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, cupping 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 scarce 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.
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, del
icate 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 kn
own 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.
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