He was watching her intently, secretly amused by something. About what, Sophie had no idea.
His brows lifted. “You can’t wait to see him, I take it?”
“No, I really can’t,” she admitted, and it was the truth. She couldn’t wait to read him his own treacherous words and then fling her ring into his face. Let him give it to one of his precious native girls!
“It shows,” he said, peering at her. Suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Sophie made an effort to appear serene. She wasn’t prepared for explanations just yet.
Somehow, all of it made her feel a bit of a failure.
Her mother had sometimes cautioned her not to show her true nature, because she was certain Sophie would never keep a man. Her temper was too quick, her interests too masculine, and her hair never remained in place. She reached up and pulled the ribbon from her hair, letting the strands fall free. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time trying to make it presentable, but why even try to restrain it?
It wasn’t her fault that Harlan was a philandering fool!
“So...” She toyed with the pale ivory ribbon, wrapping it around the thumb of her hand. “What are you working on?” she persisted, hoping her question would turn the attention away from her.
Jack was looking at her far too knowingly and it made her nervous.
“You really want to know?”
“Of course,” she told him. “I’d not have asked otherwise.”
“I was reading through reports made by colleagues.”
“What sort of reports?”
“Evidence discovered along the North American continent which indicates a much older indigenous peoples than is normally accepted.”
Sophie unraveled the ribbon from her finger. “In other words ... the natives have been here much longer than we think?”
“Precisely.”
“I see.” She was truly interested, but although her fiancé was an expert in the field of anthropology, she hadn’t the first inkling how their studies were performed. Harlan never talked to her about anything. “And how would you know such a thing?”
He pushed a paper at her. “Take this article, for example...”
Sophie turned the paper around. It was titled “A Relic of a Bygone Age.”
“That particular article appeared in Scientific American, on June 5, 1852.”
Sophie read the scribble at the top of the page, written in what she supposed was Jack’s hand, Metallic vase from Precambrian rock.
“A bell-shaped vessel was thrown from the rock in the explosion highlighted in this article.”
Sophie scanned the letter, and asked with surprise, “In Massachusetts?”
Jack nodded portentously. “Yes, indeed. The body of the vessel resembled zinc in color and on the side was a design inlaid with pure silver. Around the bottom ran a vine, also inlaid with silver. The chasing, carving, and inlaying were done by a skilled artisan. It was blown out of solid pudding stone, fifteen feet below the earth’s surface. That stone dates to the Precambrian Age, which makes it over six hundred million years old.”
Sophie’s brows drew together. “That’s remarkable!”
“Yes, it is,” Jack agreed. “The standard view is that Asian hunters and gatherers crossed the Bering Strait about twelve thousand years ago.”
“That is quite a discrepancy,” Sophie remarked.
“An incredible discrepancy. But that report hardly stands alone. There are dozens of the like.”
“Amazing,” Sophie said with awe.
Hungry for more knowledge, she glanced longingly at the stack of reports Jack had guarded so fiercely.
“Would you like to read them?”
Sophie blinked at his question and tried to gauge his expression. Was he serious? Or merely teasing her? “Really?”
He nodded, and she gasped in surprise.
“You truly don’t mind?”
He merely smiled at her question and pushed the stack towards her. “Only if you promise to take them straight to your bed and read them there, and nowhere else.”
Sophie broke into a wide smile.
“And no lanterns within five feet,” he demanded further.
Sophie laughed, although she wanted to take offense. She couldn’t. If she were Jack, she doubted she’d let herself anywhere near them.
“And no water, and no ink anywhere near it! And when you are through you are to place them back in my drawer in a tidy fashion.”
“Good lord!” Sophie wanted to laugh out loud. “I am not usually so prone to disasters,” she assured him.
His brows lifted and his smile widened as well. He sat back in his chair, staring at her, and said very decisively, “I don’t believe you.”
Sophie took his papers before he could change his mind, lifting the heavy stack to her breast, hugging them. There was really nothing she could say in her own defense, but she could certainly prove it by putting them neatly back into his desk before morning.
“Thank you, Jack,” she offered with an appreciative smile.
He nodded, staring at her still, and his smile seemed suddenly wistful, “Good night, flower,” he said.
Sophie’s heart leaped at his endearment.
She met his gaze, swallowing. It was the second time he’d said that to her ... and it made her heart beat just as fiercely the second time around. Although they were standing at least six feet from each other, the mere memory of the first time made her body instantly warm, and the look in his eyes seized her breath.
She felt suddenly dizzy.
“Good night, Jack,” she said in a rush, and practically ran to her bed, drawing the curtains shut behind her.
Chapter 22
Jack sat watching the curtains long after she’d closed them.
Ridiculous as the notion was, he envied that stack of papers she had embraced so protectively.
He could see her silhouette against the makeshift curtains, a gift of the lanterns she had lit on the far side of the room. She was curled up in her hammock with his papers braced on her lap, reading.
He couldn’t help but watch her as he put up his own hammock and readied himself for bed ... and wonder. Did Penn know what a gem he had in Sophie?
He was pretty sure she wasn’t snooping for Penn, and if she was, he doubted she would find anything in those reports that Penn wouldn’t at once scoff at. The man’s mind was closed. There was nothing to be lost in letting her read them, and his views weren’t any secret, either. But he didn’t want to believe any longer that she was in cahoots with Penn.
She was stubborn, definitely, and without doubt the most troublesome woman he had ever laid eyes on. In fact, trouble might be her middle name. Besides that, her temper was a bit Vesuvian in nature. Right or wrong, she took a stand the instant she was threatened, and he wondered if she were always that way, or just with him. In any case, he admired that about her. She wasn’t some fainting miss who lost consciousness or pleaded illness the instant a man raised his voice. And she didn’t strike him as a liar, or a cheat, either. Her emotions were much too evident in her beautiful face.
Her expression when he’d called her flower told him she understood where his thoughts had wandered ... and more, that her own thoughts hovered near. Her reaction had amused him. Her eyes had flared in comprehension, and she’d stared at him wide-eyed for an instant before she’d scurried away to hide on her side of the curtain.
But she hadn’t gone far enough.
He tried his damndest to forget there was only a measly sheet separating them.
He turned out his lights and climbed into his hammock, lamenting the fact that he wasn’t gentleman enough to turn the other way so that he couldn’t see her. The fact was, he wasn’t any sort of gentleman at all, had never claimed to be, and so he lay there watching her without the least trace of guilt...
Well, maybe just a little guilt.
He was certain it wasn’t the most moral thing to do ... lying there watching her, but then she had asked t
o share his room, not the other way around. If she didn’t like it, she could just leave ...
Though he guessed that before she would consider returning to her damaged room, she would have to be aware of the fact that he could see every deuced thing she was doing, every movement behind the curtain... every time she brushed her hair from her face... every time she flipped a page ... every time she took a breath.
Her breast lifted, and he heard her sigh.
Of course ... he couldn’t really tell her because he knew it would embarrass her ... so maybe he was being a gentleman after all...
He decided that what she didn’t know couldn’t really hurt her in this case.
But it sure as hell left Jack in pain.
His body hardened as he watched her, and his blood began to simmer.
Yep, this was definitely hurting him more than it was hurting her.
And it was without doubt the most dishonorable thing he’d ever done ... maybe ...
There was that little Mexican girl who had seduced him on his first trip to the Yucatan ... the one whose father had been his guide. The man had offered him a bed in his home the night before they set out into the jungles. Her father had been asleep in the same room, oblivious to the daughter’s endeavors. Maria had been her name. Jack would never forget her.
That was also the first time he’d ever fooled around in a hammock—tricky business but he knew now it could be done, and he’d give anything to be in that other hammock this moment... with Sophie.
He blinked, staring as the silhouette curled deeper into the hammock, knees bent to support the papers she was reading. Was she getting sleepy? Just trying to get comfortable? Were her thoughts on the reports she was reading... or dared he hope they were on something else?
He couldn’t stop thinking of her.
Couldn’t stop wanting her.
Couldn’t stop remembering the taste of her.
He adjusted himself, couldn’t help it. He had to. His body was in too much pain, and his pants were far too snug. For her sake, he slept at least partly dressed and made sure to wake before her and dress before she could happen on him shirtless. But this instant, he needed to be naked ... needed her to be naked, as well... needed to feel her skin against his, soft and warm. He needed to smell the scent of her skin, needed to touch her.
Christ, he was going insane with lust!
He cupped himself, needing to feel the pressure.
It was a poor substitute for what he really wanted.
His skin was burning. Sweat beaded on his brow. His mouth was as dry as desert sand.
The silhouette’s head fell backward, hair spilling over the hammock. One hand fell over the side. He heard her sigh again, and desire clawed at his loins, making him burn a little hotter. And then, while he watched, she set the papers aside and lay still in the hammock, staring at the ceiling for the longest time, her breasts rising and falling with every breath she took.
Her movements were exaggerated by the curtain, her breasts full and jutting proudly for his lips to suckle.
God, he wanted his mouth on that tender flesh, wanted to know what it was like to feel her nipples harden against his tongue, wanted to suckle gently and tease them between his teeth.
Never before in his life had he wanted a woman so badly.
Never had he fought so hard to restrain himself.
And then she did something unspeakably erotic, and he nearly fell out of his hammock in shock.
She lifted a hand to her breast... at first, a tentative touch... and then with an open hand as though she were listening to the beat of her heart through her fingers.
His own heart hammering his ribs without restraint, he lay back in his hammock, his body tense and rigid, watching with delicious anticipation.
It seemed an eternity that her hand lay so still on her breast... long enough for Jack to feel a pang of guilt for wanting it to slide down and close over the sweet mound of flesh he craved so desperately to touch for himself.
He willed her hand to move, wanting to experience it vicariously at least.
And then when he thought she was asleep, it did move... closing softly on her breast. Jack’s heart nearly flipped out of his chest. His breath caught, and he realized in that instant that his hand was still wrapped about his shaft. It pulsed between his fingers, and he tightened his grip reflexively, pulling his hips backward slightly, unable to deny himself the instant of pleasure.
As he watched, her hand lifted again, and began to caress the tip of her breast, moving gently back and forth.
He held his breath, watching.
God help him, he was almost beyond the point of reason.
Some part of him urged him to speak out, to tell her that he was awake, that he could see far more than he should, but the words caught in his throat and nothing came out of his suddenly parched lips.
Her head turned to one side then, and her hand moved to her other breast, caressing it, too, and Jack thought he would explode with desire. Sweet mother of Christ, he couldn’t have spoken to stop her had he tried.
He would be insane to pleasure himself in her presence, but he was beyond thinking ...
Chapter 23
A gentle ocean rocked Sophia’s hammock, begging her to sleep. Outside the cabin window, waves sang a sweet lullaby. Jack had left the shutters open to the night, and the air was sultry and warm, seductively so. A sweet, languorous breeze blew within, kissing her skin and tangling like invisible fingers in her hair.
“Good night, flower,” she heard him whisper once more, as she lay within her bed.
Sophie closed her eyes and tried to forget, but her body ached with the memory of his touch. Her skin was afire, fevered almost, and she instinctively knew why. That morning Jack had shown her the heights of pleasure of which her body was capable, and no amount of denial could keep the reminders at bay.
His scent permeated the room, speaking to her body like a lover’s whisper.
That’s it, flower... open for me...
She shuddered at the sound of his voice in her ear, imagined though it was. His hands had touched her so knowingly, as though he understood her body, and knew what it cried out for. His words had seduced her so that she’d felt no shame, while his touch had evoked a pleasure so intense she had thought she would die.
She couldn’t imagine Harlan ever touching her like that... didn’t even want to think of it. She’d never dreamed any man would do the things to her that she had allowed Jack to do, and never wanted to share the experience with anyone else—not ever. It was Jack she wanted ... Jack she was falling in love with.
The admission squeezed her heart just a bit.
She was falling in love with Jack MacAuley.
She couldn’t seem to help herself, couldn’t seem to keep herself from imagining a life at his side.
She hadn’t felt this way about Harlan, not even from the first. Harlan had never stolen her breath with only a glance, or made her body shiver at the sound of his voice. He’d never made her heart yearn for his presence.
It was different with Jack.
Everything was different with Jack.
Her body ached to feel him again... her mind wandered to unspeakable thoughts... thoughts she had never dreamed would creep into her brain.
She closed her eyes, and desire shuddered through her. She wanted to kiss him the way he had kissed her... wanted to pleasure him the way he had pleasured her...
She wanted to taste him, too.
Would he be shocked to find her lips there? Alarmed? Would it bring him the same pleasure it had brought her? Would he allow it? For that matter, what did it even look like? Her brows knit at the thought. She had never seen a man unclothed before, or even let her brain wander in that shocking direction.
But he had tasted her... and seemed to enjoy it... and it left her with a burning curiosity...
Her breath quickened at the very thought.
Her heart beat furiously as she dared to lift a hand to her breast, cup
ping it gently. She needed him to hold her... touch her... caress her...
Dare she?
Could she?
No one would ever know. It was late, and Jack was long abed. She hadn’t heard a sound from his side of the room in hours. She tickled her breast with her palm, contemplating her outrageous thoughts. Her body ached for something she knew only Jack could give her, but her curiosity burned as well.
There was nothing to stop her... nothing... except her conscience.
Reaching down, she seized the hem of her gown, lifting it up to her thighs. She slid her hand between her legs, and froze, unable to touch herself where she needed most to be touched.
Silence screeched at her.
Her heart beat so fast and so hard that it reverberated throughout the room. She knew it would wake him, because it thumped so loud in her ears that she could scarcely hear anything else. She held her breath, straining to hear his.
“Jack,” she said softly, and wasn’t certain whether it was a plea for help, or whether she wanted only to know if he were somehow still awake... watching...
It suddenly occurred to her that he might be... though the curtain was between them, and she felt nearly certain he was asleep.
Still, her skin tingled and burned at the thought.
For the longest instant, Jack was uncertain how to respond. His body ached for release, and his breath came labored.
Should he pretend to be asleep?
Should he answer?
He opened his mouth and tried to reply, but nothing came out.
“Jack?” she whispered, more urgently this time.
He willed his heartbeat to slow and cleared his throat softly, so that she couldn’t hear. But he couldn’t speak to save his soul.
“Jack?” she persisted. “Are you asleep?”
He thought about the question an instant, somewhat amused by it, and quashed the urge to answer flippantly. If she thought he’d been awake the entire time, he knew she’d feel ashamed—whether she were aware he could see her or not. And obviously, if he were asleep, he couldn’t very well answer.
Apparently she decided he was asleep, and Jack felt a pang of guilt for deceiving her.
To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 45