Chapter 2

 

“What are you doing?” Simone waved Tristan and the others back. “He can barely keep his eyes open, yet you threaten him with your pistols.”

The men didn’t lower their weapons. Staring at the stranger, they inched closer as they would when facing a dangerous bull.

Since the last pirate attack, everyone here had forgotten kindness again, acting with caution or suspicion instead.

Simone refused to behave the same even though she had cause. In an earlier raid, she’d lost everyone she loved and would have died if not for the surviving islanders protecting her. That didn’t mean she’d turn her back on someone in need simply because he was white. This man posed no danger to those here, especially in his current condition.

“Do you see a weapon on him? Has he harmed you in any way?”

Peter made a derisive noise. “What makes you think he won’t? No one invited him here. He’s an intruder and probably English in the bargain. I say we tie him up before he can hurt anyone.”

Tristan elbowed the boy.

Diana edged down the path, speaking English Simone didn’t understand.

Tristan pointed at his wife, his English fast and firm, though not harsh.

Diana stopped and slumped. “Très bien, mon…ah…pauvre français, il…sera si…cela signifie que je peux rester.” Very well, my, ah, poor French it will be if that means I can stay. She breathed hard, struggling with the words. “Qui…est-il?” Who is he?

Simone called out, “A man who might die.” She touched the ligature around his leg. “He needs healing. Far more than I can do here. We must bring him back to the stone house. Please.”

Diana looked baffled.

The islanders exchanged troubled glances.

Tristan slipped the pistol into his brace and strode forward.

The men followed, everyone regarding the stranger’s blood-soaked breeches, the cut on his forehead, his torn and soiled clothes.

Peter squatted near the man’s legs. “How long before he dies?”

Simone pushed Peter’s hand from the linen protecting the leg wound. “If I see to his injuries, I can save him. He needs a poultice and a potion to keep him from the fever or worse. He stopped bleeding but could start again unless I tend to his wound.”

Tristan observed the sea. “James, you and Peter bring him to Canela’s old room.”

Peter shot to his feet. “Why me?”

“Because I said so.” Tristan looked over. “The rest of you fan out and scour the island for anything amiss. Check for wreckage or other survivors.”

The islanders ran up the path.

James scratched his chest. “Doubtful there would be many, or anyone at all, who could have lived through the storm that raged these last days. Only a stroke of luck or God’s grace helped this fellow to our shore.”

“That may be, but I want to be certain.”

Diana shouted something in English and flapped her hands. “Que se…passe-t-il?” What is going on?

Peter snickered. He lifted his face to her and spoke French. “Your language skills are improving. In a year or two your French and island dialect should be as good as mine.” He glanced at the others. “Care to wager she didn’t understand what I said?”

Confusion swept her features.

Peter laughed.

Tristan bared his teeth at Peter. “Help James. Now.”

Peter sobered. “Aye, Captain.” He grabbed the stranger’s feet, James his upper body.

Tristan spoke to Diana, his English words gentle and coaxing. She didn’t look happy but finally nodded and left the scene.

Flapping noises and squawking sounded, both difficult to pinpoint, possibly the chickens Gavra had mentioned earlier.

Tristan pointed to the containers. “What’s that?”

The man stirred and pulled from Peter, then fought James.

“Easy now.” James lowered him to the ground. “We’re not trying to hurt you.”

Simone touched the man’s arm. “Let them carry you to the stone house. There, I can tend to you.”

Pain and fear flooded his eyes. “Don’t let them kill the birds and fowl.”

He’d spoken French as the others had.

Tristan looked over. “That’s what’s inside the crates?”

“Oui. They’re Edward’s.”

Tristan touched his pistol. “And who would that be?”

The stranger winced and gripped his leg above the wound.

“Take care or you’ll bleed again.” Simone eased his hand away. “Must we talk about this here, Capitaine?”

Tristan stared at the man. “Who’s Edward?”

He panted. “The cabin boy. An eleven-year-old. The chickens and birds were his pets during the long journey. He came from a farm and wanted a taste of home. Before the ship sank, he begged me to see to the creatures’ welfare. I promised I would, even though I intended to save him before anything else. A wave pulled him from the plank the crates were on, the same one we clung to. I tried my best to reach him, to direct the timber in that direction, but…” He squeezed his eyes shut, grief etched on his face.

Sympathy passed over Tristan’s features, then disappeared beneath vigilance. “Who are you?”

“Royce Hastings, a merchant from London.” He wiped his cheek on his shoulder. “I was on my way to Mozambique to trade. The captain thought the worst weather was over, but the storm doubled back on us and became too swift and severe to escape. Is the port near? Did the others survive?”

“How many were there?”

“I have no idea the exact number.”

“The ship was yours, yet you don’t know how many crew it held?”

“I don’t own any ships. My best guess is seventy men, both crew and passengers. Do you think the others lived?”

“If they did, the islanders will find them. What area were you planning to trade in?”

“Damnation, my head aches. Everything keeps whirling.”

Simone frowned at Tristan. “He needs healing, not questions.”

Tristan focused on Royce. “Where were you headed, Mr. Hastings?”

He spoke three words or names Simone had never heard. “Then south to the other coastal ports. What is this place? What’s it near? Who are you and these people?”

Tristan searched the water. “I’ll see to Edward’s pets.”

“Wait a moment. I promised to keep them in sight always. I owe that to the boy.”

“You can keep your word to him later. For now, Simone needs to tend your wounds.”

“Hold on. I have questions.”

Tristan lumbered across the drenched sand to the containers.

Royce gaped at Tristan’s scarred back.

“Best we get on with this,” James said. “You ready, Peter?”

“No, but I’ll make do.”

James grabbed Royce’s arms. Peter faced away from them and lifted Royce’s feet.

He stared at Peter’s lashed back, then moaned and slumped, his head falling down, eyes closed.

The narrow path and steep incline weren’t designed to carry a man. James and Peter panted hard. They tested their footing repeatedly, kept adjusting Royce’s weight, and stepped around or over fallen vegetation. Once on the point, they lugged him through the storm-battered forest toward the stone house.

Simone cradled his hand.

He gripped hers tightly, roused again. “Will the captain keep his promise about Edward’s pets? He won’t have them cooked for food, will he?”

Peter chuckled.

Simone shot him a scolding look and ran her thumb over Royce’s. “You can trust Tristan’s words. Edward’s creatures are safe with him before he returns them to you.”

“When will that be?”

“Once you heal. Your room is ahead.”

* * * *

Royce expected a crudely constructed home. A pirate’s lair. Not this.

Within the clearing, a white structure stretched an impressive distance, its stone dazzling white beneath the sun.

Only during his family’s glory days in England had he resided in a place as large and majestic. Fit for a king or a noble.

Bishop had no idea how well Tristan had fared. Diana too.

She’d obeyed Tristan with little pause, his gentle words and pleas doing more to gain her compliance than Bishop’s violence ever could. However, kindness would ruin Bishop’s fun in proving his supremacy, having her kneel at his feet, naked and defenseless, silent too, as she carried out every vile order he gave.

Royce had no doubt her tasks would quickly grow abominable, more than any woman could endure.

His chest tightened, shame threatening to overwhelm. For his mother and sisters’ survival, he pushed sentimentality aside but couldn’t meet Diana’s gaze.

She stood near the wall that protected the interior structure. Once James and Peter carried Royce inside the ample courtyard, young women and small children paused in their work or play to stare. The boys and girls were nude, every adult female bare breasted, wearing naught but silk cloths about their hips. Those swollen with child also sported chokers on their throats. Brightly colored beads decorated the leather bands, rather than the diamonds Diana wore.

A young woman close to delivering plodded toward them. “Qui est-ce?” Who is that?

Peter blew out a breath. “Royce Hastings. An English merchant, he says. It appears he survived a shipwreck last night.”

Disquiet raced through Royce, prickling his skin. He wasn’t certain if Peter had spoken carelessly, as boys his age were wont to do, or had qualified his words because he didn’t believe Royce was a merchant or that a shipwreck had actually occurred. Not that Peter’s opinion mattered. Tristan’s did. Unfortunately, he’d kept his thoughts to himself, his expression bloody unreadable, especially when they’d discussed the birds and when Tristan failed to answer where this island was or who he might be.

Best not to push him too far too quickly. Better that Royce keep his tongue and observe.

Children who appeared between three and five years old ran to him, their manner as guileless and open as Simone’s. Women followed and pulled them back.

He squeezed Simone’s hand.

“What is it?” She leaned down.

Her fresh, sweet scent filled him, stealing speech and thought. Her hair glided over his chest. Heat burst wherever those strands touched.

“Is your pain worse?”

Unruly desire swept through him, delight he hadn’t known in too long, hadn’t expected here, and shouldn’t indulge in. “Should I tell your people not to fear me?”

“I will. You must rest.” She stroked his neck.

His skin tingled.

She straightened. “Monsieur Hastings is our guest. The storm gave him terrible injuries. Tell him you want to see him well.”

The children’s sweet voices rose as one, wishing him a fast recovery.

Those innocents would be on the auction block too, after slavers tore them from their mothers’ arms.

Nausea rolled over him.

Simone smiled at the tots. “Merci.

“Gavra, Fantine, please bring clean water and my healing materials to Canela’s old room so I can see to our guest.”

James and Peter tottered forward, straining for air.

Peter gripped Royce’s ankles more firmly. “Someone should wish me good health. My shoulders and back ache. His legs are bloody heavy.”

“Pierre!” A young woman ran up to Peter, her breasts bouncing, long neck unadorned, her age close to his. “What are you doing? Who is that?”

“A visitor who weighs too much.”

“Let me help you.”

“No. I’m man enough to handle this, Laure. Go to our room or do your tasks. I’ll see you later, all right?”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Please do as I say.”

She pecked his cheek and darted into a side room off the courtyard. Women streamed in and out.

Royce’s group entered the main building, the ceilings high, halls shadowed, floors polished marble. After passing numerous doors, they entered a spacious chamber, its two arched windows facing the forest, an opening in the vegetation showing the sea. In here, a large mahogany bed dominated the space.

Peter and James lowered him to the mattress covered in a rose silk sheet.

James backed up and stretched. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Peter sagged against the footboard. “You could always lie next to him. That way you can protect Simone while she works on his wounds.”

“No. Tristan ordered me to do so.”

The voice came from the unshuttered window. An island man stood framed there, his face oddly disfigured, left arm hanging limply at his side, a pistol in his right hand, pointed at Royce.

Tristan hadn’t trusted the merchant story after all. Unless caution came naturally to him, a remnant from his pirate days.

James inclined his head to the native. “Merci, Adamo. We’ll leave them in your care.” He clamped Peter’s shoulder. “Today you help me and Tristan with the cattle, pigs, horses, and whatever else needs tending.”

“Anything to avoid books, but you best tell Diana or she’ll rail at me.”

“I’m certain Tristan’s already had a word with her.”

“Too bad we don’t have storms every night.” Peter grinned broadly. “Come morning, I’d never have to study.”

“Right you are. Then you could tend the pigs and cattle all the time and never do anything else.”

Peter made a face. “I didn’t say I wanted that. Just not to do my lessons.”

Shaking his head, James steered the boy from the chamber.

Royce tried not to react to the wealth and established community here, or what Peter had said about his schoolwork. None of this made sense for roving pirates.

Gavra and Fantine padded inside, arms laden with items Simone had requested.

“Fantine, over here.” Simone directed the taller woman to put what she carried on the table near the bed.

“You left this on the beach where you shouldn’t have been.” Gavra held up a damp silk bag. Sand clung to it. She wore a beaded band about her neck. Her slightly rounded belly reminded Royce of Diana’s. Being with child and not feeling well might explain Gavra’s sour mood.

Simone took the bag. “Merci.” She flicked her hand. “You can go now.”

“We should watch.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Fantine regarded the battling women. “Why should we stay?”

Simone smiled stiffly. “Gavra is making a joke. I heal better without anyone watching me.”

After shooing them away, Simone arranged her materials on the table. A blue silk bag dropped to the floor in back.

She crouched to reach it. Her cloth fell away from her leg, revealing a sleek, brown thigh marred by a brutal scar, horribly deep, the skin rutted and white.

Surprised, he reacted. “What happened?”

She flinched at Royce’s question and hurriedly covered her leg, her cheeks flaming.

He hadn’t meant to add to her distress and tipped his head to the window. “What happened to him…Adamo?” Royce kept his voice low. “His face and arm look odd.”

She poured water into a shallow bowl. “The pirates beat him.”

“Tristan and the redheaded man?”

“James? No. Never them. Both are kind and help my people. Their old crew came here to take Diana back to a cruel merchant.”

Bishop. “Didn’t the pirates live here too?”

“No. Only Tristan, Peter, and James. The other men never knew about this isle.”

“How did they find it?” Royce had a bloody hard time locating this place. Its shallow waters made the land impossible for ships to approach.

“Canela brought them to our shore.”

This was her old room. “Canela’s a white woman who used to be wed to one of those men?”

“She was born here as I was, her parents islanders, the same as mine. Until she betrayed Adamo, she was his woman. Yellow Scarf nearly killed Adamo. Tristan banished him, the other men, and Canela to a distant island.”

“Who lashed Tristan and Peter?” Their scarred backs had stunned Royce.

“Cruel capitaines. I must remove your clothes.”

They barely covered him, both garments already shredded before he’d reached the beach.

She dropped his tattered shirt on the floor and focused on his breeches.

His cock lengthened and thickened, pushing against the fabric.

Her face flushed. “Does it hurt?” She traced the area around his wound.

Arousal, curiosity, and caution had blunted the pain, reducing his discomfort to a dull throb. “Not as much as before.”

“It may pain you again before I finish. I should hurry.” She ripped his breeches and drawers until she’d fully exposed his injured leg.

Her breath spilled out.

His balls tightened.

Cautiously, she untied the ligature. He lifted his head. To his relief, blood didn’t gush from the wound.

She removed the soiled linen and leaves.

The gash was worse than he expected and more than he’d intended to do to himself. His intent had been to convince Tristan and the others a shipwreck had occurred. Wasn’t likely they would have believed him if he’d merely flopped on the sand, fully intact.

Slashing his own flesh wasn’t something he cared to remember, especially now.

Simone plucked another rock from the jagged skin.

Hurt shot down his spine. He winced and dropped back.

“I promise to take care.”

A ghost couldn’t have had a lighter touch. Even so, the laceration burned like bloody hell.

“This will sting.” She uncorked a bottle and poured the red liquid over his wound.

Searing heat cut through him. He twisted the sheets. “Damnation.”

“Forgive me.” She blew hard on the area, chasing away the worst misery.

He panted. “Was that wine?” Looked and smelled like it.

“From the capitaine’s stores. Once the poultice is on, it will ease your pain.” She ground leaves into a bowl, mixed in ingredients he couldn’t identify, then moistened the mess with water and smeared it on his thigh.

Although cool, its sharp prick proved as pleasant as a dog bite.

He gritted his teeth.

After laying new leaves on his gash, she tore clean linen into strips and used them to bandage him. “Take care not to move too much.”

Sweat rolled into his eyes, the sting hardly noticeable given his other agony. He nodded.

Simone mixed new ingredients in an earthen cup and sniffed her concoction.

Royce indulged in her fragrance, the most pleasant smell here. A rich, flowery scent that clung to her silky skin and hair.

She leaned over him toward the headboard, her nipples above his mouth, the dark halos tantalizingly close, mesmerizing in their female allure.

Pain vanished, replaced by hard lust.

Loud throat clearing sounded. Adamo. His crooked frown matched his lopsided mouth, distrust raging in his eyes. Whatever Canela had managed with the pirates, her actions had left Adamo a damaged man, possibly eager to kill anyone white or English.

Simone settled three pillows beneath Royce’s head and shoulders, propping him up, then cupped his chin.

Her gentle touch did more than any medicine could. Pleasure and heat streamed in gentle waves, relaxing him.

“Drink.”

He eased away from the cup. “What is it?”

“A potion to make you sleep.”

Its earthy fragrance combined with the sweet wine she’d used. He sipped carefully, afraid the concoction would loosen his tongue, particularly during slumber. That would bring Tristan here, his pistol aimed, ready to fire.

Although parched, Royce pushed the remaining drink away.

“No. Finish every drop.”

“In time. It hurts to swallow.”

“The potion will help.”

“I promise to finish it eventually.”

Her lower lip jutted out, like a petulant little girl. Oddly enough, he found her displeasure charming and endearing.

“Very well.” She placed the cup on the table. “Now I’ll bathe you.”

He sat up.

She pushed him back, tore off his breeches and drawers, and tossed them aside.

His cock jutted hard and eager from his hairy groin. His balls were tight to his body, so plump they hurt.

She regarded them and his shaft with interest, her color high, nipples constricted.

Royce could scarcely breathe.

“Do you feel shame?”

He started at her voice. She looked at him questioningly. “Am I ashamed by my nudity? No. Are you?”

She smiled. “What woman would regret looking at such a magnificent man?”

He puffed up without meaning to, his gratitude blending with quick unease. Her smile would soon turn to tears at his betrayal. Every lash she endured, each humiliation and heartache she survived, his fault alone.

It hadn’t been enough that he’d failed to protect his mother, Nell, and Katie from their fates, struggling to get them back, to have the family whole again. Now, he’d have Simone’s face haunting his sleep. Diana’s too. And the children’s. For them, there would be no big brother or son promising rescue.

He downed the potion and snatched the wine.

“What are you doing?” Simone took the bottle from him.

“I want more.”

“Why? Is your pain so bad?”

What remained of his heart and soul would never stop aching. Peace wasn’t something he expected any longer. Death would be a gift. “Drink helps me sleep.”

She trailed her fingers over his jaw, delivering exquisite pleasure.

He wanted to drown in her goodness and warmth but turned away.

“Why do you have trouble sleeping?”

“A family curse.” His bloody father the cause.

“You have a woman and children?”

“I have no one. Are you going to tell Adamo to shoot me if I imbibe the wine?”

Her slender eyebrows shot up. “Never.” She frowned. “If you had refused to drink my potion, I would have shot you.”

Royce laughed. “You’re too bloody nice.”

“For saying I would kill you?”

For teasing and making him happy. No matter how brief the moment, he didn’t deserve her kindness. She should have left him on the beach and begged the others to put an end to his torment. Except then, no one would help his loved ones.

Weariness overwhelmed him. “One drink, please.” Not enough to forget everything but to blunt his remorse.

She handed him the bottle.

He enjoyed a long draught, then fell back and prayed for darkness.

* * * *

Simone gestured Adamo away from the window where he hovered too close and saw too much.

He remained.

She mouthed, “Go. I will be all right.”

He finally backed up but kept Royce and her in sight, his pistol at the ready.

He’d have to shoot her first before she’d let him harm Royce. He was already sick in his soul, unknown horror flaring in his eyes before he finished her potion.

Whatever his torment, she understood why he’d want wine to sleep. After what the pirates had done to her, Simone had needed Gavra’s loving embrace to feel safe enough to close her eyes. Even then, trust and deep rest didn’t return for years.

Royce’s heartache must still be new.

She wrung out the sponge and bathed his face, then tended the cut on his forehead, using wine to cleanse the area.

He stiffened.

“Forgive me.”

After smearing poultice on the wound, she blew on it. He relaxed and inhaled deeply.

She cleaned his hands, then his feet, liking his long fingers and toes. His muscular thighs and hair-roughened calves sparked excitement she’d never known before he arrived.

Lightheaded, she washed his dark, musky curls. Her sheath ached dully, too congested and wanting. His shaft enthralled. Hard yet smooth, long and thick, dominant but not frightening.

Although a cruel man could cause a woman great pain and sorrow, a good one would deliver astonishing pleasure.

At least according to Gavra who gushed about the heady nights she spent with James.

Simone had suitors but hadn’t chosen a mate or given herself to anyone, not wanting a lover. Until now.

Moisture beaded on the slit in Royce’s crown, proving a man’s desire. The same as his firm sac, the skin lightly furred and ruddy.

She washed him thoroughly, hungry for his response.

He pretended to sleep.

His heightened breathing and stiffened rod betrayed him. She’d aroused him even though she was a simple islander. Too many English pirates had found her brown skin distasteful, calling her savage, an animal, wanting to rape not cherish.

Royce had taken care, pretending not to notice her scar.

She’d made him laugh. He’d reminded her of a young boy then, joy lighting his eyes, tenderness flooding his heart. The way a man and woman should be with each other.

She sponged his arms, the dark hair in his pits, and nicely furred chest.

A task she might have kept at for the rest of her days if not for Gavra slipping inside.

Gavra frowned. “What are you doing now?”

Enjoying herself as a woman should. “Use your eyes and see.”

“You bathing him? Will that heal his wound?”

“What do you want? Why are you here?”

Gavra lifted her chin. “To make certain you do nothing to harm yourself.”

Too late for caution. Simone craved Royce despite his white skin, English ways, and his life elsewhere.

He’d be here for no more than a few months before he found his way back home where he would forget her forever.

Not the future she hoped for. However, during his stay she intended to be at his side.