Happily Ever After

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Her finger rested between his ribs, jabbing him lightly, and her determination was more than evident in her stance. He almost admired what she was doing... except that it was bound to make his life utterly miserable.

  “How about I just give you your money back and send you home on a raft,” he offered, without any real intent.

  For just an instant, she was taken aback by his suggestion, seeming to take him seriously. Jack nearly smiled at the look of shock on her face. But she only stood straighter at his threat, and faced him squarely.

  “Put me out on a raft, Mr. MacAuley, and I will... I will...” She frowned, unable to come up with a suitable retribution.

  He arched a brow. “Tell your daddy?”

  “No!” she exploded, and jabbed her finger a little harder. Jack winced. “I would see you suffer the greatest indignity for it!”

  Christ, she was beautiful.

  “The greatest indignity, huh?”

  Her cheeks were flushed with color and her eyes fairly glowed with indignation. They reminded him just now of fine whiskey, the rich amber clarity of the liquid against crystal. Her hair was a rich, silky auburn that turned to flame under the soft, warm light of the lanterns, and he resisted the urge to pull it back out of her face... to touch her.

  He wanted to taste her just now, silence her with a brutal lover’s kiss. His body tightened with the realization that she would be alone in his cabin.

  Fair game.

  But she must come to him.

  He came in the door, forcing her backward as he advanced on her. She retreated as he kicked the door closed behind him. And yet still she stood her ground, crossing her arms, glaring at him as fiercely as a wild mustang refusing to be broken.

  By God, he wanted to ride her: The very thought aroused him painfully.

  Would she wrap her legs around his waist and cling to him as desperately as she challenged him, urging him deeper with soft little cries of desire?

  Or would she make love to him with as much passion as she fought, digging her hands into his buttocks and drawing him deeper.

  “Can’t bear the thought of suffering great indignities.” he said, his voice taut, though not with fury, but with barely restrained desire. “Stay, then.”

  She didn’t seem to sense the difference. She smiled in victory, and Jack very nearly smiled back at her, but he didn’t.

  Let her think she’d won.

  He took her by the shoulders to move her gently aside, and his body experienced an instant shock at the touch. It startled him. She felt it as well; he saw it in her eyes, heard it in her gasp of surprise.

  Sophie’s breath left her in a rush.

  For the briefest instant, she stood stupefied, staring into eyes that seemed to see far too deeply into her soul. Her heartbeat quickened painfully, and she swallowed convulsively.

  The shock of his touch left her dazed.

  He felt it, too; she could see it in his eyes.

  She’d never felt so affected by a simple touch.

  Without another word, he set her aside and walked around her. Like an addle-pated ninny, she merely stood there, staring at the door a bit stupidly. His touch had startled her far more than his capitulation.

  She’d expected a battle from him, and had been more than prepared to wage it. Now that she had her way—and worse, the door was closed—and she was alone with him, there seemed a far different battle raging inside her.

  He sat down at his desk and she went back to hanging the sheets. Determined to give herself some privacy at least, she tried to ignore him as best she could.

  She’d strung the blankets over ropes she had tied to each wall, forming a curtain of sorts. In the mornings, they could push them aside, so the room would be accessible to both. At night, they would simply close them. Sophie claimed the side of the room with the washbasin and no door. She gave him the door, just in case someone needed him in the middle of the night for some emergency, such as if the boat decided suddenly to fall apart and they were all going to die and needed Jack to stand around and yell at everyone to die with dignity.

  “I really hope you don’t snore,” she told him petulantly, feeling querulous still, although he hadn’t said a word since his initial protest.

  He didn’t bother looking up from his work to answer her. “I hope you don’t, either.”

  Sophie had started this particular altercation; still she took offense. “Of course I don’t!”

  He didn’t look up, and his continued dismissal grated on her nerves—almost as much as the derisive brow that shot up at her declaration. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Hmmph!” she declared and closed the curtain so she wouldn’t have to see him.

  That’s what who all said? All his women? His answer needled her.

  Why should she care if he’d had a thousand women? Of course, she didn’t, she told herself. She scarcely knew him, and more, she didn’t want to know him any better! The man was entirely insufferable.

  She ripped open the curtain to find him shuffling papers. Maybe he hadn’t felt the same thing she had? How could he continue to work when she was feeling so ... irritable?

  “I really have never snored a day in my life!” she persisted.

  He began to read, ignoring her, and Sophie pouted inwardly. “I’m sure you don’t,” he said much too agreeably.

  He was mocking her, she thought, but she couldn’t tell.

  He peered up from his papers suddenly and smiled roguishly. “But time will tell, won’t it?”

  She didn’t snore, she told herself—she didn’t!—and if she did, she didn’t care, blast it all!

  In fact, she hoped she did, because she hoped it would keep him awake all night long! She might even snore simply to spite him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

  When he didn’t answer, she abandoned the sheets for his workbench, making a pretense of dusting off the portrait of Harlan she had placed on his desk. It was her reminder, and she was very proud of herself for being so strong.

  In fact, she didn’t remember a time in her life when she’d felt more alive, more stalwart, more content... more pleased with herself.

  Almost lovingly, she dusted the picture with her sleeve, then blew at it, and set it down.

  He seemed to notice it for the first time then, and he glared at it, then turned to glare at her.

  “What is that?”

  Sophia didn’t understand the question. “You’ve seen it before,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You know what it is!”

  “Yes,” he argued, “I do know what it is, but what I want to know is ... what is it doing on my desk?”

  “Perhaps you should have asked that instead,” Sophia reprimanded him with a nod and smile, and then answered his question, “I had to put it somewhere.”

  She thought perhaps he resented sharing his desk with her.

  His eyes glittered with animosity. “Try the garbage.”

  She tilted him a curious glance.

  He was staring at the picture with utter revulsion, as though it were some atrocity she had heaped on his desk. Judging by his expression, she thought he didn’t like Harlan—and considered that maybe it wasn’t entirely her to whom he objected.

  Harlan had never done anything to Jack that she knew of, had never even mentioned him, in fact.

  Then again... if Harlan had done something to spur Jack’s animosity, it wasn’t likely that Harlan would come right out and say so.

  In any case, why would Harlan have suggested Jonathon secure passage on Jack’s ship if the two had no love for each other?

  Interesting, she thought, and studied him more closely.

  He dismissed her again and returned to his reading. She set the portrait down and walked boldly around the desk to look over his shoulder.

  Harlan had rarely discussed his affairs with her, much less worked in her presence, though Sophie had practically begged him to. Her mind thirsted for knowle
dge. She had so many questions, and not nearly enough answers. It just wasn’t fair that women weren’t encouraged to pursue a proper education. She envied both Jack and Harlan with all her heart.

  “Mizz Vanderwahl,” he protested, sensing her at his back. His tone lacked any patience at all, and Sophie crossed her eyes at him. Whatever happened to his simply calling her Sophie?

  Mizz Vanderwahl, she mouthed, mimicking him, and felt strangely pleased with her brattiness. Never as a child had she dared speak out of turn. Even if she was far too old to indulge in such impishness, it felt wickedly good to do it privately.

  He very nearly caught her.

  He turned his papers over and looked up at her, and she donned a pleasant expression and smiled.

  “Can I do something for you?”

  Sophie shook her head, smiling sweetly, and he turned away once more to read. She frowned at his back, pouting really, though she had no notion as to why. Why should it matter to her if their acquaintance had gone beyond any form of reparation?

  It didn’t, she assured herself.

  And yet a feeling, something like a lead weight, sank in her belly.

  “I was just curious,” Sophie told him, and wondered why she suddenly felt so disheartened. She came a little closer, trying to see what it was that held his attention.

  He sighed, a sound much like those her father had made when her mother had tried him to the edge of his patience.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, and set the papers down on his desk. In fact, he made a point of turning them over again ... as though he didn’t trust her, and didn’t want her nosing over his shoulder.

  Why didn’t he trust her?

  Sophie wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. By Jove, if he didn’t trust her, he could just say so! She wanted to hear it from his own two lips! And she wanted to know why! They stared at each other, at an impasse.

  Sophie stood her ground.

  CHAPTER 15

  The woman just didn’t know how close she was to finding herself in a very precarious position.

  Jack was trying, he really was, but she wasn’t making this easy on him.

  He’d let her stay mostly because at the first rumble of thunder, his conscience had pricked him, and he hadn’t liked the idea of her lying in her bed getting thoroughly drenched.

  But he was beginning to regret it now.

  His body was tense and he was beginning to feel a bit like a starved, caged lion—except that the object of his hunger had managed to lock herself up with him, and he was almost beyond the point of restraint.

  He stared at her, trying to clear the damnable fog from his brain. It was difficult enough to focus on his research with her in the same room, much less with her standing at his back. The scent of her dizzied him. His mouth grew dry with desire and his heart beat like a cannon blasting in his chest.

  “I am working,” he told her curtly, and tried not to notice the silhouette of her body beneath her gauzy white gown. His heartbeat quickened. “I see you managed to salvage at least something from your wardrobe?”

  She smiled and leaned a hip against his desk. She was too close, way too close.

  “A few things actually.”

  Jack’s gaze was drawn down to the vee in her gown, and then down again to where the material tucked neatly between her legs, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of the shape of her thighs.

  Christ.

  His mouth watered.

  “I’m ... uh ... glad,” he said, and closed his eyes, shielding them from the sight of her.

  What he wouldn’t give just now to sit her on his desk, hike up her gown, and feast on the nectar of her body. His hands shook as he shoved his papers aside.

  Hell, he couldn’t read anyway, his eyes were clouded with desire. How long had it been since he’d wanted a woman this badly?

  He couldn’t remember.

  Reminding himself that she belonged to someone else—never mind that the man was undeserving—Jack turned to face her, intending to rise from his chair, to walk away from temptation.

  Physical evidence kept him firmly planted in his seat.

  His eyes were drawn to the dark aureoles visible beneath her fine gown, and he swallowed. He tried to ignore the heat filling his loins. He shifted in his seat slightly.

  “Jack?” she prompted, his name coming tentatively to her lips.

  The sound of it surprised him, pleased him, sent a shock of a different sort leaping through him.

  It was the first time she’d used his given name... but he wanted more. He’d like to hear it whispered in his ear while his body undulated atop her.

  He looked up at her to find her hugging herself sweetly, almost like a little girl. “I was wondering ... did you always know what you wanted to be?”

  Her voice was soft and sweet and her mood had shifted one hundred eighty degrees.

  No longer was she the vixen ready to do battle. She suddenly was looking at him like an expectant child, ready for her bedtime story.

  The image should have cooled his ardor, but only managed to confuse him.

  Here she stood before him, alone in his room, prim in her nightgown, her eyes full of curiosity ... but for something far more innocent than what he wanted to show her.

  She was an incredible contradiction—bold enough to share his room without asking permission and pure enough to stand before him in her nightgown, staring up at him with an expression that looked suddenly and very dangerously like... admiration.

  Was she truly interested?

  Or was she trying to soften him up?

  In any case, he thought about her question a moment, because it took that long to register. “I think so,” he answered, clearing his throat.

  Her honey-colored eyes glimmered with intelligence.

  He could see so much in them... passion, excitement, joy. Despite the state of their personal affairs, she seemed intoxicated with life in the way he usually was when he was on the brink of some new discovery.

  Was she always so ebullient?

  Or was she simply looking forward to seeing her lover as she’d claimed? That thought soured his mood.

  Damned Penn.

  Why was it the bastard always ended up with the things Jack most wanted? At the instant, he was feeling bitter in a way he’d never let himself give in to—not even on receiving the news that Penn had been awarded yet another grant. His grant. He’d warrant Penn had no idea why he was even out there... beyond the arguments he had stolen from Jack. He was probably wandering around in a daze, tripping over the very evidence Jack was hungry to uncover.

  Which led him to wonder ... what did Sophia know about her fiancé’s affairs? If she was spying for him, it had to mean she knew something, at least. And if she did... well, then maybe he could pick her brain ...

  “Do you enjoy anthropology, Sophia?”

  For an instant, Sophie started at his question.

  She didn’t ever remember Harlan once asking her, though she’d been greedy for the conversation.

  “Actually...” She blinked away her surprise and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”

  “I suppose you would have to share a passing interest, at least?” he suggested.

  Sophie thought he must be referring to Harlan, and chafed at the reminder of Harlan’s letter—his ready dismissal of her curiosity. “I never pretend an interest in anything,” she assured him, and hesitated, unsure why it seemed suddenly inappropriate to address him so formally. “... Mr. MacAuley.”

  Perhaps it was simply because she was standing before him dressed only in her nightgown, a tattered one at that. Honestly, she ought to be more abashed by the fact, but she considered herself a practical woman, and her manner of dress simply couldn’t be helped at the moment. She was fortunate, indeed, that she was wearing what she was, and had decided not to dwell upon her lack of choice. What good would it do her anyhow? She couldn’t exactly complain when it was her own fault that she was minus a few gowns.

  “I wasn’t im
plying you were pretending at all,” he countered. “Only that you are no stranger to the field.” He sat back in his chair and cocked his head at her. “I imagine your fiancé spoke often of his ... second love.”

  Her heart squeezed at his question.

  “His second love?” For an instant, the allusion flew past her entirely. Foremost in her mind was Harlan’s dalliances. And then she realized what he was implying. “Oh, yes! Well, no, actually,” she confessed. “Harlan rarely spoke of his activities to me at all.”

  She sighed, realizing just how little time they had actually spent together as adults. “In fact,” she confessed a little sadly, “I rarely saw him after our engagement.”

  His brows lifted and he stared at her, scrutinizing her much too closely. “Really?”

  Sophie looked away, uncomfortable with his regard. She didn’t want him to know anything.

  It wasn’t any of his affair.

  “Really,” she replied, and changed the subject at once. “However,” she told him with a smile, “When we were children, he often shared his aspirations with me.”

  “Did he?”

  Was he truly interested or was he merely humoring her?

  It didn’t matter. Sophie was hungry for the opportunity to expound upon this subject. She pulled herself up on the desk, eager for his conversation. “In fact, when I was a little girl,” she began wistfully, “we went on an expedition into the wilderness. It was the most fun I ever had!”

  His brows lifted. “Expedition?”

  Sophie laughed, embarrassed though she hadn’t a reason to be. It was a very long time ago, and she’d been merely a child. “At our summer home ... my mother used to have these picnics where she would invite her closest friends. Because none of them had little girls my age, I usually played alone. But one day the boys asked me to join them on their expedition, and I was absolutely beside myself with joy at my first discovery! A shark’s tooth!”

  She laughed softly at the memory. “Actually, I’m not sure if, in fact, it was a shark’s tooth, but it certainly looked like one. Some part of me couldn’t begin to fathom fierce fish had once swam through my yard. But the boys swore it was a shark’s tooth, and somewhere deep down I wanted to believe it.”