by Tina Donahue
Cover Copy
In a pirate’s lair, nothing is as it seems . . .
Shipwrecked! When Royce Hastings is found washed up on the shore of a verdant tropical island, he tells the natives he is a merchant headed for Mozambique. The truth, however, is far more mercenary. Noble by birth, the once favored Royce has lost his fortune and family; now he is a hired henchman on the trail of an elusive pirate. His “shipwreck” was a fake. He’ll stop at nothing to infiltrate the island and capture his prey. His mother and sisters’ lives depend on it.
The last thing Royce expects is to be captured himself. But the lovely young woman who tends to his wounds in the tropics quickly takes hold of his heart. Simone is the island’s healer, and her skilled ministrations not only awaken his soul but disturb his conscience. His path has been predetermined; his identity must remain concealed at all costs. Yet the passion he feels in Simone’s sultry, loving arms cannot be denied. With his loyalties torn, Royce must make an agonizing, unthinkable choice . . .
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Books by Tina Donahue
Dangerous Desires
Loving Lies
Wicked Whispers
Passionate Pursuit
Pirate’s Prize
First Comes Desire
Days of Desire
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Days of Desire
Pirate’s Prize
Tina Donahue
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Tina Donahue
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First Electronic Edition: July 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0063-7
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0063-8
First Print Edition: July 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0066-8
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0066-2
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my fans. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Author’s Foreword
Several years ago, I watched The Bounty on cable. Mel Gibson was hard to resist as Fletcher Christian. His passion for Mauatua, a native woman, was pure romance. When I conceived Days of Desire, I wanted Royce and Simone’s attraction to be as intense, with the added complication of Royce’s deadly secret that threatens their star-crossed relationship. The world I created for them isn’t always easy but they fight for their future with intense passion and enduring love.
Acknowledgments
To the Internet and all the wonderful folks who’ve shared their knowledge. You’ve made research a joy rather than a trial.
Prologue
Mozambique—1717
“Diana Fletcher is mine.” Benedict Bishop pinched snuff generously between his stout fingers. “You will make certain to deliver her.”
In times past, Royce Hastings would have dismissed Bishop as the swine he was. Not now. Circumstances were not in Royce’s favor, his loved ones’ future in his hands. If he made a wrong move or didn’t do everything Bishop demanded of him, his mother and sisters would pay with their freedom, virtue, and perhaps their lives.
Quelling his outrage, he simply listened and endured.
Bishop sniffed the tobacco. Face contorted, he sneezed explosively into a lace-edged handkerchief then blew his nose. The resultant honk mingled with the din outside the shadowed room. Horse hooves clopped, carriage wheels clattered, merchants hawked their wares. Slaves were among the items purchased.
A nude young woman, her skin as dark as night, fanned Bishop with ostrich feathers. The air she produced did naught to relieve the oppressive heat and humidity flowing through the open windows.
Sweat bathed Bishop’s ruddy face and numerous chins. He blotted each.
Another female slave knelt on the polished stone floor, kneading his fleshy calves and naked feet.
He cleared his throat. “Tristan Kent will hang, of course, along with Diana’s brother, Peter.” His beady eyes gleamed. “That will teach her to try to get away from me.”
Only a woman gone mad would willingly be at Bishop’s side. Old and ugly, he stank of rose water, the scent heavy and cloying. “Have you considered Diana never joined you here because she and the others might be dead?”
“Impossible.” He set his powered wig more firmly on his head. “Natives have heard of a white man and others on an island off Madagascar. From the description they provided, that man has to be Kent and his pirate crew. They also mentioned a white woman. Who else but Diana could be with them?”
“How can you be certain the natives spoke truthfully?”
“Woolding.”
Nasty business that consisted of a rope wrapped around a victim’s skull, then tightened until his eyes burst out. The perfect torture chosen by barely civilized men. “How many did you have questioned and killed?”
“Enough. Once my agents dispatched several, those remaining were eager to divulge everything. Except the island location, which they swore they didn’t know. I believe them.” He flicked a persistent fly from his brocade coat. “Even a witless savage wouldn’t willingly die or risk his children’s deaths to keep such a secret. The whereabouts are for you to discover. My crew will help you capture Diana, the others, and islanders, if there are any. The natives should bring a fair slave price, compensating me for losing the Lady Lark. However, if the vessel’s about, you’ll return it with everything else.”
As easily as that. The man was either stupid or insane. “Have you any idea who Tristan Kent truly is? Not romantic rumors on how he treats his crew and captives, but fact. Mainly, what he’s capable of.”
“He’s taken enough ships from me to prove he must hang. I will not rest until he does.”
“If he’s had Diana for as long as you say, she could be with child by now.”
Bishop curled his upper lip. “Until I discard her, she belongs to me, no other man. If she’s conceived, once she births the bastard I’ll give it away or send it to a workhouse. Not my concern.”
Even the Devil wasn’t as foul. “Her reaction to your plan should worry you deeply. The moment you give her infant away and see her brother’s neck broken, prepare for her to plot your end. I promise it won’t be pleasant. Females are curious like that when it comes to their families. As far as Kent goes, you believe he’ll be easy to fight and win against? A pirate no one has yet to catch?” Royce leaned up in his chair. �
��If he’s alive, has an island, and Diana, he will protect both, especially if she’s carrying his child. A frontal attack would be suicide. Should anyone escape death, he would hound them and you to the ends of the earth.”
“You sound afraid.”
“Sensible.”
“I would expect daring from a man who is willing to engage in the foulest deeds for much-needed capital. It would seem your reversal of fortune has affected far more than your appearance.”
Royce suppressed a retort at how common he must look to a windbag like Bishop. Wigs were for fools who had gone bald or cared what others thought, not him. In this clime, silks and velvets were a torment only a simpleton would suffer. Royce’s wool breeches and linen shirt clung to him, providing enough discomfort. “Unlike some others, I value good sense.”
“You should have thought of that before your—damnation.” Bishop jerked his leg from the slave. “You scratched me.” Rage tightened his features. “Filthy savage.” He slammed his cane on her shoulder.
The crack and her shriek tore through the smallish space. Moans followed. Trembling, the slave drew her arms and legs into herself.
Royce gripped the walking stick before Bishop hit her again. “Beat her to death and you lose valuable merchandise.” All that mattered to men like him.
“She deserves punishment.” Bishop tugged his cane.
Royce held on to it. “You’ve succeeded in drawing blood and proving your superiority.”
“I’ll do far worse to her and to Diana. She’s the one who should be naked and cowering at my feet, and she will be with your help.”
Royce wrested the cane away, then hurled the thing. It struck the whitewashed wall and clacked against a table. He dropped to his chair. “Any woman will fight to her death if you threaten her child or family.”
“Diana has no power. No female has.
“You.” He threw his buckled shoe at the beaten slave. “See to your task and take care this time, lest I kill you.” He stuck out his portly leg.
Tears slid down the young woman’s ebony cheeks. She crawled to his side and stroked him.
He sighed noisily. “See what a strong hand does? It instills fear and obedience. No matter what you may believe, you have no control over this situation, any more than a slave, Diana, or Kent does. You will do as I demand or risk everything. Tell me, what would you do if harm came to your mother and sisters?”
Bile rose in Royce’s throat. He swallowed the hideous taste. On Bishop’s word, Royce’s sisters and mother could be lost to him forever because he hadn’t the funds to buy back their freedom. To bring them home.
His determination to succeed grew icy, his calculation cold. Having Bishop’s neck in his hands was going to be heaven. A murder he promised himself once he had the money to rescue his family. “Care to find out?”
Fear registered in Bishop’s dark eyes. He fiddled with his lacy collar. “You best see to your undertaking. If nothing else, Diana’s enslavement, along with Kent and Peter’s deaths will ensure your loved ones’ well-being.”
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.
