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She nodded. “I mostly sang, though.”
Ham lifted an eyebrow as he considered that statement. “I’ll listen to you tomorrow—see how you sound. My singers don’t serve drinks, Lily. That might suit you better.”
“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” she said quietly. Her back was straight, her shoulders square as she walked back into the noisy, smoke-laden saloon, and Ham Scott chuckled beneath his breath.
“Gage Morgan to the rescue,” he murmured. “That white hat looks good on you, Morgan. Problem now is you’re stuck with paying for a woman for the night. Lily’s been getting the eye from half a dozen fellas in there. She’ll bring a pretty price.”
“I’m not averse to paying for what I get,” Gage said softly. He pushed away from the rail and slid a hand into his trouser pocket. “Now, I think I need to keep an eye on my investment.” He drew a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket and flipped it in the air. “This should cover Lily’s company till morning, I’d think.”
And then he halted in his tracks, watching as Ham snatched the coin from midair and pocketed it. “Tell her you’ve already paid in full for whatever strikes your fancy,” he said. “From what she told me, she’s been around for a while. You oughta get your money’s worth.” He grinned. “Her name’s Devereaux. Lily Devereaux. These French women are supposed to be good at what they do.”
Gage knew a moment of disgust at the words, but a bland expression covered his thoughts as he strode in Lily’s wake. A table at the rear, farthest from the low stage, was empty and he settled there, aware that he was the focus of more than one man’s attention. Lily stood at the bar, waiting for a nod from customers who needed a refill, and her eyes drifted across the crowd until they met his.
He lifted his index finger and nodded at her, then watched as she made her way through the tables to where he waited. “What can I get you?” she asked, standing across the width of the table. Her voice was husky, as if she held back tears, and Gage felt a moment of pity, laced with an awakening in his nether parts.
“Just a whiskey, Lily. I’ll wait here till you finish working, and then we’ll go to my stateroom.”
She hesitated only a few seconds, and then nodded, turning away. Gage watched as she walked across the floor, noticed the eyes of those who followed her progress and felt a surge of possessiveness that gave him pause. He’d managed to stick himself with a woman’s company for the night—not that it would be any great sacrifice to spend a few hours with Lily. He was allowed to be jealous of her time over the next hour or so. He’d already paid the price.
Her feet hurt, her face ached from forcing a smile into place and keeping it there, and for Lily Devereaux, it seemed that she’d reached the end of her rope. If not for the man called Morgan, she’d even now be fighting off the filthy hands of the man who’d been intent on dragging her from the saloon earlier. And no doubt Mr. Scott would have allowed it, rather than cause a disturbance.
It seemed that Morgan had no such qualms in that direction. His two-fisted attack had delivered her from the disgruntled loser at the poker game, and placed her smack-dab in his debt. It seemed she was about to discover just how far she was willing to go in order to survive.
There was little doubt in her mind that the man called Morgan would expect full payment for the rescue he’d pulled off. The memory of his scent clung in her mind, that faint odor of smoke that was a part of this room, the masculine smell of some sort of shaving soap, and the aroma of a male creature bent on seeking out a woman. She had no doubt that she would receive his full attention once her work in the saloon came to an end, when the last drink had been served and the last table wiped with a dingy cloth.
Even now his gaze followed her and she knew the heat of masculine appraisal bent on her form. The dress was snug, her shoes too small. Apparently the last woman to work this room hadn’t had much of a bosom. Lily’s own abundant curves were well-nigh overflowing her low neckline, and she concentrated on ignoring the men whose eyes were drawn to a figure her mama had described as ample.
Men like their wives to be modest and their charms to be viewed only by their husbands. A man only marries a woman he respects. Mama’s words that rang in her head had proved to be true in the end. The past two years spent on her own had provided Lily with enough shame to last her a lifetime. The Union soldier who’d bargained with her, torch held in his hand, the flame reflected in his eyes as he offered her the choice that was really no choice at all, had kept his word—to a point.
She shook her head, as if that small movement would dismiss the past from her mind. “Take those men in the corner their drinks,” the barkeep said from behind her. She turned to the glossy walnut bar, where rows of bottles caught the light from kerosene lanterns hanging from the ceiling. “Two bits each, Lily.” Handing her the rough wooden tray, he nodded to where three men huddled around a small table.
Making her way through the tables, ignoring the grasping hands that reached to touch her dress, she focused instead on the man who had effected a rescue and was even now watching her from the table in the rear. Smoke-gray eyes seemed darker in the gloom of the saloon, lights dimming as the lead singer stepped forth from the wings to take her place on center stage.
The men’s raucous voices stilled, and all eyes were upon May Kettering, the tall, blond beauty whose voice rivaled that of an opera singer Lily had heard in New York City. The woman was statuesque, voluptuous, and knew the power she wielded over her audience. Following her into the spotlight would be like wandering into an arena after the lions had devoured the Christians, Lily decided. Definitely an anticlimax, no matter how well she could carry a tune.
She listened from the side of the saloon as May sang, knew that the men listening had no idea of the meaning of the words that soared from the woman’s throat. And yet, there was something about the music that spoke to the soul, and even those who had never seen or heard of an opera were touched by the magnificence of the music.
A burst of applause greeted May’s final note, and she nodded at the piano player, a man whose talents were far beyond what one usually found in a place such as this. A saloon was still a saloon, no matter where it was, and although a riverboat might boast a decent piano player, this one was beyond decent. May paused, then lifted her head as the music began, and her voice lifted in song, this time in English, the words of love and sorrow and an aching heart.
For a moment, silence greeted her final notes and then, as she swept from the stage in a swirl of skirts, the men exploded with applause and whistles. “Can you sing like that?” Ham stood beside her, had managed to approach without gaining her notice, and Lily glanced at him with a quick shake of her head.
“Not even a little bit,” she admitted. “My voice is pleasant, and I sing ballads mostly, but I’ll look like a schoolgirl next to May.”
“Not in that dress you won’t,” Ham retorted, eyeing her with a grin. “Honey, you don’t look like any girl I ever met in school.”
She felt a blush rise to cover her cheeks, and glanced to where Morgan sat, watching from narrowed eyes. “How long before I can leave?” she asked.
“Another half hour or so,” Ham told her. “I’ll let you go early tonight, since Morgan paid in advance.”
She inhaled sharply. “What do you mean? Who did he pay?”
“Me, sweetheart. And for what he handed over for your time, you’d do well to keep the man happy for the whole night.”
She met Ham’s gaze. “And if I don’t measure up? What then?”
“Then you don’t get to sing for me tomorrow, and I’ll have to put out the word that your services are available after the saloon closes at night.”
“That’s blackmail,” Lily said quietly. “I didn’t hire on as a whore, Mr. Scott.”
“And who are you going to complain to, Miss Devereaux?” he retorted quickly. “I own this boat, and what I say goes. We won’t be docking anywhere for another couple of days. I’d say it would behoove you to measure up to Mr. Morgan’s expectations.”
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.
