The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

“Impossible. I will not marry.” His voice was as implacable as a frozen river.

  She blinked, clearly surprised, then she came back to her original request. “Hal dearest, please forget about the past and start thinking. With your long experience of the Missouri, you must know how to lay hands on that missing heiress.”

  Would she never stop trying to persuade him? Dammit, if she went on much longer, she’d start discussing ways to find Rosalind. And Mother was a very clever woman; some of those ideas could succeed in finding a clever gambler posing as a man—especially if she started him pointing out the advantages and disadvantages of her ideas. He had to end this conversation now.

  “Do you have any other topic to discuss, Mother? If not, I must return inside and join my sister.”

  Fear flashed across her face. She swallowed hard, dropping the thread of her argument. Hal’s eyes narrowed. Why would the mention of Viola cause such a strong reaction?

  His mother shrugged elaborately. “Go then, if you must. We can continue our conversation later.”

  “Good evening, Mother.” He bowed and went in. He would think more about this later.

  Rosalind glanced up from where she was leaning against a wall, as Hal entered the grand saloon. Bellecourt had started teaching her to read charts, before they joined the evening’s musicale. It would be a pleasure to listen, instead of straining her eyes. And here she was surrounded by wooden walls, not the pilothouse’s windows with their watery views.

  At the opposite end, Donovan was singing “Oh! Susanna,” as Viola accompanied him on the grand piano. Cicero was seated in front of an empty chair, as if daring any man other than his master to try for it. Hal headed for them, also singing, like a black bass drawn to a fisherman’s lure.

  Most of the passengers had settled into the rows of chairs that stretched across the grand saloon to face the piano. There they happily clapped and sang along, stomping their feet for emphasis during the chorus. The Belle’s cabin crew stood along the walls, humming the same lively tune while staying alert for any summons.

  Mrs. Lindsay followed Hal less than a minute later and quickly gathered her usual coterie of young men around her. She held court near the bar and kept her back carefully turned to the ladies’ cabin, laughing and flirting as if she was an eighteen-year-old girl.

  Captain Lindsay was in the Belle’s perpetual poker game, currently limited to a handful of players including McKenzie. He glanced over the cards at his wife, his face a granite mask.

  Rosalind’s fingers curled into claws. Even a week after hearing he’d been the one who scarred Hal, she still wanted to shoot him. Or drown him. Or…

  She slipped into a chair a few rows back from the piano, where she could see but not be easily seen—and could quickly depart, should the need arise.

  Hal, Donovan, and Viola finished the song and bowed to the chorus of applause. Then Hal claimed the seat guarded by Cicero, as Donovan began to sing “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,” his deep tenor voice effortlessly evoking the passion he felt for his wife. Viola accompanied him with a concert pianist’s skill, and the crowd quickly quieted. As he listened, Hal idly rubbed Cicero’s ear between his fingers, evoking an expression of complete bliss on the dog’s face.

  Rosalind smiled privately at the sight. Hal would make a splendid father someday, judging by his patience with the energetic dog and how much the Belle’s crew loved him. Genetics be damned; his character proved it, not his parentage. She could wish he had a dozen children, to teach how to slide down the stairs on the family’s best silver platter or make their homework into an exciting game. He’d be a superb husband for some lucky woman, too. Loving, protective, respectful. Passionate and daring.

  For a moment, Rosalind allowed herself to dream of what it would be like to be married to him….

  “Do you want to see Sherman’s inauguration next year?” Rosalind asked Hal, as they left the big gambling resort late one summer night.

  “Sherman?” She didn’t need daylight to know that he’d arched one elegant blond eyebrow. “I thought the general had refused to run.”

  Rosalind shrugged that detail off as she settled into their buggy for the drive home, glad to be wearing trousers rather than heavy skirts. Judging by his expression when he’d seen her come down the stairs, Hal was pleased too. She’d been thinking all evening about exploring his reaction later, which had so distracted her that she’d actually lost money. Now she rushed back into speech, trying not to think about just how her breasts had tightened when his arm brushed them. She did so enjoy a lighthearted family argument. “He’ll run and he’ll be president. He’s the obvious choice, now that Grant is finishing his second term. And he’s honest, too.”

  “A rare quality in Washington,” Hal agreed. He took the first corner a trifle too fast, causing the buggy to lean and his body to press against hers.

  Rosalind’s breath stopped, and she shivered helplessly. Four years of marriage, and she still reacted like a lovesick girl.

  “Still, I’d say that he won’t run,” Hal continued, “because there aren’t enough wild horses on this continent to make William Tecumseh Sherman do anything he’s promised not to do. My money’s on Hayes.”

  “Hayes?” Rosalind’s voice squeaked a little as Hal’s leg rubbed hers. She brought it back to a deeper pitch, more befitting her attire. “Do you mean Rutherford Hayes, the governor of Ohio?”

  “Yes. He’s a war veteran, honest, promised to work with southern Democrats to end Reconstruction. What more could you want?”

  “Sherman and honest elections in the South, with the Negro as a welcome member of society.” She wondered what Hal would do next. Two children and she still couldn’t predict his moves.

  “You’re dreaming,” Hal said calmly. “That won’t happen in our lifetimes. No, I expect to vote for Hayes in November.”

  His big warm fingers began to stroke the inside of her thigh. Rosalind closed her eyes as dew eased from between her nether lips. He’d never before made carnal advances outside their home, not when she was wearing men’s clothing.

  “How much would you care to bet on it?” he asked, cupping her mound through the fine wool. She gasped and arched involuntarily, pressing herself against him.

  If anyone should happen to see them like this…

  “Five thousand,” she managed. The only thing keeping her from slapping his face—or jumping astride his thighs—was the sound of his breathing, which was as uneven as hers.

  “That’s a large sum of money. Do you think you’re good for it?”

  “Dear heavens, Hal.” She shuddered. Somehow he’d managed to slip his fingers down the front of her trousers. If she survived the next block without begging him to take her, she’d be eternally grateful to the Almighty.

  He chuckled, a little harshly. She wished she could see if he had an erection.

  “Can you manage that large a bet?” he asked and eased his fingers into her drawers.

  “Of course.” She sighed as she slid down on the seat and spread her legs slightly, shamelessly making herself available.

  “In that case, maybe. Or maybe not.” His hand left her just before it would have slid between her folds.

  Rosalind somehow managed not to whimper. The buggy stopped, and she opened her eyes slowly. Home already, drat it.

  Hal sprang down and handed the reins to Samuel. She followed more slowly as the two men exchanged quiet greetings. Then Samuel took the equipage to the stables and Hal made for the garden, not the house.

  “Hal, why are we going this way?”

  “Because we still need to talk.”

  “About the presidential election?” She was completely baffled as she closed the gate behind them. She thought they’d finished that minor argument. “Don’t you want to look in on the children before going to bed?”

  “We can take a few minutes for ourselves first.” He faced her from the middle of the herb garden, hands propped on his hips. Rich scents arose from the well-tended pl
ants around them, while a high hedge ensured their privacy. Crushed oyster shells gleamed white from the paths underfoot. A fountain gurgled softly in the background, and marble benches invited them to enjoy the scene.

  A marble satyr danced on a plinth with blankets and pillows spread at his feet, as if ready to watch bacchantes lose themselves in amorous delights. A small clay pot rested in a steaming pan of water above a small brazier.

  Rosalind’s core tightened in instant recognition. The pot held thick oil, warming for use in her intimate regions. Her nipples tightened into aching points and rubbed against her linen undershirt with every breath.

  “Five thousand is a very large sum to wager,” Hal remarked. His calm demeanor was even more impressive now that she could see how his cock tented his trousers. Her hand reached for it involuntarily, and his eyes gleamed. “I say I need a sign of your good intent, before I agree to such a bet.”

  “What do you have in mind?” She hoped for something intimate, something that would take them quickly back to the house so she could obtain release.

  His smile deepened, matching the mythical figure behind him in carnal knowledge. Rosalind quivered as heat lanced her from her womb to her breasts.

  “A kiss perhaps? Or more?”

  “Anything,” she sighed, a heartfelt plea.

  He cupped her face in his hands, and she rubbed her cheek against him. “Well, perhaps as a start…”

  He slanted his head and tasted her mouth. She promptly wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself totally up to him. His tongue stroked her lips and teased her tongue until she was maddened by hunger. She pressed against him, moaning a wordless demand. He chuckled, a little brokenly, and claimed her with all the forcefulness she could have wished. She tightened her grip and yielded to him.

  Hal pulled her closer and kneaded her ass, setting off waves of need throughout her body. Her legs seemed weak and unable to hold her, so she wrapped one leg around his hip to open herself further to him.

  Then his hand was inside her trousers, inside her drawers. He rubbed her clit from behind with all the expertise of long familiarity, then squeezed it in just the stroke that always brought her to her knees.

  Rosalind shrieked and climaxed helplessly.

  He kissed her again, while teasing her nether folds. She moaned his name, recognizing his determination not to let her relax.

  “Do you need a ride, darling?”

  He fondled her intimately, triggering another rush of sensation through her loins. Her channel clenched, and dew gushed over his hand.

  “Yes. Please. How can you ask?” she groaned.

  “Then kneel over the pillow, darling, and unfasten your braces.”

  Rosalind went simultaneously hot and cold as she realized his intentions. “Thank heavens,” she breathed and kneeled on the thick blanket. She fumbled with her braces’ buttons, cursing them until they came away and freed her. An instant later, and she’d assumed her favorite position, ass lifted to the watching moon, as her beloved husband ran his finger down her spine.

  “Damn, you’re beautiful like this,” he breathed. “We should do this more often in the moonlight.”

  “People could see,” she protested weakly as he caressed her under her shirt. Her breasts plumped and fitted themselves into his knowing fingers. She sighed, trembling, barely able to stay up.

  “Or maybe daylight.”

  “Daylight?” She could barely think, but somehow managed to protest. Although she’d likely enjoy anything he wanted to do.

  “Daylight,” he insisted and plucked her nipples. She keened her encouragement, her hips thrusting back against him. He rumbled approval and plunged one hand back between her legs. His big fingers found her clit, and she moaned again.

  “Are you very aroused, darling?”

  She mumbled something, wishing he’d put that big rough finger inside her. Or better still, his cock.

  “Do you know that your folds are pulsing in invitation, darling?”

  “Are they? Then why are you waiting?” she managed to ask, desperate for fulfillment. He always took forever to arouse her before he rode her ass. Ridiculous to wait so long for an activity she enjoyed so much.

  He chuckled but rewarded her by reaching for the clay pot. An instant later, he was smoothing thick, warm oil around and around her anus, causing her to groan with delight. Closer and closer his hand came, frequently replenishing the supply of oil, until by the time he dipped into her rump, she was writhing against his hand. She was as desperate to be filled by him as if he hadn’t ridden her in days, instead of the few hours since teatime.

  He kissed her shoulder as he worked a second finger into her. She groaned again, breathing out as he’d taught her, so she could stretch to hold him. The third finger entered, setting off small pinwheels of delight up her spine and through her loins, as his other hand teased her clit. She was pliable with sensuality, eager to accept him.

  “Dammit, darling, you’re too eager. You’re not letting me take this slow.” His voice was hoarse with effort.

  “Please, just take me,” Rosalind begged and tightened herself around his fingers.

  He gasped and froze. She panted, her hips twitching with the effort to keep them still. If she pushed him too hard, he might ride her cunt—immensely pleasurable, but not what she wanted now.

  He groaned, and his finger teased her insides. “Witch.” He took his hand away. Before she could voice her disappointment, she felt him fumble with his trousers, heard a button, then a second, rip free. Answering urgency blazed in her.

  He rose up behind her, his jutting cock rubbing against her backside. She moaned her willingness, her lust, as she pressed back against him. He took her hips with a grip of iron, and his cockhead pressed into her rump.

  She moaned his name, her body opening and welcoming him as he entered on one long, sure stroke that quickly saw him hilted. He stayed poised exactly there—without moving, damn him—for a long moment. She was stuffed full of him, his lust blazing up her spine like steam from a boiler. She groaned, desperate for release, and her hips pressed against him, shifting his cock inside her so that it teased her most hidden channel.

  He shuddered and gasped her name. Then he rode her, pounding into her with the hard demands of a powerful man taking his pleasure in the woman he loved.

  Every fiber in her approved and gloried in his possession. She bucked against him, urging him on. Faster and faster, harder and harder, they drove each other toward the approaching pinnacle.

  Suddenly he stiffened, gasping her name as his hips pounded her frantically, releasing his essence deep into her. She climaxed, sobbing with pleasure as rapture simultaneously raced up her spine and through her womb.

  Rosalind slid down the stateroom door, shaking in orgasm’s last waves. Mercifully, she’d managed to escape from the grand saloon and return here before reaching an end to her fantasy.

  It was all nonsense, of course, especially the dream of two children sleeping in the nursery. Hal refused to have children, a decision she could understand after seeing him with his father. So she’d best think of him as just a boon companion and protector on her way to Montana, not as a potential husband.

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rosalind came quietly down the stairs from the hurricane deck, glad to stretch her legs as she fetched beignets for Bellecourt. When Hal had finally come to bed after the long musicale, he had ridden her like a man possessed of demons. She was still stiff and sore and sated—and eager for more.

  The promenade deck was almost empty at this hour, with most passengers inside eating breakfast. She could hear feminine skirts and footsteps near the bow, although their identities were screened by the stairs and the cabin’s bulk. A woman’s voice reached her—Viola Donovan’s?

  “A word with you, Mrs. Lindsay, if you please.”

  Compelled by curiosity, Rosalind crept forward to peer around the corner. A superbly dressed Viola Donovan had
her back to Rosalind as she confronted Desdemona Lindsay. Viola started to glance over her shoulder as Rosalind brushed a barrel, then quickly returned her full attention to her mother.

  Could she have heard Rosalind? Surely not. Rosalind settled herself to listen.

  “We have nothing to say to each other, Mrs. Donovan,” Desdemona said coldly, watching her daughter like a duchess facing a scullery maid.

  “If you won’t talk to me, then I’ll have to speak to Captain Lindsay.” Viola was dispassionate, as if comparing apples at a market.

  Horror flashed across Desdemona’s face, to be replaced by hauteur. “What nonsense. Even if you had something to say, he’d never listen to you.”

  “Can you afford to take that chance?”

  Desdemona raised a single eyebrow. She was facing Rosalind, but her attention was focused on her daughter, who was standing between her and Rosalind. They were greatly alike in height, but Viola was sleek and svelte, where her mother was curvaceous.

  “My dear child, has the western sun hurt your head?” Desdemona asked finally, her expression now a neat blend of pity and superiority. “What do you want from me? Acceptance by polite society? Perhaps admitting your Irish husband into the Pericles Club, the ne plus ultra of masculine society? Impossible, even with Captain Lindsay as a member. People would never forgive a solecism like that, especially from a descendant of Virginia’s first families like myself.”

  Viola laughed mirthlessly. “You only consider social success, don’t you, Mother? Have you ever wondered about anything else?”

  “What else could there be? If you’d ever stood friendless and alone in front of a taunting mob, you wouldn’t question the need for social status.”

  Viola’s mouth twisted. “Honor perhaps? Or love for your children?”

  Desdemona shrugged. “Of course, honor is important but it won’t protect you. Power and money and success will keep you safe. And it could all be yours again, as a daughter of Richard Lindsay.”

  Viola shook her head. “Impossible. Father disinherited me years ago.”