The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  “Was? You mean he’s dead, too?”

  “Oui.” Her voice quavered, and she felt the ache of unshed tears at the back of her throat.

  Tom placed a kiss against her hair. “You poor little thing,” he murmured, “you’ve had some hard times, haven’t you? And nobody to take care of you. It’s all right now. I’m going to take care of you from now on.”

  A flood of emotion, dammed since Alain’s disappearance, finally broke. Simone wept against Tom’s shoulder until she had no more tears. Then, cradled in his arms, she slept peacefully for the first time in months.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Evening, Cap’n,” Batiste murmured as Tom stepped out and closed Simone’s cabin door softly behind him.

  “I fell asleep sitting with her,” the captain said when he discerned the servant in the darkness.

  “You had a long night last night.”

  Joining Batiste at the railing, Tom asked, “You know I love Simone, don’t you?”

  “I know.”

  “I’d fight for her, but I don’t know who to fight. She won’t tell me, and I don’t know what to do to win her trust.” Tom shook his head, his face bleak.

  “I believe Simone would trust you with her life, Cap’n, but she doesn’t want you to fight her fight,” the big black man responded. “She believes she brings danger to anyone she cares for. She is protecting you the only way she knows how, outside of leaving you.”

  “You think she cares for me?” Tom’s voice held a note of cautious hope.

  “My little friend is the only one who truly knows her own heart.” Batiste answered.

  “I don’t think she does yet,” the Virginian muttered more to himself than to his companion. After a time, he asked, “I’ll have to let her open the casino if I want her to stay aboard, won’t I?”

  “If you wish to keep her respect. You gave her your word.”

  “I know, but--”

  “Cap’n, she’ll be safer with you and me on this boat than she has been for a long time. And you will have her at your side.”

  “That’ll do for now,” Tom murmured, ambling toward his cabin.

  The next morning, Simone awoke with a ravenous appetite. After she had attacked her breakfast with gusto, Batiste examined her wound and pronounced her well enough to walk on deck.

  “Is the capitaine around?” she asked, seemingly casual.

  “He’s everywhere,” Batiste replied with a chuckle, “in the wheelhouse, in the boiler room, and everywhere in between.”

  But Tom was nowhere to be seen when Simone strolled the hurricane deck that afternoon. Peering down the companionway, she saw Obadiah draped over the railing on the deck below.

  “Bonjour, Obie,” she called.

  Lifting his head, he looked around queasily. Silhouetted against the sky, the girl looked pretty and fresh in her simple dress and bonnet. You’d think she’d never been sick in her life, Obadiah thought crossly, much less wounded in a sword fight.

  Straightening with care, he answered, “Hello, Miss Simone. You look a lot better today than the last time I saw you.”

  “I wish I could say the same. Are you ill?”

  “You stay up there.” Obie gulped deeply when she started to descend. “And please don’t tell Cap’n Franklin I’m seasick.”

  “He wouldn’t mind,” she sympathized. “It’s no crime to suffer mal de mer.”

  “Seems pretty ungrateful after he gave me a job.”

  “Tom gave you a job?” she asked with genuine pleasure.

  “As a waiter.” Obadiah looked wretched at the thought of food.

  “I would rather have you with me in the casino.”

  “You better take that up with him.” Clutching a post, the boy sagged against it.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Jest lemme die in peace,” he requested hoarsely.

  “Before I go, Obie . . . ” She lingered. “Merci beaucoup for rescuing me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he gagged, then bolted forward out of sight.

  “Don’t think we’re gonna make a river man of that boy,” a gruff voice said behind Simone.

  She turned to find Zachary Cameron standing behind her. Neither had seen the other at close range before, and they inspected each other silently for a moment.

  The pilot was a compact, bowlegged, barrel-chested man. His face was dour and had probably always been homely. His nose, which had obviously been broken, was off-center, giving him a rather sinister look. Under bushy brows, his sharp hazel eyes scrutinized Simone.

  With all the certainty of a first impression, Zack guessed the girl was as intelligent as she was lovely. And she was very pretty.

  “You must be M’sieur Cameron, Tom’s good friend,” she guessed with a smile.

  “Zack,” he corrected, sweeping his cap from his head. Through sparse iron-gray hair, his pate shone white in contrast to his tanned face. “And you must be Miss Simone Devereaux.”

  “Oui.” She nodded graciously.

  “Would you do me the honor of a promenade around the deck?” he invited, unexpectedly gallant.

  “If we go slowly.” Simone accepted the arm he offered. “I’m glad to meet you at last, Zack. Tom has told me a great deal about you. You are the Emerald Queen’s pilot?”

  “One of them. Ulysses Rabalais has the helm now.” He nodded toward the wheelhouse, where the dapper Cajun waved and flashed them a brilliant smile.

  “You and Tom have known each other for some time, oui?”

  “Seven years. Met him when he was fresh from the East. Taught him what he knows about the river—what he was willin’ to learn, anyway. Tom’s a bright feller, but he’s more interested in engines and contraptions than in readin’ the water and pilotin’. Still, I’m mighty fond of him.” Stopping, Zack leveled an appraising stare at Simone. “That’s why I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you, young woman, to see if you’re worth a hill of beans.”

  “A hill . . .” She blinked at him in surprise.

  “I’m not much with words, miss.” He grimaced at his own bluntness. “I want you to know Tom Franklin is a good man with more heart than sense. I’ve known him long enough to see he’s in love with you. I reckon there’s a brain behind those green eyes of yours, so I’ll tell you straight. A gal hurt him real bad once and I don’t wanna see it happen again.”

  The wave of anger Simone had felt when Zachary started to speak receded. This brusque man was concerned for his friend.

  “I wouldn’t hurt Tom,” she protested. “I have become very fond of him. After all, he saved my life twice.”

  “Don’t tell me what you’re feelin’ is gratitude.” He scowled.

  “I don’t know what I feel,” she replied. “I-I like Tom. I enjoy his company. But I, too, was hurt, M’sieur Cameron. I do not think I will love again.”

  “You’re honest. I’ll give you that,” Zachary said.

  “The question is, am I worth ‘a hill of beans’?” she reminded him dryly as they reached their original position on the deck.

  He offered a rare smile. “I reckon you’re all right with me, even if you don’t know what you feel. You’ll figure it out in time,” he said, unknowingly echoing Tom’s opinion. Touching a finger to the brim of his cap, he strolled back to the pilothouse.

  That evening, Simone dressed for dinner in her cabin, choosing a pale pink gown she thought Tom would like. Still unable to lift her arms without hurting her side, she left her hair down, brushing it until it gleamed and curled on her bare shoulders.

  She was ready when her guest rapped on the door. Fresh from his bath and smelling of soap and bay rum, Tom stepped into the cabin. His face showed signs of recent shaving, and the hair at the nape of his neck curled damply against his stiff white collar.

  Following his nose to an elegantly set table, he uttered two words hopefully, “Fried chicken?”

  “I remembered it was your favorite.”

  Pulling the bottle from the silver wine coo
ler, he glanced at it, his eyebrows lifting. “Champagne?”

  “My favorite,” she answered with a grin. “Come, let’s eat.”

  Neither brought up the subject that was on their minds during dinner. But before the man could tell Simone he planned to keep his word about the casino, she began, “Tom, I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day, about Carnival. Won’t you let me run it?”

  Though he had known all along what her game was, the captain was suddenly unaccountably hurt. “Is that what this was all about, Simone?” he asked harshly. “Wining and dining me so you could get your way?”

  She cringed inwardly but defended her actions. “I wanted you to be in a good mood before--”

  “Before you went to work on me,” he finished flatly. Wadding his napkin, he tossed it onto the table and rose. “You could’ve saved your feminine wiles. I made my decision last night.”

  “You made your decision?” Simone’s wrath was incandescent. She did not allow him to elaborate before she was on her feet. “Of all the high-handed, tyrannical--”

  “Let’s talk about low-down female tricks,” Tom hollered back as he paced the cabin. “And I actually thought you were beginning to like me a little!”

  “How dare you shout at me,” she yelled, dogging his steps. “I’ll have you know, I do like you, Thomas Jefferson Franklin, more than a little.”

  Whirling in midstride, he caught her in his arms as she bumped into him. “How much do you like me, darlin’?” he asked, grinning.

  “Not much at all right now,” she snapped, straining in his embrace, but he did not free her.

  “You said ‘more than a little,’” he insisted softly, nuzzling her ear. “Is that a lot?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she whispered. She would have shied away from his touch, but a warm, delicious languor stole over her as he trailed kisses down her jaw, stopping just short of her lips.

  “Would you say you care a great deal for me?” His tongue teased the comer of her mouth.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she whispered, her arms twining around his neck as she tilted her face toward his. “I won’t.”

  “This is the kind of argument I like to have with a woman,” he murmured, bending to kiss her.

  Her anger forgotten in the bliss of strong arms sheltering her, offering her safety and so much more, Simone returned his kiss, moaning softly and gripping his shoulders when his lips moved down her neck to the sensitive base of her throat. As he dipped to nibble at the pale flesh exposed above her décolletage, she swayed toward him, feeling as if her breasts were swelling and straining against the bodice of her dress.

  “Simone,” he whispered, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers, “I love you.” He ached to make her his own.

  Opening eyes hazy with building passion, she smiled and murmured, “I lied. I do care a great deal for you.”

  She had not said she loved him, but Tom’s spirits soared, and he could wait no longer. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom and set her on her feet beside the bed.

  “Simone?” he whispered hoarsely, offering her one last chance to change her mind.

  “It’s all right, Tom,” she assured him.

  “Turn around, then,” he instructed softly. When she obeyed, he unlaced the back of her gown and began slipping it down. It ensnared her arms close to her body, and before he freed her, he bent to feather kisses down her spine. When his mouth returned to her shoulders, she leaned back against him, feeling him warm and solid behind her and the brass buttons of his waistcoat deliciously cold through her lacy camisole.

  He lifted her dress over her head and dropped it onto a chair. “Stay right here.” Stepping into the parlor, he returned with a candelabrum, which he placed on the table beside the bed. “I want to be able to see you.”

  “I want to see you, too,” she whispered, standing before him in her petticoats and flimsy undergarments.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked with dread when he openly winced.

  Tenderly, he touched her side, where the stark white bandage was visible through her camisole. “Simone, I--”

  “You won’t hurt me,” she murmured. She stepped around him, her full petticoats swaying, and helped him out of his jacket. He faced her, striving to control the rush of desire that swept over him as she unbuttoned his waistcoat with enticing slowness.

  After she had removed it and turned her attention to unknotting his cravat, Tom untucked his linen shirt and removed its studs. Beneath it, the smooth, hard planes of his body were burnished by candlelight. His torso was flat and muscular, bronzed by the sun. Above his hard belly, a thick mat of black hair covered his chest.

  Drawing Simone to him, he tugged her camisole up, sweeping it smoothly over her head when she lifted her arms. Molding her arms so they wreathed his neck, he held her, reveling in the feel of skin against skin. He rubbed against her gently, the crisp hair on his chest brushing her sensitive breasts.

  Cupping a breast in his hand, he bent to caress it with his mouth as she arched against him, shuddering at the heat of his lips, her hands working the shirt from his muscled shoulders.

  His mouth returned urgently to hers, and he untied the tapes that held her petticoats and pantalettes in place. He pushed them down, his hands sliding sensuously over her hips, her thighs. His fingers hooked in her garters, taking her stockings with him in a downward progression as he traced the path with kisses.

  When she stood naked before him in the flickering candlelight, his eyes drifted over her appreciatively. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his low voice rife with intimacy.

  Her green eyes glowing at the warmth of his words and touch, she sat on the bed while Tom stripped off the remainder of his garments and stood before her. Below his line of his belt, his skin was white, and his legs were lithe and well muscled. As if mesmerized, Simone’s eyes were drawn to the evidence of his arousal before traveling slowly upward to meet his. Unembarrassed, she met his sapphire gaze. Then, without a word, she held out her arms to him.

  He stretched out beside her on the bed, rolling her to face him. His hand caressed her breast, then glided along her body, skimming her ribs, lifting to miss the bandage, descending to stroke the curve of her hip.

  She molded herself to the hard length of him and gasped and clutched him tightly when his hand found the moist, warm center of her.

  “I want to love you, but I don’t want to hurt you. I know a way that will be good for you,” he whispered, rolling them so he lay beneath her.

  She cried out in surprised pleasure when he thrust upward to fill her. Instinctively, she drew her knees up and moved with him, rising above him, rising with him toward ecstasy she had never known.

  Panting, drenched with sweat, content beyond compare, the lovers wrapped their arms around each other, and eventually they slept.

  Simone awoke slowly, suspended in rich sensation. She burrowed deeper into the rumpled sheets, drawn by the weight beside her. Then, suddenly, her lashes fluttered open. Tom lay beside her, encircling her in a sleep-heavy embrace. One of his legs pressed across her stomach and twined down between her legs. The lean hardness of his torso and limbs against her was a vivid contrast to the warm softness of him that moved against her hip, seeming to possess a life of its own.

  A smile flitted across her drowsy face. Last night, she had discovered a fulfillment she had thought she would never feel again. The numbness she had felt these many long months had finally ebbed away, to be replaced by simple, unquestioning happiness in Tom’s presence.

  Tugging gently to free her hair where his shoulder captured it against the mattress, she shifted to look at him. Nestled against her arm, he slept, looking youthful, even vulnerable. Watching him, Simone felt the stirring of tenderness. She did care for him. But she must not fall in love, she told herself, smoothing back the familiar errant curl from his forehead.

  At her touch, his eyes opened, crinkling with a sleepy smile. “Good morning, darlin’,” he murmure
d. “How are you this morning? I didn’t hurt you last night?”

  “Non.” She returned his smile.

  “Good. I never want to hurt you.” He lay back on his pillow and slipped his arm beneath her so she was cradled on his shoulder, her face against his neck.

  After a moment, he said, “I was trying to tell you something last night, Simone, but you wouldn’t give me the chance.” His arm tightened around her when she stirred at his side. “No, I want you to listen. Before I came here I had already decided that I wouldn’t argue if you wanted to run the casino. But you must promise me two things.”

  “What?” she asked guardedly.

  “One, that you never leave this deck without a mask or some sort of disguise. And two, that you’ll keep Batiste with you as a bodyguard at work.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “You want to keep your partner happy, don’t you?” he countered lightly. “And three--”

  “You said two,” she interrupted. Lifting herself on one elbow, she stared down at him accusingly.

  “I forgot to mention the most important one,” he informed her without remorse. “If I ever have reason to believe you’re in danger, I want you to leave the river. We’ll find someplace safe for you, but I won’t have you taking unnecessary risks.”

  “All right,” she sighed in resignation.

  “Now, to other important items of business . . .” he announced, pulling her down so he could kiss her soundly. “Will you marry me?”

  “I told you--”

  “But after last night . . .” he interrupted.

  “Is that why you made love to me, so I would marry you?”

  “I wanted you. I still want you. But more important than the desire I feel for you is the love,” he told her earnestly. “You won’t admit that you love me, but I know you do, Simone. I can tell by your eyes and your lips and your touch.”

  “Tom, I can’t--”

  “Shh, you don’t have to say the words.” He silenced her with a kiss. “Just show me.”

  One warm September evening, the Emerald Queen steamed away from Helena, Arkansas, a pleasant town situated on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. The crew was assembled on the capstan, singing and waving to the crowds on the levee, while the captain strolled through the long, narrow Grand Salon.