The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Cicero had barely enough time to trot in before Hal kicked the door shut.

  This close to the stern, the noise and vibration of the big paddlewheel were almost overwhelming. Beneath the floor, the big pitman must be racing back and forth as it transferred power from the engines to the big wheel.

  Rosalind bounced up, ruffles flying as her wig slid sideways. Her heart was pounding as hard and fast as the paddlewheel. She gratefully noticed that the shutters were drawn against any prying eyes, and she tried to think of something poetic to say.

  Then Hal pounced on her. Dear Hal, who believed in actions more than pretty words. Their mouths met and melded in a frenzy as he pushed her back, his knee thrusting boldly between her legs. All the skirts and petticoats and drawers in Missouri couldn’t have stopped her innards from clenching in agonizing hunger. Had it been only a little more than a day since she’d last touched him? It seemed like forever since she’d last tasted his mouth or threaded her fingers through his thick, soft hair. She’d almost lost him back there in Omaha….

  He nuzzled her throat, shuddering. Then he licked and kissed and suckled on that most sensitive spot just behind her ear. She groaned and arched up against him, in a desperate plea for more.

  He rubbed his leg against hers, setting her fine cambric drawers to rub her inflamed feminine flesh in agonizing mimicry.

  “Good God Almighty, Hal!”

  He nipped her. She shrieked and climaxed.

  Afterwards, she lay sprawled across the big bed and gasped for breath. Hal stripped her clothes off with all the finesse of a gambler raking in an unexpected pot. Buttons popped. Laces snapped. Something ripped, but she didn’t care. She trembled as her breasts tightened again.

  Two big hands fumbled across her head, and one plucked out her hatpin. The hat sailed across the room, and Cicero yelped in surprise.

  “I mean to hear you scream,” Hal remarked conversationally, as he tossed her wig onto the bureau.

  “What?” she squeaked in a very undignified manner. Her eyes flew open to question him, but any logic immediately vanished at the sight of him. He was magnificently naked, his jutting cock standing as unashamed witness to his eagerness.

  “Loudly, of course. Very, very loudly.” He pulled her ruined polonaise from her shoulders. “We’re married now and I want the whole damn world to know.”

  “Loudly,” Rosalind repeated, dazzled by the simplicity of his goal. Her nipples hardened into agonizing buds, obviously in full agreement with him.

  He pulled his knife from its neck sheath and Rosalind closed her eyes against a surge of dew between her legs. Lord have mercy, shouldn’t she have a sensible objection to such high-handed behavior, something emphasizing the decorum appropriate to the marriage bed? But all she could think of was how his big strong hands would touch her again, how his goatee would feel against the soft flesh of her inner thighs, how deliciously his tongue would probe her feminine secrets….

  She moaned when he cut her corset lacings, and again when he ripped her ridiculously expensive chemise from her. Dew glided down her leg in anticipation, achieving a speed that rivaled the Missouri’s.

  “Damn but you’re beautiful,” he muttered. “It’s full daylight and I can see every inch. My dear, we’re going to have an excellent ride this afternoon.”

  He dropped to his knees before her, pulled her legs over his shoulders, and kissed the inside of her knee.

  “For heavens sake, Hal, not there!” Rosalind protested. She’d lost her wits more than once from caresses which started—but didn’t stop—there.

  “Really?” He licked the spot and his tongue caught the first trace of dew.

  Rosalind groaned. Her core clenched. She writhed.

  “Or would you prefer here, instead?” His voice was muffled but his target was very clear. He slurped noisily at her folds.

  Rosalind groaned again.

  “Remember, you must be very loud,” the devil remarked as his fingers toyed with her.

  “I’ve never done that,” she protested. “Never! Besides, it wouldn’t be ladylike.”

  “The hell with ladylike, or gentlemanly, for that matter. You’re mine and the world’s going to know it. Now do better this time or I won’t let you climax.” He slipped two fingers into her channel and wiggled them experimentally.

  She arched abruptly as her hips came off the bed in response. Her head fell back, and she gasped at the agonizing stab of sensation that raced into her breasts.

  “Louder now,” he exhorted and put his mouth to her. His fingers wiggled again, then stretched her shamelessly just as he blew on her clit.

  Rosalind shrieked. She cried out when he pumped three fingers in and out of her, while simultaneously gliding his teeth over her clit. She keened her desire as she wrapped her legs around his head and thrust her hips at him, as he rode her hard with four fingers while stripping her dew with his tongue.

  She begged. She cursed him with every phrase she’d learned from Mississippi dockhands when he moved away.

  He stopped her mouth with his. She grabbed his head with both hands and kissed him back, bruising her lips as she fought to taste more of him. His big hands lifted her hips with punishing strength and his massive, blazing hot cock slid home inside her.

  He fit perfectly. She was made for him and only him.

  He tore his mouth away. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His crisp chest hairs brushed her inflamed breasts into further agony. Below, she could feel the soft prickle of their intimate hairs twining together. She arched against him and ground her hips against him in a shameless plea for more.

  He slipped his arms under her shoulders and pulled her closer still, until they seemed one flesh. Then he rode her, grunting loudly as he thrust as hard and fast as the Belle’s engines drove the big wheel. She wailed her delight in this man. And she howled as the agony grew greater, the pleasure brighter and closer, the pulsations in her core harder and faster.

  Until finally, she screamed at the top of her lungs when he shuddered and released himself inside her. Climax blasted through her, pinwheels of light spinning through her like the big paddlewheel just beyond the wall. It was too much for flesh and blood to absorb, and she lost consciousness.

  When she came to, she was lying on top of Hal, their flesh still sweaty and clinging to each other. In the far corner, Cicero snored.

  Rosalind giggled weakly. She was obviously home now with the ones she loved. She couldn’t even regret that Hal had used a condom.

  “What is it?” he rumbled, his big hand gently smoothing her short hair.

  “I enjoy listening to Cicero sleep. It reminds me that we’re together and safe.”

  “For the moment, yes, we are,” he agreed and kissed the top of her head.

  She closed her eyes against the reminder of Lennox, then kissed Hal’s chest. He pulled her closer and tightened his arms around her.

  “Rosalind, I wish I could give you more.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes, with all my heart.”

  “That’s more than enough.”

  His next words were a deep bass counterpoint to the paddlewheel’s beat. “Rosalind, even for you, I can’t live in New York.”

  She tilted her head back against his arm to see his face. “Then we’ll live in Kansas City, Hal.”

  He bit his lip. “Riverboat traffic is dying, Rosalind.”

  Riverboats gone? Oh, my poor darling, to lose what you love so much.

  “Soon, the only true moneymakers in Kansas City will be railroads, grain, and steers, none of which excite me. Also, Kansas City likes its women strong but focused on feminine pursuits, like charities.”

  Rosalind winced. Charity work. She’d had enough difficulty attending those functions when her mother was alive and she’d only had to stomach them for an hour or two. They’d have to find an alternative. “There are many frontiers to conquer. We’ll simply find a new one.”

  Hal was silent at that. There was a long pause b
efore he spoke again. “Do you want children?”

  Rosalind opened her mouth to utter a strong affirmative then stopped. He was watching her warily, a look in his eyes like a man holding a pair of deuces and staring at a straight flush across the table.

  “Rosalind, I love you more than life,” he said quietly. “But I cannot bring children into my home, when I know at least three generations of my forefathers beat their sons. I’d repeat the pattern, because it’s in the blood. I will make every attempt not to breed.”

  Lord have mercy, he was asking her to choose between him or children. Expressed like that and with him in her arms, it was no choice at all. Especially with Lennox somewhere ahead, ready and eager to kill Hal. She’d take what she could get, for as long as she could have it.

  “I’d rather have you, with or without children, wherever we live.” A gambler’s move, betting everything on the chance that the cards would continue to favor her.

  Hal searched her face. She looked back at him, all pretense gone before his beautiful eyes. Then he tightened his arms around her. They clung together, shaking.

  “What about Chicago?” Hal murmured a long time later.

  “Chicago? It’s a good railroad town,” Rosalind answered, a little sleepily.

  His voice was a dark purr against the mechanical noise around them. “I can build a shipping line there, carrying passengers and freight to Canada.”

  “Excellent.” She traced the line of his jaw possessively, lingering on the old knife scar, and yawned.

  “I bought property there, after the fire when it could be had cheap,” her husband continued. “I have a seat on the Board of Trade, which you could occupy.”

  Rosalind blinked. A legalized form of gambling, with risks greater than those at a poker table? She could be happy at the Board of Trade for years. Then she frowned. “They’d never let a woman in.”

  “If they have a problem with how I operate my seat, then they can speak to me.” He bared his teeth, and she almost pitied any fat burgher who challenged him. “But if you’d prefer, we can preserve the fiction that you are simply acting under my orders.” He grinned wickedly.

  Rosalind laughed back at him. “As a good wife, it is my duty to obey my lord and master, no matter how remarkable the request.”

  “Precisely.” Hal kissed her and she savored every gliding touch, reacquainting herself with his taste and sweet strength.

  All too soon, he lifted his head, his face steady in a warrior’s mask. “But first we need to sleep and gather our strength. It will be a long watch tonight, as we hunt for the Spartan.”

  Rosalind smiled, not sweetly, as she tucked herself comfortably against her husband. She’d happily dance on Lennox’s grave.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “The sheriff’s telegram demands that I return you to Omaha,” Hatcher announced calmly. “Says you murdered a woman.”

  “Impossible,” Nick shot back. Damn, he hadn’t expected Desdemona’s body to be found so soon. “Besides, I paid you for passage to Kansas City. You can let me deal with the law there.”

  “The Cherokee Belle is following us at full speed. She’ll probably catch us when we tie up for the night.”

  Nick bit back a curse. “So keep going. Mississippi boats do that all the time.”

  Hatcher shook his head, his small pig’s eyes surveying Nick coldly. “Too dangerous, even with a full moon. The Mississippi doesn’t change course every few months, like the Missouri. Its pilots can memorize it and drive the boat safely, day or night. No, we’ll have to tie up.”

  Nick ground his teeth. Money was always the answer. “How much to keep going?” he demanded.

  Hatcher smiled, and Nick realized that he’d walked into a trap. Damn. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You could buy a new boat for that,” Nick protested, feeling the ground fall out from under his feet.

  Hatcher shrugged. “Maybe. I could also hand you over to the law.”

  “I’ll give you a check,” Nick said sullenly.

  Hatcher shook his head. “Heard you played a big poker game and lost. No, it’s gold or nothing.”

  What could he offer? The New York tenements? No, they wouldn’t appeal to a Missouri man. Paul’s house? Even half finished, it was worth more than fifty thousand, but it was also the last vestige of Paul’s dreams. Damn, damn, damn. “I have a house on the Hudson, next to the Roosevelt estate. I’ll give you the deed for that.”

  Hatcher’s eyes gleamed. “On the river?”

  “Yes.”

  “Done. The Spartan will run day and night, until we reach Kansas City.” Hatcher smirked.

  Hal paused on the hurricane deck to finish his ham sandwich and assess the Cherokee Belle’s current situation. The late afternoon sky was black with clouds, building to deadly thunderstorm heights as they flew before the north wind. Not a bird was in sight, hinting at their need to take shelter from the coming storm.

  Far to the west, lightning cracked as sheets of rain fell, whose waters would soon feed the Missouri River. The river was running strong, in a torrent of ash brown water, at perhaps six, or even seven knots. Fast, damn fast. There’d be some new channels, probably even a chute or two, sliced open tonight. Bellecourt and McKenzie must have their hands full, holding the Belle to a steady course against this current.

  Cicero whined and leaned against Hal’s leg. Hal rubbed his ears with a quiet, “Easy now, boy. Don’t much like storms, do you?”

  Cicero whined his agreement and moved even closer.

  Overhead, gray smoke, well mixed with sparks and cinders, poured from the tall chimneys. It wasn’t black smoke, so Norton must not yet have the boilers fired as hot as possible. Still, Hal was glad he’d long ago insulated the Belle’s chimneys from contact with her fragile woodwork.

  Every steamboat was easy to burn; such was the nature of their business. They were built of lightweight soft woods, so they’d travel quickly in shallow waters. The resulting structure was soaked with oil and turpentine from paint, then dried by years of sun and wind. Add a combustible cargo and wood, or coal, stored near the bow—well, it was a wonder more steamers didn’t burn, no matter how strongly the government and insurers regulated and inspected them. A riverboat could burn to the waterline in less than five minutes.

  As he’d done so many times during the war, Hal double-checked his boat’s precautions. The tin roof on the pilothouse, texas, and hurricane deck provided the Belle with the latest in protection. All the buckets and barrels placed around her roofs and decks were full of water, ready to fight fires.

  Hatcher had sanded the Spartan’s roofs instead of buying a metal roof, considering tin as a drag on his boat’s speed. It was the typical strategy and tended to work well, unless the sand blew or washed away.

  Hal dusted the sandwich’s crumbs off as he gave the river another long look. Viola and William Donovan came up beside him silently, unabashedly holding hands.

  “Ready?”

  “Of course,” the big Irishman returned calmly.

  They entered the pilothouse quietly to find a sweating Bellecourt and McKenzie straining at the wheel. Both pairs of hands gripped the spokes desperately, muscles standing out on their necks and shoulders beneath their shirts. Their coats were tossed over the rocking chair and a mug of coffee sat cold on the small table.

  The glass windows on three sides had been closed and the big opening in front, never glassed, had been partially covered by boards in the typical foul weather practice, leaving a narrow strip for the pilots to see through.

  “Evening, gentlemen. Ready to be relieved?” Hal asked.

  “Mais non, mon brave, we could continue in this fashion for days,” Bellecourt joked. His white hair was plastered to his face and neck. He and McKenzie grunted as they urged the Belle to round a hairpin corner.

  The boat had settled into the new, straight course before Hal spoke again.

  “Alas, I must insist that you permit us to share the delight,” Hal said gently a
nd laid a hand on the wheel next to Bellecourt’s. William did the same beside McKenzie.

  The river’s raging power surged up through Hal’s hands, along his arms, and into his shoulders. He balanced it against the Belle’s strength as his legs braced to support him. Hell and damnation, the current was even stronger than he’d expected.

  Bellecourt loosened his grip. Hal tightened his then relaxed slightly as the wheel steadied under his command.

  A similar shift took place beside him as William took over from McKenzie. The big teamster was a bit clumsy, but he quickly adapted to following Hal’s lead, working well enough not to be replaced by Sampson. Since they’d be traveling by night on a flooded river, Hal wanted every possible hand on the main deck, ready to clear debris or make emergency repairs.

  The Cherokee Belle didn’t waver once.

  Bellecourt and McKenzie stepped away, then sank into the rocking chairs, as if their legs would hold them no longer.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Norton here,” sang a familiar voice through the speaking tube.

  “Glad to hear your voice, Black Jack,” Hal responded warmly.

  Roland Jones slipped into the pilothouse with a carafe of coffee, redolent of whiskey, and sandwiches. The two pilots accepted the coffee gratefully, while Viola requested tea from where she sat on the tall stool.

  “We’ve made up perhaps thirty minutes, mes amis, according to the latest telegram,” Bellecourt announced. “Hatcher refused to stop, naturellement.”

  Hal whistled in amazement. “Congratulations, Bellecourt. You’ve managed to add to your fame as a lightning pilot.”

  William added his own praise, making for a brief flurry of delighted conversation before they had to pay attention to the next turn.

  Hal’s back strained as they fought to keep the Belle in the center of the channel. The Missouri wanted to cut through the inner corner, using its roaring water and everything they carried. But the Belle was too wide to sail so close to the shore.

  Lightning cracked less than two miles away, striking a tall elm tree. The rain was closer now, rushing in with the inevitability of the seventh card in one of Rosalind’s poker games.