Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1 (9 page)

Dread, cold and harsh, squeezed her lungs.

Should she judge her stepfather before she even knew him? She had her mama’s insistence she shouldn’t return to him. But she didn’t know if Quintus had done anything wrong to warrant her fear or anger except what her aunt had said, “He makes a moonshiner look like a Catholic saint.” And she’d told her that because her mama had apparently sent a few letters describing the debauched gambling lifestyle on the steamboats years earlier to Aunt Ida. Of course, Dell had heard Molly’s distressingly frank tale about her stepfather’s mistress and his impotence, but that ought to cause Dell sympathy for the man. Not fear.

Perhaps he’d spanked her as a child. Yes, that would make her wary. Any discipline prior to Ida and Reuben’s beatings had probably been light, though she wouldn’t have thought so as a child. And Rory’s comments about the man’s enemies hadn’t helped.

Rory, the Devil’s Henchman.

If the captain was the henchman, then Moreaux was the devil. His crew treated Rory with apprehension and respect.

Trap stopped in front of a door and knocked before escorting her inside. Dell chased the butterflies in her stomach with the sweep of her hand as she approached the men in the room. Seated behind a massive mahogany desk, a salt and pepper head bowed over open ledgers, while Rory, swathed in black from head to foot, stood to the side. Only his tamed, golden hair lightened the darkness of his mien. His emerald eyes followed her approach, fixed on her face with an unreadable expression, before dropping lower.

His lips parted to speak at the same time that the man behind the desk looked up. A sensation of
deja vu
clawed into her with ferocity. Dell’s flesh broke into a cold sweat, and the room turned on its axis before she fell into oblivion.

Chapter Eleven

She became aware of Rory’s presence first when she came back to herself. He had a strong arm wrapped around her, his palm against the flat of her stomach, while his other hand cupped her elbow. She was completely slumped against him as he spoke to someone.

“…malnourished. You had only to see Eleanor’s family to understand the gravity of her situation.” He settled her into a chair and pressed his hand against her cheek. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He pulled away, but Dell caught his sleeve. His arm tensed beneath her fingers. She rasped, “Whiskey?”

His lips twitched. “Of course.”

She pushed herself up on the arms of the velvet wingback and blinked to restore her vision past the black dots dancing in her sight. “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to traveling.” Or the underthings, but the men needn’t hear that complaint. A pair of scissors applied to the delicate satin lacings would fix her as right as rain, but that would have to wait until later. She ran the back of her hand across her cool, damp forehead, and regarded the man sitting across from her while Rory poured her a glass of whiskey at the bar.

Moreaux’s long, elegant fingers turned the pages of a ledger, seemingly undisturbed by her presence. In a white shirt and burgundy brocade vest with a matching cravat, the silver-haired dandy sipped from a tiny crystal glass. Beside him sat a tray with two decks of cards tied in satin ribbons and a caddy full of faro chips. A box with a handle sat on the credenza behind him, half-forgotten beneath his discarded top hat, its wood carved and decorative with the outline of two pistols.

He spoke without looking up, “Obviously a wasted trip.” He then addressed Rory as he crossed the room. “At least you’re back in time to make yourself useful to me tomorrow.”

Her stepfather would acknowledge her presence. She’d not come so far to be ignored. “Thank you for the use of your stateroom, Quintus.” His name felt odd on her tongue, but she remembered calling him by his first name, having never been allowed to call him “Father.” She cleared her throat and accepted the liquor from Rory’s hand. He offered her a sympathetic smile and leaned casually against the side of her chair. She tossed back the drink, welcoming the slow burn and combustion in her gut. “Has the captain told you he saved a good man, an acquaintance of mine, from a possible hanging?”

Quintus Moreaux’s fingers paused over the page he was reading, and he lifted his flint eyes to regard her with transparent derision. He spoke in a cool voice, ignoring her question. “You look nothing like your mother. When you were a child, your hair was the color of hers, bright as sunlight in tiny spiral curls. By the time you reached four, you’d grown so dark, no one could tell you were the same girl anymore.”

Dell thrust her glass at Rory and sat arrow straight. The tips of her ears went hot. “How—”

Rory clamped a hand on her shoulder, cutting her off. A smile in his voice, he said, “I told you Eleanor taught her the trade. Philadelphia’s name was known at every port along the White River. They said her predictions are stunningly accurate.”

Quintus picked up a chip in his left hand and began to turn it across his knuckles as he watched her from beneath his craggy silver brows. “Doubtful. This waif? What can she do?”

Dell’s skin warmed beneath Rory’s hand. His curbing grip loosened, and he stroked her shoulder blade reassuringly.

Although she hadn’t meant to turn to her tricks again—ever—she could hardly sit and take the dismissal of this man. She was Eleanor’s daughter, after all, and her mama had died moving her away from the gambler she thought unfit to raise her child. Now Dell’s pride stung with thoughts of the way Rory had found her—so far from Mama’s world of privilege on the Mississippi. Yes, she’d been poor, left to neglectful guardians, but despite it all, she’d educated herself, worked hard becoming the prodigy of her talented mother. She would show them she was worth the sacrifice her mama made.

“I’d be happy to give you a fortune, but first, might we all have another drink? I’m so parched.” She looked up at Rory from beneath her lashes. He obediently went to the bar and returned with three full glasses. Dell held hers to her lips and watched as the men tossed theirs back. When they were finished, Dell took a deck of cards from the tray. Newer than hers, they felt slick and unwieldy, but they would do. She shuffled and spread the deck before her on the shiny wood desk. “Choose one, but don’t look at it.”

The gambler-boss set his faro chip aside and selected a card on the very end of the side to his left. He dropped it on top of his ledger. His mouth pursed ruefully. A skeptic, then. Her mood lightened.

Skeptics were her bread and butter.

Rory’s sleeve brushed her arm as he hovered close, and his gaze studied the spread of cards with interest.

“Choose another. This time turn it over.”

His manicured hand selected a card. He flipped over an ace of diamonds. His dark eyes met hers.

“That’s for money. You have a large sum of money at risk or…maybe you already did.”

He shook his head, scowling. “Campbell, any carnival charlatan could tell me that. You’ve brought me nothing.”

“You haven’t given her a chance.”

“Pick another card.” Dell grinned. Maybe it was having a new customer or maybe it was the finer liquor, but truth be told, she hadn’t felt this good in over a year. She’d seen sums, names and losses in that ledger of his, but she’d not show him all her cards at once.

He made an abrupt selection, stabbing a card with his rigid index finger.

“You must turn it over. That’s simply how it works.” She crossed her arms stubbornly.

He sighed and flicked the card over with a fingernail. “Three of spades.”

She held his gaze. “Three men meeting over money. The spades mean guns. A duel, perhaps.”

“Yes, yes, and I prefer sherry over whiskey, because I’m drinking the damn stuff right in front of you. Charlatan!” He folded his arms, cocking his head to the side.

Unruffled by his attitude, Dell nodded at the third card, still face down. “That’s the King of Hearts.”

The gambler slid the card from the ledger and turned it on its back. His bland expression told her she was right.

“It always represents one of two things. Love—if the customer has a lady on his mind. Or death—blood red, a loss of power. You selected it, Quintus. Which is it? Are you losing a ladylove? Or are you dying in this duel?”

His answering smile chilled the blood in her veins. “Neither.” He bent the card between two fingers, and it popped, landing square in her lap. “Maybe that card was meant for Campbell. As my second, he’s standing in tomorrow. He won’t lose this duel if he knows what’s good for him.”

Dell inhaled, straining to keep her expression from betraying her shock. She’d only guessed about the duel. “It’s your card. Not his. And they always prove true. But you can decide if you want to try to change your future. I just read the cards.”

The gambler pushed his chair back and stood. Rising tall, he glared down at her. “I’m going back to my guests. This is wasting us money and time. If Campbell lives through the morning, he can train you. You’ll work off the money I’m going to have to pay Judge Cobb for freeing that damn slave, but I’m not giving you a penny more after that.”

Work doing what? Dell’s question would have to wait. Her stepfather blew out the door, slamming it behind him.

She stood and leaned against the desk, facing Rory. Breathless from the corset and her encounter, she put a hand to her chest. “That didn’t go well at all.”

“I’m sorry.”

She looked into his eyes and saw the depth of his understanding. “He didn’t even ask about Mama, how she died, or if she said anything about him.”

“He already asked me what I knew. I’m sorry. I should’ve made him ask you.”

Strangely, tears appeared in her eyes. She blinked them away. “And I should’ve told him I wouldn’t read cards anymore. I shouldn’t have shown him! He wasn’t even convinced.”

“Yes he was.” Rory smiled and lifted her chin on his fingertips. “Didn’t you hear? He’s just offered you a job working for him. How did you know which card he would pick?”

She gave a half-shrug, not sharing his enthusiasm. “There’s never a guarantee, but he’s left-handed. I simply made it more convenient. He keeps everything useful within his reach—his hat, his guns, his cards, his—” she caught his hand and held it between them, adding, “his henchman. But even if I agree to stay and work off this bribe of his…what’s this about a duel? You’re actually going to take his place?”

Rory laced his fingers with hers and pressed a kiss against her knuckles, perhaps acknowledging her cleverness. “It might be my first time to duel, but I’m a good marksman. Moreaux trained me.”

A sliver of dread ran down her spine. She snatched her hand back. “This is hideous. It’s murder. You could die.”

Perhaps this is what her mama had run from, more than any opposition of Moreaux’s to Dell’s paternity or skin color. A sick mother could scarcely depend on a husband who could die at any moment or face the law for killing a man.

Rory’s face had gone ashen at her objection. But now a trace of some raw emotion entered his eyes. In a very soft voice, he teased, “Would you cry for me, Dell?”

Anger pumped through her along with something else. Staring into his clear green eyes, she saw the honesty behind his question. Her face felt tight from holding back tears of frustration that threatened. She shook her head, refusing involvement in the whole situation. “Your devotion to Quintus is going too far this time.”

Hell, she didn’t trust him, but she didn’t want him getting hurt, either.

A wall came up in Rory’s eyes, hiding the openness he’d just shared. He circled the chair, heading for the door. “Believe me, my so-called devotion has its limits. I promise I won’t send anyone to the morgue if I can help it. But…I’ve a bank account in the city. Moreaux doesn’t know about it, so he can’t touch it. Like you, I’ve been saving when I can. In the unlikely event I should die tomorrow, I’ve asked Zeb to withdraw everything and split it evenly between you and Asa. It’s the least I can do for Eleanor’s daughter.”

He added the last as if her name left a bitter taste on his tongue.

What had her mama done to make him angry?

He opened the door and gestured for her with a curt wave of his hand. “Come. I’ll show you the salon, as well as the names and faces you’ll need to know.” He flashed her a smile without his usual warmth.

So this was what it was like sitting on the other side of the trickster’s table.

The captain had played her, and now she was on their team—his and Quintus’s—as if she were born to do so.

Dell tucked her emotions deep inside as she had all her life, and marched from the gambler’s office with head held high. She’d stop the duel somehow, just like she’d stopped Ephraim by sending him to California, and like she saved Jeremiah. Whether Rory Campbell deserved it or not, she’d save him too.

Drawing on every ounce of finesse he possessed, Rory angled Dell in a path through the crowded gaming tables, avoiding questions about her identity and stealing the conversations when enchanted men attempted to get to know the stunning brunette better. He knew he was hurrying her, bringing the rustic girl from the Ozarks into their midst too soon, but the opportunity was too good to let pass. As a newcomer, she needed the introductions, needed to know which men to entice and which gamblers to read.

As they stood by a potted palm tree, watching the action at a nearby table, he leaned to her ear to speak over the loud jangle of piano music. Yet to be honest with himself, he simply wanted to brush against her. She stiffened beneath the smallest touch of his hand at the base of back. Fury? Likely. Her anger at him about the duel and her part in Quintus’s business had been tangible ever since leaving the office. It probably hadn’t helped that he’d allowed the knowing winks of customers when he’d introduced Dell with his arm draped tightly around her waist. All done with an eye to protect her—though she might not realize it.

“See the man with the gray hat? He’s a German immigrant. Ottenheim. Owns a dry goods store. He’s the second for the man I’m facing in the morning, Kit Wainwright.”

Her nostrils flared. “And this concerns me how?”

He slid his hand along her bare shoulder, stopping at the boundary of ruby satin that ran in a tempting line from her sleeve to the swell of her breasts. His eyes had followed that same line a dozen or more times so far, and he was beyond caring who saw his desire for the exquisite woman. Molly’s choice of dresses couldn’t have been more perfect. Moreaux was an idiot if he couldn’t see the worth in Philadelphia.

Sweat broke on his brow. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed it away. “We’re going to port in St. Louis for a private game with him in a few days. We need you to find his tells. Can you do that? Do you know when a person’s bluffing?”

She bit her lip in poor attempt to conceal her smile as pride got the better of her, despite the overt anger she bore for him.

“Ah. I see you do.” As a pair of men walked by ogling Dell, Rory flattened his hand on her waist possessively and leaned to her ear again. “A gambler is only as good as his ability to control his thoughts from being read. If you can read our opponents’ thoughts and anticipate their moves, we can beat them in every game. So…can you tell when I’m bluffing?” He immediately wished he could take back the question.

She batted her eyes, flirting perhaps for their audience, yet he felt the tension of her body beneath his hand. “Have you been dishonest with me that I should know?”

Rory caught his tongue between his teeth. God, how he wanted to kiss her. To wipe the smug smile off her sultry lips and ravish her mouth again like the pirate he was.

Instead he smiled. “I’d like to experiment with that.” He stepped back, putting space between them. “I look forward to winning tomorrow morning. Then we can begin your training in earnest and…in private.”

Her eyes sparked with annoyance and, he hoped, a tinge of lust.

Desire gave him a new reason to fight Moreaux and live. Now if Dell would only see their potential as lovers as he did.