Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  “With my money, might I remind you.”

  ”—and I am in charge here. Besides, even a scoundrel such as you must agree that it is not proper for you and me to share adjoining chambers.”

  Malcolm lifted a wry brow. “Then perhaps you might convince Wilkie to switch with you. He has taken one of the two other, smaller rooms down the hall from us. Or, I believe that Lally is in the second one. She might be inclined to exchange sleeping quarters with you...though I presume her sleeping there would cause an equal scandal?”

  Thoroughly aggrieved now, Halia jerked free of his grasp.

  “You are quite the most appalling man I have ever met,” she choked out, feeling the blood rise in her cheeks. “If you do not have the decency to consider my feelings, then I suppose there is no remedy for it. I will simply have to forego my reputation and sleep in the adjoining room for the duration of our stay.”

  When a flicker of triumph lighted his bland expression, she hotly added, “But be forewarned, Mr. Northrup. The door between us shall remain quite firmly locked.”

  So saying, she turned to leave. Then, succumbing to bold impulse and a flash of feminine vengeance, she twisted back around. In a gesture that would stun her a moment later, she caught hold of the towel's fringed edge and gave it a vicious tug.

  That length of cotton promptly fluttered to the floor, leaving Malcolm wearing nothing but a bemused expression and the leather thong about his throat. Then, with a dignified lift of her chin, Halia turned again and calmly quit the room.

  It wasn't until she stood in the hall again, the door between her and Malcolm firmly shut, that the enormity of what she had just done hit her.

  “Oh, my,” she faintly managed and clamped her palms to her burning cheeks. Never before had she behaved in so scandalous a manner! To be sure, she had not realized what she was about until she had actually done it...besides which, she had been subjected to extreme provocation. Still, to actually have stripped the man of his towel like that!

  Even as those thoughts crossed her mind, she heard a metallic click behind her. She shot a desperate glance over her shoulder to see the knob of Malcolm's door twisting from within.

  Dear Lord, he was coming after her... and here she stood but a few feet outside his chamber bemoaning her folly.

  His door was swinging inward as she went running toward the sanctuary of her own room. She fumbled with the latch, then half-stumbled over the threshold and slammed the door shut behind her.

  With trembling fingers, she fastened the inner bolt; then, recalling the adjoining door, she flew across the room to barricade that entry, as well. To her relief, it was equipped with a similar lock.

  She slid the bolt home with a firm click, giving silent thanks as she did so to whichever former lady of the house had had the foresight to install it. The only other way in, she determined, would be through the French doors that led to the veranda. Luckily, their hurricane shutters had yet to be unlatched. Any forced entry would, of necessity, entail a not-inconsiderable racket, the sound of which surely would bring assistance swiftly running.

  With a gasp of relief, she sagged against the bed, which was a smaller version of Malcolm's. To be sure, she would have felt even more secure had her carpetbag with its hidden pistol been among the luggage stacked in the room's center.

  Uncertainly, she strained her ears for any sound from Malcolm's chamber. Likely, she was safe enough for now. She need only remain barricaded here until the Englishman left the house, or else Lally came to fetch her. In the meantime, she might as well pass the time by changing into more suitable clothing.

  Her heart rate had returned to normal by the time she pulled open the smallest of her trunks and began sorting through her practical wardrobe. She chose a white cotton shirtwaist and a divided skirt of the same fabric, the latter so short that its hem grazed her ankles. The daring style required no corset and was cool enough for the tropical heat. In such attire, she could easily manage the island's beaches and rocky roadways, as well as clamber unhindered about Captain Rolle's boat.

  Pleased with her choice, she made her way to her tiny dressing room and quickly stripped down to her chemise and drawers. The house staff had already brought up a towel and pitcher of cool water, both of which had been placed atop the mirrored washstand.

  Mindful that fresh water was at a premium on the islands, she poured a scant basin's worth and then began to scrub the sand and salt spray from her body. But even as the cooling dampness refreshed her skin, the knowledge that only a thin wall separated her from Malcolm sparked an uncomfortable heat within her.

  For, try as she might, she could not dismiss the image of his long, muscled body from her thoughts.

  She bit her lip and scrubbed harder, as if the very action might wash away the unwelcome memory. After all, you've seen naked men before, her inner voice reasoned. What difference does one more make?

  What difference, indeed! What she had seen before were marble and plaster depictions, some elegant, some frankly erotic...but all, in the end, merely images formed from some long-dead artist's imagination. Malcolm, however, was warm flesh and blood.

  And, God help her, she had wanted to touch him.

  The realization took her quite by surprise, so that her towel slipped unheeded from her hand. Then she shot a guilty glance at the narrow door connecting their two rooms. What if he knew? What if Malcolm had seen this shocking need fairly etched upon her face?

  She gave a soft, despairing groan and searched her reflection in the washstand's mottled mirror. Her cheeks were pink with sun and guilt, while her lips were pale and faintly parted as anxiety now quickened her breathing. Uncertainty had darkened her green eyes, and they suddenly seemed to overwhelm her other features.

  She frowned. Surely this was not the face of a woman in the throes of lust. Or was it?

  Halia groaned again and turned from that unsettling image of herself. This was but a temporary aberration, a momentary lapse brought on by the stress of the past few days. She was, after all, a woman of good sense and logic, and not the type to let any man distract her from her work. She must simply take herself in hand and pretend that none of this had happened.

  That resolved, she marched back into her bedroom and reached for her clothes. Much work remained to be done before tomorrow morning. She had maps to study, coordinates to chart. Let the Englishman tease and provoke as he might, she had more important matters to attend to.

  Wrapped in righteousness and considerably cooler attire, she now felt herself equal to any challenge. Indeed, she had half a mind to march back into Malcolm's chamber and berate him for his earlier ghastly behavior. Prudence forestalled such action; still, her confidence had returned.

  She gave a firm nod. The Englishman had intimidated her for the last time, she told herself. And if he dared ever flaunt himself before her again, she would not even blink, let alone be distracted by thoughts of those mysteries of the flesh...mysteries best left to the domain of women less firm of purpose than was she.

  ###

  Malcolm straightened from where he'd stood pressing his ear to the connecting door between his room and Halia's. A wry smile twisted his lips. The journey, thus far, was proving far more interesting than he could have hoped and Halia, herself, a far more intriguing female than he would have guessed.

  His smile broadened into a grin as he strolled back to the center of his room and snatched up the towel that lately had been wrapped about his midsection. Her parting gesture of defiance had truly taken him by surprise, so much so that he had let the chit walk away quite unscathed.

  It occurred to him now that he had set a poor example for her future actions; still, he rather suspected she was equally appalled by what she'd done. By the time he had regained his wits and reached his doorway, she already was running down the hallway as if the Devil himself were in pursuit. He had not missed the sound of her shooting home both door locks a moment later, nor the restless patter of her footsteps that followed.

 
; Now, Malcolm tossed the towel in the direction of his dressing room and headed for his steamer trunk, which sat unopened in one corner. With both their identities in the open, he could hardly press Wilkie into service as his valet, which meant he'd be forced to shift for himself. Not that he wasn't perfectly capable of dealing with such matters, he reminded himself. It was just that he had grown rather used to his role of Sir John and its accompanying perquisites.

  He pulled out the least wrinkled of his linen shirts, and then searched the trunk again for a fresh cravat. The trousers he'd earlier worn would do for now, he decided as he tugged them on again.

  All in all, the morning's events had worked out to his advantage, he judged. If nothing else, the fact that Halia had gotten an eyeful should set the chit to wondering what would happen if she accidentally left their connecting door unlocked one night.

  For he would wager his share of the Atlantis treasure that Halia was still an innocent... and he would bet the same sum that she'd had a thought or two about changing that state of affairs since their first meeting.

  Malcolm wryly shook his head. It was no misplaced vanity on his part that brought him to that conclusion. In his long career, he had pursued—and been pursued by—enough women to recognize the more common signs. It was all there, the blushing, the peevishness, the denials...even the chance stumbling into a gentleman's chamber while said gent was in a state of undress. With that groundwork already laid, so to speak, it would take little effort on his part to press matters on to their logical conclusions.

  He resumed his whistling and continued dressing again. He paused, though, as he started to button his shirt collar. The emerald still clung about his neck like a frightened maiden, secure in its velvet pouch. Though it had brought him the expected added measure of luck, he was beginning to feel as if he had a miniature albatross looped about his throat. He might do better to stow away the prize, he decided, and untied the pouch.

  Gem in hand now, Malcolm glanced about the room in search of a hiding place. He dismissed with a professional's eye the most obvious places—beneath the mattress, under the floorboards, stashed behind the armoire. Finally, he climbed onto one corner of the bed and reached up to where the mosquito netting was swathed around the bed post.

  Grasping a handful of the sheer fabric, he knotted it around the pouch, then re-draped the netting and stood back to admire his handiwork. There, the jewel would be safe from would-be thieves but readily accessible should the need arise for its retrieval.

  Pleased with his cleverness, he started for the door. The next order of business would be a casual tour of the island, followed by a pleasant supper and a good night's sleep. And then tomorrow—

  “And then tomorrow, my dear Miss Davenport,” he murmured in the direction of her room, “I believe I shall allow you another try at seducing me...and perhaps I shall even let you succeed.”

  ~ Chapter 11 ~

  Dawn had tinged the cloud-raked horizon a conch-shell pink and transformed the black waters of night back to a soft, pale blue. The heat had not yet settled its unyielding blanket over the island and the barest breath of a breeze carried a cool whisper off the retreating tide. It was the brilliant start to a new day...or, would have been, save that a certain English fly had buzzed its way into this smooth Caribbean ointment.

  “You cannot come with us, Mr. Northrup, and that is final!”

  With that chill pronouncement, Halia folded her arms over her chest and glared down at the man from her place in the bow of Captain Rolle's fishing boat. In contrast to her stern words, however, her emotions were a jumble of uncertainty. She had vowed yesterday not to let the man's presence unnerve her, but that was when a wall separated them. Now that she was face to face with him again, she did not quite know how to act.

  Indeed, never had she faced the question of how an unmarried man and woman with little liking for one another behaved in company together, when the latter had seen the former without a stitch of clothing on!

  If Malcolm was troubled by that matter, however, he gave no sign of it. No doubt he'd had his share of women over the years, so he was used to that sort of thing, she thought with a sniff. He had made no reply to her demand but remained boldly where he was, milling about with the fishermen and sailors gathered along the short dock.

  They were in the midst of Alice Town, the most populated of North Bimini's several sparse settlements. It was a sandy, sunny, narrow little sprawl of a town that wended its way along two main streets running north and south: the Queen's Highway, which road hugged the eastern harbor; and the King's Highway, stretching atop the low, chalky cliffs that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean to the west.

  Halia had spent the hour before sunset the previous day making the leisurely walk through town, transportation on the islands being either by foot or by dinghy. Alice Town, like the rest of the islands' settlements, was a relatively poor community, with fishing the main industry. Still, it possessed a buoyant soul that made up for its poverty.

  On her walk, she had counted two churches and as many cemeteries, along with a handful of small shops and several clusters of houses. All but a few of the latter were single-story dwellings, some clapboard and some stucco. Cool white was the color of choice in this tropical climate, though a few owners had painted their homes yellow, pink, or blue.

  Most of the houses, she categorized as cheerfully humble in appearance. Others verged on the whimsical in their owners' use of conch shells to decorate their doorsteps, entry gates, and walkways. Rampant clusters of flowered vines—hibiscus and morning glory were among the ones she recognized—added splashes of sunset colors to the green and yellow that predominated among the native flora.

  The islanders, themselves, reflected that same air of humble cheer. While a few were of European descent, most were born of, or were themselves, former West African slaves. The dark faces outnumbered the pale, yet all had toward their visitors an unfeigned friendliness unmatched by many more “civilized” people.

  If only all of the visitors in question were worthy of such regard, Halia now sourly reflected.

  She had not immediately recognized the Englishman among Rolle's ragtag crew, dressed as he was this morning in the same sort of baggy trousers, loose-cut shirt, and rope sandals as worn by the islanders. She had yet to get used to seeing him without his mustache and sidewhiskers. Only when he had clamped on his familiar straw boater, which looked ludicrously out of place topping such an ensemble, had she realized it was he.

  Now, striving for calm, she appealed to the man beside her. “Captain Rolle, can you not have your men make that person”—she pointed indignantly in Malcolm's direction—“leave here?”

  The captain shook his head. “I can't be doin' dat... not when he be one of my own crew.”

  He paused for a few quick, shouted words of island patois that set those half-dozen men, Malcolm included, scrambling toward the splintered board that was the boat's makeshift gangplank. Then he turned his attention back to Halia, whose earlier glare had been transformed into an incredulous stare.

  “One of your crew?” she echoed. “Why, there must be some mistake. You can't mean to say that you actually hired him.”

  “Not hired. Dat man, he be workin' for nothin',” Rolle explained with a quick flash of white teeth. “He say he be wantin' to do his share, but dat you be insistin' he be stayin' behind, instead. He says he's your partner...unless he be lyin' about that?” he demanded with a frown.

  When Halia shook her head, Rolle gave an eloquent shrug and added, “If he be wantin' to work, den I say we be lettin' him. Better for you to be keepin' an eye on him, dat way.”

  Malcolm Northrup work? Why, it would be the same as if she had announced her intent to take up a life of crime!

  Reluctantly, however, she considered the sense of Rolle’s last remark. Who knew what sort of plots and schemes the Englishman might become embroiled in if left to his own devices? So long as he kept his distance...

  “Very well,” was her les
s than gracious reply, “but I do hope that you explained to him the consequences of disobeying a captain's orders.”

  Rolle merely grinned again. Then, turning to his crew now assembled atop deck, he began clipping out orders. Halia returned to the bow, where she had stowed her carpetbag, and watched while the men prepared the boat to shove off.

  The Johnesta was a neat little gull of a sloop—sleekly white with snowy sails that lifted with wing-like grace from her single mast. She rode high in the water, a shallow-draft boat suited to the surrounding reefs. She was small enough so that two or three men could handle her, yet large enough to carry all the equipment that Halia had sent over to the dock the day before.

  Her attention was reserved, not for the boat now, but for a certain member of her crew.

  In imitation of the remainder of the crew, he had stripped off his shirt so that he was working naked from the waist up. That alone would have been enough to draw her attention had she not already seen quite a bit more of him the previous day. Rather, what caught her eye was the fact that his fellow sailors were all native Bahamians whose skin colors ranged from a light coffee shade to black. Malcolm was the only one among them who was of European descent. Already, the morning sun had lent a faint pink tinge to his skin.

  Halia allowed herself a small smile. By noon, he'll be as burnt as Sunday's toast, was her satisfied prediction that almost made up for her embarrassment of the previous day. Though he was not as fair-skinned as many Englishmen, he would surely suffer under the sun more than she, given that she was used to the tropical rays.

  All the same, she prudently had slathered her golden skin with one of Lally's ointments to protect against burning.

  Her private amusement turned to grudging admiration, however, as she watched Malcolm assist with making the lines ready. He was handling himself with unexpected competence for a man who claimed no maritime experience. Equally surprising was the fact that his fellow crewmen, all of whom appeared to be seasoned sailors, seemingly bore no resentment at working with a neophyte...and a foreigner, to boot!