Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (18 page)

His stomach went cold, but her concerned eyes told him she didn’t know the twisted truth of his circumstances, about the abuse he’d suffered, nor the depth of his hatred. How often he’d considered killing Moreaux and the sweet relief his death would provide them all. Though with the bastard’s murder Rory would become everything Moreaux had hoped for. A calculating killer with a taste for revenge.

Even at the end of his life, the monster would have the cards stacked in his favor.

If it came down to that choice, Rory knew what he would do. Dell, if she knew his situation, might even help him, becoming an accomplice in the bloody deed.

Yet he hated to imagine her participating in something she would later regret, hated the nightmares she would likely endure. It had never been easy for Rory, knowing he’d worked for a murderer, and the faces of Moreaux’s fallen victims often haunted him.

No, it was better that she stayed in the dark about her stepfather’s crimes. Relieved by that small mercy, he found his voice. “I’d do whatever it took.”

Chapter Twenty-One

“Don’t tap the glass,” Moreaux had warned Rory when a novice card player left his table. When Rory looked at him questioningly, the monster explained in an impatient hiss, “Never scold a fish or try to remind him when he’s playing poorly. Idiot!” He’d then punctuated his lesson with a cuff to Rory’s ear.

After that, gambling had seemed a predatory sport to Rory as he’d been taught to locate weaker opponents—to corner them, to offer no quarter even when they wagered their last cent.

Dell was the fish at the boss’s table that night, although she didn’t know it.

Rory watched her between his own poker hands, admiring the way she worked. She’d been invited to play the game to muddy the waters for the boss’s benefit, but her loose bets were actually working. ’Course the woman was hard to beat. A little more training and she could easily be as good a gambler as any. She knew exactly what the men held by the way they leaned on one butt-cheek or the other—or some such nonsense like that.

Hell, with enough time inside their heads, she’d have them stripped of all their secrets. It was both unnerving and brilliant at once.

Rory showed his hand to his opponents. Three deuces and a pair of jacks. Another win.

He’d had to relinquish the painter’s ring to Moreaux, and now he watched it gleaming on the boss’s finger. Maybe he’d bury it with the man, hands folded over his black heart as they lowered his casket into the dirt. Asa’s ring would make a fitting tribute.

Earlier, he’d found the boy in the dining room where he was playing dice with another youth. Losing his temper, Rory had ordered him to stay in the men’s quarters that night, not to go out unless Rory, as his captain, came for him. The boy’s eyes had hardened to flint, but he did as told. Rory thanked his lucky stars he didn’t have to explain his actions to Asa. They shared the brotherly bond that came from growing up in the orphanage, and it served Rory well. The boy seemed to realize that no matter how strict Rory’s directions were, he had his best interests at heart. He’d never worked him too long or put him in harm’s way. He’d been there to listen, to talk, to guide. Now he prayed the boy would remember that when he urged him not to disobey.

But how do you tell a boy that the man he respects as a father figure is hunting him like prey?

Presently, Rory watched Moreaux’s man Laughton lean to his ear.

Rory dealt the next round at his table, but focused on his enemy. Moreaux nodded and whispered something in return. Dell spoke to one of the customers across from her, laughing. Rory wished she’d pay more attention to Moreaux, but she didn’t know what was at stake.

She’d shot angry glares at Rory all night.

He had never told Trap about the abuse he’d suffered at Moreaux’s hands, but he’d felt his friend’s pity before. Perhaps his first mate knew. It would be nothing compared to the way Dell would look at him.

No. He’d leave things the way they were. Better to make her angry than let her know how damaged he truly was—inside and out. She could either choose to help him ruin Moreaux, or not. He’d beat him another way if he must. Most likely with a bullet if there was no time to see his scheme to fruition.

And Asa’s new gift was a sure sign that time was indeed running out.

Laughton nodded, straightened and left the room. Quintus stuffed a cigar in his mouth and squinted at his cards. A satisfied smile curved his lips.

Rory had seen that expression before. It filled him with thoughts of wrapping his hands around the bastard’s neck.

He dealt two more rounds, losing one and folding the other. His heart wasn’t in the game. After folding again with a straight in his hand, he rose, brandishing his unlit cigar as an excuse to go on the deck, and left Zeb to take over as dealer for a while. He had to know what Laughton was doing.

First, he checked on Asa. When his knock failed to return an answer, he poked his head inside and found no one in the room. His stomach fell. Damnation.

The crew’s deck was empty with everyone else working in the salon. After a turn through the dining room produced nothing, he checked the passenger deck, thinking Asa might’ve gone back to playing dice. But the search proved fruitless. His worst fears became true when he came upon Laughton sitting outside Dell’s vacant stateroom—the same one Moreaux had tried to move Asa into before.

“Evening, Captain. Shouldn’t you be below?” The gunman climbed warily to his feet.

Rory flexed his hands and put on an icy smile. “Came out for a smoke. Boss wouldn’t let you play?”

“Nope.” Laughton tucked his thumbs in his belt, and his pinky finger touched his gun holster.

Dell might have the better eye for bluffs and tells, but Rory’d been trained by one of the best gunmen in the country. He could spot an itchy opponent when he saw one.

He lit his cigar and ambled to the rail. Laughton followed casually, but Rory noted he kept his hand inches from his gun.

The tobacco failed to satisfy. Perhaps he’d lost his taste for the stuff. He blew a trail of smoke and watched it fade into the darkness. “I guess you know who I’m looking for.”

If Laughton pulled his gun, he’d have to kill him. Gunfire would bring witnesses, and then he’d have no choice but to kill anyone who came to Moreaux’s aid—including the bastard himself. As a result, he’d swing from a hangman’s rope for the murders. How much help would he be to the others then?

Laughton’s gaze went to Rory’s holstered firearm. “Quintus said you might come by. I reckon you’d better stick to playing cards tonight, Campbell. It would be best for everyone.”

Rory tossed the cigar into the black river. “I reckon you keeping the kid in that room makes you about the second worst piece of shit on this boat.”

Laughton’s hand moved, but he was too slow. Rory rammed a fist into his abdomen. The gunman grunted, winded, but came up throwing a fist at Rory’s chin. The impact sent Rory stumbling into the railing. Stars danced in front of his eyes for a few seconds, but he heard Laughton coming. He ducked under the man’s swing and drove his fist into his gut again. Laughton folded in half. Rory shoved him hard against the door, causing the old wood to split.

“Bastard!” Laughton’s hand fumbled for his gun, but Rory reached it first. He slung it to land in the Mississippi with a splash.

Laughton’s eyes blazed with hatred. He seized Rory by the neck and the two big men locked together spun into the wall. The other man’s strong hands crushed his throat, but Rory held him by the balls of his shoulders. Stronger than Laughton, Rory used the leverage of his long legs, pushing him against the door again so hard that his skull bounced off the wood. His hands loosened, but he didn’t let go. Rory dragged him backward against the door a third time, scraping his knuckles in the process. Blood trickled down Laughton’s chin from where he’d bit his tongue.

The gunman released Rory and pulled away. “You’re as good as dead, Campbell.”

Rory drew his gun, aimed at Laughton’s chest, and cocked the hammer. “I’ve been dead for years. Nobody can hurt me anymore.”

Laughton backed to the rail and glanced over his shoulder at the water. “You think so? You’re only foolin’ yourself, then.”

“Jump.” Rory took a step forward.

Laughton gave him a nasty smile, promising he’d be back. Then the man cleared the railing, plunged into the river, and swam toward the wharf. Rory holstered his gun and touched his throbbing jaw. Laughton was right. He was as good as dead.

He opened the door and found Asa sitting on the bed with his lantern raised defensively at the end of his shaking arm. The boy looked terrified.

“Rory!”

Rory leaned against the doorframe and breathed a sigh of relief. “Now do you see I’m only lookin’ out for you?” He lifted his bleeding hand to examine it, then caught Asa’s horrified stare. Good. He needed to know how violent Moreaux and his men could be. “Where’s your gun?”

The boy set the lantern on the table and came to stand beside him in the doorway. “B-back in the room. Quintus bought me some new tools, said we’d start working tonight. Laughton helped me move my stuff in here, but then he wouldn’t let me leave. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything wrong. Why would he want to keep me in here?” His eyes filled with tears.

His heart wrenched. He put a hand on Asa’s frail shoulder. “They’re up to no good. Go straight to the crew’s quarters. Load your gun. If anyone—anyone—besides one of the crew comes in the room, shoot ’em. Don’t leave that room, you hear?”

Asa nodded and wiped his runny nose with his shirtsleeve. “What are you gonna do, Rory?”

He pulled Asa to his shoulder for a brief hug. “I’m going to wait here for your benefactor.”

Rory watched Asa run up the stairs. As soon as the boy was out of earshot, he let loose a string of oaths.

He closed the door behind him and surveyed the room. The boy had come to the
Queen
with only the clothes on his back. Quintus has provided nearly everything else in the room—and most of it that very week. Amusements abounded throughout the cabin, gadgets carefully selected to appeal to Asa. Tools, materials to keep him busy. Fine clothing for a lad. Enticements for his cooperation.

Thirteen years ago it had been the same for Rory. Only he’d treasured books more than anything else. Novels took his mind off where he’d come from and made him a prince, an explorer, or a noble knight, if only for a few hours. After he’d taught himself to read, Quintus took notice of his preference, bought him armloads of storybooks. His cabin quickly looked like a library with a bed in the middle. But it didn’t take long for Rory to hate that room and everything it signified.

“Did you enjoy
Ivanhoe
?” Quintus had asked softly as he closed the door and slinked toward the bed.

Rory stood and nudged the battered remains of the book under the dresser with his foot, praying the monster wouldn’t see what he’d done. In an angry fit, he’d shredded the volume, sickened by what the gift represented—a book in exchange for the things Mr. Moreaux did to his body.

Rory hadn’t even asked for the gift. And no amount of tears or pleas would stop the man from exacting payment.

Why would Quintus think a book would compensate for the pain he caused?

The gambler had his pants undone and waited at the foot of the bed by the time Rory glanced up at him. “Get over here, boy.”

His body shuddered uncontrollably. Gathering all his courage, he took a step away from the dresser. Paper rattled under his foot. A loose page clung to the sole of his boot. His gaze shot to his guardian, and his stomach fell to see the man staring at the torn paper.

The dark eyes went black. “It took Farley a day to find that book in New Orleans. I buy these stories to keep you happy. Are you so bored that you have nothing better to do than destroy the things I provide for you?”

“No sir.”

“I think you are. I think you need to be punished.” He retrieved his gun belt from his pants and doubled it in his hand. He stood, letting his breeches fall to his feet.

Rory swallowed back vomit, shaking himself free of the memory. The sight of the room conjured up too many bad times he’d rather forget. Yet his nightmares kept the sickening memories near.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he picked up a shiny new pocket watch on the dresser and threw it against the wall. The metal and glass splintered, pinging as it fell in pieces across the room. His hot rage didn’t abate. Nothing he broke ever made him feel any better, but he had to try.

Perhaps forgetting wasn’t what he should do anyway. The fresh pain reminded him of how much was at stake for Asa and other youths. Rory wouldn’t allow there to be another boy like him. Never again. He grabbed a deck of playing cards from the vanity and sent them scattering across the floor.

Time wasn’t running out anymore. It was already too late.

Now all his plans were shot to hell. Laughton might come back with another gun or another of Moreaux’s gunmen. Even if he didn’t, the boss would know what happened when he came for Asa and found him gone. There was only one thing left for Rory to do.

Quintus had to die tonight.

After a successful evening, Dell left the salon early with six hundred dollars rolled up and stuffed in her bodice. Moreaux had toasted her with a glass of sherry.

Earning his approval made her skin crawl. She would’ve preferred she hadn’t made a nickel. He would want the money back of course, but she’d wait until the morning. All she wanted now was to find Rory and demand they finish their conversation from earlier. She had to know if he’d been discussing her with Vivienne and if he’d intended for her to seduce Bartholomew.

He’d left the salon abruptly for no apparent reason, then didn’t come back. It wasn’t like him.

Finding their shared room empty and Asa not answering her knock at the crew’s barracks, she went to her old room. It was too early for Rory to be in bed, but he might be ill.

She rapped on the door. No answer, but the door cracked open. There was a lantern on inside.

Standing on the threshold, she hesitated. Vivienne was still in the salon, but what if Rory had decided to entertain another lady-friend? She had no claim on him. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of walking in on him and another woman.

She listened. The room was silent. What if he was inside alone and sick?

That thought forced her decision. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bed was made, but the floor was littered with tools. A hammer, screwdrivers, torn playing cards, a file, and a broken pocket watch. She stepped over the scattered mess of wires and screws, spying more trinkets and clothes. Barely two feet into the room, the door slammed behind her and two strong arms closed around her. She was shoved backward against the door, crushed beneath the long, hard body of Rory with the cold steel of a gun prodding her chin.

He blinked in surprise, a line creasing his forehead. “Angel!” His body eased, and he withdrew the gun. “Hell! You shouldn’t be here.”

She waited for him to holster the gun, but he kept it at his side. His hair looked as though he’d been raking his hands through it all night, his shirt badly wrinkled.