Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  It was a straightforward plan, he assured himself, requiring no elaborate cover stories to tell or fictitious backgrounds to embroider. All that was needed was for him to be his usual charming self, and everything else would fall into place.

  Wryly, he glanced at the connecting door to Halia's room. The only problem was that, at least for tonight, he couldn't possibly summon the strength to seduce a dockside trollop, let alone a reluctant virgin.

  He reached his room and made his way inside. In his absence, someone had opened the louvered shutters that overlooked the gallery. He could see the sun extinguishing itself in a showy splash of pink and orange as it slipped along the horizon and into the dark blue waves. A welcome hint of an evening breeze had risen, circulating the room and ruffling the yards of white netting draped across the four-poster. The white counterpane spread across its mattress beckoned him with the promise of peaceful repose.

  Heeding that call, Malcolm eased off his rope sandals and shirt and headed toward the bed. He pulled back the coverlet; then, forgetting for the moment his sunburned flesh, he collapsed atop the cool white sheets.

  All the fires of hell promptly flared across his back. He yelped and sat up again; then, recalling the connecting door between his room and Halia's, he shot a sheepish glance in that direction. He'd already looked the fool to her once this day, nearly getting himself drowned. He would be damned if he'd let her hear him whine over so minor a thing as too much sun.

  Carefully, he eased himself back onto the bed, settling this time on his stomach. All he needed was a few minutes of rest to regain his strength.

  Just a few minutes...

  He awoke from vivid dreams of being flayed alive by a grinning, whip-wielding shark to find himself in a pitch black room. But even when the nightmare faded, the sensation of a hod's worth of hot coals being heaped upon his back remained.

  “Bloody hell,” he groaned out, not caring who might have heard him this time. He eased his way out of the bed, every twitch and turn fanning the invisible flames that were consuming his flesh, and lit a taper. Then he reached for his timepiece sitting atop the chest of drawers.

  Midnight.

  He caught up the candle and impulsively glanced over his shoulder at the mottled round mirror that was mounted atop the mahogany chest. Even in this flickering light, he could tell that his back was an unhealthy shade of deep red. Indeed, his skin seemed fairly to glow—a state of affairs that likely boded no good for his comfort the next few days.

  “Bloody, bloody hell,” he groaned again as, candle in hand, he shuffled to the hall door. The promised supper tray was in the corridor...had been sitting there several hours, in fact, given the appearance of whatever sort of fish stew it was that had congealed in its white china bowl.

  His stomach roiling, Malcolm left that offering where it was and settled for the accompanying side dishes—a generous slab of brown bread wrapped in a napkin and a carafe of what appeared to be tepid ale.

  He made a tolerable meal of the plain fare, though even the simple task of chewing seemed to exacerbate his pain. Swiping a few bread crumbs from his chin, he finished off the last of the ale and shook out the napkin to its full length.

  A water-filled carafe sat on his dresser. He liberally soaked the thin material with its contents before lightly plastering the wet napkin across his back. It brought him a measure of relief...but not enough to allow him a peaceful night's repose, he was certain.

  Clutching the napkin around him rather like an opera cape, he debated what to do. It crossed his mind that either Halia or Lally could suggest a remedy for his blistered skin. But, agonizing as his condition was, he'd be damned if he would entrust his abused hide to either woman's not-so-tender mercies.

  So use your bloody wits, then

  Longingly, he thought of snowdrifts and shaved ice. Since snow was in short supply in the Biminis, however, he cast about for another solution. Butter, he'd always heard, was good for easing a blister and might do equally well applied to a larger area. But what were the chances that he'd find an ample store of fresh butter here in the guest house, or anywhere else on this benighted rock?

  It's worth a try, Malcolm, my boy, he told himself as he tossed aside the damp napkin and opened his bedroom door again. He squinted down the darkened corridor, relieved to see no telltale sliver of light beneath any of the doors. The rest of the household was asleep. He could roam the place with impunity.

  Like a man who had wandered any number of dark hallways in his time, he made his silent way down the L-shaped corridor to the staircase. He descended with nary a creak of a riser and crossed the main hall to the parlor, nestled at the juncture where one wing of the house veered off at right angles from the other.

  It was a quaint little room, he saw by the flickering light of his candle. It was furnished in a style popular at the turn of the previous century, right down to a japanned, three-paneled screen in one corner and an oil rendition of the late King George, hanging on one wall. The room reminded him of those musty English country houses—their furniture and tapestries unchanged since the Regent's time—where, in the guise of a guest, he once had plied his trade. In keeping with the illusion, heavy velvet drapes hung over both pairs of French doors on the far wall so that, drawn, they would obscure the view of the tropical courtyard beyond.

  With another scornful glance, Malcolm dismissed the parlor as an affront to civilized folk and good taste. The original owners had an excuse, at least, in that they had been homesick for king and country at a time when this portion of the world was barely tamed. The subsequent inhabitants had no such similar justification, at least in his opinion, and should have taken it upon themselves to rid the place of such folly.

  He shook his head and continued his search. Beyond the parlor was a small withdrawing room that had been set up as dining salon. A hint of the same fish chowder that had been left upon the tray for him still lingered in the air. Past the withdrawing room was a sort of butler's pantry that, upon closer inspection, also doubled as a larder.

  Triumphant, he commenced a swift search. The lowest of the shelves held a tiny stone crock covered with a length of damp cheesecloth. A lump of white butter—slightly rancid by the smell of it—lay within.

  He wrinkled his nose, faintly aghast at the idea of anointing himself with such a substance. Still, beggars could not be choosers, especially when his only other choice was soliciting a cure from Halia or else her she-devil of a servant. Weighing that latter option as the more appalling, he snatched up the crock and carried it back through the dining salon into the parlor.

  He paused as he reached the French doors. One hung slightly ajar, letting in a hint of breeze and the faint, soothing rumble of the distant surf. It would be cooler outside than in, he judged and silently padded his way into the courtyard.

  He settled on the stone bench that ringed the fig tree. Uncomfortably hard as it turned out to be, its chiseled surface still was surprisingly cool beneath his lightly clad buttocks. Too bad he couldn't transfer a bit of that relief a bit higher up.

  He set down the butter crock and then pinched out his candle, for he did not need its faint glow here, in the open. A three-quarter moon peered down at him from between the sprawl of branches above, dappling him with enough silvery light that he might have read the latest novel, had he wished. All he wanted to do, though, was find some measure of relief from the burning pain of his blistered back.

  Gingerly, he raised the butter crock to his nose again, and then tasted a fingertip's worth of the white spread. Bloody rancid, he confirmed with a grimace. Still, it couldn't be any worse than that foul-smelling ointment Lally had slathered on him as he lay unconscious that first day. He started to scoop up a handful when he heard a faint rustle behind him.

  He swung about, half-suspecting who it was even before Halia stepped from the house's shadow.

  “Afraid I sneaked out and went searching for treasure on my own?” he wryly inquired. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable
tying me to my bed at night, so that you wouldn't have to follow me about at all hours.”

  “I was not following you,” she protested in a low if heated tone. “That is, I woke up and heard someone moving about the hallway, and since yours was the only door open ...”

  She broke off momentarily, looking a bit dismayed as her gaze took in his bare torso. Then she shook her head, so that her mass of blond hair, hanging loose about her shoulders, glinted in the moonlight.

  “Really, Mr. Northrup, you are quite a trying man. I suspected that you were awake and in some pain because of your sunburn, so I thought to bring you some relief.”

  “Relief, eh? And just what did you have in mind?” he asked, cocking an ironic brow as he let his gaze travel over her in renewed interest.

  She wore a modest wrapper of what he judged to be blue flannel, cinched so that her slim waist appeared even smaller and her hips more enticingly round. Its lapels had likely been tugged snugly across her breasts when she had left her room. Now, however, those edges gaped enough to expose a tantalizing bit of flesh, while the moonlight created all manner of interesting shadows in that seductive valley. But what truly caught his eye was the flash of pale ankle and calf as the breeze caught at the hem of her dressing gown.

  Did the proper Miss Davenport sleep attired in nothing but her chemise and drawers, he wondered...or maybe, did she instead sleep in nothing at all?

  That idle speculation stirred in his loins an unexpected response that belied what he'd told himself earlier in the evening. Given a proper bit of encouragement, he might just be able to seduce the chit, after all. Besides, he'd always had a fondness for coupling in unconventional places. Granted, the bench was bloody uncomfortable, but he still might manage—

  “—hardly what I meant,” her hasty protest interrupted this most interesting line of thought. He grinned as she swiftly clutched with one hand at the sprawling neckline of her wrapper and, with the other, thrust a squat jar at him.

  “I asked Lally to make this up for you,” she went on in an offended tone. “Spread it over the burn several times a day, and it should ease the pain, as well as hasten the healing process. You do realize, don't you, that you never should have exposed yourself to the tropical sun in that fashion?” she finished in the stern tone of parent to child.

  Malcolm suppressed an evil grin, enjoying baiting the chit. “I assure you, Miss Davenport, that I shall be quite careful as to how I expose myself in the future,” he replied in a soft yet deliberate tone.

  He suspected that she blushed as she took his meaning, though in the moonlight it was difficult to tell. He watched in no little amusement as she opened her mouth to reply, and then snapped her lips shut again. “Do take this,” she finally managed and again proffered the jar.

  “Ah, but I already have a cure,” he smoothly answered and indicated the crock beside him.

  Halia eyed it with suspicion. “But surely this is butter”— she marched over and snatched up the container, then gave its contents a sniff—“and rancid butter, at that. Would you rather not try Lally's ointment?”

  “Perhaps...if you would spread it on for me.”

  He lightly flung the challenge and waited to see how she would react. She stood but a handbreadth from him now, and he could see the look of alarm that washed over her face. Then, as if coming to some sort of decision, she gave a hesitant nod.

  “I suppose it would be a bit difficult for you to reach all the burned spots. I'm not sure that this is proper, mind you, but given the circumstances, there could surely be no real harm in it.”

  “Then have at it, Miss Davenport, but do use a gentle hand,” he replied and scooted around on the bench so that his back was toward her.

  He listened to her soft rustling behind him as she set aside the crock and then fumbled for several moments with the jar lid. Finally, when she must have decided that she could delay no more, she said, “If you might turn just a bit more, Mr. Northrup, so you are in the moonlight—”

  She broke off with a sharp gasp.

  “Oh, my, that is a serious burn,” she breathed in a tone of what he judged to be genuine concern. “Even with the salve, it will likely be several days before the worst of it fades, and several more beyond that before you dare expose yourself to the sun again for even a short time. Perhaps I should—”

  “Perhaps you should shut up, luv, and see about spreading that ointment on me, instead.”

  He allowed himself a grin at her muffled sound of pique. Then, without warning, icy fingers seared his shoulder.

  He gave an undignified yelp.

  “Bloody hell, that's cold!” he choked out and shot a glance back at her.

  It was Halia's turn to look amused. “That is the general idea, is it not? Shall I proceed?”

  “Go on,” he replied and braced himself for the onslaught.

  This time, however, the sensation of cold was less startling. Indeed, it was rather like a blacksmith thrusting a newly forged bit of glowing iron into a bucket of water to cool it, the way the ointment subdued the painful heat of his burned flesh. By stages, he began to relax and enjoy the sensuous feel of her hand lightly moving over his back.

  “So, what's in this ointment, anyway?” he lazily asked as her fingers moved down his shoulder blades and along his ribs. “Some of Lally's voodoo powders, no doubt.”

  “No, not at all,” came her swift assurance, the words warm against the back of his neck. “It's a concoction of aloe and other plants, all of which are found here in the islands. It is a traditional cure, so you need have no fear.”

  Fear, however, was the last thing he was feeling.

  Even as the heat seemed to fade almost magically from his back, a more interesting warmth began to settle in his loins. He shifted against the bench in response to the growing fullness of his manhood as it pressed against the confining fabric of his trousers. By the time her fingers reached his lower back, he was painfully erect and in need of some drastic relief.

  “There, that should take care of you,” he heard her say in soft satisfaction as, all too soon, she ceased her ministrations and set the jar down with a light clatter. “I will leave the rest of the ointment for you, so that you can—”

  She broke off as he awkwardly rose and moved to face her again. Before she could take a step back, he caught both her hands in his. “I'm afraid, my dear Halia,” he softly countered, “that I will need something more than a bit of ointment to—how did you so charmingly put it?—take care of me this night.”

  “Really, Mr. Northrup, I hardly think—”

  “Malcolm,” he softly urged and drew her steadily closer. “Call me Malcolm, luv. It's so much more... friendly. And we are friends, are we not?”

  He watched as moonlight and uncertainty played across her features. Suddenly, her answer—the right answer—was important to him.

  “I-I do suppose we are friends,” she finally agreed in a breathless tone, her lips now inches from his.

  His smile held more than a hint of satisfaction. “I'm glad of that, luv, for I'd hate to think I was about to kiss an enemy,” he murmured and bent to claim her.

  ~ Chapter 14 ~

  The kiss was nothing like the punishing caress Halia recalled from the bank. Rather, it was the merest brush of his lips against hers, so brief a gesture that she might have imagined it, yet it sent a wanton shiver through her that left her weak. But none of this was supposed to be happening...not if Lally had done what she had said she would do.

  Uncertain all at once, she tugged her hands from his grasp.

  “I-I don't think this is at all proper.”

  Even to her own ears, the breathless objection sounded more like a question than a statement of fact. He gave a soft laugh in reply and reached up to brush back a wisp of blond hair from her cheek.

  “Who said anything about proper, luv? I'm fair to bursting with need for you, and I rather suspect that you feel quite the same. So why not allow ourselves this bit of pleasure?”


  “Oh, my,” she weakly murmured as he pulled her close again. This time, his kiss was more demanding, literally drawing the very breath from her so that she had to clutch at him for support.

  Then he deepened his kiss, his tongue expertly probing the delicate inner flesh of her mouth in a manner both unfamiliar and thrilling. Hesitantly, she returned that caress, parrying each thrust of his tongue with her own tentative gesture that drew a low moan of satisfaction from him.

  His hands slid to her breasts now. She bit back her own soft cry as, with his thumbs, he lightly caressed her through the thin barrier of fabric until her nipples had tightened into small buds of pleasure. Bolder now, she followed his lead, sliding her own hands over his chest. It was a heady sensation, feeling the silken scatter of hair beneath her fingers and the sleek expanse of muscle that played beneath his taut flesh.

  Something had gone wrong, she vaguely realized even as she gave herself up to pure sensation. The healing ointment that Lally had concocted supposedly contained an additional ingredient—an herb said to dull male desire. Surely she had applied enough of the salve to him for it to have taken effect, yet the mixture seemed to have inflamed his need...and hers, as well.

  Abruptly, she struggled free from his embrace to meet his expression of masculine satisfaction. She shut her eyes, fervently wishing she had never searched him out this night. The ointment had been an excuse. What she truly had wanted was a few moments alone with the man. She had needed to prove to herself that she could be coolly logical about this unseemly attraction she felt for him.

  Instead, she had succumbed to the traitorous desires of her body...desires that now swept her flesh in waves of cold and heat.

  He must have sensed her determination beginning to waver, for she felt him lightly tug at the sash of her dressing gown.

  “It's warm out,” he murmured as the knot slowly pulled free, leaving her wrapper hanging loose about her. “Let's rid you of this thing, shall we?”