"I was afraid you would feel that way."
* * *
By the time they were aboard the Jade, the sun was setting, and Sophia went below to finish packing for the trip on the river.
She smiled to herself as she looked at the items spread out on Jack's bunk, wondering what to bring, what to leave behind. When she'd set off on this trip she'd pared down her possessions to those things she'd need aboard ship and in America. Now she was paring further, and in an odd way it was a liberating feeling, not being tied to what she once
thought necessary for her daily life.
The cabin door opened and she whirled around. Jack stood there with a bundle of clothing in his hand.
"You could knock, Captain," Sophia said. "What if I was changing clothes, or washing?"
"What if you were?" Jack said. "While we are traveling you can forget about any missish notions of privacy or modesty, Mrs. Burrell. We will be in close quarters in the future and that means there will be few secrets between us.
"Here is something to pack. Since you are skilled with a needle, you might want to put yourself to work on this while we travel to St. Augustine."
He passed her the bundle, and she opened it to find clothing sized for a boy. There were two calico shirts, a wool jacket with a ripped shoulder, and canvas trousers frayed at the bottoms.
"You need to be dressed properly for hauling lines and handling the boat, and this will give you more freedom of movement."
Her eyes rose and locked with his, and she knew they were both thinking back to when she'd stolen his clothing to give her freedom to make her escape from the cave in England.
The silence lengthened between them. His hand reached out and touched her hair, escaping from its knot atop her head and curling around her face in the moist air.
"You will need a hat. You are not used to the tropical sun."
His words were prosaic, but his voice was husky and his touch lingered, feeling a curl between his fingers. His eyes were darkened in the dim cabin light, and when she moved her head back there was a moment of resistance before he released her. She knew she should step back, away from him, but her feet were detached from her brain and wouldn't move. So when he moved closer, framing her face in his sea-roughened hands, she only stood there, waiting, watching as his head moved closer in to hers.
A gasp of sound escaped her lips before his mouth came down on hers, sealing whatever protest she was likely to make, but Sophia stood there, the clothing fluttering to her feet. Her empty hands reached up and were now full of Jack Burrell, his broad shoulders filling her grasp, the warmth of his body flowing into her as he pulled her closer into his embrace.
His mouth moved gently across hers, not forcing its way, but teasing, first one corner of her lips, then the other, the ticklish kiss making her smile, and then catch her breath as he eased his tongue inside.
His rumbling noise of satisfaction when she opened to him brought her hands up around his neck, threading through his sun-streaked hair, pulling him down, but Jack hooked one hand beneath her hips and pulled her up off her feet, up against his body where she could feel him pulsing against her belly, a throb answered by a pulse deep inside her.
He effortlessly held her up as his mouth moved on hers and she wanted to feel him against every inch of her skin. His kiss ignited sparks within her, pulling at her, drawing her out. She wanted it to go on forever. No, she wanted him to walk back the few steps to his bunk and lay her down there, his body covering hers and pressing her down to where she wouldn't have to plot and scheme for a few stolen moments.
But Jack pulled his head back, and looked down at her, his eyes glittering in the dim light, and his breath coming harsh from his lungs.
He eased her back to her feet and reached up to take her arms from around his neck. It was a good thing the bunk was behind her, because Sophia sat down on it with a thump, her legs like a quivering jelly. Her shaking hand rose up to touch her swollen lips and she saw a brief flare of something in Jack's eyes before he pulled himself up and calmly said, "I will see you at supper, Sophia."
He turned and left the cabin, and Sophia stared at the space where he'd been moments before.
That wasn't supposed to happen. She was the one who walked away and left him frustrated and dangling, not the other way around.
She pushed herself off the bunk and tiptoed to the door, but she didn't hear any laughter on the other side. Jack may have won this round, but he wasn't hanging around to gloat. She could only hope he was in as much discomfort as she was.
She shook her head and looked at the clothing, but when she glanced up she caught her reflection in the mirror, her flushed face, her hair coming loose to fall around her shoulders. She looked wanton, and ready to join Jack in his bunk.
She scowled at her own image and an idea came to her as she remembered her flight to Portsmouth. It was only good sense, she told herself as she took her hair down from its pins. If you were going to dress like a boy and travel in this oppressive heat, it would be one less worry.
She looked in the mirror at the silvery mass flowing over her neck, and then before she could harbor regrets, took up her knife and hacked it off, feeling behind her to get as close to the nape of her neck as she could. Then, using a smaller pair of embroidery scissors, she snipped away until a cloud of fluff drifted down to the deck.
When she thought she'd done enough damage, Sophia roughly worked her hands through her hair, shaking out loose remnants and using dampened hands to finger-comb what was left.
She felt free and light-headed, and not just because of the lost tresses. Then she reached for her mirror.
"Oh my," she whispered, her regrets behind her at her new look. A gilt cloud, like thistledown, wisped out from her face. Small curls sprang out across her forehead and tickled the tops of her ears, and the way she looked now was a pleasing combination of innocence and sophistication. When she shook her head, the hair moved freely and lightly. She laughed aloud. The short hair made her look far younger than her twenty-five years. There was much to be said for playing the boy, she thought, and hair will grow back in time.
She swept up the hair and tossed it out the window, then examined the clothing before trying it on for size. This, too, was a sensible idea, and she had to admit she was looking forward to the freedom that came from wearing breeches. It had been a long time since she'd worn boy's clothes to muck out the stables...or worn the clothes of a hoodwinked highwayman.
A few strategically placed pins showed her where she could nip in the waist on the trousers, but she left the shirts loose so she wouldn't have to bind her breasts. It would also leave the impression she was a lad not yet grown into his clothes.
For now, this new look suited her sense of adventure. She idly wondered what Captain Burrell would think of how she looked, and told herself it didn't matter.
She was lying to herself. She wanted Jack Burrell's eyes to bug out of his head when he saw her. She wanted the upper hand again, she thought, as she dressed herself back in her own clothes.
Calm. Control. Those were the keys to success in this venture, she thought as she donned her dress again. Then a rap on the door distracted her.
"Come in," she said.
Mick entered and Sophia felt a loosening of some of the guilt she'd had since she landed the boy in trouble.
"Mick! I am pleased to see you released from your prison. And," she hurried on before he could speak, "I owe you an apology for the role I playing in getting you in trouble."
"It wasn't your fault, Mrs. Burrell. I shoulda known better. The Cap'n was right to do what he did," he finished, defending his hero. "Cap'n always says, a man takes responsibility for hisself and don't blame others for his problems."
Sophia thought about how Captain Burrell still blamed her for his being left penniless and at the mercy of press gangs, but wisely said nothing.
"Cap'n said you might want to dine up on deck tonight, ma'am. It's cooler up top. And I like your hair that w
ay, ma'am! You look as shiny as a half-dime!"
"Thank you, Mick." Sophia smoothed down her skirts and went to leave the cabin, stopping when she saw Mick reaching down the musical instrument.
"What is that, Mick? Some kind of mandolin?"
"No, ma'am, it's the Cap'n's banjo. Maybe he'll play it for us later, which would be a right treat. You can't help but grin when there's a banjo playin?”
The sailors stared at her when she went abovedecks, but Captain Jack just looked at her and grunted something about her haircut being "practical."
Sophia ignored him ignoring her, or at least told herself that's what she was doing, and joined Jack for supper. Despite the smells that sometimes drifted over from the harbor and from the town, it was more pleasant eating in the open air than in the cabin where heat built up during the long afternoon.
Their final supper in Fernandina offered fresh bread from town along with mullet and pork stew. There were melons, but Sophia did not eat them, though she partook of the greens and sidemeat, stunned to find the food searing her tongue after her first incautious bite. Jack explained that the datil peppers seasoning the greens were a highly prized product of St. Augustine and offered her more pepper sauce.
"No, thank you, Captain," she wheezed, grabbing for her mug of coffee.
He just smiled, the rat.
The sloop was tied alongside the Jade and some of the sailors were standing at the rail, commenting on the boat's lines.
"What are you going to name your craft, Mrs. Burrell?" Jack asked.
"Hey, now, Captain, it's bad luck to rename a ship!" protested
Crawford.
"Cap'n makes his own luck," Mick defended him stoutly. "That's why they call him 'Lucky Jack.'"
"Here I always thought it was because he could get under the skirts of every gal he—oof! Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," Crawford said, punctuated by a blow to the ribs from Mr. Rice's elbow.
"Why, I had not thought about it," Sophia said. "My own boat to name."
"How about 'Fool's Gold'?" Jack suggested.
"No, that's a name to inspire ridicule," Sophia said. She thought about it for a moment, tapping at her lower lip.
"I have it," she said, looking at Jack. "Gambler's Luck."
"One might say a skilled gambler makes his own—or her own— luck," Jack said.
"Exactly."
"While normally I wouldn't say it's a good idea to rename a boat, given the questionable provenance of this craft it's a prudent step," Jack said. "And that name may inspire us, or at least bring us closer to our goal."
Mr. Rice joined them and he and Jack carried the conversation, discussing careening the Jade up in Georgia while they took what Mr. Rice insisted was their wedding trip. Jack didn't correct him, since it was a more plausible and safer explanation than what they were really up to.
"Why Georgia, Mr. Rice?"
Rice looked at her in surprise. "Because that's where the Burrells live, Mrs. Burrell, up near Savannah. Hasn't Jack talked with you about his family?"
Sophia rescued Jack from what could be an awkward conversational pitfall. "We have been so busy that we have not had time to do much chatting, Mr. Rice. One of the purposes of this trip is to allow us to get to know each other better."
She thought Jack muttered, "Heaven help me," but ignored him to smile at Mr. Rice.
Rice looked at her thoughtfully.
"I hope that works out for you, Mrs. Burrell. Captain Jack's a fine man, and worth getting to know better. Even if you two got off to a rocky start, there's no reason you can't make a go of it."
Jack just shook his head. "I worry you are a hopeless romantic, George. This is not one of those novels you like to read."
Mr. Rice colored up like a radish but said no more on the subject, instead switching to talk of selling the goods that the Jade carried in her hold.
After the supper dishes were returned to the galley, Mick brought Jack the instrument from his cabin. The banjo had a circle body, open in the back. The strings traveled up a long neck, and Jack spent a few moments adjusting them and tuning the instrument.
The banjo sound reminded her a little of a guitar, and a bit like a harpsichord, the jangly notes bouncing along as Mick joined in on a tin whistle, and Mr. Rice showed hidden depths on the spoons, his forehead gleaming with sweat as he kept the rhythm.
Sophia recognized one or two of the melodies—"Shady Grove" and "Soldier's Lament" being popular back home as well—and soon her own foot was tapping along with the melody.
She saw Jack glance down at the toework and then he flashed his grin at her, the smile that changed him from the grim vessel's master to the lad who used to sing along at his family's musicales.
She couldn't resist smiling back.
"Banjo affects you that way," he said, his fingers flying over the strings. "Can't play gloomy music on a banjo. Though you can go for a different sound," he said, easing into a familiar, lilting melody she recognized as "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desire."
"It is an intriguing instrument, Captain, and it suits you. Have you had it for long?"
His fingers moved into a slower tempo, a more plaintive melody than what had played before.
"I got this banjo off one of my crew during the war, a Negro sailor named Reuben." The slim fingers continued to move along the neck of the instrument, his other hand strumming at its drumhead. She thought that would be all Jack would say on it, but he continued speaking. "Reuben was hired out to me by his master. That was how some men did it during the war, they would hire out their slaves as crew, and then sit home, fat and sassy, while the man risked his life for pay that would go into his master's pocket. Reuben was a good man and a good sailor. He was also a talented musician, and showed me how to play."
The fingers moved now into a faster tempo, and Rice and Mick kept
up.
"Once you live alongside a man, fight alongside him, bleed alongside him...you see things differently. Reuben's master didn't like it when his slave didn't make it home. He thought I should have taken better care of his property. I explained to him that his 'property' saved my life, taking a bullet meant for the ship's captain. After that, I didn't take any more slave hires."
He rested the banjo across his lap, and lightly ran his fingers over the strings.
"That's all the music for tonight, lads. It has been too long since I have played and my fingers are feeling ill-used."
The men went back to their tasks or their leisure time, and Sophia went below.
* * *
Jack told himself earlier this new tactic in the ongoing battle with Sophia Deford Burrell would work to his advantage. Now, he wasn't so sure of himself. Yes, his kisses seemed to throw her off balance, but that wasn't doing anything for his peace of mind.
She, no doubt, thought cutting off her hair made her look like a lad. She was wrong. It made her eyes look larger, her cheekbones more dramatic, her lips lusher. More than ever she looked like a wicked little cat plotting mischief. A very beddable little cat.
He hung the banjo back and tried not to listen to Sophia moving about his cabin, preparing herself for bed. He'd told her it would be different on the road, and he told himself she would have to come to him. You lured a kitten with treats and coaxing, and that was still his plan.
But if there was one thing he'd learned during the war, it was that a plan only worked until the action started, and then you had to be ready to make changes while shot flew across the deck.
Sophia had given him that quizzical look again when he stepped into the cabin wearing his eyepatch. He knew she was consumed with curiosity, and wondered how far she would go to get the answer. As far as his bunk?
With the cabin plunged into darkness, Jack removed the eyepatch to watch the nightly show of Sophia climbing into her hammock. She was more adroit than she had been some days past, and he couldn't say she wasn't a fast learner. But it was still an entertaining show, and he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could. In the meantime...as l
ong as it was her choice to join him in his bunk, he was confident she would not kill him while he slept.
Fairly confident.
"Mrs. Burrell?"
"Yes, Captain?"
"If you come to my bunk, I will explain about the eyepatch."
There was silence from across the cabin, and he saw her stir, setting the hammock to swaying. He swallowed, his mouth gone dry.
"You know you want to know the answer, little cat. How terrible would it be to find out?" he said, easing himself off the bunk. He walked silently across the deck to the hammock and when he stood alongside, her eyes flew open.
"Is it not rather late to be chatting, Captain? I thought we had laid to rest the issue of whether I would sleep in your bunk."
"Laid to rest. Now, there's an interesting choice of words..."
She blinked, her eyes not accustomed to the dark, but he could see her clearly, a stray glimmer of starlight on her hair, the lashes shadowing the large eyes. Her movements set the hammock to rocking again, and he put one hand beneath where the hammock dipped lowest, steadying her.
"Careful now, you don't want to tip yourself out."
"I have no fear of that if you go back to your bunk, Captain!" she whispered fiercely.
"In due time, Mrs. Burrell," he said. "But for now, I suggest you grasp a hold of your bed. Any sudden movements and you could hurt yourself falling."
She was about to respond to this when he put his finger across her lips and she went silent. He left his finger there, against that warmth, feeling the brush of air from her heightened breathing as he stroked across the pouting softness. Her brows drew down in a frown, and her eyes shifted as she tried to make out his form in the cabin's darkness.
"You are naked, aren't you?" she said in a husky voice.
"Your quickness of mind is one of the things I most admire about you. Yes, I am naked. You are not. However, I can remedy that."
He loomed over her, and with a snap of his fingers flicked open the button at the top of her nightrail while she grasped the hammock's sides. She tried to squirm away, but her situation was too unstable and in quick time the buttons were open down to the waist, and he could see the white flesh nearly glowing in the shadows.
The Bride and the Buccaneer Page 12