by Martha Hix
Matt Marshall spoke up. “Count me in as a best man, single- or double-duty.”
“Offer accepted, Marshall,” Connor boomed, unwilling to be manipulated by a souvenir. “Single duty. Tonight. Burke, collect your Bible. We’ll wait here for you.”
“No.”
Connor let go his hold on India. “I’m not a gambling man, and you know it,” he said to Burke. “But I’m willing to make a wager. Since you’re my younger brother, and since I’ve always had a natural fondness for the likes of you, I won’t challenge you to dueling pistols. I do, however, challenge you to a match of our choice of sport as lads. Arm wrestling. The winner decides whether my marriage takes place tonight.”
“Not interested.”
“You’re not up to a challenge? Doesn’t sound like you.” Connor stepped forward. “Where’s your honor, Brother?”
“Honor be damned. There’ll be no wedding tonight.”
“Dear nephew, don’t be obstinate.” Tessa went to him, tugged on a black sleeve. “It’s your brother’s turn for marriage, not yours. You’re too young, only twenty-six.” She eyed the blonde. “No offense, Miss Lawrence, but he’ll be making a mistake, just like his father made, if he marries too young. As lovely as you are, you’ll find someone else. Leave Burke be.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” Antoinette snapped, reinforcing Connor’s day-old conclusion: she wasn’t right for his brother.
These reservations may have sprouted in Rock Island, but he’d caught her making eyes at another crew member.
Nothing was ever quite cricket with Dimpled Darling’s niece. Whatever the case, she was Burke’s business, not anyone else’s, except for her uncle’s, possibly. Connor needed to look out for India. He glanced down at her. Her troubled face upturned to his, he asked, “Sweetheart, are you willing to wait?”
“Marry the couple,” Eugene roared, tenor rattling crystal.
The ladies jumped. Connor liked his style.
“Looks like someone doesn’t understand who’s in charge.” Burke O’Brien, murder in his green eyes, strode over to the Arab. “You get in my craw, Sand Flea. Always have. If Aunt Tess didn’t love you, I’d throw you to the currents.”
“Burke, don’t be ugly.” Tessa began to cry. “Please know we’ve got your best interests at heart.”
“Careful, Aunt Tess, or I’ll change my mind about the current.”
Both Jinnings and Phoebe gave her comfort, but Phoebe also demanded, “Watch your words, Burky Boy. You owe Tessa the proper respect. She helped rear you, I shouldn’t have to remind you.”
“Everyone, hush.” Connor’s voice swelled through the salon. “The lamp magic worked. I’ve fallen in love with India Marshall, and I’ll have her for my bride, come what may. Whether that lamp works for Burke and Antoinette, I don’t know, but if they are in love, the magic of their love will prevail. Now, I’m going to ask you again, Brother. Will you marry us?”
Twenty-two
“I am captain of this steamship,” bellowed Burke, “and I’m under no obligation to marry anyone, if I don’t deem fit.”
Just her luck. At last India had her own Aladdin, but his brother balked at the quick marriage. Archly disappointing.
The sconces flickered, thanks to the storm-generated sway of the riverboat. She stood beside her fiance and glowered at his black-haired brother. Although they could be pegged as kin, both being stubborn and dashingly attractive, they were distinct, those two. It went beyond different hair and eye colors.
For one thing, Burke had been quick to fall in love, even quicker to ask for his lady’s hand. (India wouldn’t be jealous of that, since Connor had asked for evermore with her.) The black-haired O’Brien, she assessed, had to be more superstitious than his older brother, who’d taken all this time to get caught up in magic-lamp madness.
As the brothers argued on, the aunts and the sundry others not saying a word, India decided against resenting Burke’s refusal. If Connor married first—especially with India as his bride—it would give validity to the magic lamp.
“I’ve said my last.” Burke wheeled around, stomped away.
“Dammit.”
“The wedding can wait,” India said to Connor, concentrating on the bright side. “It’s only a short delay.”
The select group dispersed, each going to their assigned quarters, Antoinette making her chastity clear by mentioning that her sleeping quarters weren’t with the ship’s captain.
When Phoebe thought Connor might slip into his “bride’s” cabin, she had a conniption fit. No nephew of hers would defile his fiancée, no sirree. Little did she know the hour had passed for concerns about India’s virginity.
Nevertheless, the engaged couple followed propriety, went separate ways. Which left India to fidget, grin, worry, then not, as she prayed abstinence wouldn’t last long and that her wedding would proceed with no more hitches. At last, she’d be a bride. Not just a bride. Connor’s bride.
As morning broke over a perfectly lovely day, a far cry from last night’s storm and familial contretemps, a visitor called at India’s Spartan cabin. Antoinette.
Her soon-to-be sister, by marriage. Did that mean India and the O’Briens would be kin to her uncle? Gads. He hadn’t come up in conversation last night, no loss, but she wondered how he’d reacted upon losing a niece as well as a prisoner.
In light of the unsatisfactory end to the wedding dispute in the Delta Star’s dining salon, India didn’t know what to expect, but found relief when Antoinette came in a sisterly vein.
Over her arm she carried a dress, appropriate underskirts, and fancy slippers. “This gown is too short for me, and it simply isn’t my color. Fitz O’Brien had nothing to go by while picking out my trousseau. But I should imagine lavender will bring out those specks of it in your lovely eyes.”
India, dressed in britches and shirt, ushered her in. “It’s my favorite color.”
Antoinette pulled something from a pocket. A bottle marked eau de toilette, lavande. “He sent this along, too. I seem to recall you favor the lavender fragrance.”
“How very thoughtful of you,” India said, touched but sensing . . . “Why do I get the feeling my wardrobe runs second to another reason for this visit?”
“You’ve always been easy to talk to. And I need advice.”
Antoinette sat on the chair Connor had occupied several hours ago. India took the berth, and gave thanks for wadded-up linen, else baby-blue eyes might see evidence of chastity lost.
Waiting and waiting for Antoinette to speak, India split the silence. “It seems Fitz O’Brien approves of your union with Burke. How lucky you are,” she said, keeping envy out of her tone and trying to keep faith in Tessa’s wish upon a lamp, “with no obstacles to keep you and Connor’s brother from marrying.”
Baby-blues widened. “How little you know. If I know my uncle, and I do know him, he’ll never stop until he finds me. If I’m not legally wed, he could force me to leave with him.”
“What happened to your magical pinkie?”
“It’s not that magical. Uncle thinks he owns me. I had to escape him. And, mercy, I was sick. Smallpox, as you can tell. If not for your brother, I might never have made it to the Delta Star. Uncle will come after me, I fear. If he does, I need a strong man to stand between us.”
India had hoped they’d heard the last of Colonel Lawrence, but maybe she shouldn’t assume anything. “Burke O’Brien will stand up for you. He’s strong enough, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, but . . . I’ve done an unpardonable thing.” The blonde glanced beseechingly at her confidante. “Remember back at the hospital, when we discussed affairs of the heart?”
“I do.”
“Then last night . . . Oh, Miss Marshall—”
“Since we’re going to be sisters, please call me India.”
Antoinette smiled wanly. “Lately, I’ve played a role I cannot believe in. I’m learning there isn’t enough money . . .”
“Captain
O’Brien seems to have plenty.”
“That he does. And I find him wildly attractive. Lo, I find someone else even more attractive.” Antoinette bit her lower lip. “Your brother.”
“Good Lord.” Taken aback, India couldn’t believe that Matt, so in love with Honoré, would encourage an assignation. She bent closer. “Antoinette, take care with your heart. Mathews Marshall is a married man with a child.”
“I know. She, or their boy, is all he speaks of. Please know he hasn’t shown untoward interest in me,” Antoinette added, giving India a mountain of relief. “It must be my scars.”
Oh, the vanity of beautiful women. They never stopped to think that anything beyond their singular splendor had any effect on men, or that those males might find something attractive in a plainer woman. For the first time in her life, a box-faced spinster felt sorry for beautiful women.
“I find Matt ever so attractive,” Antoinette admitted. “It’s lust. Like we discussed at your hospital. Lust.”
“You don’t plan to marry Captain O’Brien?”
“I shudder at the thought of linking up with that family of nosy aunts. Don’t they grate your nerves? Don’t you wish they’d stop arguing? And stop yapping about some silly lamp.”
“Actually, no. They were off-putting at first, but I have the highest regard for Phoebe, and I’m beginning to warm to Tessa. I believe we can make a solid family.”
“You’re a much nicer person than I.” A blush tinting her pockmarked cheeks, Antoinette worried a linen handkerchief. “I am an awful person, all round, truth be told. I must marry for money. I’ve no alternative. And nowhere else to go, nowhere to turn. Nowhere but back to a vile uncle.” A tear made a ribbon down that alabaster face. “You see, I am not only a fallen woman, I’m guilty of the worst measure of disgrace.”
She told a tale of incest both sickening and pitiable. Being no paragon, India didn’t judge her harshly. Who amongst the nation of man hasn’t delved into varying degrees of sin?
Despite Connor’s trepidations about the Lawrence niece, the women had been friendly since their first meeting, and true confessions didn’t tarnish India’s view. In fact, she wanted to help. “Antoinette, you have a place to go. Come to Pleasant Hill. We have many bedrooms.” Where, India wondered, would she and Connor live? That would work out for itself. “You’ll have a home for however long you need or want it.”
Antoinette, rarely on the receiving end of generosity not carrying the price of chattel, swept out of the chair and knelt at India’s feet. “Thank you, sweet friend.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be easy for you. Matt’s family is part of Pleasant Hill. Are you up to the challenge of being close to the man you lust for, without touching him?”
“You needn’t worry, India. I’ll not betray your trust.”
“When will you tell Burke the engagement is off?”
“When the time is right.”
The breakfast bell then bade the passengers to the dining salon, but a rap on the hatch steered the women’s course in another route. Connor stepped inside.
Her eyes locked with his; her breath caught, recalling what had happened between them in this cabin.
He seemed similarly entranced, but broke the spell quickly. “I bring news, bad news. A rowboat is headed for the Delta Star. If the spyglass can be trusted, that craft carries Roscoe Lawrence.”
Antoinette blanched. Visibly shaking, she said, “Where is Matt? Where is Burke? They must get this boat underway. I can’t let Uncle catch me. We’ve got to outrun him.”
Connor tugged on the hem of his uniform coatee. “I’m not of a mind to parlay with my old commander, either. But we’ve got a problem. Burke says we can’t make enough steam, not before Lawrence and his party overtake us.”
“Surely they see the quarantine flag, and will turn back,” India tried to reason.
“I doubt it,” Antoinette said. “He’s after me, and nothing will stop him.”
“What’s keeping us?” India squared her shoulders. “Antoinette, seek cover. Connor, lead me to the boiler room. Let’s make steam.”
Amazing. The woman was simply amazing. Connor rubbed his grime-crusted brow, resting a wrist on his shovel as he eyed the pint-size whirlwind. In concert with a pair of brawny crewmen, his fiancée continued to scoop coal into the stuffing box, like Connor had done until now. Despite the heat of summer in the South, mixed with the ungodly oven of this boiler room and the thunk of pistons, she’d been at work for a good hour, without once catching her breath.
He, on the other hand, needed a break, not that he’d ever admit it. Her brother saved him from making excuses. Matt Marshall dashed down the companionway to announce, “We made it. We’ve cleared Lawrence.”
A shout of triumph went up, and India put down her shovel to throw herself in Connor’s arms. “Good work, matey.”
“Aren’t you the salt?” he teased, enjoying the feel of her, coal dust and all.
“Connor . . . I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Roscoe Lawrence.”
“India Marshall, we’ve got enough to worry about without adding him to the list. If he shows up again, we’ll outrun him again. Or whatever it takes.”
“But Antoinette—”
“Is not our problem.”
And they did have plenty. It hadn’t been easy, wrestling Stew Lewis into allowing his leave to collar India, especially since he couldn’t vouch that he’d find her. But he had. Had he made a mistake, vowing to stand by her side, come what may? No. He counted on the truth setting her free. Quickly. Then he could rush to Georgia, do his duty, and return to her.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
The subject of his career being precarious ground, he centered on the situation at hand. “I didn’t have the chance to tell you, but . . . Burke ordered the don’t-board flag brought down. We’re on our way to the rest of our lives.” Gazing into her lavender-flecked indigo eyes, he winked. “As soon as we reach Natchez, it’s wedding bells for us.”
“A search, then wedding bells. Don’t forget we’ve got to dig up my sister’s root cellar.”
“Forget the ’we.’ Matt’s legal, so am I. You’re not. Your brother and I will do the digging.”
She gave a saucy toss to her head. “Considering how your tongue was hanging out a few minutes ago, Sonny Boy, I’d say you’d best stick to what you do best. That ain’t shoveling.”
Just how saucy were her words? he wondered. Last night, he’d implied her goals as useless, that no one needed for her to save the family. Connor realized she needed to be needed. But what could he do, insist she not be part of the fortune hunt?
“Put your way, I see the light,” he said. “We will need your shoveling skills at the dig, my Squirt.”
He chucked her chin. “Do you need my ... services?”
“Could be,” she teased in return. “It’s no jaunt to Natchez, I do tell. Several nights’ sail. How are you at stealing through the dark to a woman’s cabin?”
“Excellent.”
“Did anyone see you steal in here?”
Connor acted indignant. “Indy, give me some credit.”
“Stop that. Darn you. Quit tickling me!”
“That’s what you get for doubting my abilities.”
“Woe is me,” India lamented, giggling.
“This berth is too short. My ankles knock the frame.”
“You didn’t complain last night.”
“What? Complain? I couldn’t. You never gave me a chance, temptress.” Her cabin pitch dark, Connor nuzzled her neck, then grinned as she wriggled under his touch. Last night—It had its good moments and bad, but tonight . . . tonight he’d make certain she felt no pain. “Why don’t we move to the floor?”
“Deck, ye blimey landlubber, deck.” She pinched his naked hip. “Floors on ships and boats are called decks.”
“You live and learn.” Connor traced his tongue along the shell of her ear, receiving the expected response. “What about the fl—deck
?”
“If you insist.”
“Don’t sound so resigned,” he teased, and maneuvered them to the whatchamacallit, guiding her above him. The carpet cushioned his back, but not as well as he cushioned India. His already-distended shaft enjoyed the feel of her legs straddling his, and Connor, as a whole, would have given in to his raging passions, but he held back. Tonight was her night.
His nails teased her nipples, bringing them to hardened pebbles. She murmured his name, smooth as velvet. He felt a renewed stab of desire, all the way through his spine . . . and up through his staff. Such being devoid of conscience, he would have taken her right then, but Connor the man regretted the pain of their first coupling. Her very first coupling. He wanted her to enjoy this mating, fully.
He rolled them to their sides. Hoisting above her, he slid five fingers through her hair and bent to touch lips to her temple. Her pulse beat against his mouth, erratic, excited. Good, very good.
“I feel as if I’m floating on air,” she admitted on a wing of breathy puffs.
“Hey, is that any way to describe a man’s physique?” he joked. “Do you figure me as soft as Jinnings?”
“Oh, no, Sonny Boy. There is nothing soft about you.”
They shared a chuckle, and she even went so far as to slide a fingertip along Sonny Boy’s least-soft place.
Night breeze soughing through the porthole, he nuzzled her neck, and she gave easier access to it. But the urge to kiss her lips deeply couldn’t be denied. He set to it. She tasted of the peppermint that she’d had for dessert at table. Connor had never been a man with a sweet tooth, not until now.
Her fingers smoothed along his jaw when the kiss ended. Out went the tip of his tongue, seeking an eyelid, the side of her nose, her upper lip. Her mouth shifted toward his, but he teased her by moving to her earlobe. He took it between his teeth, worrying it gently. A moan, her moan, wafted even more enticingly than the lavender scent clinging faintly to her flesh.
