by Martha Hix
Ever intent on giving more than he’d get, Connor took command of her collarbone. His tongue flicked it, descending to the cleft between her breasts. Lush, so lush was she. Each globe seemed to argue, Take me, take me, not my partner. He chose the one nearest his mouth. She had wonderful nipples. Not too big, not too small. Perhaps his was a prejudiced opinion. Whatever they might have turned out to be, he’d have loved them.
He’d always be greedy for India, and she for him.
He knew she loved the way he suckled her—she’d have welcomed double pleasure. But who was getting the most pleasure here? Connor. Despite his vow. He loved how she tasted, loved how she loved, loved everything about her. His pleasure resulted from pleasing her—virginal territory for a once-selfish man.
Would that she could be a tad more prudent in her impulsive actions, but they were certainly working to his benefit tonight. He couldn’t help but exult in the way she slid a knee over his hip. Always, he’d know her for passionate, and never had she disappointed him along this line. Quite a woman, his soon-to-be wife. Scheherazade and that princess from Arabian Nights Entertainment, all rolled into one Squirt.
She loved that book, and you burned it. Buy her another one. That, he would. Soon as the opportunity arose.
“Connor ...”
“At your service, ma’am.”
“Would you do what you did to me, back in the boxcar?”
A grin was blatant as the full moon shining over this riverboat stole across his face. “Forward the Light Brigade.”
She laughed. So did he. Never in his life had he known the peace of laughter in his chaotic life, not until India charged, not unlike the six hundred, into his heart, her weaponry love and tenderness and her own brand of warfare, added to her tenacity in breaching the battlements of his heart.
“What about forward?” she prodded.
He scooted backward, bringing her knee over his shoulder. Wow. She even smelled good at this angle. He lowered his head. The crisp hairs guarding her woman’s place pricked his lip. He savored it. His tongue danced out, once and then again, and she bowed upward, gasping. The sweet, pungent scent drenched his senses to the verge of spilt ecstasy. Slow up, Sonny Boy.
He laved her nub, massaged its hood. Her fingers curled into the hair behind his ears and she moaned his name, over and over. His tongue slid back, tasting her precious entrance. A finger and thumb found its way to the place previously abandoned, stroking with ardent desire.
You can’t take much more of this, Sonny Boy.
Yes, he could. He would bring her to a peak before entering her again. He knew he was too big for her size. Like Fitz always said, No machine runs good wit’out oil, Gran’son. Connor had to make certain she’d be ready.
Enjoying his toils immensely, he licked and darted. She arched against him, her climax wetting his face. Her cries echoed through the cabin, and he gave thanks for magic, be it simply India or the result of a wish upon a lamp.
“Hush, darlin’. Else, you’ll wake our fellow passengers.”
“Darn you, Connor O’Brien. Do it. Do it now. Before I scream so loud that I bring everyone to my rescue.”
She was ready. One more time, he rolled her atop him. “Last night you accused me of being a stallion, tearing you apart. Tonight’s your night, Indy. You set the pace.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Oh, yes you do. Just follow your instincts.” Already he was poised at her entry. “Slide down, darlin’. Meet me. I’ll take over till you feel in charge.”
She moved, her magic powerful as he surged upward, trying to enter. She was just too small, too tight. Employing every trick learned from courtesans as well as from later experiences, Connor cut to the chase. At last he was in her. Her glove squeezed him, evoking torture like no man had known before.
“Dammit, woman, take charge. Before I do it for you.”
A woman for challenges was his India. Her hind end moved. And moved. They conjoined in a fevered pitch. Intimacy had never felt this great to Connor. Even more virginal territory.
Hot and passionate, she reached her peak over and over and over. He rolled her to her back for his own completion, and as he gave all he had to give.
Afterward, they rested in each other’s arms, neither speaking, both reveling in love found. They needed a preacher. On the double. At the rate Connor and India were going, they would sprout a babe any time now, and he wouldn’t make a bastard.
India dozed off, content; Connor allowed his eyes to close. Her voice awakened him. “If—I mean when—I’m done with Port Hudson, I’m going with you to Georgia.”
“Impossible. The army forbids camp followers.”
“General U.S. Grant had his wife and children with him at Vicksburg. Why can’t I go with you?”
“He’s a ranking general. I’m a major. You’d be best off staying with your family. And that’s where you’ll stay. I’ll come back for you when the war is over. Don’t even consider raising an argument to the contrary.”
“Whatever you think is right.”
Twenty-three
The Delta Star steamed southward, bound for Louisiana, and Phoebe O’Brien cast an eye to the banks. Who would know from this marshy view that war raged, not only for nations? Each revolution of the rear-situated wheels meant a closer distance to Port Hudson, where anything might happen to the tiny brunette with big indigo-blue eyes.
Phoebe feared her nephew and India wouldn’t make a match. Burke still balked at performing the marriage ceremony. They were running out of time. If there were ever an occasion for the mystic, it was now.
A day out of Memphis, Phoebe spotted her sister and the ever-present eunuch, who, not ten minutes earlier, had belched his approval at the latest in a long line of free lunches. “We’ve gotta go back for the lamp.”
Eugene gave of whoosh of ... of what? Annoyance?
Tessa jiggled her head, unsure she’d heard her sister correctly. “Are you so in love with our dear little bride that you’d finally allowed yourself to believe in the power of magic?”
Dear little bride didn’t refer to the ice-veined Yankee girl. Even if the sisters had thought Burke old enough to settle down, Antoinette gave no impression of a woman in love, not like India did. Never did Burke receive a smile, nor a look of longing from her cold pale eyes when he touched her arm or hand. She couldn’t love, not like India could.
“Why do you want the lamp?” Tessa asked.
Speak up, Phoeb. Tell the truth. “I’m turning as whimsical as you. Maybe magic isn’t horse feathers, since Connor did meet India on his appointed birthday.”
“This is a fine day, indeed!” Tessa rushed to Eugene’s hamlike, swarthy arms, throwing herself into them.
Unfazed by the display, Phoebe went on. “How nice it’d be, knowing for positive there’s something besides black and white in this cockeyed world. That a strong person can lean against the strength of a more powerful force. How comforting it would be to ask for something and get it.”
“Have you been sampling your nephew’s liquor stock?” Eugene lowered his upper lip over that golden incisor purchased three summers back by Fitz O’Brien.
“Haven’t had a drop.” Phoebe sighed. “Marvels are best left to the proper Hands, but who says He doesn’t deem them? He may have magic in His Great Plan.”
“Allah be praised.”
Phoebe suffered no argument. “We must fetch the lantern.”
Eugene smirked. “We cannot. We’ve passed Memphis.”
“We’ll turn back. I’m wanting a wish on that lantern.”
The so-called genie flared his nostrils. “My services are for my lady Tessa alone.”
“What will you have from the lamp?” her sister inquired, suddenly fearful. “Are you thinking to undo my wishes?”
“Would serve you right. But I’m not of that mind. I shall point out, though, that you should’ve been more specific in your wishes. What if it takes years for the magic to work?”
“
Dear me.” Tessa fluttered fingers to her cheeks, then smiled. “I’m not worried. The lamp will soon yield fruit.”
“There’s been many an orange ruined by an unexpected frost. I aim to protect the blossom. Let’s get the lamp.”
“No.” Eugene’s tenor rose several octaves. “You’ll have no wish! Not a one. None.”
Phoebe stepped around him to plop a forearm on her sister’s plump shoulder. “My first wish will be for Connor and India to get through their problems without a scratch.”
Eugene’s jowls jiggled like gelatin salad. “I cannot follow more than one master. My lady . . .”
“I know for a fact neither of you is warm to Antoinette,” Phoebe said. “If we don’t do something quick, Burke’ll fetch some preacher man to anchor him to that iceberg.”
This sobered Tessa, and Eugene seemed resigned to defeat. She said, “We shouldn’t take any chances.”
“How do we get Burky Boy to stop this steamboat at the nearest wharf? Furthermore, we need to stir the nephews up to keep them from going for a man of the cloth.”
They put their heads together to concoct alienation. It would appear as if Tessa had had enough of Burke’s disparaging remarks about Eugene. The injured party, Phoebe taking up for both, would “know when we’re not wanted,” then hire a coach of fleet-footed steeds for the return to Memphis.
“Where will we catch our nephews?” Tessa wanted to know.
“Natchez.” Phoebe nodded once, visualizing a compact and swift riverboat in Burke’s armada. Edna Gal. The first vessel purchased for the O’Brien Steamship Company fleet, having been financed by Fitz O’Brien on the condition the little zephyr be christened after his departed wife. “The Edna Gal is in Memphis. We’ll collect her, then hightail it to Natchez.”
She didn’t count on Memphis. Like, how tightly Eugene would clutch the lamp, blocking her wish, and she never dreamed the lantern would fall from everyone’s hands. But it did. As the Edna Gal made steam, Phoebe and the so-called genie scuffled over the brass lamp. It fell into the maw of the Mississippi.
“I wish your aunties and Eugene hadn’t demanded to be put ashore.” Starlight above them, India glanced over at Connor’s striking profile. Cushioned by quilts, they snuggled in a secluded nook on the steamship’s top deck, a few minutes after making love and a few hours after the Delta Star had disgorged three indignant passengers. “It would’ve been nice, having them at our wedding.”
“Don’t forget we’re planning a double ceremony. I doubt those three would’ve given their blessing to my brother and his bride. Their leaving saved a wedding-day scene.”
Two days hence had been chosen as the date, Natchez the setting. The Delta Star would arrive a full day earlier than anticipated, though, thanks to an unseasonable tailwind that moved her along at a brisk clip toward Natchez, where the Marshall gold had been buried.
Breeze ruffling her hair, India raised up on an elbow. “Connor, there’ll be no double ceremony. Antoinette’s been confiding in me. She won’t marry your brother.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s easy to tell she’s not interested in Burke. He’s too besotted to see it.”
“You’re very good at reading people.”
India rested a forearm on his flat stomach and a cheek against his taut shoulder. “Connor, let’s hold off on the wedding until we reach Pleasant Hill. I’d prefer to have my family in attendance.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“I’m sure.”
On a sweltering afternoon in June the Delta Star plowed closer to her destination, the pier beneath the high bluffs of Natchez. India stood on the main deck, near the stern, Connor holding her elbow. Dashing as always, he wore full military dress, all the way down to pointed cuffs, colorful sash, and the polished boots of a cavalryman.
India and her beloved fiance studied the riverbanks, neither speaking. Her thoughts weren’t captured by scenery or wedding plans. This was the afternoon remains of the family fortune might be reclaimed by two pairs of Marshall hands with assistance from Connor O’Brien.
First, they would hire a carriage, then buy or borrow shovels. Taking such tools off the Delta Star in broad daylight had never been a consideration. Next, India, Connor, and Matt would drive down to White Post under the auspices of “long-lost Northern cousins” of the family Smith, should they be asked.
That was the plan.
Unfortunately, this was also an afternoon for trouble.
Matt approached. “Burke’s asked me to take the helm. It seems Antoinette wants a private word with him. In her cabin.”
He rushed up the companionway.
India didn’t have to wonder at the topic of discussion. An engagement would be broken. This wasn’t an opportune moment for her and Connor, along with the very Marshall who’d buried the treasure, to go ashore for a treasure hunt. Should they not? They mustn’t tarry. The Delta Star would be in port for only enough time to off-load her hold and fetch a preacher for Burke, who’d gone to Antoinette thinking this was their wedding day.
“What if you brother needs you, after . . . ?” Why add her own name to “need”? Burke, never friendly to her, would be in no mood to have a beneficiary to Tessa’s wishes hovering over him.
“Sweetheart, there’ll be lots of time for commiseration.”
“True.” The steam freighter slowed, making ready to dock, and suddenly India dreaded the trip to White Post. “What if the money isn’t there?”
He took admiring regard of her and her lavender frock, his perfect teeth even whiter in the bright sunlight. Pulling her close to his tall, lean body, he caused her pulse to soar. “Don’t forget, you sent Zeke with a message for your granny. They may have beaten us to it.”
“If the Yankees haven’t helped themselves already.”
“Stop fretting.” He lifted her chin with the crook of his finger, urging her attention to his winsome face. “By tonight you’re going to be one very happy woman.”
His tone suggested she give thought to the still of tonight, when they would nestle in each other’s arms, as they had each night here lately. She beamed, ever eager. “I can’t wait.”
He chucked her jaw lightly. “And I can’t wait to see my Squirt’s eyes get wide when she hugs Daddy’s money.” The Delta Star heading prow-first toward the wharf, Connor pointed in that direction. “Let’s go up front and be gone.”
India figured he wasn’t as jolly as he put on, but if that was how he wanted to handle the Burke situation, she’d go along with it. “Forward, landlubber. It’s forward, not front.”
“Whatever you say. The language of the sea is Burke’s bailiwick, not mine, you know it.”
“Ah, yes. Yours is the Army.”
He said nothing. India wouldn’t, either, though she hated to imagine him in Georgia . . . possibly never to return. If you’re going to be an army wife, you’d better get used to the dangers. Tennyson’s wisdom on loving came back to her, as well.
“Ahoy, up there!”
They went to the rail, catching sight of a Union Navy skiff below the Delta Star. Blue uniforms dotted the boat, like dyed roaches on patrol. India got an eyeful of a familiar face. Her heart skipped a beat, then raced. “He’s found us.”
“Can’t say it’s a surprise.”
The coxswain, his hands cupped beside his mouth, shouted, “By order of the United States Navy and Army, cut your engines, sir. Send down your ratline.”
From the bridge Matt ordered the engines to idle, and one of the crewmen, who’d been preparing to toss hawsers to the Natchez dockhands, heaved the rope ladder over the rail.
Preceded by a middle-aged Army captain, four strapping privates climbed to the riverboat. The military men saluted Connor; he returned the courtesy. Then . . . the incestuous cur Roscoe Lawrence, huffing and puffing, struggled aboard.
After a double take, he expanded dime-size nostrils, his piglike eyes squinting. “I’ll be goddamned. I got me a boon.”
Lawrence outrank
ed the Natchez captain, but the captain’s expression spoke. He didn’t cotton to profanity. “Joseph Ball, Union Army here,” he announced, resisting the urge to call a superior down. “We have orders to search this ship for Miss Antoinette Lawrence. Abducted by one Captain Burke O’Brien of the O’Brien Steamship Company.”
Lawrence had a nerve, making such a charge.
His face, badly scarred from what was obviously a recent bout with smallpox, twisted into an evil grin. “Looks like we’ll be killing two birds with one stone, boyoes. This here’s Major La Dee Dah O’Brien, deserter from the Union Army.”
Unruffled, Connor reached into a pocket to withdraw a piece of paper. “That’s where you’re wrong, Colonel. This is my order for leave, signed by Colonel Stewart Lewis himself.”
He handed it to the Natchez captain, who read it quickly. “It’s signed by Colonel Lewis, all right. I served with him in Texas before the war. I know his signature.”
Lawrence abhorred being stymied, it was plain to see, but this was his big day. “Well, well, La Dee Dah. You did make it to Washington. Guess you weren’t as hot to trot as I figured. ’Course that don’t explain why your piece is hanging off you.”
India pinched Connor, lest he let his temper make a muck of this. “Careful what you say about my lady,” he warned, his voice forced even.
“Lady? That’s rich.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the Natchez captain cut in, saving Connor a total loss of control at an inopportune time. “You’re offending the lady.”
“She ain’t no lady.” Lawrence wagged a sausage-ugly finger at her. “That’s India Marshall. The one in that notice you got from Washington.”
Connor laughed blandly, though India sensed he was boiling hot. Not to trot. To break Lawrence in half. “On the contrary, sirs. He mistakes Scheherazade Meade O’Brien—”
“That’s a bald-faced lie,” Lawrence protested.
“—niece of General Meade of the Army of the Potomac.”
Jumping Jehoshaphat! What in the world was Connor doing? He’d land them in even more trouble.
