Three Redeemable Rogues

by Tanya Anne Crosby

It was just as well that she hadn’t heard him out... He tried to, but couldn’t quite picture Sophia Vanderwahl with an apron on and standing behind a lit stove. He could see her better sitting on a throne with a yapping mutt in her lap.

  Damnable woman! She was too distracting by far.

  Chapter 6

  You have the most delightful hands, dear girl!”

  Harlan Horatio Penn III writhed under gently caressing fingers. He had taught her well, he thought with some pride, and felt only remotely guilty for not remembering her name.

  He couldn’t be expected to remember anyway; their names weren’t made for the American tongue.

  He turned to admire her dark skin and features, and she caught his expression and smiled. How wonderfully intuitive she was! He smiled in return, and she renewed her efforts. How eager to please she was!

  How spoiled he was becoming.

  The thought of going back to Sophie, with her little-girl expressions and her unpracticed kisses, appealed not at all. He grimaced as he thought of the letter he had received from her father. It seemed Maxwell Vanderwahl was eager for grandchildren. He had decided out of the blue that Harlan was wasting his time in the wilderness, and had summoned him back to Boston posthaste. Harlan had little doubt he would exercise his considerable power to achieve that end, if Harlan did not comply soon. He needed Jonathon to help him persuade Maxwell to give him more time.

  He sighed wistfully and turned around to let the girl labor over his back, settling into a comfortable languor and thinking he would like to spend his entire life here and nowhere else.

  ‘It’s not that she’s unattractive,” he told the smiling native girl, knowing she didn’t understand a word he was saying. “She just... has no passion,” he explained, and turned to glance over his shoulder. “Understand?”

  The girl’s smile widened, and she nodded enthusiastically.

  “Of course you do,” he said anyway. “Smart girl!” He didn’t need a woman who talked incessantly, asked questions interminably. He wanted someone who would shut up and tend loyally to his needs.

  She rattled off something in her native tongue, and giggled, making him smile. The simple fact that he could not understand her Spanish made her every utterance seem like music to his ears.

  “I wonder if Jon booked passage with that rabble-rousing pretender,” he said thoughtfully. “I think he’ll like you very much!” He turned to her. “You’ll take good care of him, now, won’t you?”

  She giggled and nodded, seeming to understand that he wished her to.

  “Good girl. Good girl.”

  He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then turned, raising a brow and grinning a bit lasciviously. “You’ll have a bit of making up to do, I think.” He wiggled his brow at her. “I promised Jon you would be exquisite, and the poor chap will likely have had a rough journey.”

  He’d also promised the girl would be unused ... but that particular promise was one he couldn’t seem to keep.

  She mistook his expression.

  Again she smiled, only this time much more seductively, and began to move her hands down his back to his buttocks, eager to please him.

  He sighed in pleasure, deciding that Jon would simply have to make do with leftovers.

  Anyway, it would be far better fare than he would be getting aboard MacAuley’s wreck. Harlan had finagled a little gift for the entire crew. They’d all be lucky if they didn’t die of food poisoning before the journey was over... thanks to one sordid character who went by the name of Shorty.

  Too bad for Jon, but Harlan hadn’t dared risk telling even his good friend. It just couldn’t be helped. The girl would just have to soothe his wounds when he arrived.

  The last thing he wanted to see was Jack MacAuley on the same site he was working.

  She suddenly lowered her lips to the small of his back, startling him as she lapped gently at his back.

  “Oh my!” he exclaimed, and chuckled softly.

  Fast learner, she was!

  He only wished his linguistic skills were as fine as hers... so he could understand what the hell she was whispering to him in that sweet musical tone.

  With another sigh he relaxed completely, giving himself over to her ministrations.

  “Professor Penn!” a voice intruded.

  Startled, the girl stopped her tongue exercises abruptly, and Penn’s mood soured instantly.

  Didn’t anybody ever knock? Christ!

  Rolling his eyes, he sighed again but didn’t bother to move. His voice was muffled by the towel he was using for a pillow. “Go away, Borland, can’t you see I’m busy!” he reproached the boy.

  “Yes sir,” he answered, and stammered like an idiot, “but... well... you see ..

  “Later,” he told the young man firmly, and laid his head down again.

  Eager beavers these young apprentices were—annoyingly eager, at that!

  “But sir ... it’s just that... you’ve a telegram!”

  Harlan lifted his head once more. “A telegram?”

  The boy nodded and came forth, offering it.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Give it to me!” Harlan demanded.

  The youth handed it to him and scurried out before Harlan could dismiss him. That simple disrespect irked him.

  He opened it.

  It said simply: missed the boat. your telegrams are on board. they’ll be burned first time they use the stove. don’t want your blood money.

  It was from Shorty.

  Letting out a string of oaths, Harlan bounded up from where he lay, fury engulfing him. “Suffering idiot!” he shouted, and ripped the telegram in half.

  Sophie knew they were working hard on deck: She could hear them laboring without rest and without complaint as she sat on her bed and sketched diligently.

  The camaraderie between the men was easy and full of banter, and she found herself feeling quite the outsider among them ... and not a little bit envious.

  She couldn’t help it.

  She couldn’t remember ever having such an easy fellowship with anyone at all, not her parents, not her friends, not even Harlan. Always she had been on her best behavior, afraid to show anyone anything other than what was proper, or what was expected.

  And in truth, she’d had reason to be afraid. She was an anomaly, wanting things that were hardly conventional for a woman of her position.

  Though she wanted desperately to make her parents proud, some little part of her had admired Harlan’s rebellion against his father. His parents had wanted him to become a lawyer, to replenish their coffers, since his own father’s career had nearly broken them. Harlan had defied him, following in his father’s shoes, despite the protests, and some little part of Sophia had wanted to follow his example.

  Some little part of her still did.

  While Sophie had snuck out to search for ferocious shark’s teeth with the little boys of her age, her friends had all been busy learning their manners and reciting the beatitudes. As adults they had become so very somber—no giggling with their heads together over anything at all, while Sophie still dreamed of attending the university and studying Plato’s Ethics or the origins of nature and the limits of human knowledge.

  But it was an impossible dream.

  Her father would never permit it. Their world was an unforgiving one, and a woman’s duty was to be a proper showpiece at all times.

  How dare Harlan belittle the interest she had shown in his work!

  How dare he make light of her intellect!

  It was as though he didn’t believe her capable of meaningful thought.

  It was as though he had entirely dismissed her because of her gender.

  She had thought he respected her more, but she was a fool for believing it, because all the signs had been there. She had only refused to see them.

  She didn’t want to be a wretched showpiece; she would die inside. But she would certainly become one if she married Harlan.

  All her friends—every one—as mistres
ses of their own homes seemed to have metamorphosed into their mothers, ready to raise their daughters in the same manner in which they had been brought up. She looked into their eyes and saw but a remaining flicker of that curious fire every child is born with—boy and girl alike. For a time, it had nearly smothered within herself. She could see that now.

  Only now, when she should be weeping with grief over Harlan’s betrayal, did she feel truly alive for the first time in so long.

  She could feel.

  And smell.

  And see.

  And it was quite likely melodramatic to think so, but she could do these things with far more clarity and intensity than she had experienced ever in her life.

  She sighed wistfully, feeling restless.

  She had completed the first sketch of Jack and set it aside, determined to capture his essence on paper. Somehow, every time she finished one, she was compelled to begin another. Jack might be a demon, but his was no simple facade. No matter how many times she drew him, she seemed somehow to be missing something essential to his persona. And so she kept trying. And kept trying... and kept trying... until she was wading in a veritable sea of Jack’s face.

  She wondered what they were doing above deck, wondered what it would feel like to be one of them—to be allowed one’s own opinion, to tell bawdy jokes ... to wear pants ... and even more scandalous yet... to wear no shirt.

  Unbidden, a vision of Jack MacAuley’s broad, bare chest materialized before her, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She started to draw shoulders below the neck, and stopped herself, forcing the pencil once more to the exaggerated arched brow.

  She blinked the other image away and tried to visualize Harlan, but his face remained a blur. Certainly his body was no more than a shadowy blob.

  Odd that she suddenly couldn’t even recall him clearly. Reaching out, she lifted up the portrait and studied it, trying to recall what it was about him that had attracted her to begin with.

  She had known him forever, it seemed, but she supposed she had first admired Harlan’s intelligence. He had been her first real friend and confidant.

  But somehow, her heart was not broken at the thought of losing him. Anger she felt in spades over his betrayal, but heartbreak, no.

  He had been everything her parents had wished for in a son, and everything Sophia had wished she could be—intelligent, witty, adventurous ... unafraid to stand up to his own father.

  Secretly, Sophie had yearned to live Harlan’s life, visit the places he visited, talk to the people he talked to, learn and learn and learn, and experience life to its absolute fullest!

  It was her true dream, though she was a practical woman, and if she couldn’t live the life she wished, she had determined to do the next best thing—to be the best mother and wife she possibly could be, and live vicariously through her husband. Even if he would have been mostly absent, she was certain absence was bound to make their hearts grow fonder.

  Bah humbug!

  He had apparently dismissed her the instant he had departed Boston!

  She set the picture down and began to gather her drawings, afraid someone might see them.

  The voices above deck had quieted with the sun’s descent. Faint murmurs reached her ears, but otherwise only the sound of the wind through the sails was discernible.

  The air was stuffy and stale in the tiny cabin. For propriety’s sake, she was forced to keep the door closed, and not a whisper of air penetrated the small room. It was rather like being in a coffin. In fact, the longer she remained, the more morbid became her thoughts—she glanced at the portrait of Harlan—the more delicious was the thought of her revenge.

  But if she sat here dwelling on her anger, she was going to murder Harlan in truth.

  He looked far too serene in the portrait—far too noble with his patrician nose and rounded chin. And his blue eyes shone with far too angelic a light. His smile was far too kindly.

  With a growl, she tossed her pencil down and reached out to slam the picture facedown, so she would be spared his magnanimous gaze.

  How could she have been so blind?

  No sooner was it down than his face blurred before her eyes completely... replaced by another, and Sophie tried in vain to erase it, too, from the canvas of her brain.

  Green eyes and tawny hair ... full lips. His lips ... that was what she had failed to capture ... the pure sensuality of his lips. Sophia shuddered at the sensations that assaulted her with the vision. Her body flushed with heat. She resisted the urge to retrieve her pencil.

  He was far more handsome than he deserved to be.

  Nor was he anything at all as she had supposed.

  Because he was a student of anthropology she had visualized him more like Harlan—soberly dressed and staid, slightly wayward perhaps, but certainly not someone she might mistake for an arrogant dock hand!

  She wondered what he was doing up there, and then berated herself for thinking about him at all.

  Why should she care what he was doing?

  She didn’t think he’d come back to his cabin ... else she would have known it. He would have had to pass her room, as his was the only other cabin on this level—at least on this end of the ship, and Sophie found herself suddenly curious to know if his quarters were as “plush” as her own.

  She’d be willing to wager his own quarters weren’t nearly as meager.

  Well... there was only one way to find out.

  She crawled out of bed as quietly as she was able, leaving her papers in a neat pile and rose carefully so as not to whack her head again. Prowling like a thief, she crept out of her room, into the captain’s dining hall.

  In this room was a medium-sized table, with six chairs around it. Snuggled within a nook, a washbasin sat. Bookshelves lined the length of one wall.

  Above her, the sun had set completely and cast the lower deck in shadows. She heard voices near, but not so near that she could make out to whom they belonged—not that she would know at any rate. The voices filtered down from somewhere above deck... and somewhere below, but she decided the immediate coast was clear.

  Feeling a little like a skulking thief, she made a dash for the captain’s cabin, and threw open the door.

  Chapter 7

  Sophie shrieked in startle at the sight of Jack seated at his worktable. Throwing up her hands in fright, she clutched at her breast, trying to catch her breath and regain composure.

  “What are you doing here!” she asked, her heart thumping fiercely.

  His brow lifted, and he gave her an assessing glance, but otherwise didn’t move from where he sat. He was half-dressed once again, shirtless entirely, but this time she had no right to complain.

  She was in his cabin.

  Uninvited.

  He gave her a pointed look. “I would ask you the same.”

  Sophie knew she had been caught in the act of snooping, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to apologize—especially after seeing the differences in their quarters. The least he could do was feel just a little guilty! Good God, his room comprised half the lower deck, with windows along the back to let in the sunshine and moonlight. He had the shutters open, and a cool breeze shuffled through, teasing her hair and face.

  A tallish wardrobe occupied the wall behind her, and a private washroom the niche beside it. Behind the desk where he sat was another massive bookshelf that spilled over with books. His bed was a hammock that occupied practically half the room and there was room for a second hammock above the table where he sat. Lanterns, six of them, two per wall, were lit against the setting sun, throwing warm golden light over the floors and polished maple table.

  “I didn’t hear you come down,” she said, looking around, feeling a bit outraged.

  She had paid an exorbitant fare of ten thousand dollars for passage aboard this accursed ship! The least he could have done was to have offered her better living quarters!

  “I’ll be sure to warn you next time,” he told her, and the sarcasm in his ton
e was not lost on her.

  Sophie’s face heated, but she ignored the barb, inviting herself in. “How novel. One can actually stand in your cabin.”

  He set down his papers, making a point to turn them over, as though to hide them, and Sophie wondered what it was he was reading to guard them so jealously.

  “Your powers of observation are astounding,” he countered.

  Sophie gave him her most winsome smile, liberally laced with derision. “You give me far too much credit Mr. MacAuley. I hardly think it takes a keen eye to note the difference.”

  He ignored her subtle complaint. “So tell me,” he prompted, “was there any particular reason you came bursting into my cabin... seeing as how you were evidently surprised to find me here?”

  Sophie frowned, noting the way he had begun to collect his papers and set them inside a drawer as though to remove them from her reach. It was a ridiculous notion, but he was staring at her a bit accusingly. “To steal all your theories, of course,” she answered flippantly.

  He didn’t laugh at her jest.

  In fact, his frown deepened and he stared at her a bit more intensely. Those green eyes of his seemed entirely too perceiving. They bore into her, and Sophie’s heart began to beat a little faster under his careful scrutiny.

  He was handsome, stunningly so, with his rugged good looks. His jaw was strong, with the slightest cleft that seemed to invite the delicate brush of a lover’s thumb. His tanned skin, she realized, came from long hours in the sun, but not laboring on the docks as she’d first supposed. She could well imagine him burrowing shirtless in the dirt, searching for buried treasures.

  She envied him fiercely.

  All Sophie had ever wanted was the chance to learn—a chance to travel and discover new worlds. Her dream to mother Harlan’s children had been second to all her own. Only now that she was suddenly free of Harlan did she see it all so clearly. It was almost as though a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. She didn’t want to be married. Shocking as the idea was, it took root and began to grow.

  Jack studied her, trying to determine if she were telling him the truth.