His Wicked Kiss (12 page)

She was already in motion, striding up the boardwalk and checking off a mental list of supplies that she would need.

Connor had headed out of camp with his rifle over his shoulder to vent his frustration with work, but she knew she’d have to go quickly before he came back.

Jack had warned her what would happen if she came aboard his ship; ah, but what the captain didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She was stowing away and no one was going to stop her. She could take care of herself, and besides, she planned on staying out of sight until they reached
England
. A hundred forest animals had taught her how to hide.

Crossing the camp, she slipped into her father’s research tent and with trembling hands gathered up the strongest examples of her father’s work to show to the new Earl of Pembrooke, just as she had told Lord Jack she’d do. She tucked them covertly into a canvas haversack. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one saw, she strode next to the
palafito
to collect her things.

She knew she had to hurry or
The Winds of Fortune
would soon set off across the sea without her.

Back inside the stilt-house, she changed into breeches, shirt, and Papa’s old brown leather jacket, which she sometimes wore for practicality’s sake when she joined the men on their most untamed expeditions to the deepest reaches of the jungle.

Tying a dark blue neckerchief over her hair also helped to disguise her sex in case any of Jack’s crewmen should spot her. Moving as swiftly as possible, she threw as many supplies into her haversack as she could carry—including Cousin Amelia’s last letter with her Bedfordshire address on it, and a few issues of
La Belle Assemblée
.

All that was left to do was to say her farewells, but she dared not risk it. Staring across the camp, she watched her father explaining his plans to the servants, and wavered, sorrowfully torn. But then she shook her head.

Go. A chance like this only comes along once in a lifetime
. It was what Mama would have said. Pausing at the bamboo table, she quickly jotted a note to Papa and Connor, telling them what she was doing so that they would not worry too much. She signed with all her love and then, without further ado, slipped out the side of the
palafito
and took the muddy shortcut down to the dock.

After briskly tossing her haversack into her trusty dugout canoe, she sat down in the little vessel and took up the familiar oars, giving herself no time to lose her courage. She freed her little boat from the dock and shoved off with an oar.

Within moments, she was gliding silently down the
cano
, pulling on the oars with all her might.

She rowed swiftly, rowed until her shoulders hurt; she spotted terrifying, ridged silhouettes cutting sinuously through the water here and there, vast, dark shapes in the shallows, but she refused to turn back.

And then, about a half hour into her perilous journey, she spotted the lazy riverboat, slowed by its barge piled with lumber. The steamer traveled on the main river, but
Eden
took the smaller
canos
that ran parallel to it; thus, she managed to stay hidden by the jungle brush while keeping abreast of the larger vessel.

She made swift progress t
hank
s to the strengthening current as they neared the
Gulf
of
Paria
. Soon, mangroves began to appear, and she could taste salt in the air.

She grinned with hearty enthusiasm when she noticed she was actually pulling ahead of the steamer. It had run into a spot of trouble on a sandbar. Though it wasn’t a race, arriving before Lord Jack did could only work to her advantage.

She rowed harder.

Before long, she came to powdery white beaches lined with graceful palm trees. Windy white-tops broke against the shore, while farther up the beach, fat iguanas sunned themselves on the rocks. Ahead lay the wide blue ocean, with the
island
of
Trinidad
slightly to the north.

In the narrow strait called the Serpent’s Mouth that flowed between the island’s southern edge and the mainland, a magnificent seventy-four-gun ship rode at anchor on bare poles, revealing the intricate webwork of rigging that supported the three towering masts.

No room
?
she thought with a snort. Lifting her telescope to her eye, she read the ship’s name painted near the jib.
The Winds of Fortune
. It was his vessel, all right—as big as a floating castle and bristling with deadly armaments.

Awed by the majesty of the great vessel, she studied the colorfully painted figurehead for a moment, while the ship’s attendant cutters scurried about the copper-clad hull like drone ants around the queen. Her gaze ran the length of the two-hundred-foot hull with its double gun decks, all the way back to the carved and gilded stern.

How in blazes am I going to get on that thing?
she wondered, peering through her spyglass. She considered her options.
Climb up one of those ropes
? She was a skilled climber, after all.
No, they’ll see me. What about those big crates they’re loading aboard? Perhaps I could stow away in one of those
.

It seemed as good a plan as any.

Taking one, long, last look back at the jungle and wondering if she would ever see it again, she faced forward once more, steeled her nerve, and then darted out of her hiding place, running stealthily from rock to rock toward the great pile of wooden crates being loaded onto the ship.

With the sailors distracted by the steamer’s late arrival, finally free of the sandbar,
Eden
stole over to the pile of crates variously labeled
PINEAPPLES, LIMES, COCONUTS, MANGOES,
and
BANANAS.
She wrenched the top off one and dove inside, hastily pulling the lid back on over her head.

From the inside, the big crate was about the size of a jaguar trap. Again she thought of Connor and wondered how he might react when he discovered she had fled.

She waited, heart pounding, then she held her breath as more of Lord Jack’s sweaty sailors returned, trudging back through the sand to continue their task of loading the crates onto the longboats for transport to the huge gun-ship.

“Boney’s balls, these limes is heavy!” a man in a red shirt exclaimed as he picked up the crate
Eden
was hiding in.

“At least we won’t get scurvied, eh?”

“Give me a hand with this one, Sharky! I’ll break me damn back,” the first said, but t
hank
fully, nobody noticed her presence as they carried her crate over to the longboat end stacked her in with all the others.

Before long, the cutter took to the waves, the seamen rowing out to the ship and complaining all the way about the heat.

Rolling a few limes out of her way,
Eden
peered out through the slats of her crate, wide-eyed. She couldn’t believe how big the vessel was as the Englishmen rowed closer. With her sails furled, her bare masts scraped the very sky.

They must have chopped down a hundred acres of oak to make that ship, she thought. Then suddenly, from out of the blue sky, a giant crane descended with a cargo platform hanging from its huge metal hook. When it came down low enough, the sailors began transferring the crates of fruit onto the platform.

“ ‘Hoy, Bob, think Cap would notice if we took a few o’ these ‘ere limes?” a large fellow with an earring asked the others as he lifted
Eden
’s crate onto the platform.

She balled up as small as she could make herself and prayed no one would see her.

“Course he’d notice, knowin’ ’im, you tit. Tie ‘er up tight there!” Sharky ordered the others, then they secured the stack of crates with rope. “Himself’ll have a fit if we drop ’em in the brine.”

“Right, take ‘er up!” the one in the red shirt yelled, gesturing to the men operating the davit.

Up on the ship’s deck, another team of sailors lurched into motion, pushing the mighty winch around in a circle, and drawing the great pulley upward. Meanwhile, another pair of seamen posted at the taffrail kept a weather eye out for the Spanish fleet.

Eden
stared out over water and land, barely daring to breathe as the cargo platform ascended, up and up and up so high, until she could see for miles over the jungle’s tree-tops.

The forest was afire with a blazing fuschia sunset behind it, silhouetting towering spiky moriche palms and the leafy giants of the canopy that had been her playground, while the
Orinoco
ran like liquid gold. She could see the Delta’s labyrinth of meandering
canos
and could almost make out the flat-topped mountains called
tepuys
in the distance.

Somewhere in his green paradise, Papa believed she was preparing to cook his dinner. She felt a twinge of conscience, but heavens—
England
!

She clung to her dream for all she was worth and refused to look back. She swore to herself that this was for the best.

As the cargo platform floated over the ship’s bustling main deck, she caught a glimpse of the river steamboat now sputtering to a halt at the beach.

Lord Jack jumped down onto the sand, waded through the shallows and paused to splash himself. She could still taste his kiss. She watched him flinging water over his dark, tousled hair and then striding up onto the beach to take control of the operation. The men were already working hard, but visibly doubled their efforts when their captain arrived.

Better not let him catch you
, her feminine instincts advised as the sun burned his tanned, powerful image into her brain.

Then she was plunged in darkness as the crane descended through the large square hatch, going down ever deeper into the bowels of his great ship, until, at last, she was swallowed up in the deep, dark recess of the cargo hold.

That night,
The Winds of Fortune
slipped away under cover of darkness, evading the Spanish patrol boats by stealing around Galeoto Point at the lower corner of Trinidad, and then breaking sharply northeast at the twelfth parallel.