by Sandra Jones
When they reached the boats, he told Trap to take the keelboat despite the Irishman’s protests.
When the other boats glided out into the river’s current, Rory ordered her into the smaller rowboat. Suddenly, she wished she still had Trap’s company. Rory’s anger was palpable between them. He cast them off the sandbar wearing a deep worry line between his brows. As he settled behind the oars he uttered an oath, and Dell caught first sight of a scarlet bloom on his left arm.
“Rory, you’ve been shot!”
His scowl deepened at the stain on the torn fabric. He continued to row, directing their bow toward the waiting Queen Helen. “It’s shallow. Besides, there’s nothing to do for it out here.”
He cringed as his shoulders rotated, turning the paddle against the current.
Dell swallowed a curse of her own, and slid across the boat. Taking the oars, she caught his look of surprise. “Hate me all you want for injuring your masculine dignity further, but I’m strong enough to get us back. There’s no need for you to bleed to death.”
He released a long breath and relinquished the oars, but he only gave up a few inches of room for her to sit. She settled in beside him, her hip against his, as he reclined. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he cradled his arm, still frowning.
“If anyone should be angry, Rory, it should be me. You haven’t been honest about what you were doing. The two of you seemed very friendly, despite the fact Wainwright shot you.”
“We’ve faced each other over cards, but that’s no reason we shouldn’t get along. Besides, Kit is amicable enough. He had no quarrel with me. His aim was damn-near perfect.” Dell watched in dismay as he peeled back his shirt, casually examining the damp wound.
The smell of the powder’s char on his skin filled her nose, and her stomach roiled. Her hands tightened on the oars as realization dawned. “Did the two of you plan this? He shot you on purpose for Moreaux’s sake?”
“Don’t sound so outraged, angel. You make me wonder if you’d like to see a bullet in my chest,” he grumbled.
She wet her dry lips, torn between grinning in relief and thwacking him with the paddle. Instead, she sighed. “You’ve got one helluva job, if you ask me. But I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed. If you had, I would’ve been stuck alone on that boat of yours. I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, and your boss would likely cast me out on a sandbar.”
“My boss? That’s interesting. So now he’s my boss and not your stepfather?” His nostrils flared with inexplicable anger. Before she could process what that cryptic remark could mean, she felt the tickle of his finger, circling one of her scrapes. “So many scratches. Be honest. Did Ottenheim hurt you?”
“No.” She wrenched her arm back, giving a hard pull at the oars.
“Damn. I would’ve liked to have shot him.”
Rory was sullen for the rest of the way, rubbing his temple with his thumb as he gazed darkly across the water.
The rowboat slid in beside the gangplank where Trap was waiting. The passengers and crew had gathered for their return. Some who’d witnessed the duel were descending from the high riverbank while others stood along the deck’s rails. When Rory stepped out of the boat and helped her onto the walkway, a murmur spread through the crowd. His sleeve was nearly half crimson like some bad jester’s outfit.
Dell bit the inside of her cheek with anxiousness for him, seeing the pale, tense look on his face. His narrowed eyes locked on Moreaux standing on a deck high above with Asa at his side.
Then as if remembering the crowd, Rory flashed them a smile, clutching his arm with a measure of chagrin. He would probably clean up, patch up, and return to his boss for a severe lecture. Dell couldn’t help wondering what the loss to Wainwright cost him.
Once on board the Queen, she planted a foot on the stairwell, eager to return to her stateroom to wash and be rid of thoughts of duels, pride and killing, when someone caught her wrist. Rory’s hand, covered in crusty blood, gripped her, keeping her from moving. She followed his hold up the stained sleeve to his tight face.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Chapter Thirteen
Once they were inside Rory’s stateroom, he slammed the door and took the rifle from her to lean it against the wall. Panic fluttered within Dell, partly because she’d never seen him so angry, and partly because a voice deep inside her whispered that she’d been wrong—her presence on the island could’ve had horrible consequences. She also had a strong feeling Rory had taken the shot in the arm for mostly unselfish reasons. For one, like he’d said, he didn’t want to kill Kit Wainwright. For another, if Rory died, Asa would lose the man who kept him in medicine, a man he considered a big brother. And then there was her…but she doubted she ranked very high on his list of concerns. He’d shown her that last night. To Quintus and him, she wasn’t a guest but instead another device for their gaming rooms. A pawn to draw out the opponents.
With his eyes dark and hard, he stood facing her. His jaw clenched and unclenched as the seconds ticked by. He finally shoved his fingers through his hair as if half-maddened. “Dress my wound,” he growled.
She gave him her sternest look. “I’m not your cabin girl. Don’t order me. Ask p—” Her gaze went to his bloodstained arm where a fresh stream of red trickled down to his wrist, and cold washed over her. “You said it was shallow!” She brushed his forearm with a light hand.
“It is.” Truth. He cradled his arm and went to sit on the bed. “I left clean water in the washstand and towels on the dresser. I could also use some rum. If I’m wrong and I bleed to death, all our troubles today will be for nothing.” He opened the buttons of his shirt with his right hand.
Dell sighed, aware of his ploy for her attention, but went to dampen a towel anyway. She chastised herself inwardly. Always a sucker for a suffering beast.
A warmer yet larger room than his tiny berth she’d taken over on the Enchantress, the chamber also held better furnishings with a Queen Anne style mahogany desk, dresser, crystal spirit decanters and a luxurious bedspread. An enormous mirror spanned the wall, making Dell’s mouth twist with the sour thought of the captain’s view of his nocturnal adventures.
Heat inched up her neck as she wondered what she might look like in that mirror, stretched across Rory’s bed with the captain at her side—
“I can trust Trap to keep silent about Kit, but now what to do with you?” he muttered to himself. “No one was supposed to be close enough to see Kit’s aim. You could’ve ruined everything.”
Pride wouldn’t allow her to endure his censure, deserved or not. “If you’d been open with me about your plans, I wouldn’t have followed. What did you expect? Me to wait on this boat wringing my hands, crying for you?” He had the front of his shirt completely undone by the time she sat down beside him. She put the bowl and towels at her feet.
He slanted his head thoughtfully, his eyes grazing across her face. The line between his brows deepened. “No. I wouldn’t expect your tears, but I sure as hell hadn’t expected you to come to Bloody Island with a gun. What in damnation did you think needed to be done? It was a duel of honor. Now Ottenheim will tell Kit’s uncle and everyone else I have no honor!” He swore and lifted his angry gaze to the ceiling.
The heat of his displeasure closed in around her, but the unintentional nudge of his thigh against hers on the bed made her face hotter still. “You went alone.” Voice shaky with anger, she paused for a breath. “Even Trap knew you needed a second, and I needed to make sure you didn’t…get killed or kill somebody.”
“You could’ve let me die, then you would’ve had your money and freedom from us.” He cupped his elbow, and his thumb rubbed the muscle beneath the wound, leaving her uncertain if he was lying again.
“I could have. But clearly you never intended to take that chance.”
He shook his head. “Too many lives at
risk, including mine. If Moreaux finds out what I did, there’ll be hell to pay. He has a warped code of honor. He lives for vengeance, and he punishes those who insult him with swift death. Now, he expects me to do the same. It’s what he’s been training me for my whole life.”
A tool of death? She leaned away from him. Rory might’ve spared one man’s life, but how far would he go if his boss pushed? Sweet mercy, what sort of man was Moreaux? How had her mother stayed married to such a violent person?
Why had Rory remained in his employ?
Out of greed? Or self-defense, as he’d claimed? Surely he could simply walk away and find another ship to captain. One where he wasn’t expected to become a murderer.
“Moreaux must believe I’m not ready to take his place in duels. I can’t have you telling him I didn’t try to kill Wainwright.”
“Why would I tell?” Dell boiled at his lack of trust. “I don’t owe Quintus any loyalty.” Subterfuge left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but if the past thirteen years of telling fortunes had taught her anything, it was how to keep people’s secrets.
He dropped his hand from the cuff of the sleeve he was trying to unbutton, wincing from the new difficulty of his efforts, and glanced up at her. “I can’t have you actin’ this way either.”
“What way?” Her hand gripped her torn neckline like a shield, and her heart thumped wildly at the dangerous new tone of his voice.
He took her hand. She gasped but he ignored her reaction, turning her palm over to kiss the fresh blisters from the oars. He breathed across her skin. “If you want to impress your stepfather, you’ll stay in the gaming salon. Moreaux’s women don’t wield guns and bandy about where they don’t belong.”
His words scattered the lovely sensations his kiss caused. She took her hand back, curling it into a fist, and scowled. “I don’t aim to please him. Have you forgotten? I’m not Moreaux’s.”
His eyes held hers. “No. Thank heaven you aren’t, angel.”
He extended his wrist for her to unfasten his cuff. The pleasure she felt from his lingering gaze took the edge off her wariness and his audacity—not to mention the fact that she’d longed to see him without his shirt anyway—so she slid the garment off one arm and then carefully down the damaged one. His chest was all sun-kissed skin and corded muscle from years of moving cargo—his body as beautiful as his face. Holding his bloodstained hand, she gently stretched his arm across her lap to have better access to the bullet’s mark. When his hand slid to rest around the curve of her thigh, she left him alone—surely it wouldn’t be wrong to allow him to be comfortable.
She’d cleaned wounds for the children so many times, but never a bullet wound. As gently as possible, she washed away the oozing blood around the burnt mark, biting her lip. Luckily, the ball had grazed his flesh and hadn’t damaged the muscle. He cringed while she dabbed at the wound, getting the shallow gash as clean as possible. “I’ll get the rum,” she told him.
He nodded, frowning.
She brought the bottle and a glass, as well, and poured him a dram. His throat worked as he swallowed it in one drink. When he handed her the empty cup, the rum glistened on his lower lip. She could almost taste the burn of the liquor as if she’d licked the drop away. Craving a drink…or the man?
“More?” she asked, hating the husky sound of her voice.
He shook his head. The corner of his mouth lifted. “No, I haven’t eaten so I’m lightheaded enough as it is. You’ll think you can out-drink me.”
“I can out-drink you.” She poured a small amount straight from the bottle across his wound, making him hiss. Then she wrapped a bandage around the thick muscle of his upper arm. Her fingers lingered on his bare skin, enjoying the stolen moment as she tied a knot. When she glanced at his face, she found him watching her. Daylight poured through the cabin’s curtain, illuminating an array of color in his eyes she’d never before noticed. More than green, tiny flakes of gold scattered around the black of his pupils. But she’d barely gotten a glimpse of them when his golden-tipped lashes fell closed and he leaned forward.
Dell knew his intentions, had probably known deep down from the moment he’d stopped her on the stairs. He could’ve dressed the simple wound without her. As his bandaged arm snaked around her back and his mouth, his beautiful mouth, came closer, all she wanted was to press against him and repeat the provocative dance of their tongues once more. But when her eyes fell closed, surrendering to temptation, she heard the tread of boots on the deck above, reminding her where she was.
A proper schoolteacher like Rosemary Hughes wouldn’t allow herself to be seduced by a riverboat gambler.
She stopped Rory, planting a hand on his chest. He opened his eyes. “Respectability, Captain. You ordered me to your cabin, and I came. You told me to dress your wounds, and I did. But I’m not here to address your other needs.”
The corner of his mouth curved, and he leaned into her so that her breasts touched his bare skin. “You’re a fortune teller, Dell. You’re also a mite too friendly with the young man we rescued, and you’re the daughter of Eleanor Moreaux—a notorious moll before she married Quintus. Hell, you slept in my bed on the Enchantress. Believe me, angel, no one here believes you’re virtuous.”
Damn him! She smacked his cheek with her free hand. Her left hand, it hadn’t been nearly as hard as she’d wanted to strike him. He turned away, releasing her.
“Quit saying things about my mama!”
When he faced her again, she saw the red imprint on his cheek. He continued in a quiet voice, “But you’re not denying the rest? It’s true. All of it. Even the dalliance with your Jeremiah. I saw the two of you holding hands in the crew’s quarters before he was taken to the hospital. What harm could one more lover cause now?”
A rebuke for his assumptions was on her lips, but why bother? Virtues seemed to have such little value to the man. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t want to be your lover.”
He lifted a mocking eyebrow and smiled. “That’s not what your body tells me. You’re the expert on lying. What are your tells, angel? How do I know when you’re lying?”
She swallowed. No one had ever tried to read her before, not even her kin. For so long, she’d believed it couldn’t be done. “Your arrogance makes you presumptuous. I’m not lying.”
“I think you are. I think you want me. Why don’t we give some truth to the matter?” His gaze drifted from her mouth to her eyes and back. “Right now your body is saying you want to kiss me again.”
“No it’s not.”
Another smile. “Don’t believe me? Here.” He placed his hand against her chest just above the curves of her breasts. “You turn pink here…like just now when I look at your mouth. Molly’s dresses suit you, by the way.”
His fingers fanned across her chest while the heel of his palm felt warm against her pattering heart. Her face smoldered with embarrassment at being caught lying—and enjoying the attention.
“That’s not because I want you to kiss me.”
“Really?” He put his other hand on the side of her neck, his thumb softly stroking the tender spot beneath her ear. She smelled the oak aroma of rum on his breath as he leaned close. He whispered, “You can’t keep your hands off me.”
“That’s not true. I bandaged you, but—”
“You could’ve left me minutes ago when I stopped holding you”—he glanced down at her hand on his chest with a wry smile—“but you didn’t.”
Dell noticed the way she’d snuggled up against him. She sucked in an outraged breath and stood. “My mama taught me how to bluff. I’m fully in control of my body. Unlike you.”
He pursed his lips and shifted his legs uncomfortably as she stared pointedly at the bulge in his breeches. “You have me there. But still, you can’t control yourself any more than I. If you could, you’d just kiss me until you got me out of your system. But you’
re too afraid. You’re afraid you’d want to do more.”
“I’m not afraid.”
He chuckled. “Yes you are. Even if I promised like we used to do as kids—like when I taught you how to take a catfish off the hook without getting barbed.” He spat in his hand and extended it toward her. “A promise from Gory Rory, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want. Or are you still afraid you can’t control yourself?”
She stared at his hand. That she even considered his challenge amazed her.
And intrigued her.
She could enjoy more of his kisses and stop him at any time. She could prove she could resist his charms. He was everything her mama had told her to stay away from. Gambler. Pirate. Ambitious. Dangerous. Surely she could resist him.
But she couldn’t resist a challenge.
She spat in her hand and clamped her palm against his, giving it a firm shake. His eyes went wide as if her answer startled him. Yes, she’d called him, raised him.
Emboldened by his reaction, she moved to stand between his spread knees and bent to kiss him, bracing a light hand on his shoulder. She touched the tip of her tongue to his, tasted the buttery flavor of aged rum—surely the finest liquor that she’d ever experienced. He returned the kiss, pressing his mouth firmly back. Her hands tangled in his hair as she deepened the kiss, reaching in to explore his mouth as she’d longed to do since he’d first arrived in Posey Hollow. His arms came around her tentatively, as if waiting for her permission. Their weight felt strong and good, encircling her with security and making her insides liquefy. Without breaking the kiss, she gathered her skirt in one hand and planted her knees on either side of his hips, straddling him. He leaned back, cradling her, yet allowed her full authority over him as she positioned herself above him.
His hands glided around her, stopping to rest on her ribs, just beneath her breasts. But she needed to feel his hands on her skin—wanted him to want the same, to struggle and squirm, to pay for tempting her with his discomfort.
