Elegant hands, of course, with long, almost feminine fingers that handled the chips with the ease of long practice. He’d probably shuffle a deck like a magician.
He had unusual gray eyes, half veiled by thick dark lashes, which caught the light when he raised them to watch another player. Their bright color reminded Hal of the sun shining on the upper Missouri. He shrugged the fancy away as poetic and unrelated to card play.
Hal wondered idly how old Carstairs was, given his smooth cheeks. His skin was very fair, appropriate for his light-colored hair and eyes. But Hal would have expected to find some signs of age—at least the hint of a beard—given the gambler’s obvious experience at a card table.
Then Carstairs turned his head to catch Bellecourt’s latest quip. His profile was as pure as a Grecian statue, with a strand of light brown hair curling against his cheek. Another lock flowed down the nape of his neck like a woman’s tresses.
Hal frowned. He’d seen a similar profile before, in a New York mansion. But there’d been an abundance of curls around the face and diamonds glinting in the woman’s hair.
Ridiculous idea, to compare a man’s looks to a woman’s. And yet…Carstairs’s build could be that of a tall, slender woman. The features were more suitable for a lady than a man, especially with the full lower lip. And those silver gray eyes with the long lashes were the very sort to inspire bad poetry.
Rosalind Schuyler, that runaway heiress, had gray eyes and honey brown hair.
But Carstairs couldn’t be a woman. Female gamblers—professional ones, at least—made far more money than their male counterparts. They would joke, flirt, offer to play a private game, or two…then strip susceptible males of every penny.
Carstairs was doing no such thing. He hadn’t flirted with any man at the table. In fact, he showed no awareness of the languishing glances Johnson had given him. He was simply playing a very good game of poker, as well or better than any man there.
Then Carstairs’s eyes lit up as he laughed at Bellecourt’s joke. A low, husky chuckle like the wonderful sound a woman makes when she’s considering whether to join a man in the bedroom. It sent a frisson down Hal’s spine and into his balls. He’d heard that laugh once before, from a tall beauty in a New York mansion.
Rosalind Schuyler, by all that was holy, had owned a sensual woman’s husky voice. Deep enough to fool most men but unmistakable to someone who’d heard her before.
Carstairs was Rosalind Schuyler in disguise.
Hal shuddered slightly as his blood rushed south and into his cock.
By God, how did she pull off the masquerade? The sheer, blazing courage it took to travel alone for months at a time snatched his breath away. How had she managed to overcome her justifiable terror of boats?
He had to talk to her, win her confidence, and learn her secrets. His curiosity, his life’s besetting sin, would accept nothing less. His cock vehemently agreed with his reasoning, as it eagerly pushed against his trousers.
Rosalind laid down her cards, showing two pairs of queens and tens, and gathered in her winnings.
“Two queens in the hole? No wonder you were pushing hard,” Benton snorted as he tossed down his pair of jacks.
“Just lucky.” She shrugged and started to stack her new chips before her.
Good winner, too. Hal would have expected that of someone with the sheer nerve to carry off a masquerade as big as hers.
“Well played,” Hal said quietly.
“Thank you, sir,” she returned, with a quick glance at him before she finished stacking her chips.
Carstairs was definitely Rosalind Schuyler. Her big gray eyes had glanced up at him, just like that, once before in his sister’s Manhattan town house. Hal smiled privately as he waited for Bellecourt to deal the next hand. He might not be the best poker player on the Missouri, but he had always been able to put his hand on any woman he fancied.
Chapter Three
“And raise you ten,” Lindsay said firmly, pushing the stack of chips into the center.
Baffled, Rosalind wondered what he could possibly be betting fifty dollars on, at fifth street. He might have a flush, if his hole cards were good. Or maybe a pair of aces in the hole. But no other possibilities came to mind, warranting such a large bet, especially with only two more rounds to be dealt. Surely, he had to be bluffing.
The elegant mantel clock struck midnight, every note as clear and true as the cards on the table.
“Minimums double on the next hand, gentlemen,” Taylor announced. He’d already folded, as had Ratliff.
“Fold,” Benton announced, walking away from an exposed pair of sevens. It would have won the last hand.
Rosalind quickly, and calmly, considered the chances of winning the pot with her ace and king. She could call Lindsay’s bluff, if that’s what he was doing. But it didn’t seem likely; Lindsay was entirely too certain of himself, judging by how seldom he’d bluffed before. He had to have something solid. Besides, calling his bluff would cost her money rather than increase her chances of winning.
She, too, tossed in her cards.
Bellecourt, now the final player to oppose the big Viking, eyed Lindsay suspiciously for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “Fold.”
Without a flicker, Lindsay gathered up the hundred-dollar pot. He never showed his winning hand, of course, not having been called on a bluff.
Then he pushed his chair back and stood up, triggering a general chorus of scraping chairs and grunts as others came to their feet. “That’s it for me,” he announced. “I’d best be off now, so I can reach the Belle early tomorrow.”
“Vous êtes sûr? Perhaps you’ll become even luckier when the bets double,” Benton teased.
Lindsay chuckled. “You’re just hoping to win back that fifty I took from you.”
Benton laughed at that and the others joined in.
Rosalind smiled and stood up, careful not to stretch, lest the movement draw attention to her bosom.
“What are you carrying on this trip, Lindsay?” Johnson asked as he pushed his chair back. The other men began to mill about, clearly taking an expected break from the game.
Lindsay grimaced. “Spikes and some other supplies for the Northern Pacific.”
“Those bastards!” Johnson snarled. “They expect us to carry their freight so they can build their damn railroads and put us out of business.”
“Amen!” Benton agreed, his cup forgotten in his hand.
“Remember the Effie Afton? Fastest sidewheeler on the Mississippi until the Rock Island Bridge destroyed her. Goddamn railroads and the men who built them. They deliberately changed the currents to block riverboats,” swore Logan, his first words not directed at poker.
There was a brief, reverent hush.
Rosalind watched curiously, surprised by the old pilot’s anger. Rivermen on the Mississippi hated railroads, but they still managed to cooperate enough to divide up the cotton traffic.
“Remember the glory days before the war when you could see a dozen riverboats docked every day at Front Street?” Johnson growled. “When the hold was full every trip, passengers crowded the grand saloon, and men fought to sleep amidst the crates on the main deck? Now you’re lucky to see half that many boats, thanks to those greedy railroad bastards. And wages are dropping like the temperatures during a Montana winter.”
“Goddamn railroads and the men who own them. They steal freight, hijack passengers, and destroy the jobs of hardworking boatmen,” Logan cursed.
“Amen.” Johnson lifted his glass in salute, followed by the other men.
Rosalind blinked, touched her lips to her cup, but didn’t drink. As a holder of New York Central and many other railroad stocks, she couldn’t bring herself to join in a toast to the railroads’ destruction.
“Peterkin sold the Pride of St. Charles for kindling last week,” Lindsay said quietly, swirling the dregs in his silver mug. “God forbid I ever have to do anything like that to the Belle. I’d rather see her go down fighting, smash
ed against a railroad bridge.”
Grief and anger rang through the room as men told stories of Peterkin’s skills and the Pride’s travels. Rosalind had heard similar tales hundreds of times before on Mississippi riverboats, none of which had weakened her preference for railroads. Ignoring the heated words as much as possible, she considered whether she should convert any of her winnings to greenbacks while in Kansas City, rather than carry the gold’s weight.
Eventually, Logan and Johnson left the room with Taylor, still fulminating about railroads, while Bellecourt asked the houseman for another cup of coffee.
“Care for a lift back to town, Carstairs?” Lindsay offered casually.
“You didn’t ride Nelson?” Bellecourt asked, joining them.
“No, I’ve got Jones hitched to the buggy. I left Nelson at the farm since I expected to be spending time in town with my sister and her husband.”
Bellecourt nodded. “You might take him up on it, Carstairs, if you want to leave any time soon. Benton and I always play until dawn, and Ratliff isn’t likely to leave much earlier than that.”
Rosalind considered the offer for a moment, then nodded. She’d prefer to get a little sleep before daylight and its increased chance of facing Lennox’s hounds. “Thank you kindly, sir. I’d appreciate that.”
“Good. See you tomorrow morning, Bellecourt.”
“My thanks for your hospitality, sir,” Rosalind said sincerely, as she shook Taylor’s hand at the door. “Please convey my respects to your wife.”
“Our pleasure, Carstairs. As she said, please consider our home your own whenever you’re in Kansas City.”
“Thank you, sir.” She settled her hat back on her head and followed Lindsay down the stairs to his buggy, a very modern and elegant equipage, with a handsome gray hitched to it. The seat was extremely comfortable, beautifully upholstered in soft leather.
Lindsay was an excellent driver and not given to conversation, so she remained quiet as well. The heat of his big body, noticeable even on a humid spring night, and a faint sandalwood scent filled her senses, making her achingly conscious of his masculinity.
She took a deep breath, enjoying the aromas of fine leather and lilacs on the soft breeze. The buggy was superbly sprung and the horse had an uncommonly smooth gait, making the journey seem like a magic carpet ride. The road glimmered under a distant lightning flash, winding between cornfields and over the bluffs towards the town beyond. She had so many happy memories of driving home to Oak Hill on nights like this.
Rosalind was almost in a trance, as the buggy crested yet another hill, when he finally spoke. His voice was a deep, soft rumble that blended perfectly with the horse’s hoofbeats and the wheels’ quiet travel over the dusty road.
“Excellent tailoring you have. Disguises your womanly figure very well,” he remarked gently.
“Thank you.” She stifled a yawn, then realized what he’d said. And that she’d agreed. Damn.
Her fingers twitched, automatically reaching for her guns. She’d killed a man once before. Did she need to do so again? She tried to recover with a bluff. “Sorry, sir, but what did you say?”
Even in the faint light, she could see his smile. “You heard me, Carstairs. Or should I say Miss Schuyler?”
Blinding terror rose up, chilling her to the bone. Her limbs were leaden weights. But her blood raced through her veins, driven by the frantic beat of her heart. She considered jumping out of the buggy but where could she go? They were deep in farmland, too far to find help or quickly reach the city.
Gritting her teeth, she slid her hands over her guns. They gave her enough courage to beat her panic back. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lindsay.”
“Stop fretting, Rosalind,” he said dryly, with a sidelong glance at her. “I won’t expose your masquerade.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “The longer the railroads hunt you, the more foolish they appear.”
She stared at him, digesting his words. He looked relaxed and unafraid of her guns, even with his hands busy on the reins. Given how much rivermen hated the railroads, he just might be telling the truth.
Oddly, his brusqueness reassured her, where elegant speeches would have been unnerving. Or perhaps it was the deep, velvety rumble of his voice—curt as before, but now offering support—that put her at ease.
The horse’s gait changed, then steadied as the buggy began to climb a steep bluff. Lightning flashed again beyond the city.
She searched his face for a long moment, then yielded reluctantly. “You’re very perceptive, Lindsay.”
“Am I the first to realize you’re a woman?”
She nodded slowly. As far as she knew, Lennox’s hounds were still asking for Rosalind Schuyler, not Frank Carstairs. She suspected they’d come so close so many times due to bloody-minded thoroughness, not because they’d discovered her disguise.
“My lucky night then,” Lindsay purred, casting an all-too-perceptive glance at her from under his fashionable bowler.
She remembered suddenly that he was a licensed Mississippi pilot, where boats regularly traveled by night. He must be able to see as well as any cat in the dark.
“Have a drink with me at my house,” he invited. “Perhaps share a few tales of men you’ve fooled with that disguise.”
She was silent. She could not—should not—agree to his offer. Yet she wanted to spend time with this man, more than with any other she’d ever met.
Her Colts’ ivory handles pressed against her waist comfortingly. She’d killed a man before who’d tried to rob her. Surely, she could defend herself successfully again.
His voice rumbled again in the warm darkness. “My word that I mean no harm to you.”
Hours spent at the card table with him had taught her something of his character, enough to be confident that he’d keep his word. And he had rescued that poor stray terrier, after all. Plus, it would be so pleasant to talk to someone who knew the truth.
Perhaps she could let down her guard a little, just this once. And if the worst happened, then she still had her guns for protection.
“Very well,” she agreed slowly and ignored the warmth building between her legs at the thought of being with him.
Saying yes seemed a huge gamble. She stared straight ahead and tried to convince herself she’d come out a winner in the morning. All the while, the heat of his big, strong body seeped into her senses until she could barely breathe, let alone think.
A long roll of thunder echoed in the distance.
She’d driven with David more than once without losing her wits. But now strange thoughts crept into her mind, such as resting her hand on Lindsay’s thigh to see if it was as hard with muscle as it looked. Or trailing her fingers over the back of his hand and then up his arm to test the varying textures of skin and linen. Or pressing a kiss to his cheek and filling her nostrils with his scent.
Or unbuttoning his shirt, leaning her head against his chest, and listening to the sound of his heartbeat. Then sleeping in his arms without worrying about detectives pounding on the door, shouting about a missing railroad heiress…
It had been so damned long since someone had held her close and safe. She’d almost sign away all her shares for someone who’d protect her, even for an hour.
The horse turned from the muddy road onto a long gravel driveway, finally stopping in front of a large house. It was a gracious house, solidly built as befitted a bachelor owner, with a limestone ground floor and a shingled second floor. A panel of pale limestone blocks rose above the gracious white columned front entry, crowned by an enormous fan window. A two-story white porch stood at each end of the house and neatly shingled gables popped up on the roof.
The grounds were spacious, notable for sweeping lawns, lavishly blooming lilacs, and scattered shade trees. The gardens extended to the edge of a steep hill, with city buildings and the Missouri’s broad expanse glimmering beyond. A conservatory’s many glass panes glittered on the far side of the driveway.
Rosalind was stunned by the house’s comfort and serenity. Despite its size, it was a home more than a mansion. She almost expected children to come running out the door, eager to welcome their father.
Instead, a sturdy Negro man emerged from the carriage house, at the back of the drive, and greeted Lindsay with the familiarity of an old servant. “Evenin’, sir.”
“Good evening, Samuel.” Lindsay jumped down from the buggy and handed over the reins. Rosalind descended on the other side, trying not to think about her reaction to the house and its owner. She reminded herself that if she had to run, she could grab a horse from the carriage house and race toward the city.
“Will you want the buggy if you go out again tonight?” the servant asked. His eyes skimmed over Rosalind incuriously, then returned to his master.
She relaxed slightly. She’d been dismissed yet again as just another slender man.
A dog barked once from inside, and Lindsay stiffened before answering. “If we do, we’ll ride instead of driving, Samuel, so you’re free to go to bed.”
The dog barked again, and again. Lindsay bit his lip and glanced at the big house.
Rosalind blinked. He’d been self-contained and silent while playing poker, even when he’d won that last big pot.
“Yes, sir. Good night, sir,” Samuel added politely, nodding to Rosalind. Humming a plantation melody, he led the horse and buggy toward the big carriage house.
Lindsay headed for the house, with Rosalind at his side. The dog was barking continuously now, so Lindsay’s words were barely audible as he opened the front door. “Welcome to my home, Rosalind. What would you like to drink?”
Rosalind stepped inside but barely spared a glance at her surroundings. Her attention was fixed on the immaculate Irish terrier poking its head between the banister railings on the top floor. It was silent for a moment before it barked again, even louder than before, its eyes fixed on Lindsay.
The River Devil Page 5