His fingers threaded her intimate folds, learning her. He toyed with her, stretching and squeezing and licking the delicate skin until the slightest touch made her shudder. Heat gathered there. Dew beaded and flowed for him.
He nuzzled her and licked her again. His tongue swirled around her clit. Her hips pushed against him eagerly. He scraped his teeth lightly over her mound until she sobbed. She flung her hand over her mouth lest she be heard over the engines and breakfast diners. And she wrapped her legs around his head to pull him closer.
His lips traced patterns on her folds that only he understood. She just knew that they drove her frantic. She’d never experienced, never imagined, anything like his leisurely enticements. Even the previous night didn’t compare to this.
Then he sucked on her clit as if it were candy. Pleasure rocketed through her. She fought it, desperate not to shriek.
Hal growled something and continued. His wicked hands and mouth teased her, reminding her of how he’d feasted on her before. The engine’s pounding seemed milder than the pulse beating in her veins.
He slipped a finger into her, teasing her inner nerves and muscles. Another finger circled her hidden entrance stealthily, enticing her more than any games she’d played there by herself, while teasing her clit. She’d always yearned for a lover who’d understand the lure of the forbidden. Still more dew slipped forth as her tension built stronger and stronger.
Somehow, she found the strength not to climax and scream, although it seemed the most desirable action imaginable.
Suddenly Hal stood up. She blinked up at him, confused and desperate.
“Stubborn lady, aren’t you?” he remarked. His trousers stood out boldly, as if a tent pole lunged against them. She eyed the telltale bulge and instinctively licked her lips.
Hunger blazed in his blue eyes. He rolled her over onto her stomach and she shuddered in anticipation. Heaven knows she loved being treated as a fragile female, rather than an Amazon.
Chuckling hoarsely, he lifted up her shoulders and slid a pillow under her head. Another pillow went under her hips before he leaned over and caressed her ass, lingering over her spine and between her buttocks. His rough fingers slipped through her folds and lightly tugged her clit.
“Dear heavens, you could seduce a nun.” Rosalind gasped.
“You flatter me,” he bowed, but his voice was husky. He circled her needy entrance, teasing her with pleasures to come.
She moaned and hid her face in the pillow. If she had to look at the hunger and predatory intent in his eyes, she’d start begging him to hurry.
The big, blunt tip of his cock nudged her, veiled by the condom’s membrane and framed by his woolen trousers.
She moaned again, a deep, aching sound. Her breasts ached, and she rubbed them against the quilted coverlet, greedy for the added sensation.
He gathered her legs up and opened her wide. She trembled with vulnerability and anticipation. He entered her with a long, heavy surge that drove him in to the hilt with the first sweet stroke. His fat, heavy balls pressed against her clit, their hairs teasing her intimately.
She was full almost to bursting, yet it wasn’t enough.
Rosalind shuddered as hunger traveled through her again.
Her movement shattered his restraint. He rode her hard, grunting fiercely as he pounded her. His balls thudded against her, and his heart beat against her.
She groaned into the pillow again and again. Every inch of her body ached for him. Even the blood pounding through her veins wanted more. Her orgasm was closing in on her.
Her channel tightened rhythmically around him, slowly at first then more and more rapidly.
Hal growled, shuddered, then climaxed, spending himself in frantic jerks.
His delight was too much to resist. She climaxed as rapture burst through her bloodstream.
Chapter Eight
Hal rolled onto his side, taking Rosalind with him. She settled easily against him, still trembling a bit in passion’s aftermath. Such a proud, controlled little lady she was—everywhere except the bedroom.
His arm tightened around her at the thought. Her surprise at how fast and deep sensuality could sweep her under had told him a great deal about her inexperience. Rutherford might have had her virginity, but he hadn’t touched her essence. Hal smirked in pure masculine superiority.
Still, that didn’t explain his reactions to her, since he’d never been interested in seducing virgins—even when they didn’t seem likely to demand marriage and children.
He’d only indulged himself with experienced partners, in encounters pleasurable but brief. He’d carefully select his lover for looks, conversation, and sensuality, seduce them, and spend a day or two luxuriating in a flurry of lust. Afterward, he’d walk away, always disinclined to bed them again.
But Rosalind—hell, he couldn’t have enough of her. They’d reach Omaha in ten days, Fort Benton six weeks after that. Surely he’d be bored by then. Surely.
In the meantime, he must protect her from that scum Lennox. So she’d need to do everything expected of a cub pilot—including dining at the officers’ table, while he ate with Viola and Donovan. Damn.
He kissed her neck, swatted her hip lightly, and stood up.
“What the devil?” She started to sit up, glaring at him.
Hal chuckled and returned with a wet washcloth, the condom neatly disposed of. Thank heavens Ezra knew how to keep his mouth shut, and the chambermaid was his sister.
“Relax and let me tend to you. Then we can start teaching you how to pilot a riverboat.” He pressed her back with a hand to her shoulder. She resisted for a moment, then leaned back on her elbows.
Hal began to carefully wash between her legs. She squeaked and closed her eyes. His mouth twitched, but stayed sober.
“Must I learn that?” Rosalind asked, a long moment later.
He nodded and rinsed out the washcloth. “You’re here as a cub pilot so you need to act like one, or folks will suspect something’s up.”
“Damn.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then came to her feet.
Brave little lady to take on piloting. He’d heard of how her family had died, and her own near drowning on the same night. No wonder she’d thrown a fit or two at the sight of a boat; something like that could spook the strongest man.
He pulled on his clothes, trying to think about how he could help her. “Your father liked mechanical things, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, very much so.” She smiled reminiscently as she buttoned her shirt.
“Do you have any similar interests?”
She grinned. “Yes, sir, I do. I enjoy the sound of a well-tuned locomotive engine, or—”
“How’d you like to meet a well-tuned, high-pressure steamboat engine?”
Rosalind’s eyes lit up. “Could I? I’ve only been in the passenger compartments of a riverboat before. Father showed me train engines but never riverboats.”
Hal’s mouth quirked. The Belle’s magnificent pilothouse had left her terrified, rather than inspired, by a vantage point that many hoped to see. But offer her a visit to the cramped, dirty engine room, and she blazed like a furnace.
Rosalind gazed at the hubbub as if she’d just entered Sinbad’s cavern. At last, something on a riverboat that she understood.
Freight was piled high all around, leaving just enough space for the boilers and firemen. Three thirty-foot-long cylindrical boilers stood on surprisingly small stands near the bow, each with a single door facing forward and a raging fire within. The metal around every door glowed red-hot, a sure sign that the boilers were being hard-fired. A bevy of ebony black firemen shoveled coal into each opening, working like men fighting to stay out of the bowels of hell. A bucket of pine knots stood by each boiler, ready for some unknown purpose. A few embers fell to the wood deck and were summarily dealt with.
It was, of course, quite hot and noisy, with the deck flexing subtly under her feet as the boat sailed upriver. Not the most stable foundation
for mechanical contrivances.
Hal tapped her shoulder, then led her back under the line of pipes, with Cicero close against his leg. In a very small, confined space at the stern, they found a massive engine of the rather old-fashioned lever and poppet-valve style. It was coupled to a pitman—a type of connecting rod—which slid rhythmically back and forth through a deep channel on the deck. The brutal-looking engine and its twin, whose engine room was just visible past still more freight stacked down the middle of the main deck, obviously drove the great paddlewheel, visible through the stern windows.
The dominant beat in that cramped room was a steady whoosh-whoosh as the pitman walked up and down, and the water splashing down from the paddlewheel’s blades. Or buckets, as the rivermen called them.
Everything was neat, tidy, and well organized. Even the firemen seemed calm as they flung coal through the grates, despite the danger. If a boiler exploded—as high-pressure boilers were all-too eager to do—those men would be the first to die. Every soul onboard could easily be destroyed in such a calamity, the way sixteen hundred men had died on the Sultana only seven years earlier.
Still, the biggest surprise was how dirty everything was, compared to the gleaming brasswork of a train engine. The only bright work to be seen here was the piston rod and throttle handle. In this engine room, everything was focused on work. Not on glory, not on beauty—just the overwhelming demand to drive the Cherokee Belle upstream.
A gray-haired man with startlingly young eyes came forward, sweating like the rest but much cleaner. He grinned at Hal with an easy familiarity, even as he looked over Rosalind. Competence oozed from his every pore. She was immediately glad she’d tidied up thoroughly before leaving Hal’s stateroom.
“What brings you down here, Lindsay? Thought you were going to lounge about the boiler deck this trip.”
“Showing my cub around the boat. He has some familiarity with engines so we’re starting here. Black Jack, meet Frank Carstairs. Carstairs, this is Black Jack Norton, the Belle’s engineer.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Rosalind said sincerely as she shook hands. She might be able to trust the boilers run by this legendary engineer. He’d brought his gunboat safely through the Battle of Shiloh, despite an engine room filled with steam from shot-up pipes. Surely he could take these engines up a few hundred miles of river during peacetime.
She happily began to ask questions, starting with basics like the pressure gauge (an unfamiliar type to her, but Norton assured her it was the most useful on western rivers) and the safety valve on each boiler. A line was tied to each safety valve’s lever, which could then pass through one of two pulleys. The lower one looked innocent enough, but the upper pulley led out of the boiler room to an unknown destination.
Norton told a few stories about his wartime service, including one in which he’d tied an anvil to the line, then threaded it through the upper pulley. He’d built the pressure particularly high during that escapade, confident that the boilers would have exploded a dozen times before the safety valve would open. After all, there was nothing like extra steam for more speed.
Rosalind nodded eagerly, quickly understanding both the risks and the benefits of the trick. She did so enjoy being treated as an equal by a man, instead of like a dim-witted broodmare. Conversations like this were the saving grace of her disguise.
An hour later—or perhaps more—Hal coughed. Rosalind flushed guiltily and stared at him, caught in the middle of a detailed discussion of the uses for different types of coal. Hardly a typical conversational gambit from a young pilot.
Norton snickered. “Don’t be too afraid of boring him, Carstairs. Lindsay was my striker once, back when we took the old Katy Anne up to Fort Benton in ’56, the second year a steamer made it through the rapids. He still remembers some of what I taught him.”
Hal laughed. “And a hard taskmaster you were, too. Had me scraping out mud from the boilers twice a day. And you made me reverse the engines, lifting and resetting that damn club every time the pilot rang down, while you took your ease.”
Norton’s eyes twinkled. “Typical chores of a striker, my boy. And aren’t you the better for doing ’em, just as I promised?”
Hal laughed and saluted his old friend, then left the engine room. Rosalind followed him up to the boiler deck, while Cicero raced ahead of them, barking happily at everyone in sight.
The few wisps of morning fog had completely burned off, and the day was glorious, sunny and clear with just a hint of spring’s cool breezes. Most of the passengers were now strolling along the promenade, walking off their no-doubt hearty breakfasts. Some nodded or offered greetings to Hal, which he returned politely.
“I’m taking you up to the pilothouse now,” Hal announced casually. “For a good view of the river.”
Rosalind nodded, more relaxed than she would have expected. “Very well.”
The big pilothouse was flooded with light and air, like a king’s throne high atop the Cherokee Belle. Bellecourt still stood at the wheel, casually steering with one hand as he watched the Missouri ahead.
“Ça va, Bellecourt.”
“Ça va bien, Lindsay,” the older man responded, the French greeting sounding more like a casual reassurance. “Bonjour, Carstairs.”
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Carstairs, Antoine Bellecourt learned the Missouri from his father, a French trapper who knew Lewis and Clark. He himself has traveled the Missouri in canoes, keelboats, and steamers before teaching me everything I know about piloting.”
“You flatter me, mon ami.” Bellecourt bowed. “I am glad you came to join us, Carstairs. The river is still much the same as in my father’s time, when Lewis and Clark first saw it, but the land—ah, that changes every day as more and more settlers come. Look around and see for yourself.”
Rosalind nodded acknowledgment and turned to the world beyond the pilothouse.
Outside, Cicero trotted from the texas’s roof down to the hurricane deck and began to sniff busily at a water barrel in front of the pilothouse. As ever on a riverboat, the hurricane deck—with its hog chains running overhead for the length of the boat, plus poles, vents, and stairs—was designed for honest work, not idle perambulations by passengers.
Rosalind watched him for a moment, then looked at the river, which was clearly visible on all sides. The vibrations from the paddlewheel and Norton’s engines were almost imperceptible here. A breeze caressed her cheek, bringing scents of green things reawakening. A swallow swooped out of the trees and snatched its prey just above the water, then circled back to safety.
Everything was so calm and rather mundane, almost like watching her favorite fishing hole on Long Island.
For the first time in the years since her mother’s death, Rosalind’s chest loosened onboard a boat. She cautiously allowed herself to watch the ripples dancing across the water, with little fear that they’d turn into towering waves.
There was silence for a few minutes. A great blue heron swept up from behind the Belle and flew on ahead, to disappear beyond the drowned oak trees ahead. Beyond them, the Spartan’s tall stacks belched smoke as Donovan stepped up onto the hurricane deck. He glanced around but made no effort to come up to the pilothouse.
“Your family is accumulating rapidly, Lindsay,” Bellecourt remarked. “Your sister and her husband, then your parents, and now a cub. While my family sleeps in Kansas City, far from where I spend my days. You must feel tugged in many directions, whereas I have far too much time to contemplate my solitude.”
Rosalind would have sworn Bellecourt’s eyes were twinkling. What was he up to?
“Would you consider allowing me to tutor your cub? He seems an observant, steady lad. McKenzie can also help.”
Rosalind’s heart stopped beating for a moment. Learning from Bellecourt would be a privilege—and not nearly as distracting as standing close to Hal.
Hal frowned thoughtfully before he looked at Rosalind. His blue eyes were more concerned than his
voice’s steadiness would indicate. “Is that agreeable to you, Carstairs?”
“Of course.” She smiled back confidently, quite sure she’d be safe with Bellecourt and McKenzie. She’d learned a great deal about judging men in the past months, thanks to playing poker against them every day.
“Very well then, Bellecourt, and thank you.”
“I am honored that you trust me with his education. He can stand all, or part, of my watches with me.”
Hal studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “In that case, I’ll leave you two alone.”
“And Lindsay…”
“Yes?”
“Ask Sampson if Carstairs can dine with me, or McKenzie, at the officers’ table. He’ll learn more from our company than the passengers’.”
Hal nodded. “Of course.”
Rosalind almost sighed with relief. If she ate with the officers, she’d be spared contact with Captain and Mrs. Lindsay, who knew her from New York.
Hal left and went down to the hurricane deck, where Cicero rushed to greet him while Donovan laughed. Rosalind was still smiling at the dog’s joy as she turned back to the river.
“Have you fished, Carstairs? Hunted ducks or geese?” Bellecourt asked, easing the wheel into another turn. The Missouri’s crookedness made the Minotaur’s labyrinth seem as straight as a Roman road.
“Yes, sir, I did so often, with my father and brothers.”
“Then relax and study the river. Study it the way you did when you hunted fish, Carstairs—when you looked for deep water or shallow, fast water or slow, depending on what you wanted to catch. Consider the birds and the bugs, what they can tell you about the currents.”
Rosalind cocked her head as she considered the complexities involved in analyzing the river this way. It would be harder than playing seven-card stud with a tableful of drunks, when you’d no idea what they’d do next and any move could be violent. “Yes, sir. Then what?”
“Try to anticipate my movements as I steer the Belle.”
The River Devil Page 13