Her father was a dear soul, but he hadn’t been happy as long as Sophie could remember. He seemed to spend his entire life trying to live up to her mother’s expectations. Sophie wanted to believe he would applaud her this moment, wanted to believe he would revel in her courage. She wanted to believe he would understand, he above all others, but she knew he couldn’t allow it. Never once had he taken a stand against her mother, and Sophie thought it rather sad that, for love, he had lost his own spirit. And yet some little part of her could feel him just now ... some slightly rebellious piece of his soul. In her mind’s eye, she could see his secret smile and single nod of approval.
Taking a rest from her sketching, she glanced at Harlan’s picture, allowing herself a moment’s sorrow. She wouldn’t mind so much being alone. There would be no one to tell her what to do, but to tell the truth, she was lonely already. She might deny it, but she couldn’t lie to herself. With a sad smile she recalled the days so long ago when, as a child, she’d snuck away to play with the boys. Her mother had been furious but those had been the only times that Sophia had felt a sense of communion with other human beings. She often wished she’d had siblings ... if for nothing else than simply to share confidences with.
She missed that desperately.
Yet how could someone miss something so fiercely when she’d never had it to begin with?
Deep inside, she was lonely, empty, and more so now with Harlan’s betrayal. He had offered her so much hope, and she had clung to it. She had built all her dreams around him. And now they were all gone.
But she was stronger and wiser.
She went back to her drawing, working absently.
It had been all she could do not to be physically ill when she’d claimed to miss Harlan so fiercely. The louse. She hadn’t planned to explain anything at all to Jack MacAuley, because she really didn’t feel it necessary to air her dirty laundry. It was none of anyone’s concern why she wished to see her fiancé—ex-fiancé.
She stopped to cast a malevolent glance at the portrait by her bedside. It wasn’t as though she were begging passage anyway. She had paid handsomely for the privilege of traveling aboard this wretched vessel, and doubted any man in her shoes would feel obligated to disclose his personal affairs. She simply hadn’t known what else to say to convince Jack MacAuley to let her aboard, and didn’t particularly like that she had been browbeaten into revealing all that she had. She knew Jack was not Harlan’s closest friend, but men tended to band together, and she doubted Mr. MacAuley would be party to some woman’s attempt at reprisal.
Maybe she had even said it a little out of embarrassment. It wounded her pride not a little that Harlan could use her so meanly, and it made her feel a bitter shrew to admit to wanting revenge.
And maybe she was a bitter shrew, but as soon as she recovered some measure of her pride, she could let it go, and live unencumbered by this terrible feeling ... this sense that she had been trampled on—and more, that she had allowed it.
This was so unlike her, this ever-simmering sense of rancor. The sooner she rid herself of it, the better.
“If you would have left at least one more of those monster pieces of baggage behind, you might have some room to sleep in.”
Sophie started at the unexpected intrusion.
She turned to find Jack MacAuley peering in on her, his head in the door. Her heart fluttered a little at the sight of him, but she ignored the sensation, refusing to explore the reason for its manifestation.
She blinked down at the sketch she’d been working on. Jack’s face peered up at her, his eyes staring at her intensely, and she started, clasping it to her breast in shock. Her heartbeat quickened. She hadn’t even realized!
“Would you mind terribly knocking next time?” she snapped at him.
He smiled mockingly. “I did knock.” He knocked again on the doorframe so as to prove it. Cad! Glancing at the picture of Harlan, he said, “You were so lovelorn staring at that picture you just didn’t hear me.”
Lovelorn?
Sophie cringed that he would think so, though she didn’t deny it. She clutched Jack’s caricature possessively, lest he see it. The blood seemed to rush into her brain, and her head suddenly hurt. “A fiancée is supposed to be lovelorned in the absence of her loved one,” she told him, trying to sound aloof, though she felt anything but.
“Is that so?”
Sophie thought so, but it occurred to her only after saying so that she had never really languished over Harlan. She considered that fact. “Yes,” she replied, but continued to puzzle over the realization. She had been engaged to Harlan for three years and had never felt as though she’d missed him terribly—anxious, perhaps to begin a new life with him, but miss him? Never.
Perhaps because she’d spent so little time with him before he’d left?
She resisted the urge to turn his picture over. The sight of him only seemed to elicit her anger.
“I wouldn’t know,” Jack said a little acerbically.
Neither would she, if the truth be known, but she wasn’t about to admit it.
“Anyway, if you can bring yourself to stop pining long enough... I have a favor to ask of you.”
The man had no respect at all, and it was probably her imagination but the portrait of his face pressed against her breast seemed to warm her even through her dress.
She wondered irately if he had ever been taught his manners. It certainly didn’t appear so.
“I am not pining!”
“I beg to differ.”
He cast another glance at Harlan’s picture and lifted a brow when his gaze returned to Sophie. “What else would you call sitting, gazing at a picture of your lover with that wistful look on your face?”
Sophie sat straighter, irritation crawling the length of her spine.
Certainly not pining!
“Not that it’s any of your concern,” Sophie corrected him, “but he is my fiancé, not my lover!” She cast him a malevolent glance.
And if her look had been wistful at all then it surely had little to do with any desire to see Harlan Horatio Penn III. There was only one thing Sophie wanted from her fiancé, and that was satisfaction.
Jack merely grinned at her.
Why did that simple statement please him?
“Why are you doing that?”
“What?”
“Smiling!”
Jack lifted a brow. “Am I smiling?” He took another look at the little portrait, and concluded that the man had a weak chin to match his weak character.
“Yes, and please stop! It makes me uncomfortable!”
She did seem a bit fidgety so he frowned at her. “This better?” He made an exaggerated face, wanting a smile, just a tiny one out of her. Uncertain why it mattered, he nevertheless wanted to know what she looked like when she dared to crack a smile.
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the faint smile that came to her lips. Her face didn’t crack, he noticed.
“You are absolutely despicable, Mr. MacAuley!”
He ducked his head back out the door and said to anyone and no one at all, “I think she likes me!”
He heard her laugh, though her expression was sober when he ducked his head back in the door.
“If it makes you feel better to think so,” she conceded, and he watched her mood sink as she glanced at the portrait of Penn.
Funny, it had the same effect on him ... but it was a strange reaction to have to the man you intended to marry.
He watched her more closely, trying to decipher her mood. Was she truly missing Penn? Or was there another reason for that forlorn expression?
He shouldn’t give a damn, but he’d found his mood soured by the sight of her brooding over her bumbling boyfriend, and quickly restored by her admission that they were not yet lovers.
“Women are not all so base,” she reproached him, seeming to read his thoughts.
He couldn’t keep himself from wondering if her lips were as soft as they appeared.
“They are if their man is worth a damn,” he said, and dared to wink.
She leapt to her feet, smashing her head against the low ceiling. “Ouch!” A rosy hue crept up her cheeks as she rubbed her head, and she clutched the sketching pad almost jealously to her breast. He noticed it for the first time. “Mr. MacAuley!” she protested. “I hardly think this conversation is appropriate!”
“Watch the ceiling,” he warned belatedly.
She glared at him and tried to stand defiantly, but couldn’t quite manage the effect in this miniature room. He wasn’t certain precisely why he seemed to need to bait her, but he liked that she didn’t stand down.
He gestured at her pad. “What is that?”
She crossed both arms over the item in question. “What is what?”
“That, in your hand.”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“I see... and what is it you were doing with that nothing?”
He didn’t know why, but she suddenly looked guilty, and his curiosity needled him harder. “Nothing,” she answered again, her tone slightly raised.
“I see,” he said, and refused to beg. “Speaking of what’s appropriate,” he told her, changing the topic, “I hardly think your beau is going to appreciate the fact that you are alone on this ship...” With me, he almost added. “... in the company of so many men. Have you thought of that?”
Her chin jutted toward him, though her glance was suddenly wary. “Are you telling me your men cannot be trusted?”
“We aren’t barbarians if that is what you’re asking, Mizz Vanderwahl... though your kind often likes to think so.”
“My kind?” She drew back at that, taking offense, and probably rightly so. Jack knew he was being unfair, but years of fighting the system had left him slightly rankled and ill-tempered—something he usually managed to overcome, but not when faced with Sophia Vanderwahl, the fiancé of his nemesis.
“About that favor?” he prompted, changing the subject.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have a lot of nerve, insulting me and then asking for favors. The answer is no, whatever it is! Now if you don’t mind leaving me to the comforts of my state room,” she said haughtily, and turned, dismissing him to rummage through an open bag.
Jack allowed himself a moment’s appreciation of her pert little backside, then, knowing they had reached a standoff, he conceded. “Suit yourself, princess.”
She whirled to face him, standing abruptly once again, smashing her head. “Don’t call me that!” This time she didn’t yelp, only rubbed her head, but her eyes flared with anger.
The devil on his shoulder jabbed him. “If the shoe fits…
She rubbed her head harder, looking beautifully indignant. “You know, I really don’t think I like you, Mr. MacAuley! Not at all!”
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “It’s mutual.”
But he wanted her.
He didn’t have to like the woman to feel desire for her. The proof was in his trousers, firmer now after their encounter.
He left her, closing her door behind him, and couldn’t help but smile at her fit of temper that followed. He heard her through the door though she tried to muffle her scream. More than he should, he enjoyed pricking her anger. She was far too easy a target, and he concluded that there was more to Mizz Vanderwahl’s trip to the Yucatan than she was willing to let on.
The question was what.
Whatever it was, Jack was certain of one thing... Penn was at the heart of it, and it wasn’t that Sophia Vanderwahl missed him. He didn’t take her for the type to chase a man about even with a ring on her finger, and she’d already admitted they were not lovers.
No, there was more to the story, and Jack intended to find out exactly what it was.
He determined to keep a close eye on Miss Sophia Vanderwahl, and if Penn had put her up to spying for his own gain, Jack was going to make him regret ever having tangled with him.
As would his golden-eyed fiancée as well.
In the meantime, since Sophie had refused his favor even before hearing it, he was going to have to find someone else to cook for them since they seemed to have accidentally left Shorty behind.
How long did it take a man to say goodbye to his gal, anyway?
It was just as well that she hadn’t heard him out... He tried to, but couldn’t quite picture Sophia Vanderwahl with an apron on and standing behind a lit stove. He could see her better sitting on a throne with a yapping mutt in her lap.
Damnable woman! She was too distracting by far.
CHAPTER 6
You have the most delightful hands, dear girl!”
Harlan Horatio Penn III writhed under gently caressing fingers. He had taught her well, he thought with some pride, and felt only remotely guilty for not remembering her name.
He couldn’t be expected to remember anyway; their names weren’t made for the American tongue.
He turned to admire her dark skin and features, and she caught his expression and smiled. How wonderfully intuitive she was! He smiled in return, and she renewed her efforts. How eager to please she was!
How spoiled he was becoming.
The thought of going back to Sophie, with her little-girl expressions and her unpracticed kisses, appealed not at all. He grimaced as he thought of the letter he had received from her father. It seemed Maxwell Vanderwahl was eager for grandchildren. He had decided out of the blue that Harlan was wasting his time in the wilderness, and had summoned him back to Boston posthaste. Harlan had little doubt he would exercise his considerable power to achieve that end, if Harlan did not comply soon. He needed Jonathon to help him persuade Maxwell to give him more time.
He sighed wistfully and turned around to let the girl labor over his back, settling into a comfortable languor and thinking he would like to spend his entire life here and nowhere else.
‘It’s not that she’s unattractive,” he told the smiling native girl, knowing she didn’t understand a word he was saying. “She just... has no passion,” he explained, and turned to glance over his shoulder. “Understand?”
The girl’s smile widened, and she nodded enthusiastically.
“Of course you do,” he said anyway. “Smart girl!” He didn’t need a woman who talked incessantly, asked questions interminably. He wanted someone who would shut up and tend loyally to his needs.
She rattled off something in her native tongue, and giggled, making him smile. The simple fact that he could not understand her Spanish made her every utterance seem like music to his ears.
“I wonder if Jon booked passage with that rabble-rousing pretender,” he said thoughtfully. “I think he’ll like you very much!” He turned to her. “You’ll take good care of him, now, won’t you?”
She giggled and nodded, seeming to understand that he wished her to.
“Good girl. Good girl.”
He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then turned, raising a brow and grinning a bit lasciviously. “You’ll have a bit of making up to do, I think.” He wiggled his brow at her. “I promised Jon you would be exquisite, and the poor chap will likely have had a rough journey.”
He’d also promised the girl would be unused ... but that particular promise was one he couldn’t seem to keep.
She mistook his expression.
Again she smiled, only this time much more seductively, and began to move her hands down his back to his buttocks, eager to please him.
He sighed in pleasure, deciding that Jon would simply have to make do with leftovers.
Anyway, it would be far better fare than he would be getting aboard MacAuley’s wreck. Harlan had finagled a little gift for the entire crew. They’d all be lucky if they didn’t die of food poisoning before the journey was over... thanks to one sordid character who went by the name of Shorty.
Too bad for Jon, but Harlan hadn’t dared risk telling even his good friend. It just couldn’t be helped. The girl would just have to soothe his wounds when he arrived.
/> The last thing he wanted to see was Jack MacAuley on the same site he was working.
She suddenly lowered her lips to the small of his back, startling him as she lapped gently at his back.
“Oh my!” he exclaimed, and chuckled softly.
Fast learner, she was!
He only wished his linguistic skills were as fine as hers... so he could understand what the hell she was whispering to him in that sweet musical tone.
With another sigh he relaxed completely, giving himself over to her ministrations.
“Professor Penn!” a voice intruded.
Startled, the girl stopped her tongue exercises abruptly, and Penn’s mood soured instantly.
Didn’t anybody ever knock? Christ!
Rolling his eyes, he sighed again but didn’t bother to move. His voice was muffled by the towel he was using for a pillow. “Go away, Borland, can’t you see I’m busy!” he reproached the boy.
“Yes sir,” he answered, and stammered like an idiot, “but... well... you see ..
“Later,” he told the young man firmly, and laid his head down again.
Eager beavers these young apprentices were—annoyingly eager, at that!
“But sir ... it’s just that... you’ve a telegram!”
Harlan lifted his head once more. “A telegram?”
The boy nodded and came forth, offering it.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Give it to me!” Harlan demanded.
The youth handed it to him and scurried out before Harlan could dismiss him. That simple disrespect irked him.
He opened it.
It said simply: missed the boat. your telegrams are on board. they’ll be burned first time they use the stove. don’t want your blood money.
It was from Shorty.
Letting out a string of oaths, Harlan bounded up from where he lay, fury engulfing him. “Suffering idiot!” he shouted, and ripped the telegram in half.
Sophie knew they were working hard on deck: She could hear them laboring without rest and without complaint as she sat on her bed and sketched diligently.
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