The Maidenhead (23 page)

“My dear Jen, I am quite honored that you should desire my attention when you have already turned down five of Fort Brown’s finest soldiers requesting the honor of a dance. And, frankly, quite puzzled, since you know how dancing bores me.”

It was she who had forgotten Cristobal, the boy, whose sharp mind challenged hers. Her lips formed a plaintive pout. “My feet feel like Terry’s Rangers just rode across them, Cristobal. I’m tired of dancing.”

“Oh, surely, you jest.”

She ignored the derisive grin but made the decision to temper her flirtation. Cristobal seemed impervious to women’s wiles and affected more by the latest words of fashion and style that filtered over from the Continent.

When the next dance began and a mountain of a soldier who had crushed her feet earlier in the pigeon wing and hornpipe started toward her, she turned to Cristobal, saying, “I’m hot! Let’s escape into the courtyard for a breath of fresh air. I want to hear more about the exciting blockade article you’re preparing.”

Cristobal obligingly took her elbow and steered her toward the veranda’s open doors. “And I thought women were weary of war stories.”

“Oh, but I find them so dashing and romantic!”

The exotic scent of the orange and lime trees wafted through the evening air, and a tropical moon rocked just above the high adobe walls of the courtyard. The Scharbauer town house was one of Brownsville’s most fashionable and, like those of the few other prominent families, it was surrounded by squalid Mexican mud hovels that lined the back alleys and dusty streets.

Jeanette leaned against the post of the flagstoned well and languidly sipped at the brandy punch. Cristobal stood before her, one hand above her head on the post, bracing his large frame. “However on earth does one go about running a blockade, Cristobal? And where do the contacts come from—I mean, how does one sell off the cargo?”

“That, my dear,” he drawled lazily, “is precisely what I should like to know. Some deuced Frenchman seems to have the best success at avoiding the Federal fleet—at least so go the reports I’ve gleaned out of General Bee. But our illustrious general is so obtuse about blockade runners that I daresay he would not know the difference between a double-barreled shotgun and his nostrils.”

“Frenchman?” she asked, seizing on the lone piece of information. “What’s his name?”

Cristobal picked an imaginary piece of lint off his mulberry-colored short frock coat. “Kitt—something or the other. No one seems to know much about our self-proclaimed Rebel.”

“But where does he put into?” she pressed. “Clarksville?”

“La, Jen, if I knew that, I’d have my story. I’d interview the buccaneer firsthand.” He fixed a singular drooping eye on her. “Why all the interest?”

The flush that colored the broad sweep of her cheekbones and washed out her freckles was not feigned. She would have to watch herself. She took a quick swallow of the now flat punch. “Oh, but a real buccaneer, Cristobal. This Kitt sounds so—so mysterious and daring.”

“And a mercenary out for his own profit. No doubt most uncouth. I imagine your buccaneer must go for weeks without the amenities of a bath or razor. And the ilk of people he would consort with—well, my dear . . .” Cristobal fluttered a handkerchief before his aristocratic nose as if scenting something unpleasant.

Jeanette gasped as Cristobal’s swishing handkerchief landed in her crystal cup.

“
Dios
!” he swore and dipped his fingers into the cup to retrieve the soggy portion of material. Without warning the cup tilted precariously, and the sticky punch sloshed over the rise of her breasts revealed by the sapphire-blue tulle bodice.

“Hell and damna— ” Quickly she bit her lip. But her eyes rolled with exasperation as Cristobal plunged the brandy-soaked handkerchief into her cleavage in a fruitless attempt to absorb the liquor that dribbled down between her breasts.

“What—whatever is going on?” demanded an imperious feminine voice.

With little hope that the question could possibly be directed elsewhere, Jeanette cautiously poked her head around Cristobal’s broad shoulder. From behind her lorgnette, Elizabeth Crabbe, the matriarch of Brownsville society and the possessor of a voluble tongue, glared with shocked outrage. Next to her stood Claudia Greer, the hostess’s married daughter, and Jeanette caught the sympathy in Claudia’s plain face. However, on Elizabeth’s other side Aunt Hermione looked as if shock would topple her into the cistern behind her.

His hand still lodged between Jeanette’s breasts, Cristobal said drily, “I fear this is going to be difficult to explain.”