by Sandra Jones
A door opened far behind him, probably someone hearing the shouting. He couldn’t have the crew or passengers listening, but he couldn’t ignore Dell. If he left her to her own devices to figure things out, she’d likely delve too deeply in his head.
He snatched her arm, pulling her against his chest, and growled in her ear, “You’re right, as usual…just like Eleanor. I don’t want to be replaced. By anyone. Ever!” His heart pounded with rage from the things he longed to say but couldn’t.
Her shoulders went back, ready to rail him—which he surely deserved—but he knew another minute in her company might be too long. Those lovely brown eyes staring up into his—so sharp and intuitive, like her mother’s—she’d see straight through a man to his past, his darkest secrets, and the color of his soul.
He released her, certain she’d have more questions, but for the moment, stopping Asa was more important.
Dell crouched to pick up the metal odds and ends that had fallen out of the box. Long copper tubes rolled across the deck, and she collected them one by one as she forced herself to calm down. In her fortune telling trade, men were like walnuts, while women were like fruit. To find the hopes, fears and dreams of a female patron, one had only to scratch the surface. They wore their emotions, leaving little hidden. Her male patrons, on the other hand, wore a facade on the outside—a tough shell she must crack—hiding their true selves within. When Rory had first arrived in Posey Hollow, she’d thought he was more of an open-book and his seductive smiles hid nothing from her. Now seeing him through the first split in that flirty exterior, she knew differently. Rory had something to hide.
She’d bet money it had to do with the reason he didn’t want anyone sleeping with him.
He was ambitious and maybe a tad greedy, wanting a steamship of his own someday. She couldn’t find fault with that, though. She admired his determination and the reason behind it. Rory didn’t want to follow in his cruel boss’s footsteps any longer. And just as admirably, he wanted to keep Asa from the same path. But even Moreaux wouldn’t send a boy onto a field to duel or onto his gaming floor. The most dangerous place for the boy was the engine room, and Rory only allowed his most experienced men to work there. For whatever reason, Rory felt an ardent need to protect him. She’d seen alarm in his actions, not jealousy.
Once she had everything gathered in the box, she stood.
“Need a hand with that?” Zeb waddled along the passageway toward her, his pilot’s hat askew on his head.
“No thanks.” She smiled briefly.
She held the box before her, walking sideways to allow the officer room to pass.
“Gonna be a nice night in St. Louis.” Once past, he paused behind her.
She nodded. “I’m sure it will.”
“You’re not looking forward to the gambling?” He frowned, watching her closely. “I heard Asa and the cap’n shouting at each other. The boy doesn’t respect him like he oughta.”
“Well, Rory’s lack of tact could be the cause of that.”
Zeb laughed. “The cap’n doesn’t mince words when it comes to orders. But he’s never raised a hand to the boy nor had a mean thing to say to anyone I know of.”
Dell snorted. “You haven’t heard him talk about my mother then.”
“Eleanor?” His eyebrows flew up. “They say it’s wrong to talk about the deceased, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did have a word of spite about her after what she did. You were too young, but I remember. Mrs. Moreaux was the closest thing the boy ever had to a mother. When she was packing for the two of you to leave, he begged her to take him with you.”
Shock washed over Dell. She’d never considered Rory might’ve known they were leaving. Her mama had made up her mind so abruptly; their departure had been in the early hours of the morning while her husband slept. No one was supposed to know they were going or where they were headed.
Zeb tipped his cap back to scratch his scalp. “Yes, ma’am. Cap’n was about twelve or thirteen, the same age as Asa then, but he grew up quickly. You know, that day was the last time I saw him cry.”
For the second time in a week, Dell felt herself going soft. As a very young child then, she’d been so absorbed in herself she hadn’t noticed what Rory might’ve thought or felt about their leaving. Quintus had always fed him, clothed him, given him odd jobs, but she doubted her stepfather had cared about Rory like a parent should.
Oh, God. She cared for him!
She took her hand off the box in her arms to wipe a hot tear from her eye. No wonder Rory had such hateful things to say about her mother.
She and her mother had left Quintus, one of the most powerful men on the Mississippi, whose reach was far. Bringing another child on their journey might’ve been dangerous, maybe even impossible. Yet Dell couldn’t help but wonder how her life might’ve been different if Rory had accompanied them and what it would’ve been like having a healthy young man to help her uncle’s whiskey operation instead of depending solely on her strength. And having an older sibling of sorts to watch out for her would’ve been nice too. Not that she’d needed anyone’s help. But she’d grown up lonely. Rory’s company would’ve changed that. He’d been her friend—kind to her, despite their age difference and her tendency of being a pain in the ass.
Her mother should’ve at least tried to bring Rory.
She couldn’t imagine how hard it must’ve been for her mama to look into his handsome young face—an orphan—and tell him no.
Leaving him with a man like Quintus.
Chapter Seventeen
The Queen made port early that afternoon, leaving Rory enough time to go into town before new guests and passengers boarded the ship. First, on a mission to fill his promise to Dell for new dresses, he stopped in at Miss Elizabeth Hobbs’s, the talented dressmaker who supplied the brothel with new clothes. Perhaps the lightskirts weren’t the most discerning customers for respectable ladies’ fashions, but the kindly spinster served a gamut of clientele from whores to the wealthiest families in St. Louis.
He didn’t have a lot of money to spend, but he’d managed to convince the boss that Dell, as a useful seer and member of his crew, should be clothed in the finest gowns. How else was she to entertain the wealthier gamblers? No one need know that Rory had found her alluring even in an old general store calico.
Miss Elizabeth came out of the back room of her house, carrying an armload of gowns. Rory hastened to help the seamstress spread them across her table. The dresses were canary yellow, midnight blue, and a tawdry black number with red embellishments.
“This is what I have ready. They might need a few alterations. I can make whatever else you’d like, Captain.”
“Would these fit Molly? If so, I’ll take them all, but haven’t you anything more respectable?” The designs were intended for the single purpose of seduction with deep necklines and cinched waists. Miss Elizabeth knew her customers’ tastes, and Rory had always selected such styles for Viv in the past as befitting designs for Moreaux’s “mistress.”
“Oh.” She blinked, glancing nervously over her shoulder toward the back of the house. “Yes, of course. I believe they would fit that lady nicely. I apologize. I thought you were here to buy pieces for Madam LeBlanc’s wardrobe.” She indicated the door she’d just came from, and Rory heard the first stir of movement from the back where someone was dressing.
“Rory? C’est toi?”
Before he could answer, the woman peered around the corner of the open door, clutching a loosened bodice against her porcelain skin.
“Hello, Viv.”
Miss Elizabeth, a consummate professional, gave no outward reaction to Vivienne’s semi-nudity as she wound a tape measure around her hand and averted her gaze to her creations.
He reached in his coat pocket for money. To Miss Elizabeth, he said, “A crimson gown in Molly’s size, if you will. Make that two red gowns in diff
erent shades. I’ll collect them when I’m in the city again.”
He handed over several hundred dollars. Miss Elizabeth’s eyes widened. It was more than her usual asking price.
“For your trouble.”
The dressmaker smiled. “I’ll bring two nice day dresses I have in the back, and I almost forgot—I have some matching gloves for the gowns. I’ll go and fetch them.” She disappeared as Viv came slinking out.
Blond and slightly older than Rory, the Frenchwoman was no less a beauty now than when he’d first seen her many years ago. With the seamstress out of the room, she rounded the table and pressed her half-naked body against him.
“My love, ça fait trop longtemps.”
Yes, it had been a long time. He bent to kiss the top of her head and caught the stale scent of powder covering the lingering stench of smoke that clung to her. Living in a brothel, he supposed she’d always smelled of the place, though he’d never paid much attention before.
She pulled away from him, her bottom lip curling. “You sent a messenger to tell me the Queen was in town, but you didn’t come in person. Is Quintus keeping you so busy now?”
Her petulant gaze flicked to the dresses. She had a lovely face even when she pouted—which was often. However, the fuzzy glaze in her blue eyes told him she’d been amusing herself with opium again.
“We ran into some trouble in Memphis.” He rubbed at the tender muscle above his bullet wound. “I’ll have more time this evening.”
“I heard about Monsieur Best. He was a good customer when he came to the city.” She ran her pale hand along Rory’s vest, and her grip on her bodice slipped to expose her breasts. “I also heard you’ve taken a new lover.”
Rory kept his face neutral. “What of it?”
“They say she’s a lovely Creole.” Her eyes watched him as if calculating the effect of her words. “Une exotique. My customers would pay top dollar for an hour with such a woman.”
Rory sickened at the thought of strange men paying for the use of Dell. “She’s not lookin’ for money. She has a job.” He’d once thought she should be a wealthy man’s mistress, but the idea no longer suited her. She deserved better.
Viv gave him a playful shove and laughed. “Everyone wants to make money. Since when did you start thinking for your women? Quintus won’t care how they earn money either, as long as they do. Let’s ask la mademoiselle. Maybe she’ll appreciate the offer after I tell her how much she stands to make.”
“Let’s keep the two businesses separate, shall we?” Rory moved away from her and gathered the dresses, but he couldn’t escape the queasiness in his gut. “She has her hands full at the moment in the salon with the gamblers.”
“Ah, oui. The games tonight. I cannot wait.” Viv came closer and touched his hand on the table.
He glanced up from her caress, catching the warmth in her expression. The excitement of winning card games always increased his fervor for more intimate entertainment later in the evening with Vivienne. The past few days with Dell had him wild for release and fulfillment. He needed that time with Vivienne. Craved it.
Blood pumped to his groin at the thought of Philadelphia’s kisses again. If he didn’t do something soon to curb his appetite, he feared his resistance would slip along with his morals, unleashing him to feast on her, an innocent. How depraved he was, imagining her tightness around him, succulent and wet with anticipation for their union. He was suddenly thankful for the dresses he held in his arms when Elizabeth returned from the back, carrying two simpler frocks he hoped would please Dell.
He thanked her with a nod. When the dressmaker moved away, he said to Viv, “Whom can I expect on the Queen tonight?”
“Lafferty, Monroe, a few lawyers, a judge. I’ve invited my usual clients.”
“Bartholomew Wainwright?”
She chuckled. “You are ambitious, mon amour, but you know he won’t step foot on any boat with Moreaux.”
No, but his nephew would—even after the duel and the accusations of cheating. Kit had said as much, and Rory was counting on it. He and Dell had to earn Wainwright’s trust if his plan would ever come to fruition.
“I can see la tillitation in your eyes.” She smiled. “We have an exciting night ahead of us.”
He prayed she was right—in more ways than one.
Molly linked arms with Dell as they entered the noisy gaming salon that night. Once the Memphis passengers had disembarked and the St. Louis guests had boarded, the boat bustled with activity. The officers had all they could handle, keeping rowdy men from drinking too much and squabbling over lost wagers. In the crowded room, Dell searched for Rory.
She was certain he’d avoided her all day on purpose. He’d forced Asa back to the men’s quarters, then had given Frederick orders that the boy wasn’t to leave and that Dell wasn’t permitted to visit him. When she’d tried to find Rory to discuss the matter, she’d located him surrounded by crew, immersed in plans. First the engine room, then the helm, never alone.
If she could pin him down, she’d tell him what she thought about his overprotective rules and how they would only lead to Asa’s contempt for him. Instead of keeping the boy from Quintus’s influence, he would push him toward the man. She was convinced that was what Rory was trying to avoid. He’d told her he didn’t want to be replaced, but what he’d probably meant was he didn’t want anyone to suffer as he had, serving a despicable man. There had to be a better way to deal with the boy.
Instead of Rory, however, she spotted Moreaux flanked by two armed men while he played faro with Trap as dealer against some new faces. An older yet beautiful blond woman sat on the boss’s lap.
“That’s Vivenne LeBlanc.” Molly squeezed her arm and gave Dell a big wink. “She’s the one I told you about. The boss keeps her, but Rory treats her.” Her friend laughed beneath her hand, but Dell, steaming inside, couldn’t force her lips into a smile.
LeBlanc, wearing a sapphire gown with black lace edging, had wrapped an arm around Moreaux’s waist, but her eyes tracked the crowd. Instinctively, Dell followed the woman’s gaze across the room to Rory. He sat at a smaller table with two other men who had their backs to her, lost in a poker game.
She and Molly joined the group surrounding the roulette table where some players were already distracted from the wheel by their feminine presence.
In a dark mood, Dell had chosen to wear a macabre yet sultry black dress from the trunk of gowns Rory’s man had delivered to her door. There were more conservative dresses, but the ebony one called to her. Far too risqué for funerals, the lacy bodice held exposed scarlet satin lacings, beautifully lined with boning and cinched tight to push her breasts high without needing a corset. Tiny red rosebuds decorated the black lace, which scalloped low over her breasts. The skirt without crinoline would likely please any lusty player whose lap she chose to sit on. On her hands, she wore matching lace, fingerless gloves—perfect for handling cards.
She smiled, pleased with her appearance and the way the men beside her looked her up and down. She would show Rory there was nothing angelic about her this evening.
Maybe she wasn’t a paid mistress with years of experience, but she had something Rory found attractive.
Whatever she possessed that he’d desired, she hoped to use it to her advantage tonight. Although he’d brought her on board only a short time ago, he’d managed to get into her system like a bad habit. And ever since he’d passed up the opportunity to take her maidenhead, she’d wanted nothing more than another chance to change his mind. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life in Illinois wondering what it would’ve felt like to have a lover like Rory.
Annoyance set its hooks in Dell when she saw Rory returning Vivienne’s stare. She could hardly concentrate on the present conversation Molly had begun with the roulette players while she followed the sensual, unspoken communication between the couple. Hot jealousy percolate
d through her veins.
Presently, one of Rory’s party got up from the table. His remaining challenger turned his head. Kit Wainwright. Rory’s opponent from the duel back in Memphis.
Struck by sudden inspiration and the moment of opportunity, she excused herself from her company and crossed the room to the captain’s table. Rory’s expression darkened when he glanced up to see her standing there, but he surveyed her exposed skin with admiration.
Wainwright scooted his chair back and stood. “Why, hello!” His smile made a dimple in his cheek. “I know you. We haven’t been introduced, but I believe we saw each other the day when I shot our friend Captain Campbell.” He extended his hand.
She grinned. “Philadelphia Samuels.” She placed her hand in his. Giving him a playful squeeze, she teased, “Yes. I was preoccupied with your second, Mr. Ottenheim. But as for Rory’s omission, being shot is no excuse for lack of manners.”
“Christopher Wainwright.” He bit his bottom lip and studied her face. “I’m delighted to formally meet you.”
His engaging manners reminded her of Rory—until he’d become all sullen and pious recently.
“Dell’s uncle is a moonshiner.” Rory gathered the playing cards and straightened them. His expression told her nothing of his current mood, but she took the remark as a direct cut.
“What a crass thing to say, Campbell.” Then to her, Wainwright gestured at the empty chair. “Care to join us? I’m sure you have wonderful stories to share about the experience.”
She sat, letting the handsome gambler push her chair under her. Rory shuffled the cards, his movements rocking the small table.
“Rory’s right. My mother’s deceased. Her family in Arkansas raised me.”
Wainwright poured himself a glass of rum. “We have something in common. I’ve also been dependent on an uncle lately. Is your father not living then?”