His Wicked Kiss Part 17

"Do what?"

"Stow away."

Somehow the question took her off guard. But at least it turned the subject away from her growing desire to pounce on him. "I told you. I have to find a new patron for Father's work."

"Ah, right." He looked at the ceiling again. She could just make out his wry smile. "My money wasn't good enough for you."

She poked his shoulder in playful reproach. "That's not true. You wanted the lion's share of the profits."

"We were negotiating," he reminded her in a reasonable tone. "Besides, what else would you expect than for me to want the lion's share? You're the one who said I'm just a big grumpy lion with a thorn in his paw."

She smiled. "Well, you are."

"You got the thorn out."

"I think," she said slowly, "there may still be a few more buried inside you."

He turned his head and looked at her.

For a long moment, they stared at each other in silence.

"Maybe," he admitted barely audibly. "But you haven't answered my question. If it was just to find a patron, you'd have accepted me. But there's more to it, isn't there?"

Eden laid her head down on her pillow, still holding his gaze.

He reached over and caressed her cheek with one knuckle. "What is it that made you run away? The snakes and spiders? Couldn't take it anymore?"

"I wasn't made for solitude, Jack." I was made for love, she thought, but she didn't say it aloud.

She didn't have to. The look in his eyes told her he already knew. He rolled onto his elbow and captured her face in his other hand. Her pulse climbed. Gazing into her eyes, he bent his head toward her lips, giving her plenty of time to protest.

Instead, Eden wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, melting under him as his warm, fine mouth descended on hers. She stroked his face, raked her fingers through his hair, and lost herself in his wondrous kiss, so deep and drugging and slow.

He eased partly atop her, cupping her waist through the light bedding, and then, more sensuously still, kneading her hip through the coverlet in the most provocative fas.h.i.+on. With his chest flush against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Eden could feel his heart pounding. The might of his body, the power of his pa.s.sion, though leashed, nearly threatened to overwhelm her. She had never experienced such potent desire, when all of a sudden her prior decision to resist shone out through the haze.

"Jack!" she gasped, pressing up on his shoulder. She tore her lips away from his kiss with a groan of denial.

"Eden," he panted. "What's wrong?"

"Jack-stop. Please."

He lifted his head and gazed down at her, his chest heaving, his lips bee-stung with her kisses. Slowly, he seemed to come back to his senses. He looked away and, a second later, lifted his weight off her, withdrawing to his side of the bed.

"Good night, Miss Farraday," he said after a long moment.

Relief flooded through her to find that the terror of the West Indies had actually obeyed her. She gave him a tremulous smile. "Good night, Lord Jack."

The next morning, Eden donned the sparkly sea-princess gown, then made friends with the dog while Jack went and rang a bell to summon his valet. He unfolded a painted wooden screen that had been leaning against the wall, then he set it up, blocking off a portion of the day cabin.

"You and Martin can work on your sewing over here."

She smiled at him, wholly grateful to have been allowed out of the cramped sleeping cabin. Despite their cordiality, both she and Jack were feeling a little self-conscious this morning after waking up entangled in each other's arms. Neither was quite sure how it had happened.

"Halloo!" His valet made an entrance at that moment, arriving promptly in answer to Jack's summons.

A neat, prim, rather dandyish little eccentric, Martin made an entrance with his sewing basket draped over his arm and his nose in the air. Impatiently he waved in one of the sailors, who teetered along under the huge pile of fabric bolts that the valet had apparently loaded into his helper's arms.

"Oh, there she is! What an angel!" Martin sailed toward Eden, his hands in the air. "Ah, you precious thing! Let me have a look at you, darling!"

Jack leaned his hip on the corner of his desk and looked on with an expression of bemus.e.m.e.nt as Martin spun Eden in a circle and then stood back to pa.s.s an a.s.sessing stare over her, one fist c.o.c.ked on his waist. "Yes, hm," he murmured to himself, warming to his project. "I think I may be able to work with this."

Eden cast Jack a worried glance.

He grinned, his blue eyes dancing. "Then I shall leave you to it." He heaved up, pus.h.i.+ng away from his desk.

"Where are you off to?" she asked.

"Got to get dressed. Work to do. Nothing too daring, Martin," he ordered as he strode toward the sleeping cabin. "Try to be at least a little practical. I know the fas.h.i.+onable ladies deem it very smart to go around half-naked, but I don't want Miss Farraday catching her death as we move north. She's used to the tropics, remember."

"No worries on that point, my lord," he answered, frowning at their choices of fabric. "I fear we shall have little choice. We'll do a walking dress in the sprigged muslin, I should think. A spencer in the blue broadcloth. A pelisse, perhaps, in the green merino wool." Martin was talking more to himself than to Eden, and Jack had already left them, clearly having no interest whatsoever in such things. "Oh, but it's all so dreadfully plain!" he fretted.

"It's all right," she hastened to a.s.sure him. "I'm not half bad with a needle myself. When I reach London, I can get some lace to sew along the bottom of the skirts, or trim the pelisse with ribbon or even gold frogging."

"Well, not frogging, my dear. It's all exploded this year."

"Is it?" she asked in surprise.

"La, child! It's a wonder you know anything of fas.h.i.+on where you've been. I imagine you mostly wear fig leaves!"

"Only in the latest styles," she replied with a grin. "My cousin has been my salvation sending me the ladies' magazines. I devour them, but with our camp being so remote, they're always nearly a year out of date by the time they get to me."

Martin said nothing, but with a sly look, reached under the lid of his sewing basket and pulled out a copy of La Belle a.s.semblee, which he placed in her hands.

"January?" she gasped, looking at it. Her jaw dropped and she gaped at him. "It's practically new!"

She let out a small shriek of delight and hugged him without warning. He laughed and blushed a bit at her enthusiastic thanks, and Eden realized her spontaneous reaction had shocked the little man, but from that moment, she and Martin were fast friends.

They measured and draped, compared colors against her complexion in front of the mirror and discussed all the intricacies of achieving an elegance that must always, he a.s.sured her, appear effortless.

"I admit I've been looking forward to this ever since the captain mentioned it. Secretly," Martin confessed, "I have always wanted to try my hand at designing for ladies."

"I didn't hear that," Jack muttered as he came back out, clean-shaved and smartly dressed in a dark blue, single-breasted waistcoat b.u.t.toned down snugly over a fresh white s.h.i.+rt with loose sleeves, and nankeen breeches over s.h.i.+ny black boots. He adjusted the neat, square knot of his ebony neckcloth as he crossed to the center table to retrieve a few nautical maps.

Eden watched him pa.s.s, her eyes wide.

Good Lord, if she could barely resist him last night as a rough, sweaty, half-naked barbarian, how was she supposed to prevail when he looked like this, all fine and clean and elegant?

When he glanced at her a trifle self-consciously, she snapped her jaw shut, but privately, she was still agog.

The blue waistcoat turned his eyes to a deep sapphire shade, and his bronzed skin looked wonderful, his erstwhile scruffy jaw bare and fresh and touchable. The smooth shave had merely revealed the manly precision of his chiseled bone structure, the cleaner look transforming him from a pirate into a prince. Good G.o.d, he wasn't just handsome, the man was magnificent.

Before he went out to take the helm of his s.h.i.+p, Jack sent her a very slight but gentlemanly bow, with a faint whiff of his nice cologne trailing in his wake.

Martin turned to her with a knowing glint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, I see you've had an influence on somebody, my dear."

She bit her lip and smiled at him, still dazed, as her cheeks turned pink.

Up on deck some time later, Jack received a report from Lieutenant Peabody that his clerk's condition had worsened through the night.

Poor Peter Stockwell now had gone beyond the surgeon's art. Mulling this over, he found himself drawn back to the day cabin, where Martin had Eden draped in pale green muslin with her arms held out to her sides.

"Now with that gorgeous red hair of yours, you're going to have to be careful of the colors you choose for your wardrobe-"

"Jack!" Her lovely face lit up, more from her enthusiasm over the creation of her pretty new clothes rather than from seeing him, he was sure, but she immediately noticed his brooding expression and frowned at him in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry to interrupt. Miss Farraday-one of my men is very ill. It looks like yellow fever. The surgeon thinks he might not make it. I was wondering if there might be anything in your bag of jungle weeds-"

"I'm on my way." She was already extricating herself from her muslin drapery, revealing her sea-princess costume once more.

She grabbed the haversack of her father's botanical samples and strode toward Jack, leaving Martin startled, his needle poised in midst.i.tch.

"This way," Jack murmured, leading Eden to the main hatch, where wide stairs led down into the lower decks.

"How long has he been ill?"

"A few days."

They marched down to the sickbay, fore on the middle gun deck, and Jack wrinkled his nose briefly at the strong scent of vinegar used to clean the place. He showed her over to the patient, who lay s.h.i.+vering in his berth in the grip of a fevered delirium.

The surgeon, Mr. Palliser, was standing beside Stockwell's bed. When he saw Jack, he shook his head regretfully. It seemed the doctor had simply given up.

Jack and Eden went to Stockwell's bedside, and he tensed as he read the suffering in his loyal clerk's face. The pallid man streamed with sweat, shaking in his cot. Though barely conscious, he spotted Eden with a glazed stare.

She looked tenderly at him, compa.s.sion spilling from her emerald eyes as she took his hand like a very angel of mercy. "What's his name?"

"Stockwell. Peter Stockwell."

"Peter, how are you feeling?" she asked softly. "Can you hear me? I'm here to help you." She picked up the damp washcloth nearby and blotted his face with it. "You're going to be all right, do you hear? It's just going to take a little time."

Her gaze wandered to Stockwell's arm, which, when she turned it wrist up, revealed the marks of having been recently bled.

Jack saw her expression harden slightly.

"Right, we're not going to be bleeding him anymore," she ordered in a startling tone of pure feminine steel.

"I beg your-my dear young lady!" the surgeon sputtered, then harrumphed. "Bleeding is the customary treatment in such cases," he informed her with great condescension, not at all happy to be told by the stowaway how to do his job. He had been saving lives, after all, since before the girl was born. "The foul humors must be released-"

"Let's try something else," she said sharply, ready to fight for Stockwell's life, it appeared.

"Captain?" Mr. Palliser turned to Jack with a long-suffering look.

Jack considered the matter. A man's life hung in the balance. Palliser's way had already failed, so Jack decided to trust her. After all, she was the great Dr. Farraday's daughter. She had to know a thing or two about these tropical ailments. He nodded. "Do as she says."

Palliser gasped at the order, but Eden sent Jack a pa.s.sing glance of gratification as she took the satchel off her shoulder.

"I'll need a mortar and pestle and a quart of boiling water," she said to the surgeon's mate. "Let's try to get him to take some juice. He needs liquids. Is there any ice on board?"

"Not much," Jack said.

"Bring me whatever you can spare. We've got to get his fever down. If nothing else will serve, we may have to lower him into the water."

Jack's curt nod sent the second mate scurrying to do her bidding, then Eden turned to him and shoved him gently toward the door. "Go. Stay away from here. Whatever it is, I don't want you catching it."

"I don't get sick. What about you?"

"Don't worry about me, I'm used to these things. Go."

"Eden, I'm the captain. Every man on this s.h.i.+p is my responsibility-and every woman," he added pointedly.

She gave him a private smile. "Very well. Make yourself useful, then, Captain. I'll stay with Mr. Stockwell. Go and ask around among the crew to see if anyone else is showing the same symptoms. Send them here and that will help contain the danger."

"Aye-aye, ma'am," he murmured wryly, sketching a salute.

To his relief, his investigation yielded no results. The disease had not progressed yet to any other crewmen. Jack returned to see if she had all she needed, but the running of the s.h.i.+p required his attention, and so he had to make do with checking in frequently throughout the day.

By the next evening, he was not the only one who was impressed with the intrepid Miss Farraday. For two days, she had tended her patient constantly, barely taking ten minutes for herself.

When Jack arrived at the sickbay for a progress report, he heard her in conversation with the surgeon's staff and paused outside the door, eavesdropping on the great Dr. Farraday's daughter from sheer curiosity.

She was taking the medics' questions about the tea of bark and herbs that she and her father had learned from the Waroa shaman. The surgeon and his mates had many questions about the other dried plant samples in her bag, asking about the apothecary uses of each.

"And this?"

"Ah, yes, one of my father's best discoveries. It's from the ca.s.sia plant, a large shrub that grows on river banks. The crushed leaves make a fine cure for skin infections. Made into a poultice, it can speed up the healing of flesh wounds." She showed them another. "This is the agrobigi, from the legume family. A tea made of it will cure dysentery."

"Here?"

"A powerful painkiller. The natives call it Al-lah-wah-tah-wah-ku. It's in the black pepper family."

They attempted to parrot the name, to little avail.

Jack put his head down in amus.e.m.e.nt and listened to her with tickled pride in her skills.

"This one's the bergibita, for stomach-ache," she went on. "Here is the jarakopi, for bringing down fevers. We may resort to this for Mr. Stockwell if the chinchonna bark does not suffice. And this one, konsaka wiwiri, is useful for healing diseases of the gums."

They marveled.

"What does this one do, Miss?" one of the surgeon's mates asked.