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 spygla.s.s. 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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 d.a.m.n back," the first said, but thankfully, n.o.body 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 sc.r.a.ped 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 t.i.t. 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.

Chapter.

Five.

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.

Jack had ordered the crew to be silent and the ship's lanterns doused. The mood on board was tense until they could be sure they had not been spotted by the Spanish. Nevertheless, a fair wind out of the south drove them along.

It was a fine night to make sail, cool and partly clear, but though tranquil, there was an eeriness to the silence and the way the bright half moon lit up the cloud cl.u.s.ters here and there.

Luminescent algae, famous in the torrid zone, glowed atop the waves.

"Lieutenant, what is our speed?" he asked the officer in charge of the watch.

"Five knots, sir."

Not bad, for all our cargo, he thought. Because they were still in coral reef areas, caution dictated a moderate pace.

They glided along under partial sail while the quartermaster made his patient soundings off the bow, on constant watch for rocks beneath the surface.

A smattering of some twenty small islands dotted the seas around Trinidad and Tobago; shallows and reefs surrounded most of them. Only when the Winds reached the edge of the continental border, where the shallow coastal waters dropped away into the abyss, would Jack give the order for full sail and full speed ahead.

For now, standing arms akimbo near the helmsman, smoking a cheroot, he pa.s.sed a glance across the starry sky. "How reads the barometer, Mr. Clark?"

"Stable, Captain," the ship's master replied.

Jack nodded. "Steady as she goes, boys," he murmured to the crew, strolling restlessly from the quarterdeck toward the bow. Canine claws ticked along right behind him over the spotlessly clean planks, as his faithful mutt, Rudy, shadowed his steps.

The product of a bulldog's illicit liaison with an English White terrier, Rudy was stocky and thick-set and low to the ground, fearless despite being only as high as Jack's knee.

He trotted across the decks as if he owned the ship, or rather the whole of the sea. Rudy had a short white coat, a black circle around one eye as though he had been in a brawl, a very silly-looking Roman nose, and the soul of a clown. The dog, in short, was the best friend he'd ever had, but Jack Knight was not the sort of man to admit such things.

"Sir, we've just reached a hundred feet of depth," the quartermaster confirmed from his post on the bow, having just pulled up his sounding lines.

"Excellent." Jack's smile broadened. "Make sail, boys. Let's head for the middle lat.i.tudes and rope ourselves a westerly."

The crew m.u.f.fled their answering cheer and eagerly ascended the stiff rope ladders of the rigging.

Exhaling smoke, Jack tilted his head back and watched them climb out onto the yards with unflinching bravery despite the ship's constant wide rocking and the action of the wind.

In four minutes flat, they unfurled the rest of the magnificent vessel's full two acres of pearly canvas, gleaming and magical in the moonlight.

It always took Jack's breath away to see her come to life with the breath of the wind filling her sails. "She's a beauty, is she not, Lieutenant?"

Peabody smiled at him in perfect understanding of his sentiments. "Aye, Captain."

"Carry on," he said at length, leaving the watch in the second lieutenant's able hands.

Drifting to the rails, Jack gazed down rather broodingly into the foaming wake off the bow, easy with the Winds' familiar rocking as she ploughed on through the waves and sent up plumes of brisk spray.

Far below, a few dolphins plunged merrily alongside them, their slick hides gleaming in the moonlight. It was a good omen and all had gone smoothly, yet Jack's mood was a little pensive.

Regret gnawed him. The forlorn image of Eden Farraday left standing alone on the dock stayed vivid in his mind. He wished he could have helped her, but, no. As usual, Jack Knight had been cast in the role of villain. He let out a sigh and shook his head. He decided he would go back and check on her again when he came back to deliver his mercenaries to Bolivar. Next time, he would get her out of there whether her father liked it or not.

And if that blond chap tried pointing a gun in his direction again, Jack thought grimly, he would deal with him, too.

An insistent whine from below drew his distracted attention just then. When he glanced down, he saw Rudy standing beside him with his favorite stick clamped between his jaws, his tail wagging eagerly.

With a rueful smile, Jack took the stick out of the dog's mouth and heaved it toward the stern in a long throw.

"Fetch," he muttered, but Rudy needed no such instruction, already scampering after his prize as though the bit of timber were worth its weight in gold.

For a week, Eden had endured the inky cargo hold. She hid in total darkness, longing for light, for fresh air, and most of all, for any human company besides her own.

The temperature had dropped as the ship traveled north inexorably, leaving the land of summer and the tropical temperatures she was used to for climes reminiscent of faintly remembered autumns-a brisk, sunny coolness by day giving way to colder temperatures at night. Of course, where they were headed, February meant the dead of winter, though they wouldn't arrive, she presumed, until the end of March.

In the meantime, the unrelenting blackness had begun playing tricks on her mind. There was too much time to worry about the rats she heard scratching about in the darkness. She hoped they did not grow bold enough to bite her.

Above all, there was too much time to think... about everything that could go wrong with her adventure now that she had flung herself into it. Time, as well, to contemplate the mighty captain of this ship.

Since this was a far more interesting subject, she spent countless hours pondering what Papa had told her about Jack Knight-yet somehow she only arrived at more questions.

Why, for example, had he been forbidden to marry the girl he had loved, Lady Maura? If he was the second son of a duke, why had her parents deemed Lord Jack unsuitable? Was that the reason he had not returned to England all this time? Had he no family there to draw him back for a visit?

And what was he really doing in the jungle that day in the first place? She remembered the mysterious look in his eyes when she had asked about his visit to the rebel town of Angostura. Papa had claimed that his mere presence in Venezuela meant that Lord Jack was up to no good. Collecting timber... ? No. They were hiding something, he and his men. Whatever the rogue was involved in, he obviously didn't want her to know.

Alas, the spirit of inquiry had been nurtured in Eden from too young an age to leave the mystery alone. There was nothing else to do, hour after hour, so she decided to look around and see if she could find some answers.

Taking the tinderbox out of her satchel of supplies, she lit her candle with a few clicks of the flint. She knew she had to conserve her candle, but the light was such a blessing. With the small flame to guide her, she went exploring a bit.

The great rocking warehouse of the cargo hold contained no clues about Jack's secrets, but was piled with orderly mountains of supplies. Barrels of water and wine. Various tools and spare sails. Black powder stores and cannonb.a.l.l.s. There was plenty of food and water to see her through the long journey, but the air was fetid just above the bilge.

She did not need her physician-father to tell her that amid such ill vapors, fevers lurked. Indeed, she doubted she had another two days' worth of breathable air down here. She realized grimly that she would have to ascend to the next level and find a new hiding place.

This she did the next afternoon, sneaking up onto the orlop deck, and here she had pa.s.sed another several days in hiding. There was still no daylight to be had, for the creaking orlop, like the cargo hold, sat below the waterline, but at least there were lanterns in the cramped, narrow pa.s.sageways and better ventilation. The sea air filtered down through wooden grates placed over the hatches far above, on the main deck.

The orlop also housed supplies, including the vast tonnage of goods that Lord Jack was transporting to market in England. The mahoganies and other tropical hardwoods took up much of the s.p.a.ce, but there were also great quant.i.ties of sugar, rum, cotton, tobacco, and indigo. Useful items all, but nothing yielding information about the captain's jaunt to Angostura.

In her wary explorations, ever dodging the crewmen who pa.s.sed by going about their business, she had found the bread and cheese room, where the ship's cats were on constant duty stalking rats. She found the wood shop of the ship's carpenter, and the office of the purser, the frugal fellow in charge of accounting for all the supplies-who used what and how much.

Though she often heard the easygoing carpenter singing in the wood shop as he banged away with his hammer, and smiled in secret at the purser's constant muttering to himself as he scribbled away in his office, balancing his ledger books and grousing about how n.o.body appreciated him, Eden stayed out of sight and made friends with the ships' cats to pa.s.s the time.

Now and then, as the days pa.s.sed, she sought to comfort herself by summoning up those familiar, shining images of brilliant ballrooms, elegant music, lords and ladies dancing-but it was then that she discovered there was something wrong with her pretty fantasy.

Each time she imagined herself at the ball, the man who now stepped forward from amid the swirling dancers to claim her was none other than that blackguard ex-pirate, Lord Jack.

A fortnight out from the Spanish Main, The Winds of Fortune had traversed over a thousand miles of ocean, traveling at eight knots on a steep northeasterly angle. They had cleared the warm Sarga.s.so Sea and were now in the middle of the cold Atlantic.

Taking current wind conditions into account, Jack gave orders to change the set of the sails slightly and advised the helmsman to adjust his steerage on the wheel.

All was in order, and the captain was pleased.

The sails were in fine trim, the men cheerful in the rigging, the lookout posted in the crow's nest. A dozen crewmen mopped the decks, while another group received their weekly training with pistols and cutla.s.ses from gruff, tough Mr. Brody, the master-at-arms. Old Brody also served as Jack's fencing coach and occasional sparring partner at his daily practice in fisticuffs and the other manly arts of self-defense.

The sailors stood at attention and saluted their captain as he strode past, inspecting them and their efforts, asking questions here, giving orders there, granting a few approving nods to men who had done good work.

Indeed, as he strolled the decks with Rudy at his heels, the smooth running of his prize vessel-and his worldwide company, for that matter-inspired Jack with a most gratifying sense of solid order, security, and accomplishment. And yet...

He was plagued by a deepening awareness of a large hole in his life. An emptiness. He had sensed it vaguely and ignored it for a very long time now, but it had sharpened since they'd left Venezuela into a nameless hunger, a gnawing urgency.

Yes, he had built up an empire and possessed a fortune to rival his ducal brother's, but he had no one to share it with, and worse, no one to leave it to. If he died unexpectedly-and there was always a chance of that, the way he lived-everything he'd worked for, the company he'd spent his life creating, would die with him.

The solution was plain, of course: He needed sons. And if his father had had five, Jack wanted six. But getting heirs meant finding a wife, a prospect he so little relished that he had been putting it off for years.

Where could a man find a woman who would bear his children and otherwise leave him alone? As he prowled the decks of his ship, irked with the whole uneasy subject, only one tolerable candidate came to mind-Eden Farraday.

Now, there was a girl who could take care of herself. h.e.l.l, if he was smart, Jack thought, he'd marry her. Look at the conditions she was used to, he reasoned. For the kind of luxury that he could give her, she would probably do whatever he said. Her capacity for loyalty was unquestioned, having stayed with her father through his quest. By now, it was clear she'd be happy just to get out of the jungle-but Jack could give her so much more than that, if they could come to a reasonable agreement. A life of privilege, social position. A life of ease.

She deserved it more than most of the women he knew.

Certainly, in their brief meeting, she had displayed qualities that suggested she could breed him first-rate sons: strength, confidence, robust health, keen intelligence, courage, resourcefulness. Observation had also told him that she would be a good mother, for she had shown her nurturing side even to him in removing his splinter.

Considering his dam's selfish ways, his future wife's ability to love his children was of paramount importance to Jack.

Oh, all of this sounded like madness, he thought, scowling-but in practical terms perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea. By all visible measures, the redhead seemed to fit the bill.

She was caring, capable, deliciously beautiful, and, best of all, not some ninny-headed Society miss whose response to danger would be to faint gracefully into a chaise longue.

Indeed, she was still quite young, but as a few years pa.s.sed and she came into her own, she would further mature into a formidable queen who could hold down the fort when he was on the other side of the world for long periods of time, attending to the far-flung reaches of his empire.

If Victor trusted her to help in his complex scientific work, then Jack saw no reason why she could not be trained to keep an eye on the company for him.

The ideal wife-one with sense, one he could trust, one who could stand on her own two feet-would almost be, he mused, a kind of partner in the firm.

He just never thought that he could find one.

But now there was Eden Farraday, hidden away in the trees, where more deserving fellows could not find her. Not to mention the fact that the memory of her kiss still made his body burn with agitated l.u.s.t.