The Lady's Hand

by Bobbi Smith

  "Why, thank you, Dan." Brandy's sultry voice came from the back of the room as she made her entrance through a private door.

  "I only speak the truth," Dan told her, turning toward her to give her a courtly bow. He smiled broadly as he watched her cross the room toward him.

  Kevin looked up and, along with the others, decided Lesseg's assessment had not been in the least exaggerated. Brandy was a fine-looking woman. Her ebony curls were perfectly coiffed up and away from her artfully made-up face in a style that set off her green eyes, sparkling now with good humor. She wore a form-fitting, off-the-shoulder satin gown, deep scarlet in color, that emphasized the flawlessness of her creamy complexion. Her figure was breathtaking, and to a man, they thought her stunning.

  "Evening, gentlemen," Brandy purred as she stopped at her favorite table. Lifting her gaze to find everyone still watching her, she smiled and asked in a tone that held much promise, "Anyone for a friendly game of poker stud?"

  Several of the men almost tripped over themselves in their rush to take a chair. Impressed as they were by Brandy's beauty, an hour later they were even more impressed by her gaming skills. Several men had been overconfident, believing no woman could outplay them, and their pockets were much lighter for it.

  "You are one helluva er, excuse me, ma'am, one heckuva poker player, Miss Brandy," Sam Foster said in admiration as he threw down his cards and leaned back in his chair. An elderly man who'd sat in on his share of poker games in his lifetime, Sam realized that this lady was as good as her reputation claimed. She had soundly trounced him on several hands, and she'd done it all honestly.

  "Are you quitting on me already, Sam?" Brandy asked with a friendly smile. She liked the way he'd accepted his losses with grace.

  "I'm afraid so, my dear. Mrs. Foster only allows me to lose so much on my travels, and I fear I've reached my limit."

  "A wise woman, your wife."

  "Very," he agreed, grinning as he stood to leave. "Thank you for an enchanting evening."

  "My pleasure." And she meant it. She'd won several hundred dollars from Sam in the course of that one hour.

  His vacated chair was soon filled by another man wanting to test her ability, and play continued. It was well after midnight when the game finally ended. Brandy looked up to find the Pride's captain, Ben Rodgers, at the bar.

  "Good evening, Ben," she greeted the tall, grayhaired steamboat owner.

  Ben's gaze was warm upon her. "You look beautiful, as always."

  "Why, thank you, sir. You do know how to turn a girl's head." Her smile was real, for Ben was a true friend.

  "Are you ready to call it a night?"

  "I think so. Will you walk me to my cabin?"

  "I'd be delighted."

  She rose from the table and left her winnings with the barkeep. Ben then escorted her from the saloon.

  Brandy and Ben Rodgers had met when Brandy was just fourteen years old. Ben had been foolish enough to walk the streets of Natchez-Under-TheHill alone in the wee hours of the morning, and two men had attacked him in an alley. The pair had been in the process of beating and robbing him when Brandy had heard the commotion from the small boardinghouse room she shared with her mother. Most folks wouldn't have cared or gotten involved, but Brandy had roused her landlord, and together they'd frightened the attackers away.

  Ben had been groggy and bleeding when they'd helped him inside. Brandy and her mother had taken him into their room and had doctored him and kept watch over him through the night. They'd sent him on his way the following morning with only a headache and a few bruises to show for his ordeal. Ben had seen how poor they were and had offered to pay them for their help, but they'd refused any money from him. He'd realized how proud they were then, and he'd told Brandy that if she ever needed anything, anything at all, she had only to ask.

  Brandy had held his offer in her heart, but had never called upon him. Only when her mother's health had begun to fail and they'd had trouble supporting themselves had she approached Ben with the idea of letting her gamble on his boat. She'd learned how to play from a retired riverboat gambler who'd lived in their boardinghouse and befriended her and her mother. He'd taught her everything he knew before he died, and she'd proven an apt pupil. Brandy had been confident that she could earn a living for her mother and herself by gambling, and she hoped Ben would give her the chance to prove it on his riverboat. If he refused her, her only alternative means of livelihood was too horrible to consider.

  At first, Ben had been hard to persuade, for he'd been concerned about her safety. She'd pressed her argument, assuring him that she would be an attraction for his boat and, with all the people around, her virtue would be assured. He'd finally relented on a trial basis. When everything she'd told him had proven true and the Pride had become known as the steamboat with Miss Brandy aboard, he'd realized they had something special going.

  "Did you have a profitable evening?" Ben asked when they were alone on deck.

  "It went very well. The men were an easygoing bunch tonight. It's always more fun to play when no one minds losing."

  "When was the last time you lost? Two trips ago?" Ben knew how talented she was. She had a gift for keeping track of which cards had been played and knowing who was holding what.

  "Yes, and it wasn't pretty," she answered with a grimace, remembering that night all too clearly.

  They paused by the rail, and Ben glanced down at her to find her gazing out across the moon-kissed Mississippi. Her expression turned dreamy as she stared out at the twinkling lights of a majestic plantation house in the distance. She sighed softly.

  "Is something wrong?" Ben asked.

  "Oh, no. I was just remembering my fantasy from when I was little."

  "What fantasy?" He was curious.

  "It seems so long ago now... a lifetime really... but I always fantasized about living in a big house like that one and having lots of servants, beautiful clothes, and plenty of food to eat."

  "My mother always used to say, if you're going to dream, you may as well dream big," he agreed.

  "You know, when I was ten, I found a secret path into the gardens of one of the big houses in Natchez. I used to sneak up there at night just to get a look at what was going on. Sometimes, they had big parties, and all the ladies would be wearing pretty gowns and the men would look so handsome all dressed up."

  "You're lucky you didn't get caught." He chuckled at the thought.

  "I know." She laughed, too, as she remembered how scared she used to be that someone would find her hiding there, watching everyone. "Reality does have a way of intruding on childish dreams, doesn't it?"

  "It does, but never give up your dreams, Brandy. We all need something to inspire us to keep going."

  "All I need for inspiration now is a good poker hand. Winning is far more fun than losing."

  "And more profitable, too."

  "You're right about that." Brandy laughed again. Ben did know how to make her smile.

  "How's your mother?"

  She turned away from the view and the bittersweet memory of her pointless, youthful fantasy. "Much better. With the money I'm bringing in now, I've managed to rent a small house and even hire a servant to stay with her while I'm gone."

  "Good. Tell her I said `hello' when you get back." Ben was glad that things were working out for them.

  "I will."

  They moved on down the deck. He bade her good night when they reached her cabin and waited until she was safely inside and had locked the door before leaving. Life had been rough enough on Brandy so far. The least he could do was make sure she was safe when she was with him.

  Inside her room, Brandy slowly undressed, then donned her nightgown and climbed into bed. For just a moment before she drifted off to sleep, she allowed herself to remember all the dreams she'd treasured for so long in the innocence of her youth.

  "Oooh, I hate Cynthia Gaultier!" Lottie Demers hissed to her younger sister, Rachel, as she watched the other woman dancing with th
e man she loved.

  "I can understand why," Rachel agreed, her gaze focused on the same couple. "Cynthia's petite, gorgeous, rich and dancing with the man you want to marry. What is there to like about her?"

  "Shut up!" Lottie snapped in irritation. "I'm richer than Cynthia, and I'd make Rafe Marchand a better wife."

  "You may think so, but what about him? You know all the talk has it that the man has no interest in marriage."

  "I don't care what everybody else says, I know I could make him happy if he'd just give me a chance!" Lottie sighed audibly as she watched the object of her unrequited affections waltz by. She imagined herself in his strong arms, gazing up at his ruggedly handsome face, her hand on his powerful shoulder, the heat of his hand at her waist, his body moving in rhythm with hers.... Color tinged her cheeks as her pulse quickened and her throat went dry. The man was gorgeous, and she had to have him. "I have got to find a way to get that man to marry me."

  "Don't you think that's going to be a little difficult when he hardly knows you exist?"

  "He danced with me earlier," she declared defensively.

  "You practically threw yourself at him," Rachel pointed out.

  "So what? When I see something I want, I go after it, and I want Rafe Marchand." Lottie's green eyes flashed fire as she looked at her sister.

  "If you figure out how to do it, let me know."

  "I've got to think of something. We're leaving for Memphis tomorrow, and I won't get to see him for weeks and weeks."

  "Well, while you're plotting to get him to the altar, I'm going to get some more punch. You want some?"

  Lottie glanced at Rafe once more, then stood up to follow her sister. "All right. Let's go. Maybe he'll come over to the refreshment table when he's done dancing with Cynthia, and I'll be able to talk to him again."

  Rachel said nothing, for she knew it was pointless to try to distract Lottie. Once her headstrong, spoiled sister made up her mind, there was no stopping her. She wished Rafe Marchand luck, for Lottie had a bulldog's tenacity when she was after something.

  Rafe Marchand seemed to be enjoying himself as he squired the lovely young Cynthia Gaultier around the ballroom floor. To all outward appearances, they looked the perfect couple. She was blond and beautiful. He was tall, dark and handsome. But in truth, Rafe was merely going through the motions. Pretty though his dancing partner might be, she was husband-hunting, and he had no desire to fill that role in her life or anyone else's. After the disaster of his parents' marriage, the farther he stayed away from the institution, the better.

  When the melody finally ended and Rafe was able to take his leave of Cynthia, he was glad. He thanked her for the dance and headed out the French doors to the veranda. Behind him, a very disappointed Cynthia watched him go, a lovesick expression on her face.

  Relieved to be alone and away from the crowd, Rafe stared up at the star-spangled sky and breathed deeply of the honeysuckle-scented night air. The sound of a steamboat's whistle on the Mississippi drew his attention, and he moved to the railing to watch the brightly lighted steamer churn past the plantation's landing. In the morning, he, too, would be on a steamer heading north. He almost wished he was already on board. The Natchez social scene with its fortune-hunting debutantes bored him.

  "Rafe... I'm so glad you came out here. I've been wanting to get you alone all night," Mirabelle Chandler said in a seductive voice as she appeared out of the shadows nearby.

  Without waiting for him to speak, she went straight into his arms and kissed him passionately. She was smiling when the kiss ended. His embrace was every bit as wonderful as she'd remembered.

  "I've missed you," she said softly, moving out of his arms to look up at him. Her gaze was hot with promise.

  Rafe was not the least bit surprised by her boldness. The thirty-two-year-old, voluptuous blond widow was a wanton lover, and he'd enjoyed sharing her bed on several occasions. His taste in females ran to women like her the more sophisticated ones who knew what a man's needs were and catered to them with no strings attached. "I've been busy."

  "Too busy for me?" she pressed.

  "You know how I feel about commitments, Mirabelle," he reminded her harshly.

  His words stung, but she tried not to let it show. He'd been honest with her about his aversion to marriage from the start of their relationship. He would share her bed occasionally when it suited him, and that was all. She answered with an ease she wasn't feeling, "I had one husband, darling, and one was enough."

  Rafe chuckled at her reply, his irritation gone. "Would you like to go back inside and dance?"

  "Waltzing in the ballroom with you wasn't quite what I had in mind. I was hoping we'd share a much more intimate dance...." She trailed her hand down his chest suggestively, remembering how exciting it had been between them. "We could leave right now. My carriage is around front...." She kissed him once more, pressing herself fully against him in invitation.

  He felt her willingness, and, had circumstances been different, he might have taken her up on her offer, but tonight he couldn't. "Your offer is tempting, but I fear I must decline. Marc and I are leaving first thing in the morning for St. Louis."

  "Pity. We do dance so well together." Her disappointment was real.

  "Rafe?" The sound of Marc LeFevre's call interrupted the privacy of the moment.

  Mirabelle saw the other man standing at the open French doors looking out at them. "I hope your trip goes well. I'll see you when you get back."

  Rafe nodded as she moved away.

  "Hello, Marc," Mirabelle said to the tall, fair- haired man who passed her on her way inside.

  "Evening, Mirabelle," he responded.

  Marc had been looking for Rafe for the past few minutes.

  "Did I interrupt anything?" he asked with a knowing smile as he glanced back to watch Mirabelle enter the house.

  "No, Mirabelle had just decided to go in."

  "It must be difficult to be the most eligible bachelor around and have all the beautiful women throwing themselves at you. There are at least three young ladies inside who would love to get you to the altar."

  "So why don't you marry one and take some of the pressure off me?" Rafe countered good-naturedly.

  Marc's cheerful mood tempered a bit. His beloved wife, Jennette, had been dead for over a year now, yet the pain of losing her was still with him. Marc doubted he would ever marry again. "I loved Jennette too much. No other woman could take her place."

  "What you had was very special," Rafe agreed.

  "And that's exactly what you need - a good wife to make you happy," Marc joked, knowing how his friend felt about the issue.

  "The happiness you and Jennette had in your marriage was the exception, not the rule."

  "Well, there are more than a few gorgeous females inside who would love to prove you wrong. They'd be delighted to show you that they could make you as happy as Jennette made me. There are a lot of happily married couples, you know." Marc believed in the beauty and sanctity of marriage.

  "We could argue that point all night and never agree."

  "You're impossible."

  Rafe shrugged. "The only reason I can think of for a man to get married is to have children, and I'm not ready to tie myself to a female for that reason just yet."

  "But you want children some day, don't you? As good as you are with Merrie and Jason..."

  "Yes, I want children. It's the wife part I have trouble with."

  Marc wished his friend wasn't so jaded. He understood his background, though, and knew there was little he could do to change him. Instead of pressing his point, he simply changed the topic to the reason he'd been looking for him in the first place. "We're starting up a poker game. Do you want to lose some of your fortune to me tonight?"

  "I'm in," Rafe replied with a grin, "but I don't plan to lose not to you and not to anybody. When I play poker, I play to win."

  "That's what they all say," Marc said, but he knew Rafe could be as ruthless and hard at the poker t
able as he was at everything else he did. "Let's go. They're waiting for us."

  The LeFevre carriage drew to a stop on the landing in Natchez-Under-The-Hill. As the driver climbed down to unload the bags, Rafe and Marc descended and turned to help Marc's two children, four-yearold Merrie and six-year-old Jason, and their nanny, Louise, down from the carriage.

  "Uncle Rafe, I'm so glad we get to go with you on this trip," Merrie said happily, looking at him with glowing eyes. He wasn't really her uncle, but she called him that out of love. Certainly, if she could have picked an uncle out of all the men in the world, she would have picked Rafe.

  Rafe smiled tenderly at the petite blond beauty as he lifted her in his arms and set her on the ground. Merrie was his goddaughter, and in her he saw all that was good about the world. She was innocence and beauty personified. She was totally unspoiled and completely lacking in cunning and selfishness. "I'm glad, too, sweetheart. Well have fun."

  "I know. I don't like it when you go away without me," she went on, holding tightly to his hand. "I think you should keep me with you all the time."

  "I would, Merrie, but your father might have some objections to that. Wouldn't you miss him?"

  Merrie looked at her father, who was watching her with Rafe. "I would miss Papa a whole lot...." she said thoughtfully, trying to decide how she could please both herself and the men in her life.

  "We'll have to talk this over," Marc said as he and Jason, along with Louise, led the way toward the steamer they were taking to St. Louis, The Pride of New Orleans.

  "It would be easy, Papa. Uncle Rafe could just come live with us and then we could be together all the time," Merrie announced, perfectly happy with her solution to the dilemma. It seemed so simple.

  Rafe listened to Merrie's logic and had to fight down a smile. He wondered what Marc was going to do with her in a few more years. He was amused by the thought of his friend trying to deal with Merrie as a high-spirited young woman.

  They were just nearing the ramp to board the Pride when a barrel broke loose on the back of a passing freight wagon. The heavy container crashed to the ground and careened wildly toward Rafe and Merrie.