by Sandra Jones
Yet even as doubt entered her mind, Quintus’s eyes narrowed and he stroked his mustache. No one knew the monster better than the devil’s own apprentice.
“Your brewery…the title to everything with your name on it…against my three steamboats and the packet?” His voice rose, drawing the ears of the crowd as he no doubt wished for—the witnesses to his longed-for showdown. At last.
Bart nodded, his stare unwavering across the table.
Moreaux’s gaze reciprocated, locked on his old foe. “Deal.”
Dell skipped the flourish, afraid the cards would slip like butter through her nervous fingers, and shuffled to parcel out the last hand. Her heart ached that Rory couldn’t be here to witness the game he’d worked so hard to procure.
When all the cards were distributed between the men, Dell surreptitiously moved her reticule within her reach.
Quintus took one last puff on his cigar and picked up his cards. Wainwright did the same. Dell watched Quintus carefully, distrust knotting in her stomach, and for a good reason. There was an extra card in his hand! An ace, likely. Damn him for changing the plans! He was supposed to be holding no more than the pair of aces she’d worked into her deal.
Dell couldn’t expose his fraud to Bart. Anyone would be crazy to call him out for cheating, because Quintus would request a duel to defend his honor. Not nearly as robust as his bluster, Bart certainly couldn’t accept the challenge. She prayed her carefully chosen cards were good enough to thwart Quintus’s plans.
She smiled sweetly at her enemy like a co-conspirator. Yes, I see your extra card, and I hope you choke on it!
All in, Bart showed his hand first. A full house with three jacks and a pair of queens—a much better hand than she’d told Moreaux he would be holding.
Quintus’s eyes closed, and Dell’s chest tightened. When he reopened his eyes, murder burned in his gaze for her, then he dropped the hand. Three aces, a deuce, and a king. One ace more than the hand she’d planned to deal him, yet still not enough to trump Bart.
Her stomach fell. Too late for her to feign surprise and too obvious to even attempt the show of innocence. He knew. His hatred blazed across the table, leaving no question in her mind of the color of his heart, black as night. Bart may have won, but Quintus knew Dell was the one who’d really cheated him.
The spectators murmured in shocked awe around them. There were witnesses aplenty to attest to the gamblers’ hands and the stakes.
Bart picked up his hat. “Well, there you go. I trust the game was all you’d hoped for, Quintus.”
“Riveting.” He rose like a tall column of ice, expression glacial, and departed through the throng of stoic men.
In his wake, the regular customers exchanged glances of incredulity. Dell fought the urge to pinch herself. She hadn’t dreamt he would leave so quietly.
Bart stood and looked down on her with a smile. “We’ve done it, my dear! I suppose the first thing to do at such a moment would be to thank you. Then perhaps find ourselves a captain?”
Snapping out of her stupor, Dell jumped up and grabbed his lapels. “The engine room. Rory’s in the engine room!”
Bart’s eyes widened. He nodded tersely and gestured with the fob of his cane at the prizefighter.
His weathered hand wrapped around her arm as he escorted her to the door. Wainwright’s minions came to life about the room, closing in on them. By the time she and Bart walked out into the night, her hand gripped her gun, and the prizefighter fell in close behind.
Quintus walked ahead, appearing and disappearing between the lights as he descended the stairs, his stride confident. She felt another jab of worry as they followed him down. Balfour! Where was he? Must’ve slipped outside during the game.
Now on the lower deck, Kit suddenly emerged from the shadows, blocking Quintus’s path. His hand rested on his waist just above his holstered Colt. Wainwright’s grip on her elbow squeezed reassuringly. She glanced at the old man and saw no surprise or alarm, only the taut wariness that came from knowing Moreaux for so many decades.
“You’ll allow me by, Mr. Wainwright.” Quintus’s voice was calm and light. “I must collect my belongings. I believe your uncle has just won our final game together.”
Dell’s heart flipped as Balfour appeared behind Kit. She screamed over the sound of the gunman’s pistol as it went off, and Kit tumbled forward. Quintus darted for freedom, leaping from the promenade into the darkened engine room. Dell tugged her gun free from her bag as Balfour aimed at her. Another burst of fire from behind her sent Balfour flying backward with a bloom of blood on his chest. Dell whipped around. Rory was half-hidden in the shadows, his gun still trained on Balfour’s lifeless body.
“Laughton!” she yelled in warning. Her signal came too late, however. As Rory turned, Quintus’s man fell upon him with his fists.
“Christopher!” Bartholomew knelt to check his nephew’s injuries.
Kit pushed himself upright and waved off his help. “He missed the vitals.”
Zeb, Trap and the rest of the officers filed down the stairs, blocking the pathway behind Rory and Laughton as they grappled. The gunman landed a hard punch against Rory’s jaw, and the captain dropped his gun with an oath. Laughton reached for his own weapon as Dell freed her pistol, aimed and fired. The bullet struck his shoulder and he staggered backward, eyes rounding in horrified surprise as he stared down the muzzle of her Allen and Thurber.
She stalked closer. Laughton grabbed his arm and backed away before breaking into a run for escape.
Rory retrieved his weapon and hurried to meet her. He put his arm around her and drew her against him. “Dell,” he murmured against the top of her head.
She pressed her cheek against his solid chest and breathed in his scent, her heart full to be in his arms again. She had so many questions for him, including who released him. Trap, maybe? But that could wait. Remembering they weren’t safe yet, she pulled back. “Rory, Quintus and Laughton are still on board and armed.”
He nodded, withdrew with a stony expression and headed for the shadows of engine room.
Bartholomew pulled Kit to his feet and left him leaning on the rail. Then he gestured to his men to follow Rory, while the fighter headed starboard. Dell joined them, and feeling her heart dash against her ribs, she held her pistol close.
Before they rounded the corner, raised voices echoed off the metal. Rory faced Quintus across the room, both with guns drawn, aiming at each other. The chair Rory had been tied to lay on its side, the cut ropes strewn underneath.
Quintus’s face split with a hideous grin. “You do me proud, son. However did you manage to escape your bonds?”
He grunted. “I’m not your son, and you never bothered learning anything about your own ships. You left me two feet away from the telegraph.”
The brass dial, which earlier had read “STOP” now indicated “FULL.” Any officer sitting at the helm would be curious who’d sent the message from the engine room below while the mighty Queen Helen sat in port and would’ve been able to cut him free while everyone was preoccupied at the tables.
Quintus pursed his lips in appreciation. “Apparently, Laughton’s not nearly as good with his fists as he’s led me to believe.”
“You’re damn right about that.” Bartholomew, catching up with them, brushed her elbow as he pointed his cane at the opposite door at Quintus’s back where his prizefighter entered, holding a bloody, beaten Laughton upright. “Now we got both your men. You’re in this alone. You best drop your gun and get off the boat while you can still walk.”
Quintus cocked his hammer, his eyes scanning the circle of people around him. “I have nothing left to live for, but I guarantee I’m taking one of you with me.”
“You’ll die before you do,” Rory intoned in a voice laced with fury, his hand steady.
“I raised you, I trained you.” His salt and p
epper brows relaxed over his black eyes as he stared at Rory with deceptive gentleness. “I know you better than anyone. To hurt you or that bastard Wainwright, I’ll put a bullet in her. That’s the only card I have left to play, and it’ll force your move. Are you ready to see if you’re fast enough to stop me? Either way, you’ll kill me, and I’ll make a man of you yet.” He chuckled.
Not a man…a murderer. Quintus’s dream of turning Rory into a younger version of himself was unfolding before their eyes. Dell’s throat tightened. The gun in her hand was useless. Everyone’s weapons were useless. No one could move if Quintus’s reputation for speed and accuracy was correct.
“Nope. I’m not going to stop you, and neither is anyone else here if I have anything to say about it.” Rory shook his head. “I haven’t left you alive for me to kill, though I’ve dreamed of it every hour of my life. But no, Thomas wants the honor, and he’s come a long way for it.”
“Thomas?” Quintus followed the path of Rory’s gaze, glancing over his shoulder at the young man in the doorway, the tall stranger Dell had seen earlier in the salon with Trap.
Quintus swung his weapon toward the man, but his opponent’s trigger finger was quicker. Dell and the rest of the crowd ducked for cover, but the bullet struck the bastard in the head. The gun fell from his hand as he dropped to the floor.
The smoke lingered in the room, shielding her view of the shooter, while the echo reverberated off the giant pipes and pistons. When the veil lifted, Dell saw the moisture in the young man’s eyes and the vein standing out on his forehead. She went to Rory, put her arms around him, and seeing the same shocked expression in his face as she’d seen in Thomas’s, she pulled his head to hers for a kiss.
His mouth was warm, his lips hesitant at first, but as she continued to kiss him, she felt his hands close on her waist. He kissed her back with mounting, awakened ebullience. It was finally over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rory heard the hotel room door open and close at his back as he stood naked in the steaming tub of water. His body rippled with anticipation at the sound of Dell’s return and her soft intake of breath. He eased into the water, which coupled with the heat her silence produced, helped chase away the chill of his first bath—the one he’d taken alone to rid himself of the blood and dirt from his fight.
Now clean and anxious for her touch, he lifted a sudsy sponge in the air. “I’m glad you’re back. I have a spot I can’t reach…”
“I’m sure you do.” He heard her petticoat swish against her boots as she came up behind him. She must’ve ignored the sponge, because he felt her fingers sink into his damp hair. She gingerly tilted his head back, examining the mark on his head with concerned eyes. He wasn’t bleeding anymore and the swelling of his eye had gone down, but the rather large knot must’ve likened him to a unicorn.
The adorable smile on her lips disappeared when she looked into his face.
“I take it from your expression I’m still not presentable for the Pomeroys and Asa.”
While he’d bathed, she’d gone to relay the news to their friends that Moreaux was no longer a threat and Asa could return to his home on the Queen Helen. He’d wanted to clean up and get her away from the violence of the evening, so he brought her to the hotel room he’d been staying in for the past week.
He’d also needed the time alone with her—their last night.
Damnation, if he could just force himself to let her go and not die trying. Or beg her to stay. With all her wonderful ideas of teaching and helping others, she deserved a better life than that of a gambler.
“No.” Dell brushed her lips against his and caressed his stubbled jaw with her thumb. “You look fine. Lumpy and bruised…but fine. Asa’s ready to see you, but I told him it would be late, very late, tomorrow afternoon.”
All day together. His organ rose beneath the foamy bath. He’d created a true wanton in Dell—a lover after his own heart. Her eyes went dark as her gaze roamed over his wet skin like she wanted to lick him—which he wouldn’t mind in the least.
He sat up and reached for her. His fingers curled into the glossy dark waves of hair at her nape, and she met his mouth with her own. He traced the line of her lips with his tongue, and she opened for him. He took from her, wanting more and more. He felt her hands sliding down his neck, and her fingers explored the slippery curves of his chest. He wanted her, needed her, but there was so much that had to be said.
“Wait. I need to tell you somethin’.” He spoke against her soft lips. He flattened his hands against hers, keeping her still, then leaned back. “I need to say this now before… I’m healthier than I look.”
“I know.” Her playful grin twisted his heart. “We’ll soon see how much stamina you have.”
He traced a finger along her chin, wanting to do just that. Then he remembered his responsibilities. “I—I have a surprise for you tomorrow. I’m afraid we’ll need to go back to the Queen in the morning. I made some…some arrangements while I was gone—”
She kissed his forehead. “I know about Jeremiah. I actually talked to him at Miss Elizabeth’s.”
He barked out a laugh. “You amaze the hell out of me. I tried so hard to keep him hidden. How did you…” He exhaled and sank lower in the tub. His cheeks cooled with guilt, despite the heat of the bathwater. The things he’d done to her, how she must’ve worried. It made him sick to his stomach to imagine what he’d put her through. “You know I never put him at risk. I wouldn’t! And the lady I took gambling…I never—”
“Rory”—she pressed her finger to his lips—“I know. I hated being left out of your plans, but I understand why you did it. Quintus had men following me. You made him think we were finished and led him to believe you weren’t involved with the Wainwrights and me.”
Equally amused and chagrinned, he felt tears sting his eyes and quickly lifted his gaze to the ceiling to extinguish them. “Angel, you have no idea how I’ve worried you would hate me for the things I’ve done.”
She slid her hand over his heart. “Quintus was wrong when he said he knew you better than anyone. I know you, Rory. Even before I discovered Jeremiah and realized you’d arranged to free him, I knew you wouldn’t have stopped—ever—until you’d finished what you’d started.”
The last part of his plan was what he really dreaded. He’d managed everything else, but letting Dell leave now that his plans were complete proved a more difficult task than all the rest.
Dell leaned forward, took his face between her hands and kissed him. “I know you’ve devoted years to creating this moment, Rory. You’re probably experiencing shock or are maybe even grieving a little—after all, the man did raise you. But you’ve done a noble, wonderful thing. Several good things, actually.” She kissed his mouth between her words, making his insides jangle. “Thomas has some sense of peace now that he’s gotten his justice, and no more boys will be hurt by that monster. You’ve also given Jeremiah his freedom.”
He winced before he could stop himself. To his everlasting shame, sending Ottenheim to Memphis to bring back Dell’s friend was the one part of his machinations he regretted.
Jeremiah was going to ask Dell to marry him—he’d said as much to the German—and then take her east to freedom where she could go to that damn school in Peoria. It was the life she’d claimed to desire for herself, and well, it was more respectable than anything he could offer.
“I’m hurting you.” She bit her lip and took her hands away.
“No. You’re not.” He forced a smile and beckoned her closer for another taste of her lips. “You’re not hurting me a bit.”
Soon she would belong to another. Knowing that, he shouldn’t be holding her, loving her. An honorable man wouldn’t.
But he’d never considered himself an honorable man.
Jeremiah stared silently at the water for a long moment. Dell averted her gaze from his, glancing at the row of
empty deck chairs similar to the ones at the helm where she and Rory had shared their first kiss. Her cheeks warmed at the memory, but mostly from the shame she felt for conjuring thoughts of the man she loved after just turning down another man’s offer of marriage.
She spoke gently, “It’s not that I object to you, Jeremiah. I don’t, and I’m sorry I can’t accept. I really am. But I know you wouldn’t like having me as a wife.”
He chuckled, gripping his dapper hat in his lap. “I think you’re being overly hard on yourself, Dell. You’re a prize.”
She shook her head. “Listen, I’m a poor cook, but I enjoy huntin’. Everything I tried to grow in my garden shriveled and died. I drink hard liquor and don’t go to church often. I curse. I love to gamble. Cheat. Travel—”
“All right.” He continued to laugh and raised an emphatic hand. “I see your point. Perhaps you’d make a better friend for me than a wife. Either way, both my mama and I are eternally grateful for your friendship and the captain’s.”
Dell glanced up and sighed with relief. The burden of her rejection eased upon seeing the honest warmth of his expression. Jeremiah was headed east to settle in Illinois and in a few weeks his mama would be joining him after Rory had finished the emancipation process in the Mississippi court. Yet another wonderful deed Rory had done without her knowledge.
He could’ve told her the night before, but he hadn’t. Neither of them had done much talking. They’d made love—lazy, sleepy, blissful love—all morning, filled with long kisses and even longer stares. She should’ve known he was trying to let go—should’ve known he wanted it to be their last time together.
Her stomach ached with regret that she hadn’t said something about the way she felt. Then after bringing her back to the Queen, he’d left the ship again without saying when he’d be back. Or if he would. And tomorrow the ship was leaving.
He’d never once said he’d loved her, and perhaps he didn’t. Or maybe he did care for her, but he loved his freedom more.