Didn’t anybody ever knock?
Rolling his eyes, he sighed again but didn’t bother to move. His voice was muffled by the towel he was using for a pillow. “Go away, Borland, can’t you see I’m busy!” he reproached the boy.
“Yes sir,” he answered, and stammered like an idiot, “but... well... you see ..
“Later,” he told the young man firmly, and laid his head down again.
Eager beavers these young apprentices were—annoyingly eager, at that!
“But sir ... it’s just that... you’ve a telegram!”
Harlan lifted his head once more. “A telegram?”
The boy nodded and came forth, offering it.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Give it to me!” Harlan demanded.
The youth handed it to him and scurried out before Harlan could dismiss him. That simple disrespect irked him.
He opened it.
It said simply: missed the boat. your telegrams are on board. they’ll be burned first time they use the stove. don’t want your blood money.
It was from Shorty.
Letting out a string of oaths, Harlan bounded up from where he lay, fury engulfing him. “Suffering idiot!” he shouted, and ripped the telegram in half.
Sophie knew they were working hard on deck: She could hear them laboring without rest and without complaint as she sat on her bed and sketched diligently.
The camaraderie between the men was easy and full of banter, and she found herself feeling quite the outsider among them ... and not a little bit envious.
She couldn’t help it.
She couldn’t remember ever having such an easy fellowship with anyone at all, not her parents, not her friends, not even Harlan. Always she had been on her best behavior, afraid to show anyone anything other than what was proper, or what was expected.
And in truth, she’d had reason to be afraid. She was an anomaly, wanting things that were hardly conventional for a woman of her position.
Though she wanted desperately to make her parents proud, some little part of her had admired Harlan’s rebellion against his father. His parents had wanted him to become a lawyer, to replenish their coffers, since his own father’s career had nearly broken them. Harlan had defied him, following in his father’s shoes, despite the protests, and some little part of Sophia had wanted to follow his example.
Some little part of her still did.
While Sophie had snuck out to search for ferocious shark’s teeth with the little boys of her age, her friends had all been busy learning their manners and reciting the beatitudes. As adults they had become so very somber—no giggling with their heads together over anything at all, while Sophie still dreamed of attending the university and studying Plato’s Ethics or the origins of nature and the limits of human knowledge.
But it was an impossible dream.
Her father would never permit it. Their world was an unforgiving one, and a woman’s duty was to be a proper showpiece at all times.
How dare Harlan belittle the interest she had shown in his work!
How dare he make light of her intellect!
It was as though he didn’t believe her capable of meaningful thought.
It was as though he had entirely dismissed her because of her gender.
She had thought he respected her more, but she was a fool for believing it, because all the signs had been there. She had only refused to see them.
She didn’t want to be a wretched showpiece; she would die inside. But she would certainly become one if she married Harlan.
All her friends—every one—as mistresses of their own homes seemed to have metamorphosed into their mothers, ready to raise their daughters in the same manner in which they had been brought up. She looked into their eyes and saw but a remaining flicker of that curious fire every child is born with—boy and girl alike. For a time, it had nearly smothered within herself. She could see that now.
Only now, when she should be weeping with grief over Harlan’s betrayal, did she feel truly alive for the first time in so long.
She could feel.
And smell.
And see.
And it was quite likely melodramatic to think so, but she could do these things with far more clarity and intensity than she had experienced ever in her life.
She sighed wistfully, feeling restless.
She had completed the first sketch of Jack and set it aside, determined to capture his essence on paper. Somehow, every time she finished one, she was compelled to begin another. Jack might be a demon, but his was no simple facade. No matter how many times she drew him, she seemed somehow to be missing something essential to his persona. And so she kept trying. And kept trying... and kept trying... until she was wading in a veritable sea of Jack’s face.
She wondered what they were doing above deck, wondered what it would feel like to be one of them—to be allowed one’s own opinion, to tell bawdy jokes ... to wear pants ... and even more scandalous yet... to wear no shirt.
Unbidden, a vision of Jack MacAuley’s broad, bare chest materialized before her, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She started to draw shoulders below the neck, and stopped herself, forcing the pencil once more to the exaggerated arched brow.
She blinked the other image away and tried to visualize Harlan, but his face remained a blur. Certainly his body was no more than a shadowy blob.
Odd that she suddenly couldn’t even recall him clearly. Reaching out, she lifted up the portrait and studied it, trying to recall what it was about him that had attracted her to begin with.
She had known him forever, it seemed, but she supposed she had first admired Harlan’s intelligence. He had been her first real friend and confidant, even if it was fleeting.
But somehow, her heart was not broken at the thought of losing him. Anger she felt in spades over his betrayal, but heartbreak, no.
He had been everything her parents had wished for in a son, and everything Sophia had wished she could be—intelligent, witty, adventurous ... unafraid to stand up to his own father.
Secretly, Sophie had yearned to live Harlan’s life, visit the places he visited, talk to the people he talked to, learn and learn and learn, and experience life to its absolute fullest!
It was her true dream, though she was a practical woman, and if she couldn’t live the life she wished, she had determined to do the next best thing—to be the best mother and wife she possibly could be, and live vicariously through her husband. Even if he would have been mostly absent, she was certain absence was bound to make their hearts grow fonder.
Bah humbug!
He had apparently dismissed her the instant he had departed Boston!
She set the picture down and began to gather her drawings, afraid someone might see them.
The voices above deck had quieted with the sun’s descent. Faint murmurs reached her ears, but otherwise only the sound of the wind through the sails was discernible.
The air was stuffy and stale in the tiny cabin. For propriety’s sake, she was forced to keep the door closed, and not a whisper of air penetrated the small room. It was rather like being in a coffin. In fact, the longer she remained, the more morbid became her thoughts—she glanced at the portrait of Harlan—the more delicious was the thought of her revenge.
But if she sat here dwelling on her anger, she was going to murder Harlan in truth.
He looked far too serene in the portrait—far too noble with his patrician nose and rounded chin. And his blue eyes shone with far too angelic a light. His smile was far too kindly.
With a growl, she tossed her pencil down and reached out to slam the picture facedown, so she would be spared his magnanimous gaze.
How could she have been so blind?
No sooner was it down than his face blurred before her eyes completely... replaced by another, and Sophie tried in vain to erase it, too, from the canvas of her brain.
Green eyes and tawny hair ... full lips. His lips...that was what she had failed to capt
ure...how evocative his lips were. With one smirk he could infuriate her beyond belief, and yet there was something in that look that ensnared her too. Her cheeks flushed with heat. She resisted the urge to retrieve her pencil.
He was far more handsome than he deserved to be.
Nor was he anything at all as she had supposed.
Because he was a student of anthropology, she had visualized him more like Harlan—soberly dressed and staid, slightly wayward perhaps, but certainly not someone she might mistake for an arrogant dockhand!
She wondered what he was doing up there, and then berated herself for thinking about him at all.
Why should she care what he was doing?
She didn’t think he’d come back to his cabin ... else she would have known it. He would have had to pass her room, as his was the only other cabin on this level—at least on this end of the ship, and Sophie found herself suddenly curious to know if his quarters were as “plush” as her own.
She’d be willing to wager his own quarters weren’t nearly as meager.
Well... there was only one way to find out.
She crawled out of bed as quietly as she was able, leaving her papers in a neat pile and rose carefully so as not to whack her head again. Prowling like a thief, she crept out of her room, into the captain’s dining hall.
In this room was a medium-sized table, with six chairs around it. Snuggled within a nook, a washbasin sat. Bookshelves lined the length of one wall.
Above her, the sun had set completely and cast the lower deck in shadows. She heard voices near, but not so near that she could make out to whom they belonged—not that she would know at any rate. The voices filtered down from somewhere above deck... and somewhere below, but she decided the immediate coast was clear.
Feeling a little like a skulking thief, she made a dash for the captain’s cabin, and threw open the door.
Chapter 7
Sophie shrieked in startle at the sight of Jack seated at his worktable. Throwing up her hands in fright, she clutched at her chest, trying to catch her breath and regain composure.
“What are you doing here!” she asked, her heart thumping fiercely.
His brow lifted, and he gave her an assessing glance, but otherwise didn’t move from where he sat. He was half-dressed once again, shirtless entirely, but this time she had no right to complain.
She was in his cabin.
Uninvited.
He gave her a pointed look. “I would ask you the same.”
Sophie knew she had been caught in the act of snooping, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to apologize—especially after seeing the differences in their quarters. The least he could do was feel just a little guilty! Good grief, his room comprised half the lower deck, with windows along the back to let in the sunshine and moonlight. He had the shutters open, and a cool breeze shuffled through, teasing her hair and face.
A tallish wardrobe occupied the wall behind her, and a private washroom the niche beside it. Behind the desk where he sat was another massive bookshelf that spilled over with books. His bed was a hammock that occupied practically half the room and there was room for a second hammock above the table where he sat. Lanterns, six of them, two per wall, were lit against the setting sun, throwing warm golden light over the floors and polished maple table.
“I didn’t hear you come down,” she said, looking around, feeling a bit outraged.
She had paid an exorbitant fare of ten thousand dollars for passage aboard this accursed ship! The least he could have done was to have offered her better living quarters!
“I’ll be sure to warn you next time,” he told her, and the sarcasm in his tone was not lost on her.
Sophie’s face heated, but she ignored the barb, inviting herself in. “How novel. One can actually stand in your cabin.”
He set down his papers, making a point to turn them over, as though to hide them, and Sophie wondered what it was he was reading to guard them so jealously.
“Your powers of observation are astounding,” he countered.
Sophie gave him her most winsome smile, liberally laced with derision. “You give me far too much credit Mr. MacAuley. I hardly think it takes a keen eye to note the difference.”
He ignored her subtle complaint. “So tell me,” he prompted, “was there any particular reason you came bursting into my cabin... seeing as how you were evidently surprised to find me here?”
Sophie frowned, noting the way he had begun to collect his papers and set them inside a drawer as though to remove them from her reach. It was a ridiculous notion, but he was staring at her a bit accusingly. “To steal all your theories, of course,” she answered flippantly.
He didn’t laugh at her jest.
In fact, his frown deepened and he stared at her a bit more intensely. Those green eyes of his seemed entirely too perceiving. They bore into her, and Sophie’s heart began to beat a little faster under his careful scrutiny.
He was handsome, stunningly so, with his rugged good looks. His jaw was strong, with the slightest cleft that seemed to invite the delicate brush of a love’s thumb. His tanned skin, she realized, came from long hours in the sun, but not laboring on the docks as she’d first supposed. She could well imagine him burrowing shirtless in the dirt, searching for buried treasures.
She envied him fiercely.
All Sophie had ever wanted was the chance to learn—a chance to travel and discover new worlds. Her dream to mother Harlan’s children had been second to all her own. Only now that she was suddenly free of Harlan did she see it all so clearly. It was almost as though a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. She didn’t want to be married. Shocking as the idea was, it took root and began to grow.
Jack studied her, trying to determine if she were telling him the truth.
He had joked privately to himself that she had come to spy, but hearing it so boldly from her lips gave him reason for pause. Could she truly have come spying for Penn? He wouldn’t put it past Harlan, but would Sophia Vanderwahl lower herself to such a level?
“So you miss your fiancé?” he asked her, his voice laden with sarcasm as he watched her changing expressions.
“I do?” she replied, and blinked, drawn out of private thoughts by his question. And then with a great deal more enthusiasm, she declared, “Oh, yes, I do!”
“In fact, you miss him so much that you are willing to throw away ten thousand dollars just to see him?”
“Mr. MacAuley!”
“Is that true, Mizz Vanderwahl?”
Once again that flash of anger appeared, but then it was gone as quickly as it presented itself, and her tone was even when she spoke. “Yes.”
“You miss him so much that you are willing to travel with an entourage of strange men in less than stately accommodations?”
The fire in her eyes was back. “Yes.”
“You miss him so much, actually, that you are willing to travel against your father’s wishes just to see him?”
“I am not traveling against my father’s wishes!”
“No?”
“He doesn’t know, Mr. MacAuley. I didn’t tell him. He would have worried.”
“I see... so you were so hungry for the sight of Harlan that you left without even bothering to tell your parents where you were going?”
Her chin lifted a bit. “I left a letter, of course.”
“Lucky fiancé.”
Of course, what she was saying might be true, but he didn’t believe her. That wasn’t her reason for seeking Jack out. She was on this boat for a reason, and he intended to watch her closely to find out what it was. He wasn’t going to just hand over his hard work to Penn so easily.
He stood, his gaze never leaving her.
Her gaze locked with his, and her expression was wary as she watched him... as it should be. “What are you doing?”
Without a word, he came around his desk, physically forming a barrier between her and his research—not that he thought she would dare go after it in his p
resence, but he hoped it sent her a message. He knew what she was after, and he wanted her to know that he knew. He leaned casually against his desk, though he felt anything but casual in her presence.
Every muscle in his body was tense.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Staring rudely!”
His brows lifted. “Am I?” he asked coolly.
“Again!”
He made no move toward her, resisting the urge.
She stood a little straighter. “Do you always stare at women that way?”
“What way?”
“That way.”
“Enlighten me, Mizz Vanderwahl.”
“As though you will swallow me up like some lion and spit out my bones!”
He chuckled. Was he that obvious? It had been a long time since a woman had distracted him so completely. He’d like to slam that door at her back and kiss those soft-looking lips until her knees buckled and she fell into his arms.
“No,” he answered truthfully.
It was going to be a long journey.
He decided it was high time to set some ground rules. With purpose, he moved toward her. He had given her the cabin nearest his for her own protection, but he was beginning to realize that there was no one around to protect her from him. He wasn’t Harlan H. Penn III, and he wasn’t accustomed to tiptoeing around his desires.
She didn’t retreat, merely watched him, and he told her, “You’re a brave woman, Mizz Vanderwahl.”
She took a step backward then, but otherwise held her ground, and he knew she had no idea how close she was to finding herself thoroughly kissed.
Her chin lifted higher as she watched him approach. “Whatever do you mean?”
He stopped directly in front of her, entering her space, and waited to see what she would do.
She must have read the desire in his eyes, because she said, “You wouldn’t dare!”
But he would.
“Dare what?” he taunted, knowing she wouldn’t say it.
She didn’t answer, and he knew she was suddenly uncertain of his intentions. She looked so adorably confused that Jack only liked her more.
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