by Martha Hix
Susan cocked her head, then glanced quickly at Burke before returning her attention to the storyteller. “Go on.”
“Mrs. Paget, do you believe in sorcery?”
Susan choked on the cognac. Grabbing her napkin, she turned her face and put the linen to it. Burke got a glass of water, saw that she took a restorative sip, then rubbed her back.
“Dammit, you didn’t call a powwow to grill Susan about her beliefs,” he snarled at his aunt.
“Mrs. Paget, do you believe in magic?” Phoebe repeated.
From behind the handkerchief Susan replied, “I do.”
Aunt Phoebe took up her banner, and every word she spoke grated Burke’s nerves, since she had nothing new or interesting to say, such as the magic lamp having vanished into thin air.
She said, “The lamp grants wishes. Well, the genie grants the wishes. He allowed my sister three, and she picked brides for the nephews.”
Susan looked askance but reined in her expression. “That was most generous of her, thinking of her relatives rather than doing what most people would do, fall on their own personal wants and needs.”
“My sister is a very generous person, I agree.”
Generous? Where Aunt Phoebe annoyed him, her sister infuriated him, and that lowlife genie ought to be spit-roasted and served to baying hounds. “Hurry it up,” Burke growled.
She went on. “Burke’s elder brother found the woman for him on the specified date, his thirtieth birthday. You’ll meet Connor and India when we reach St. Francisville.”
“What she’s failing to tell you is, the magic worked for Conn, but it didn’t for me.” Burke took great pleasure in saying that. “I’m free of it.”
“That’s why you didn’t want to meet any women on your birthday,” Susan surmised aloud.
“Exactly.”
His kinswoman pushed cognac and plate toward the table center, and got to the thick soles of her brogans. She resembled a soldier ready to give her life for a cause. “Burke, I want you to make three wishes on the lamp.”
“No.” Again he made a fist. This time he pounded it on the table. Items jumped. So did Susan. “No!”
“Think twice, nephew. I’m offering you a chance at anything. You’ll want it after I’m finished explaining myself.”
“I think I’ve heard enough.” Susan pushed up from the table, frightened by his shout.
“So have I.”
“Sit down, nephew. And I mean it!” Aunt Phoebe grabbed Susan’s hand. “Don’t let him scare you, gal. He’s all bark and no bite. Besides, you’ve listened this far, why not hear the rest of it? It does concern you.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
Gray eyes turned to Burke. “If you’d read my last letter, you’d know something I’ve kept from you for thirty years.”
“What?” he asked slowly as Susan retook her seat.
“Your birthday is July tenth.”
“No.” His heart stopped. “It can’t be. That was yesterday.” A yesterday that began in Natchez, at a certain stroke of midnight. “This is a trick.”
“It is not.”
The boat rocked beneath the chair that now seemed inadequate to hold him. Images waved before his eyes, as if he were in the throes of a fever.
“Gal, fate brought you to Burke O’Brien,” Aunt Phoebe said. “In the true form of wishes made and granted, you, Mrs. Susan Paget, are destined to become Burke’s bride.”
Even before she finished explanations, Burke shouted, “That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s not, nephew. I’ve spent my life as bookkeeper in the establishment of Fitz and Son, Factors. I am not wrong about figures. Just before your birth, I reset the clock to the accurate time while your mother contracted. You slid into the midwife’s hands at one minute after midnight on July 10, 1838.”
Exactly thirty years before he’d opened the hatch to Susan Pa—he didn’t even know the true last name of the voodooess fate had mated to him.
Tremors shook Burke. Once more, as it had for four miserable years, he felt the drag of a force more powerful than any mortal’s strength. Sick with it, he glared reprovingly at the aunt who’d had more than sufficient time to set the record straight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Your mother insisted her eyes were on the clock when you popped out. I know better. She was too busy screaming her head off. Afterward, I decided not to raise a ruckus. We had enough trouble with Georgia Morgan without nitpicking over two minutes. It didn’t matter until four years ago. After Miss Lawrence, you’ll recall, you were not listening to me. And you’ve denied me ever since I embarked on this boat.”
Susan’s features had whitened, and Burke, through his blur, took a guess at how this outlandish tale must be affecting her. She had a heaped plate of trouble already. Just what she needed, a flawed man with a past that had come back to curse him, when she wanted Sussex.
Aunt Phoebe rounded the table, stopping at her nephew. Squatting on joints that creaked, she crossed her arms and rested them on bony knees. “Would you care to rethink my offer? You can have your own wishes. Whatever they may be.”
Burke lunged to his feet. The chair flew behind him, bouncing. “You have wronged me for the last time, Aunt. Lock yourself in your cabin. When we reach St. Francisville, go ashore. Don’t look back.”
She gasped.
“Burke!” Susan cried out. “She’s your aunt. Have mercy! ”
“Stay out of this.” He glared back at Phoebe O’Brien, promising, “From this moment forward, you are dead to me.”
The indomitable redhead seemed to shrink before his eyes. “Don’t make the rest of my life as sad as these past years have been. Please.”
“Go to your cabin and stay there,” he ordered, unmoved by her plea. “I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”
Speechless—for once!—she whirled around. Her gait lacking its usual assurance, she trudged toward her imposed cell.
As fast as his numbed stride would carry him, Burke, too, quit the dining salon. Deceived and tricked for the second time, he regretted not a word of his vow. His aunt was dead to him.
Dead.
He felt half that way himself.
Never had he been this unsteady, even during the turmoil of too much whiskey. All he now knew was the anger of betrayal. The shock plunged him into deeper numbness.
Such a fool. Such a fool.
When he’d promised to succor Susan to New Orleans, Burke had felt sturdy enough to shoulder life’s ordeals. Now Samson with sheared hair couldn’t have felt as powerless.
Yet fate brought Susan to Burke. She was his responsibility, not only to the levee of New Orleans, but forever. What a cruel joke.
She caught up just as he reached the entry to his quarters. She laid a tender hand on his upper arm, the warmth pressing against the material covering cold, cold skin.
“Burke, if I’d had any idea of . . . of the situation, I wouldn’t have stepped aboard this riverboat.”
The sincerity in her voice balmed his invisible wounds to a certain extent. Grimacing, he squeezed shut a pair of eyes that didn’t want to look at the future.
“You can be rid of me easily enough, Burke. Accept your aunt’s offer.”
“Never. What I might wish could make hell for someone else. I know. It happened to me. And to Toni.”
He fell to memories that had torn him apart. Again, it was 1864. He spoke to his pain. “I did everything in my power to prove the lamp wrong. I offered my name, my resources, my undying love. I promised to protect my lady from harm.”
Yet soldiers had held Burke down while his Yankee princess had run for her life, had tried to flee from her advancing enemy.
Burke pressed his forearm against the bulkhead, leaning his head into it. “I floundered. Weak, ineffective. Feeble.” A vision rushed to his mind’s eye, the sight of the fragile young woman falling into the paddle wheels . . . and afterward, when she’d lain broken in body and mind. “There was nothing I could do to save Ton
i from the madness.”
“Burke, don’t. You judge yourself too harshly.”
Susan’s voice yanked him back to the present.
“It makes no difference now,” he muttered.
Toni was lost, as she’d always been lost to Burke, although he’d taken too long to accept it. Witchcraft had coaxed her heart to Matt Marshall, even before she threw herself into the blades to escape an incestuous uncle. Perhaps she’d sought to flee Burke too. No one would ever know.
It wasn’t death that took her, not then, for she lived in her vacant world with a guardian aunt. Lost to everyone for eight months. Then her vacant stare was no more.
What had been pain for Burke then turned to hell.
“This night will pass,” Susan whispered. “You’ll feel better on the morrow.”
He twisted around. There the sunshine beauty stood, dressed as a Gypsy, the ringmaster’s fist marking her chin. Very real, very alive, very aware of their environs. She was whole, as Antoinette had not been. He needed whole.
And the lamp had brought Susan the Sorceress to Burke.
“You’re through with chicken worshiping.” Through gritted teeth he made a snap promise. “If I ever catch you with gris-gris, I’ll snap your neck.”
She gasped.
He started to amend his rash statement, but this was no night for apologies. “Twisted fate is cruel. Ruthless. We must accept it. God help us both.”
Taking her elbows, Burke pulled her to his chest and looked down into wide eyes. So lovely, those big, dark eyes. His lips descended, taking hers in a kiss that intoxicated his veins like no bottle had ever done. He tasted cognac, inhaled vanilla . . . and woman. Beautiful, luscious woman.
It wasn’t love, no, it wasn’t, not like he’d felt for another desperate lady. He raised his head to say, “I don’t want you any more than you want me, but you will be my wife. You’ll sun yourself at 21 rue Royale.”
“Don’t say that. This has been a horrid evening for you. You know not what you’re saying.”
“Aye, but I do.”
“Sheer madness. You reject the lamp, yet you tamper with my fate by your refusal. Have you considered that?”
“I will do better for you than you’ve ever known.”
“Go to bed, Burke O’Brien.” Susan stepped back, whirling to the right and rushing to the asylum of her quarters.
Nine
It was a lover’s rain that fell. Gentle yet emphatic taps drummed the great freighter’s hull, the shower cooling these hours before dawn. Sweet breezes soughed through the open portholes, ruffled the netting that draped Susan’s bed, and whispered her awake to ponder last night, to remember Burke and his torture.
She arose from bed, frisking her hands up and down her arms as her bare feet paced the thick rug. The idea of marrying a madman went beyond the pale. She was through with madmen.
Yet her heart, and her anger, went out to the one aboard the Yankee Princess. Burke, harrowed Burke. Unpredictable Burke. He would cage her to his bizarre beliefs. And how dare he threaten to break her neck!
He still loved that Antoinette woman. At least Susan hadn’t loved Orson. Oh, she’d imagined herself in thrall when she’d forsaken her father to go away with the circus man, but becoming a thrall had cleared her eyes. No more madmen!
Suddenly the air became close in Susan’s stateroom. She needed air, needed to feel the rain, needed to be out of confines. Four walls caged her. No more would she be caged.
She swept the night braid over the shoulder of her lawn sleeping gown, then rushed into the wet of outdoors, toward the stern. Yet the deck above kept rain from her head. She inhaled. Better. Much better. The air smelled of freedom.
And then she noticed him.
A shoulder propped against his doorway, his darkened quarters behind him. She started to back away. She didn’t need him. She didn’t want some sort of silly marriage. Her last desire at the moment was to mate with an erratic Irishman in love with another woman.
Yet he called to her softly, her name drifting, his voice beckoning. The unexplainable pull that obsessed her in the first place now defied sanity. Her gaze drawn to the bare chest that had excited her for so long, she went to him. He was wet. He’d been walking on an exposed deck, it was apparent. He wore nothing but britches.
His breath flowing into her ear, he said, “Forgive me for a fit of frenzy. I would never snap your neck.”
That he was capable of quixotic fits distressed her, yet rushing away became impossible.
“Go with me to Royale Street. As my wife,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. As you don’t fight me now.”
“I can’t. I do.”
His fingers brought her arm over his shoulder. His breath pleasing, his skin warm yet damp to the touch, he caressed her bottom. She allowed him to press her to him, and felt his manhood responding. Her breasts answered the friction of his hairy chest, but he wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted England. Throughout her silent rectification, she yet yearned to taste the carnal.
Would it be wrong?
Just once?
Yes, it was wrong! He would cage her. Or worse. “Don’t do this to me, Burke. Don’t.”
He bent his head to her throat. “It’s out of our hands. As I want you in mine.”
Tiny bumps reared on her arms. No matter those arguments against him, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t voice her misgivings. She allowed him to kiss her, let his tongue slip into her mouth, wanted it when he gathered her hem up and caressed her flesh.
He guided her into his quarters, closing the door behind them. He had her at his bed, got her back to the satin coverlet. And the sweet rain still fell, the wind still enchanting as it quivered the mosquito net and tickled her skin. Or was it Burke? It was as if Susan sipped his expensive brandy. He now cradled her in his arms, his kisses besotting her to a headier degree, his fingers undoing her braid. She wanted him.
“So lovely,” he murmured, having done with the ribbons that closed her gown. And then he sucked her breast. No lips had ever touched her there. She gasped at the feeling, her fingers curling into satin. Her woman place became moist, and begged for notice.
She had another desire. She thirsted to taste him as she had seen him tasted. She wiggled away from his lips, shoved his shoulders to the mattress, and lowered her mouth to his chest.
He tensed for a moment as her tongue darted out, her taste buds connecting to the damp, crinkled hair that swirled about his flat breast. Her lingua was not displeased. Neither were her hands. There was nothing soft about him, especially the erection that throbbed against her ribs as she worshiped his chest. His groan of surprise and delight thrilled her as she circled her tongue, encountering the prominent bumps that stood up and guarded his nipple. In her foray she hummed in her throat, loving the sensations. She took him into her mouth.
“Sorceress,” he uttered, and combed fingers into her hair. “Ye gods, what are you doing to me?”
She didn’t answer. But her diligence took him to a higher quest for relief. He rolled her to a supine position, put his knee between hers, and damned the britches that impeded his entry. She wanted it. Oh, she did. It was then that a clock chimed at bedside.
Her eyes went to the sound. The light may have been muted, but she recognized the apparatus. Her father had designed the mazelike device of silver balls and trick glides. In the matter of men, you have no more sense than God gave George III.
It was wrong to trifle with a madman’s affection and expectations. She didn’t want Burke. She wanted England.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered as she wiggled away.
“Everything.” Somehow she managed not to brush a tousled lock of hair from his brow.
“You said Paget was impotent. Does that mean he never had his way with you? That you’re a virgin?”
“I’ve been touched.” She pulled her nightgown together.
“Why didn’t he marry you?”
Glad to have the sensual mood broken, she had no trou
ble answering. “He already had a wife.”
“I’ve never been married, ask anyone. As you said the other night, I’m well known.” Burke put his hand at her waist. “If you want marriage first, I’ll respect that.”
“I do not want marriage. I thought I made myself quite clear on that issue.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed, shoved the netting aside, and surged to her feet. “You don’t want it either. Best you go to your aunt and get the lamp. Make your wish to be free of the first one.”
“I thought I made myself quite clear on that issue,” he parroted. “You’ll waste your efforts if you fight the spell.”
She charged for the hatch. It looked as though she needed to get a few wishes on that lamp for herself.
Burke knew better than to run after her. She would fight. A pitched battle didn’t suit him. It wouldn’t be easy, getting her to a preacher. But they would go. He’d become somewhat inured to the idea. Marriage. Forever. Marriage by magic.
It set his teeth to honor Tessa O’Brien. He’d take great joy in repaying her for this. A devious thought wormed into his mind. Did the marriage have to last? Nothing said he and Susan need be wed forever. In this regard he had the helm. You’d better study on that one, O’Brien. No snap decisions.
He lay back on the bed that held the faint scent of Susan, vanilla, and a hint of her heliotrope dusting powder. Ah, Susie Black-Eyes. She was magic. It almost wasn’t wretched to think of magic as it pertained to the unwilling bride. What she needed was a heavy case of seduction. That would get her mind right for magic-marriage.
Susan grew exasperated at her quest for magic. No matter her pleas, Phoebe O’Brien held on to the lamp. She may have offered her nephew a go at it, but no one else. Even after Susan explained no “Mrs.” fronted her name, which relieved the Memphis lady. Even after Susan told her the awful story of Orson, and after she’d begged a chance at magic.
Woebegone Phoebe did give something up though. The story behind Antoinette Lawrence, or pieces of it. “Nobody tells me much about what happened after she went mad. All I know for sure is what happened while I was aboard the Delta Star in ’64.”
