He bit his lip, trying not to burst into laughter at the sight she presented, his anger half-fled now. He’d be damned if she wasn’t standing as straight and tall as a bloody totem. Proud little chit.
He couldn’t help himself: She was easy prey. He lifted a finger and dragged it softly across her cheek, smearing grease, then inspected his finger. “Looks like you missed a spot,” he said, and then actually did laugh at her answering expression.
She actually fumed. She shook her head indignantly, and ash rose like smoke from her hair.
“You are an insufferable man!” she exclaimed, her cheeks blushing pink wherever there wasn’t grime.
Never in his life had he seen a more lovely and hilarious sight.
From her waist up she had grease marks on her dress and skin where she had been pressed against the grill—her face included! Her hands were black with soot, and when she lifted them off her dress they left a print as dark as night. The tip of her nose was as black as a dog’s nose, and her hair was covered with a blanket of ash.
Saboteur she might be, but she didn’t look the least bit threatening, and more than slightly comical.
“I really don’t see what’s so blessed funny, Mr. MacAuley!”
The laughter Jack was working so hard to contain erupted suddenly. “Oh, but if you had a mirror!”
She stomped her foot, and ash billowed from her hair again and his laughter escalated, despite her outrage—or perhaps because of it. He couldn’t tell. She just didn’t bring out the best in him.
He tried to calm himself. “Oh, but you do look lovely, Mizz Vanderwahl,” he teased.
She had the nerve to look wounded then. Wench. He’d caught her practically red-handed looking for the telegrams and she had the gall to look hurt! He wanted to take the beautiful little shrew over his knee and paddle her delicious backside—and oh, it was delicious. He couldn’t have gotten a better gander at it if he’d asked for it. Pert and round as it was, it had made him yearn to pat it as she wiggled her way out of his oven.
“Will you please stop calling me Mizz Vanderwahl!” she railed at him. “You manage to make it sound like an obscenity!”
His laughter subsided a bit, and he gave her a pointed glance. “You’re the one who refused my request to be on a first-name basis.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind!”
Infuriated, she swiped her hand across her nose and managed to paint it blacker. Jack barked again with laughter.
Sophie’s feelings were hurt.
She would have liked to have said that his hilarity didn’t affect her, but it did. Tears pricked at her eyes. She’d tried to do something nice and he had the audacity and bad manners to make fun of her misfortune!
She doubted there was a shred of her pride left to salvage, but still she tried. “If you will excuse me, Mr. MacAuley,” she said evenly. “I think I’ll go wash!”
“You do that,” he allowed, and fell back into another fit of hilarity.
With as much self-dignity as she could muster, Sophie walked past him to the door, casting him an indignant backward glance. And by Jude, she would have kicked him like the oven door if she’d not been raised better.
She glared at him. “You are ...” She wanted to call him bad names but not a single one came to mind. “... a wretched bully!”
He guffawed again, and Sophie turned her nose up into the air and marched away, leaving him to his unwelcome merriment. His laughter followed her through the mess hall and clear to her cabin.
She looked down at her hands when she reached the captain’s dining hall and saw that they were black as coal. With her left hand she reached down for the knob to let herself into her room and shrieked in pain.
“Ouch!” she cried out, and jerked her hand away without opening the door. It felt as though half a dozen tiny needles had pricked her, but she couldn’t see anything but accursed black when she inspected her hand again. Then again, the light was dim and she could scarcely see much at all. She wanted to cry.
Whatever had made her think she could repair the damage between them? Why did she care so much what the man thought of her? Who on earth was Jack MacAuley to make her feel less than human?
He’d followed her, and had the effrontery to sound concerned. “What’s wrong, Sophia?”
Sophie swallowed her tears. “Why should you care?” Her nerves were near the point of shattering. It had been a terrible day—a terrible week—ever since she found out about Harlan! She had wasted three whole years of her life and wanted some justice for his making her out to be a fool! How could that horrible cad waste her father’s money spending time in the Yucatan dallying with other women?
“I hope it rots and falls off!” she declared wrathfully, and spun around to face Jack MacAuley.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing is wrong!” she lied, sounding too much as though she were trying not to cry. “Nothing at all!” she repeated a little hysterically, and then added, just to be sure there was no mistake. “I do not like you, Mr. MacAuley!”
He pulled himself up the ladder and sauntered toward her, but Sophie stood her ground.
“I don’t like you much either, Mizz Vanderwahl.” His green eyes turned almost gray in his anger. With his laughter gone, his jaw was set, and his words were heavy with meaning. “You’re a spoiled, rotten brat used to getting your own way, but at least I don’t seem to need to list your shortcomings every time I see you!”
His accusation set her aback.
Did she really do that?
“Look,” he continued, having won her silence, “I know I don’t fit into your crowd!”
Sophia blinked at the wounded sound of his voice.
“Your kind never lets a man forget where he came from,” he told her. “He can work his ass off to earn his degree and prove himself, but no dice! Well, I’ve news for you, Mizz Vanderwahl, because you’re no damned better than me!” His green eyes were dark with wrath. “When it comes time to piss, we all do it just the same way.”
Sophie winced at his animosity, at the anger apparent in his words. She didn’t know how to respond, particularly since she was hardly going to point out that she didn’t think it was anatomically possible for men and women to relieve themselves in exactly the same manner.
“There is no need to use profanity,” she protested weakly. “I’m quite capable of understanding your frustrations without it.” Her gaze fell to her injured hand, and she studied it, unnerved by the heat in his eyes.
If he had intended to make her feel responsible for all his ills, he’d certainly succeeded. Sophie felt properly chastened. There was truth in what he said. Everything derogatory she had heard about him at the university had been in reference to his upbringing—not a single objection had been raised about his intellect.
In fact, Harlan had been assured even the most basic things... such as attendance at the university... but this man standing before her had likely had to fight to earn every honor he had achieved. A new sense of respect welled up inside her for him, but it didn’t matter, because he really didn’t like her at all, and he hadn’t felt the least hesitation over telling her so.
The silence between them was deafening.
Sophie peered up through damp lashes to judge his expression. His fury had cooled a bit from his eyes as he stared at her upturned hand, and when he met her gaze, it expressed mostly concern.
“Let me look at it,” he demanded gruffly.
Sophie nodded and offered him her hand, palm upturned.
He brushed it softly with his fingers, and Sophie winced in pain. He tried to blow the ash away to no avail, and then peered up at her with a sympathetic expression.
“It’s full of splinters from the wood,” he told her, and then stared at her until she was forced to avert her gaze once more. Somehow, she couldn’t hold his glance without feeling heat in her cheeks. “Will you trust me to get them out?”
Someone had to do it, and she hadn’t the least idea how to pr
oceed. The last time she had gotten a single splinter in her finger, her mother had stuffed a kerchief in her mouth so she wouldn’t scream, and then had squeezed until Sophie thought her heart would stop, all the while railing about how men had lost entire hands from infections that had set in after getting tiny splinters. She’d been admonished to behave properly—like a lady—and never to slide down banisters like pernicious little boys.
Jack’s expression begged her trust, and she took a deep breath and nodded.
Chapter 11
Taking her by her good hand, Jack led Sophie inside his cabin, kicking the door shut behind them.
Sophie felt a moment’s hesitation as she heard the click of the latch as it closed. Her heart leaped a little at the sound. But he merely dragged her over to his washbasin and released her hand long enough to fill it with clean water. That done, he turned around and seized her good hand, then held his hand out for the other. Sophie stepped forward, and he positioned her in front of him, before the washbasin. He then stood behind her and placed his arms around her, embracing her.
Sophie swallowed convulsively at the feel of him standing behind her, his body hard and quite male. He took her hands in his and began to wash them gently, the gesture such an intimate one that Sophie suddenly found it difficult to catch her breath. He reached up, releasing her only long enough to seize a bar of soap, and then he returned to bathing her hands. The soap slid through their fingers with silken ease, and his big hands moved with amazing finesse. A quiver went through her at the sensation. He washed both her hands but took great care with her injured palm, making certain to clean the area thoroughly but ever so gently, patiently, never speaking a word to her as he worked.
Sophie was mesmerized by the sight of their hands intertwined.
His arms were around her. They were alone and the door was closed. The realization shuddered through her.
The moment seemed to go on endlessly and the air was suddenly thick with anticipation.
But nothing happened ... except that he put the soap away and lifted up a towel, then guided her over to his desk. Still without a word, he lifted her up, as though she were no more than a child, and set her atop his desk.
But Sophie was not a child.
She was a woman.
And she was far too aware of his hands on her ribs, beneath her breasts as he lifted her. Fleeting though the embrace was, it left her breathless and titillated in a way she had never felt before. She watched him light a lantern and turn the flame up so that it was bright enough to see by, and then he dragged his chair before her and sat. Sophie’s heart beat erratically. Her breath quickened.
The lantern cast a golden hue on his face, turned his tawny hair a deep, rich bronze. He was really quite a stunning man, and she couldn’t help but stare. She knew it was far too bold of her, but he wasn’t watching her this instant, and she allowed herself the liberty ...
“This is going to hurt just a bit,” he warned, peering up sympathetically into her eyes.
His green eyes seemed to glitter with the flame, hypnotizing her. She tried to find her voice to speak but couldn’t. Again she nodded, swallowing, far too aware of the man sitting before her ... her hand cradled within his.
He tried to be gentle, Sophie could tell, but tears sprang to her eyes as he began to work to remove the splinters. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried not to cry out.
He knew she was trying hard to be brave.
Jack tried not to smile at her expression.
She looked so much like a little girl, with her eyes scrunched shut and her lips tightly pressed, as though bracing herself for her punishment.
Despite the truth of his accusations earlier—she was a spoiled brat—he admired her grit at the moment. Telltale tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t shed them.
Christ, when he’d looked up into those huge wide eyes, he’d wanted to draw her into his arms and hold her, tell her everything was going to be all right.
His emotions warred now as he watched the play of emotions across her face.
On the one hand he wanted to despise her for what she was doing—spying for Penn. On the other, he wanted to care for her, keep her from harm, soothe her. And at the heart of it all was an intense attraction between them that set him on his ass every time he was in her presence.
He didn’t trust her, but even less did he trust himself.
He couldn’t seem to think straight when he was around her. His body took over and his brain turned to mush.
Damned Penn.
“Ouch!”
He hadn’t met to hurt her. His gaze jerked up. “Sorry. I know it hurts, Sophia.”
She nodded, her eyes watering. “It’s all right,” she absolved him, “I know you must.”
He returned to working on her palm, squeezing out the slivers as gently as he was able, unnerved by the way her pained expression made him feel.
“You really did a number on it,” he said.
She laughed softly, nervously perhaps.
He’d like to say it served her right, but he couldn’t find it in himself to wish her harm. Her leg brushed his knee and his body stirred.
Damn it.
What was wrong with him?
He was getting aroused just taking splinters out of her hand. The sweet, feminine scent of her teased him. The softness of her hands preoccupied him, taunting him with images of her gentle caresses. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining the pale skin beneath her bodice ... the rise and fall of her breasts... remembering the taste of her mouth.
Her closed-mouth kiss had been far too brief, and he found himself craving the taste of her on his tongue. She had teased him only, giving him the briefest sense of what she would taste like.
He wanted her.
There was no denying it.
He swallowed thickly and reached down to draw his knife from his boot, trying to ignore the heat simmering in his trousers.
Seeing the blade flash, she cried out and jerked her hand back. “You are not going to use that on me!”
“Actually, I am,” he said, and smiled up at her, firming his grip upon her hand.
Both her hands flew up at his declaration, and her expression turned suddenly combative. “No, you most certainly are not!”
Her temper was a good thing, he decided. He was far more at ease around her when she was being a spitfire. Timidness just didn’t suit her. Nor did it suit him either.
It confused him, brought out conflicting emotions that he’d rather not deal with.
He held his dagger in an open hand. It had been a gift from his father, and to him from his father before him. With its heavy metal handle and curved blade, he was well-aware that it seemed far too dangerous a tool to be using on her tender flesh, but it was all he had. And he was very, very adept with it.
“It’s up to you, Sophia. Live with the splinters, or let me take them out.” He left it up to her, making no move to return to the task until she gave him leave.
After a moment, she lowered her hands, but kept them out of his reach.
“I’ll just use the tip,” he promised, sensing that she wanted to trust him.
Her huge eyes slanted, and he stared into them, trying to decipher their strange color—greenish-gold at the instant, but a green so dark they were almost black... and dancing flecks of red maybe from the flame of the lantern.
“You won’t let it go in too deep?”
Jack blinked at her question.
The allusion was completely lost to her, but not to him. His body hardened at the images that assaulted him—his body poised over hers, coaxing her to open for him. Damn, it, he wanted to go very deep. He glanced down at his knife, then back into her wide eyes.
She couldn’t know what he was thinking.
Need clawed at him, and he resisted the urge to readjust his jewels because she was staring at him too intently. His body strained against his trousers, and he shifted uncomfortably.
“I’ll … uh … only put th
e tip in,” he swore, and his voice sounded raw even to his own ears.
If she happened to look down... would she understand what she saw?
Was she as innocent as she made herself out to be?
He wanted to know. He willed her to look, wanting to see her reaction to the need in his eyes and his full erection.
“If it hurts,” he added, clearing his throat, “I’ll... uh ... pull out at once.” He studied her expression. She wanted to trust him, he could see that.
Too bad he couldn’t return that trust.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he swore, and winked at her. “I’ll be gentle.”
Her brows knit. And then she took a deep breath. “Well... all right,” she relented and offered her palm once more. “But don’t push it in too hard!”
His body hardened completely and unmistakably.
“You ... uh ... have my word.”
Damn, he had to stop thinking about this—that—or he was liable to slice off her hand. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the cobwebs from his suddenly musty brain.
“Forgive me,” she said, concern coloring her voice. “I know I’m being a ninny, but it just seems so ... big!”
Jack choked on her choice of word.
She couldn’t possibly know what she was doing to him with no more than a simple conversation. His hands trembled.
Or maybe she did?
His eyes were drawn to her bodice, searching for some evidence that she shared his bawdy thoughts, but the thickness of her dress completely hid pebbled nipples.
If he reached out to touch those lovely breasts, would her nipples be hard through the layers of her gown?
Like the Princess and the Pea... a man’s fingers knew instinctively what lay beneath.
His thumb itched to brush her nipple with a lover’s touch, take the supple treat into his mouth.
He stuck the handle of his knife into his mouth while he adjusted her hand. It was a poor substitute.
He cleared his throat, and tried to change the direction of his thoughts, reminding himself what he had caught her doing … preparing to burn the proof of her espionage. The splinters served her right.
To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 37
