Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1

by Sandra Jones

  “You haven’t given her a chance.”

  “Pick another card.” Dell grinned. Maybe it was having a new customer or maybe it was the finer liquor, but truth be told, she hadn’t felt this good in over a year. She’d seen sums, names and losses in that ledger of his, but she’d not show him all her cards at once.

  He made an abrupt selection, stabbing a card with his rigid index finger.

  “You must turn it over. That’s simply how it works.” She crossed her arms stubbornly.

  He sighed and flicked the card over with a fingernail. “Three of spades.”

  She held his gaze. “Three men meeting over money. The spades mean guns. A duel, perhaps.”

  “Yes, yes, and I prefer sherry over whiskey, because I’m drinking the damn stuff right in front of you. Charlatan!” He folded his arms, cocking his head to the side.

  Unruffled by his attitude, Dell nodded at the third card, still face down. “That’s the King of Hearts.”

  The gambler slid the card from the ledger and turned it on its back. His bland expression told her she was right.

  “It always represents one of two things. Love—if the customer has a lady on his mind. Or death—blood red, a loss of power. You selected it, Quintus. Which is it? Are you losing a ladylove? Or are you dying in this duel?”

  His answering smile chilled the blood in her veins. “Neither.” He bent the card between two fingers, and it popped, landing square in her lap. “Maybe that card was meant for Campbell. As my second, he’s standing in tomorrow. He won’t lose this duel if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Dell inhaled, straining to keep her expression from betraying her shock. She’d only guessed about the duel. “It’s your card. Not his. And they always prove true. But you can decide if you want to try to change your future. I just read the cards.”

  The gambler pushed his chair back and stood. Rising tall, he glared down at her. “I’m going back to my guests. This is wasting us money and time. If Campbell lives through the morning, he can train you. You’ll work off the money I’m going to have to pay Judge Cobb for freeing that damn slave, but I’m not giving you a penny more after that.”

  Work doing what? Dell’s question would have to wait. Her stepfather blew out the door, slamming it behind him.

  She stood and leaned against the desk, facing Rory. Breathless from the corset and her encounter, she put a hand to her chest. “That didn’t go well at all.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the depth of his understanding. “He didn’t even ask about Mama, how she died, or if she said anything about him.”

  “He already asked me what I knew. I’m sorry. I should’ve made him ask you.”

  Strangely, tears appeared in her eyes. She blinked them away. “And I should’ve told him I wouldn’t read cards anymore. I shouldn’t have shown him! He wasn’t even convinced.”

  “Yes he was.” Rory smiled and lifted her chin on his fingertips. “Didn’t you hear? He’s just offered you a job working for him. How did you know which card he would pick?”

  She gave a half-shrug, not sharing his enthusiasm. “There’s never a guarantee, but he’s left-handed. I simply made it more convenient. He keeps everything useful within his reach—his hat, his guns, his cards, his—” she caught his hand and held it between them, adding, “his henchman. But even if I agree to stay and work off this bribe of his…what’s this about a duel? You’re actually going to take his place?”

  Rory laced his fingers with hers and pressed a kiss against her knuckles, perhaps acknowledging her cleverness. “It might be my first time to duel, but I’m a good marksman. Moreaux trained me.”

  A sliver of dread ran down her spine. She snatched her hand back. “This is hideous. It’s murder. You could die.”

  Perhaps this is what her mama had run from, more than any opposition of Moreaux’s to Dell’s paternity or skin color. A sick mother could scarcely depend on a husband who could die at any moment or face the law for killing a man.

  Rory’s face had gone ashen at her objection. But now a trace of some raw emotion entered his eyes. In a very soft voice, he teased, “Would you cry for me, Dell?”

  Anger pumped through her along with something else. Staring into his clear green eyes, she saw the honesty behind his question. Her face felt tight from holding back tears of frustration that threatened. She shook her head, refusing involvement in the whole situation. “Your devotion to Quintus is going too far this time.”

  Hell, she didn’t trust him, but she didn’t want him getting hurt, either.

  A wall came up in Rory’s eyes, hiding the openness he’d just shared. He circled the chair, heading for the door. “Believe me, my so-called devotion has its limits. I promise I won’t send anyone to the morgue if I can help it. But…I’ve a bank account in the city. Moreaux doesn’t know about it, so he can’t touch it. Like you, I’ve been saving when I can. In the unlikely event I should die tomorrow, I’ve asked Zeb to withdraw everything and split it evenly between you and Asa. It’s the least I can do for Eleanor’s daughter.”

  He added the last as if her name left a bitter taste on his tongue.

  What had her mama done to make him angry?

  He opened the door and gestured for her with a curt wave of his hand. “Come. I’ll show you the salon, as well as the names and faces you’ll need to know.” He flashed her a smile without his usual warmth.

  So this was what it was like sitting on the other side of the trickster’s table.

  The captain had played her, and now she was on their team—his and Quintus’s—as if she were born to do so.

  Dell tucked her emotions deep inside as she had all her life, and marched from the gambler’s office with head held high. She’d stop the duel somehow, just like she’d stopped Ephraim by sending him to California, and like she saved Jeremiah. Whether Rory Campbell deserved it or not, she’d save him too.

  Drawing on every ounce of finesse he possessed, Rory angled Dell in a path through the crowded gaming tables, avoiding questions about her identity and stealing the conversations when enchanted men attempted to get to know the stunning brunette better. He knew he was hurrying her, bringing the rustic girl from the Ozarks into their midst too soon, but the opportunity was too good to let pass. As a newcomer, she needed the introductions, needed to know which men to entice and which gamblers to read.

  As they stood by a potted palm tree, watching the action at a nearby table, he leaned to her ear to speak over the loud jangle of piano music. Yet to be honest with himself, he simply wanted to brush against her. She stiffened beneath the smallest touch of his hand at the base of back. Fury? Likely. Her anger at him about the duel and her part in Quintus’s business had been tangible ever since leaving the office. It probably hadn’t helped that he’d allowed the knowing winks of customers when he’d introduced Dell with his arm draped tightly around her waist. All done with an eye to protect her—though she might not realize it.

  “See the man with the gray hat? He’s a German immigrant. Ottenheim. Owns a dry goods store. He’s the second for the man I’m facing in the morning, Kit Wainwright.”

  Her nostrils flared. “And this concerns me how?”

  He slid his hand along her bare shoulder, stopping at the boundary of ruby satin that ran in a tempting line from her sleeve to the swell of her breasts. His eyes had followed that same line a dozen or more times so far, and he was beyond caring who saw his desire for the exquisite woman. Molly’s choice of dresses couldn’t have been more perfect. Moreaux was an idiot if he couldn’t see the worth in Philadelphia.

  Sweat broke on his brow. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed it away. “We’re going to port in St. Louis for a private game with him in a few days. We need you to find his tells. Can you do that? Do you know when a person’s bluffing?”

  She bit her lip in poor at
tempt to conceal her smile as pride got the better of her, despite the overt anger she bore for him.

  “Ah. I see you do.” As a pair of men walked by ogling Dell, Rory flattened his hand on her waist possessively and leaned to her ear again. “A gambler is only as good as his ability to control his thoughts from being read. If you can read our opponents’ thoughts and anticipate their moves, we can beat them in every game. So…can you tell when I’m bluffing?” He immediately wished he could take back the question.

  She batted her eyes, flirting perhaps for their audience, yet he felt the tension of her body beneath his hand. “Have you been dishonest with me that I should know?”

  Rory caught his tongue between his teeth. God, how he wanted to kiss her. To wipe the smug smile off her sultry lips and ravish her mouth again like the pirate he was.

  Instead he smiled. “I’d like to experiment with that.” He stepped back, putting space between them. “I look forward to winning tomorrow morning. Then we can begin your training in earnest and…in private.”

  Her eyes sparked with annoyance and, he hoped, a tinge of lust.

  Desire gave him a new reason to fight Moreaux and live. Now if Dell would only see their potential as lovers as he did.

  Chapter Twelve

  After most of the ship’s guests returned to the city, the Queen Helen made its new port an hour past sunrise near a bluff overlooking the wooded stretch of sand the crew called “Bloody Island,” though the real Bloody Island lay four hundred miles upriver near St. Louis. Only the crew was awake, gathered in the dining room sipping coffee, while Rory left alone on a keelboat so quietly no one seemed to notice until he was gone.

  Dell caught up with Trap as he jumped onto one of the Queen’s rowboats. She hopped in behind him while his back was turned.

  He wheeled around with the mooring line in his hands. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She sat down and rested her rifle across her lap. “Comin’ with you, of course.”

  “Women ain’t got no business on that towhead. Get back on the boat with ya.”

  Dell arched an eyebrow at him. “I assume you’re going to act as Rory’s second in place of Mr. Moreaux?”

  He grunted. “Cap’n asked me to watch Asa, but the boy’s still in his bunk. If Rory doesn’t have a second, who’ll collect his—”

  Dell held a hand up. “I don’t need an illustration. I’m goin’ there, too, with or without you.”

  His gaze went to her rifle. He rubbed a hand over his spiky red hair and face. “Awwwright. The cap’n can kill me later.”

  Trap rowed them to the bluff side of the towhead, barely breaking a sweat for his effort in the crisp river breeze. Two boats had been dragged ashore and now stood empty on the beach. Dell sprang out and helped Trap secure theirs as well.

  “Look. See the tracks?” Dell pointed to the footprints leading along the beach around the wooded area. “Rory’s boots and two other men.” Uncle Reuben had often counted on her better vision while hunting for deer and rabbit.

  He nodded, casting her an appreciative glance. “Good eyes. Those tracks would be Christopher Wainwright and his second, Ottenheim.”

  Following the men’s trail, Dell walked ahead of Trap, but with the cumbersome petticoats of Molly’s day-dress, she soon fell behind. He was a good thirty yards ahead when she saw a set of footprints veering off into the woods. For an ambush? She opened her mouth to call out, but then stopped. If she alerted him to the fact that someone had gone to another part of the island, he would be torn to choose which direction to follow, likely refusing to let her tail either party alone.

  Careful of her footing, she surreptitiously walked between the scrubby trees and followed the lone man’s prints along the wooded path. The trail led up a steep incline. She fought saplings and thorny vines with her free hand while she kept her gun tight beneath the other arm and steadied her footing over craggy rock as she grappled up the hill. At last she made it to the top where the hill crested on a bluff and found herself alone. Strange. Someone had come that way this morning, but now they were gone. The treeless patch of ground spanned a broad expanse. She could see the Queen Helen and a few of the crew who’d climbed the bluffs of the riverbank for a view of the beach and the duel unfolding below. Worried now she’d taken too long, she hastened to the other side of the hill for a better view.

  On the beach far below, Rory stood at the ready, dressed in a black vest and pants and a white shirt, his back turned to his armed opponent, yards away. The duel had begun.

  She was wasting time. She had to reach him.

  Scrambling to get down the hill, she neglected her footing, sending a loose stone the size of cannonball bouncing down the bluff. She caught herself from falling, but rough hands gripped her waist, pulling her up and back.

  “Vere are you going vith that, mein fraulein?” He pulled the gun from under her arm and hauled her against his chest.

  Dell swung at his side and kicked his shin with the heel of her boot, but he threw her across the ground away from him. When she climbed to her feet she faced her own rifle with Ottenheim staring back at her, his finger on the trigger. The fair-haired, lanky, dry-goods merchant had a Colt of his own holstered on his hip.

  “What are you doing up here? You’re supposed to be down there with Wainwright.” Her hands balled in fists, anger and fear pounded blood in her ears.

  “I’m making sure my friend isn’t valking into a trap. Good thing I did, eh?”

  “Campbell didn’t set a trap. He—”

  Crack!

  The blast echoed off the bluffs, causing both her and the German to flinch.

  Her heart jumped into her throat. Rory.

  She headed back toward the vantage point to see what was going on, but Ottenheim closed in, grabbing her arm. He spun her around.

  “Nein!” He prodded her chest with the Brunswick’s barrel. “Vee go down the vay vee came. Now!” Did her captor not care what the outcome of the duel had been?

  Dell considered wrestling him for the gun. It was hard to shoot someone with a rifle in close proximity, but in the end, he was stronger, bigger. He’d surely overpower her. Besides, getting back to Rory as quickly as possible was the only thing she needed to do at the moment.

  With the German poking her back with the rifle, she descended the hill through the woods. Only one shot. Her mind tumbled through the possibilities of what she’d find when they circled the beach.

  Reaching the place where the trail leveled and the paths forked, Dell quickened her pace, hurrying to get to the dueling field. Ottenheim could either run to keep up or shoot her in the back—she didn’t give a damn which.

  Rounding the towhead, she came upon the men. Trap stood with his back to her, his hands at his waist. He looked down at the combatants sitting side by side on a fallen tree, their guns in their laps.

  The sight of them—both of them—alive and well, sent a current of relief through her. But she’d heard the shot. Two excellent marksmen? One man should be dead.

  “What in the hell is going on here?”

  Three pairs of eyes snapped to her at her question. Caught off-guard, Rory’s warm smile lingered on her briefly, then died as he saw her captor and the rifle at her back. Wainwright looked between Dell and the German with a puzzled stare. He stood and helped Rory to his feet.

  Trap pulled a knife from his belt, wielding it threateningly at the armed Ottenheim. “Bastard! It’s a trap, Cap’n!”

  “Put it down, Herbert.” Kit Wainwright, strikingly handsome with black wavy hair and blue eyes, moved to intercept his second.

  Dell slipped away from Ottenheim, trying to get closer to Rory and his pistol. If he wouldn’t draw it on the German, she would!

  “The fraulein had this,” he growled, lifting the rifle, while keeping it trained on the three of them. “She vas going to kill you.”

&n
bsp; “No, I wasn’t!” Dell looked at Trap and then at Rory for his understanding, but Rory’s dark gaze tracked her arms. She glanced down, noticing the bloody scratches and scrapes she’d earned while the German had forced her down the steep bluff. Rory’s eyes narrowed when they reached her bodice where a ragged tear exposed the curve of her breast.

  He lifted his pistol and cocked the hammer, the muscles in his jaw working as he stared down the barrel at her captor.

  “No! Wait!” If she didn’t do something, whatever truce Rory and Wainwright had begun would end with someone’s blood spilt for real this time. “Let me explain. I saw Ottenheim’s tracks leading up the hill. I thought he was going to shoot Rory, and apparently he thought I was trying to kill Wainwright. It’s all a misunderstanding.”

  Rory’s gun stayed firmly trained on Ottenheim. “I promise you my aim will be true this time. Did you hurt the lady?”

  Dell answered for him. “No, Rory. He didn’t. I’d have killed him myself if he had.”

  Rory arched a brow at Ottenheim. “You think I don’t have any more honor than that, that I’d send someone to ambush my opponent?”

  He lowered the gun a fraction and sneered. “I vould not know. You vork for Quintus Moreaux. Vat are you capable of?”

  “All right, all right.” Wainwright wrapped a congenial arm around Ottenheim’s shoulders. “My honor is duly restored. Let’s not go insulting the good captain. We might want to enjoy another game or two of cards in St. Louis, right?”

  He tugged the rifle from the German’s loose grip and passed it to Dell, before leading his friend away toward the boats.

  Trap chuckled and rubbed a hand over his brow. After waiting until they were alone and out of earshot, Dell tucked her rifle under her arm and turned to interrogate Rory, but the murderous expression on his face stopped her in her tracks. He grasped her elbow and wheeled her around.

  His fingers dug into her as he marched her along, his movements taut with fury. Worse than anything his opponent could’ve wrought, she’d somehow managed to wound his pride.