Moon Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) Read online

  “Deborah, please, Rafael,” she said with a hesitant smile. However, her clear violet gaze was steady when she answered him. “I would be delighted to go for a ride and have luncheon with you.”

  Chapter Three

  The morning was sunny, the weather so truly springlike that even Rafael was warmed by it. As they rode about in the elegant open carriage he had hired for the day, Deborah gave him a quick tour of the cradle of American democracy, from the Old North Church to Faneuil Hall in which the Sons of Liberty had met during the Revolution.

  While they were visiting the harbor, site of the Tea Party, Deborah explained how Boston's patriots had led the protest against tyranny. When she finally paused, he chuckled and said, “Obviously you are very proud of your city, Deborah. All this time I had been led to believe it was Virginia, not Massachusetts, that instigated the American Revolution.”

  Despite his teasing tone, she felt uncomfortable. Here she was, once more running on like a damned bluestocking when she simply had wanted to enjoy his company and forget her woes. “I didn't mean to sound like a schoolteacher,” she murmured. “I'm certain your city rivals any in the United States for history and beauty.”

  Rafael had a faraway look in his eyes for a moment. “Yes, it is unique. For a French Creole, no place on earth is quite so lovely, but I am enjoying learning about Boston from such a beautiful guide. Perhaps someday you will be in New Orleans and I may be permitted to return the favor?”

  Improbable as it sounded, Deborah found herself wishing for just such an opportunity and nodded, feeling the pulse in her throat accelerate under the spell of Rafael's glowing black eyes and blinding white smile. She was saved from making a fool of herself with a vacuous answer when the carriage stopped in front of the familiar four Ionic columns of the Tremont House.

  “I've taken the liberty of reserving a table for us since I have eaten here several times and found the fare excellent.” He stepped down from the carriage and reached for her hand to assist her.

  Tremont House was the last place she would have chosen, although he was right about the food. It was one of the most popular new hotels and restaurants, one frequented by Oliver Haversham and many of their mutual friends. She felt a tight knot of dread forming in her stomach but was unwilling to confess such cowardice to Rafael.

  Regal as a queen, she took his arm and they walked into one of the spacious dining rooms. Catching their reflection in the mirrors, Deborah was startled by the striking couple they made: he so dark, she so fair, both of them tall and slim. Heads turned as more patrons noticed the subject of the previous night's debacle, now on the arm of an exotic stranger. Shocking.

  While they chatted over their soup course, Deborah was increasingly aware of covert stares and rapidly averted gazes. Judith Lowell and Allison Smythe were seated across the room. Judith, a plain little wren from a distinguished Boston family, had always been enamored of Oliver and spiteful to Deborah. Her ears burned as she imagined what Judith was telling Allison Smythe in stage whispers, doubtless overheard by all at adjoining tables.

  Rafael knew they were the subject of much speculation. “Does it bother an intelligent, strong-willed woman like you to endure their gossip?”

  Deborah was so startled by the question she almost dropped her spoon. “No—yes, if I'm honest, it does. I must live here by society's rules even if I disagree with them, for my father's sake at least.”

  “You weren't marrying Oliver for your father's sake, were you?” He was frankly intrigued.

  Looking into Rafael's night-dark eyes, she felt herself hypnotized, drawn to pour out her fears and longings. “I chose Oliver as a compromise, I suppose,” she began carefully. “He's from the requisite old Boston family; but more to the point, he seemed to be in sympathy with my ideals.”

  “Which are?” he prompted.

  “You'll be appalled.” Suddenly, it became a game to see if she could shock him.

  One brow arched, giving his face a sardonic cast. “Mademoiselle, I do not appall easily.”

  “All right.” With that encouragement she launched into a discourse on the inequity with which women were treated under the law. She finished by saying, ”A woman is an adult, with an adult's mind; yet when it comes to her own money or land, even her own children, she is treated as a ward of her husband, father, or nearest male relative—in other words, like a child!”

  He shrugged. “I'll not debate the accidents of history or the physiological reasons behind the whole course of civilization. Men have always ruled the marketplace, the church, the government. Women have more essential duties in the home, for which they are admirably equipped.” At this he couldn't resist reaching across the table to give her hand a gentle squeeze. She blushed and withdrew her fingers quickly, just as he knew she would.

  “So, you decided to marry a man who would never rule you or challenge your ideas or inflame your senses?”

  Deborah sat up very straight and said in frosty affront, “I scarcely want my senses inflamed if that means losing my capacity to reason.”

  “Everyone should lose his or her reason once in a while.” His eyes smoldered for a moment; but not wanting to provoke her further, he broke the intensity of their conversation. Smiling he said, “There, you see? For the past hour you've completely forgotten every gossiping tongue in Boston.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “Yes. I suppose I have and I do thank you for a most diverting day, but it is late. Father will be home shortly and concerned that I'm still out.”

  “Then by all means I shall have to accede to the wishes of your ‘warden’ and see you back under his protection forthwith,” he said in good-natured teasing.

  * * * *

  Late that evening, Deborah sat alone in the parlor, deep in thought, especially about her unexpected, uncharacteristically emotional reaction to Rafael Flamenco. He was the most attractive man she had ever met. But despite his undeniable appeal, he was anathema to everything she held dear. The man was arrogant, patronizing, and downright infuriating. She felt sure he was a womanizer and a rake. Of course, he was charming and well educated, as good at witty wordplay as she. In fact, he often bested her, for her prim Boston sensibilities were easily embarrassed by his subtle Latin innuendos.

  “Why am I being such a goose over a man to whom I'm only a brief diversion?” She picked up the book she had been trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on for the past hour.

  Just then, the door opened and Adam came in. Noting her distracted air, he tried to comfort her. “You were quiet all during dinner, Deborah. I realize you're upset, but only thank your lucky stars Haversham revealed himself before it was too late.”

  She colored in guilt, for in fact, she had not given Oliver a thought all evening. “I am grateful, Father. But my situation is all the more painfully clear to me. No man will accept me for what I am—they want to change me; and failing that, they try to deceive me to get my money. I will never marry. It will be hard to ever trust a man again.”

  Adam was genuinely alarmed, for he had long feared the stubborn, reclusive nature of his only child. “Deborah, most men are not like Oliver.”

  She fixed him with a level gaze. “Most men truly think women inferior, though, don't they? Father, I can't live that way. I can't accept being treated as if I were a child with no mind or will of my own.”

  “How does Rafael Flamenco treat you?” Adam's keen blue eyes never left hers.

  “He's every bit as insufferable as you might imagine,” she replied without missing a beat. “Is he a fortune hunter like Oliver?”

  Adam gave a mirthless chuckle. “Hardly. His aunt Joline Warden left him a tidy sum; and he's already heir to the Flamenco and Beaurivage family wealth. His father controls half the sugar production in Louisiana.” He paused and looked sharply at her. “You're not considering anything so insane as marrying a New Orleans Creole, are you?”

  Deborah forced a laugh. “Hardly! The last thing either of us contemplates is marriage.”

/>   * * * *

  “Father doesn't think Rafael's at all suitable to be squiring me about,” Deborah said, popping a fried clam into her mouth and looking over at Lydia for her reaction. They were at Lydia's summer house in the country having a picnic to celebrate the warm weather.

  “Posh! He's gorgeous, charming, romantic—ooh, that French accent and those wicked black eyes! He looks like a painting I saw in a museum in London—of a...” Lydia searched her memory—“yes, of a Spanish matador—or was it a conquistador? Well, anyway he was lean and dark and dashing, just like Rafael. You'd be a fool to let him go back to New Orleans alone, you know.”

  Deborah looked across the field at the subject of their discussion. Rafael was mounted on one of Mr. Beecher's best thoroughbreds, a big gleaming black that he handled with consummate ease. As he cantered up to her, she watched his bold, supple movements. The hawkish features of his face betrayed Iberian bloodlines that went back a millennium. “A conquistador, indeed.”

  “Would you favor me by accompanying me on a ride? Mr. Beecher has a pretty little filly down at his stable.” Rafael slid effortlessly from the big black and reached one hand down to pull her up from the picnic cloth where she sat with Lydia.

  Before she could reply, Lydia said, “Oh, go ahead. I invited you here for a few days of rustic fun, including romantic trysts on horseback. Of course, Benjamin and I will join you—just to preserve propriety,” she added teasingly. Benjamin Landon was her latest beau.

  Another young couple who were also Lydia's house guests joined them. Jacob Wyler and Allison Smythe were from old Boston families, both bursting with curiosity about the mysterious Southerner who seemed to be sweeping Deborah Manchester off her feet. They tried to hide their interest behind a veneer of polite small talk; but questions kept popping into the conversation about Rafael's family background, religion, and the property he owned—in general, anything regarding his suitability as a husband.

  Finally, mortified and angry, Deborah pleaded a headache and turned her filly quickly away from the group, intent on heading back to the house via a shortcut through a stand of maples. Soon she heard the pounding of hoof beats and Rafael's big black pulled abreast of her little filly.

  “You shouldn't ride alone, little one,” he said softly in French. “It is not safe. You also should not let their innocent questions hurt you. It's natural Bostonians are curious about such an oddity as a Creole.”

  “You know why they're so curious, Rafael. They think you and I are—well, that you...” Her sentence suddenly became too awkward to complete.

  “That I am going to take Oliver's place,” he supplied for her. “Would that be so awful?” There was a teasing tone to his voice now.

  “Let's just say we come from such different worlds that it would be unrealistic to consider,” she replied very carefully.

  He shrugged at the practicality of her answer. “Always so levelheaded, Deborah.”

  “It's a fault of mine, I fear.” She tried to keep the sudden stab of desolation from her voice.

  Rafael felt a queer sense of loss at her cool rejoinder. She was right, of course. Nothing could come of these brief weeks together. They disagreed on everything—abolition, religion, the rights of women. Nevertheless, there was this physical spell, an attraction that he kept trying to dismiss as mere sexual frustration. He had simply been too long without a woman. Then why did none of the willing wenches in the public houses appeal to him? He brushed the disquieting thoughts aside and said, “Spring has finally come to New England. I'm glad to see a few green buds on the trees and shrubs. In New Orleans everything is flowering now.”

  “April is only the beginning of the growing season here, I'm afraid,” she said, once more conjuring up visions of a lush subtropical paradise.

  “It's also the beginning of the storm season,” he added, noticing the suddenly darkening sky.

  “These spring squalls often blow inland quickly,” Deborah explained. “They don't last long, but they can be fierce. We'd better get back to the house.” Her filly was already shying and nervous as the first plump, cold droplets began to pelt them.

  When they came to a fork in the overgrown, seldom-used trail, Rafael shouted above the wind, “Which way?”

  Deborah shrugged in perplexity. “I don't remember the path splitting here. I haven't ridden at the Beechers in years.”

  He muttered several French oaths beneath his breath and took the lead, heading in what he hoped was the general direction of the house. Within ten minutes the rain had become a downpour, and he knew they were lost. Being lost in the bayous of Louisiana was one thing, but whoever heard of wilderness in Massachusetts farm country!

  The rain was getting colder as the slate skies continued their pitiless downpour. Deborah was having increasing difficulty controlling her mount. Each jagged bolt of lightning and accompanying peal of thunder set the filly to more sidestepping and shying. When Rafael spied a deserted saltbox house, he decided it might be wise to stop before she was thrown and seriously injured.

  Once inside the dilapidated structure, he saw to the horses, quartering them in the lean-to where they would be somewhat sheltered. Then he looked around the main room. The sooty remains of a stone fireplace stood against one wall. He had matches on him, if only they had stayed dry. Without hesitation he reached for a dust-covered chair and began to break it in pieces, swearing as splinters embedded themselves in his palms and fingers.

  Deborah watched him as she stood shivering with cold in one corner of the room. He heaped the dry rotted wood in a pile on the hearth, then scavenged a few bits of brown, curled paper from the table in the corner. When he carefully positioned them under the wood and lit them, the fire filled the room with a warm orange glow.

  Deborah stepped closer to the enticing warmth. He helped her free of her sodden jacket and draped it near the hearth to dry. “You must get out of those soaking clothes and try to dry them by the fire. Let me see what's here for you to cover with.”

  He rummaged about and finally found two musty quilts stuffed in a wooden crate in the lean-to. When he reentered the main room, Deborah was standing uncertainly in front of the fire, her body silhouetted in its rosy glow. She had taken off her boots and heavy riding skirt, but her thin silk blouse and batiste petticoats clung to her like second skin. Lord, why had he ever thought her too thin? The sleek curves of her hips and buttocks and the startling fullness of her upthrust young breasts made an erotic picture as she turned herself in front of the leaping flames.

  Seeing him watch her with such intensity made Deborah even more self-conscious and embarrassed. She stood very still as he walked toward her. Laying one quilt on the table, he took the other and began to wrap it around her, massaging its scratchy surface against her wet clothing and skin. It acted rather like a blotter, taking some of the dampness from her silk shirt. Her petticoats, however, were another matter.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “Take your underskirts off and wrap this more tightly around you.”

  Deborah could hear his teeth chattering as he shivered in his soaking wet clothes. “You'd better follow your own advice,” she said, surprising herself. “I'll turn my back and close my eyes, if you do the same,” she dared him.

  “Always practical,” he grunted, but did as she had bidden, stripping off his shirt, pants, and boots, then wrapping the other quilt around himself.

  She worked her petticoats off, no easy trick with the waist tapes knotted and the long skirts clinging to her legs. When she heard his voice speaking softly, she clutched the quilt tightly around her and turned.

  He had pulled a splintery but sturdy-looking bench up close to the fire and was motioning for her to join him on it. “If we huddle together, we'll dry faster.” Sweet reasonableness.

  As she undressed Deborah's thoughts raced. Adam's stern warning about Rafael and her own declaration that she would never marry flashed through her mind. You may never have another chance. You're attracted to one another in a way y
ou and Oliver never were. Just this one time—a memory to last a lifetime. Her subconscious kept taunting her as she huddled against him and shook, only half from cold now. When his bare arm slipped from his quilt and tightened around her shoulders, she wondered, How would it feel to have those long, tapered fingers caress your bare skin? As if mesmerized, she turned her face up to his and watched his profile in the dancing firelight, bronzed and beautiful, like some ancient Latin god.

  He looked down into her violet eyes. “I was right,” he said softly in French. “Your eyes do darken in passion.” With that he pulled her against him and pressed his lips to her eyes, kissing the lids softly, then trailing his mouth down her cheek and burying his face in the damp silken masses of her hair. She smelled of lavender. He groaned as she tipped her head back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, baring the slender column of her throat. Taking her head in his hands, he raised it until her lips met his in a bruising, searing kiss. As she gasped in surprise at the sudden change from gentleness to passion, his tongue took instant advantage, plunging inside her parted lips. He deepened the kiss as he felt her respond.

  He slid one hand inside the quilt and began to do maddening things to her sensitive spine, running strong, cunning fingers up and down. Then, his hand trailed around her ribs to cup and lift a breast, which puckered to a hard point at the tip. Once more she gasped, pressing herself against his persuasive palm, wanting to feel him caress all of her throbbing, quivering flesh. By this time, both quilts had fallen around their legs and their upper bodies were locked in a fierce embrace. Deborah's own hands were busy, exploring the thick black hair of his chest and the hard flat ridges of muscle across his back. Neither noticed the chill anymore as their pounding blood heated their bodies. Above the soft crackling hiss of the flames, the only sounds were their rough erratic gasps and moans.