Savannah Heat (3 page)

“I assure you the lady’s virtue remains intact. William was quite adamant about that.” He arched a black brow. “Speaking of which, I hope I can count on your loyalty to William to overrule the sexual prowess women seem to find so attractive in you.”

Silver glanced at Morgan, who shot her a look that told her exactly the appeal she held for him. She was dirty and ragged and rain-soaked. And she hadn’t bathed in a week.

“Don’t say it,” she warned, watching his eyes
move over her soggy clothes and matted hair. Handsome or not, he was just a man. What he thought of her meant nothing.

Morgan just smiled.

“Take care, Major,” Pinkard cautioned as he turned to leave. “She’ll do anything to keep from going back to Katonga. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The major’s look said Pinkard’s warning concerned him not in the least.

Good
, Silver thought.
A man who underestimates his opponent is the easiest to defeat.

“You know where to find me,” Morgan finished. “I’ll have your blood money ready and waiting when I get back.”

“You do that, Major. Both William and I are more than grateful for your assistance—even if it has been given with some reluctance.” With a last glance at Silver, Pinkard walked out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

Morgan turned his attention to Salena Hardwick-Jones. Though she held her head high, there were smudges beneath her eyes that betrayed her fatigue, and her wrists were chapped and raw from the too-tight bindings. His brows drew together as he assessed the red mark across her cheek left by Pinkard’s hand. The bastard hadn’t the conscience God gave a snake.

Pulling open the door, he leaned into the passageway and caught the attention of Hamilton Riley, who sat waiting in the salon. Morgan explained to him about their newest traveling companion, then asked him to have Cookie, the ship’s cook, heat water for a bath.

“She’ll need something dry to wear,” Morgan added. “Jordy’s about her size. Get something from
him.” Jordan Little was his cabin boy, a youth of just thirteen.

Once the tasks had been set in motion, Morgan stepped back inside and closed the door. “We need to talk, Salena.”

“My name is Silver.”

He watched her for a moment, noting the rise and fall of her high, round breasts, the color that tinted her cheeks. Even tired and bedraggled, and wet clear to her bones, she had an air about her. Morgan scoffed at the idea of aristocratic bloodlines that William held so dear, and yet …

“If that’s the name you prefer—”

“It’s the only name I’ll answer to.”

Morgan ignored a pinprick of anger. If he just took it slowly, made her understand that her father had only her best interests in mind, the girl would soon settle down and accept the inevitable.

“If you promise to behave, I’ll cut your bindings.”

Silver nodded. Morgan slid a small stag-handled knife from the sheath at his waist and slit the leather thongs that bound her wrists. She glanced toward the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

“I was just hoping the bath would hurry.” It was a lie, and they both knew it.

“Your father was a friend of mine,” he told her, hoping to ease the moment. “We knew each other in London.” But at his words, she grew only more tense. She glanced away for an instant; then her brown eyes fixed on a point on the wall above his head.

“What are you planning to do with me?”

“I’m going to take you home.”

You’re going to try
, Silver thought. “I don’t suppose
there’s anything I could say to change your mind.”

“I owe your father. It’s a debt I’ve never repaid. Seeing his daughter returned to him safely is the least I can do.”

A shiver raced up Silver’s spine.

“You’re cold.” Morgan stepped toward her, but Silver instinctively stepped away. “I was just going to get you a blanket.”

“The bath will warm me enough.”

A soft knock sounded at the door. The major opened it, and two young seamen walked in, one with a heavy copper bathing tub, the other carrying dry clothes tucked beneath his arm and two steaming tin pails. The cabin boy, a youth with auburn hair, freckles, and wide hazel eyes, arrived with a pot of tea, cold chicken, and cheese.

Silver had to admit the bath and food looked good. As soon as she was clean and dry and had eaten her fill, she would plan her next move.

“I’ll be just outside if you need anything,” Morgan told her when the men had left. He stepped out into the passageway.

“Thank you, Major.” It was all she could do not to smile. The man underestimated her sorely. She’d be bathed, dressed, and away before he knew what had hit him.

And hit him she would. One solid blow to the top of his dark blond head, and he would be out for the night. She would do her best not to hurt him, but he had left her no choice.

She shivered inside her wet clothing and glanced at the steaming hot water. In the meantime, she looked forward with relish to the moments she would spend in the tub.

Nothing in recent memory had felt as good as the warm, sudsy water that caressed her naked body. Silver ducked her head beneath the surface, used the cake of soap to scrub her hair, then rinsed and leaned back in the tub.

Soon she would be leaving, but for now, sitting before the tiny fire in the corner, being warmed by the water, and sipping a cup of jasmine tea seemed like heaven. Outside this cozy room, she would be faced with the storm and the task of getting safely away. Once that happened, she would dye her hair brown, head north, and lose herself in some big city. Philadelphia—or maybe even New York. The colder climate wouldn’t quite suit her, but that was the least of her worries.

Silver sighed with resignation and forced herself to climb from the warmth of the tub. She dried herself on a white linen towel and pulled on the canvas breeches the sailor had brought, finding them such a snug fit she nearly blushed. A white cotton shirt came next. Then, using the comb she found on the
bureau, she worked the tangles from her hair and dried the unruly silver mass in front of the fire.

God, she felt like a brand-new woman, one ready to meet the challenge that lay ahead.

A search of the room turned up a pistol, which she shoved into the waistband of her breeches, and a heavy wooden belaying pin that would make a perfect weapon. Now all she had to do was lure the major back in and hit him over the head.

Silver grimaced at the thought but pushed her reluctance away.
You’ll just have to do it
, she told herself firmly, and bent to the task ahead.

After tying her shirttail up around her waist and out of the way and securing her hair at the nape of her neck with the leather thong the major had cut from her wrists, Silver dragged a chair behind the door and positioned it to give her the access she needed. Then she stuck her head out into the passageway.

Morgan Trask leaned against the back of a small tapestry-covered settee, his booted feet crossed in front of him, reading the newspaper in the yellow glow of the brass reflecting lamp that hung on the wall behind him. He was definitely a handsome man, she thought, in a tough, no-nonsense sort of way. He had the greenest eyes she had ever seen, and his skin, tanned dark by the sun, looked smooth except for the jagged scar that marked his cheek.

She wondered fleetingly what kind of man he was, then, remembering his friendship with her father, figured she already knew.

“Excuse me, Major,” Silver said sweetly, “could I see you for just a moment?”

Trask set the paper aside and stood up, his tall frame nearly touching the low ceiling in the elegantly furnished salon. Silver slipped back inside the
cabin and eased the door closed. Picking up the belaying pin, she took her position on the chair and waited till the door swung wide.

Morgan glanced up just as Silver swung her heavy blow. Cursing, he tried to duck out of the way, but Silver anticipated the move. The blow glanced off the side of his head and onto his shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor.

Damn!
Silver swore, wishing the blow had done more damage, but she couldn’t bear to hit him again. Morgan sat there groaning, trying to recover. Silver ignored him and raced through the door and into the salon. After stopping to check for the others, she climbed the ladder to the deck, ran to the rail, and climbed over.

Nothing to it
, she thought with a surge of satisfaction and a last glance over her shoulder to the deck she had left behind. Silver sucked in a breath at the sight of Morgan Trask, racing determinedly along behind her, his face a dark mask of rage.

Damn her conscience! It was always getting her in trouble. She should have made sure she’d knocked him out cold.

Silver ran faster, dodging sailors who strolled the dock, flea-bitten mutts that sniffed through rotting garbage, and a doxy or two who busily plied their wares. When she bowled into a woman she hadn’t seen, the whore cursed her soundly, but Silver just kept running. She had to find someplace to hide, some dark alley where the major couldn’t find her.

Rounding a corner, Silver fought the stitch in her side, the pounding of her heart, and every burning breath she had to take. Her legs were beginning to ache with the powerful effort, and still she drove on. A glance over her shoulder told her she had left the major behind, but she dared not slow.

Not until an arm snaked out of nowhere, circled her waist, and slammed her up against a rough brick wall.

Morgan Trask towered above her, his hard body pinning her, his green eyes glinting with rage. Silver struggled against the corded muscles of his chest, tried to duck beneath his arm, tried to pull her pistol, fought to kick and bite him—all to no avail.

“Enjoy your bath, milady?” his deep voice mocked, but there wasn’t a trace of amusement in the unforgiving lines of his face.

Silver lifted her chin. “I found it quite delightful.”

“Good,” he said, jerking the pistol from her waist and stuffing it into the back of his breeches, “because you’re just about to have another.” With one quick move, he scooped her into his arms, carried her the few feet to the edge of the dock, and dumped her in.

Bastard!
Silver swore as the icy water swept over her, knocking the air from her lungs and chilling her far worse than the rain. She broke the surface, sputtering, cursing, fighting the hair that covered her nose and mouth, and threatened to drown her. Morgan Trask stood on the dock, grinning, enjoying her torment, and stirring her anger to heights she had rarely known.

Why, that arrogant, blackhearted—Grabbing a quick breath of air, Silver went under again.

Morgan watched with satisfaction as she came up twice more, thrashing the surface and fighting to catch her breath. He’d let her get good and tired, then throw her a line. He’d been a bloody fool not to heed Pinkard’s warning. But she’d looked so damned pitiful—and far too exhausted to cause him any trouble.

Now he had a pounding head and a bruise on his
shoulder to remind him not to make the same mistake again.

Morgan glanced at the water. Only a few tiny bubbles arose where Silver had gone under the last time. She should have come up by now, he realized, and cursed himself again for a fool.

Bloody hell! Calling her every vile name he could think of, Morgan pulled off his boots, shed his heavy blue uniform jacket and the pistol she had stolen, and dived into the water. When he found no trace of her, he began to worry in earnest. Just his luck the wench couldn’t stay afloat long enough to learn her lesson. Then a niggling suspicion crept into his mind. Morgan broke the surface just in time to see Silver grinning, climbing up on the pier some distance away.

Damn her! Hauling himself up a rickety wooden ladder, he raced after her, catching up to her a block away, barreling into her, and knocking them both to the ground.

“Lady, you are really pushing your luck,” he said through clenched teeth. His body pressed her hard against the rough wooden boards of the dock, making it difficult for her to breathe, but Morgan didn’t care. Dragging her to her feet, he forced one of her arms up behind her, brushing his palm across a taut wet nipple in the process. Her slender derriere pressed seductively against his lower body. Morgan felt a tightening in his loins and cursed the bitter fortune that had placed her in his care.

“You’re going back to the ship one way or another,” he said, determined not to spend the next few weeks putting up with the hateful little wench. She’d learn to do as she was told or damn well regret it. “You might as well resign yourself.”

Silver ignored him, struggling and squirming and trying to jerk free.

“Stop it, Silver,” he warned, his voice so hard she finally quit fighting. Morgan pulled his soggy kerchief from around his neck and tied her arms behind her back. Shaking his head at the task he had set for himself, he made his way back to the ship, stopping only long enough to pick up his jacket, boots, and pistol.

Jordy, Cookie, and Hamilton Riley stood at the rail when they arrived. Only Cookie had the courage to admire openly the curvaceous bit of baggage Morgan tugged along.