Jacob sensed that her hesitation matched his own.
Her breasts strained against the worn fabric of her dress. The tiny buttons pulled at the material, and Jacob suddenly wanted nothing more than to rip them free and feel the warmth of her body in his hands. He pulled her nearer, his gaze holding hers as his arms closed around her. Lowering his head, his lips brushed gently against hers. He raised up slightly to see her face and smiled at her closed eyes and expectant expression.
Once again his mouth came down on hers. At first it was gently as before, then slowly the kiss deepened. Her lips parted in answer to his probing tongue, and Jacob swallowed her gasp of surprise. A wave of desire washed over him, and he held on to her as if it meant his life. Smoothly, expertly, his mouth caressed the warmth of her.
His hands moved over her body. She melted against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her fingers threaded through his hair and held his mouth down more firmly on her own.
Jacob's body ached with the force of his need. Her eager innocence inflamed him more forcibly than anything he'd ever known.
Instinctively he cupped her bottom with one hand and pulled her tightly against the swollen, throbbing proof of his desire. She jerked back, surprised. But when his other hand moved to cup her breast, she gasped deep in her throat and pulled away.
They stood only inches apart, each of them struggling for breath. Their eyes met, and Jacob swallowed heavily, ashamed of himself for causing the confusion he saw written on her face. He stretched out his hand toward her, but she stepped back a pace, holding her fingertips to lips still full from his kiss.
“Why did you…”
He looked away, staring out at the black river. "Kiss you? I don't know."
Bridget breathed deeply, glad for the return of her senses.
She stepped up to the rail and stared out at the swiftly moving water. Now that the brief storm of passion had passed, she realized that his indifferent answer to her question was maddening. He didn't know why be kissed her? By heaven, did he go around kissing women wherever he happened on them?
“What do you mean you don't know why?" She turned to look at him.
He only glanced at her before shifting his gaze back to the night "I mean there's no excuse for it. I’m sorry.”
Well. He was sorry. That was a fine thing! What was wrong? Didn't she do it right? If not, it was hardly her fault! She'd not had much experience with this sort of thing. Besides, shouldn't the blame for a faulty kiss lay with the one who'd started it all?
Her fingers curled, straightened, and curled again over the railing. Can it be possible, she asked herself, for a kiss to shake her to her boots and do nothing for him? A hot flush stained her cheeks as she remembered the hard feel of him when he pulled her close.
He straightened abruptly and turned to her. "Again. I'm sorry… for disturbing you. It won't happen again, I assure you."
His arrogance infuriated her. He was as good as saying she didn't know how to kiss! That she was indeed so poor at it that he wouldn't be bothered to try it again!
"You're right there," she snapped. "It won't happen again."
One side of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "At last, I see we agree on something."
She threw her shoulders back and met his stare. "Aye. We agree."
"Good night, Bridget," he said with a soft smile and walked away.
As he moved toward the main staircase, Jacob realized that he hadn't told her what he'd come down to say in the first place. He stopped, then continued on. No, he couldn't trust himself any further tonight.
Besides, he told himself with a snort of derision, how could he possibly explain to her that he'd come to ask her to stay away from him and his daughter? Hell, he couldn't believe himself. He'd reacted like a schoolboy to his first kiss.
He took the stairs carefully, slowly, the ache in his groin painful. It was simply her eagerness he'd responded to, he told himself. It had nothing to do with Bridget. He'd been too long without a woman. Any willing female would have inflamed him.
Jacob stopped at the head of the stairs and looked up at the night sky. He was lying and he knew it. But why? And why her? It wasn't just her innocent passion, it was the woman herself. No other woman since Helene in their early courtship had had that effect on him. And not even his late wife had brought him to such a stage of feverish excitement.
No, it was Bridget O'Dell who'd awakened him as well as Jessica.
He walked on, down the passageway to the door of his cabin. Turning the knob, he peered inside to see his daughter still sleeping peacefully. Quietly he shut the door again. Making his way slowly to the hurricane deck, he reached into his breast pocket for a cigar.
He sat down on a crate of potatoes and struck a match. Might as well have a smoke, he thought. He certainly wouldn't be getting any sleep.
#
Bridget pounded the lump of dough. Her strong hands punched, lifted, and twisted the sticky mass as she prepared it for baking. Usually, she hated the time and energy spent kneading bread dough. Today, though, she welcomed it. In her mind's eye, every slap and twist was delivered not to the unfeeling lump on the worktable but to Jacob Fallon.
She grunted and squeezed the dough between her fingers.
Damn his eyes anyway!
Bridget picked the dough up and hurled it back onto the table. A fine white cloud of flour shot into the air, and she turned away to sneeze.
“Gesundheit.”
"Thank you." She didn't bother to look up at the old cook as he entered the kitchen. She was in no mood for polite conversation, but Tom refused to be ignored.
Pointing at the dough, he asked. “'That about ready now, or are you tryin' to make it bleed?"
She pulled the dough into two separate mounds and covered them with a towel. “'They have to rest for a bit."
He nodded sagely. "Reckon they must be tired."
"Aye, well –“ Bridget changed the subject. Tom's eyes were altogether too curious. "Is there anything else you'll be needin' me for?"
The old man tugged at his mustache for a moment "Well, the place needs a good sweepin'."
She reached for the broom, but he snatched it from her.
"But the way you're goin' at things this mornin’, you'd stir up a dust storm thick enough so's I couldn't breathe." His bushy gray eyebrows rose almost to his receding hairline.
Bridget wiped her hands on her apron and didn't bother to deny it. She'd been a working fury all morning trying to get rid of her anger. It hadn't helped.
"You go on and find somethin' else to do for a bit. Give this old man a little peace before supper."
Poor Tom. She'd made his morning a miserable one. And it was all Jacob Fallon's fault!
Looking up, she laid her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Tom. I've been a true harpy today, and there's no excuse for it."
He smiled and patted her hand. His voice gruff, he answered, "That's all right. Hell, I've been known to snarl a bit in my time. Now, you get on outta here for a while. I got things to do."
Bridget smiled halfheartedly and left the hot, tiny room. With two steps, she was standing on the hurricane deck, but she had no intention of staying there. She knew very well that this was the cabin passengers' promenade deck. At any moment Jacob Fallon could decide to take a stroll. And if there was one person in the world that she didn't want to see right now, it was him.
She held her skirt up above her ankles with still-floury hands and hurried down the wide staircase of the relative security of the main deck. Walking the length of the ship, she made her way to the stern. She went straight to the side railing and picked up a bucket with a rope attached to it. Dropping the dented metal pail into the river, Bridget watched it fill with water, then began to pull it back up. As the muscles in her arms pulled and stretched with the effort, she paused a moment to be thankful that the drop to the river was at least a short one. Finally she grabbed the pail and lifted it over the railing.
Setting it down on
the nearest crate, Bridget dipped her hands into the icy cold water, cupped them, and carried the water up to her flushed face. Eyes closed, she straightened and tilted her head back, letting the frigid water run down the neck of her shirt. This was just what she'd needed. Maybe the river water would not only cool down her body's heat but her temper as well.
She gritted her teeth as just thinking about the night before started a flare of temper. Deliberately she bent over and once more sloshed cold water over her face.
It was no use. Such a simple act was not going to wash away her anger. Nor would it get Jacob Fallon off the boat and out of her mind.
Bridget finished cleaning up, dumped the rest of the water over the side, and replaced the bucket, ready for the next passenger to use it. Rolling the sleeves of her shirt down over her chilled arms, Bridget hurried to the one spot on the crowded ship she considered her own. Climbing up onto the crate that served as bed, chair, and sanctuary, she let her mind conjure up the visions she'd been ignoring all day.
Crossing her arms over her chest and closing her eyes, Bridget saw it all again. Relived it all over – Jacob Fallon's eyes, his voice, his mouth. Her breath came fast as she remembered the touch of him and the warm fire he'd built in her limbs.
Bridget's eyes flew open, and her face flushed a deep scarlet as she looked guiltily around. Good God Almighty! What had she done? If her mother were alive, this would kill her. Why, Bridget told herself, she'd behaved no better than that strumpet, Colleen O'Grady. No, she was worse! At least the men Colleen entertained herself with were from the neighborhood. People she knew. People like herself.
Jacob Fallon, though, was practically a stranger! She'd known him less than two weeks, and she'd allowed him to kiss her with more passion than she'd seen in most of the marriages in Kerry Patch.
Bridget's head dropped to her chest. What was worse, she'd enjoyed it. There, she'd finally admitted it. She'd been awake all night, heaping mountains of Irish curses on Jacob Fallon's head. She'd been blaming him for what happened in the moonlight. All of her anger had been directed at him, when in truth she should have saved it for herself.
After all, she wasn't a child, and, she acknowledged silently, she'd been known to shout and argue a time or two in her life. She could still remember very clearly the night Patrick Kane had tried to steal a kiss. She'd been only sixteen years old, and yet she'd managed to box his ears for him.
The sad truth of the matter was that she could have stopped Jacob's kiss before it ever got started. She hadn't wanted to. She'd lost herself in the deep blue of his eyes, and when his lips touched hers, any thought of resistance had fled her mind.
She lifted her braid off the back of her neck, hoping for a cool river breeze. How would she ever be able to look him in the eye again? What he must think of her!
The only thing she could do was to stay out of his way. She simply wouldn't see him again. There were only about seven weeks left in the voyage. Surely she could avoid him that long.
Sitting up, Bridget smiled. She felt so much better. That was the answer to everything. She would simply go back to her original plan and disappear into the woodwork. She'd be as invisible as a little mouse. No one would notice her again.
She'd see to it.
A slight movement drew her gaze to the edge of the crate.
Nothing there. Leaning over, Bridget craned her neck to look around the corner of her windbreak. The breath left her body in a soft sigh, and she smiled helplessly at little Jessica Fallon, chewing at the end of her bonnet's ribbon.
Ah, well, almost no one would notice. Bridget's arms opened wide, and the little girl stepped into the circle of them.
#
St. Louis
Harry sat at the back of the crowded tavern. His pale gray eyes moved from one drunk to the next, never pausing for more than an instant. There were too goddamn many of 'em, he thought. And look at all the women! He frowned distastefully as a frowsy woman with wild copper-red hair plopped herself down on the lap of a man near him. She, like the other women in the tavern, was far the worse for drink. Her heavily made up eyes were glazed, and her too-big mouth hung open as she made supposedly inviting noises to the man beneath her.
Harry took another long swig of his beer. His task was proving more difficult than he’d at first imagined. Oh, it wasn't a problem to fit in with the others in Kerry Patch. As long as a man could hold his liquor and his tongue, he was left alone. The difficulty lay in finding the particular women he was searching for.
He had their names and he'd never forget what they looked like, but he'd learned quickly that asking too many questions in this part of town wasn't easy. It seemed that no matter how drunk they were, the damned Irish stuck together. He'd yet to find one of them willing to do a little talking. He had no money to buy the information he needed, and what little patience he bad was quickly disappearing. There was only one thing left to try.
And the time was now.
His eyes followed the progress of the little man known as Paddy as be weaved and stumbled his way through the crowd to the door. Harry pushed himself to his feet and followed. Outside, the wizened old drunk shuffled down the street, mumbling unintelligible curses at any who got in his way.
Keeping his head down, Harry closed the distance between them. When they reached the entrance to an alleyway, Harry's huge hand closed down over Paddy's bony shoulder and dragged him into the darkness.
"Here, now! What's this, then? If it's money you're after, boyo, you're outta luck. Not a penny to me name."
"Shut up, old man," Harry sneered and, with the ease of practice, swung the man up against the side of a building, his hand clamped around the old drunk's throat. "I don't want your money. I want some information."
Paddy's glazed eyes focused momentarily, then he closed them and chuckled. "Can't tell you nothin'. Don't know nothin'."
“You better hope that ain't so."
The low growl opened Paddy's eyes again. "What? What do you want?"
Harry's hand squeezed down a little tighter. "I'm lookin' for a woman."
A strained, wheezing sound that might have been a laugh came from the old man. "Hell. You just left dozens of 'em to come after me!" He wheezed again. “Do I look like a madam to you, then?"
"No games, old man." Harry pulled him away from the wall, then slammed him back against it. "You tell me where I can find Colleen O'Grady. And tell me now. Before I break your skull."
Rheumy blue eyes narrowed. "Colleen, is it? Why? What's she done?"
"Nothin' to you. But I will, if you don't talk."
Paddy blinked his eyes furiously, trying to see more clearly. What he saw made him wish he'd passed out. The man was mad. A light shone in his death pale eyes. Suddenly Paddy realized that his time was short. If he didn't tell the man about Colleen, well… it didn't bear thinkin' about. And if he did, Ah, mercy.
The bear paw of a hand closed down on his throat once more, bringing tears to his eyes. All right, then. He'd tell where Colleen was. But then he'd hurry along and warn the bitch before this fellow could get there. Paddy shuddered slightly. That he should be made to suffer so for the likes of that razor-tongued baggage! In fact, if it was just Colleen, he might just let her get what she no doubt had comin'. But Eamon Flannagan cared for her, God alone knew why, and Eamon had been a help to Paddy more times than he could count.
"All right. All right." The band loosened a bit. "She's hidin' in the rooms above O'Hara's laundry."
"And the others? Are they there, too?"
"What others, man? You asked for Colleen. I give her to ya."
The hand tightened one last time, and Paddy struggled for air.
"She'd better be there, old man. Or there'll be one less drunk wanderin' these streets."
Paddy's gnarled fingers clawed at the hand. "She's there. She's there, I swear it. On my mother's grave."
Harry let go then, watching the old man's limp form collapse at his feet. He resisted the urge to kick him and left the
alley as quietly as he'd entered it.
Paddy saw his shadow move across the wall and took a deep, shaky breath. That was too close for comfort, by far. His hands in the dirt on either side of him, he leaned his head back, glorying in the rush of air into his lungs. He'd rest just a moment, then go warn Eamon's woman. It was a sad day, he thought absently, when an old man wasn't safe on the streets. His eyes closed with his next deep breath, and in minutes, Colleen forgotten, Paddy Touhy was snoring.
#
"I thought I'd find her here."
Bridget looked up into the stern blue eyes of Jacob Fallon. Returning her gaze to Jessica's braid, she quickly tied a ribbon around the end. The little girl had been with her for the last hour, and he was only now coming to fetch her?
"Aye, well, that wasn't difficult to figure out now, was it?"
His lips tightened into a frown.
So, he was going to be stiff with her again, was he? Amazing how the man could get her dander up so quickly. Why was it he went from hot to cold around her? Last night he'd been more than friendly, and today he looked at her as though she were no more important than a bug under his boot. No matter that she'd decided to avoid him… by heaven, she wouldn't be ignored.
"Jessica." He held his hand out to the child. "Come along with me."
The girl inched back against Bridget.
He didn't like that one bit. She bit back a smile. Now that she'd seen him again, there were one or two things she wanted to say to him. But not in front of Jessica. Bridget's hands gently pushed the little girl toward her father. "It's all right, darlin'. You can go with him now.”
Clearly astonished, Jacob ground out, "I don't need you to reassure my own child."
Jessica hadn't moved.
"Appears to me that's exactly what you need."
"Now, see here, Miss O'Dell –“
"No, you see here." Obviously he didn't mind speaking out in front of the girl, so she wouldn't hold back, either. "I didn't ask Jessica to come and visit. I didn't steal her from your cabin. I didn't lead her to me with a trail of cookie crumbs, either."
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