Sighing softly, she settled back into the hammock, clasping her hands together as though to force them to behave.
He did the same, mentally checking himself.
Without much success, he tried to shut out the images that had tormented him... her hand on her breast... caressing... and was forced to readjust once more.
He was much too aroused.
Damn.
She was so close, and yet so far. She was right there across the room, but she wasn’t his. He had no right to seduce her—or even to try.
But he wanted to.
In fact, he needed to.
His own two hands could bring sweet relief, but not satisfaction, and he rejected the thought where only moments before he had considered it. He wanted Sophie... not a few mere moments of pleasure.
He wanted to bury himself inside her beautiful body... wanted to know what it would feel like to be inside her, pulsing ... giving, taking.
A shudder went through him as the silhouette moved once more...
A sigh escaped her, and her body arched, and Jack’s entire body went rigid with anticipation. He recognized that sound, knew what she needed, and knew she would be driven to seek it.
He wanted to give it to her.
But he didn’t dare move.
Keeping him stilled was the simple fact that she belonged to someone else and he cared enough not to confuse her. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Penn touching her—or any other man, for that matter.
Her hand lifted once more to her breast, caressing it, but no longer gently. Her fingers embraced it, and she moaned softly. His own body pulsed in response. He watched with bated breath as she lifted up her gown, and her hand slid once more between those beautiful thighs he remembered so well... so soft...
The scent of her was intoxicating... the taste of her like ambrosia ...
Again she moaned, and he envied those long, delicate fingers and the dance they now performed.
He sat up in the hammock, drawn despite his resolve to remain quiet. In shadow, her body lifted, her breasts arching higher. The image transfixed him. She began to whimper softly, and it took every ounce of his will to keep from going to her.
He closed his eyes and told himself it was only a dream... a beautiful, heady dream, but when he opened them again, his heart gave a powerful jolt.
Christ almighty, he couldn’t take it any longer. He just couldn’t take it.
He wanted her.
The curtain was so near... the silhouette loomed larger than life... her writhing was so sensual...
Never in his life had he seen a more beautiful sight.
Never had he experienced something so incredibly erotic.
He reached out to touch nothing but air, his hand seeking the fullness of her breasts. His body thrummed with a desire so intense it was almost painful. She tried to be quiet, but her soft gasps filled his ears and hardened his body to the point he thought it would snap.
She found relief at last, crying out softly, her body shuddering visibly, and Jack could only sit there and watch and listen... as she sighed a sated sigh and fell back into the hammock.
Long after her breathing evened out and her body went still, he sat there, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
His body was in pain, but he refused to relieve himself... not after seeing the passion of which she was capable.
He wanted her, and nothing else would do.
He’d be damned if he’d settle for less.
But he couldn’t have her, and he knew it, and he lay back in his hammock, resentful and bitter, and wanting once again to throttle Penn. He tried to focus on that... his hands around Penn’s lily throat, hoping to gain some measure of satisfaction in that ignoble thought... and instead imagined the soft skin beneath Sophie’s gown.
Growling in frustration, he ran his hand through his hair, tugging until it was painful, and prayed for mercy.
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered fervently. “Kill me now.”
Chapter 24
Sophie spent the entire next day piecing together Jack’s research. She worked while he was away, wanting to surprise him. The next day she began meticulously copying his script, everything just as it was, or as she best remembered it. Her eye for detail had often been praised, and she had never been more grateful for the God-given skill as she tried to recreate his work.
Once she was finished, she went back and began to fill in the details of each drawing, using her imagination to render each sketch as vivid an image as possible.
The finished product was not her finest work. It couldn’t possibly be in the time she’d had, but she was nevertheless proud of her sketches, and hoped Jack would be pleased with them as well.
She left the completed drawings on his desk and went to the basin to wash her hands, feeling a sense of accomplishment as a reward for her labors.
But after having finished them, she was left with an overwhelming desire to see the original pieces. She would dearly love to draw from real-life images, rather than having to interpret somebody else’s renditions.
Perhaps Jack would allow her to stay on to record his findings? He wouldn’t have to pay her. She would receive great joy in the task, and would even consider paying him for the privilege.
She would have to speak with him.
But first things first.
After more than a week, Sophie could scarcely stand herself. She didn’t even begin to wonder why Jack kept his distance. Given the choice, she would, too. Sheer desperation drove her into Shorty’s cabin.
There had to be something among Shorty’s deserted belongings that would be of some use to her. The poor man had been left behind, but his belongings all remained aboard, neatly tucked away and awaiting his return. In fact, Sophie dared to hope she would find something of his infamous girlfriend’s among them—the one with the gems, as she’d heard Randall put it. She hoped, but in vain. All she found were a few pairs of Shorty’s pants and a few of his shirts. Feeling a bit disheartened, she sat on the bed with his pants in hand and pouted.
After more than a week in the same two dresses, she felt terribly ... foul. There was no other way to put it. She couldn’t even stand her own company. She’d washed as best she could, braided her hair out of the way, but her clothes were grimy from her foiled attempts at cooking and she had only the two dresses to choose from, thanks to her own gracelessness.
She inspected Shorty’s pants and found them to be clean at least—far cleaner than what she was wearing at the moment. The pungent odor of sour potatoes offended her nostrils, and she made up her mind. Better to look offensive than to smell offensive. There was just no help for it.
As quickly as she was able, she discarded her dirty clothes, keeping an eye on the door. And then she hurriedly wiggled into Shorty’s pants, and discovered once they were on how he had earned his name. Sophie wasn’t particularly tall, but the man’s pants came only to her ankles, at best. What was more, he had obviously been quite thin besides, because she had to put considerable effort into buttoning them, as well. The only place they were the least bit loose was at her waist... but that was a good thing, she decided, because then she could tuck in his shirts.
Sophie pulled one of the more colorful plaid shirts out of his trunk and was absolutely certain the same man couldn’t possibly have worn the two items. The shoulders were too large and the length of the tails fell easily to her thighs. But she put it on anyway, buttoned it, and began stuffing the tails into the waist of her pants, pushing them down until she was satisfied they were neatly done. Once finished, she was certain of only one thing... two...
One, Shorty was in dire need of a good tailor, and two, she was really not as willowy as she liked to think herself.
Her modest curves were more than apparent in a man’s clothing—particularly this man’s—and the only thing that kept her from undressing again and returning to her own smelly clothing was the simple fact that her bosom was not straining at the buttons of her shirt in the
same fashion that her hips were with her pants. She didn’t need a mirror to see it. The buttons were clinging precariously to the button holes. If she dared to bend, she thought they might pop.
It couldn’t be helped.
She stood there, staring down at herself, grimacing at the sight she must present, and then suddenly decided the shirt would be best left untucked. She pulled it out and let it hang over her pants, assessing it that way. Again she frowned. The look was just about as unflattering as the shapeless smocks she often saw immigrants depicted in. Feeling somewhat hopeless, she glanced at the door.
Vanity wouldn’t let her leave the room looking so ... frumpy.
As it was, Jack was back to ignoring her... though when he did speak to her, he wasn’t the least bit unkind. He simply seemed far too busy of late to have much to do with her. In fact, she felt invisible around him, and almost wished he would go back to sparring with her. She could deal with his sarcasm far better than his silence.
She sighed at the admission.
His lack of attention to her disheartened her, left her feeling oddly empty—empty in a way she had never felt before, not even with Harlan’s lengthy absences and neglect. In fact—her brows collided in displeasure at herself—she hadn’t even realized she was being neglected by Harlan. She had simply attributed Harlan’s continued absence to his undying devotion to his work. And she had simply gone on with her life and spared him little thought, except when she was asked about him.
“Oh, Harlan is quite well!” she mimicked herself in the small mirror that hung over the wash table. She couldn’t quite achieve a serene expression. “He’s working hard, indeed!”
Working at carving notches in his bedpost!
The ignoble wretch.
Sophie now understood the little smirks she had so often received at her dutiful reply to questions about her wayward fiancé. She wondered, in fact, if everyone had known about Harlan but her. How many women had he dallied with since they had become engaged? She remembered one particularly smug expression, and the revelation left a bitter taste in her mouth.
His mother really should have named him Harlot instead of Harlan, she thought indignantly. It suited him better. But she didn’t really care about Harlan any longer.
To her surprise, the only reason she was able to summon any anger at all was for her father’s sake, and because Harlan had allowed her to appear a silly little fool. Her pride was a bit wounded and in need of retribution. Otherwise, she felt nothing at all at the thought of him with some other woman. In truth, she couldn’t even imagine Harlan doing for anyone what Jack had done for her.
Her heart wrenched a little at the thought of him.
Jack, not Harlan.
It had been only two days that he’d been so involved with his work, but Sophie missed him terribly. It seemed impossible that one could miss someone when one was sleeping in the very same room with him, but she did. Horribly. It didn’t make sense to her, but it was true, nevertheless.
It was usually late when Jack came in, and early when he arose, and it seemed to Sophie that despite the size of the ship, she was fortunate if she caught even a glimpse of him now and again.
She needed a belt for this shirt... a rope... something to cinch the waist a bit. Vain as it was, she needed a waist. She didn’t want to look like some dowdy old woman. Sighing, she returned to the trunk and rifled through it. She went through the man’s shirts, socks— pulled out a pair of socks to wear when she tried on his shoes, and continued looking through his belongings. She lifted a pair of heavy blue trousers and flung out a shiny silver object. Without meaning to, she tossed it across the room. She caught only a brief glimpse of it as it rolled beneath the wash table, but something about it triggered a sense of familiarity in her, and she dropped the pants back into the trunk and went in search of it.
Lifting the curtain around the small wash table, she spied a flash of silver by the wall, and reached under the table, groping for it. Her fingers found and closed about the cool smooth cylindrical object and she dragged it out.
Shock rippled through her as she stared at the unusual piece of jewelry.
It was quite unlike any other ring she had ever seen—a rare design. A hieroglyphic eye, with a single overlarge multifaceted ruby pupil winking out at her. The sides were etched, but not so finely that it seemed inappropriate for a man to wear. The filigree was reminiscent of ancient scrolls, and the ring, indeed, was old.
Anger crept up her spine.
The thing was, this was not the first time Sophie had seen this particular ring.
Sophie had first noticed it in an old shop. She had been out with her mother when they had stumbled on the novelty. She’d purchased it for Harlan before his first trip to the Yucatan, thinking he would like it to remember her by.
Knowing it was there, she turned the ring to look for an inscription, and found the underbelly had been brushed until it shone a brighter silver than the rest. Gone. Eradicated. Whatever had been written there was lost in the vigorous buffing, but Sophie knew what words had been engraved there: For Harlan with love.
She stood up, her face burning with sudden rage, and quickly thrust the hem of her shirt into her pants.
It wasn’t as though she were angry on Harlan’s behalf because he deserved anything that came to him, but she certainly had no love for thieves!
She didn’t much care what she looked like at the instant, and didn’t care if he was avoiding her. Someone had to answer for this! She had no idea how Shorty had come by it, but Sophie was certain it wasn’t by honorable means. And there was no chance it was merely a good likeness. Ready to do battle to get answers if she must, she went in search of Jack.
He wasn’t in a good mood.
In fact, he was in a downright rotten mood, and it was getting worse by the instant.
His shoulders were stiff and his body tense, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Sophie. Every time he closed his eyes, her silhouette materialized before him, beautiful and sensuous, moving like ocean waves under a sultry moon. He tried to block the vision, but her soft cries filled his ears, tormenting him.
The echo plagued him incessantly.
He hadn’t been able to face her since that night, because if he did, he was bound to take her into his arms—to hell with Penn—and kiss the fool out of her.
He could no longer deny it; he wanted to make love to her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. What wouldn’t he give for just a single night in her arms... to hear her cry out his name in the throes of her pleasure. She was both curious and passionate—full of life—every man’s most fervent dream.
The taste of her lingered on his lips, tempting him... driving him to distraction.
If she would allow it, he would show her everything—share all that he had—all that he was.
He wanted Sophie at his side while he muddied his hands in the dirt. He wanted her to be there when he made his greatest discoveries, wanted to jump with joy over them with her in his arms. He wanted to lift her up and carry her to their bed in celebration. He wanted her with him always.
And for the first time in his life, he thought of children. Could he be a good father with the life and career he had chosen?
He wanted to try.
He imagined a little girl... like Sophie... with wayward curls and a button nose... with dirty hands and a pristine white dress... pink ribbons falling out of her hair and a joyful smile on her face.
Muttering beneath his breath, he tossed down his clipboard and supply list, his mood spiraling downward. He was never going to get through this inventory with these thoughts bouncing round his head—ricocheting like rubber bullets off his skull.
They were driving him insane. Hunger left him weak. Thoughts of Sophie made him hungrier. And Kell’s relentless smirk was beginning to get under his skin.
‘You’ve got it bad,” Kell said to him, and chuckled.
Jack shot him a cutting glance, but said nothing.
What wa
s there to say? He did have it bad. He wanted something he couldn’t have.
“Tell her,” Kell suggested.
Jack raked a hand through his hair and shrugged. He gave Kell a harried glance. “Why bother?”
Sophie was engaged to be married to the only man Jack had ever detested. Harlan was more her kind. He came from her world. Jack didn’t have the same things to offer: If she wanted high society and prestige, he didn’t have a chance of fulfilling those needs. If she needed a conventional home, he wasn’t even sure what the hell that was. He and his father had pretty much fended for themselves after his mother’s death.
The one thing Jack did have to hold up as an example was that his father had loved him unconditionally, and Jack wasn’t the least bit ashamed to say he loved him back just the same. His father had given him everything—even the courage to roll up his sleeves and fight for the things he valued in life. It had been his father who had encouraged his education, and his father who had taken on every opposition to enroll him in Boston’s most prestigious university. He’d taught Jack to fight for the things he wanted, and to stand on his integrity, and that was the crux of the problem.
Every last bone and fiber in his body wanted to fight for the woman he loved—damn it, yes, he was in love with her! But everything he knew about integrity said he should walk away before it was too late—before he caused her pain. She wasn’t his to love. She was promised to another man, and it didn’t matter that Jack didn’t like the bastard. It didn’t matter that Jack thought he was a miserable son of a weasel. What mattered was that Sophie had already made her choice, and Jack would be the worst kind of rat to encourage her to fall in love with him.
And he thought he could: He could see it in her eyes. He could hear it in her wistful sighs when she looked at him... or maybe the sighs were his own.
Damn, he couldn’t tell.
“You can’t avoid her forever,” Kell intruded on his thoughts. At the instant, he didn’t much appreciate his buddy’s advice.
“The hell I can’t!”
To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 46