Other Islands

by Andrea Jones

  Suddenly, the juxtaposition of place to sound connected, and in a flash she formed a picture of her situation. She jumped up to rush to the entryway, throwing herself against the rock that blocked it. “No!” she cried. Disregarding the man with whom she knelt, shoulder to shoulder, she flattened her hands on the cold, stony surface, straining to force it outward.

  Neither her plea nor her exertion yielded effect. The man glanced her way, but continued his labor, unhurried. She watched in horror as he worked at his task, and the scant slice of night around the boulder grew slimmer.

  Steadily, he pulled on two ends of a thick, woven rope. The sinews stretched along his bare arms, his shoulder muscles bunched, and he dragged the boulder backward. When the entrance was sealed to allow only enough space for air to flow, he let the rope sag, and yanked one end to slide it inside his lair. He dropped it by the door. Dusting his hands, he said, “Welcome, little bird.”

  He rose to a crouch, and she recoiled from him. But he didn’t touch her, yet. He moved a few feet deeper into the cavern, where he found headroom to stand. The moss that lined the cave seemed perpetually illuminated, casting a soft, otherworldly glow. It lent his skin an olive tint. As he attained his full height, so tall in proportion to his surroundings, and those surroundings so primitive, Jill got the sensation that he was a Titan from mythic times, born of Mother Earth. But this scene was no fable of another age; Jill recognized the Indian.

  “I’ve seen you before.” She whispered, but the closeness of the cave made even her breathing audible. The stone walls echoed with a sibilance that swirled around the two inhabitants, as if binding them together.

  “I hoped you would remember.”

  His voice held a mocking quality. Still, in spite of the circumstances, Jill’s intuition told her that he spoke from his core. She read his eager stance. His eyes were deep black, but hopeful under the leather band at his forehead. Half naked and unashamed, he came from a different world, yet something about this warrior reminded her of Johann Hanover.

  The comparison made her shiver. Here before her stood a clever adversary. Like the surgeon, he was a foe made more dangerous by a fact that should have protected her: some how, some way, she had engaged his vanity. She must be wary, with this one.

  She remained kneeling by the entrance, beneath the limited protection of the roof’s rocky overhang. “Now I understand why you let me escape, that day I came too near the village.”

  “You did not escape.” He grinned, wolf-like. “I have caged you, yellow bird.” Again, the words bounced around her, as if weaving the cage as he spoke of it.

  “You’ve seen me fly, then. I have seen you hunt.”

  “Yes, I have seen you. You are the queen from the sea. I am Lean Wolf…the Silent Hunter.”

  Viewing him on this second occasion, she recognized his hungry expression. And, certainly, she had not heard him stalk her. “You are aptly named.”

  “As are you, Red-Handed Jill.” He gestured toward her scarlet palm.

  Jill felt a need to keep her marked hand private, and she pressed it to her throat. Only then did she notice her loss. “My necklace— where is it?”

  “It lies on the beach. Your lover, the Black Chief, will find it.”

  Jill turned quickly away, to hide her distress. Hook must be wild to find her.

  She was staggered by the few words Lean Wolf had spoken. Clearly, the man had been watching her. He might have heard every word of her parley with Cecco tonight, but it was obvious that he’d been spying far longer, doubtless since the day of Hook’s capture. What he knew about her frightened her, not because of all he knew, but because of all she didn’t know, about him.

  And then she remembered one thing she did know. She spun around, searching for the single item she’d missed in her first impression. She found Nibs’ orange kerchief. Smeared with blood, it hung at the Indian’s waistband, dangling over the bare flesh of his hip. Exactly where a scalp might dangle, she realized, with revulsion.

  “What have you done to my son?”

  “For your sake, I spared him. I cut down only the Frenchman.” His smile turned bitter. “Red Fawn will not miss one of her many patrons.”

  Jill sighed with relief, and, next second, bowed her head in sorrow. Her suspicions were verified: this brave was Red Fawn’s former husband, and a man to dread. But she hadn’t the luxury to mourn or to fear right now. She must act.

  First, to identify his weapons.

  She eyed Lean Wolf as he picked up flint and stone, struck a spark, and blew on a pitch-covered pine knot. It flared to life like a candle, and he wedged it in a crack of the cave wall. As its resinous scent pervaded the cavern, its light bloomed, and Jill seized her opportunity to examine her surroundings. Her prison was small, but not cramped. Her embroidered yellow scarf lay limp on the ground. She spotted no arms of any kind, and no exit, just victuals and utensils, the man, and his bed of furs. Nothing she might use against him. Her only tools were her wits.

  He said, sneering, “I see you thinking. The storyteller, searching for means to persuade me. But let us make better use of our time.” Lean Wolf hunkered down on his haunches, to place himself at her level as she knelt, and leaned toward her. “I will tell you the truth that you love so well. The answer is ‘No.’ ” He shook his head. “I will not hear your words. I will not set you free.”

  “Then I must free myself.” Jill turned toward the stone, renewing her efforts to roll it from the door. The night air that seeped in was tantalizing, the outdoors within reach, but inaccessible. The draft amplified the ghastly feel of confinement. She knew this attempt to budge the rock was futile, but, as her captor advised, she needed to make use of her time. Thinking was her time’s most advantageous application, and she’d think better with her back to him.

  The lack of weaponry hardly mattered. Resistance was an option, certainly, but at a terrible price; if she injured her abductor, she’d still be trapped in his cage. If she killed him, likewise. He’d played a most intelligent trick, pitting his strength against her. He’d made it plain, also, that her weapon of choice— her wordplay— could not liberate her. Still, her mind was free. She must not allow him to imprison that, too.

  She ceased her labors and smoothed her tunic. Not deigning to look his way, she held her head erect, and asked in her clearest voice, like a command, “What do you require of me?” Her heart careened. Only one answer could follow.

  Lean Wolf felt swollen with victory. All his plans, all his preparation, had borne bounty. Here, in his dominion, perched his little yellow bird. Now to tame her. Now, to make her sing.

  “Do not fear. What I require of you, I will return to you in full.”

  At his answer, Jill flung herself upon the rock again. Resisting the urge to panic, she poured all her energy to applying pressure. Her hands scraped, her knees dug into the ground, burning against the shale as she pushed. She would not yield without a fight.

  He watched the contortion of her comely body, and the bright hair tumbling from its pins. He listened to her gasps as she shoved with all her strength. Her reaction didn’t disappoint him; he admired her enterprise. There was plenty of time to persuade her, and even if he didn’t guide her to his way of thinking, the only one who would suffer was she. When the woman ceased her struggle, panting from exertion and her crimson hand sliding down the rock, he could almost hear her thinking that exact same thought. He voiced it for her.

  “Shall you choose pleasure, or do you choose pain?”

  Three times, she had tested the doorway. Now she appeared to surrender. Keeping her back to him, she exhaled, and dropped her hands to her lap. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Lean Wolf waited, wondering if he’d assessed her correctly. Moments elapsed before he was certain. She raised her head again, and straightened her back. She flung her hair from her face. As Lean Wolf’s hopes ignited, he watched the pirate queen he’d seen on the beach, resuming her role. A few heartbeats passed, and then she turned to him.

 
; He expected protestations. But when she confronted him, his spirit leapt up. Jill was almost smiling. Her curls cascaded over her shoulder, and the jewels on her tunic glimmered in the light, conjuring the scales of the mermaid who’d escaped him. He licked his lips, and his lust for this golden-haired girl surged through the branches of his body.

  She said, “I am a woman, and I cannot budge this rock. But not many men could roll it, as you have done.”

  He held his hands out at his sides. “I am known for the strength of my arms.” He crooked his fingers, beckoning. “Come, see for yourself.” As she studied him, her blue eyes kindled with admiration, and he grinned, gratified. She moved closer, settling on her hip at arm’s length. He got a whiff of her scent again, like nothing in nature, European perfume mixed to confuse men’s minds…and to stimulate their other senses. He felt its effect at his loins. With an effort, he made himself lower his arms. It wouldn’t be long, though, before he learned how much force he’d need to apply with them.

  Jill made a show of assessing his physique. “I have never witnessed such strength.” Her gaze roamed slowly over his body, delaying his next move. She saw a striking man, narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, with fine black hair that hung long, sweeping the meat of his chest. He exhibited the same look of hunger he’d worn the first time she’d seen him, when they locked eyes as she lay near the river, drenched and exhausted. Although she’d been unaware of the fact, he had snared her in his net at that moment.

  And his net was cinched tight. Jill might never be found, and if she died by Lean Wolf’s hand here, who would know? Even Jill could not guess where on the Island he’d hidden her. The chance that Hook would find her was remote. She knew better than to believe this predator left a trail to follow. Hook must wait for daylight to uncover the slightest clue, and, by then, her fate would be sealed. Like this tomb.

  She had to control her trembling, next, as she caught the odor of blood on this murderer’s skin. Her belly lurched. To master her emotions was imperative. She must call upon the instincts of her totem, the tigress, to lend her power. Coldheartedly, she dismissed the death of Flambard. For the time being, the transgressions Lean Wolf committed must not signify. Nor could Jill’s sensibilities.

  She discarded her pride, her dignity, her loyalty. Like Jill herself, they were hostage to her captor’s desires. Relinquishing all other thoughts, Jill focused on Lean Wolf’s physical attributes. She knew, now, that until he used his brawn to roll the boulder from the door, nothing else mattered.

  Her task was clear to her. She must concede to this man what he craved. And her chore reached beyond his simple wants; she must be generous. She must keep him greedy for more— so that he would preserve her, alive.

  Little could be gained by procrastination. “Silent Hunter.” Her voice mellowed within this womb of a cavern. Slowly, she rose from the rock and moved toward him. She had identified his weapon. She must direct it against him.

  Allowing her shoulder to buff his flesh, she walked past the man. When her feet met the shag of the furs, she stopped, waiting for him to follow. She didn’t wait long. The hairs at her neck prickled as she felt his presence loom behind her.

  He laid his hands on her shoulders. As he did so, he detected only the lightest tremor under her skin. “Have I tamed you so quickly, Jill Red-Hand? Shall we not wrestle a while?”

  Over her shoulder she answered, “Such a contest could last only seconds.” Biting her lip, she slid from his grip and lowered herself to the pallet. Still, she could not face him. She took a deep breath to steel herself. Remembering that truth always served her best, she put it to use, confessing, “Your strength has confined me, but it is your cleverness that arrests me.”

  Lean Wolf followed her down, to sprawl next to her on the furs. Grabbing a jug, he offered her a drink of water, and she noted the marriage bracelet on his wrist. Jill was startled to see that he still wore this token from Red Fawn. She accepted the vessel, amazed at the man’s composure. It reminded her to cling to her own equanimity. She drank, grateful for the restoring effect of fresh Island water, and returned the jug. Leaning on her elbow, she lay facing him. The water drops rolled down his chest as he satisfied his thirst.

  She reached out a finger, and captured one. She touched it to her tongue.

  By the shifting of his hips, she knew he’d been instantly aroused. It was her turn to feel gratified, and she smiled. Pressing her advantage of surprise, she slid the vessel from his hands, brushing her breast on his arm in the process, and she set the jug aside. Circling her fingers in the fur on which she lay, she said, “Powerful, and intelligent. Fine looking, too. Truthfully, Lean Wolf, you are the kind of man I admire.”

  “I knew I would please you. Now let us please one another.” He anticipated the delights of her body between his thighs, the gloss of her sun-colored hair beneath his fingers. Now that she was moved to show him her smile, Lean Wolf felt the power of its allure. Drawn closer, he abandoned his languid posture and sat up to lean over her.

  Lightly, Jill touched his hair. She began to stroke it, as if trying the texture. The tender feel of this fondling surprised him. He turned his head a little, and next she appraised his cheekbone with her fingertips— the white fingers, not the blood-red ones— and somehow he felt her choice of hands to be significant.

  He was seized with a need for the touch of her painted hand. Much ruddier than his skin, it matched the color of the blood that flowed in a stag’s veins. The stain on her hand held a story, and its mystery excited him.

  He gestured toward it. “Is this paint made of your own blood? An enemy’s?”

  Her smile turned sly. “You forbade me to answer. No storytelling, you said.”

  For once, Lean Wolf enjoyed a female’s denial. Her daring intrigued him, and his fascination increased. Perhaps magic was at work upon him. When he made her touch him with that hand, might it bewitch him? Would she leave her mark on him, too? As he wondered, captivated now, she laid her white fingers along his jaw. They were supple, they were warm, and the gesture was welcome enough. But how much more would he appreciate her hand of color when soon he demanded it? Jill surprised him again, bending down to remove his moccasins.

  He humored her. He was ready to couple with her, but time was of no importance. She couldn’t get away, and he had ensured that no weapon was available to her. As he learned of her skill with arms, he had listened also to talk about her fierce fidelity to her lovers— all her lovers. Beside her sensuality, it was her contradiction that intrigued him. How exhilarating, to mate with a woman who loved passionately, yet who did not insist that a man be faithful— nor pretend even to be faithful to him. He had heard the gossip among the women; rather than berating her husband, the second captain, it was said that the lady pirate encouraged him in his dalliance with Lily.

  But even allowing for her reputation, the woman from the sea was behaving in a manner beyond Lean Wolf’s expectations. Her conduct was commanding, yet submissive. From the start, she imposed the tension of opposites. She seemed to be two women at once, exhibiting a spirit that promised him battle, yet kneeling on his blankets, almost docile, to serve him. She must have learned to curb her impulses in order to secure her position on that ship. The men she loved were powerful chiefs. At their hands, no doubt, she found it wise to yield, and to do so with that grace so tempting in a woman. He had not believed this grace would extend to her abductor. One thing, though, he expected absolutely. She would not fail to pleasure him.

  Maintaining her composure, Jill placed the moccasins on the ground. From Lean Wolf’s waistband, she pulled Nibs’ orange kerchief. She untied its knot, then extended her hand— the pale one. Willingly, he grasped it. She urged him to kneel, facing her, their knees cushioned on the furs. She laid her ruby hand over his heart, exploring, then caressing, and, soon, sampling the electricity of his excitement. As he moved to grip her, she evaded him, leaning back to position his hands together, prayer-like. Loosely, she wrapped the kerchief around hi
s wrists, and tied it up again.

  Becoming impatient, Lean Wolf smirked. “You have witnessed my might. I can tear this tie in two.”

  “I hope you will not wish to,” she cajoled him. Palms together, she slid her hands between his own. Lean Wolf cocked his head, amused. Jill looked deep in his eyes, blacker still within the cave, with flecks of green reflected from the phosphorescent rock.

  “Lean Wolf. What name will you give me?”

  He squinted, regarding her. As rumor foretold, she was a bold one. Although suspicious of her motive, he saw no harm in this request. He used the time to savor the sensation of her blood-warm hands in his. He noted the scarlet scar along her throat, surprisingly like a knife wound. Taking advantage of this opportunity, he moved his gaze lower to ogle her peaks and curves through the linen of her tunic, recalling her nakedness at the waterfall. After some moments’ enjoyment, however, he contemplated her question. Her foreign scent regaled him again, and the trace of the sea on her clothing. When he answered, it was his heart that spoke for him.

  “I see depths within, and life within the depths. You are…Red Hand from the Sea. It is suitable for the lifeblood on your hand, and true to your sea-blue eyes. This name is fitting for you.”

  “Then so you may call me.”

  He shrugged. “It is fitting,” he repeated.

  Still her gaze dwelt on his eyes and, unafraid, he hid nothing from her. But when her declaration came forth, he was unprepared for it.

  “Lean Wolf Silent Hunter. I accept you as my husband.”

  Lean Wolf drew back. Mistrusting, he asked, “Do you understand what you are doing? This ritual? Or do you just play house?”

  “I have played with other men.” She shook her head, once. “With the Silent Hunter, I stand in earnest.” Deadly earnest, she finished, in the only free part of her— in her mind.

  His shoulders relaxed. He felt his heart relax, too, opening just a wedge to let this woman in. Perhaps she did own the strength to shift a boulder. “Your spirit moves me. I see that you mean what you say.”