Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (22 page)

“You do!” She gasped and jutted her hips into him. Sobbing for him now—for both of them—she leaned into his neck. “Please, Rory.”

He cupped her face and turned her to look at him. His simmering fury gave way to devotion, as his eyes shone with inner light. “My darling, dearest angel.”

His thumb passed across her bottom lip, and he followed it with his mouth, drawing her into his kiss and embrace as he filled her once more. Then he broke away with a rapturous cry.

The aftermath of his powerful release moved through her like honey, almost yet not quite providing the relief she craved. He moved inside her slowly, his lips pressing gentle, loving kisses along her hairline and to her eyelashes, wet with unshed tears.

Then she felt his hot breath against her ear. “Now for you, my sweet minx.”

He kissed her full on the mouth, achingly caring. His body withdrew and then returned as he bent over her, gliding tenderly inside. Taking his time, Rory’s mouth moved down her neck, over her breasts until he pulled one into his hot velvet mouth. Dell felt herself arching up for him, lifting, seeking as he pulled away, and then he finally filled her anew.

His rhythmic motions brought her up, their souls, twining, soaring. Together they created a frisson that spiraled into a shattering quake. She came for him with his name on her lips and collapsed in his arms.

They loved again and again with Dell provoking his rough play and alternately accepting his delicate gentleness. She took all he was willing to bestow through the night. Healing him. Loving him.

And whether he wanted it or not, she gave more than her body, surrendering her heart and soul to her captain, her pirate…her Rory.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Standing beside the Pomeroys’ horse in the dark street, Rory’s breath caught as Dell shared one of her dazzling smiles with him.

His pride stung a bit, seeing as how this particular smile didn’t come free.

For fifty dollars, he’d bought the Allen and Thurber pistol Dell handled now with almost as much attentiveness as she’d shown him just a couple hours earlier in the bedroom. It was nearly enough to make him jealous of the weapon the way she cradled the wood pommel in her palm, turning it between her slender hands, weighing the cast steel.

For more of those smiles and the way they sent blood rushing to his groin, he’d buy her an entire armory. The feeling had become familiar lately, as he brightened at the mere idea someone so perfect would care about the likes of him.

“It’s not my Brunswick, but it’s a good weapon,” she said, squinting down the barrel as she aimed at the crescent moon.

“Better than the pepperbox at close range. I’m glad you like it, but I pray you won’t have to use it.” He moved closer and tucked a loose strand of her hair inside the top hat.

She looked up at him with a grateful smile, lowering the weapon. “I just wish I had time to practice. It beats anything I’ve ever owned, for sure.”

“Think of it as repayment for bringing me the extra clothes. And don’t worry. I sighted the gun in. If you can handle the kick, from twenty feet, it’ll put a hole the size of Texas in a gambler’s heart.”

At his words, her smile disappeared. It wasn’t funny, but he hadn’t meant to be lighthearted. He took the gun from her hands and pulled the tail of her shirt out, securing a place to hide the weapon inside her waistband. He savored one last caress of her silky skin before tucking the shirt back in, adjusting it over the bulge of the gun.

She put her hands on his chest and seemed to ignore the fact that William Pomeroy had just shut the front door, coming to escort her back to the wharf. She regarded him with hopeful eyes. “I’m visiting Wainwright today at his house.”

Unapologetic for their audience, Rory latched his fingers onto her belt, tugging her close, and kissed her, running his tongue inside her mouth to taste her once more.

When he released her, her brown eyes sparkled with tears. “Can you come?”

His chest tightened with yearning. He shook his head. “You know I can’t risk it. So…Kit says his uncle is prepared to play on the
Queen
.”

“Yes. Tonight I’ll tell Quintus that Bartholomew’s ready.”

“Do you think he trusts you enough to bet the fleet?”

Dell ducked her chin as if ashamed of something. “I told Quintus about your bank account, said it was here in St. Louis, and I’d withdrawn all your money.”

He chuckled, easily imaging his boss’s anger that he’d kept the money a secret from him all these years. “Perfect.” He kissed her forehead. “And don’t you worry. I’ve plenty of money.”

“If he doesn’t trust me yet, he will. I’ll make him.”

Dell slid her arms around his neck, and they shared a brief kiss before Rory helped her mount the mare in front of Pomeroy. He hated that he couldn’t take her back himself—would’ve loved riding a horse with her, really—but if anyone placed him near the
Queen
, it would ruin everything.

She was right. If Moreaux didn’t trust her, he soon would. Rory would make certain. He’d made the mistake before of leaving Dell in the dark and had almost lost her help. But Moreaux wasn’t stupid. Dell was too emotionally involved, and the monster would see through her acting.

Rory’s methods would test Dell’s loyalty to him. This time her tears would be real. She would hate him, feel betrayed and rightly so. But the less she knew, the less she’d have to lie.

If he drove her to leave him…well, she would be better off. She had plans, a good life ahead of her, wanting to help others. After all, she’d already saved him, hadn’t she?

He watched her ride away, drifting out of view as they turned a corner of the darkened street. She was headed back to the hazards of the
Queen Helen
to finish the job he’d started and would somehow finish.

Lady Luck had smiled on him the day he’d gone looking for Eleanor in Arkansas and found Dell instead. Dell’s mother never would’ve agreed to this scheme, and he’d been crazy to attempt to ask her. Only Philadelphia, his darling, clever angel, would sidle up beside the Devil to knock him down on his knees.

Without being on the boat to monitor the gambling, Rory had no way to control the outcome of the game. Knowing Moreaux, he would fight the loss, either with a challenge or with his gun. Which meant, he’d have to find a way to get on board, to be ready in case there was violence. He wouldn’t send Dell into that kind of danger without being around to protect her.

He’d never lived a day in his life until she had come along. After last night, he felt good and powerful and alive—not so different from when he stood at the helm of one of the mighty steamboats.

He had no freedom to make Dell his yet, but if there was any way between hell and high water he could keep her, by God he would.

Kit rose from the cherry dining table, and asked felicitously, “Would you like some coffee?”

Dell stopped him with a hand on his sleeve, hiding her yawn behind her fist. “No, no.” She sighed and smiled. “I’ll be fine. I stayed up late last night.”

“I cannot fathom how you gamblers manage playing at all hours of the night in every port. It boggles the mind. I’m drained for a week after one evening!”

“City life has you spoiled, son,” Bartholomew groused from across the makeshift poker table and drained a glass of scotch.

Dell grabbed the cards, gave them a shuffle, but even as sleepy as she was, she caught the tense expression that passed between Kit and his uncle. They didn’t know she’d spent most of the night in Rory’s arms, and her weariness had been well earned. Pleasant warmth filled her, remembering her lover’s devotions to her beauty, his tender declarations of his feelings towards her. Though he hadn’t professed his love, his actions gave her hope for their future.

“Try not to tax us with so much with talk, Kit,” Bartholomew continued to complain. He had shed his coat and now leaned back, tugging at his shirtsleeves uncomfortably.

The brewer had a number of nervous ticks, among them yanking at his uncomfortable clothing and spinning his cane.

“Be still, sir,” she instructed in her most stern voice. “You must remember not to fret so.”

His frown deepened. “Bah! I’m not holding any cards. What have I to hide?”

They’d practiced more than an hour with her pretending to be Quintus, and each hand had been the same. She’d won, because Bartholomew couldn’t sit still.

“If you only wager on your good hands, Moreaux won’t feel compelled to bet his fleet. Don’t be afraid to lose. Have confidence, sir.”

“Yes, Uncle. You’re a Wainwright, after all.”

Bartholomew snatched his cards from the table and cast a hateful glare at his nephew. Dell compressed her lips to keep from smiling. She placed her bet, and her opponent pushed in a large stack of chips. He lifted a craggy brow in challenge.

“Bluffing.” She raised him another twenty.

“I am not!”

“Whatever you’re holding is less than a full house. Maybe a pair. Aces is my guess.” She sighed. “You’re moving too much when you place your wager.”

Kit snickered into his fist, trying not to look at his beleaguered uncle.

The older man slapped the cards down, revealing her guess to be correct. “Blast it, woman! I’m not playing you. I’m playing Quintus. He won’t know the difference. I’ve played better opponents.”

“Yes, but not opponents who cheat with Moreaux’s skill.”

“And not opponents who have a seer in their employ,” Kit added gently.

Bartholomew took up his cane and sighed gustily. “I’m not ready. I won’t be ready tomorrow, either.”

Dell froze mid-reach for the cards. To soothe his ruffled pride, she spoke more gently. “Another hand, sir. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll do Moreaux’s tells again—see if you can spot them.”

“No. I’ve thought about this.” He stood, taking up his coat as if to leave. “I need more time. Tell Quintus I’ll play him in a week. If he won’t agree, the game’s off.”

He limped out of the dining room.

“But, sir?” Dell dropped the cards. A disturbing flutter rose in her chest.

“Philadelphia, he’s right.” Kit caught her hand, preventing her from following his uncle as he quit the room.

She whirled around to try to tug free. She had to make him understand. While they were playing games, Moreaux’s gunmen were searching for Rory and Asa.

Kit tightened his grip on her and rose. “Listen. I know you’re anxious to help your friend, but Uncle Bart’s been dwelling on this rematch for years. He wants it to be perfect, and it will.”

“What if Quintus won’t wait? What if we leave port?”

“It’s a steamboat, dear lady, and this is St. Louis. Moreaux must return.” His lips formed a reassuring smile, and he ran his thumb across the back of her hand soothingly. Kindness shone in his eyes, and she felt her trust for him growing despite her worry. “My uncle and I’ve been discussing how this thing will play out. We’re planning for whatever Quintus might do when he loses. And trust me…he…will…lose.”

Easing her hand from his grip, she nodded. “You’re right. More time—I’ll deliver the message. He won’t be happy, but he probably won’t be surprised either.” That would give her more opportunities to earn the gambler’s trust—both gamblers.

“Would you feel better if I”—he caught his lip between his teeth, coloring—“if I paid a visit on our captain friend again? To see how he’s faring? I know you’re not at liberty to visit him, and I thought you might feel uneasy—”

“Yes! Would you? I mean,” she collected her reticule from the table, struggling to keep her voice indifferent, “he’s armed, but Moreaux’s men are looking for him. And he won’t know Bartholomew’s asking for more time.”

“Of course.” He touched her shoulder gently and winked. “We’ve got to keep Campbell in the plans. I’ll check on him immediately after I deliver you to the
Queen
.”

It would’ve been better for appearances if Bartholomew drove her to the wharf in his barouche since she was pretending to be his mistress, but she’d bothered the old man enough for one day. She followed Kit out, hoping they’d made the right decisions. When they reached the dock, she reminded him to be discreet. He promised he would make sure no one followed him, and with the tip of his hat, he drove away, leaving her to return to the
Queen
alone.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Dell sat across from Quintus, her reticule heavy in her lap with the weight of the hidden pistol and her mother’s cards. Through the last three hours of poker playing, she’d fought tears and hatred, vowing she could end it all—could simply pull the trigger with a steady hand and send the devil straight to where he belonged. How Rory had endured so many years serving the bastard, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

When she’d left Rory at the Pomeroys’ earlier that morning, he’d been more open than ever before. He’d told her things that she doubted he would ever repeat about his childhood. Nor would she ask. But the fact that he’d shared his darkest secrets meant he trusted her.

She wouldn’t let him down.

The last player at their table folded. He excused himself, and Dell raked in her winnings. She felt Quintus’s unholy stare, and revulsion fermented in the pit of her stomach.

“How do you do that?”

She glanced up at him, pasting on a complacent smile. “Excuse me?”

“Eleanor never told me her methods no matter how hard I tried to squeeze them out of her, but you can tell me. How do you read people with such finesse?” He stroked his salt and pepper mustache with manicured fingers, and his eyes narrowed. “I consider myself an excellent observer of opponents, but I only notice bald-faced lies and bluffs. This last fellow…you’d only just met him and here after three hours of idle conversation, I believe you could find your way about his house blindfolded.”

Flattery coming from him failed to please her, but she he knew he hadn’t intended to compliment her. He expected an answer—perhaps to steal her ability and use it against a foe.

“Charlatans never share their secrets.”

His jaw tightened. “I regret calling you that. You’ve brought in a good deal of money these past few days.” His black eyes followed the patrons passing between the tables. “You may be the best thing my ex-captain ever did for us.”

She had to steer the conversation away from Rory. If her composure slipped and she showed any emotion over his name, all would be lost. “What are your plans, sir? Now that he’s gone, who’ll take over for him?”

“Zeb will do. The pilot’s long in the tooth, but he won’t give me any trouble. The crew will listen to him.”

“What about Trap? He’s not the talker Rory is, but he’s better with passengers than Zeb, especially if you ever run into any trouble with the law.”

“I don’t trust that one. He was too close to Campbell.”

Remember your role. Stick to the plan. “You know, if you want the Irishman’s obedience, you possess a bargaining chip. Molly works for you, doesn’t she?”

His eyes glinted with appreciation. “Yes. I see your meaning.”

Dell picked up three cards and began laying the foundation for a tower—a trick she’d learned from her mother to get a patron’s mind distracted. “Trap will be obedient. He’ll give you less trouble than Rory did.” She balanced the first card in the stack, and selected a new one from the deck. “I know you want to play Bart, but we’re leaving port. He says he’d play you in a week if you stayed. His calendar is full the next few nights.”

“You heard this yourself—he wants to play me?”

She gave him a half-smile. “He’s easy to goad. I might’ve mentioned to him I didn’t think he ought to face you. You’re the best gambler on the Mississippi, after all, and I’d hate for him to lose—”

Quintus made a mock stab to his heart. “Ah, cruelty thy name is woman! Nothing barbs the old grunt worse than an affront to his male pride. You do understand him, don’t you?” He lifted his sherry glass and sipped to her.

Disgust slithered around in her stomach. Oh how she hated this man!

“So if you’d like, I can coax him on board the
Queen
in a few days. But only if…well, you did promise to pay me…”

He folded his hands on the table, his eyes tightening with each card layer she added on her stack. “Wouldn’t it be more lucrative for you to leave me and stay with him? I mean, you’re a smart girl. Like you said, he’s lonely. If you make his poker stiff, it wouldn’t take much to make him your husband.”

Dell scowled as she dropped a jack into place. “Oh, God. Me? Marry that old codger?”

Quintus chuckled. His eyebrows lifted as his stare fixed on something or someone over her shoulder by the front door. “Have you figured out his tells?”

“Yes. And I’ll give them to you for a price.” She followed his look and saw Viv coming in, making a line for their table. She had to be quick before they were interrupted. Turning back, she said, “I know how much Bart’s worth. We could make a fortune. He won’t play me—finds it ungentlemanly to play a female. But I know he’d play you. Especially if he thought I was helping him.”

“Bonjour, Vivenne,” Quintus purred, inviting the madam to his knee.

Viv shook her head at the offer and leaned to whisper in his ear. She covered her mouth, watching Dell from the corner of her eye. The lines in Moreaux’s face deepened, his eyes gone black as coal.

As the madam straightened, the gambler’s gaze rotated to Dell. “I suppose you knew about this.”

“What?” She placed the next card instinctively, holding his stare.

“Tell her, Vivienne. What you just told me.”

The woman brushed her fallen hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand and her fingers trembled. Catching Dell’s look, she hid them quickly, planting fists on her hips. “I have just come from a private game at the brothel. You-know-who was there, and he’s not alone.”

Bartholomew? Kit? Dell held the next card above the tower as she studied the madam. The woman’s glazed blue eyes narrowed, and suddenly Dell knew her discomposure came from jealousy.

“Rory?” Dell’s lace glove snagged a corner of the tower and the conglomeration fluttered to the table.

Viv and Quintus shared an unreadable expression.
“Oui.”
Viv braced a hand on the back of the gambler’s chair. “The captain was playing cards with my customers—uninvited—and he’d brought another woman with him.”

Her stomach sank. To behave so thoughtlessly while Asa and their plans, everything, rested in the balance. What was he thinking—to go to Moreaux’s own establishment—where any of the gunmen could find him? And who was the woman?

Viv’s lips pinched to an angry thin line. Quintus’s eyebrows lowered as he eyed Dell warily. “Tell her the rest, Vivienne dear. I’m sure she’ll be interested to know.”

The rest? How could there be more?

“He ran out of money. He wagered a title to a slave he said he had down in Memphis.” The madam broke off in a string of French words Dell needed no translation for understanding. The madam spoke the truth. Of that, Dell had no doubt. There was nothing but honesty and vengeance in her body language.

The room spun. She gripped the sides of her seat as shock rolled over her. It was the same feeling she’d had in her stepfather’s office when she’d first returned to the
Queen Helen
, but her corset wasn’t too tight this time. She closed her eyes against the motion.

Rory. How could he betray her? And Jeremiah too? No doubt the title Viv spoke of could only be the one he’d purchased off Ephraim. How could he do such a thing?

“For the love of God,” Quintus growled.

Dell’s eyes opened to the sight of a glass of sherry being scooted across the table at her. She wrapped a hand around the glass, taking comfort in the solidness of its form while all else blurred and distorted in her vision.

“Poor thing.” Viv sighed and her cool hand covered Dell’s.

No. They had to be wrong.

Rory would never gamble with Jeremiah’s freedom. He hated slavery as much as she did. It had to be a trick of some sort, though he’d never discussed it with her. Maybe Kit knew what was going on, or they’d planned something together when he’d gone to the Pomeroys’ to check on him.

She blinked hard, restoring her sight.

“Is he still at the brothel?” Quintus demanded.

“No. He lost everything so quickly. I came here as soon as I could.” Viv touched Quintus’s shoulder; her worried gaze pinned on her one remaining benefactor.

Rory had to know Viv would come running to her boss, and he rarely lost a game.

What are you up to, Rory?

She’d trusted him. Still did, though she hated being left in the dark again. “Bastard.” The muttered word slipped out, and her cheeks heated for her lack of restraint.

The table suddenly shook as Quintus lifted his arm, signaling Balfour from his post at the bar. The gunman hurried over. Quintus made Viv give them the names of the card players from Rory’s game. Moreaux indicated he knew each one.

Dell’s stomach knotted.

“Seek them out and inquire after Campbell,” he ordered. “See if the captain mentioned where he’s staying. I want him and the boy found. Bring them back tonight.”

Balfour left, and Quintus took Viv’s hand, holding it on his shoulder. A new card player approached, but Quintus waved him away with an air of disinterest.

He gave Viv a brief hug. “I’d like you to hear this idea of Philadelphia’s. The chit thinks she can get my old friend Bartholomew Wainwright to come for a visit.” The madam’s eyes widened briefly, then she smiled. “Come, ladies. Let’s go to the office and share a bottle of something strong and satisfying.”

She stood reluctantly. Gambling without Rory held no appeal, so the choice between playing cards or drinking with Viv and Quintus made no difference.

Yet as the gambler turned from the table, she noted a sparkle of interest in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps it was her reaction to the news of Rory’s betrayal…or perhaps he was eager to discuss his old nemesis.

Whatever the cause, the monster smelled blood in the air.