Chapter 1

 

Tristan Kent’s island—several months later

 

Simone opened the bedchamber shutters. During the past week, the islanders had taken refuge in the stone house rather than their mud homes. Last night, the violent storm had done its worst, then finally passed, leaving toppled trees and uprooted bushes.

Water dripped from intact vegetation and tapped against windowsills. Sunlight streamed through fluffy clouds. Although the air was cooler and fresh, a metallic trace lingered.

“Simone!” Gavra, her friend and James Sullivan’s woman, rushed into the bedchamber. “We need you. The children went outside before we could stop them. Henri cut his hand.”

Simone grabbed her healing materials and ran after Gavra to the courtyard. Ruined palms and traveler’s trees lay in a heap against the walls.

Henri’s mother, Fantine, crouched at his side. Pain tightened his small face. He rocked in place on the muddy ground. “It hurts.”

“Of course it does. Let me see.” Carefully, Simone unfolded Henri’s fingers. The superficial wound barely bled. “Not so bad. In no time, you’ll be a strong boy again.

“Gavra.” Simone tilted her face. “I need fresh water.”

After bathing the wound, she wrapped several healing leaves around it, securing them with a linen strip. She brushed away Henri’s tears and ruffled his dark hair. “You must be good now and take care not to harm yourself again or make your hand dirty. Can you promise me that?”

He buried his face in Fantine’s shoulder, his chubby hand on her marriage collar.

Fantine patted Simone’s arm. “Merci. I must warn you, though, the cloth will not stay clean.”

Simone laughed softly. “I promise to fix whatever he does and heal each sickness he has.” Tristan’s books had taught her much about illnesses and treating wounds even though she couldn’t read and the words were in a language he called Arabic, not the French she knew. He’d translated the passages for her, then wrote them down so Peter could relay the information whenever Simone needed it. Tristan’s woman, Diana, had tried to do the same, but she wasn’t yet skilled in French. “I used my last leaves on Henri. If anyone else needs me, tell them I have to gather more.”

Today, many would bruise and cut themselves as they cleaned up here and at their own homes. Thus far, the men hadn’t stirred. Few women were about. The evening had been like the others this past week, long with brutal winds and heavy rain keeping everyone frightened or alert.

Simone lifted her silk cloth above her ankles and stepped over puddles. Past the courtyard walls, snapped branches and overturned trunks partially obstructed the path leading to the point. An area where the island men stood guard in all weather, except foul, to make certain pirates or intruders didn’t happen upon the beach.

The bushes she needed were at the edge. At her approach, bright green lizards skittered into brush. Lemurs watched from overhead branches. She brushed raindrops off her shoulders and pulled her windblown hair back.

Even after she’d collected leaves here, she’d yet to fill her bag. She padded closer to the path. In the distance, the sea stirred restlessly and glinted wildly beneath the sun. Wind hurried clouds away, vegetation lay scattered from the rocky point to the surf, and dead fish and birds littered the beach. Wood piled at one end. The material wasn’t splintered trunks or branches but planks from a ship.

Not the Lady Lark. Tristan and the men had brought the vessel to safe ground before the storm broke.

She edged closer.

Two large wooden containers sank in the marshy sand near shore, canvas covering the bottoms. Close by, waves washed near a man lying face down, blood on his leg.

Simone raced over the path, dodging branches, trunks, insects, and snakes. On her knees at his side, she touched his mouth.

Warm breath glided out.

The gash on his thigh stained the sand bright red. She ripped a strip from her silk cloth, dampened the fabric, then tied it around his leg as tightly as she could to staunch the flow.

“Simone.” Gavra looked down from the point. “What are you doing?” She hurried to the beach and slogged through wet sand, her long hair blowing off her shoulders. “Who is he?” She stopped at the man’s side, then stepped back. “A pirate?”

Not like the ones who had once taken over this island or those who’d come here months ago. This man’s linen shirt and woolen breeches were too fine. The same as Tristan wore when he’d returned from his voyages laden with jewels, gold, and silk. “If he is a pirate, he must be a captain like Tristan. They dress the same. Or he could be a merchant.”

“Without shoes and stockings?”

“They were surely lost when his boat sank in last night’s storm and he washed up here. Help me turn him over. We can ask him what happened once he wakes up.”

“And have him harm us then? No.”

“He can barely breathe. See how he bleeds? If we leave him on the beach, he may die.”

“What is that noise? Chickens?”

Simone didn’t hear anything except this foolish conversation. She gripped his broad shoulders and tugged but couldn’t budge him. He was too tall and powerfully built. Panting, she grabbed Gavra’s silk cloth before her friend could leave. “Help me. Then you can run.”

Together, they rolled the man onto his back.

Sand clung to his face, bristly cheeks, and chin. Blood dotted a wound on his forehead. Despite his condition, his complexion was bronze not ashy, features virile and handsome. Given his powerful form and strong jaw, Simone guessed him to be Tristan and James’s age. Like them, he looked English.

She smoothed his dark brown hair, the few dry locks wonderfully thick and silky.

Gavra slapped Simone’s hand. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for wounds.”

“On his mouth?”

She stopped stroking his bottom lip. “To check if he’s still breathing.”

“I can see he is from where I am.”

His muscular chest rippled each time he exhaled. Short, dark hairs hugged his skin, his tiny brown nipples peeking through. Heat flooded Simone, the warmth surprisingly seductive and strangely welcomed.

She pushed his shirt open and touched his ribs.

Gavra made an impatient noise. “What are you searching for now?”

“A broken bone. He might have one.”

“If he did, he would be screaming or dead.”

Simone inched lower to his breeches. Dark hair swirled around his navel and dipped beneath his waistband to the promising bulge between his legs. She rested her hand on his thigh, its heat and strength evident through the fabric.

Gavra grabbed her arm. “Come. We need to tell Capitaine about this.”

“You go.” Simone twisted, freeing herself. “I have to tend his wound.” The laceration was hideous but hopefully not deadly. “Bring the men back with you to carry him to the stone house.”

Gavra stopped on the path and looked over. “Tristan may say otherwise.”

No. He was a good man. He wouldn’t let anyone die here, not even a pirate, and certainly not a stranger who appeared as civilized as Tristan was.

Simone dragged several palm fronds to the man’s side. The leaves were large with flat surfaces that had collected rainwater. She ripped his breeches and drawers, cleansed his wound thoroughly, then covered it with her healing leaves.

What Tristan called periwinkle. Before pirates killed her grandmother, she’d taught Simone about the magic in this plant.

Using a wide strip from the stranger’s linen shirt, she covered the leaves and wound as best she could. The bleeding had slowed considerably. However, he needed a poultice and potion to make certain he healed and didn’t lose his leg.

She touched the silk knotted above his wound, reluctant to untie it yet.

Once she’d confirmed he had no other ghastly cuts on his legs, she straightened to examine his arms and scalp.

He stared at her naked breasts, the cloth tied about her hips, and then her eyes. His were as green as a new leaf, lushly lashed, and quite alert.

He clamped her wrist.

Her breath caught.

* * * *

Tristan Kent snuggled into Diana, his cock buried deep within her soft, heated sheath. His ears buzzed.

She purred throatily. “I thought you said you had tasks to get to.”

“They can bloody well wait.” Given the relative quiet, the other men were still asleep or enjoying their women. Time enough later to clean up the mess the cyclone had left. “Are you with me?”

She wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed her mound into him, taking more of his length inside. “Till my last breath.”

A promise he could live with easily. For Tristan, making a happy and safe home for Diana, their children, and Peter was all he required. He’d once promised her that he’d never spill blood again and wouldn’t. Didn’t want to, unless someone threatened their peace.

He settled her legs on his shoulders so he could drive deeper and immediately reconsidered his outrageous move. Gulping air, he pressed his face to her velvety throat. “Will this harm the babe?”

“Our loving each other?”

“Me taking you like a madman, a savage, a blasted beast.”

“I think not.” She tightened her cunt around his cock, delivering more delight. “It’s not yet been three months since I knew for certain I’d conceived. The babe is nestled securely within me. My belly’s still far too flat.”

The gentle roundness promised new life. Diana may not have seen the change in herself, but he did. Her complexion glowed. Her amazing eyes were a deeper violet. Even her hair was more lustrous, blacker than ever, making her flesh paler in comparison. “I best take care with the babe and you.”

“Rubbish. Love me. Use me. Tame me.”

Laughing, he thrust with abandon. Their mattress rustled and the bed frame creaked.

Diana clung to him as she had from the beginning when he’d captured her, spirited her to his island, took her as his bride, and loved her to exhaustion.

As he did now, succumbing to passion, spilling his seed within her.

“Capitaine! Capitaine!”

Gavra. Her hard, fast knocks pounded the door.

Gulping air, Tristan eased from Diana and grabbed his breeches.

She followed and pulled her silk gown off a chair. “Do you think one of the men is hurt?”

“How? Everyone spent the last week here. Even if they hadn’t, Simone would be the one to heal them, not me.” He called, “What is it, Gavra?”

“A man is on the beach.”

Tristan’s skin crawled. “Get James.”

“I’m already in the hall, my friend, well aware of the situation, and waiting for you to get up.”

“I’m here too.”

Peter.

Tristan pulled on his brace of pistols. He snatched Diana’s gown and tossed it on the bed. “Stay in here until I return.”

“No. I want to know you’re safe. You said no one would find us here. Is it Bishop?”

“If it is, he’ll be dead the moment I see him. At that point, you can view the body before we toss it into the sea.”

She made a face. “I never want to see that devil again. Call me after the fish consume him.”

“Well said.” He pecked her lips and opened the door a crack.

James and Peter slouched against the opposite wall, one yawning, the other stretching. Gavra tapped her foot. What Tristan would expect from a woman irritated by circumstances, rather than alarmed.

He crossed his arms. “Given how each of you looks, I trust we don’t need the other men to mount an attack?”

James rubbed his eyes. “Adamo and Philippe went to the beach and used the glass. No ships anywhere. The one that did come close is in pieces now, the lone survivor on the sand.”

“How near is he to dying?”

“Better ask Gavra. She saw Simone treating him and came here.”

Gavra looked at them expectantly. They’d spoken English without thinking, rather than French the islanders understood. Tristan hated to ask the obvious but had to know the truth. “Is he a pirate?”

“Not like the others who came here. More a captain as you are, dressed as you were. At least, Simone believes so. She said he could also be a merchant.”

Right now, he was trouble Tristan didn’t need. He slipped into the hall. “Let’s take a look.”

Dressed, Diana left the chamber. “I’m coming too.”

He cupped her elbow and led her away from the others. “Have you forgotten you’re with child? My child?”

“Ours. How could I not remember as I’m carrying the infant? I promise to be careful. However, I’m not an invalid. Back in England, women still plow fields and do other demanding tasks even when they’re about to give birth.”

“That’s there, not here. Thankfully, we’re more civilized.”

She kissed his knuckles. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t go farther than the point, but I want to be there. I’m your wife, not a child.”

“You’re my life. If anything were to happen…”

“It won’t.” She eased into him. “I promise.”

“You had better or I’ll chain you to our bed and will never let you leave the bloody thing.”

“I shall remember that promise and wait breathlessly for you to fulfill it.”

She would not make him laugh. “Best you keep your tongue in addition to your distance. Your French is still too poor. The islanders won’t know what you’re going on about.”

“I’ll be as stiff and quiet as a statue.”

Not in his bed she wouldn’t.

Hand in hand, they followed the others down the hall to the outside.

* * * *

Of all the people to discover him, Royce hadn’t expected such a beautiful young woman. Simone the other native had said.

She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her light brown skin complemented her dark hair. The ends grazed her waist. He detected a bit of European in her exotic features, and island custom in what little she wore. Simply a red silk cloth tied about her hips, those curves as lavish as her breasts. The mounds were full and lush, begging for a man’s touch, her deep brown nipples quite tight. How a woman reacted when aroused or perhaps afraid.

Wary that she might scream, he’d released her quickly and had expected her to run.

She checked his arms, hands, and head. He supposed for injuries.

At last, she finished and peeked at him.

Cautiously, he pushed up, hoping she wouldn’t bolt.

She sat back on her heels.

Needing an ally here, he tried a smile.

Hers was wondrous, broad and carefree, no deception or caution in her soft brown eyes.

His arrival would eventually change that. No better way to destroy a woman’s trust and happiness than wresting her from an island Eden to imprisonment, lifelong slavery, repeated rape, and birthing children only to have them torn away.

Guilt and shame churned in his gut. Fear for his family competed with the other emotions. “Are you the only one here?” Besides Tristan, his crew, and the other island woman. Their conversation had mentioned Tristan, but not Diana or Peter.

Simone tilted her head. A tress fell across her breast. Confusion swept her lovely face.

Royce had deliberately spoken English so she wouldn’t know he’d heard her speak French earlier when he’d feigned unconsciousness. He next tried Portuguese and received her same bewildered reaction. At last, he used her language.

Her eyes lit up. “My people live here. Once we have you in the stone house, I can see to your injury.” She touched his thigh. “Does it hurt?”

Not as much as when he’d arrived on this shore. “My head is worse.”

She brushed back his hair, her touch as light as an angel’s.

Despite his callous intent here, and what prudence demanded, his lids slid down, his heart pounding as hard as it had when she’d stroked his ribs.

She explored his wound carefully. “I can make a potion to take your pain away. As soon as the men arrive I—”

Voices and footfalls interrupted.

Tristan led the way, his manner and appearance precisely as rumor had described: tall, golden skin, blond hair, and light eyes that offered naught except challenge and possibly death if anyone dared threatened him or those he loved. Following him was an equally tall man with long red hair, his face and chest freckled. Had to be James Sullivan, Tristan’s friend and former quartermaster during their piracy.

An adolescent boy, fifteen or so, brought up the rear. Gangly, as youth were prone to be, he had long dark hair streaked with blond, his skin brown from days outdoors. Diana’s brother, Peter. His features matched Bishop’s depiction.

Tristan, James, Peter, and island men trained their pistols on Royce.

The land to their side jutted out, rocky and reddish as those found in Madagascar. A white woman stood there, wind whipping her dark hair and simple sheath-like gown in violet silk. Her slightly rounded belly didn’t prove pregnancy, though Royce would have staked his life on it. She wore a choker about her throat, the diamonds glittering in the light.

Royce’s pulse pounded. Diana was here, as Bishop had predicted. Along with too many armed men, as Royce had feared, though all islanders, not pirates.

He collapsed on the sand and tried to roll over, pretending to escape from so many weapons. Unable to, he reached to Simone for help, her face the only kind one here.

She curled her fingers around his.

He dropped his arm, feigning unconsciousness.