She spat out a mouthful of his hair, gasping as his dead weight pressed down on her chest. Although he was heavy, he wasn’t oppressively so and Estelle wondered at how good the solid pressure of him felt against her own body, how well they fit together, like two halves of a whole. Neither too small nor too large. It was as if his body was made solely for her tall frame.
“Estelle, are you all right?” Claire’s voice was strained as she climbed down the ladder.
Estelle saw her through a blurry red veil. “He’s as bulky as a bullock.”
She managed to squeeze her arm between them and shuffled as best she could in the small craft that threatened to capsize with every movement. She slipped out from under Gregory and maneuvered him so that he was secure in the hull. She sat on the small, rough cut bench seat, breathing heavily and waiting for her heart to resume a normal pace.
Gregory filled the hull almost to capacity. Through the whole episode he hadn’t so much as uttered a sound. A slight frown creased her forehead. She hoped that she hadn’t given him too much of the drug. There was no time to worry about that now, though. With the threat of being found by his crew at any moment, she would need to get to the safety of the Wanderlust, her own ship. She had a fierce crew of fifty women, rescued from the mistreatment of men and all ferociously loyal. Between Claire, Dalia, herself and twenty other women, they’d wrested the Wanderlust from her enemy — the cruel Jack Cutlass.
Estelle slipped into the water and beckoned to Claire to move into the dingy. The freezing sea soaked into her clothes, weighting them down and quickly numbing her skin, but there was no time to waste. They needed to get away. Claire picked up the oars. The craft slid smoothly through the gently swelling water, and soon the pier and Gregory’s ship disappeared into the dark night.
She barely believed that they had actually done the impossible and kidnapped Captain Gregory Marshall. A slow smile spread over Estelle’s face. He was going to repay the debt he owed her family, and she was going to make sure he paid back every last penny with blood. It was going to be entertaining to watch the star of the Royal Navy pay for the heinous crime he had committed and for which he had thus far managed to avoid retribution. But first, she needed to find out exactly what had happened, because there was only one person who really knew what had gone on that night long ago. And that need was the only thing that stood between his life and his dispatch into the afterlife.
Chapter Two
They had to be getting close to the Wanderlust. The waves had become increasingly choppy, the white peaks often breaking over the top of their little rowboat. They had taken a direct line out from the shore and had been steadily rowing for an hour. Estelle strained to see the telltale signs of Dalia’s gift using her hiding talent, eager to find the safety of the Wanderlust beneath her feet and the warmth of fresh, dry clothes.
Years ago, she’d rescued Dalia from the bowels of an Arabian slave ship, severely beaten, stolen from her family, and destined for slavery. Estelle had offered to take her back home, but the traders had slaughtered her entire village save for the few women that would fetch them a good price on the slave market. Dalia would have fetched the best price. Olive skinned and long limbed, with cat-like, slanted eyes that were long-lashed and of the darkest brown, the crew had been careful to miss her face, but the bruises on her body could not be hidden.
Estelle had left the fate of the crew up to Dalia when she had rescued her. Dalia asked her gods and Estelle had found the smallest island, without water or food sources, and had left the pirates there to ponder their remaining days before a long, miserable death.
Dalia had always had her gift. As far as Estelle could determine, Dalia was able to hide the things that people looked for, like a hairbrush left on a dressing table, or a cup of wine on a dinner table. More than once they’d doubled over with laughter as Dalia hid a crew member’s dinner while her head was turned. Whether it was a mind trick, Estelle didn’t know, but she had become so used to it that she was getting very good at finding things, much to Dalia’s recent amusement.
It was more than a simple reflection. If that was so then the viewer would see themselves when they were upon the object and be able to find it. It was more a shimmering of light that covered the object. If she was still enough, Estelle would see light flickering, like fleeting dashes of sunlight from the surface of water. In cases of large ships like the Wanderlust, she would see an outline, where the light may be darker or brighter than its surroundings.
Her own gift had started differently. It still reminded her of that terrible night that launched her into adulthood at the tender age of fourteen. She’d first used it when a sailor wanted his way with her.
It was soon after the disappearance of her father and she’d no family or money to turn to so she had taken work as a tankard girl. One night a man paid her more than a passing interest. She had screamed, loudly — a sound from the depths of her soul. He’d instantly keeled over unconscious. She’d run then, fearful of what she’d done, but not before she landed a hard kick to his ribs and heard one snap satisfyingly under her foot.
She had learned, through years of trial and error, the subtleties of her voice. Knew how to control it a little more than she did ten years ago, although she still didn’t know where it came from. She didn’t need to scream to knock a man senseless now. She could sing and render him unconscious for a much longer time. She had made her own melody, a lullaby she’d half remembered from her mother. It had come in handy, enough for her to escape from trouble on numerous occasions.
Estelle double checked the star she followed, and recognized the disjointed flickering line below it — the Wanderlust. Relief poured through her as she realized they were almost at the ship. If she looked carefully she might even see her black-clad crew wandering the decks, shadowed and near invisible against the night sky. Dalia would hide the ship, but would not hide the crew. She never used her gift on people, shrank away from doing it, but didn’t ever say the reason for it. She would just solemnly shake her head and say that it is never to be done. She would fail her gods somehow if she did.
Estelle kicked her legs, now barely feeling the propulsion through the water. Although she was fit, the row out to the harbor and the swim back in freezing water had sapped her body of its usual strength.
“We’re here, Claire. Can you whistle for them?” Estelle whispered through chattering teeth. She gripped the side of the rowboat with both hands and let her body relax, grateful to float weightlessly in the water.
Claire pulled out a whistle tied to a string around her neck and let out two sharp shrills. An immediate answering whistle drifted over the water.
Estelle watched where she expected the Wanderlust to be. Watching something hidden reappear was something she always found utterly amazing. Parallel horizontal lines sparked lightning fast in opposite directions, like taut expandable ropes snapping back and forth.
The lines sparked in shorter distances, growing in thickness, pulsating with bright flashes of light. Estelle glimpsed her beloved ship and she swelled with pride. She would never tire of seeing it. It was her hard won freedom, her home.
The shimmering lines flashed slower and then stopped, revealing her ship. One second there was endless waves and a dark horizon, and the next the Wanderlust was dancing on top of the ocean, sleek, black and proudly majestic.
Figures appeared over the railing and a rope was dropped over the side. Black-clad figures climbed over the side of the ship and down the rope. Soon her crew helped her frozen limbs up the ladder. A blanket was thrown around her, which helped to ward off the chill of her wet clothes and the bite of the night breeze.
“Come into your cabin, Captain,” Jade, her first mate, said.
Estelle shook her head, straining to look through the shadows at the gun rail. “I’ll wait for Claire.”
Claire climbed over the edge of the boat, clearl
y fatigued. Her white blonde hair shimmered in a silken curtain, and she flicked it behind her back with a quick twist of her slim wrist. She turned, and with the aid of Estelle and other crew members, brought Gregory’s unconscious, heavy body up and over the side of the ship. It took several hands to maneuver his large frame onto the deck.
“Your mission was successful,” Jade said. There was triumph in her voice.
Estelle nodded, seeing clearly in the sublime light of the moon. Jade’s face was in shadow, but Estelle still saw the flat dent in the bridge of her nose where it had been broken by a man’s fist.
“We have him, but we are not out of danger’s path just yet. He will be missed soon, if not already and we had best make sail immediately. The Royal Navy can move fast when it wants to,” Estelle said. She knew without a doubt in her mind the Navy would miss its best and brightest Captain and would do anything it could to get him back.
“What do you want us to do with him?” Jade asked.
Estelle knelt next to the still, prone form of Gregory. His face was pale beneath his tan and his breathing was alarmingly shallow. He was younger than she originally thought. When she’d seen him on the pier, his face had been arranged into taut lines, creating a derisive tension that aged him a decade more than his years. Then his brows had flicked upwards in surprise. She’d been captured in an onyx-black, sharp gaze. It was as if he could see into her heart and read her innermost thoughts.
Her hand moved on its own and tucked a wayward curl of raven hair back into the thick waves. Her fingertips grazed his forehead. A zing of energy zapped through her fingers and jolted up her arm. She withdrew her hand, frowning, still feeling her fingertips prickle like she’d got too close to a flame.
His hand was out flung, palm side up. It was large and powerful looking, but his fingers were tapered, long and thin. She touched the skin and found it to be soft. Maybe captaincy had made him soft as well. She unconsciously rubbed the calluses on her own hands, roughened with months of hauling water soaked rope. When Dalia was recovered from hiding the Wanderlust, Estelle would ask her to read his palm and see what information it would reveal.
“Get the doctor to look at him, check to see he’s not damaged. Then lock him in the brig. Oh, and make sure he’s chained. He’s going to be angry when he wakes up,” Estelle said. She turned into the door beneath the poop deck that would take her to her cabin and her bed, and let her crew look after the unconscious, darkly handsome Gregory Marshall.
• • •
His head ached with a dry throb that had him wincing. He could see flashes of burning light behind his closed eyelids with every beat of his heart. He kept his eyes closed, letting the nausea wash through him.
Gregory remained motionless, fighting the urge to release the contents of his stomach. He calmed as he heard the distant hollow slap of waves breaking against the hull. His cabin was warm, lulling him to the verge of sleep. He relaxed back into his bed, probing through his body with his mind. His muscles ached, his joints felt stiff and his skin burned on various parts of his body where it had been grazed. A hangover laced his mind, but he’d no recollection of rum having touched his lips, or why his body should feel so abused.
He recalled his last memory before everything blacked out. There was an apparition with translucent skin and flaming red hair. She had taken him by surprise and it was all he could do to stare, immersing himself in her ethereal beauty. His body had reacted instantly, his heart pushing heated blood into extremities of his body that made him want to scoop her into his arms and feel her lush curves flowing over his own body. Then she had parted rose petal lips and begun singing in a voice that was straight from heaven. The song had misted his mind, snapping his thoughts from his body, beating him down beneath waves of unconsciousness. But she must have been a dream, a vision, an aching wish brought on by months of overwork.
He raised a hand to massage his eyelids with his fingertips and heard the loud clank of a chain. A heavy manacle wrapped around his wrist, his arm weighted by the length of iron attached to it. He cracked open his eyes and reeled when the sharp sting of sunlight seared them. He moved his other arm a fraction and found that it, too, was bound.
Gregory tried to sit up, but the world tipped vertically and he crashed down with a brain-rolling thump. He waited until his head stopped spinning before he slowly cracked open one eye and focused on a plank of wood that was somewhere above his head.
His vision became less watery. The wood was well cut, smooth, and covered with a layer of shining wax. He let his gaze slowly slide around the room. Wooden planking boxed him in on three walls and on the roof. The wall to his left held an O ring to which the ends of his chains were attached. He was on a bench which served as his bed, attached to the walls. There was a chair at his feet and a small cabinet topped sparsely with some amenities. A small round portal set high into the wall on his right had been opened to let the fragrance of a warm fresh ocean breeze filter into the tiny space.
His arm swung down and his knuckles grazed the floor. He turned his head to his left and was met with a line of heavy bars from floor to ceiling. It took him only a moment to realize he was in a brig.
A brig he didn’t recognize.
A female voice, soft and inaudible floated through the window and acted like a tonic. There were no females in the Royal Navy, no females on his ship. His crew was a superstitious bunch and they would never let a woman set a single pretty foot up the gang plank.
He was not aboard his ship. Where in hell was he?
Gregory swung his feet off the bench bed and onto the floor, sitting and waiting for his head to stop its wild spin. He couldn’t help the groan that tumbled from his parched lips. There were light footsteps hurrying towards him, the tinkering of keys in a lock and the squeak of the door opening.
“You poor man! You look like you’re suffering,” a soft female voice filled with deep sympathy floated around him. Something so gentle had no place in a prison. Confusion rattled his brain.
“Here, drink this.” A glass cup was held under his nose. He squinted into in and saw that it was filled with crystal clear water.
A wave of anger surged through him. He had woken to a world where nothing made sense. Why was he chained to a wall in the cleanest prison he had clapped eyes on, and being waited on by a concerned female?
He swiped the glass cup with the back of his hand and was momentarily satisfied to hear it break when it hit the floor. He quickly grabbed the female’s slender wrist and held it in his larger fist. There was a soft gasp and she started to tremble.
“Where am I?” he ground out. His voice was ragged and rough and didn’t sound like his own. Gregory cracked his eyes open and looked into a pair of doe brown eyes that were clouded with fear. “Tell me.”
Her lips trembled, face tight with fear. She tried to pull back but he held onto her. He knew he was hurting her, something that didn’t sit well with him, but desperation simmered and made him keep a hold of her wrist. He gave a small tug. Her eyes filled with bleak distress.
His desperate anger wavered into confusion. There was an element of fragility about this woman, so concerned about his comfort a moment before, now trembling like a leaf and all he had done was take hold of her wrist.
Her tongue darted from her mouth and licked her lower lip. “Please, let me go,” her voice was a brittle whisper.
“Not before you tell me where I am and why I am here,” he said.
She whimpered and a frisson of self-disgust made him let go of her wrist. She held her wrist to her chest. Her terror was, although incomprehensible, now palpable and he didn’t have it in him to torture powerless women.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you … ” he said. How he could ever hurt a woman? He sunk his aching head into the open palms of his hands.
“So you should be.” A clipped female voice, far different fr
om those of the timid doe-eyed woman, made him lift his head. This voice used well rounded syllables, was lower in tone, sultry, held authority and was plainly used to orders it gave being observed.
An auburn haired beauty, whose eyes spat heat to match the color of the locks cascading down her back, stood before him. Her hair was clasped behind her neck. Lose tendrils escaped, framing her face in swirls of autumn flame. He blinked, shock muting him.
Her opalescent skin was perfumed by the faintest of scents, something between rose and lavender. Slim brows arched delicately over chestnut eyes that could stare a man down and make him forget who he was. Her nose was straight, slightly pointed, set resolutely over firm pouty lips that currently were thinned into a straight line.
She was breathtakingly exquisite.
Her narrow hips moved in a delicate swing as she stood in the open doorway and placed her hands on the doe eyed woman’s shoulders. She was a full head taller than the woman, with a frame that was totally, wholly feminine with lean, long legs that went from the floor all the way to heaven.
To his delighted surprise she wore tight men’s breeches that fit every snug curve of her legs like a second skin. Her breeches were tucked into fitted black boots, laced from toe to knee. Above the breeches, a white cotton shirt billowed above her slender waist. It was open at the cuffs as well as her neck, showcasing the gentle swell of her décolletage, although she seemed unaware of, or didn’t care about, the scandalous amount of skin she showed.
“Did he hurt you, Sara?” she asked. Her tone was low, hushed and soothing.
Sara shook her head. Her eyes glimmered and she looked at the red head with a mixture of comfort and awe. “No. I was tending to him and he grabbed my wrist. He just asked where he was.” Her gaze turned introspective and she shook her head again, as if making sure in her own mind of what had happened. “He didn’t hurt me.”
Paradise Island Page 2
