The Pleasure Chest

“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.”

3

“MIND IF I POUR?” he asked, once they were downstairs.

“Please do.” Tanya managed, nodding as she slid onto a stool at the island-style bar and looked at him. Her hands were shaking, and if she tried to fix their drinks, she knew she’d spill what had turned out to be one of James’s prized bottles of aged whiskey. Reading the label, she winced. How was she going to explain the raid on his liquor supply when he got back from vacation? Surely he hadn’t told this guy to help himself….

As much as she was determined not to remove her gaze from the intruder, in case he made any sudden moves, she glanced toward the open door leading to the basement James loftily called his wine cellar. When she found her voice again, she murmured dryly, “I see you found James’s stash.”

She was surprised to find that she hadn’t sounded as unsettled as she felt, which was good. In fact, she’d sounded extremely calm. Maybe too calm, since her pulse was ticking like a stopwatch. When her gaze darted through the windows, she relaxed somewhat. Just past the autumnal wreaths she’d helped James put up, she could see people in the street. The outdoor tables at a sidewalk café across from them were packed, and a tourist even had a camera pointed in her direction.

Adrenaline surged through her. She should bolt for the door again, but something kept her on the stool. Maybe the fact that he’d stopped her from running once before. Or maybe curiosity. Or lust. That suggestion came unbidden, and she submerged quickly. The important thing was that if she started screaming bloody murder, someone might hear.

He seemed to read her mind. “Don’t you be running scared again,” he warned.

She tried to look calm and collected. “Is that a threat?”

“A request.”

Somehow, she doubted it. Then again, she’d fainted and he hadn’t harmed her. Thoughts raged through her mind with the speed of a brushfire, and when her gaze meshed with his, everything felt just as hot, too. When she’d come to, she’d thought an extra button of her shirt had come undone, but that could have happened during their tussle. And he hadn’t tried to trap her upstairs, where she’d have been more vulnerable, which gave her some relief. Yes, if he was going to try anything physical, he’d have taken the opportunity already. And if James and Eduardo had hired him, the guy must have had a key to the place. No windows were open, and like the front door, they had alarms.

For a second, upstairs, she’d believed he was really Stede O’Flannery, and that he’d stepped out of one of his own paintings, but now, her head was clearing. James had even told him where to find the whiskey. That’s what must have happened. Yes, James knew all about this. So, soon enough, she’d get a reasonable explanation. Biting back a sudden gasp, she wondered if Eduardo had asked one of his restoration experts to produce a facsimile painting, exactly like the one upstairs, sans the man standing in front of her.

“A shekel,” he said.

“Shekel?”

“For your thoughts.”

“I thought it was a penny,” she murmured, then raised her voice, assuring, “too many to enumerate.” Whatever the case regarding his identity, curiosity was getting the better of her, and she wanted to play along. As least for a few more minutes. Pushing aside a visceral memory of how his warm, strong body had covered hers, trapping her on the floor, she slowly scanned the street—taking in the café, dry cleaner’s, and a pretzel vendor—then she studied her strange houseguest again.

In turn, he glanced quickly away, like the proverbial kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Maybe he, too, was suddenly remembering the body heat they’d generated. Inhaling sharply, she found herself recalling how hard and inviting he’d felt, with those long, muscular, tight-encased legs trailing between hers. As if reading her thoughts, he made a soft rumbling sound. Ignoring a shot glass he’d already used, he took two highball glasses from a wire rack, then raised the bottle of whiskey and read the label.

“Aye. I found the stash as you call it, indeed,” he finally began, speaking in a throaty voice that sent another unwanted vibration careening through her already jangling system. “And this didn’t taste too bad a’tall for being so recently bottled.”

Was he crazy? “Recently bottled?”

“Nineteen fifteen. The newest bottle I could find.” Before she could respond, he added, “There’s nearly as many spirits down in that cellar as I buried in Killman’s cave.”

Spirits? For a second, her mind was catching at threads again, all of which seemed to be strangely elusive. She’d thought he was chattering about ghosts, since he, himself, might be one. At least if he was really Stede O’Flannery, which he wasn’t, she assured herself for the umpteenth time. Then she realized he’d been talking about alcohol, not spirits of the netherworld variety. “Killman’s cave?”

“Aye. That’s one place where I put some of my own stash. My spirits, and treasures, and paintings, and such.” Before she could question him about that, he rushed on, “And James? He’d be your…”