His Wicked Kiss

by Gaelen Foley

  Her father paused, reflecting on those long-gone days.

  “My sister told me that when Lord and Lady Griffith ordered their daughter to tell her beau she could never see him again, Jack tried to get her to elope with him. Maura refused,” he said with a shrug. “Jack left England in a fury and to the best of my knowledge has not been back since.”

  Just like you, Papa, she thought. An exile.

  “Now, if you will excuse me, I am in dire need of refreshment after this long and tiring day we have had. I shall want my supper within the hour. Oh, and by the way—” he added, already marching back up the boardwalk toward camp. “The shaman’s nephew has agreed to take us to the Amazon. We’re leaving in three days.”

  Eden’s jaw dropped, but Papa did not look back. She stared after him in horror, the reality of his mad quest dawning on her with a kind of delayed amazement.

  It could not be! Reeling, she turned and stared hopelessly after the riverboat dwindling into the distance.

  Shading her eyes against the blazing sun, she realized her only hope of ever attaining a normal life was drifting away down the Orinoco. Oh, this was a disaster. She could hardly believe Papa truly meant to go through with it.

  Dropping her gaze to the rough planks of the dock, she dragged her hand through her hair and tried to think what to do.

  It was then that her downcast gaze suddenly happened across the familiar sight of the dugout canoes hitched to the dock. Her churning thoughts halted abruptly.

  She stared down at her canoe for a second—and then the idea rolled through her mind like thunder.

  Yes.

  Papa and Connor both had driven her to this. It was the only solution that remained.

  All in one reckless, thrilling flash, she knew what she had to do.

  Her pulse pounding, Eden lifted her gaze and stared down the river at the shrinking steamboat. It really seemed she had no choice. Leaving was the only way to stop Papa from carrying out his suicidal quest into the Amazon.

  She knew deep in her heart that he would drop everything to follow her, even if it meant facing civilization again. Perhaps if he could just see England for himself after all this time, he would realize the world out there wasn’t nearly as bad as he had come to believe. Indeed, her running off now might be the only way to save his stubborn hide.

  And then there was Connor. Leaving would also put some distance between the two of them. God willing, it would help him to see and to accept at last that she did not want to spend the rest of her life out here as his mate. After her kiss with Jack, it seemed he had finally taken the hint, but she knew he was angry.

  She did not want to risk a confrontation with him out here in the wild, where there was no code, no rule of law to stop him from overpowering her. Out here, might made right, and Connor was the strongest of them all.

  All these years, he had held back his passion out of reverence for her, waiting until she was ready, but after today, seeing her return Jack Knight’s kiss, she knew that only his fury awaited her now, and she was afraid. She had seen long ago what he was capable of; if his rage broke free, there would be no choice but to give in. Then she’d be his prisoner here for the rest of her life.

  She was already in motion, striding up the boardwalk and checking off a mental list of supplies that she would need.

  Connor had headed out of camp with his rifle over his shoulder to vent his frustration with work, but she knew she’d have to go quickly before he came back.

  Jack had warned her what would happen if she came aboard his ship; ah, but what the captain didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She was stowing away and no one was going to stop her. She could take care of herself, and besides, she planned on staying out of sight until they reached England. A hundred forest animals had taught her how to hide.

  Crossing the camp, she slipped into her father’s research tent and with trembling hands gathered up the strongest examples of her father’s work to show to the new Earl of Pembrooke, just as she had told Lord Jack she’d do. She tucked them covertly into a canvas haversack. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one saw, she strode next to the palafito to collect her things.

  She knew she had to hurry or The Winds of Fortune would soon set off across the sea without her.

  Back inside the stilt-house, she changed into breeches, shirt, and Papa’s old brown leather jacket, which she sometimes wore for practicality’s sake when she joined the men on their most untamed expeditions to the deepest reaches of the jungle.

  Tying a dark blue neckerchief over her hair also helped to disguise her sex in case any of Jack’s crewmen should spot her. Moving as swiftly as possible, she threw as many supplies into her haversack as she could carry—including Cousin Amelia’s last letter with her Bedfordshire address on it, and a few issues of La Belle Assemblée.

  All that was left to do was to say her farewells, but she dared not risk it. Staring across the camp, she watched her father explaining his plans to the servants, and wavered, sorrowfully torn. But then she shook her head.

  Go. A chance like this only comes along once in a lifetime. It was what Mama would have said. Pausing at the bamboo table, she quickly jotted a note to Papa and Connor, telling them what she was doing so that they would not worry too much. She signed with all her love and then, without further ado, slipped out the side of the palafito and took the muddy shortcut down to the dock.

  After briskly tossing her haversack into her trusty dugout canoe, she sat down in the little vessel and took up the familiar oars, giving herself no time to lose her courage. She freed her little boat from the dock and shoved off with an oar.

  Within moments, she was gliding silently down the caño, pulling on the oars with all her might.

  She rowed swiftly, rowed until her shoulders hurt; she spotted terrifying, ridged silhouettes cutting sinuously through the water here and there, vast, dark shapes in the shallows, but she refused to turn back.

  And then, about a half hour into her perilous journey, she spotted the lazy riverboat, slowed by its barge piled with lumber. The steamer traveled on the main river, but Eden took the smaller caños that ran parallel to it; thus, she managed to stay hidden by the jungle brush while keeping abreast of the larger vessel.

  She made swift progress thanks to the strengthening current as they neared the Gulf of Paria. Soon, mangroves began to appear, and she could taste salt in the air.

  She grinned with hearty enthusiasm when she noticed she was actually pulling ahead of the steamer. It had run into a spot of trouble on a sandbar. Though it wasn’t a race, arriving before Lord Jack did could only work to her advantage.

  She rowed harder.

  Before long, she came to powdery white beaches lined with graceful palm trees. Windy white-tops broke against the shore, while farther up the beach, fat iguanas sunned themselves on the rocks. Ahead lay the wide blue ocean, with the island of Trinidad slightly to the north.

  In the narrow strait called the Serpent’s Mouth that flowed between the island’s southern edge and the mainland, a magnificent seventy-four-gun ship rode at anchor on bare poles, revealing the intricate webwork of rigging that supported the three towering masts.

  No room? she thought with a snort. Lifting her telescope to her eye, she read the ship’s name painted near the jib. The Winds of Fortune. It was his vessel, all right—as big as a floating castle and bristling with deadly armaments.

  Awed by the majesty of the great vessel, she studied the colorfully painted figurehead for a moment, while the ship’s attendant cutters scurried about the copper-clad hull like drone ants around the queen. Her gaze ran the length of the two-hundred-foot hull with its double gun decks, all the way back to the carved and gilded stern.

  How in blazes am I going to get on that thing? she wondered, peering through her spyglass. She considered her options. Climb up one of those ropes? She was a skilled climber, after all. No, they’ll see me. What about those big crates they’re loading aboard? Perhaps I could stow away in o
ne of those.

  It seemed as good a plan as any.

  Taking one, long, last look back at the jungle and wondering if she would ever see it again, she faced forward once more, steeled her nerve, and then darted out of her hiding place, running stealthily from rock to rock toward the great pile of wooden crates being loaded onto the ship.

  With the sailors distracted by the steamer’s late arrival, finally free of the sandbar, Eden stole over to the pile of crates variously labeled PINEAPPLES, LIMES, COCONUTS, MANGOES, and BANANAS. She wrenched the top off one and dove inside, hastily pulling the lid back on over her head.

  From the inside, the big crate was about the size of a jaguar trap. Again she thought of Connor and wondered how he might react when he discovered she had fled.

  She waited, heart pounding, then she held her breath as more of Lord Jack’s sweaty sailors returned, trudging back through the sand to continue their task of loading the crates onto the longboats for transport to the huge gunship.

  “Boney’s balls, these limes is heavy!” a man in a red shirt exclaimed as he picked up the crate Eden was hiding in.

  “At least we won’t get scurvied, eh?”

  “Give me a hand with this one, Sharky! I’ll break me damn back,” the first said, but thankfully, nobody noticed her presence as they carried her crate over to the longboat and stacked her in with all the others.

  Before long, the cutter took to the waves, the seamen rowing out to the ship and complaining all the way about the heat.

  Rolling a few limes out of her way, Eden peered out through the slats of her crate, wide-eyed. She couldn’t believe how big the vessel was as the Englishmen rowed closer. With her sails furled, her bare masts scraped the very sky.

  They must have chopped down a hundred acres of oak to make that ship, she thought. Then suddenly, from out of the blue sky, a giant crane descended with a cargo platform hanging from its huge metal hook. When it came down low enough, the sailors began transferring the crates of fruit onto the platform.

  “ ’Hoy, Bob, think Cap would notice if we took a few o’ these ’ere limes?” a large fellow with an earring asked the others as he lifted Eden’s crate onto the platform.

  She balled up as small as she could make herself and prayed no one would see her.

  “Course he’d notice, knowin’ ’im, you tit. Tie ’er up tight there!” Sharky ordered the others, then they secured the stack of crates with rope. “Himself’ll have a fit if we drop ’em in the brine.”

  “Right, take ’er up!” the one in the red shirt yelled, gesturing to the men operating the davit.

  Up on the ship’s deck, another team of sailors lurched into motion, pushing the mighty winch around in a circle, and drawing the great pulley upward. Meanwhile, another pair of seamen posted at the taffrail kept a weather eye out for the Spanish fleet.

  Eden stared out over water and land, barely daring to breathe as the cargo platform ascended, up and up and up so high, until she could see for miles over the jungle’s treetops.

  The forest was afire with a blazing fuschia sunset behind it, silhouetting towering spiky moriche palms and the leafy giants of the canopy that had been her playground, while the Orinoco ran like liquid gold. She could see the Delta’s labyrinth of meandering caños and could almost make out the flat-topped mountains called tepuys in the distance.

  Somewhere in his green paradise, Papa believed she was preparing to cook his dinner. She felt a twinge of conscience, but heavens—England!

  She clung to her dream for all she was worth and refused to look back. She swore to herself that this was for the best.

  As the cargo platform floated over the ship’s bustling main deck, she caught a glimpse of the river steamboat now sputtering to a halt at the beach.

  Lord Jack jumped down onto the sand, waded through the shallows and paused to splash himself. She could still taste his kiss. She watched him flinging water over his dark, tousled hair and then striding up onto the beach to take control of the operation. The men were already working hard, but visibly doubled their efforts when their captain arrived.

  Better not let him catch you, her feminine instincts advised as the sun burned his tanned, powerful image into her brain.

  Then she was plunged in darkness as the crane descended through the large square hatch, going down ever deeper into the bowels of his great ship, until, at last, she was swallowed up in the deep, dark recess of the cargo hold.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  That night, The Winds of Fortune slipped away under cover of darkness, evading the Spanish patrol boats by stealing around Galeoto Point at the lower corner of Trinidad, and then breaking sharply northeast at the twelfth parallel.

  Jack had ordered the crew to be silent and the ship’s lanterns doused. The mood on board was tense until they could be sure they had not been spotted by the Spanish. Nevertheless, a fair wind out of the south drove them along.

  It was a fine night to make sail, cool and partly clear, but though tranquil, there was an eeriness to the silence and the way the bright half moon lit up the cloud clusters here and there.

  Luminescent algae, famous in the torrid zone, glowed atop the waves.

  “Lieutenant, what is our speed?” he asked the officer in charge of the watch.

  “Five knots, sir.”

  Not bad, for all our cargo, he thought. Because they were still in coral reef areas, caution dictated a moderate pace.

  They glided along under partial sail while the quartermaster made his patient soundings off the bow, on constant watch for rocks beneath the surface.

  A smattering of some twenty small islands dotted the seas around Trinidad and Tobago; shallows and reefs surrounded most of them. Only when the Winds reached the edge of the continental border, where the shallow coastal waters dropped away into the abyss, would Jack give the order for full sail and full speed ahead.

  For now, standing arms akimbo near the helmsman, smoking a cheroot, he passed a glance across the starry sky. “How reads the barometer, Mr. Clark?”

  “Stable, Captain,” the ship’s master replied.

  Jack nodded. “Steady as she goes, boys,” he murmured to the crew, strolling restlessly from the quarterdeck toward the bow. Canine claws ticked along right behind him over the spotlessly clean planks, as his faithful mutt, Rudy, shadowed his steps.

  The product of a bulldog’s illicit liaison with an English White terrier, Rudy was stocky and thick-set and low to the ground, fearless despite being only as high as Jack’s knee.

  He trotted across the decks as if he owned the ship, or rather the whole of the sea. Rudy had a short white coat, a black circle around one eye as though he had been in a brawl, a very silly-looking Roman nose, and the soul of a clown. The dog, in short, was the best friend he’d ever had, but Jack Knight was not the sort of man to admit such things.

  “Sir, we’ve just reached a hundred feet of depth,” the quartermaster confirmed from his post on the bow, having just pulled up his sounding lines.

  “Excellent.” Jack’s smile broadened. “Make sail, boys. Let’s head for the middle latitudes and rope ourselves a westerly.”

  The crew muffled their answering cheer and eagerly ascended the stiff rope ladders of the rigging.

  Exhaling smoke, Jack tilted his head back and watched them climb out onto the yards with unflinching bravery despite the ship’s constant wide rocking and the action of the wind.

  In four minutes flat, they unfurled the rest of the magnificent vessel’s full two acres of pearly canvas, gleaming and magical in the moonlight.

  It always took Jack’s breath away to see her come to life with the breath of the wind filling her sails. “She’s a beauty, is she not, Lieutenant?”

  Peabody smiled at him in perfect understanding of his sentiments. “Aye, Captain.”

  “Carry on,” he said at length, leaving the watch in the second lieutenant’s able hands.

  Drifting to the rails, Jack gazed down rather broodingly into t
he foaming wake off the bow, easy with the Winds’ familiar rocking as she ploughed on through the waves and sent up plumes of brisk spray.

  Far below, a few dolphins plunged merrily alongside them, their slick hides gleaming in the moonlight. It was a good omen and all had gone smoothly, yet Jack’s mood was a little pensive.

  Regret gnawed him. The forlorn image of Eden Farraday left standing alone on the dock stayed vivid in his mind. He wished he could have helped her, but, no. As usual, Jack Knight had been cast in the role of villain. He let out a sigh and shook his head. He decided he would go back and check on her again when he came back to deliver his mercenaries to Bolivar. Next time, he would get her out of there whether her father liked it or not.

  And if that blond chap tried pointing a gun in his direction again, Jack thought grimly, he would deal with him, too.

  An insistent whine from below drew his distracted attention just then. When he glanced down, he saw Rudy standing beside him with his favorite stick clamped between his jaws, his tail wagging eagerly.

  With a rueful smile, Jack took the stick out of the dog’s mouth and heaved it toward the stern in a long throw.

  “Fetch,” he muttered, but Rudy needed no such instruction, already scampering after his prize as though the bit of timber were worth its weight in gold.

  For a week, Eden had endured the inky cargo hold. She hid in total darkness, longing for light, for fresh air, and most of all, for any human company besides her own.

  The temperature had dropped as the ship traveled north inexorably, leaving the land of summer and the tropical temperatures she was used to for climes reminiscent of faintly remembered autumns—a brisk, sunny coolness by day giving way to colder temperatures at night. Of course, where they were headed, February meant the dead of winter, though they wouldn’t arrive, she presumed, until the end of March.