Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (26 page)

Rory sat at the helm of Kit’s phaeton with Kit and Asa in the back.

Her heart gave a sad tumble seeing her beloved looking so deliciously roguish in the driver’s seat with the wind in his hair and in his rumpled charcoal suit. Compassionate as always, he drove for his wounded friend.

She glanced back at the brothel feeling a skewer of jealousy that the men would be visiting there, but it was too early for a call on the ladies, surely. And they wouldn’t bring the boy…

Looking back as Rory stopped the phaeton behind their own carriage, her gaze tangled with his. Face flushed from the ride and perhaps the altercation two days ago, he jumped down from the rig, still staring at her.

The back of her neck prickled at being held captive by his intelligent, direct gaze. She gave her heated skin a quick chafe and offered him a smile, stepping down from the barouche. “Good morning.”

Rory continued to stare as he towered over her, making her think she ought to check her scalp to see if she’d sprouted horns or perhaps had a bit of the morning’s ham wedged between her teeth.

“Well?” she snapped. His silence disconcerted her and a thread of anger wound its way through her insides. “You’re bein’ impertinent. We’ve finished our business here. If you don’t have anything to say, we’re going back to Bart’s house.”

When she put her foot on the step, he took her hand. His touch was hot, igniting her pulse with instant awareness. He ran his thumb across her knuckles. “I do have something to ask.”

She lifted her brows, holding her breath.

“Why weren’t you on the
Queen
today when it left?”

Her insides twisted. “I decided that wasn’t what I wanted.” She lifted a shoulder, faking indifference.

His eyes closed briefly as if she’d struck him. When he reopened them, they glittered. “This is my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t brought you along…you were going to do such good things, teaching children to read. Christ, to trade that work for this!” He gestured at the brothel.

“Audacious, Campbell! I didn’t let you borrow my phaeton to come here and insult her!” Kit cried, rising out of his seat. “Philadelphia, you don’t have to listen to his remonstrations.”

Rory’s high color made sense to her now. He was angry, thinking she’d decided to work in a brothel. She tugged her hand free from him as her face went up in flames. “I’m not working here! What gave you that idea? How could you even think that?”

Rory shot a dark look at Kit, who suddenly checked his timepiece with pinched lips. Rory shifted, blocking Kit from her view, and lowered his voice. “This life of greed isn’t you. Think what you’re doing. What makes you happy? It ain’t this.”

The heaviness in her heart returned again, threatening to engulf her in another wave of pain and despair.

Matching his softer volume, she said, “Being on the river makes me happy. Always has.” It was true. Perhaps it was one reason her mother had been so adamant in telling her to stay away from the Mississippi. She’d known that Dell would be lost to the river life if she ever ventured near the waterway again.

“The lady’s going to join the crew of one of my new boats,” Bartholomew explained from the interior of the barouche. “It’s my first venture in philanthropy. She’s going to run a book delivery service to the riverfront youths.”

Rory continued to frown, and his blatant disapproval threatened to undo her. She didn’t need to explain her actions to him, but she wanted to nonetheless.

“You were right about me, Rory. You said folks like us like to take risks.” The muscles of her mouth pulled down as she fought tears. “You said, ‘It’s all we’ve got.’ And…I thought my staying around might make you happy too. I’m not my mother. I couldn’t just up and leave. Not when I…”

His gaze dropped to his feet, his face suddenly tense and his fringe of lashes hid his eyes from her as she babbled.

He didn’t want her to stay.

A tear leaked from her eye. She turned back for the carriage.

Bartholomew grumbled, “Campbell, you dunderhead! The gal loves you.”

She climbed onto the step, sniffing back more tears as if she needed any more reason to feel humiliated.

Suddenly she felt hands on her waist. Rory’s hands and forearms closed around her, pulling her off the carriage. Struggling, she slid against him as he put her on her feet. Then he turned her around firmly by the shoulders.

She pushed at his chest, hard and unyielding, prepared to shout at him, but her protests died in her throat when she looked up into his tearful eyes.

He took her hands, brought her knuckles to his lips, and kissed them. His breathing ragged, he closed his eyes as he continued to adorn her hands with more tender kisses. Her stomach somersaulted, and he looked at her.

“Angel, if you want this life, then say you’ll be mine. Stay with me. I love you with all my bein’—my heart and soul.” His mouth curved in a smile. “I’ve never loved another, never will.”

He dropped to his knees, and she couldn’t tell if the trembles she felt were his or her own. His eyes steady and serious, he said, “Philadelphia, I want to be your husband. I’ll love you, protect you, and give you as many children as you can stand to teach to read. Babies who’ll tug on your skirt and beg for one more story.”

“Or one more game of cards?” She smiled through her tears.

He grinned. “Yes. And if you decide you want to go to school later, let me go with you, wherever you go—if you can bear to be seen with a man like me.” His neck worked, watching her expectantly, then he asked, “So will you marry me?”

Speechless from the knot in her throat, she nodded and kissed his smiling lips. He pulled her against him as he climbed to his feet, lifting her off the ground as he deepened the kiss. Ignoring the objections of the men around them, they kissed until their tears mingled and they were breathless.

“I love you,” she strangled out, and her three little words caused his face to brighten like the noonday sun. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Epilogue

Illinois River, Illinois, four years later

The physician shook hands with Rory and Asa, then dropped his hat on his head before heading down the porch steps to his waiting rig. Rory waited until he disappeared, then grabbed his wife.

“Rory Campbell!” Dell cried pushing half-heartedly at his shoulders as he drew her into a waltz. Her smile widened as he spun her in a circle, and her fingers curled into him. She gasped. “If the neighbors see us dancing with no music, they’ll think you’ve gone mad!”

“Right. Asa, fetch the fiddle I bought you.” He pulled her closer, loving the feel of her in his arms as she followed his lead.

“Aye, sir.” He smiled and turned for the front door with his hands in his pockets.

“No, Asa.” His wife laughed. “We’ll not be dancin’ that long.”

“Why not?” Rory grumbled.

Dell’s chignon drooped in their swirling dance, and he finished pulling her hair loose to her shoulders. Her skin looked radiant tonight and every night since she’d revealed she was having a baby. He ran his mouth along her neck, breathing in the honeysuckle fragrance of her hair as he kissed her skin. “Both patients are doing fine. The doctor said so. I think that deserves a dance or two.”

She trembled and gave him a sultry look while her back was to the boy.

“If the two of you start that again, this patient will be sick, all right.” Asa cradled his stomach, aping revulsion despite the healthy color of his face, which was still tawny from their last trip south.

Rory released Dell and sent him a glare. “Isn’t tonight your turn to cook?”

“Yes. And you better make enough, Asa. Remember how much you and Rory like to eat, but I’m eating for two, also,” Dell said, using her stern tone, the one Rory called her “teacher voice.” Usually, it made both him and Asa crack up, but lately they’d learned to save their joking for when she wasn’t around, fearing her new emotional state. It had taken a day of apologies and a new rifle to make amends for the last time Rory had accidentally insulted her by his lighthearted jests.

Asa’s towering body filled the open doorway, pausing on the threshold. “I will! But since we’ve all waited at home for the physician today, no one has been to town for meat. Don’t expect a miracle. It’ll be cornbread, potatoes and cabbage.”

Rory rested a hand on Dell’s waist, drawing her bottom against him. She gave him a saucy grin over her shoulder, making him painfully stiff.

How long had it been since they’d been alone? They’d lived in the house for a month since her condition had caused her to suffer seasickness.

Thinking of the river, a warm glow expanded through him. “I have an idea for dinner. Philadelphia, let’s get our fishing poles.”

Dell wrangled with another plump night crawler, threading her hook before tossing the bait into the water. The sun was setting and light fading to a golden orange glow, but she could see where the line had landed beneath a fallen tree close to the riverbank. Satisfied with her cast, she returned the butt of her cane pole to its hole in the ground and sat down beside Rory on the blanket.

“This may be your most outlandish idea yet.” She wiped her hands on her skirt and leaned back on her elbows, stretching her legs out before her.

He grinned and turned the page of the book he’d been reading. “You’ll eat your words when you bring in your first catch.”

“I’ve been fishing all my life. And there. Are. No. Catfish. Here.”

“And you’ve traveled enough to know? You, who never left Posey Hollow for fourteen years?” He leaned over and tweaked her chin. “I’m tellin’ you, the flatheads start biting when it gets dark.”

His teasing expression darkened as he eyed her mouth hungrily. Dell leaned forward, eager for his kiss, but he put a finger against her lips. “I have to finish the chapter. The light will be gone soon, and I won’t be able to read to him.”

“Or her!” she scolded, and fell on her back, faking a pout.

Rory had bought them a house close to Asa’s school where Dell taught, as well as near the river, until she could stand the swaying motion of the
Athena
again. Their story reading on the front porch swing had become a nightly ritual and something Dell hoped they would continue after the baby came.

Truth was, she loved listening to Rory read aloud. Loved the sound of his voice and the way he put such animation into his characters as he read Scott’s Waverley novels to their unborn child.
The Talisman
had never captured her imagination as well as when his drawl narrated the Crusaders’ tale.

He spoke across the open book at the small bump of her midsection. “Now where were we before your mama got impatient with those ol’ catfish?”

“You were at the part where the knight and the Saracen were disrobing and admiring each other’s physiques—”

“Shhh!” His eyes flashed wickedly up at her. “The babe could be a girl!”

“So you admit it!” she laughed. They’d had an ongoing yet playful battle for weeks over whether the child would be a boy or a girl.

“I admit there’s a possibility,” he smiled sheepishly. “Though I think otherwise. Still, we wouldn’t want to corrupt the babe with your wicked interpretation of Sir Walter’s depictions of the realities of war.”

“I’m just recalling what I heard so you can begin again.” She straightened the collar of his unbuttoned shirt and stole a stroke of his warm skin beneath.

His voice went gravelly. “All you heard was how the men were taking their clothes off?” He bit his lip, feigning astonishment. “You’re a wanton, Philadelphia Campbell! If you weren’t in a delicate state I’d punish you for your wickedness.” He kissed her earlobe and gave it a tiny tug with his teeth.

Her bare feet curled on the blanket as pleasure ran through her. She caressed his cheek. “You’re the one who brought me out here to fish at night. With a blanket. Leaving Asa at home making supper. With no one around for miles. Surely you didn’t expect me to behave otherwise.”

“I’m only a man, angel.” Pushing the book aside, he moved over her, caging her between his bracing arms. “It’s difficult to resist a perfect opportunity to be alone when I have such a lovely, enchanting wife.”

She lifted her head, meeting his lips as he leaned down to kiss her. His hand cradled her as he slid his tongue into her mouth, and she heard herself moan with satisfaction. They kissed endlessly with seeking hands and Rory caressing the new swelling of her stomach and breasts as if he couldn’t resist those temptations, either.

After several moments, she opened her eyes and caught the twitch at the tip of the cane pole. Hell in a handbasket! A fish on the line.

She slid her arms around Rory, drawing him closer to her body.

What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

About the Author

Sandra Jones is the author of historical romance and young adult novels (writing as Sandi Beth Jones). Living in Arkansas with her husband of more than twenty-five years and her cat, she makes her home on a river where she writes to the sounds of mischievous wildlife and daydreams about adventure.
Her Wicked Captain
is her first American historical romance.

Sandra loves hearing from her readers. You can find out more about her books here:
www.SandraJonesRomance.com
.

Look for these titles by Sandra Jones:

Coming Soon:

His Captive Princess

Running from the past…and running out of time.

The Fortune

© 2013 Beth Williamson

The Malloy Family, Book 9

French-born Francesca Chastain came to New York with her family to find a better life. Now she is fleeing a nightmare. Her past chases her from New York and she must run, and run hard.

Her journey to the land of milk and honey is interrupted by the accidental squeeze of a trigger. And the man on the other end of her blunder is a man like none other she’s ever met.

After three years working Oregon-bound wagon trains, John Malloy has almost saved enough money to start his own horse ranch. And almost met the end of his life at the hands of fiery, green-eyed Frankie, a confusing, frustrating woman who responds to his flirting—then disappears.

No one is more relieved than Frankie when John races to her rescue, but now they’re trapped in the wild. And the shadows of both their pasts are closing in…

Warning: Inside you’ll find sexy heat, danger, Old West violence, gun-toting bad guys and an emotional roller coaster. Prepare to fall in love with the Malloys all over again with witty, strong women, stubborn, heroic men and a love that launched a legacy.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Fortune:

John could hardly believe his ears. Frankie, the spunky little thing, wanted him to help her wash her hair. He didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, because sure as hell he’d wanted to kiss her since she landed in the mud under him. Those flashing green eyes, that heart-shaped face, the soft, pillowy breasts that made his hands itch. She was sin incarnate, even covered in mud.

Now here she sat on the bank of the frigid creek, her hair undone. Although muddy, she had gorgeous hair, thick and wavy with the colors of sunset sparkling in the early morning sun. He’d be a fool to touch her.

John was obviously a complete fool.

“Then come closer and lean forward.”

She did as she was bade, coming close enough he could see the small hairs at the nape of her neck, tiny wisps that moved slightly in the breeze. He wanted to kiss them, breathe in the scent of Frankie, then kiss his way across the pink shell of her ear, her jaw, until he reached the full, ruby lips. Damn. He wasn’t one to get caught up in a woman’s looks, but something about this little French woman set his blood to boil.

John scooped up water with his hands, running it through her hair, working out the clumps of mud. Her hair was at least three feet long, rich and thick. He could well imagine what it would feel like clean and spread across the sheets.

Damn, but he’d been too long without a woman. He did not need to get involved with any of the folks from the wagon train, especially virginal young ladies.

“My neck is beginning to cramp.” She knew how to complain, that was for sure.

“I got the clumps out. Let me give it a good scrub.”

Her head felt so tiny in his hands, in contrast to the heavy hair she carried. He scrubbed at her scalp until her hair fairly squeaked. Then he kept at it a few minutes more, feeling perverse at keeping her on her knees in front of him. A lesser man would make a crude remark, but he kept his tongue. For a reason he couldn’t name, he liked her.

“I would like to stand now,
monsieur
.”

He chuckled and squeezed as much water from her hair as he could. “There you go, Frankie. Now toss me your dress and I’ll see what I can do.”

She swung her hair to the right, which made a slap as it hit her back. Without the cloud of hair, Frankie looked damn young, vulnerable. Then she opened her mouth and the illusion was broken.

“I do not believe I am the first woman to hear you say that.” She raised both brows. “Do you have experience as a laundress?”

“I’ve had to wash my own duds for years. I’m sure I can manage to get your frock clean.” He held out his hand, enjoying the play of emotions across her face.

“It is sturdy, but not canvas like your trousers. Please do not rip it.” She handed him the yellow dress with obvious reluctance.

The fact she’d entrusted him with what was apparently her only other dress was unexpected. He did his best to get the mud off, using the sand at the bottom of the creek to scour it away. Without soap, it wasn’t going to be shiny clean, but at least it was cleaner.

“Your sisters don’t have an accent like you.” He was curious about her, although he shouldn’t be.

“I was ten when we moved from France. The two youngest lost most of their accent, and Josephine is a governess and tutor. She trained herself to lose any trace of France.” She squeezed out her hair. “Wealthy people prefer a French maid or dresser, not a French tutor.”

John hadn’t had much contact with rich people, but her words had a ring of truth to them. There was a rich man on the wagon train and he was a jackass.

“What brings you west?”

She stopped and stared at him, her chin rising into a stubborn tilt. “Why do most settlers?”

He shrugged. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to push. It wasn’t his business and truthfully, he’d heard too many stories in the last three years. He wouldn’t miss another one.

When he rose to wring out the dress, she gasped. His gaze flew to hers, noting she had been finger combing her hair and watching him. He wanted to puff out his chest and grin, but her expression stopped him.

“Do not wring out my dress,
monsieur
. Bring it here and I will extract the water,
si vous plais
.”

He frowned. “You sure are bossy.”

“My sisters would likely agree with you.” She got to her feet and held out her hands. He noted her wet hair had turned the top of her blue dress almost see-through.

John should have told her, but damn, he enjoyed the view too much. The devil inside him wanted to know the color of the nipples currently poking at her dress. They weren’t too dark, perhaps pink.

“
Monsieur
Malloy, the dress?” She tapped her foot and swung her hair back.

He couldn’t stop himself, his gaze dropped again to her chest. She followed his stare and gasped, her arms slamming over those tits in a flash.

“I cannot believe you did not tell me.”

“I can’t believe you expected me to.” He grinned, completely unrepentant and enjoying his time with Frankie Chastain immensely.

“You,
monsieur
, are no gentleman.”

“I never said I was.” He tossed the dress, enjoying the wet slap as it landed in her arms. Damn but he felt like laughing.

Frankie spun on her heel and walked away. Too late John realized he still hadn’t had his hand doctored, so he needed to return to the Chastain wagon. A tiny bubble of excitement tickled his belly. Frankie had definitely put a twist in his tail in the short time he’d known her.