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 shefelt 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
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 shefelt 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
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