The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  The female spectators crooned their delight at the unexpected display of force. The tall blonde fluttered her fan as she stared at Rosalind.

  “Would you care to repeat yourself, sir?” Bristow asked coldly. “Allen’s house is famous for guaranteeing a square deal to every sporting man. To suggest otherwise is to impugn the honor of Omaha’s finest establishment.” His voice implied that only death would wipe out such an insult.

  “Dammit,” Lennox snarled. His eyes darted around the room, visibly measuring the number of knives and the distance to the door. But only a fool would start a fight under these conditions, and Lennox had never been called stupid.

  “What did you say?” Rosalind asked coldly. Life would be so much simpler if she could kill Lennox now and not worry about any future depredations. Then she could dream of seeing Hal again or tasting his mouth or sleeping with him….

  “Nothing. A misunderstanding, that’s all,” Lennox answered. He sheathed his knife and brought his hands up to his lapels, in a grudging sign of restraint. He shifted his boiling gaze to Allen. “Many thanks for your hospitality but I must depart for another appointment.”

  He tipped his hat and was gone, the crowd parting before him as if disgusted by the risk of touching him.

  Rosalind prayed that his “appointment” was a social fiction, designed to cover his escape from the room, and not a meeting to somehow arrange further trouble.

  “Well played, Bristow,” she said sincerely. “My thanks.”

  “Congratulations on winning, Carstairs.” Bristow shook her hand. “You played a magnificent game, far better than my efforts.”

  The crowd surged forward to offer their congratulations, while Allen quietly converted the chips into cash. She conversed with them somehow, politely discussing details of her strategy and encouraging compliments for Bristow’s play.

  The king of hearts stared up at her from the table, as if reminding her of what she’d won and lost that day. Lured closer and closer, she finally slipped it into her pocket and smoothed it as if stroking Hal’s face.

  Folly. Pure folly. She’d never see Hal again, feel his hand caress her cheek, or taste his lips on her mouth. She’d never again lie in his arms, too sated to move, and hear him chuckle as his dog began to snore loudly.

  A stab of pain closed her throat just as Bristow launched into a wordy explanation of a particular bluff. Once she’d have valued such chatter and the game that sustained it. But not now. She needed Hal, just to make life worth living. That would never change, no matter how far she ran or how long she stayed away.

  What could she do? Fight for his love, but how? She couldn’t win his heart if she dwelt in Montana while he lived in Missouri. So she’d have to go back to him. Should she accept his offer?

  Her mouth twisted. It would be a loveless marriage with little hope of children. No toddlers to cling to her skirts or prattle about their father. No namesakes for her brothers or parents to share memories of her lost family with.

  But she’d have Hal. She could laugh with him over breakfast, squabble lightly with him in the pilothouse, and make passionate love after dinner. Or maybe before teatime, if they were married. After all, married couples didn’t have to leave the bedroom unless they chose to. She shivered at the possibilities.

  Marriage to him would be a delight but without love or children? She chewed her lip as she considered her options, then made up her mind. Hal respected and liked her now, so there was a sporting chance that he’d fall in love with her, if they were continuously around each other. If he didn’t fall in love with her, then she’d have to content herself with the crumbs of his affections. Either way, she had far better odds of being happy with Hal—and making him happy—than married to another man. And children would have to remain a dream, not reality.

  She deliberately caught the eye of the tall blonde. “May I have the honor of procuring refreshments for you?” she asked, society’s formal phrases coming clumsily to her lips.

  “But of course,” the beauty cooed and took the proffered arm.

  Rosalind nodded to Bristow and the others, then steered the blonde toward the exit. If she was going to fight for Hal, she wanted no further deceptions between them. So the next thing she needed was a woman’s wardrobe—after she reclaimed her diamond stickpin.

  Lennox flung out of the saloon in a fury into the foggy night. No one, dammit, had the right to take his money—or Etheridge’s ledger book from him, least of all a young weed of a gambler. He’d have to cable the office in New York and demand more cash. And if they complained yet again that it was the middle of the month and they’d already sent him all the rent monies—why, he’d just have them raise the damn rents and collect the cash immediately from the damn Irish in his tenements. Damn fools. And damn greedy gamblers.

  He strode down the boardwalk, his boots pounding the planks like drums. Yes, he was noisy, as superior beings should be. And if anyone gave him any trouble, he’d be more than happy to return the favor and send him permanently to the local cemetery. He was rather disappointed that the local whores gave him the shoulder. He’d have enjoyed working off his temper with a knife on one of those sluts.

  His anger gradually faded as he walked through the cool mists, leaving room to think of other matters.

  Desdemona. He was supposed to meet her at five. But what the hell did he care about her? She hadn’t found the Schuyler termagant for him.

  But Desdemona was rich, or at least her husband was. If the two of them killed that pompous old bear—he ground his teeth at the memory of how the old man had humiliated him last Christmas—then he could enjoy her money, and use it to destroy Donovan and Lindsay.

  Divorce might work as well. Scandalous, of course, but cuckolded husbands had paid well before to avoid letting the world know the full details of how they’d been duped.

  Murder, though, would be simpler and much more satisfying. To see the old bear lying in a pool of blood at his feet…His cock twitched hard at the thought.

  Nick checked his watch—less than ten minutes till he was supposed to meet Desdemona at a warehouse, three blocks from where he stood in this abysmal neighborhood. Thank-fully, Desdemona’s fondness for rough environments and a bit of exhibitionism had led her to suggest the place. He’d never reach a respectable locale in time.

  Desdemona regarded her surroundings with an approving eye. The night watchman’s office was small and stark, with only a table, chair, and cot inside the bare wooden walls. A damp mist from the river permeated the room, as if seeping through cracks in the walls. At least the cot had blankets, far more than their last rendezvous had offered in Pittsburgh.

  A light knock sounded, and she spun to face the door. “Come in,” she breathed, and Nick entered with a smile. She’d once seen him as a golden boy to be wrapped around her finger, then sent off to do her errands. And his efforts to blackmail her, for aiding the Confederate cause during the late war, just made him more dangerous—and more exciting.

  Throughout all the years since the war’s start, the secret of her liaison with beautiful Nick had kept her sane while she listened to those northern biddies boast of their menfolk’s doings. They had pallid merchants to snore in their bedrooms, while she had stunning, talented Nick to spur her to the heights.

  And the danger of being his lover fired her blood as nothing else ever had. No matter where the risk came from—someone discovering her adultery or Nick turning on her—she was always excited to meet him. He was temptation and jeopardy in a single, irresistible package.

  He held out his hand and she went into his arms in a rush. He nipped her earlobe—a caress easily hidden by her long hair—and she shivered with delight. He was so much better now at arousing a woman than when they’d first met. Soon he’d open her dress and play games with her breasts, suckling and fondling and kneading them.

  They’d have to be more circumspect in their play than usual. With Richard waiting for her at the hotel, she couldn’t stay in seclusion for a
few days until time, and her maid’s skill, removed all traces of illicit dalliance.

  So tonight she wouldn’t be able to kiss dear, wicked Nick. Or taste his cock—a true pity, since that caress always tested his self-control. But he could still lift her skirts and bring his fingers and cock to dance against her intimate folds…

  Hot cream moistened her folds at the thought. She clung to Nick’s shoulders, sighing in anticipation, as he licked her neck.

  Richard Lindsay was colder than he could remember ever being, colder than when he’d stood watch above an ocean of ice floes. Desdemona had awoken him when she’d crept from their suite and he’d followed her. Now he stood in a dank alley amidst a stack of barrels reeking of salt fish—and knew his worst fears had been realized.

  He’d lived his entire life according to family and naval tradition, and the rules of polite society. Desdemona had always set an equally high value on the customs of polite society, enjoying more than anything else the acclaim of her peers. She’d demanded that her children—including Hal and Viola—follow the same rules. When they didn’t, she’d been as ferocious as a Greek fury, insisting that the full punishment be meted out for the transgression. In private, though, she’d denied her husband his conjugal rights—while carrying herself with the smug certainty of a woman who’s been well-ridden.

  In some ways, he’d been relieved when he found a spyhole, knowing that at last he’d learn whether or not his wife truly was an adulteress. Then he’d heard masculine footsteps and looked out from his hiding place, only to see a man knock on his wife’s door.

  There’d been hints before of her adultery but no proof. Whatever the faults in their marriage, he’d always thought her snobbery—her passion for society’s praise—would keep her faithful. He’d thought it at least possible that she’d never risk her role as a leader of society on an illicit affair. But now he knew better. Whoever was with her was obviously confident of her welcome.

  Moans and gasps came from the room, along with the rustle of silken skirts. Gritting his teeth against the urge to kill, Richard put his eye to the spyhole.

  His wife was in the arms of the most notorious blackmailer in New York, Nicholas Lennox. Damn and blast. Couldn’t she have chosen a better paramour than him?

  “Nick,” Desdemona whispered, her voice a needy thread.

  “Eager, my bitch? Is your dew dripping down your thigh yet?”

  Richard’s hands clenched.

  “But before I take my pleasure with your breasts—or your cunt—have you found the heiress yet?” Lennox squeezed her breasts and she gasped with pleasure.

  “No, but I’m sure Hal will find her,” Desdemona groaned, then gasped again when he worked her breasts.

  Lennox smiled at her knowingly. Pressed between him and the wall by the door, she still managed to rub herself over him like a cat in heat.

  His wife of thirty-five years fondled the bastard’s ass with both hands. A silent growl rose in Richard’s throat. His wife of thirty-five years, dammit. His woman, not Lennox’s.

  “You’re beautiful like this, writhing against my hands as I heat you for my bed. How many times have you danced like this for me in the past ten years—a hundred? Two hundred?”

  Ten years? She’d been sleeping with Lennox while he’d been at war? And afterwards, as well? All this time, their marriage had been a lie?

  “Not often enough!” Desdemona groaned.

  Damn her. After I get my hands on her, she won’t be able to sit down for a week.

  “So true, my bitch, so true. You are the most magnificent lover I’ve ever had. Perhaps we should make our attachment permanent.”

  What the hell…

  Desdemona frowned and her hands dropped away. “What do you mean?”

  “Marry me and we could enjoy each other every night.”

  Marriage to my wife?

  “We could travel to Europe, roam Italy, and delight ourselves as the Romans did. Or—”

  “Nonsense. I’d be a social pariah if I divorced my husband and married you.” She took a step away and propped her hands on her hips to glare at him, her usual behavior when aggravated. It was certainly not a sign of fear. But she hadn’t refused out of love, or respect, for her husband.

  Lennox’s eyes narrowed, but she was too affronted to understand the danger.

  Richard left the barrels’ shelter and headed for the office. He would not lose his wife to this louse. He’d keep her—and then he’d teach her how to be a true wife.

  “Is that all you can say?” Lennox inquired, silky soft but completely audible through the thin walls, as Richard crept to the door. “Just no? What if I tell your husband about your wartime doings, especially those rifles you sent to the Confederate Army. Hundreds of weapons that wounded or killed Union soldiers and sailors such as your son. Do you think he’d want you after he heard that? No, he’d divorce you and leave you penniless. Surely, you’d be better off as my wife—and I wouldn’t tell him everything I know.”

  The words stopped Richard at the door more effectively than a salvo of cannon fire. Treason? Desdemona Davies Lindsay, the wife and mother of Union sailors, had sold rifles to the enemy? Men had died because of her. Because he hadn’t controlled his wife well enough.

  “Why, you—you blackmailing scoundrel!” she spat at Lennox.

  Blessed Jesus, she didn’t deny it. She was guilty of a crime for which death was the only proper penalty. He might have forgiven adultery, but not treason. Three generations of naval officers roared behind his eyes, and a red mist darkened his vision as he drew his old Navy Colt.

  “I still have the receipt for those guns, and for their ammunition,” Nick purred. Then his voice turned to pure steel. “Choose, bitch. You can come easily or else I’ll destroy you.”

  Richard kicked in the door, breaking the lock. First he’d kill Lennox for aiding treason, and then he’d deal with his wife.

  Gun drawn, Lennox pushed Desdemona away from the door, her skirts sweeping along the wall, and fired a shot.

  Instantly recognizing the danger, Richard pulled the trigger. The sound of the two, almost simultaneous shots rocked the small room.

  Fire burned across Richard’s temple and his knees went weak. Blood streamed down his face. Reflexively, he fought to cock the gun again as he slid down the doorjamb. He had to destroy the traitor.

  “My God, look what you’ve done!” Desdemona peered over Lennox’s shoulder. “You killed my husband!” And she screamed as loudly as any riverboat’s whistle.

  Hell and damnation, Desdemona, don’t turn hysterical now. Not when there’s shooting going on.

  “Goddamnit, bitch. Be quiet!” Lennox snarled.

  She screamed again, an even more earsplitting note.

  Another shot blasted through the room.

  Desdemona crumpled to the floor beside Richard, as Lennox stepped away just in time to avoid her.

  “Good riddance,” Lennox grunted.

  Dear God, no! Blood and brains covered the wall, then began to drip slowly down on Richard. His vision was graying from loss of blood until all he could see was Desdemona’s hair and Lennox’s boots. He had to shoot the bastard. He gritted his teeth, cupped his left hand around his right, and managed to aim at her killer’s head.

  Lennox kicked the gun out of Richard’s hand. From the sound, it skittered under the narrow cot, too far for him to reach. He could barely see Lennox’s boots now, with the splitting agony in his head and the blood running into his eyes.

  Think, he told himself, struggling to remain conscious. Think. He still had the bowie knife on his hip. His fingers moved slowly, agonizingly slowly, toward the sharp blade.

  Lennox laughed and kicked Richard’s hand away from his coat. “You fool. You stubborn, honorable fool.”

  Lennox kicked him hard in the ribs. Pain exploded in Richard’s side, sweeping thought before it. Air raced out of his lungs, and he gasped for breath.

  Lennox set his Colt’s muzzle sharply against Richard�
��s ear and cocked it. Still gasping for breath, the old captain managed not to flinch.

  Then two drunks staggered by outside, trying to sing the old Scottish chorus, “I’ll lay me down and die.” Richard flinched at the words and prayed they weren’t a prophecy. He tried to shout, but could do no better than a harsh gasp.

  Lennox froze, then slowly took the gun away. “Best not shoot you, lest someone hear it and investigate. Still, you’ll be dead within fifteen minutes, old man, at the rate you’re bleeding.”

  He shoved Richard’s feet clear, rolling him onto his back and kicked Desdemona’s head away from the door. Her warm corpse settled against Richard’s chest, blue eyes still open. She shouldn’t have died like this, no matter what she’d done. Not Juliet and Hal and Viola’s mother.

  Lennox paused as he stepped into the doorway. “At least I won one fight tonight,” he purred. “I killed the old bear.”

  The door closed behind him softly.

  Richard fought for consciousness. He tried to free himself but couldn’t move Desdemona. All he had to show for thirty-five years of marriage was his wife’s treason and her corpse weighing him down. All his life, he had tried to be honorable, tried to do what was expected of him, and it ended like this. There had to be another way….

  Then the door closed behind Lennox.

  If he lived, he was going to hug his children and grandchildren and tell them, over and over again, how much he loved them. He’d apologize to Hal, and Viola. And every extra day the Lord gave him, he’d thank the Lord and he’d do his best for his children and grandchildren.

  All he had to do was live. Somehow. He began to pray, with a greater desperation than he’d felt in combat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hal paced along the Cherokee Belle’s roof as he studied Omaha, its buildings little more than shifting shadows against the great sweep of plains running west. The river fog embraced it like a lover, rolling along the roads and wrapping itself around every plank. The few scattered bits of gaslight, as inhabitants rose to go about their business, seemed distant and unimportant.