Savannah Heat (4 page)

“My, my,” the old cook said with a grin that split his weathered face from ear to ear. A short, stout gray-haired seaman, at sixty Grandison Aimes was still as tough as shoe leather.

“I guess Mr. Pinkard had her tied up for good reason,” Hamilton Riley said, as if a light had just dawned.

Morgan swept past without a word, hauling Silver down the ladder and across the salon. She looked worse than she had before, except now her face was clean and he could see her smooth complexion, the delicate line of her jaw. Too bad the wench hadn’t inherited her father’s common sense or her mother’s sensitivity, instead of her grandfather’s temper.

“Take off your clothes,” Morgan commanded when they reached his cabin.

“What?”

“I said take off your clothes.”

“Pinkard isn’t the only one who’s out of his mind.”

“Do it,” he warned, taking a step in her direction, “or I’ll do it for you.” For the first time since she’d stumbled into his life, Morgan spotted a glimmer of fear. It was just the tiniest flick of an eye, no more
than a heartbeat. Most men wouldn’t have noticed, but Morgan did. It was enough to take the edge off his words.

“Your clothes need time to dry, and I’m tired of chasing after you. You can have them back in the morning.”

She eyed him suspiciously but apparently didn’t doubt the threat he had made. “I’ll toss them out as soon as I’m undressed.”

Morgan nodded. “You can wrap yourself in a blanket before I come back in.”

Silver’s head snapped up. “What? Why are you coming back in?”

“Because this is where I sleep. You can sleep in the berth next door.” His mouth curved up in bitter amusement. “I’d planned to give you my berth, but after our little … adventure … I’ve decided against it. When you start behaving, we’ll talk about it again.”

Silver shrugged as if she couldn’t care less, and Morgan gathered dry clothes for himself and stepped outside. She was an odd one. As hard to figure as any female he’d ever met. She certainly had more spirit. He had never seen such fire in a woman, so much determination.

One thing was certain: Salena Hardwick-Jones was a beauty. The face of an angel and a body ripe for sin. Thank God his taste ran to the soft-spoken, do-as-you’re-told type of woman, the kind who knew exactly the way things were, or who pleasured a man for the gold in his purse.

They were easier to deal with and a lot less trouble.

Morgan smiled to himself. Whatever man she’d run after owed him a debt of gratitude. The poor son
of a bitch would never know how close he had come to a life of misery with Silver Jones.

“All right, all right,” Silver called out at the pounding on the cabin door. Checking to be sure the blanket fitted her snugly from bosom to foot, she waited for the door to open, then tossed out her clothes.

“Good evening, milady.” Dressed in a pair of snug brown breeches and a clean white shirt, Morgan Trask stepped into the room and gave her a mocking bow. Behind him, the freckle-faced cabin boy picked up her soggy clothes and walked away.

Wordlessly the major indicated a tiny door on one side of the cabin. Silver opened it to find a narrow berth along the wall, a sea chest, and a chamber pot.

“Your quarters, milady,” Morgan said with heavy sarcasm.

“Don’t let me put you out,” she snapped. Trask didn’t answer, just let her walk past him into the tiny room, then locked the door behind her.

Silver sank down on the bed. Her spirits were low, but not dead. Tomorrow brought another day and with it new opportunities. As long as they were in port, there was always a chance for escape. Once she gained her freedom, this time she would make it. With that thought in mind, Silver curled up on the bunk and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Bright yellow rays, peeping through the six-inch porthole, warmed her face and finally awakened her. She stretched and yawned, wrapped the blanket around her, and tried the door. She was surprised to find it unlocked.

In the major’s cabin she found a tray of food: porridge, a thick slab of ham, a steaming mug of coffee, and several warm buttered biscuits. Beside the tray
sat a second set of clothes, these more frayed than the last, and a pitcher and basin of water. Silver dressed quickly in case the major returned, then combed her hair.

After washing her face, and pinching her cheeks to give them a bit of color, she looked in the mirror and was surprised to see how good she looked. Even her saltwater swim hadn’t dimmed the sheen of her hair, and the night’s sleep had freshened her complexion.

A key turning in the lock drew her attention. Morgan Trask walked in just as she turned toward the door. He stopped short, his eyes sliding along the curve of her hips, and down her long slim legs, more than evident in the snug-fitting breeches.

Silver felt a rush of warmth to her cheeks. “I assure you, Major, if there were something more modest for me to wear, I’d be happy to do so.”

“As soon as your other clothes have been cleaned and dried, they’ll be returned, though when it comes to modesty, they aren’t much better.”

“Those were my working clothes.”

“From the White Horse Inn, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“And you would rather stay here in Savannah and work in a den of thieves like that than return to your home”—his mouth curved up in a mirthless smile—“but then it isn’t our tropical climate that keeps you here, is it? It’s your lover who holds such appeal.”

“I told you Pinkard is a liar. I have no lover. I only wished to live my life on my own.”

“What’s his name?” Morgan asked, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Maybe I know him.”

Silver clenched her fists. “If believing a man like Pinkard suits you, go right ahead. What I say means nothing to you anyway.”

Morgan fell silent. His eyes, so unbelievably green,
centered on her face. “You’ll stay in this cabin until we set sail. That’s tomorrow morning with the tide.”

“Pinkard said you were going to Barbados.”

“Katonga and then Barbados,” Morgan pointedly corrected, and Silver set her jaw. “Do you read?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Of course I read.”

“There are books on the shelves above my bed.”

“I know,” she said, but at Morgan’s hard look she wished she could call back the words.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t rummage through my things. There are no weapons left in here. You’ve already found the pistol and I removed my saber this morning. You’ll find little else of interest.”

Silver didn’t answer. In an hour’s time she’d know more about Morgan Trask than he knew about himself.
Know thine enemy
. It was a motto she had come to live by.

“If there’s anything you need, don’t ask,” Morgan finished coldly. “You’ll get no better treatment than the rest of the crew—aristocratic blood or not.”

“I’ve asked for nothing, Major Trask. I don’t intend to.”

A dark blond brow arched upward in surprise. He studied her a moment, appraising her, it seemed. “Tomorrow, after we leave, you may join us for supper.”

He’s doing it again
, she thought.
He actually believes I’ll sit in here and do nothing
. “I look forward to meeting the others,” she couldn’t resist putting in. But at Trask’s sudden wariness, knew she shouldn’t have.

“Behave yourself, Salena. I’m older and wiser—and a whole lot tougher. Do as I say, and you and I will get along fine.”

“My name is Silver.”

Morgan worked a muscle in his jaw. “I stand corrected.” But his green eyes said as soon as they set sail, he’d call her what he damned well pleased.

Silver refrained from her retort by biting the tip of her tongue. She had more important matters to attend. As soon as the major locked her in, she set to work.

Going through his shelves and cupboards, she discovered Trask was neater than most of the men she knew. Neat and well organized, but nothing like her father, who would discipline a servant for a book left out of place or a piece of lint overlooked on the mantel. On more than one occasion she had seen him take a clean white glove and run it across the surface of a table, just to be sure the servants were doing their job.

Trask dressed well, she decided as she sifted through a closet. She liked the tailored lines of his clothes, not foppish but masculine. Several pairs of boots, crafted of fine Spanish leather, had been polished to a glossy sheen. Expensive clothes, she noticed; nothing cheap or shoddy in Morgan Trask’s wardrobe. Nothing shoddy about the way he looked in them either.

His taste in books was impressive, if he really read them. He had everything from poetry to the latest in medical journals. One drawer held a beautiful conch shell, and there was a belt of heavy Spanish silver. In his trunk at the foot of the bed, she found a lovely string of pearls, obviously meant as a gift, and wondered which of his women he had bought them for.

Silver felt a twinge of irritation though she wasn’t quite sure why. Pinkard had spoken of the major’s prowess in bed. It was a subject she usually thought of with some distaste, yet in Morgan’s case she found the topic intriguing.

Instinctively she believed Pinkard was right. She knew some women enjoyed such things, and Morgan Trask was certainly an attractive man. She could still recall the hard muscles of his chest as he had pressed against her on the dock, the corded strength in his arms. It had stirred an odd sensation, one that would bear reflection once she was safely away.

Searching further, Silver still found nothing that would help her. Instead she found maps of Mexico, several of the Yucatan Peninsula rolled and stored in the bin beside his desk. One envelope held his orders. Silver read them carefully.

Cotton for sugar, sugar for guns. The major was aiding the Texians. Probably for money, since it appeared he lived not in Texas but in Georgia. Just another bloodsucker. Probably not much different from Ferdinand Pinkard—only a lot better looking.

Silver thought of how handsome he’d looked standing in the doorway. His clothes fit perfectly, not too tight, yet they left no doubt about the virility of the man who wore them.

She shook her head, surprised by the train of her thoughts. She’d rarely been attracted to a man. Most reminded her of her father: overbearing and cruel, self-indulgent and dictatorial. The fact was she hadn’t known many, mostly her father and his friends and a few of the servants.

Of course, Quako was nothing like that. Black as he was, poor and illiterate, Quako was a man among men. Knowing him had given her some small hope that not all members of the male gender were worthless philanderers.

Silver closed the lid of the trunk and sank down on Trask’s wide bed. She’d been through almost everything and still found nothing that could help her. Then an idea struck, and she slid her arm between
the mattress and the head of the berth. As her fingers closed over the handle of a pistol, Silver smiled with satisfaction. A man like Trask was bound to have more than one weapon. He’d just hidden it so long ago he’d forgotten it was there.

Silver’s smile broadened to a grin, her heartbeat quickening as a new plan formed in her mind. With a flick of her hand, she tossed her heavy pale hair back over her shoulder. Morgan Trask be damned. This time she would get away!

“Think she’ll settle down now, Major?” Hamilton Riley sat across from him in the salon, sipping a cup of strong black coffee. Most of the crew had returned to help with the unloading and the final preparations to make way. The rest would be back by nightfall.

“She’d damned well better, if she knows what’s good for her.”

“I’ve never seen the likes of it.” Riley shook his sandy-haired head. “Most of the women I’ve known would have fainted dead away just at the sight of the three who brought her here.”

“She’s got guts—I’ll give her that—even if she hasn’t got the sense God gave a wren.”

“She looks like a woman, but she acts like a man.”

“It’s hard to believe she’s Mary’s daughter. Mary Hardwick-Jones was as gentle and kind a woman as I’ve ever met.” Morgan scowled. “I don’t think there’s a gentle bone in Salena’s body.”

“Maybe not,” Ham said softly, “but in that department she certainly isn’t lacking.”

Morgan’s gaze fixed on the young lieutenant. “I expect you and your men to act with restraint when it comes to Miss Jones. She’s a lady, even if she doesn’t behave like one.”

Hamilton Riley grew serious. “You’ve nothing to
worry about from us, Major, but what about the crew?”

“I’ll deal with them.” Morgan came to his feet. “I’ve got a few last-minute details to attend. I’ll be back before dark. Whatever you do, don’t let Silver out of my cabin.”

“No, sir. You can count on that, sir.” Riley started to salute, but Morgan’s hard look stopped his hand in midair.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Silver waited until dusk began to fall before setting her plan in motion. But all day long she had fanned the low flames in her tiny corner fireplace, carefully adding a chunk of coal now and then to keep it going. No one had brought her food or answered the pounding on her door when she’d demanded it, as she’d been sure someone would.

Trask was being more careful this time.

But very shortly now Trask and his men would have no choice.

Silver watched darkness fall outside the small windows above Morgan’s wide bed, the fading sun lighting the horizon to a soft orange glow that slowly disappeared. Dressed in the cabin boy’s frayed breeches and shirt, she knelt before the fire, added the last of the coal from the tin bucket beside it, and blew until hot red flames licked the grate.

Taking bits of a rag she had found and torn up, she dipped them in water and dropped them carefully atop the fire. Smoke began to curl and billow, then roll across the floor as the cloth began to burn but couldn’t quite catch flame. She added more damp cloth and fanned the fire until the room filled with thick white smoke and she began to cough.

“Fire!” she yelled, covering her nose with a handkerchief
and banging on the cabin door. “Somebody help me!” Fanning the smoke beneath the bottom of the door, Silver banged more loudly. Footsteps sounded on the ladder, a key grated in the lock, and the door swung wide.