“Do you still intend to make berth at St. Malo?”
“Yes, that is my course.”
“It is a fine and noble thing you are doing keeping your promise to young Dominique—”
“There is nothing noble about my decision,” Xavier interrupted, “I never do anything that inconveniences me. I just happen to find St. Malo as good a port as any other to transact my business.”
Father Bernard smiled, giving Xavier one of those wise looks that suggested he knew better and which made Xavier long to stuff the priest out the nearest porthole.
“I believe an English port might serve your purpose as well and be a deal safer. You may find yourself less than welcome back in France. Monsieur du Bois told me all that transpired in Paris. Queen Catherine does not seem like the sort of woman to forgive one for ignoring her commands.”
Xavier grimaced, mentally cursing his chattering first mate. Jambe was worse than an old woman.
“I have slipped in and out of Spanish ports all along the coast of the Americas. I think I can manage to steal safely into St. Malo with the queen none the wiser. Trust me, the woman is not as formidable a witch as everyone fears that she is.”
Father Bernard fell silent for a long moment before saying, “Faire Isle is not that far of a sail from St. Malo.”
Xavier swiveled to regard the priest with frowning surprise. “Surely you are not suggesting that I carry out the queen’s command and abduct that young girl for her?”
“No! No, of course not.” Father Bernard hesitated, subjecting Xavier to one of his earnest soul-searching looks. “I just wanted to remind you that the queen was not the only one who desired you to sail to Faire Isle.”
Xavier tensed, his fingers clamping down upon his quill so hard he crushed the feathers.
“Upon his deathbed, your father—” the priest began.
“My father was raving with the yellow fever, completely out of his head.”
“He seemed lucid enough to me when I gave him the last rites. He grew so peaceful. He died with your mother’s portrait clasped to his heart. The last word he whispered was her name. Evangeline.”
The priest clearly expected Xavier to be moved by that. There was only one problem, Xavier reflected bitterly. His mother had been named Marguerite.
“I thought I had made it clear to you. I have no wish to discuss any of this.” Turning his back on the man, Xavier hunched over his desk again. “Now if you don’t mind, I have some letters to write.”
Father Bernard rose reluctantly to his feet. “I just thought this might be a good time for you to carry out your father’s dying wish for you to take his journals, his last bequest, to Faire Isle.”
Xavier gritted his teeth. “My father was delirious. He didn’t even know who the devil I was or he would never have entrusted me with such an errand.”
“No, I am sure he was—”
“Delirious,” Xavier repeated with an edge to his voice. He glanced down and was annoyed to see he had mindlessly poked holes in one of the charts with the tip of his quill. He, who was never given to fidgeting, who never moved so much as a finger without some clear purpose.
He flung down the quill in disgust. “You want the journals delivered to Faire Isle, you take them.”
“Your father hoped that you would do it.”
“He’s dead. He can’t hope for much of anything now, can he?”
“That is true. Your father is at rest. I worry more about you, my son. I do not think you will ever know peace yourself until you fulfill your father’s request.”
“I have all the peace I desire. At least I would have, if you would leave me alone. And I am no man’s son.”
Father Bernard heaved a deep sigh, leaving the cabin with slumped shoulders and that sad look Xavier had come to think of as the young man’s wounded puppy expression.
Xavier expelled his breath in a savage oath. He could greatly sympathize with those Indians who had attacked the priest in the jungle. Damned fool, blundering in where he was not wanted, meddling in matters he didn’t understand.
For five years, Xavier had been separated, torn apart from his father after the Spanish attack on the French settlement. And for five long years, Xavier had searched, only to find his father dying in some remote mission in Brazil.
It had been his great misfortune that he had done so with that wretched priest at his side. Xavier would have preferred there had been no witness to those last hours with his father, the painful culmination to what had been an often bitter and stormy relationship.
He had hovered over his father’s deathbed, searching for the words to prayers he couldn’t remember, hoping for he scarce knew what. A final blessing from the old man, that he would at long last truly acknowledge Xavier as his son?
Instead his father had attempted to load one more burden upon Xavier’s shoulders with his impossible dying request.
Whatever had possessed his father to request that Xavier carry his legacy to Faire Isle? No matter what that fool priest insisted, the old man had to have been out of his wits. For as long as Xavier could remember, his father had striven to keep his two worlds far apart, his life in Paris, his home on Faire Isle.
Why would his father have changed his mind and wanted Xavier to go to Faire Isle? The answer was simple. He wouldn’t have, any more than the old man had ever wanted to admit that Xavier was his son.
Xavier stared down at his desk and drew forth a blank sheet of parchment. He dipped his quill in the ink and after a hesitation, scrawled out his signature. The words glared against the whiteness of the page, like some guilty secret not meant to be revealed. His full name, the one he never used because he was not entitled to it. His father had made that more than clear to him.
Xavier scratched his quill through the signature several times, so hard he tore the parchment. He crumpled up the page and flung it across the cabin.
Then he leaned back in his chair and locked his arms across his chest as though he could wall out the emotions that threatened to breach the hull of his indifference, a dark floodtide of bitterness, hurt, and regret.
His gaze traveled to his sea chest. He stared at it for a long time before rising to his feet. Drawn almost against his will, he knelt beside the battered oak chest and threw back the lid.
He delved beneath charts and articles of clothing until he found the journals stacked on the bottom, a sum total of six leather-bound volumes. His father had kept records of their voyages ever since they had sailed from France, his writings interspersed with sketches of jungle plants, exotic birds, painted natives, animals unknown to Europe.
Xavier ran his fingertips over the cover of the most recent journal, wondering why he resisted the temptation to flip it open, devour the book’s contents. His father was no longer here to say him nay.
Perhaps he was restrained by the knowledge that these journals had never been intended for him. But he had never had qualms about plundering another man’s treasure before. Or in this case, a woman’s…
No. He could not deceive himself. What kept him from delving through the journals was nothing but cowardice. Not the fear that he might stumble across an unflattering reference to himself, but the fear that there would be no mention of him at all in his father’s journals.
As though Xavier had never even existed …
Perhaps the blasted priest was right about one thing. Those journals weighting down his sea chest were like a spike imbedded in his flesh. He never would have any peace until he got rid of them. He had buried the chevalier with his beloved Evangeline’s portrait clutched in his hands. Xavier didn’t know why he hadn’t tossed the books into the grave as well.
He picked up the topmost journal. Such an insignificant thing really, a bit of cow’s hide stretched around a collection of old parchment and ink strokes. Then why did it feel so cursed heavy?
Xavier hefted it in his palm for a moment before heaving a disgruntled sigh and dropping the book back atop the stack. Just like he always did.
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Then he groped for the other object he kept buried in the bottom of the trunk. His fingers closed around a leathern jack, the flask filled with the amber liquid that had steered Xavier through more than one endless dark night or dreary idle afternoon.
He had learned how to distill the potion from an Indian shaman in Peru, a careful blending of certain kinds of jungle liana. The devil’s brew, the Spanish priests called it.
But the natives had another name for the liquid, the vine of the spirits, a portal to another world, a place where the mind could expand to embrace the mysteries of the universe, visions that were not always clear or perfectly remembered, but elusive with promise. Not the kind of chicanery Xavier had practiced upon the Dark Queen in Paris, but true magic.
Xavier uncorked the flask. He’d been a trifle reckless last time and drank too much. This time he’d be more judicious. Xavier moistened his lips and took a long swallow.
The liquid coated his tongue and palate, the taste a strange mingling of bitter and sickly sweet. It oozed down his throat like a live eel, making him want to retch. He gulped, breathing carefully until the nausea passed.
He corked the flask and returned it to the trunk, closing the lid. Kneeling, he waited for the brew to take effect, just as the shaman had taught him, arms outstretched, eyes closed. He commenced a rhythmic chanting, the drone of his own voice mesmerizing him deeper into the trance.
His senses become more acute, the tang of his sweat sharp in his nostrils, the sound of his own heartbeat thundering like jungle drums in his ears.
He swayed in time to the beat, his breathing coming quicker. The first wave of pain in his gut caused him to double over. He chanted faster, clenching his hands into fists, as his head reeled. Lights exploded behind his eyelids, a maelstrom of fire and color.
His body lurched as though he had been hurled through some invisible barrier. A place where his breath stilled, his heart slowed, and his mind broke free of the crude barriers that bound him to earth.
He soared through the sky in a dizzying rush, past cities, over rivers and woods, seas and mountains until he touched down in the lush tropics of a rain forest. Violent tremors coursed through him as he felt his body changing, his limbs stretching, becoming fluid sinew and powerful muscle, his skin dissolving into a sleek pelt of dark fur.
As his four paws connected solidly with the ground, he no longer felt like a thing apart from the earth, but at one with it, a black jungle cat prowling through the thick foliage of the forest.
A snake rose up in his path, unfurling her diamond coils with a menacing hiss. He drove her back with a savage snarl, continuing on his way, in search of his true prey.
She awaited him where she always did, near the river where it spilled over a cliffside into the roaring falls. A woman with long blond hair, wet and tangled about her shoulders like a mermaid’s, but her eyes were more that of a sorceress, glowing with a pale blue light.
Sunlight poured through the gauzy veil of her gown, her body all ripe curves and lush with promise, as fecund as the earth itself.
He crept closer, and although he saw her eyes widen and her breath hitch, she did not flee. Not even when he prowled around her, brushing up against her thighs. She buried her fingers in his hair, caressing him with long slow strokes.
Only when he emitted a growl, full-throated with desire, did she back away. Mixed in with the tang of her fear was the delicious scent of her arousal, even as she turned to run.
Some part of Xavier was aware this was not the first time he had encountered this creature in his visions. He still had no idea who or what she was; witch, mermaid, or mere woman. He only knew he had to have her.
He plunged recklessly after her, not hesitating even when she dove into the falls. Crouching he leapt, soaring into the air…
Xavier sprawled on the floor of his cabin, bracing himself to strike the water. It came in a cold splash, striking him full force in the face.
He spluttered, trying to twist away from the rough hand that was shaking his shoulder.
“Captain, wake up.”
Xavier forced his eyes open a slit. The rich green foliage of the jungle had disappeared, replaced by the close timber walls of his cabin. Gone was the powerful black cat. He was reduced to a mere mortal again, his limbs heavy and awkward, his head splitting.
He closed his eyes, trying to tumble back into the world of forest and falls, his veil-clad temptress. But rude insistent hands continued to tug at him.
“Captain! Damn it, man. Heave to!”
Xavier opened his eyes and this time managed to focus on the tall dark shadow hovering over him. Pietro thrust his arm beneath Xavier’s shoulders and dragged him to a sitting position. The walls pitched up and down, causing his senses to swim.
“On your feet, sir.”
“Give me a minute, blast you,” Xavier muttered. “My head—”
The words caught in Xavier’s throat as he realized it was not his head causing the cabin to pitch and roll. The Miribelle creaked and groaned as her timbers ground against each other, the sounds of his lady in deep distress, caught in the throes of a violent storm.
Leaning heavily on the support of Pietro’s arm, Xavier struggled to his feet. “Damnation! Why did you not rouse me sooner?”
“I should like you to tell me how that’s to be done when you’ve been messing about with that devil’s brew.” Pietro glowered at him. The Cimmarone’s eyes burned with reproach, but it was nothing to the coals Xavier would heap upon his own head. But there would be time enough for that later. He hoped …
Steadying himself as best he could, Xavier lurched from the cabin. Peering down into the murky depths of the hold, he could hear the dark lap of water, the grunts and shouts of sea dogs manning the pump.
“How bad?” Xavier demanded tersely of Pietro.
“Bad enough. Jambe’s above, fighting to keep us from steering onto the rocks.”
“Rocks? We are near land? St. Malo?”
“Don’t think so. We’ve been driven off course.”
Which might prove a good thing, Xavier thought. The port of St. Malo was protected by a barrier reef that was difficult to navigate even in the fairest weather.
Xavier shook his head to clear it of the potion’s effect, still feeling as though he were swimming through a fog.
The ladder leading above deck pitched with the ship. Xavier cursed his own clumsiness as he struggled upward, only saved from falling by the support of Pietro’s strong arm.
He emerged into a world far removed from the morning’s stifling calm. The deck heaved and shuddered beneath a roiling dark sky, angry waves spraying over the side. Flares of lightning illuminated the looming shoreline, harsh and unwelcoming. Granite rocks and a towering cliff that—
Xavier’s heart stopped, his memory stirring with one of his father’s rare tales.
“A high cliff guarded by a ring of menhirs, Louis. They are said to be giants, turned to stone by Mother Earth, given the task of forever protecting the island.”
“And shall I ever see these giants, sir?”
The piping ring of his eager child’s voice echoed through Xavier’s head. His unfortunate question had caused his father’s face to freeze as though he suddenly recalled who he was talking to.
Xavier blinked as another burst of lightning lit the cliffside again. Faire Isle. Whether Xavier willed it or no, his father’s two worlds were about to collide.
He had to suppress a hysterical urge to burst into laughter. Was this some monumental jest of fate or his father’s hand reaching from beyond the grave? Either way it didn’t matter. Xavier wasn’t having it.
Bracing himself, he launched across the storm-battered deck, heading for the helm. The rain beat against his face, half blinding him. Thunder boomed in his ears as though the Miribelle was besieged by the entire Spanish armada.
His beleaguered lady shuddered, heaving violently to one side, and shook him off his feet. He slid across the rain-slick deck, making a frant
ic grab for the rail. His wits, still dulled by the potion, rendered his fingers thick and clumsy. His hand closed on nothing but air.
The Miribelle pitched again. Xavier roared out as the unthinkable happened. His lady flung him overboard. For a moment time seemed to stop as he hurled into nothingness.
Then he was embraced by the cold arms of the sea.
Chapter Six
SUNLIGHT BATHED THE SEA, THE GOLDEN WAVES CARESSING the shore like a lover mending a quarrel, the rage of last night’s storm all forgotten. Jane picked her way along the rocky outcropping.
Here on the far side of Faire Isle, the vista was harsh, jagged fingers of rock stretching out into the sea, the vegetation sparse, only the hardiest of marsh grass and shrubs able to find purchase on a granite shore.
Jane had always preferred a tidy expanse of meadow or the gentle green of a hillside. Never had she expected to feel this rush of breath, her heart swelling with each break of the waves over the rocks.
She cast a half-nervous glance over her shoulder, reassuring herself that she was still within view of the cottages that passed for a village on the wilder part of the island, a scattering of rough stone huts that seemed carved into the face of the cliffs.
Other women were stirring, venturing out to enjoy the soft morning. Young Carole Moreau twirled her small son in a joyous circle while nearby Madame Alain and Madame Greves shared baskets of bread and gossip. Madame Partierre trotted about, industriously gathering up driftwood to dry out for her fire.
A tough wizened old lady, she was one of the few who actually lived on this rugged coast. Most had traveled here from the tamer side of the island, the harbor town of Port Corsair. But there were a few who had journeyed farther, from Brittany, the Loire Valley, even from as far away as Poitou, all in anticipation of the council meeting that would take place atop the cliffs a week hence.
A strange and independent lot, these women who called themselves the daughters of the earth. Jane could only marvel at their boldness. She had never traveled anywhere without the escort of a kinsman or the chaperonage of a maid and at least two stout male servants.
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