Madeline released the driftwood and crawled ashore, spitting up seawater. Her lungs burned. Her chest cramped. She crumpled onto the sandy beach, gasping for air. Disoriented. Bemused. Weak.
She hardly remembered what had happened, her mind a whirl of deafening thunder and lightning that sizzled and streaked the sky. She had been tied to the bedpost, she thought. William had kissed her. And then the walls had come apart, and a tremendous force had broken the bed. After that, water. Unbound water.
The surf brought in bits of wood and rope, pots and mugs. She spotted a white garment and scooped it from the receding tide, wringing the fabric for she was as naked as Eve before The Fall.
Grimacing, she wriggled into the linen chemise. At least one of her ribs were broken, if not more, and she scoured the bank, seeking the crew, her husband . . . but she was alone on the coast.
Was she the sole survivor of the wreck?
A sob welled in her throat. She choked on her tears. What about the Bonny Meg? If still afloat, she would have rescued the men of the Nemesis.
Madeline cradled her battered side as she searched the horizon for the Bonny Meg, but there was no sign of the other schooner. She needed to find the Nemesis. She need to know if the others had lived. She needed help. And hope.
Struggling to gain her footing, she stumbled and plopped on her bottom. The storm had flogged her mercilessly. She felt numb. Parched. But she couldn’t stay on the beach. As the sun climbed, the temperature also mounted. She needed shelter or the rising heat and humidity would ravage her.
She cast her bleary eyes toward the tree line, about a hundred feet away. And as she dragged her body across the coarse sand, she cried out with each awkward movement. But she had to reach the shade of the palms. She had to find water. And she had to hide.
What if there were pirates on the island? The very ones holding her grandfather for ransom? She still had to rescue the old man.
Leaves rustled.
Madeline stilled.
Slowly she lifted her head, eyeing the greenery—and noticed the ferns fluttering. “Is anyone there?”
A colonist? An animal? A seaman?
Or a pirate?
She winced as she propped her upper body on her elbows. “Hullo?” she croaked.
The ferns flickered again and gangly fingers spread apart the foliage, revealing a scrawny lad of about twelve hunkering in the sand. He stared at her with a wide-eyed expression, scruffy, his skin smudged with dirt, but Madeline trusted him despite his bedraggled appearance. She sensed he had a kind heart.
“I need help,” she said, stirring into a sitting position. She huffed, exhausted. “I can’t walk.”
The boy craned his neck, observing one end of the coast then the other.
“There is no one else here,” she assured him, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m alone.”
He looked at her again, agog, before he scampered from the bushes and dashed toward her.
The lad crouched beside her. His lanky arm went around her waist. She curled her own arm over his shoulder and with surprising ease, he hoisted her to her feet.
Together they tottered into the woods. The air cooler, Madeline sighed. She grabbed a palm for support and eased her aching limbs across its sagging trunk.
“Thank you,” she rasped.
As her bones throbbed, she gritted her teeth, holding her broken ribs. The boy watched her, alarmed, then sprinted off.
“Wait!” she cried.
But the thicket closed around him. Damn. Why had he left her?
Or had he?
The sound of crinkling foliage under furious feet prickled her ears. Branches snapped. Vines shimmied. And the boy returned. He handed her a leaf, coiled into a makeshift cup and filled with water. She almost cried at the offering.
“Bless you.”
She captured the leaf and downed the cold, fresh water, and even as it roiled in her gullet, diluting the sand and salt, it was still the most wonderful thing she had ever tasted.
Soon her strength improved in the shade. Her gaze fell back on the boy. He had stepped a few yards away, crouching in the shrubbery.
“Do you have a name?”
His cheeks flushed. Perhaps he was a wild child, she thought with dismay. An orphan? Had he survived in the jungle alone? She had heard of such cases. But there was intelligence in the boy’s wide eyes. If he was mute, he wasn’t dumb.
“I’m Maddie.”
He nodded, smiling.
“Yes, Maddie. It’s my name. You do understand, don’t you?”
He nodded again.
At least she could communicate with him—somewhat. “Do you know the island?”
Another bob of the head.
“A ship ran aground this morning.” She opened her arms, emphasizing, “A big boat. I need to find it.”
The youngster screwed up his face, wary. He waved his hand from side to side before he reached behind his back and retrieved a sack, rummaging through the contents, his worldly possessions, no doubt.
At last he removed an old shirt from the satchel, the rag mostly tattered. He ripped it even more, knotting the ends until he’d fashioned a long rope. He approached her, indicating he wanted to loop the rope around her.
“No!”
She smacked his hand.
Startled, he jumped.
“Get away!” she cried.
Madeline groped the palm trees, staggering deeper into the woods.
The boy was mad! He wanted to hold her captive. He’d watched her rise from the water, a fabled mermaid, and he intended to keep her, like treasure. Or perhaps he desired a friend? Perhaps he was just lonely?
Still, he was mad. She would not be bound like a slave. She had to find William. She had to find her grandfather. And she had to get off this cursed island! How had she misjudged the boy? How had she missed the madness in him?
“Ma-Maddie.”
He uttered her name. He wasn’t mute after all. And there was something about the inflection in his voice that inspired her to listen.
She glimpsed over her shoulder.
He remained a short distance away, lifting the rope. “Help,” he said. “I help.”
“No, I don’t want your help.”
“Maddie,” he said again, his tone almost chastising. “You need help.”
He pointed at his ribs, frowning.
And then it struck her: dressing, not rope. He had made dressing for her broken ribs, not rope for tying her hands.
She sighed and leaned against a tree. “Yes, help.”
He humphed and trudged through the undergrowth. As he reached her side, he motioned for her to lift her arms, and then bound her ribs with the dressing. The binding worked like a splint, immobilizing the fractured area, making it easier for her to breathe . . . though it still ached like damnation.
“Thank you.” she smiled. “For help.”
He nodded.
Thy boy was intelligent. And kind. A little dictatorial. But he was a young man. She had not misjudged him. And if she ever returned to England, she would take him home with her.
“Well, who do we have here?”
Madeline bristled at the smooth yet callous voice. Slowly the fine hairs on her body spiked, and her breath quickened in uneven rasps.
First, she shifted her wide eyes sidelong Then, she peeked around the tree, stifling a scream.
Three toughened men stood in the thicket, decked with gleaming pistols and daggers, but it was the cutthroat in the middle who’d strangled her voice. He was taller than the rest, about thirty years old, his hair as black as iron, his eyes as blue as a tropical sea—but cold. Oh, so cold. He had a long black beard and a strapping build, but his entire expression rested in his eyes. The eyes of a devil.
“Take her,” he ordered, the obvious leader of the group.
The others flanking him stepped forward. The brave, or perhaps foolish, boy pounced in front of her, fists raised. With heartless laughter, the brutes shoved him aside, sending him headlong into the dirt.
“No!” roared the devil. “I want the boy, too.” His steely gaze narrowed on the prostrated youth. “He owes me a pretty penny.”
In obedience, one ruffian scruffed the child and hoisted him to his feet, while the other grabbed her arm and dragged her deeper into the jungle.
Kidnapped, she thought. By pirates. Just like her grandfather. But as she passed the black devil, she shuddered, for the look he gave her told her he wouldn’t be holding her for ransom . . . that he had a far worse fate for her in mind.