Frontier Woman (32 page)

“Thank you.”

“It’s been a pleasure having you and your wife on board,” Moore said. “Cricket is—” The commodore searched for a courteous way to describe the unusual woman who’d captivated his officers and crew and astonished him with her uninhibited behavior. “—a natural-born sailor,” he finished.

Creed smiled wryly. “Tactfully spoken, Commodore.”

Moore grinned. “She’s one hell of a woman, man. How’d you find her?”

“She found me.” Creed’s smile broadened in remembrance. “Stark naked in a pond.”

Moore whistled in appreciation, then gazed up at Cricket. He wondered how she’d fare with the belles in New Orleans. He was saddened to think they’d scorn her, but he didn’t hold out much hope they’d treat her otherwise. “Will you be staying with Beaufort LeFevre and his daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Do they know about Cricket?”

There was more than one level to Moore’s question, but the answer was the same no matter what he was asking.

“No.”

Moore pursed his lips and made a steeple of his hands, a habit Creed had observed whenever the commodore had something serious to say.

“I’m probably interfering where I’m not wanted,” Moore said, “but have you thought about letting Cricket wait for you aboard the
Austin
?”

Creed swore under his breath before curtly replying, “She’s coming with me.”

The commodore steepled his hands again. His eyes shifted up to the admirable woman who’d carved a niche in a heart which had previously belonged only to the sea. “I’d hate to see—”

“Damn it, Moore.” Creed drew rein on his temper and repeated firmly, “My wife will stay with me.”

The commodore knew when to back away. He changed the course of the conversation as deftly as he changed the course of his ship. “How long before you’ll be ready to return to Galveston with the chargé?”

“How long will your business take?” Creed countered.

“No more than a week.”

“If LeFevre’s coming back with me, we’ll be ready to leave then.”

“I’ll send word to the chargé’s home in the French Quarter when we’re ready to sail.”

“Fine.”

The two men stood at the ship’s rail, each lost in his own thoughts, unaware they converged on the same woman.

“A mistress of the sea,” Moore murmured, his gaze on Cricket, who arched out over the water like the graceful carved maiden on a ship’s bow.

“
My
mistress,” Creed replied tersely.

Moore chuckled. “Perhaps.”

Creed snorted. “If you weren’t such a gentleman—”

“—we wouldn’t be standing here so amicably right now. I trust you’ll be as cautious of your wife in New Orleans, sir.”

Creed’s eyes narrowed on the commodore. “You can bet on it, Commodore.”

Moore grinned. “I shall.”

Angelique LeFevre held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, but it wasn’t doing much good. New Orleans harbor stank as bad as the pigs she’d slopped when she was a country preacher’s kid. Fortunately, her father’s gift with words had propelled him beyond the pulpit of his church and into Louisiana politics in time for her to be educated in one of the best eastern schools. Nowadays the closest Angelique LeFevre ever came to a pig was eating a slice of the honey-sweetened, clove-laced ham her father’s kitchen slaves baked for Easter dinner.

Angelique clamped the handkerchief down tighter over her nose and breathed through her mouth. In her other hand she carried a parasol which provided shade but did little to relieve the humidity causing perspiration to gather in her armpits and run down in ticklish streams between her breasts and shoulder blades.

She was beginning to think she should have stayed in the carriage. On her way to the edge of the wharf she’d stepped into a pile of refuse and the hem of her silk gown was soiled with . . . well, God only knew what it was. If the
Austin
didn’t dock soon, she mused, she wasn’t going to smell any better than the weaselly drunkard who’d been leering at her for the past ten minutes. Stubbornly, she remained where she was. She planned to greet Jarrett Creed with a kiss so passionate he’d be sorry he hadn’t made her his wife when he’d had the chance.

She’d been outraged when Creed had left her in Boston five years ago, spouting some nonsense about having a Comanche wife. It was the most imaginative excuse she’d ever heard for breaking an engagement. Of course, they hadn’t actually been engaged, but she’d known it was only a matter of time before he put a ring on her finger. She’d waited a long time for this second chance to become Mrs. Jarrett Creed.

The years in the interim hadn’t been empty. She’d always been a hungry woman, and it would have been folly to think she could have lived without the sexual sustenance other men provided. But there was only one man she truly desired. The Boston bitches might have polished off her rough edges, but Angelique LeFevre, the digger-poor preacher’s daughter, knew how to fight for what she wanted. When Jarrett Creed left New Orleans for Texas, she intended to be his wife.

As the
Austin
berthed and the lines were made secure, Angelique scanned the decks for Jarrett. She found him standing next to a short man in a gold-trimmed blue uniform, who was constantly being consulted by other officers. She removed the handkerchief from her nose and, ignoring the offensive smells that surrounded her, forced a cheerful welcoming smile to her face. She waved her handkerchief just vigorously enough to catch Jarrett’s attention. When she was certain he’d seen her she posed prettily and waited for him to come ashore.

Cricket saw the blond woman dressed in lavender silk wave at someone on the
Austin
. She followed the direction of the woman’s sparkling eyes and ended up on Creed and the commodore. With a sinking feeling Cricket admitted the woman on the dock was probably Angelique LeFevre. Did she have to be so very beautiful? For a reason she wouldn’t have cared to acknowledge, Cricket decided that when Creed left the
Austin
she would be at his side.

Moore had seen the frankly sensual look the American chargé’s daughter had given Jarrett Creed. “It appears you may have some quick explaining to do.”

“It looks that way.” Creed glanced over his shoulder at Cricket. Maybe it would be best if he disembarked before she did, so he could talk with Angelique privately for a moment. He didn’t think she was going to be pleased to find him married. When he’d sent his message to the chargé he’d been an unmarried man and had asked about seeing Angelique. Her appearance at the dock could only mean she’d received his message and interpreted it exactly as he’d meant it.

Cricket couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Creed striding down the gangplank without her. She gasped when the beautiful blond woman threw her arms around Creed’s neck and passionately kissed him. It was the kind of intimate greeting long-lost lovers share. Creed did nothing to stop her. In fact, he lifted her completely into his arms so their two bodies became one.

Cricket was unaware that the sailor next to her bristled in outrage. Nor did she notice that the entire crew of the
Austin
had gone silent. The eyes of every seaman on board shot from the embracing couple to Cricket. Her face paled, but her back stiffened noticeably.

Creed had been surprised by Angelique’s sudden action. She hadn’t even taken the time to say hello. When he tried to free himself from the unexpectedly explosive kiss, she dug her fingernails into his scalp and at the same time bit down hard on his lip. Had he really enjoyed this five years ago? It only disgusted him now. The only way he could avoid being clawed and devoured was to draw her closer into his arms and completely off her feet. He hoped Cricket wasn’t watching.

At last Creed untangled himself. He whipped his head around to search the deck of the
Austin
for Cricket, only to discover her standing right next to him. She’d neatly braided her hair and put a leather band around her brow to keep it in place. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were the darkest gray they’d ever been. She’d never looked more beautiful to him.

He’d thought he would be glad if she weren’t angry. It was more distressing than he could have imagined to discover no emotion at all on Cricket’s face. Didn’t she care that another woman had kissed him? He sure would’ve raised Cain if she’d kissed another man!

“Are you going to introduce me?” Cricket asked.

“Of course.”

Creed sounded angry to Cricket. She was the one who should be angry. However, she wasn’t allowing herself to feel anything at all, because when she did, what surfaced was garden-green jealousy. It was a new emotion for Cricket—and one she decided she didn’t like—because it meant she cared more for Creed than she had any right to care, under the circumstances.

“Angelique LeFevre, this is my wi—”

“My purse!”

The weaselly drunk skulking nearby had snatched Angelique’s silk reticule and started to run past Cricket. She reacted as she always had, on instinct, putting Rip’s lessons to use without thinking of the impression she’d make on the chargé’s daughter. She reached out a hand and caught the thief by the arm, jerking it in a circular motion. It was essentially the same throw she’d used on Creed, but at the speed the thief was moving he turned a complete somersault before landing in a heap on the garbage-littered ground.

Cheers rang out from the
Austin
. Cricket turned and bowed like a gentleman, then grinned back at the dozens of friendly faces beaming down at her. The thief saw his chance and, abandoning the purloined purse, made good his escape.

Creed reached down and retrieved the reticule. It looked a little the worse for wear, but he handed it to Angelique anyway.

Angelique pointed a dainty, white-gloved finger at Cricket. “Who is that?”

Creed fought a grin and lost.

“Angelique LeFevre, I’d like to introduce Creighton Creed, my wife.”

Chapter 22

ANGELIQUE CRITICALLY EYED HERSELF IN HER handheld mirror. What she saw was not a beautiful woman. Individually her features were each a bit too large or too small or oddly shaped. Together they made her stunning. Add to that her education, her proper Boston manners, and her insatiable sexual appetite, and she was the perfect wife. She didn’t understand how Jarrett Creed could have ended up married to a woman like Cricket—not only married to her, but maybe even a little infatuated as well.

Cricket. What kind of nickname was that for a wife? Her clothes and her manners were equally strange. Cricket didn’t fit any traditional feminine mold, that was for sure. Which was why Angelique now found herself stuffed into the surgeon’s stateroom on the
Austin
headed for the Texas coast. If Jarrett Creed had been married to anybody else she might have given up and gone on to greener pastures. But because Cricket was what she was, Angelique believed she would eventually get Jarrett back. No husband could be expected to put up with Cricket’s antics for very long.

Cricket’s behavior at the formal dinner Angelique and her father had hosted the evening before they’d left New Orleans gave ample proof of Angelique’s point.

It wasn’t that Cricket hadn’t looked lovely. She had. She’d worn a silk dress in a green and red and gray tartan plaid that hugged a waist so tiny a man’s hands could easily span it. Her breasts were, contrarily, large enough to barely fit a man’s hands. Her shoulders begged a man’s hands to curve around the tawny flesh, and the curls in her lustrous auburn hair summoned a man’s hands to tangle in them. In fact, whatever part of Cricket you chose to look upon seemed made for a
man’s hands
. If Jarrett hadn’t stood guard at Cricket’s side before they sat down for supper, Angelique shuddered to think how many of the statesmen and bankers and merchants at the party would have been tempted to actually touch.

Nor could Angelique fault Cricket’s manners at the table. She observed all the amenities and unerringly chose the correct utensil and laid it down at the proper time. It was during the dessert course, when Jarrett had leaned over to whisper something private in Cricket’s ear, that things seemed to go so deliciously awry.

Cricket’s response to Jarrett’s unknown remark had been loud and succinct.

Jarrett’s warning “Bra-va” was ignored, and there poured from Cricket’s lightly rouged mouth such a stream of bitter epithets that even Angelique, who’d made a study of such terms from the Bible, had trouble understanding some of them. To say that the gentlemen at the table were shocked would have been to underestimate the effect of Cricket’s tirade.

Angelique had quickly suggested that everyone retire to the parlor for cigars and brandy. If there had been any additional women other than her and Cricket at the dinner, the ladies would have retired to a separate room and left the gentlemen to themselves. As it was, Jarrett never let go of Cricket’s hand, and Angelique wasn’t about to be the only one excluded. Little did she know the show was only beginning. Cricket had—

A knock on the door interrupted Angelique’s thoughts. When she answered, one of the commodore’s several dapper young lieutenants stood there.

“Dinner will be served shortly, Miss LeFevre. Will you need an escort?”

“Why, yes. Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” She gave the young man a glance that promised everything and watched him catch his breath. Teasing was one of the things Angelique did best.

The young man cleared his throat. “Shall we go?”

Angelique smiled radiantly and placed her gloved hand on the gold-braided sleeve he held out to her. She looked forward to her first dinner on board the
Austin
. Jarrett would certainly be there with his wife. She doubted whether Cricket could manage to make as big a fool of herself this evening as she had in the parlor of the chargé’s home in New Orleans.

But she could always hope.

Cricket critically eyed herself in her handheld mirror. What she saw was not a beautiful woman. It was a freak. Despite her vow to give up on being a woman, her awakened femininity had taken root too firmly to be ripped completely out. She was like a hardy desert succulent whose stems had all been chopped off. To the naked eye, the desert flower appeared dead. But underneath the warm earth an elaborate system of roots remained, ready to grow when nurtured with the tiniest bit of rainwater.

So it was with Cricket. To outward appearances she was once again Rip’s spoiled brat. On the inside, Creed’s wife waited unseen for the opportunity to blossom and grow. It was anyone’s guess which of the two personalities would finally hold sway. In any event, thanks to her jealousy of Angelique LeFevre, Cricket was forced to see everything now from both points of view.

Rip’s brat had already forgotten the American chargé’s formal dinner party.

Creed’s wife cringed at the memory.

She’d been delighted at first when Creed leaned over during dessert to whisper in her ear. She’d quickly become incensed, however, when he’d compared her manners to those of the chargé’s daughter, even if he had done so favorably. She couldn’t explain the irrational jealousy that had possessed her at the mention of the blond-headed woman. But had she really shot a dangling bauble off the chargé’s lead crystal chandelier with one of his dueling pistols on a dare? And debated the respective tastes of Cuban and American tobacco while she smoked her favorite Havana cigar? And cussed out a congressman when he vilified the Texan heroes who’d fought at the battle of the Alamo?

Rip’s brat had dressed in plain, brown buckskins for dinner this evening.

Creed’s wife worried that Angelique in pretty pastels
would be more attractive to Creed than she.

Rip’s brat liked Creed and respected him.

Creed’s wife wanted her husband’s love and feared that
the only way she would ever have it was if she stopped being
Rip’s brat.

And that was the crux of the problem. Cricket was fairly certain she could never stop being Rip’s brat. Which was to say, she was fairly certain she would never have Creed’s love. He tolerated Rip’s brat by day—and he desired his wife by night. Cricket had never despaired more over something she felt she could do nothing about. And she hadn’t realized how much she’d come to care about Creed, until now that she had a very real fear of losing him to another woman.

Creed came up behind Cricket but he didn’t touch her as he yearned to. Ever since Angelique had kissed him, Cricket had kept him at arm’s length. She looked so very sad. He wondered if she was remembering all they’d been through together so far. These past weeks had been some of the best, and worst, times of his life. Even though it had been the plan to return her to her father, now that the time to do so was nearly upon him, he found himself unwilling to let her go.

It had finally dawned on him when he’d met Angelique again that he was never going to find another woman to compare with Cricket. She was gutsy and opinionated and willing to fight for what she believed. She was exactly the kind of woman the growing Republic of Texas needed—one who could thrive in a land still wild and free and untamed. She was the kind of woman he needed. He only hoped it wasn’t too late to make her understand how much he appreciated her.

“It’s time to go, Brava.”

Cricket dreaded the coming meal, and it showed on her face. “After what happened last night, are you sure I’ll be welcome again at the same table with the chargé and his daughter?”

Creed grinned. “The commodore doesn’t have a single chandelier on board.”

Cricket fought not to smile. “But I know the chargé brought him a whole box of Havana cigars.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

She hoped so. Another night like the last one, and she’d be handing Creed to Angelique on a silver platter.
Creed’s
wife
made up her mind that tonight she’d be a model of proper behavior—and keep
Rip’s brat
firmly under control. By God, she wasn’t giving Creed up without a fight. She smiled up at Creed and said confidently, “I’m ready.”

The halls were too narrow for them to walk side by side, so he sent her out the door ahead of him. They strolled in companionable silence to the ward room, where a table large enough to accommodate twelve had been set up. Commodore Moore had invited several of his senior officers to join them, including his secretary and the ship’s surgeon.

Cricket’s heart sank like a stone when she saw Angelique LeFevre. The chargé’s daughter was dressed in a pink layered gown. Every time she nodded, her perfect blond sausage curls bounced. Beside the tall young naval officers, she looked like a beautiful porcelain doll. Never in her life had Cricket felt as tall or as uncomfortable in buckskins as she did right now. How had she ever thought she could compete with this woman for Creed’s attention? Even now he was staring at the petite young woman.

When the commodore arrived he urged, “Let’s be seated.” Commodore Moore sat at the head of the table with Angelique to his right and Cricket to his left. The chargé sat next to Cricket while Creed was seated next to Angelique.

Cricket liked Beaufort LeFevre. He enjoyed arguing, and he made a worthy adversary. His eyes were black and serious—some might even have said wise if they’d listened to him for any length of time—but he had a chipped front tooth that gave him a foolish appearance when he grinned, so he rarely smiled, even at his own witticisms. His solemn mien made him seem a less tolerant man than Cricket knew him to be. Otherwise, she’d never have been allowed the freedom in his home to express her feelings in such an unorthodox manner.

During the course of the long dinner, Cricket listened to several controversial topics of conversation without commenting, thinking that if she said nothing, she could say nothing wrong. Only on the most innocuous of subjects did she speak, and then she was careful to agree with Creed. She was patting herself on the back for her success when LeFevre asked, “So tell me, how do most Texans feel about annexation?”

Creed and Cricket both answered at the same time.

“They’re for it.”

“They’re against it.”

Right then, Cricket knew she should have kept her mouth shut. She’d wanted to be the docile, obedient wife for Creed, but this was an issue on which she couldn’t stay silent. She saw the frown that furrowed Creed’s brow.
Creed’s wife
was glad he didn’t suggest she hold her peace, because
Rip’s brat
wouldn’t have agreed even if he’d asked. However, the instant Cricket opened her mouth to speak, Creed cut her off.

“What my wife and I meant to say,” Creed inserted smoothly, “is that some Texans are for annexation and some are against it. Almost all the Anglos in Texas were once citizens of the United States. Many of them want to belong again to the mother country. However, right now the Texas Congress and President Lamar are against annexation.”

“That’s pretty apparent,” LeFevre said with a flourishing wave of his hand. “We Americans have been watching Mirabeau Lamar’s negotiations with various foreign powers for recognition of Texas as a sovereign nation. He hasn’t done half bad—France last year, and maybe England this year—if your president can convince Lord Palmerston that Texas won’t always be a Negro slave territory and that the United States won’t soon be gobbling Texas up.”

“We’ll never allow Texas to be gobbled up by the United States,” Cricket vowed fervently. “We’re going to be the greatest, the biggest, the grandest Republic on earth. Our borders will extend east to the United States, south to the Rio Grande, and west all the way to California.”

Creed closed his eyes and prayed for patience. It was true that under international law Texas could claim any land not a U.S. territory that it could win and hold. But such ideas were far-reaching and unsettling to some citizens of a Republic that had barely secured itself from the threat of Mexican sovereignty, and who felt a strong allegiance to the United States.

“How do you feel about annexation, Commodore?” LeFevre asked.

“I’m not sure the Republic would be better off as a part of the United States, sir. Texas is well on the way to proving herself a strong sovereign nation. Now that we have a navy to blockade Mexican commerce and to defend our shores, Mexico will have no choice but to concede that the southern border of Texas extends all the way to the Rio Grande.”

“You don’t even have a bank in Texas,” LeFevre argued. “Or an army to defend yourselves or—”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Cricket interrupted. “Texas has stores and schools and churches—”

“But no preachers,” Angelique interjected.

“What?”

“There are no preachers for your churches, or at least that’s the reason Jarrett gave me for the fact your wedding vows have never been spoken in a church. I believe he said you have a common-law marriage.”

Cricket’s glance shot to Creed, whose eyes betrayed he had indeed told Angelique that much about the facts surrounding their marriage. How could he!