Читать книгу The Pleasure Chest - Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

AT A CAFÉ across the street from Treasured Maps, an elderly gentleman shrugged out of a polyester jacket, draped it over a chair, then rested a tour guide next to his espresso. He raised an old thirty-five millimeter camera to his eye, trying to look like a tourist. In reality, he knew every inch of Manhattan, including Twenty-Third Street in Chelsea and this view of Treasured Maps. Adjusting the lens, he snapped pictures as if the facade of Tanya Taylor’s building was of architectural interest.

And it was. The two-story brownstone had wide steps and curving scrolled handrails that met in a quaint gate. Both levels had floor-to-ceiling windows, decorated with autumnal wreaths, although the weather still felt more like summer. While lovely, the windows were covered with bars, and a computerized keypad on the front door was too complex to disarm. He hadn’t dared go inside the downstairs shop during shop hours, in case he was detected by surveillance equipment.

Tanya lived upstairs, and while she opened the blinds, presumably to get better light when she painted, he’d only glimpsed her. She had her own entrance, separate from that of the shop, reached by rickety steps attached to the building’s side. Probably, her interior door was equipped with formidable locks, too. Over the past few days, while staking her out, he’d thought he’d learn something about the place, or her, that would tell him how to break in. He supposed he could try to date her, but she didn’t go out for drinks much, and when she did, it was with girlfriends. Besides he was too old.

But he needed that painting. As far as he was concerned, it belonged to him. Yes, Tanya had an O’Flannery inside the shop, and not just any O’Flannery, but one he’d sought for years. He hoped she’d taken it upstairs to her apartment, but with his luck, she’d locked it in a safe with her boss’s precious maps.

“Of course she did,” he muttered. If she wasn’t going to protect it, she’d have left it in Weatherby’s. She knew what it was worth. But why had she refused to sell? Had she guessed it was…special? Worth more than Weatherby’s would ever ask?

He glanced around. Rays of twilight were shining down Twenty-Third Street, and from where he was seated, he could see to the river. Beyond cars streaming down the West Side Highway was the Chelsea Pier. Masts rose into the fading amber sun, and triangular folds of sails flapped in a soft breeze. It was a scene Stede O’Flannery might have painted.

“There she is,” he whispered. As she appeared at the side of the building, carefully making her way down the precarious outer steps from her apartment, he tossed bills onto the table. Because he couldn’t afford to waste pricey espresso, he downed it even though it scalded his tongue. Then he slung the camera strap over his shoulder and followed Tanya.

“THIS IS MAY at Finders Keepers. I hate to bother you—” the voice came over the answering machine “—but a week’s passed, and I forgot to run your card through. I’m running it now.”

Waking, Tanya rolled onto her back in bed, staring into the darkness. Had May called just now? But no…the answering machine had awakened Tanya a while ago, as she was drifting off. Last night, she’d worked on her show until dawn, and after taking a shower this afternoon, she’d closed the blinds, taking a nap so she’d be fresh for Izzie’s opening tonight. She glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Almost seven-thirty. The opening had already started! Suddenly Tanya’s heart missed a beat. She heard something…

Downstairs.

Wood creaked. Papers rustled. Her senses went on alert, and scents in the room sharpened. She could smell vanilla from a candle. Jasmine incense mixed with paint varnish. And something sharper still, woods and pine, like a woodsman…

Her hand groped over the bed’s edge until she found a platform shoe. It weighed more than a brick. Good. She could bludgeon someone to death with it. Realizing she was holding her breath, she exhaled silently. Gingerly she pushed back the covers, aware she was clad only in a nightshirt. Adrenaline was drying her throat, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth as she got her bearings.

The outer door of her apartment was equipped with four noisy dead bolts. Her phone receiver wasn’t in its cradle, but across the room, resting in the brush holder of her easel. Could she reach it without being heard?

Art thieves, she suddenly thought, damning herself for overriding Eduardo and James’s protestations and bringing a masterpiece home. Stunned, Eduardo had told her to bring the painting back when she was ready to sell, then James had left for vacation, closing the shop. She’d been jumpy ever since. No matter where she went, she felt as if someone were watching her. She blew out a sigh. Her heart had started to slow. It’s just your imagination, she thought. No one’s here.

Straining, she heard nothing. Sleeping next to a collector’s item was crazy-making. So was the series of digital snapshots she’d taken of the work. Whenever she compared them, she could swear the figures had moved. Not much. Only a fraction. The man she admired had turned slightly, as if to run into the woods, and the blond man seemed to advance. Tanya’s spine tingled as if spiders were crawling down the ladder formed by her vertebrae.

She didn’t dare make her deeper thoughts any more conscious, much less voice them because the notions forming in her mind were crazy. Illogical. Impossible. Still, she sometimes thought the painting was…coming alive.

Another minute passed. She’d been wrong. No one was downstairs. The security was great, she reminded herself, still wondering what had come over her in Weatherby’s. She’d felt leaving the painting in the auction house would be a…well, betrayal. Of him.

But now, lying in the dark, she knew she was only betraying herself. Selling the painting would generate enough money to change her life. Or someone else’s. A creak sounded, and her heart hammered again. Was the building settling down? Or had Weatherby’s staff leaked information about the rare find? But no. They were professionals. Another minute passed. No more sounds. Good.

Anyone else would have sold, she realized. Would she ever become what her folks would call a “normal” person? The kind with a good job, stable husband, two kids and a dog? Like her younger sister, Brittania?

Somebody coughed, and ice flooded her veins. Her hand froze around the shoe. She thought she heard a shot glass hitting the bar downstairs, and she gulped, realizing the door to the stairs must be open. She started to call out, “James.” But he really was on vacation, on the other side of the world. Oh God, she thought, her mind racing as she edged off the bed. Careful. He’ll hear you. Was there more than one intruder? She cursed herself for shutting the blinds so tightly and leaving her phone on the other side of the room. What if she tripped over something in the dark? Biting back a gasp, she saw the door leading downstairs really was open. Just a fraction. He’d been upstairs, already! In her room! Watching her sleep!

She stifled a whimper. How had he—or he and others—gotten in? Her eyes darted around wildly. She had to close and lock the door between the floors before he heard her and came running.

Her mind raced. What about the alarm? And the computerized keypad? He—or they—must have come in some way. But how? She decided she’d run to the door, slam it shut and once it was locked, she’d grab her phone and call the police.

She could barely steady her hands. As she slowly crept toward the door, an explosive curse sounded. A cry escaped her lips. Then everything went quiet. Too quiet. Knowing it was now or never, that he’d heard her, she fled for the door.

So did he! Footsteps pounded on the stairs. He was coming up! She had to close the door and pull the chain across before he…Grabbing the door’s edge, she tried to force it closed, but it caught on something.

“My foot!”

She stared down at a dark boot wedged in the crack. She tried not to panic, but terror consumed her heart. It was racing fast, exploding in her chest. She prayed she sounded stronger than she felt. “Get your foot out of the door!”

“Don’t you be tellin’ me what to do, miss.”

She pushed harder.

He pushed back, and a tug-of-war ensued. It was like arm wrestling, and worse, he was stronger. He was winning. “I already called the police,” she lied.

“I would ’a heard you on the…” He paused. “Telephone…That’s it.”

She barely registered his words. Someone at Weatherby’s must have leaked information about the masterpiece, after all. “You can have the painting.”

“I should hope so, miss. It’s mine.”

His? His voice was a barely discernable Irish brogue, the words strangely antiquated. The boot had odd buckles, too, like none she’d ever seen—and if there was one thing Tanya knew about, it was shoes. The boot looked strangely familiar, too, as if she’d seen a picture of it somewhere. And what did he mean when he’d said the painting was his? Had the proprietress of Finders Keepers learned of Eduardo’s appraisal, then hired this man to steal the painting, feeling entitled to it?

At least he didn’t seem to have accomplices. “Get your foot out of the door!”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Instead he pushed again. Harder. Fear paralyzed her as she was forced backward. What if he intended more than theft? People had been killed for less than one-point-five million dollars. Eduardo said the painting might even bring two million. Renewed panic shot through her as the stranger’s dark, hulking body crashed through the doorway.

Instinctively she hauled her hand back, swinging the platform. As he yelped, she ducked, glad Izzie and Marlo had coerced her to take dance classes. With practiced agility, she was able to limbo under his elbow. Eluding his grasp with a pirouette, she tumbled downstairs, running hard now, leaping over the bottom five steps.

She hit the floor running. You’ve got to get to the front door! The second it opened, an alarm would sound. Neighbors would come. Cops! But footsteps thundered behind her. She threw the platform to slow him down. He’d turned on the lamp at the bar before, so dim hazy light illuminated her steps. She had no time to wonder what he’d been doing downstairs. She was fifteen feet from the door. Then ten. Then five…

Gratitude filled her as she swept her arm wide, a splayed hand ready to grab the knob. Something pulled her back! A hand grasped her shirt! She lost her footing! Lunged! She couldn’t gain traction. He pulled her backward, and viselike arms circled her waist. Turning, she wrenched hard as he brought her down, then gasped as he rolled with her to the floor.

He landed on top. The door was less than five feet away. Maybe she could still reach it. Punching wildly, she hit his face while he tried to catch her flailing hands. Her pulse skyrocketed as the masculine scent of him filled her lungs. He writhed against her as she squirmed, his weight crushing her. “Get off me!”

“I’ve met nicer wildcats in the woods,” he spat.

She felt dizzy. Faint. And no wonder. The dress for Izzie’s opening had no longer fit, and she’d starved herself for days, so she could wear it. But now, her life depended on staying alert. Her nightshirt had risen, bunching around her waist. There was nothing between their bodies but her exposed panties and the thin fabric of his pants. Not jeans, she thought. Maybe cycling slacks. Heat twined through her limbs, feeling taut, like the corded ropes of his sinews.

He was so strong. Suddenly heat flooded her. He had an erection! He was twisting his torso, too, settling more comfortably between her legs. Was the maniac sexually assaulting her? Had she gotten this all wrong? Was his intrusion unrelated to the painting? But no…he’d said it was his. She tried to glimpse his face, her mind reeling, but hair was hanging in his face. If she got away, could she identify him for the police? “If you think you can rape me,” she snarled, “you’re—”

“Rape!” he exploded, rolling away. In a flash, he rose to his feet, towering over her. “If you ask me, America would be a better place with no women in it to rape a’tall! If it’s not Basil Drake accusin’ me, it’s always somebody else! It’s enough to make any man drink himself to death in McMulligan’s and never kiss a wench again, much less show her his divining rod, I swear it is!”

Divining rod? What was he talking about? Whatever the case, she used the advantage to scramble to her feet. She stilled. Indeed, she could only stare, her eyes bugging. The sexiest green-eyed gaze she’d ever seen flickered down her body feeling as hot as a flame. It settled near the throat of her nightshirt, studying cleavage. She became aware of her bare legs, and that fighting him had left her aroused and panting. But that wasn’t the worst thing. Her eyes were deceiving her, or the light was too faint to be reliable.

And yet it was him.

The dark man from the painting. His hair was loose now, no longer tied back. Her hands had tangled with the strip of cloth holding it back, and it had fallen to the floor. Still, she’d know those eyes anywhere. The glittering emeralds followed her wherever she went.

“It’s like you’re seein’ a ghost, isn’t it?” he ventured.

Suddenly everything made sense. Relief coursed through her. “Where did James find you?” she demanded.

“James?”

She nodded, not about to be fooled. Surely James or Eduardo had found an actor to impersonate the figure in the painting. They were toying with her, since she’d insisted on bringing a masterpiece home. No doubt, they wanted to teach her a lesson and show her how dangerous it was to keep something so valuable in the apartment. Not that she was going to forgive them for the fright they’d given her. Still, she was calming down. At least until she registered the confusion on the man’s face, which looked genuine.

“James?” he said again.

Reminding herself that he was probably a professional actor, she vowed she wouldn’t get sucked into this. Pragmatically she said, “Or Eduardo. Maybe he hired you.”

“Nobody hired me,” the actor assured. “Believe you me, miss. I would have taken any job, since I’ve got but a few dollars in my pocket, leftover from last time I was here, back in the 1960s. I sojourned with a fellow—he went by the name of Julius Royle…. Well, anyway, miss, it’s quite a long story, as you can imagine. The main thing is, that witch Missus Llassa must have put a hex on me, just like Lucinda said.”

Julius Royle? Why did the name ring a bell? And Lucinda…well, she was reputed to have been Stede O’Flannery’s patroness and lover, according to Eduardo. “Stop it,” Tanya insisted. “The joke’s gone far enough. You scared me to death. I could have had a coronary. And your timing’s terrible.” She hadn’t needed to get this upset before Izzie’s opening, since she wanted to look poised when she saw Brad again. She was going to kill James. Or Eduardo. This joke exceeded the bounds of good taste.

Sadness welled in the actor’s eyes. “I wish all this ’twere a joke, miss. I figure I keep gettin’ stuck in my own painting because of the hex. The last time I popped out was in the 1960s like I said. That’s when I met Julius Royle, who took me under his wing.”

“Julius Royle?” she echoed, now realizing why the name was familiar. She’d read about him. He was an old-monied heir who’d lived in the Village, on the fringes of the bohemian art scene, and he was reputed to have gone crazy in the sixties. His family had him committed. “This whole thing’s getting stranger by the minute,” she forced herself to say.

“I popped out once in the fifties, too,” he added helpfully. “The 1950s, I mean. I was cramped up somethin’ terrible, locked inside a crate when it happened. I’ve got no bloody idea why—”

Popped out? What was he talking about? Her long-suffering look stopped his chatter. He was a major stud, yes. Probably not dangerous, she decided. And she was absolutely certain James and Eduardo had hired him. Why else would the spitting image of the man in the picture be inside the shop? Ah. That was why the alarm hadn’t sounded, too. James had given the man a key. Once she called his bluff, he’d leave and she could dress for Izzie’s opening.

“Wait here,” Tanya said simply. Pivoting, she strode to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Instead of heeding her, he followed, so he was right behind her when she reached her bedside table, switched on the lamp and stared at the painting.

He wasn’t in it.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, slack-jawed. She stared at the leaves that shined down like sunbursts on the grassy clearing, piercing the surreal mist that looked like fairy dust. The blonde was still racing forward, his musket raised. But his target had vanished.

She stepped close enough to reach out a finger and trace where the dark figure had been, her knees weakening. She felt a quick pang of hunger, reminding her she hadn’t eaten and her head swam. Everything faded to gray, although her eyes were open. She forced them open wider, but suddenly, she saw nothing at all. “This can’t be happening,” she stated in protest.

And then everything went black. In the instant before she fainted, she heard him mutter, “Sweet Betsy Ross. Not this again.”

“THIS IS AN EXACT REPEAT of what happened with Lucinda right before the duel,” Stede muttered, feeling forced to scoop the wench into his arms and carry her to bed. Using a free hand, he flung back the covers. Judging by the beating she’d given him, this chit was strong, but she was, thankfully, as light as a feather.

Sitting beside her, he released some buttons of her nightshirt. Not that it was restrictive. Nor did she wear a proper corset. Very little of her was covered, in fact. Still, it was better if a woman’s chest met with open air when she swooned. Men had been preaching that bit of common wisdom since time immemorial. Only a cynic would say it was because they sought excuses for undressing vulnerable females. “Besides, as Poor Richard always said,” Stede murmured, “‘The only ones ill-clothed are those bare of virtue.’” And this woman had plenty of virtues, as far as Stede was concerned.

Still, he’d best be careful. Already, she’d cried rape. And as pretty as she was, she was sure to have plenty of male protectors, just as she’d claimed. He shot a worried glance toward the door, hoping Eduardo, James, or other suitors didn’t choose tonight to come calling. Then he glanced at her again, steeling himself against the vision of creamy skin that looked as if it had never seen sunlight. She had a dusting of eyebrows and lashes, and heaving bosoms.

Just looking at her made his President Washington stir. He’d been as horny as a rooster downstairs, too. The way she’d writhed beneath him had been more than bothersome. He wasn’t proud of his lack of restraint, but he’d nearly climaxed. There was no helping it. It had been too long since he’d last been satisfied. Now he knew he’d go crazy if he didn’t have proper relations soon. With her or somebody else, he didn’t care who. A faint smile played on his lips. At least this meant Missus Llassa’s spell probably hadn’t affected his ability to perform. And that had been his greatest worry.

“Now, let’s see where she put her salts.”

He headed for the kitchen area, where he figured she kept supplies. Probably, she was some sort of serving wench by day, judging by the garret. And a very good painter, he realized, glancing at the works. As the scents of oil and varnish knifed into his lungs, he felt the first surge of hope he’d experienced in quite some time. Centuries, in fact. Vague memories stirred inside him, too. Images as jumbled as those she painted were coming back to him as he rifled through her cabinets.

Being consigned to the horrifying darkness of the painting was strange, indeed. Like living in a netherworld of shadows. Not really living, but not dead, either. Even in his half-sleep, he picked up information from the contraption they called a television. And he could see things, too. Countless images whirled in his mind. He was sure he’d passed centuries in a dusty attic. Yes…it was like he’d wanted to sneeze for a hundred years. He remembered Julius Royle, and wondered if the man was still living. How Stede would love to see his friend again!

Suddenly he inhaled sharply. He remembered more now. Aye…he was watching the woman paint. She’d stopped, sent him an inviting glance over her shoulder, then twitched her backside as if for the benefit of his pleasure. After that, she’d put strange, tiny gloves onto her fingertips…gloves very unlike the type ladies wore to dances. They didn’t even cover her whole hands. Then she’d begun to touch herself lasciviously. She’d lain on the bed naked, slightly parting her legs, so he could see everything….

Swift heat claimed his groin, making blood surge, but he couldn’t afford the feelings. He had to keep his mind keen. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to wind up as incapacitated as the woman in bed. And where would he be then?

“Back in my own painting,” he muttered. Who knew how much time he had before he was imprisoned once more? He had to spend every waking minute discovering the exact nature of Missus Llassa’s hex, so he could be set free. He had no time to court a wench. And if he did find time to spare, he’d be better off digging up the war booty he’d left on Manhattan Island and taking his gold to a pawn shop. Last time he was here, Julius Royle had explained that shopkeepers only took new greenbacks now. If he wound up stuck in his own painting again, it might as well be with a pocketful of usable bills.

She moaned. He braced himself against the sound, feeling as faint as she looked. Aye, it was he, not she, who’d soon be needing the salts. She didn’t sound like a women in need of vapors, though, but one in the throes of passion. Which was just his own wishful thinking, he reminded himself as he rifled through cabinets with renewed effort.

“Ah,” he said, relieved. “Salts.”

The blue-wrapped, cylindrical container looked nothing like any salts he’d seen before. A picture on the front depicted a girl in a short yellow dress, carrying an umbrella. She was every bit as bare-legged as the woman in bed. “Morton Iodized Salt,” he said, reading the label. With bare-legged pictures such as this on the labels, he’d bet these salts sold as fast as shots of McMulligan’s best whiskey. But Mark McMulligan’s pub was gone now….

Sadness threatened to overwhelm him, but he refused to let feelings of mourning in—not of losing his mama, nor his papa, nor Lucinda. Nor of McMulligan’s pub, which was lost to history, or how he’d been stuck inside a painting, due to the jealousy of that pretender and no-account rake, Basil Drake.

Shaking the container, he headed to the bed again. Inside, the salts sounded loose. “Guess they keep ’em like gunpowder nowadays. Well, salts are salts,” he muttered, sitting on the bed’s edge, trying to ignore her scent. It was floral, probably from bottles of perfumes and powders that sat on a nearby chest of drawers.

Fortunately she was still out like taper flame, so he had a moment to catch his breath. After studying the salts box, he slid a nail beneath the silver spout and raised the container to his nose, frowning. “The wonders of new inventions. Salts that don’t even smell,” he marveled. Now, that was really something. Some genius named Morton must have invented them.

He pored some into his cupped hand. What had Poor Richard always said? “‘In success, be moderate,’” he mused, answering his own question. Pinching salts between his thumb and index finger, he wavered a moment, then tossed them at her face, trying to hit the inch-wide spot between her nose and upper lip. The nose twitched. And a fetching nose it was, too. It had the gentle curve of a good saddle.

But she didn’t awaken. Hmm. Salts worked better back when they smelled like ammonia. He poured some more, pinched, then tossed them at her. Now her eyelashes fluttered, so he shook out another portion, this time straight from the container. Tasting them on her lips, she sputtered.

“Good,” he murmured. “Yer wakin’ up now.”

Surely the salts couldn’t taste good, but his stomach rumbled. He was starving. It felt like years since he’d eaten, and he realized it had been. Bacon and eggs, he suddenly thought. That’s what he’d had before setting off for his duel with Basil. What he wouldn’t give to taste just one more of McMulligan’s hotcakes! Pushing aside the thought, he leaned and shook the woman’s shoulder; the soft sleeve of her nightshirt teased his palm, feeling as silken as her skin looked, and his throat suddenly constricted. Fortunately she was still sputtering, saving him from his own sappy emotions. She abruptly sneezed. Then everything happened quickly.

“What are you doing?” she yelped, scurrying backward in bed, away from him.

She might not want his help, but the salts had worked, so he was on the right track. “Now, let’s take off that wig, lass,” he soothed. Why such a pretty female would be wearing a man’s powdered wig, Stede would never know.

The prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen were merely staring at him. “Don’t look at me as if I’m crazy enough to be boarded onto a ship of fools,” he couldn’t help but warn.

She still looked faint. “Ship of fools?”

“The Narrenschiff,” he clarified. “You know how they used to load vagabonds and criminals and those of deranged mind onto sailin’ crafts and let ’em float from town to town?”

She shook her head slowly, as if to clear it of confusion.

“I only sail on privateer vessels,” he quickly assured.

She squinted at him. “What did you say about my wig?”

“You look like you belong in a Whig court.”

“Wig court?” she said hoarsely. “What?”

He was starting to wonder if she lacked intelligence. It would be unfortunate, but not the worst quality in a woman, of course. “That powdered wig of yours,” he explained. Had she been wearing a waistcoat, breeches and boots, she could have passed for one of the founding fathers.

“It’s my hair, you jerk,” she returned succinctly.

Embarrassed, heat flooded his cheeks. Surely that couldn’t be. Instinctively he reached, threading salt-dusted fingers into the strands and tugging, but it was her scalp, all right. Her hair was softer than any man’s wig, too. Tendrils teased the spaces between his fingers, flowing between them like running water. Still, the hair was strange to look at. Disheveled. As white as snow. Fuzzy curls framed skin as dainty as fancy teacups.

“Sorry, miss,” he murmured, his eyes trailing over her face, unsure what he thought of the hair, until he recalled it wasn’t the first time he’d seen hair this color. When he’d popped out in the 1960s, Julius had showed him a picture of a courtier named Marilyn Monroe who’d had hair like this.

The young miss was eyeing him warily. “Could I get out of bed?”

Coming to his senses, he stood and backed away a few paces, to give her room.

“Do you mind?” she huffed. Grabbing a pair of pants from the floor, she shoved long legs into them. He’d seen pants on women, both in the fifties and the sixties, but it still took some getting used to. And until right this second, he’d forgotten all about zippers.

Vaguely he recalled Julius buying him new clothes, which he’d worn for a week. Mostly tie-dyed shirts and what they’d called bell-bottom pants. He’d only put his riding clothes back on when the new clothes needed to be laundered, and that’s when…he’d wound up in the painting again.

He frowned. Did Missus Llassa’s hex involve a one-week time frame? His pulse quickened. Aye…the last date he remembered in the fifties was July 11, 1956. He’d come out of the painting for one week, exactly. To the minute. Just as in 1969. This time, maybe he’d break the spell.

He stared at what he assumed was a clock. It had no face, just red numbers. He’d seen it as soon as he’d popped out, and it had said seven-fifteen. Would he vanish one week hence, on Friday night, at exactly seven-fifteen?

The woman was studying him. Her eyes were like two liquid blue pools he’d just as soon drown in. He fought the urge to grab her, pull her to the floor and ravish her. Because it had been so long, he’d knew he’d act like a savage, hungrily pushing open her lips with his tongue, exploring the silk of her inner cheeks, plundering every inch of her skin. Generally he tried to be a gentleman, but he hadn’t had proper relations for over two hundred years. At least judging by the newspaper he’d taken downstairs, which claimed it was September 10, 2006. Since puberty, he’d scarcely gone a week without relations, and if the truth be told, he wouldn’t feel thoroughly safe until he was absolutely positive Missus Llassa hadn’t tampered with his male organs. That meant bringing a sexual act to satisfying completion, and not just for himself, but for his partner. After all, pleasing the woman was the mark of a real man’s prowess.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He hoped she’d be as kind as Julius Royle, but that was probably too much to ask. Still, if this woman helped him, even a little bit, maybe he could find Julius. The man had been a real friend.

Before he could answer, she muttered, “That thing can’t be real.”

He followed her gaze. It was fixed in the proximity of his groin, which made heat rise to his cheeks. Thinking about having relations had aroused him once more, and he felt ashamed of himself. All those papas were right. You’re nothing but a low-down dirty rascal around whom no man’s daughter is safe, he thought. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and he was straining the strings of his breeches like a randy schoolboy. Still, he wasn’t sure whether the woman had been referring to his condition, or his holstered musket, so he settled on saying, “Very real, indeed, miss.”

“Who are you?” she repeated, her voice more demanding.

“I go by the name o’ Stede O’Flannery.”

“Impossible.”

He didn’t blame her for wishing that was so. Gentling his voice, he said, “I think you know the truth, Tanya.”

She sucked a quick breath through small, perfect, very white teeth. “You know my name?”

He hadn’t been sure. “Saw it on yer letters.” As near as he could tell, someone named James owned the shop downstairs, from which maps were sold.

She nodded slowly.

“Now, why don’t we go back downstairs?” he suggested, his throat feeling dry again, probably because he’d just watched her thrust those shapely legs into pants of stretch material that showed every curve. “I found a bottle of good whiskey, and I could use another shot.”

Her eyes darted to the painting once more, and she studied the empty space where Stede had once painted himself into the landscape. It was days after the duel, and he’d been on the deck of a privateer vessel, sailing out of town. He’d wanted to leave a painted account of what had really happened that morning, just for the record. Then, everything had become hazy. At first he thought he’d died. And then he simply felt as if he were…drifting.

Her voice brought him back to the present. “A shot of whiskey?” she said, her voice scarcely audible. Then she added something that was music to his ears. “I think I could use one, too.”