The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  She nuzzled a long arc from arm to arm, tracing where a cane had once blazed fire across his back. Her touch seemed a path to his back’s most sensitive spots, as his blood heated and raced through his veins. He clenched his fists and bit the pillow when she nuzzled him again, then traced another arc and another until she’d explored every inch of his shoulders.

  The sweet agony of her seduction burned away old memories, when his father’s cane had etched scars into his flesh. His hips rocked against the bed, aching for more stimulation, desperate for release. His cock was hard and full, his balls tight against their roots. He groaned his approval into the smothering pillow and pushed himself back at her.

  Rosalind’s sweet mouth moved down his back to his ass. She stroked the muscles, traced his spine to where it disappeared, kissed the hollow just above the heavy muscle.

  She licked and kissed his ass, then did the same to his thighs. Her finger slipped between his legs and petted his balls with the lightest possible touch.

  His hips would not stay still. They pushed against the bed rhythmically, faster and faster, as lust demanded more and more of him. He had barely enough sense to keep his mouth hidden in the pillow.

  She bit him delicately on the rump, barely setting her teeth against his flesh. Hal exploded. His body thrashed against the bed. His seed boiled out of his balls and up through his cock like steam rushing through a boiler. Stars burst behind his eyelids. He spent himself, howling her name into the forgiving pillow.

  Chapter Nine

  Rosalind’s hand twitched, unconsciously echoing Bellecourt’s movements in the Cherokee Belle’s pilothouse. Bellecourt guided the big riverboat along the water’s silver ribbon between the islands as if he were following a straight flush. He had the height and coloring of his Nez Percé mother’s family, with the affability of his French coureur de bois father, giving him both his mother’s stories and his father’s skill in telling them. After two days of watching him like a starving sharper in a gambling house, Rosalind was starting to learn a little of how the river looked to a pilot. Thankfully, there were no tall waves to alarm her.

  “And so, we take the turn here, under the western bluff, where the current is deepest, comprenez? The jackstaff, that tall pole at the front of the hurricane deck, will show us where the Belle is aimed.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” Rosalind answered absently as she checked to see how close they’d come to land. The river had undercut the cliff so steeply that oak trees leaned out over the water, as if trying to caress the passing boat.

  Barking sounded from the hurricane deck, and Rosalind leaned forward to look. Viola Donovan was teasing Cicero with an old sock wrapped around a big bone. She passed it from one hand to the other behind her back, or tossed it from hand to hand, just enough to give the eager terrier a glimpse. All the while, Cicero danced in front of her and barked happily, tongue lolling out as he begged for the treat.

  Her husband laughed indulgently as he watched their foolishness, while standing protectively between her and the edge.

  Rosalind echoed the same smile, remembering how her old spaniel would play with her and her brothers, bouncing from side to side in readiness to chase the ball. Hal was very lucky to have family like that, and a childhood to cement the bond. She couldn’t believe he’d gained those scars at the same time.

  As if summoned by her thought, Hal stepped into the pilothouse and looked around. Rosalind snapped back to the present with a jerk.

  “The next flood will likely take those oaks. Quel dommage,” Bellecourt prophesied, spinning the wheel as easily as any roulette dealer. He rang down for more speed, steadied the wheel, and nodded to Hal. “Any cables from the pilot’s association?”

  Hal frowned. “No, nothing from the association or anyone else about the Missouri. Why? Looking for news about river levels?”

  Bellecourt nodded. “I think the spring rise will be long and high.”

  Hal whistled. “It was a hard winter, especially in the Rockies, and the weather’s been changeable since then. But spring floods as well? That would be very dangerous.”

  “Less chance of running aground.”

  “Better chance of catching driftwood,” Hal retorted. “And we’d need two men to handle her on every watch.”

  “Mais certainement. Will you take the wheel please? I’d like to cable some friends in Omaha and Nebraska City to hear their thoughts about the local rivers.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Hal stepped up to the big wheel. Rosalind’s eyes widened at how easily and smoothly he took control, one big hand casually wrapped around a spoke and the other resting on the bell to the engine room.

  “Ask Sampson to stop at the Brunson farm,” Hal said, “whether or not they’ve got a flag up. We’ll pay them a dollar if their eldest takes the cable to the nearest telegraph office.”

  “Bien.” Bellecourt disappeared without a backward glance.

  Rosalind blew out her breath and looked back at the river. She loved these quiet times with Hal in the pilothouse, close enough that his clean scent teased her nostrils. She wouldn’t dream of intruding on him and the Donovans, of course, no matter how much she envied him the happiness he found with his sister. Strange that her happiest times this spring had been found atop a pile of inch-thick lumber, while floating on a wild river.

  He stayed silent as he guided the Belle through a series of turns, dodging between barely visible sandbars, an island, and the tall bluffs to the west. He was as utterly competent as Bellecourt, his movements crisp and certain, yet relaxed even when he rang for a burst of full speed.

  A broad, straight stretch opened up before them, surprisingly long for the Missouri, at almost two miles. Overhead, a great flock of pelicans flew steadily north, as if guided by the great river. Miles ahead, the Spartan’s tall stacks were just visible, twisting and turning as she worked her way through crooked water.

  “Put your hands on the wheel, Carstairs.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rosalind’s heart leaped into her mouth. She hoped her voice sounded calm. Her fingers closed around a pair of spokes convulsively. Think about the Belle, not what the water can do to you, she admonished herself.

  “Just get the sense of her coming through the wheel. We’re in a deep channel, with no sandbars nearby, so you should only feel the water.”

  The Belle rumbled slightly as she moved upriver. Rosalind could easily find the vibrations from the paddlewheel. A little more concentration made her aware of the deep, heavy ripples lifting the hull.

  “Care to take her?”

  She gulped and nodded.

  Hal lifted his hand, and the Belle belonged to Rosalind. She focused fiercely on the boat under her control.

  A puff of wind pushed the Belle to the east, away from the channel. Hissing softly, Rosalind brought the steamer back to the center with white-knuckled hands—only to have her promptly veer to the left. The big white boat was far more responsive to the helm than her family’s dinghy had ever been.

  “See that big oak on the bluff ahead? Just keep the jackstaff lined up on it and you’ll have a straight course.”

  She nodded, desperate to do exactly that. But every move seemed to make the Belle wallow across the river like a ferryboat.

  “Use less wheel when you correct her. Two spokes are better than four.”

  Only spin the wheel two spokes past the center? Rosalind muttered a very improper bit of Latin under her breath as she fought the stubborn boat into something loosely approximating a straight line.

  Hal chuckled. “Bet you can’t hold a steady course for a full minute, using only one spoke in each turn.”

  Rosalind’s competitiveness instantly flared into roaring life. She hadn’t lost a bet in years, except to her father. “What do I win?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll stand first watch with you tomorrow. But if I win, then you have to bring me breakfast in bed.”

  “Done.” Her mouth tightened, and she glared at the offending jackstaff. If it dared t
o stray far from that oak tree…

  Hal took out his pocket watch. “Begin.”

  She squinted at the bluff and willed the Cherokee Belle to stay on a straight course. A mischievous breeze pushed the steamer to the east. Rosalind promptly corrected. One spoke went past…

  Her hand tightened, and the wheel stopped just before a second spoke could go over the top. Praise to the Almighty, the river was deep and wide here, fed by a fat little stream. She needed the extra space to keep the Belle safe.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  The jackstaff tried to saunter toward the oak tree’s branches, rather than the trunk. Rosalind corrected it grimly, barely turning one spoke.

  “Ten seconds.” Hal’s tone was conversational.

  Rosalind prayed that the watch hands would move quickly as she hung onto the wheel.

  “Done. Congratulations, Carstairs.”

  Rosalind’s knees weakened in relief before she brought herself fiercely erect. “I always knew I could do it.”

  “Of course!” Hal slapped her on the shoulder. “But let me take her now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rosalind slowly relinquished the wheel, surprisingly eager to take it again.

  She was still pondering that question when she entered the stateroom that evening. She’d played a few hands of poker after dinner, while Hal strolled the boiler deck with his sister and Donovan.

  Captain and Mrs. Lindsay had been holding court in the grand saloon, as usual, where he told tall tales that rivaled the best Rosalind had ever heard and kept an eye on his wife. A group of like-minded gentlemen had gathered around him and spent much of their time trading stories about fish, wartime heroics, or business successes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lindsay was flirting with the rest of the men.

  Rosalind’s mouth tightened. While she knew that not every couple had her parents’ laughing delight in each other, it still scandalized her Knickerbocker heart to see a married woman encouraging strange men to leer at her.

  Thankfully, her duties as cub pilot kept her away from the Lindsays during the day. At night, when the Cherokee Belle laid up, Rosalind dined at the officers’ table—and kept her mouth tightly sealed as befitted the most junior officer onboard—then escaped to the stateroom she shared with Hal.

  A light knock on the door made her jump. “Enter,” she called, automatically deepening her voice.

  Ezra poked his head around the door.

  “Evenin’, sir. Do you want me to turn down the covers before you retire?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She chastised herself for forgetting her disguise. If Ezra had arrived a few minutes later, she’d have been asleep in the big bed.

  She leaned against the wall by the washbasin, careful to appear as indolently masculine as she could manage, while she watched Ezra. He was whistling softly as he worked and hadn’t looked directly at her since he entered. How had Hal acquired such a discreet servant?

  “When did you meet Mr. Lindsay, Ezra?”

  “June of ’62, sir.”

  “Ten years is a long time to work for the same man,” Rosalind commented.

  “He saved my life and I’ll serve him as long as I live.” Ezra glanced up at her from beside the cot, his hand smoothing its blanket. He was a thin man, barely five feet in height, but an indomitable spirit looked out from his raven black eyes.

  Surprised at his response, Rosalind cocked an eyebrow. “What happened?”

  “I was being caned on a plantation just outside Vicksburg, for having been two minutes late with the master’s coffee. The master liked to teach new slaves the meaning of naval discipline, so he ordered one blow for every second I was late.”

  “The devil you say!” Rosalind came erect in anger at Ezra’s mistreatment. One blow for each second he’d been late? Intolerable!

  “First time I’d ever been caned and I knew right away, I’d rather have a hard whipping,” Ezra said soberly, his eyes distant.

  Rosalind choked at the thought of any punishment worse than a whipping.

  “I’d had thirty of the promised hundred twenty blows, and my senses were fading. Suddenly, a fury broke through the trees like Gabriel’s horn was leading the whole Yankee army.”

  “Was it Mr. Lindsay?”

  “Lieutenant Lindsay, back then,” Ezra corrected her gently. “He was leading a group of sailors from his gunboat, scouting for a passage through the swamp around the rebel guns.”

  The former slave smiled, past joy lighting his face.

  “And?” Rosalind prompted.

  He focused on her again. “He didn’t have to save me. He could have waited an hour till the caning was over and all the watchers had left. Or he could have come back that night.”

  “Instead, Mr. Lindsay took action immediately.” Rosalind probed gently.

  “Yes, sir. He shot the overseer dead, dropping him into the dust like a bottle fly. Then he held that big gun to my master’s head and told him he could either sell me or eat a bullet.”

  “The brute chose?”

  “To sell me.” Ezra’s tone was mildly regretful.

  “Pity.”

  Ezra shrugged. “Mr. Lindsay freed me, formally, as soon as he could. Said he wanted me to sleep at night, not have nightmares about my old master coming after me.”

  He paused for a moment before going on. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Mr. Lindsay, nothing.” His eyes drilled into hers, as if willing her to understand.

  Realization swept over Rosalind. “His scars—they’re from a caning, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. Only a cane, used by an expert, leaves diamond-shaped marks like that.”

  “Yours must be worse,” Rosalind said slowly, feeling her way through the implications.

  Ezra shrugged. “No, sir. His are older, so they’ve faded more than mine. ’Sides, he’s younger than I am and not bred to be beaten.”

  “God damn the vicious brutes to hell,” Rosalind cursed, forgetting herself entirely.

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I think too, most of the time. Then I remember my mammy’s teachings and I pray for God’s forgiveness for them all.”

  “I’m sure the Almighty can forgive them, but I certainly have a hard time.”

  Ezra’s teeth flashed in a grin. “I do too, sir. Will that be all for the night?”

  “Yes, thank you. Good night, Ezra.”

  “Good night, sir.” Ezra bowed, as polite as any English butler, and disappeared, leaving Rosalind to her thoughts. Who had beaten Hal? Had it been at his home or on a riverboat?

  She shrugged off her futile questions and prepared for bed. Five o’clock came remarkably early, especially when accompanied by river mists and a cool spell. She fell asleep within minutes of climbing into the cot, lulled by the next-door farmers’ incessant snoring.

  Suddenly, she awoke with a violent start, to find herself lifted into the air with the covers wrapped tightly around her. Instinctively, she started to fight. “What the devil—”

  “Easy there, easy,” Hal’s voice crooned in her ear.

  Rosalind stared up at him. A vagrant beam of gaslight crept through the shutters and lit his golden hair like an angel’s halo. She wriggled again. “What are you doing? Put me down, please.”

  “All in good time, cub. All in good time. After all, Cicero deserves his bed, too.”

  “Hal, I can’t move,” Rosalind pointed out tartly and tried to free herself.

  “True. And I can’t touch your sweet breasts either. But I can reach your mouth.”

  Her arrogant lover kissed her, teasing her lips with his tongue. His breath hinted at brandy, while his goatee teased her. His scent was his own indefinable musk, a combination of sandalwood and Castile soap, and something uniquely Hal, masculine, and irresistible.

  Rosalind sighed and opened her mouth so that she could twine her tongue with his. He played the game for long minutes, their tongues gliding together in a tempo that grew closer and closer to something more carnal.

  She shuddered with hunger. H
er breasts were hard, aching for his touch. Her nipples had tightened into engorged points, pressing anxiously toward him. The cot’s covers were wrapped so closely around her that the blanket’s wool reached through the sheet and nightshirt to rub her skin, like lust’s sweet agony.

  Two nights of sleeping with him had taught her body to hunger for him the way a poker player longed for a king to finish his royal straight.

  “Hal, please. I need to touch you,” she moaned, too desperate to refrain from begging.

  He chuckled, although the sound was hoarse and broken. “But I have the better of you now. Surely, this is an opportunity to do what I like first. Such as kissing you again.”

  His mouth came down on hers hard this time and he kissed her like a devil, intent on creating pleasure without allowing any counterarguments.

  Rosalind’s brain, recognizing his greater skill and strength—and remembering past delights far too well—gave up the unequal contest. She became a creature of pure sensation, linked to the rest of the universe through his mouth, the warmth of his body through the cloth, and the strength of his arms holding her tenderly.

  She wriggled again, eager to be closer to him.

  He kissed her again and again until she nearly swooned, keeping her confined by his arms and the cot’s bedding. At some point, he had sat down on the bed because his hard thighs supported her now. But still his arms cradled her, and his mouth taught her new paths to excitement.

  Her core clenched again and again, in rhythm with his tongue’s movements. Her dew dampened her thighs, then soaked her nightshirt and the sheet. Her skin was fiery hot, sensitive enough to feel every button’s imprint on her skin, thanks to the pressure of his prison.

  He nuzzled her face, teasing her with the contrast between his nighttime stubble and silken goatee. Rosalind mewed, too lost in his magic to form words. The cocoon’s pressure forced her legs and intimate folds so closely together that every sensation was magnified a hundredfold, as if she were being rubbed everywhere. She could feel her lower lips unfurl and engorge, her clit swell and stand proud, her dew anoint them—all in readiness for him.