Happily Ever After (13 page)

Whatever had made her think she could repair the
damage between them? Why did she care so much what the man thought of her? Who
on earth was Jack MacAuley to make her feel less than human?

He’d followed her, and had the effrontery to sound
concerned. “What’s wrong, Sophia?”

Sophie swallowed her tears. “Why should you care?”
Her nerves were near the point of shattering. It had been a terrible
day—a terrible week—ever since she found out about Harlan! She had
wasted three whole years of her life and wanted some justice for his making her
out to be a fool! How could that horrible cad waste her father’s money spending
time in the Yucatan dallying with other women?

“I hope it rots and falls off!” she declared
wrathfully, and spun around to face Jack MacAuley.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing is wrong!” she lied, sounding too much as
though she were trying not to cry. “Nothing at all!” she repeated a little
hysterically, and then added, just to be sure there was no mistake. “I do not
like you, Mr. MacAuley!”

He pulled himself up the ladder and sauntered
toward her, but Sophie stood her ground.

“I don’t like you much, either, Mizz Vanderwahl”
His green eyes turned almost gray in his anger. With his laughter gone, his jaw
was set, and his words were heavy with meaning. “You’re a spoiled, rotten brat
used to getting your own way, but at least I don’t seem to need to list your
shortcomings every time I see you!”

His accusation set her aback.

Did she
really do that?

“Look,” he continued, having won her silence, “I
know I don’t fit into your crowd!”

Sophia blinked at the wounded sound of his voice.

“Your kind never lets a man forget where he came
from,” he told her. “He can work his ass off to earn his degree and prove
himself, but no dice! Well, I’ve news for you, Mizz Vanderwahl, because you’re
no damned better than me!” His green eyes were dark with wrath. When it comes
time to piss, we all do it just the same way.”

Sophie winced at his animosity, at the anger
apparent in his words. She didn’t know how to respond, particularly since she
was hardly going to point out that she didn’t think it was anatomically
possible for men and women to relieve themselves in exactly the same manner.

“There is
no
need to use profanity,” she protested weakly. “I’m quite capable of
understanding your frustrations without it.” Her gaze fell to her injured hand,
and she studied it, unnerved by the heat in his eyes.

If he had intended to make her feel responsible
for all his ills, he’d certainly succeeded. Sophie felt properly chastened.
There was truth in what he said. Everything derogatory she had heard about him
at the university had been in reference to his upbringing—not a single
objection had been raised about his intellect.

In fact, Harlan had been assured even the most
basic things... such as attendance at the university... but this man standing
before her had likely had to fight to earn every honor he had achieved. A new
sense of respect welled up inside her for him, but it didn’t matter, because he
really didn’t like her at all, and he hadn’t felt the least hesitation over
telling her so.

The silence between them was deafening.

Sophie peered up through damp lashes to judge his
expression. His fury had cooled a bit from his eyes as he stared at her
upturned hand, and when he met her gaze, it expressed mostly concern.

“Let me look at it,” he demanded gruffly.

Sophie nodded and offered him her hand, palm
upturned.

He brushed it softly with his fingers, and Sophie
winced in pain. He tried to blow the ash away to no avail, and then peered up
at her with a sympathetic expression.

“It’s full of splinters from the wood,” he told
her, and then stared at her until she was forced to avert her gaze once more.
Somehow, she couldn’t hold his glance without feeling heat in her cheeks. “Will
you trust me to get them out?”

Someone had to do it, and she hadn’t the least
idea how to proceed. The last time she had gotten a single splinter in her
finger, her mother had stuffed a kerchief in her mouth so she wouldn’t scream,
and then had squeezed until Sophie thought her heart would stop, all the while
railing about how men had lost entire hands from infections that had set in
after getting tiny splinters. She’d been admonished to behave
properly—like a lady—and never to slide down banisters like
pernicious little boys.

Jack’s expression begged her trust, and she took a
deep breath and nodded.

CHAPTER 11

Taking
her by her good hand, Jack led Sophie inside his cabin, kicking the door shut
behind them.

Sophie
felt a moment’s hesitation as she heard the click of the latch as it closed.
Her heart leaped a little at the sound. But he merely dragged her over to his
washbasin and released her hand long enough to fill it with clean water. That
done, he turned around and seized her good hand, then held his hand out for the
other. Sophie stepped forward, and he positioned her in front of him, before
the washbasin. He then stood behind her and placed his arms around her,
embracing her.

Sophie
swallowed convulsively at the feel of him standing behind her, his body hard
and quite male. He took her hands in his and began to wash them gently, the
gesture such an intimate one that Sophie suddenly found it difficult to catch
her breath. He reached up, releasing her only long enough to seize a bar of
soap, and then he returned to bathing her hands. The soap slid through their
fingers with silken ease, and his big hands moved with amazing finesse. A
quiver went through her at the sensation. He washed both her hands but took
great care with her injured palm, making certain to clean the area thoroughly
but ever so gently, patiently, never speaking a word to her as he worked.

Sophie
was mesmerized by the sight of their hands intertwined.

His
arms were around her. They were alone and the door was closed. The realization
shuddered through her.

The
moment seemed to go on endlessly and the air was suddenly thick with
anticipation.

But
nothing happened ... except that he put the soap away and lifted up a towel,
then guided her over to his desk. Still without a word, he lifted her up, as
though she were no more than a child, and set her atop his desk.

But
Sophie was not a child.

She
was a woman.

And
she was far too aware of his hands on her ribs, beneath her breasts as he
lifted her. Fleeting though the embrace was, it left her breathless and
titillated in a way she had never felt before. She watched him light a lantern
and turn the flame up so that it was bright enough to see by, and then he
dragged his chair before her and sat. Sophie’s heart beat erratically. Her
breath quickened.

The
lantern cast a golden hue on his face, turned his tawny hair a deep, rich
bronze. He was really quite stunning a man, and she couldn’t help but stare.
She knew it was far too bold of her, but he wasn’t watching her this instant,
and she allowed herself the liberty ...

“This
is going to hurt just a bit,” he warned, peering up sympathetically into her
eyes.

His
green eyes seemed to glitter with the flame, hypnotizing her. She tried to find
her voice to speak but couldn’t. Again she nodded, swallowing, far too aware of
the man sitting before her ... her hand cradled within his.

He
tried to be gentle, Sophie could tell, but tears sprang to her eyes as he began
to work to remove the splinters. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and
tried not to cry out.

He
knew she was trying hard to be brave.

Jack
tried not to smile at her expression.

She
looked so much like a little girl, with her eyes scrunched shut and her lips
tightly pressed, as though bracing herself for her punishment.

Despite
the truth of his accusations earlier—she was a spoiled brat—he
admired her grit at the moment. Telltale tears welling in her eyes, but she
didn’t shed them.

Christ,
when he’d looked up into those huge wide eyes, he’d wanted to draw her into his
arms and hold her, tell her everything was going to be all right.

His
emotions warred now as he watched the play of emotions across her face.

On
the one hand he wanted to despise her for what she was doing—spying for
Penn. On the other, he wanted to care for her, keep her from harm, soothe her.
And at the heart of it all was an intense attraction between them that set him
on his ass every time he was in her presence.

He
didn’t trust her, but even less did he trust himself.

He
couldn’t seem to think straight when he was around her. His body took over and
his brain turned to mush.

Damned Penn.

“Ouch!”

He
hadn’t met to hurt her. His gaze jerked up. “Sorry. I know it hurts, Sophia.”

She
nodded, her eyes watering. “It’s all right,” she absolved him, “I know you
must.”

He
returned to working on her palm, squeezing out the slivers as gently as he was
able, unnerved by the way her pained expression made him feel.

“You
really did a number on it,” he said.

She
laughed softly, nervously perhaps.

He’d
like to say it served her right, but he couldn’t find it in himself to wish her
harm. Her leg brushed his knee and his body stirred.

Damn it.

What
was wrong with him?

He
was getting aroused just taking splinters out of her hand. The sweet, feminine
scent of her teased him. The softness of her hands preoccupied him, taunting
him with images of her gentle caresses. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining
the pale skin beneath her bodice ... the rise and fall of her breasts...
remembering the taste of her mouth.

Her
closed-mouth kiss had been far too brief, and he found himself craving the
taste of her on his tongue. She had teased him only, giving him the briefest
sense of what she would taste like.

He wanted her.

There
was no denying it.

He
swallowed thickly and reached down to draw his knife from his boot, trying to
ignore the heat simmering in his trousers.

Seeing
the blade flash, she cried out and jerked her hand back. “You are not going to
use
that
on me!”

“Actually,
I am,” he said, and smiled up at her, firming his grip upon her hand.

Both
her hands flew up at his declaration, and her expression turned suddenly
combative. “No, you most certainly are not!”

Her
temper was a good thing, he decided. He was far more at ease around her when
she was being a spitfire. Timidness just didn’t suit her. Nor did it suit him
either.

It
confused him, brought out conflicting emotions that he’d rather not deal with.

He
held his dagger in an open hand. It had been a gift from his father, and to him
from his father before him. With its heavy metal handle and curved blade, he
was well-aware that it seemed far too dangerous a tool to be using on her
tender flesh, but it was all he had. And he was very, very adept with it.

“It’s
up to you, Sophia. Live with the splinters, or let me take them out.” He left
it up to her, making no move to return to the task until she gave him leave.

After
a moment, she lowered her hands, but kept them out of his reach.

“I’ll
just use the tip,” he promised, sensing that she wanted to trust him.

Her
huge eyes slanted, and he stared into them, trying to decipher their strange
color—greenish-gold at the instant, but a green so dark they were almost
black... and dancing flecks of red maybe from the flame of the lantern.

“You
won’t let it go in too deep?”

Jack
blinked at her question.

The
allusion was completely lost to her, but not to him. His body hardened at the
images that assaulted him—his body poised over hers, coaxing her to open
for him. Damn, it, he wanted to go very deep. He glanced down at his knife,
then back into her wide eyes.

She
couldn’t know what he was thinking.

Need
clawed at him, and he resisted the urge to readjust his jewels because she was
staring at him too intently. His body strained against his trousers, and he
shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ll
… uh … only put the tip in,” he swore, and his voice sounded raw even to his
own ears.