The Pleasure Chest. Jule Mcbride

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