by Martha Hix
LOVE’S MAGIC
“You! I hate your superiority. I hate the way you sashay around with that saber lashed to your waist. I hate you, period.”
One hand firmly on the saber hilt, Connor took a bite of beef stew, chewing slowly. “I don’t hate you. Even if you get me court-martialed, I won’t hate you.”
“Who gives a mouse’s behind what you—?”
“Rat’s ass,” Connor corrected as he abandoned his supper. “The expression is ‘Who gives a rat’s ass’?”
“Who gives a rat’s ass about you!” She collected his hat, along with her glasses and wig, and tossed the lot with all her might. The items fell impotently on the worn-out rug.
Untying his sash, then laying the saber aside, Connor strode to the bed. “About me and you—”
“There is no me and you. That was a show, back at the mansion.”
If ever there was a show, it was now, for she ached all over for the love affair that never stood a chance. “It was a joke on my part,” she threw out, “nothing more.”
“You had me worried.”
“Anyhow, I told you last night not to jump to conclusions where I’m concerned.” There was no stopping her lies. “I wouldn’t have you if you were the last man on earth . . .”
RIVER MAGIC
MARTHA HIX
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
LOVE’S MAGIC
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twleve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
AUTHOR’S NOTE
SUMMER DARKNESS, WINTER LIGHT
Copyright Page
In loving memory of
Roger Wayne Dodson,
Karen Uhr Farge,
and
S.L.H.
“Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees.”
—the last words of Stonewall Jackson
Prologue
July 1860
Marseilles, France
It was cat against man.
“Stop that.” The provoked human’s voice roared through the carpet shop. “I’m warning you—alight! Or else . . .”
Bhang, the black feline, remained perched atop an uppermost rack of prayer rugs. Eyes as bright as a dish of emeralds were trained on his adversary, daring battle, asking for trouble. He refused to stop clawing and desecrating the sacred merchandise, would not jump down, and continued to test Hasan al-Nahar, an Arab immigrant to these shores who began to consider reprisal more brutal than death for Marid’s pet.
Hasan’s body shook. He hated cats. And he wasn’t too fond of Marid, either. His lazy assistant, a eunuch, did little to earn his keep. He spent his time bemoaning the loss of an heirloom lantern. And he’d recently brought this beast into the quayside shop. The dealer in goods exotic to France cursed both Marid and Bhang before concentrating on the current problem.
“In the name of Allah”—Hasan waved the stump of his right hand as if it were a fist—“Bhang will pay for his villainy. I will divest him of those that every man treasures. His jewels!”
The merchant’s remaining hand slipped into a casket of brass lanterns. The trove contained new lamps, previously beaten with a chain to give the illusion of antiquity. It also held a true relic: an ancient oil lamp swindled from an urchin only this morning.
Hasan glowered up at Bhang. “First, I must get you down, then . . . I’ll make you as manly as your master!”
A sleeve of his flowing robe snapping like a tent in a Saharan sandstorm, Hasan tossed the missile; the shop echoed with a clang when the lamp struck the contemptuous ball of fur. Bhang fell. Blood seeped from an ear.
The lamp rocked to rest at Hasan’s sandaled feet.
Just as the cat shook life sap from his head and began to wobble to the back of the shop, Hasan reached to grab him, but a tinkling of beaded curtains at the storefront, followed by female voices holding American accents, froze the merchant.
“Dear me.”
“ ‘Dear me’ is right, Tessa. Let’s leave.”
The Arab whirled around, ever eager for customers. A pair of tourists in middle years—one tall and thin, the other short, round, and lacy—stood flanked by carpets, the blue Mediterranean twinkling behind the beads.
Smelling a profitable sale, Hasan tucked his stubbed wrist into a burnoose fold. Why advertise bad business? The stump evinced his punishment for thievery, meted out in Mecca four decades ago. “Welcome, mesdames,” crooned he.
The red-haired taller woman, fetching as a beggar’s camel, tugged on the overfed one’s sleeve. “Let’s go, sister. I refuse to do business with an abuser of cats.”
Silver-shot ringlets bobbed. “But, Phoebe—”
“No need to leave. I did not mean to hit Bhang. I aimed for a fly.” Hasan stepped across the trail of blood, hiding it. “The cat is not injured. His was mere indignation.” He smiled obligingly at the cat lover. “How may Hasan al-Nahar help you?”
The feline fancier looked as if she might lop off his left hand for sport, which didn’t faze Hasan, since he received little respect in Marseilles, a French port city well known for its seamy side. His attention swerved to the more amenable of the pair.
Tessa eyed her sister. “Aren’t these carpets lovely? I think I’ll buy one for each of the nephews, too.”
“And just what do you think they’d do with them? Connor in the Army, and with the youngest gone, no telling where—”
“Everything will work out. They’ll need them someday.” Her blue eyes sparkling, Tessa turned to Hasan. “We sisters have toured Europe, thanks to a dear nephew. It’s been a most exciting trip. Alas, we sail on the tide. I can’t leave without—”
“Tessa O’Brien, you needn’t tell our life stories.”
“Shush, Phoebe.” Tessa stepped forward. “I would like to purchase four Persian rugs.” She fingered the edge of a selection; paved diamonds as brilliant as sunlight on a sultan’s treasury glinted from her wrist. “I’ll start with this one.”
“Tessa—”
“How much do I owe you?”
Hasan hid a snicker. The silly woman didn’t even know to haggle. “Madame, a wise choice. But first, may I offer chairs?”
He made short order of pulling two forward. Sweeping his hand, he took the lace-bedecked arm to help Tessa to a seat. The other sister, her lips thin as an ax blade, refused his offer, but she made no more attempts to get her sister to leave.
Hasan forthwith offered libations. To counter the damage that crone Phoebe might do to his sale, naturally. Furthermore, why shouldn’t Tessa O’Brien leave with a lamp in her possession?
“The wine is not of a rare vintage,” he explained while filling goblets. “I spend my money on excellent items from the Oriental and Arabic lands. Of course, I do not pass these costs on. The Creator would frown on such profit-taking.”
“But how will I get all four of these carpets to the Lady America? ” Tessa inquired a few minutes into his campaign
.
“No problem. None in the least. This is Hasan al-Nahar’s problem, not the lady Tessa’s.” Assured of a sale, Hasan felt no need to hide his missing hand. He began to roll rugs deftly. “My helper”—he used the term loosely—“will return any moment. Marid will tote them to your ship. No problem.”
“How much do I owe you, Mr. al-Nahar?”
He named an exorbitant figure, was met with approval from Tessa. Phoebe choked on her wine. Winded, she at last sat down.
Hasan reached for a round tin. “May I offer sweets? These cookies are fresh from Morocco.”
Tessa took a handful, her sister none. “Careful.” Phoebe sneered. “No telling how many flies have feasted on them. This hole in the wall doesn’t lack for them.”
“Oh, Phoebe, hush.”
Hasan’s upper lip quivered. That redhead needed a good dose of something no eunuch could provide!
While Madame Pudgy delighted over a cookie’s almond taste, Hasan withdrew to the fallen lamp, his foot scooting over a trail of blood. The injured beast, he noticed, skulked behind the casket of brass wares. Soon you’ll provide no pussycat with manly goods, cat, I swear you won’t!
Hasan smiled greasily at Tessa. “In appreciation for your patronage, I would be honored to share a very rare and valuable piece of merchandise with you.”
“Be careful,” Phoebe cautioned her sister. “I bet marbles, money, or salt he says that to all his customers.”
“What makes you doubt a simple merchant such as I?”
“We’re engaged in commerce, too,” answered Tessa. “In Memphis, Tennessee. Father owns a factoring house.”
“But we’re honest business people.” Phoebe looked down her long nose at the huckster.
Merchants untrained in haggling? How could they ever turn a profit? Well, why argue? Hasan picked up the battered lamp to hold it aloft, as if it were straight from Aladdin’s legend. “This, Madame Tessa, begs to sail with you to the Americas.”
“I’d like to know how a lamp can ‘beg’ anything?”
He pursed rubberlike lips, rising up on his toes for a moment. “Ah, Madame Phoebe, mine was a figure of speech. Will you allow me to tell you about this ancient treasure?”
At her reluctant consent, Hasan tucked the lamp in the pit of his arm. His gaze moving from one American to the other, he whispered, “Have you heard of Aladdin and his magic lamp?”
Both listeners nodded.
“This lamp.” He presented it. “This very lantern was found in the Oriental city where Aladdin lived. Al-Kal’áas. It came into my possession during a pilgrimage to the East.”
His yarn could have been recited while sleeping. He’d sold hundreds of lamps with this pitch. It was Marid, once a pirate, who’d planted the idea, after a clue brought him to Marseilles. He’d begged a job in order to search incoming merchandise for some particular lamp that had been missing since before the eunuch had lost his manly goods.
“This lamp is worth King Chosroës’ ransom,” Hasan boasted.
Like a Berber tribesman raring for battle, Phoebe hunched her bony shoulders. “Why did you use a treasure against the ... fly? What makes you want to sell it?”
“You have found me at a vulnerable moment, mesdames. I must reduce my stock in order to pay my beloved mother’s physicians. Mother is quite ill.”
“How very sad,” Tessa murmured and sighed.
“Horse feathers. Forget the lantern. Tessa O’Brien, we sail in little more than an hour. Pay up. Let’s go.”
“Heavenly days, Phoebe. Will you please allow Mr. al-Nahar to finish his story?”
“You came for one rug. Now it’s four and a worthless trinket. I’ll not witness your squandering another cent.” Phoebe stood, marched to the curtain. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Please excuse her rudeness, Mr. al-Nahar. My sister has had trouble trusting people for quite some time. Ever since our departed brother married unwisely. You see, Georgia Morgan wreaked havoc on our family, nearly destroyed it before she died, taking our beloved brother with her. Three young sons were left to rear and educate. Phoebe and I, and our elderly father, stepped in, of course. My sister still blames Georgia for the boys’ unhappiness, and for Daniel’s untimely demise.”
Hasan uttered compassion. It helped to act interested. Yet, for some unexplainable reason, he felt drawn to the plum-plump lady with soft, expressive eyes.
Taking the lantern in hand, Tessa examined it closely. “Tell me more about this lovely antique. Is it Aladdin’s lamp?”
“I do not claim the lamp holds mystical powers. Its beauty and value lie in age and place of origin. As an Arab, though, I cannot swear that it doesn’t hold a jinn.”
Marid claimed to have a genie’s powers, yet Hasan had never believed the eunuch, not for the space of a moment. Lamps were lamps, and Marid was a fool, at best. Aladdin? Khorafa, nothing more. An incredible tale with no more truth than Marid’s proclaimed powers.
“You might find magic in this lovely brass piece. What would you wish for, madame, if you had three wishes for riches?”
“Never riches. We live a comfortable life already, the O’Briens.” Her eyes now glittered with tears. “My wishes would be for my nephews. Connor. Burke. And poor wayward Jon Marc.”
Recalling a mention of discord, Hasan refilled her goblet. “Tell me about these nephews.”
Pride replaced her sad expression. “Connor is twenty-six. An army man, a graduate of our military academy at West Point. Phoebe and Father hope he’ll soon get enough of soldiering and will return to Memphis to take over Fitz & Son, Factors.”
“And the other two?”
“Burke treated us to this Grand Tour, can you imagine? He operates steam freighters on the Mississippi River, and is quite successful. Especially for one only twenty-two.”
She sighed. “As for poor Jon Marc, we don’t know his whereabouts. He had a falling out with his grandfather.”
“Such a shame. What would you wish for these men?”
“Good wives who will make them happy forevermore.”
“Can they not find brides on their own? Are they unfortunate of face or figure?”
“Our boys are as handsome as the day is long!” Tessa held up her goblet for yet another refill. “We don’t want them to marry too young. Daniel, their father, married at twenty. Twenty! Such a mistake. Phoebe and Father both feel the boys shouldn’t marry before thirty, and I agree wholeheartedly. Father, you see, married our late mother at thirty, which we’ve decided is the best age for a man to settle down.”
“What could it hurt, should you buy the lamp, to make three wishes upon it?” Hasan named another figure, this one including the “treasure.” Finding her likable would not stand in the way of lining his coffers.
The lamp placed on her lap, she dug into the well of her reticule to hand over francs. “Will this settle my account?”
“A few more.” He crooked each remaining finger in turn.
The price met, she stood and lifted the lantern to her bosom, her eyes closing. She licked her lips. Her pudgy fingers slid along the bowl as she whispered, “Oh, lamp, bring magic.”
No sooner had she finished before the shirtless, slick-pated Marid, a golden ring bobbing in an ear, took shape on this side of the beaded curtain. Marid, who claimed to be a jinn.
The eunuch deigned neither a glance at Hasan nor a care for his pet. Like Aladdin in thrall with Princess Badroulboudour, Marid ogled Tessa O’Brien. “Lady, how may Eugene Jinnings be of service?”
Eugene Jinnings? The aging pirate turned eunuch—thanks to an unfortunate incident in a sultan’s court—had been known by a host of aliases, but never a somewhat American one.
Warnings on his lips, Hasan said, “Lady, beware—”
Eyes as black as Bhang’s arse drilled into Hasan; Marid roared an interruption. “Cease!” He added a curse in Arabic. That Hasan would lose his voice.
Which made the merchant mad as a Turk. He tried waving his hand to catch Tessa’s att
ention, but it wasn’t to be gotten.
She clamped her naive gaze to Marid/Eugene. In a gentle yet insistent whisper, she said, “Please give Connor a bride, come March of 1864. Bring Connor happiness ever after.”
He bowed low. “Your wish is my command.”
“How can I be certain of your powers?”
“I will stay at your side until your wishes are done.”
Why, Marid intended to leave with her! Overcharging for goods was one thing, long-term cheating another. Hasan opened his mouth to give a chunk of his opinion. No words poured. Marid, son of a donkey! Take back your curse!
Eyes only for Marid, Tessa qualified her whim. “Better we don’t let Connor know beforehand. If he finds out about my wish, he’ll fight us. He says he’s married to the Army.”
“Many men claim no wish for marriage,” the eunuch cooed.
“Whatever the case, we must be careful. Connor is quite keen-sighted, and has an uncanny ability to spot artifice.”
“Worry not, my lady. He will be overpowered by magic.”
She linked arms with the ersatz magician; they turned, and she parted with: “Be sure to have my rugs sent to the ship.”
When Mohammed embraced Christianity.
If Marid would have the rich lady, Hasan would keep her money and his merchandise. Nevertheless, he leapt to make another stab at calling Marid down for the liar that he was, or if nothing else, to demand restitution for that desecrated prayer rug. Bhang lunged. Needlelike pain pierced Hasan’s ankle, exploded up his leg. Aaarghh!
Hasan shook the injured beast from his limb.
Allah, I curse this cat and his master! May they both know your wrath! Hasan, searching for voice, danced up and down on his good leg, then wheeled toward the back of his shop. He got an eyeful of the power of his own curse.
Bhang lay dead.
The tale of Aladdin might be khorafa, but curses were curses, and they carried plenty of power.
One
Rock Island, Illinois
March 14, 1864
A tea party for three was a helluva place for a West Point fighting man to spend his thirtieth birthday. The War of the Rebellion raged to the South, but not here, not in the center of Major Connor O’Brien’s discontent.
