“Bishop must have lost his mind,” Paco muttered when they entered the coffeehouse; he was fortified with whiskey and determination, but still had reservations. “A man can get himself killed in this place.”
“It’s the only place we won’t arouse too much suspicion by meeting our contacts.”
“Sí, but we look more like easy marks than patrons,” Paco grumbled.
Steve grinned. “You always look like an easy mark. It’s your innocent face that gives you away.”
"¡Mierda!" Paco swore, then laughed. “Only you would think I have an innocent face, amigo. Your wife sees right through me. I saw her today, down at the docks as she was riding back with Girard. She has a way with her, you know, and somehow I let it slip that you would not be staying with us the entire way to Mexico. Por Dios, but she can make me say things I had no intention of saying, and then I stand there like a fool trying to explain it away.”
“I know the feeling. Don’t worry, I’ll handle Ginny.”
It was said more confidently than he felt at the moment. Christ, Paco was right. Ginny had a way of making him say things he regretted later.
“Is that O’Brien?” Paco indicated a beefy man with a scarred face; he was carrying a huge oak cudgel and with him was a man who looked equally rough, both of them cut from the same coarse cloth.
“Yeah, looks like both of them.”
Matt and Hugh O’Brien had grown up in the Live Oaks gang. Their father had died five years before while drunkenly trying to rob a fisherman from a rowboat on the Mississippi River. In their midtwenties now, the men were notorious troublemakers around Gallatin Street, always ready to make money at any task except an honest living. They had the kind of connections that could be useful in this hellish underworld of crime.
After buying a round of drinks—the Irish whiskey little more than neutral spirits with a half pint of creosote dumped into it—Steve got right down to business.
“I’m told you gentlemen have the merchandise we need.”
The older O’Brien, Hugh Jr., looked at him with narrow eyes that were as flat and black as a lizard’s. “Maybe we do. Maybe we don’t. I ain’t seed no money yet.”
“You were paid a conscription on order. You get the rest when the merchandise is delivered to the docks.”
Steve met his gaze with the same cold expression. It was a familiar game, a poker bluff to see who blinked first.
“Yeah, well, we had more trouble than we thought we was,” O’Brien growled. “That warehouse was locked tighter’n a whore’s purse, and we had to git rid of a guard that we didn’t expect.”
“That’s not my problem.” Steve eyed him, aware that the younger man was shifting from foot to foot, his hands still wrapped tightly around the neck of the heavy cudgel capable of taking off a man’s head in one blow. “We had a deal. It’s up to you if you want the rest of the money.”
After a short silence, O’Brien jerked his head in a nod. “I’ll git the rifles to the dock. You just git me my money.”
“How many?”
“Two thousand, maybe more. Hell, there’s enough crates to reach from here to Canal Street, end to end. Somebody at the Custom House is going to be pissed as hell that they ain’t there no more. Took us damn near all night to load them sonsabitches on wagons and git ’em took off and hid. We should git a bonus fer that.”
A heavy layer of smoke drifted in the close, dark saloon, smelling of tobacco, whiskey and stale sweat. It was rife with danger as well, and belligerence that could prove deadly.
“Your efforts won’t go unrewarded, gentlemen,” Steve said easily. “Just have the rifles at the dock by midnight tonight. We sail in the morning.”
It was ironic, Steve thought, that the United States government was providing ammunition to a Mexican dictator—or to his successor. Whichever man promised to come out the victor in this latest rebellion would receive the sanction of the powerful nation to the north. He could remember how discreetly Juarez had been given assistance in his struggle to keep the French from taking Mexico, to ensure that Mexico was kept in the hands of the people instead of a foreign power that might be a threat to the security of the United States.
As usual, it had to be silent aid, with no overt tones of interference. “A most delicate situation,” Bishop called it in his typical dry understatement. “Of course, if you are discovered…”
It went without saying that they were on their own. Steve, with his connections to Mexico, would be assumed to be acting in his own interests, as would Paco Davis. They were the natural men to assign this task, and as appointed ambassador, Steve was less likely to be searched or suspect upon his arrival in Mexico. Yes, it was perfect.
Except for the complication Ginny could provide if she balked or created a scene when she learned that he would be more involved in the rebellion than he had told her.
“I begin to think it most inconvenient that you brought your wife with you,” Bishop had said, his gimlet gaze holding no hint of the disapproval he voiced. “She has been known to be a distraction in the past.”
“If I’d left her behind, she was liable to come after me and be even more of a distraction,” Steve replied shortly. “And you know what she can do when she’s angry.”
Paco had smothered a laugh quickly at Bishop’s sharp glance, but it was obvious they shared the same opinion: Ginny was always an unknown quantity.
“Keep her happy, Mr. Morgan,” Bishop had said then, but his meaning was plain. “She will be useful to us with Lerdo and Díaz, but only if she is content. I trust you will do all in your power to affect that end.”
“Keeping Ginny content is my main mission in life,” he had replied dryly, and saw a faint, rewarding flicker darken Bishop’s eyes. “She creates too much havoc when she’s not happy with me.”
But there was more to it than that. Dammit, didn’t he and Ginny deserve some kind of peace? Once all this was over and Mexico was not in turmoil, he meant to see to it.
10
On their last night in New Orleans, her trunks were packed and stood against one wall in the sitting room on the ground floor, but Ginny paced the thick gold carpets of the second-floor bedroom, waiting for Steve to return. A lamp burned with low light; the windows were open to allow in fresh air and the sound of his arrival. He’d been gone all day. No doubt by now Paco had told him about their meeting, warned him that she’d be waiting for him with questions.
How like Steve, to avoid her when he didn’t want to deal with inconvenient questions!
She intended to be calm when he finally arrived, but this time she would not let him distract her from finding out his intentions, no matter what he did. This time, there would be no secrets between them.
In spite of her resolutions, however, Ginny found her temper and her patience strained when Steve arrived. He did nothing to avoid it, of course, sauntering in well after midnight when she had long given up and gone to bed, waking her as he shut the bedroom door. A single lamp illuminated the room, leaving it in pale light and deep shadows.
Ginny considered feigning sleep, but she somehow gave herself away and saw through slitted eyes that he knew she was awake. Indignant, she sat up, glaring at him.
“Did you know, my love,” he said softly, “that your eyes glow like a panther’s in this light? All green fire and hot flames. Is that passion I see, or should I prepare to defend myself?”
“You should prepare to answer my questions,” she began tartly, but he shrugged and yawned, obviously intent upon ignoring her as he sank onto a chair and tugged off his boots, then let them drop to the floor.
“I’m surprised you’re still awake, Ginny, when it’s so late and we have to get up early. I hope you’re packed, and that you aren’t trying to take half of New Orleans’s dress shops with you.”
“Tessie finished packing for me.” She pulled the coverlet up to her neck, eyeing him narrowly as he stood up and shrugged out of his shirt, then began to unbuckle his belt. The muted clink of his b
uckle sounded loud in the soft gloom. “Where have you been? With Bishop? Have you decided yet if you’re going to stay with me, or if you’re going to go running all over Mexico or wherever it is he wants you to go now?”
Pale light gleamed on his bare chest and shoulders, softening the patchwork of scars from knives, bullets, a whip—that memory was far too cruel, and she shuddered as he said, “I hear you’ve been talking to Paco.”
“Yes, I have. Well? Do you deny it? Do you intend to leave me behind? You promised that we’d be together, Steve. This time there were to be no secrets between us, nothing to keep us apart. Have you forgotten, or did you ever mean those promises?”
“It’s late, Ginny. I’m in no mood to get into this discussion. We’ll have plenty of time on the ship to talk about promises.” He eyed her darkly for a moment, a frown hardening his mouth. “You aren’t turning into a shrew again, I hope.”
Rising to her knees in the middle of the bed, she glared at him with renewed ire. “You’re avoiding the issue. This is important, Steve. What are you not telling me?”
He dropped to the bed next to her and rolled to his side without replying. Goaded, she put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back to face her.
Immediately, his hand clamped onto her wrist, held her in a steely vise, fingers digging into her skin firmly but not painfully. “Let it rest, Ginny.”
“I can’t—I have to know if you’re going to run off on me again, or leave me to the mercy of whatever forces come along. Oh, let go of my arm, Steve.”
To her surprise, he did, eyes narrowed and glinting darkly up at her. He stretched lazily like a big cat, folded his arms behind his head and lay there with a maddening half smile on his mouth.
“You’re quite fetching in that gown, my love. It shows off your breasts and that creamy skin. You know, I think I prefer you looking all white and soft—virginal. How do you manage to look so innocent after having two children?”
It was an attempt to cloud the issue, and she sat back, legs folded, crossed arms holding her knees against her chest as she stared back at him.
“I refuse to be drawn into a discussion of anything but an answer to my question. What are your plans?”
Before she could avoid it, his hand flashed out, snared her wrist again and yanked her forward so that she fell across his chest in an inelegant sprawl. He held her, one hand splayed on the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair to hold her still. His skin was warm; he smelled of bourbon and tobacco.
“I plan,” he muttered against her mouth, “to make love to my wife.”
“Steve, damn you—stop that!” But Ginny found herself swiftly pushed onto her back with him over her, his weight holding her down despite her angry struggles.
Oh, why did she bother to fight? He held her down so easily, with a competent strength that summoned memories of all the other times he had done this, of the times he had taken her against her will, and the times they had come together like two animals….
She closed her eyes, blotting out the sight of his shadowed face, the merciless blue eyes narrowed at her and the mocking twist of his mouth. His hand slipped over her breasts, caressing them beneath the cotton nightgown.
“I don’t want to stop, love. And if you were being honest with yourself, you’d admit that you don’t really want me to stop. This is the one thing we’ve always had between us, this obsession with each other. Christ, I fought it long enough, tried to pretend it didn’t exist, but I was only fooling myself. I want you, Ginny. I always have.”
Half despairing, knowing that she was fighting a losing battle, that her body would override her anger with him, she made no protest when he kissed her, a long consuming kiss that roused her to unwilling passion.
“Damn you,” she said again, but it sounded like an endearment even to her own ears. Steve laughed softly.
“Yes, I’m damned, but so are you. We’re both damned. It’s our natures. Open your eyes, Ginny. Look at me. Yes, like that. I want to watch you while I make love to you….”
Her gown was gone suddenly, pulled away to land in a white drift on the floor. Steve sat back, legs bent under him, his eyes half-narrowed with desire as he stared down at her. His voice was hoarse. “God, you’re so beautiful—so goddamn beautiful.”
“Steve…” Feeling choked by emotion, she lay still as he touched her, his hands dark against her palely gleaming body, caressing her small breasts, the flat of her belly and then the red-gold curls at the juncture of her thighs. For a moment he was a stranger again, the man who had taken her virginity so long ago, the same man who had abducted her, tormented her, loved her with such violent intensity for nine long years. The breath caught in her throat painfully and her chest rose as she dragged in air.
She wanted to protest, to demand answers to the questions plaguing her, but suddenly his tongue was in her mouth, seeking, ravaging her senses and driving out every thought but the rising need to be one with him. Relentless hands on her body, cleverly finding her secrets, touched her intimately, sliding inside her to thrust with lingering strokes that summoned gasps. Then he pressed her thighs apart and pulled her legs over his shoulders while she lay in helpless surrender and need….
Looming over her, his face shadowed, fickle light from the lamp casting a subdued gleam on his shoulders and highlighting him against the gloom beyond, he held her with his hands on her breasts, palms shaping them, his lean fingers teasing her rigid nipples into hard knots. When she was gasping, writhing under his touch, he bent, his tongue searing into her like a hot iron.
Ginny cried out, her hips arching, and she found her hands tangled in his dark hair, holding his head as she moaned and shook helplessly. Release burst in trailing, fiery streamers, and he slid his body upward to cover her with his own as she collapsed in a shuddering heap.
“Hold me, Ginny.”
Obeying, feeling heavy, as if her body were weighted with lead, she lifted her arms to wind them around his neck. He entered her then, with a swift, savage thrust, his body pounding into her with relentless urgency until she began to respond, the fire reigniting, banishing lethargy and shadows, banishing everything but Steve.
It’s always like this…I’m lost when he touches me….
11
Sleepy drifts of fog slipped over the wet cobblestones leading down to the docks, muffling the sounds of hooves and wheels. Ginny stood in the shelter of their carriage in the dark hours before sunrise. Her face was pale in the murky light, eyes green and sleepy, lashes casting a faint shadow on her cheeks as the fitful glow of a lantern swept over her. Misty fog dampened the folds of her hooded cloak and skirts so that they clung to her legs, outlining the curve of hip and thigh. Tendrils of copper hair had escaped from her hood and clung wetly to her cheek.
Even in the dim light, her mouth looked bruised, still passion-swollen. Steve looked away from her, from the swift, questioning glance she flung him. Damn Bishop anyway. It always ended like this; Ginny was right.
“Amigo,” Paco said, coming up behind him, “we can board as soon as you’re ready.”
Familiar shipboard sounds closed in around them in the soupy light of glass lanterns. Ginny hadn’t said a word to Steve since they’d left the leased house on Royal Street. He’d done his best to exhaust her, and seemed to have succeeded.
A crewman escorted Ginny to their cabin, and she didn’t even glance back at Steve as she followed, disappearing down the narrow hatchway with a silence that left him both relieved and suspicious. It wasn’t like her to be so quietly accepting. Anger was expected, temper flashing in her eyes as she railed at him, not this unnatural silence.
“She has changed, amigo.” Paco said aloud what Steve was thinking. He gave him a swift glance.
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s just changed tactics. I’m still not sure what her motives are, or if she’ll end up being more trouble than help.”
“Bishop may think she’ll be useful, but I never have liked involving women. They’re too unpredict
able, and your wife is one of the most unpredictable females I’ve ever met. I’ve never forgotten that day in Mexico when she drew her knife on Concepciόn, or how well she could handle the weapon.”
Steve grinned. “I’ve always wondered—what were you doing when Ginny and Concepciόn were fighting? Why didn’t you take the knife away?”
Shuddering, Paco shook his head. “I have a strong sense of self-preservation that does not permit me to be fool enough to try to take a knife away from an angry woman who knows how to use it.”
It was a sentiment that Steve understood. His untamed tigress, his siren-nemesis wife, was the kind of woman who kept a man curious as well as cautious. He was living proof of that.
Yes, he understood Bishop’s desire to use Ginny as a means of gaining information from Lerdo and Díaz, much as he hated the thought of it. She was the kind of woman who would always be noticed by men, and by jealous women as well. Even ’Cesca, who was one of the most confident women he had ever met in his life, had admitted to a twinge of jealousy.
“Caro, your wife is a bitch, but a beautiful bitch. I can see how she would attract a man such as yourself, though I think you a fool for going back to her.”
Ginny would not have appreciated the Italian woman’s dismissive assessment of her, but she had voiced her own opinion of Francesca that was even less flattering. Being in the same room with them in London had not been an experience he cared to repeat; he’d been on tenterhooks waiting for one of them to start an angry, spitting catfight, and had been amazed by Ginny’s restraint.
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