His Wicked Kiss (20 page)

Aha, so, he was once a privateer
!
Eden thought as she closed the door. Well, why hadn’t the rogue simply said so in the first place? At least that was reasonably legal, unlike piracy. She had a sneaking suspicion, as she turned each of the seven locks, that he enjoyed letting people fear the worst about him.

As an afterthought, she wondered what sort of paranoia led a man to put seven iron locks on his door, anyway—as if he feared a mutiny. But clearly, there was no danger of that. From all that she had seen up on deck, his men held him in the deepest awe.

Eden was rather awed herself.

Ambling over to his built-in berth, which was more than six feet long and nearly as deep, she sat down warily on the sturdy mattress. Well, she thought as she looked around at the stark simplicity of his quarters, the head of Knight Enterprises certainly didn’t live like a millionaire.

All his ambition was obviously not aimed at acquiring a life of luxury, for she saw no evidence that he had taken to spoiling himself. She picked up her plate again, and slowly finished eating, half listening all the while to the busy officers on the other side of the door.

She heard muffled talk of winds and currents, degrees of latitude and schedules for the crew. Finished eating, she put her ear to the door when she heard Jack’s kingly baritone.

The captain was apparently dictating a letter to a business associate.

Hanging on his every word, she found herself wishing she could have gone out there and participated somehow, but she was quite indecent, wearing only his shirt, and besides, she had not been invited.

No doubt Jack felt she would only be a distraction to his men. Even she could admit she had caused enough trouble for one day. With a sigh, she leaned against the door.

Boredom quickly crept in.

“What to do, what to do.” Her gaze traveled around the cabin.

Jack had ordered her to rest, but she was wide awake, indeed, jittery after the scandalous way he had touched her in the bathing tub. She closed her eyes, a hot shiver coursing through her body at the all too vivid memory. She could almost still feel his warm, wet mouth at her breast.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, she thrust off the sensation with a will and pushed away from the door. Pacing across the cabin, she examined the great iron cannon a bit, then grazed her hand along the drapes that framed his oversized berth.

Gazing somberly at the captain’s huge bed, she could only wonder what might happen there when he came back tonight, as promised. He had threatened from the start to make her pay her way with her body; earlier, he had sworn that she’d be willing when he came to collect his price.

Today’s little demonstration proved he did not lack the power to rob her of her wits and her better judgment.

What had made him stop, she did not know.

Maybe she was just too much of an eccentric jungle oddball for him, she thought. But, no. She lowered her gaze. That was just insecurity talking. She had seen his lust for her burning in his turquoise eyes—thrilling, a little scary. Something else had made him pull away and spare her virtue today.

But for how long would his self-restraint hold?

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Eden turned and gazed in the direction of the stateroom, where she could still hear him handing down commands. Her cheeks heated merely to ponder what the night might hold, for she had a feeling that when he came through that barricaded door after dark, he was going to do things to her, delicious things, that would make it impossible for her to resist. And then the freedom she had enjoyed for so long would be lost in the blink of an eye.

If things went too far, she’d have no choice but to marry him, and marriage, of course, gave a husband total legal control over his wife. She trembled at the thought of the mighty Lord Jack for her lord and master, with his iron will and countless secrets. She’d be no more than a thrall to him.

She had to resist.
But how
?

Given his reputation, he might not even
offer
marriage once he had his way with her. He might simply prefer to leave her ruined.

No, she thought with a chill, Papa would never let him get away with that. Connor would kill him if he disgraced her.

At any rate, she could not bring herself to believe that Jack would ever do something that cruel.

Still, the train of her thoughts had begun to unnerve her. She padded silently across the cabin, desperate for some means of distracting herself, but try as she might, she could not stop thinking about Black-Jack Knight.

The man fascinated her. Well, she had never met anyone on a secret mission before.

Of course she forgave him now for refusing that day in the jungle to escort her back to England. It was obvious in hindsight that he couldn’t have told her the real reason why he had declined her request, even at the risk of looking utterly ungallant.

Indeed, now that he had told her how dangerous his true goal was, she was already worried about what could happen to him once they reached England. Most of the countries of Europe had embassies in London, and that included Spain. They would be watching him, she realized. They would all be watching him.

It was hard to decide in that moment which of them was madder: Papa or Jack. Papa, with his quest into the deadly Amazon to find medicines for the good of all mankind, or Lord Jack, risking everything to back a cause he believed in, freeing a nation.

Thinking of her sire, she hoped that by now Papa, too, was at sea. She had to believe that upon finding her missing, he would have abandoned his lunatic quest in order to come after her instead. Guilt gnawed at her, and filial anxiety, as she pondered his certain wrath at her when they next met.

She had dashed well better find a new patron in London or he might never speak to her again, once he realized she was safe.

The important thing was that he’d be alive—not that he would ever t
hank
her for it. As for Connor… well, she was happy to conclude that the big Australian wasn’t her problem anymore. Surely by now he had taken the hint.

Drifting over toward the mahogany washstand in the corner, she glanced at herself in the mirror and frowned at her bony reflection. Then, with a sudden surge of curiosity—why not?—she opened the top drawer of the washstand to see what it might hold.

Inside lay a slim silver case of cigarillos along with an array of grooming items: a comb, a bristly toothbrush, a shaving razor with a stropping stone, small scissors for his nails. She found a tiny bottle of cologne shoved into disuse in the back of the drawer; she took it out and sniffed it, smiling.
Very nice
. Putting it away, she closed the drawer again.

All right, bored again. Now what
? Glancing over her shoulder, she eyed the sturdy leather sea chest over by the bulkhead, then sent a surreptitious glance toward the door.

Hmm
. The captain hadn’t said anything about her not being allowed to look around, she reasoned. Scientific curiosity drew her over to the great leather trunk.

She crouched down before it silently and, much to her surprise, found the brass closure unlocked. She inched the lid open and peered inside. Nothing too exciting at first glance.

On the top lay an extra greatcoat of black wool, unneeded in the tropics. Beneath it she found a pair of pistols holstered in a belt and a large knife in an ornate sheath. These sprawled atop messy piles of papers and books, one of which proved to be a copy of
Travels in the Orinoco Delta
, by one Dr. Victor Farraday. With a startled but tender smile, Eden lifted her father’s book out of the trunk, absurdly pleased that Lord Jack had read it.

Just holding it in her hands made her feel closer to Papa. In truth, this past fortnight had been the longest they had ever been parted. She thumbed through the pages fondly. Reading a paragraph here and there was almost like having Papa here, talking to her.

It is but Nature’s way, my dear. All creatures take a mate upon reaching reproductive age…

Shaking her head quickly, she set Papa’s famous narrative aside and dug around in the trunk to see what else she might find. A bulky lump beneath some letters turned out to be a silver-plated winner’s cup mounted on a small polished block of white marble.
How very curious
. It was heavy as she rolled it onto its side and read the inscription:

SAM O’SHAY

“THE KILLARNEY CRUSHER.”

BARE-KNUCKLE CHAMPION OF THE EPSOM DOWNS

MATCHES MAY 10, 1792

HEIGHT: 6’4”, WEIGHT: 15 STONE.

Goodness, the man had been a giant. Though, on second thought, the captain himself was probably about that size.

Of course, so many years ago, Jack would only have been a young boy, maybe ten years old. She let out a soft “Hmm,” and furrowed her brow, pondering the prize, but could arrive at no explanation for why Lord Jack might have this. Perhaps some revered male figure in his youth had taken him to the boxing match. Perhaps he had bought it more recently, as an admirer of the Irish pugilist.

Shrugging off the question, she picked up one of the letters that had lain over it. She bit her lip, fingering the letter in temptation.
No, I can’t possibly read this
, she thought, but when she noticed that it was in a woman’s round, frilly handwriting, curiosity got the best of her.
It could be from that girl he loved when he was a young lad
—
Lady Maura? The one who wouldn’t marry him
…

Seized with a desire to find out if Lady Maura had lived to regret her choice, given the magnificent specimen that Lord Jack had become, she turned the letter over furtively only to learn that it wasn’t from Lady Maura at all.

Ah, it seemed Lord Jack had a sister!

Wide-eyed, Eden could not help herself. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading. His sister’s name was Jacinda, and she had written her errant brother volumes about their family, their ever-growing ranks of new babies and little children, and all their glittering adventures in Society. Though scarcely older than herself, the picture that emerged informed Eden that Lady Jacinda was nothing less than a leading hostess of the London ton. Tea in the Queen’s drawing room! A private ball at Devonshire House! The races at Ascot!

Jacinda’s accounts were far more authentic than the journalists’ secondhand reports about Society’s world in
La Belle Assemblée
. She sounded like an entirely warm, charming, and elegant personage—exactly the sort of lady Eden only wished she could become. It became clear that Jack’s whole family moved in the first circles of Society.

She could hardly believe it.

Indeed, she was in raptures reading about their amazing lives. Jacinda’s sparkling descriptions brought each of Jack’s siblings to life in her imagination. The proud lords did not sound quite so intimidating through the eyes of their little sister: Robert, the impeccable Duke of Hawkscliffe, champion of noble causes in the House of Lords and musical collector of fine pianos. His Grace lived in splendor in the heart of London with his beautiful and, by the sound of it, saintly duchess, Bel.

Next came the brave twins, Damien and Lucien—one raising thoroughbred racehorses for a hobby, the other raising eyebrows with all his controversial opinions. Damien, “our Colonel,” as Jacinda called him, proved to be a distinguished war-hero, while the mysterious Lucien worked in some vague capacity for the government. Jacinda told Jack that no one was quite sure what Lucien did, nor was he allowed to talk about it.

Then there was the charming Lord Alec, man about Town, who had just won the girl of his dreams along with an enormous fortune at the gaming tables. Jacinda also wrote about her best friend Lizzie, who seemed to be as close to them as any family member; newly married to a viscount, Lizzie, whoever she was, was expecting her first child. Noting the date of the letter, which was a few months old, Eden wondered if Lizzie had birthed the babe yet, and if it had been a boy or a girl.

As for Jacinda herself, Eden learned that she was married to a marquess she called Billy and who she swore was the dearest, handsomest, most wonderful being on the face of the earth; Jacinda said she was sure Jack would approve of him for reasons she would not commit to paper. Above all, she wrote paeans of love about her wee son, Beauregard. Beau’s first solid food. Beau’s first step. Beau’s first puppy. Beau escaping up the aisle in the middle of church, and everybody at the service vowing the golden-haired tot was the most beautiful child they’d ever seen. Beau was the apple of his papa Billy’s eye…

Through a mist of sentimental tears, Eden shook her head and slowly let the final sheet of thick linen paper drop to her lap.

Every letter from Lady Jacinda had ended the same way:
T
hank
you for the gifts you sent, my dear brother. Please come home soon. We’d love to see you anytime. Your devoted sister, Jas
.

Jacinda had not come out and said it, but the young woman clearly wondered why little Beau’s Uncle Jack did not wish to be part of the toddler’s life—of all their lives.

If I had a family like this
, Eden thought,
I’d never leave
.