Natchez Flame (40 page)

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we’re together.”

“It does matter. So much has happened … there’s so much I haven’t told you.”

He pulled back to look at her, surveyed the bruise on her cheek. Something flickered in his eyes, then it was gone. “When I get back, we’ll have plenty of time to talk. Right now, I just want to kiss you.”

He cupped her face with his hands, and his mouth came down over hers, gently at first, then with longing. He kissed her fiercely, savagely, claiming her, showing his love so boldly she could only return it with equal measure.

“I want you,” he said roughly. “It’s all I can do not to take you right here.”

“I want you, too.”

He kissed her again, his hand cupping her bottom to hold her more solidly against him. She could feel his solid arousal through the folds of her dress—then he pulled away.

“We haven’t got time for this,” he said, his voice a little ragged. “I’ve got to get Egan. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’m going with you.”

He smiled at that, white teeth flashing against his battered face. “After what I saw in that cavern, I probably ought to take you.” He bent over and kissed her, quick and hard. “You just be here when I get back. I’ve got plans for you that don’t include sleep.”

She clutched the front of his shirt. “Be careful, Bren. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be careful. I’ve got every reason in the world to live. I’m not about to let that bastard win now.”

Brendan strode to the gun cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled out his heavy leather holster. He shoved in his .36 caliber Patterson, buckled the holster around his waist, and tied the leather thong. He stuffed one of Chris’s small derringers into a pocket, unsheathed a slender stiletto, similar to one Mace Harding had taken, and tucked it into his boot.

“You’ve done more than your share, Silla. Now, it’s my turn.” A last brief kiss and then he was gone.

Brendan went straight to the stables, saddled one of Chris’s best horses, and rode out toward the spot on the river where McLeary’s men awaited the unsuspecting
St. Louis.

As battered and beaten as he was, he felt exhilarated, hopeful, as he hadn’t been in days. He’d been right about Priscilla—she was every inch the woman he’d believed she was. When he’d seen her standing in that cavern, pointing a rifle at Egan, he had never been more terrified—or more fiercely proud.

If it hadn’t been for her courage, he knew without doubt he’d be dead. The moment his ropes had come loose, he’d wanted to crush her against him, tell her how much he loved her. Instead he had waited.

He’d had to know for sure that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He had to know that she loved him.

Brendan grinned as he remembered her fiery burst of outrage. She’d be a handful—but she’d make one helluva wife.

That thought, sobered him. Until he dealt with Egan, she still wasn’t free, and neither was he. He thought of Egan’s words in the cavern, thought of him thrusting into Priscilla, touching her, hurting her.

His stomach knotted and his mouth went dry. He
wanted to kill the bastard for what he had done, but he would not. Killing Egan would leave no way to prove the man’s involvement in the smuggling and thus clear his name. McLeary was the key, and if Brendan’s guess was right, Egan was on his way to the river to take care of the threat Caleb posed.

Brendan traveled the road along the river, moving fast, pressing hard. Egan wouldn’t be far ahead of him. In the cavern, he had heard enough bits and pieces of conversation to know what McLeary had planned. He just hoped to hell Chris and the sheriff hadn’t sprung their trap too soon and scared the raiders away.

He needn’t have worried.

When he reached the spot near the sandbar ten miles north of town, all hell had broken loose. In the light of a waning moon, the
St. Louis
, all hundred and seventy-five feet of her, sat aground near the far side of the river, her steam whistle hooting into the cool night air. But the boilers had not been blown, and the passengers stood at the rails, safe for the present, the craft in no danger of sinking. The sheriff had stopped the attack before it had been completed.

Now the banks on this side of the river echoed with rifle shots, a firefight between the sheriff and his deputies, and McLeary’s cutthroat river rats. Brendan tied his horse some distance away from the gunfire and cautiously made his way toward the sound of the fighting.

Staying low and moving silently, he crept forward, taking up a position behind a rotting stump. In the trees off to his left, three men he recognized from the Keelboat Tavern fired blindly toward their attackers,
two others slumped over a rock, covered in blood, and several more sprawled on the ground some distance away.

He searched the trees to his left. Two men fired sporadically, while Jake Dobbs balanced a rifle in the crotch of a tree and squeezed the trigger. Beside him, a brawny man in a red-checkered shirt fired round after round at the sheriff and his deputies. Caleb McLeary. Brendan crept silently in that direction, but stopped when he caught a flash of movement coming up from the rear. Stuart Egan leveled a rifle toward the group of men and fired. Dobbs went down in a heap, and McLeary and the others spun to face the threat.

They saw no one.

Damn! If Egan succeeded in killing McLeary, his involvement with the smugglers would come down to Brendan’s word against his—an outlaw against a powerful businessman and respectable politician. Jaimie Walker might testify, but how much did Walker really know? Rose would, but her reputation was less than shining. Priscilla? A wife couldn’t testify against her husband.

McLeary changed position, dodging a hail of bullets, and took cover near the edge of the river. Brendan spotted a small boat nearby, bobbing at the end of a rope. If Caleb could reach the boat, he might just make it. Brendan couldn’t take the chance. Moving closer, pistol in one hand, rifle in the other, he skirted the clearing and moved silently in through the trees.

Across the open space, he spotted Chris Bannerman’s blond head, and a man he figured must be the
sheriff. He remembered meeting red-haired Walker at the Triple R and saw him now beside Chris. Three more men crouched beside them. McLeary started moving. So did the sheriff.

“Hold it. McLeary!” Brendan stepped into the open, his rifle trained on Caleb. The brawny Irishman spun and fired, Brendan fired, bringing him down. A shoulder wound. He’d been damned careful not to kill him.

A twig snapped behind him. Brendan whirled and crouched behind a fallen log. Egan fired at McLeary just as the sheriff fired at Egan. He slammed back against the trunk of a tree. Wounded, but still standing, he started running. Brendan raced after him, so did Chris, Walker, and the sheriff. Egan ran toward the boat, shoved it out from shore and got in. He fired a last shot at Brendan, then one at the sheriff, who aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed Egan over backward, and he tumbled into the river. Brendan raced toward him, but the water eddied near the shore and the current was swift in this narrow spot between the two banks. Egan flailed frantically, then went under.

Brendan reached the water the same instant as the sheriff and his men. They all stood tensely, waiting for Egan to surface, trying to figure exactly where he had gone down.

Nothing.

They watched the banks, anyplace he might be able to swim to, though odds were the shot had been mortal. There were brambles and overgrowth, so the men waded along the perimeter, using the barrels of their rifles and muskets to check the foliage.

Nothing.

“You all right?” Chris Bannerman walked to his side, surveying his bruises, his cut and swollen face.

“Thanks to Priscilla.”

“Priscilla?”

“It’s a long story.”

Chris nodded.

“Still no sign of him.” Jaimie Walker came up beside Chris. “Glad to see you’re all right,” he said to Brendan.

“Maybe a little the worse for wear, but I’ll be fine.” He extended a hand, and the two men shook. “Thanks for what you did for Priscilla. We’re both in your debt.”

“I’m glad I could help.” They watched the men following the shoreline, searching but finding nothing.

“I wish they’d find the bastard.” Brendan still gazed at the water. “I don’t like loose ends.”

“He was dead by the time he went under,” Chris told him.

“He’s right,” Jaimie agreed. “There’s no way he could have lived through a shot like that.” He released a weary breath, lines of regret creasing his forehead. “I can hardly believe he’s the same man I worked for.”

“A lot of people will feel the same way,” Chris said.

“What about Sturgis and Reeves?” Brendan asked. “The men who took Priscilla from Evergreen.” Jaimie seemed surprised he knew about them.

“They’ve never been a part of this. They were just Egan’s hired muscle.”

“The sheriff will take care of them,” Chris said. “If
they weren’t involved in the smuggling, they shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Jaimie nodded and turned away. “I’ve got business in town,” he said. “I’m headin’ back.” With a last wave at Brendan, he walked off the way he had come.

Brendan stared out across the path of moonlight, watching the river flow past. “I still don’t like it.”

“01’ Miss doesn’t give up her victims without a struggle.” Chris clapped Brendan on the shoulder. “Egan’s dead. McLeary’s already singing like a bird. Let’s go home.”

For the first time, Brendan smiled. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.”

“I don’t suppose you want to come in for a brandy?” A sly smile played on Chris Bannerman’s face. Evergreen loomed ahead as they walked their weary horses through the tall iron gates and down the oyster-shell drive.

Brendan just smiled. “I’ve got something else to attend.”

“That’s what I figured. Tell her I’m glad she’s all right.”

They passed the house and rode around back to the stable. It was late, but Zachary had waited up. The two men dismounted and handed their reins to the big black groom.

“You take care a’ dat river scum, suh?”

“Not singlehandedly”—Chris grinned—“but I think you could safely say they’re out of commission—permanently, I hope.”

With a smile of approval, Zach led the horses away.

“Thanks, Chris—for everything.” Brendan extended a hand, and Chris shook it. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

They parted company on the path that separated the bachelor quarters from the main house, Chris heading in to Sue Alice, Brendan coming home to Priscilla. He couldn’t wait to see her; his long strides covered the ground almost at a run.

She threw open the door even before he reached it, love and relief in her eyes.

“Bren!” She raced toward him, and he swept her into his arms, tightening them possessively around her.

“It’s over,” he said against her ear. “Stuart is dead.”

In a lace-trimmed nightshirt she had borrowed from Sue Alice, her shiny, dark chestnut hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her slender body went tense. She pulled back to look at him. “Did you … ?”

“No. Sheriff Harley shot him. There was no other choice.”

She pressed her cheek against his and clung to him. “I wish none of this had happened. It’s still hard to believe.”

“I know. In time, you’ll forget it.”

“Not completely. And I don’t really want to.”

Brendan smiled faintly. Sliding an arm beneath her knees, he lifted her up and carried her through the parlor into the bedchamber, where he settled her gently on the bed.

“There are things I need to tell you,” she said, “things—”

“Later.” His mouth came down over hers. He could feel her trembling, her lips parting, her fingers kneading the muscles of his shoulders. Her tongue felt warm and silky; she smelled of violets and tasted like honey.

His hand moved to cup and lift a breast, he hefted it, used his thumb to stroke her nipple, felt it grow hard beneath his fingers. Her tongue touched his, firing his blood, his shaft growing thicker, harder, beginning to throb where it pressed against her skin.

He drove his tongue inside her mouth, claiming her, possessing her, making her his. He felt her fingers in his hair, then down along his neck until they gripped his shoulders.

His hands grew more urgent, sliding down her body, lifting the nightgown, cupping her bare bottom, forcing her against his hardened length. He heard Priscilla’s low moan as he started on the buttons at the front of her nightgown, but his hands were unsteady. He fumbled, swore, wrapped his fingers in the light cotton fabric and ripped it to her waist. Her lush cone-shaped breasts pointed upward, heaving with her rapid breathing, urging him to touch her.

He recalled Egan’s words in the cave, knew he had used her, imagined what the bastard had done, and anger infused his passions. He would take her as he never had before, show her his love, cleanse her of Egan’s touch. From this day forward, she belonged to him and no other.

Priscilla felt Brendan’s urgency, felt his fiery passion,
and matched it with a passion of her own. How she wanted him! While he slid the torn nightgown from her shoulders and eased it down her body, she frantically worked the buttons on his shirt. Her hands skimmed over his chest, feeling the muscular ridges, testing the valleys beneath each rib, her finger skimming over a flat copper nipple.