Destiny's Magic (3 page)

It had been but twelve weeks before that Pippin became the light of Susan's life. Always—always!—she'd wanted a baby, or several, but she got a child. No matter. At last she had someone to love who neither ignored her nor treated her harshly.

And at last, tonight, she'd protected young Pippin from yet another beating.

“Momma? Can I let Snooky out?”

“I think not. The least we can do is make the journey to New Orleans as pleasant as possible.”

“New Orleans?” Pippin said with boyish astonishment. “The cap'n said he's gonna leave us in St. Something-or-other.”

“He'll change his mind.”

St. Francisville, in a direct line to New Orleans, lay too close to Natchez. Too near Orson. Without delay she had to reach New Orleans. Furthermore, Susan wouldn't expose Miss O'Brien, or the Louisiana O'Briens, to the trapeze artist's wrath, should he track them down.

Burke O'Brien seemed more than capable of dealing with any sort of trouble. But what about that strange interchange between nephew and aunt, the one concerning “tie in with a married woman” and “prospective bride”? Then there was “trick” and those strange allusions to a lamp. He hadn't dealt well on those issues. Odd two, those O'Briens. Almost as strange as the motley entourage of the Best Ever Traveling Show.

Pippin called her attention, saying, “Ole Snooky'll smother in that crate. He ain't got no food neither.”

“No pets, Pippin. And don't say ain't.”

Making a last stab at wheedling, he bent a forefinger and thumb to indicate a fraction of an inch. “Please, please, please, can I just have one little peek?”

Was that too much to ask?

Susan contemplated the rope-bound crate. Those of the family Boidae were suitable enough companions, in proper hands. Yet she'd been against bringing Snooky along, even though the old
cyclagras gigas
couldn't sink fangs into flesh, was harmless when he spat, and Pippin had proven deft at handling him.

Moreover, the boy had never owned a pet, not even after circumstance caused him to join the circus. She'd given in, mostly in the interest of expediency. At any rate, if word got out that the “cat” had scales, no telling what the testy Captain O'Brien might do.

Pippin sat up and crossed thin arms. “I'm worried about Snooky. If you'll let him out for a minute or two, I promise he'll be a good boy. Me too.”

“All right. But only for a few minutes.”

A big grin boosted cheeks, eyes disappearing into a smile. Pippin scampered out of bed and had untied the rope in a matter of seconds. “Hiya, Snooky.”

As if he'd heard—an impossibility, the serpent having no ears—Snooky elongated the ribs near his black-marked neck until they hooded open, defanged jaws. Susan tickled his scales. The reptile blinked benignly. He certainly passed for a cobra.

“Better we keep him our little secret. Unsuspecting people can be quite put off by the likes of our Snooky.”

Pippin giggled, watching the serpent make a foray into new territory, slithering out of the crate, down the floor, and up a leg of the washstand.

“He's funny, ain't he?” Sitting Indian-style on the thick rug, Pippin rubbed his nose, enraptured as the tamed reptile slithered into the water pitcher, his serpentine curiosity slaked. “I'm gonna miss the traveling show in a way. It's fun, watching folks squeal when they get a look at ole Snooky.”

Susan chuckled. There had been a few good moments at the traveling show. “We've a lot more fun ahead of us. I promise.”

“I sure hope so, Momma. I'm right tired of crying.”

Susan shivered—so did Pippin—as Burke O'Brien's loud threat seeped through the walls. It even stirred the water pitcher, Snooky sensing danger and giving forth a fangless hiss.

“What's keelhaul, Momma?”

“I haven't the foggiest notion,” she lied.

“Does it have anything to do with blowing up a riverboat? Carmelita said one o' Cap'n O'Brien's old boats got blowed up.”

Gossip had been rife about that calamity.

That afternoon had been Susan's last earful. The ensemble from the traveling show, eager as a line of paying customers, had lined the bluff to ogle the
Yankee Princess
as she put in at Natchez. Everyone oohed and aahed. What a sight, this regal lady, so brand-spanking new. The air had buzzed with talk about the O'Brien Steamship Company, male-dominated gossip trailing to mentions of the ill-fated
Delta Star.

The women had another topic in mind. They had collected to whisper and giggle about the
Yankee Princess's
owner and captain. One woman, the bareback rider called Lucinda, even claimed Burke O'Brien once took her on the ride of her life.

During the tittering, Susan kept quiet, and fantasized about a half-clothed dancer. Even now she blushed, a familiar ache mashing her insides. Her wild passion embarrassed her, yet she simply couldn't make it go away. Could that be because Orson introduced her to it, then denied her? She thought not.

“This boat ain't gonna blow up, is it, Momma?”

“There's nothing to be frightened of.” She motioned toward the tousled bedclothes. “Now, young man, for the very last time, it's off to bed for you.”

As he did as bade, Susan dug a hook from the carpetbag. The same hook, now wiped clean, that she'd used earlier that night to gain enough time to get away from Orson Paget.

She refused to think about any of that as she went to the water pitcher and collected Snooky, who put up no fight.

As she retied the rope, the lad commented, “Momma, I don't like the cap'n. He's mean, like Orson.”

Tucking the sheet under Pippin's chin, she stroked his precious brow. “You mustn't mistake irritation for brute force. The captain is merely upset with his workers. As well, it seems we took him by surprise, arriving as we did.”

A fist pounded the hatch. “Mrs. Paget, are you still interested in sewing my hand?”

She was and wasn't. He intrigued her. He frightened her. He appealed to a wanton bent best ignored. But Susan owed the captain. “Most certainly, sir.”

“You're very good at this, Mrs. Paget.”

Susan's fingers stilled, the needle in midair. She glanced at the docile captain sitting opposite at a small table in his quarters. Fractious, docile. He was a man for moods, yet . . . “I find you brave, sir.” To say the least, which she wouldn't.

The scent of man, clean yet sullied by the metallic tang of blood, budded in her nose; she studied the broad, sturdy hand in her palm, as well as the muscular forearm above it. How could a mere arm, dusted with fine black hair and ribboned with prominent veins, be so interesting?
Papa Legba, give strength!
If she had to ask herself such a question, she was truly ignorant of sensual matters.

She coerced a chipper tone. “Another fellow might've demanded spirits to dull the pain.”

“I've dulled enough pain that way. I'm a drunk. Or was.”

The bottle had surely driven him to the bonfire on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. He had been free, loose, and had exuberantly enjoyed the companionship of a frothy blonde.

Susan took the last of seven stitches to close the wound in his hand, then petted his thumb as if he were Pippin. “So you are free of the scourge. Congratulations.”

“You're very kind, Mrs. Paget.” One moment seeped into another. “If you were mine, I'd never strike you. You're too lovely for bruises.”

She repacked the leather medical kit. “There's nothing lovely in shame.”

“We aren't a bunch of English coxcombs on the
Yankee Princess.
No one will think ill of you.”

It had been years since she had been in the company of an Englishman, besides her father and his manservant. Yet the toothless oracle at the traveling show predicted Susan would meet a wonderful Englishman to adore her and the children their love brought. And that good man, tender and kind, would love Pippin as though he were his own.

Ridiculous. The blackguard known as Orson Paget had ruined her for ever wanting a husband.

“Why so quiet?” Captain O'Brien gazed at her with assessment. “Studying my faults?”

“Such self-flattery,” she came back in a tease. “You'll lead me to believe there's not a modest bone in your body.”

He laughed, turning to profile. Susan grinned at his expression. It gave a boyish quality to a manly face of straight forehead and nose, longish on the latter, and strong jaw.

His green gaze returning to her, he again smiled. The sides of his mouth almost dimpled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. He could use a shave. He was the sort of chap who'd need to take a razor to his whiskers twice a day. Wouldn't it be simpler to grow a beard? she wondered, then changed her mind. It would be a shame to hide his arresting face.

Yet it wasn't perfect. She noticed a slightly crooked upper tooth. She liked it. It gave character to his smile.

He touched her cheek. “Just because I don't drink doesn't mean you mustn't. Can I interest you, to paraphrase my aunt, in something expensive?”

“The hour is late.” Should she accept the offer? Being in his quarters, the excuse for it done with, she ought to proceed to her assigned stateroom. Yet something kept her there, a power stronger than reason. It all had to do with the strange magnetism that drew her to Burke O'Brien in the first place.

“Yes, you could interest me,” she replied, and felt her heart tap extra beats.

He went to a small vitrine and took a snifter, along with a decanter of something amber, from it. She watched as he poured, studying his informal clothing—an open-neck shirt with gathered sleeves and britches tighter than men outside of a circus would wear. His physique did justice to the attire. His shoulders were wide, his build tapering to narrow hips and lengthy legs. And who could ignore the onyx-hued patch of hair exposed by the open neck of that shirt?

Captain O'Brien handed over the snifter, their fingers touching for a brief, stirring moment. “Enjoy.”

Recalling Lucinda's disclosures and her own curiosity of two years' standing, Susan swallowed, her face beginning to heat. Supposedly his talents as a lover were patient and supreme.
Patient? He's got a hellish temper.
Did she never learn about temperamental men?

Who was this man, really?
Rich
and
influential
were usually attached to his appellation. Yet, for all the power those adjectives implied, rumors said he dealt fairly in business, and truly mourned the lives lost in the sinking of the Delta Star.

It was as if some unknown force—magical, the wanton, or both?—drew her. The captain's good mood, along with excellent cognac, drugged her senses. His temper wasn't horrid. Despite his earlier upset, followed by harshness to his crew, she began to think this journey south might turn out well, or at least without incident.

Of course, she could offer specie for the trip, but she had to keep a close watch on her meager twenty dollars. That she'd left her father last October on disagreeable terms mustn't be forgotten. Horace Seymour, wizard of Seymour Pyrotechnics & Inventions, might refuse to turn over her trust fund.

She needed something to do besides worry.

“I hope you and your aunt can settle your differences,” Susan said since the captain had mentioned her. “Miss O'Brien seems quite nice.” Without question the Memphis lady gave aid, and that was something she'd never forget.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “She raised me. Rather, she did so with the help of her sister and my grandfather, but I assure you, she's a meddler. We've been estranged for years. It's a long story. I won't bore you with it.”

Susan would love to hear everything, but she didn't want to relate familiarities about herself; thus, curiosity must be quelled. “As you wish.”

“Since we're in a rather extraordinary situation, would you object if I call you Susan?”

He could not know how glad she was not to be addressed as Mrs. Paget. “Not at all.”

“How old are you?” was his abrupt question.

To reply would be foolish, since it would peg her as thirteen upon Pippin's birth. She rolled French cognac on her tongue, then said, “A gentleman wouldn't ask a lady's age.”

“I'm just a man. Ask what I please and take what I want.”

His tone and expression spoke the carnal. The netting-draped bed, huge in proportion, was at his back. Undoubtedly he'd christened those bedclothes with debauchery.

“Such talk to a married lady.” She squirmed, reminding herself not to give anything away. “You may not be a gentleman, but I applaud your strength. You decry alcohol, yet keep it within reach.”

Once more he took a seat across the table from her. “You didn't seem shocked to find out about my drinking.”

On that spring night on the Pontchartrain shores, she'd seen a jug tipped to laughing lips, runnels trickling down his chin to nest in the fleece of his chest. From behind a copse of trees she'd also seen his lady friend lick drink from his flesh.
Get it out of your mind.

“You are known on the Mississippi River.” Susan's gaze shifted about the walnut-paneled room. Here and there she recognized items bearing her father's hallmark, which came as no surprise. Often Horace Seymour commented on his best customer. Rather than mention the alarm system, the perpetual-motion clock on a bedside table, or the mechanism to draw the netting around that carnal lair, she pointed out, “I lived in New Orleans when you arrived. You caused quite an uproar, a hard-living American with the nerve to buy a town house in that conclave of Creole New Orleans called the Vieux Carré.”

“Ah, 21 rue Royale.” He chuckled. “Have you seen it?”

Several times she'd passed the three-story structure on her way to St. Ann Street. It was one of the finer residences in the old quarter. “A lovely establishment, yours.”

He cocked his head. “You know a lot about me. And I'd like to know more about you.” The fingers of his right hand scratched his jaw lightly. “What happened with your husband?”

“I prefer not to discuss him.” If this trip were to go without incident, she must watch her tongue. And not get too familiar with the captain, despite that magical pull.

She quit the chair and table, lifting her hems to make a quick exit to the door. “Thank you for the drink, Captain. It shall put me right to sleep.”

He captured her hand before she could depart. Lifting it as if to place a gallant kiss on her fingers, he surprised her by turning her wrist and pressing his lips to her palm. Mama Loa!

The captain grinned as he replaced her hand. “Now I'll sleep well.”

Although Susan fell asleep without a problem in her luxurious stateroom, her dreams were punctuated by a memory of early last evening.

Shaking and perspiring as the first signs of dawn broke through the square portholes, she threw back the covers and got out of bed to sit on the edge. Were they under way yet? It was difficult to tell, steamboat traveling being smooth as satin, yet Susan sensed the
Yankee Princess
hadn't left the cove. But she would. Somehow, she trusted Burke O'Brien's promise.

Supported by her palms and locked elbows, Susan allowed the nightmare to return. Her head fell forward, her night braid swaying toward the rug.

The dream had been too real.

Orson threatening Pippin simply because the boy wanted supper before setting up chairs for the evening's performance. All dirty tights and blistering countenance, the acrobat was a different man from the peacock who had called on her father's laboratory last autumn to buy fireworks for his traveling show.

Strangely, he'd changed after a fall, in November, from the tightrope. His accident, for some odd reason, deprived his sense of taste.

And the last of his meager civility.

Susan knew he didn't make idle threats. Defiance would bring more violence, but she'd had enough, even before he grabbed his child. “You're wanting dinner, eh, turd? How would you like to try a dish in the lioness's cage?”

He would do it. He would laugh and do it. As he had done with Susan on several occasions, he would snatch Pippin away just short of feline fangs. Not only did she distrust his reflexes—since November he often fell from the tightrope—she wouldn't allow the child of her heart to know the terror of being caged and under attack.

There was no tightrope act last night. As he'd dragged Pippin toward the cat's wagon, Susan came up behind him, and—

“Momma?” Pippin opened the hatch to her stateroom, and wrestled her return to that morning.

Taking a deep breath, she shoved the braid over her shoulders and widened her arms. “Come here, dumpling.” She managed a smile. “I so want a good-morning kiss.”

He grinned and charged into her arms, wiggling onto the lap she offered. She kissed the top of his head. How much longer would he allow such affection? Didn't young chaps reach an age where that became abhorrent? Since he'd known little love, Susan doubted he would forsake affection anytime soon.

“I love you, Susie—I mean, Momma.”

“I love you too, Pippin.”

“Will you always be my heart momma?”

“Always.”

He nuzzled his cheek into her shoulder. “I'm glad. I hated being with Orson. Did you hit him hard enough so's he won't come after us?”

“No,” she replied truthfully, remembering Orson as he regained consciousness, just before she grabbed baggage and boy to get into the wonderful stranger's hackney. “You needn't worry. You're safe with me. And Captain O'Brien.”

She felt no guilt for injuring the so-called husband who never behaved as one. She was glad for giving him a bit of his own spleen. Would that she could have fed him to the lioness!

“Momma, I'll be glad to set away from the cap'n. I don't like him at all. Carmelita said people with July birthdays are crabby and cross. It's true.”

The Gypsy had many opinions and prophecies, few worth listening to. Some had come to pass though. Carmelita forecast the sinking of the
Delta Star,
and she'd said the stars were out of alignment for a match between Susan and the trapeze artist.

As well, she'd predicted that love match for Susan.

Giving credence to any of the oracle's advice was not the way to rear a young man. Susan knew, despite ingrained beliefs in hoodoo, the mystical wasn't good for an impressionable mind.