Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (24 page)

Evelyn felt alarmed over his recklessness. The river had given her quite a beating. What would compel Lucius to risk it? It was a wonder they had not encountered any snakes or any other such vile creatures. The jagged river trees were frightful enough without the black water shrouding any other frightful perils that were likely to exist. She shuddered at the thought. Lucius could have been killed! Was he so eager to relive his recent near-death experience? His body was still recovering from the cholera. If the current had been stronger, he would have been powerless against it. He could have been swept away, or impaled on some bloody branch.

Brock felt Evelyn’s apprehension over Lucius, and the effect made him sore with jealousy.

“Drink up, Duchess,” he said quickly. “He’s fine. No need to worry.”

Their wits were exhausted by the time they emerged in clear waters. Their bodies were racked, their spirits worn. Evelyn was still cold and damp, and Lucius remained stiff with the idea that she had nearly drowned. He found himself stealing a look at her from time to time, just to make sure she was there, that she was alive. The night wore on, however, and the evening’s events were enough to make him drowsy. Eventually, his head tottered to the side and he fell asleep.

Evelyn and Brock continued to pass the flask while Evelyn listened to Brock’s stories of his homeland. Brock was a great storyteller when he had a bit of rum in him, and Evelyn felt as though she had gone into a trance. Though her body was sore from her mishap in the river, it began to feel like a distant dream. The night was beautiful, the jungle was alive and exotic. She felt heavy but light, her head swam, and she was felicitously happy. Somehow everything Brock said was either fascinating or uproarious; she found herself nodding vigorously and laughing incessantly, her heart swollen with the way his eyes devoured her in the dim moonlight.

The giddiness eventually wore into sleepiness, the lightness gave way to weightiness, and soon Evelyn found her head beginning to droop. Bartholomew had already fallen asleep in a small bundle at her feet, and Brock had ceased telling his tales. All on the river surrendered to silence.

The jungle noises were like a lullaby that Evelyn could no longer ignore. She was lured into tranquility and she allowed herself to fall forward, resting her head against the Australian’s strong and welcoming shoulder. He turned his head a little, leaned back, and rested his chin against the crown of her head, the course hair of his unshaven jaw tickling her skin. The sensation roused her and as her lids fluttered, her eyelashes brushed against Brock’s neck, causing his breath to catch somewhere in his throat.

Evelyn watched the dark shoreline as they glided past, imagining strange forms dancing in the blackness. Brock reached back and claimed her hand, and with his thumb he traced the lines of her palm, inspiring a blush to burn hot beneath her skin. She lifted her eyes to meet his and found them gazing back at her, hard and alluring.

            She was driving him mad. It was a wonder he had kept his sanity this long. Evelyn Brennan needed only to look upon a man to make him burn with desire. This was a queen who knew her power, and she had used it to rule over him since the moment he stepped aboard the
Steam Rose
. She led him about on a string, and as much as the chase thrilled him, he was desperate now to close in on the kill.

She was Lucius’ wife, but she no more belonged to him than she belonged to any other man. Lucius, however, wanted to believe that he held some rights to his wayward bride, though he was steadily becoming conscious of the fact that his mare was unbridled. It was obvious this concerned him, as Brock watched the way Lucius looked at Evelyn. His gaze had altered since the night of the cholera outbreak, and Brock knew he needed to secure her affections before that Irish dunce did.

He peered past her at Lucius, who had fallen asleep in the opposite
bungo
. He seemed harmless at this distance: unconscious and frail, like a child. Certainly no match for Brock, who was more advanced in years, experience, strength, and looks, if he may say so himself.

            Evelyn had entered a subdued state of drunkenness. Under the influence of rum and the moon, she was soft and malleable. Brock saw the concession, the surrender in her eyes.

Her defenses were down. The liquor had softened her, had torn down her wall of propriety. Brock welcomed the change.

            He pulled her face to his, his lips seeking hers and fiercely, hungrily claiming them.

Chapter Twenty-One

She responded, her mouth joining a subconscious rhythm with his, moving passionately in response to his pursuit. Her hand reached up and clasped his hair, her fingernails tracing patterns against his skin. As he exhaled she breathed him in; she could taste the rum on his breath, an amber richness both sweet and bold. He pressed a broad hand to the back of her head, smashing her mouth painfully against his. She sensed his hunger and allowed herself to reciprocate. Her insides twisted and ached in a way that was completely foreign.

            And yet, the sensation upon her lips was strangely familiar. As though she had been kissed before.

            All at once, pieces of a vision flashed across her memory.

A storm.

A garden.

Lucius.

She heard the roll of thunder, the laughter of a child; smelled the wetness of the earth, the sweetness of a rose. And this sharp, painful beating of her heart… she had felt this before. But from when? And where? Was it a dream? Or déjà vu? Or merely the recollection of a childhood fantasy?

Whatever it was, she grew acutely uncomfortable and pulled away.

            “What’s wrong?” Brock whispered, his voice hoarse and deliberate.

The rum was wearing off and though her body still felt peculiar, her mind was clearing. She was kissing Brock. Brock Donnigan. And she, Evelyn Brennan, was yet a married woman.

“I’m so sorry,” she told him, her voice nearly lost in shame. “I should not have done that.”

Brock laughed.

“Of course you should have. We want each other. It’s only right, Duchess.”

She shook her head.

“You are the first man I have ever kissed.”

She did not add that she might have once kissed a boy.

“Then kiss me again,” Brock persuaded, “and I shall also be the second.”

“No, it is not right. Not yet. Not like this.”

Brock did not find this amusing in the least.

“Don’t toy with me, love,” he said seriously.

He attempted to sway her with another kiss, but she refused.

“I am yet married, Mr. Donnigan,” she protested.

“I see no ring.”

“That does not change the law.”

“In my world,” Brock said, “rules are meant to be broken, and a moment ago, you seemed all too willing to be my accomplice.”

“I apologize,” Evelyn blushed. “I had too much to drink.”

“All the more reason to move forward.”

“Lucius has agreed to divorce me, Brock. I shall soon be free to be claimed.”

“Then why wait? I wish to claim you now.”

“Impossible. It is a sin.”

“Duchess, you and I both know the sin is already committed. I sin every time I think of you. Can you deny that you do the same?”

She had no words, and Brock smirked.

“Give in to me, Evelyn.”

She stood her ground.

“Wait for me, Brock.”

He sighed with frustration.

“You are one hell of a player, Miss Brennan. I have never known a more stubborn woman.”

“Can a woman be chastised for purity?”

“I despise your purity. It drives me insane.”

“Then you are no good for me. I do not know why I waste my time.”

“That is
exactly
why you waste your time. You love how wrong I am for you.”

“I should have nothing more to do with you.”

“You know that kind of thinking will only draw you closer to me.”

“You are as arrogant as Lucius.”

“With much better reason.”

She gasped at his impudence and turned her face away from him.

 “Good night, Mr. Donnigan.”

He grinned crookedly.

“Good night, Miss Brennan.”

            Late the following morning, they stopped to rest in a small riverside village, where natives placed straw mats in the cool mud and the shade of the huts, for lounging. Evelyn watched as the others settled down for sleep, for she herself could find no rest. Her mind was trained on the events of the previous evening, her side aching from her accident, her head throbbing from the rum. She was grateful for the way the rain clouds hung dark and ominous in the tropic sky, for they shielded the piercing rays of the sun. They would pass in a few hours, and hopefully, by then, so would her headache.

            Brock Donnigan fell asleep quickly, and she studied him, recalling the evening they had passed together. Her gut twisted at the memory. A kiss, indeed! And what a kiss it was! She had not known what she was doing; she had given it too little thought. It was when she began to think, that she realized something was happening that should not be happening.

What would her father say? Some exemplary woman his daughter was turning out to be.

            She hung her head, torn between what she felt, what she wanted, and who she had become. In a perfect world, she saw all these concepts coming together in perfect harmony; yet in one night, she had made a mess of all three. 

            She wanted to maintain her propriety, to uphold her innocence; all while seeing the agreement with Lucius through till the end. She was not a dishonest woman, nor did she wish to become one.    

She looked up, for a strange sound caught her attention. A few meters away, a native woman, bare-breasted, held a large, flat basket between her hands. She flicked it with her wrists, sending thousands of little brown beans into the air. The breeze caught the chaff and blew it away while the beans rattled back into the basket.

            Evelyn sighed, vowing to herself that from this moment on, she would behave more honorably. She would tell Mr. Donnigan that if he did not have intentions to wait for her, he was wasting his time and must tempt her no more. Lucius was right. She was a strong and resilient woman, and it was high time Brock was made aware of it.

            Lucius was seated with his back against the opposite hut, his head back but his eyes open and watching her. Beside him, Josephine was asleep, curled into a ball around Bartholomew, who was napping between her arms.

            “You look thoughtful,” he told Evelyn, his voice only loud enough for her to hear, for he did not wish to disturb the others.

            “As do you.” she replied. “What are you doing awake?”

            Lucius cocked his head to peer past her, where the rafts and their belongings were beached.

            “I’m keeping an eye on things.”

            “I see. That’s unusually thoughtful of you, Mr. Flynn.”

            Lucius grinned, for Evelyn’s eyes sparkled with sarcasm.

            “Aye. I would receive the credit if Mr. Donnigan hadn’t put me up to it.”

            “Of course.”

            “He is quite the hero, isn’t he?”

            “Whatever are you talking about?”

            “He saved your life last night. Or have you forgotten already?”

            “Oh, that.” Evelyn feigned indifference. “I could have handled things well enough on my own.”

            “Don’t I know it,” Lucius indulged her.

            She smiled in response.

             “That was quite an ordeal,” Lucius continued. “I know you cannot swim, and I was frightened for you.”

            “Then why were you not the first to save me?”

            “Mr. Donnigan got to you before I could, and although our friendship seems to have become a competition, I’m not sorry I lost that round. However, I still owe my life to you, and if another opportunity arises to repay you, don’t think I won’t take it.”

            “That’s unusually sincere of you, Lucius. I’m suspicious. Have you discovered Mr. Donnigan’s grog?”

            Lucius smirked.

            “No, no. These are the words of sober lips, lass.”

            Evelyn regarded him with interest.

            “Well, I receive them with gratitude and do not take them for granted. I cannot remember the last time I spoke with you when your breath did not reek of ale.”

            Lucius shrugged.

            “Perhaps I am a changed man.”

            “Perhaps you have finally learned how to submit to authority.”

            Lucius scoffed.

            “Brock Donnigan has no authority over me.”

            “Yet here you are, our appointed watch.”

            “I was already keeping vigil over the girl,” Lucius replied sharply, nodding towards Josephine. “Brock observed this and snatched the opportunity to be indolent.”

            “The girl?” Evelyn asked, confused. “What responsibility do you have to Josephine?”

            “Who do you think will protect her now that Stephen Whitfield is dead?” Lucius replied. “She is a young woman. She needs a guardian.”

            Evelyn noted the sincerity of Lucius’ tone, and it softened her demeanor towards him. Perhaps his encounter with death had done him a greater service than she had previously supposed.

            “Are you feeling better then?” she asked. “Surely you are recovering, for you obviously feel strong enough to take on a charge.”

            “She is my second charge,” he corrected her. “I have not forgotten you, Miss Brennan.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Evelyn waved him off. “You and I both know you have no real responsibility to me.” She looked around and added, “it’s all a play, Lucius, and we are the players. You don’t have to be dishonest with me. I’m in on the truth, remember?”

            “No, Evelyn. It is all very serious. I intend to uphold my end of the bargain. I will see to it that you get to California unscathed.”