Isobel sat back to regard him. “I have a question.”
He waited.
“If I’m captain of this boat and you’re captain of the agency, who gets to pilot our marriage?”
“That’s a trick question.”
“Is it?”
“At the very least it’s a loaded one.”
“You never flinch in the face of a loaded gun.” Her lip quirked. “You’re not dodging this bullet.”
Riot’s gaze flickered downwards. “Your most exquisite breasts pilot our marriage, Miss Bel.” He raised a brow towards her open robe.
Isobel stared at him. Then snorted. And finally laughed. “They’re not the most prominent captains.”
“They get my attention every time.”
With a roll of her eyes she got back to work, but didn’t bother fastening her robe. The view distracted him from her work. “You didn’t seem surprised by the attack tonight,” she murmured.
It took a second for his brain to make sense of her statement. “Fishing, Bel?”
“I suspect my partner is withholding information from me.”
“Not on purpose. I was warned during that business with the stolen eggs—a lady of the night told me I had a price on my head and Kate confirmed it.”
“Ah.”
“As a general rule, there’s usually at least one bounty on my head. I suspect the tongs still have a chun hung on me, too.”
“Well, someone tried to collect tonight. What would you have done if the entire Morgue had drawn on you?”
“Hope a few missed.”
“I’m serious, Riot.”
He met her glare. “I am, too.”
Isobel made a sound of frustration in the back of her throat, and refocused on her sutures. “Would Ravenwood have stayed behind?”
“Without a doubt,” Riot said. “He’d have sat behind the bar, told me to handle things, then pulled out a book.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He was British. He preferred to keep things ‘civilized.’”
“And let the conquered natives handle the messy bits?”
“Precisely.”
“That’s not in my nature, Riot.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Not that I was any help. I’ve been shot at, knifed, beaten, but that—” She shivered. “That was a whole other beast.”
She was right about that. Riot remembered his first gunfight. Pinned down and surrounded, his urge to do something, anything had been nearly overwhelming. Tim had just sat there calmly smoking his pipe, waiting for an opening. He made his shots count.
Riot had been that inexperienced greenhorn a lifetime ago. He knew the course he’d taken to get to where he was today, but the thought of Isobel following a path like that made breathing difficult.
“Riot?” Her voice brought him back to the present. “Do I need to take that bottle away?”
“Only lost in the past.”
Isobel tied off the last stitch, and snipped the thread. “That’s a dangerous thing.” She doused the wound with carbolic acid again, then motioned for him to sit up. Riot tested his arm. The sutured skin stretched and the movement sent a fresh wave of pain. She turned to her supplies and slathered something on a bandage before laying it over the wound.
“What’s that?”
“Apis mellifera.”
“Honey?” He narrowed his eyes. “What witchery is this?”
“I did have an old woman in Italy brandish her cross at me once.”
“I’m not surprised.” Riot poked at the bandage as she secured it with plaster. “Why honey?”
“My brother Fernando is an Egyptologist.”
“That’s right.” Isobel had nine brothers. All of them older, save for her twin. Two of them were deceased. She had shot Curtis in self-defense, and Decker was reportedly lost at sea five years before.
“You’ll meet them all eventually, I’m sure. Ancient Egyptians used honey on bandages. I tested it once, and it works. Bacteria can’t grow in honey. But you’ll have to take care not to reopen it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Isobel put her things away, wrapped herself in a blanket, then leaned against his uninjured side. Riot draped an arm around her. The Shipmate stove was glowing with heat, and the cabin was cozy. Her teeth had stopped chattering. She idly ran a hand through his hair and he closed his eyes, savoring her touch.
“What part of your past were you lost in?” she asked softly.
“A gunfight. My first. Not a duel, but a battle. Tim and I cornered an outlaw and his gang. Or so we thought. It was the opposite—we were cornered.”
“You two have a long history together.” There was a note of envy in her voice. Of sadness. Riot shifted slightly to look her in the eyes. He cupped her cheek, and caressed her ear with his thumb. Isobel had beautiful lines. She was a study in contrasts: sharp cheekbones, wide mouth and lips, a jawline cut from stone, and a long, graceful neck. But it was her eyes that drew him every time. Fiercely intelligent, proud, and glittering with steel.
The last thing Riot wanted to do was hurt her pride. But how to explain?
“Who do you want on deck with you when you sail into a storm?” he asked.
“An experienced sailor.”
“Isn’t every sailor inexperienced at some point?”
“Of course.”
“How does a sailor bridge the gap from landlubber to sea dog? How did you do it?”
“I know my way around a boat, but I wouldn’t call myself a sea dog.”
“Humility is a true mark of experience.”
Isobel thought for a moment. “I was foolhardy, in over my head, and had dumb luck. That’s how I bridged the gap.”
“It was the same for me. Consider tonight a christening in blood. Your first storm.”
She met his eyes.
“I took a risk going to the Morgue, Bel. I needed someone at my back who knew the ropes. It wasn’t your sex, your ability, or our relationship. Taking Tim was simply the best chance I had of surviving a storm.”
“Why go at all?” she challenged.
“Things changed while I was away from San Francisco. Three years is a long time in the criminal underworld. There’s fresh blood now, and a new power dynamic. I thought it time I left an impression on a new generation of thugs.”
“Do you think it worked?” she asked.
“It’ll weed out a few.”
“And what remains?”
“The desperate and dangerous.”
Isobel took a shaky breath. “It was Alex, wasn’t it?” Her ex-husband had a bone to pick, and hiring killers was just his style.
“I don’t honestly know,” he admitted. “I don’t have a shortage of enemies. I suspect my half sister was keeping hired guns at bay over the years.”
White Blossom, or Siu Lui—Jesse as he called her—a notorious madam in Chinatown who had been the mastermind behind a secretive society. Riot and Isobel had exposed her criminal organization. Their conflict ended in a stalemate, and she agreed to leave for three years to repay a life debt she owed Riot.
“Say what you like about her, but she kept a kind of balance in the city, and chasing her away left a void. It’s bound to tip one way or the other now.”
“Siu Lui physically left, Riot. That doesn’t mean she’s withdrawn her hooks from the city.”
As his only purported family, Riot was aware he had a weakness for Siu Lui. They’d grown up on the streets together. Survived. And then their paths diverged, but that connection was still there. He tried not to think about what would happen when she returned.
Instead, Riot told Isobel what the bartender said.
“A man with a mustache. Well, that narrows things down.” Isobel took the bottle of brandy from him, stared at it a moment, then handed it back, and got up to root around her galley. “Do you think that bartender was telling the truth? That the man who put the mark on you was a Pinkerton?”
“Could be an ex-Pinkerton li
ke myself.”
“You and Ravenwood didn’t leave the agency on good terms, did you?”
“We did not.”
“Convenient that Monty wasn’t there for the attack.” She let the suggestion hang in the air.
“We’ve never got along,” Riot admitted. “But I don’t think he’d put a mark on me.”
“I personally think he would, and I doubt he has two coins to rub together, which is motivation in itself,” Isobel said. “Think about it, Riot. Monty has intimate knowledge of your habits. He could be an informant.”
“The agency pays well,” he defended. “If he needed money that much, why ruin his only job?”
“You said it yourself earlier today.”
“I did?”
“Monty respected Ravenwood. He doesn’t respect you.”
The thought made Riot tired. But there it was. Out in the open now.
“There’s no proof,” she said hastily. “But we should consider all possibilities.” She returned with tea, a plate of cut apples, dried beef, and cheese and crackers.
“Thank you.” They ate and sipped their tea in silence while Riot considered the possibility of Monty’s betrayal. Finally, he came to a conclusion. “I don’t think Monty hates me that much. Does he want to beat me to a pulp? Absolutely. But hire someone else to shoot me? No. He’d want me to know it was him pulling the trigger. I’ve been wrong before, though,” he admitted. “Maybe I just don’t like to think of him as a Judas in my midst.”
Isobel snorted. “Not quite that, Riot. You can’t even swim let alone walk on water.”
“I’m making headway.” Not much, he admitted to himself. He found Isobel absolutely captivating in the water. The only headway he’d made was his ability to distract her from teaching him anything.
“I intend to make a swimmer out of you yet.”
“Whatever keeps you close.”
Riot leaned back on the settee, gently gripped her wrist, and pulled her down beside him. She gladly came, laying her head on his chest, and molding herself to him. Riot ran a hand through her hair, and slowly, deliberately, began massaging the contours of her scalp before working down her neck. Her muscles were corded in knots, and he teased them loose with each stroke of his hand.
A soft sigh brushed his skin. “This isn’t how I envisioned our first day back,” Isobel whispered. She liked puzzles. She did not like being splattered with brains.
“We can always pack up and leave for England. Apparently I inherited an estate there.”
“Do you have enemies in England?”
A pause, then, “I’ve had a few difficulties.”
Isobel considered the option. “I’m not sure English society is ready for the Riot family. I’d have even less freedom there, and so would our daughters, but if things get too dangerous…” she let the rest hang in the air.
“It never hurts to have an exit at hand,” he murmured.
“How can you be so calm?”
“The same way a captain pilots a ship through a squall. I’ve been in worse situations, Bel. You do what needs doing until you drop dead.”
She shivered against him. “It’s the dying part I worry about with you. I don’t fancy being a widow, Riot.”
“I’ll get there one day,” he whispered against her temple. “But not today.”
He had a reason to wake up every morning. She was wrapped safely in his arms, and Riot intended to hold on to her for as long as he could.
“You best not go anywhere. I’ll have to find a new masseuse.”
Riot had unknotted the kinks in her shoulders. His hand was strong, his touch precise. He had worked down her spine, and now ran a finger up her protruding vertebrae with the same sensitive touch he used with his marked cards.
Isobel shivered again—this time with a soft moan. She raised her face to his. “What did I ever do without you?”
In answer, Riot kissed her. He couldn’t resist, and had no reason to. But his kiss was like a match to tinder. The instant his lips touched hers, she answered with a hungry, near savage return.
Isobel never did anything halfway. All her energy, all her focus, was thrown into that act, until he could taste lust on her lips. Riot was overcome, gripped in her passion—a need to be reminded they were both alive. Of skin on skin, and a melding of bodies.
Never breaking the kiss, of tongues warring with tongues, of frantic need, Isobel rose and straddled him, letting her robe fall open. She tugged at his trouser buttons as his hands roamed her body, stoking desire, and then her lips fell, teeth scraping across his chest. His head swam, pulsing heat rushed to his groin, until hard instinct was the only thing driving him. Riot hissed as she teased, his hand tightening on her buttocks, urging her towards a primal connection.
But Isobel resisted his direction, taking advantage of his injury. She grabbed his hand, and pinned it over his head, her eyes full of mischief. “Oh no you don’t, Mr. Riot. Remember, I’m the captain on this boat.”
The only word he managed was a groan.
16
A Fresh Start
Tuesday, October 9, 1900
The siren scent of coffee coaxed Isobel awake. She inhaled, her senses coming alive, and stretched. A yawn cracked her jaw. She could feel Riot warm and relaxed beside her on their double bed. From the rhythm of his breathing, she surmised he was still sleeping. Drowsy, she turned towards him, intending to go back to sleep.
Wait. Coffee. Riot was sleeping. Then who—
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up.
A small, black-haired girl in a boy’s suit and an oversized cap crouched on the floor. Her black eyes were focused on Riot’s foot. He tended to kick off blankets, and his leg was hanging out into the boat’s passageway. Thankfully, the more important parts were covered. Isobel hoped signs of the night’s activities weren’t too obvious.
Silver light streamed through the hatch overhead, and she could hear footsteps on deck. Isobel squinted groggily at her daughter.
Jin answered her unvoiced question. “Sarah, Tobias, and Grimm. Sarah came down too, but she turned very red when she saw your clothes all over the cabin and you both in bed. She is on deck now. I would pretend that you do not know she came down here. I cleaned up the mess you made.”
So much for that hope.
“That will teach you not to disturb us unannounced.”
Jin frowned. “It is close to noon. You did not return last night.”
Memories of the day before came flooding back. She blew out a harsh breath, and put a hand to her head, suddenly sick.
“Why does bahba have a pig and barrel on the top of his feet?” Jin asked.
“So I won’t sink,” Riot muttered. He stirred and shifted, wincing as he pushed himself upright to rest against the cabin wall. “It’s a mariner’s tradition.”
“He really went all out on his single ocean voyage,” Isobel explained.
“Har. Har,” Riot rasped.
Jin’s eyes narrowed on his bandage. “You were shot too?”
Belatedly, Riot realized his state of undress, and clutched the blanket to his chin. Jin was unfazed. She’d spent a year in a high-end brothel cleaning up rooms and readying prostitutes for their next client. Jin spoke about sex in the bluntest of terms.
“Too?” Isobel asked. She knew who else had been shot, but she was surprised Jin knew.
Jin tossed three newspapers onto the bed. The Morning Call, the Examiner, and the San Francisco Bulletin. Riot reached for his spectacles, but found the small shelf empty. Jin plucked his spectacles from her pocket, and handed them over. “They were stuffed between the cushions.”
Riot cleared his throat, and threaded the wire over his ears one-handed, while he clutched the blanket to his bare chest.
Isobel grabbed the Examiner. “You’re an excellent first mate, Jin.”
“He is your first mate.”
“No, Riot is my cook. You’ll always be first mate,” Isobel said, unfolding the newspaper.
Jin p
icked up a basket from the floor, and set it on their legs with a pointed look at Riot. “Your cook is slacking on his duties, so it is lucky Miss Lily sent breakfast. I will bring coffee and tea. Should I make him walk the plank afterwards?”
Riot was most definitely not slacking on his husbandly duties, but Isobel kept that thought to herself.
“No leniency for an injured crewman?” Riot asked.
“I suppose. This once,” Jin said. “But I want to see if your pig and barrel work.”
Isobel looked up from the article Detectives Ambushed, which described the shoot-out at Ravenwood Agency, told in the play-by-play style of a man accustomed to covering boxing matches. At least Mack was feeling well enough to write.
Isobel studied her small charge. Wisps of black hair had escaped her braid, her collar sagged, and her clothes were wrinkled. Dark circles ringed her eyes, making her look more severe than usual.
Isobel did not ask the question on the tip of her tongue: What did you get up to last night? Jin would never give her a straight answer. Instead, she asked another, “Why are you buttering us up?”
Jin sniffed. “You are so suspicious of me.” The girl marched into the main cabin, and Isobel leaned over Riot to call down the passageway, “Wouldn’t you be suspicious of you?”
“I am suspicious of everyone.”
“That’s my girl,” Isobel called.
She felt Riot stiffen under her. Not in the usual morning manner, but an alarmed reflex. Isobel sat up. He had the Morning Call in hand, and his bespectacled eyes were fixed on a headline: Disreputable Detective Runs House of Ill Repute.
“Now that is Alex’s doing,” she said with a sigh. She read along with him. The article claimed Atticus Riot lived under one roof with his mistress and a wife, and speculated on his relationship with his adoptive daughters. Each word sickened Isobel further. She placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll file a libel suit.”
But Riot shook his head. “No use. The damage is done. People will believe what they like.”
“You can’t just let this lie, Riot. It accuses you of running a whorehouse out of your home.”
“If we file a libel suit it will open us up for an investigation by the police.” He let the statement hang there.
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