“And then?”
“I will tell you when you reach that point, Carstairs. Learning this much will require several days.”
Rosalind’s eyebrows flew up. “Days?”
“Days.” Bellecourt’s tone brooked no argument.
“Yes, sir.” Days? At that rate, she’d still be a cub pilot on the return voyage to Kansas City and never have stood a watch alone.
Rosalind stepped to the window and started looking for likely places to catch catfish or bass, the fish she judged most likely to be found in this shallow river. Black bass in clear quiet water, catfish in faster water.
Bellecourt’s deep voice broke the silence. “See that bird on the bar there, off the starboard bow?”
She strained her eyes. It seemed a bit early in the year for a sandpiper, but the mincing gait was very distinctive. “The sandpiper, sir?”
“That’s it. What does that bird tell you about the river?”
Rosalind reached back to childhood, when she’d tramped across Long Island’s beaches with her brothers. “They like quiet water. So, uh, there’s backwater there?” she ventured.
“Good. What else does it tell you about the river?”
She thought fast and gambled on her answer. “The strongest current is on the other side. Is that why there’s a notch cut into the northern side, sir?”
“Excellent. Yes, the Missouri’s getting ready to take that bar back. She creates islands and she eats them, just as fast.”
Rosalind beamed inside at the praise, but managed a restrained, and hopefully manly, nod of acknowledgment.
“What type of craft have you steered before?” Bellecourt asked, as he casually took the Belle around the sandpiper’s muddy scrap of land.
“A dinghy and rowboat, sir, on Long Island and in the Sound.”
“Good training. You should learn the river rapidly then. The Belle is very responsive and well balanced, too. She may be easier to manage than your dinghy was.”
Pride rumbled through the old man’s voice, and Rosalind smiled. Heaven knows that dinghy had been a cantankerous pig, but she’d managed to steer it. Perhaps she could pull off this masquerade as a cub pilot. At least she understood the engines and the basics of piloting. Surely the rest would fall into place, at least well enough to see her to Fort Benton.
“Good to see you too, Cicero,” Hal crooned, rubbing the dog’s ears.
Cicero’s eyes closed in an expression of canine bliss as his tail beat the air like a dragonfly’s wings. He barked again but more softly.
“Fine dog you have there, Hal,” William remarked as he stepped to within a foot of Cicero. “I knew his like when I was growing up in Ireland.”
“Thanks. How was breakfast?” Hal asked, straightening up. “No, don’t answer that. There are some matters brothers weren’t meant to know.”
William laughed and slapped Hal on the back.
Cicero growled.
“Don’t be a damn fool, Cicero,” Hal snapped. “He’s my friend and yours too, if you have any sense.”
Cicero rumbled something, then began to pace, clearly ready to defend Hal at any cost. Hal shook his head. “Dolt.”
“They’re usually loyal to only one man—or one family,” William remarked. “Clever, courageous, good trackers, excellent fighters. You’re lucky to have him.”
“Yes, he’s a brave one.” Hal changed the subject, uncomfortable as ever in a discussion of dog ownership. “How’s business?”
There was a long pause. Hal spun around to study his little sister’s beloved husband, the man who had rescued her from starving on the dung heap called Rio Piedras. The man who’d risked his life to keep her safe from Paul Lennox. Hal’s jaw tightened at the look he saw on William’s face.
His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking the Colt at his waist.
“Profitable enough,” William said slowly. He’d worn the same expression when he’d learned that Paul Lennox had kidnapped Viola, back in Rio Piedras.
“But?” Hal’s voice was soft, quiet as he always was when facing a fight.
“Too many things are going wrong at the same time. Payments delayed, equipment damaged, supplies lost. Some of that could be chance.”
“You don’t think so.”
Cicero growled, echoing Hal’s tone.
William drummed his fingers on his bowie knife’s hilt, then shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t pass it all off as bad luck. Especially not when the Army’s canceling contracts, with no reason given.”
“The devil you say!”
William nodded. “And the hell of it is that I can’t discover any rhyme or reason for losing those contracts. They’re just taken away when they reach the Secretary of War’s desk. It’s as if I’ve become a pariah, tainted by some crime too great to mention.”
“Belknap’s doing?” Hal asked, remembering gossip.
“Maybe. But surely he would know better than to disturb one of Sherman’s longtime friends.”
Hal grunted acknowledgment of that logic. “We’ll straighten it out somehow.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m sure I can—”
“You’re family and we stand together.”
Surprise flashed across William’s face. Hal lifted an eyebrow, daring William to object.
William blinked rapidly. Dust, or maybe a tear. “Thank you,” he murmured before his expression returned to that of a smooth businessman.
“I have friends in Washington, at the Department of the Navy,” Hal said briskly. “I can cable them—”
“That shouldn’t be necessary. Belknap’s likely the problem since he’s the most corrupt man in Washington.”
Hal whistled. “The Secretary of War? I’d heard some rumors but nothing solid.”
William nodded. “He’s dirtier than any of your firemen. Viola and I had to leave Washington before we could discover who bought him. So I asked Morgan Evans to learn what’s happening, then report to me onboard the Belle.”
Hal frowned. He’d known Evans back in Arizona as Donovan’s local foreman and a good man in a saloon fight. Neither of those seemed like good training for a spy. “Can he accomplish that?”
William threw his head back and roared with laughter. Hal raised an eyebrow and waited for the explanation.
“He was one of Bedford Forrest’s scouts during the War,” William finally managed to say.
Hal whistled. He’d encountered Forrest’s men more than once and had the scars to prove their competence. “Forrest? He was a frequent thorn in our side. So Evans was one of Forrest’s devils. I almost feel sorry for those deskbound jackasses. When do you expect to see him?”
“Before Omaha.”
“Ten days till we arrive,” Hal mused. “So sometime in the next week or so, we should know who we’re going to destroy.”
“Destroy?”
“If I’d paid off Ross when he hinted at it. Or if I hadn’t lost my temper and turned my back on Viola for marrying that coward, Viola wouldn’t have been in that hut out in Arizona. That goddamn mud hut and the broken bottle with blood on its edges…” He broke off, fighting for control.
“Hal…” William took a step forward.
Hal waved him off. A minute later, he managed to speak again. “But you rescued her and made her happy. I’ll stand by you two no matter what happens, even if it means killing the Secretary of War.”
“Waste of time to kill a corrupt toad like Belknap,” William observed in an overly businesslike tone. “The real question is who’s pulling the strings.”
Hal shrugged, glad to discuss actions rather than relive past agonies. “Sometimes you just have to hose the dirt off to get a clean boat.”
The two men shared a long look of complete understanding.
“Thank you,” William said quietly. “I’ve never gone into battle beside my brother before.”
Hal slapped him on the shoulder. “Then we’ll start by standing together at the bar. Barnes can fix you one of his famous lemonade
s and I’ll have a real man’s drink, a mint julep.”
William hooted. “You call that a drink? Truly strong men turn aside from riotous spirits in favor of respectable beverages,” he teased. “Perhaps you should confine yourself to milk.”
Hal laughed.
Rosalind stepped inside the cabin and stretched, then lit the lamp. She began to close the shutters, glad of the privacy they offered.
Loud snoring came from the Alabama cabin next door, where the two farmers berthed. A merchant and his wife shared the Michigan cabin on the other side, empty now while they spent every waking minute at the bar.
The Cherokee Belle had laid up for the night an hour after dark. Like every other Missouri riverboat, she only traveled by daylight, when the river’s vagaries could be properly appreciated and surmounted. So Rosalind had watched McKenzie find a solid tree on a bluff and guide the Belle through tying up alongside it.
After that, they’d eaten dinner at the officers’ table before separating. Bellecourt and McKenzie had wanted to gauge the quality of the poker players aboard. Rosalind had simply announced the need for an early night.
She was truly tired. After the exertions of the previous night with Hal—Rosalind grinned at the memories—plus a long day spent watching the pilots as closely as if she were sitting at a poker table, it was hardly surprising that her eyes were dry and burning. Now she latched the shutters, yawned, and stripped off her coat.
The big brass bed beckoned her, with its crisp white linens and fluffy pillows. She could sleep there for hours in comfort. It was so big that she could fling her arms out. It was stable enough to dance on. In fact, it was so strong that it had barely creaked this morning when Hal made love to her.
Oh my, when Hal made love…
Her throat went dry and her breasts firmed. How magnificent he was and how skillful. One kiss from that firm mouth was enough to banish all thought and convert her into a raging inferno of lust.
She hung up her vest, smiling.
And he never hesitated, as David always had until she coaxed him into going farther than a kiss.
But Hal…He simply took and enjoyed. Without hesitation, without regrets, and with every fiber of his beautiful body, he hurtled into passion’s dance.
Still, it would be lovely to explore him. The muscles in his shoulders, the crisp blond hairs on his chest crowned by those copper nipples…Were his man’s nipples as sensitive as a woman’s? Could they harden and thrust into the air when fondled or licked?
Dew trickled between her legs. Instinctively, she fondled her breasts through her linen shirt.
A dog barked. Another answered it from the riverbank. A man’s footsteps sounded on the promenade outside, but the shutters hid his identity. Rosalind whirled around, her hand automatically reaching for her revolver.
“Silence, Cicero. Do you plan to gossip with every farm dog from here to Montana?” Hal growled and pushed open the door. Cicero strolled inside and leaped onto the cot.
Hal stepped in and stopped abruptly, his eyebrows lifting. His eyes blazed with lust, even as his hands went up. He kicked the door shut without looking at it. “Do you mean to shoot me with that, cub?” he drawled.
Her knees nearly buckled as an answering fire surged through her core. “No, sir. Of course not.”
“Really? Then why is it cocked? Or did you have some other plans for this evening?” He stepped closer to her, crowding her with his warmth and scent. His mouth quirked under his crisp goatee.
Her nostrils flared and drank in the rich spice of male lust. Dear heavens, how she enjoyed that smell.
He wrapped his hand around the Colt’s barrel and smiled at her. “I could take this, you know. Or perhaps I should insist that you pay attention to me, like a woman.”
They were so close she could see the pulse beating in his neck. She glanced down and saw the hard bulge behind his fly. Her hand was shaking with the need to touch him and learn him and set fire to him.
She forced herself to speak calmly, or as calmly as one could when one’s body was clamoring to grab a man. “I could demand something of you.”
“Such as?” His tongue ran out over his lips.
He hadn’t refused. “Take your clothes off, while I trim the lamp. The shutters are helpful but not a guarantee, especially if I’m to pay attention to you.”
He gave her a quick kiss, totally ignoring her revolvers. “Damn, you’re direct,” he purred. “But I’ll strive to deal with it.”
Rosalind snorted as she holstered her gun. “You seem rather excited by my words.”
“And the sight of you, half-dressed and aggressive, takes my breath away.” He kissed her again. Her head was spinning when he stopped and started to strip.
Rosalind’s hands shook as she trimmed the lamp to a more subdued glow. She was deeply grateful that she’d never played poker as his lover. She might not be able to form a coherent thought while distracted by his attractions. She could make some ridiculous wagers if he flirted with her across the table.
“And now?”
She choked at the sight of him, and her heart leaped in her breast. Hal stood, with his fists planted on his hips and his feet spread, wearing only his skin. His cock was scarlet with hunger as it reared toward the ceiling.
Dear heavens, he was magnificent.
A smile played around his lips. “What next?” he rumbled in a velvety growl, like a hungry gambler’s approval of a fat pot.
Rosalind forced herself to think. “Lie down on your back. On the bed,” she added hastily, lest he tease her by reclining on the cot with Cicero.
“As you wish.” He disposed himself against the pristine white coverlet as if he knew he was a greater temptation than chocolate bonbons.
Hal smiled at Rosalind, more than willing to learn her intentions. A kiss perhaps? But no, that seemed too demure for his clear-headed lover.
In any case, it didn’t matter what she planned, especially now that she’d put aside those Colts. She’d been damn brave today in the pilothouse—standing there stiff and straight, looking at the water, and never flinching. Her stiff-backed attitude had reminded him of Vicksburg, when a Confederate shell had beheaded his pilot. A young quartermaster, with no previous experience handling a boat, had leaped to the St. Paul’s wheel and somehow kept the gunboat on course, despite being half blinded by the pilot’s blood and brains.
That young man had held himself just as painfully erect as Rosalind had today. And he’d grinned like a fool, when Hal ordered an extra ration of rum for him. Hal expected he’d enjoy Rosalind’s idea of fun a good deal more.
Her voice brought him back to the present.
“Hands behind your head.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to distract me. Put your hands behind your head.”
“Very well.” He did as she requested—and purred when she stared at his rearing cock. It bid fair to be an excellent evening’s entertainment. Pity she’d be disembarking at Fort Benton.
She trailed her fingers down his arm to his shoulder. She traced his collarbone, then the line bisecting his chest. Hesitated—and lightly outlined his pectoral muscle.
Just how experienced was she? He hadn’t given her much time before to display her skills. A slow circle brought her to his nipple. It promptly recreated itself as a stabbing point, flushed with blood and aching for her touch.
Praise the Almighty, she rubbed it. He gasped for breath as hunger swirled through his veins like a morning fog, clouding his judgment. She fondled it again, pinched it lightly. Scratched it just enough to teach his aching flesh a new sensation.
He bit back a groan.
Rosalind licked him, swirling over his chest in the same lazy circle her finger had followed. Circled his nipple and laved it. She was clumsier than other lovers he’d had but much more intent on him. Then she suckled him.
He groaned, the sound rising up through his body in rhythm with her long, slow pulls on his tit. His belly tightened, and hi
s cock throbbed. Then she turned her attention to his other tit. She’d obviously learned from the first and soon found the most sensitive spots. She incited him with fingers, tongue, and teeth until he was groaning like a love-starved fool, his eyes slitted with pleasure. Lord have mercy, how he enjoyed being the center of her carnal attentions. All the while, Rosalind stroked his thighs idly, as if petting a restless horse. But she never touched his cock.
Hal tried to demand that she put her hand where it would do the most good. If he could just persuade her to pull on his cock once or twice, he was entirely sure he’d spend himself. Then he could regain his self-control from this fever of lust and tumble her as she deserved.
She cupped his balls gently. His hips damn near came off the bed as he arched toward her. “Damn it to hell, Rosalind,” he gasped.
“Roll over.”
What the devil? Hal blinked before he could focus on her. She was standing over him, arms akimbo and breast heaving. Her nipples thrust boldly against her white cotton shirt, and her cheeks were flushed. She ran her tongue over her lips.
Hal smiled deep inside. He was seducing her without lifting a finger, just by letting her play with him.
“Roll over,” she growled.
“Yes, ma’am.” He obeyed, taking a little longer than necessary so she’d see what she was losing. His rampant cock brushed against the coverlet’s embroidery and the heavy cotton thread rubbed it like another hand.
Hal choked at the blast of sensation racing outward through his groin. He bit his lip until it bled, fighting not to erupt then and there.
A minute, or two, passed before he finally settled on a spot without too much embroidery to tantalize him. Then he remembered the old caning scars, which he’d never permitted a lover to touch before. Damn. Should he stop her? No, retorted his cock.
“Ready?”
“Of course.” Dear God, what would she think of his scars?
She chuckled, then set to work exploring his back. Rational thought faded. Shoulders, spine, shoulder blades—she traced them all with her fingers then her mouth. She licked. She kissed the old bullet scar under his rib.
He shuddered. Lord have mercy, her lightest touch made his bones melt. He strained for breath as she charted his back, like a cub pilot learning a great river. His hips twisted and rubbed his cock against the coverlet. He almost howled, but managed to force himself to stillness. He was totally at her mercy, hungry to satisfy her slightest carnal whim.
The River Devil Page 14