The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  He nibbled her eyebrows, scraped his teeth down her nose, and sucked lightly on her lip. Rosalind arched up to him.

  Hal kissed down her throat and licked the pulse at the base. At the same time, his hand slipped into the cocoon and stroked her leg. She groaned his name. Her hips pulsed in rhythm with his tongue. There was barely room for him to find a way between her legs, but he managed. He teased her clit very delicately.

  Ecstasy surged through her, sweet and passionate, and she barely managed not to cry out. She started to relax, then gasped in shock as his finger entered her. He pumped her, urging her upward again mercilessly.

  Helpless to resist, Rosalind arched and climaxed again, sobbing with pleasure. He stretched her with two fingers, then three, ruthlessly using his knowledge of her body’s appetites. He took her mouth fiercely, swallowing her pleas for more. She shattered again and consciousness faded.

  Cool air touched her thighs. Sweat trickled down her face. She blinked and stirred. “Hal?”

  “Little lady,” he muttered, rousing her senses with the verbal reminder of how fragile and precious she was to him, and spread her legs. Then he drove himself home between her legs in one ferocious stroke.

  Rosalind gasped and reached for him. The cocoon’s last remnants fell away and she was free to wrap herself around him. “Do it again.”

  He chuckled softly and kissed her hair. His coat’s fine wool teased her gently, even through her nightshirt. His vest’s buttons branded her, while his trousers scratched her thighs. The rich scent of his arousal filled her lungs.

  “Again,” she demanded and rocked her hips against him to emphasize her eagerness.

  “Greedy,” he teased hoarsely, then rode her. His speed quickly became that of a thoroughbred in a race’s final furlongs, as passion sped faster and faster through them both.

  Rosalind bit his shoulder, desperate not to beg louder, even though their neighbors’ snores still sounded.

  Hal grunted softly and tightened his grip on her hips. He shifted his angle slightly and thrust again. This time, his cock reached deeper into her, to where her muscles locked down on him like a poker player seizing the jackpot.

  He growled and froze. His cock jerked again and again inside her as he came. She fell over the precipice, sobbing his name as passion swept her entire body.

  Her sight grayed in the aftermath, then darkened as he rolled to cuddle her. Only his touch mattered now, and she fell asleep smiling.

  Rosalind took another sip of her steaming coffee and reminded herself to thank Ezra. The hot drink was excellent, equal to anything she would have found in her father’s house, and a splendid complement to the early morning scenery.

  It was far better than the wretched stuff she’d drunk on the Pretty Lady, probably because of Norton’s pet gadget, a water filtration system. No other boat on the Missouri had one, forcing their passengers to drink what Horace Greeley, the famous newspaperman, had called “the color and consistency of thick milk porridge.”

  The view was especially beautiful if she didn’t look at the water itself. The air was clear and still, a suitable backdrop for the few white tendrils of mist that rose from the water or draped themselves over the trees. A handful of great blue herons stalked through an inlet and a bald eagle watched from high atop a drowned oak tree, all of them far enough away to ignore the boat. Far to the east, the skies danced with brilliant colors as hundreds of Carolina parakeets came for breakfast in an open field.

  Or perhaps they’d heard Captain Sampson’s inflexible rule that no firearms would be discharged at any time, lest the ladies aboard be discomfitted. Any man who violated that rule, or any other rule posted in the bar, would be put ashore immediately. Captain Sampson had only enforced it once, which apparently made this a very peaceable voyage.

  Bellecourt was at the wheel, humming as he eased the Belle past a side channel. Hal looked out the port window and muttered something under his breath.

  “Any sign of them?” Bellecourt asked.

  “Not yet.” Hal picked up the telescope and began to scan the scene ahead.

  Rosalind refrained from asking what they were discussing. Bellecourt was usually a very talkative sort, full of stories about the river, his French father, and his Indian mother’s relatives. Rosalind hadn’t been bored once. She was quite sure he’d explain the current conversation soon enough.

  Cicero looked into the pilothouse, decided the humans there were completely uninteresting, and departed. A moment later, Rosalind saw him happily racing around the hurricane deck, apparently playing a game only he understood.

  Hal froze and refocused the telescope. “There it is, in that elm tree off to starboard. See it?”

  Straining her eyes, Rosalind could just make out a large bundle hanging high up in the tree.

  “Bien,” Bellecourt rumbled. “Now we shall have venison for dinner.”

  “Or wild turkey, or prairie chicken. Maybe bear.”

  Rosalind’s eyebrows shot up. Bear?

  Bellecourt shook his head. “They haven’t taken a bear on this stretch of river for several years now. We’ll have to go further north before we can taste that fine meat.”

  Hal lowered the telescope and caught Rosalind’s surprise. “Didn’t travel much on the upper Mississippi, eh, Carstairs?”

  “No, sir. Are you talking about hunters?”

  “Yes, the Cherokee Belle has two of the best working for her. They range ahead, take what game they can, and cache it for us to find.”

  “Does every boat have hunters working for them?”

  “If they want fresh meat, they do. We buy where we can, of course, but the hunters are the surest source. And in Indian country, they also act as scouts.”

  “The Spartan doesn’t have hunters this season,” Bellecourt commented.

  Hal’s eyebrow lifted. “I thought she’d signed one on in Kansas City.”

  Bellecourt shook his head. “Not a one, mon ami.”

  “Excuse me, sirs, but what are you talking about?” Rosalind asked.

  Bellecourt shrugged, his expression turning grim. “Last season, the Spartan’s stern knocked against a bluff and took down a Blackfoot burial ground.”

  Hal nodded. “Damn fool. He should have gone around like everyone else, instead of trying to shave an hour off his run.”

  “Word is that the Spartan’s cursed and no hunter will accompany her into Indian country,” Bellecourt finished.

  “And Hatcher, being his usual arrogant self, wanted everything or nothing,” Hal interpreted for Rosalind. “So unless a hunter signed on for the full voyage to Fort Benton, the Spartan wouldn’t have him.”

  “Précisément. The last man he hired in Kansas City was too drunk to travel and the Spartan sailed without him.”

  There was silence after that as Bellecourt worked. He brought the Cherokee Belle into a wide stretch of river, almost calm enough to be called a lake. A broad, muddy bar stretched before the tree, holding the meat cache.

  Rosalind frowned slightly, considering—as she’d been taught—how best to approach the tree. She’d seen many landings during her times on riverboats. All riverboats, except the vaunted packets of Captain Lindsay’s Cincinnati-Louisville Packet Line, were so eager for business that they picked up passengers and freight as requested by any town, hamlet, or farm.

  But every one of those landings had ended with the boat tied up to a tree or a dock. The closest tree to the river held the cached meat and it was too far, thanks to the sandbar, for the Belle to use it.

  Rosalind was still puzzling over the landing when she sensed, rather than saw, Hal and Bellecourt look at each other. Then Bellecourt spoke. “Will you do the honors, Lindsay?”

  “My pleasure.” Hal took Bellecourt’s position, with one hand on the wheel and the other ready to ring the engine room.

  “Carstairs, take the helm.”

  “Yes, sir.” She swallowed hard and obeyed. She was supposed to land the Belle?

  “Just take her
straight in to the sandbar,” Hal ordered quietly and let go of the wheel.

  “There isn’t a tree to tie up to,” Rosalind pointed out.

  “The Belle has a spoonbill prow so she’s stable on any bit of muddy land, without a tree’s assistance.”

  “Very well.” Her hands were sweating even more than on her first visit to a gambling house. She forced herself to be calm. She’d played poker alone and won. Here, she had friends and teachers. She could do this.

  “All you have to do is steer. I’ll give the calls to the engine room,” Hal added.

  “Thank you, sir,” Rosalind said with considerable feeling. She’d had visions of herself mistakenly ringing for full-speed ahead.

  “It’s how I was taught. Bellecourt was always very careful of his boat.”

  The old master chuckled wickedly from where he leaned against a window.

  She lined the jackstaff up on the elm tree and prayed. An eddy tried to divert the Belle, but Rosalind held her steady. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel, desperately holding a straight course. She didn’t dare take her eyes away from the jackstaff and the tree.

  “You can land her anywhere along that sandbar,” Hal commented. “O’Brien’s men will just have a little further to run.”

  Rosalind nodded without looking at him. Calm swept over her at his words, the same peace she’d felt before at a poker table. Vibrantly alive, aware of anything and everything, in command of herself and her surroundings.

  Hal rang down for half speed ahead, which the engine room promptly answered. The great wheel eased under Rosalind’s hands as the sound of churning waters lessened.

  “Signal that you’re landing, Carstairs,” Hal prompted.

  “Of course.” The correct whistle popped into her head, as if she’d been doing this for years.

  She pulled the line. The Belle’s sweet three-note whistle blew as requested, ringing over the silent waters like the cry of a great white songbird: one long and two short.

  Hal rang down for quarter-speed ahead. There was very little sound coming from the Belle’s stern now. Rosalind kept the boat on course, praying hard. The muddy stretch of shoreline was coming closer and closer—and looking smaller and smaller. She could carry this out.

  Just before they struck, Hal rang for quarter-speed back. The Belle’s momentum eased her onto the sandbar as gracefully as a swan. She glided a few feet up the muddy slope, then stopped with only a slight lurch.

  Immediately, O’Brien’s shout sent a pair of roustabouts over the side and running to the tree. All the while, the Belle idled on the sandbar.

  The roustabouts returned in less than five minutes, grinning with accomplishment as they held up two large bags. They jumped aboard and O’Brien promptly rang the boat’s bell.

  Hal glanced over at Rosalind, and she nodded. She blew the whistle, signaling departure, just as he rang down for half speed astern. The Belle eased off the sandbar as gracefully as she’d alighted on it. The current caught her stern and smoothly turned her. Rosalind accepted the change, letting the boat head back into the main channel.

  Hal rang for half speed ahead, then full speed ahead as the Belle proudly returned to her course. Rosalind’s breath eased out for what felt like the first time in hours.

  “Très bien, Carstairs!” Bellecourt slapped her on the back. “Very neat indeed. Far better than Lindsay’s first try,” he added slyly.

  Hal laughed. “In a swamp, with river pirates shooting at us? I still say my landing was the least of that day’s excitement.”

  Rosalind laughed with the two men, giddy with delight. Boats, at least this one, might be fun from time to time.

  “Congratulations, Carstairs.”

  Hal immediately stiffened, and Bellecourt fell silent. Rosalind dared a glance over her shoulder.

  Captain Lindsay stood in the pilothouse’s door, immaculate as ever in an elegant black wool coat. He might have spoken to her, but his eyes were on his son.

  The ship’s gossip was full of speculation as to why the father and son so seldom spoke to each other. The only item New York gossip could contribute was that it was very unusual to see a breach between two Lindsays. The clan was notorious for how tightly they stood together.

  “Thank you, sir.” She was relieved that her voice was even huskier than usual.

  “Would you care to join me for breakfast to celebrate your first landing as a pilot? With your mentor, of course. The chef has promised my wife brioche, thanks to yesterday’s purchase of fresh butter.”

  So Captain Lindsay’s invitation was really for Hal.

  Hal’s face was a cold mask of meaningless politeness. The proud confidence, fitting in the pilot who’d guided Rosalind through her first landing, was now almost totally eclipsed by wariness. He opened his mouth, but Bellecourt spoke first as he stepped to the wheel.

  “I’ll take the Belle now, Carstairs. No need to task your beginner’s luck with the next stretch of crooked water. Captain Lindsay is a famous pilot, and I’m sure you can learn much from him. I’ll keep an eye on the Spartan as well, since she seems to be dropping back.”

  Rosalind relinquished the helm just as Hal spoke. Reluctance lurked in every note. “Thank you for the invitation, sir. We’d be honored to join you.”

  Captain Lindsay bowed his head in acknowledgement and led the way after one last, sweeping glance at Hal. Rosalind could have sworn she saw longing and frustrated pride in the older man’s eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  Rosalind trailed Hal and his father, slowly down the stairs, thinking back to when she’d last seen Desdemona Lindsay. In Kansas City, with semen drying on Desdemona’s face, and before that, on a frosty winter night in Manhattan two days before Cornelius Schuyler’s death…

  Rosalind and her father, Cornelius Schuyler, came out of the gambling den and paused to button up their overcoats against the January cold.

  Her family had always spent Wednesday night playing cards, with poker the game of choice by the time she turned ten. When she was seventeen, Father had used it to coax her back into life after Mother and her brothers died in the ’65 nor’easter. He’d played endless games of cards with her, diverted her by dressing her as a man, and taken her to gambling resorts, where no one would recognize her. By now in early 1872, such masquerades were their favorite sport as they sought to challenge each other with more skillful crooks or dangerous surroundings.

  New York’s Tenderloin district was a suitable scene for such adventures, with the snow providing a spurious cloak of innocence. Even after midnight, men prowled in the fitful light from taverns looking for prey or to celebrate a success, while loose women hunted for one last customer before seeking shelter.

  Further down the street at the corner, Rosalind could see their footmen, Clark and Matthews. Clark touched his hat, and Rosalind smiled. Their carriage would be ready and waiting, as soon as she and her father reached the corner.

  “What did you think of that last deck of cards?” her father asked. One of his revolvers bumped against her hip.

  Despite all the generations of wealth and stolidity behind him, Cornelius Schuyler enjoyed taking chances. He gambled in some of the roughest dens in North America, and he invested in railroads, pitting his judgment of men and technology against some of the most ruthlessly corrupt men in the world.

  He frequently joked that a faro game in a Cincinnati wolf trap was more honest than the stock market; at least in a wolf trap, you had some hope of finding honest men in the crowd. Wolf traps, those lowest forms of gambling den, were always startling because violence could come at any time for any reason. The game itself was usually a square one, simply because otherwise the dealer would be dead within seconds. They were splendid places to gamble, if you were honest and kept a cool head.

  “Shaved,” Rosalind shrugged as she moved her pair of pocket Navy Colts into her overcoat, where they could be reached easily. The coat sagged a bit, but it would be more surprising in this rough neighborhood no
t to be armed. “The edges were very smooth but I could still feel how much narrower the cards’ centers were.”

  The guns had been a present from her older brother Richard on their last Christmas together, a more delicate version of the deadly accurate Navy Colts he had carried. They’d practiced together for days before he’d let her carry them in a public place. Now she wore them whenever she visited rough neighborhoods.

  “Good observation.”

  “Thank you.”

  By mutual consent, neither spoke about the five hundred dollars she’d won by recognizing the cards’ deception. The den’s proprietor had probably alerted a thief to the win, offering to split the take from robbing the two Schuylers.

  Lawson and McNamara came out of the gambling den behind them, squabbling amiably about a faro dealer’s honesty. Rosalind ignored them, pulled her broad-brimmed planter’s hat further down over her face, and started down the street with her father.

  Cornelius Schuyler usually frequented establishments where the gamblers were bourgeois and unacquainted with him or his daughter. But when he wanted to pit their expertise against skilled professionals, he’d take her to more risky locales. Still, he always took a few trusted servants for protection, with some entering the gambling den to stay close at hand. Lawson and McNamara, for example, were Union Army veterans, excellent pugilists—and gardeners.

  “David’s taking me to lunch with his grandmother tomorrow,” Rosalind remarked, as she carefully stepped around a leaning fence post.

  Her father grunted an acknowledgment. “Have you told him about your masquerades?”

  Rosalind sighed. “No, not yet.”

  “He’s a good man. He’ll understand.” He didn’t sound completely confident.

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She left her greatest fear unsaid, that David would leave if he found out she was unconventional enough to pose as a man. He had extremely high standards for behavior, given his plans for public office. And he was a perfect fiancé from so many angles: quite wealthy in his own right, happy to converse with her as a rational human being, a graceful flirt, and her occasional bed partner.