by Angel Payne
Yes. This Frenchman was very strange. He set her curiosity, and her suspicion, simmering.
He was much too handsome, to start. He wasn’t dandied up in one of those powdered wigs they all seemed to wear, making his thick, ink-black hair as a horrific distraction. It swept across his temples and around his ears, practically begging a woman to comb it herself—with her fingers. Then there was the way he moved. He was as graceful as a pacing panther, stalking around on long, tight-breeched legs that fit neatly into high black boots. And if she thought of how the rest of his physique was formed, since he’d pressed enough of it against her, she’d lose her logic again. All of it.
Think, Golden. Heed your brain, not your body. Don’t forget how he suddenly dropped the haughty accent, too. Not that his well-heeled accent isn’t pleasant, but—
The gods slammed her with a vision. Sweet stars, it all made sense now.
Captain Swine was acting, too!
The conniver. Took her for a ninny, did he? Thinking he could woo her allegiance with his devastating looks and play of innocence?
There was nothing she loved better than putting these French worms back in the mud from which they crawled.
“M’sieur.”
Her sharp tone got him to stop and look. She had to give his performance accolades. His expression was as ominous as any real irritation she’d ever seen. For all she knew, that part of his charade was real.
Enough appraisals. She was running out of time. The sunset was ready to part its deep-red curtains to the night any moment. She would need every available moment of that blessed darkness to negotiate her escape off Saint Kitts and to Papa at last. Someone needed to tell him firsthand what these horrid men were doing to their home, and to see revenge upon the bastards at last.
If it wasn’t too late.
Her heart skipped a beat. No, no, it wasn’t too late. Papa was safe. He promised he’d never leave her. He’d never gone back on a promise, from the first time he swore King George would let him adopt her and through every minute of the three years hence. He was alive. She knew it.
“M’sieur.” She inched a step forward, hoping to find the chink in that armor of an expression still staring down at her. “I have chosen to overlook that—that—” What was that wet, whirling lip-touching thing? “Intolerable liberty you dared upon me, but I will not overlook the flagrant injustice of this situation.” She raised her chin. Still no chink. “You, sir, will either cite the charges on which you summoned me here, or release me.”
He answered with silence. Curse the unnerving wretch. She dropped her eyes, searching for a respite in the front ties of his shirt. But that was as unnerving a sight as his face. The loosened laces revealed curly hair that matched the night-black shade on his head.
“What?” he finally said. Not a question. An accusation.
“You—you heard me.” Where had all the moisture in her throat gone? “Convict me or release me, Captain. It is ethics.”
“Ethics?”
She couldn’t believe it. The bastard laughed at her as he said it. He turned away and paced again. “Good God. A half-savage island wench preaching to me about ethics.”
“I am not preaching! I am making you aware of—”
“Ohhh. Now she’s ‘making me aware.’”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Talking as if I don’t exist. As if I’m not right here.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “Hellion, believe me; I know you’re there.”
“Stop that!”
“For God’s sake, now what?”
“You’re mocking me!”
He spun away again. Golden felt as insignificant as a mouse and doubly as helpless. He was giving her no choice about looking at the muscles working in his high, broad back. To wit, she had no control over the conclusion that they looked more like liquid steel. And she certainly wasn’t responsible for how it made her hands itch in curiosity, wanting to reach out and learn if she was right about that.
This was an atrocity. Another jest in the long, cruel joke of this senseless conflict. Why did anyone have to “rule” Saint Kitts at all? As if a crown of any size could ensnare the spirit of the islands!
She turned her gaze past the veranda, out to the hills of her home. The deep-green slopes were clothed in a nightgown of lavender and blue shadow, nestled under a quilt of endless stars. They were alike, these hills and her. Free yet not free. Of one soul, of a million souls. Belonging to everyone, belonging to no one.
It was not worth raging about anymore. No amount of anger was going to drive the French pigs away, or get her to Papa any sooner. She’d gotten herself into this muck. Been careless enough to get caught, or worse yet, to have gotten herself betrayed. As far as being at the mercy of the most towering, infuriating sot of them all? Maybe not her fault. But definitely now her conundrum.
The bastard himself broke into her thoughts, pivoting back upon her. “My lady.” The honor contradicted the motion. It was too bloody gentle. Golden obeyed instinct and stepped back. “I’m not mocking you,” he went on. “I’m not laughing at you, I’m not trying to confuse you.”
A breeze as soft as his voice made its way inside, teasing at the ends of his hair. It lent to the guileless illusion he still played at. Golden fumbled for a defiant return but not a sound came. He moved closer, trapping her once more in the depths of his cobalt gaze…
“Lord and rot, M! Toss her over yer blazin’ shoulder and let’s get goin’!”
Golden jumped back and glared at the man who sprung up between them. At least she thought he was a man. The diminutive creature looked as fearsome as a battle-hungry half-Viking.
Lightning points of alarm zipped to her nerve endings. “Who are you? What’s happening? Get going where?”
“Damn it, Dink.” The captain grabbed the miniature demon, his hand swallowing the smaller man’s shoulder. “I was getting her to trust me, you fool. Now look at her. You think she’s going to go quietly now?”
“What the hell difference does that make?”
“Use your head. I don’t have the Athena hidden in that back cove for the bloody scenery. You want her screaming for our heads with the whole island at our backs, or compliant and willing—”
“All right, all right. I get the bleedin’ point.”
“Compliant and willing?” Golden cocked her head, the movement driven by perplexity. This French bastard wasn’t acting so French anymore. As for the bastard part…well, bastards were more annoying than disconcerting, so that didn’t apply, either. “What’s going on here?”
That was when he captured her with his gaze again. Her throat clutched. Forget disconcerting. Those dark-blue depths didn’t let her go. He was drowning her. Capturing her.
“Dear God.” The gasp escaped as she began to truly look at him. Words crashed in on her…all those words of her childhood, of fable and folk tale, of fear and of hate. They collided with the image of the man who towered before her, and the truth dawned like the piercing shaft of a new sunrise.
“Compliant and willing,” she heard herself repeat as if through a mist-filled tunnel. “Ship. Hidden. Back cove.”
“Now, sweet—”
“I’m not your sweet! And you’re—you’re not even French!” She backed away, deep intuitions of danger pulling her into a low crouch. He matched her movements, inching toward her, his long muscles tensed and his rope-roughened hands prodding the air.
“My Lady Golden, if you’ll only listen—”
“Your eyes.” Amazement raced through her with terrifying speed. “Your eyes. They’re the color of midnight.”
It all added up. It was so completely obvious! “And your hair….” The barely-perceptible sheen of dark blue in his black waves…it blinded her now. Why hadn’t she figured it out sooner?
“Sky in his eyes, wind in his hair,” she murmured incredulously. She knew the rhyme by heart, could recite it by rote since Guypa had taught it to her so long ago.
“Catch the dark night beams, and you’ll find him there—”
“Don’t,” he demanded. “You’ve hoisted the wrong flag of supposition, girl.”
“He towers like the heavens, with the moon on his chin—”
He reached to the crescent-shaped scar like an ashamed youth covering a blemish. “Moonstormer, Moonstormer” —she could barely whisper the finish— “the master of sin.”
“Goddamnit,” he muttered.
Her throat constricted with shock. “Dear gods. You’re him, aren’t you? You’re him.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re lying!”
The monster came closer, his stature dominating the confines of Papa’s study. Golden scrambled back against the wall then froze, unable to move. Unable to think.
It was the moment she’d waited for. The space in time she’d prayed so fervently to receive, on her knees each morning in the damp sand of the beach where Guypa had first found her. Every day she’d implored the spirits of the ocean to return the sea beast just once more to the scene of his evil, so she could return the fate he’d given her parents.
The spirits had been gracious. Her time had come.
And she couldn’t move.
“Blarst it, Stafford. Look what ya’ve done now. She’s gone to jellyfish shit.”
“Shut up, Dink. That’s an order.” He still stared at her. Like a supernatural net coming out after her, those eyes of blue mystery reached out to her. Looming closer and closer over her.
“No!” Golden screamed. “Get away!”
“Golden—”
“Get away!” She scrambled to the corner, the chains slowing her. She hardly noticed past the turmoil in her mind. The chaos. The memories.
“Mummy, Daddy, where are you? It’s so hot. Please come and get me. Please!”
It was happening all over again. She was drowning, but this time it was the monster who stole her breath. His smudged linen shirt and gold-braided jacket became her earth and sky. His spiced masculine smell surrounded her. He pressed hard legs to either side of hers, dwarfing her thighs with his. She tried to scratch out, but the shackles rendered her powerless.
She’d prayed for the chance to kill him. Instead, the Moonstormer was swallowing her whole.
Suddenly, her terror was joined by another presence. Primal instinct—the lifeblood of the jungle. With wild relief, Golden let it take over. A low growl unfurled from the deepest part of her. Heat blazed through her mind. She focused that power to her eyes, darting her sights everywhere. All of the old intuitions were there, ingrained into her since childhood at Guypa’s patient hand. His steady murmur echoed in her mind again, telling her to suspend every thought, to only feel. To hear her heartbeat and wrap it into the energy of every living thing around her…including her prey.
The moment he adjusted his balance, she struck. Using the wall for support, she rocked back then let her feet explode into his chest.
After his stunned curse, the wall of a man fell away. Golden watched the Moonstormer go down, his legs flaying like a wounded grasshopper. She indulged a tiny victory grin.
Her triumph was short-lived. The grasshopper disappeared as he recovered from the fall with moves akin to a panther. After regaining his balance in a graceful sweep, he slinked back toward her. His face was dark and furious. Great god Puntan, the man was swift. And damnably agile.
She tried to disorient the beast by feigning the offensive. A snarl fired off her lips. She followed it with a long feline hiss.
He didn’t stop. “Temper, hellion.” The thunder of impatience was discernible behind his rain-soft tone.
“I’ll kill you.” She slinked up the wall as she seethed it, trying to keep her vulnerable shackled hands away from his reach. “I swear by all the spirits of earth and heaven, I’ll kill you.”
The Moonstormer merely continued matching her movements with his feral grace. Golden watched him, struggling not to look at his eyes, which had shadowed to near black. She tried not to care about the tension that strained his muscles against his jacket. She really tried to ignore the power beneath the heel-to-toe rhythm of his step.
For all that, her effort backlashed. There was nothing left to look at but the foreboding white crescent that gleamed on his chin. The Moonstormer’s mark, seeming to pulse with her own heartbeat…
Damn it.
She slammed into the side of Papa’s bookcase. Now she was trapped in the tiny corner it made against the wall. The Moonstormer cocked a victory smile as he neared.
“Beast!” she cried. “You’re an arrogant, heartless beast!”
To her disconcertment, his grin faded. His features flickered with surprise—
Just before the rest of the world detonated.
Cannons bellowed through the darkness. But the explosions were a drizzle compared to the downpour of chaos that ruptured the walls around them. Gunfire rang. A door crashed in. Commands were shouted up the main stairs. Glass shattered, paintings were ripped, furniture toppled, soldiers yelled in glee.
“M!” The elf appeared again. “They’re onto ya, kid. One of them is carryin’ on about slashin’ that jacket from you himself.”
“What? How—” A look of blinding comprehension widened the Moonstormer’s features. “Hell. The two idiots I let go—”
“They’re totin’ the hangin’ rope.”
“The morons actually went back to De Bouille.”
“Can we make anon with the prattle, kid? You’re outta time.”
They were words of prophecy. The tumult grew. Troops pounded through the halls, closing in on the study. Golden glanced at the closed doors then back to the Moonstormer. What was she to do now? The chains were reminder enough that she couldn’t fight the pirate and win, not the way she yearned to. But the French soldiers were the ones who’d shackled her to begin with.
Now more than ever, Papa was her only hope. Lord Wayland, Third Earl of Pemshire, King George’s most trusted emissary in the Indies, would know what to do. She had to get to Papa!
Golden took a deep breath. Dared a small step to the side. Another. She stole another furtive glance at the Moonstormer. Fates be thanked, a door crashed in somewhere below, distracting him for a perfectly timed moment.
She whipped her gaze back to the veranda. Papa’s beloved chinaberry tree curled lovingly against it. Just like a beckoning finger.
No more time to waste.
Great spirits help her. God help her. Anything in the heavens help her.
She shimmied over the veranda rail and began to slide down the fat branch, shackles and all.
Chapter Three
“Oh, Lord.”
She’d managed to keep the groan in until she got to the ground. She looked back up through the tree, now a foreboding tower overhead, and gasped. The steep slope of the hillside, in addition to the stilts every house on the island needed against hurricane floods, made the veranda much higher than it had originally appeared.
You were a massive bird tit for trying that, Golden.
She broke a rebellious grin. She was a free bird tit now.
Her body fought back, reminding her of the price she’d just paid for that. She hurt everywhere. The shackles weighed on her arms like lead and cut into her wrists like glass. Her arms and face stung from where the tree had lashed her. Her whole bum throbbed.
To make matters worse, the trade wind come along with the night. The damp blasts slapped hair into her face as she raced through the garden, nearly rendering her blind. Flaming poinciana petals and red Barbados lilies tangled around her heels. Flying debris pelted the rest of her body.
“Mast!”
The demon elf’s astonished voice burst out from the veranda.
Horror assaulted her now, too.
“Mast, I found her. But jigger me, how’d she get—”
“Damn!” The Moonstormer cut him off, his flinty voice resonating across the garden and hitting Golden like a flying spear. She whimpered, her voice protesting even that, b
egging her to stop. She didn’t dare. She rushed on, racing over the brook that separated the manicured lawn from the dense rainforest.
The foliage did nothing to mute the Moonstormer’s raging roar. “That caballing little chit!”
“The Frenchies have already torn apart the cellar and front hall,” supplied the demon. “Our only chance is the back stairs.”
“Let’s go.”
Golden bit back a sob. The back stairs. They’d be on her heels again in a minute. She dove into the thick underbrush but knew the forest would give only temporary safety. She had to get up and move again. How was that possible when pain, fear, and exhaustion tore into her with every second?
The wind hit a lull. So did the cannons.
In the silence, a touraco called.
Her tears dissolved into a laugh of relief. The tentative little bird cry was better than a proclamation that the king was arriving. Especially if it came again.
The touraco trilled a repeat.
She tossed her head back and sent a fast thanks to the stars.
Touracos didn’t live on Saint Kitts. Maya did.
Golden softly returned the bird call.
Long, dark hands whipped aside the breadfruit leaves next to her. A mischievous smile followed, lighting up the striking cinnamon-colored face of her tribal sister. The native maiden stepped forward, wielding a lighted torch.
“Got ya! Ha ha!”
“Maya, I’ve never been so happy to see you!”
Her sister’s grin took a plunge as Maya caught sight of Golden’s bound wrists. “By the stars in the sky, sister! What they do to you?”
“Explanations later. Do you have your skeleton key?”
“Do the leopard have spots?”
“Then hurry.” Golden winced as she pulled the chain tight so Maya could get to the keyholes in the shackles. “We’ve got to get out of here!” More crashes from the mansion underlined the urgency of her appeal.
“Sister.” Maya’s eyes became circles of shock as she maneuvered the shackles free. “You hurt—bad. You arms as purple as marble rocks!”
“Sshh!” She sent a furtive glance back across the lawn. “He’ll hear you.”
