The Marriage Agreement

“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.