Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (12 page)

“Possibly. Yet you can take away a man’s money, ruin him if you want—that won’t change anything. His slaves will still be slaves, bought or taken by some other man. You can call it justice, but all you’re doing is lining your own pockets—or Moreaux’s. Your actions do nothing to make things better for anyone else.”

His body stiffened but he didn’t contradict her. She sensed he had more to say on the subject. Perhaps it was what he’d meant earlier that morning when he’d said he had something to tell her, and now she’d dashed the moment with her censure.

After a length, he cleared his throat. “I’ve been invited to a private game. Over there.” He gestured at the
Argo
. “I want you to go with me.”

“What if I refuse?” She braced for his anger—or worse, more of his brand of persuasion that she found nearly impossible to resist.

“It’s a rare opportunity for me. We won’t be under Moreaux’s nose there so I can pocket some money he’ll never know about. I’ll pay you fifty percent.”

She felt his eyes on her, his energy and eagerness for her answer.

She could use the money. She needed to start saving for when she left for the Cumberland School. Jeremiah could use some cash too. Once he was freed, all he owned would be the clothes on his back.

With great reluctance, she agreed.

Rory, Dell and the visiting officer from the
Argo
disembarked the
Queen
along the Cape Girardeau riverbank and boarded the nearby vessel. Rory kept his hand on Dell’s elbow, while she played her part as his escort and good-luck charm. He wasn’t sure if he meant for his touch to reassure her of his presence or simply to assert his claim on her in front of the ship’s passengers and crew. Possibly both. She was enchanting in a crimson gown with her hair swept off her neck in a chignon that left her skin exposed to his hungry eyes.

On board the smaller vessel he’d visited once or twice before with Moreaux, they were taken to the captain’s quarters for the private game.

An old acquaintance, Captain McElroy greeted Rory with friendly words as he entered and introduced the other three men in the private game of faro. McElroy was house dealer, as usual, then there was a New Orleans banker, his brother-in-law Conway Chandler, and McElroy’s first mate who played casekeeper, operating the abacus for the game already in progress.

Chandler’s name was familiar. A scandal from the newspapers, maybe. The details escaped him. He gave Dell a subtle squeeze as the man was introduced to her, hoping she would focus her attention on him. Notoriety often meant money.

The officer pulled up a chair for Rory and then excused himself from the room. As the players resumed the present game, Rory wrapped an arm around Dell, and she leaned down, giving him a kiss for the audience.

“Good luck,” she whispered into his ear, so low he knew it could only be for his hearing. She assumed an affectionate stance behind his chair, her hands on his shoulders.

The players finished their present contest, then started anew, allowing Rory into the game. He’d learned she preferred her patrons to be drunk or at least drinking heavily, and these men appeared to be in such a condition. A half-empty bottle on the sideboard and four empty glasses told him the players would be ready for her. In short order, she engaged them in conversation, teasing, flirting.

Dissecting their thoughts.

From soda to hock, Rory caught the most bets even down to the end of the round, earning a respectable sum of money. Another round started and ended. This time he didn’t catch as many, hoping to appear straight, earning their trust.

The other players grew bored of the house game and convinced McElroy to cover the snap board with a tablecloth and open a new deck for poker. McElroy shuffled and dealt. Rory flexed his fingers and felt the weight of the new ring. Anticipation and energy rippled through his muscles, and Dell’s hands squeezed him reassuringly. He had no doubt she’d identified at least one of the players’ tells.

In her role, she’d struck up a conversation across the table with Chandler, asking if he played often. He said he didn’t, but when the cards came out of the box, his movements were as automatic as Rory’s, perfectly timed with the casekeeper. The two talked about ladies’ and men’s fashions. She offered them each a drink, which she held out to Chandler on his left side as he kept his cards in his right. When his left hand lifted to accept the glass, Rory noted the ugly scar on the inside of his wrist, previously hidden by his sleeve. He’d kept it protected beneath the table. The question was, why?

“Do you hunt often, Mr. Chandler?” Dell asked, relentless.

“Not in a few years. I have a rifle back home, but as I said, I travel so often.”
Sniff.
He threw back the whiskey and returned the hand quickly to his lap. He’d sniffed at least three times during their conversation already. “Donald, here, used to hunt my land when he visited his sister, my late wife.”

Rory wrapped his hand around Dell’s and squeezed. Yes, he saw the tell. The woman was a marvel!

“Really, sir, you shouldn’t feel embarrassed for the accident. It happens to even the best bowhunters.”

“What do you mean? I said I haven’t been hunting. Not in ages.” He chuckled, glancing nervously around the table.

Rory’s skin crawled with sudden recognition. He saw the headlines in his mind.
Mrs. Lucretia Chandler Missing.
Then a couple of weeks later,
Mrs. Lucretia Chandler’s Body Found Murdered.

“The wound on your wrist…where the string broke drawing back. I’ve seen worse.” She shrugged.

Miller leaned back, regarding Chandler with an expression of disbelief, while his brother-in-law’s face went ashen. His gaze moved from Dell down to Rory and back. He smirked. “I told you, lady, I haven’t been hunting in years. This scratch on my arm? Well, that’s just where I caught it on a nail head.”
Sniff sniff.

McElroy’s eyes widened. The tension between Chandler, his brother-in-law, and Dell snuffed out all other sound in the gaming room. Rory’s muscles tightened and he shifted. “Damnation! Gentlemen, I have to fold. This is the worst hand I’ve had all week.” He placed the cards face down on the table so no would see the three aces and two queens. “Would you mind if the lady and I took some air on the deck for a moment?”

Without waiting for their answer, Rory led the way. Outside, he hurried her along the narrow deck toward the gangway.

“What did I do wrong? What did I say?” she whispered.

Rory reached inside his coat for his gun. Several feet ahead, an officer sat by the ramp in a deck chair, feet propped on the rail, but seeing them and Rory’s pistol, he stood. “Where’re you going so soon?” he called out, likely thinking the worst of them for fleeing the table in a rush. He reached in his own coat, and Dell saw the flash of metal.

“Hell,” Rory ground out. He froze, cocked the hammer of his pistol, and glanced over Dell’s shoulder in the direction they’d come from.

An argument broke within the gaming room, and the door opened.

“Don’t you get the newspaper in Posey Hollow?” Rory asked softly and pushed Dell to stand behind him, away from the approaching gunman. “Chandler’s wife went missing three weeks ago. He was supposedly upriver traveling at the time, so no one accused him. They found her body in a Louisiana swamp two weeks ago with what they thought was an Indian arrow in her trachea. You just identified her murderer, Dell.”

Chandler was on the deck now, closing in on Dell. She grabbed a deck chair. Folded, it made a good shield. Rory regretted he hadn’t armed her with a pistol, too, before they’d left the
Queen Helen
. He could shoot one of the men, but probably not both. Running out of options, he aimed at the gunman. If he had to get shot a second time that week, let it be while trying to save the woman’s life.

He made a silent prayer. He’d broken his vow to protect her. If she got hurt—or worse—it was his fault.

“Rory, can you still swim?” Dell stared out at the river with intensity in her eyes.

He grinned. “Like a fish.”

She hurled the chair at Chandler, catching him in the groin, then hoisted her skirts to climb onto the rail. The officer turned his aim on Dell at the last second. Rory fired at the man as she jumped over the side into the black water. His shot hit the gunman’s hand, causing him to drop his pistol. Behind him, Chandler recovered, headed Rory’s way. He sailed over the rail to follow Dell.

The drop was short and the impact clean, rocketing him into the deep. The frigid pressure of the Mississippi immediately closed around him. The current pulled him, but it wasn’t impossibly strong. He’d swum in the river when it had been colder once before when Moreaux’s cheating had gotten them into a jam with some ruffians in Minnesota. Now with a few powerful strokes, he broke the surface some yards away from the vessel and gasped for air. His first thought was for Dell, and he located her bobbing ahead of him. She was watching the
Argo
above, and he followed her gaze. Chandler and the gunmen leaned over the railing, but as Dell and Rory half-swam and half-floated in the current, their enemies seemed to have trouble seeing them in the darkness. Or perhaps they’d decided to let the Mississippi finish the job for them, forever silencing Dell and her “vision.”

The swim to the
Queen Helen
wasn’t long, but the weight of Dell’s sodden petticoats appeared to drag her under. Rory swam for her as she fought the pull. She rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rising at fewer and fewer intervals.

His heart in his throat, Rory dove underwater. He couldn’t see anything, but his hands found her. She pulled at the dress, clearly panicking as she kicked and flailed. He tried to pull her up for more air, but the dress became an iron anvil. Tethered to it, she would soon sink to her death unless he freed her. His fingers went to the buttons and pulled them. One gave way, then another, popping with his practiced tugs, again and again, all the way to her waist. He wrapped an arm around her chest and swam at an angle, pulling her loose from the garment that would kill her. Her small hands fought him, then clung to him, as she seemed to realize his intent. As the dress eventually sank, she became buoyant again, and propelled with him toward the surface as if shot from a sling.

He kept hold of her as he tread, both coughing as air entered their lungs again. She spat and buckled, cursing like a sailor between gasps. The sound was music to Rory’s ears, and his relief was so great, he couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

Hearing him, Dell turned in the circle of his arms and fell against him for stability to catch her breath. Her lean legs moved between his in the flow of the water.

“Rory, t-t-those m-m-men?”

“They won’t come after us. We’re almost there. Can you swim now?”

She pulled away and gave a test kick. “Yes.”

Rory followed her as they swam for the lights of the
Queen
.

He half-threw himself onto the gangplank as soon it came within reach. Extending a hand to Dell, he pulled her up. Panting and sore in his bandaged arm, he rolled onto his back, his wet clothing clinging to him like a second skin.

Hearing nothing from Dell, he lifted his head. Her eyes traveled over him. The water had been icy, and she’d nearly drowned. She could be in shock.

He reached for her. “Are you all right?”

Her cheek was as cold as marble, like his hand, but she didn’t shrink from his caress. “I’m fine. Just a little surprised and grateful for your…skills.”

He smoothed the sodden hair back from her face. “Likewise. You were amazing back there.”

“Are you sure they won’t follow us?”

“Not onto Quintus’s boat. McElroy will likely put Chandler off the first chance he gets.”

“What about the other gunman?”

“With a hole in his hand? He won’t be shooting at anyone else for a while.”

Her teeth chattered when she attempted to smile, and he suddenly realized he was doing the same. They needed heat immediately. He felt her breath, and its warmth gave him an idea—a wicked, wonderful idea. She stared at him through half-lidded, sensual eyes as if she’d had the same thought, and he felt the pull of something strong—stronger than the Mississippi—drawing him toward her. It was all the encouragement he needed.

Banishing thoughts of their present location from his mind, he sank a hand in her wet hair and drew her against him. His lips touched hers, and when she opened to him, his tongue swept inside, seeking her heat. The resulting sensation was instant fire. She kissed him back, sliding her tongue along his. When his hands moved down her chest to the cold damp swell of her breasts, the numbness in his fingers gave way to pleasant, warm prickles. Her small hands framed his face as she kissed him back, pressing her soft curves against the hard wall of his body. Half drowned and frozen, he’d never felt so alive in all his miserable life.

He longed to burrow into her heat and spread his own warmth inside her. But not here where anyone walking on the promenade might see.

He broke the kiss, and she sighed softly, as if disappointed. He smiled inside and out. Nuzzling her ear, he spoke raggedly, “I believe we both have dry clothes in our bedroom. I reckon you’ll need help getting out of that corset too.”

He stood and helped her up. She glanced down as if noticing for the first time how exposed she was, wearing only a corset and drawers. Given more light, Rory felt certain he’d be able to see her feminine parts just as easily as if she were naked.

“That won’t be neces-s-sary.”

Her response was prim as usual, but her slurred speech gave him pause. He needed to get her warm and dry quickly.

Movement and music inside the windows of the
Queen
told him the gambling would go on for hours more. The decks seemed to be empty, but he couldn’t be certain. He pulled off his dripping coat and slid it around her shoulders. He offered her his good arm, and they returned to the
Queen
and his stateroom where he could warm them both to his heart’s content.

Chapter Fifteen

Once they were safely inside the cabin, Dell shrugged off Rory’s wet coat while he lit a lantern. Glancing down at her sodden appearance, she was mortified. Beneath the tangle of her hair her breasts glistened like twin moons over the tight corset. The damp cotton of her thin drawers could’ve been gauze, pasted over her skin. But fear, not cold, froze her between the door and the captain’s bed.

When she’d accepted his challenge the day before, she’d not been in control. She’d been a fool to think she could stop herself from allowing whatever he wanted. If he removed her clothes now, touching her as he’d done before, nothing would prevent her from yielding to her desire. But had she ever wanted to stop?

The cold made her shudder, but in the dim light, Rory’s emerald eyes cast warmth over her as he admired her body. He yanked off Asa’s ring followed by his drooping cravat, depositing them on the dresser, then made quick work of his shirt buttons. Encased in his shiny wet clothing, he’d never looked more delicious. His black pants clung to his long legs, and she couldn’t help ogling at him again as she had on the gangway.

He grimaced while removing his shirt. Recalling his injury, she went to aid him. She could barely control her jerky movements as she helped peel the shirt off his arms, exposing his wound.

“You n-n-need a new bandage. You’ll g-get an infection.”

“Later. I’ll be fine.”

He cupped a hand to her shoulder, sliding it down her arm to take her hand in his. With a look of concern, he pulled her toward the bed. He went behind her and worked quickly down the lacing of her undergarment. She pulled her hair out of his way and felt his warm breath wafting across the backs of her shoulders. Each tiny tug brought her more relief and more heat as his lips replaced the touch of his breath. His kisses floated across her skin as he worked, creating a line of fire. She should stop him, but like earlier, she felt helpless beneath his touch.

The corset fell away, and she cupped her breasts to shield them. His hands slid inside the drawstring closure of her soggy drawers to her bottom, rounding over her curves as he removed her underwear, until she stood naked before him, quaking uncontrollably from the frigid river. The room grayed in her vision, and she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the comfortable fuzzy haze. Stay awake. At any moment, she would likely slide to the floor from hypothermia or faint from the way her brain rattled inside her chattering skull. Her eyelids drooped closed. Oh, the sheer embarrassment of it all. First, calling out a murderer and ruining Rory’s game, then nearly drowning them both, and now this…dying slowly as she stood naked in his bedroom.

Vaguely she heard a clink and the sound of a bottle stopper. Then whiskey vapors burned in her nose as the rim of a glass touched her lips. A warm hand held her jaw steady, then she swallowed the liquid fire.

Warmth surrounded her suddenly. She forced her eyes open and found she was wrapped in a soft blanket in the circle of Rory’s arms. He carried her to the middle of the bed and climbed beneath the covers with her. Her cheeks went hot, thinking him naked, until she felt the caress of fine cotton against her side and realized he’d put breeches on while her eyes had been shut. She wriggled to give him space.

“Be still while I warm you.”

His whispered command roused suspicion in her sluggish brain. How did he intend to do that?

His hand rested on her bare stomach as his lips pressed against her neck. Delight curled through her as she felt the tip of his tongue trace her skin, his teeth grazing over her collarbone. His warm breath rushed out as he spoke across her, “I dreamt of you this way, but the reality is infinitely better.”

His thoughtful ministrations were too much, causing her composure to crumble. With the help of the whiskey that he’d poured down her throat, she found her voice. “I’m sorry I ruined your g-game. I’m s-sorry about Molly’s dress, and—”

“Philadelphia.” He pushed up on one elbow to look down at her, and his hair fell in shaggy waves around his face, reminding her of when he was an awkward youth. Charming. “That game meant nothing. It was supposed to be practice for you, and you were brilliant. The dress—I confess you were fetching in that dress, but I’ll buy Molly another. I’ll buy you scads more. I’m the one who should be apologizin’ for taking you there with little protection. I should grovel at your lovely feet.” He kissed the valley of her throat and his hair brushed her chin. He murmured, “Actually, I think I will.”

The bed shifted under his weight and he disappeared underneath the blanket. She lifted her head to see what he was doing when his large form maneuvered beneath the covers. Again she wondered at his intentions until she felt his coarse hands curling around her calves and his lips on the soles of her feet.

The tickle of his stubbled mouth sent vibrations humming through her. She squealed and clawed the bed, struggling against the impulse to kick. “Stop, stop!” she laughed.

Obediently, he left her feet, turning his kisses to her ankles, causing waves of heat to travel up her limbs. Higher and higher, his lips inched over her, pressing more tiny kisses along the inside of her leg.

Suddenly Rosemary Hughes’s priggish life as a schoolmistress dimmed in comparison to tonight’s adventures.

“Is it working?” he murmured between kisses.

“What? Oh. Yes.”

There was no mistaking either his intentions or the slow boil of her blood when his hands moved beneath her legs and bent her knees. His mouth scraped softly along her inner thigh. Edging steadily higher, rhythmic sensations alternated along her sensitive skin—the chafe of his stubble, the sweet pass of his lips, the nibble and tug of his teeth, and the dart of his tongue—all converging to bring life back into her flesh. His mouth moved into the hollow place at the top of her thigh.

Her shaking hands plunged beneath the cover and found him, cupping his face. “Rory, you can’t! It’s indecent.”

He lifted his mouth. “Is this you sayin’ I’m doing something you don’t want? I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

Damn! She wished she could see him. She could hear the roguish smile in his voice. He had her, and he knew it. She longed for him to continue. Her toes curled tight on the bed, bracing for the heat of his mouth. His breath told her he hovered just above the folds of her skin. So close, she had only to lift her hips and his mouth would connect. His gentle hands slid back and forth along the underside of her thighs, stoking heat along her cramping muscles. His mouth would feel exquisite.

The bed shifted again. His body stretched long against her leg, and dear God, his head rested against her hip. There! The gentle weight brought an ache deep inside her—an emptiness she needed to fill.

“I’m snug and warm down here, but I’m waitin’ for your answer.”

She swallowed, but for the life of her, she couldn’t tell him no. It simply felt too extraordinary. He didn’t wait long for her permission, however. His fingertips trailed back and forth in a line along the inside of her hip, closer and closer, until they slid into her needy valley. She jerked with surprise, but the weight of his head kept her still, at his mercy for his next move.

He turned his face into her, kissing her there, as his finger dipped back and forth. Glorious pressure built with each thrust, awakening the rest of her body. One of her hands cupped the back of his head, while the other clenched at her hip, struggling for the last threads of her composure as he opened her legs farther and replaced his hand with his mouth. His tongue swept inside, and she moaned with delight at the heat it brought. In and out, he kept the same tempo, while his hands splayed against her thighs. Her muscles wobbled uncontrollably around him, though now from need, not chill. A maestro creating music with his tongue, he brought her to the brink with his rhythm of savoring, thrusting and nibbling.

But her need grew more powerful with every sensation. Whatever it took to fill that need, she would have it done.

She knew in a heartbeat what she must have. Him. All of him. Inside her.

As if he’d read her mind, he lifted his head and drifted over her, spreading kisses along her stomach and ribs, pausing to suckle at her breasts. He pulled one at a time into his mouth, swiping his talented tongue over and around the aching nipples. While his mouth continued to play with one charged bud, he kneaded her other breast, and she wrapped her arms around his strong shoulders. His hips shifted against her, and his heavy erection strained through his breeches against her leg. She reached for his waistband, and he shot out a hand, catching her wrist. She gasped, surprised at the quickness of his reflexes.

He rose up from under the blanket to stare down at her, his face and lips flushed as the corners of his mouth quirked in that way that both irritated and delighted her. “Slow down, angel. You don’t want our sport to end too soon, do you?”

Shame warmed her skin but she refused to admit she didn’t know what he meant. She could only shake her head no, thus earning an enthusiastic grin from him. Standing on his knees as the covers dropped around him, he slid his hands inside his breeches and pushed the clothing down. Curiosity made her peek, pushing up on one elbow, and her mouth fell open at the sight. She’d never seen male flesh before—at least not on purpose, not like walking up on a farmer taking a pee outside a barn—and the sight of Rory’s engorged flesh brought her fear crashing back. She’d heard of the pain of joining with a man. He’d looked away, busy discarding his clothing, and she was thankful for the time to regain control.

When he returned to her, he settled against her side and pressed his lips against her cheek so tenderly her panic dissolved like sand through a sieve. His wounded arm rested across her chest as he stroked her jawline with his thumb. “You make me crazy for you, Dell.”

He kissed her along her hairline, while his fingers made lazy circles around her nipples. His lips covered hers, and he showed her the strength of his need, slashing his mouth against hers. His tongue pushed inside, and she felt his organ, so heavy on her stomach as he moved over her. His lips ground against hers, gnawing, his hand holding the side of her face, tracing her bottom lip with the tip of his finger, urging her to allow him deeper still. And she did. She tilted her hips beneath him, bumping her maidenhead against the tip of his cock.

He broke the kiss and lifted his bed-ruffled head. His eyes were hooded with desire as he gazed down at her, glorious and leonine. He pushed her legs open wider. With a hand on her hip, he straightened, lifting, and Dell squeezed her eyes shut, ready for the impact.

His hands froze on her body. A second passed. Then another. She cracked her eyes open.

He frowned and caressed her cheek. “Dell? Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m just bracing.”

“You’re what?”

“Bracing. For the pain, you know.” She moved her shoulder in a half shrug, her cheeks heating, mortified. “I’m told it hurts at first.” Hellfire, what if those silly Sharpe girls from home had actually been fooling?

“‘At first?’” he mumbled, sinking to the bed beside her. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, and his expression made it clear he didn’t like what he saw. “You really haven’t known a lover.”

“No.” She’d never told him any different, but her lack of experience hadn’t deterred him from anything else he’d felt he needed to teach her.

His expression shifted. He picked at a strand of her hair, idly playing with it while he sat thinking.

She didn’t like his hesitation. She wanted to rise up, put her mouth to his and show him what she wanted. Him. Here. Now. The hell with propriety! She’d been a pariah all her life, why stop now? Besides, the Cumberland School in Peoria was a long ways east from the Mississippi River. No one there would know where she’d been, who she was, or what she’d done.

He exhaled raggedly and leaned close, giving her exactly what she’d hoped for, a fierce kiss. But it ended all too soon.

He stroked her cheek, holding her eyes with his. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of, but no one can say I’ve ever been the first to soil a dove.”

She wet her lips. “Rory, I—”

He pushed off the bed and retrieved his pants. His hands shook as he yanked the breeches over his sculpted legs and buttocks. He muttered, “Shoulda known. Idiot!”

Dell knew he didn’t mean her, but the idea of her being something he regretted rubbed salt in her wound.

Clasping the blanket to her chest, she sat up and swung her legs off the bed. “You’re older than me, but we’re both adults now. I’m not contagious.”

“I know that!” He cut his eyes away, looking angrier by the minute. When she stood, he held a hand out as if warding her off. “Just stay there. You move any closer, and we’ll both be sorry.” Barefoot, he padded over to the dresser, yanked open a drawer and dug violently through its contents until he pulled out another blanket.

“Look, you can sleep here. It’s your room.”

He shook his head stubbornly, sitting on the floor to tug on his boots.

Coward! The word hovered at the back of her mouth like a loaded slingshot. She ought to say it—to make him realize that was exactly how he was acting toward her, as well as toward the sleeping arrangements and his boss. Her eyes stung with tears of humiliation, but hell if she’d let him see her crying over his sorry ass! Most white men in Posey Hollow would’ve turned her away if they’d known she was mixed, or for being illegitimate, a fortuneteller, or because of her family’s moonshine, but Rory turned her away for being a virgin? Her heart beat so hard it hurt.

She huffed. “I’ll take the floor if you want, it wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve slept in worse places. You can’t leave the room like that.” She waved a hand at his crotch where he still stood firmly at attention—apparently having forgotten to tell that part of him that he was done with her.

“I’ll send Molly to check on ya.” He grabbed his folded blanket with a growl. Using it as a shield, he stalked to the door. “Can’t sleep. Don’t sleep. That’s the problem.”

He flung the door open and slammed it shut behind him.