by Martha Hix
“I won’t let the bogeyman get you.”
A laugh vibrated through the courtyard as she threw her head back at the ironies of life. She’d gone from one hotspur to another. Yet they were as different as Sussex and New Orleans. Orson made her miserable; Burke offered the world.
Her eyes settled on Burke’s intense gaze, silvered by moonlight. Her heart took an extra beat. Why would she want to escape him?
She touched his knee, all the invitation he needed. His kiss delved into the recesses of her mouth. A palm cupped Susan’s breast, massaged, and it had the intended effect, for soon he got between her legs, her petticoats out of the way. His fingers now delved to her weak point. He brought her to the brink of ecstasy, then over it.
Her heart beat wildly as he said, “If you leave, think how much you’ll miss me.”
To show just how much she’d miss him, he rocked back on his heels. He even had the audacity to chuckle, the sound superior and confident. “If you think to turn to your friends on St. Ann Street, don’t. You need more than hoodoo, Susie Black-Eyes. You need me.”
Hoodoo. It hadn’t worked for Zinnia, who’d asked for love for Burke. Or was it working?
“Susan, my sweet, I would love to be your husband. I want to see you happy. I can be quite energetic,” he teased, volleying a previous description, “and you know it. I propose making our marriage attractive to you. There’s something—”
“You love Toni,” Susan declared.
He blinked. “She’s dead. She died a long time ago.”
“What! Why did no one tell me?” But India had hinted. Poor Toni. “What happened?”
“She died. That’s all. Grief fades in time. When Throck helped me put the bottle away, I realized life must go on. I’d like to go on with you.”
One of her hesitations in accepting Burke had been Antoinette Lawrence. Both Phoebe and India had advised that it was failure more than love that had almost wrecked his life, but did that make a difference?
Except for that night on the Yankee Princess, when he’d blurted out his trying times, he’d always been strong, a champion and a friend. How could she deny him a second chance at love?
He doesn’t love you.
I love him.
Did she? Why? He was everything she’d not allowed herself to dream of. A perfect man. Almost Carmelita’s prophecy. Yes, he had a temper, but his good moods outweighed the bad. Kind with Pippin, wonderful to her. Susan trusted Burke to protect them. It wasn’t New Orleans that repulsed her, only the thought of Orson finding her there. Burke would keep him away. He was a man of his word. Dependable and trustworthy, passionate—oh, so passionate! That he was a joy to look upon seemed almost incidental.
Susan would win Burke’s love.
Should she blurt out her feelings?
You’ve had a hellish day. Don’t be shallow. “Pippin expects you to point out Cancer,” she said. “I trust you’ll allow me to go upstairs. Alone. I need to think.”
He allowed it. She went to the room next to Pippin’s, each facing the courtyard on the west. In bed she considered the future and the now. Could she win Burke’s love?
She was not what he wanted. He was bound by a magic lamp. Lovemaking might grow boring in time, as it had for Orson. How long would it be before Burke started to hate her?
The next morning Susan went to the open breakfast-room door. Burke sat at the table, sipping chicory coffee and answering Pippin’s questions about the constellations. The riverboat captain, now landlocked, wore a snow-white shirt with a fine suit and cravat.
His green eyes moved from Pippin, found Susan. He smiled. He rose from the table and strode to her, taking her elbows. “We need to talk,” he said for her ears only.
She gazed at his handsome face, her insides afire at the thought of their sharing a marriage bed. “What do you mean?” she asked, fearing that he would back out.
He craned his neck around her. “Pip, finish your beignets. You’ve got shopping to do.”
“He’s gonna send a minnow with us, Momma. You and me, we’re gonna buy anything we need. Can you imagine?”
Susan tipped up a brow. “Minnow?”
“He means minion. Zinnia’s word choice. Keep Smile will take you on your rounds.” Burke eyed Pippin’s cleaned plate. “Cast off, lad. I want a word with your momma.”
Pippin charged from the eating room.
“Sit down, Susan. Let me pour your coffee.” Burke led her to the table and seated her next to his chair. Once she’d had the first worried sip, he parked elbows on chair arms and rubbed his mouth. “You’ve got your sights set on making a limey coxcomb out of the lad. You’ll have that.”
“You’re withdrawing your proposal?” she asked, and held her breath. Odd, how things could change in a day! What would she do if he didn’t give her a chance to love him?
He answered, “I suggest we marry by Judge Duval. That way there won’t be any religious entanglements.”
Her heart dropped. No religious entanglements? Did he think her totally pagan? Proud of the levelness in her tone, she said, “You’ve worked out the civil details, no doubt.”
“The license is right here.” He patted his breast pocket. “You can be on your way to England by New Year’s Day. We can terminate our marriage by the end of 1868.”
He meant to discard her before the break of the new year? How clever. He would honor his aunt’s quest for a bride, then be done with the leavings.
He, who had offered to protect her.
He, who turned a hesitant boy into a fast friend.
He, who had stolen her love!
Did he guess her feelings? Would he be that cruel, to play with her heart? Of course he would. Magic made him.
She sputtered, “Your plan is slightly more attractive than sheer madness.”
“Is it? I’ll see after the Natchez business, and we’ll adopt the boy. When we part, I’ll sign custody over to you. You’ll have sufficient money to sail away, to have food and clothing and more than mere necessities. I’ll pay for you to establish your own residence in Sussex. Are you willing to accept my offer?”
Cut and dried. Not a breath of romance. No hint of love. But then, why expect love from a man bound by the supernatural? Would it make a difference, should she declare her love? Mama Loa, please tell me I didn’t disappoint in lust. Now, that was ridiculous.
Susan said woodenly, “Winter crossings are horrid on the Atlantic.”
“I know that. We could extend our arrangement.” His teeth flashed. “Want to make it a year?”
“I wouldn’t care to live under a cloud for so long.” She swallowed. “What will you gain from the marriage?”
“A wife.” He poured more coffee. “When you are gone, freedom from the curse.”
“What will Pippin think?”
“We’ll explain the divorce away. It’ll be amiable. My home and hearth will always be open to . . . Pip.”
He had it all figured out.
She would accept his offer, of course, would grab any chance to win his heart. Yet she made a vow to God and the deities: Love would never pass her lips unless Burke spoke three little words and meant them.
She studied the tension where his almost-dimples should be, saying, “You didn’t mention the particulars of marriage. Considering its finite nature, I assume it will be in name only.”
“Wrong.”
Had he considered the dangers?
“Ours will be a marriage in every sense of the word.” He quit his chair and loomed over her. “I mean to have you in my bed, naked, until the end of the year.”
Less than six months to love him. But almost a half year to be in his arms, giving her heart and soul. A lot could happen between now and December. Always, she’d imagined herself with a houseful of children . . .
“What if we start a child?” she asked wisely. What if we’ve got one now?
“I’ll ward against it.”
Being ignorant of preventive measures, although she had heard t
here were ways, she asked, “How?”
He cleared his throat. “You know. Raincoats.”
“You wear a raincoat to bed? How cumbersome. And I fail to envision how one would help.”
He brought her fingers to his warm, warm groin. “Sweetheart, a raincoat the size of this.”
“Makes more sense.” She ached to probe the territory beneath her fingers. “What if it slips off, or something?”
His forthcoming answer both thrilled and concerned her, for it implied a velvet cage: “Black-Eyes, we’ll be stuck for the rest of our lives.”
“Ye’re stuck with me.” Throck bowed his gut over Burke’s desk. “ ’Twill take more than accusing me of piracy and slaughter to get rid of the best pal ye ever had.”
Damn, it was good to see Throck. It capped an excellent morning. Well, not excellent. It tore at Burke, his sacrifice. He’d found a way to give Susan her freedom, but he was taking the biggest gamble of his life. Far chancier than commissioning a flagship when he couldn’t afford it. What if he couldn’t love her into forever?
Throck leaned closer. “Ye’ve got nothing to say to me?”
“I accused you of nothing,” Burke replied honestly. “You got touchy is all, when I brought up dynamite. Throck, I apologize if I offended you. Will you pocket the affront?”
“If ye’ll agree to see your auntie.”
“Devious bastard,” Burke came back with a grin. “I’ll see her. Is she outside the door?”
“Nay. Installed at Barataria, she is. Fishing and ogling the egrets. She’s a Bay gal, me Phoebe. Told her I’d be back in a week or so. Didn’t want to dash her hopes, in case yer Irish was still up.”
“A shame. I’d like to thank her. She brought me a bride.”
Throck’s eyes got big as saucers. “Ye’re married?”
“Not yet. This afternoon. I’m in need of a best man. You available?”
“Fish got fins?” Throck reached across the table to grab his hand and pump his arm. “Congratulations! Knew ’twas the right thing, hiding and letting the ladies aboard.”
Burke rolled his eyes and recalled his sassy housekeeper. “Why do I get the feeling you plotted with Zinnia?”
Innocence incarnate, Throck pressed hand to chest. “ ’Tis nothing I know about plotting.”
“Right.” Rounding the desk, Burke slapped the broad back. “Come on, old pal. Folks at 21 rue Royale are going to be pleased to see you.”
And they were. It was akin to a family reunion. Not a bad thing to happen. A great thing happened at half past one that afternoon.
Seventeen
Burke and his golden Susan were married at half past one that afternoon. Throck and Pippin stood witness, along with Zinnia and Keep Smile. The curious, both pale and dark, attended the civil affair conducted among the greenery of Jackson Square. Steam whistles across the levee, in concert with the chatter of pigeons and the bells of St. Louis Cathedral, provided music.
When he kissed his bride, who wore finery and her hair swept up, Burke knew the look of longing in her dark eyes reflected his own. He nearly whispered “I love you.”
Those words must come from her before he said them. She was at the helm of this marriage.
As soon as a platinum band joined the diamonds on her finger, Pippin announced, “I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” Burke whispered to his bride, who blushed, for she knew what he meant.
His brewing desire turned to a stab in Burke’s sensitive parts. He yearned to sweep her into his arms and out the park to the upstairs bedroom that faced the wrought-iron gallery above rue Royale and gave access to the shaded courtyard. He would remove her clothes slowly, lay her upon the mammoth bed and its silken sheets, and the bride and groom would lock the world away.
Into the fantasy Burke had one of many thoughts that would haunt him throughout the next months: Can I let her go if she doesn’t want to stay?
Throck and Pip offered their style of best wishes, as did Zinnia and Keep Smile. The servants faded into the crowd to enjoy the rest of the day on their own. At luncheon in an alcove of the fashionable restaurant Antoine’s, Throck and Susan sipped champagne while Pip and Burke enjoyed fruit punch.
The feast took a familial slant when Susan whispered to Burke, “I hope I don’t beg your wrath, but I wish Phoebe were with us today.”
“I’ve indicated our door is open. She and Throck have plans for the next few weeks, but there’ll come a day—”
Throwing her arms around his neck, the bride kissed Burke with as much effervescence as could be found in the bottle of bubbling wine. Hell, it was worth forgiving Phoebe just for this kiss.
Later, when necessity sent Susan to the powder room, Throck offered to conduct Pip on a city tour, then to a puppet show. Throck jabbed his elbow into Burke’s side and wiggled bushy brows. “Anything to get the nipper outta yer hair for the big event.”
The offer was accepted.
Getting Pippin to comply wasn’t as simple. “I wanna go back to the house with you and Momma.”
“Not today, son.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
Pippin rolled his eyes, smacking a sigh of discontent.
Burke scowled. “What did I tell you about disobedience?”
“Sorry.” Pippin ate silently, until the new Mrs. O’Brien had retaken her seat. He then asked, “Momma, what about another snake? I was promised a new snake.”
Throck chuckled. “And ’tis a slimy cretin you’ll have, lad. I be knowing just where to find a zombi or two. They’ve a slew of them, yon dancers bring to Congo Square.”
The newlyweds glanced at each other; Burke didn’t have to read her mind to know it matched his. Pip would not tour the green where hoodoo dances were held each Sunday. This not being Sunday made no difference.
Fired by his own brand of humor, Throck said, “ ’Twill give yer mum and da a chance to explore the serpent what seeks to rear its purple head and strike soft flesh at 21 rue Royale!”
“You’ve got a snake at your place? Nobody said nothing.” Pippin’s eyes bugged. “Can I search for it?”
The serpent of 21 rue Royale being entirely too eager in black linen britches, Burke could have keelhauled his pal for the crude remark. “Don’t listen to that part, lad. Uncle Throck isn’t making sense.”
Pippin nodded. “He seems drunk.”
“Nay, I be not in me cups, whelp. I be drunk on glee for me matey and his beautiful bride!”
“That’s good, ’cause I don’t like drunks.” Serious as a judge, Pippin asked Susan, “Is the cap’n goin’ with us abroad?”
Susan glanced at Burke, searching for a satisfactory reply. His hand found her thigh, moved between them; she squeezed his fingers in place. What a rogue, doing her this way, but the hair shirt of guilt didn’t fit in this instance. By damn, she was his bride. And he’d make no apologies for it.
“Blimey, sure is getting hot in here.”
Susan straightened in her chair, letting go her hold. “We shall live in New Orleans, Pippin. For however long fate wants us here. No one can predict what tomorrow will bring.”
“Carmelita knows how.”
“Eat your étoufée, son.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n. Is it okay to call you Dad?”
“I’d be honored.” It flattered Burke. This boy was a fine young man despite occasional contrariness. Burke was proud to become his father. For the next few months. Or forever.
At least ten years passed before the meal was over and Throck and Pip were on their tour. Having made it more than clear the path would avoid such hellholes as Congo Square, Burke had grown beyond itchy for his bride.
“We’ll make it even better than the Edna Gal,” he promised as the newlyweds rode by carriage to their love nest. Burke swept his arms around her. Her lips opened to his, and he tasted the champagne that she’d sipped at Antoine’s. She was the best drink he’d ever had.
His thumb traced her bottom lip, his rod harder than a rock.
“We’re going to enjoy this marriage, Black-Eyes. We’ll have a helluva toss.”
“Yes, I do believe so, husband.”
The carriage rolled to a stop.
“Mrs. O’Brien, may I carry you across the threshold?”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Unfortunately, the runner from the O’Brien Steamship Company waited on the narrow banquette fronting 21 rue Royale. “You’re needed, sir. Right away.”
“Go, Burke.” Susan smiled wanly and nudged him toward Billy. “I’ll wait upstairs.”
“No way.” His arm swept to the back of her legs, and he lifted her from the cobbles and to his chest. Carrying her through the wide entryway and into the cooler interior of 21 rue Royale, he hauled her up the staircase, opened the door shutters, then deposited her inside netting and atop satin.
Eyes half-lidded, she squirmed on the counterpane; he loosed her chignon. Her hair spilling over his fingers, he buried them in spun gold. “I want you so bad, I hurt, wife.”
“Sir. There’s trouble afloat.”
Damn. Billy. The little bastard runner from the office. His words and presence had the same effect as a cold bucket of water hitting exposed flesh on a January morning. But Burke was fighting hot. “Get the hell outta here before I break your goddamn neck!”
Susan froze at the harsh words.
Nothing like heating a bride up, then ruining it. To return to her graces, Burke pried on a smile, an even rhythm to his voice, and said to the owl-eyed youth, “Pardon, lad.”
“Got Avenger tied out front, sir.”
“Thank you.” You trespassing little shit.
“You’d best see after the emergency,” Susan said.
Burke couldn’t argue now that the love spell was rived. He hadn’t built an empire in twelve years without seeing to details. “Honey, I’ll return as soon as possible.”
“As soon as possible” turned out to be several hours.
Night fell before Susan heard her bridegroom’s booted footfalls on the staircase. Candles lighting the room—there were only candelabra thereabouts—she lay abed, wearing a French nightgown and wanting to be his wife with all her heart.
