Shadow Play (12 page)

"Is that what I do to you,
chere,
play mischief with your sensibilities?" His laughter was soft. "How very flattering."

"I had not meant it to be flattering."

"No?" He flashed that unnerving smile and Sarah felt her body, from her scalp to the tips of her toes, vibrate like a plucked bowstring.

"No!" she replied, perhaps too vehemently. Tucking her diary against her fluttering stomach, she added less emotionally, "If you'll excuse me, I'll be off to my room."

"I'll see you to your cabin."

"That won't be necessary."

"But
I insist." He caught her arm, making her hesitate in her attempt to flee. At his touch those new and shocking sensations burst through her again, and she did her best to tug her elbow out of his gentle but insistent grasp.

"I'm perfectly capable of finding my way to my cabin," she argued.

"Miss St. James, I don't doubt that you're capable of walking on water, but you're paying me to see you safely down the Amazon and that's what I intend to do."

"How very chivalrous of you, considering you didn't seem overly bothered about my welfare in Belem. Every time I saw you, you were cavorting about town with loose-moraled women."

"A slight exaggeration, I think. Besides, cavorting is hardly my style. I tend more toward a low-keyed seduction. I find women are usually more intrigued by the under- stated."

"Not
this
woman, Mr. Kane, and you'd do well to re- member that.'' She jerked her arm away and hurried across the deck.

"You like the more aggressive sort, huh?" came his infuriating words behind her.

If her emotions had not been in such a quandary, she might have retained her tenuous grip on her temper; as it was, she turned with a furious snap and walked back to him. "Mr. Kane, I have employed you to escort me safely to and from Japurie. I have not—I repeat, have
not
—hired you to seduce me."

A suggestive smile curved his mouth. "Is that what I'm doing,
chere?
Seducing you?"

It was difficult not to acknowledge the sensual promise of those lips. Struggling for breath, she managed, "Mr. Kane, I am not so naive as to believe in the ridiculous notion that you are some magical lover who casts spells over hap- less females."

"No?"

"Positively not. I've grown too old and cynical for such nonsense."

"Chere"
he said, and his rich voice was tinged with amusement, "you haven't a cynical bone in your sumptuous body. Now, unless you want me to disprove your bravado by doing something totally in character, you'd better get your little bustle below."

"I am also not paying you to give me orders. From here on out we travel as a team. We discuss whatever course we intend to take and make decisions together."

"Ah. Very well. In that case, I have to take a leak into the river. Do you think it best to do so up bow or stem?"

Stiffening her spine, she turned toward the door, cheeks burning, vaguely aware that he was following as she made her way down the narrow flight of stairs, into the dimly lit corridor, finally arriving at her cabin after what felt like an eternity of doing her best to ignore the American.

She had dreaded this moment since first boarding the
Santos
that afternoon, when Morgan and Henry had shown her the quarters and she had been forced to pretend indifference to her shabby surroundings. The cabin—or royal suite, as Kane had so glibly referred to it earlier—was a tiny room with a porthole that would not open due to rust and corrosion. That was just as well, Kane pointed out. No one in his right mind would sleep with the porthole open anyway, not if he didn't wish to be drained of blood by mosquitoes or vampire bats during the night. She had hidden her shudder by pretending to laugh. Only he hadn't laughed back, just stared at her with eyes the color of quicksilver.

The bed was a fishnet hammock that hung from the ceiling and was lined with a mattress covered with a tattered yellow sheet. The lantern on the table near the wall cast dancing light over the cabin and reflected from the cracked mirror on the wall. Sarah did her best to view it all with a modicum of pleasure, as she had everything since leaving George- town. It wasn't easy. For the first time in her nineteen years she would be forced to dress without the help of a servant, thanks to the American. He had refused to allow her any personal servants, so she had been forced to wave her lady's maid good-bye in Georgetown. And although Henry and Kan constantly vied to take care of her, they couldn't do everything. She would have to manage to undress somehow ... even if she was forced to rip every last seam of her frock from her body.

Remaining in the hallway, Morgan watched Sarah cross the room and place the diary on the table next to the lamp. He did not miss the look of dread she made toward the hammock, nor the grim line of her mouth as she surveyed the less-than-spotless floor. She made a poor job of smiling as she turned back to face him.

"How nice," she said. "I'm certain to sleep very well."

She was a sorry liar. No doubt about it. But she was showing more stamina than he'd given her credit for. He'd expected a tantrum when he'd shown her the room earlier. He'd anticipated a bad case of the vapors when she realized she was the only white female bound up the Amazon on the steamer. Her only response had been a shudder. Now she was poised like some china figurine or forlorn child, completely different from the sophisticated, yet desperate young woman who had accosted him on two occasions and then ably saved his life as de Queiros attempted to end it. Neither was she the seductress, the memory of whose scantily dressed body had driven him to pace his room through- out the previous night. As it was, the need to take her in his arms rocked him. Ironic that he had kissed her that night on her father's veranda out of spite, to shock her, to prove to her that he wasn't a man who could be impressed by beauty, sophistication, or the flash of a delicate ankle— he'd seen it all a thousand times. What he'd walked away with, however, was the sweet memory of her responsive lips, the erotic scent of her body warmed by the hot tropical night, and the feel of her firm young breasts pressed
i
ndelibly upon his chest. With that in mind, he turned from the door and left her staring after him.

Midnight. The air in the cargo hold was thick with smoke and rank with the smell of unwashed bodies. The boisterous noise of the gamblers had grown to an unbearable level as Morgan made a drunken swipe at the dice, missed, then tried again. The grinning faces surrounding him were bleary as he blinked his burning eyes and did his best to count the dwindling stack of bills before him.

"Morgan!" came Henry's voice. "Morgan, what's going on here? Morgan!"

On his knees and swaying a little, Morgan glanced around to see Henry pushing his way toward him through the crowd.

"Morgan! Don't you dare throw those dice again!"

He threw them anyway. Snake eyes.

Sitting back on his heels, Morgan watched the last of his money disappear into the pocket of a toothless, grinning Brazilian with most of his nose missing. Henry moved up beside his friend, shaking his head. "Morgan, Morgan. I told you to stay away from here. You're a wretched gambler, especially when you're foxed. Come along before you ruin us completely."

"Let the stupid bastard alone, ya squatty pissant," a gravelly voice called out to Henry.

Frowning, Morgan shouted back, "Who are you callin' squatty?"

Henry rolled his eyes.

"That pissant with the bones in his nose!"

Morgan stumbled to his feet, fists clenched as he shoved Henry aside to face the antagonist. "No one calls my friend squatty."

"Says who?"

"Says me, you mother—"

Someone grabbed him from behind, spun him around, and planted a fist across his jaw; Morgan tumbled backward, bouncing against a stack of crates and sliding toward the floor. Suddenly a high-pitched shriek resounded above the racket of whooping men. Henry, dressed only in a loincloth, leapt atop the boxes of cargo, Morgan's knife in his hand. As the stunned, drunken spectators gaped at him in surprise, he shouted something unintelligible and sliced the air with his weapon.

They gasped and stumbled backward.

Henry climbed down slowly from his perch, his features uncharacteristically menacing,
the wavering light of the oil lamps making the anaconda tattoo on his bare chest appear to be gyrating. He grabbed Morgan by the shirt collar and dragged him to his knees.

"My good man," he said as quietly as possible, "I suggest that we remove ourselves from the premises before I am forced to revert to my more primitive self, whatever that might be. I really haven't an inkling any longer, so I wouldn't chance it. Just get the devil out of here before they realize I'm a lot of hot wind."

By the time they reached the deck, Morgan's jaw was throbbing and his stomach roiling. He leaned over the rail and vomited into the river. Then Henry gave him back his knife.

"What brought this on?" the pygmy asked.

Morgan shook his head; he wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and vomited again.

"You needn't tell me," Henry said. "You've been thinking about King again. You always get this way when you dwell on him. Best put him from your mind for now. There will be enough time to ruminate over the bastard once we reach Japura?”

Bent at the waist, his forehead resting against the railing, Morgan closed his eyes and prayed for the ship to stop pitching.

Henry placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right to be afraid, Morgan. You're only human."

"Since when did I become human? I thought I was the
boto
who dared to go where no

man has gone before, and lived to tell about it. Myths aren't supposed to be

human, Henry. They're supposed to be invincible." He heaved again toward the water.

A long silence ensued, punctuated by the throb of the engines. Finally Henry sighed and slapped him on the back. "Would you like me to help you to your hammock?"

He shook his head.

"Very well. Good night, Morgan."

"Goodnight."

Henry watched him for a moment longer, then turned and walked off into the dark.

Little by little the world steadied; at last Morgan could stand upright by gripping the rail with both hands and focusing on some invisible point over the black water. He didn't care to return to bed. That, after all, was what had led to this bout of gambling and inebriation. For hours he'd lain in his hammock, vacillating between thoughts of King and Sarah. He'd needed something—anything—to get his mind off them. He'd learned to deal with his thoughts of King, but those of Sarah were something else.

Disturbing feelings were awakening inside him, and he didn't like them. He'd first

acknowledged them when he'd turned down several offers of sexual dalliance the night before in preference of a decent night's sleep. At least that was what he'd told himself until he found himself alone, with only the narrow corridor separating him from Sarah. He'd paced like a caged horny cat, fighting a conscience that he was shocked to discover he still had. A taunting voice in his mind had urged him to knock on her door, make up some excuse to see her, turn on the charm, seduce the hell out of her, and spend the remainder of the night working his magic on her. To hell with her virginity. She was gonna lose it sometime; why not save good old Norman the bother?

He'd come close. Damn close. So why hadn't he done it?

Taking a deep breath, Morgan reached for the whiskey bottle in his pocket and turned it up to his mouth. He didn't swallow, but swished the liquor around in his mouth, then spit it in the river. A few turns around the deck to sober himself up, and then he'd go below to his hammock. Perhaps by" that time he'd be tired enough to fall asleep...

He rounded a corner and stopped. There stood Sarah in a puddle of light from an oil lamp, and she wasn't alone.

"Perhaps you would care to share a drink with me in my cabin?" the tall, swarthy man said to her.

"You're most kind," she replied, "but I think not. I've quite enjoyed our conversation, but I should return to my cabin now."

"Then you will allow me to accompany you?"

She shook her head and backed away as he stepped nearer.

"But I was under the impression that you found my company stimulating."

"The lady said no."

Sarah jumped at the sound of Morgan's voice. The man spun around to face him. Stepping from the shadows, Morgan grasped his shirt and shoved him away. Sarah gasped, and for a moment the stranger looked as if he might challenge Morgan's right to act as her protector. The heat pressed in on them, as did the night and the heavy smell of humus from the nearby riverbank.

Morgan wondered briefly if he was too drunk to stand his ground, then dismissed the idea. The rush of anger, and jealousy, that had gripped him when he'd seen her with another man had left him stone-cold sober.

At last the man straightened his clothing, spun on his heels, and departed. Only then did Morgan look at Sarah.

"What the hell were you doing out here with him?" he demanded.

Her face had turned as pale as the blouse she was wearing. Her eyes were round. "I—I only came up for a breath of fresh air," she told him. "I couldn't sleep."

"In case you haven't noticed, this isn't England, Sarah. A woman like you doesn't parade herself around a ship like this, in the dark, without an escort."

Her look of fright turned to irritation as she glared back at him. "It's not exactly as if I'm alone on this ship, Mr. Kane. Had I been forced to cry out—"

"It's after midnight, damn it."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

"Perhaps back in England among your hoity-toity friends, but not here. Not where any ne'er-do-well could be lurking in the dark just waitin' to get his hands on you."

"Don't be ridiculous." She spun away and started off down the deck. Morgan stared after her, struggling to control the emotions running riot in him. Jesus, she was beautiful, with her hair full of moonlight and her face flushed with anger. She was too damn innocent to realize the effect she had on men like him, who normally didn't take no for an answer.

He followed her. "Sarah."

"Good night, Mr. Kane."

"I'm not finished."

"I am."

He caught her arm and pulled her around so forcefully her hair spilled from its pins, tumbled down between them as he lifted her off her feet, turned, and pressed her to the wall before she could do little more than gasp.

Then he was kissing her, brutally, forcing her mouth open with his tongue until he could slide it between her wet, silken lips. She struggled, whimpering in her throat, doing her best to turn her face away, to no avail. He kept on kissing her even while his hand jerked up her blouse and plunged beneath it to search frantically for the nipples he knew would be taut and high, and they were—oh, Jesus, they were...

This is what happens when you dally in the dark with bastards like me,
he thought as his tongue danced against hers and his hips moved upon hers, his knees thwarting her legs' feeble attempts to kick him away.

Just when she stopped fighting, he couldn't be certain, but suddenly he realized that her arms had fallen almost limply over his shoulders, her fingers weakly twining into his hair. Her mouth had become supple, malleable, molding to his lips' demands with a novice's eagerness to learn. He could feel her heart beating like a bird's beneath his own.

He slid his tongue down her neck and felt her skin quiver. She rolled her head from side to side, spilling her hair like golden moonbeams over her shoulders.

This had to stop. Of course it had to stop, he told himself. They could be discovered at any moment. He'd only meant to scare her. Show her what could happen if she found herself in the dark with a man with no scruples. He would teach her the consequences of trifling with bad boys who'd learned about sex on the dark and seedy side of New Orleans, and taken their first woman at the age of twelve, a whore who was especially talented in accommodating little boys.

He slid his hand down her thigh, his fingers inching up her skirt while he buried his face against her breast and smelled the. scent of her skin through the thin material of her blouse. Just to taste her, to take that rosy, high-pointed tip in his mouth and savor the flavor of a woman who wasn't still stinking from the last man she'd slept with, or reeking with the alcohol that had given her the courage to search him out.

His fingers slid through the slit in her pantaloons and touched her flesh. She gasped and her eyelids flickered open; her eyes appeared glazed and dreamy; her lips were dark and swollen from his kiss. No doubt she would come to her senses now and slap him, remind him that he was only the hired help, white trash who had no right to touch a real lady in such a way.

"What-what are you doing?" she asked in a whisper.

"Touching you," he whispered back. "Don't you like it?"

She made a soft purring in her throat that made him grow bolder, working the magic on her body that he'd accomplished with so many others, only with them he had gone through the motions, a ritual as predictable as the sun coming up in the morning. Ah, but there was nothing remotely predictable about Sarah. For the first time in his life he was witnessing the true awakening of womanhood, the wonder of Sarah discovering the pleasures of her own body. This was naivete" in its purest sense; it was unfolding before him like the bursting open of a new flower beneath a spring sun. Oh, God, to share it with her, then perhaps...

Perhaps some of her goodness, her innocence, would rub off on him. Make him feel, just for a moment, like he was clean again.

He closed his eyes, then withdrew his hand, forced him- self to look away, to stare up at the black sky and listen to the throb of the engines. As Sarah stirred beside him, his eyes were drawn back to hers, despite his resolve. Reluctantly, he smoothed her hair from her flushed face and straightened her clothes. She seemed benumbed, like one only half risen from sleep. He'd seen that look before, when desire became a force that obliterated the mind's better judgment. Soon she would come to her senses and hate him for what he'd done, then hate herself for allowing it. She was in love with another man, after all. No doubt she was fantasizing that it was Norman holding her... loving her...

He forced the thought from his mind with a shake of his head, turned away, and dug for a

cigarette in his pocket while Sarah stood behind him, her eyes large and confused. He struck a match. "Go to bed," he told her. "And don't let me catch you out at night again without Henry or Kan."

Her soft mouth turned under.

"I could have raped you just then, right there on deck, and who the devil would have known? I could have snapped your beautiful neck and tossed you overboard to the piranhas, and no one would have been the wiser."

"Is that why you did this?" she demanded in a restrained but furious voice. "To teach me a lesson? To humiliate me? To prove that I'm no better at ignoring that idiotic myth about your being the
boto
than every other woman you meet? Which is it, Mr. Kane?"

"All of the above,
chere,"
he lied.

She looked staggered, then she slapped him so hard the cigarette in his mouth was knocked into the river. Without another word she fled into the dark, leaving him standing in the shadows, alone.

Chapter Six

MORGAN CURSED THE HUMIDITY THAT PRESSED DOWN ON him like a steamy blanket. The discomfort would get worse once they entered the forest. The air would turn so hot and thick and damp that breathing would be an effort. Then he reminded himself. that breathing would be the least of their worries once they reached the heart of the Amazon. If the forest didn't kill them, the Indians would. If they were fortunate enough to survive the savages ...

Sarah's laughter sounded over the mumble of conversation and the
chug chug
of the engines. As Morgan turned his back to the rail to watch her, he pulled his flask of whiskey from his pocket and uncorked it. She sat, just as she had for the past two days, at a linen-covered table on the bow of the ship shaded by a makeshift awning. Henry sat at her side, pouring tea, while Kan paced nearby like a guard dog on a tight leash. As if that wasn't enough, every man aboard the
Santos
was trailing about her skirts like a pack of hungry jackals.

When Henry glanced his way, Morgan lifted his flask in salute, then turned it up to his mouth. Henry excused himself from his companions and started toward him, carefully weaving his way among the brightly colored hammocks ' whose occupants resembled larvae in cocoons.

"You look like hell, old man," Henry said.

Morgan drank again.

"Won't you join us for tea?"

"You gotta be jokin'. Who drinks tea when it's hot enough to fry eggs in the shade?" He watched the ship's captain, Lloyd Chambers, take Henry's chair and exchange words with Sarah. The captain was a man of about forty, clean-shaven, with short red hair and sleepy eyes set in a pleasant chubby face that turned the color of claret each time he found himself in Sarah's company, which was be- coming ever more frequent as their journey progressed— , leaving Morgan to wonder who the blazes was steering the floating crate up the river.
                                                                 
.

He turned back to the rail, leaned his elbows on it, and | gazed out at the shoreline dotted with small palm-thatched houses on stilts. Henry sidled up to him and, standing on his toes, peered out over the river. They watched in silence as families emerged from their hovels and waved in response to the boat whistle blaring across the water.

Finally Henry said, "You've certainly made yourself scarce since we set off from Belem."

' 'So have you.'' Morgan took a long drink of his whiskey, then recorked the bottle and slid it into his pocket. He fished for a cigarette in another, then dug for a match. He looked over Henry's head at Sarah. The hot sun radiated off the deck in shimmering waves, yet beneath the awning the girl looked as cool as an orchid kissed by dew. Her voice was lilting as she laughed and spoke with the captain and a few of his crew, who gaped at her beautiful face like love-addled pups. She didn't even have the decency to look uncomfortable in the ungodly heat. Aside from that day in Little China, he'd never seen her sweat, never heard her complain.

"She's quite extraordinary," came Henry's voice.

"Yeah," he replied, more to himself than to Henry.

He forced himself to turn away, to get the image of her passion-drowsy eyes out of his mind. The memory of her smell, her taste, the exquisite feel of her tight, wet flesh quivering in response to his touch had driven him mad the past days and nights. For his own good, and hers, he'd kept as much distance between them as possible.

He watched the shoreline slide by, a wide stretch of iridescent sand crowned by towering green trees. Finally Henry gazed again at Sarah and said, "Sometimes I wish I were white and taller, Morgan. What do you wish?"

He drew on his cigarette and considered the question for a long while before responding, then grinned. "That I was short and brown and had bones in my nose."

Henry chuckled and looked pleased.

Sarah collapsed into the chair in her cabin and buried her face in her hands. Tears stung her eyes. Exhaustion and heat made her nauseous. Three days into her journey down the

Amazon and she wanted to go home. Not just to Georgetown, but to London. She yearned to throw herself on Norman's mercy and forget Japura and rubber seeds and a murderer called King. Pretending indifference to the heat and insects was becoming increasingly difficult. One could sip tea and make pleasant conversation and be charming for only so long without sweating or swooning or wanting to scream.

Standing, she struggled to pull the bodice of her dress up over her shoulders. It clung to her skin and snagged on her chemise. She had swept her hair up off her neck in a braid, but the tendrils curling around her temples and nape were now plastered to her flesh as straight as hat pins. Fastening the buttons up her back was impossible. Her shoulders and fingers were aching from the effort.