His Wicked Kiss (14 page)

She was caring, capable, deliciously beautiful, and, best of all, not some ninny-headed Society miss whose response to danger would be to faint gracefully into a chaise longue.

Indeed, she was still quite young, but as a few years passed and she came into her own, she would further mature into a formidable queen who could hold down the fort when he was on the other side of the world for long periods of time, attending to the far-flung reaches of his empire.

If Victor trusted her to help in his complex scientific work, then Jack saw no reason why she could not be trained to keep an eye on the company for him.

The ideal wife—one with sense, one he could trust, one who could stand on her own two feet—would almost be, he mused, a kind of partner in the firm.

He just never thought that he could find one.

But now there was Eden Farraday, hidden away in the trees, where more deserving fellows could not find her. Not to mention the fact that the memory of her kiss still made his body burn with agitated lust.

Hell, he wondered if she’d even have him after he had let her down by refusing to take her to
England
. What choice had he had? His mood gone restless, Jack joined Trahern at the rails.

“No sign of the
Valiant
yet,” his top lieutenant informed him, peering through a spyglass.

“No, I don’t expect to see the old man ‘til above the fortieth parallel,” Jack muttered, though the thought of his uncle, Lord Arthur Knight, made him smile wryly.

It was comforting to know there was at least one family member he could relate to, probably because his distinguished old nabob of an uncle had been, in his day, as much a black sheep of the family as Jack was.

Decades ago, after a spat with his elder brother, the previous Duke of Hawkscliffe, the second-born, Lord Arthur Knight, had scorned the family empire, packed his trunks, and sailed off to
India
to make his own fortune. He had flourished there by his wits and the sweat of his brow, had found a wife and raised a family, two fine sons and a beautiful daughter; he had risen through the ranks of the East India Company, and then, upon retiring, had used everything he knew from three decades of cutthroat business in the Orient to help Jack grow his firm into a force to be reckoned with.

He was the closest thing to a true father Jack had ever had.

Arthur and he had made a deal to return to the shores of their homeland together—for moral support, as it were. It was hard to say which one of them the rest of the clan would be more shocked to see.

Trahern snapped his spyglass shut and looked at Jack hopefully. “Do you think your uncle might bring Miss Georgie with him?”

Jack laughed. “What, the belle of the
Spice Islands
? Queen of
Bombay
? Do you think she’d really tear herself away from her social life just to see you?”

“No.” Trahern sighed. “But a chap can dream, can’t he? The woman’s a goddess.”

Jack shook his head at him sardonically. “Forget her, man. She’d eat you alive.”

“Yes, but I don’t think I’d mind it.”

“Hey.” He arched an eyebrow, frowning at him. “That’s my little cousin you’re talking about.”

Rudy interrupted with a sudden storm of barking, once again at his favorite hobby of trying to get to the chickens and ducks that lived in crates inside the lifeboats. The live poultry were kept on hand to supply the galley with fresh eggs.

A clamor of alarmed clucking and quacking arose from inside the jolly boats, and though the sailors on hand tried to deter the bull-terrier from his game, Jack sighed and went to collect his errant pet.

He grabbed Rudy’s leather collar, hauled his panting dog away with a halfhearted scolding, and returned to his luxurious day cabin. When he walked into the spacious wood-paneled chamber, Rudy scrambled ahead of him, greeting Phineas Patrick Moynahan, Jack’s grubby, nine-year-old cabin boy, otherwise known as the Nipper. The little tyke was shining Jack’s boots, but Rudy’s joyous greeting shoved him right off his low stool.

The Nipper landed on the floor with a peal of half-vexed laughter. “Get off o’ me, ye daft mutt!”

Rudy licked his cheek in answer, then waited for the boy to play with him, his tail wagging wildly.

Jack was all business, however, and gave the lad his next errand. “Mr. Moynahan, I require my clerk. Go and fetch Mr. Stockwell for me. I wish to dictate a letter.”

“Sorry, Cap, can’t.” He climbed back onto his stool. “He’s gone down to sickbay with one o’ them tropical fevers.”

“Really?” Jack asked in surprise.

The Nipper nodded and picked up the other boot.

Yesterday, Stockwell had complained that he wasn’t feeling well during their work, but Jack had not suspected it was serious. “Mr. Moynahan,” he said abruptly, “you have boot-black on your forehead.”

With a scowl, the Nipper reached up to wipe it off and only succeeded in smearing more sooty polish across his face.

Jack fought a smile. “Martin!” he called, summoning his valet to fill in for his clerk.

The neat, fussy, little man instantly came hurrying in answer to his call. While Martin fretted over the assignment outside his usual duties and hurried about getting paper and ink, Jack took a seat and propped his feet up on the corner of his large, baronial desk, leaning back and musing on how to start the letter.

A knock sounded on the cabin door as he was mentally composing a terse greeting. “Come.”

Jack looked up as the grizzled master-at-arms entered.

“Problem, Brody?” Jack glanced at his fob watch. “Our training session’s not ‘til four.”

“If I could have a word with ye, Cap’n,” he said, his hat in his hands.

“Of course. Speak freely.”

Brody eyed Martin with his usual warrior’s wariness. “Thought you should know, Cap, there’s a rumor goin’ around among the men, quietlike, says we picked up a stowaway off o’
Trinidad
.”

Jack steepled his fingers in thought. “Really?”

“Aye. One o’ the carpenter’s mates thought he caught sight of a young lad hidin’ on the orlop deck.”

“Is that right?” he murmured, taking no heed of how the Nipper had perked up at the news.

He considered for a moment; Brody waited.

Jack brought his feet down off his desk with a clomp. “Take a couple of the men below and have a look around. If you find anyone hiding out down there who’s not on our roster, put him to work. Everybody pays their way on my ship,” he reiterated, shoving away another taunting memory of a redhead with emerald green eyes.

No, it couldn’t be.

Eden Farraday was bold, not insane.

Besides, no one could mistake that luscious beauty for a lad, even in the dim half-light of the orlop. No doubt it was just some poor orphan runaway from one of the
Caribbean
islands looking for a better life. His merchant fleet picked up strays all over the globe. If they refused to work, his firm policy was to turn them in as thieves. He wasn’t running a charity, after all.

“Remind the crew there are consequences to be paid for anyone who helps conceal a stowaway,” he ordered. “I won’t tolerate anyone stealing from me.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Brody answered stoutly and went to do his bidding.

“Where are you going?” Jack asked as the Nipper popped up from his stool and ran across the cabin.

Rudy’s ears pricked up at the boy’s movement, but the dog remained lying near Jack’s desk.

“Oh, um, gotta refill the scuttlebutt, Cap.”

“You’ve finished with my boots?”

“Almost, sir. They need a final buffin,‘ but the polish ain’t dry yet—”

“Isn’t,” Jack corrected gently.

“Aye, sir—
isn’t
dry yet—and since you’re always sayin’ as how I should use me time wiser… ?”

“Ah, right. Of course. Very good, Mr. Moynahan. Run along, then,” he said, eyeing the little imp with a twinge of suspicion.

The Nipper, dismissed, went tearing out of the day cabin. Jack could not recall the child ever having been half so eager to complete his chores, but he shrugged it off and began his dictation: “My dear Abraham,” he clipped out while Martin quickly began writing, “it is with great regret that I have watched the friendly relations between our two companies dissolve over the course of the past few years. Despite my efforts to maintain fair, indeed, preferential policies toward your firm…” His voice trailed off, his train of thought dissolving.

“Sir?”

It
couldn’t
be Eden Farraday.

She wouldn’t.

Would she?

Don’t forget who you’re dealing with here
. She was no ordinary female, the little wild woman.

Which was, of course, exactly why he wanted her. She had gotten under his skin like that damned splinter…

Staring at nothing as he tapped his pen on this desk, Jack recalled her fearless plunge off the tree branch, swinging on that blasted vine, the cheerful ease with which she had hacked the pineapple into neat slices with that razor-sharp machete.

Aye, the way she had stood up to him, Black-Jack Knight, the so-called terror of the seas. She had looked him in the eye and spoken her mind with a frankness most men wouldn’t dare.

But was she foolhardy enough to stow away after he had denied her request for passage?

Of course she was, he realized, though he was barely able to wrap his mind around the notion that all this time that he’d been lusting for her, she might have been here on his ship, right under his very nose, and now could be in arm’s reach.

The terror of the seas suddenly found himself with butterflies in his stomach.

Jack scowled.
Ridiculous
.

“My lord?”

“Dismissed.” In state of mystified incredulity, he got up from his desk abruptly and tossed the pen down. “We’ll finish later, Martin. I have to go, ah, check on something.”

His valet looked startled. “Your letter, sir?”

“It can wait.” Jack strode out of the day cabin and headed for the orlop deck.

He had to see this stowaway for himself.

Reclining in the orlop deck with her head resting on a sack of sugar,
Eden
was thumbing through
La Belle Assemblée
in a state of extreme boredom, having already memorized every page, when suddenly, her jungle-honed senses registered an unfamiliar presence somewhere very nearby.

She froze for a second, then rolled onto her side and crouched down behind the fruit crates. Someone was coming—or already here?

She held her breath, listening for all she was worth. Her straining ears pinpointed the faint patter of bare footsteps on wooden planks.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” called a soft, rather high-pitched voice. She furrowed her brow. Why, that sounded like a child’s voice. “I know you’re ‘ere. You can’t hide forever, can you? Nobody’s invisible.”

It
was
a child, she thought, startled. But, of course, youngsters served various roles at sea, from cabin boys to powder monkeys.

Starved as she was for human company—and greatly relieved, as well—for really, how much trouble could one small boy be?—she could not resist stepping up silently onto the edge of the bottom crate and peering over the stack at her pint-sized pursuer.

She smiled to herself upon spotting a barefooted urchin creeping with kittenish stealth through the crowded cargo bay, peeking around a mound of sugar sacks and barrels of gunpowder, as though playing hide-and-seek.

The wee lad was adorable, searching eagerly for someone on his own eye level, while she peered down at him from above.

He had a wild thatch of bright blond hair in dire need of a trimming and was dressed in a neat, short jacket like a miniature officer, with loose, wide matelots up to his ankles.

“Are you running away, then? We get stowaways all o’ the time who are running away, but not me. My Auntie Moynahan sent me to be a ’prentice on Lord Jack’s ship. Maybe you could be a ‘prentice, too. I could ask the captain for you, if you want. Cap’n Jack listens to me,” he added with an air of great importance. “You should come out now and take my help if you’re smart, ‘cos Mr. Brody and a few of the mates are on their way down ‘ere to find you. They know you’re here.”

Good God
!
Eden
’s heart skipped a beat at this terrifying news. She wasted no time wondering who Mr. Brody was, but was already pulling her satchel of Papa’s botanical specimens over her shoulder and slipping silently toward the door.

She had to get out of here—now. Stealing up the narrow ladder of the companionway with her bag over her shoulder, she arrived on the lower gun-deck and dodged down the cramped passageway at the top of the steps.

When she came to the corner, she looked left and right, advanced cautiously, hearing noises ahead, then nearly stepped out into the sailors’ mess hall. Hundreds of hammocks hung from the ceiling amid the bustling chaos of half the crew having a meal. Most of the men were too busy devouring their food to notice her; others were swigging their grog or cheering on an arm-wrestling match in progress on the far end of the large open space. She darted out of sight again, backing into the dim passageway.