Destiny's Magic by Martha Hix Page A

you’ve ever known.”
    â€œGo to bed, Burke O’Brien.” Susan stepped back, whirling to the right and rushing to the asylum of her quarters.

Nine
    It was a lover’s rain that fell. Gentle yet emphatic taps drummed the great freighter’s hull, the shower cooling these hours before dawn. Sweet breezes soughed through the open portholes, ruffled the netting that draped Susan’s bed, and whispered her awake to ponder last night, to remember Burke and his torture.
    She arose from bed, frisking her hands up and down her arms as her bare feet paced the thick rug. The idea of marrying a madman went beyond the pale. She was through with madmen.
    Yet her heart, and her anger, went out to the one aboard the Yankee Princess. Burke, harrowed Burke. Unpredictable Burke. He would cage her to his bizarre beliefs. And how dare he threaten to break her neck!
    He still loved that Antoinette woman. At least Susan hadn’t loved Orson. Oh, she’d imagined herself in thrall when she’d forsaken her father to go away with the circus man, but becoming a thrall had cleared her eyes. No more madmen!
    Suddenly the air became close in Susan’s stateroom. She needed air, needed to feel the rain, needed to be out of confines. Four walls caged her. No more would she be caged.
    She swept the night braid over the shoulder of her lawn sleeping gown, then rushed into the wet of outdoors, toward the stern. Yet the deck above kept rain from her head. She inhaled. Better. Much better. The air smelled of freedom.
    And then she noticed him.
    A shoulder propped against his doorway, his darkened quarters behind him. She started to back away. She didn’t need him. She didn’t want some sort of silly marriage. Her last desire at the moment was to mate with an erratic Irishman in love with another woman.
    Yet he called to her softly, her name drifting, his voice beckoning. The unexplainable pull that obsessed her in the first place now defied sanity. Her gaze drawn to the bare chest that had excited her for so long, she went to him. He was wet. He’d been walking on an exposed deck, it was apparent. He wore nothing but britches.
    His breath flowing into her ear, he said, “Forgive me for a fit of frenzy. I would never snap your neck.”
    That he was capable of quixotic fits distressed her, yet rushing away became impossible.
    â€œGo with me to Royale Street. As my wife,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. As you don’t fight me now.”
    â€œI can’t. I do.”
    His fingers brought her arm over his shoulder. His breath pleasing, his skin warm yet damp to the touch, he caressed her bottom. She allowed him to press her to him, and felt his manhood responding. Her breasts answered the friction of his hairy chest, but he wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted England. Throughout her silent rectification, she yet yearned to taste the carnal.
    Would it be wrong?
    Just once?
    Yes, it was wrong! He would cage her. Or worse. “Don’t do this to me, Burke. Don’t.”
    He bent his head to her throat. “It’s out of our hands. As I want you in mine.”
    Tiny bumps reared on her arms. No matter those arguments against him, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t voice her misgivings. She allowed him to kiss her, let his tongue slip into her mouth, wanted it when he gathered her hem up and caressed her flesh.
    He guided her into his quarters, closing the door behind them. He had her at his bed, got her back to the satin coverlet. And the sweet rain still fell, the wind still enchanting as it quivered the mosquito net and tickled her skin. Or was it Burke? It was as if Susan sipped his expensive brandy. He now cradled her in his arms, his kisses besotting her to a headier degree, his fingers undoing her braid. She wanted him.
    â€œSo lovely,” he murmured, having done with the ribbons that closed her gown. And then he sucked her breast. No lips had ever touched