Free Destiny's Magic by Martha Hix Page B

gaze remained on her chest.
    Refusing to cower, she said, “If you’ll put your eyes back in their sockets, Captain, I shall explain myself.”
    He wasn’t interested in explanations. Leaning a shoulder against the brick wall and folding arms over his chest, he said, “You’ve got fresh bruises on top of older ones.” His gaze took a slow climb. “You stayed around for more than one beating.”
    â€œIt wasn’t by choice.”
    â€œI’ve heard some women like that sort of treatment.”
    How could he think any woman enjoyed fearing for her life? Susan parried, “Is that what you’ve heard? Or do you know it from experience?”
    Burke ignored her query, his expressive eyes filled with demand. “What took you so long to get away from that man?”
    You can’t avoid answering him, Susan. You might as well speak up. Saying Orson hadn’t been vicious at the onset rang hollow in reflection. Explanations would sound just as trite. She said nothing.
    â€œI notice you don’t wear a wedding band,” Burke remarked, and toyed with the braid resting on her breast.
    â€œI sold it.” A truth. Orson had bought a ring for the mockery of a wedding that he’d planned to stage. “Sir, the proceeds are all I have. I’d offer them to you, but I may need that money . . . if things don’t work out well in New Orleans.”
    He elevated his left hand, then rubbed it with the other, as if to relieve pain. Susan, despite herself, studied the forearm exposed beneath a rolled-to-elbow sleeve. How she wanted to be clasped in his arms! Burke spoke to her sine qua non, shallow though she was.
    â€œTell me something. You suspect your father won’t be in New Orleans? Or you know he won’t be pleased to see you?”
    â€œWhy don’t you have a seat at table, Cap— Burke? I’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”
    â€œI don’t want anything to drink.”
    â€œLet me cut you a king-size piece of cake,” she offered in a chipper tone to veer the subject off her “marital” situation. “I’m a fair cook, so I decided to put my baking skills to good use. For you. To make a stab at repaying your kindness at extending credit for passage.”
    â€œWhere did you learn how to cook?”
    â€œFrom my mammy.”
    Silence descended. He stared, his gaze drilling into her, his broad chest heaving in exasperation. Susan grew more uncomfortable by the second. If this riverboat were to dock now at St. Francisville, she’d have gathered her boy, their snake, and rushed ashore without a word of argument.
    â€œIs this where you do your best work?” His voice became thick . . . taunting, testing, and changed the mood entirely. “In galleys?”
    â€œI am a married woman.”
    â€œAre you?” Burke’s mouth pressed into a frown. “That coward you call a husband may’ve whipped the hell out of you and your boy, but I’d bet the title to this steamboat he won’t have the guts to tangle with me.”
    Ask him, Susan. Ask him. It would not get any easier to ask. “I fear my husband will cause trouble for your St. Francisville relatives. Captain O’Brien—Burke—will you please take me and Pippin straight to New Orleans?”
    Burke chuckled, the sound rife with intent. “What are you willing to give, Susan, my dear Mrs. Paget, for my agreement?”
    It was one thing to have fantasies about a man, quite another to barter her goods. She was not running away with this frightening man to be a whore. “If you think I’m willing to sleep my way there, think again.”
    â€œBecause you aren’t interested in me? Or because of the sanctity of . . . marriage?”
    A frisson went up and down her spine. “I know what you’re about. I’m disappointed in you. A man who trifles with another man’s wife is no