Destiny's Magic (25 page)

“It's just the talk of married lovers.” Finger-combing her hair, arranging it at the sides of her breasts, he circled a tip with his palm. “I'll stop if it offends you.”

“It sets my spirit free.”

A band tuned up at the street corner, their music filling the bedroom as she lifted to Burke. He groaned with delight while cupping her bottom, his tongue seeking her pleasure point. The sudden state of obsession that he stirred within her caused her to buck against his tongue. No longer capable of holding her neck straight, she felt her head fall forward. “Burke, my knees. They threaten to give. Must stop.”

“Ease down on me, sweetheart. Clutch me within you.”

Just as she meant to, he murmured, “Almost forgot.” He reached for the tin of raincoats. Leaning back, he lifted his hand and grinned wickedly. “Put it on me.”

Damn that raincoat! But they were a part of this marriage, and she wouldn't shy from them. She took the sheath as he pulled gems free of his legs and brought his knees together to provide a saddle. “Do it slowly.”

Her knees at his thighs, she bent over the task, enjoying her toil. Yet it took several tries to settle the greased raincoat on his erect staff. “Don't they make these things in bigger sizes?” she asked upon success at last.

He laughed. “Glad it's not the other way around.”

“You are blessed, I should imagine. Were you bigger, I don't think we would fit.”

“Let's see how we fit.” He urged her hips forward. “Ah, aye. Like that.”

Shutting her eyes, she pressed downward, enclosing him. Wild love took over. She stroked him over and over. The spasm band had moved on, but the wild beat of New Orleans matched the rhythm in her soul.

It was lovely, reigning over this moment. She would think about nothing else. Yet she wanted his pleasure as well as her own. Gazing down, she saw eyes that were green leaves of rapture.

“More,” he demanded, and she rode him fiercely, until the stars of completion overtook them both.

Quelling the natural urge to fall forward, she murmured, “Mama Loa, I was too rough with you.”

“Don't talk that hoodoo mumbo-jumbo,” he returned, wrenching her into reality.

“As you wish.” She stretched out on the bed while he got free of the raincoat.

“Susan . . .” Slowly, showing the torture of broken bones, he rolled to face her. His palm caressing her hip, he said, “You had your own pain. When I touched your breasts. I've heard a woman gets tender when she's with child. Is there something you ought to tell me?”

She didn't know that much—well, nothing—about pregnancy, but . . . “No.”

“I've been careless many times.”

“There's nothing to worry about.”

His eyes flickered, akin to waning candlelight. “I wouldn't want to give you anything to worry about.”

“Would you still want me to—” She chewed down on a question that might sound as if she were begging. Forever as his wife was her heartfelt wish, but she wouldn't trap him past the time limit that he had set. No matter what. “If we had a child, would you still make me stay with you?”

One moment turned into another before he replied. “I won't make you do anything. You don't like cages. You've hated it, being trapped in this house. I hope you won't remember it solely as a prison though. We have shared some interesting moments together.”

That wasn't what she wanted him to say!
Give him the freedom he needs
. His heart was crowded enough. “I shall never forget the heat between us. It'll be enough to last throughout a cold winter in England.”

Eyes as chilled as a frozen English river, he got up from bed and used his toes to gather his britches. “Hot as you are, I doubt you'll know it's cold outside. Unless you find someone to take you in the snow.”

At first taken aback by his rancor, she had a word with herself.
Get him out of this black mood
. She was not that nice. He hurt her deeply. “If you were to strike me, as Orson struck me, I can't imagine it wounding me more.”

“I'm sick to death of hearing about Orson. Orson, Orson, Orson. It's bad enough that you adore his child and shudder at the mere thought of mine.”

“Which one do you refer to? Mine as in mine? Or yours as in Antoinette's?”

Burke buttoned his shirt, refitted the sling. “I'm going to Judge Duval on the morrow. I'll do everything in my power to get Pip for you.”

“I'll breathe easily when he's legally mine. As he is in my heart.”

“Reckon you will.” Burke picked up akilter boots and did an about-face. “It doesn't take a wizard to know how much you value me. You don't even bother to wear the finery or jewelry I provided.”

“Where would I wear them?” she countered in defense.

He slammed out of their bedroom.

By the time she got on enough clothes to chase after him, he was out of the house and into the night.

 

 

His face twisting into a grimace, her scent clinging to him, Burke stomped down rue Royale. Fool. Damned fool. What the hell got into him, making a beggar of himself? He should have left her alone. What a fool, thinking that he could get anything beyond a coupling from her.

Still and all, it would have been nice had she given one thought to the problem Cinglure presented by spooking Angela Paget. Rufus West would not take it well, thwarted. Furthermore, the Eel was no closer to capture.

To hell with the slimy bastard! Let him wreak his havoc. Right now Burke didn't give a tinker's damn. Susan crowded his mind. If she fashioned a totem pole like the Indians did out on the plains, Burke O'Brien's head would be below everyone else's. Yet he loved her.

She might be as hot as one of Seymour's firecrackers, but she had a cold, cold heart where her husband was concerned. The worst part? He knew beggaring hadn't ended. As long as she remained at 21 rue Royale, Burke would seek his wife.

His oh-so-loving wife.

Was there any hope for the miserable sap who loved her?

Face facts, O'Brien. She doesn't love you. And never will
. Why couldn't that magic lamp have sent love with her?

Damned ugly thing, magic.

It had wrecked his life again.

When would it be his turn for good luck?

How? The magic lamp was no more. But this was New Orleans, a city that thrived on Haitian spell-casting. An idea breached the levee of his scruples. Why not give magic a try? Dammit, why not?

Bent fortune owed him one.

Hoodoo didn't come cheap.

It would be a huge expense, making a loving wife out of an Englishwoman pining for her freedom. The thousand dollars earmarked for the Eel might not be enough to buy Susan's love.

Burke, astride the gelding Avenger in spite of aching ribs, made a detour by his Canal Street safe, then set a straight course for St. Ann Street. Cooking smells—cayenne and file prominent—met him as he turned the gelding into the lane where hoodoo reigned.

A group of children ringed a cooking cauldron that bubbled with dinner, a young woman stirring the pot. Residents stood up from porches to gawk at the trespasser. A yellow dog ran into the street, barking and unnerving Avenger. Burke got the mount under control. Alighting, he fitted his saddlebags over his shoulder, no mean feat.

He dug into his pocket for a coin and tossed it to a ragged youth. “See to my mount, lad.”

“Yes sir.”

No sooner had the boy taken Avenger's reins than the hound lunged. Burke halted to let it smell the back of his hand, to show no ill intent. A tail wagged. Burke patted the canine head. Simultaneously, a white cat darted between man and dog. The mutt gave chase.

A child shouted, “It be good luck, massah, the white cat.”

“Better be, girlie. Better be!”

He strode on toward two lawn torches lighting the front of a narrow house. Amulets hung from the porch ceiling: bones, dead snakes, a spineless chicken. A set of Haitian drums and a cage of spiders rested on the floor, a rooster asleep atop the cage. The pagan hodgepodge crawled on his skin. God, how did Susan put up with it?

A woman walked to the doorway.

“Hello, Captain,” she called softly with a French accent. “You want anisette?”

“No absinthe for me, Widow Paris,” he answered, using her legal name. “Gave it up for Lent,” he joked.

“What do you wish, then?”

“Relief.”

“Come closer, pretty Captain.”

He stepped into the yard and set the saddlebags aside. A snake slithered over his boot. Burke cringed, but spoke. “You know my wife. She used to be Susan Seymour. I love her. She doesn't love me. I want a potion. Make her love me.”

“Why did you wait this long to come to me?”

“Never been desperate enough. Till now.”

The tall, statuesque woman alit the few stairs. She knew how to bewitch men—many had fallen prostrate at her graceful feet. Noble features in a mahogany face, showing ancestry from three continents, belied her seventy-four years. Strands of long black hair peppered with gray waved down her back—there were no tignons for her, no sirree!—and heavy loops hung from plump earlobes. She wore gold and amulets of bone at her neck. Lots of them. Her jewelry chimed as she glided toward Burke, her skirts swishing and swaying.

She was queen of queens.

Ruler of New Orleans.

High priestess in all hoodoo.

Marie Laveau.

He bowed clumsily and kissed her fingers. “Help me, madame.”

Known as a mind reader—or was it that her connections gave an advantage?—Marie Laveau said, “You are troubled by Monsieur West. You are on the brink of great mishap.”

“Concentrate on my wife.”

“She is with child.”

Burke froze. “You're mistaken.”

“I am not. I made the gris-gris myself and gave it to Zinnia Jefferson on the morning of your marriage.”

Even Zinnia had fallen to sorcery. He'd been much set against it. Had Susan fallen back to her own ways? Did some part of her want a child? Hope flared. “Did my wife send Zinnia for the gris-gris?”

The loops jingled as Marie Laveau shook her head. “I have not seen the
belle blon'
since she left with the carnival man.”

Burke took a modicum of comfort. His wife hadn't rebelled against the demand not to return to her old ways.

“Zinnia
sought my ministry, not your missus,” the high priestess said, reading his mind. “I began to give you up as a hopeless case though. But you love your wife, as Zinnia asked. And you've gotten a baby, so I can pat myself on the back.”

“You're sure about the baby?” he asked, happier than he ought to be.

“I am never wrong. Zinnia confirmed my magic.”

Why hadn't Susan said anything? Perhaps she tried. Hadn't she asked him just this night if he would cage her were a baby to complicate her plans?

“She does not know yet.” Marie Laveau smoothed a lock of that long black hair. “How can you expect a motherless girl to grow up knowing the mysteries of birthing?”

“I reckon Anne Helene would've told her.”

“Anne Helene? She was a silly thing, more interested in cooking and sewing than in making the magic of babies.”

“I'm not here for babies. I'm here for a love potion. I need your best stuff. Fast-acting.”

“The powders are the quickest.” The lady touched her necklaces. “Do you not want to know about your babe?”

Pure magic began to sprinkle Burke's veins. He wanted to jump for joy. Nothing beyond its mother loving its father would be more miraculous. Well, he was there for the latter. “Work your magic, madame.”

“I have some gris-gris prepared.”

“Good.” His thoughts turned to the baby. Uneasiness clamped his limbs. Many terrible things could happen between conception and birth.

“Captain, you should set your sights on a pressing matter. It does not take reading the mind or studying the omens to know your enemy plans well. He is gaining strength. And he has not forgotten his quest for vengeance.”

“Where can I find him?” Burke asked, sobered.

“He will find you. But not this evening. You have a while to set the powders in place.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“First you must use the calming powders. Then the teasing love powder. Green or gold for your lady's birth month. Rub them on the soles of her shoes and her pillow. Or on her body, if you want quick results. I will prepare a special candle to place by your bedside.”

“Go to it, madame. How much do I owe you?”

“Much. Did you bring enough to support my ministry for many months?”

“Many months.” He tapped the saddlebags with the toe of a boot.

Satisfied upon receipt of the offering, Marie Laveau ducked into her modest home. A lifetime passed before she handed over the candle and a collection of bags.

“If she dusts with this stuff after taking a bath, or some such,” he asked, “will it work quicker?”

“Oui.”
Marie Laveau nodded. “Mama Loa be with you.”

Once home, Burke roused Zinnia from bed. “That dusting powder I gave you last Christmas, where's the box?”

“You can't have it.” She reached for her wrapper. “I got my bourré money in it.”

“I'll buy you a hundred boxes tomorrow.” He lit the lamp. “Hell, I'll give you the Eel's thousand dollars. Get the box.”

A wide and greedy grin plastered itself across Zinnia's handsome face. “You the boss,” she said tartly, and got the box.

Burke poured coins out, then lifted the colored bags.

“What you doing with that stuff?” Zinnia asked, suspicion itself. “That's hoodoo.”

“Sure is.”

“What for?” she asked.

“Magic.”

“You outta your mind? What's come over you?”

“Desperation. Got to get myself a forever wife.”

“And you figure to slap gris-gris on our girl?”

He winked. “Well, Zinn, I wasn't figuring to powder your behind with it.”

“She ain't gonna be fooled. She's hoodoo. Her nose ain't sharp as yours, but she'll know what it is.”

“Nah. It'll work.” He poured. Dust swirled. He coughed. “Damn, this stuff smells like hell. You're right. Susan will never use it. What now?”

“See if she's sleeping like a baby?”

“Speaking of baby, I understand you've been plotting against me.” An eyebrow elevated, he waited for her reply.

“You needed lotsa help.”

“Granted, but no more. Understand?” At her nod of assent, he next demanded, “Don't mention I had anything to do with hoodoo stuff.”

“So, you figuring for ole Zinnia to take the blame.”

He picked up the special candle. “You owe me, Zinn.”

“Well, okay, if you insist. Do I get to keep the money?”

“A deal's a deal.”

Zinnia took the box in her palm. “Let's go powder a behind.”