His Wicked Kiss Part 16

Earlier, in the afternoon, she had managed to get some sleep, but by nightfall, with the expected hour of her captor's return drawing near, she had come wide awake again. There was nothing to do except wait and listen with growing anxiety for any sign of his approach.

The s.h.i.+p was full of strange noises: creaks and pounding footfalls across the decks above, ceaseless waves slapping the hull. She thought she'd heard the mournful singing of a whale echoing through the night some time ago.

Then she had heard it-and her seething thoughts broke off abruptly-firm, steady footfalls coming closer.

Closer.

Anxiety had turned to virginal dread at the low, metallic jangling of keys on the other side of the door. Then the locks had begun to free themselves, one by one.

What if she couldn't resist him? What if he got rough?

Somehow London seemed farther away than ever...

At the last minute, coward like, she decided to feign sleep. She shut her eyes and held stock-still as the door inched open. She heard his by now familiar baritone as he mumbled a command to his dog to stay in the other room, that h.e.l.l hound who had betrayed her hiding place earlier today. If it weren't for that blasted dog, she might still be safely secreted away on the orlop deck.

With the slow creak of the door inching open, she sensed a warm glow of light from behind her closed eyelids. Determined to convince her captor that she was fast asleep, she opened her eyes to the merest slits, trying to peek at him through her lashes.

She saw him hesitate in the doorway, looking as unthreatening as was possible for a giant, rugged male with a scruffy dark jaw, a bronzed tan like a heathen, and eyes like the wild sea. He stopped, as though unsure whether or not he should come in; he looked at her by the light of the lone candle in his hand, but not in l.u.s.t. He seemed to be making sure she did not have a weapon.

What the devil?

The bristling tension in his vast shoulders relaxed by a fraction as he eased into the room, moving like a man who had half expected to be walking into an ambush.

Watching him through her lashes, Eden wondered what the swathe of blue fabric was draped over his arm. Turning around, Jack closed the door behind him, trying to stop it from squeaking as it swung; then he began resetting all those blasted locks, visibly taking pains to be quiet.

This was not the behavior of a man with rape in mind, she thought. Feeling rather silly, Eden pretended to wake up when he turned around again, once the door was sealed.

"Oh-sorry. Did I wake you?" he mumbled.

She sat up with the cover still clutched to her chest and managed a not very convincing yawn. "It's all right. I had just dozed off."

He s.h.i.+fted his weight, glancing around uncertainly. "Do you, uh, need anything?"

Startled by his politeness, she shook her head.

"Good," he answered. He nodded at her and then crossed abruptly toward the washstand. "Oh, I brought you something to wear." She perked up as he tossed the blue thing across the cannon. "I'll put the candle out in a moment. Just want to wash up before bed."

She nodded, mystified. Goodness, who was this gentleman?

Was he the same man who had ordered her to strip for his pleasure this afternoon? The same callous rogue who had rammed his tongue down her throat that day in the jungle? Why the sudden change of tactics? Eden regarded him in suspicion.

She had already learned that Jack Knight didn't do anything without a reason.

He lifted the hinged top of the mahogany washstand to reveal the built-in sink. It even had a little silver-handled spigot that let water out of the concealed reservoir in the back of the commode. She watched him insert his beeswax taper into one of the symmetrical candle holders on either side of the washstand for light; then he took a washcloth out of the lower drawer. But when he lifted his s.h.i.+rt off over his head, she ducked back behind the curtains of his berth again, her heart racing.

After a moment, the temptation was too great. She leaned out ever so slightly to watch what he was doing.

Unaware of her study, he stood in profile to her. Her eyes widened as he reached for the falls of his breeches and started to unfasten them. He seemed to think better of it, however, let out a low sigh as he b.u.t.toned them again, leaving them on.

Eden was relieved, yet the longer she watched him, the more his rock-hard body entranced her.

So beautiful.

He caught her staring as he turned to lean his back against the bulkhead, pulling off his boots. He met her gaze warily, but said nothing as he dropped his black boots on the floor with one heavy clunk after another.

Her cheeks reddened. She cleared her throat, in need of a brisk change of subject. "What did you find for me to wear?" Not waiting for his answer, she climbed out of the bed and went over to the cannon, picking up the blue cloth. She held up the whimsical, low-cut gown by its shoulder seams, and stared at it for a long moment, not quite sure what to make of it.

Jack glanced over as Eden burst out laughing.

"What on earth is it? A costume for a mask ball?"

"Something like that." He grinned. "I believe the wearer of that dress is meant to play the part of the Princess in King Neptune's Court."

"Oh, it's wonderful! I love it!" Pressing it to her, she twirled, adoring its liquid motion. "It's so s.h.i.+mmery! What fabric is this, lame?"

"I haven't the slightest idea." He turned to her with his eyebrow c.o.c.ked and one hand propped on his lean waist. "You do realize that is not a proper gown, Miss Farraday?"

"I think it's lovely!"

He shook his head at her in sardonic amus.e.m.e.nt. "All the same, I've arranged for my valet, Martin, to begin working with you tomorrow. It'll be bitter cold soon. I've told him to sew a few things so you'll be warm as we travel north."

At his words, she was humbled by his generosity, yet her heart sank. She stared soberly at him as he leaned closer to the mirror and trailed his fingertips along his scruffy jaw with a frown. "d.a.m.n, I need a shave."

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"I don't wish to be any trouble."

"Oh, really?" he countered, shooting her a twinkling glance. "Since when?"

She frowned as he leaned down and began splas.h.i.+ng his face.

"I don't know how I'll ever pay you back."

"Hmm." He sent her a dubious smile as the water trickled down his face. Droplets coursed down his chest as he straightened up again, rubbing the back of his neck with the wet washcloth. If some lewd joke was on the tip of his tongue, he kept it to himself.

After a moment, he ran the wet washcloth down his muscled arm. Eden watched him for a long moment, but when she saw he could not reach the center of his broad back, she put the dress down and walked toward him bravely.

Taking the washcloth out of his hand without waiting for him to argue, she brushed past him to rinse it out in the basin, put a little soap on it, and then circled around behind him again. Jack watched her from the corner of his eye.

Slowly, she touched the damp cloth to his smooth, sun-browned back. He tensed at first, as though wary of her touch, but as she cleaned him in long, careful strokes, his supple flesh relaxed beneath her touch. As she washed off sea salt and dried sweat, his skin took on a velvety sheen in the candlelight.

When she moved forward again, reaching past him to rinse off the cloth, his gaze tracked her, full of smoldering heat.

A blush suffused her cheeks; she could suddenly think of nothing but his powerful arms around her, his mouth claiming hers like that day on the dock.

She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze. Ready once again, she continued her task; Jack braced his hands on the corners of the washstand, leaning down a bit to let her reach his shoulders. He put his head down and closed his eyes as she complied, was.h.i.+ng his wide shoulders, dabbing at his neck as well, and smoothing his thick, wavy hair out of the way with her other hand. Then she ran the cloth across his muscled chest, caressing him. He sighed as she bathed his sculpted sides.

"So many scars," she observed in a soft whisper, tracing one of the many pale, angry lines that marred his otherwise beautifully chiseled torso, like fine cracks in a marble Hercules.

"A few," he conceded, his eyes still closed.

"Where did you get this one?" Her fingertip followed a long slash mark along his right ribs.

He dragged his eyes open and glanced down at the one she had asked about, then smiled ruefully. "Gibraltar. Tavern fight with some Royal Marines."

"And this?" An awful-looking gash, long healed over, on the right side of his waist.

"Oh, that. Sea battle against Asian pirates on the Indian Ocean."

"Really?"

"They hit us with a broadside, and I was pierced with a flying shard of splintered wood half a foot long."

"That's inches from your liver. You could have died."

"Aye, so they said." He shrugged. "I was lucky."

"What about this one?" she murmured, touching the jagged, star-shaped outline of a hole on his right shoulder that she knew on sight had been made by a bullet.

"That one, my dear-" He grasped her wrist gently and plucked her hand away, "is a very long story." He kissed her hand and gave it back to her. "I'll take it from here."

She did not argue, for the searing hunger in his eyes warned that her touch was tormenting him. Instead, she leaned her elbow on the edge of the washstand and searched his face intently.

"What?"

"I would so hate for you to come by any new scars."

He smiled mildly. "Thanks, but it's probably inevitable."

"You're really putting yourself on the line for the rebels, aren't you?" She let her troubled gaze travel down over all the marks of pain on his body. "Why risk it?"

"I thought we already talked about this."

"Yes, but I don't understand. It isn't even your country. You can't need the money. You're already rich. Is it just for the thrill?"

"h.e.l.l, no. I am not a reckless man." He moved past her. "I have my reasons."

"Nothing you feel you can tell me?" She turned to watch him.

He went to the door again, apparently to check the locks one last time before sleep. There, he paused with his back to her, barely glancing over his shoulder. "It's a very satisfying thing in life when you're able to do something no one else can," he said in a low voice. "Not even people who think they're better than you. Not even a duke," he added under his breath.

Eden gazed at him in wary tenderness as he turned around slowly and leaned back against the door. He returned her stare but made no move to come any closer.

"Are you talking about your brother, Hawkscliffe?"

He shook his head. "The dead one, before him."

"Your father?"

He folded his arms across his chest and dropped his gaze. "Yes. My father," he said in a low, scornful sort of growl.

"You didn't get along with him?" she asked softly.

"Couldn't do anything right for him." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

She gazed at him, not knowing what to say; it obviously mattered a great deal.

"I'm helping Bolivar because I can. Come on." He nodded toward his berth. "Let's go to bed."

Following his glance at the sleeping quarters they were to share, she bit her lip. All of a sudden, his six-foot berth didn't look so big.

"After you," he ordered.

"Which side do you want?"

He looked at his bed. "You take the wall."

She nodded, drew a deep breath, and then climbed into his berth while Jack crossed back to the washstand to blow out the candle.

He doused it with a puff of breath. Immediately, they were plunged in silver moonlight just as Eden slid beneath the light coverlet and sheet.

Jack approached, pewter moonlight sliding along the sleek contours of his mighty shoulders and powerful chest-as though he were forged of polished steel, or as if his very skin were a kind of supple armor. Taut silver ridges and blue shadows contoured every compact muscle of his sculpted abdomen. The scars were invisible now.

Eden held her breath at his beauty as he sat down on the edge of the bed, punched his goose-down pillow into the desired shape, then reclined slowly beside her, folding his arms behind his head. It was not lost on her that he kept the covers between them, lying atop them rather than joining her beneath their light warmth.

G.o.d. She was positive he could hear her pulse thumping in the awkward silence.

When he changed position after a few minutes, lowering his hands to his sides, he b.u.mped her thigh with his left hand-a fleeting, accidental touch-but even as he mumbled an apology, she fairly quivered in response. This was insane, but her body was throbbing.

Right, she told her fevered flesh, closing her eyes resolutely. Go to sleep now.

Silence.

She could tell by his shallow breathing that he was wide awake, too. Indeed, she could feel the pull of his masculinity, almost hear his body begging for her touch, but she didn't dare.

The silence stretched.

"Eden?"

"Y-Yes?" she asked at once, swallowing hard. Her chest rose and fell in abrupt pulls of breath, all but panting.

"Is it my turn to ask you a question?" he whispered.

She licked her lips, prepared to say yes to nearly anything. "All right." She rolled onto her side and braced her elbow on the pillow, resting her cheek in her hand. "What do you want to know?"

He rested his hands on his stomach but turned his head to gaze at her. His eyes glittered in the dark. "Why'd you do it?"