Savannah Heat (7 page)

While the men pulled on the oars, Morgan propped a foot on the seat beside her, his hands
splayed at his waist as he bent over her with a glare. “That’s all you have to say for yourself, the water’s colder here?”

“My leg cramped.”

“Bloody hell!” Morgan moved away from her toward the bow of the boat. If she said one more word, he was liable to throttle her. They reached the ship, and the men climbed up the rope ladder and over the rail. Pulling the blanket around her in an effort to cover her nearly transparent nightshirt, Silver started to follow but missed the first rung and stumbled into Morgan.

Cursing, he slung her over his shoulder and climbed the ladder as if she weren’t there. He didn’t stop until they reached his cabin.

“I believe, Mistress Jones,” he said tightly, “you and I have spent quite enough time in the water.” He set her on her feet, trying to ignore the curve of her hips and thighs beneath the soggy night rail. “Take those wet clothes off, and put on my robe.” He moved away from her toward the door. “You can sleep in here tonight. We’ll find something to cover the broken window.”

Silver nodded. She’d never felt more weary in her life. “I’m afraid I’ve lost Jordy’s clothes.”

Morgan’s temper snapped. He stormed across the room, grabbed her arm, and hauled her against him. “You little vixen, you damned near lost your life! When are you going to get it through your head you’re going back?”

“Not as long as I’ve the slightest chance of getting away!”

Clamping his jaw, Morgan dragged her over to the broken window. “If you want to kill yourself, go ahead. This time I won’t stop you.”

Silver jerked free. “I almost made it. If it hadn’t
been so cold …” She tried to focus on his face, but the image grew suddenly fuzzy. Swaying on her feet, she rested a hand on his chest for support.
Odd, the way a man’s chest feels
, she thought. So hard, yet each stiff strand of his curly dark blond hair seemed to tease the ends of her fingers. The room felt hotter than it should have, and the major’s voice seemed somewhere far away.

“Morgan,” she whispered, and her knees gave out just as he scooped her into his arms.

Morgan cursed roundly. He should have known this would happen. Sooner or later her recklessness was bound to take its toll.

Crossing the room, he laid her gently on the bed and, with swift, sure movements, stripped away the soggy nightshirt. His hand trembled at the touch of her skin beneath the heavy mass of her hair. He lifted the water-slick strands and spread them across his pillow.

God, she was lovely. Every pale inch sweetly curved and tempting to the strongest-willed man. He had never seen such beautiful breasts, such an incredibly tiny waist. Even though she lay unconscious, Morgan felt his building desire for her, burning hotter than it had for any woman since Charlotte Middleton.

Charlotte. Sweet, sweet Charlotte. Beautiful and innocent, all softness and feminine delight. Gentle and kind—and a liar.

Morgan tugged the sheet over Silver’s naked body, his passion for her already beginning to wane. She was just a woman—for all her toughness, for all her bravado. Even now her forehead burned with fever. Already she coughed and thrashed; soon the pneumonia would start to set in. It wasn’t uncommon in a near drowning such as this. Yet Silver seemed so
strong, so invincible he hadn’t even considered it could happen to her.

Morgan strode to the door, crossed the salon, and climbed the ladder to the deck. He’d have Cookie look after her. He was captain of this vessel and a major in the Texas Marines. It wasn’t his place to care for some stubborn, headstrong woman—no matter how young and tender she might be.

But when he reached the galley and crossed the room to where the tough-skinned gray-haired cook bent over his steaming pots, Morgan couldn’t say the words. Cookie was older, yes, but he was far from old. As caring as his friend could be, Grandison Aimes was a man. The thought of him staring at Silver’s naked flesh, of running a damp cloth over her lovely bare breasts was more than Morgan could handle.

“She’s going to get the pneumonia. Bring me the things I’ll need to tend her—and something to fix the broken ports above my bed.”

The barrel-chested cook looked up from his steaming pots. “You sure you don’t want me to do it?”

“She’s my responsibility, not yours. I’ll take care of her.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Cookie added nothing further, but Morgan didn’t miss the knowing look in his hard old eyes. There wasn’t a sailor aboard who hadn’t recognized by now exactly what Silver Jones had to offer a man—any man strong enough to take it, that is. It didn’t surprise them one little bit that Morgan Trask would be that man.

It wasn’t the pneumonia after all. Just a case of exhaustion and a lung full of salt water. Her fever had eased before daybreak, to Morgan’s vast relief.

He had bathed her hot, dry skin throughout the afternoon and evening, fighting to keep her cool. After her hair had dried, he’d combed out the tangles, admiring the silky texture, so pale against his dark-tanned hand. Even in the dim glow of the lantern beside the bed it gleamed seductively.

Just like her soft ivory skin and her high, round breasts with their dusky rose nipples.

He had weakened his growing desire for her by reminding himself of Charlotte, imagining Silver in bed with her lover, her legs spread wide, her mouth ripe and bruised from another man’s kisses. He imagined her lying and cheating as Charlotte had done.

Morgan had found his beloved in a Savannah hotel room, merely by chance, just a few days after their wedding date had been set. Charlotte had come into town to shop for her trousseau. But the merchant’s son had proved more entertaining.

That was the day Morgan met Jordy, just a skinny little orphan looking for a handout. Morgan had seen him behind the hotel where he spotted Charlotte’s carriage and asked him where the pretty blond lady who rode in it had gone. Jordy innocently told him of the room she and Tom Hadley had rented upstairs.

Certain there was some other explanation, Morgan climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. Tom’s voice, husky with passion, ordered him to leave them alone just before Morgan kicked in the door.

It was a wonder he hadn’t killed them. He’d wanted to. God, how he’d wanted to. Instead he’d turned and walked away. If he’d thrown one punch, he wouldn’t have been able to stop until Tom Hadley lay dead. Charlotte was smart enough not to go after him. He just walked down River Street, sick to his stomach, climbed aboard his ship, and stayed drunk until she set sail six days later. Three days after that Jordy had been discovered hiding in the hold.

Silver stirred on the bed, drawing Morgan’s attention. Was she really like Charlotte? It seemed unlikely. Silver Jones wasn’t like any woman he’d ever known. What was her secret? he wondered, for surely she had one.

Was Pinkard telling the truth about her lover—or was there something else?

Morgan reached over and brushed wispy silver strands from her cheek. Silver’s eyes fluttered open. Her brows and lashes, much darker than her pale blond hair, accented the velvet brown eyes that looked up at him with uncertainty.

“You had a fever,” he explained, remembering how she had called him by name just before she fainted. He’d liked the sound of it more than he
should have. “We feared it was the pneumonia, but it wasn’t.”

Silver started to sit up, realized she was naked beneath the thin white cotton sheet, and blushed crimson. It was the first real blush he’d seen, and Morgan found it enchanting.

“Did you—are you the one who took care of me?”

“Was there someone else you would have preferred?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head in emphasis, and slid farther beneath the covers.

Morgan chuckled softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silver glanced away, willing the color to drain from her cheeks. It wasn’t like her to be thrown so off guard, but then she’d never been in quite this position. “I suppose I should thank you … yet knowing I’m once more your prisoner, I find the task most difficult.”

“I prefer to consider you a guest,” he said, “but under the circumstances I suppose I understand your somewhat reluctant gratitude.”

They sat in silence for a while, Morgan trying not to notice the peaks of her breasts, which pushed against the sheet, Silver trying not to remember the feel of her fingers in the tight dark blond curls on his chest.

“Do you love him that much?” Morgan finally asked, breaking the silence.

I hate him that much
. “I told you before, I have no lover … would it matter if I did?”

“Yesterday I would have said no. Today … maybe I’m not so sure.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means if you were a man, I’d admire your courage.”

“But I’m a woman, so instead of being brave, I’m just a fool.”

Morgan didn’t answer.

“Since there’s no place left for me to run, would it be all right if I went up on deck a little later? The fresh air would surely do me good.”

“Cookie washed and dried the clothes you had on when you came.” He pointed toward the chair where they sat neatly folded. “Rest awhile longer; then call me when you’re ready, and I’ll show you around.”

“All right,” she said. When Morgan walked to the door and pulled it open, Silver sat up in the bed, the covers drawn up to her chin. “Are you a man of your word, Major Trask?”

Morgan turned to face her. “Yes.” The simple word was spoken without arrogance, and Silver believed him.

“Then tell me, did you play the gentleman last night—or breach my somewhat tattered modesty?”

“I prefer my women awake, Miss Jones.” Morgan’s mouth curved up in amusement. “Though there’s hardly an inch of you that hasn’t been soothed by my hand.” He indicated the basin of water and the damp cloth on the table beside the bed.

The fire returned to her cheeks, then burned down her throat and over her shoulders. “I think I shall see the ship a little later,” she said, “when I’m feeling a bit stronger.”

Morgan’s voice turned gentle. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Silver. And neither have I. Call me whenever you’re ready.” With that he walked out the door.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Silver hugged her arms around her. It wasn’t cold in the room, but she
felt a bit of a chill. Morgan Trask had seen her naked, had touched her—all over. Yet she believed his words. He had not taken advantage.

Unconsciously her palm skimmed over a breast and down her body. She thought of Morgan’s wide hand touching that same flesh, and the heat curled softly in her stomach. How could that be when the thought of a man’s touch sickened her?

She recalled her days in the tavern, the way the men had looked at her. Too often one would soundly pat her bottom or try to cup her breast. She’d given them a ringing slap, and a tongue-lashing to boot.

What was it about Morgan Trask that beckoned her to trust him? He was a man, wasn’t he? That in itself should make her wary. On top of that, he was a friend of her father’s. She knew the kind of people William Hardwick-Jones chose as friends: people he could dominate—or people he could use.

Morgan didn’t seem to fit either of those categories, but then she didn’t really know him. And there was always the possibility that Trask had something her father wanted. He could be quite charming when he had something to gain.

Dressed once more in her simple brown skirt and clean white peasant blouse, Silver pulled open the cabin door, grateful to find it unlocked. She’d gone only a few feet into the salon when it occurred to her that she’d forgotten to tie back her hair. Forgotten because it was tangle-free, carefully combed, and left to fall loose around her shoulders.

Would Morgan Trask do that? Surely a man as hard and unbending as the major wouldn’t play lady’s maid to an unconscious woman. Or would he? He was a difficult man to figure, but figure him she must. She had only one chance of escaping Katonga, and Major Trask was it.

Somehow she had to convince him to take her on to Barbados, to forget his promise to return her, and instead to set her free. What price was she willing to pay for it? Was she willing to forfeit the very part of herself she had worked so hard to protect?

No, she vowed. Her virtue was hers alone to give. She would fight to keep it just as hard as she fought to be free of her father. It was the most precious gift she owned, and she would guard it until she wished to give it freely.

But she might walk that delicate, teasing line that made a man think what he would. She hadn’t had much practice, but the instinct was there. If she played the game carefully, she just might win.

Against her will, the image of Morgan Trask’s half-naked body as he carried her over his shoulder, the feel of his sinewy muscles moving and flexing beneath her came to mind.

It was a dangerous game she played. Dangerous and seductive. She prayed to God she would win.

Silver climbed the ladder to the deck. The stiff wind felt brisk and clean and reviving. The wooden planks beneath her mud-spattered slippers, now dry and made as presentable as possible, felt solid and weathered and somehow encouraging.