Shadow Play (13 page)

She wanted to curse, and the heat, mosquitoes, and monotony of the damnable voyage had little to do with it.

Burying her face in her hands, she tried desperately to rid her mind of Morgan Kane. One moment she was appalled by what had happened between them two nights ago, and the next she was reliving each startling, tantalizing touch in glorious detail. Even now the mere thought of his kissing her, holding her, did shocking things to her body, dungs she'd never experienced before. Her breasts ached. Her heart raced. She burned, not just at skin level, but deep inside in that place he'd stroked so tenderly between her legs, turning it as hot and thick as sun-melted honey. Even now it was taking hold of her again...

A rap on the door brought an exhalation of relief from her. She flung it open, Kan's name dying in her throat as she stared up at the American's face. "Oh," she said, a catch in her voice. "I thought you were Kan."

His eyes moved from her face to her shoulder where her dress drooped like a flag in dead air.

"I was having trouble with my dress," she pressed on, feeling a telltale blush stain her cheeks crimson. "I had hoped Kan could help me."

"Kan was detained and asked if I would see you to supper."

Silence fell as Kane remained in the companion way, his hands in his pockets, the murky lamplight shadowing the hollows in his cheeks and deepening the color of his eyes. At last he said, "Perhaps I can be of assistance."

In normal circumstances Sarah would have refused his help; no decent woman would allow such familiarity, especially with a man of Kane's reputation—
especially
in light of what had happened between them two nights ago. They hadn't even spoken to each other since she'd slapped him and considering the way she'd been feeling only moments before, to allow him in the same room with her would be folly...

She stepped back and opened the door, her eyes lowered as she waited for him to enter. As always, the familiar thrill that came with his presence returned. He stepped inside, and with her back to him, Sarah smiled as the delicious intoxication of desire swept through

her. It made her tingle. It made her breathless. It made her feel...
alive.

She closed the door and faced him. His eyes were wary. She swept up her braid with one hand, slowly turned, and offered Kane her back, allowing her head to fall slightly forward. A moment passed before he touched her, hesitantly at first, his fingers fumbling with her dress as he closed it. His warm male scent, tinged with a faint hint of whiskey, made her senses reel. If he took her in his arms this very moment, what would she do? How would she react?

"Done," came his voice.

Sarah dropped her hair and turned to face him, her head falling back as she searched his closed face for his thoughts. Dear Lord, what was happening to her sense of decency when all she could think of was how wonderful it would be if he kissed her again?

Please,
she thought.
Please kiss me again.

He gazed for a long moment into her eyes; his lashes lowered a little as he studied her lips, his own curving up at one end. Then he walked to the door. "I'll see you to supper. I believe you're dining with the captain tonight... aren't you, love?"

The steamer rocked and the throb of the engines seemed to hesitate. She grabbed the hammock as it swayed, never once taking her eyes from his. She felt furious and chagrined and disappointed all at once. He hadn't lied when he'd told her that his reasons for holding her, kissing her, touching her were simply to frighten her, to teach her not to tarry in the dark with scoundrels. He didn't want her, and she felt let down. Why? Dear God, what sort of woman was she becoming?

Morgan watched Sarah throughout dinner from his table near the door. He had pushed his plate away, concentrating instead on the bottle of warm wine that left a sour taste in his mouth and made him sleepy. Henry sat across from him, ruminating about Santarem as he last remembered it, when it was mostly under floodwater. Morgan wasn't daft or drunk enough not to realize what his friend was doing. Henry was trying his best to change Morgan's mind about dumping Sarah, but it wouldn't work. The sooner they got rid of her the better—for both their sakes. She was occupying too much of his thoughts. He should be preparing himself for the confrontation with King. So far he hadn't given that a great deal of attention, didn't want to, really, because to do so he would have to face the sobering reality that his days on this earth were probably numbered. And while once, when he lay sweating and racked with night- mares and self-loathing in that rat-infested hovel on Tobacco Row, he might have thought that he didn't give a damn about dying, now he found himself looking forward to each day, actually envisioning what life might be like were he to settle down and marry. What if he made it out of Japura alive? What
if
he could steal enough gold to make him a presentable marriage possibility to... someone?

Who the hell was he kidding? He didn't know the first thing about being a husband. Or a father. Nonetheless, in his fantasies he had a home, children, and a woman who loved him despite his past...

Gradually, the
Santos's
passengers departed the dining room, leaving Sarah and the captain, and Morgan and Henry. The hour had grown late, and although Morgan could sense that Sarah's usual bravado was waning, the captain had not. Finally, with a sigh Henry rose from his chair and said, "I'll leave you the pleasant task of seeing the lady back to her cabin, if the good captain ever sees fit to give her up." He took one last look at Sarah before quitting the room. Then Morgan settled back to wait.

He smoked. He poured another glass of wine and sank deeper in his chair. He closed his eyes, hearing Sarah's soft voice rise and fall but unable to understand the words. Now and again the portly captain's laughter boomed out, and Morgan opened his eyes to find Sarah poised within the candle's halo, her chin delicately balanced upon the palm of one hand as she appeared fascinated by her host's conversation. Yet...

Sometimes her gaze shifted toward his, and though the captain droned on and on, she continued to regard Morgan from behind her gold-tipped lashes. Perhaps he should have taken her in his arms while in her cabin and kissed her; she was miffed because he hadn't, he could tell. So why hadn't he? He wanted her. He wanted her like hell. But he'd seen that look of desire on women's faces a thousand times, and he knew it was the fantasy they wanted, not the man. They didn't give a damn about Morgan Kane. They only ached for the legend he represented.

Damn, cursed
boto.

Sarah St. James wasn't immune to his magic any more than other women. He must remember that. It was the allure of the forbidden that had enticed her to spread her legs for him two nights ago; it wasn't because she cared for him even remotely. She was engaged to another man, after all. If he allowed himself to believe that something other than lust made her eyes turn smoky when she looked at him...

He finished his wine and reached into his pocket for his whiskey and a smoke. At that instant the ship came to an abrupt and unexpected stop.

The jolt sent the captain's chair hurling backward, end over end, so that he lay stunned and motionless on the floor for several seconds. Sarah was spilled facedown over the table, her skirt draped in waves of golden fawn organdy and silk across the linen tablecloth. Morgan, having been thrown against the wall, responded with the litheness of one who is accustomed to surprises. By the time the engines had shuttered and quit completely, he was back on his feet and running for Sarah.

She had no more than raised her head when the American's arm closed around her, lifting her up as if she were weightless. She came to her senses when she saw the blade of his knife flash in his hand, and for an endless agonizing instant she actually believed he was about to cut her throat.

Then all hell broke loose on the deck above them.

The pilot of the boat appeared at the door. He had a dark, oval face, beaked nose, and straight black hair. He was built like a barrel, an image accentuated by the broad

red-and- white-striped sailor's shirt he wore.
"Capitaine!"
he cried. "Come quickly,
Capitaine.
We have run aground!"

The outcry of the passengers could be heard above. While Kane set Sarah on her feet, the captain struggled to stand, then ran for the door. Morgan was hot on the officer's heels, gripping Sarah's hand and forcing her to follow at such a speed she tripped repeatedly on her skirts and might have fallen had he not caught her.

Pandemonium besieged the dark deck as the terrified passengers, having been tumbled from their hammocks by the impact, stumbled over one another in an attempt to escape whatever evil, real or imaginary, had struck the vessel. Sarah gripped Morgan's arm in an effort to keep from being swept lip in the flood of bodies pushing and shoving then- way to the stern of the ship. Occasionally the captain's and pilot's voices could be heard crying out for calm, to no avail. The panic only intensified as a wild, earsplitting shriek rose from the melee. The horrible sound froze Sarah in fear. Then Morgan moved against her, shielding her body with his as the first rush swept over them.

They came from everywhere at once, the small manlike shapes and shadows, pouring over the ship's railings from the tangle of debris scattered over the bow. A great howl of terror rang out as the monkeys skittered over the awnings and leapt onto the heads and shoulders of the cowering humans. The dim lamplight contorted the animals' faces into heathenish masks with sharp pointed teeth and wide eyes that danced with fiery light. Somehow Sarah managed not to scream as an Indian boy stumbled into her, shoulders stooped as he fought furiously to drag the clawing animal from his back before it could bite his neck again. She saw Morgan reach out in one swift motion, grab the creature off the boy, sink the blade of his knife into the flailing monkey's throat, and toss it to the deck.

When the snakes began dropping from the branches, the chaos crescended. Suddenly the floor was writhing with mem, the light and shadows elongating their sleek black bodies as they slithered in every direction. In that moment Sarah's mind seemed to collapse in total confusion and fear. Her only thought was to escape, yet there was no place to go. Between her and the stairs leading belowdeck were a hundred hysterical humans with the same thought. The only alternative was to jump overboard, which was out of the question. As calmly as possible, she looked to Morgan.

He had partially turned toward her, yet his gaze was locked upon some distant horizon that was invisible beyond the wall of steam rising from the river. He looked pale as he rolled the grip of his knife in his palm. Then he glanced over the deck and, without speaking, bent at the waist and tossed her over his shoulder.

The breath left her in a rush as the world tipped upside down. She clutched at his shirt as he leapt upon a stack of crates; the precarious perch swayed like a pile of top-heavy dominoes, making Sarah scream and squirm and beat his back and yell, "Put me down, I can do it myself!" to which he responded by flinging back her skirt and swatting her pantalooned derriere. Then, much to her horror, he was jumping for the ornate gingerbread affixed to the pilothouse overhead, swinging his body "as lithely as an

acrobat in an attempt to catch his boot upon the jutting configuration of cutout swirls and ornamental designs. She might have screamed again. She couldn't be certain. Her head was pounding too loudly and painfully, the blood rushing through her ears.

He heaved them up and through the glassless windows of the pilothouse wall where they spilled over the floor in a cloud of skirts and petticoats.

A half-dozen monkeys scattered, screeching and chattering, to all four corners of the room, scampering out the. windows and through the open doorway. Just as Sarah started to rise, Kane's breathless voice said softly, "Don't move, love. Not an inch."

She froze. A sudden, painful ache of terror washed over her as, from the corner of her eye, she saw the
jararaca
lift its coiled black body from the floor and stare at her with eyes that were ebony pits. Its mouth was a barely discernible ridge where a forked tongue slid in and out with a hiss.

So stealthily did Morgan move from her side that she didn't notice. Her eyes were locked on the snake, which, should it decide to lunge, would hit her directly on the face.

The arrow-shaped head wavered back and forth, then stilled.

Dear God.

It was going to strike!

Chapter Seven

A BRIGHT LIGHT BEAT AGAINST HER CLOSED EYELIDS, AND the fog of confusion peeled away from her mind like mists burned off by a hot sun. She had been dreaming of murky shadows and swirling waters from which a dolphin, and men a man, had emerged. White-suited and breathtakingly handsome, he had walked over the water until stopping an arm's length from her.
"Chere,"
he had whispered before he gradually disappeared.

She lay very still, refusing to move, wondering if she were dead or alive. But for the throbbing pain in her face she felt numb, removed from her body and reality by a gray nothingness.

She tried opening her eyes and focused on the familiar ceiling of her cabin. Faint and few at first, the murmurings of voices came to her from beyond the" door. A movement caught her eye and the American came into view. He walked to her bedside. Dressed in a soft-textured shirt open at the throat, he looked very tall and young. His unshaven face appeared haggard and tired. She did not break down and weep, though the realization mat she was alive came with a storm of relief. Instead, she began to pant and
shiver as the memory of the serpent reaching out for her with bared fangs tumbled through her mind.
                   
_N

She grasped the front of the American's shirt in her trembling fingers, and with as much bravado as she could man- age, said, "Am I dying, Mr. Kane? I am. Dear God, I am! I can see it in your eyes. That vile reptile has snuffed out my life. Take up a pen and paper, sir, so that I can bid my fianc6 good-bye. Quickly! Use the diary, if you must. Tell him that—that he is sweet and kind and much too good for me. Tell him that I insist he find someone else to marry as soon as possible so he can get on with his life. Tell him that I cared for him very much and—oh, Mr. Kane, I feel weak. I must surely be going now. My head is spinning..."