Happily Ever After (26 page)

She left the completed drawings on his desk and
went to the basin to wash her hands, feeling a sense of accomplishment as a
reward for her labors.

But after having finished them, she was left with
an overwhelming desire to see the original pieces. She would dearly love to
draw from real-life images, rather than having to interpret somebody else’s
renditions.

Perhaps Jack would allow her to stay on to record
his findings? He wouldn’t have to pay her. She would receive great joy in the
task, and would even consider paying him for the privilege.

She would have to speak with him.

But first things first.

After more than a week, Sophie could scarcely
stand herself. She didn’t even begin to wonder why Jack kept his distance.
Given the choice, she would, too. Sheer desperation drove her into Shorty’s cabin.

There had to be something among Shorty’s deserted
belongings that would be of some use to her. The poor man had been left behind,
but his belongings all remained aboard, neatly tucked away and awaiting his
return. In fact, Sophie dared to hope she would find something of his infamous
girlfriend’s among them—the one with the gems, as she’d heard Randall put
it. She hoped, but in vain. All she found were a few pairs of Shorty’s pants
and a few of his shirts. Feeling a bit disheartened, she sat on the bed with
his pants in hand and pouted.

After more than a week in the same two dresses,
she felt terribly ... foul. There was no other way to put it. She couldn’t even
stand her own company. She’d washed as best she could, braided her hair out of
the way, but her clothes were grimy from her foiled attempts at cooking and she
had only the two dresses to choose from, thanks to her own gracelessness.

She inspected Shorty’s pants and found them to be
clean at least—far cleaner than what she was wearing at the moment. The
pungent odor of sour potatoes offended her nostrils, and she made up her mind.
Better to look offensive than to smell offensive. There was just no help for
it.

As quickly as she was able, she discarded her
dirty clothes, keeping an eye on the door. And then she hurriedly wiggled into
Shorty’s pants, and discovered once they were on how he had earned his name.
Sophie wasn’t particularly tall, but the man’s pants came only to her ankles,
at best. What was more, he had obviously been quite thin besides, because she
had to put considerable effort into buttoning them, as well. The only place
they were the least bit loose was at her waist... but that was a good thing,
she decided, because then she could tuck in his shirts.

Sophie pulled one of the more colorful plaid
shirts out of his trunk and was absolutely certain the same man couldn’t
possibly have worn the two items. The shoulders were too large and the length
of the tails fell easily to her thighs. But she put it on anyway, buttoned it,
and began stuffing the tails into the waist of her pants, pushing them down
until she was satisfied they were neatly done. Once finished, she was certain
of only one thing... two...

One, Shorty was in dire need of a good tailor, and
two, she was really not as willowy as she liked to think herself.

Her modest curves were more than apparent in a
man’s clothing—particularly this man’s—and the only thing that kept
her from undressing again and returning to her own smelly clothing was the
simple fact that her bosom was not straining at the buttons of her shirt in the
same fashion that her hips were with her pants. She didn’t need a mirror to see
it. The buttons were clinging precariously to the button holes. If she dared to
bend, she thought they might pop.

It couldn’t be helped.

She stood there, staring down at herself,
grimacing at the sight she must present, and then suddenly decided the shirt
would be best left untucked. She pulled it out and let it hang over her pants,
assessing it that way. Again she frowned. The look was just about as
unflattering as the shapeless smocks she often saw immigrants depicted in.
Feeling somewhat hopeless, she glanced at the door.

Vanity wouldn’t let her leave the room looking so
... frumpy.

As it was, Jack was back to ignoring her... though
when he did speak to her, he wasn’t the least bit unkind. He simply seemed far
too busy of late to have much to do with her. In fact, she felt invisible
around him, and almost wished he would go back to sparring with her. She could
deal with his sarcasm far better than his silence.

She sighed at the admission.

His lack of attention to her disheartened her,
left her feeling oddly empty—empty in a way she had never felt before,
not even with Harlan’s lengthy absences and neglect. In fact—her brows
collided in displeasure at herself—she hadn’t even realized she was being
neglected by Harlan. She had simply attributed Harlan’s continued absence to
his undying devotion to his work. And she had simply gone on with her life and
spared him little thought, except when she was asked about him.

“Oh, Harlan is quite well!” she mimicked herself
in the small mirror that hung over the wash table. She couldn’t quite achieve a
serene expression. “He’s working hard, indeed!”

Working at carving notches in his bedpost!

The ignoble wretch.

Sophie now understood the little smirks she had so
often received at her dutiful reply to questions about her wayward fiancé. She
wondered, in fact, if everyone had known about Harlan but her. How many women
had he dallied with since they had become engaged? She remembered one
particularly smug expression, and the revelation left a bitter taste in her
mouth.

His mother really should have named him Harlot
instead of Harlan, she thought indignantly. It suited him better. But she didn’t
really care about Harlan any longer.

To her surprise, the only reason she was able to
summon any anger at all was for her father’s sake, and because Harlan had
allowed her to appear a silly little fool. Her pride was a bit wounded and in
need of retribution. Otherwise, she felt nothing at all at the thought of him
with some other woman. In truth, she couldn’t even imagine Harlan doing for
anyone what Jack had done for her.

Her heart wrenched a little at the thought of him.

Jack, not
Harlan.

It had been only two days that he’d been so
involved with his work, but Sophie missed him terribly. It seemed impossible
that one could miss someone when one was sleeping in the very same room with
him, but she did. Horribly. It didn’t make sense to her, but it was true,
nevertheless.

It was usually late when Jack came in, and early
when he arose, and it seemed to Sophie that despite the size of the ship, she
was fortunate if she caught even a glimpse of him now and again.

She needed a belt for this shirt... a rope...
something to cinch the waist a bit. Vain as it was, she needed a waist. She
didn’t want to look like some dowdy old woman. Sighing, she returned to the
trunk and rifled through it. She went through the man’s shirts, socks—
pulled out a pair of socks to wear when she tried on his shoes, and continued
looking through his belongings. She lifted a pair of heavy blue trousers and
flung out a shiny silver object. Without meaning to, she tossed it across the
room. She caught only a brief glimpse of it as it rolled beneath the wash
table, but something about it triggered a sense of familiarity in her, and she
dropped the pants back into the trunk and went in search of it.

Lifting the curtain around the small wash table,
she spied a flash of silver by the wall, and reached under the table, groping
for it. Her fingers found and closed about the cool smooth cylindrical object
and she dragged it out.

Shock rippled through her as she stared at the
unusual piece of jewelry.

It was quite unlike any other ring she had ever
seen—a rare design. A hieroglyphic eye, with a single overlarge
multifaceted ruby pupil winking out at her. The sides were etched, but not so
finely that it seemed inappropriate for a man to wear. The filigree was
reminiscent of ancient scrolls, and the ring, indeed, was old.

Anger crept up her spine.

The thing was, this was not the first time Sophie
had seen this particular ring.

Sophie had first noticed it in an old shop. She
had been out with her mother when they had stumbled on the novelty. She’d purchased
it for Harlan before his first trip to the Yucatan, thinking he would like it
to remember her by.

Knowing it was there, she turned the ring to look
for an inscription, and found the underbelly had been brushed until it shone a
brighter silver than the rest. Gone. Eradicated. Whatever had been written
there was lost in the vigorous buffing, but Sophie knew what words had been
engraved there: For Harlan with love.

She stood up, her face burning with sudden rage,
and quickly thrust the hem of her shirt into her pants.

It wasn’t as though she were angry on Harlan’s
behalf because he deserved anything that came to him, but she certainly had no
love for thieves!

She didn’t much care what she looked like at the
instant, and didn’t care if he was avoiding her. Someone had to answer for
this! She had no idea how Shorty had come by it, but Sophie was certain it
wasn’t by honorable means. And there was no chance it was merely a good
likeness. Ready to do battle to get answers if she must, she went in search of
Jack.

He wasn’t in a good mood.

In fact, he was in a downright rotten mood, and it
was getting worse by the instant.

His shoulders were stiff and his body tense, and
he couldn’t stop thinking about Sophie. Every time he closed his eyes, her
silhouette materialized before him, beautiful and sensuous, moving like ocean
waves under a sultry moon. He tried to block the vision, but her soft cries
filled his ears, tormenting him.

The echo plagued him incessantly.

He hadn’t been able to face her since that night,
because if he did, he was bound to take her into his arms—to hell with
Penn—and kiss the fool out of her.

He could no longer deny it; he wanted to make love
to her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. What wouldn’t he give
for just a single night in her arms... to hear her cry out his name in the
throes of her pleasure. She was both curious and passionate—full of
life—every man’s most fervent dream.

The taste of her lingered on his lips, tempting
him... driving him to distraction.

If she would allow it, he would show her
everything—share all that he had—all that he was.

He wanted Sophie at his side while he muddied his
hands in the dirt. He wanted her to be there when he made his greatest
discoveries, wanted to jump with joy over them with her in his arms. He wanted
to lift her up and carry her to their bed in celebration. He wanted her with
him always.

And for the first time in his life, he thought of
children. Could he be a good father with the life and career he had chosen?

He wanted to try.

He imagined a little girl... like Sophie... with
wayward curls and a button nose... with dirty hands and a pristine white
dress... pink ribbons falling out of her hair and a joyful smile on her face.

Muttering beneath his breath, he tossed down his
clipboard and supply list, his mood spiraling downward. He was never going to
get through this inventory with these thoughts bouncing round his
head—ricocheting like rubber bullets off his skull.

They were driving him insane. Hunger left him
weak. Thoughts of Sophie made him hungrier. And Kell’s relentless smirk was
beginning to get under his skin.

‘You’ve got it bad,” Kell said to him, and
chuckled.

Jack shot him a cutting glance, but said nothing.

What was there to say? He did have it bad. He
wanted something he couldn’t have.

“Tell her,” Kell suggested.

Jack raked a hand through his hair and shrugged.
He gave Kell a harried glance. “Why bother?”

Sophie was engaged to be married to the only man
Jack had ever detested. Harlan was more her kind. He came from her world. Jack
didn’t have the same things to offer: If she wanted high society and prestige,
he didn’t have a chance of fulfilling those needs. If she needed a conventional
home, he wasn’t even sure what the hell that was. He and his father had pretty
much fended for themselves after his mother’s death.

The one thing Jack did have to hold up as an
example was that his father had loved him unconditionally, and Jack wasn’t the
least bit ashamed to say he loved him back just the same. His father had given
him everything—even the courage to roll up his sleeves and fight for the
things he valued in life. It had been his father who had encouraged his
education, and his father who had taken on every opposition to enroll him in
Boston’s most prestigious university. He’d taught Jack to fight for the things
he wanted, and to stand on his integrity, and that was the crux of the problem.

Every last bone and fiber in his body wanted to
fight for the woman he loved—damn it, yes, he was in love with her! But
everything he knew about integrity said he should walk away before it was too
late—before he caused her pain. She wasn’t his to love. She was promised
to another man, and it didn’t matter that Jack didn’t like the bastard. It
didn’t matter that Jack thought he was a miserable son of a weasel. What
mattered was that Sophie had already made her choice, and Jack would be the
worst kind of rat to encourage her to fall in love with him.

And he thought he could: He could see it in her
eyes. He could hear it in her wistful sighs when she looked at him... or maybe
the sighs were his own.

Damn, he couldn’t tell.

“You can’t avoid her forever,” Kell intruded on
his thoughts. At the instant, he didn’t much appreciate his buddy’s advice.

“The hell I can’t!”

“Look,” Kell argued, “you’re stuck with her from
now until the time you deliver her to Penn.”