The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Hal ignored her accusatory tone of voice, something only heard around her family. Other men were always greeted with a smooth, flirtatious lilt, redolent of her Kentucky childhood.

  “I presume Obadiah and Rebecca have berths in the Freedmen’s Bureau?” he inquired, keeping to basics. The texas was a set of cabins on the hurricane deck, directly below the pilothouse. It was reserved for officers and cabin crew (who were usually Negroes), plus the laundry room at the back. The Freedmen’s Bureau was the nickname for the berthing area there, which was reserved solely for Negroes.

  “Where else?” his father replied, raising an eyebrow as he watched Hal through the stateroom door.

  Hal’s mouth twisted. He’d fought to free the slaves, while the Old Man had made it more than clear that he fought to preserve the Union, not provide new liberties for “darkies.”

  Looking into his father’s eyes, Hal forbore to mention that Donovan had booked a stateroom off the grand saloon for Abraham and Sarah Chang, his two servants. In fact, their Iowa stateroom was off the ladies’ cabin—and directly across from his parents’ Arkansas stateroom.

  “If you need anything else, Roland Jones is the steward. I’m going on deck to visit with my guests.”

  The Old Man nodded. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again shortly.”

  Hal returned the nod and turned away quickly. Five minutes with his parents had almost exhausted his meager store of courtesy. How was he going to get through the next weeks?

  Chapter Seven

  Rosalind froze when a big man stepped silently up behind her, then relaxed, easily recognizing Hal by his clean, slightly spicy, sandalwood scent. She’d sniffed every toiletry bottle in his bathroom after she’d bathed that morning, as she tried to build up a store of memories. Only about the carnal frolics, of course, and not the man, she reassured her wary brain.

  “Is everything well?” Viola asked as she turned to face her brother.

  He shrugged. “They’ll be with us until Sioux City at least, perhaps even Fort Benton.”

  Rosalind’s stomach plummeted.

  Viola’s soft mouth tightened. Her husband immediately wrapped his arm around her waist with a soft, wordless croon of reassurance. She smiled as she relaxed against him. “And we’ll have a grand time visiting, as long as we’re together. That should ruffle some feathers,” she remarked with a tartness at odds with her affectionate posture.

  A low vibration ran through the thin planks below them, then settled into a low steady hum. The Belle’s engines had just fired up and were ready to take her upriver.

  Hal chuckled. “That we will. Care to come up to the pilothouse and watch my boat sail?”

  Viola’s face lit up. “Of course! Oh, Hal, to sail on your boat at last…It’s the fulfillment of all those dreams we had while growing up.”

  She took her brother’s arm eagerly and went upstairs with him. Cicero was close at their heels, near enough to make even Donovan give way. The big Irishman’s eyes twinkled before he followed without a glance at Rosalind.

  She went with them, of course, armored by her role as cub pilot. She had to talk to Hal as soon as possible. Spending weeks in close contact with people who could send her back to New York was clearly unthinkable.

  Hal handed Viola into the pilothouse and tossed a gold coin at Bellecourt, Cicero wagging his tail happily beside him. Bellecourt caught the bright token and quickly tucked it away in a pocket. “So, you’ll admit I was right, oui?” He laughed. “You’ve finally gained a dog.”

  Donovan stepped inside and Rosalind followed silently.

  “No, I’ll not admit you’re correct. Your head would swell too much if I did,” Hal retorted, his eyes dancing.

  Rosalind took up station in a corner of the big square room, trying to be as invisible as possible. It was a workmanlike room, with windows on all sides and a door in the back. Dominated by the great wheel—almost twelve feet across—it was sparsely furnished with benches on the port and starboard sides and a rocking chair.

  “Viola, William, this is Antoine Bellecourt, chief pilot of the Cherokee Belle when I’m not piloting. Bellecourt, Mr. and Mrs. William Donovan.”

  “Monsieur. Madame.” Bellecourt made a courtly bow and Viola curtsied briefly.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Donovan observed and shook hands.

  “You’ll recognize Carstairs, of course,” Hal added. “He’s hired on as my cub pilot.”

  Bellecourt raised an eyebrow. “How much is he paying you to teach him the merits of honest labor?”

  Hal laughed. “Poker lessons, in lieu of three hundred dollars.”

  “You are getting a bargain, mon ami. It will take more than three hundred dollars’ worth of lessons to make you a great poker player.”

  Rosalind relaxed. At least Bellecourt accepted her as a cub pilot.

  Hal laughed. “You’ll soon find out just how good I am,” he retorted. “If Benton left you any money.”

  “We both broke even last night.” Bellecourt shrugged as he glanced out the window closest to land.

  “All ready, sir!” O’Brien’s voice was as clear as if he stood in the pilothouse, instead of on the main deck.

  Bellecourt’s jovial demeanor suddenly underwent a complete change to briskly efficient. “May I ask you to take a seat in the rocking chair, madame? The mate’s signaled he’s ready to get underway and the bridge is starting to open.”

  Rosalind cast a quick glance outside. No passengers were in sight. A single roustabout stood on the wharf boat, releasing the Cherokee Belle’s last link to land. Her mouth went dry.

  The great bell sounded a single stroke from the hurricane deck.

  “Oh, how splendid this is going to be,” Viola chirped, settling into the indicated seat. Donovan took up station at her side.

  “Step over here with me, Carstairs,” Hal ordered. “You can still see everything.”

  Rosalind obeyed silently and moved to starboard, the side farthest away from land. Her hands clenched into fists before she slowly relaxed them, finger by finger. She couldn’t afford any betraying signs of nervousness, no matter how much her stomach fidgeted and tumbled.

  Hal shifted to stand between her and the wall, his sleeve just brushing hers. His warmth seeped into her chilled flesh.

  Cicero circled the pilothouse, then sat down next to Hal, panting genially. Rosalind bitterly envied his composure.

  Bellecourt blew the great steam whistle emphatically, sending its call roaring across the city again and again. Then he briskly rang down to summon the engines. Rosalind forced her attention to his movements, as he ordered the boat’s mechanical core into motion.

  The engine room’s response came promptly, ringing the bell in an exact echo of Bellecourt’s call. The boat shivered as the wonderful machines on the main deck, which would carry Rosalind away from the hunters, roared into full life. The vision of escape slightly relaxed her, as did Hal’s silent presence beside her.

  Bellecourt stepped behind the wheel and turned it cautiously, concentrating fiercely as he simultaneously watched the wharf boat from the port window.

  The Belle began to slowly move forward, quivering as the great paddlewheel bit into the raging waters. The private train started to disappear from sight on the levee. Ahead, half of the Hannibal Bridge’s iron span gradually swung open on the great stone pier.

  A long minute later, Bellecourt rang down for more speed. The engine room’s answer came faster this time. Bellecourt turned the immense wheel more strongly, urging the Cherokee Belle away from the wharf boat.

  The boat’s shudders increased.

  Rosalind bit her lip against a whimper and closed her eyes. The river had to be moving as fast as Long Island Sound’s waters on that dreadful night. If the Belle’s overworked boilers blew up, she and every other passenger would drown in that torrent.

  “You’re clear of the sandbars, Bellecourt,” Hal observed. He stepped closer to Rosalind until their arms rested against each other. He smi
led slightly, his blue eyes scanning the scene ahead.

  Slowly, his wonderful scent and warmth crept into her and erased her panic. Somehow she regained the courage to look at the water again. The calliope began to play a gay dance tune.

  Now the Cherokee Belle glided up the Missouri River, straight as a knife cutting through custard, with only the slightest vibrations. She sailed serenely between the bridge’s stone piers, blowing her whistle and playing her calliope to celebrate her departure. Behind them, Kansas City’s church spires slowly dropped out of sight, as if they were sailing beyond the reach of civilization.

  The roustabouts’ chant rose through the pilothouse windows, punctuated by the mate’s orders to stow the lines, those great hawsers that had previously tied the Belle to land.

  Rosalind took a deep breath. It was the first time she’d sailed since her mother’s and brothers’ deaths that she hadn’t locked herself in a cabin and cried into a pillow.

  Hal moved away from her as he turned to talk to Viola. His sister was full of questions about the boat, a curiosity Rosalind wished she shared. Still, she tucked the answers away in her mind, just in case she needed to know them as cub pilot.

  Donovan watched his wife quietly, a smile teasing his hard mouth. Cicero began to sniff everything in the pilothouse, tail wagging as he investigated his new world.

  Almost an hour later, the Belle had passed the Kansas River. Hal lounged against a side window, like an indolent lion, as he chatted with Viola. Donovan sipped coffee as he considered a hawk soaring ahead. Cicero was curled up in a corner.

  Rosalind was wondering about the engines two decks below her. Far better to think about mechanical marvels than Hal’s masculine potential, no matter how well he displayed it. She’d almost forgotten about being on a boat. A bell rang sweetly in the grand saloon below them.

  “Time for breakfast,” Hal remarked. “Are you hungry, Viola?”

  “Hardly. You haven’t told me about the rapids below Fort Benton yet, or—”

  Donovan cleared his throat. “You promised you’d eat well on this trip, sweetheart.”

  Viola blushed.

  Rosalind blinked, fascinated by Viola’s reaction.

  “Perhaps I’d do better in our stateroom, William, where you could feed me from a private tray,” Viola suggested, her voice husky and redolent of carnal meanings.

  Donovan smiled and kissed her fingers. “It would be a privilege, sweetheart. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?”

  Hal snorted. “Of course.”

  “C’est magnifique to see two lovebirds bill and coo,” Bellecourt remarked after the Donovans left the pilothouse.

  “True. It’s a relief to see them like that,” Hal agreed, “not squabbling like other married couples.”

  He watched the river go past for another minute before he spoke again. “Carstairs and I will be in my stateroom. He has a great deal to learn before I’ll trust him near the wheel.”

  Bellecourt nodded, his eyes fixed on the river ahead. “Très bien. Don’t worry yourself about the Belle; McKenzie and I will take care of her.”

  “Egotist.” Hal chuckled and slapped Bellecourt on the shoulder. He whistled a Stephen Foster song about a riverboat as he went down the stairs to the hurricane deck. Cicero was close at his heels, giving happy little barks.

  Rosalind silently followed them, all the while trying not to look at Hal’s broad shoulders, narrow hips, and strong thighs parading before her. Difficult to say which sight discomfitted her more: Hal’s superb body or the river flowing past.

  Another flight of stairs later, the boiler deck was much warmer than the pilothouse, not surprising since it was directly above the great boilers. Sweat soon beaded on Rosalind’s brow as she followed Hal along the elegant promenade around the grand saloon and staterooms. The boat’s vibrations grew stronger as they moved aft, closer to where the great paddlewheel slammed into the water.

  Even the heat and tremors weren’t enough to stop Rosalind from thinking about the muscles under Hal’s well-tailored suit. Hal opened his stateroom’s door and jerked his head, indicating that she should precede him. She obeyed promptly but Cicero moved first, shooting into the cabin like an arrow.

  The stateroom was spacious, almost sixteen feet across, with a large window on either side of the outer door. A washbasin occupied one corner, while an enormous brass bed, an elegant rosewood chair, and a matching dresser constituted the furnishings. A rich Oriental carpet covered the floor, and a row of clothes hooks paraded above the bed. The walls, curtains—now completely closed to hide the exterior shutters—and bed linens were all pure white. It was a most elegant stateroom, almost as splendid as her family’s private railroad car, and fully worthy of being the owner’s quarters on a first-class packet.

  Hal shut the door firmly and tossed his hat onto a hook. “I ordered a cot for you,” he began, turning to face her.

  Rosalind giggled softly. “Ah, but did you explain that to Cicero?” She pointed.

  Hal looked down and his eyebrows flew up. Cicero was ferociously scratching and kicking the cot’s blanket and sheets into his idea of perfection.

  Rosalind clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  “Why, you greedy little…” Hal began.

  Cicero circled, then flopped down in the middle of his nest. He looked up at his human, yawned, and laid his head on his paws.

  Rosalind was trying so hard not to laugh that she could barely stand. Hal wrapped his arms around her waist, and she leaned back against him, shaking. He kissed her hair, then licked her neck.

  She quivered in response.

  He licked her again, a long caress that brought his mouth to just behind her ear.

  Rosalind locked her knees desperately against the urge to melt into his arms. His fiery-hard cock rubbed against her backside through their trousers. Her nipples budded into aching points that rasped against her linen shirt.

  “Will you mind sharing my bed instead of his?” Hal asked, his voice barely audible over the engines’ noise.

  “But—we can’t,” Rosalind stammered, fighting for sanity. “People would know.”

  Hal snorted. “A cub goes wherever and does whatever his master demands. That cot is the only open berth on this boat, installed by my order for you, when you came aboard as my cub. Everyone will think you’re using it.”

  He nibbled her earlobe gently, sending a flash of lightning through her body. Despite her best intentions, Rosalind moaned.

  “If you’re quiet, which the boat’s noise should conceal,” Hal continued, sliding his arms around her. “And I don’t kiss you on the mouth—a tempting prospect, although bruising might expose us as lovers—I’m sure we can continue our frolics together. The world will see what it expects to see: Frank Carstairs, the man—and not my lover.”

  He blew gently on the pulse beating in her neck and licked it again. Rosalind moaned as her eyes drifted shut and her legs opened for his knee.

  “Well, Rosalind?”

  “What of Ezra?”

  “We’re old friends. If I slept with Cleopatra, he’d say nothing.” Hal cupped her breasts and framed her nipples with his fingers, kneading them gently.

  Rosalind quivered as lust tightened her belly. Her head fell forward, giving him full access. He outlined her ear with his tongue.

  “Do you agree?”

  “Oh my goodness, how can I say no?” She groaned as his devilish tongue explored her vulnerable neck just inside her starched collar.

  “Good girl.” Hal turned her to face him and unbuttoned her collar. He kissed the hollow of her throat and sucked lightly on the delicate skin, where her clothing would conceal any mark.

  Rosalind shuddered and grabbed his head, as her senses seemed to slip away. Her breasts were as firm and as aching as if he’d spent days arousing them.

  “Best get your clothes off then, so we don’t muss them.”

  Her womb clenched and dew gathered at his arrogant carnality. She must ha
ve said something, obviously an agreement since he didn’t challenge it. He stripped her of her outer clothes, boots, and guns in remarkably little time.

  “Someday, I’ll have the opportunity to remove these at leisure,” he observed, neatly hanging her clothing on the wall. “But today, I want to drink your nectar like my morning coffee.”

  Rosalind choked and blushed, unable to speak. She’d never expected to be reduced to such feminine incoherence.

  He ran his finger down her cheek and over her lips. She kissed it instinctively, and he smiled—the slow, anticipatory grin of a male predator. Something inside her melted even more.

  She thrust her hips toward him so that he could remove her drawers. Surprisingly, his hand cupped her mound through the fine linen. Fire jolted from his warm fingers through her loins and up her spine.

  “You’re growing wet, my dear. Will you give me enough to drink?” He fondled her intimately.

  Her hips rocked toward him. She could barely breathe.

  “Is that an answer?”

  “Yes, please.” She gulped.

  “That’s my little lady,” he praised. Heavens, she liked being considered delicate. He tilted her back on the double bed, peeled off her drawers, and tossed them onto the chair. Her undershirt was the next to go.

  Finally, she lay across the big brass bed’s pristine quilted coverlet as he looked down on her. Any thought of hiding herself fled before the blatant hunger in his eyes.

  Her breath caught. For the first time in her life, she felt the full power of being a woman. Tentatively, Rosalind arched to display herself for him.

  He growled. The ridge behind his trousers grew more prominent.

  Taking a chance, she toyed with her nipples, encouraging them until they were as plump and firm as berries.

  He groaned and began to peel off his clothes. She purred at his eagerness, her eyelids drooping as she savored the sweet surge of pleasure through her loins.

  Dressed only in his trousers, Hal dropped to his knees before her. He pulled her hips forward and spread her legs, opening her up like a peach. Then his tongue ran over her cleft in a long, smooth sweep that sent her surging against his mouth.