Destiny's Magic (13 page)

What if he gave England to Susan? Of course he couldn't. The lamp wouldn't abide it unless they were married. They didn't have to stay married forever, but Burke didn't like that idea. Too many complications. Such a Pip. And a river rat growing mighty fond of an Englishwoman.

In that hour before dawn, when Burke waltzed in half nude, Susan hadn't been able to sleep. Uneasy about the call on her staid father in the wild and exotic city, she'd tamped the candle to plan her arguments.

“I had that latch fastened,” she said to Burke at his interruption. “How did you get in?”

“It was no hill for a stepper.”

Susan could have throttled the cocky captain whose form she could barely make out in the darkened cabin—it was certainly no stateroom—she was supposed to be sharing with Pippin.

She sprang from her seat on the bunk. “For pity's sake, what are you doing? The crew and passengers will be up and about before dawn. Pippin could walk in at any time.”

“He's fast asleep atop a crate of popcorn.”

“He could fall overboard!”

“Do you honestly believe I'd leave him in danger?”

“No,” she replied, shamefaced. “Of course I don't.”

Orson wouldn't have cared where his son was. Or what he might walk in on. As Susan had once suspected, Burke had wormed his way into her good graces through an adoring boy.

Or was it the magic?

Burke strode to bunkside and placed an item on the ledge, where a single candle sat unlit. “No one will intrude,” he said confidently. “As for why I'm here, I want to . . . make magic.”

“You hate magic.”

“Not the magic of you.”

Oh, Mama Loa! During those days he'd ignored her, she'd wanted him more than ever. India's advice kept returning. Should she accept magic and be pleased for it? How could she find the answer to such a question? She didn't know her heart or her mind, not with New Orleans looming in front of her.

He'd have his way unless she stood up for herself, for Pippin, for freedom, even though she battled the pull of magic. “Go away, Burke, before I scream for help.”

He swung to the bunk and pulled her to him. “I'd rather you scream at the moment of little death.”

“L-little death?”

“You, a New Orleanian, haven't heard of
petite mort?
I don't speak French, but I know that one.”

“I'm ignorant of many things.”

“Trust me. I'll show you.”

“I'll scream if you do.”

“I hope so.” He brushed his breath on her ear. She shivered as he said, “Be sweet, honey. I've got something round and hard to give you.”

She bit down on a laugh. “Churl!” Her foot shoved at his form and connected with a warm, hairy leg. My, it felt nice. Yet she did not feel comfortable with this encounter. Not at all. Not when she would confront New Orleans so very soon.

He moved away from her. She heard movements. What was Burke doing? Why, the presumptuous rascal was taking off a nightshirt. “Stop.”

“Stop what? Giving you a gift?”

“This is the first time I've heard it called a
gift.
”

“Your mind is in the gutter, Susie mine.”

His hand took hold of her ankle, lifted it to his lips for a kiss to her toes that sent unwanted heat straight to her heart. She gasped. Nudging in beside her, he chuckled, supremely sure of his powers of . . . gift giving.

She wanted it. Today might be the last they would see of each other. That thought suddenly terrified her.

Somehow he got her nightgown bunched up and above her waist. She pressed her fingers against his mouth to push him away, but his lips opened; her forefinger fell against his teeth. She felt the out-of-line incisor that might have detracted from his appeal but only added to it.

His tongue swirled around her fingertip, then nipped it gently, gaining the desired effect. “I must be diligent in pleasing you, my sunshine girl. You're not used to men giving you anything to like.”

Warmth licked through her senses, yet she managed to say, “Do not presume to know my tastes.”

“I don't. But I will find out.”

“Have you gone mad? Madder? Believe me, your good impression of late is fading fast.” A half lie.

“Open your palm.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Open your palm.” He inched away to bring his other hand forward and to lay a small object in the center of her hand. “Miss Susan Seymour, would you do me the honor of accepting this token of my esteem?”

It felt like a piece of jewelry.

He lit a candle. She ventured a look at him. Handsome, his eyes of green filled with desire, his strong jaw set at a determined angle. His whorled chest hair grew on a well-formed palette, artistry at its most excellent. She ventured a lower look. His hips were lean, his legs long and muscular, his manhood . . . oh, so pleasing to the eye.

This man—this statue-perfect god who'd experienced heartbreak and trouble, and had climbed out of the mire of drink—had boarded a burning ship to rescue her.

He'd brought smiles to a youngster's battered face.

He brought a smile to Susan's lips.

So what if he loved Antoinette? So what if he had a terrible temper?
Today could be the last time you'll see him
.

“Aren't you going to look at your gift?” he asked, lifting his broad and capable hand.

Candlelight danced on a brilliant diamond, centered among a row of smaller canary diamonds, in a platinum band. “It is lovely.”

“Aye. Do you like your betrothal ring?”

“Wherever did you get it?”

“That's about the most unromantic reply a man can get,” Burke groused benignly. “But I'll answer it. I called in a marker from the jeweler in St. Francisville. I've been waiting for the right time to give it to you, but there never seemed to be one. So I'm making one.”

“Oh, Burke.”

“The yellow diamonds aren't as prized as the blue one,” he said, “but the color reminds me of your sunshine hair.”

This certainly beat the cheap band that Bilge Water had tried to trick onto her finger. Moreover, Orson had never complimented her. She liked being complimented.

“May I place it on your finger?” Burke asked politely.

It was as if that pesky force opened her mouth to answer in the affirmative, but she fought it. “I cannot say yes. Marriage mustn't be entered into because an auntie simply wished it on you.”

“Just try it on for size.”

Tenderly, he slid the jewel onto the appropriate place. It didn't feel odd to Susan in spite of her misgivings. It felt right, as did his lips when he kissed her. As did his hands when he freed her plait of hair and combed his fingers to unbind the mass. As did the erect testimony to his desire.

And she reveled in the rockets of carnal need that showered through her. Why was it he could tamper with common sense no matter how hard she fought him? Was it magic? Yes. Of course. The wish caused it. No. It was simply the man.

He guided her to the bunk, the fit tight because of his height. He worked her nightgown open, his lips cherishing her breasts. She held him there. The luscious ache within her cried for more. Her hands skimmed his back as he moved his lips to her throat. His teeth nipped her lightly as he said, “Open for me.”

Her knees parted. Yet he didn't enter her. A finger parted the hair at the top of her thighs, then brought her to a fevered pitch. Her head thrashed with the need of him. The boat rocked. His lips crushed down on hers as she screamed in ecstasy that told her there was more yet to know.

He went still, removing his finger. “That isn't the little death. It's just a preview. Good night, Susan.”

Her fingernails dug into his arm as he inched away. “Damn you. No! You won't leave me like this.” With Orson she'd had all those months of less than satisfaction. She would not allow Burke to leave her. She'd have the rest of her life to bemoan the loss of what she had only witnessed. “Do it, Burke. Do it!”

“Please?”

“Please, you wretched cad. Please!”

He chuckled in triumph. The boat gave another tilt as he pressed his manhood to her throbbing entry. His hands scooted under the tops of her arms . . . and he pressed forward.

“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “You are truly big.”

“Aye.” He surged to the hilt.

This was a wonder, a stupendous ride on a magic carpet, but she decried his gentle loving. Sensing her need, he pumped harder, faster, sending her beyond the realm of some magical carpet. Delicious stars flashed before her eyes. And she knew the little death.

As did he. He gnashed his teeth, throwing back his raven's-wing head. His hot seed plowed her womb.

Moments later he kissed her gently. She felt his member pulse and slacken. Tears burned her eyes. How could she ever say good-bye? “Go with me to Seymour Hall,” she whispered. “I don't want to face it alone.”

“I had every intention of taking you there. I promised to protect you, remember? I promise to protect you. For however long you require my services.”

They lay entwined for a handful of moments before he pulled out and sat up. “Susan, your twenty dollars sleeps with the
Yankee Princess
. Have you made alternate plans, in case Seymour turns you away?”

“I shan't borrow trouble,” she replied with bravado.

She rolled away, lost in worry. Had her father remanded her trust fund to Grandfather? Rich, powerful, upper-crust Grandfather. The Seymours of New Orleans forever depended on his largess.

His annual stipend provided Horace Seymour the means to own one of the finest homes in New Orleans. Susan would have been happier in a cottage with roses had his heart been as large as even the carriage house at Seymour Hall. If he hadn't ignored her, she might not have been as eager to go to St. Ann Street, where she had begun her fall from grace.

Yet she couldn't fault hoodoo. The faithful had given the attention she craved, along with a false impression of the world outside Seymour Hall.

She rolled back to Burke, now slipping the nightshirt over his lean frame. “Father will see me.”

 

 

“
This
is where your papa lives?” Pippin leaned so far out of the carriage window that Burke had to grab the seat of his pants to keep him from falling to St. Charles Street. “Why, it's bigger than the orphanage! Gosh, Momma, you were rich.”

“Never in the things that truly count.” She swallowed.

“Pip, stay in the carriage while we go in,” Burke suggested wisely.

“I ain't never been in no fancy place. I wanna go.”

Susan didn't correct him. Her attention wasn't on the proper use of the Queen's English. In truth her attention was captured by a glance at Burke that sank to the bulge in his white linen britches. Oh, my! A rush of lust beset her as she recalled the early hours of morning. She needed more of him.

“Can I go in with y'all, Momma?” Pippin pleaded.

“Listen to Burke,” Susan finally answered, her tone an octave too high. “Stay here. We shan't be long.”

“Shucks.”

The footman opened the carriage door, extended a hand to help Susan alight. She hesitated before taking the first step.

The brick residence on St. Charles looked the same as last October. The long windows still gleamed; their shutters remained upright. The gray paint on Seymour Hall's trim still sparkled. The gardener, as always, fussed over his rhododendrons and oleanders, paying no attention to the approach of guests.

Burke had warned her not to expect changes. The important one would be inside. As she stepped from the O'Brien carriage, she lifted the Spanish fan and took a deep breath.

This being Monday noon, surely Father was at home. Summers, he always took a lunch of boiled shrimp, okra gumbo, fruit salad, and créme brulée. Afterward, he'd nap. Cook would wrap a sandwich of fried shrimp on French bread for his dinner, which he always ate in his laboratory.

Susan lowered the fan and placed her fingers across Burke's offered forearm. Dressed in the best the O'Brien purse had tendered, they strolled up the walk and climbed ten steps to the gallery. This, Susan decided, must be how India felt when she thought her feet would ascend the gallows stairs.

What
would
she do if Father turned her away?

Would she accept Burke's proposal?

The butler answered their summons.

A flicker of astonishment in Everton's narrow, aging face faded quickly. Everton wasn't one for emotion, although he'd taught a six-year-old Susan to shoot marbles on the cobbles behind their Mayfair home. “Good afternoon, miss.” He spoke as if she were a stranger. He nodded toward Burke. “And you, Captain. But I fear Mr. Seymour is not in.”

“Let me see for myself.” She gathered more courage than she thought she possessed. “Come along, Burke.”

Crinoline belling, Susan started to sidestep the family retainer, but he blocked her path. “You'd best run along, Miss Susan. I will tell your father you called.”

“Step out of the way, man. The lady wants to see her father. And she's going to see him.”

Burke meant business, and Everton knew it, for he nodded slowly and replied, “As you wish.”

It was the longest walk of her life, the wide foyer of Seymour Hall. While the house's size always daunted her—it was far too large for one widower and his only daughter—the hallway stretched the length of the Mississippi. Or it seemed so today. Her heart skipped when she noticed a blank space on the wall where her portrait once hung. What had become of it?

At last they reached the doors to the dining hall.

She hesitated and tried to swallow. “Throughout the months I've been away, I've told myself it didn't matter, losing face with Father.” Her heart wrenched. “It matters.”

“Then I pray God you won't be disappointed.”

Her eyes turned to the man who'd become her lover. Strong and tall, he gave an encouraging smile. She knew then that he wanted her happiness even though it went against his resolve. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

She squared her shoulders, turned the knob, and walked in. Near the middle of the table, she said, “Hello, Father.”

Horace Seymour sat alone at the head of the table that could serve thirty-six, but never had. Silver and unlit candelabra were placed in precise places, where Mama would have wanted them. Silverware and porcelain lay atop the Belgian linen. Everything was just so—until he dropped his salad fork.

A diminutive man of forty-three, Horace wore the attire of a workman. Blond hair sprouted long and wild, frizzing on an elongated head. Spectacles perched above the hill of his nose. Those round eyeglasses, and the jerk of facial muscles, caused the light that streamed in from a window to reflect away the expression in his steel-gray eyes. “Get out.”

“May I have just a moment?” She swept around the table to kneel at his chair. She held an arm of it. He recoiled, lest the leper touch him. “Forgive me, Father. I was wrong to leave you. So very wrong.”

“Get out. You too, Captain O'Brien.”

“Your daughter's come a long way to see you, Seymour. The least you can do is hear what she's got to say.”

“Everton!” Chair legs scraped as Horace shoved to stand. “Everton, where are you? Get rid of these people.”

Susan's fingers fell to her side. Her legs threatened to give. A strong hand held her steady.
What do I do now?

“Calm down, Seymour,” Burke said evenly. “We're not here to steal the dishes.”

His blade-thin upper lip curling, Horace glared up at Burke. “You.” He shook with rage. “Get out of my house.”

“Is that any way to talk to a loyal customer?”

“You are no longer welcome in my establishment, sir.”

“Susan.” Burke grasped her elbow and helped her stand. “Let's go, honey.”

“Honey? Tell me, young woman, what happened to the last chap who used blandishments with you?”

She bowed her head, dreading to admit the tawdriness that was her life. That he would ask such a question answered one of her own. Orson Paget had not arrived in New Orleans.

“We were not wed,” she replied. “I've left him.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Your daughter wants her money,” Burke blurted out. “She's returning to England to make a respectable place for herself.”

“Then I trust you're financing the journey.” Horace looked as if he were smelling something putrid. “Have you not told her I refunded the money to her grandfather?”

He simply tries to make me suffer, she consoled herself. “It wasn't yours to refund.”

“Earl Brynwaithe demanded it.” A vicious smile. “He made a surprise visit for your last birthday, chit. Intended to hand over the pounds himself. He was much disturbed to learn you'd turned out a pagan run off with a fool.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Her dreams slipped. Burke's hand on her shoulder, she said in a small voice, “Then I won't be welcomed back to the family.”

“I should say not. And you're not welcome here. Get out, cyprian, before you disgrace yourself further.”

“That'll be enough, Seymour,” Burke growled, his temper on the verge of flying. “You're speaking to your daughter.”

“You'll not stand in my home and tell me what to do, O'Brien.” Horace hunched shoulders. “Have you told her? Did you tell her I destroyed everything that reminded me of her?”

What? Her gaze flew to Burke.

“No. I didn't tell her,” he answered slowly.

No wonder he'd tried to warn her off.

Horace stomped to the window, but whirled about. “Susan, word reached me you lived as Paget's wife. Thank God your noble mother isn't alive to know her daughter lived under common law.”

“Common law?” Susan repeated. “I don't understand.”

“By calling yourself Mrs. Paget, you've bound yourself to that blister on the heel of humanity the same as if you'd wed in Westminster Abbey.”

His final verbal blow proved too much. The shudder that racked Susan left her on the verge of collapse. When she took a quick look at Burke, she saw a stricken countenance. He hadn't known about that chapter of law. Neither had Susan.

Burke, collected, quizzed Horace. “Tell me, Seymour. Did you get a report on how Bilge Water mistreated her?”

“You.” Horace's tone would have frozen the sun. “You aren't even up to the scratch of her last Romeo.”

“Watch what you say, Seymour.”

“Father,” she said into the silence that followed, “you always spoke kindly of Captain O'Brien.”

“Situations change.” Horace, with military precision, pivoted and marched toward the foyer. One hand on the doorjamb, he swept the other to indicate a pathway. “Do not come back.”

Burke hustled her past Horace. Just inside the foyer, he craned his neck to say, “We'll give you time to think things over. Of course, you're invited to the wedding.”

“You would drag my simple-minded daughter into bigamy?”

The mere mention roiled within her. She froze. The tears she'd been able to dam now burst. How had she allowed it to happen, the ruination of her life?

Burke lowered his face and shoved it toward Horace. “Don't concern yourself with bigamy.”

“You presume rules are made to be broken, O'Brien.”

“I don't presume a damned thing. I make my own rules.”

 

 

As soon as his daughter and her paramour separated from Seymour Hall, Horace folded into his chair, shoved plates aside, and doubled over. “Why didn't she stay away?”

“She still loves you, sir,” Everton answered, and cleared the abandoned meal to a tea cart.

“Good. Then she'll hurt as I've known hurt.”

“I should imagine you'll get your wish.”

“Be gone with you, Everton.”

“No, thank you, sir. I promised your father I'd look after you. I'd neglect my duties to his lordship were I to leave you alone to grieve.” Everton stuck a dish of mints under Horace's nose. “Do have a sweet, sir.”

“Jailer. Nanny!” Horace gobbled a candy, loathing his father's spy.

“You should think twice before speaking, sir. Such as last December, when his lordship arrived to our surprise. You shouldn't have said those low things about Miss Susan.”

“Father blamed me for leading her astray.”

“You are to blame. If you hadn't settled here in this nefarious city simply to spite his lordship, your daughter might have grown up to be a lady, such as her mother. And yours.”

“Give me another of those bonbons.” Horace sucked mint and sugar, no matter that it pained a cavity. Yes, the Honorable Horace Seymour, widower, had quit being honorable to spite Reginald of Brynwaithe, formerly in His Majesty's service at the Battle of New Orleans.

The earl, ever upright, despised Louisiana, and New Orleans in particular. Experiments and inventions were more aversions.

He'd expected more from his third son than a relocation to Sodom and Gomorrah. Where better to go, after Horace, in his agony over losing dear Cassandra and on the cusp of an argument with Papa over “wizardry,” than to New Orleans?

“When his lordship agreed to your annual stipend, you promised to rear your daughter properly,” Everton reminded him. “You made a mistake, not allowing me a freer hand with the girl and her upbringing.”

“Everton, there is nothing worse than a forward servant.”

“Pity you didn't see that in Anne Helene.” Everton, his hands clasped behind him, walked to the window. “Did you ever stop to think, sir—You despise your daughter because she is too much like her father? A rebel.”

Horace acknowledged his flaws.

“Shall I ring for the carriage, sir? I suspect you may find Miss Susan at 21 rue Royale.” Everton, returned, presented the candy dish again. “Have another mint, sir.”

Horace shoved the offering away. “If I didn't need Papa's stipends to keep up the laboratory, I'd have you shanghaied.”

“You made quite a tidy sum on dynamite, yet you didn't send me away. Sir.”

“Dynamite.”

Last week Horace read of the St. Francisville disaster in the
Picayune
. The clues added up to a sickening conclusion. One that only Horace Seymour, the lone source for dynamite and how to set it, could calculate. He'd taught Burke O'Brien and his first mate the secrets of nitroglycerin and detonators. The money-pinched O'Brien used his knowledge to destroy his overly expensive flagship so that Lloyds of London would hand over cash.

“Wish I'd never heard of Alfred Nobel,” Horace railed.

“You mean you wish you hadn't sold dynamite.”

“That half-wit Beeton handled the sale.” Horace had been shocked to see the captain's signature on the bill of lading. “I trusted O'Brien. Thought him a friend. No one ever showed interest in my experiments. Until he moved to town.”

Everton took a seat and popped a mint. “Miss Susan wanted to look over your shoulder in the laboratory.”

“She's a girl!” Horace doffed spectacles to rub his eyes. “Make haste for the calaboose, Everton. Collect Cinglure.”

“I beg your indulgence, sir. You would send a man to prison over a signature? It could be a forgery.”

“It might not. I shall have a chat with the detective.”

Everton remained seated, eating bonbons. “I suggest we bide our time speaking with Monsieur Cinglure. You heard Mr. O'Brien say he's going to marry our Susan. I do not think Mr. O'Brien is guilty, and I believe Miss Susan needs a chance at happiness. You've tormented her enough.”

“You don't tell me what to do.”

“Don't I?”

 

 

Still hot under the collar, thanks to that bumhole Seymour, Burke strode into the Canal Street headquarters of the O'Brien Steamship Company.
You ought to jump for joy. Susan's destitute
.
She'll have to turn to you
.

He couldn't be happy, not when she wasn't. How could he offer her dream without losing her? He knew how, provided she wasn't legally tied to Bilge Water.

A score of green-visored clerks hopped from piled-high desks to give the returned leader tribute. Burke bid a cursory hello, then barked to his secretary, “Where is Billy? Send the runner for my attorney. Then I want to see Remy Cinglure.”

He continued on to his private office, the redbrick walls of the approach lined with maps, charts, and ledge-mounted models of riverboats. Fabienne Laure—portrait artist trying for renown as well as being a bookkeeper hired despite the shock to New Orleanian systems—followed after him, ledgers in hand.

The auburn-haired beauty launched into a report of profit and loss that scoured Burke's spine. The
Yankee Princess
would be his company's death unless Lloyds of London paid the claim.

“Sir Joshua Tate—I believe that's the representative's name,” Burke said. “Where can I find him?”

“He is upriver, monsieur, in St. Francisville.”

Semaphores of trouble waved in Burke, even though he'd expected the insurer's probing. If the
Star
couldn't be explained, the maiden was damn suspect. Burke refused to believe Throck had a part in either, even though their argument on the subject had driven a chasm in their long association.

A few weeks at the Bay ought to cool Throck down. Or kill him, Aunt Phoebe being in company.

Burke eyed Fabienne. “Velma Harken been by?”

“She has not, monsieur.”

Burke didn't like the sound of that. The
Lucky Lady
had docked at the city wharf two weeks earlier. Best to make inquiries as soon as he finished with the detective and lawyer.

The artistic bookkeeper quit Burke's office.

A half hour later James Daggett, attorney at law, was announced. Burke rose. Now he would either break the rules or make a new one. For Susan. “Tell me all you know about bigamy.”