Happily Ever After (9 page)

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 mistresses 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.