THE PLEASURE CHEST
Jule McBride

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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In loving memory of my favorite person in the world, my great-aunt, Carrie Winifred Dunlap, 1917–to eternity in the hearts of others.

And to the man who helped her so much, and thought of those beautiful yellow roses, her best friend, George “Bono” Hall.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Coming Next Month

Prologue

New York, 1791

“PUT AWAY YER MUSKET, Basil Drake, and say you won’t be shootin’ me today,” called Stede O’Flannery. He hazarded a glance from behind the trunk of an oak, squinting green eyes that Basil’s fiancée, Lucinda, had vowed were the color of sunlit shamrocks. He shook his head, unable to believe Basil had brought a smoothbore musket to the woods, a sixty-nine caliber French Charleyville by the looks of it, equipped with a bayonet. So much for using comparable weapons. Stede only had a flintlock pistol.

“Show yourself, O’Flannery,” yelled Basil. “You’re a damn rascal, and I insist on this interview.”

Oh, Sweet Betsy Ross, Stede thought grumpily. Raising his voice, he shouted, “I didn’t dishonor Lucinda!”

“You were caught red-handed in her bedchamber, man!”

Literally, since he’d been lying on top of her, unlacing her bodice with wind-chapped fingers.

“She was shivering, O’Flannery!”

With cold, though, not sexual need. She’d been drenched from the plunge she’d taken into the freezing Hudson River, after saying she’d sooner kill herself than marry Basil. Not that anyone had bothered to credit Stede with saving her life. “No good deed goes unpunished,” he mused. When Basil’s voice sounded again, Stede pushed aside a vision of blond tresses trailing over creamy bare bosoms.

“You’re a no-account scoundrel!”

True. But could Stede help it if war had made him wealthy? Or if his reputation excited women more than when they entertained bores like Basil? Or if, in addition to being a privateer, he could paint landscapes that came alive and made ladies swoon? Besides, Lucinda was his patroness, nothing more. One of many. Because Stede’s own mama, rest her soul, had been Lucinda’s nurse, he’d known Lucinda for years. It was she who’d encouraged him to paint, claiming that fruits in his still lifes made her mouth water as if from a lover’s kiss. But who was her lover? After reading her private letters, Basil had assumed Stede was the man.

“Maybe I should kill you now and be done with it, Basil.”

“It’s you they’ll carry from here in a pine box!”

“Doubtful.” Dueling was illegal in New York, so they’d crossed the river to Jersey, and now Stede glanced where early morning fog was rolling from the Hudson’s choppy waters, looking as thick as pipe smoke. Because he was tall, slender, blond and clothed in white, Basil looked ethereal, like an unlit taper in the shadowy dawn. Neither he nor Stede had brought seconds. This way, Stede had figured Basil could back down without losing face. Basil had claimed the same, but judging by how he’d handled himself on fox hunts with Lucinda’s father, General Barrington, Stede knew Basil couldn’t shoot his way out of a burlap sack, not even with a good musket.

“C’mon, Basil. I really don’t want to kill you on this fine mornin’.” Not that it would be any great loss. The officious fool was twice Lucinda’s age, but her father had been impressed by his supposed good name and rumored inheritance. Meantime, Stede heard the family had fled to the colonies years ago to escape Basil Senior’s gaming debts. Well, Stede thought, as Poor Richard always said, “Light purse, heavy heart.” Maybe debting accounted for Basil’s lack of decent humor.

“Show yourself, O’Flannery!”

Stede’s trigger finger itched on his pistol. Truth was, every fellow who drank in McMulligan’s would thank Stede for killing Basil. “He who drinks fast, pays slow,” said Stede, voicing another Poor Richard-ism. It was why Mark McMulligan hated Basil even more than Lucinda did. Stede sighed. The revolution might be over, but hatred lasted forever. Even now, a fleet was in New York harbor, and captains were ready with letters of marque that would allow them to intercept merchant vessels for plunder. While Stede could board any one of them tonight and escape Basil’s wrath, not to mention General Barrington’s, he’d buried war booty nearby on Manhattan Island; some of it was hard-won by his father, rest his soul, and Stede had hoped to use the treasure to build a home and settle down.

“Is that too much for a man to ask?” he exploded, sensing that his dreams were going up in smoke. Damn if this situation wasn’t about as welcome as the Stamp Act. What had that fellow, Rousseau, said? Yes…“Man’s born free, but everywhere in chains.”

“When they’re not conscripting you into somebody else’s army,” he muttered, “a bunch of jealous suitors and worried papas start gunning for you.”

Long moments passed. As usual. Duels took forever. A man could sail to China and back before they were over, which was why Stede preferred pub brawls any day.

Leaves rustled. Birds took flight. In the silence, his heart ticked like a clock, saying it was too early to be in the woods on a cold morning when he could be tucked in his cot above McMulligan’s with some sweet serving wench. Tired of waiting, he stepped from behind the oak, deciding he’d better throw away his fire. Yes, he’d offer a delope, which is what Basil would call it, since he insisted on using all the latest fancy French dueling terminology.

Slowly, so Basil could see, Stede stepped fully into view and raised his arm, pointing the pistol skyward. The autumn air was misty, but sharp, carrying scents of winter. Colors burst inside his mind, and for a second, he imagined painting a picture of the russet and gold canopy of leaves. He’d make the trees look like uniformed soldiers surrounding the foggy clearing, preparing to march to a massacre across a soft blur of grass. Yes, the red leaves were redcoats….

He squeezed the trigger.

The retort was swift, the blast threatening to knock him back a pace, but he stood firm.

“Ah. So you concede!” yelled Basil. Grandly Basil pushed aside his waistcoat, then prepared to shoulder his musket while striding forward to shake hands. Good. Stede would rather swallow a spoonful of his pride than prolong this idiocy. At twenty paces, Basil stopped, a glint in his eyes that Stede could see even at this distance. Suddenly Basil released a war whoop and charged, coming at a dead run. If the ball didn’t kill Stede, the bayonet mounted to the musket barrel surely would.

“Bloody bastard!” Stede gasped, pivoting and darting toward the woods. He’d conceded by shooting skyward, but Basil was going to kill him, anyway! And there was no time for Stede to reload. He’d brought no witnesses. “Lout!” Stede shouted as Basil closed the distance.

He whirled in time to see Basil aim at his heart, then hit the dirt as Basil fired. Boom! Air whooshed overhead as a bullet passed, then another blast sounded, but from where? Basil hadn’t had time to reload, either. Now he shrieked and dropped his pistol. He was hit! Someone had fired at Basil from the trees. Who?

Stede scanned the woods, then looked at Basil. He was staggering backward, clutching his chest, blood spilling through his splayed fingers. “Sweet Betsy Ross,” Stede cursed. Basil was a horse’s behind, but he didn’t deserve to die. His knees were buckling, though, and he fell backward. As he rolled onto his belly, Stede holstered his pistol and approached at a crouching run. Kneeling, he took Basil’s pulse.

“Dead.” There was still no sound from the woods. He shouted, “Who’s there?”

A heartbeat passed, then Lucinda Barrington ran into the clearing. With the color drained from her face and clad in a white cloak, she looked like a ghost, the vision marred only by the mud splattered around the dress’s hem, and the fact that her slender shaking hands held a flintlock pistol much like Stede’s; it probably belonged to her father.

Before he could say anything, another male voice sounded from the woods. “Lucinda!”

Ignoring the cry, she raced toward Stede, her hair flying behind her. “Hurry,” she urged as he registered her pursuer’s footsteps in the underbrush, then the thunder of horses’ hooves.

LUCINDA STARED at Basil, stricken. “I meant to scare him,” she whispered shakily. “But I didn’t mean to…” Tears sprang into her blue eyes. “I hit him, didn’t I? I really hit him! He was going to kill you, though. And since he didn’t, now my father will. Oh, Stede! Everyone thinks you and I…”

Are lovers, he finished mentally.

“You’ve got to get out of here!” She tossed a wild glance toward the trees. Men were approaching, probably with her father. He wouldn’t be the first to think his daughter’s virgin heart had been captured by a swarthy privateer, either.

“Basil hired that witch, Missus Llassa, too,” Lucinda raced on, her startled eyes still fixed on Basil. “He paid her to put a hex on you, Stede, just in case you killed Basil, instead of the other way around.”

His heart missed a beat. “Missus Llassa put a hex on me?”

“You know you don’t believe in hexes,” said Lucinda.

Stede knew no such thing. Besides, many claimed Missus Llassa’s evil magic could kill a man from a hundred miles away. There was no time to argue the point, though, because Jonathan Wilson, a local furniture maker, emerged from the fog wearing a top-hat and black cape, looking as if he, too, were materializing from an old-fashioned ghost tale. His face turned chalk-white when he saw Basil, then he ran forward, just as Stede had, kneeled and took the man’s pulse once more.

“Holy sons of liberty,” he whispered simply, his eyes widening as he took in the blood pooling beneath Basil’s chest. He stared at Lucinda. “You killed him, darling.”

Darling? So, Lucinda’s secret lover was Jonathan Wilson! Well, good for her, Stede thought. It had been months since Basil and General Barrington had announced Lucinda’s engagement to Basil without even consulting her. But all along, the smart girl had other plans—to marry Jonathan, at least judging by the glance they were exchanging. Too bad Basil was what General Barrington had wanted for his daughter’s future, Stede suddenly fumed. While Jonathan Wilson was a Presbyterian, Basil Drake had remained an Episcopalian, and like every other scoundrel from the Church of England, he’d always been a closet loyalist, too. Not that Stede, himself, had a religion of preference. The way he figured it, if he went inside any kind of church, the roof would cave in.

“Basil’s really dead,” Lucinda said in a stunned whisper, bringing Stede back to his senses.

He cursed softly, thinking of the war booty he’d buried a stone’s throw away, then of the cold fury on General Barrington’s face if he ever realized his daughter had killed her own fiancé to save the life of a privateer, especially one known as a n’er-do-well. Missus Llassa’s hex didn’t give much comfort, either. Stede imagined her lounging in her smoky den of iniquity, clad in a turban and kaftan, smoking opium and chewing snuff by candlelight while surrounded by cards, crystals, pouches of ground bones, herbs and chemical-laced jars that held unspeakably creepy things.

Yes, by now she’d probably made a doll into the spitting image of Stede and was busy pushing pins into it. Or maybe she was in his room above McMulligan’s, combing hairs from his straight razor while fixing to boil them in the cauldron she kept out back, behind her shack. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he recalled the story of one poor fellow whose spurned lover had hired Missus Llassa, to teach him a lesson. Rumor had it, his cock never crowed again, so to speak.

Cutting off the horrifying thought, Stede looked at Lucinda and Jonathan. They were star-crossed lovers, all right. And while Stede was within his rights for killing Basil, since Basil had challenged him to the duel, Lucinda could hang for this. And regarding her, Basil’s only crime was that he’d threatened to marry her. Hers, of course, was that she’d been born a woman at a time when fathers could tell the gentler sex who to marry.

Once more, Stede sighed, muttering, “Sweet Betsy Ross.” Then he slipped his hand over Lucinda’s. It was still shaking and her skin was ice-cold. As he took the pistol, his eyes met the other man’s. “Get her out of here,” he said.

Horses were still approaching through the trees. “General Barrington and some men from town,” Jonathan explained. “They were on my tail.”

“How many?”

“Ten. Maybe more.”

“Take Lucinda and go,” Stede repeated. But Jonathan seemed to know the sacrifice Stede was making, and he wavered, questions playing in his eyes. Stede wasn’t about to let Lucinda ruin her life, however, not when she’d saved his. Besides, Lucinda was the only one who’d ever encouraged his passion for painting. “Go on,” he urged.

Nodding abruptly, Jonathan slipped his arm around Lucinda’s shoulders and glanced toward the woods. “If we can, we’ll head them off. Unless you want to stay and claim responsibility for…”

Lucinda gasped. “Basil’s family might retaliate!”

People would assume Stede had killed Basil, fair and square, and Stede didn’t want Lucinda and Jonathan vouching for him, since that would destroy Lucinda’s reputation. But she was right. Basil’s family might wind up crying foul play to redeem Basil’s honor. Even if no one retaliated by killing Stede, the influential family could make Stede’s life miserable.

Lucinda broke from Jonathan’s grasp and flung herself into Stede’s arms. His arms circled her waist instinctively as she kissed his cheek. “I can’t let you take the blame for this.”

He placed a finger on her lips, silencing her. “You saved my life.”

Her gaze darted to Basil’s body once more, then she glanced a final time at Stede and turned, whispering one last word as she grasped Jonathan’s hand. “Godspeed!”

And then Stede found himself alone in the woods with the body of the man who’d tried to kill him in cold blood. Still holding Lucinda’s smoking gun, he hoped Basil hadn’t really hired Missus Llassa, the most highly esteemed witch in America.

“If I’ve got a hex on me,” he muttered, “I’d sure like to know what kind.” One thing was certain. There would be no asking Basil. And if Stede stuck around much longer, he’d be out of this frying pan and into the fire. Squinting at Basil, he considered his next move. Then, just as the first horse came into view, Stede leaned and grabbed Basil’s musket. Shouldering it, he growled, “Sweet Betsy Ross,” a final time, then he slipped between the trees and vanished into shadows.

1

“LOOK!” Tanya Taylor blew dust from an old canvas, then sneezed.

“Bless you,” called May. The proprietress of Finders Keepers clambered toward Tanya. “What did you unearth, honey?”

“A painting.” Propping it on a player piano, beside an oil lamp and brass candlesticks, Tanya stepped back to admire it. “It’s of a duel!” she exclaimed, a delighted shiver zipping down her spine.

In a shadowy, grassy clearing, golden, orange and red leaves burst like suns over stately trees. The air looked strange, somehow. “Haunted,” she said as May sidled closer. “Mystical.” As if a spell had been cast on a fairy glen.

May tugged down a blouse calculated to hide her girth, and as she surveyed the work, she removed a pin from a russet chignon, then stabbed it in again. “If memory serves me, I found it leaning against a trash bin outside a brownstone on Bank Street.” She thought a moment. “Yes…it was about forty years ago, around the time I moved to Sag Harbor to open the shop.”

“Why would someone throw away a picture that’s so…” Tanya searched for a word, as she took in the gilded chipped frame, “…captivating.” Everything about it drew her like a magnet, although it wasn’t large, only about two by two feet.

“Oh,” said May. “You know how rich people are, down in the West Village,” she sniffed. “No taste. Maybe somebody died and their family pitched it. Who knows? Anyway, it’s been in the attic with things I never tagged.”

“It’s so real,” Tanya said. Soft, liquid mist moved on the same breeze that rustled the tree leaves, and for a second, Tanya could swear she heard skirts swishing in dark hallways, wind chimes, and a foghorn. Between the trees, she glimpsed waters that churned dangerously, frothing with whitecaps, and suddenly, the energy of the current seemed to enter her own bloodstream with the promise of a coming storm.

In the clearing were two men. One was tall, thin, blond, and dressed in white; the other dark. The blonde was running forward, his musket aimed at the darker man. But now Tanya discerned a flash of fire coming from the trees, as if a third party was shooting the darker man’s attacker.

“That dude’s star quality,” said May.

She meant the dark guy. Definitely. There was something off-center about his face; the nose was too pronounced and aquiline, the face too rectangular and drawn, the dust of his mustache and rakish spray of beard too unkempt. Long dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he was dressed in a dark tailored coat worn over tight breeches. His eyes seemed green, but it was hard to tell, since the canvas was dirty, and yet, whatever the color, the eyes had the unnerving quality of always watching the viewer. No matter how Tanya moved, the gaze followed.

“I could use a date with a guy like him,” May said.

“Me, too. Next week,” Tanya returned, trying not to think about her friend, Izzie’s, art opening. Tanya had to go, of course, which meant running into Brad, and since she was still stinging from their breakup, she’d rather stay home. Even worse, a week later, Brad would be reviewing Tanya’s own art opening, and she had a sneaking suspicion her ex-lover wouldn’t be kind.

Glancing toward a beveled mirror in a corner, she surveyed herself and winced. On impulse, she’d bleached her hair again after the breakup and, as luck would have it, her mother called, so by the time Tanya had managed to rinse, her knotty curls had turned bleach-white. Even Izzie, and their other best friend, Marlo, had agreed that it looked as if Tanya was wearing a shoulder-length wig of cotton balls.

At least she’d been blessed with good skin. But she was so pale that no matter how much mascara and liner she used, she’d never been able to form eyelashes or brows. At any rate, she’d bought dresses, both for her and Izzie’s openings, and now she didn’t want to wear either one, since they looked too young. Brad’s new babe, Sylvia Gray, was one of those sophisticates born in the perfect black dress, and while just two years shy of thirty, Tanya was still wearing platforms, confections such as the jeans skirt she had on, and too many strands of mismatched beads. A lump formed in her throat. Just two months ago, she’d been on top of the world. Brad hadn’t been great in bed, and all the boring sex had hammered her self-esteem. Still, she’d thought things were improving, right up until he’d dumped her.

Too bad he’d been the first boyfriend lately to pass muster with her folks. But Brad was gone now, and her paintings still weren’t ready. Plus, she’d eaten so much postrelationship chocolate that the new dresses probably no longer fit. Every day, she’d been staring at her canvasses, second-guessing herself, feeling something was missing…

“That aliveness,” she whispered now, her heart squeezing tightly. Whoever did this painting had that quality. It was a gift. She was a better painter, technically, but this artist had breathed life into the work.

“He’s conceding the duel,” she heard May say, “but the guy’s going to shoot him anyway, and then somebody shoots from the trees, but we’re not sure who.”

“Yes,” murmured Tanya, stepping closer. The canvas was filthy, the paint chipping, but she could discern shadowy figures in the woods now. A man wearing a cloak, maybe. A woman in white. Or was she a ghost? And who was shooting the blonde? What had happened afterward? Had he died?

This was only a painting, yes. But she could almost swear it was alive. She felt the heat of the dark man’s gaze. He was admiring…desiring. Everything Brad hadn’t been. Warmth flooded her skin, and her cheeks burned. Beneath her top, her nipples were affected, and while the idea was crazy, she was sure the man was watching her….

“That hottie’s all yours for three hundred dollars,” said May.

It was more than she could afford. Buying two dresses had left her broke, and her boss, James, had been dropping hints that she needed to leave her apartment above Treasured Maps, the shop which he owned, and where she worked, so he could renovate. Besides, she did need a better place, if only because her folks kept threatening to visit. After years of living in suburban Short Hills, they’d never comprehend why their daughter was living in an apartment with paint-splattered floors, much less why the shower stall, toilet and bathtub were in separate locations. James charged her next to nothing, however, and she could paint without fear of ruining anything, a luxury she’d never have in another apartment. Besides, the security in the building was top-notch, and she loved working for James, even if showing clients rare maps didn’t pay much. Still, she did have to move soon.

“I can’t buy it,” Tanya forced herself to say. “I just came in to pick up the maps.” Months ago, James had wandered in and seen some maps hanging in May’s office. Although they weren’t valuable, he’d liked them, but May had decided not to sell, saying they were part of her office decor. A few days ago, she’d changed her mind.

“Two-fifty,” May countered.

Tanya’s gaze drifted over the man, taking in the bunched muscles of his thighs, then she startled. She could swear she’d seen the muscles twitch, just slightly. Shaking her head to clear it of confusion, she blinked. Her throat felt strangely tight. “Two-fifty?”

“I take credit cards, if that helps,” said May.

Trying not to think of her balance, Tanya slipped a hand inside her purse, pulled out the card and gave it to May, who headed for the cash register. Gingerly Tanya lifted the picture. It wasn’t any more valuable than the maps in May’s office, but suddenly, it meant the world to her. To the touch, it was warm, the varnish smooth beneath her fingers, almost like velvet.

“Sorry,” May said when Tanya reached the register. “Your card’s not going through.” Seeing Tanya’s stricken expression, she assured, “It’s my machine, not your card. I took the number, and I’ll complete the transaction later. I met you, and I’ve met your boss, so I know where to find you two if there’s a problem.”

The relief flooding Tanya was disproportionate to the situation. “Thank you,” she managed. She had no idea what she’d have done if the sale hadn’t gone through. Suddenly, she had to have the painting.

“TANYA, we’re worried.” Her mother’s voice came over the answering machine, but Tanya barely heard. She was squinting at Shattered World, one of the pieces for her exhibit. All the works were of New York landscapes seen from unusual perspectives. To her right, the Empire State building was viewed as if in a fish-eye lens. To her left, was a huge black canvas in which the Jersey skyline could be seen in a tiny, off-center white dot. In Shattered World, a fractured skyline was connected by a fine stream of golden light. Light seemed to traverse the whole world of the painting, glowing like a halo.

He’d inspired the light.

She’d been lying in bed, staring at the duel, which she’d hung on the wall that faced her bed, when suddenly, the inspiration had come to her. Now, she was even more convinced the painting she’d bought was special.

“Dad is as worried as I,” her mother was saying. “You know how he was hoping to see Brad, but it’s been two months since you’ve brought him for dinner.”

“We broke up,” Tanya called to the machine.

“Come next week,” her mother continued. “And why don’t you get voice mail? Your father and I think you might have a machine so you can screen our calls, but we know you wouldn’t do that to us.”

“Lay on the guilt,” Tanya said, stepping back from the canvas as her mother hung up. Yes…it was as if her whole internal world was shattered, but also touched by wild cords of energy and light.

Suddenly she smiled. Even now, she could feel his eyes on her back. Glancing over her shoulder, she sent her mystery admirer an inviting look. Since she was wearing only a half buttoned, paint-splotched smock over panties, she twitched her butt for good measure. She’d learned not to dress when she painted, since she always ruined what she wore. As it was, cobalt-blue streaked across her bare thigh.

Suddenly she frowned and tilted her head. Was someone downstairs? No…it was after hours, and the shop was closed. Wincing, she thought of the upcoming two weeks during which James was closing for vacation. She got creeped out when he left town. “James?” she yelled.

No answer. But something seemed…strange. Off-kilter. As if someone else was here with her. She glanced around. Large by Manhattan standards, her upstairs space was identical in layout to the shop downstairs. Bathed in light from floor-to-ceiling windows, it had cinder-block walls and scarred wood floors. Her bed was in a corner she referred to as the bedroom. Nearby, a Chinese-inspired screen blocked a rack of clothes, obscuring the door leading downstairs, if she was lying in bed. A tiny room with the toilet was in another corner. In the final corner, was a shower stall with a glass door.

Glass…through which she kept feeling watched. Putting down her paintbrush, Tanya headed toward the picture. On impulse, she picked up an old Polaroid camera on the bedside table, snapped a picture of the painting, then chuckled softly, wondering what she was doing. “Are you still watching me?” she teased as the phone rang again.

The answering machine activated. “It’s Izzie. Marlo and I want to know what’s happened to you. You weren’t at yoga. You weren’t at dance class. What’s his name?”

“Who knows?” Tanya said, smiling. She sidestepped, then danced in front of the picture, toying with a smock button.

“More likely than dating a real man, you’re playing with all those sex toys we bought,” Izzie teased. “If he is real, however, remember that girlfriends get all the dirty details. You’ll be giving them to us tonight…since you haven’t forgotten Marlo’s anniversary dinner in an hour.”

Dinner! Tanya never forgot events like this! It was a year since Marlo’s divorce, so they were celebrating. Racing forward, she snatched the phone, but the line was dead. “Maybe everybody’s right! I really am falling off the map! And it’s your fault.” She glared at the man in the painting as she unbuttoned the smock, let it fall to the floor, then shed her panties. The eyes followed her. She’d seen eyes like this in paintings before. But usually such paintings were of religious figures, and they just had a way of making her feel guilty.

Not so, this guy. Heat prickled her nape, and she damned Izzie for mentioning the toy chest at the foot of her bed. After Brad, Izzie and Marlo had insisted that Tanya buy toys to amuse herself, they’d spent an afternoon laughing, cruising novelty shops. Tanya had bought everything from body paints to ribbed, neon condoms and vibrators, all things she’d never use. The vibrating fingertips, however…

A moment later, the ten tiny sleeves were on her fingers, and when she switched on a wrist pack, each began vibrating gently. Her throat constricted as she traced the skin of her belly, keeping her eyes on the man. Had he been real? Or a figment of imagination? If he was real…what had he been like? Married? Single? What had he done for a living?

Shutting her eyes, she let her head drop back on her neck, working out stiffness and kinks, even though she knew this ridiculous indulgence was going to make her late for dinner. Her pulse quickened as she imagined his fingers touching her. Yes…she was in the picture with him now. He was her lover, and they were alone in the clearing. Already, he’d removed her clothes, and as she lay on her bed, she imagined he was urging her onto soft green grass and parting her legs.

Moments later, she was in ecstasy.

“REMARKABLE,” one of James’s steady clients, Eduardo, said a few days later. Tanya had brought the painting downstairs, to Treasured Maps, hoping the Weatherby’s buyer could suggest someone capable of cleaning it.

“I only want it cleaned,” she assured, propping the painting on a fully stocked bar James kept in a corner of the shop. Like James, most of his clients were connoisseurs of more than old maps, so James kept vintage wines and whiskey stored in the basement. “I could never afford restoration,” Tanya continued as James joined her and Eduardo at the bar. “Besides, the painting is only of sentimental value, from a junk store.”

“From Finders Keepers,” James said to Eduardo.

Tanya’s heart quickened when she saw Eduardo’s eyes glint with appraisal. Withdrawing manicured hands from the pockets of a gray, custom-made suit, Eduardo thrust them through wavy black hair. He was well over six feet tall and slender. By contrast, sandy-haired James was a short, plump teddy bear of a man.

“When you’re finished looking at Tanya’s painting,” James said, “you must see my new Henry Pople map. It’s dated from London in 1733, and…”

His voice trailed off when Eduardo whistled. A magnifier appeared and Eduardo stepped closer. “Remarkable,” he murmured once more. “I see a trace of carnelian. Maybe a signature.” He glanced at James. “Can you spare the shop today?”

While some of James’s clients came by appointment, most didn’t, which meant he could close anytime he wished. “Why?”

“So you and Tanya can come to Weatherby’s. My restoration team can use infrared and other techniques to show what exists beneath what’s visible to our eyes.”

Tanya’s heart skipped a beat. “You think it might be valuable?”

Eduardo nodded. “I’m sure it’s a Stede O’Flannery.”

TANYA HAD NEVER heard of Stede O’Flannery, but everyone at Weatherby’s had. She glanced around the restoration room of the auction house, glancing up as Eduardo reentered the room, a file tucked beneath his arm.

“Congratulations. There’s no signature, but under the paint, our team found a stamp showing the receipt of sale to O’Flannery. He purchased the canvas, and the painting style is his, so we’ll be able to sell it as an authenticated masterpiece.”

Was he joking? This was every junk store shopper’s dream, and the kind of bargain-hunting adventure for which James and Eduardo lived. Izzie and Marlo were going to be green with envy. Suddenly guilt sliced through her. “But the proprietress of Finders Keepers. She’d never have sold it if she’d known…”

Eduardo shot Tanya a long-suffering glance that bespoke years of auction house training. “Finders Keepers. Isn’t that the name of her shop? Besides, every junk store owner has sold things undervalue. If rare finds didn’t happen occasionally, no one would ever go into secondhand shops. This is what drives their business, Tanya. After we announce your find, their industry will see a surge in business.” He glanced at James. “You haven’t trained this employee very well.”

James winked at Tanya. “We keep searching Tanya’s genetic code for the shark gene, but so far, we’ve yet to find it.”

Her mind was still catching up. “You mean this painting is worth something?”

“O’Flannery isn’t in a class with Vermeer or Rembrandt, if that’s what you mean. He’s somewhat unknown because a handful of collectors horde the works, but that will make it easier to sell.” Eduardo opened the file. “Most of his paintings came down through the Barrington family. A patroness, Lucinda, was thought to have been his lover, and he may have died, defending her honor. Rumor had it, the guy slept around with other women, too, and a sorceress put a curse on him. In order to break the curse, he needed to fall in love, but he never did.”

Tanya couldn’t believe any of this was happening. “Love?”

“Lust was more O’Flannery’s thing,” explained Eduardo. “He was quite the unsavory character. It’s said some of the people associated, not just with him, but with his paintings, went stark-raving mad.”

“Good reason to sell,” she managed.

He patted the file. “We’ll copy the background information for you. The main thing is that mystery surrounds the work, and that increases its value for us.”

“How much?” Tanya asked.

“The canvas isn’t in great shape, but it should be sold, as is. The buyer will want to oversee restoration and treatment.” Eduardo shrugged. “With some buzz, and auctioned in the right lot, I’d say you’re looking at the one-five range.”

Tanya gasped. “Fifteen thousand dollars?”

Eduardo’s lips lifted in a smile. “One-point-five million,” he said slowly. “Maybe two.”

She staggered backward, needing to sit. The only thing that had ever made her knees feel this weak was the gaze of the man in the painting. Somehow, her backside found a chair, and she sank into it. Two million? Had he really said that? She thought of her credit card balance and of her need to move, so James could renovate. Then she thought about the magnetic pull she experienced every time she looked at the man in the painting. He’d watched her work all week…watched her touch herself. She knew it was crazy, but it was as if they’d formed some sort of…well, relationship.

Eduardo was pushing a piece of paper in her direction. “If you’ll just sign here, Tanya,” he said, “we can accept possession of the painting now, photograph it for a catalog immediately and begin the process of selling it for you. Within a week, you’ll be a millionaire.”

“I’m sorry,” she heard herself say. “But…can you promise not to tell anyone about this?” When she heard her own voice, it seemed to come from a far-off place, as if someone else was speaking. “I…have to think,” she continued. “I can’t sell yet.”

Vaguely, she was aware she’d just turned down a sale that could generate two million dollars. That’s when she knew she’d joined ranks with those people associated with the painting who’d gone stark-raving mad. Still, there was something so very special about the work. She could feel it. And she simply couldn’t let it go.

2

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.”

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