Free Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) by Sonja Heisinger Page A

clean.
                His interest was piqued when he saw not one, but two women round the opposite side of the deck, and he wondered what in the world females were doing on an expedition to a man’s world. And they were not robust, hard-looking women, but soft, fragile things of beauty.
    This was not an unpleasant surprise. Not unpleasant at all.
    The taller of the two was lovely, with hair that was nearly black, a thin, oval face, and an ample bosom that hinted of motherhood. The other possessed a slightly more girlish figure, with barely any bosom to speak of; and yet as Brock’s eyes traveled to her face, he was enthralled. She was stunning, and by her confident gait he could see she was tremendously aware of her many beguiling effects.
                Brock noticed that Simon’s eyes were no longer trained on his book.
                “I’ll venture to guess that every man on board knows their names and who they belong to,” Brock said.
                Simon nodded.
                “The tall one is here with her preacher husband, and they got a baby. They’re English, and Protestant, I think. Here to save our souls from greed and eternal damnation.”
                “Any luck?”
                “I get saved every time I see her.”
                “And the other?”
                “Sends me right back to the fiery torment of hell.”
                Both men laughed in agreement.
                “Who is she?” Brock asked.
                “She’s an Irish princess or duchess or something of the like; or at least she makes you believe she is. She don’t belong to no one but herself, and she likes it that way. Won’t let no man talk to her.”
                “She’s here alone?”
                “Got a guardian, but he ain’t ever around. He’s the drinkin’, gamblin’ kind. She spends all her time with that English woman.”
                “And her name?”
                “Evelyn Brennan. And that angel woman is Adele Whitfield.”
                “And Miss Brennan’s guardian is…?”
                “Lucius Flynn.”
                “First class, I presume?”
                “Luck o’ the Irish.”
                Brock thought of the potato blight and cocked his head.
    “They haven’t been so lucky as of late,” he replied.
    Simon shrugged. “Leastways, if he ain’t making mischief on deck, you can find him in the drawing room. Word is his luck hasn’t run out just yet.”
    Brock was pleased to hear of Lucius’ good fortune, for if by befriending this gambler he was able to gain access to that tantalizing female, his own luck would be in better standing than any he had possessed in Cuba. There were plenty of voluptuous beauties in Havana who were ready to throw themselves at his feet, but Brock Donnigan had an affinity for challenges, especially ones with a face like Evelyn Brennan’s.
     
    Later that afternoon, Brock strode into the drawing room and took a look around. The room was full, the air hazy with smoke and sweat. He bumped the man nearest him.
    “Flynn?” he asked.
    The man nodded towards a table with five players, who were silently hunched over fans of cards. Intensity loomed over them, mingling with the haze.
    Brock thanked the man and made his way through the room. A few spectators had gathered at Lucius’ table to see the outcome of the game, and Brock studied the many faces, waiting to discover which one belonged to the Irishman.
    Bets were placed, stakes were raised. One man laid his cards on the table and the rest angrily shoved off, leaving the winner alone. They’d had enough of him for the afternoon, but they would be back for retribution in the evening.
    Lucius gathered his winnings and buried them in his pockets. A cigar hung from his lips and a dark beer sloshed