved bastard!”

      
His eyes took in her tangled hair and dirt-smeared face, then fastened accusingly on the torn clothing. As he pulled her hands away the material parted, revealing the swell of her shoulder and breast. In a cold, deadly voice he asked, “Are you telling me Georges did this?”

      
Outraged, she jerked away from his touch. “Do you think I attacked him to steal his horse? I was riding back from Lenore's when my filly pulled up lame. Georges came along and would have raped me if I hadn't used a riding quirt on that pretty face of his!”

      
Rafael's swarthy skin whitened visibly. “Go to your room and stay there,” was all he said, then turned and stalked down the hall to the study.

      
Too angry and frightened from the whole horrifying day to fight him anymore, Deborah trudged upstairs and rang for Tonette. After a long soak in warm water, she ate a small portion of the cold supper the maid brought to her room and then fell into a restless, exhausted sleep.

      
When Deborah awakened the next morning, she looked through the door to the adjoining room. Rafael had not returned to his bed last night. With a mounting sense of apprehension, she dressed in haste and went downstairs toward the parlor where Celine and Claude were arguing.

      
“But Georges is my cousin's only son! Rafael can't do this, Claude.”

      
Her husband made a snort of disgust. “You seem to take it for granted Rafael will win. What if your precious Georges kills your only son, madam?”

      
Celine whitened and gasped. “No, it's not possible! Rafael has always won.”

      
“So has Georges—until now,” Claude replied acerbically.

      
Deborah's heart stopped.
Dear God, he's challenged Georges Beaurivage to a duel because of me!
She stood frozen in the wide cypress door frame of the parlor.

      
Celine finally saw her and whirled on her stricken daughter-in-law in fury. “This is all your doing, you Yankee whore—my son and his own cousin about to kill each other over you!”

      
Determinedly, Deborah asked in a clear voice, “Where are they? I must stop it. Enough blood has been spilled already.”

      
Claude surprised her by grasping her arm roughly and spinning her around to face him. “It is already taking place, this morning—as if you could stop it. Not that I doubt you would try,” he added in disgust.

      
“You've done enough already to disgrace our name, pitting the men of our family against one another,” Celine spat.

      
“I did nothing! That swine attacked me and I defended myself,” Deborah cried.

      
“You were riding alone on a deserted road.” Claude roared at her. '‘Small wonder Georges took you for what you are. The pity of it is that Rafael must fight him over one such as you.”

      
Seeing the implacable hatred of her in-laws, Deborah turned to leave. She had heard stories about the infamous Dueling Oaks on the Allard Plantation just outside the city. Her heart hammered furiously in her breast as she raced down to the stables with Celine's shrill cries and Claude's angry threats ringing in her ears.

      
By the time Deborah reached the plantation, she was windblown and soaked with perspiration. Heedless of amazed stares from the servants, she pushed the exhausted horse toward the tall stand of live oaks that draped their long, gnarled branches earthward as if to conceal the deadly violence that routinely took place beneath them.

      
When she saw Rafael and Georges, Deborah pulled her horse up and slid to the ground a distance away. She walked with a determined stride toward the two men locked in mortal combat.

      
Deborah did not see Rafael's cousin, Jean Pierre, who was acting as his second, until his firm grip on her arm stopped her. “No, madam, you cannot interfere. This is a matter of honor,” he said stiffly, his hold on her remaining tight.

      
“I won't let them kill each other over me!” She struggled to get free as she stared at the two slim figures whose deadly ballet continued despite her arrival.

      
The doctor earnestly interceded. “Please, Madam Flamenco, you might cause your husband's death if you distract him.”

      
Realizing the truth of his entreaty, she subsided between the two men to watch the outcome. Deborah realized with sick dread that Claude had been right. Rafael and Georges were evenly matched. Both were slim with the supple grace and lightning reflexes of born fencers, experts taught by the same New Orleans fencing master, Charles Bertin. She could see the sweat beading their faces and running in rivulets down their chests, soaking the thin lawn shirts to their chests in the cool morning air. They were both marked, bleeding freely from a number of superficial nicks.

      
Rafael concentrated on Georges' face, watching for that telltale nuance in expression that gave away a man's actions before he moved his blade. His present adversary was cooler and more skilled than most, holding his own against Flamenco's deadly rapier.

      
However, Georges was tiring, although he hid it well. But then, he had dissembled many things in his life. Now sheer desperation led him to goad his cousin. “I see your American wench has not even the decorum of your octoroon. At least Lily knows more than to appear under the oaks to disrupt an affair of honor.”

      
He expected the taunt to distract Rafael, but it did not work. Without taking his eyes off Beaurivage, Rafael replied through clenched teeth, “I’ll deal with her after I finish with you, cousin.”

      
Then, Georges did precisely what Rafael hoped he would do. Feinting low he moved in for the kill, aiming at Rafael's heart, but his eyes gave him away. Rafael deflected the blade and slipped past Georges' guard to slide his own rapier cleanly into his opponent's throat. “Bertin always told us not to move our eyes ahead of our blade, Georges,” he said with cool detachment as Beaurivage crumpled to the dew-drenched grass.

      
Rafael had heard Deborah's gasp of horror as he narrowly missed being skewered on Georges' blade. Her face was chalky and her lavender eyes were wide with fright as his cousin Jean Pierre released her. She stood trembling as he advanced toward her in ruthless strides, looking like a satanic angel. One lock of curly dark hair fell onto his brow and sweat beaded his face. He handed the bloodied rapier to Jean Pierre. His cousin had the good grace to take it and leave quickly.

      
Tension crackled between them. “I just killed a man because you went out unescorted yesterday. And here you are today, improperly dressed, alone, and in a place no lady would ever set foot.”

      
“You killed a man because your absurd Creole code demanded it, not to save my life or my honor. I thrashed him and saved myself! And I'll come and go as I want, chaperones be damned!”

      
She was filled with rage, but it was rage oddly mixed with fright that he might have been killed. Rafael sensed only her willful anger, which fueled his own. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Either you walk quietly with me to my horse and allow me to carry you home with your legs decently covered or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and slam you across the saddle like a sack of rice. Take your choice.”

      
Head held defiantly high, she spun and walked toward his big black stallion without a backward glance at the physician kneeling over Georges' body while the two seconds looked on.

      
On the long ride back to the lake they spoke not a word. When they arrived, she quickly retreated to the sanctuary of her room, leaving him to give his parents an account of the duel. Deborah was soaked with Rafael's sweat and smeared with his blood after their close contact riding home. Wanting to scrub the violent and disturbing male scent from her body, she rang for a bath.

      
As she sat in the soothing warm water, Deborah reviewed the shambles of her marriage. Celine and Claude's thinly veiled contempt had now blossomed into open hate. Rafael had not touched her in the weeks since that unplanned, desperate encounter in the woods. Perhaps he never would again. But then that would mean no Flamenco heirs, she thought bitterly.
I can't live this way!

      
Refusing the summons to luncheon, Deborah flew into a frenzy of packing, sending Tonette away and selecting only what she could carry herself in two light valises: mostly they were the old clothes she had brought with her from Boston. She had some money, enough to book passage on a steamer. Dreading the disappointment she knew she'd see on Adam Manchester's face, she forced herself to consider only how good it would feel to be consoled by someone who really loved and understood her.

      
As she removed her heavy wedding band, she trembled and fought back the tears, then resolutely picked up her bags and headed for the stairs.
I can imagine how relieved Claude and Celine will be. What will Rafael say?
Deborah hoped she could slip out without the agony of a final confrontation. The wedding ring left sitting on the top of her jewel case would say it all.