His Wicked Kiss

by Gaelen Foley

  At last, finding herself at her leisure, she wasted no time in escaping up into the green Gothic cathedrals of the canopy.

  From the age of ten, Eden had mastered the art of climbing trees using an ancient invention from the Indians called a foot-belt. Ascended to some five stories over the forest floor, she stood in the elbow of a towering mahogany for a while, staring out at the beckoning distance.

  Not even Father liked climbing this high, but Eden did. She could see forever from up there; somehow, from that higher vantage point, it was easier to think.

  Things seemed clearer, simpler. Miles upon endless miles of jungle opened up on every side around her, sprawling horizons, with a misty blue glimmer of the sea beckoning from the great beyond. As she stared into the hazy distance, restlessness churned in her veins, born of too much isolation.

  Here in her fierce paradise, the loneliness whispered its ever more urgent question: Will I always be alone?

  Jack was not sure how long he had dozed when Trahern spoke his name in an odd tone.

  He opened his eyes and looked around, and could have sworn they’d traveled back in time a thousand years.

  Leaving behind the golden savannahs with their blue skies and vast horizons, they had entered a mysterious, dripping, emerald world of green light and moss-colored shadows.

  The miles-wide river had split into a thousand narrow fingers at the Delta, a complex maze of smaller natural canals, called caños, all of which led to the sea.

  Jack saw that their swarthy mestizo pilot was taking them down one of these quiet arteries through dense jungle. The lush vegetation formed a tunnel over the waterway, sealing in the hothouse environment. The air was thick and moist, without a breeze.

  As the boat glided deeper into pristine tropical forest, the constant birdsong and animal noises somehow did not disrupt the profound stillness of this place. Jack stared in wonder.

  Even his raucous crew had gone silent.

  Countless long-legged insects skated on water whose surface looked like olive-colored glass. Suddenly, an aggressive, throaty roar shattered the stillness from somewhere up in the trees. His men jumped then looked around uneasily as the roar turned into a series of staccato screams.

  “What the hell was that, Cap’n?” Higgins, the foretop man, muttered, blessing himself with a hasty sign of the cross.

  “Howler monkey,” Jack murmured, recalling descriptions he had read. Searching the boughs overhead for the large monkey, instead he spotted the magnificent white plumage of a harpy eagle with the noble bearing of a mythical griffon. He pointed, showing it to his men. “Look at that!”

  Green parrots, orange-billed toucans, and riotous macaws fled out of the harpy eagle’s path as it pushed off the branch it had been perching on and swooped off down the clear path of the caño, its six-foot wingspan carrying it along at an astonishing speed. Jack stared down the river as the great eagle swooped upward again with an easy flap of its giant wings and disappeared into the canopy, but then a flash of bright motion in the dark water drew his attention lower.

  “What was that?” Trahern murmured, scanning the waterway ahead alongside Jack. “Crocodile?”

  “But I could swear it was…pink?”

  They looked at each other in consternation, but then the creature swam by the boat and all of the men exclaimed in wonderment as the thing proved to be a pink dolphin.

  “Buoto,” said their local pilot sagely, then he pointed over the wheel. “Mira aquí!”

  On the right bank of the river sat a primordial monster that could have been descended from fire-breathing dragons of legend.

  “Holy Mother,” Higgins breathed, staring at the enormous beast.

  The Orinoco crocodile was longer than the boat. Jack stared at the magnificent monster in awe, but Trahern took one look at it and picked up the nearest Baker rifle.

  “No.” Jack stopped him, but the beast’s instincts were equally defensive, and with a wicked speed that sent a chill down all their spines, the crocodile launched into the water with silent power, barely making a splash.

  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.

  “Sí, 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 bean
ie 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 pinwheeled 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 upriver 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 over-arched 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, rousin
g 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.

  As she held his stare, however, unable to look away, she marveled at what fascinating eyes he had. In contrast to his sun-bronzed complexion, they were the turquoise blue of Caribbean waters. She detected a sparkle of amusement in their depths as he perused her, not quite successful in masking his roguish astonishment.

  “You do see her, my lord?” the young officer asked. “Please tell me I have not gone mad in the heat.”

  “Trahern,” he ordered in a calm, authoritative tone, not taking his eyes off her. “Stop the boat.”

  No, indeed, the tropical sun had not addled his assistant’s wits unless it had cooked Jack’s, also, for he, too, saw the luscious young redhead in the tree. Straddling the thick bough, she swung her feet a bit self-consciously right above the spot where the pilot now managed to bring the boat to a halt.

  Finding any sort of female on a branch above the Orinoco a hundred miles from any human settlement might have been rather a shock, let alone a stunning beauty with big emerald eyes and, from his quick assessment, perfect proportions.

  Her long chestnut mane hung unbound. Wet with rain, she slicked it back from her face as he watched her, his stare following the auburn tendrils that twined over her delicate shoulders. She wore a light green walking dress with frilly pantalets peeking out from underneath before they disappeared into thick brown boots. Jack could not help staring.

  Her face, a softly rounded oval with a light speckling of freckles, glowed with rain; she had high cheekbones with a peachy complexion and a straight, perfect nose.