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Lily stalked toward the bar, blindly making her way on feet that protested, fearful of tripping and falling over the multitude of men who managed to block her way with outthrust hands and vile suggestions. Tears threatened to fall as she reached the relative safety of the walnut bar, and she leaned against it, barely able to conceal the trembling of her hands as the bartender, a man named John, pushed a loaded tray in her direction.
“That table by the door, Lily,” he said quietly. “Are you all right, honey?” he asked, not releasing his hold on the heavy tray as she would have lifted it.
“No, but I doubt it’s going to get any better,” she said harshly.
“Uh-oh,” the barkeep said softly. “Here comes trouble.”
“I’ll give you a hand with that, Lily.” Gage Morgan stood behind her, and the barkeep met the man’s gaze with a look of query.
“Lily don’t need any trouble, Mr. Morgan,” John said quietly.
“I’m not going to give her any,” Morgan returned. “Just thought I’d lend a hand.”
His warmth behind her was a revelation, Lily decided. Though they stood inches apart, the heat from his big body touched her from nape to knees, and she resisted the urge to lean against him for just a moment. Wouldn’t that bring every eye in the place in her direction?
Morgan’s hands were strong, his fingers long and he lifted the tray without a trace of effort, then nodded at Lily to lead the way to their destination. The men whose drinks he carried watched in bafflement as the duo neared their table, and then Lily smiled and sorted out each drink with its intended owner.
“That’s two bits each,” she said pleasantly, and smiled nicely as the men responded quickly, placing their cash on the tray, three of them adding a bit extra for her. Morgan stepped aside and nodded at her, ushering her back to the bar with a small ceremony that was the center of attention in the smoky room.
“Thank you,” she whispered as he placed the empty tray on the bar. She transferred the cash to John’s hand and tucked the extra coins into her bodice. A choked sound from Morgan brought her eyes in his direction and as she watched, his gaze fastened there. Not only was the dress too small, but the neckline was lower than anything she’d ever worn, and her breasts were in dire straits, almost overflowing the red fabric. She tugged at the ruched edging that rimmed the sweetheart neckline, to no avail, for it was already stretched almost beyond bearing.
Morgan cleared his throat and faced the bar. “Give me a shot of whiskey, straight up,” he told John, his voice strained.
John grinned. “Quite a woman, ain’t she?” he asked, pushing the glass across the bar and into Morgan’s grip.
“More than most,” Morgan said bluntly. “And certainly more than these clowns deserve to have delivering their drinks.”
“I think I mis-spoke myself,” John said quietly. “She’s a lady, Morgan. I recognized that right off, first time she opened her mouth this afternoon.”
Morgan lifted his shot glass and drank deeply, downing the whiskey as if it were bad-tasting medicine and he was in dire need of a cure. And then he glanced again at Lily and his gaze touched her face and hair, his eyes a darker gray than she’d first thought. He pushed the glass back toward the bartender and shook his head as John would have refilled it from a bottle behind the bar.
Lily listened to the two men, her eyes traveling from one to the other as they discussed her attributes and decreed her a step above the position she held here. It was almost too much for her patience to bear, she decided, that these two should speak of her as if she could not hear their opinions, and certainly should not be concerned with them.
“I’m not a lady, Mr. Morgan,” she said finally. “No lady ever dressed like this or served drinks in a saloon.”
“Ah,” he said softly, touching his brow with his index finger, as if he saluted her. “But I suspect that at one time you were a most respectable woman, Lily. And I think that you still carry yourself as a lady, no matter what you’re wearing or what your job is.”
“I’m not very good at some things,” she said boldly. “You may be sorry you paid Ham Scott for my time.” She felt, as she spoke, the warm flush of crimson that touched her cheeks and proclaimed her embarrassment.
Morgan smiled, a slow, gradually widening movement of lips and teeth that made his eyes narrow and gleam in the light of the kerosene lanterns overhead. “I doubt I’ll be disappointed in you, Miss Lily,” he murmured, and she felt the heat of his gaze touch her breasts once more, as if he could make out the outline of the coins she’d stored there during the evening.
Another table of men beckoned her and she left Morgan where he stood, aware that he turned his back to the bar and leaned his elbows on it as he watched her cross the floor. For some reason, the men she passed by kept their hands to themselves and she heard soft murmurs from behind her as she passed by.
“Morgan…handy with a gun,” one man whispered.
“Wouldn’t take kindly…” another said, then spoke in an undertone as she moved past his table.
It seemed that Gage Morgan’s interest in her was bearing fruit tonight, and she could not help but be relieved by the changed attitude of those who ordered drinks during the next half hour. When Ham Scott stepped up to the bar and nodded at her, she lifted her eyebrow in question.
“I reckon you’ve done your share for the night,” Ham said easily and then glanced at Morgan. “She’s got work to do tomorrow,” he said lightly. “Including singin’ for me in the morning.”
“I’ll see to it she gets a good night’s sleep,” Morgan said, moving to take Lily’s elbow in his grasp. “Come on, Lily,” he murmured in an undertone, leading her to where an open doorway beckoned.
She stepped before him as they skirted tables, and then beside him as they paused to look out on the river. “I don’t know where your room is,” she said. “And I’ll need to go to my bunk first to get my things.”
“What things?” Gage asked, his hand tightening as if he were unwilling to allow her out of his sight.
“My nightgown, for one,” she said, and was silenced by his low chuckle.
“You won’t need it, Lily.”
“I need my hairbrush and face cream,” she told him, breathless as she considered his words. “I can’t go to bed without washing my face.”
“All right,” he said, allowing her this small victory that wasn’t really any triumph at all, she decided. Only a stop-gap until she should face him in his stateroom and be required to deliver whatever he deemed to be his due.
“How much did you pay for me?” she asked as she turned away from the saloon, leaving behind the music of the piano and the catcalls that followed their exit.
“Does it matter?” He slid his hand down and held her fingers in his palm.
She shrugged. “I suppose not. I probably won’t come up to what you expect anyway. I’m not really in the business, Mr. Morgan.”
“I already figured that out, Miss Devereaux.” He squeezed her fingers a bit and she knew a moment of relief, whether from his reply or the touch of his hand holding hers securely in its depth.
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
“Ham told me.”
“When?” She halted outside a door and inserted a small key in the lock.
“After you went back inside, earlier.” He waited there as she stepped into the room and gathered her things in the darkness, the space she shared with two other women so small she had memorized the location of each item she owned. All of them fit on the narrow bunk she was to have slept in tonight, and for a moment she rued the circumstances that had so changed her destination for the next few hours.
“All right,” she said, emerging into the moonlight. “I think I have everything I need.”
Morgan looked down at the armful she clutched to her breasts. His smile was gentle, as if he teased her. “Brought the nightgown anyway, I see.”
She nodded, unable to speak aloud, so rapid was the beating of her heart as she faced the thought of earning her keep in a way she’d thought behind her forever. The face of the Yankee colonel appeared before her again, and over-lapped that of Gage Morgan, just for a moment. She blinked, and he was gone, but his memory was like a burning ember in her mind.
“I don’t know what made you think I was going to marry you, Yvonne,” he’d said with a laugh of derision. “I thought you were smarter than that. A man marries a woman of his own class, not a Southern belle who can’t even speak proper English.”
Forever she would rue the moment she’d crushed his skull with a poker from the fireplace. The memory was alive in her dreams nightly, and now she was paying the price for the rage that had beset her two years ago in New York City.
She closed her eyes, and felt Morgan’s hand touch her cheek. “Are you all right?” he asked, his gaze shuttered. And then he smiled, a mere movement of his lips. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Lily. I understand the bit about the nightgown.”
She opened her eyes and focused on the man’s face. No longer did he bear any resemblance to the Yankee. Even his speech was softer, bearing a trace of the South in its whispered vowels. “It’s all right,” she said, forcing her lips to curve in a smile. “I brought a dressing gown to wear in the morning when I travel back to my room.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed on her and she caught a glimpse of some dark emotion in his gaze. “I may have a hard time letting you go, come morning,” he warned quietly. “In fact, I may just keep you for myself while I’m traveling south.”
“Can you afford me?” she asked, turning as he guided her toward a narrow stairway leading to the upper deck. They climbed the stairs and she heard him murmur a soft phrase that evaded her.
Halting her at the top of the flight of stairs, he drew her close and bent his head to touch his lips to her forehead. “I can afford you,” he said quietly, and she sensed an assurance in his voice that brought her once more to a state of near panic.
“Will Ham—”
Morgan stilled her by a simple act. Bending his head a bit farther, he touched his mouth to hers and held her immobile, one large hand cradling her head, the other firm against her back. She felt the heat of him, the hard, damp kiss of a man who would not be denied, and though she trembled in his embrace, she knew a moment of anticipation so great it threatened to overwhelm her.
Chapter Two
L ily stepped into the stateroom and paused, the lack of lighting in the small area halting her progress. Behind her, Morgan closed the door and she caught her breath, aware of his body brushing against her back, his hand touching her shoulder as he guided her forward into the darkness.
“I can’t see,” she whispered. “Are you going to light a lamp?”
He stepped to one side, and she heard the rasping sound of a match and then blinked as it flared and lit the space between them. His face was all harsh planes and angles, his eyes dark, and she trembled as he bent to apply the flickering flame to the lamp on a shelf by the door.
“All right?” he asked, turning again to face her. The light was too bright, she thought as she looked around her. The stateroom was starkly simple; nothing in the small room seemed welcoming. A wide bunk against the wall was flanked by a chair, where an open valise lay. Beside it was a table, upon which a pitcher and bowl were placed, along with a neatly folded towel and the utensils necessary for shaving. In mere seconds she’d surveyed her surroundings, and then glanced up at him, aware that she hadn’t answered his soft question.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said quietly, even as her heart thumped unmercifully in her breast, and her fingers clung damply to the articles of clothing and grooming she held.
“I’ll take those,” he offered, holding out his hand, and she stared dumbly at his open palm, then shook her head.
“No, just tell me where I can change,” she told him, and realized as she spoke those words that there was not even the benefit of a screen for her privacy.
Morgan smiled, his gleaming eyes sweeping her length. “Right here will do,” he said, lifting one hand to touch the bodice of her dress. His fingers were long, elegant and tanned, and she was reminded of their dexterity as they’d handled the cards earlier. Now she knew a moment of panic as they lingered just above the line of cleavage where her breasts strained the fabric of the red gown…then brushed against her skin, as if he must test the texture.
His murmur was soft, inviting. “Would you like me to give you a hand?”
“No.” She shook her head in an abrupt movement, stepping back, her flesh tingling where his fingertips had rested. “I’ll do it,” she added hastily, aware that a five-dollar gold piece was a high price to pay for an evening with a woman whose value was yet to be determined.
“All right.” Agreeably, he turned and propped a shoulder against the door jamb, his gaze focused on her in a lazy manner. His eyes seemed darker, she thought, glistening in the lamp’s glow, and with indolent ease they passed over her, lingering on the curve of her breasts, and then settling on the line of her hips. Heat rose to color her cheeks, and its warmth radiated from her skin.
“Lily?” Her name had never sounded so soft, had never whispered against her ears with such a seductive murmur as he repeated his offer. “Shall I help you?” His lids barely masked the glitter of passion as he watched her, and she thought for a moment that he surely possessed some eerie power, perhaps the ability to see beneath her clothing. Her breasts were taut and tingling, her legs trembled, and she prayed silently for the strength to perform this denial of all she’d been raised to believe in.
With a sound of dismay, uttered in a barely audible whisper, she turned from him, reaching behind her back. The task of undoing the fastenings that held her dress together was hampered by the trembling of her fingers. He touched her shoulder gently, halting her efforts.
“Begin with your hair, Lily,” he said softly. “Let it loose. Please.”
“My hair?” Obediently, she lifted her hands to touch the dark curls, her fingers curving to pull the silver combs from place. The heavy fall of waves caressed her shoulders and she turned back to face him. His eyes narrowed, as if drawn to the unruly tresses and he gently grasped a curl, allowing it to wrap the length of his index finger. His gaze settled there for a long moment, as though the texture and weight of that lone bit of waving hair held some sort of appeal.
Gray eyes silvered as his hand abandoned that single curl and instead rose to fit his palm to the curve of her neck. Long fingers moved upward, tunneling through her hair, and the heat of his hand was like a branding iron on her scalp. Without warning, his head lowered and his mouth touched hers, opening to suckle the plump line of her lower lip. A warning growl made her aware of danger just as his other arm circled her waist and snagged her against his length.
The kiss took on a more seductive angle, his head tilting as he sought to invade the soft tissues behind her lips. A harsh sound in his throat gave her warning that Gage Morgan was not to be denied, and she shrank from him and the force of his desire.
Tears spilled from her eyes to flow unchecked down her cheeks, and he hesitated. Lips that had demanded her submission softened, opening a bit, damp and warm against her mouth. “I won’t hurt you, Lily,” he murmured. His touch on her nape became a caress, yet she trembled in his embrace, her breath a soft gasp.
Her scent rose to tempt him, an aroma of flowers blended with that of woman, and he inhaled it, recognizing the moment as one that would dictate the whole of their relationship. She was warm against him, yet she shivered, and he became aware that his attraction to her was not mutual. The woman he held in his arms was compliant to his touch, but her murmured cry denied the passion he’d hoped to arouse within her body.
“Well, hell.” Morgan uttered the curse even as he heard her almost silent sob, knew a moment’s remorse as she cringed from his touch, and then opened his eyes to see twin trails of dampness on her cheeks. A frown marred his brow as he took her measure.
“Lily…” He hesitated, and then shook his head. “I’m sorry.” The words seemed not enough of an apology he decided as he lifted a hand to touch her cheek. “I really planned to be a gentleman. I’m not generally so heavy-handed when I spend time with a woman.” It had been too damn long, he thought. Too many months without a woman’s touch.
His palm spread wide across her back, and his fingers caressed her through the satin dress she wore. Bending to her again, his mouth touched her forehead, then brushed a path to her cheek. “Can I start over?” he asked. And then, without waiting for her answer, he turned her within his embrace and worked slowly at the fastenings of her dress.
“How did you get into this thing?” he mused, his fingers clumsy at the task.
“One of the girls helped,” she said, and shivered anew as his hands found bare skin just below her waistline. “Please, can you blow out the lamp?”
His words held a tinge of amusement. “Has no one ever told you that some things are better accomplished in the light?” Turning her to face him, he smiled and looked down to where her hands gripped the red satin over the contours of her breasts. “Am I not going to be allowed to look?”
Lily bit her lip, tasting the blood, aware that he was more patient than she had a right to expect. “I told you I’m not very good at this,” she whispered. “I’m not worth five dollars, I fear.”
His head tilted to one side and his smile vanished, as though he saw something within her that held him immobile, his eyes darkening. His words were dry and a bit cynical, but spoken carefully. “How many men have bought your favors, Lily? A hundred? Fifty, maybe?” He paused and she swallowed, the lump in her throat almost smothering the laugh that denied his suggestion.
“Am I the first?” he asked, the words so quiet she strained to hear them.
“No.” And he wasn’t, not if she were to be honest. The Yankee colonel had paid the price for her compliance five years ago, and made a whore of her in the process. When he took her from her home.
“But you haven’t done this often, have you?” he persisted, his hands holding her firmly in his grasp.
She shook her head. “No.” Then she tilted her head back to offer him a look of resolve. “But I expect it’s something I’ll learn, Mr. Morgan.”
He sighed and shook his head, a strangely sad emotion washing over him. Her scent rose again to tempt him, that of a woman whose skin was clean, almost a rarity in her profession. He denied the stirring in his groin, turning his back on the thought of taking this female to his bed, and shook his head.
“But not tonight, Lily,” he said. “I won’t take a woman who weeps at my touch.”
“If Ham Scott finds out—” She broke off and her teeth touched the spot where blood had begun to dry.
“He won’t,” Morgan said, his finger nudging her lip. “Don’t do that, Lily. You’ve already made it bleed.” He looked closer and his eyes darkened. “Or did I do that to you?”
And if he had, would it matter? she wondered silently. But her head moved, offering a denial of his concern.
His hands were warm, resting on her back, and his words offered a reprieve. “I’ll turn my back and you can get into your nightgown,” he told her. And true to his word, he turned in a half circle and faced the door.
With swift movements, Lily allowed the satin dress to slide to the floor, then snatched at her nightgown and pulled it over her head. Beneath the dress, she wore sleek satin drawers that matched the dress and in a moment they were folded and placed on the bed.
“Now what, Morgan?” she asked. “I have six bits if you want part of your money back. In fact I have a dollar in my bag, back in my room.”
“Turn around and look at me,” he said roughly. “And don’t mention money again.” He looked down at her hand where she held the tips she’d received in the saloon, taken now from the bodice of the dress. “Do you think I’d take it from you?” he asked, his jaw taut.
She shook her head. “I suppose not. But then, I don’t really know you, do I?”
“Not as well as you will by morning,” he said, and buffered the words with a grin. “I’ve never bought a woman’s favors before, Lily. I think I’m grateful to you for not allowing me to spoil my record.”
“Then what do you expect for your five dollars?”
“I think I want to know who Lily Devereaux is,” he answered. “Where she comes from—and maybe even more, where she’s going.”
Lily dropped her gaze and laughed, a mirthless sound. “Lily Devereaux only exists on this boat,” she said. “She’s a brand-new person, Morgan.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” His words were soft, as if he realized she would respond to his coaxing quicker than to a harsh demand.
Lily wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, and then dropped them quickly as Morgan’s eyes took note of the curves of her breasts as they were supported by her forearms. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, warming as a flush of embarrassment rose to tinge her face with color.
“For five dollars, I should be able to look, Lily,” he told her patiently. “I’ve already promised not to take more from you than you’ll give me freely.”
“If I told you—” She broke off abruptly and turned her head aside.
“Told me what?” he asked.
A desperate longing to gain some small bit of respect from the man drove her to offer a small bit of knowledge into his hands. “I’m not what you think I am, not a woman who works on her back for a living.”
“I already figured that out,” Morgan said. And with those words spoken, an inkling of a bold move, a rash decision, filled his mind. “I don’t know what you are, Lily, but I’d lay odds that you don’t belong on a riverboat, serving trash like the man who touched you earlier.” He motioned toward the bunk. “Go on. Crawl between the sheets.” He walked behind her, watching as she bent to pull back the top sheet and then retrieved the pillows. Her glance at him merited a small smile.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay right here for now.”
Her curves were nicely traced by the taut lines of her nightgown as she leaned forward on one knee, drawing his gaze. Morgan caught his breath, almost ruing his vow.
Turning to face him, she settled on the edge of the mattress and he nodded, the demand implicit. Her feet slid beneath the top sheet and she drew it up to her waist, and then eased her way to the pillows. Morgan stepped closer and lowered himself to sit beside her.
“Now, unless you want me to change my mind, lady, I want you to tell me about Lily Devereaux.” He waited, his gaze unmoving as he met her dark eyes. She swallowed, a visible movement of throat and lower jaw, and then lifted her hands in a helpless gesture.
“I don’t know what you’d like to know, Morgan. I’m from the South….” She hesitated and he smiled, a lazy arrangement of lips that expressed amusement.
“I figured that out right off, honey,” he told her. “Now tell me something I didn’t know. Like who’s out there looking for you.”
She paled beneath his gaze and he felt a sense of triumph. He was, it seemed, on target with his suspicions. The lady was on the run. “Lily?” As she hesitated, his hands smoothed the sheet and toyed with the hemmed edge.
“No one’s looking for me,” she told him harshly. “I went north after the war was over and worked for a while. And then I found I wasn’t suited for the cold weather and decided to head back toward home.”
“And where is that?” he asked idly, noting her subtle movement as she edged away from him. One hand shot out and grasped her wrist, holding her firmly, but with a gentle strength.
“South of here,” she quibbled. “I’m not saying more than that, Morgan.”
“How did you get north?” he asked. “Must have been a long walk, honey.”
“I rode on a horse, then in a buggy. Finally on a train.” Her jaw set grimly as if she had been pushed far enough for one night, and Morgan relented.