Destiny's Magic

by Martha Hix

  “I don’t want anything to drink.”

  “Let me cut you a king-size piece of cake,” she offered in a chipper tone to veer the subject off her “marital” situation. “I’m a fair cook, so I decided to put my baking skills to good use. For you. To make a stab at repaying your kindness at extending credit for passage.”

  “Where did you learn how to cook?”

  “From my mammy.”

  Silence descended. He stared, his gaze drilling into her, his broad chest heaving in exasperation. Susan grew more uncomfortable by the second. If this riverboat were to dock now at St. Francisville, she’d have gathered her boy, their snake, and rushed ashore without a word of argument.

  “Is this where you do your best work?” His voice became thick . . . taunting, testing, and changed the mood entirely. “In galleys?”

  “I am a married woman.”

  “Are you?” Burke’s mouth pressed into a frown. “That coward you call a husband may’ve whipped the hell out of you and your boy, but I’d bet the title to this steamboat he won’t have the guts to tangle with me.”

  Ask him, Susan. Ask him. It would not get any easier to ask. “I fear my husband will cause trouble for your St. Francisville relatives. Captain O’Brien—Burke—will you please take me and Pippin straight to New Orleans?”

  Burke chuckled, the sound rife with intent. “What are you willing to give, Susan, my dear Mrs. Paget, for my agreement?”

  It was one thing to have fantasies about a man, quite another to barter her goods. She was not running away with this frightening man to be a whore. “If you think I’m willing to sleep my way there, think again.”

  “Because you aren’t interested in me? Or because of the sanctity of . . . marriage?”

  A frisson went up and down her spine. “I know what you’re about. I’m disappointed in you. A man who trifles with another man’s wife is no gentleman.”

  “We’ve been over that before. I’m no gentleman.”

  “I expect you to respect the invisible lines between bachelors and married women.”

  Burke took the knife from her hand, then went to shut the hatch with it. The creak matched the jump in Susan’s nerves. What did he plan? Don’t be naive. He wants you. And he means to have you.

  Unfortunately, the wild part of Susan wanted him too, despite her avowals and fright, and his erratic nature.

  Shallow Susan could no more have slapped the advancing captain than she could have turned Orson around. Heaven help her, she longed to find out if Burke’s kisses and caresses were up to the scratch of gossip—and eyewitness.

  With easy, slow strides he returned to her, his lips twitching, almost into dimples. His eyes glinted with sin. “You smell sweet. Like vanilla. Heavenly.”

  His scent wasn’t heavenly. It certainly didn’t come from the spilt bottle of vanilla she’d mopped up a few minutes before Burke interrupted her. He smelled of soap, but also slightly of sweat. She didn’t find it offputting.

  A forefinger played across her collarbone, then swept from the mound of one breast to the other. She shivered deeply, all too aware of his sensuality. And her own.

  Cocking and lowering his head, he traced his tongue along her chin. “Shall we find out just how good you are in a galley?”

  “Don’t . . .”

  “That’s what you should’ve said to Paget. Before he did this to you.” He laid five fingers gently against the curve of her neck, the stitches in his palm pricking her skin. “Did you enjoy quarreling, then making up? Perhaps between the sheets?”

  She shivered. “I never enjoyed stepping over the line from argument to savagery. It’s none of your business, but since you delight in goading facts out of me, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know my husband is impotent. There was no making up between the sheets, as you so ineloquently put it.”

  “No wonder he was vile. Being near you yet knowing he couldn’t perform. It would make a beast out of me. But I’d never strike you.” Burke’s lips touched the fading mark on her chin. “The way I see it, the only time a woman ought to have a mark on her flesh is when her lover’s lips have gotten too greedy . . . during lovemaking. If the lady prefers.” His breath, hot and rousing, melted down her throat. “What do you prefer, Susie Black-Eyes. What have you been missing?”

  She almost told him. “You’re much too forward. And much too blasé about my husband’s reaction, should he catch you making untoward advances.”

  Eyes half-lidded, Burke allowed an easy smile to travel over his sensuous mouth, the near-dimples appearing. “Ah, Black-eyed Susan, how you must enjoy tantalizing menfolk.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she said caustically.

  “Tell me, why do you wear this blouse?”

  “I dressed for baking. For comfort. I was burning up in that high-collared dress.”

  The strictures of fashion and propriety were just that, strictures. Here in the South, where summer temperatures hovered at steam-bath levels, the fewer clothes she wore, the easier it was to abide the climate. “I’m English. Even after ten years in this part of the country, I’m not accustomed to the heat.”

  “I think you like the heat.”

  “On the contrary,” she lied, not mistaking his meaning. “And since I can’t stand the heat, I shall leave the kitchen.”

  “Not so fast,” he said, as she tried to skirt around him. “What kind of woman allows her son to keep a cobra? Furthermore, that blouse makes me speculate on where you got it. Not from the Natchez dry goods store. This is the kind of garb I’ve seen at carnivals. Like the Best Ever Traveling Show.”

  He knows! Burke O’Brien knows what Pippin and I ran from.

  What else did he know? Did he know Susan had struck Orson with Snooky’s hook? Would Burke order a pair of fugitives banished to a wilderness shore? Or give them into the hands of the nearest peace officer?

  Eight

  This was a carnival woman. A liar. Possibly a voodooess. The last, the worst. He prayed he was wrong, since he didn’t mess with magic.

  Hell and damnation! Burke didn’t even know Susan’s real last name. She had him twisted inside. Wanting her body, wanting to shake her teeth, wanting to thank her for baking that cake. It had been years since anyone had done him a kindness without being paid for it.

  Disappointed at dirt on the petals of her past, Burke pressed a finger to her lips. “When I stomped into this galley, I was mad as hell. And not only because of a snake. You know what I’m talking about, Susan. Your lies.”

  Her eyes closed, her shoulders slumping. “What are you going to do to me?”

  What a question. Burke laid his hand across the ruffle of her peasant blouse, then squeezed a shivering arm. “Know something and know it well. I’m going to protect you.”

  Her brown eyes flew open, widened. “You won’t—you will? ”

  “Aye. I’ll see you and Pip safely to New Orleans and into your father’s hands.”

  A smile flashed across her face, a smile as bright as sun rays glancing off the great river. The bruise on her chin became less noticeable, thanks to her radiance. She sailed into his arms. He felt her hair, so pale and bakery-smelling, against his lips. Laughing and hugging, she offered thanks, twice.

  He stroked her back and fiddled with the braid. “Want to hear my stipulations?”

  Going still, she looked up at him warily before retreating a step. “Let me not be foolish. You would have me prove my worth in a kitchen.”

  Witless desire darted to his manhood. “Before this riverboat reaches New Orleans, I’ll know the secrets of Susan. Then—”

  “You can’t force me to your bed. I won’t allow it!”

  He hadn’t particularly meant the secrets of her body, but why argue truth? In spite of warning bells going off in his head, he did want her in his bed. Or under him in a dozen places aboard this riverboat or within the confines of 21 rue Royale.

  “Force you?” Smoothing a strand of golden braid that had dislodged against his lips, he murmured,
“Will I need to?”

  She gathered herself up, determined, proud, and defiant. “I am worth more than two tickets down the Mississippi.”

  Burke would have been archly disappointed at any other answer. He’d feared a different one. “Then you’d best listen to my stipulations. First, no more lies. Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “The second is about Pip,” Burke explained. “Where is his mother, Susan? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. Angela lives upriver. Iowa, I think. But I am his parent. She deserted him. I’ll never forsake him.”

  The lengths Susan had gone to in getting Pip—damn! Burke fully expected the authorities would meet their boat. Which didn’t concern him. He had influence.

  Sincerity ruled her expression. “He is the child of my heart. Pippin doesn’t need Angela Paget. He’s got me. I’m going to love him, and give him a home in Sussex, and make an English gentleman out of him.”

  Sussex? “What kind of home will you provide? Your father doesn’t have a clue you’re on the way, and you don’t know if he’ll welcome you. You may call yourself Mrs. Paget, but you lived in sin with the ringmaster, be his rod proud or puny.”

  Susan blanched and backed away, until her spine met the wall. Her eyes shared the same look as that of a trapped animal. What a difference from the way they had softened with desire.

  “Pippin couldn’t have said those things! He doesn’t know everything. Couldn’t know!”

  “You’d be amazed at what he knows.” An exaggeration on Burke’s part. In hindsight he took no pride in coaxing her story out of the lad. “And I’m no fool. It didn’t take much to patch the gaps together.”

  Burke went to the worktable, draped himself in a chair, and leaned back to study the woman with as many twists and turns as the Mississippi itself. “Black-eyed Susans need sunshine. You’ll wither in the gloom of England.”

  She rushed to the table, slumping down in the seat beside him. “I wane in America. Never have I known peace here. 1 have no skills, save for a way with snakes. I—”

  “Speaking of snakes, I’ve put two and two together. There’s an infection in New Orleans afflicting most of the city. I think you were a part of it. You’re hoodoo.”

  She paled. “I—it is known to me.”

  His teeth ground together. “You’ll be the talk of merry old England, pirouetting around with a serpent twined around you, worshiping chickens. That’ll set the stage for making Pip a fine and accepted English coxcomb.”

  “I’ll rear him properly.”

  “On what? Chicken feed?”

  Offense rife, she answered, “Don’t trouble yourself, Captain, with my finances.”

  Obviously she had nothing to count on.

  “Reckon you’ll escape before the law catches you? I understand you didn’t just up and leave Paget. I understand you knocked him upside the head.”

  She dropped her chin and hugged her arms. “I did hit Orson. With Snooky’s hook. He would have thrown Pippin to the lioness. The only way I could gather our things and get away was to stun him. Even then I had to have help. A kindly stranger held Orson at bay while I grabbed our bags.” Head up, her gaze found Burke. “He brought me to you.”

  Burke drew back from the promise in that last statement. Lust needed quashing. While the idea of diddling her wouldn’t be easy to avoid, Burke would be relieved to turn her over to her father. Whoever he was.

  This was a sorceress. He didn’t mess with magic.

  Phoebe O’Brien sat shaking in her stateroom. She clutched the magic lamp as if it were a life buoy, she going down for the third time. “Get a grip, Phoebe Louise.”

  Marshaling her wits had little to do with the scare she’d gotten upon finding a sidewinder coiled amid unmentionables, but Throckmorton—such a peach, that man!—had proved a noble knight in matters of long, round, wiggling things.

  Her upset had to do with Burke.

  Over and over again she’d tried to speak with him, had begged for a chance to explain a situation. A very serious situation now that his birthday had passed.

  Phoebe gazed down at the ancient oil lantern, stared at the intricate Arabic symbols etched in the battered brass, then lifted it upward. A sconce lit the handle and shadowed the spout. She tipped it one way, then the other. A certain tranquility stole through her as she marveled at the powers that could be unleashed by merely rubbing the bowl.

  Love and romance. Riches untold. Possibly eternal life or youth. Peace. Happiness. Havoc.

  Once, Phoebe had collared Eugene to ask, “How do you work? How did you go about picking India for Connor? How will you choose ladies for Jon Marc and Burke?”

  He’d given a vague answer. One that roused suspicions that Phoebe had once held. In ’64, after he granted the first two of her wishes—an end to India’s trouble with the Yankee Army; that Jon Marc would leave Confederate service, still upright in his boots—Phoebe changed her mind. Eugene Jinnings got the job done.

  Never mind that his “I cannot explain my powers, but it seems reasonable that the abracadabra reaches out for the nearest available candidate” had been vague. She trusted Eugene.

  But the matter of getting Burke a suitable bride lay on Phoebe’s shoulders now that his birthday was no more.

  “Rub the lamp, Phoebe Louise. Do it for your nephew.”

  She settled her palm against the etchings, started to rub the bowl. No. She couldn’t, just couldn’t. Not yet. She might need her third wish for an emergency. She shoved the lantern back into her valise, then locked the catch.

  Burke detested that lamp. But if he knew the whole story, he might make a wish on it.

  He deserved his own wish.

  “Just charge after him, Phoebe Louise O’Brien,” she said beneath her breath, “and give him a choice.”

  At the same moment Burke decided not to pursue Susan the Sorceress, the Red Hornet shouted through the fastened galley hatch, “Are you in there, Burke, Mrs. Paget?”

  Susan left her chair. “Do come in.”

  Aunt Phoebe buzzed in, laughing and flitting. “Y’all missed all the excitement! My, what a start I got, finding that asp. Why, I near to wet myself, same as Throckmorton!”

  Susan wiped fingers down the front of her skirt, the kind Gypsy dancers wore. “I’m ever so sorry about the fright of Snooky, Miss O’Brien. It won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t fret. I ate it up, having a big, strong fellow flying to my rescue.” Scrawny arms fluttered; Aunt Phoebe headed straight for the cake. “What is this? A belated birthday cake?”

  “No birthday talk,” Burke boomed. His head was swimming already.

  Suspiciously polite, Aunt Phoebe requested, “May I just have a minute of your time?”

  “I’d rather be keelhauled.”

  “Burke,” Susan uttered, shocked. “Shame on you. This is your aunt, your blood kin. Be kind.”

  “Helluva thing, you telling me how to behave.” He stood to eye his relative. “Aunt Phoeb”—he barely realized he’d shortened her name—“go on back to your quarters, I’ll find you later.”

  “Don’t go without first tasting some of this cake,” Susan interjected; he didn’t have to wonder why. She couldn’t know he had no interest in continuing their conversation.

  “It’ll hit just the right spot,” Aunt Phoebe declared.

  “What do you want to talk about?” he asked, wary. Never had he seen his meat-and-potatoes aunt slide one bite of cake into her mouth.

  A slippery gap in time went by before she answered, “Business.”

  “Business? You mean Fitz and Son, Factors?” he asked, and she nodded. Not uninterested in the company still headed by the patriarch, Burke conceded. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  “Then we’d best get at this lovely cake.” Aunt Phoebe lifted the plate and marched down the galley length toward the dining salon. She waved them inside. “I’ll do the serving.”

  Following a slow-moving Susan, he entered the salon that had be
en decorated in the finest accoutrements that money could buy. Susan, he noticed, stood close to a port scuttle, her expression guarded, which came as no surprise.

  Burke offered a seat and helped her into it.

  Aunt Phoebe scurried around. It didn’t take but a minute to acquaint herself with the china cabinet. Forks, plates, and linen were placed on the mahogany table, the wood of which Burke had sent to Jamaica for.

  Aunt Phoebe laid the pastry knife down, grabbed a decanter and snifters, then waited for Burke to help her into a chair.

  “How about I pour us a brandy?” Aunt Phoebe offered.

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  She blinked twice. “I . . . I see. Good. I’m glad. Relieved. Happy!”

  His glare warned her off the subject.

  She complied, but got one of her just-dare-me looks. “I don’t wanna discuss Fitz and Son. It’s not important right now. The lamp is.” Gray eyes lowered. “Pardon my fib, but I knew you wouldn’t agree to discuss Tessa’s wishes.”

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn. “This discussion is over.”

  “Sit, nephew. You’re making me nervous, hovering about.”

  He refused to be seated.

  He eyed the woman who had no interest in a magic lamp. Susan’s big eyes were packed with interest, and he knew she’d heard snatches about that plagued lamp. That she would overhear more, well, with lots of river between there and New Orleans, black magic would be blabbed sooner or later.

  Besides, the hoodooess ought to know the hell that could be unleashed by playing loose with someone’s destiny.

  But what could Aunt Phoebe say about that magic lamp that he’d want to hear? Nothing. He’d lived it. Yet somewhere between the filling of snifters and Susan taking a sip, Burke had an epiphany. The magic lamp couldn’t hurt him ever again.

  Let the hearing be over and done with.

  He dropped to a chair, tipped it back on two legs, and rubbed his lips. Suddenly, Burke’s stitches hurt. He forced clenched fingers open.

  Aunt Phoebe swirled cognac and lapped, afterward saying, “Guess I best fill you in, gal. You see, several years ago my sister took possession of a lantern. A very special lamp.”