Free River Queen by Gilbert Morris Page A

Miss Julienne. I would guess that now you’ve seen your stateroom you can understand that you can’t have your luggage in there. I was just trying to explain to Caesar that they’ll have to be stowed down here,” Dallas said patiently.
    “It’s true, Caesar, there’s barely enough room for me in there, much less any trunks,” Julienne grumbled. “Don’t worry, Caesar, it’s only about ten or twelve hours to New Orleans, they’ll be fine down here for that time.”
    “May be a little longer than that,” Dallas said gravely, “but I’ll help you if you need to get some things, maybe rearrange some clothes and put what you’ll need in one of the traveling cases.”
    “I don’t know about all that,” Julienne said uncertainly. “Tyla takes care of things like that for me. But she’s sick. I guess, Mr. Bronte, maybe I should get you to help me look in one of my trunks and see if I might need to repack a case for overnight.” She turned to Caesar. “Thank you so much, Caesar, but get home now and get Libby to fix you some nice hot soup. You’re soaked through. Don’t worry, get on now.”
    Reluctantly he left, and Julienne turned to the mass of trunks and boxes piled by the door. “So you’re volunteering to help me, Mr. Bronte? I must admit I’ve never had to deal with a problem like this.”
    “No, I’m sure you haven’t,” he said dryly. “What I’m going to do is take them over in that corner over there, see? Stack ’em up and secure them with a stout line. They’ll be safe, they won’t take up much room that way, and I can get to them easy if you need to get something out of them.”
    “That sounds good, I guess. If you would please take this trunk first, and let me look in it and get some things I may need. So you do think we may be traveling all night?”
    “Maybe,” he said. “Depends on the storm. Can’t see a blooming thing when it’s raining steady like this, it’s hard to spot your points and landmarks. A good pilot slows down, a lot, when he can’t see too well.”
    Julienne nodded. “Then I’d like to pack a small case for me, and take Tyla’s bag. I think they’ll fit under the bunk, won’t they?”
    “Sure.” Gamely Dallas bent and picked up one of the trunks. It was massive, two feet deep, forty inches high, and two feet wide, and it was packed to the brim. With a small grunt he picked it up, walked to the corner, and gently set it down at an exact angle to fit into it.
    Julienne admired this obvious show of strength, but she said nothing except, “Would you mind bringing me that small case?” She walked to the trunk, took a key out of her reticule, unlocked it, and opened the top. Dallas stood there holding her small black leather case. He looked down and a delighted grin lit his face. The boyish expression sat oddly on his tough features.
    Julienne’s eyes widened. The top of the trunk had a shallow fitting that set on top, divided into compartments. Julienne’s most delicate pantaloons, lacy chemises, satin corsets, and sheer underslips lay in them. She slammed the top back down and stared at Dallas accusingly.
    “You weren’t supposed to see those,” she snapped.
    “I know,” he said. “But I did. They’re real pretty.”
    Julienne’s cheeks flamed. “You—you are so impertinent! How dare you?”
    “How dare I what? Say your underthings are pretty? Should I have said they’re ugly?”
    “This is not funny,” Julienne said between gritted teeth. “Just secure my trunks as you said, Mr. Bronte.” She whirled and thought she had made a fine, dignified exit, but he called after her.
    “Miss Ashby?”
    She turned slowly. He stood there, his arms crossed, his chin tilted upward. “I’m not your slave like poor Caesar,” he said. “I don’t even work on this boat. I was just trying to help you out, but I’m not taking orders from you, ma’am.”
    Julienne’s eyes narrowed and she drew herself up to her full height. “Excuse me. I thought