His Wicked Kiss (6 page)

How something that big disappeared so completely was impossible to say, but its leathery hide was superbly matched to blend in with the olive-drab river. The crewmen looked around at one other, the unspoken question on everyone’s minds.

Trahern cleared his throat. “Are those things, er, ever known to attack boats?” he asked their pilot somewhat nervously in Spanish.

“
Si
, a veces.”

“Sometimes? I see. Well, that is most reassuring,” Trahern muttered to Jack, who grinned. “You should’ve let me shoot it.”

Trahern huffed off to check the other side of the boat.

With the lieutenant gone, Jack stood alone at the railing on the blunt prow of the boat, lost in a rare sense of wonder at the strange and beautiful yet fearsome world unfurling all around him. The bright blooms of a passion flower caught his eye on the banks, and as he stared, a zooming flash of blue appeared as if by magic at the flower’s lip and hovered there, a delicate miracle.

For the space of only a few heartbeats, the hummingbird fed on the blossom’s sweet nectar; when thunder rumbled in the distance, it was gone. A breeze moved through the thick, rubbery palm fronds like the subtle stirring deep within him of a hunger for something all his gold could not buy nor all his power command… something he had long since ceased to believe in.

But the warm wind brought with it a baptism of soft, silver rain: Jack tilted his head back and welcomed its caress.

High in the treetops,
Eden
always had her best ideas, and today was no exception. Gazing out over the jungle, she had been inspired with one last-ditch scheme to save her father from himself. The solution was simple.

Perhaps they did not have the money for all three of them to travel back to England, but she could go alone, taking with her a sampling of her father’s most important discoveries; in London, she could meet with the new Lord Pembrooke, their former patron’s heir, and personally present to him the wonderful cures that Papa had found.

If she could convince the rakehell earl of the importance of her father’s work for the good of all mankind, then perhaps His Lordship would see fit to reinstate their grant. But even if the thoughtless rake refused, there were many rich philanthropists in
London
. Surely, she reasoned, given her father’s fame and the strength of his work, she could find
someone
willing to fund his research.

That way, Papa could remain here, in the relative safety of the
Orinoco
jungles, rather than chasing certain doom into the Amazon. As for her, she could stay with Aunt Cecily and Cousin Amelia as soon as she arrived in
England
, so there would be no worries over her being chaperoned. All in all, it sounded to her like the perfect answer: Everyone would win.

Of course, knowing Papa, he’d probably find some fault with it; nevertheless, the mere possibility lifted her spirits. For now, there was nothing to do but wait until he got back so she could ask what he thought of her plan. Pleased with her inspiration, she climbed down to a lower branch and got to work on her orchids.

With her shin-length cotton walking dress hitched up a bit, she settled herself astride a thick, mossy bough that arched over the river; her booted feet swung idly as she became absorbed in her scientific studies.

Eager as she was to return to civilization, she was honest enough to admit that her life in the Delta could not be described as unpleasant. There was contentment in such days. In spite of everything, the peace that she always felt high in the canopy soon settled over her.

Within an hour, she had not only made a discovery that was going to astound Papa, she had also made a friend in the form of a curious little capuchin monkey that had taken an interest in her. It watched her every move, nestled in the crook of the branch just above her.

The capuchin’s markings gave the animal its name, after the order of brown-robed monks who had come to the
New World
as missionaries with the conquistadors. The little imp had a white face with big, round eyes, a brown body with a black beanie cap, and black sleeves.

“Look at this,” she murmured to it. “Isn’t that… remarkable?” Adjusting her thick leather gardening gloves,
Eden
gripped her small knife harder and cut carefully into the carpet of moss that had made its home on the broad branch of the tree, examining the air-feeding tendrils that helped it attach there.

Meanwhile, seeds from the upper canopy pin-wheeled past her, falling earthward like nature’s confetti.

Continuing her examination of the little world living on the branch, she noted scratches in the tree bark left by birds pecking for insects, then discovered a bulgy-eyed baby tree frog floating in the rain-filled cup of a bromeliad.

Though it was tiny, she dared not touch the creature, for most jungle frogs were extremely poisonous. The secretions from their skins supplied the natives with a key ingredient in the lethal curare with which they tipped their blow-darts.

She returned her attention to the latest species of orchids she had found, a gorgeous cluster of purple-and-white blooms growing quite comfortably on the thinning bough, nearly over the center of the river. Inching ahead and balancing with intense concentration, she managed to take a few clippings for further study, and then indulged in the glorious fragrance. She inhaled the flower’s delicious vanilla scent, so luxuriously enhanced by the nourishing daily shower that now misted the jungle.

The rain had been soaking her to the skin for some time, but
Eden
quite enjoyed it. Having captured her orchids,
Eden
made a note of where she had found them, doing her best to shield her paper from the rain, when her monkey friend swiveled his head and went motionless, peering up-river for a second.

Suddenly, the capuchin let out a warning screech and fled up into his leafy towers.
Eden
froze, scanning the branches around her and praying she did not see an early-waking jaguar.

Her heart pounding, she listened in fright for any sound above the soft, steady patter of the rain on the leaves and searched the surrounding canopy, knowing full well the animal’s spotted coat made it almost impossible to see until it was too late.

She was trying to decide if it was better to be eaten there on the branch or to tumble into the river below, when suddenly she heard voices.

Male voices—many in number.

And they were speaking English!

Turning to stare in the direction the capuchin had first looked, she now beheld a most astonishing sight.

People!

A squat, tubby riverboat pulling a barge piled with timber was emerging slowly from around the river bend.

Whatever are they doing here
? she wondered as she stared with excitement bubbling up in her veins.
Never mind that
! This could be just the opportunity she had been praying for.

As the boat drifted closer, she studied the rough-looking men at the rails and lounging under the canvas shade on deck.

Admittedly, they did not look like a promising lot, resembling so many pirates. Many were shirtless in the heat, their swarthy hides tattooed and sinewy. Hope rose, however, when she noticed a young blond man striding toward the prow.

Unlike the others, he was quite fully dressed, though perhaps slightly wilted in the damp jungle heat. He seemed unwilling to be daunted by it. With his gentlemanly cravat in good order, cuffed white shirtsleeves neatly fashioned in self-conscious propriety, and ebony knee-boots, he looked like a proud and very correct young officer.

Her heart fluttered. Gracious, he was the handsomest creature she had seen in ages… until, following his progress, her gaze came to rest on the dark, magnificent man that the younger fellow now joined at the rails.

An indescribable awe—or fascination—came over her as she stared at their kingly leader. She had studied animals long enough to be able to pick out in an instant the dominant male, and there was no question whatsoever that he was it.

He appeared to be in his late thirties, and good Lord, he was big. He even had an inch or two on Connor, she reckoned, with several stone in pure muscle over Papa. The imposing stranger looked surprisingly at home in the jungle setting. A knotted red bandana hung around his neck in the Spanish style; he wore a loose white shirt, having apparently discarded his coat and waistcoat in the heat. His shirt fell open in a V down to his breastbone, baring his glistening, muscular chest.

The fine white linen had turned translucent in the rain and clung to his massive shoulders. Below, he wore dun-colored breeches that disappeared into shiny black boots.

Eden
realized something all of a sudden.

I
know who this man is
.

Lord Jack Knight, the mysterious merchant-adventurer who had turned himself into a shipping magnate worth millions—one of the most feared and powerful men in the
West Indies
.

Black-Jack Knight, some called him.

Kingston Society had swarmed with stories about the enigmatic adventurer, but despite his whispered reputation as a very bad man, the local Quality complained that he was too much of a loner and rarely made appearances at their genteel gatherings. He was the second son of a duke, according to their tales, but he had turned his back on his native
England
years ago to make his own way in the world. By all accounts, he had succeeded on a grand scale.

It was said he owned large portions of
Jamaica
, and had a fleet of eighty ships, with warehouses on every continent. No region of the globe was beyond his reach: furs from the northern wilds of
Canada
, silks and spices from the East, sugarcane from the torrid zone, and amazing new industrial machines from the north of
England
. His company, Knight Enterprises, was headquartered in
Port Royal
, but she had heard he lived outside the town in an elegant, white-stuccoed villa on a cliff above the sea. It had over a hundred rooms, but he lived alone there, except for his servants.

Some people claimed he had ill dealings with the smugglers who plagued
Buenos Aires
. Others whispered he had actually helped the Americans during the War of 1812, and since he was British-born himself, that would have made him all but a traitor if it was true. There were darker tales still, rumors of piracy in his shadowed past, but as far as
Eden
knew, no one had ever dared confront him to find out if all of this was fact or legend.

Well, blazes
, she thought with a slight gulp, though her stare intensified.
I
don’t care if he’s Blackbeard himself if he can get me out of here
.

Seeing the way he carried himself, it was easy to believe that such a man could wrest his fortune from the untamed sea.

Power, danger, and bold vitality emanated from every line of his towering physique; he held his head high with an air of intelligent command. His square face was framed by dark sideburns, his tousled hair the same dark, warm brown as the toppled mahoganies his boat was pulling.

“Look!” the blond young officer suddenly cried. “There’s—” He squinted in disbelief. “There’s a lady in that tree!”

Oh, dear
. She had been spotted. It was too late now to lose her nerve.

The crew let out with marveling oaths and exclamations, following the direction of the young man’s pointing finger. The sight of her there, sitting on the branch that overarched the river, must have been so unlikely that most of them seemed to find it quite hilarious.

She clenched her jaw and colored a bit, but refused to be nonplused. She rested one hand behind her on the bough and leaned back idly, trying to look nonchalant.

One sailor slapped his thigh as he guffawed. “If them grow on trees in these parts, Cap, you can drop me off ‘ere!”

She forced a long-suffering smile as a few of them bellowed with laughter, but Lord Jack, with a mystified look, walked toward the bow as the boat drifted closer, coming within a few feet of Eden’s perch.

The light rain trickled down his broad forehead to his thick, dark eyebrows. He had deep-set, hooded eyes and a large but aquiline nose. A day’s beard shadowed his rugged jaw, adding to his dangerous aura. His lips, she thought, looked a little chapped.
And altogether kissable
.

The unbidden thought quite startled her.

“What species of bird is that, do ye reckon?” one of his men persisted, rousing more laughter from his mates.

Turning redder by the second,
Eden
frowned, thinking their master just a little wanting in manners for not silencing their sport. Maybe he was a pirate, after all.

For her part,
Eden
was beginning to feel a tad foolish, knowing full well that tree-climbing was hardly how
La Belle Assemblée
advised young ladies to behave.

Alas, here she was being stared at by a magnetic, thoroughly compelling man, whose fleet of ships might be her only ticket out of here—a man whose direct and confident gaze made her heart beat faster—though that, in small part, might have been due to dread.