Hooked (35 page)

Gage smiled into the kiss as Meg kissed him back with gentle pressure of her mouth against his. “Let me change your mind.”

The tip of Gage's tongue coaxed the seam of her lips to part and she gave him intimate entrance. A low grown flowed from her throat, dissolving against him. He brushed her mouth with his tongue as his fingers bunched up her hair into his large fists.

The kiss seemed timeless.

Heartbeats keeping tempo together raged in Gage's ears as he held her face in his hands and kissed her, enjoyed her velvet sweetness. She was soft and pliant, yielding to his mouth. He'd caught fire, wanting more than a kiss. Wanting . . .

He didn't think about what he was doing when he
skimmed his hands over her; he caressed the side of her breast until she gave a light gasp against his mouth. He merely stroked and lightly traced the subtle fullness of her. He could feel the erratic beating of her heart next to his. She kissed him, as if to say he could do more.

But could he?

He wanted to. However, Meg wasn't a woman a man tangled with and left. He didn't want to leave. But how could he stay?

“Why do you do this to me?” she moaned against him. “I don't want you to make me feel like this.” Her gentle plea brought a rush to his already burning body and his heart wrenched.

He held her close. “Why do we do this to each other?”

Their breath fused together in a hot, moist cloud that surrounded them.

He forgot where he was. Who he was. Who she was pretending to be.

His entire focus was on Meg. Holding her. Touching her. Kissing her. Being intimate with her. Wanting to be closer. Feel her flesh to flesh next to him. Be inside her. Make her a part of him.

Gage wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman and his need for her was tearing him in two. He was nearly beyond the power to stop. He might not have if he hadn't felt the warmth of something wet against his cheek.

He broke away and lifted his head to gaze into her eyes. Moisture pooled in them, as if she were warring against her feelings and emotions. “I don't want to feel this way about you.”

His thumb caught a droplet before it fell down her jaw. “Meg, don't cry.”

“Then don't make me . . . make me forget I don't like you.”

Softly, Gage smiled at her. “I could make you forget a lot of things, darling.”

They stood there a moment, holding each other, a fragile truce between them—when no truce should have been necessary if they'd been willing to admit how they really felt. Gage thought it somewhat ironic. And somewhat sad. For all his touting about his honesty in his stories, he couldn't be honest with Meg and tell her he loved her. Not yet, anyway. He didn't have the words. He didn't have anything settled in his mind. Like what he would do after he spoke his heart.

Gage wouldn't have moved if a voice hadn't suddenly cut the air behind them.

“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!” came a boy's call from the river. “The sea has a fair wind today with good weather. Aye, mateys! Let's look alive! Look alive, you salty dogs.”

Meg jumped out of Gage's arms and brought her hands to her cheeks. “Where's my beard?”

A rush of air cooled Gage's skin like a winter gust, sobering him in a scant second. He had been caught in compromising situations with women before, but never had one cried, “Where's my beard?”

“There.” Gage pointed. “Where you left it.”

Meg swooped down on the hairy piece, and with quaking fingers, hooked the beard in place. Spying her hat, she grabbed it, and tucked her hair in the crown just as the boy whose calls had torn them apart came into view.

A towheaded lad wearing overalls rode on a raft
he'd constructed. Unmistakable from the material used to tie the logs together: men's neckcloths, a variety of hemp ropes in differing thicknesses, and bridle reins. But it was the frothy white piece of fabric that comprised the sail that caused Meg to gasp.

“Yo ho, yo ho!” he screeched, a buccaneer hat angled over his scruffy hair.

He commandeered the raft with a rowboat oar that he plunged from side-to-side.

As he drew nearer, Meg took a step forward, eyes narrowing on the raft's ruffled sail. Her bearded mouth fell open as she declared, “That's my petticoat.”

17

C
lovis Lester used Meg's petticoat as a boat sail—the very petticoat that had disappeared during her and Matthew's picnic.

The starch in the fabric had lost its stiffness, and the petticoat was billowing like a soggy hanky from the mast. Several grass stains marred the once snowy white cloth. The ruffled and ribboned hem was run through with what appeared to be hammock fringe in order to keep it attached to the pole. It was ruined, utterly useless.

But it was hers.

If she hadn't been so emotional from Matthew's kisses, she probably would have been laughing. Instead, she felt vulnerable. Meg wanted to yell at Clovis to return her underwear that instant. But Mr. Bascomb wouldn't demand a lady's petticoat.

How had the precocious eight-year-old gotten it? Didn't he realize his sail was a woman's undergarment? He probably didn't care. Not by the looks of what else he'd procured to rig his pirate ship.

Clovis spotted them and coasted toward the shore. “Ho there, you lily-livered land lovers.”

His piratical attire was comprised of bib overalls with rolled cuffs and a faded red shirt underneath. A black patch covered one of his blue eyes, and he'd outfitted himself with wooden swords slashed through a thick black belt. A closed chest that looked more like his father's tool box rather than a booty, laid on the deck at his feet.

“Matthew,” she whispered into the fringe of her mustache. “Do something.”

He turned to look at her. “Like what?”

“Like get my petticoat back for me.”

In a low voice, he asked, “How's anyone going to know it's yours?”

With her knuckle, Meg knocked back a tear that had remained on her cheek. “My initials are embroidered on it.”

Docking, Clovis hopped off his vessel, his Little Gent Dongola oxfords sinking in the muddy bank. Indifferent to the brown goo he'd splattered on his pants legs, he instantly withdrew his makeshift sword and aimed it at Meg with a sneer. “The infamous Red Beard, I presume. I'll have to mince you into giblets.”

“I most certainly am not,” Meg returned in a man sounding voice that was fraught with a gruffness and bristle that sounded menacing, even to her. “And it's Black Beard, you chicken gizzard.”

Clovis scrunched up his round face. “You're Black Beard?”

“No.” Meg collected her frazzled nerves, put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. “I'm Mr. Arliss Bascomb of the Bureau of Internal Revenue.”

Clovis's sunshine washed cheeks burned red as he uttered, “Huh?”

Meg felt Matthew's strong presence beside her.

“My name is Mr. Wilberforce,” Matthew began, “and you are?”

“Clovis.”

“Well, Clovis, that's a fancy sailing ship you've got there.” Matthew walked to the boat with an impressed smile on his mouth. “Did you make her?”

Following after Matthew, the boy wrinkled his nose. “Her?”

“All ships are her.”

“Oh.”

“What's her name?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, she should have a name. Let's think of one.”

Meg stayed back, a quiet tide of awe sneaking past her outrage and flooding her. This was a side of Matthew Gage she hadn't expected—patience, tolerance, generosity.

A way with children.

Unbidden, there went her heart swelling in her throat again.

“Who's your best gal?” Matthew asked, the tip of his shoe bouncing the front of the raft to test its buoyancy.

“My best gal?” Clovis wandered to Matthew's side and brought his shoe on the raft's edge as well and gave the logs a few bounces.

“Sure. The woman in your life. The one you love.”

He made a grimace. “I don't love any girls.”

“You have to love one.”

“I do?”

“Sure. Sure. Who keeps your clothes laundered?
Cooks your supper? Makes sure your room is cleaned?” Matthew casually ran his hand up the mast, tugging a little on Meg's petticoat. She wondered if he was testing it for soundness. Maybe he had a plan to rip it from the rafters and run.

No . . . that didn't seem his style.

Matthew went on, “Who combs your hair? Who buys your shoes?”

When Clovis skewed his lips, the freckles on his nose crinkling, and made no comment, Matthew supplied: “Whoever it is, she's your best gal. She makes your birthday cakes and tucks you in at night.”

“Oh!”

Matthew grinned.

“That'd be Gerty.”

Brows arched, Matthew questioned, “You call your mother Gerty?”

Clovis's eyes clouded with confusion. “No. My mother's name is Ada.”

“Who's Gerty?”

“She's our housemaid. She bakes good cookies.”

Shoving his hat back with his thumb, Matthew lifted his forehead. “I guess you would have to be partial to a woman who bakes.” Then he went back to the matter at hand. “All right, then you should call your ship Gerty.”

“I should?”

“Absolutely.”

“How will people know?”

“You paint her name on your hull.”

“I don't have a hull.” Then he smiled slyly. “But I have a heinie.”

“Good Christ,” Matthew muttered beneath his breath. “No, boy, you don't paint the ship's name on
your bottom. You paint the name on the side of the ship.”

“I don't know if Gerty will like that.”

“Sure she will.”

Not fully convinced, Clovis said, “I don't got any paint.”

“Well,” Matthew slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, “I happen to have fifty cents that you could use to buy the paint. I saw Kennison's hardware sells a quart of black paint for thirty cents.”

“Gee! You'd just give me fifty cents?”

“No. I didn't say I'd give it to you. But I'll make you a trade.”

He shoved his hand into the bib pocket of his overalls, produced the cast-off tail of a lizard and thrust his arm out. “I got this!”

Matthew examined the lizard's tail and shook his head. “Nope. I don't need one of those.” He strolled to the boat and made an inspection of its ragtag sail. “How about I trade you for this?”

Clovis drew up behind him. “But how can I sail my boat without a sail?”

“Buy a few yards of canvas with the leftover twenty cents.” Matthew laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. “In fact, you'd have enough paint to draw a Jolly Roger on your new sail.”

“Gee whillikins! That's a swell idea.” Clovis began to disassemble his sail, which served no purpose other than every ship needed a sail. Except Clovis Lester manned his with an oar so what difference did it make?

None to Meg.

She was getting her petticoat back. With any luck, nobody had seen the two satin-stitched lavender initials
she'd embroidered on the first tier of ruffles—that is, on what was left of the first tier of ruffles.

Clovis removed the ruined undergarment, stuffed it into a wad, and shoved it at Matthew. “There you go, Mr. Wilberforce. And now for my fifty cents.” He held his hand out, palm up, fingers twitching.

Dropping the two silver coins into Clovis's grasp, Matthew said, “Nice doing business with you, Captain.”

After testing each coin between his teeth—one of the top front ones missing, Clovis replied, “Nice doing business with you, too, Mr. Wilberforce.”

The boy hopped onto his ship, picked up his oar and shoved off. To Meg, he hailed, “Yo ho, Mr.
Infernal
Revenue man.”

She waved him off, much like she'd do a fly buzzing too close to her face, as Matthew drew up to her side. They watched Clovis Lester sail down Evergreen Creek, beyond the willows that bordered the bank until he couldn't be seen any longer.