Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Jack wavered suddenly, seeing the sincerity in her eyes.

  Penn didn’t deserve such loyalty. He didn’t deserve the passion so apparent in her resolve.

  “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars,” she offered, and he knew that she had reached her limit. There was, for a moment, fear in her eyes while she waited for his answer. “This is possibly the most important thing I have ever done in my life!” she appealed to him. “Please... I will make myself useful. I will do anything you say ... please ...”

  Damn it all to hell!

  If Sophia Vanderwahl wanted to squander good money to spend two weeks spewing her guts out over a ship’s rail, who was he to stop her?

  Jack might be principled, but he sure wasn’t stupid. He could use the money, and his crew could use some pay.

  “All right, damn it!” he said, and grumbled after.

  Her eyes lit up.

  With the light shining down on them from above through the nets, her eyes looked almost like nuggets of gold, with specks of green.

  Beautiful.

  “Oh my! Did you really say yes?” She clapped her hands together joyfully.

  Jack was going to sorely regret this, he could tell already, and he’d be damned if he’d let her dripping enthusiasm dampen his irritation, so he said sternly, “Be here before four P.M. tomorrow, packed and ready to go, or we leave without you!”

  She shrieked so loudly Jack winced at the sound, and then she hurled herself at him with the force of a cannonball.

  The feel of her body pressed to his sent a jolt through him. He let her hold him as she laughed with glee, not daring to touch her. He kept his hands outstretched, his senses reeling.

  “I’m already packed!” She jumped up and down, hugging him happily, her arms going about his neck, choking him. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! You won’t regret this! You won’t! I promise!”

  He already did.

  With every little leap of joy, he could feel her nipples, aroused with excitement, clear through her dress. The sensation tortured him mercilessly.

  He stared up through the nets, trying to get hold of himself, holding his breath, trying not to notice anything at all... not her sweet feminine scent or the mint of her breath ... especially not the sudden burst of heat in his groin ... and saw Kell peering down at them.

  The bastard was grinning.

  Chapter 5

  It was going to be a long voyage.

  Sophie dragged what Jack would allow of her baggage down one ladder and up another. She peered up through the netting at clear blue skies and white billowing sails and wondered irately why she couldn’t have just removed the netting and tossed down her luggage rather than tow it after her up and down ladders.

  He hadn’t even bothered to help her, merely carried on with his work, and even if she was feeling just a wee bit grateful that he’d refused to allow her to bring aboard three more pieces, she wasn’t about to relinquish her annoyance.

  He’d placed her in a tiny cabin near his own that was barely big enough to sleep in. One couldn’t even stand upright in it. Nor could one wash within it, or do the necessary. Absolutely primitive!

  Sophie thought perhaps he’d been hobnobbing with savages far too long.

  The water closet, for example, was disgraceful. It was no more than two donut-shaped seats on the fo’castle that hung out over the side of the vessel. Really, what did they expect her to do? Hoist up her skirts in full view of his crew and let it rain down on the little fishies in the sea? The very notion made her shudder. Men were absolutely shameless.

  However, she was determined to make the best of the situation. She began to whistle a merry tune, telling herself that she would make do, that she would not complain, because she had promised to do nothing that would make him regret his decision—but mostly because they weren’t so very far out from shore, and she wouldn’t put it past Jack MacAuley to toss her overboard and make her swim back. He was that rude.

  So she tried to whistle as she made her quarters more comfortable, giving it as much of a homey feel as she possibly could. She couldn’t quite manage a tune, because she didn’t really know how to whistle. It wasn’t seemly for a lady to whistle, her mother said, and of course Vanderwahls never did anything unseemly.

  Removing her portrait of Harlan from her suitcase, she set it on a small shelf at her bedside—not because she adored him so much that she couldn’t live without his image, but because it served as a reminder of her mission ... and because she’d hidden his letter in the back of it. She didn’t want it out of her sight.

  She was going to get satisfaction from him if it was the last thing she did. Harlan was a rotten louse, and she wasn’t going to rest until she gave him a piece of her mind—not until she had the pleasure of seeing him wretched at the thought of losing her father’s money.

  She had completely misjudged him. She had thought him an honorable man.

  Suddenly feeling the urge to draw, Sophie retrieved her pencil and pad from her baggage. She couldn’t go anywhere without it. Somehow, it was as essential to her as breathing. She sat back on the cot and began to draw.

  She’d hoped Harlan would love her—as her grandfather had loved her grandmother. Her own parents were merely tolerant of each other, partners certainly, but confidants ... or lovers... she didn’t think so. They traveled together often, but rarely told the same tales on their return, and Sophie had long ago surmised that the only time they spent together on those extended trips was the time spent en route.

  She sighed at the thought, but hardly blamed her father. Her mother had always been a trifle overbearing. As their only child, Sophie had been expected to behave as an adult from the instant she had been able to walk and talk. Her mother had allowed nothing less.

  Her father was a dear soul, but he hadn’t been happy as long as Sophie could remember. He seemed to spend his entire life trying to live up to her mother’s expectations. Sophie wanted to believe he would applaud her this moment, wanted to believe he would revel in her courage. She wanted to believe he would understand, he above all others, but she knew he couldn’t allow it. Never once had he taken a stand against her mother, and Sophie thought it rather sad that, for love, he had lost his own spirit. And yet some little part of her could feel him just now ... some slightly rebellious piece of his soul. In her mind’s eye, she could see his secret smile and single nod of approval.

  Taking a rest from her sketching, she glanced at Harlan’s picture, allowing herself a moment’s sorrow. She wouldn’t mind so much being alone. There would be no one to tell her what to do, but to tell the truth, she was lonely already. She might deny it, but she couldn’t lie to herself. With a sad smile she recalled the days so long ago when, as a child, she’d snuck away to play with the boys. Her mother had been furious but those had been the only times that Sophia had felt a sense of communion with other human beings. She often wished she’d had siblings ... if for nothing else than simply to share confidences with.

  She missed that desperately.

  Yet how could someone miss something so fiercely when she’d never had it to begin with?

  Deep inside, she was lonely, empty, and more so now with Harlan’s betrayal. He had offered her so much hope, and she had clung to it. She had built all her dreams around him. And now they were all gone.

  But she was stronger and wiser.

  She went back to her drawing, working absently.

  It had been all she could do not to be physically ill when she’d claimed to miss Harlan so fiercely. The louse. She hadn’t planned to explain anything at all to Jack MacAuley, because she really didn’t feel it necessary to air her dirty laundry. It was none of anyone’s concern why she wished to see her fiancé—ex-fiancé.

  She stopped to cast a malevolent glance at the portrait by her bedside. It wasn’t as though she were begging passage anyway. She had paid handsomely for the privilege of traveling aboard this wretched vessel, and doubted any man in her shoes would feel obligated to disclose hi
s personal affairs. She simply hadn’t known what else to say to convince Jack MacAuley to let her aboard, and didn’t particularly like that she had been browbeaten into revealing all that she had. She knew Jack was not Harlan’s closest friend, but men tended to band together, and she doubted Mr. MacAuley would be party to some woman’s attempt at reprisal.

  Maybe she had even said it a little out of embarrassment. It wounded her pride not a little that Harlan could use her so meanly, and it made her feel a bitter shrew to admit to wanting revenge.

  And maybe she was a bitter shrew, but as soon as she recovered some measure of her pride, she could let it go, and live unencumbered by this terrible feeling ... this sense that she had been trampled on—and more, that she had allowed it.

  This was so unlike her, this ever-simmering sense of rancor. The sooner she rid herself of it, the better.

  “If you would have left at least one more of those monster pieces of baggage behind, you might have some room to sleep in.”

  Sophie started at the unexpected intrusion.

  She turned to find Jack MacAuley peering in on her, his head in the door. Her heart fluttered a little at the sight of him, but she ignored the sensation, refusing to explore the reason for its manifestation.

  She blinked down at the sketch she’d been working on. Jack’s face peered up at her, his eyes staring at her intensely, and she started, clasping it to her breast in shock. Her heartbeat quickened. She hadn’t even realized!

  “Would you mind terribly knocking next time?” she snapped at him.

  He smiled mockingly. “I did knock.” He knocked again on the doorframe so as to prove it. Cad! Glancing at the picture of Harlan, he said, “You were so lovelorn staring at that picture you just didn’t hear me.”

  Lovelorn?

  Sophie cringed that he would think so, though she didn’t deny it. She clutched Jack’s caricature possessively, lest he see it. The blood seemed to rush into her brain, and her head suddenly hurt. “A fiancée is supposed to be lovelorned in the absence of her loved one,” she told him, trying to sound aloof, though she felt anything but.

  “Is that so?”

  Sophie thought so, but it occurred to her only after saying so that she had never really languished over Harlan. She considered that fact. “Yes,” she replied, but continued to puzzle over the realization. She had been engaged to Harlan for three years and had never felt as though she’d missed him terribly—anxious, perhaps to begin a new life with him, but miss him? Never.

  Perhaps because she’d spent so little time with him before he’d left?

  She resisted the urge to turn his picture over. The sight of him only seemed to elicit her anger.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Jack said a little acerbically.

  Neither would she, if the truth be known, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Anyway, if you can bring yourself to stop pining long enough... I have a favor to ask of you.”

  The man had no respect at all, and it was probably her imagination but the portrait of his face pressed against her breast seemed to warm her even through her dress.

  She wondered irately if he had ever been taught his manners. It certainly didn’t appear so.

  “I am not pining!”

  “I beg to differ.”

  He cast another glance at Harlan’s picture and lifted a brow when his gaze returned to Sophie. “What else would you call sitting, gazing at a picture of your lover with that wistful look on your face?”

  Sophie sat straighter, irritation crawling the length of her spine.

  Certainly not pining!

  “Not that it’s any of your concern,” Sophie corrected him, “but he is my fiancé, not my lover!” She cast him a malevolent glance.

  And if her look had been wistful at all then it surely had little to do with any desire to see Harlan Horatio Penn III. There was only one thing Sophie wanted from her fiancé, and that was satisfaction.

  Jack merely grinned at her.

  Why did that simple statement please him?

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “What?”

  “Smiling!”

  Jack lifted a brow. “Am I smiling?” He took another look at the little portrait, and concluded that the man had a weak chin to match his weak character.

  “Yes, and please stop! It makes me uncomfortable!”

  She did seem a bit fidgety so he frowned at her. “This better?” He made an exaggerated face, wanting a smile, just a tiny one out of her. Uncertain why it mattered, he nevertheless wanted to know what she looked like when she dared to crack a smile.

  She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the faint smile that came to her lips. Her face didn’t crack, he noticed.

  “You are absolutely despicable, Mr. MacAuley!”

  He ducked his head back out the door and said to anyone and no one at all, “I think she likes me!”

  He heard her laugh, though her expression was sober when he ducked his head back in the door.

  “If it makes you feel better to think so,” she conceded, and he watched her mood sink as she glanced at the portrait of Penn.

  Funny, it had the same effect on him ... but it was a strange reaction to have to the man you intended to marry.

  He watched her more closely, trying to decipher her mood. Was she truly missing Penn? Or was there another reason for that forlorn expression?

  He shouldn’t give a damn, but he’d found his mood soured by the sight of her brooding over her bumbling boyfriend, and quickly restored by her admission that they were not yet lovers.

  “Women are not all so base,” she reproached him, seeming to read his thoughts.

  He couldn’t keep himself from wondering if her lips were as soft as they appeared.

  “They are if their man is worth a damn,” he said, and dared to wink.

  She leapt to her feet, smashing her head against the low ceiling. “Ouch!” A rosy hue crept up her cheeks as she rubbed her head, and she clutched the sketching pad almost jealously to her breast. He noticed it for the first time. “Mr. MacAuley!” she protested. “I hardly think this conversation is appropriate!”

  “Watch the ceiling,” he warned belatedly.

  She glared at him and tried to stand defiantly, but couldn’t quite manage the effect in this miniature room. He wasn’t certain precisely why he seemed to need to bait her, but he liked that she didn’t stand down.

  He gestured at her pad. “What is that?”

  She crossed both arms over the item in question. “What is what?”

  “That, in your hand.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “I see... and what is it you were doing with that nothing?”

  He didn’t know why, but she suddenly looked guilty, and his curiosity needled him harder. “Nothing,” she answered again, her tone slightly raised.

  “I see,” he said, and refused to beg. “Speaking of what’s appropriate,” he told her, changing the topic, “I hardly think your beau is going to appreciate the fact that you are alone on this ship...” With me, he almost added. “... in the company of so many men. Have you thought of that?”

  Her chin jutted toward him, though her glance was suddenly wary. “Are you telling me your men cannot be trusted?”

  “We aren’t barbarians if that is what you’re asking, Mizz Vanderwahl... though your kind often likes to think so.”

  “My kind?” She drew back at that, taking offense, and probably rightly so. Jack knew he was being unfair, but years of fighting the system had left him slightly rankled and ill-tempered—something he usually managed to overcome, but not when faced with Sophia Vanderwahl, the fiancé of his nemesis.

  “About that favor?” he prompted, changing the subject.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have a lot of nerve, insulting me and then asking for favors. The answer is no, whatever it is! Now if you don’t mind leaving me to the comforts of my state room,” she said haughtily, and turned, dismissing him
to rummage through an open bag.

  Jack allowed himself a moment’s appreciation of her pert little backside, then, knowing they had reached a standoff, he conceded. “Suit yourself, princess.”

  She whirled to face him, standing abruptly once again, smashing her head. “Don’t call me that!” This time she didn’t yelp, only rubbed her head, but her eyes flared with anger.

  The devil on his shoulder jabbed him. “If the shoe fits…

  She rubbed her head harder, looking beautifully indignant. “You know, I really don’t think I like you, Mr. MacAuley! Not at all!”

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her, “It’s mutual.”

  But he wanted her.

  He didn’t have to like the woman to feel desire for her. The proof was in his trousers, firmer now after their encounter.

  He left her, closing her door behind him, and couldn’t help but smile at her fit of temper that followed. He heard her through the door though she tried to muffle her scream. More than he should, he enjoyed pricking her anger. She was far too easy a target, and he concluded that there was more to Mizz Vanderwahl’s trip to the Yucatan than she was willing to let on.

  The question was what.

  Whatever it was, Jack was certain of one thing... Penn was at the heart of it, and it wasn’t that Sophia Vanderwahl missed him. He didn’t take her for the type to chase a man about even with a ring on her finger, and she’d already admitted they were not lovers.

  No, there was more to the story, and Jack intended to find out exactly what it was.

  He determined to keep a close eye on Miss Sophia Vanderwahl, and if Penn had put her up to spying for his own gain, Jack was going to make him regret ever having tangled with him.

  As would his golden-eyed fiancée as well.

  In the meantime, since Sophia had refused his favor even before hearing it, he was going to have to find someone else to cook for them since they seemed to have accidentally left Shorty behind.

  How long did it take a man to say goodbye to his gal, anyway?