Magnolia Nights

Book 0: Heartfire

by Martha Hix

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

BLACKMAILING BLACKGUARD Emma Oliver would do anything to protect her family from that lying scoundrel, Lieutenant Paul Rousseau. She had even gone to his hotel room to plead with him to leave her family alone, and had offered the handsome blackguard money. But all he would accept was one night with her -- in his bed. Outraged by his ridiculous demand, she had staunchly refused, damning him as a rake, even though the dashing sailor's touch inflamed her, made her traitorous body ache for his caress, and her heart beg for his love... VIRGIN VIXEN Oliver! The very name set his blood boiling. He had waited so long to wreak his revenge on that murderous family, and now the opportunity presented itself in the curvaceous form of the beautiful Emma Oliver. He would woo the tantalizing blonde with kisses that would leave her breathless, embraces that would make her lush body quiver with ecstasy, and shower the green-eyed beauty with promises of love that would bind her to him through the hot, steamy Magnolia Nights.

Release date: September 1, 1988

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 309

Sample

New Orleans, February 1842

“Pardon me, sir.”

First Lieutenant Paul Rousseau of the Texas Navy halted in his tracks and turned to the St. Charles Hotel’s concierge. “Yes?”

Rounding a gilt desk, Castillo templed his meaty fingers in front of his chest. “A lady is waiting in your room.”

Paul’s curiosity was roused. “Oh?”

The clerk smirked while digging into his pocket to produce a twenty-dollar gold piece. “I’m sure you won’t mind that I allowed her entry.”

“Why would I mind?” A lady caller was an intriguing proposition, but this pasty-faced hare was a man who could be bought. Disgusted, Paul began to walk away as the festive tune of strolling musicians filtered from the street into the lobby, and a nearby clock chimed midnight. But Castillo’s nasal whisper transcended the sounds, stopping Paul from leaving. “She claims to be your sister.”

Sister? Paul had no siblings. A lazy smile played across his sun-weathered features. Since sailing into the crescent city to deposit a manifest of American survivors from a Campeche Bay shipwreck, Paul had favored no woman except Marian Oliver, and his purpose for seeking her out had been two-fold. Her brother was his naval commander, and Paul had unfinished business with him. But more important, Marian was his archenemy’s widowed daughter-in-law. A whip of resentment lashed through Rousseau as he thought of Rankin Oliver.

“Will there be anything else for you this evening, sir?” Castillo asked, palm up.

“No.”

Paul dug into his pocket, as his thoughts turned to Rankin Oliver. The man had murdered his father, but he hadn’t been able to prove the duel had been unfair. Oliver had too craftily hidden the evidence of his guilt. For thirteen years Paul had futilely harbored his hatred; then, recently, in the Yucatán village of Sisal, he had learned Oliver was selling munitions to the Centralists in Mexico City. Once more, however, Paul had been thwarted. He had been unable to bring the miscreant to justice—and an innocent woman had died at Oliver’s hands during the attempt.

For the ten thousandth time Paul vowed to blacken the Oliver name for eternity.

Then Castillo cut into his thoughts by asking, “Shall I have champagne sent to your quarters, sir?”

“No.”

Paul dropped a picayune into the center of that soft palm, cleared his mind of Castillo’s interruption, and glanced up to the second floor.

Marian, he was certain, waited in his room. Though she didn’t excite him inordinately, Paul planned to get close to her, as close as possible, and gain her confidence. In order to extract the vengeance he sought against her father-in-law, he needed to track Rankin’s activities. What better way than through a member of his household?

Paul strode away from the lobby. Though Marian didn’t send his blood racing with lust, she was fairer than most women. So why look a gift horse in the mouth? Yet his unhurried steps belied that line of reasoning as Paul ascended the curving staircase leading to his quarters.

Emma Frances Oliver had been waiting in the hotel room for over thirty minutes. She felt she must speak with Paul Rousseau in private, and she prayed the man she knew only by hearsay would be more reasonable than her cousin by marriage. Marian had fallen in love at first sight with Étienne Rousseau’s son. But Olivers did not love Rousseaus. It just wasn’t done. Good people did not cavort with bad.

Why, Emma asked herself, couldn’t sweet William’s widow understand that? But Emma knew why. Marian had been behind a door when brains were passed around.

Emma didn’t care much for William’s widow, but she had promised him she’d look out for his wife. And Marian was family, so this was a matter of family honor. Above all else, Emma would look out for an Oliver.

Right now she wanted nothing more than to appeal to Rousseau’s sense of decency, providing he had any, and be on her way. She nodded, as if to verify the validity of her reasoning. And if Rousseau wasn’t honorable, she had an alternate plan that was certain to appeal to his type of man.

Despite her warm wrap, gooseflesh rose on her arms. The room was damp and chill, the flames from the fireplace long spent. Only the dim light of an ornate mantel lamp lit the room. With her usual impatience Emma eyed Rousseau’s possessions, perusing each in turn, while walking the floor and rehearsing her speech. Next to the huge tester bed, where Rousseau no doubt planned to debauch poor dumb Marian, rested a sea chest. Emma wondered about its contents but chose not to risk being caught snooping, for that act would surely loose a swarm of trouble on herself. Rousseau might return at any moment. But, oh, Pandora’s curiosity was aroused!

“Admit it,” she muttered. “You’re curious about Rousseau, too.”

Since arriving in New Orleans two days previously, she had heard nothing but Paul this and Paul that from Marian, who had rattled on and on as if the man were a god. Emma had been ready to tear her hair from its roots. She couldn’t help but bemoan the fact that Uncle Rankin was in St. Martinsville, and it would take days to get word to him. If he were in town, he’d put a halt to the goings-on.

By all that was right, it was Emma’s duty to save her kinsman’s widow from weakness of the heart.

Bored with her wait, Emma centered her attention on the silver dish on the bedside table. Her curiosity aroused, she plucked a gold-and-diamond brooch from it and walked over to the lamp.

Like unexpected claps of thunder, the echo of footfalls reverberated from the hallway and a key rattled in the lock. The door swung open with a creak.

Drat! There was no time to return the pin to its rightful place, for a man’s shadow cut across the rug and up the back of Emma’s emerald-green skirts. Pulse racing, she dropped the brooch into her cloak pocket, painfully pricking her skin as she did so. Then she whirled to face Paul Rousseau.

“What the devil?” Startled as he was, his voice held a faint trace of a French accent. “Who are you, chérie? What are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining . . .”

Emma lifted her determined chin. This elegantly attired man had a confidence about him that threatened to overpower her if she let it. Short of stature but long on mettle, she refused to allow him to stop her.

“Are you going to answer?” He appraised her with speculative interest, and crossed the room. “Sister dear.”

She stepped back and spoke quietly. “Mr. Rousseau, my name is Emma Frances Oliver.”

“Emma . . . Oliver? I recall Marian’s speaking of you. You’re her deceased husband’s cousin, right?”

As she responded in the affirmative, Paul relinquished his plans for Marian. Emma fascinated him, particularly due to the impropriety of this visit. Furthermore, he had seen her slip something into her pocket. What in this room was small and easy to steal? Following a hunch, his eyes traveled to the silver dish. Ah, ha! She had stolen his mother’s brooch. He was certain it would be returned to him. Paul Rousseau held on to his possessions, and this little thief, not Marian, was his quarry now.

He shortened the distance between them, his gaze raking her. “She neglected to tell me you’re blond and beautiful.”

Looking at him, Emma forced back a grin. Marian had also neglected mentioning Rousseau’s pleasing appearance; it had probably been an oversight. But a handsome face did not a gentleman make.

“Hasn’t your maman warned you of the perils of visiting a man in his hotel room?”

“I’m twenty years old. My mother doesn’t run my life.”

Emma realized her reputation, what little was left of it, was compromised, but the gravity of the situation warranted drastic measures.

Not only was this man an odious Rousseau, he had plundered and pillaged the high seas before associating himself with the Republic of Texas. Texas—ha! Uncle Rankin had told her about that place. It was peopled by nothing but cutthroats, liars, and misfits.

Though the local newspapers were generous with praise for him, and though Marian was fascinated by his supposedly heroic endeavors in the Texas Navy, Emma doubted Rousseau was a hero.

“I wanted to speak with you in private,” she said.

“Ah! Then you have my attention. We’re quite alone. And I always have time for my . . . sister.”

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it as he captured her hand, lifting it to his lips. Instead of kissing her fingers in the gallant manner, he turned her wrist and pressed his lips gently to her palm. Fighting the strange warmth his touch evoked, Emma looked downward and jerked her blood-dotted hand away. Oh no, the brooch! Be calm, she warned herself. But what was she going to do about that pin?

His eyes riveted to hers, and she hid the incriminating crimson evidence behind her back. “Now, about Mrs. Oliver—”

“Did she ask you to call on me? I’ll wager she didn’t.”

“Well, no, but I—”

His eyes boldly cruising up and down her body, he interrupted again. “I think it’s interesting you’re here at midnight to discuss your relative.”

Rather than incur Marian’s fury Emma had decided to visit the man in secret, and after the Oliver household had turned in for the night she had ventured from Magnolia Hall to accomplish her mission. “I, um, I thought it more prudent if we had privacy for this discussion.”

“Did you now? Privacy. You mentioned that a minute ago.” He rubbed his chin. “I’d say Marian doesn’t know you’re here.”

Emma refused to grant him the pleasure of an honest reply.

“I think you wanted to find out for yourself about the man who has Marian, shall we say, intrigued.”

“Marian’s intrigued with needlework.” Emma sniffed. “But that doesn’t mean I have an interest in her pastimes.”

In truth Emma had a hankering for needlework, but she planned to use her sewing skills on mending wounds. Her goal was to be a physician, but . . . She reminded herself not to be sidetracked by her own desires.

“No,” he said dryly, “I don’t imagine you find needle and thread interesting.”

She squared her shoulders. “My interest lies with Mrs. Oliver. For her sake, please take leave of her.”

“No.”

“Be reasonable, Mr. Rousseau. You and I both know there’s bad blood between our families. Your courtship of her is destined for trouble.”

“Bad blood? I’ve come back to New Orleans prepared to put the past away. After all this time, surely your uncle bears no grudge against my family. But if he does, I pray to mend yesteryears’ fences.” His look was genuine, though he skirted the truth. “It’s time this matter was put to rest.”

Emma’s reservations eased—a bit. “Are you squiring Mrs. Oliver solely to redeem yourself with our family?”

“Not in the least.” Paul could say that with sincerity. He heard Emma sigh in relief. He wouldn’t tell her, or any other Oliver, that redemption was not his purpose. Not yet. Making Rankin Oliver pay, according to the letter of the law, and bringing down the house of Oliver was his goal.

“My uncle may take much convincing,” she said.

Paul cocked his head and furrowed his brows. “A busy man such as he must have matters other than a duel of days gone by to fill his mind.”

“Your father slandered his name and undermined his business ventures. Those misdeeds are difficult to forget.”

Paul forced himself not to grimace at those falsehoods. “Surely Rankin Oliver doesn’t blame me for the trouble between himself and my father. I am certain his time is occupied with more noble pursuits. A family is most time-consuming, and don’t his sugar-planting and cotton-factoring interests carry him far and wide?”

“Of course.”

“I thought so. I heard he was in the Yucatán just last month, and now I’m told he’s on extended business in St. Martinsville.” He paused. “But then, I don’t suppose he bothers you with such details.”

Proud of the trust Uncle Rankin placed in her, Emma replied, “As a matter of fact he does.”

Paul drew a cheroot from a tabletop humidor, struck a lucifer, and took a contemplative draw of smoke. He now saw Emma in a whole new light. “I recall Marian speaking of the great love between you and your uncle.” He dropped his hand to his side. “Please go on. I’m interested in what you have to say.”

“I think not. We’ve gotten away from the subject, Mr. Rousseau. We were discussing Mrs. Oliver.”

He parted his lips. “I’d rather discuss you.”

Those lips might have been sculpted to perfection by Michelangelo, Emma decided before checking her errant thought. He wasn’t going to snare her in the same net as Marian! “I demand that you leave Mrs. Oliver alone.”

Waiting for his reply, Emma watched him with all the inquisitiveness he had accused her of. From his appearance she could understand why Marian was attracted to him. His hair, black as pitch, was trimmed in short curls that barely brushed the top of his collar. His amber eyes were turning ebony as he stared at her. His face was rather long, rather angular. A jagged scar along his right jaw marred his features. Or did it? His nose was a bit crooked, but, oh my, that only enhanced his appeal.

He strode toward the fireplace. Muscles strained the material of his silk shirt as he drew off his frock coat and tossed it across the back of a chair. His shoulders were broad, his waist slim, his hips narrow. One finger loosened his neck cloth, then unfastened the top button of his shirt. Black chest hair sprang from the V. Emma tried valiantly, unsuccessfully, not to smile as she wondered about the range of that fine down.

A smile grooved his cheeks. “Have you finished undressing me?”

“You flatter yourself.”

As if he delighted in her overt regard, he grinned and bent to light the fire in the hearth.

Emma touched a finger to her lips and closed her eyes. Except for the plates of male cadavers in her father’s medical books, she had never seen an unclothed man, and she mused over what Paul Rousseau looked like in the flesh. No doubt finer than those likenesses of shriveled dead men.

With that thought she tried to gather her wits. Rousseau was walking toward her now, the dancing flames behind him casting his physique in golden relief. Her heart missed a beat. But refusing to allow herself to be charmed, she took a step backward.

It was on the tip of Paul’s tongue to tell Emma there was nothing to worry about, insofar as Marian was concerned. But he didn’t. Why not let Emma dangle on a string for a while? He was enjoying the game, and responded to her earlier demand with a question. “Why would I want to leave Marian alone?”

“Mr. Rousseau, I don’t want to see her hurt. As you probably know, my cousin William passed away three years ago. Marian is lost without him—she stayed in mourning too long. She’s quite . . .” Emma had started to say featherbrained, but had thought better of it. Poor Marian craved attention with a pitiable vengeance, and she hadn’t turned her yearnings in the proper direction. “She’s vulnerable and thinks she’s in lo—” Emma swallowed the last of the word. “I’m sure the feeling will pass if you’ll take your leave. Then she’ll accept attention from New Orleans gentlemen, and all will be well.”

“What a snob you are. You’re saying I’m not good enough for her. That’s for Marian to decide.” A muscle twitched in his jaw as if he held himself in control by the thinnest of threads. “Yes, she’s fond of me. Perhaps she loves me. She’s possessed of a warm rather than insulting nature.”

“I didn’t mean to malign you.” Emma certainly didn’t need to alienate him.

“If that’s an apology,” he said after a half-minute of silence, “I accept it.” The angry set of his features turned into a smile of superiority. “I’m sure Marian could have her pick of admirers, but don’t forget whose name is on her lips.” His tone became smooth and suggestive. “Once a woman’s tasted the wine of a real man, it’s difficult to be content with the sip of water a gentleman offers.”

“I’ll wager no one’s ever accused you of being arrogant!” she charged facetiously.

“Never? On occasion.” He was standing near . . . oh so near. Crooking a finger under her chin, he forced her to look up at him. His nail grazed her jaw, eliciting a shiver from her. “And what of you, chérie? Have you . . . savored wine?”

“I despise wine!” Unsettled by her lie and by him, Emma swatted his hand away. “You dare make an advance to me while you refuse to quit my cousin’s company!”

“An advance?” he teased, then mocked her earlier words. “You flatter yourself.”

“Oooh!” Losing the battle with her temper, she jabbed the tip of her forefinger into his chest. “Stay away from her. You’ve nothing to offer. It’s a well-known fact your father was a no-good gambler, and you sailed under the skull and crossbones of piracy—”

“Letters of marque,” he corrected.

“Pirate, privateer—I see no difference between the two.” Emma thrust her arm down. “You may have Marian fooled with tales of your so-called noble endeavors with the Texas Navy, but I’m not so gullible. You’re nothing but a lowly vagabond!”

“Who keeps the Mexican Centralists from blockading the Gulf sea lanes.” He perused her form. “Thus allowing the import of fine silks to cover full breasts . . . and tiny waists that can be spanned with two hands.”

She wouldn’t be sidetracked. “You’re not right for her!”

Amusement colored his tone as he retorted, “Who am I right for? Perhaps a sabre-tongued temptress who smells of lilac and has hair the color of honey? Maybe a vixen with irises like the first blush of green in April, yet full of the storminess of March?”

His callused finger, not the finger of an aristocrat by any means, grazed the curve of her throat and moved upward to her earlobe. Beneath his touch she tingled.

“Such a comely woman spellbinds this lowly vagabond, making me itch to pull those ivory combs from her hair.”

“How can you play games with Marian’s heart? Don’t you have any sense of decency?”

“None whatsoever.” His fingers loosened the tie of her cloak, and it slid to the floor at their feet. “There are many varieties of wine, Emma. Perhaps you’ve never tasted a fine French vintage. Would you like a sip of one?”

As her eyes collided with his, his arms circled her waist, pulling her to him. He was strong, she realized; his strength, no doubt, hewn from physical labor. Heady aromas clung to his clothing—the manly scent of tobacco interlaced with his flesh’s warmth. Then slowly . . . ever so slowly . . . he tilted his head, his nearness assailing her senses in a strangely intoxicating way. He murmured something in French that she didn’t understand. Yet it sounded wickedly seductive.

Once, and then again, he whispered her name as he lowered his head to touch his lips to hers. He explored their texture, taste, and shape as if her mouth were a precious delicacy. Then, groaning, he slid his tongue past the barrier of her teeth to claim the intimate recesses. A shudder of emotion ran through her, grand and wonderfully wanton.

But to enjoy his embrace was wrong. He was the sort of man who trifled with a woman’s affection, and Emma refused to allow him to dishonor her or William’s widow, or to let him know how much he affected her.

She wrenched free of his arms, drew her hand back, and cracked her palm against Paul Rousseau’s jaw.

The sting of Emma’s hand reddened Paul’s cheek, but his composure did not waver. Never would he give her the satisfaction of knowing she could inflict pain, though she packed a mighty lick for one so small!

She rubbed his kiss from her lips. “Step back, Rousseau.”

“I’ll not.” He renewed his grip, his eyes delving into the light-green ones that mesmerized him. She felt good in his arms, and he was pleased that she had responded to his kiss . . . before having second thoughts.

He smiled as she protested the embrace and twisted in his arms. He smiled at his luck. Ah, yes. She was much fairer game than Marian. He would enjoy himself while wooing Emma, which was not possible with her empty-headed kinswoman.

He would entice Emma to him . . . and keep her innocent of his motives.

“Let me go . . . please,” she murmured.

That simple request was appealing, and he allowed space between them. With a sweeping gesture, he then bowed from the waist. “Your wish is my command, Mademoiselle Oliver,” he declared, yet his voice held the scrape of sarcasm. “For the moment.”

“Mr. Rousseau, if I cannot appeal to your sense of decency, may I appeal to your monetary sense? I’m prepared to offer you the sum of one thousand dollars in return for your agreement to leave New Orleans straightaway.”

Paul was stunned. The conniving little wench! Of course he should have expected nothing less from an Oliver.

His pride injured, he squared his shoulders and ran splayed fingers through his hair before wheeling away. In two steps he was beside a marble-topped bureau. Did she think him a man who could be bribed for a few coins? This viper must think all men as easy prey as the concierge.

And what of Emma Oliver? How far would she go in her quest? He knew her to be a woman without scruples. She had visited his chambers sans chaperon, which showed this tiny spitfire was less than virtuous. Though he had been bored with Marian’s prattle, Paul now confirmed one choice tidbit he’d gleaned from her: Emma lacked respectability. He watched her as she paced back and forth, glancing at him from time to time.

Back in Virginia, Emma had been jilted by her fiance, Marian had said. Paul surmised the man had discovered her lack of virtue and propriety. That mattered not.

What did matter was that she was unscrupulous. A thief. Surely there was a maxim that described a person of means who stole for the thrill of it, but the word escaped him.

The piece of jewelry in her pocket was worth much more than money could buy, certainly more than her bribe. Save for a miniature portrait, the pin was the only tangible reminder Paul had of his mother.

Yet he had said nary a word at the time it was stolen, and he wouldn’t now. The theft might prove advantageous.

Emma abandoned her pacing and stood her ground five feet from Paul. He leaned back against the bureau, crossing one ankle over the other.

“One thousand dollars, Mr. Rousseau.”

“I heard you the first time. I suppose that kind of money is mere pocket change to you.”

“I’m not wealthy in my own right, if that’s what you mean. The money is a large part of the inheritance I received from my cousin William. I believe he’d approve of my spending it for his widow’s benefit.”

“Aren’t you noble?” Paul asked coolly. “So you think I can be purchased like fruit at the market.” He straightened, and his laugh was low and cynical as he strode toward her. The air crackled with tension. “Well, I can be,” he lied, intending to find out just how much she was willing to sacrifice. “Everyone has his price. But one thousand dollars isn’t nearly enough. If I deny myself Marian’s pleasure, how much is it worth to you?”

“I’ll not give you a cent more.”

“Then let me name my figure. My price is one evening with you in that bed over there.”

“You snake! Your black heart will burn in hell before—”

“My, my, such language from a lady. But you’re not a lady, are you?”

“And you’re certainly no gentleman!” Emma gritted her teeth. “I’ll have the money delivered on the morrow.”

“Money isn’t a part of the contract.” He watched her glare at him. “When will you deliver yourself to me, Emma Oliver? Now perhaps?”

Retrieving her cloak, Emma clutched the garment to her and charged across the room.

“Well, when?” he taunted.

“Never!” The word was punctuated by the slamming of the door as she exited.

Her answer echoing in his brain, Paul threw back his head in laughter and then dropped onto the bed. Oh yes, you will.

The vixen thought she had the better of him. That wasn’t so. Relaxed and confident, Paul relit his cheroot. He ought to hate her, ought to loathe anyone with Oliver blood. For some odd reason, he didn’t. But he warned himself not to let his feelings for Emma get out of hand. After all, she was an Oliver.

Since she had stolen the brooch, he’d have a reason to see her again. That appealed to Paul. Closing his eyes, he chuckled. She deserved to be prosecuted for her thievery, yet if he turned her over to the police, his plans for the Olivers would be torn asunder. Such a move would gain him nothing. And the thought of her comely little body behind bars held no appeal, but she didn’t have to know that. Her thievery, Paul decided, even more confidently, could be used to his best advantage.

And though Emma tantalized him, arousing his passion, he would never trust her. But what a delightful little lagniappe, a delectable little bonus, she’d be in his pursuit to vindicate his father.

Wanting to get as far from Paul Rousseau as possible, Emma hurried through the long corridor and down the hotel staircase. The very idea of him! It galled her, his suggestion that she compromise her virtue to his blackmail. What did he take her for, one of those painted strumpets who paraded along the levee?

“An evening in his bed,” she muttered under her breath, as she sailed past the venal concierge who had demanded a twenty-dollar gold piece before producing a key to that scoundrel’s room, “I’d rather cuddle an alligator.”

Once in the pungent-smelling night air, she whipped her cloak around her shoulders, tied it beneath her chin, and checked her pocket for the brooch. Drat! She’d be forced to see Rousseau again when she returned it.

Looking down St. Charles Street, first east, then west, she searched for her carriage. It was nowhere in sight. Over the sound of street music, a group of drunken sailors called to her. Their message was obscene. Well, what did she expect, since she was unaccompanied?

She detected heavy steps behind her just as a body lurched against her. Reeling, Emma grabbed her attacker’s skirt. A woman! The young female, whose hazel eyes were as bright in the gaslight glow as her face was beautiful, shoved Emma forcefully, and Emma stumbled into the clutches of the woman’s corpulent male accomplice.

“Get your hands off me!” Emma struggled against his grip, eager to be away from his whiskey-fouled breath.

“Hear that? She wants me to unhand her, Katie.” The wrinkled man sneered, showing his gapped, rotten teeth. A filthy black patch covered one eye, and he peered at his captive with the other. “I want not to unhand the pretty little piece.”

A carriage turned the corner at nearby Common Street, and Emma spied Uncle Rankin’s majestic grays in the leads. “Miss Emma!” she heard Jeremiah yell. The hoofbeats clomped faster. A savior, saints be praised!

“Packert!” The woman pulled frantically at the big man’s arm. “Let her go! We must leave.”

“Get away from her,” the coachman roared. Jumping down from his seat, he flew to Emma’s aid, yanking her away from the cutthroat.

Emma tried to strike Packert, but he and the woman disappeared into the shadows, the ruffian jeering.

“You okay, Miss Emma?” Jeremiah asked as he opened the carriage door and handed her into the interior.

“I . . . I think so, thank you.”

Emma dropped onto the seat, exhaled a loud breath, and disregarded the sniff of disapproval of her companion in the carriage. As the horses set a pace for the three-mile journey to the Oliver plantation, Emma’s equanimity returned and she gave thought to the disturbing situation of how to deal with Paul Rousseau’s demands. How could she protect Marian from him? How could she protect herself from him! Obviously he was a man who wouldn’t quit without a fight.

Moreover, he was not above pitting two women of the same family against each other. She shivered. Oh, how she despised him. Paul Rousseau was rotten to the core, as rotten as that awful ruffian’s teeth!

Since Rousseau had proven he had no sense of decency and he had spurned her offer of money, Emma realized she must confess all to Marian. Surely then William’s widow would see the light. Nonetheless, it pained Emma to think about bruising Marian’s fragile emotions. And it would be humiliating to recount an adventure in which Emma had, once more, shown a lack of social decorum.

But it had to be done.

“Went and got in trouble, didn’t you?”

Emma glanced at her mammy, who sat straight as a pencil on the seat beside her. “Where have you been, Cleo?” Not giving the woman a chance to answer, she chastised her. “And a lot of help you were when you did show up. I could’ve been killed, and you wouldn’t have stuck your nose out the window.”

“I know exactly where not to stick my nose.” Cleopatra, her face set in a scowl, crossed her arms over her spare chest. “Besides, I knew you’d be all right. Satan hisself’d know better than to tangle with you.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Emma replied caustically. “As usual you’ve no qualms about ‘tangling’ with me.”

“Somebody’s gotta try to keep you in line. And listen here, missy, you be entrusted to me when you were a babe—oh, such a pretty little thing you were then!” The servant smiled, then shook her head in disgust. “But you ain’t been nothing but trouble since t