“What do you choose to make of it, ma mie?”
India’s fingers tightened. “You’re threatening me.”
“Merely stating a fact of the most evident.”
“I am not afraid of you and I won’t be badgered and bullied.” She yanked the second pistol from her other boot and leveled the sights.
The Frenchman’s brow rose. “I don’t? How interesting.” His hands went to his shirt. One button slid free.
“What are you doing?” India rasped.
“I am giving you a chance to satisfy your English threats.” The shirt parted slightly.
“You” — India swallowed — “are?”
“Of course, anglaise. One must never make a threat which one does not wish to carry through.” There was an edge of warning to his voice. He moved closer, mere inches from the pistol now, his face in shadow. “Alors, you have your opportunity. I offer you my chest as a target. Shoot me now.”
“Sh-shoot?”
“You forget how? Simply aim and press the little trigger with your finger.”
“I know how to shoot a gun!”
“Eh bien, then shoot me.”
India glared at him.
“Ah. So it is not lack of skill that holds your finger back?” he asked innocently.
His calm only added to India’s fury. “Nothing’s holding my finger back! I am simply — taking time to aim.”
“But of course. I make a difficult target at this distance, to be sure.”
India muttered harshly. All she had to do was squeeze the trigger of the pistol her father had given to her in Egypt.
But she couldn’t. Her finger would not move. She could not shoot an unarmed, unresisting man. Every instinct forbade it.
“No?” He gave a Gallic shrug. “Your nerves are — how do you say — in a crisis?”
“I am not having any crisis of nerves! It’s simply — well, unsporting to shoot someone who is unarmed.”
“Ah, now you speak of sport. You English concern yourselves too much with this. Me, I find it most incomprehensible.”
“You would,” India muttered. “And now I’ll show you exactly how I mean to—”
With a quick chop the Frenchman struck her wrist and sent her pistol clattering to the floor. “Let that be your first lesson aboard the Gypsy. Never hold a pistol unless you are prepared to fire it. And you, ma belle, though very brave, are not prepared to kill a man. Consider it a blessing that you have never had the need.” The pirate looked away. His voice was grim as he picked up India’s pistol and slid it into his pocket. “And now, we commence again. Ton nom, ma belle. You are a Delamere, non?”
“I won’t tell you. Not a single word.”
“No?” The full lips hardened. “But perhaps there is no need,” he said coldly in his heavily accented English. “After all, I have seen that arrogant nose and those cool eyes before. All you Delameres have them.”
India tried to hide her shock. Dear God, he hadn’t been bluffing. He knew. Now there would be no escape. He would demand a vast amount of ransom money. Maybe he would demand even more than money.
She couldn’t let that happen.
Her chin rose. “So you’ve noted the likeness. It’s been the curse of my life, for I’m no Delamere, not in the way it counts. They’ve only given me reason to hate the lot of them.”
“I think I do not understand.”
“I’m one of the duke’s by-blows, blast it! I was fathered on a servant girl!”
The Frenchman turned away and refilled the glasses. India thought she heard him cough hard. “A by-blow, you say. By that you mean a natural child?”
“Just so.” India warmed to her tale. “For years I’ve been snubbed and mocked. Everyone knows I was born on the wrong side of the blanket. I hate the whole lot of them!”
“Now it is all of the most clear. And of course you stole that beautiful animal from their stables for revenge.”
“I didn’t steal him,” India snapped. “That is, I didn’t steal him right away. I worked there for several years first.”
“Years? Pardieu, and here I was thinking how young you look.”
“Well, it seemed like years,” India said firmly. “And in a manner of speaking the horse is mine, because of the bond between us. Besides the duke’s daughter, only I can ride the great animal. So he might as well be mine.”
“I daresay the magistrate might not see it in the same light,” her captor said dryly.
“What would a ruffian like you know about magistrates or King’s Officers?”
“Only that they make my life troublesome.” The Frenchman made a dismissing gesture with his hand. “But you present me a dilemma. I can hardly permit you to leave without retribution. My crew will expect it, you understand, for I am most bloodthirsty.” He studied her thoughtfully. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Don’t look at me for suggestions,” India said crossly. “You’ll have to devise your horrible torments without my help.”
“Horrible torments. Yes, I rather think you’ve hit the hammer on the head. Or is it nail? Your English tongue is fort ennuyeux, enfin.”
“Not as ennuyeux as you are, villain!” India snapped. “Let me go. We will both feel much better, I assure you.”
For a moment something played over that shadowed face. “I cannot oblige you, ma mie. It is the men, you understand. They would turn most unpleasant at the loss of such a fine catch.”
“The devil fly away with your men!”
“Me, I’ve thought the same words myself. It is of a most surprising thing how your thoughts run like mine. Are you sure we have never met before?”
“Are you implying that I think like a vile cutthroat and thief! I’ll have your tongue for that.”
“But you have neither pistol nor knife. You must learn your lesson about making threats you cannot deliver.”
India caught up one of the empty glasses. “No, it’s you who’ll learn about making threats, Frenchman!”
“Oh? Do you mean to drown me in my own wine?” he said lazily.
“No, I’m going to leave. Right now.”
The dark brow arched. “And how will you do that?”
“You’re going to open the door for me.”
He laughed softly. “There you’re quite wrong.”
“Am I?” India cracked the goblet against the wall, leaving a razor-like edge of glass exposed. With this held stiffly before her, she began to drive her captor backward. “I’m not afraid to cut your throat, I warn you.” He was at the wall now and India’s glass shard was at his chest. “Well?”
“I have a great curiosity to see you slice through my throat,” he said coolly, as if he were discussing the merits of a new kind of rigging knot.
“Damn you, I’m not afraid. I’ll do it, I swear.”
“I am all at your convenience, anglaise.”
Muttering, India closed her eyes and lunged. She felt the brush of skin and then his hand at her wrist. She heard the quick check of his breath as the glass was pulled from her fingers.
She opened her eyes and gasped. A two-inch gash ran across his shirt, where blood now oozed. “See what you made me do! Why did you have to move?”
“A thousand apologies,” the pirate said dryly. “But it is a mere prick of a pin.”
“Prick? You’re bleeding like a pig!”
“Bah, me, I once faced down a dozen Barbary vessels that hove up like a great tropical wind. I fought twenty men at once without a single weapon until every inch of my body flowed with blood.”
“Off the Barbary coast?” India stopped, intrigued in spite of herself. “My father and I sailed there once, while we looked for the lost city of Dido in the Aeneid. Carthage, you know.” She frowned. “Probably you don’t know. On the way, we were trailed for three days by a pirate sloop.”
“Then you are lucky to be alive,” the Frenchman said grimly.
“But it turned out to be an English frigate sent to protect us. I had met the captain
in Cadiz, you see, and he fancied—” Abruptly, India blushed and looked away.
The Frenchman lifted her face, scanning her crimson cheeks. “Yes, sauvage? He fancied what?” His voice was dangerously soft.
“He — had conceived a tendre for me. It was most foolish of him, for I was barely thirteen at the time.”
“And what became of this crude captain with the foolish tendre?”
“Oh, he wasn’t crude. He was quite handsome, and his manners were very elegant. His family, too, was most respectable. From Berkshire, I believe.”
“Yes, yes,” the Frenchman interrupted coldly, “but what of his pursuit of you?”
“Oh, there was no pursuit. My father told him I could not wed until I was at least thirty, since I was far too useful to him in his research. The captain was regretful, but made his leave. I understand he has five sons now.”
The Frenchman’s fingers relaxed on her chin. “Me, I think this tendre of the most paltry kind. A true man of sentiment would never have been so easily turned away. He would have swept you onto his schooner, carried you off, and then had his way with you. After that you would have been his forever.”
“Life doesn’t happen like that,” India said quietly. She looked away. “Emotions never last. “ There was sadness in her voice. “Only in poetry or books. No, life is—” She sighed. “Very different.”
“Is it, ma mie?” The voice grew rough. “I think you are wrong.” The callused edge of one finger traced India’s cheeks and then gently crossed the high arch of her mouth.
“Wh-What are you doing?”
“Wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“Why your captain gave up so easily. Me, I would not have given you up. Not even for a whole fleet of English frigates snapping at my bow.”
“N-No?” India tried to make out his expression in the shadows cast by the cabin’s single candle. “What would you have done?”
“Something very dangerous, I think.” The Frenchman’s thumb feathered the center of her mouth. “First I would have touched her, comme ça.” He brushed a fringe of hair from her cheek. “Here and here, I think.” His head bent.
India swayed for a moment, then stiffened. What was she doing? Could she actually be accepting the advances of a river pirate? “Stand away, snake! You’ll not trick me!”
But somehow she found herself gathered tightly against her captor’s chest. “B-Besides,” she sputtered, “you’re bleeding!”
“Perhaps I am,” he said roughly. “In places you cannot see,” he muttered. “From wounds that are very old.” He looked down and sniffed. “This, she is nothing.”
Even as he spoke blood inched down his chest over the slit shirt.
“You enjoy making sport of me. It is very low of you.” India’s voice was tight. “A plague on you and all men!” Angry at her mortifying moment of weakness, she twisted free and grabbed the last goblets, hurling them against the wall, where they exploded with a satisfying crack. Then she saw her knife, within easy reach now, balanced on the edge of the bed where the pirate had tossed it.
India ran to seize it, and in her haste, she stumbled on the scattered glass shards.
Pain bit through her hip as she landed hard on a jagged piece of glass. Squeezing her eyes, she fought back tears.
“Farouche,” the Frenchman said, but the word was a caress. “Wild, just like that hair of yours. You seem not at all English to me, enfin.”
“I am English. And I am not wild. Oh, just go away.”
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed as she cupped her hip. “You have hurt yourself?” Quickly, he pulled her to her feet and carried her to the bed. “You are every bit as wild as that horse you claim is not yours.”
“I’m not wild.” But the protest was weaker now as she fought back tears.
“You are both wild and reckless.” The pirate shoved away her trembling fingers and tugged at the old breeches. The shard was deeply imbedded in her skin. “Merde.” Carefully, he freed the jagged piece of glass, then dropped it on the chest. After rummaging through a drawer, he came back with a clean piece of flannel soaked in brandy. “This may hurt.”
“Bah,” India mumbled, her face on fire with embarrassment at her naked thighs.
But the hard fingers slid relentlessly over her bared skin, and something in that touch made her heart lurch drunkenly. “Enough,” she croaked. “I — will be fine.”
Keen eyes studied her face. “You will sleep now, mon Inde.”
My India.
Something about his caressing tone set India’s blood to the boil. “You have no right to my name, you snake.”
“No? I believe I do have that right — and any other I choose to take.” Laughing darkly, he made her a mocking bow. “I will leave you to think over what I have taught you this night.” He strode to the door. “Sleep well, ma mie.”
He slid open the bolt and strode outside. The length of iron shot home behind him, locking her in.
“Let me out!” India screamed, jerking at the door latch.
“Tomorrow perhaps. Or the day after. Until then, cease this howling or I will return and beat you some more, boy. And you shall pay for all that broken Irish crystal in the morning.”
One of the drawers hit the door. “Not if you were Barbarossa himself!”
~ ~ ~
She paced.
She cursed.
She hammered angrily at the door.
The pirate did not return. No one came, despite her shouting. Finally India sank back against one wall and dug deep into her pocket. Her palm opened, revealing a circle of dawn-pink flames. At least she still had her jewel.
India scowled. She had come to find the Frenchman, of course, but something made her wary of mentioning the priceless gem. In the end the stone might be the only way of escape from this cutthroat.
After pocketing the jewel and fuming for another quarter hour, she decided to conserve her energy for the infuriating pirate’s return. She sniffed at the blanket across the narrow bed, relieved to find it surprisingly clean.
With an angry hiss, she slid down against the soft blanket, the hours of strain finally taking their toll. She closed her eyes and almost instantly was swept into darkness and dreams.
~ ~ ~
The dream began as it always did, with drums and shouts and marching feet. Suddenly India was there again, in a Brussels thronged with carts and wagons while soldiers marched to join their regiments.
She ran through the crowds, looking for a pair of broad shoulders, looking for a tall lean body and a devil-may-care smile. But the faces were always wrong and she could never find him.
Artillery thundered in the distance and terrified villagers rushed past. The first wounded stragglers made their way through the streets, their weary eyes haunted by nightmares of blood and hate and fear among the mud.
She moaned, struggling to push the memories away.
All the time India told herself everything would be good and safe and fine if only she kept searching. If only she looked long enough, she must finally find him…
The Frenchman stood with the lantern in his hand, watching his beautiful English captive twist in her sleep. His eyes were locked on the slim fingers clutching at shadows and ghosts he could not see.
His jaw hardened as she tossed the blanket aside and cried out, her hand flung wide. One lush breast lay outlined against the soft cambric of the old shirt she wore.
He swore beneath his breath, blasted by desire, hungry to drown himself in her sweetness.
His hands clenched with need. He could smell her scent, fine and soft like bergamot and violets. His groin was heavy, blood squeezing hot and slow through his veins as he studied the dusky point of her nipple molded against the white cambric.
So near. So bloody near.
He could ease her to pleasure as she slept. When she woke she would be wet and welcoming, his name a husky prayer on her lips.
And yet it would not be his name she spoke.
Cursing sharply, the Gypsy’s captain set down the lantern. With unsteady fingers he filled a glass with brandy and drained it in one gulp.
Fire burned down his throat, hot and furious.
But not half so furious as the fire that burned at his groin.
He watched her hand catch in the tangled sheets. He did not move, as if paralyzed.
What dark dreams she had. What bleak memories. Her struggles cut him sorely. He would comfort her, were it possible. But the world was mad and what comfort could come from a pirate?
CHAPTER 24
India was running, fire on her right and fire on her left. Voices called out, high and shrill and mocking, but she did not stop. He was there, somewhere in the darkness, somewhere in the night. And she had to find him.
She called his name, but no answer came. She was alone, as she always was, trapped in a place of darkness and dreams.
And then a voice. A single word.
It was her name, whispered low and hoarse, as it always was on his lips. The shadows closed around her. And then he was there, sprung from her dreams, his eyes urgent with desire, his body tight with need.
There was no time for fear or protest. She wanted him too much for that. She molded herself close and tasted the fire of his body, wanting more. She needed to feel his scent on her skin and his breath as ragged with desire as hers was.
“Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she wanted.
But he knew.
“So I shall, my love.”
With a soft hiss of silk, her gown loosened and slid inch by inch down her fevered skin.
Not fast enough. She shoved it away, gasping when she met him heat to heat.
His touch was like coming home, like grabbing a wild breath after swimming too long underwater. It was taking the creek at Swallow Hill in one bound.
He was tall and strong and laughing. Clear eyes burning, sweet as heaven itself. Somehow she had found him again.
Her breath caught with the need to taste him everywhere, to worship the body she had never had time to know completely. She laughed with the heady joy of discovery and pressed him back, her fingers toying with the mahogany hair that swirled across his chest.
Come the Dawn Page 24
