by Gaelen Foley
Eden Farraday was altogether her own person. Her own delightful, artlessly innocent, sensuous nymph…
Bloody hell.
It was most irksome, his constant awareness of her, cloistered away in his cabin. Her presence somehow permeated the ship: a change in the air. It all felt so odd.
Annoyed at himself for his failure to maintain his policy of cool indifference, he huffed and scowled and did his best to work off his preoccupation with the tantalizing female by hard physical labor on deck, and when that didn’t do the trick, by exhaustive practice with his fists, pounding his thick leather punching bag into oblivion—but it was no use.
It was almost as if he could smell her, so near, her dewy-fresh, vanilla-orchid scent. It was driving him mad.
What was this ridiculous reaction? She was just a girl, like any other. Well, except for her eccentric ways, all those wonderfully odd little quirks…. Oh, God. What the hell is wrong with me? He had left a dozen more beautiful women than her without a backward glance.
But that was just the point.
Stuck out at sea and sworn to protect her—as if he didn’t have enough already to worry about!—there was no escape from Eden Farraday.
They were in the middle of the bloody ocean; it was not as though he could carry out his usual tactic of moving on in his nomadic way before anybody got too close.
On the contrary, for the next few weeks, he’d be sharing very close quarters with her, forced into intimate contact.
The worst part of all was that he could not even manage to feel properly angry about the way she had invaded his space and installed herself in his inner sanctum. He was baffled, but the region of his solar plexus tingled even now with eagerness to get back to her. This was insane.
He had not experienced such absurd reactions to a female since he was a witless lad of seventeen, agog over stupid Maura Prescott. No one had gotten to him since.
Thrusting the stowaway out of his mind for the umpteenth time, he went to put the fear of God in Ballast.
He found the unruly gun captain in the sickbay, where the surgeon had just finished putting ten stitches in his tattooed forearm, which Eden had sliced. When he was satisfied that the gunner was cowed by his threats and promises of doom if he even looked at Eden, Jack returned to the main deck to ask around for any articles of ladies’ clothing on board for her to wear.
He was hoping one of the officers might have bought a dress for a wife or sweetheart back home, but no such luck. The only gown anyone could find for her was a glittery bluish-green thing that the crew always made the newest midshipman wear as a joke during the bacchanalia of King Neptune’s Court that occurred at each equator crossing.
It was more a Carnavale costume than a proper lady’s gown, but it would have to do for now.
“This trip just keeps getting stranger,” Trahern mumbled, shaking his head as he eyed the dress.
“I’ll have Martin sew her some decent clothes in the days to come,” Jack mused aloud. “We’ve got several bolts of fine cloth in the hold. Can’t have her freeze to death. Getting colder as we move north.”
Trahern nodded. “Jack?”
“Hm?” he asked, distracted from hazy images that had begun to dance inexplicably in his brain—visions of himself doing all the sorts of things with his little future sons that no one had ever bothered to do with him.
He blinked them away, irked with himself anew. “What?”
“You won’t…hurt her, will you?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Christopher.”
“I know you want her. It’s just that she’s been so sheltered, Jack—”
“Don’t worry, man! As I said, she’s under my protection. The crew can think what they please, but you know me better than that.”
“Just checking.”
“Hell, I’m the one you should fear for,” he added in sardonic reproach. “I’m putting my life in her hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“I left her in there with my sidearms and my knife.”
“You did?” he exclaimed. “How could you of all people forget a thing like that?”
“Who says I forgot?” He flashed a wan smile. “If she feels at all threatened, you cannot doubt she’ll use them. You saw what she did to Ballast.”
Trahern snorted. “He deserved it.”
“Aye. Which is why I shall give the lady no cause to shoot, stab, disembowel, castrate, or otherwise maim me.”
“Well, you always liked living dangerously. By the way, I noticed you didn’t flog Ballast for his offenses,” Trahern said after a brief pause. “I was wondering why.”
Jack had a strong stomach, but any man of feeling regarded with deep distaste if not repugnance the occasional necessity of doling out harsh justice at sea. On the other hand, Trahern was right. Flogging was standard procedure. The men knew the consequences of insubordination, and so, by now, the whole crew knew that Cap’n Jack had let Ballast off light—this time.
Jack looked at him ruefully. “I didn’t want the girl to hear the screams. She’d only blame herself.”
“Maybe she should.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “She’s an innocent. She’s been through a hard enough ordeal.”
Trahern stared at him.
Jack shrugged, abashed after his heartfelt assertion. “Anyway, she taught Ballast a lesson, herself, I’d say. He needed ten stitches, did you hear?”
“Yes, I heard.” Trahern studied him with a faint smile of amusement tugging at his mouth.
“I’m going to bed,” he announced.
“Good night, Captain. May God keep you safe in there.”
Jack laughed idly, gave him a farewell nod in answer, and headed for the quarterdeck, tossing the glittery gown for Eden over his shoulder.
He prowled into the moonlit day cabin, savoring the light breeze coming in off the stern gallery. As he approached the locked door to his sleeping cabin, he paused, wondering if he really should sleep elsewhere.
He could, he supposed, sling a hammock here in the day cabin. He turned to peruse the sturdy hooks sunk into the beams overhead. Hm. Privacy was always in very short supply at sea. If he did not share a bed with her, word would soon get around. What would the crew have to say about that? He could practically hear them already.
If Cap’n Jack hadn’t bedded his little jungle flower, then maybe he wasn’t staking a serious claim on her for himself. That could lead some to believe the wench might be fair game, after all. No, the only way to stave off such dangerous murmurings was by the two of them sharing his bed.
Besides, why should he be inconvenienced and have to change his habits just because the girl had stowed away? His adventurous mode of life had taught Jack to sleep, as they said, with one eye open; the only place he felt truly comfortable enough to close his eyes in deep rest was behind that barricaded door.
Most of all, he’d already decided that nothing was going to happen between Eden and him. He was not Ballast. He could control himself. Besides, he still had many questions—
Admit it. You just want to be with her, his thoughts interrupted, mocking him. You big fool. You like her company.
So what, anyway, if he felt drawn to her? he thought, bristling defensively. Anyway, it was probably due to the respect he had for her father, nothing more.
Or perhaps it was due to the fact that she was one of the few people Jack had ever seen who knew as much as he did about loneliness.
That was when he realized that he couldn’t leave her in there all by herself, day and night. She’d lose her mind. She had already been starved for companionship when he had found her in the jungle. His nonexistent heart clenched, recalling how she had been too vulnerable even to hide it.
Hurt that innocent?
Why, if she thought him capable of it—if Black-Jack Knight was indeed that far gone, a damned soul, lost to honor—then he’d rather she shot him when he walked through that door.
His expression stoic, Jack took out his keys and began th
e great unlocking.
In the silence, every iron bolt with which he’d protected himself for so long seemed to slam back into its housing with an echoing, fateful boom.
As he gripped the doorknob and took a deep breath, he almost wished she’d hit him in the head with some hard object the moment that he stepped into the room.
Knock him out cold.
Unconscious, he couldn’t possibly give in to the urge to ravish her.
He needed a wife, yes, but Eden Farraday was too much of a threat.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Alone in Jack’s berth, Eden huddled close to the wall, her eyes wide, her heart pounding with violent force as she watched the seven locks slowly turning all down the barricaded door.
A little moonlight shimmered into the dark space of the sleeping cabin. It gleamed on the wicked iron cannon and danced tauntingly on each metal bolt as it came undone.
Eden clutched the covers to her chest and swallowed hard.
She did not know what was going to happen to her tonight, but wearing nothing but the captain’s shirt, wrapped in the sheets that still bore his scent, her fate already seemed sealed: deflowerment at the hands of that very dangerous ex-privateer.
Earlier, in the afternoon, she had managed to get some sleep, but by nightfall, with the expected hour of her captor’s return drawing near, she had come wide awake again. There was nothing to do except wait and listen with growing anxiety for any sign of his approach.
The ship was full of strange noises: creaks and pounding footfalls across the decks above, ceaseless waves slapping the hull. She thought she’d heard the mournful singing of a whale echoing through the night some time ago.
Then she had heard it—and her seething thoughts broke off abruptly—firm, steady footfalls coming closer.
Closer.
Anxiety had turned to virginal dread at the low, metallic jangling of keys on the other side of the door. Then the locks had begun to free themselves, one by one.
What if she couldn’t resist him? What if he got rough?
Somehow London seemed farther away than ever….
At the last minute, cowardlike, she decided to feign sleep. She shut her eyes and held stock-still as the door inched open. She heard his by now familiar baritone as he mumbled a command to his dog to stay in the other room, that hell hound who had betrayed her hiding place earlier today. If it weren’t for that blasted dog, she might still be safely secreted away on the orlop deck.
With the slow creak of the door inching open, she sensed a warm glow of light from behind her closed eyelids. Determined to convince her captor that she was fast asleep, she opened her eyes to the merest slits, trying to peek at him through her lashes.
She saw him hesitate in the doorway, looking as unthreatening as was possible for a giant, rugged male with a scruffy dark jaw, a bronzed tan like a heathen, and eyes like the wild sea. He stopped, as though unsure whether or not he should come in; he looked at her by the light of the lone candle in his hand, but not in lust. He seemed to be making sure she did not have a weapon.
What the devil?
The bristling tension in his vast shoulders relaxed by a fraction as he eased into the room, moving like a man who had half expected to be walking into an ambush.
Watching him through her lashes, Eden wondered what the swathe of blue fabric was draped over his arm. Turning around, Jack closed the door behind him, trying to stop it from squeaking as it swung; then he began resetting all those blasted locks, visibly taking pains to be quiet.
This was not the behavior of a man with rape in mind, she thought. Feeling rather silly, Eden pretended to wake up when he turned around again, once the door was sealed.
“Oh—sorry. Did I wake you?” he mumbled.
She sat up with the cover still clutched to her chest and managed a not very convincing yawn. “It’s all right. I had just dozed off.”
He shifted his weight, glancing around uncertainly. “Do you, uh, need anything?”
Startled by his politeness, she shook her head.
“Good,” he answered. He nodded at her and then crossed abruptly toward the washstand. “Oh, I brought you something to wear.” She perked up as he tossed the blue thing across the cannon. “I’ll put the candle out in a moment. Just want to wash up before bed.”
She nodded, mystified. Goodness, who was this gentleman?
Was he the same man who had ordered her to strip for his pleasure this afternoon? The same callous rogue who had rammed his tongue down her throat that day in the jungle? Why the sudden change of tactics? Eden regarded him in suspicion.
She had already learned that Jack Knight didn’t do anything without a reason.
He lifted the hinged top of the mahogany washstand to reveal the built-in sink. It even had a little silver-handled spigot that let water out of the concealed reservoir in the back of the commode. She watched him insert his beeswax taper into one of the symmetrical candle holders on either side of the washstand for light; then he took a washcloth out of the lower drawer. But when he lifted his shirt off over his head, she ducked back behind the curtains of his berth again, her heart racing.
After a moment, the temptation was too great. She leaned out ever so slightly to watch what he was doing.
Unaware of her study, he stood in profile to her. Her eyes widened as he reached for the falls of his breeches and started to unfasten them. He seemed to think better of it, however, let out a low sigh as he buttoned them again, leaving them on.
Eden was relieved, yet the longer she watched him, the more his rock-hard body entranced her.
So beautiful.
He caught her staring as he turned to lean his back against the bulkhead, pulling off his boots. He met her gaze warily, but said nothing as he dropped his black boots on the floor with one heavy clunk after another.
Her cheeks reddened. She cleared her throat, in need of a brisk change of subject. “What did you find for me to wear?” Not waiting for his answer, she climbed out of the bed and went over to the cannon, picking up the blue cloth. She held up the whimsical, low-cut gown by its shoulder seams, and stared at it for a long moment, not quite sure what to make of it.
Jack glanced over as Eden burst out laughing.
“What on earth is it? A costume for a mask ball?”
“Something like that.” He grinned. “I believe the wearer of that dress is meant to play the part of the Princess in King Neptune’s Court.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful! I love it!” Pressing it to her, she twirled, adoring its liquid motion. “It’s so shimmery! What fabric is this, lamé?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.” He turned to her with his eyebrow cocked and one hand propped on his lean waist. “You do realize that is not a proper gown, Miss Farraday?”
“I think it’s lovely!”
He shook his head at her in sardonic amusement. “All the same, I’ve arranged for my valet, Martin, to begin working with you tomorrow. It’ll be bitter cold soon. I’ve told him to sew a few things so you’ll be warm as we travel north.”
At his words, she was humbled by his generosity, yet her heart sank. She stared soberly at him as he leaned closer to the mirror and trailed his fingertips along his scruffy jaw with a frown. “Damn, I need a shave.”
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t wish to be any trouble.”
“Oh, really?” he countered, shooting her a twinkling glance. “Since when?”
She frowned as he leaned down and began splashing his face.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you back.”
“Hmm.” He sent her a dubious smile as the water trickled down his face. Droplets coursed down his chest as he straightened up again, rubbing the back of his neck with the wet washcloth. If some lewd joke was on the tip of his tongue, he kept it to himself.
After a moment, he ran the wet washcloth down his muscled arm. Eden watched him for a long moment, but when she saw he could not reach t
he center of his broad back, she put the dress down and walked toward him bravely.
Taking the washcloth out of his hand without waiting for him to argue, she brushed past him to rinse it out in the basin, put a little soap on it, and then circled around behind him again. Jack watched her from the corner of his eye.
Slowly, she touched the damp cloth to his smooth, sun-browned back. He tensed at first, as though wary of her touch, but as she cleaned him in long, careful strokes, his supple flesh relaxed beneath her touch. As she washed off sea salt and dried sweat, his skin took on a velvety sheen in the candlelight.
When she moved forward again, reaching past him to rinse off the cloth, his gaze tracked her, full of smoldering heat.
A blush suffused her cheeks; she could suddenly think of nothing but his powerful arms around her, his mouth claiming hers like that day on the dock.
She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze. Ready once again, she continued her task; Jack braced his hands on the corners of the washstand, leaning down a bit to let her reach his shoulders. He put his head down and closed his eyes as she complied, washing his wide shoulders, dabbing at his neck as well, and smoothing his thick, wavy hair out of the way with her other hand. Then she ran the cloth across his muscled chest, caressing him. He sighed as she bathed his sculpted sides.
“So many scars,” she observed in a soft whisper, tracing one of the many pale, angry lines that marred his otherwise beautifully chiseled torso, like fine cracks in a marble Hercules.
“A few,” he conceded, his eyes still closed.
“Where did you get this one?” Her fingertip followed a long slash mark along his right ribs.
He dragged his eyes open and glanced down at the one she had asked about, then smiled ruefully. “Gibraltar. Tavern fight with some Royal Marines.”
“And this?” An awful-looking gash, long healed over, on the right side of his waist.
“Oh, that. Sea battle against Asian pirates on the Indian Ocean.”
“Really?”
“They hit us with a broadside, and I was pierced with a flying shard of splintered wood half a foot long.”
“That’s inches from your liver. You could have died.”