heâd promised to succor Susan to New Orleans, Burke had felt sturdy enough to shoulder lifeâs ordeals. Now Samson with sheared hair couldnât have felt as powerless.
Yet fate brought Susan to Burke. She was his responsibility, not only to the levee of New Orleans, but forever. What a cruel joke.
She caught up just as he reached the entry to his quarters. She laid a tender hand on his upper arm, the warmth pressing against the material covering cold, cold skin.
âBurke, if Iâd had any idea of . . . of the situation, I wouldnât have stepped aboard this riverboat.â
The sincerity in her voice balmed his invisible wounds to a certain extent. Grimacing, he squeezed shut a pair of eyes that didnât want to look at the future.
âYou can be rid of me easily enough, Burke. Accept your auntâs offer.â
âNever. What I might wish could make hell for someone else. I know. It happened to me. And to Toni.â
He fell to memories that had torn him apart. Again, it was 1864. He spoke to his pain. âI did everything in my power to prove the lamp wrong. I offered my name, my resources, my undying love. I promised to protect my lady from harm.â
Yet soldiers had held Burke down while his Yankee princess had run for her life, had tried to flee from her advancing enemy.
Burke pressed his forearm against the bulkhead, leaning his head into it. âI floundered. Weak, ineffective. Feeble.â A vision rushed to his mindâs eye, the sight of the fragile young woman falling into the paddle wheels . . . and afterward, when sheâd lain broken in body and mind. âThere was nothing I could do to save Toni from the madness.â
âBurke, donât. You judge yourself too harshly.â
Susanâs voice yanked him back to the present.
âIt makes no difference now,â he muttered.
Toni was lost, as sheâd always been lost to Burke, although heâd taken too long to accept it. Witchcraft had coaxed her heart to Matt Marshall, even before she threw herself into the blades to escape an incestuous uncle. Perhaps sheâd sought to flee Burke too. No one would ever know.
It wasnât death that took her, not then, for she lived in her vacant world with a guardian aunt. Lost to everyone for eight months. Then her vacant stare was no more.
What had been pain for Burke then turned to hell.
âThis night will pass,â Susan whispered. âYouâll feel better on the morrow.â
He twisted around. There the sunshine beauty stood, dressed as a Gypsy, the ringmasterâs fist marking her chin. Very real, very alive, very aware of their environs. She was whole, as Antoinette had not been. He needed whole.
And the lamp had brought Susan the Sorceress to Burke.
âYouâre through with chicken worshiping.â Through gritted teeth he made a snap promise. âIf I ever catch you with gris-gris, Iâll snap your neck.â
She gasped.
He started to amend his rash statement, but this was no night for apologies. âTwisted fate is cruel. Ruthless. We must accept it. God help us both.â
Taking her elbows, Burke pulled her to his chest and looked down into wide eyes. So lovely, those big, dark eyes. His lips descended, taking hers in a kiss that intoxicated his veins like no bottle had ever done. He tasted cognac, inhaled vanilla . . . and woman. Beautiful, luscious woman.
It wasnât love, no, it wasnât, not like heâd felt for another desperate lady. He raised his head to say, âI donât want you any more than you want me, but you will be my wife. Youâll sun yourself at 21 rue Royale.â
âDonât say that. This has been a horrid evening for you. You know not what youâre saying.â
âAye, but I do.â
âSheer madness. You reject the lamp, yet you tamper with my fate by your refusal. Have you considered that?â
âI will do better for you than
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