A two-foot hunchback would have been preferable to Raoul! she told herself, so thinking that this pirate was more appealing was certainly no real compliment. And yet she was thinking that. Even if she were to be forced to spend her life with Raoul, she would give almost anything to know what it would be like...
To be loved. No, not love; for sure, it was only a lost illusion. Maybe then the illusion was what she craved, just once perhaps, just for a night...
She was struggling to do her own hooks when she felt him at her back, ably redoing what he had undone last night. "We'll get your things from the other ship today," he told her. "We've a tub on board, if you wish to bathe. Anything that we can provide, we will—"
She spun on him, not caring that all her hooks were not in place. "Air!" she told him. "I—I want some air. Please—I just need air!" With that she spun again and headed for the door to the cabin. It was unlocked. She swung it open and stepped outside, hurrying to the wooden rail at the bow of the ship.
In the distance, there was an island. A beautiful island. Cliffs abounded around it; rich greenery grew there. Sweet Jesu, but it would be a dangerous place, she thought. Surrounded by outcrops of rock...
* * *
In the cabin, Steven winced as she tore from his presence. Well, what in God's name did the woman want? He had left her to fall asleep in peace last night.
He had lain awake until the coming of the dawn, fighting the heat and agony that had burned through him all those wretched hours. She had been so determined to keep her distance—he should have let her. So what if she would have fallen to the floor! She wouldn't have been in half the agony the night had caused him.
He spoke her language; he tried to be polite. But when she had awakened, she had wanted anything but to be near him!
Even as he tugged on his shirt and boots, he was astounded to hear a startled cry from the deck—and the sound of a splash. He went tearing out of the cabin, only to discover that his crew was staring at him as if he'd grown horns and cloven hooves overnight.
"She's jumped!" Thomas cried in dismay.
"What in God's name did you do to her?" Walt demanded.
"Nothing! Not a damned thing!" Steven replied briefly, hopping up and down as he stripped off the boots he had just donned, leaped to the edge of the rail, and dived cleanly into the water.
He hit the warm Caribbean sea easily, pitching downward until his strong kicks stopped the impetus of his motion. He surfaced, sweeping his hair back, looking out to study the horizon. There! She was ahead of him, swimming strongly toward the island. She must have imagined it as a refuge; perhaps she hadn't realized that there was a channel and that their ship was seeking the island as its own haven.
She had merely wanted freedom, wanted to escape...
And again, perhaps she hadn't realized her distance from it, for as he swam harder, catching up with her, he could hear the ragged way she was inhaling. She was surprisingly enough a very good swimmer, but she had pitched over the bow fully clothed, and her skirts and petticoats were weighing her down heavily. Even as he swam determinedly and was almost upon her, she started to go down, a small cry escaping her.
He caught her, dragging her to the surface. She coughed and sputtered—and turned her energies toward fighting him. "Let me go, you rogue!"
"You're drowning, little fool!" he charged her.
"I'm not drowning, I swim very well, I'm just—" She broke off with a startled cry as she saw him take his knife from the sheath at his calf and direct it toward her.
"Hold still!" he ordered fiercely, chopping away at the heavy skirt that was about to drag them both down to a watery death.
"I can do this myself—" she gasped out, fully aware that her clothes were very near to killing them both.
"So you weren't trying to kill yourself!"
"Kill myself?" she demanded. "Over you? I can swim exceptionally well, I'll have you know—" she began, but her head was suddenly under water as he tugged at her skirt, dragging its weight away from her, and letting it fall to the bottom of the sea. She struggled back up. "As I was saying, I swim exceptionally well—unless someone is trying to drown me!"
"It's a long way to the island, my lady!" he told her.
She trod water as she stared at it, then looked back at him. Her skirts were gone now. Perhaps she was debating, wondering if she might just possibly swim away from him, straight to her freedom, once again.
"You might make the island. And if you did, my crew and I would be joining you shortly."
"What?"
"It's my island. Well, all right, it isn't mine, but I consider it so. It's on very few maps, and to most men, it is unapproachable."
"But not to such an experienced pirate!" she charged him.
"It's very comfortable," he assured her, still treading water as his crew stared on, wondering what could possibly be going on between them. "We've built houses, we've—"
"You can't have!" she cried in dismay.
"But we have," he told her softly. "Shall we sail there?" he asked her softly. "It is a very long swim!"
Defeat touched her eyes just briefly. She closed them, then they flew open once again, and she began to swim strongly past him.
In seconds, she was back at the ship. Billy Bowe was there, ready to throw the rope ladder over for her and Steven to board, ready also with a blanket to wrap her in. The sea water had been warm enough, but the breeze this morning was cool.
Steven felt it himself as he crawled up the ladder to the deck. She stood there, wrapped in her blanket, staring at him. Then she swung around, wet hair sending out a spray, and marched back to his cabin.
She slammed the door hard. He started after her, but then stopped and smiled. Witch.
He followed her but didn't enter his cabin.
He slid the bolt, loudly and securely, on the door.
Chapter 5
Steven made it a point not to return to his cabin. When they were safe within the harbor and the anchor had been cast, he boarded the first small boat for the island, still fuming from his latest encounter with his hostage. His crew had continued to give him dire looks, and to the last man, they were wondering what he had done to the girl to make her willing to throw herself overboard. It was hard to explain that she probably swam much better than the majority of them, especially since half of them were, oddly enough, afraid of water, period. Then he decided he just wasn't giving anybody any explanations; they could think what they damned well pleased.
Coming to his own home on the isle, he found that it had been kept clean in his absence and made ready for his return by Judith, the widowed, elderly matron who had sailed with him long ago from England for the Virginia Colony, only to discover when they stopped by the island that she loved it; she loved the sun, the sea, the easy, soft breeze, the lazy feel of it all. Tall and thin, with iron-gray hair and a very handsome face still, perpetually clothed in black, Judith was happy enough to fend for him when he was there, and to care for his home in his absence. She had her own little house on the isle, and liked living in it alone. When he arrived on the beach, he looked up the cliff to his own home, and was glad he had left his captive behind.
Damn her. He was going to write his own letter to Monsieur le Comte Raoul Flambert. And he was going to do it before his little wildcat was brought to him. She was exceptionally distracting.
Walking from the beach to his house, he waved to a few more of those who called the Hidden Isle home; Miles and Jake, fishermen who pirated with him on occasion; John Hill, the feisty little Irishman who governed the small community in Steven's absence and arranged for the coming and going of captured ships at Steven's command; Bill Whaley, who kept their local tavern supplied; and Rachel and Louise, John Hill's two young daughters, who were playing by the surf, kicking up sea and sand.
He burst into his own little house which was simply composed of two rooms separated by a central hall, the bedroom to the left, and the main room where he entered. The main room was quit
e large, with a huge fireplace and cooking hearth spread across the far wall, a large dining table before it, heavy, carved of oak, and to the other side of the room, a handsome set of Tudor chairs and chaises, all set comfortably around the room with a small cherrywood table in the center.
Steven's attention was instantly drawn to the table, for it seemed that Judith had been quite busy in his absence, setting the house up for Christmas. While there were no holly leaves with which to decorate here on the island, nevertheless, Judith had set up a fine crèche in the midst of wild island leaves and fragrant flowers, all displayed in the center of the cherrywood table.
Steven paused to pick up one of the handsomely crafted figures.
The crèche was Spanish; he could remember the ship they had gotten it from. Holding the tiny Christ figure he'd taken from its cradle of hay, Steven mused over the beauty of the piece someone had so patiently carved. Someone had created an angelic, peaceful face for the infant Jesus. He hoped that the workman had been well rewarded for his efforts, and he might have been sorry to have stolen such a piece, but then it had merely been meant for the marketplace in some Spanish port, and he was certain that he would give the beautiful crèche as fine a home as anyone else might. He found it extraordinary, yet even as he held it, he felt a wave of guilt washing over him.
The girl had been a Christmas gift for Flambert. Not that he could feel any guilt where Flambert was concerned, but...
She would be free soon enough. With or without her participation.
He firmly set the little piece down and turned his back on it. He felt as if the figure's eyes were following him. Mary was probably giving him a most condemning look, and even Joseph might have his eyes boring into Steven's back!
"No harm will come to her!" he muttered out loud. "I've just got to get her off this island as swiftly as I can!"
He strode into his bedroom and went to the large captain's desk near the window, sitting down in the swivel chair. He drew writing paper, his quill, and ink from the desk, and with bold determination, he began to write his ransom letter to Flambert:
Monsieur le Comte Flambert, if rumor has served you well, you will already be aware that the Red Fox has taken your Christmas gift, your bride. May I compliment you, sir, on the exquisite beauty of your fiancée.
He ceased writing for just a moment. Then it seemed that his quill began to fly across the page.
The lady has the softest skin, alabaster in its perfection, silk to touch. Her hair is like a spill of radiant sunlight, her eyes rival the aquamarine of the seas around me. She is pure fire and spirit as well, and I shall be loath to return her to you at any price, but then, Monsieur le Comte, I will be eagerly awaiting word on just what you will pay. I suggest all haste. My fascination for the demoiselle grows by the hour.
He stopped writing again.
Sweet Lord, but writing the letter had gone quickly. Describing his hostage had been an easy effort. He stared at the words he had written, feeling a growing irritation with himself. Well, it was done. It could be sent. The girl was so determined to be free of Steven, let her have Flambert. She would discover herself what Flambert was like.
Ah, and there the rub! Yet how could Steven be the one to pirate her ship, abduct her—and then tell her that Flambert was the despicable rodent?
Impatiently, he folded his letter, dropped hot wax upon it to seal it, and stamped it with the insignia from the ring on his little finger, a baying fox. It was only then that he sensed something behind him. He spun the chair around.
She was there. Standing near the foot of the bed, her hair cascading down her back in endless sun-touched waves, her eyes burning into his now like blue fire. She had shed her chopped and soaked clothing, and was gowned now in elegant emerald-green with full sweeping sleeves and a soft beige underskirt.
She was... breathtaking. So much so that he felt an instant tightening in his groin and a swift, irrational rise of his temper to go along with it.
He was especially irritated that he hadn't heard her come in. He could usually hear the fall of a sparrow's feather! But then, he had been deep in concentration, describing her to Flambert, trying to make Flambert realize just what he was holding.
"What are you doing there?" he snapped.
"I was delivered here," she returned icily.
"Delivered—to stand behind me?" he demanded.
"Delivered to your doorstep, ushered into your house. And I just came in here and—and saw that you were writing."
Had she been reading over his shoulder? But he had written to Flambert in English. She couldn't know what he had said in his taunting demand.
"So?" he inquired.
She spun around on her heel, exiting the room. He heard her walking through the broad main hall of the house, toward the door. He leaped up and followed her quickly.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
Her lashes fell over her eyes for a moment. "I had thought I was—to stay here. If not, I shall see to myself—"
"Get back in here, my lady. You are to stay here. You're a pirate's captive, remember? You are to see to my things, cook for me, clean for me."
She arched an elegant brow. "Oh, I do not think so!" she assured him.
It hadn't been what he had meant to say, but her cool refusal left his temper flaring.
"I like my coffee strong, hot, and plain, my lady. And I like it very much when I first awaken."
She arched an eyebrow in response.
There was a knock on the door. Without awaiting a reply, Billy Bowe shoved it open, and Steven quickly saw why. Poor Billy was laboring beneath the weight of a heavy trunk, and all but got it through the doorway before giving out and sighing. "Captain, I beg your pardon there, but..."
"Leave it, Billy, leave it!" he said in English.
Billy nodded. "Well, if I'm free, Cap'n, I'm headed into the tavern, am I."
Steven started to nod, then shook his head. "A moment, Billy," he said, still speaking English. "I've written the ransom note for the girl. The Frenchman must know we've got her by now, and since she'll not take up a quill herself, I've sent him a message warning him that his bride is a tempting morsel. Indeed, bring it to Patrick, and have him get it to a neutral ship and into Flambert's hands as swiftly as possible. I swear if I do not hear from him in twenty-four hours, 'tis like as not I'll have wrung her neck!"
Billy arched a brow high. "Captain—"
"All right, Billy, so perhaps I'll not wring her neck, but by God, Flambert will not have her returned in the same shape she came aboard my ship, I do so swear it!" He stared at his hostile captive, and left them both for a moment to retrieve his letter, and then thrust it into Billy's hands.
Billy looked at the girl unhappily. "Captain, I—"
"What?"
Billy sighed. "I'll see it reaches a neutral ship," Billy said, and departed, and Steven found himself alone again with his beautiful hostage.
He bowed deeply, mockingly. "Make yourself at home, my lady."
She lifted her chin very high and pointed to the doorway between the rooms of the house. "Is that to be my prison?" she asked.
"You're not in prison—"
"The room will do. You will, of course, stay out of it now?"
He crossed his arms over his chest. "No, I will not. And you are not in prison in this house."
"Merely on this island."
He grated his teeth together with impatience. "Aye, then, you're a prisoner on this island! And if that's the way you'd have it, you'll be prisoner in this house! You'd be trying to swim away, I imagine, were I to let you free to roam the place!"
"Indeed, I would do anything to escape you!" she hissed.
Freshly infuriated with her, he strode out of the house, slamming the door in his wake. Outside the house, a number of the crew awaited him, and he called out a sharp order. "See that she doesn't move! Two men on duty; spell yourselves, two hours on, two off, until I return!"
Scowling in a fury, he headed for the tav
ern himself. He was ready for a good pint of pirated rum!
* * *
He spent the afternoon drinking with his crew, able to throw some caution to the wind, since John Hill would be keeping a sane and sober eye on the island. Walt was there, drinking in the tavern as well, yet Steven was quite certain that the whole lot of them could instantly sober themselves should it become necessary. There was little danger here. Even if an enemy ship came upon the island, there were guns positioned upon the cliffs to the harbor, and most any ship would rip up on the coral before coming close enough to offer them any real threat.
Rose and Sarah, two free-spirited tavern girls, kept the rum flowing, the food coming, and a high level of entertainment going; singing, dancing, and carrying on all the way around. Steven tried to throw himself into the festivities of coming to a home port after such a successful capture. But it seemed he smiled too hard, laughed too easily.
Falsely.
He wanted nothing more than to return to his house.
Why? he mocked himself. To torture himself longing for another man's Christmas present? Ah, it wasn't that. He didn't give a damn for Flambert, it was just that...
Sweet Jesu, if he could be the wretch she thought him for just one night!
Finally he wearied of trying to laugh and jest with his fellows. He left the tavern behind and made his way to his own house, not nearly as drunk as he had longed to be, plagued much more by a headache instead.
He passed one of his men dozing on the porch, nodded, and entered the house to hear splashing sounds. Puzzled, he made his way across the main hall to the bedroom door, and paused there.
She was bathing. Someone had seen to it that the massive wooden hip tub had been brought in to her. They had taken it off a French ship about six months prior and it was quite an elegant piece of extravagance, with hammered gold lions interlaced with the bronze trim. The tub was fashioned almost like a lady's chaise, with a high back and nearly enough room to completely stretch the legs out in front.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 5
