River Magic (21 page)

This wasn't a good starting point. She rushed away from the populated wharf, went to a less crowded area. Behind a bush, she changed into simple trousers and shirt, attire better suited than a dress for manning a float in inclement weather.

At twilight she stole a raft and began dragging the long pole through the waters. Her arms moved swiftly, rhythmically. Halfway to her goal, the wind gusted, flinging pins from her hair, black strands of it slapping her face. Great claps of thunder rent the skies, Tor's hammer gone wild.

The wind loosened her shirt from the trousers waistband. Out of feminine modesty, and without a second thought, she let go the pole to lower the hem. It whipped, sheets in a gale. She lost control of the raft at the same moment the skies opened up.

Rain didn't fall. It descended, soaking her to the skin in seconds. The pole rolled across the raft, plopping into the water that now churned and pitched. India threw herself, stomach first, to the rising and falling raft, now controlled by the chaotic river and its famous current.

Scooting over to the float's edge, she tried to master her course by using her arm as a paddle. Useless in the gale. Wood splintered, split. A log whizzed by her head, would have slammed against it if she hadn't rolled away.

You'll have to swim for it, Indy.
She couldn't.
Blast it, girl, it's sink or swim. Make a dash for the
Delta Star.

Aboard the
Delta Star
, Matt Marshall pointed a spyglass at the stormy waters. “Dash it, Burke, there's a raft out there.”

“Happens all the time. Let a storm brew, and some idiot will take to the water.”

The two men shared a chuckle at the idiocy of mankind. Matt and Burke had become friendly on the long journey south. It hadn't taken commandeering the
Delta Star
, not in the least.

Burke O'Brien had been looking for him, it turned out. All the O'Briens had been so disposed. Matt had been horrified to learn the details from a collection of O'Briens about his sister's surrender. While he eluded Connor O'Brien, the major had not only signed his pardon, he'd also searched long and hard for Matt Marshall—to put him aboard this very vessel.

And India . . .

Matt swallowed, aggrieved for what his sister had done.

The journey south had been somber, tense. Fears for the twosome of India and her man had mingled with the problem of disease. Matt and Burke, tasked with saving a damsel's life, had worked together, and that alliance had spilled over to duties in the wheelhouse. When the
Delta Star
had steamed out early from Rock Island, the ship's surgeon as well as the first mate hadn't been aboard.

Matt had stepped into the seaman's position.

Under Burke's directive, it had been Matt who hoisted the flag that warned others not to board the death ship. Thankfully, the virulent disease hadn't spread beyond a pair of deckhands.

As for his passengers, nary an O'Brien, nor Jinnings, had been felled. They all breathed easier once it became apparent the quarantine could be lifted in days. “Genie,” Tessa O'Brien had gushed, “soon we can go for the lamp.”

Matt couldn't quite figure out the deal with some lamp, but an unexpected passenger boarded the steamboat in the middle of last night, and the resultant conversation cleared up a bunch of mysteries for Matt Marshall. He'd learned India was fated for her major. Fated by way of a magic lamp.

Burke broke into his thoughts. “That raft's broken apart. Toss the idiot a life buoy or two.”

Matt set to it, but caught sight of Antoinette as she stood at the bottom of the companionway leading down from the dining salon. Dressed in shell pink, part of the trousseau delivered by supply ship, she chided sweetly, “Gentlemen, you'll catch your deaths in this rain. And, Burke darling, as our dinner grows cold, your hungry aunts are asking after you.”

“Be right there, Toni,” the grinning captain replied, abbreviating her name, as was his way. His fiancée receded, closed the hatch, and Burke winked at his first mate. “My lady's set a fine table tonight, Marsh. Toss the life buoys. I'll collar one of my men to stand watch over the idiot.”

“Aye, aye.” Matt saw something in the water. Someone trying to swim. “My God, Burke. It looks like a woman.”

Southern gentlemen disdained simple-minded idiots but were ever gallant when it came to the fairer sex. Burke O'Brien and Matt Marshall went into action, pulling a black-haired waif aboard the
Delta Star
. “Good God,” Matt exclaimed. “It's Indy.”

“She's not breathing.”

Her brother rolled her over, began to shove his hands against her back. Water surged from her mouth. Soon, she coughed and turned her head.

“She'll live.” A frown clefted Burke's dark brow. “Take her . . . take her to one of the empty cabins.”

Obviously disturbed—Matt had no idea why—Burke stalked to the dining salon, where the other unexpected passenger could be found. A passenger who'd want to know whatever there was to know about one India Marshall, fugitive from Union justice.

Though spent from her fray with the mighty river, India looked up at a ghost. Renewed, she exhaled, everything dropping from her mind but his sight. “Jumping Jehoshaphat! I thought you lost out to the northern stretch of this spiteful river.”

Matt, who'd put on weight, stood scowling above her, rain splattering the deck and polished rails of the
Delta Star
. His hands were jacked to hips like a furious yet relieved family member discovering a lost child. Which wasn't far off track. “You scared the begeezus outta me, Indy. Out of a lot of folks. I swear, someone ought to tan your hide.”

That might be true. But amazed to have gone in the water at all, she reckoned that a person could do anything, no matter how frightening, if it meant survival.

Soaked clothes gluelike, she bent her neck to release water from an ear. “Don't be mad, Mattie.” Thunder roared, but, safe, she paid no heed. “Believe me, I'm thrilled to see you.”

His scowl switched to a grudging grin. “Same here.”

The siblings embraced, and his strength flowed into her, along with a myriad of questions. “Do you know you've been pardoned? Mattie, you scared me to death, escaping—you could've gotten killed.”
Oh, Connor, I needn't have left you like that. If I'd only known Matt hadn't drowned . . .
She took regard of her brother. “What the dickens are you doing on the
Delta Star?
”

“I could ask you the same question, but I won't.”

“Did you get the money?”

“Haven't gotten that far. The quarantine, you see. The captain figures to stay put, within easy reach of goods from his grandfather. But I'll take care of Natchez. You do what you do best. Beat for home to see after the family.”

Heart-matters cut in. “Has there been word from Connor?”

“You needn't concern yourself. He's fine. I guarantee.”

Pleased she might be, yet India couldn't help being partially sad. Had her fool's-gold Aladdin arrived in Washington to explain himself, then taken her advice to forget and get on? She asked hesitantly, “Has he gone to war?”

“I imagine that's exactly where he'll end up.” Matt, a curious mien to him, stepped back. “You're wet, and I'm not in the mood for chitchat. I'll send down to the galley for a plate of food for you. You'd best have a hot bath and a cozy bed.”

His suggestions were wise. Once put back together, she could get to the question that had nagged her during her journey south. What exactly had happened to Connor?

 

 

Washed, fed, and clothed in a borrowed nightshirt, India pulled back bedclothes in the berth of her equally borrowed main-deck cabin offering the amenities of a straight chair, a lantern dangling from the ceiling, a single porthole. After some winks of sleep, she'd be ready to face Connor's brother . . . to hear what she hoped would be clear, precise news.

The lantern doused and the covers pulled up, she relaxed. This storm could have taken her life, but she now found it soothing. Thunder plus the storm-born sway of a steamboat lulled her to sleep, and hours passed before she awakened, though a glance at the porthole showed night hadn't switched to dawn.

Her eyes closed again, wishful thoughts stealing over her. If only Connor were here . . . If only she could believe in magic . . . If only, if only, if only. A vague mention of war wasn't good enough. Should she bother his brother, or hers, in the middle of night? Yes!

Surely her clothes had dried. They had. She pulled the nightshirt over her head, meaning to dress, but a panicked scream rolled from her throat instead. Her knee connected with something strange. Another knee. Lightning brightened the sky, the cabin. That knee was attached to a naked man. A long, tall man hunched in a too-small chair.

“Connor?” Shocked, she fell back in the berth, hitting her head on the bulkhead. She didn't feel any pain. “Connor!”

“That's right. Connor.” Fury saturated each syllable. “You and I have unfinished business.”

Not put off by his anger, nothing unsettled her now—she grinned at his night-muted nakedness. What a sight. But clothed or not, he obviously didn't seek a loving reunion, not right away, so she wiggled into a seated position, knees tucked under her chin. Why was he here? It probably meant something dire, but why not make the most of these precious moments?

“Considering how you're dressed for commerce, Sonny Boy,” she teased, “I'd say you're after monkey business.”

“I'm after my leather attaché.”

She secretly loved his paltry excuse to call on her in this snug stateroom, yet it would take a wish upon Tessa O'Brien's magic lamp to make that pouch appear. Would it take a dozen lamps to put a smile of his face?

“I don't have your pouch,” she admitted. “It flew from my pocket when I jumped from the train.”

“Great. Great, great, great. Thank you, India Marshall, for losing the one piece of evidence that could've saved you.”

“I saved myself.”

He surged from the chair to stomp up and down the cabin, which, during lightning's brilliance, gave her a more than ample view of his unclothed form. Tingles of excitement pinged her veins, even before he lowered to a crouch and rocked back on bare heels in front of her. My gracious. No way could she turn her eyes from the sight of a cornucopia of manliness.

“That's right, gawk at me.”

Her lashes lowered, she said, “I should imagine that's what you had in mind, else you wouldn't be naked as a jaybird.”

“Right. I'm gonna finish what I stopped on that train.”

“I'd hate to think you're here just to sell trinkets or housewares,” she teased, drunk on his presence, but not tipsy enough to dare mentioning that pouch again. “I won't deny you. I want you. And my insides second the notion.”

He bent closer, venting his spleen before venting his passions. “You're gonna hear the whole story first. If you'd gone to Washington, you'd know you weren't in half as much trouble as we figured. The War Department knew about your exploits, thanks to the Rock Island women sending telegrams.

“The Commissioner of Prisons sided with you. He ordered Lawrence to continue your good work. When Hoffman discovered you weren't with the Sanitary Commission, he was willing to forgive your trespasses. He figured you were a good-hearted lady set on making life better for the unfortunates at Rock Island. It's different now.”

Oh, dear. “What . . . what did you mean by evidence?”

“You swiped my telegraph instructions. Our insurance.”

“Oh, dear.”

Connor jabbed a finger at her nose. The pitch of the
Delta Star
propelled that finger forward, until it nudged her nose. “Did you ever stop to think—by not standing up for your beliefs, you've branded yourself a criminal? Lift your arm and pat yourself on the back. You've done it again.”

Yes, once more she'd made a muck of things. “You've been ordered to lift my scalp and present it on a pickstaff?”

“That about sums it up.”

“So, you figured I'd find my way to St. Francisville, and that's where you were headed? To arrest me.”

“Right.”

Legs extended, she scooted as close as possible to the bulkhead. “I can't go with you. My family—”

“You've got Zeke Pays behind you, not to mention your own brother. No one needs you to save anything.”

The truth stung. Never had she been needed for anything, not unless she found something to be needed for. Hers were useless goals. It all returned, her upbringing. The taunting twin who lured Winny to his death. The ugly duckling among swans. The spinster no swain would court. And now . . . a dunce who could neither win over a warrior nor do anything right.

All she had left? A temper. “Aren't you the righteous one? Why don't you go back to the cavalry and hoist your saber?” His roar of rage echoing, she stretched out, turning to her back. “Leave me alone, Connor. I'm fed up with you.”

He jerked her to face him. “I haven't come all this way to let you get away again. I kept my hands to myself back on that train, but you won't find any nobility this time.” He landed on her, his superior weight crushing her into the mattress. His fingers curled into her hair, tugging. “I don't know whether to kill you or kiss you.”

The abrasion of chest hairs against her breasts wound its way to her womb. Her pulse raced. She felt every bit of him, so manly, so real, so here. Their argument began to drift away, like petals carried by the breeze. “Connor . . . kiss me.”

His mouth swooped down, and the weight of his body as well as their troubles, past and present, vanished from her heart, carried off. He was here. She was here. That was all that mattered, and she was hot for him, too hot for anything but fulfillment of the passions that always raged for Connor.

“I've wished desperately to see you,” she moaned as he kissed her collarbone, then flicked his tongue along her breast. “And now my wish has come true.” No magic lamp required.

“What happened to 'fed up'?” he goaded between flicks.

“I lied. I missed you. It was awful without you.”

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

“Later. For now . . . make me yours, truly yours.”

“You've been mine since my birthday.”

“Could that magic lamp be working?” she asked.

“Screw the lamp.”

She grinned, then wiggled a leg to ready herself for his entry. The
Delta Star
pitched, rocking the lovers together. Her hand settled at his side, and she wanted to press her lips to his.
You don't need kisses. You've had a slew of them. Make him give you all you need. Before you both have second thoughts.
“Take me.” She prayed he wouldn't have to think twice. “Now.”

“Not so fast.”

He began another luscious foray, lips and hands rousing her to impatient peaks. She didn't need this. She needed more. Only the completion that she could only guess at would assuage her unquenchable thirst for him. She repeated, “Take me. Now.”

“Not yet.” His fingers delved into places that caused her to wiggle and take deep breaths. “If I take my time, Indy, you'll be better off, won't hurt as much.”

Rife with exquisite sensations, she didn't worry about a bit of pain. What could hurt worse than the suffering she'd known these past weeks, when she'd pined for him, worried for him, and had ached to turn back the sands of time? “Do it, soldier. Yours is 'not to reason why.' ”

The heated length of him poised at the top of her thighs, he levered up on elbows. “Mine is 'but to do and die.' ”

He thrust once. Her maidenhead stretched. This wasn't so bad! Wrong. Again, he charged, sending a barrage of painful spikes from her womb to the rest of her body. She cried out, dropped her hands. Was this like riding into the valley of death? “You are too well armed,” she whispered.

“That, I can't change.” He bent lips to her ear, a stream of breath sending chills, arousing chills, to her veins. “It won't hurt but this once. The first time is worst for women.”

“Doesn't seem fair.”

“Since when is life fair?”

He withdrew slightly. Would he retreat? “Don't leave me,” she pleaded. He didn't. Once more he pushed his too-large lance into her too-tight sheath, but this time he moved slower, letting her grow accustomed to him. His palms cupped the sides of her breasts to bring them closer together, which elicited a rush within her that swelled as his tongue darted to a closed eyelid, then lower, flicking, making her forget pain.

Her pelvis tilted toward him as he shoved deeper and with more force, reaching the very last of her capacity. She gasped. Her fingers clawed into the sheets. The strangest feeling came over her. Somewhere she'd crossed the line from pain to pleasure, and she realized they weren't that much different.

She wanted more of it, ached for it never to end.

It did. Just as she sailed past that wondrous feeling that his lips had wrought in the boxcar, he let go his elbow anchorage to lower his torso. His arms crushed her to him, his lips burying into her hair, she felt an intensity to his cadence. Then he gave a great groan, releasing into her.

Within moments he not only pulled out, he angled away from her as well as the berth. She heard him pulling on britches.

“Connor?”

“I shouldn't have done that.”

Always the regrets. But this time she had real hopes. Sure, he figured to see her prosecuted, but he could have ridden on to battle without a backward glance,
sans souci.

In light of all that had transpired between them, she didn't want him to choose between her and the Army. Once, she'd offered to stand at his side, no matter where that took them. She still meant it. But what were his intentions?

“Connor . . .” She tried to get out of the berth, but found her ravaged body wouldn't cooperate.

“Sorry for the roughness,” he said tersely. “Should've left you be. Right from the start, I should've.”

“Always the regrets. This time, please don't.” Her heart felt heavy, burdened with guilt. “I asked you to make”—she clamped down on the word love—“I asked you to take me. Ever since we met, I've asked more than you were willing to give.”

“You're wrong, India.”

He knelt beside the bunk, took her hand. Another zip of lightning illuminated his face. It looked the same, still handsome beyond the pale. His eyes remained thickly lashed, his nose straight and fine. Yet he appeared older, lines now bracketing his mouth; he had a certain weariness of countenance.