by Sandra Jones
The tobacco failed to satisfy. Perhaps he’d lost his taste for the stuff. He blew a trail of smoke and watched it fade into the darkness. “I guess you know who I’m looking for.”
If Laughton pulled his gun, he’d have to kill him. Gunfire would bring witnesses, and then he’d have no choice but to kill anyone who came to Moreaux’s aid—including the bastard himself. As a result, he’d swing from a hangman’s rope for the murders. How much help would he be to the others then?
Laughton’s gaze went to Rory’s holstered firearm. “Quintus said you might come by. I reckon you’d better stick to playing cards tonight, Campbell. It would be best for everyone.”
Rory tossed the cigar into the black river. “I reckon you keeping the kid in that room makes you about the second worst piece of shit on this boat.”
Laughton’s hand moved, but he was too slow. Rory rammed a fist into his abdomen. The gunman grunted, winded, but came up throwing a fist at Rory’s chin. The impact sent Rory stumbling into the railing. Stars danced in front of his eyes for a few seconds, but he heard Laughton coming. He ducked under the man’s swing and drove his fist into his gut again. Laughton folded in half. Rory shoved him hard against the door, causing the old wood to split.
“Bastard!” Laughton’s hand fumbled for his gun, but Rory reached it first. He slung it to land in the Mississippi with a splash.
Laughton’s eyes blazed with hatred. He seized Rory by the neck and the two big men locked together spun into the wall. The other man’s strong hands crushed his throat, but Rory held him by the balls of his shoulders. Stronger than Laughton, Rory used the leverage of his long legs, pushing him against the door again so hard that his skull bounced off the wood. His hands loosened, but he didn’t let go. Rory dragged him backward against the door a third time, scraping his knuckles in the process. Blood trickled down Laughton’s chin from where he’d bit his tongue.
The gunman released Rory and pulled away. “You’re as good as dead, Campbell.”
Rory drew his gun, aimed at Laughton’s chest, and cocked the hammer. “I’ve been dead for years. Nobody can hurt me anymore.”
Laughton backed to the rail and glanced over his shoulder at the water. “You think so? You’re only foolin’ yourself, then.”
“Jump.” Rory took a step forward.
Laughton gave him a nasty smile, promising he’d be back. Then the man cleared the railing, plunged into the river, and swam toward the wharf. Rory holstered his gun and touched his throbbing jaw. Laughton was right. He was as good as dead.
He opened the door and found Asa sitting on the bed with his lantern raised defensively at the end of his shaking arm. The boy looked terrified.
“Rory!”
Rory leaned against the doorframe and breathed a sigh of relief. “Now do you see I’m only lookin’ out for you?” He lifted his bleeding hand to examine it, then caught Asa’s horrified stare. Good. He needed to know how violent Moreaux and his men could be. “Where’s your gun?”
The boy set the lantern on the table and came to stand beside him in the doorway. “B-back in the room. Quintus bought me some new tools, said we’d start working tonight. Laughton helped me move my stuff in here, but then he wouldn’t let me leave. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why would he want to keep me in here?” His eyes filled with tears.
His heart wrenched. He put a hand on Asa’s frail shoulder. “They’re up to no good. Go straight to the crew’s quarters. Load your gun. If anyone—anyone—besides one of the crew comes in the room, shoot ’em. Don’t leave that room, you hear?”
Asa nodded and wiped his runny nose with his shirtsleeve. “What are you gonna do, Rory?”
He pulled Asa to his shoulder for a brief hug. “I’m going to wait here for your benefactor.”
Rory watched Asa run up the stairs. As soon as the boy was out of earshot, he let loose a string of oaths.
He closed the door behind him and surveyed the room. The boy had come to the Queen with only the clothes on his back. Quintus has provided nearly everything else in the room—and most of it that very week. Amusements abounded throughout the cabin, gadgets carefully selected to appeal to Asa. Tools, materials to keep him busy. Fine clothing for a lad. Enticements for his cooperation.
Thirteen years ago it had been the same for Rory. Only he’d treasured books more than anything else. Novels took his mind off where he’d come from and made him a prince, an explorer, or a noble knight, if only for a few hours. After he’d taught himself to read, Quintus took notice of his preference, bought him armloads of storybooks. His cabin quickly looked like a library with a bed in the middle. But it didn’t take long for Rory to hate that room and everything it signified.
“Did you enjoy Ivanhoe?” Quintus had asked softly as he closed the door and slinked toward the bed.
Rory stood and nudged the battered remains of the book under the dresser with his foot, praying the monster wouldn’t see what he’d done. In an angry fit, he’d shredded the volume, sickened by what the gift represented—a book in exchange for the things Mr. Moreaux did to his body.
Rory hadn’t even asked for the gift. And no amount of tears or pleas would stop the man from exacting payment.
Why would Quintus think a book would compensate for the pain he caused?
The gambler had his pants undone and waited at the foot of the bed by the time Rory glanced up at him. “Get over here, boy.”
His body shuddered uncontrollably. Gathering all his courage, he took a step away from the dresser. Paper rattled under his foot. A loose page clung to the sole of his boot. His gaze shot to his guardian, and his stomach fell to see the man staring at the torn paper.
The dark eyes went black. “It took Farley a day to find that book in New Orleans. I buy these stories to keep you happy. Are you so bored that you have nothing better to do than destroy the things I provide for you?”
“No sir.”
“I think you are. I think you need to be punished.” He retrieved his gun belt from his pants and doubled it in his hand. He stood, letting his breeches fall to his feet.
Rory swallowed back vomit, shaking himself free of the memory. The sight of the room conjured up too many bad times he’d rather forget. Yet his nightmares kept the sickening memories near.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he picked up a shiny new pocket watch on the dresser and threw it against the wall. The metal and glass splintered, pinging as it fell in pieces across the room. His hot rage didn’t abate. Nothing he broke ever made him feel any better, but he had to try.
Perhaps forgetting wasn’t what he should do anyway. The fresh pain reminded him of how much was at stake for Asa and other youths. Rory wouldn’t allow there to be another boy like him. Never again. He grabbed a deck of playing cards from the vanity and sent them scattering across the floor.
Time wasn’t running out anymore. It was already too late.
Now all his plans were shot to hell. Laughton might come back with another gun or another of Moreaux’s gunmen. Even if he didn’t, the boss would know what happened when he came for Asa and found him gone. There was only one thing left for Rory to do.
Quintus had to die tonight.
After a successful evening, Dell left the salon early with six hundred dollars rolled up and stuffed in her bodice. Moreaux had toasted her with a glass of sherry.
Earning his approval made her skin crawl. She would’ve preferred she hadn’t made a nickel. He would want the money back of course, but she’d wait until the morning. All she wanted now was to find Rory and demand they finish their conversation from earlier. She had to know if he’d been discussing her with Vivienne and if he’d intended for her to seduce Bartholomew.
He’d left the salon abruptly for no apparent reason, then didn’t come back. It wasn’t like him.
Finding their shared room empty and Asa not answering her k
nock at the crew’s barracks, she went to her old room. It was too early for Rory to be in bed, but he might be ill.
She rapped on the door. No answer, but the door cracked open. There was a lantern on inside.
Standing on the threshold, she hesitated. Vivienne was still in the salon, but what if Rory had decided to entertain another lady-friend? She had no claim on him. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of walking in on him and another woman.
She listened. The room was silent. What if he was inside alone and sick?
That thought forced her decision. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The bed was made, but the floor was littered with tools. A hammer, screwdrivers, torn playing cards, a file, and a broken pocket watch. She stepped over the scattered mess of wires and screws, spying more trinkets and clothes. Barely two feet into the room, the door slammed behind her and two strong arms closed around her. She was shoved backward against the door, crushed beneath the long, hard body of Rory with the cold steel of a gun prodding her chin.
He blinked in surprise, a line creasing his forehead. “Angel!” His body eased, and he withdrew the gun. “Hell! You shouldn’t be here.”
She waited for him to holster the gun, but he kept it at his side. His hair looked as though he’d been raking his hands through it all night, his shirt badly wrinkled.
“What’s going on? What happened in here?”
He opened the door and gestured for her to leave. “Go to our place. Bolt the door. Keep your rifle at your side.”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. She surveyed him more closely. His shirt had blood droplets down the front. His sleeves were stained as well, and his knuckles on his gun hand were scraped, though the blood was dried. “What happened in here? Have you been fightin’?”
His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. He still refused to look at her. “Go on! It’s not safe here.”
She walked around him and shut the door, closing out the racket of the salon below. She would stay until he talked. Glancing around the room, she spotted Asa’s books strewn across the floor. A new volume of Charles Dickens lay face down. Another gift from Quintus? The room was a total wreck. She recognized some of the equipment the boy was using to make the gambler’s holdout device. Her gaze swung to the dresser where the mirror had been shattered. Not a fight.
Rage.
“Are you all right, Rory?” His name stuck in her throat when she looked at him again.
His brawny body quaked almost imperceptibly, but he crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to contain his jitters. His eyes stared at the floor, his jaw tightening convulsively.
His lack of control chilled her to the bone. She put her hands on his sides, standing just under his chin. Ignore me now.
His face had lost all its color as if he were a man who had no hope left in the world.
One by one the pieces drifted together in her inner sight as she worked the puzzle: Asa working for Quintus, maybe a fight, Quintus’s gifts broken, the mirror…the bedroom…the bedroom?…why her sickly mama left and didn’t bring Rory. Perhaps Mama didn’t think Rory was worth saving or she thought it was too late for him…or perhaps Rory was her sacrifice, a way to pacify her husband while she escaped with her own child. Maybe she’d hoped the blow of her leaving Quintus would be softened by the boy.
Dell’s lungs closed as the truth overwhelmed her in one crushing blow. Oh, God, no! “Did Quintus intend to…rape Asa?”
Rory’s eyelids fell over his eyes, shielding him, but it was too late. The truth spoke, shouted to her, in his body language.
She chewed on her lip, banking her revulsion and anger. She should’ve seen it long ago, right in front of her!
What did that bastard do to you, Rory? Another time, another place. Save the question for later. Don’t cry now!
She pressed close against him, placing her hands on his upper arms. “What do you want me to do? Tell me and I’ll do it.” Regret tightened within—she should’ve agreed to his scheme with the Wainwrights. How could she not?
He swallowed audibly. His hard eyes focused on her. “It’s too late. I’ve ruined everything. I forced Laughton off the ship when I found him guarding Asa’s door.” He gave a shake of his head. “I sent Asa back, told him to wait for me. God, I ruined everything for the boy, the crew, Jeremiah—”
“You protected Asa. You did the right thing.”
He shook his head. “Moreaux will be here soon. My plan’s shot to hell. I have to kill him.” He drew back.
“No!” Dell took his hand still holding the gun in both of hers. “Don’t. You’ll hang if he doesn’t kill you first. I don’t want you to die.”
His fingers lifted off the gun to touch hers tentatively. “I’m damaged, but I won’t let him hurt Asa as well.”
“He’s done it to others, hasn’t he?”
Rory closed his eyes and nodded. “One. He’s taken in two boys since he’s had me. The last one died of consumption. He was lucky.”
Dell ached inside. She took the gun from his loose grip. “Let’s find another way.”
He searched her face. “You’re better off with me gone.” The corner of his mouth lifted with self-spite. “I know what you’re thinking. I ain’t any better than Moreaux for working for him all these years, but I never let him touch anyone!”
Don’t cry, she warned herself again. She dropped the gun on a pile of clothes. Her heart beat rapidly in her throat, but she wouldn’t allow the tears to come. Her fingers closed around his hand. Numbly, she led him to sit by her on the bed where he buried his head in his hands.
“Tell me what you can.” She put a hand on his knee.
“Funny thing about teaching a boy to use a gun, it makes him no longer helpless.” With his hands in his hair, he spoke brokenly, “Moreaux quit…hurtin’ me when I pulled my pistol out from under my pillow one night. After a few years went by, I thought he was done with the abuse. Then he brought home Thomas. He was ten. Quintus gave him gifts and his own room. Then I saw the difference in Thomas’s spirit, and I knew the monster’d got to him too. I helped him get away. He lives in Chicago now. I check on him sometimes.”
Dell wet her lips to speak. “That was horrible, Rory, but it wasn’t your fault. You saved him.”
“Moreaux beat the hell out of me for that stunt.” He lifted his head and smiled at her. His expression put a knife through her heart. She put her hand in his, and he cupped it between both of his calloused ones. She could feel his pulse against her palm and the tremor in his body as he held her like a lifeline. “Same thing happened with Durham. He was nine. His sickness intervened before anything happened, but that made him worthless in Moreaux’s eyes. He dropped him off in an institution to die and promptly picked up Asa.”
Dell brought his battered hand to her mouth and kissed his raw knuckles. “You’ve protected them the best you could. If you’d left, there would’ve been more boys.”
He shook his head, scowling. “Killing him would’ve been better. I was just too damn selfish. Proud. I didn’t want to kill anyone. Even him. ’Cause that’s all he ever wanted me to do. To become like him.” He scrubbed a hand down his face.
Dell shook her head. “You had a good plan. Still do. Wainwright could take him for all he’s got.”
His thumb stroked her hand absently. “I’m dead to Moreaux. He won’t trust me now.”
“So leave. Take Asa somewhere safe. I’ll stay. I can finish what you’ve started.”
His eyes brightened, then he gave a negative shake of his head. “I couldn’t leave you here with him. Too dangerous for you. I never should have brought you into this.”
“I’m not helpless.” She gave her voice more confidence than she felt. Vivienne had it figured so wrong. “I’ll convince him I’m done with you.”
“That shouldn’t be hard.” He was teasing, but the searchin
g look he gave her made her stomach squeeze.
She forced a smile, the tears now beating the backs of her eyes though she fought them. “Harder than you’d think.”
His chin had a bluish mark nearly lost in the shadow of his stubble where Laughton had evidently hit him. She put a gentle hand on his cheek and leaned to kiss his mouth. He turned to her, pulling her into his arms. Her heart twanged with the bittersweetness of his embrace as she angled her head to give him access, certain nothing in her life had ever felt more right than this man. They kissed hard, deeply, pouring all their emotions into the moment. She put love in her kiss that she couldn’t say, threading her fingers in his hair and giving herself fully to him.
He’d been through hell. Had given years of his life to preventing anyone else from experiencing the same. She loved him. Loved him.
He drew back and brought a handful of her hair to his lips where he rubbed against the wavy strands. “You’re not through with me?” he asked quietly.
“No. Not by a long shot.” She smiled and traced his forehead.
He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch but still emotionally distant. She longed to kiss him until she was breathless, to lean back in his arms, and open for him. Wanted to make him a part of her with the joining of their bodies and souls. Then, and only then, he might feel whole and well again after the painful memories she’d drudged up for him. Like the boy he’d mentioned, his spirit had also been desecrated.
He dropped his forehead on her shoulder after a length. “I wish I could stay in your arms all night.” He sighed raggedly. “But you know we’ve got to get out of here.”
“Yes.” She hated to agree, but at least he’d reconciled himself with his leaving too. “Where will you go?”
His head shifted on her shoulder, thinking. “There’s a man on Walnut Street who has rooms to let. Name’s Pomeroy. He owes me for a loss that I never told Moreaux about. You’ll be safe to visit me there the day after tomorrow if Moreaux doesn’t have you followed. I’ll work out the particulars of the card match with Bartholomew. Dell, the bastard’s gonna be furious to find the boy gone.”
