An Impassioned Redemptio Page 2

  What was that sensation that rushed through him at seeing her in the middle of his boat? It was delight, pure and exhilarating.

  “Miss Holland,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Dammit! Was he gushing?

  However, she nodded as if his words were entirely expected. And she didn’t add that the pleasure was all hers as many people did. No fawning from her; he liked that.

  She cocked her head. “You may call me Jo. That’s what my friends call me.”

  “It doesn’t seem pretty enough,” he said. “Anyway, are we friends?” Jameson hoped so. Not too much of a leap from friendship to something more, and his gut told him he needed more.

  She kept her gaze firmly on his, her green eyes sparkling as if she knew what she was doing to him, merely by standing on his ship, looking like any man’s dream.

  “You may have saved my life yesterday. In my book, that makes us friends,” she said.

  He nodded. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Jameson Carter.”

  “I know.” She persisted in her utterly direct way of looking at him—no lowering of the eyelashes, no coyness.

  Realizing his manners had escaped him along with any intelligent thought, he asked, “Would you care to take a seat? Perhaps have a drink with me?”

  Her mouth quirked in a lovely smile. “Yes, I believe I will,” she said.

  However, she bypassed the chair that he indicated and sauntered over to his bar. She stood by a stool and waited. He moved quickly to pull the stool out and enjoyed watching her settle herself on it, placing her reticule on top of the polished oak counter.

  Pausing behind her, he wanted to bend his head and sniff her hair. Instead, he edged behind his bar and studied the bottles.

  “What are we drinking to?” she asked, and he decided on fine aged brandy, pouring two-fingers’ worth in each glass.

  He placed hers in front of her, noticing how pretty the shell of her ear was before dropping his gaze to her cleavage, which was even prettier. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He remained standing where he was. Somehow, the safety of the solid oak between them seemed like a good idea.

  “We’re drinking to the hazards of owning a bar and surviving,” he said.

  She nodded and took a sip. “And to friendship,” she added.

  “Definitely to friendship.” He smiled. “But you didn’t have to come all the way here to thank me.”

  She raised a dark sculpted eyebrow. “No, I didn’t. And I haven’t thanked you, if you’ll recall.”

  He frowned. “That’s true. You haven’t. Are you going to?”

  She sipped her drink. “I didn’t need your help, Carter.”

  He started at the way she addressed him though he liked the sound of his last name on her tongue. But then, he’d probably like anything of his on her tongue.

  “Your aim was good,” he admitted, “but it might not have stopped him immediately.”

  “I don’t like killing customers,” she said, and he saw an emotion flash over her face. Remorse.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “You didn’t kill him. Nor did Pete.” He downed his drink in one draught before he added, “I did.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and he saw relief on her lovely features. Then she smiled. “There, now I have thanked you.”

  “You didn’t have to. Just so you know. And you didn’t have to come here today. Sometime soon, I would have been crossing the river to visit your place.” He leaned on his elbows, his empty glass cradled between his hands. “Why is that? How come I’m the one going over there always?”

  “Because The Pork and Swallow has an abundance of enticements,” she said, with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “So does my boat,” he told her. “Good liquor, fair gambling.”

  “Women, too,” she pointed out in his favor.

  He shrugged. “None as pretty as your ladies. Besides, mine don’t quite fill the same role as yours.”

  She lifted both eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Truly,” he asserted. “Mine keep the gamblers company, help sell a few drinks, soothe sore losers, but only in the public rooms. And they sometimes sing and dance if they’ve got talent.”

  “I guess your ship does offer many enticements,” she allowed.

  “I’m short two ladies at the moment,” he confessed. “Do yours ever run off and marry your customers like mine do?”

  “No, but I guess that’s because, as you say, mine aren’t quite like yours. I suppose if your girls entertained men in their rooms as mine do, then men wouldn’t ask to marry them.”

  He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “So you think my gamblers are marrying my women for amorous congress?”

  She shrugged. “There are worse reasons to marry.”

  What an unusual woman Josephine was! “Why don’t you come some evening?” he invited her. “As a guest of the house.”

  A shadow dimmed her features. “I’ve been a guest before,” she said.

  Jameson’s gut unexpectedly lurched. He hadn’t really wanted to discuss the last time Jo had boarded the boat. It was etched in his brain, though, and probably in the brain of every male who’d been witness to it. He’d been working for Jack Stoddard, simply keeping an eye on things, making sure no one became rowdy, tried to cheat the house, or ran out on a debt.

  In the upper level gambling room where they were currently drinking, he’d heard her arrival that night long before he’d seen it, remembering how the murmurs began, the heads turned, and then absolute silence.

  Miss Josephine Holland had stepped a dainty foot on the rich rug, and it seemed as though the Queen of England had arrived—that is, if the queen wore a tight red dress, cut low and cut high. Hells bells, she’d been a sight! Every curve hugged and displayed. Her gorgeous eyes had taken in her throng of admirers. Some stunned male had thrust a drink in her hand, which she’d accepted as her due.

  Jameson hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her that night. But she’d had a specific mission, which he only discovered later—to distract everyone on board so her friend could rescue Mrs. Stoddard, who was being held captive by her own husband. And then Josephine had zeroed in on Stoddard, himself. Jameson had watched this exquisite creature play cards with Jack, sit on his lap, even sing so beautifully that everyone had fallen silent again to listen. And then, to his disgust, she’d let Stoddard take her to his stateroom, the very one that Jameson now used as his own.

  “I can see by your face that you recall my last visit.” She tilted her head, seemingly waiting for some comment.

  He shrugged, trying to relinquish the anger he still felt at the notion of short, round Stoddard lying with her. Jack had a personality that was worse than his looks, both rough and cruel. Apparently, Josephine had had a job to do and had done it superbly. She was a professional after all, and he would do well to remember that rather than putting her on a pedestal.

  In fact, now that he considered her unexpected appearance on his boat, maybe she’d come to thank him in the way of her profession. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that he’d visited a few of her girls, but never her when he went to The Pork and Swallow. Maybe...

  “Did you get the full tour of the boat?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I don’t know. What did you want to show me?”

  Was that a solicitation? He walked around the bar and stood in front of her. “Did you see the wheelhouse?”

  “This boat never goes anywhere,” she said, as if because it was stationary, it wouldn’t have a place for piloting.

  “But it could,” he insisted. “And there’s a superb view from the wheelhouse.”

  “All right,” she agreed.

  He didn’t take her arm as that seemed too forward. But he couldn’t resist putting his hand on the small of her back—the first time he’d ever touched her. It felt damn good, too.

  His broad palm sent prickly warmth through both her close-fitting jacket and her silk corset and o
nto her skin. Jo hadn’t had a man touch her in a long time. She didn’t have to, as the owner of The Pork and Swallow. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to. And Carter was certainly taking a liberty, though she allowed it. He might simply be doing the gentlemanly thing, putting his hand on her to guide her. The alternative was that he thought her an easy chippie. She hoped not. That would put a rapid end to their new friendship.

  She couldn’t say what drove her to seek him out on his boat. She definitely didn’t like being beholden to anyone, and the night before, when she’d fled abruptly for the sanctuary of her bedroom, she’d been both beholden and somewhat shaken. Used to being in control and in charge, she’d looked after her brothers when they were a young family with only a drunkard for a father. Then she’d looked after herself, eventually making enough money as a seamstress to open her own saloon with Pete.

  When it came to Carter, Jo wanted to be on even footing at the very least—not a woman who’d been in need of rescue and certainly not a harlot whose favors he could pay for.

  He dropped his hand from her as they approached a narrow door painted in white gloss.

  “Just a short ladder,” he told her. Sure enough, when he swung open the door, he revealed a space the width of a man’s shoulders with a wall and a ladder affixed to it. She could look up the seven rungs and see the wheelhouse above.

  “Unusual,” she said.

  “Ladies first,” he replied. She’d ascended many ladders in her life, physically and figuratively, and this didn’t bother her. She grabbed the rung near her shoulder and put her heeled foot on the lowest one. She started to climb, and then she gasped.

  Carter’s hands were steadying her at her waist, and she had a feeling he was going to put them on her rear end as she rose higher. Stopping, she looked down at him. He was admiring her backside, and it took him a moment to realize she’d halted her ascent. He had a grin on his handsome face that left no doubt he was enjoying himself.

  “I’m perfectly capable of doing this without your assistance,” she informed him.

  He whipped his hands away from her immediately.

  “My apologies,” he said, with the grace to look sheepish at being caught touching her gratuitously.

  Jo proceeded up into the wheelhouse, all the while wondering if he was trying to get a look under her skirts but not really minding one way or the other. Indeed, the view after she reached the top was good, though not much better than from the deck below. The only difference was that she now had a 360-degree vista with barely any obstructions.

  With her hands on her hips, she waited for him to join her. It was close quarters, and she was no fool. He stepped off the ladder and practically bumped into her.

  “At night,” he said, gazing out the windows forward and aft before turning his piercing gaze back on her, “you can see lights all up and down the river.”

  “Mm,” she said, not taking her eyes off of his face for one second. “I bet you can see them from the deck below, too.”

  “Or from my room,” he said. “It has big windows.”

  “I remember,” she told him tartly, watching his nostrils flare and his jaw clench. So, he didn’t like to think of her with Jack Stoddard. Good.

  She made a half turn, glancing at the spoked wooden wheel and out the front windows, before she realized what was behind her. At her back, beyond more windows that were set into a half wall, was the uppermost deck. Naturally, it had a perfectly good albeit narrow staircase to the level below. She went out onto the uncovered deck, and Carter followed.

  “Why didn’t you simply bring me up the stairs?” she asked, strolling to the railing. She thought she knew the answer. No doubt Carter had a mischievous streak.

  “Not as much fun,” he admitted with a twinkle in his gold-brown eyes.

  “Are you toying with me?” she asked bluntly.

  He was right at her elbow, leaning close, peering down into the water far below. At her question, he turned to look her in the eye.

  “No. I’m not.”

  Their faces were inches apart.

  “Then what are you doing?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

  “I don’t think you came all the way across the river to thank me. You could’ve done that the next time I came to The Pork.”

  She blinked. What should she tell him? Certainly not the truth—that she’d lain awake all night, reliving the shock of how close she’d come to being shot by Frank Hirsch. Her life could have ended without warning, just like that. And with that realization came a sudden yearning to seek out Jameson Carter. Not to thank him, but rather, perhaps, to start something with him. After all, she was in her mid-twenties, and she wasn’t getting any younger.

  But how to approach such a subject, she had no idea.

  As it turned out, Jo didn’t have to say a word. He lowered his head, and before she could think about it, his lips were on hers, firm, supple, and warm. Her senses leaped with delight for his kiss proved even more pleasing than she’d imagined, and she had quite a fertile imagination.

  He tipped his head slightly and fitted his mouth more closely over hers. Unthinkingly, she parted her lips to welcome him, and his tongue slipped between them to stroke hers. Mm, brandy.

  Might as well make the first kiss count. Turning more toward him, she slipped her hands up his chest and around his neck. It had been a while, but she remembered how it all worked. Lacing her fingers in his soft hair, which she’d fantasized about touching, she kept her mouth locked to his.

  Longing swelled in her as his hands slid from her waist, palmed her backside, and pulled her hips to his. Her blood flashed to a boil, her body seemed to hum, and her bones liquefied. His scent—a blend of man and bay rum—filled her nostrils.

  I could get used to this, she thought, but at that moment, Carter pulled back.

  “I’ll admit that I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he rasped, his gruff voice raising goosebumps along her thighs and arms.

  She couldn’t help but smile at his honesty, though she guarded her own overwhelming response, and held back the confession that she’d longed for his kiss since the first time she’d become aware of him in her saloon.

  “Now what?” she asked, her own voice sounding breathy to her ears. She cocked her head, realizing she was asking herself as much as him.

  His eyes darkened, and she knew the instant he’d decided he wanted to lie with her. Of course, he did! What man didn’t? And it would be so easy to give herself over to the desire swirling between them. But a satisfying coupling, even with a handsome and skilled lover, wasn’t enough anymore.

  The unexpected thought made her catch her breath. She wanted something more, something she knew she could never really have. And she wanted it with Carter. What a silly notion, thinking he might view her as someone more than a madam, as a woman worthy of a lasting and loving relationship.

  He took hold of her hand and led her to the steps. She allowed him, with a wash of disappointment at his assumption that she would be readily willing to have a tumble in the sack. They descended to the second floor gaming room once more, and she was positive he was going to lead her to his cabin, the same one in which she’d entertained Stoddard.

  She started to pull from his grasp at the same time as he bypassed the narrow hallway leading to the prow of the boat and his stateroom. Instead, Carter headed for the second set of stairs. Puzzled, she let him keep hold of her hand all the way down to the lower level gaming room, out onto the deck, and across the dock. From there, he escorted her to her carriage.

  At first, she didn’t know what to say. He seemed to be getting rid of her, but in a very gracious fashion. She ought to feel relief that he hadn’t attempted to seduce her. And she was relieved in a way, though she couldn’t deny a tremor of disappointment, as well.

  “I thank you for the brandy,” she said, taking up the reins and not letting her bafflement show.

  “I thank you for the kiss,” he answered lightly. “I wou
ld like to do it again some time.”

  That deserved an honest answer. “I would like that,” Jo told him.

  He stepped away from her horse and nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She rode home with a strangely warm feeling. He hadn’t treated her like a whore at all.

  Chapter Two

  Two nights later, Jameson returned to The Pork and Swallow—two endlessly long nights and days. If he’d waited longer than that, any remaining semblance of his sanity was going to take flight, leaving him a distracted, preoccupied shell. However, his anticipation died out and his disappointment grew faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind when he looked toward Jo’s table and found it empty.

  What did he expect? For some reason he’d thought, after their impassioned kiss, that she’d be sitting at her table waiting for him. Silly, he knew.

  Dropping onto a stool at the bar, he let Pete pour him a whisky. One by one, Jo’s girls came over to talk to him, seeing if he was there for any of their favors. But he politely turned them all away, keeping an eye on the stairs in the hopes that Jo would come down.

  At last, Pete leaned an elbow on the bar and drawled in a knowing way, “Miss Josephine isn’t here tonight.”

  The bartender’s words were like a bucket of cold water dousing him from head to toe and all parts in between.

  He wanted to ask where she was as all sorts of inappropriate thoughts sizzled through his brain. Did she have regular clientele for whom she made house calls? He felt foolish to have entertained feelings of fondness for her. After all, she was a madam and, whether he wanted to admit it or not, most likely a harlot.

  Jo awakened to the unmistakable acrid smell of smoke and the insistent tolling of bells. With a gasp of alarm, she inhaled a lungful of smoke that sent her into a fit of coughing. The nearby crackling, growing increasingly louder, suggested a horror that had her scrambling out of her bed with haste. The Pork and Swallow itself was on fire. The bells pealed again and again from outside her window, and she realized that was the sound which had awakened her.