The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Hal cursed silently and started drawing the lower Mississippi near Vicksburg from memory, paying particular attention to how it would look in the dark. Every light on the boat would be doused then, even the mate’s pipe, so that he could pick out landmarks as different shades of black when compared to the river’s pale glimmer. His cock slowly, and sullenly, subsided until it lay against his thigh, rather than the iron-hard rod it had been.

  Bellecourt finished his speech with a flourish. “And so, mon ami, you should always be wary of Coyote, the trickster.”

  “Indeed, sir, I will remember,” Rosalind said warmly. “Thank you for telling me some of Coyote’s exploits. Good evening, Lindsay.”

  “Evening, Carstairs, Bellecourt. Satisfied with today’s outcome?”

  Bellecourt shrugged, a very Gallic movement visible in a bit of golden light. “For now, oui. But who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

  “Do you think—” Hal stopped short. He trusted Bellecourt with his life, but he didn’t want to discuss the possibility of further attack in public.

  Bellecourt’s mouth tightened, but his voice was steady. “It is too late at night for thinking, mon ami. I am for bed so I will be prepared for whatever tomorrow brings. Bonsoir, mes amis.”

  “Good night, Bellecourt.”

  “Good night,” Hal echoed as he watched the older man go inside. He turned to study the river, immensely aware of the woman beside him. She was close enough to touch, and her scent wreathed him.

  Below them on the boiler deck, men laid wagers on the Belle’s perpetual poker game, while a polka’s rollicking tune came from the grand saloon. He didn’t want to join either gathering, not when Rosalind stood near him in the dark. Perhaps they could play something else, something carnal.

  “Care for a private game of cards, Carstairs?”

  “Of course, sir.” Her enthusiasm came ringing through. He’d rather suspected his little gambler would compete in any game offered.

  “Come back to the cabin then.”

  She followed him with a little bounce, almost as pleased as Cicero. The dog, however, immediately dived onto the cot, circled, and yawned. Having thus expressed his opinion of what behavior should be, Cicero curled up and closed his eyes.

  Rosalind chuckled. “I suspect we’re about to disappoint him again. What card game do you want to play? Whist, perhaps?”

  “Poker, of course. Five-card draw, I think.” He hunted through his sea chest.

  Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Draw poker? Very well; it’s a better game for two people. What’s the minimum bet?”

  “We’ll play for clothing,” Hal announced, then tossed a deck of cards onto the bed and palmed a condom. He’d hide it under the pillow when she wasn’t looking. Her reaction was everything he could have wished.

  “Clothing?” She cast a guilty glance at the very loud polka coming from the grand saloon next door, then went on more moderately. “How can we compete for clothing? We can’t play poker if we’re naked.”

  Hal chuckled. He’d hoped bare bodies would distract her keen brain. “We’ll make each article the equal of a chip. You can bet one, two, three, or more articles, as you would gamble with chips. They’ll have to be taken off and put into the pot, of course.”

  She pursed her lips, then nodded. “Very well. And the winner of a hand can resume wearing whatever articles he wins.”

  Hal’s bright vision of Rosalind wearing nothing but a handful of cards faded. He gritted his teeth.

  “Nonsense,” he snapped. “You cannot put an article back on. And, you can only wager articles adorning the body. The winner is the last one still wearing a piece of clothing.”

  She stared. Her pulse beat in her throat. “Your objective is to see me naked,” she whispered.

  He shrugged elaborately. “Afraid you’ll lose?” he taunted. “Of course, if you’d prefer to play something simpler—cribbage perhaps, or pinochle…”

  Rosalind choked. Color blazed on her cheekbones. “I am not afraid. I’ll play, and win, any game you name.”

  Hal bowed. Had she realized that both would be the winner in this game? “Very well. Strip poker, it is. You can deal first.” He definitely thought he should be the first to bet.

  “Thank you.” She sat down on the bed and turned to face him. Her hand flexed nervously on her thigh, then relaxed. “How many cards can we exchange?”

  “Why not five? No need to save cards for other players.”

  Rosalind nodded agreement and shuffled. She dealt five cards to both of them, then studied her hand with the intensity of the professional she was. His hand contained a pair of fours, which gave him a solid starting point.

  She looked at him and waited. He smiled to himself.

  “I’ll wager my watch and chain, as two chips. Plus my Colt, with its holster, as the third chip.” He dropped them neatly on the cot beside Cicero. The dog eyed the articles, then studied Hal quizzically.

  “Three? Very well then, my watch, watch chain, and stickpin.” She briskly deposited her wager beside Cicero. “How many cards do you want?”

  “Three.”

  She dealt him the requested number and took two for herself. Nothing worth mentioning in the new cards. Still, the objective was to overwhelm Rosalind with lust, not acquire clothing.

  “My coat and weapons belt.” Hal stood up and slowly shrugged off his coat. Rosalind stared at him and swallowed, which his cock thought was a very good omen. He removed his weapons belt with equal deliberation, allowing her as much time as possible to contemplate what waited behind his fly.

  “Ah, my two Colts to call. Plus, my tie to raise you.” She didn’t quite stammer.

  Hal pretended to consult his cards. “My vest, to call.”

  He removed his vest with even more delays than for his coat, deeming it best to stop betting while he still had his shirt on. Women’s appetites heated best when they could guess about the future, rather than see it clearly. Given how her eyes dwelt on his chest, he rather thought his strategy was working.

  She laid down her hand. “A pair of sevens.”

  “That beats my fours,” Hal said calmly, pleased with himself, but unwilling to show it. She’d need to remove some clothing during the next hand.

  He shuffled and dealt. Four cards could be the start of a jack-high straight. Anticipation burned through him. Rosalind hesitated. He lifted an eyebrow. “I believe it’s your turn to wager, unless you wish to fold.”

  Her eyes flashed, and she stood up. “My coat and collar.” She took the coat off quickly and dropped it on the other side of Cicero and sat down. She found it harder to separate the collar from the soft collar band, but finally managed to remove it. She hadn’t looked at him once while she took them off.

  “My boots, as two chips, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes flashed to his, and she nodded jerkily.

  He took them off, careful to flex his back and shoulders, then tossed them down beside her coat. The look on her face, of fascination and curiosity and lust, almost made him purr. He deepened and softened his voice to keep the mood as carnal as possible. “How many cards?”

  “Three, please.” She quickly sorted them into the others.

  The single card he drew was the delightful completion to his straight. Hal waited happily for her next move.

  “My boots. And my socks, as two.” Rosalind made her wager a little too calmly.

  Hal was impatient. “My socks. Plus my cuff links, as two chips.” He’d raised the stakes by one chip and quickly went further. “My shirt.”

  He eased the linen off with the coyness of a king’s mistress. Rosalind’s eyes were enormous, and she nervously licked her lips. By the Almighty, she was enticing. His chest tightened and his cock ached. Pre-come dampened his drawers.

  “My vest.” Her voice was a hoarse croak. She swallowed hard and took it off. Her breasts were suddenly richly apparent behind her shirt’s fine linen, while her nipples were hard peaks. She blushed fiercely, not looking
at him.

  “Dear heavens, you’re a beauty,” he whispered.

  Rosalind’s head snapped around. “What?” she whispered.

  “You’re beautiful,” Hal repeated. “Didn’t you know?”

  She shook her head, still staring at him.

  “Good God, look at yourself in the mirror. Tall, curved in all the right places, a mouth to fill a man’s brain with fantasies…”

  “Me?”

  He nodded. How could she not realize? Had that fool fiancé not shown her how irresistible a woman she was? “You know you’re a delight to talk to,” he said impatiently.

  Rosalind shrugged. “Men don’t usually consider intelligence attractive. Or at least, they don’t find both the brain and its package to be interesting.”

  “Are you saying that men either ogled or talked to you, but not both?”

  Her mouth twisted. “Exactly. Except for David Rutherford but he ran at the first sign of trouble.”

  “Dolt. And as for the rest of those men, you can wash them out of your memory,” Hal said roughly, wanting to break some well-bred New York heads. “You’re a stunning woman. You’ve the body of Venus, Athena’s brain, and Diana’s courage. How could any man resist?”

  “You’re serious.”

  He shook his head, trying to find a way to convince her. “Tease me with your body and see how well I play.”

  She cocked her head. He waited, unable to breathe. The orchestra next door swung into a slow, sensual waltz. But he heard it as camouflage for the doings in his cabin.

  “My shirt, to call.” Her voice was a husky croak that lanced through his body.

  Hal closed his eyes briefly. His chest was as tight as if he’d run a race, while his trouser buttons were carving themselves into his cock. None of that mattered.

  Rosalind slipped one brace over her shoulder. He quivered but kept himself in check. Another brace went down, freeing her shirt. She pulled it out of her trousers, and Hal moaned.

  She smiled, her eyes alight with dawning power. She undid the first button slowly while his pulse pounded. The second button seemed to take an age before it came free, as his loins tightened. Her slender fingers lingered over each of the subsequent buttons. Hal’s balls lifted high and tight into his groin, desperate for release. He could not have named his cards to save his life.

  She slowly peeled the shirt over her head. Her breasts shifted under her fine cotton undershirt, then settled, ripe and ready. Her nipples were dark, stabbing against the cloth, and, oh, so very eager. Would she enjoy being taken from behind, so he could fill his hands with those ripe mounds while riding her?

  Hal groaned. Could he survive another hand of this game?

  “You told me the truth,” she whispered, searching his face.

  He snorted. “How could I deny it? Just look at my cock.”

  She surveyed him below the waist for the first time. His cock somehow managed to grow fuller still under her gaze, becoming a rock-hard instrument of torture.

  “Raise you.” He stood up and stripped off his trousers. Two seconds later he flung his undershirt and drawers down on Cicero. He planted his hands on his hips and faced her, his cock bobbing with eagerness.

  “Oh yes,” she whispered. “Oh yes, you are magnificent and very, very truthful. Now sit down and let me play.”

  Hal wondered what demon had crept into his brain to birth this form of torture. He sat down, legs spread well apart to give his swollen cock and balls some ease.

  “Call you,” Rosalind said firmly. She shucked her trousers and drawers, letting her undershirt fall freely over her hips. He could see every detail of her form underneath the fine cotton. Her flushed, swollen breasts, the dark pebbles of her nipples, the dew sliding down her thigh in a delicate trail…

  The scent of her musk hung ripe and inviting.

  His breath caught. Pre-come glided freely down his cock, as if begging for the opportunity to taste her.

  She flipped her cards over with an unsteady hand. “Three tens.”

  “Jack-high straight.”

  “You won.” One slender fingertip swirled over his cockhead. She touched it to her tongue lightly. Her eyes closed, and she moaned. “Salty. And delicious.”

  “Lean back on the bed.” His voice was a harsh growl. She promptly obeyed him, watching him through her lashes.

  “Now spread your legs so I can see what I won.”

  She blushed and obeyed. He stepped up to her and stroked the inside of her thighs lightly, enjoying the light sheen of dew. She trembled as he traced the delicate blue veins. He slipped one index finger, then the other, between her folds and teased her gently. She moaned and arched, head falling back as her eyes closed. The pose lifted her breasts toward him, like a pagan sacrifice.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured and tasted her offering. A very delicate lick over one nipple, then he swirled his tongue over it. A light nibble then a slow suckle…He groaned at the taste.

  Greedily, he savored her with deep pulls that made her writhe like a cat under him. And how she gasped his name when he turned his attentions to her other breast.

  He cupped her breasts together so that he could attend to them both more easily. Lick, lick, nibble, suck, mixed with long swipes of his tongue or deep pulls inside the hungry cavern of his mouth. She was wet and gleaming, flushed with passion, and sobbing for more.

  Her hand wrapped around the nape of his neck and pulled him closer. He rumbled approval and slid up her to take her mouth. They kissed in deep, slow tastes, his goatee framing her lips perfectly while his chest hair rubbed her nipples until she turned frantic. Her hands threaded into his hair and her slender legs embraced his hips. She was as open to him as if they were already joined. Her hot, creamy folds teased his cock until he could barely think. His seed boiled into his cock and demanded to erupt.

  Instinct and the habits of years guided him now. Somehow he managed to find the condom and don it without leaving her. He gripped her hips, adjusted his stance, and thrust. His cock slid into her easily. He groaned as the demanding rhythm of approaching orgasm pulsed through him.

  “Hal.” Rosalind shifted under him slightly, and he slid into her to the hilt. “Hal,” she repeated with blatant satisfaction and clenched herself around him.

  Wits fled. Instinct older than the Missouri swept in. He growled and rode her like a frenzied beast, intent on covering his mate. The room was filled with the wet slaps of their heated flesh pounding against each other, taking and giving in equal measure, while the music next door grew louder and louder.

  Rosalind raked his back with her nails like a wildcat. He sobbed into her hair and shattered, pumping out his essence as she gasped his name while finding her own climax.

  The waltz finished with a loud flourish. People laughed and applauded, then began to chatter. Hal shuddered, but managed to roll over, taking her with him to cuddle close.

  “You won,” she whispered.

  “You did. You still have clothes on so you have your grubstake.”

  Rosalind kissed his shoulder, where she’d bitten him. “Guess we’ll just have to play this again, and again, until we can reach a conclusion.”

  Hal groaned. “If we live that long.”

  She chuckled and snuggled down against him. “We will,” she answered confidently. “We have plenty of time.”

  His heart stopped. Time. How long would they be together? They had to grow tired of this game before Fort Benton, when she left the Cherokee Belle. He could not, dare not, think they’d be together longer than that.

  “Idiot,” Nick snorted as he and Jenkins strolled back to the Spartan after dark. “It’s hard to believe Harrison was the best man available.”

  Jenkins wisely stayed silent.

  “And then to return to us and demand—demand!—more money to complete the job.” Disgusted, he whacked a nearby willow with his swordstick, then smiled. “Still, he was useful in one way at least. I’d never scalped a man before.”

  “Stupid f
ool,” Jenkins agreed. “But the next fellow will do better.”

  “If not, then we’ll toss for who scalps that one.” It would be so much more enjoyable to kill Donovan and Lindsay personally, when those two brutes would know exactly who was responsible for their destruction.

  “Of course.” Jenkins bowed. The two men smiled at each other in perfect accord.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Mornin’, Bellecourt. Carstairs,” Hal sang out his greeting as he stepped into the pilothouse, Cicero at his heels.

  Rosalind nodded a response, a faint smile in her eyes before she looked back at the river. He was damn proud of how fast she’d calmed down in the pilothouse and steered a few easy passages, with only a faint tremor in her hands betraying her old fear of water.

  She’d helped bring the Belle in to pick up a local farmer, his betrothed, and their families so that Sampson could celebrate the wedding during the riverboat’s regular Sunday services.

  She’d gone white when she’d helped Bellecourt steer through the Devil’s Rake, whose maze of driftwood, snags, and embarrases—where drowned trees came together to form an impenetrable thicket—made for unpredictable currents and a pilot’s nightmare.

  A week’s journey hadn’t lessened his attraction to her. Instead, his passion seemed to grow every night they spent in bed. Worse still, he enjoyed her company in daylight—the quick intelligence, the keen observations, the flashes of wry humor…

  Still, they’d say good-bye in six weeks when she disembarked at Fort Benton. She was meant for a stable, loving home, like the one she’d grown up in—with an adoring husband and a brood of rambunctious, happy children, every one of them confident of her protection. Blessings he couldn’t give her, lest he pass on the Lindsay heritage of beatings.

  “Bonjour, Lindsay. Have you come to watch the animals greet the sun?” Bellecourt spun the wheel, danced the Belle through a tight turn, and steadied her, while a pair of deer watched from the shadows under the bluff’s oaks. A great blue heron sailed past and settled near a pair of egrets at the water’s edge.