Tess could not keep from laughing at the raw shock in the man's voice. The sounds rippled on her tongue, growing louder and wilder, until somehow she found herself sobbing.
The next thing she knew, she was crushed against the hard breadth of the Frenchman's body, her tear-stained cheek against his thick woolen sweater as he carried her across the pitching deck.
* * * * *
The captain of the Liberte smothered a curse. "Bihan?" he whispered in shock and disbelief.
She was here? But how? And why?
His blood froze as he thought of how near the reckless Englishwoman had come to dying, tossed about in the treacherous mid-Channel currents — and just how close he had come to joining her.
Anger and fear struck him speechless for a moment, his fingers tightening on her slim waist.
Diaoul, but she raised the fires of fury in him. His face hardened to a stony mask. The devil! Seconds more and the sea would have claimed her, and him along with her.
But she was strong, Dieu merci! Yes, thank God, for in the end she had saved him, much as his vanity hurt to admit it. For the cursed rope had snagged, trapping his wrists and snaking around his throat until it choked him. Even now he could feel the bite of its rough coils and the fiery welts where it had gashed his neck.
He would be hoarse for a week, the captain thought with a black sort of humor, knowing it could have been far worse. Now he owed this woman his very life.
For some reason he found the thought did not disturb him. Eh bien, bihan, for that I will repay you very well, the Frenchman decided, smiling darkly in the gloom of the passageway outside his cabin.
"Bi— bihan?" the woman in his arms whispered, breaking into his reverie. Her storm of emotion spent, she looked up at him, white-faced and weak.
But very brave, Andre thought, for she covered her fear well.
"Ma petite," he answered roughly. "Little one — my little one."
"You — you speak English?" Tess asked, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.
"Un peu. A little only." His voice was low and dark, his consonants hard and strange-sounding. "Better you use French."
"Vous etes Breton?" she asked, complying.
"Oui, Breton," he said warily, surprised that she should have discovered so quickly. His eyes narrowed. She was sharp, this one. He must never forget that.
Tess frowned, feeling his rough, oiled-wool sweater scratch her cheek. So he was from Brittany. She had not missed his moment of hesitation, nor the wariness in his voice. The man was almost certainly a smuggler, then. Wariness would be part of his stock-in-trade. Many of his fellow Bretons plied the seas between France and England, she knew, since the rocky soil of their homeland was little suited to farming.
Now she owed the man her life. What payment would such a corsair expect in return? Tess shivered suddenly and felt his calloused hands tighten on her shoulders.
Beneath her cheek the heat of his powerful body seeped out, warming her frigid skin. "Where — where are you taking me?" she asked breathlessly. Since her French was better than his English, she decided to speak in French.
The big, work-roughened fingers splayed open. For a moment he did not speak.
"To my cabin, I think, bihan."
Tess gasped, balling her hands into fists and shoving wildly at his chest. Had she escaped the sea's wrath only to encounter a greater peril?
"I'll pay you to take me back. English gold guineas or French louis d'or — whichever you wish. One hundred pounds. T-two hundred. Only n-name your price," she rasped.
Her rescuer's granite fingers did not loosen. "No price, bihan. We do not turn back. There will be Revenue vessels prowling the Channel tonight, even in these stormy seas," he added grimly.
"Please!" Tess cried, panic tightening her voice. "You must take me —"
"Impossible." The word was a wall of granite, his refusal harsh and irrevocable.
Her thoughts awhirl, Tess listened to his boots crash upon wood. A door slammed back against the wall. The place he carried her was unlit, and she frowned, able to make out nothing, no detail of place or furnishing.
She seemed to drop, her back sinking into softness. A bed? His bed?
A moment later the rough fingers left her. She heard a faint scraping noise nearby.
"Please," she whispered. "L-light me a lantern, at least."
She heard his sharp indrawing of breath. "Lantern?" he repeated slowly.
"Do not ask me to explain. I — I cannot. Only do this one thing for me, that I beg of you!"
The corsair did not answer.
Tess felt her skin prickle, knew the first, faint brush of small, hairy bodies. "Please!" There was an edge of panic to her voice now. She had no strength left to hide it.
"In the name of God, bihan," the Frenchman said slowly, "I have just done that very thing."
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Do not mock me, sir!" Tess cried wildly, her fingers digging into her cold cheeks. Huge and haunted, her eyes stared up into the flat, colorless void before her.
"There is no mockery in what I say, bihan. Look there, upon the table."
Tess looked — and saw nothing but a sullen wall of darkness. Choking, she closed her eyes, feeling stark, shapeless terror hammer at her chest. "You lie! There is no lantern — nor even any table! There is nothing here at all!"
Strong, calloused fingers swept the tangled curls from her forehead. Carefully they probed her brow, tracing the curve of her hairline.
"Open your eyes, bihan. Look at me," the captain commanded.
Blinking, rigid with shock and fear, Tess did as he ordered.
And absolutely nothing changed.
The wall of darkness before her did not waver, but mocked her openly now. Angry and threatening. Deadly.
"Dear God," she whispered, feeling cold fingers of fear plunge into her spine.
"Again," the hard voice ordered. "Look here."
She blinked. Was there a faint flickering of the shadows before her?
"I hold the lantern but inches from you, bihan. Can you see nothing?"
Her choked silence was answer enough.
"Diaoul!" the Frenchman muttered hoarsely.
Numbly Tess remembered the wrenching fury of the explosion that had tossed her from the water. Ashen-faced, she relived those long moments of terror when blackness had first engulfed her. Ripping the air from her lungs, tearing the light from her eyes.
Blinding her.
No, Tess thought wildly. It could not be! She shuddered, feeling tears prick her eyes even as the awful certainty of her condition settled over her But like a wild and proud animal, she refused to allow anyone to witness her terrible weakness.
"Leave me," she whispered, feeling the last shreds of her self-control begin to slip.
"Gwellan-karet ..." His voice was harsh, taut with emotions he could not express.
This time Tess did not question the unfamiliar phrase he used. Now she was lost to everything but darkness and the wild hammering of her heart. A whimper broke from her dry lips. "Go. Just — go. P-please!"
Long heartbeats later she heard his boots squish away over the timber floor. With a hollow crash the door slammed shut.
In cold, angry waves the shadows closed in upon her. She tensed, already fighting the memories, the old fears.
But this time Tess knew she must fail.
Pressing icy fingers to her mouth, she turned her face into the pillow, trying to drown her choking sobs.
Trying, and failing.
* * * * *
Silhouetted against the flickering light of the cabin's single lantern, the tall, bearded Frenchman watched, silent and unmoving. His long shadow fell over the bed, slanting unseen across Tess's rigid body.
A thick beard the color of a crow's wing could not conceal the granite set to his weather-hardened face. With keen eyes narrowed, the captain of the Liberte kept a grim silence, watching the auburn-haired beauty on his bed thrust a trembling fist to her mouth and give
way at last to wild sobs that seemed torn from her very soul.
Impossible, Andre thought, speechless with shock. His big hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, throbbing with pain where the cursed line had caught him. But the Frenchman thrust away his own pain, too stunned by the revelations of the last minutes to think of anything but the wounded woman before him.
Sainte Vierge, she saw nothing! It was nearly impossible to believe! Yet every stiff line of her back and shoulders, every choked sob bore witness to the fact.
Blind. His beautiful, wild sea gull ...
The Frenchman's eyes went black and bottomless as he stood with his back to the cabin door. So proud. Too proud, she was — just as he would be, were fate to strike him such a blow.
His thick brows knitted in a scowl. His fingers itched to hold her and soothe her, but he knew in her pain she would open herself to no one. So instead of doing the things he ached to do, the captain forced himself to turn away and lower his tall frame noiselessly into a big, battered armchair near the door. All the time his smoky eyes were fixed upon her trembling body.
Slowly her pain became his pain, her terror his. With fierce concentration he fought to draw the dark thoughts from her, to take her despair onto his broad shoulders, willing her to find solace. His face harsh with strain, he struggled against the urge to crush her to him and comfort her with the heat of his big, rugged body, burning away her fear in the dark, elemental fires he yearned to kindle within her.
But he did not, for the captain had watched this woman very well and knew all of her pride and all of her stubbornness. Now, he knew, she would never accept what he offered.
He smothered a harsh curse, his big hands balling into fists.
How many weeks he had stalked her, this reckless, haunted creature of marsh and sea — this creature so like himself! Yet somehow she seemed always to elude him, with rare cleverness and a fine bravado.
Now it seemed fate had trapped her, tossing her into his net at last. But he would find no pleasure in possessing her, he knew. For the Englishwoman would never trust him now; never would she drop her guard, not blinded and terrified as she was.
Go to her, a harsh voice urged. Give her light and warmth. Give her the strength of your hard, sea-toughened body.
But that was the last thing she would accept.
And so, his jaw locked in a hard line, he sat before her, silent and determined. If she needed him, at least he would be there.
I will not press you, mon coeur, the man with the bleak eyes swore silently. Not yet, for you are proud and stubborn, nearly as untamed a creature as I. Yes, I must be careful to give you time and much space.
To cage such a one would kill her, Andre knew. So he would give his sea gull freedom for now, until she came to know the sound of his rough voice, to crave the comfort of his big, strong hands.
And then he would give her all those things, along with others she did not yet realize she needed. Yes, par Dieu, with infinite strength and ruthless patience he would force this stubborn woman to love him. Soon she would wear the marks of his passion, just as he would wear hers.
For she was a storm in his very soul, like the raging winds that raked the rocky Breton coast. She was fury and torment, but also life force itself, the blood in his veins, the heat in his loins.
And he would have her, Andre swore, blind or no.
But before he could tame his reckless Anglaise, he knew somehow he would first have to heal her.
* * * * *
An hour passed, and then another. In silence the captain waited, relieved when the woman's breathing finally grew calm and steady. Her raw sobs stilled, she fell at last into an exhausted sleep.
Like a dark, radiant flame her hair spilled over his pillow. The sight of it burned his eyes, making his groin tighten and swell, making him ache to run his fingers through its rich fire.
But he could not, for it would spell the end of everything he had worked for. So he only waited, hoping that a merciful God would hear his prayers.
In the middle of that dark vigil, Andre heard the sound of quick steps in the passageway, then a tap at the door. He shifted quickly, and with an odd grace for one so tall, he slipped to the door and nudged it open.
Immediately his finger flew to his lips, cutting off his blond giant of a first mate in mid-question.
The captain gestured over his shoulder. "Quiet. She is sleeping," he whispered in the guttural tones of the Breton tongue, ignoring his first mate's patent curiosity. "At long last, thank the good Lord."
Something about his tone made Padrig Le Braz study his captain's face. "So this is the one," he said slowly. "This is the Englishwoman who haunts you day and night. The one who makes you curse at the crew and draws you away from us for days at a time. She has thrown a powerful spell over you, my friend. But so the witch Viviane did to Merlin in the Forest of Broceliande. And I bid you not forget what happened to him," Le Braz added grimly.
"She has bewitched me, hasn't she?" the captain whispered, leaning his tired shoulders against the wall of the narrow passage and closing his eyes. "I find her at last, only to discover —" His eyes flashed open, dark with pain and anger. "She sees neither me nor anything else, Padrig. Gwerhez Vari! By the Holy Virgin, she is blind!" His voice checked. "Blind. My bihan," he whispered.
A harsh silence fell over the two men standing in the darkness.
"You — you are certain of this, my friend?"
"As sure as I am of my own breath, my own heartbeat," the captain said bleakly. "Why would she lie about such a thing?"
The blond giant shrugged his shoulders. "Women! What does a man ever know of them?"
"This one, I do know, Padrig. Her, I know very well. And this woman would not lie about such a thing, believe me." Stiffly, Andre raised a hand to massage the aching muscles at the back of his neck. He frowned, realizing he would have to change out of his sodden clothes before he developed a lung contagion.
The Liberte's first mate frowned, little liking the despair he saw cloud his captain's tired, bearded face. "Mamm de Zoue," Le Braz muttered suddenly as his eyes dropped to Andre's hands. "Mother of God, did you not know you've cut yourself?"
At Padrig's startled question Andre looked down at his fisted hands. For the first time, he noticed the sweater's blood-stained sleeves. It must have been that weighted line. Strange, until now he hadn't even noticed.
"Both hands, by the look of it," the giant Breton first mate said roughly. "Now, get forward with you and let me clean those wounds before they begin to fester."
Slowly Andre straightened, weariness and something darker etched in every despondent line of face and body.
Yes, those are my wounds, he thought bleakly. They hurt now, but in time they will heal.
Hers, he feared, would be for always.
* * * * *
Beneath Tess the Liberte pitched and rolled restlessly, battered by wind and wave. Somewhere behind her eyes she felt a sharp, throbbing pain, which quickly coursed into her whole head.
But now weariness became her friend, drawing a curtain over her senses. Pressing cold fingers to her eyes, she allowed exhaustion to creep over her, and at some point sullen shadows gave way to the darkness of dreams. Yet even as she slipped into a fitful sleep, Tess was tormented by dim, faceless images.
The faint, flickering shadows of people and places Tess knew she would never see again.
* * * * *
With a reckless, barely curbed energy, Andre Le Brix paced back and forth along the wave-washed deck, struggling to concentrate on the exacting work of guiding the Liberte through the roiling seas.
"Close haul those main topgallants, Le Braz!" he thundered. "And mind the set of that jib. We've hard seas to cross before we make the Morbihan."
Immediately the first mate relayed the orders to the crew. The two-masted brig lunged forward, her neat bow churning up spray in solid gray sheets.
The sight should have brightened her captain's mood, giving him a fierce pr
ide in his sleek, responsive vessel.
But now he could think only of the woman below in his cabin. And he was experienced enough to know that his preoccupation might mean the death of them all, ere this storm was done.
For somewhere out there in the distance lay the Isle of Ouessant, its craggy coasts jutting into the sea like deadly, taloned fingers. For good reason sailors called it the Isle of Dread.
One mistake, one miscalculation, and ship and crew would disappear forever, smashed against those granite rocks and treacherous reefs, their bones snapped like straws while the Liberte was splintered into uncountable pieces.
Qui voit Ouessant voit son sang. The ancient warning came back to Andre suddenly.
Who sees the rocks of Ouessant sees his own blood.
* * * * *
Blackness.
Dear God, she was sinking, choking in it.
For a moment Tess could not move, paralyzed by fear and dreams, defenseless against the shadows of her mind's creating.
A choked sob burst from her lips. She must escape! Anything was better than being locked here, left to die in this suffocating darkness.
The answer came to her then.
Yes, that must be it! The Frenchman had lied! He had lit no lantern — it had all been a trick to confuse her!
Above there would be light and air and laughter.
Yes, above!
Awkwardly she stumbled from the bed, nearly falling as a wave overtook the vessel from port to starboard, rocking it wildly. She swayed, struggling for balance as the returning roll overtook them.
But she did not fall. A moment later her fingers sought — then found — the wall.
Cautiously, she inched forward.
Toward the stairway. Toward the light.
* * * * *
Cursing silently, Andre fought to penetrate the chaos of wave and cloud before him. The storm was far from over, that much he knew. He could feel it in the protesting creak of the timbers, in the snap and tug of the close-hauled canvas overhead, in the Liberte's fierce surge through churning seas.
The Black Rose Page 27
