The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Rosalind dropped another boot on the floor and yanked her suspenders off her shoulders. Her guns now rested on the bedside table, beyond easy reach. “Problem, sailor?”

  “No, ma’am,” Hal answered sincerely. “In fact, I’m mighty glad you decided to come aboard.”

  She tugged her shirt and undershirt over her head, muffling her response. “We’re not there yet, sailor. And you’re still overdressed.”

  He reached her just as she swung her feet down to the floor and stood up. “Just where the hell do you think you’re going, little lady?” he purred as he tilted her chin up. A corner of his mind chortled that she hadn’t looked at her guns once since she’d entered his bedroom.

  “I love hearing you call me that,” she purred. “It makes me feel fragile and eager to be protected.” Long, slender fingers wrapped around his cock and squeezed. His eyes crossed as an ecstatic jolt blasted up his spine.

  Wits fled and instinct took over. His mouth crashed down on hers and she surged upward into his kiss. He groaned encouragement and pulled her closer, shuddering slightly as one ruby-tipped breast tormented his chest. He kneaded her ass, rocking against her in anticipation.

  Rosalind moaned into his mouth and wrapped one leg over his hip, opening herself further to his insistent cock. Her trousers’ rough wool scratched his legs and his ass, in sharp counterpoint to their mouths’ wet heat. His cock, dripping in eagerness, rubbed her belly’s smooth skin and hardened further. Heat raged through his body, fueled by contact with her bold tongue and hard nipples. For someone who was as tight as a virgin, she had a delicious way of making her wants known.

  She pulled away suddenly. He rumbled disapproval.

  “Too much clothing,” she answered succinctly, shoved her trousers and drawers off her hips, and sat down on the bed, clearly intent on her socks. Hal caught her slender, exquisitely feminine foot and lifted it for a kiss. She shrieked softly as she fell over backward.

  A second later, both socks joined her boots on the floor and Hal stepped between her legs, his cock teasing her creamy folds. “Are you ready for me yet, my dear?”

  “What do you mean? Of course, I’m ready.”

  “Or perhaps you could endure a bit of teasing,” he murmured. He stroked her inner thighs’ sensitive skin, watching her closely. No hardship that—an aroused woman was the most beautiful sight in the world, except for a fast riverboat.

  “What on earth…” She quivered and her hips circled towards him. Dew gushed out of her core and over his cock. He stopped breathing for a moment before he could recover.

  Later, he promised his inner hedonist, licking his lips. Later, I’ll feast on her and explore her taste.

  He fondled her again, finding his way through her womanly folds. Her petals, flushed raspberry pink to cherry red, dusted with golden brown hairs and glistening with dew, reminded him of a rare flower. Perhaps an orchid, captured in the jungle at great risk. And the way her clit stood bold and erect, scarlet with eagerness and free from its demure hood, made it a treasure to capture any man’s eyes.

  “Hal, are you planning to torture me?” Rosalind snarled and wrapped her legs around his hand. Her hips twisted against him, and her folds fluttered against his wrist.

  His balls tightened in response. The need to confirm her comfort faded, washed away by the call of her musk and how her channel rippled around his fingers.

  He stepped closer still and leaned over her. She reached up to him, their lips met, and his cockhead nudged her folds. She shifted restlessly, and his cock slipped inside her.

  Hal froze, shuddering as her snug channel quivered around his cockhead. For a moment, he wished her dew could glide down his naked cock, then he put that folly aside. His cock didn’t care about the chance of richer sensations; his cock simply wanted all of her. Now.

  She moaned again. Her legs wrapped around his hips. Her fingers threaded through his hair. “Oh yes, sailor.”

  Hal pressed into her slowly, biting his lip against the urge to rush. Her beautiful gray eyes were half closed in bliss, as she arched and quivered. Her pussy rippled around his cock, dew flowing as she gradually accepted him. Damn, what a heady rapture she was, akin to finding a new path through a river’s chutes.

  He reminded himself fiercely she was only a brief diversion, not a longtime lover.

  Finally, his cock was completely inside her. He shuddered again as his balls rubbed her satiny skin and her golden brown thatch caressed him. Rosalind moaned. Her hips circled, then pushed hard against him.

  Hal gasped at how her channel tightened around his cock. Sanity frayed as he focused on her delights. His woman, the treasure that he alone had found and captured. Damn, she was beautiful as her cleft framed his cock.

  He rode her slowly at first, letting her gasps and moans fill the air and make his pulse pound. Her sheath rippled and pulsed around his cock, spurring him on with heat. He varied his thrusts, trying different angles and strengths of approach. Some tightened her around him, some gave him more room to maneuver, some made her channel grab him like a gloved fist.

  She trembled and sobbed his name. She wrapped her legs around his hips and threw back her head, moaning. Her rich voice grew huskier still as her orgasm’s shimmering brilliance came closer and closer.

  He shifted his grip, slipped his arms under and behind her shoulders. Pulled her down onto his cock with all the strength he could muster.

  She shattered once, twice around him. Her muscles gripped him, seeking to pull him into passion’s whirlpool.

  Hal threw back his head and groaned, gritting his teeth as he fought to lengthen the pleasure spiraling between them. Sweat dripped down his face, his hunger for her driving his pulse into a frenzy. The wet slap of their flesh was louder than the rain against the windows. His harsh gasps for air raked his lungs. None of that mattered. Only the need to spill himself into the silken woman wrapped around his cock.

  Rosalind started to climb again for the pinnacle. Her channel pulsed again and again, sending shockwaves into his cock. Hal bit his lip in agony, desperate to bring her with him one more time.

  His thrusts’ speed increased. Need built deep in his loins. Orgasm threatened, heedless of any demand for patience. Damn, but she was beautiful as she writhed under his pounding.

  He nipped her earlobe. She gasped and climaxed with a shriek. Deep convulsions racked her body, from her neck down to her legs, and snatched him into orgasm. Rapture blazed through his spine and sprang from his balls through his cock. He poured himself out in a series of waves that shattered him like a spring tornado.

  Finally he collapsed on her, too spent to move. Her breath caressed his shoulder, then settled into the smooth rhythms of sleep.

  Dear God in heaven, how could a near-virgin wring him out like this? He knew his legs wouldn’t hold him, a condition that usually resulted from ending a long abstinence by dalliance with a skillful lover. Neither circumstance held true tonight, given that he’d last enjoyed a woman two days ago.

  What would it be like to frolic with her for a few days, or a week? His cock twitched at the images that question evoked. A definite vote in favor of a week with this lover, not the more typical few hours.

  Hal snorted. She’s only here for a night, he reminded his eager cock. Best make the most of it.

  Rosalind roused to find herself still sprawled across the bed. A man’s tongue circled her nipple. And again.

  “What?” she mumbled and tried to blink her eyes open.

  “Roll over on your side, my dear.”

  Strong, rough hands aided her. She muttered something uncomplimentary about anyone who’d demand movement from an exhausted woman but went where he indicated.

  Then he bent her upper leg so her knee rose into the air.

  “What the hell!” Rosalind half-reared up to look at him.

  “Perfect.” He laid his head on her thigh.

  In the lamp’s clear golden light, she could see them both all too clearly—including her utter nu
dity and complete availability to the man between her legs. What could possibly be his intentions? She gulped and tried to frame a question.

  He trailed a single finger through her folds, then kissed her intimately.

  “Hal!”

  He nuzzled her, his goatee lightly brushing her delicate skin. Rosalind shivered at the rush of sensation.

  “Try to keep your legs open as long as possible, Rosalind. I’ve a mind to feast on you.”

  She choked, stuttered something that didn’t resemble words. She’d enjoyed mouthing David, performing fellatio as the books called it. And he’d been willing to tongue her, even though he preferred using his hand to pleasure her so that he’d stay ready. But it hadn’t felt like this.

  Nothing she’d heard or done before had prepared her for her lover feasting on her like a fruit sorbet. Especially when he was blatantly aroused and the clock suggested only a few minutes had passed since he’d so magnificently spent himself.

  Rosalind moaned at one particularly devilish swirl of his tongue over her clit. And found herself wondering if she’d be able to walk in the morning, given this man’s evident appetites.

  It was a very long time, more filled with rapture than she’d have deemed possible, before his mouth moved up her body. When he finally let sleep claim her, she did so restlessly, made uneasy by her first time sharing a bed with a man. She tossed and turned, slipping in and out of dreams. Then the nightmare returned, sending her back to her guardian’s yacht on the afternoon everything changed….

  A few gleams of weak winter sunlight crept past the heavy velvet draperies but couldn’t brighten the atmosphere within the yacht’s grand saloon. Ornate rosewood and marble tables rose and fell as the boat crossed the restless sea, while the red brocade walls echoed her growing anger. She’d never tolerated Nicholas Lennox well, but this encounter bid fair to be worse than any other. Returning aboard her guardian’s yacht to Manhattan from her father’s funeral on Long Island was already her definition of a nightmare. She’d trembled and wept with every step as she forced herself up the gangplank. But this conversation threatened to turn her into a virago.

  Lennox scowled at her, his hand resting on the brilliantly covered chair. Her obstinacy had worn away his usually smooth phrases until only the greedy predator remained. “You are absurd to cling to any hope that David Rutherford will return,” he bit out.

  Rosalind returned his glare just as ferociously, the multitude of pleats and frills on her black silk dress quivering with her anger. If nothing else, David’s love of her late father’s connections should bring him back to her side. “David Rutherford knows that I am the only woman for him.”

  Lennox laughed harshly. “Rutherford sleeps with his stepmother.”

  Rosalind’s jaw dropped. “Impossible!” She rallied herself. “You are lying.”

  He sneered triumphantly. “I was with them more than once. Do you want the details? How her bedroom is decorated? The crescent-shaped birthmark on his hip?”

  Rosalind swallowed hard, recognizing the truth. Grief pierced her—and a strange lack of surprise.

  “I told him to leave you or I’d spread the news of his liaison in every Manhattan club. I need your money far more than he does.”

  David might be gone forever, but she didn’t have to accept Lennox. “Nonsense. I will never marry you.”

  He took a step toward her, and his hand lifted as if to strike her. Alarm skittered across her nerves, stronger than the caution she always felt when entering a wolf trap.

  Rosalind raised her chin proudly, refusing to back down. He’d never touch her, not on her guardian’s yacht.

  His eyes narrowed, and he grabbed her by the shoulders. Two dots of hectic color appeared high on his cheekbones. “I have arranged the ceremony for Sunday, at my family estate,” he snarled and shook her, repeating his prior announcement.

  Affronted by his rough handling, Rosalind’s temper snapped. “I’ll never marry a bootlicker like you!” She tried to kick him in the balls, but her skirts muffled the blow.

  He freed one hand and slapped her hard. Her ears rang as she staggered. Her heel caught in her dress’s train, and she fell down. She landed hard on the scarlet Bokhara carpet, barely missing the sharp edge of a great, carved bureau.

  Lennox stood over her with clenched fists. “You will marry me!”

  She rolled onto her knees. She desperately wanted her Colts for this conflict, but they were locked away in her sea chest. Still, she fought on with words. “Never.”

  His booted foot crashed into her side and sent her crashing against the bureau. Rosalind screamed as agony slashed through her.

  He kicked her again. Pain exploded in her chest. She curled into a fetal position as another, and yet another blow smashed into her.

  “Miss Rosalind?” Bridget O’Hara, Rosalind’s maid and best friend, burst into the grand saloon just as Lennox kicked Rosalind once more.

  Bridget wailed like a banshee, a long shrill cry that sounded like a summons of old Irish gods. Lennox whirled toward her.

  “Damn you, be quiet, bitch!”

  His tone sent a chill through Rosalind. “Bridget, no,” she gasped.

  Bridget screamed again. Lennox pulled a small revolver from his pocket and shot her in the forehead. The little maid collapsed onto the carpet, her sightless eyes staring at Rosalind from less than a yard away.

  Rosalind’s instinctive cry was choked off by the flaming agony in her sides. Bridget, murdered by Lennox? Dear God, no. She fought for air, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. She swallowed cautiously, tasting what came into her mouth. No blood, praise God, but what now?

  “Do you understand me, Miss Schuyler?”

  Rosalind turned her head to look up at him, careful to move as little as possible.

  Lennox stood poised on the balls of his feet, obviously willing to strike again. He smiled with the triumphant gleam of a jackal who’d stolen a lion’s lawful catch. Bloodlust shone in his eyes and an eagerness to strike again. He didn’t so much as glance at the girl he’d just slain.

  Hatred bloomed, and physical terror ran through her veins in an icy torrent worse than a storm on Long Island Sound. She’d seen death before, but never murder.

  “I understand,” she whispered. She’d rather be dead than his wife. “I’ll marry you Monday. After Miss O’Hara’s church funeral.”

  Disappointment shimmered briefly in his face before he settled back onto his heels. His expression shifted to a more conventional triumph.

  A slight tap sounded, and the door opened quietly. Rosalind’s heart sang for joy. Help, at last.

  Silas Dunleavy, her guardian, walked in and stopped before Bridget’s body, his long Yankee face disapproving. He curled his lip at the corpse, then looked Rosalind over. “You told me you were going to persuade her,” he snapped at Lennox. “I hadn’t expected a racket loud enough to disturb me in my cabin. At least the crew was smart enough not to speak up.”

  A cold wave ran down Rosalind’s spine. She struggled onto her feet, leaning on the bureau for support.

  Lennox shrugged carelessly. “Sorry. But she’s agreed to marry me on Monday after burying her stupid servant.”

  “Good. We can start splitting the money then. It’ll take time to go through all the stocks and bonds.”

  Dear God in heaven, Lennox and Dunleavy were working together.

  “And my maid?” Rosalind gasped.

  Dunleavy harrumphed. “I’ll send the stewards in for her. Afterward, they can clean the carpet.”

  Rosalind closed her eyes and heard the two men walk away, chatting comfortably about how to rob her. She rather wished Lennox was lying about giving Dunleavy any of her money. Betraying her father’s trust should not be rewarded.

  “Don’t think about going to the police, my dear,” Lennox purred from the doorway. “I’ve already bribed them too.”

  Rosalind bared her teeth at him, wishing for her father’s shotgun so that she could splatter both
robbers across the wallpaper. She was never going unarmed again, even in women’s clothing.

  Lennox laughed. “Until Monday, my dear,” he cooed. The door opened and closed. She heard a quiet conversation from the other room, then a cordial good-bye.

  Rosalind closed Bridget’s eyes and covered her with a tablecloth. Two stewards knocked on the door, then collected the body without a glance at Rosalind.

  Rosalind limped to her cabin, more shaken than she wanted to admit. She was completely alone and defenseless for the first time since her near-drowning. She’d always had loving family, friends, and servants to protect her before, but not now.

  Who could help her? Her family servants, now looking after the Schuyler estates? Dunleavy would fire them and destroy their reputations without a second glance.

  Friends? She’d prided herself on having more friends amongst honest working folk than the idle rich. She could think of no one who would fight for her that Lennox and Dunleavy couldn’t ruin—or kill.

  Police? No shelter there. It would be far easier for them to take Lennox’s cash than to take action against Dunleavy and Lennox—even if they believed she had been beaten, given that she was a female and therefore considered weak-minded and foolish.

  For the first time, she felt the full weight of being alone in the world, with no family to protect her. No equivalent for her of the golden Lindsays, with their ferocious readiness to guard family members.

  She sank into a chair. Fiery pain lanced into her sides from her abused ribs. She whimpered. But slowly she regained control of herself and began to plan.

  She would never marry Lennox. She’d rather die and let all the charities named in her father’s will have her inheritance.

  She needed to hold on to the money. She had to be twenty-five or married to gain control of it. It was now January, and her twenty-fifth birthday was in April of 1873. Fifteen long months away.

  How could she live in Dunleavy’s house for that long and not marry Lennox? She had a better chance of winning at three-card monte against a sharper. If she just had her Colts, she could have killed Lennox. She’d defended herself before with them, while playing poker with her father.