by Cheryl Bolen
He turned the knob to his cabin door, gave a little shove, and then again to be certain before slamming his fist upon it. Locked!
Damn it all! “Jess! Open the blasted door!”
The deafening crack startled Jessie, rousing her at once, though she remained disoriented, having awakened to foreign surroundings. It took her a full moment to regain her faculties. The room swayed gently and swells of water could be heard smacking the side of the ship. They were no doubt at sea by now.
“Jessie!”
Recognizing Christian’s thunderous voice, Jessie smiled triumphantly and stretched lazily, refusing to be cowed merely by the sound of his voice. Raking her hair from her face with her fingers, she rose and went to the door as quietly as she was able, smiling at her ingenuity. She’d used Christian’s very own sea chests against him, piling them against the door, and then further braced them with her own hefty trunks. It had taken much time and toil to accomplish the master-work, but now she was certain the only door to the cabin was truly impenetrable. To her mind, it was a fine job... and this was precisely the moment she’d been awaiting. She fully intended to savor it.
Using the bottommost trunk as a step, she carefully climbed the stack to place her ear against the wooden door. Christian pounded the door unexpectedly, ringing her ears with the unholy vibration, and Jessie leapt away, nearly tumbling from her carefully laid mountain to the floor.
“Damn you, Jess! I demand you open this door! I’m not in the mood for games,” he warned.
She gave him no response.
“Jessamine? Do you hear me? I desire my bed!”
God forgive her, but she couldn’t resist baiting him. “I suggest you seek it elsewhere, then,” she told him flippantly, “for I’ll not be giving this one up! Nor will I share!” And that was that, she swore to herself, slapping her hands in a definitive manner, smiling with self-satisfaction.
“The devil you say, woman! That is my cabin you would have me give up, and I’ll not do so,” he apprised her.
“Oh, but you will,” she demurred sweetly, “for I doubt I shall ever allow you entrance. I did not ask to be brought aboard this thieves’ den, and because you seem to have so little regard for my wishes, nor will I for yours, my nefarious Prince of Smugglers—Lord Christian, hah! What a farce!”
Her words brought a smile to Christian’s lips.
It was the my that settled him so quickly.
His grin was smug as he disclosed, “Perhaps you don’t realize, as yet, but you’ll need come out of that cabin sooner or later, love. You’ll need to eat sometime, and when you do—”
“Camp by the door then,” she suggested. “Though I fear you’ll have quite a long wait. Your cabin boy—Peter, I believe is his name—was quite accommodating, you see.”
Christian shook his head, disbelieving his ears.
“I simply told the dear boy that I was feeling under the weather,” Jessie told him, “and that I preferred to take my meals in my cabin. He understood perfectly and gave me enough provisions to last, well... a few days at least.” She giggled suddenly, and added, laughter in her tone, “How very tired of waiting you shall grow!”
Christian was no longer amused; the thought of waiting days for his bed was wholly unpalatable. “Damn you!” he bellowed. “You little hoyden!”
Losing his patience all over again, he slammed his boot against the door. She had it bolted from within, he was certain, but it seemed too solid a barrier to be simply barred. It was as though she’d placed something before it... His brows furrowed. What the devil could she have moved to bar it with? he wondered. Most everything was nailed firmly to the floor in protection against the movement of the sea. And damn her, for she sounded so very self-satisfied; it rankled to the bone.
Releasing the full magnitude of his temper, he agitated the doorknob, nearly detaching it in his fury, and shook the cabin door so violently that Jessie had to wonder whether her barricade would even hold against him—yet hold, it did, even if the trunks seemed somewhat the worse for wear.
Another string of vile curses stung the air, and then utter silence fell between them.
Had he given up at last?
Jessie doubted it; somehow she had the distinct impression Hawk, odious Prince of Smugglers, never simply gave up at anything.
But then... where had he gone to suddenly?
It was entirely too quiet on the other side of the door.
More important... what was he planning?
When there was no more sound from behind the door, Jessie had to assume victory. Yet it had come too easily...
Her brow furrowed. Unsure of what to do next, she paced the cabin floor, clasping her hands at her back to stop them from quaking. After a long interval, when there was still no sign of him forthcoming, she decided to pour herself a goblet of Christian’s fine Madeira to calm herself. God’s truth, but her nerves had never been more frazzled than they were this instant, and were becoming more so by the second.
Finishing it quickly, she gave a choked little cough. God knew, all she needed now was to drown herself in his good wine—probably stolen or smuggled! she reflected resentfully. With a ragged sigh, she poured herself another brimming goblet-full and then wandered to the cheval glass. The woman staring back at her was haggard looking; hair mussed from slumber, and faint shadows darkening the hollows beneath her eyes. And the neck of her gown choked her, strangled her breath. She drew at the neckline irritably, and gave a derisive little laugh, for the gown had surely had its desired effect above deck; Christian had not so much as glanced at her untowardly. He was quite obviously unaffected by her.
He didn’t care.
He’d never cared.
Yes, his threats had been lecherous, but there had been no heat to them, no feeling. No intent. God, what was wrong with her? Surely she wasn’t thinking... that she wanted...
She shook her head vehemently, and took another sip, refusing to continue her present vein of thought.
Stay out of his way indeed.
So she had won this round, after all. Against whom? a little voice niggled. She raised her goblet in silent acclaim clinking it gently to the silver mirror—against herself, it would seem, for if she could be honest... it was not Christian she feared at all... but her own wicked yearnings.
Standing before him there upon the foredeck, she had found herself wishing he would silence her raving with his soul-weakening kisses—that he would take her into his arms and tell her he loved her, beg her forgiveness. God help her, she had baited him, wanting only that he would lift her up into his arms and sweep her back to his cabin—she shuddered—in truth, back to that day beneath the elm tree...
How long could he possibly be kept at bay?
She glanced back at the door...
It was not made of iron, after all. If he truly wished to come after her... She shook her head, for then again... he was quite obviously not trying overly hard. Perhaps he would leave her be, after all.
With a very unladylike snort, she lifted her goblet and quaffed down the rest of her wine, then set the crystal gently down upon a small table beside the looking glass. With a sigh, she unbuttoned the topmost button of her gown, and then the next, and the next.
She stared at her image, trying to see herself as he might, and then irritably turned from the mirror. She wandered to the drapery-covered window with the intent of drawing it open to the fading daylight, and then it dawned on her suddenly that she’d forgotten to procure flints with which to light the lanterns tonight. She sincerely hoped she could find some within the cabin itself, for she had no desire to remain in total darkness. Shuddering at the thought, she tugged open the blasphemously dark window coverings, and gasped aloud at what lay beneath.
The most beautiful stained-glass window she had ever beheld stood in all its grandeur before her—three full-length panels! The left and right were wholly painted in colorful biblical scenes, but it was the double-wide center pane that caught her attention and held it fast.
There in the middle of the depiction stood a grand apple tree, its limbs outstretched, forming a beautiful green shelter. Beneath it lay the figure of Eve, her dark hair unbound and spread gloriously beneath her like a carpet of black silk. In her proffered hand, she held a shining ruby apple, offering it up to... Adam?
The resemblance between the figure of Adam in the depiction and Christian was striking—and good Lord, he was nude as the day he was born! So was Eve for that matter, beckoning to Adam with the apple like some seductress straight from a preacher’s fire- and-brimstone sermon. Her green eyes were brilliant, haunting in their intensity.
Her gaze was drawn upward. The sky of the depiction was clear glass, a masterpiece, utilizing the blue of the true sky as its color—if it was dark outside, the painting would be as somber as midnight; if it was bright and sunny, Adam and Eve’s world would be as blue as sapphires; and if the weather was foul, then it would draw them both into the stormy tempest. This moment, it was faded a blue-gray, with orange and pink hues streaking as far as the eye could behold. The sun in the horizon was rapidly sinking from view, plummeting into the murky darkness of the sea.
Jessie’s gaze reverted to the nude form of Adam, and she swallowed convulsively as her eyes settled upon that very male part of his anatomy. Such an odd, odd member... and so very, very... erect! She scrunched her nose. And then suddenly, her eyes widened as she recalled a certain something she’d said to Christian.
It boggles the mind to consider why men were not born with horns or other weapons on their person. Do you not agree, my lord? Her heart leapt at the recollection.
Are you quite certain of that fact? he’d asked her.
She couldn’t have known. Her eyes narrowed in outrage and her lips trembled with misery. The cad, he’d been mocking her, even then... How he must have laughed at her naïveté—how he must have rejoiced in her stupidity!
She was a fool.
She was still a fool.
Unable to keep herself from it, she reached out for him, her breath becoming labored and her body stirring wickedly, heating with the Madeira... and something else; as she smoothed her fingers over Adam’s full body. She stopped abruptly at his groin—couldn’t help herself, brazen as it was—feeling with wonder the almost indiscernible raised lines where one color met another. She was awestruck by the artfulness of the glass, by the beauty of the man depicted. Shuddering with the desire that burst to life within her, she caressed the cold glass before her... her heart thundering...
Her eyes closed, and her head fell back, remembering...
Christian’s heart began to hammer.
From his precarious perch just outside the window, he felt the bold caress as though it were on his own body. Heat surged through his veins, its potency just short of heart-stopping.
Christ, how he wanted her, ached and burned for her. His body shuddered at the sight she presented, head back and her face flushed with desire, her bodice undone and exposing her throat. Making certain his feet were secure within the toehold he’d fashioned within the rope, he shifted so the knot he was perched upon wouldn’t cut quite so sharply into his groin.
How many times had he dreamed of that caress? So soft and innocent, and yet lustful too.
Whatever else she was, the woman was passionate—that much he had to give her. The wistful look on her face made him burn all the more fiercely. He, tried to ignore her. While she was otherwise occupied with Adam, he used it to his advantage, peering in at the door through the distorted glass. Damnation, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d barred it with.
He muttered an oath when his eyes finally focused upon the objects before the door. There were what appeared to be five trunks stacked before it, not one, not two, but five. His own two, which were by far the largest, were doubled at the bottom, and three of hers, one large, two small, sat directly above them, braced against the door. How the devil had she managed it?
He knew the very instant she spotted him, for she suddenly leapt away from the glass, shrieking. She fell back upon the floor. Now that she was aware of his presence, he swung into plain view. He peered through the clear glass into the cabin, knocked on the window and smiled.
Jessie seemed to recover quickly enough, scrambling to her feet at once. She stood staring, that hideous gown of hers gaping at the neckline, and he had the sudden urge to shatter his precious stained-glass window—to hell with the cost of it—throw her upon the bed and climb atop her, lift up her skirts without preamble and rut like a blood-maddened bull. He was that badly in need. That provoked. He willed her to open the door, so that he could have McCarney and Tibbs haul him up—so he could go to her and slake his insane need for her, and only her. In all the many months he’d been away from her, he’d not touched a woman. None of them had been Jessie.
“God,” he croaked, his voice hoarse with restraint, and something more as he recalled her cozy familiarity with her damnable cousin. “Jessie... open the door...”
Spurred to life by his request, Jessie suddenly tugged the drapery closed. “Really!” she shouted. “Sleep there upon your bloody rope, for all I care! Or loop it about your neck,” she added flippantly. “I care not which!”
“Jessie! Open the goddamned door!” Now that he knew what was before it, he could quite possibly open it himself, for he’d noted that a few of the trunks were already tilting precariously, but Jessie had placed them there and Jessie would remove them, he vowed.
Having blocked his smug face from view, Jessie went to his massive dark-curtained bed and plopped herself down upon it, trying desperately to ignore him—good Lord, he had caught her fondling his window! Her face heated with mortification.
Such a deep hush prevailed from beyond the curtains that she found herself feeling uneasy as she surveyed the room in its unholy darkness. Why was everything so... so black? she wondered irately. His bed, more suited to a sultan, was curtained in dark midnight blue silks. A beautifully carved armoire in dark wood graced the wall by the door, and a table with wicked claws for legs hunched in the middle of the cabin, its fearful talons gripping the bare wood floor. There were paintings of indescribable value and beauty, bookcases built into the wall with dozens of leather-bound volumes housed within them. And then of course, there were the stained-glass windows...
“You’d think the man was a prince!” she muttered. But then, he was, wasn’t he? He was Prince of Smugglers. She laughed without mirth, cursing herself for a silly hysterical fool. Her gaze reverting to the curtain, she decided it was much too still for her peace of mind, and she rose to peek behind it... to be certain he was gone.
He was still there, smiling knowingly, taunting her, his teeth flashing in mockery. His brow lifted diabolically.
“Oh! You! I hope the rope snaps and you plummet headlong into the ocean and drown, you cur!” Yanking the curtain shut again, Jessie fumed. But his voice when next he spoke seemed unsettled, and she experienced a twinge of guilt for her hateful words.
“Damn it, Jess!” Then more frantically, “Jessie! I’m slipping... damn it... Jess!”
Arms crossed stubbornly, Jessie refused to reopen the drapes, refused to believe him. It was a ruse, she was certain. He was a cad! a cur! a lecher! And he sounded no more distressed than a gluttonous toad at home upon his lily pad.
Yet even as she endeavored to convince herself, there came a cacophonous thud against the side of the ship, followed by an awful, endless abrasive sound that concluded with an ominous splash far, far below. Jessie’s heart lurched, and she snatched open the draperies with trembling hands.
Lord, what if he had fallen?
The rope dangled dismally before her eyes, swinging ever so slightly, evidence that he’d been there—but was no more. He was nowhere within sight.
Oh, God—dear God. He had fallen. Hadn’t anyone seen? She glanced up, pressing her nose to the tinted glass, spying no one above—not that she could see a blessed thing through the colored glass! Frantically her gaze slid down a
gain, to the fathomless ocean. She could see very little through the greens and blues and reds of the stained glass... and yet... and yet... she could have sworn that the water rippled away from a foaming center.
It was all her fault! Not daring to waste even a single precious second, she went to the door and began clearing it of obstacles at once.
“Someone! Anyone!” she shouted hysterically. “Please, Christian—Hawk!” she screamed. Lord, what to call the accursed man? “Your captain!” she decided finally. “He’s fallen overboard! Someone, please—help!”
Thank heavens that her own trunks were easy enough to remove, but the other two, his two, were another matter entirely. They were as heavy as sin! Squatting upon the floor, she planted her feet squarely and gave a mighty heave. It moved a little, though at this rate, she thought that by the time she removed the last of the sea chests and made her away above deck to summon help, Christian would be long gone—dead—and at her hands, no less!
Lord, she was a murderess! Tears stung her eyes. The very thought of never seeing him again made her heart suddenly ache. The possibility chilled her, left her bereft.
Giving the trunk one last desperate heave, she shoved it out of the way, and with a groan she tackled the largest of them all, the one that was buttressed so securely against the door, the one that had taken her a lifetime to set into place.
“Dear God,” Jessie prayed aloud, “please don’t let him die—don’t let him die—please!” Her face turned scarlet with her efforts and still the trunk would not budge.
“Someone, please—oh, please, please, help!” she cried out, despairing ever to be free of the cabin. She was desperate to aid Christian. The armoire she’d admired earlier was within reach, and she happened to brace her feet upon it in her despair. Finding anchorage there, she shoved with every last bit of her might. Nailed down as it was, the armoire gave her the much-needed reinforcement and the confounded chest inched slowly but surely away from the door. Her face flushed and her brow beaded from her exertions, she gave the chest a final shove, sliding it just barely out of the way, and then she stood hurriedly, unbolting the door.
