by Sandra Jones
Unattainable, unnamable need drove her to match his rhythm, seeking more and more. Faster and harder each time. She caressed him, held him, and he turned to her ear, murmuring endearments.
Swept into a crazed storm of want, she heard her soft needy moans, foreign to her ears. Frenzied at the loss of control, she fought for composure, panting for relief. But Rory bound her beneath his weight, keeping her from pulling away. “Ride it out, Dell.”
She did as he said, not wanting him to draw away. Then the tempest took her, carrying her over the abyss. She crumpled beneath him, crying his name as she shattered.
A ragged sound tore from Rory’s chest as he thrust, surging against her with his release, then fell still, his heart pounding against hers. He gathered her close, holding her in his arms, while she felt him throbbing inside her. He kissed her hair and inhaled as if she exuded some precious fragrance. She laid her face against his chest, perfectly content to remain there forever, while his fingers passed back and forth along her arm.
Reality would find her far too soon.
Chapter Eighteen
He’d known the woman was trouble from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Now if only he could take his eyes off her—but he couldn’t. They lay on top of the bed, quilt and all, with her still half-clothed in a very rumpled dress. Her lithe body spread along his side. She had smooth, creamy skin and lean, feminine muscles that made his insides tighten and every drop of blood in his body pump to his groin. No matter how troublesome she was, looking down the length of their two bodies tangled together, he felt like a whole person again.
He hadn’t had that feeling in a long, long time. And being a greedy man, he wanted more.
She must’ve heard his thoughts, seer that she was, because she turned her face on his chest to look up at him. A slow, easy smile curved her lips—utterly artless yet wicked. His heart wobbled at the sight.
Her index finger traced the valley beneath his throat. “You’re an easy read, Captain Campbell.” Long eyelashes fanned over her eyes as she gazed down at his naked body.
He chuckled, trying not to disturb her. She felt too good on top of him. “Tell me what I’m thinking.”
Her hand glided down his chest to rest just below his stomach. He stiffened to attention, held captive by her every move.
“Too easy. Give me a harder question.”
“Ah, but that’s the one I want answered. I want to hear it from your lips. What am I thinkin’ about?”
She pushed up to look down at him. Her brows drew together, and her luscious bottom lip curled into a pout. “I don’t think I should repeat it.”
“Then you must not know.”
“Of course I know!” She sighed, feigning irritation. “Very well. You wish me to take this dress the rest of the way off.”
He nodded, unable to hold back his smile. Grabbing hold of the material in both hands, she wriggled it over her head and tossed it beside the bed. Her hands covered her breasts. She lifted an eyebrow. “Now I expect you want me to kiss you.”
Her leg slid over his to rest against the inside of his thigh. Aching with fresh need, he swallowed hard. “Yes. You’re right. Too easy. What else am I thinking?”
She pressed her mouth against his for a long, slow kiss. Then she sat up on her knees, licking her lips. His heart hammered. “You want more. Of everything.”
The breathy sound of her voice was nearly his destruction. He could only nod.
Bracing her small hands on his chest, she slid her sex up his leg and then gracefully stretched over him, straddling his hips. Her movements mirrored his of moments ago, he realized, as she kissed his mouth and lowered herself over his straining cock. She was already wet and ready.
She made love to him like a practiced courtesan, anticipating his every want and need, while pleasuring herself. There may be some truth to her psychic ability yet. She impaled herself, riding him, faster and faster, throwing back her head with an expression so erotic it threatened to push him over the edge. She matched the rhythm he desired, making it her own. He spread his hands over her hips and glided upward to hold her breasts. She leaned into him, taking him deeper and deeper. Her svelte body arched as she crested, moaning, and he felt himself giving, breaking. He poured everything he had into holding back, waiting for her to release first. “Yes, Dell. Yes.”
She cried out as she came, sliding hard down his torso, and he wrapped his arms around her as he erupted deep within. Bodies slick and awash in euphoria, they lay together, still joined, breathing, throbbing. He held her head in the palm of his hand, and kissed her brow.
To say he “liked” her after the intensity of what he’d just experienced would be a lie. He cared more deeply than that. How much more he couldn’t be sure, but somehow he was different inside because of her. Or maybe he just wanted to be.
But no amount of wanting could change who he was.
It was getting late. Hearing her breathing grow more regular, he knew she’d be asleep soon. Damnation, he wanted to stay with her this way. To hold her all night and wake in the morning to see that darling smile of hers. Then to roll her over and make sleepy love to her.
But he couldn’t.
He could tell Dell anything in the world, but not the cause of his nightmares. He didn’t want to see the horror in her eyes and the pity that would likely follow. Nothing would be the same between them after that. She might even hate him.
Heartsick with self-loathing, he slipped out from under her lovely, warm body and left the bed.
“You don’t have to go, Rory.”
He picked up his breeches and put them on, avoiding her gaze. “They’re still playing cards downstairs. There’s more money to be made.”
She exhaled. He didn’t have to look to know the expression on her face was one of hurt. And if he looked at her now, he’d only regret it. “You rest, angel. I’ll be back in the morning.”
Dell stabbed her fried eggs with a fork. Sadly, watching the yellow ooze across her china plate didn’t give her the satisfaction she craved. She had a better place in mind to stick her fork.
“See. I told you she’d be mad,” Trap said as he and Molly walked into the dining room where she sat alone, brutalizing her breakfast.
Trap’s arm wrapped loosely over his beautiful wife’s shoulders. He whispered something in her ear, grinning, and she laughed.
The rest of the dining room was empty. Dell had waited hours alone in their room this morning, expecting Rory to return as he’d promised. When she couldn’t ignore her hunger any longer, she’d come down to eat. Alone, as all the other guests had finished.
“What do I have to be mad about?” She tipped back a cup of coffee, then grimaced as she set it in its saucer. Why didn’t they make china cups big enough to hold a proper drink? Everything in the Queen Helen’s grand dining room made her feel clumsy.
Molly cast her husband a reprimanding look.
He sighed. “The cap’n went into town.”
That explained why he hadn’t come to her, but why would they think that would make her mad? Unless… “He’s not dueling again, is he?” Her heart jumped. She put the fork down on her plate.
Molly grabbed a corner of untouched toast off Dell’s plate and nibbled on it. “No. I heard him say something to Madam LeBlanc in passing. Something about a dress order. Probably had to pay the seamstress, you know.”
Dell twisted the napkin in her lap as heat ran up her neck. He could’ve asked if she wanted to go. She’d never been to St. Louis. Hadn’t been anywhere, really, since she’d lived on the Mississippi. A trip to a seamstress might’ve been enjoyable. It figured he’d leave without thinking of her—business as usual. Last night hadn’t changed his plans one iota. Well, he might still have his ambitions, but she had hers as well.
The only thing that had changed was now she was a little achy in some new places.
&
nbsp; “I, uh”—Trap cleared his throat, frowning—“I wanted to congratulate you. Mr. Moreaux was talking about you this morning. Said you got Kit Wainwright to empty his pockets.”
Molly helped herself to the strawberry preserves. “Yes, the boss never talks about anyone, so he must’ve been really impressed.”
“It wasn’t that much money.” Dell shrugged. “I just got tired of always watchin’ the games and never playing.”
“You’ll be playing from now on.” A voice interrupted their conversation.
Molly and Trap turned around, and Dell saw one of Quintus’s men had entered the dining room. She didn’t know his name, but he had a rough edge—a sort of recklessness that made her avoid him. Like Rory and the other of her stepfather’s closest men, he carried a gun on his hip, and looked as if he’d used it on a few occasions.
“Boss says you’ll play at his table tonight. But first you have to go into town.”
Her stomach dropped. The idea of playing cards under Moreaux’s nose didn’t sit well at all. “Why do I have to go to St. Louis?” She hoped he didn’t mean to take her.
Trap shook his head. “I don’t think so, Laughton. Captain Campbell didn’t give approval for any of the crew to go—”
“The boss’ orders. There’s a visitor waiting for the woman on the wharf.”
Dell exchanged a look of dismay with Molly and Trap, who seemed just as surprised as she was. Trap backed down with a frown. Reluctantly, she followed Quintus’s hired gunman out of the dining room. Her first thought had been of Uncle Reuben and Aunt Ida come to fetch her back, then of Ephraim—demanding justice for the trick they’d pulled with the stolen money in exchange for Jeremiah. But coming off the gangway of the Queen, she spotted a fancy carriage waiting on the wharf. The well-dressed driver wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, obscuring his face from her as he moved a satchel from the seat to the back. She paused beside the conveyance, glancing back with trepidation at the gunman, Laughton, but he was already back to the gangway, returning to the steamboat.
“Hello.” Dell clutched the side of the carriage, planting a foot on the step to swing herself up. “May I ask your name and maybe where we’re supposed to be going?”
The driver swiveled his head to face her. “Hello, fraulein.”
Dell stumbled back. “You? What are you doing here?”
Herbert Ottenheim grinned at her response, which Dell was certain reflected her surprise. “The same as you. Visiting St. Louis and gambling. I vas sorry I missed the games last night. I heard young Kit suffered a loss.”
She chewed her lip and cast a look over her shoulder at the retreating gunman. Now aboard the Queen, he might hear her call him back or he might not. “His choice. I didn’t make him play.”
“This is good. No gambler vould enjoy playing if he von every game.” Ottenheim scooted to the edge of the carriage seat, leaning down and reaching a gloved hand down for her. “Let’s go.”
Dell shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
The German’s smile grew bigger, and he pulled back his coat, revealing the hilt of his pistol. “You have no rifle today. You vill come vith me.”
A thread of fear ran through her. She could run, but he might put a bullet in her back. They were alone on the wharf, no witnesses. She could fight him, but he’d already proven he was stronger. Hell!
Still, she had to admit she was curious as to what he wanted—hardly revenge for his friend’s small loss at cards if he was threatening her with a weapon.
She sighed, knocking his proffered hand out of the way, and pulled herself up into the seat. She waited until he settled beside her and grabbed the reins, then said, “If you hurt me, you know you’re as good as dead.”
Quintus might not care about her personally, but she knew him well enough to know he’d never let anyone steal what amounted to money in his eyes, including her. And as for Rory, well, he’d shown a protective streak before. She lifted her chin, daring Ottenheim to repudiate her.
Then another worry rolled over her. What if Moreaux had arranged for her to be taken? His gunman had been the one to deliver her to the German, after all, saying it was the boss’s orders.
He chuckled and snapped the reins, setting the carriage in motion. “You are probably right, fraulein, but accidents happen.”
The carriage rolled briskly through the rough wharf district, warehouses and mills, then into town where tall buildings gave way to smaller businesses. Ottenheim ignored her questions, so Dell gave up after the first few blocks. Instead she began committing the route to memory, in case she had to make a run for it to return to the Queen on her own. It wasn’t an easy task, however.
She’d never seen so many people in one place in all her life. Wagons, carriages, horses, men in city-dress and ladies in bulbous crinoline skirts. Eventually, the bustling city gave way to country lanes and rows of plantation houses. Ottenheim slowed the carriage at last in front of a stately red brick mansion.
In the circle drive, Ottenheim left the carriage in the hands of a porter and gestured for Dell to climb down. She jumped out with a flounce, skirting his helping hands again. The man wasn’t a gentleman and no amount of courtesies would make her forget that. But following him up the walkway to the beautiful house, she felt relieved she’d worn one of the new, conservative dresses that day, saving the more provocative garments for the gaming room. Her high-necked, cream frock seemed much more suitable for a visit to the home—even if it belonged to a kidnapper.
Ottenheim paused on the threshold and turned to her, one hand on the door handle. “Vait here. I’ll announce you.”
He left her alone on the big wraparound porch. She considered running, but she doubted she’d make it very far. The nearest house was a couple hundred yards or more away. There was also nothing on the porch she could wield as a weapon against the armed gambler. She paced across the deck, weighing her options when she caught the scent of cigar smoke. She followed the aromatic trail around the corner of the building where Rory stood, leaning against the wall.
“Good morning.” He grinned and dropped the cigar to grind under his shoe heel.
Dell’s pulse kicked in gear—half-relieved and half-furious. “What are you doing here?”
He came to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I had to come alone. I didn’t want Moreaux to know. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t miss the opportunity.”
“Damn it, Rory!” Dell slapped his chest with her open palms, resisting his embrace and the way her heart hammered to be held by him again after last night. “Did you know Ottenheim brought me at gunpoint?”
He frowned, but didn’t let her go. “He shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean for him to frighten you. Did he not he explain he was bringing you to meet Wainwright?”
“Wainwright?” She shook her head. “So that’s what this is about? This is Kit’s house?”
“His uncle’s.” He traced her cheek with a finger. “It’s important that you know everything.”
Serious now, his gaze held hers, and she sensed he had something vital to say to her. He’d dressed in a gray suit, his sandy hair carefully groomed back from his forehead. To say he was handsome was an understatement. He had a rakish, striking air that made her heart trip just thinking about being in bed with him the night before.
“Go on.”
“I wanted to secure this meeting as soon as possible. When Kit invited us—invited you—I had to act fast. After I arrived this morning, we sent Ottenheim to collect you. But by no means was he supposed to scare you.”
“I don’t scare that easily.”
“I know.” He grinned and bent to kiss her cheek.
She breathed in the tobacco and spicy scent of him that she never quite got enough of. Her mind tumbled with images of him lying in bed, his body wrapped around her, naked. But his pre
sent look of concern told her she should listen with full concentration. “So why is this such a secret? Does Moreaux not want you to talk to Mr. Wainwright?”
Rory’s hands slid down to hold hers. “Bartholomew Wainwright owns a brewery in St. Louis and invests in small businesses. He’s also a cardsharp. Plays in private games. Moreaux would move heaven and earth to face him again for a chance to prove he’s the better player. That’s why Moreaux sent you with Ottenheim without question.”
“Well, this oughta please your boss then. Let’s invite Wainwright to a game. Kit seems to like us, maybe he’ll—”
“Dell, I don’t wanna please Moreaux. I don’t want Bartholomew to simply play against him. I want the man to destroy him.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dell blinked, certain she’d misheard. “But Quintus is your boss. I know he’s vicious, but wouldn’t destroying him hurt you as well? If you don’t want to stay in his employ—and no one would blame you if you don’t—why don’t you just quit?”
He grimaced. “I told you, I can’t just leave. I have to make sure…he has to lose the ships. All of them.” His hands tightened around her fingers, and a strange fire glittered in the depths of his eyes.
Vengeance?
Rory’d never spoken of his raising, but she sensed he’d had a loveless childhood. Now he hated Moreaux enough to bankrupt him. She ran her thumbs across the backs of his hands soothingly. “I’ll bet Wainwright could find a position for you in his company, and I imagine Moreaux would be incensed at losing you to his rival.” She smiled. It was a spectacular idea, if it was what Rory had in mind. He’d be free of his boss and wouldn’t have to worry about killing anyone.
But Rory shook his head and glanced aside as if troubled. “I want to take the crew with me when I go. The only way to do that will be for Wainwright to win the fleet. All three damn steamboats and the packet.”
