River Magic

by Martha Hix

  “Not yet.” His fingers delved into places that caused her to wiggle and take deep breaths. “If I take my time, Indy, you’ll be better off, won’t hurt as much.”

  Rife with exquisite sensations, she didn’t worry about a bit of pain. What could hurt worse than the suffering she’d known these past weeks, when she’d pined for him, worried for him, and had ached to turn back the sands of time? “Do it, soldier. Yours is ’not to reason why.’ ”

  The heated length of him poised at the top of her thighs, he levered up on elbows. “Mine is ’but to do and die.’ ”

  He thrust once. Her maidenhead stretched. This wasn’t so bad! Wrong. Again, he charged, sending a barrage of painful spikes from her womb to the rest of her body. She cried out, dropped her hands. Was this like riding into the valley of death? “You are too well armed,” she whispered.

  “That, I can’t change.” He bent lips to her ear, a stream of breath sending chills, arousing chills, to her veins. “It won’t hurt but this once. The first time is worst for women.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Since when is life fair?”

  He withdrew slightly. Would he retreat? “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. He didn’t. Once more he pushed his too-large lance into her too-tight sheath, but this time he moved slower, letting her grow accustomed to him. His palms cupped the sides of her breasts to bring them closer together, which elicited a rush within her that swelled as his tongue darted to a closed eyelid, then lower, flicking, making her forget pain.

  Her pelvis tilted toward him as he shoved deeper and with more force, reaching the very last of her capacity. She gasped. Her fingers clawed into the sheets. The strangest feeling came over her. Somewhere she’d crossed the line from pain to pleasure, and she realized they weren’t that much different.

  She wanted more of it, ached for it never to end.

  It did. Just as she sailed past that wondrous feeling that his lips had wrought in the boxcar, he let go his elbow anchorage to lower his torso. His arms crushed her to him, his lips burying into her hair, she felt an intensity to his cadence. Then he gave a great groan, releasing into her.

  Within moments he not only pulled out, he angled away from her as well as the berth. She heard him pulling on britches.

  “Connor?”

  “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Always the regrets. But this time she had real hopes. Sure, he figured to see her prosecuted, but he could have ridden on to battle without a backward glance, sans souci.

  In light of all that had transpired between them, she didn’t want him to choose between her and the Army. Once, she’d offered to stand at his side, no matter where that took them. She still meant it. But what were his intentions?

  “Connor . . .” She tried to get out of the berth, but found her ravaged body wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Sorry for the roughness,” he said tersely. “Should’ve left you be. Right from the start, I should’ve.”

  “Always the regrets. This time, please don’t.” Her heart felt heavy, burdened with guilt. “I asked you to make”—she clamped down on the word love—“I asked you to take me. Ever since we met, I’ve asked more than you were willing to give.”

  “You’re wrong, India.”

  He knelt beside the bunk, took her hand. Another zip of lightning illuminated his face. It looked the same, still handsome beyond the pale. His eyes remained thickly lashed, his nose straight and fine. Yet he appeared older, lines now bracketing his mouth; he had a certain weariness of countenance.

  “I wanted you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you. God, how I want you. And I want you to feel good from it. I want to take my time making love to you, and it needs to be right. It shouldn’t be like this, frenzied and angry.”

  If it was so bad, how come her pulse started racing again, and why did her womanly place feel a surge of desire, when it ought to cry out to be left alone? She tried to reach for him. Again, her body protested—this time she couldn’t quiet a gasp.

  “Don’t move. I’ll take care of you.”

  What did he mean? She soon found out. From somewhere he brought a wet rag and began to bathe the inside of her legs. New to this sort of situation, she pulled her knees together, shy. “You needn’t do that. I’ll take care of myself.”

  “That’s the problem. You always figure you can handle anything, because you don’t respect yourself. Forward the Light Brigade. That’s its own selfishness. Do you ever stop to think about the people you hurt with your battle tactics?”

  “As many stars as there are in the sky, that’s how many times I’ve bemoaned my actions.” She gazed into his eyes. “I shouldn’t have put you in a bad position by leaving that train.”

  “The person you hurt most was yourself.” He leaned over, his warm palm pressing her jaw. “Where the hell were you?”

  “Making my way to Memphis by horse, train, carriage, and foot. A wholly unexciting story.”

  “A hundred calamities could’ve befallen you.” He swallowed. “These have been the worst weeks of my life, worrying about you. Thank God you’re still in one piece.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. “I was . . . until a few minutes ago. I do believe you tore me in half, you stallion.”

  “Serves you right.”

  “Why, Connor O’Brien, I think you’re smiling.”

  “Yeah, I’m smiling.” He slid back onto the berth. “You pull every emotion in the firmament out of me, but I need you, Indy. Need you in my life. It’s been hell these past weeks, not knowing where you were or what had become of you. I can’t live like this. I need guarantees, a bond, if you will, to keep you within my reach. I want to protect you from harm.” He took her hand. “But I’ve got to face facts. I’ve long suspected no man will ever be your master. Life’s made you too independent.”

  “I’m not unbendable. Given the chance . . . I would follow you anywhere. I can be whatever you need.”

  “The dove can’t be a hawk. Goes against nature.” He kissed her fingertips. “Yet nature wants its way between us, I reckon. Wants to change the looks of our feathers.”

  Where was this leading? Could it be ... ? He ruined her hopes, saying, “No time for changing. The War Department wants you tried on the double. I’m to escort you to the nearest military post.”

  A dull ache pressed her chest, disappointment settling. The soldier followed orders. “The nearest Union commander...”

  The Delta Star was a good ways from Port Hudson, but she could get the fairest trial there, where General Andrews would surely recall her goodwill toward his men during the siege. “If I have a choice, take me to Port Hudson. It’s between St. Francisville and Baton Rouge.” She eyed Connor’s stricken visage. “I get the feeling you’re not giving the whole story.”

  He made a fist, punched it into the mitt of his other hand. “I’ve got a little over a month to hand you over for trial, then rendezvous with Stew Lewis’s division in Georgia.”

  “For God’s sake, Connor. Don’t get yourself killed.” Her eyes slammed closed over a pair of tears. “I need you so.”

  “Then the rest will take care of itself.” He pulled her mouth to his.

  “Will you take me again?” she asked moments later, hoping for an affirmative answer.

  “Many times. But not this time.” He patted her derrière. “India Marshall, whatever you face, I’ll support you in it.”

  The music of love playing in her ears, she hated to bring up reality. “What about your orders to report for duty?”

  He kissed the curve of her neck, and his mood switched to light-hearted. “Squirt, get dressed. I’ll help. Your clothes are dry. Let’s get them on you.”

  “Connor, what are you getting at!”

  “You figure it out.”

  Twenty-one

  A baffled yet content India in his trail, Connor went knocking on doors to awaken passengers and certain crew. “Go to the wheelhouse and collect my brother,” Connor ordered Matt. “Tell
him to meet us in the dining salon.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked as her brother rushed off.

  “Making preparations for the future.”

  At the moment he reached the designated salon, she stepped in front of him. Her eyes lifted from a broad wall of blue tunic to his breath-arresting face. “Vague doesn’t work with me.”

  “I know, but”—his palm grazed her hip—“trust me.”

  One gentle swat and he sidestepped her, then sketched a bow and arced his hand toward the dining salon. “After you.”

  India stepped inside. This wasn’t the finest riverboat ever built, but the Delta Star seemed mighty nice for a freighter. Like others of her class, she accepted a limited number of passengers. Hereabouts, none need pine for the luxuries of home, at least not in a common area such as this.

  A piano as well as a harp could offer entertainment amidst the containment of wainscoted oaken bulkheads and a half dozen crystal sconces. A burled round table would seat twelve, and a dozen upholstered, curved-back chairs were shoved next to it. The long buffet held a collection of squat decanters of what appeared to be whiskeys and cordials.

  “Care for a sip of the good stuff?” Connor asked, jolly as all get out.

  “I think I’ve already sipped from the good stuff,” she came back, just as jolly, and extremely excited about the mystery unfolding. Is it too much to hope that he’ll ask for my hand?

  His hands snaked around her waist to settle at her hip. “Squirt, you ain’t sipped nuttin’ yet.”

  Her thoughts reverted to the cabin. Not even an hour ago, they had lain naked in her borrowed berth, lain locked in the most intimate of embraces. Her sore bottom could more than attest to that! Yet those same reaches grew warm, and she had a hankering for more of that sort of thing.

  Furthermore, she wanted to be his wife, needed to have his shoulder to lean on at Port Hudson, as she’d be strong for him, when needed. But what did he want?

  “Hellll-oooo?” Tessa O’Brien, ringlets springing, ducked into the salon. The aunts, in tandem, were the first of the summoned to arrive. Phoebe beat her sister to India. “Gal, you ’bout gave me apoplexy, worrying about you. Where you been?”

  “To heaven.” Passion’s heaven. “Oh, Phoebe, it’s good to see you.”

  The thin redhead winked, then stepped back to let the blue-eyed one have her say, which India dreaded, since the last time they had met, India had been cross.

  “I’m so pleased you caught up with us.” Tessa shook a finger. “You’re naughty, though. Teasing us with the old-lady disguise, then surrendering to that awful colonel. And now—”

  “Sit down, Aunt Tessa,” Connor interrupted. Brooking no argument, he got her into a chair opposite India.

  Yawning and scratching his chest, Eugene Jinnings lumbered in, wearing a robe and cap. He slid his line of sight over everyone in the room, stopping at Tessa. Arms crossing over his barrel chest, he smiled, his golden incisor and ear bob gleaming, thanks to the sconces. “The bride has appeared. Praise Allah.”

  Tessa’s grin got as wide as the river this steamboat floated upon. “I must say, Genie, you had me scared for a while. I feared our India might be forever lost to us.”

  “Everything is turning out exactly as you wish, my lady.” He remained standing. “It is magic.”

  “Pure magic,” Connor murmured. “Touched with reality.”

  Magic . . . it seemed to be at work tonight. Finding Matt, discovering Connor. Yet, the conversation whetted India’s curiosity about that supposed magic lamp. She recalled something from her first meeting with the aunties and companion. Someone had mentioned the magic lamp being left in a safe at Fitz & Son.

  “Did you send for the lamp?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t,” Phoebe replied. “Fitz doesn’t know the combination, and I refused to give the secret code to any shifty-eyed boatman.”

  Tessa, foiled, added her piece. “Nary a soul left this boat. No one came aboard, either. Save for you and Connor. And that fine Arabian of his. Heavenly days, what a sight that was. Intrepid screamed and fought, being winched aboard.”

  In no frame of mind for horse talk, India frowned. No magic lamp. Her future with Connor could use some magic, what with Port Hudson looming. Despite her refusal to believe Eugene Jinnings anything but a charlatan, what would be the harm in making a wish for everything to turn out for the best? Actually, she’d settle for knowing just exactly what was on Connor’s mind.

  “Greetings.”

  That dulcet voice sounded like Antoinette Lawrence. India swiveled around, her mouth dropping. “Miss Lawrence.” Noting fresh smallpox scars on high cheekbones, India took full regard of blond beauty frocked in satin and crinoline. Uh, oh. With the Lawrence niece on board, could her uncle be far behind?

  “Fancy seeing you here,” India said.

  “But I told you—I’m going to marry Burke O’Brien.”

  A trio of you-are-not rushed from the aunts and Arab.

  Antoinette impaled the three with a withering glare.

  India exhaled. Her Roscoe Lawrence worries subsided. Apparently Antoinette had twirled her pinkie and got her uncle to approve of the marriage campaign. She must have used that little finger on Connor’s brother, too. Burke O’Brien must have been an easy catch. India muttered under her breath, “So much for the powers of a magic lamp.”

  Matt to his right, a breathtaking man—one somewhat resembling Connor, though his hair was pitch black—marched into the dining room. He wore attire the same hue as his hair. Black. And his eyes were green, she noted as he strode closer.

  “Matt says you’re looking . . . What’s going on?” He glanced from person to person, a slightly crooked front tooth apparent. A tooth that, in India’s estimation, gave character to a finely formed face that did not at all appear happy.

  “India, may I present my brother, Captain Burke O’Brien. Brother, this is India. My India.” Connor put his hand on her elbow, nudging her to stand. His arm went around her shoulder. “Burke, will you do the honors of marrying us?”

  India gaped at her hero. Even though she’d hoped he would ask her to change her name to his, she received his roundabout proposal with surprise. “Marry me?”

  “Yes, Squirt, I’m talking wedding. Right here, now.”

  Abashed, she glanced down at her britches and shirt. Get married? Tonight? Fresh from a deflowering, her hair wound in a haphazard coil? Attire didn’t matter. Connor had promised to support her through thick or thin, and he wanted wedlock. He’d answered her dreams. Hadn’t she always wanted a man to love her unconditionally, like Aladdin had loved his princess?

  Love, unfortunately, couldn’t carry India and Connor to happily ever after. Her blithe mood deflated. Port Hudson lay ahead—her Rock Island troubles had compacted itself into the name of that place in Louisiana where her fate would be decided. There were no guarantees she’d beat the charges.

  Tennyson’s wisdom filtered through dolor. I hold it true, whate’er befall, I feel it, when I sorrow most; ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

  So very true.

  “I love you.” Her eyes soldering to Connor and his watchful expression, she asked solemnly, “Do you love me?”

  He smiled, but noises broke into his answer. Excluding Connor and his brother, everyone in the salon laughed, but Tessa spoke. “Silly girl, why else would he ask for your hand, if not for the love of you? It’s magic.”

  He winked, saying, “Like the lady says, it’s magic. I’m in love. And I want you for my bride.” His fingertip traced her lower lip. “Will you have me, Squirt?”

  “Yes.”

  She threw herself into his willing embrace, and he kissed her soundly. Badroulboudour had never been this happy, and the little stumbling block of an upcoming visit to Port Hudson seemed easy enough to surmount with Connor as her champion.

  “We’ll work the problems out, honey,” he said, reading her mind, his hazel gaze welded to the blue of
hers. “I promise.”

  “I believe you.”

  Her “I believe you” caused Connor to stand taller than his six three. He tightened his arms around her back, relishing the feel of her petite body next to his. Those god-awful weeks of their separation had made him feel about the size of a dwarf. Half that time he’d spent plotting her murder—no medieval means of torture had escaped the scheme. The other half? He now dropped a kiss on the top of her dark head, recalling his many rehearsals of this very scene. In a crowd she’d less likely answer no.

  He would, by damn, make her his Mrs. That’s all there is to it. For all the reasons given back in that cabin, and for others. He intended to spend a lot of time making love with India Marshall, soon to be Mrs. Connor O’Brien, and, recalling the possible consequences first discussed in the Gowen Hotel, Connor would take no chances. He felt honor-bound to marry her.

  Furthermore, as wife to a Union officer, she stood a better chance of beating the charges against her.

  He turned back to the gawking assemblage, centering on his brother, who scowled. “Burke, will you marry us?”

  Green eyes went cold. “No.”

  No?

  Several women gasped, one of them India. Connor gave her a squeeze of reassurance. Aggravated, he demanded, “Why not?”

  Burke locked elbows with Antoinette, who stared downward. He got an all-too-familiar look of stubbornness on his face. “Because I intend to marry first. To show Aunt Tess there’s no such thing as magic. Except for—”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Tessa cut in and punched her sister’s arm. “Told you so, told you so. He does believe in it, else he wouldn’t be put off.”

  “Except for the magic of love,” Burke finished.

  Connor had grown to appreciate the power of love, but . . . “I fail to see what a difference it would make should I marry first.” Eyes on the blonde, he added, “If your love is abiding and true, no trinket will keep you from the altar.”

  Unconvinced, the second O’Brien brother replied, “If you’re wanting a double wedding, Conn, fine. You and India, and me and Toni”—tanned fingers laced with pale ones—“we’ll get married as soon as I lift the quarantine and we find a preacher.”