Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (7 page)

Chapter Nine

Dell awoke to the sound of her stomach growling. Her deep sleep combined with the pitch darkness of the room disoriented her. Where was she? What time was it? She sat up, feeling a soft coverlet fall away from her body. Not home. In her own bed, Sarah would’ve stolen the entire cover—a rough quilt with stuffing hanging from its threadbare patches.

Then the sound of water lapping outside brought her memory crashing back to the present. She swung her legs over the side and stood. This was Rory’s bed. And she was wearing the same clothes.

She’d slept the entire day. Why hadn’t they awakened her?

She felt her way to the wall and pushed back the curtains. Moonlight lit the dark woods surrounding the boat along with weak lantern light. Apparently at port, they teetered on the end of mooring lines. She groped along the wall until she felt the cold brass doorknob. When she stepped out, her foot struck something on the ground, making a cacophony of sounds—metal and glass.

Light reflected off a tray and a bottle of wine.

Dell smiled. Even pirates could be gracious hosts. She brought the tray inside and devoured its contents—tasteless canned beans, corn, and blackberry cobbler—in minutes. Stomach full yet wide-awake, she went out, leaving the tray where she’d found it. Owl-eyed in the darkness, she felt her way along the deck’s rail.

Wolves started a plaintive symphony in the nearby woods, and although the sound was as familiar to her as breathing, she still felt hair rise on her arms. She looked for the chairs she’d seen that morning. With luck, she might find a deer to watch as it wandered to the Chickasaw Landing riverbank for a midnight drink.

Rounding the helm, she spotted the form of someone strung between the two seats in a swatch of soft lantern light. A gray wool blanket spread across the man from head to shoes. Curious. Who would want to sleep in such a place? She crept closer to see, but her toe bumped the man’s holstered gun on the ground, causing a rattle that roused him. The blanket dropped, revealing Rory’s tousled sandy head, and a book fell from his lap to the deck.

Blinking at her, he murmured, “It’s usually considered good form to allow the captain a quiet night’s sleep.”

At the same moment, a whippoorwill broke into a noisy cadence.

She grinned. “Sleep? Here? I’d hardly call this quiet.” Nevertheless she tried to match his lowered voice.

He eased upright, sliding his gun under the chair. “True. Before you collected your dinner tray, I had the pleasure of listening to some beavers thrashing in the water doing God-knows-what. Join me.” His teeth flashed in a groggy smile.

She glimpsed the title on the book’s cover.
The Count of Monte Cristo
. Fitting for a gambler, she supposed. Her opinion of him elevated a notch.

“I can’t believe you didn’t wake me. I’ve never slept so long in my life.” Dell settled in the chair across from him. Feeling the brush of his knees against her skirt, she sidled away.

His eyes glittered with mischief. “I suspected as much. Although we missed your company, I wanted you to rest. You have a big day tomorrow, thirteen years or so overdue.”

“You’re not”—she gestured at the gun beneath the chair and swallowed—“guarding my door, are you?”

He grunted. “No. Should I? Are you considerin’ jumping overboard to join the mosquito minions of Chickasaw Landing? We’re several hours away from Memphis yet.”

She’d meant he might be guarding her from his men. She rolled her eyes. “No. It hadn’t crossed my mind. I’ve nowhere to go.”

“I always carry a gun on the river. Habit. My boss has his enemies, and his enemies are mine.”

As a woman who carried her own rifle, she knew she shouldn’t be surprised he felt the need to arm himself, but she was. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Why aren’t you in the quarters with your men?”

“My men say I’m a poor bedmate, but I, ah, don’t recall any ladies complaining.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Of course, I can’t remember getting much sleep on those occasions, either.”

Dell wrinkled her nose at his brazenness. The wind stirred her hair, reminding her she’d left it unbound. She trembled and pulled the heavy waves close to cover the back of her neck.

“You’re cold. May I?” He extended the blanket, and Dell nodded.

He stood and enveloped her in both the warm cover and his arms, pulling her into his lap. Dell squeaked in protest, but he immediately settled her snugly against him. His strong arms wrapped securely around her so she couldn’t wriggle free, and he tucked his chin against the curve of her shoulder. He murmured dreamily, “Warmer already.”

Awareness flared heat into her cheeks. In his movement, she’d seen his shirt was completely unbuttoned and untucked from his trousers so that her back now rested against his naked skin. She cleared her throat, grappling for civility in the face of her panic. “You must think me the biggest bumpkin.”

He smiled, slowly chafing heat into her arms. “Not in the least. The crew is spellbound. I fought the riffraff all day to keep them from knocking at your door. They’re dying to have their fortunes read.”

“Would you like me to read yours?”

Oh, God, why ask? How fickle she must seem, professing her retirement from cards earlier only to offer to read now.

“Another time perhaps.” His lips moved close to her ear, and his breath whispered across her neck.

Needing to distract herself from his tempting nearness, she asked, “Do you really need a gun? I know Quintus is a gambler, but is his lifestyle honestly as dangerous as that?”

Rory went still. “There are moments…but I promise I’ll keep you safe.” His thumb drummed on her arm.

A lie.

Or least something he felt uncomfortable about. Dell twisted to face him, feeling the angry thrum of her heart. “I don’t believe you. What sort of danger are you bringing me into?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. I’m good with pistols. I’m good with lots of things.” His voice held a smile, and he flicked the top button of her dress open with the tiniest motion of his index finger.

“Stop that.” Shock zinged through her. She planted her hands on his shoulders to push away, but he resisted, anchoring her in the circle of his brawny arms. “Let me go! Stop teasing. You’re trying to distract me. I demand to know what trouble you’re bringing Jeremiah and me into.”

“You demand?” His laughter vibrated his chest beneath her palms. “Lady, you can’t make demands on my ship. The cardsharps who frequent Moreaux’s gaming salons are a different breed than the fur traders and muleskinners you know. They’d as soon put a bullet in your chest than lose a hand of cards, but as long as you’re with me, you’ve got no one to worry about.” He ran his index finger gently along her cheek. “’Cept maybe me.”

A sharp retort sprang to her tongue, but the hungry look in his eyes froze her. His gaze fell to her mouth, and he eased forward. Anticipation held her captive as his lips brushed over hers, warm and gentle, fitting like the missing half of a pair. Her eyelids fell shut against the sparks in her mind, and she swore she felt them ignite, the heat flowing up her chest and neck.

When he sat back, she opened her eyes to find him regarding her through dark eyes of his own.

Wanting more, she folded her lips together, savoring the wondrous sensation of his mouth on hers a moment longer.

“Did you see that coming, angel?” he whispered.

His teasing words were like ice water in her face. “I see everything I want to see. Be serious.” Truth be told, she was glad she wasn’t standing at the moment. His surprising kiss could’ve swept her feet out from under her. She looked down at him haughtily. She’d show him she wasn’t to be played with. There’d been other men who’d tried to spread her legs, who’d kissed her first—though never as sweet and seductive as Rory’s kiss. But she’d bested every man, found their weaknesses, turned their superstitions against them. Rory wasn’t any different. He thought to bring her back to his boss like a prize? Well, she was nobody’s trophy! “What makes you think you can kiss me, Captain?”

His hand slid behind her head. He smirked. “You’re the one who came to me. Now”—he twined his fingers in the back of her hair and murmured—“let me kiss you properly.”

Dell refused to come any closer, but he bent his knees, propping his feet up on the other chair and causing her to fall against his body. Her hands flattened on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the linen of his shirt. His lips covered hers again, and his hand caressed the back of her neck in a gesture so tender and intimate, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. The tip of his tongue touched her bottom lip in request. She couldn’t deny her curiosity a moment longer, so she opened for him, allowing his tongue to seek hers.

He tasted of smoke and rum, provocative and forbidden as he coaxed her, melting her inside and out, until she gave way and parried, matching movement for movement.

When she fell fully into his erotic dance, he purred low in his throat. His fingertips trailed up and down her neck, stroking her skin with care, but his lips were urgent. She drank him in, following her instinct to dissolve in his embrace, allowing him to deepen his exploration. Her fingers fumbled under his open shirt, questing for his skin and finding the fine hair of his chest.

Rory turned his head, taking in a deep breath. His hands covered hers. “I was wrong. Maybe you’re the dangerous one.”

Dell bit her bottom lip as she tried to corral her racing heart. Suddenly uncomfortable in his lap, she readjusted, and he groaned. She discovered the reason for her discomfort—his rigid organ strained against her backside.

Rory tapped her chin with a light fingertip. “If you’re after respectability like you claim, you’ll not find it with me. Understand?”

Dell nodded and untangled herself from him. His arms fell away as she cast off his blanket and stood. Perhaps it was the wine she’d drunk or the heady comfort of his warm body, but she immediately wished she’d stayed put, enjoying more of his kisses. She hugged herself, looking at his boots, the deck, anywhere but at him that he might know her thoughts.

“Unless”—he shifted and spread his arms across the back of the chair in an invitation for her to feast over the naked muscles of his chest—“you’d rather lower your standards like your mama and wallow in decadence with the rest of us.”

“Like my mama?” Dell huffed. “Damn you! My mama was a decent woman. That’s why she got me out of that kind of life. One kiss—two kisses—doesn’t make me one of your tarts, Gory Rory. And you kissed me. I never asked you, I never gave you permission.”

He lifted a mocking brow. “You sure didn’t try very hard to refuse me.”

Dell spun away and headed back to the captain’s quarters. She heard him mutter an indignant “Gory Rory?”

His laughter rang in her ears as she closed the door.

“I’m fine. You’re the one I’m worried about,” Dell whispered. “Are you sure you’re not mad at me for getting you into this?”

Jeremiah sat upright in his bunk beside her, but with his ribs bound in thick bandages and an eye swelled shut, he looked miserable. Still, he made no complaints, sitting when Dell entered the empty men’s quarters that morning, and now her friend insisted on receiving her as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“How could I be mad, Dell? They were going to kill me. They would have, too, if Ephraim hadn’t beaten the hell out of me himself. He didn’t want to lose the money he invested in me, but everyone expected him to punish me.” Jeremiah sighed, cutting his eyes away from her. “It was fast-thinking, what you and the captain did. But…I heard one of the crew talking last night. He said Campbell cleans up after their boss, Quintus Moreaux. They called the captain the Devil’s Henchman.”

An apt nickname. A feeling of foreboding sent goose bumps up her arms. What would it mean for Rory to “clean up” after a gambler? Exactly what would that entail for a steamboat captain? Fast getaways upriver? Or maybe something to do with the pistol she’d seen under his chair last night. The memory of that gun troubled her. But not as much as facing Rory again after their intimate exchange and heated words. She ran a finger across her lips, remembering his devastating kisses and exquisitely tender touch.

Earlier, when she’d finally gotten the nerve to open her door that morning, she’d found the captain gone and Frederick, the freedman, standing behind the wheel. She’d demanded to see Jeremiah, and surprisingly, he’d let her.

“I’m not worried about this man Moreaux. He might be my master now, but what more can he do to me than what other men have done?” Jeremiah seethed, flexing his hands in his lap. “Besides, I’d trade farm labor for steamship work any day of the week. But…those gaming parlors of his aren’t for young ladies. You’ll get yourself caught in some shootout over a hand of cards gone bad, and—”

Dell held up a quelling hand. “I’m not staying long enough for that. Don’t worry. And I can take care of myself. I’ve done it all my life.”

Jeremiah nodded. “I believe you have.” He slipped his hand in hers and gave it a tentative squeeze. “They’re taking me to a hospital for slaves in the city. Frederick said it’s a good one. He also said he was granted his rights in court and that Moreaux would do the same for me if I worked hard enough.” His voice cracked, trailing off. His split lip failed to stop his smile.

Dell grimaced on a stab of empathy. “Yes. That’s part of the agreement Rory and I made. I’m still sorry about this mess.” She felt the aura of his happiness, and strangely, it made her uncomfortable. She withdrew her hand from his. “Tell me about the boy Asa, the sick one who’s staying in here with the rest of you. Did anyone say what’s wrong with him?”

“Malaria. It comes and goes. He was fine this morning. He’s a smart boy. He bandaged my ribs, babbling the whole time about river navigation and Moreaux’s fleet. They run three large steamboats on the Mississippi.”

A wave of sadness swept over her for the orphan, much like herself and Rory too. With a liver sickness like malaria, he’d be dependent on others the rest of his life—if he even had long to live. It would be wonderful if Asa had some rich relative to take him away like in one of those exciting stories she’d read by Mr. Charles Dickens. Her own stepfather was wealthy. He must be a better person than Rory and the crew let on, taking in orphans and freeing slaves. Contrary to what she’d been told in Sunday sermons, she knew gambling did not necessarily make one evil or a “devil.” And after all, Quintus had gone to the trouble and expense of sending his captain all the way to the Ozarks to find her. He couldn’t be completely bad, as her aunt had made him out to be. Maybe he’d become kinder after all these years.