“If my firstborn is a daughter, I will call her by that name,” Phoebe said, touched to the heart, and smiling through tears.
“Your firstborn will be a man-child,” Old Woman replied briskly. “And he be called John Alexander, for his grandfather and Mr. Alex.”
Phoebe didn’t take the trouble to argue. She knew Old Woman’s true name, and she was going to marry Duncan, and for the time being, that was enough. Besides, she’d already made up her mind to let Duncan name his first son.
“Help me put on this beautiful dress,” she said instead, and Old Woman’s eyes glowed with pride and satisfaction as she obliged.
The gown was a perfect fit, delicate and simple, its skirts making a whispery rustle when Phoebe moved. If she could have gone to any Seattle bridal boutique and chosen a wedding dress for herself, she would have hoped to find something like this. “It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, turning from side to side before the vanity mirror.
“Yes,” Old Woman agreed. She caught both Phoebe’s hands in her own and looked deeply into her eyes. “There still be much to give you trouble, mistress. You must be stronger than strong.”
Phoebe felt a chill of fear. “What do you mean?”
“You have a babe inside you, even now. A boy-child, like I said. No matter what happen, to you or your man, you look after that little one. He has important business in this world, John Alexander Rourke.”
Phoebe sank onto the vanity bench and knew she’d gone pale as parchment.
“Not to think of trouble now,” Old Woman scolded. “Think of Mr. Duncan, and the wedding, and the night ahead, which will bring you both much pleasure.”
Phoebe was reminded of her own words, spoken to Duncan that very afternoon on the veranda, about taking life as it came. Old Woman was telling her to live for the moment, to make every precious second worthwhile. How simple, that philosophy, and how difficult to follow!
She took her friend’s hand and squeezed it, and there was nothing more to say.
The wedding was to be held on the beach, with the sky for a church, the sunset for stained-glass windows, and a group of servants and misfit mercenaries for witnesses.
Phoebe could not have been happier.
When she stood beside Alex, facing her future husband—who held a Bible in his hands, along with a bouquet of purple orchids that he handed to her—she gave no thought to pirates, wars, and time warps. She wanted to tell Duncan about the child she knew was growing within her, the boy Old Woman had already christened John Alexander Rourke, but she would wait for just the right moment.
It was odd, hearing Duncan say the holy words, and ask for vows in return, and to have Alex return them, as if Phoebe were marrying him. At one point, she panicked, thinking Duncan might have tricked her, and Alex, too, into wedding themselves to each other. But then she realized that Duncan called Alex by his, Duncan’s, name, and she was reassured.
The vows were made, and when Duncan had pronounced himself and Phoebe to be man and wife, it was the clergyman who kissed the bride, and not the groom-by-proxy.
A noisy, energetic celebration followed. Bonfires were built along the beach, and sailors produced harmonicas and fiddles and small accordions. Phoebe danced with her new husband in the sand, and for her, that night, nothing and no one else existed.
There was much wine—which Phoebe did not touch—and the music was joyous, compelling her into dance after dance, until she was winded and gasping. It was while she was resting, and Duncan was whirling round and round one of the bonfires with Old Woman, that she noticed Simone walking away, toward the cone of moonlight shimmering on the waters.
Phoebe followed, frowning, and caught up to the girl at the edge of the surf, grasping her arm.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Simone looked her up and down with cold, empty eyes. “I want to swim,” she said. And she let her saronglike robe fall to the sand, revealing her perfect body. “You mistress of Paradise Island now. You can send me away.”
Phoebe shook her head. “This is your home.”
“And yours,” said Simone, turning and wading gracefully into the water. “Mr. Duncan is my man, too. When you get big with the babe that’s in you, he’ll come to me.”
Phoebe clung to what Alex had said: Duncan would be faithful to her, and to the vows they’d made. Except that Alex had been the one to make them, albeit in Duncan’s name. “Let go of him, Simone,” Phoebe answered, wading a little way into the foamy tide herself. The water felt good. “There’s another man for you, and you’ll meet him in time. Duncan is mine, and I won’t share him.”
“You might not have a choice,” Simone said. She was treading water, just a few yards offshore, and her grace and ease in the sea reminded Phoebe that this was Simone’s world, not her own. Phoebe had come to Paradise Island, and to Duncan, by accident, but Simone had been born, like a mermaid, to sand and salt water and tropical nights. To underestimate the native woman’s appeal to a man like Duncan would be a grave mistake.
“I do,” Phoebe insisted. “I love Duncan, and I meant what I said before—I will not share him.”
Simone was floating on her back now, her firm breasts and flat belly glistening like polished teakwood in the moonlight. “He is mine, as well as yours,” she said.
Phoebe was shaken by the other woman’s placid confidence. Perhaps Duncan had never broken off with Simone in the first place. In this time and this place, men took mistresses as a matter of course. Even men who considered themselves happily married.
“No,” Phoebe said and turned away.
She met Duncan, come to search for her, at the top of the beach.
He took both her hands in his. “What is it?”
“Simone,” she said. There was no point in avoiding the subject. “Have you been making love to her, Duncan? Since I came to the island, I mean?” She could not see his eyes, for the darkness, but that was all right. She listened for his answer with her heart.
“Not since you came to the island,” he said.
“But before?”
“Yes.”
Phoebe nodded. “You have a past,” she said softly, “and so do I. But what matters to me now, Duncan, is the future. And if you are unfaithful to me, I promise you, nothing the British or Mornault could do would compare with my vengeance. Do we understand each other?”
Duncan pulled her against his chest. “Yes,” he said.
“But I will not betray you, Phoebe. You can trust in that, if nothing else.”
She looked up, into the face of her husband. “Nor I you,” she said softly. “I love you so much, Duncan.”
He did not speak, but kissed her and then led her toward the house, via an indirect path that skirted the wedding celebration by a wide margin. For Phoebe, for the time being, it was enough that Duncan had made her his wife. He would declare himself, just as Alex had said, when he was ready.
The interior of the great house was laced with shadows and colored lights from the improvised paper lanterns outside, where the celebration continued. Clasping her hand, Duncan led Phoebe up the stairs, along the passageway, and into his room—which was now hers, too.
“That must have been the most unconventional wedding on record,” Phoebe said, suddenly as nervous as a virgin, even though Duncan had already initiated her, quite thoroughly, into connubial bliss. And before that, of course, there had been Jeffrey. Poor, arrogant Jeffrey, who hadn’t a clue about what it meant to stir a woman to true passion, to drive her beyond the boundaries of her own soul and then draw her back again, utterly satisfied, and soothe her to sleep.
Duncan did not light a lamp, and scant moonlight flowed through the towering windows, with their view of the sea. “Yes,” he agreed. “But it was only the preliminary.”
Phoebe shivered, with anticipation and, yes, a touch of fear.
Her husband clasped her shoulders in gentle hands. “What is it?”
She was grateful for the dimness of the room; it allowed her
to hold onto some shred of dignity. “It’s only that—well, when you make love to me, the pleasure is so great…”
Duncan’s thumbs made circles on her shoulders, comforting ones that struck sparks, nonetheless, in the furthest reaches of her womanhood. “You do not want me to give you pleasure?” he asked, disbelieving.
Phoebe rested her head against his chest, trembling, laughing a little, and very close to tears. “Of course I do. It’s just that—well—I lose control.”
“That is as it should be,” Duncan said, turning her, deftly unfastening the buttons of the wedding dress Old Woman had made before even meeting her. The gown that fit perfectly. “I, too, am lost, and quite helpless, when you take me inside you and rend my seed from me.” He smoothed away the dress, and the chemise beneath it, and stood still, as if stricken by her beauty.
“Take off your clothes, Duncan,” she commanded gently. “I want to see you as clearly as you see me.”
He obeyed, kicking off his boots first, then hauling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside, and finally removing his breeches. He was hard and erect, like the mast of his ship, and the sight of him filled Phoebe with wanton longings and with daring.
“My God,” she whispered. “You are so beautiful, like a statue carved to celebrate some sensuous deity.”
Duncan lowered himself gracefully to one knee. “It is you,” he said in a hoarse voice, “who was made to be worshipped, pleasured, and adored.” He stroked her thighs, causing them to quiver almost imperceptibly beneath his fingertips and palms, and finally parted the silken delta for conquering. “I will have you well, Phoebe Rourke, and this time I shall not muffle your cries. I want the whole island—the world—to know that you are mine, and that I please you in our bedchamber.”
She tilted her head back and gave an exultant sob when he kissed the pulsing nubbin he’d bared and then took slow, greedy suckle. A shudder moved through her warm, compliant body, and she knew she would have melted to the floor, like so much wax, if Duncan hadn’t grasped her buttocks and pressed her even closer to his mouth.
Phoebe cried his name and clasped her hands behind his head, urging him on. Her breasts seemed to swell with her mounting pleasure, and she knew the wedding guests might hear and know the master was taking his bride, and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except satisfying Duncan, and being satisfied.
She rocked against him, crying out like a she-cat in the jungle, joined to her mate, and Duncan gave her the wall for a brace and put her trembling, boneless legs over his shoulders. He consumed her with ruthless hunger, and when she begged and promised and flung herself fitfully upon his tongue and his lips, sobbing, he merely teased her. There was no attempt, as he had said, to quiet her.
While the wedding guests celebrated on the beach, with their bonfires and fiddles and jugs of potent island wine, the marriage of Duncan and Phoebe was duly consummated, to the satisfaction of both parties.
The message arrived the following morning, via the usual complicated network of sailors, tavern keepers, and native couriers. Duncan was already up and dressed when it reached him, drinking coffee on the terrace outside the room where Phoebe, now his wife, still slept. She’d held nothing back the night before, but given him everything and more, and received him as if he’d been a missing part of herself.
Old Woman appeared in the open doorway to the terrace, and from her secretive, self-satisfied smile, anyone would think she’d engineered not only the new marriage, but the entire universe as well. Without a word, she handed him the battered, much-creased vellum envelope and left.
Duncan recognized his sister, Phillippa’s, personal stationery, even though her name did not appear anywhere on the outside. His own name was coded, as always; the letter had been sent first to the Apollo Tavern in Boston, where a friend watched for such missives and forwarded them by whatever means came to hand.
He hesitated, half afraid to read the lines his sister had written. Duncan was close to Phillippa, as he was to Lucas, their brother, despite several profound philosophical differences, but it was an arduous thing to send a letter, especially in time of war. Such an undertaking precluded trifles.
“What is it?” Phoebe asked from behind him, laying her hands on his shoulders. It was the second time she had taken him by surprise that way, and he was troubled because he hadn’t heard her approaching.
Duncan used his knife to slit the envelope open and pulled out the folded pages. “A message from my sister,” he said, and even Phillippa’s affectionate salutation did not settle his fears. He’d been right to worry, he discovered as he scanned the neat, flourishing script, for the news was not good.
Phoebe sat down across from him at the small metal table, her hair bright in the sunlight. She was wearing one of his shirts, and there was a warm, apricot glow to her skin. She waited, in silence, until Duncan was ready to speak.
“I must go to Charles Town,” he said at last. “My father has been ill.”
She reached out to touch his hand, soothingly, with the tips of her fingers. “But Charleston is occupied by the British,” she reminded him carefully. He’d told her himself, on the way back from Queen’s Town, how General Clinton had taken the city in May.
“Yes,” Duncan answered. “I’m sorry to leave you so soon, my love.”
“No problem. You’re not leaving me,” replied Mrs. Rourke, with all the authority of her position as mistress of the house. “I’m going with you.”
He had risen from his chair, set on making preparations and departing immediately, but her words stopped him cold. “No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”
“Don’t force me to stow away, Duncan,” she warned, rising and walking over to stand toe-to-toe with him. “Or catch a ride on the first passing ship. I will do whatever is necessary, but I will not be left behind.”
Duncan gave a long sigh and shoved a hand into his hair, which was still loose from the night. “What makes you so bloody stubborn?” he demanded angrily.
Phoebe raised one shoulder in an impudent shrug. “I don’t know. It comes naturally to me. What makes you so bloody stubborn?”
“Kindly do not swear,” he said in a taut voice, turning from her and leaving the terrace for the bedchamber. “It is not becoming.”
“That was swearing?” she countered, following him and dressing while he threw shirts and breeches and other necessities into a trunk. “You should have told me before. I might have said the wrong thing at a tea party.”
Duncan clenched his jaw, then relaxed it by force of will. “Damnation, Phoebe, I don’t need this kind of vexation from you. My father may already be dead.”
“I know,” Phoebe answered with gentle implacability. “On the other hand, he could be thriving by now—how long ago was that letter written? If he’s gone—and I doubt that very much, since he’s your father and must therefore be quite as intractable as you are—you’ll need me to comfort you. If he’s well, he’ll want to meet his daughter-in-law.”
Duncan stood stiffly for a while, like a mule about to be driven down a road knee-deep in mud, and then relented. Phoebe would try to follow him if he left her on the island and probably get herself killed or kidnapped in the process. At least, if she was with him, he could protect her.
“Will I never win another argument?”
She drew close to him and slipped her arms round his waist. Her hair smelled of sunlight, and there was a faint, musky perfume on her skin, the scent of their lovemaking. “Not while you’re married to me,” she answered.
Even then, Duncan knew her words were prophetic.
They sailed with a full crew in the early afternoon, and both the tides and the wind were with them. It was Phoebe, out to explore the ship, who found Simone huddled behind a crate in the hold, looking scared and defiant.
Her possessions filled the small bundle beside her.
“What are you doing here?” Phoebe asked, placing her hands on her hips and keeping her voice down.
&nbs
p; “I’m leaving. That ought to make you glad. ’Course, if you tell Duncan, he’ll send me back.”
Phoebe sighed and sat down on another crate. The light in the hold was dim, and the place made her uncomfortable anyway, reminding her, as it did, of her brief adventure aboard Mornault’s ship. “It doesn’t make me glad,” she said. “The island is your home. You were born there, weren’t you?”
“No matter,” Simone replied tonelessly, glaring at Phoebe with an obdurate gleam in her eyes. “I’ll find a new place.”
“I thought you were determined to stay and seduce my husband,” Phoebe said. “Just last night, you told me …”
“You wish me to try?”
“Of course not. But if Duncan is the sort of man to take a mistress, he’ll do so, whether you’re on Paradise Island or in Timbuktu. These are difficult times, Simone, and dangerous ones. You would be better off staying put.”
“I imagine you would be, too. But you didn’t.”
Phoebe laughed softly and shook her head. “You’ve got me there.”
“You planning to tell Duncan I’m aboard?”
Phoebe considered. “No,” she said at length. “You’re a grown woman, and if you want to leave, that’s your business. Where will you go?”
Simone rested her head against the ship’s side, closed her eyes, and sighed. “To the big island. I can get work there.”
“Try the Crown and Lily Tavern,” Phoebe suggested. “Ask for Mistress Bell. And whatever you do, don’t tell her I sent you. My brief career as a serving wench wasn’t exactly a stunning success.”
In spite of everything, and obviously against her will, Simone smiled. “So I’ve been told.”
“I’ll bring you water and food,” Phoebe said, standing up. “And I’ll keep your secret, as well. But I want one question answered in return.”
“What?” Simone asked. Her eyes were still closed, and she’d been humming very softly during the brief lapses in their conversation.
“What made you change your mind about staying?”
“The change I see in Duncan,” Simone said. “I tried not to recognize it at first, but it was there, right from the beginning. You give him something more than pleasure. You touch a part of him that other women just can’t reach.”
Pirates Page 15
