Then suddenly he blinked and shook his head. "Christ!" he exclaimed, as though he had just wakened out of a dream, "What am I doing? We've got to get the hell out of here!"
They leaped to their feet simultaneously, he purposeful, she in a state of shock.
"What?" she babbled, shivering as the late-afternoon breeze touched her. She had been so overheated that now she felt chilled. "What?" she demanded again, looking around nervously as though a platoon of cavalry might come out of the woods at any moment.
Johnny thrust long legs into sand-dusted jeans.
"Get dressed," he ordered tersely. "They want you. We've got to get off the island before they come."
His words drove icicles of terror to the root of her being. In instinctive animal reaction Smith's arms closed over her breasts and her naked, unprotected body jerked into a crouch.
"Who…who?" she stammered.
"Call them the new 'provisional wing' of the Chopit Brotherhood," he said bitterly as he fastened his jeans. Then, looking up to see the impact of his words on her, he crossed to hold her. "Sorry," he said, "sorry. Don't be frightened." He stroked her flank gently, but did not try to hide his tension from her. "No one's going to hurt you."
He moved to collect the huddle of her shirt and jeans from the rock where she had put them so long ago and brought them to her. Was there an unspoken "not while I'm around" in his voice, or did he really mean they did not intend to hurt her? As she took her jeans from him and stepped into them, Smith unconsciously straightened her back. Whatever trouble was coming, she wasn't going to be hiding behind anyone's back when it arrived, not even Johnny Winterhawk's. She buttoned her shirt with an almost angry determination and then looked up to be surprised by Johnny's glinting smile.
"What's the matter?" she demanded. She might have thought it was all a joke, except that the tension was still in him.
"You are Shulamith St. John, the poor little rich girl?" he asked. "I haven't made a mistake and kidnapped a small street ruffian?"
Smith stared at him. "What are you talking about?"
He laughed. "You've got your chin pushed forward and your fists clenched. You look as though you're about to take on the town bully."
He was right. With a half smile, Shulamith forced her body to relax and slid her feet into her small golden moccasins.
"Ready," she said, turning.
"I can see you are." Johnny Winterhawk gave her a smiling, admiring nod. He was mightily pleased about something.
***
The mainsail bellied out in the wind as Johnny moved lightly around the deck, stowing away anchor and fenders, leaving Shulamith at the wheel. They were heading west southwest, into the setting sun, but as the dark shape of a large island loomed ahead of them he tacked more southerly.
"Where are we going?" Smith asked, as Johnny adjusted the jib sheet. The sun blinded her when she looked at him, and she tried to shade her eyes so she could see his face.
"Around in circles till I can think of something," Johnny said ruefully. "First we have to get somewhere to take on gas."
They had carried as much as was practicable of the food and supplies from the kitchen, filling the boat's cupboards and the small fridge to bursting. Smith had assumed from this that Johnny was intending that they stay on the boat, but it had not occurred to her that he had nowhere to dock.
"You mean we're going to sail around all night?" she demanded, surprised and dismayed.
"Maybe," he said briefly. "I have to think."
"Well, before you do that," she said, "suppose you tell me what's going on? What is the provisional wing of the Chopa Brotherhood and why do they want me?"
"There's no such thing," Johnny said. "It was Joseph Three Elk being ironic. Three of the four who were with me that night want to take you from me. "
"But you're already holding me prisoner. What more do they want?" His face went grave, and Smith shuddered as the answer occurred to her.
"They want to mail my baby finger to my father? My ear?"
"Something like that," he admitted.
Her heart seemed to fold in on itself. This time her fists did not clench. She was very frightened, and unspeakably hurt, as if she had just learned that everyone in the world hated her. She looked down at her hands. Mutilation. These people didn't know her, they didn't know her at all, and yet they wanted....
Johnny's large comforting hand covered hers. "They're idiots," he said gently. "They're drunk with this sudden power they think they have. My people are not a violent people, Shulamith. Joseph Three Elk has forbidden them. He said there was no room for a provisional wing of the Chopa people."
"I heard him talking on the news yesterday," she said quietly. The Chopa chief had sounded to her like an intelligent and humane, if angry, man. "Will they listen to him?"
Johnny Winterhawk adjusted his course minutely before answering.
"Possibly not," he said reluctantly, but she was already expecting the answer, for why else was she here on the boat? "They privately demanded that I hand you over to them, and when I refused they threatened to come and get you."
"They know I'm on the island?"
"I'm sorry, yes. It was pretty obvious."
Shulamith jumped to her feet, fear finding release in anger. "Well, this is just great!" she fumed. "First I was prisoner on an island, and now I'm on a damned boat! And there's still no solution in sight! How the hell am I ever going to get home? You don't even know where we're going to drop anchor tonight, so how are you planning on getting out of this? The police are after you, and now the entire Chopa nation is after me, so just what the hell are we going to do about it?"
"Not the entire Chopa nation," he corrected her, but Smith was in too great a rage to care.
"Oh, fine!" she exploded. "That's fine! I appreciate the distinction! Not the entire Chopa nation is after me, but sadly it doesn't take an entire people to cut off an ear! Not the entire nation, but you'll forgive me if I consider them a significant minority!" She looked balefully at him. "Over whom you don't seem to have much control!"
"No," he agreed, and she caught the sound of pain in his voice.
"Why not?" she demanded, for Johnny Winterhawk seemed to her the sort of man who would command respect anywhere. "Why can't you control them?"
He was checking his course again, looking up at the sails while the sun glinted off the raven black of his hair and bathed his saddened face in a golden glow.
His voice was quiet against the wind. "I left the reserve," said Johnny Winterhawk, and he was no longer seeing the sail in front of him, but looking into the past. "I was taken from the reserve as a child and put into the white man's world. And I wanted to make it in the white man's world. I crossed over. When I saw my mistake it was too late to go back. I am tolerated by my people because sometimes I am useful to their cause, but I am not an Indian. I am not one of them."
Shulamith gasped. There was an anguish in his voice that it hurt her to hear. She stood looking at him, almost afraid to move.
"Why?" she whispered on a long, horrified, unhappy note.
"Because that is the way of the world," said Johnny Winterhawk with bitter self-loathing. "You have to lie in the bed you've made for yourself."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, desperate to take away his unhappiness, knowing she could not. "I'm so sorry."
Johnny Winterhawk did not reply, and there was a painful silence between them.
After a few minutes he said, "I'm going to run into Silva Bay. We can take on fuel and water there."
"Wait a minute!" Smith said, as an idea struck her. "Silva Bay! Rolly's got a waterfront place not too far from Silva. We could probably drop anchor there."
He looked at her in dry amusement. "And you can finish the conversation you started with Rolly yesterday," he suggested lightly.
"No. That's just it. Nobody'll be there. Valerie's just had twins. Valerie's his wife," she said impatiently as Johnny continued to gaze impassively at her. "We can moor there for ages
without being bothered."
He lifted his eyebrows at her. "I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Do you really think his neighbours would take no interest in a strange boat moored in front of his house?"
"Oh." He was right. "But then...what are we going to do? We can't sail around all night. It's ridiculous to think we can!"
"I don't think it."
"Well, then what are we going to do?"
Johnny Winterhawk sighed as though she was being tedious. "I guess we'll go to a provincial marine park and hope like hell no one recognizes you," he said flatly, as though it was a last-ditch choice, and he made it reluctantly.
Sixteen
Hours later, in the shadow of the setting sun, the big engines churned to bring Outcast close in beside a small mooring buoy. There was only one other boat, moored on the opposite side of the little bay, and when they were docked, and Johnny switched off the engines, the perfect silence of the place fell around them.
"My God, I'm exhausted," Smith said gratefully, breathing in air that smelled faintly of their gas fumes. The journey to this small, out-of-the-way provincial marine park had been hell. The never-ending sense of being hunted was more exhausting than any physical effort could ever be. Smith told herself over and over again that no one could recognize them at a distance, but each time they passed another boat her heart pounded and her stomach churned until the strange boat passed. Even now, in this tiny remote cove, she could not feel safe.
Johnny Winterhawk made the boat fast for the night while Smith stood stupidly watching, hands clenched deep in her pockets, unable to relax.
When he was finished Johnny leaped into the cockpit and stood for a moment gazing down at her in the soft slanting light of the setting sun. In a convulsive little movement Smith turned to him.
"Will they find us here?" she asked.
A half smile moved one corner of his mouth.
"My hunters or yours?"
But of course the police might already be on his trail. If even one of the men who had been in the house that night had been arrested....
"Let's get below," Johnny said. "If they do find us it won't help to be standing around on deck worrying."
He shepherded her down the companionway to a seat in the lounge, then disappeared for a moment. She heard the generator start up. Johnny moved into the galley. "A drink and food, in that order," he said, opening a cupboard to pull out two glasses. "We need it."
A responsive growl in her stomach reminded Shulamith that she had eaten only a sandwich since lunch many hours ago. "You said it! I'm starved!" she exclaimed.
"Scotch? Gin? Wine? What will you have?"
"Is there ice?"
"There's ice."
"Then scotch, please, Johnny," Smith said, and his name was easy on her lips. "On the rocks."
It had been easy on her lips all afternoon, she realized, glancing across the room at him with an imperceptible gasp of awareness as he caught her eye. Suddenly her head was filled with the memory of the beach and the erotic devastation she had experienced at his hands. Never before had she experienced such a total lack of sexual shame, never before been on the receiving end of a man's total devotion to pleasure. She had felt like a pagan, like a worshipper in some ancient cult of the Goddess of Love.
As he turned to his task, she watched the play of shoulder and arm muscles under his blue t-shirt with a pleasure that was both new and somehow disquieting. And when he set a glass of amber liquid in front of her, Smith reached for it eagerly. The alcohol burned her throat, but at least it gave her another focus than Johnny's body.
There was a bed in the aft cabin. That was where he had put her the night he had kidnapped her. He had kissed her on that bed. What would he do to her there tonight? The thought of going back to that true self, that fully human, unashamedly physical person again, made her anxious suddenly. Was it her true self, or was it just the animal body taking over?
Shulamith leaned back against the sofa cushions and spread her arms along the back, her glass in one hand, trying to understand what it was that had happened today. No other man had taken so for granted the fact that her body, and his own, was an engine of pleasure. The fabric of the navy cushion covers was strong and rough under her fingers. She stroked it appreciatively, gazing around at the brass fittings and the oiled teak glowing so richly in the golden sunlight.
"This is a beautiful boat," she said softly. She had seen in his movements on deck that Johnny Winterhawk loved the Outcast, and no wonder. She was not so experienced a sailor as he was, but it didn't take an expert to see that the yacht handled superbly.
He glanced at her. "Yes," he agreed shortly. He rooted in cupboards and freezer, lit the oven, and began to prepare supper. He opened various cupboards, pulling out dishes and condiments.
Shulamith set her glass down, sat up and lifted the flap of the drop-leaf table.
"Beautifully maintained, too. How long have you had her?" she asked, lazily aware of the long sweep of her hair as she bent down to fasten the table in place, knowing he watched it with erotic pleasure.
"A few years," Johnny said.
He set down mats and dishes and she began to lay the table. She looked up to find his dark eyes on her, full of hunger and promise, and she burst into babbling speech. "Daddy prefers motor. He's got a huge motor yacht. But I have a small sail—just a twenty-five footer—a C & C. I haven't been sailing for ages. She's been out of the water for a year, and I haven't had time since I got back."
Johnny listened in silence as he worked. "Her name is Sweet Cherry Yacht, because when I was a kid I thought that's what the song was about. You know, Swing Low, Sweet Cherry Yacht?" she laughed. "I used to—"
"Shulamith," he interrupted firmly, and his deep voice had a quality that instantly stilled her. She was silent, staring at him, her heart tripping.
"They aren't going to find us tonight. If they're going to check every marina between the island and Tsawwassen they've got more than one long night's work ahead of them."
Smith made a face. "They don't have to sail, though, do they?" she countered, and maybe he was right, maybe that was what was making her nervous. "You registered back at the marina. All anyone has to do is call around."
"Which will be easier for the police than anyone else," Johnny pointed out.
Silence fell between them, so that the noise of the generator seemed suddenly loud. Her eyes searched his. "Are you frightened?" she asked. If the police found them now, she would be safe, but Johnny...Johnny would never be safe again.
He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that reminded her of Wilf, picked up his glass and took a long drink. "Any non-WASP in this country who isn't afraid of a confrontation with the police needs his head examined," he said. "Of course I'm afraid. Not only have I abducted a white woman, but also I have already given her grounds for a charge of rape. And it's still all I can do to keep my hands off her."
The sudden high whistling of the kettle drowned out Smith's shocked gasp. Reaction twisted her stomach until she felt faint. With wide eyes she watched Johnny Winterhawk move into the galley and lift the kettle from the fire. She watched every movement of his hands as he poured water on the instant soup in the two fat mugs he had set on the counter and left them to steep.
As the kettle whistle died, over the thud of the generator they could hear the noise of an outboard motor. They froze, staring at each other, listening with every pore as the sound came closer.
"Ahoy, Outcast. Ahoy Outcast!"
They heard the motor die and the muted thump as a dinghy bumped lightly against the Outcast's stern.
Johnny Winterhawk turned toward the companionway.
"Is it the police?" Smith hissed.
He lifted an eyebrow in a half shrug, his face white. "Always get their man."
She followed him to the foot of the ladder and clung to hold him back. Desperately she whispered, "Tell them we've been sailing! Tell them we haven't heard the news! Don't admit anyth
ing, Johnny! Don't let them come aboard!"
"Hi, there! Anybody home?" This time it was a female voice, bright and happy, and they both blew out a deep sigh.
"Stay below!" Johnny whispered, and went lightly up on deck and closed the hatch behind him.
She stayed where she was, listening to the voices and laughter, not distinguishing anything except the vital fact that their visitors were not threatening.
There was a small shriek of delighted chatter from the woman, and then, after a minute, the engine roared, and a few moments later the man's voice, from a distance, shouted what sounded like, "You have a good time now, you hear?"
Smith frowned in curiosity as Johnny came down the companionway with a bottle of wine in his hand.
"Who was it?" she demanded.
"Our neighbours across the cove," he said. He was looking at her oddly. "Why didn't you come up?"
"But you...you told me to stay below!"
"And you obeyed me." He moved to set the bottle of wine on the counter, then turned to face her. "Those people would have helped you escape. Didn't you think of that? All you had to do was come on deck and tell them who you were."
Smith looked at him, thunderstruck.
"Why didn't you?" Johnny persisted.
She was breathing through her open mouth, staring at his face.
Because it had been them against the world—that was why she hadn't called out. Because in that moment she had forgotten that Johnny Winterhawk was her kidnapper and enemy. He had been the one she loved most in all the world, the one she felt ready to die for.
Shulamith swallowed. "I—I'm going mad," she whispered, then whirled and rushed to the companionway.
He caught her on the first step and lifted her bodily away from the ladder. "No," he said calmly as she clawed and kicked against the restraint.
"Let me go!" she wailed on a high, hoarse cry, and dragging her down to the settee he clamped a hand over her mouth.
"When they're out of earshot," he said grimly, holding her.
They were both silent then, listening to the noise of their neighbours' engine recede across the cove. An ugly hopelessness washed over Smith. When Johnny released her she slumped against the corner of the sofa and dropped her head into her hands.
Season of Storm Page 12
