Paradise Island

by Charmaine Ross

  Worthington leant closer to the ball, watching the mists, looking for images he might be lucky enough to see. He believed, but he’d not been given the gift of third sight himself.

  “There is a man. He wears a uniform, like yours, but with fewer brass medals on his chest. He is in a field filled with smoke and guns. He shouts orders. Stand firm. Charge.” Her eyes drifted to his. Focused. “That is all I see.”

  “His name?”

  Madam Rose shook her head. “There is no name.”

  The muscle at Worthington’s temple twitched. He hated when it did that, which it did when he was most unhappy. Like now. He didn’t like being most unhappy. He wanted smooth waters. He wanted things to run like silk. And this was not running like silk. He stood, slamming his fist on the table. The stack of cards toppled. Madam Rose jumped. “You will tell me now!” he shouted.

  “I cannot!” she whispered.

  “I will slaughter your family. Do you understand? All of them. And then if you still can’t help me, I’ll slaughter your cousins, and their mothers and fathers then I’ll start with the people who live in your childhood village starting with the children. I’ll see the streets running red, do you hear? You will help me or everything you have and everyone you love will be gone to you. Now tell me his name!”

  Madam Rose jerked backwards. Sparks zigzagged from the crystal ball to her fingers, dancing in blue streaks up her arms to her chest. Her eyes rolled backwards until there were only the whites to be seen. Her head tipped back, sending her headscarf floating to the floor and unraveling her long raven locks. The blue streaks danced in her hair. Strands stood on end and became a halo around her head.

  “The man you seek is … Major Christopher Sweet.”

  Her hands fell from the crystal. She collapsed onto the table top, breathing heavily. The trance had cost her. And shown him what a valuable asset she would be to him. He called in his two guards. If they were surprised at what they saw, they didn’t show it.

  “Take her and these things on the table. She will need them.”

  Madam Rose looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror. “You said if I helped you, you would go.”

  “I did promise. I am leaving. And you are coming with me.” He stretched his mouth into a smile.

  She started to scream, but the butt of the rifle from one of his men had her collapsing across the top of the table.

  “Take her. Get those things. We’ll leave the back way.”

  A quick search behind the tapestries found the door from which she’d silently come through. As they left the room, Worthington felt the weight of eyes on his back. He turned. In the dull flickering light he could have sworn that the face of the angel on the tapestry was turned towards him, the end of the knife pointed straight at him.

  He turned, and without a second glance, shut the door, leaving the room warm and quiet and smelling of the sweet incense that reminded him of the streets of Arabia.

  Chapter Thirty

  A warm starboard breeze plucked at the immense charcoal black mainsail and propelled Jack’s ship The Bloody Blade around the island mass of Paradise. Estelle shouted orders, the mainsail was dropped and the ship made ready to dock. The ring no longer worked. The power of the god buried beneath the earth. The ships had lost the unearthly speed that the spirit god had provided them.

  For such a large ship, it handled well. Not as well as her beloved Wanderlust, but well enough to glide through the large swells that had brought them along the rugged cliff line of Paradise.

  Both the women from her village and the men sailed Jack’s fleet. Now, apart from their dismal coloring, they were a fleet of normal looking enough ships. The men had assured her that once docked, they would scour the black away and bring the wood back to its original gleaming deep golden hues. It would be good for them to do that and the bonus was she had more ships to add to her merchant fleet.

  Gums and lush green shrubs lined the rocky walls that rose majestically from the clear blue waters. Birdsong rang from the twisted branches, various breeds of birds fighting for fish and nesting rights in their little pocket of leaves. Although they could not be seen, they could be heard clearly enough. There were flashes of color as butterflies with large papery wings rode the warm currents, flitting from tree to tree in their haphazard patterns.

  A blur of grey flashed beneath the sparkling surface of water as a school of dolphins raced their ship. Three rose from the water, their sleek grey skins shining in the sunlight. They were her friends, welcoming her home.

  At long last, she was coming home. She had not thought it possible, but it now meant more than it ever had to her. She slid a sidelong glaze to Gregory. The breeze plucked his clothing and ruffled his raven hair. There was a satisfied smile on his mouth as he watched the fertile scenery slide past. He looked to be every inch the pirate that was always carefully guarded beneath the veneer of a navy Captain and she knew that he would call Paradise his home just as passionately as she. As she knew all that returned with her would.

  All but the solitary man that was chained in the brig in the bowels of the ship caught by Lilura sneaking away after the spirit god had returned them all to the Earth, Jack as powerless as the day he’d first gone to the spirit god and sold his soul and everyone else’s for power and greed. Jack had violently protested at being put in there until Lilura bound him with a gagging spell rendering him speechless. Estelle had felt the sigh of appreciation rippled through all that sailed in this ship.

  Although Jack could not speak, she was more than aware of the heated darts he threw in her direction whenever she went to check up on him. He truly believed himself to be wrongly jailed, accusing Marcus Worthington of coercing him into doing the vile deeds he did. Estelle knew only too well that Jack would have done them with or without the help of others. He was in full control of what he did and he was going to stand trial for those actions with the very people on Paradise that he did them to.

  Each and every woman would have a say at his trail. They would decide his fate.

  And she vowed to do the same for Marcus Worthington.

  But first she would enjoy some time with Gregory on Paradise.

  Estelle led the ship with a half turn to port, missing a reef she knew lay on the sea floor. The other ships trailed single file behind her following her path, her father commanding the ship directly behind. She knew these waters intimately and without her knowledge they would never make it through without running aground. It was the very thing that had kept her island safe for it was the heart of this maze.

  She sailed past a just of land that dwindled to a sharp rocky point and swung the ship in a tight port turn through a gap not much wider than the ship itself. It was her skill as Captain that had the ship slowing and building speed at the precise times that got it through the narrow opening. The gap was only slight but opened up onto a large enough harbor to house a number of ships.

  In the center if the harbor was the Wanderlust, mast rebuilt, majestically anchored in the blue water. Beyond that, on the slopes of the island, various huts and shelters were neatly housed between a leafy tropical canopy. She saw people running towards the little pier on the paths and down the white sandy beach that fringed the water’s edge. Long boats were rowed towards them. She yelled an order to drop anchor.

  So many faces she knew waved to them, joyfully accepting her return. They had survived. It had all survived.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Estelle looked towards Gregory who stood at her shoulder and her heart did its usual backflip as she read the intensity that was there for her to see. She nodded, words clogging in her throat. He captured her in his arms and pulled her towards him. She went unquestioningly, and oh, so willingly.

  “Together,” he whispered.

  “Forever,” she replied.

  About the Author

 
Charmaine Ross lives in a superbly green, leafy suburb of outer Melbourne. Think Puffing Billy, huge hills, and inexcusably steep driveways and you’ve found her area. She lives with her husband, two beautiful children, and a sulky cat which provide her with immeasurable amounts of inspiration.

  She writes romance because she loves thinking about how and why people fall in love. It appeals to her heart and gives her pleasure. She hopes this story gives you pleasure also. Everyone needs a little romance to spirit them away.

  Learn more about Charmaine Ross at www.charmaineross.com

  More From This Author

  (From Daman’s Angel)

  Death shouldn’t feel this bad.

  Pre-conceived ideas of floating on clouds touched his mind. He was a bit vague on the whole process of what should happen when one died, but he was sure it didn’t include a world of pain. Maybe he hadn’t ended up in the place he’d thought when one mentioned death.

  He couldn’t breathe, but his lungs felt as though they worked. Something else. A weight. A gossamer soft, silken-skinned, good-for-the-soul weight. He pried open heavy eyelids; blinked back vision. A thick strand of silver hair was wrapped across his cheek smelling of fresh earth and clean rain.

  The woman.

  She’d come between him and the gun. They hadn’t seen her. He’d pleaded. Run. But she just held her hand to him. It had been temptation and he had succumbed. Their fingers had locked, then …

  His brows furrowed as he tried to order events. Lightning. It ripped down, speared through her. Electricity pounded through their joined hands, zapping and crackling pure energy.

  There was thunder at the same time. No, not thunder. Haki’s gun. Blood dripped onto him. Her blood. Red blemishing perfection. Her eyes had opened wide. A startled bright blue. Then she had collapsed on top of him.

  “Where’d she come from?” He remembered a yelp from Ben.

  “Let’s get out of here.” That was Haki.

  They’d turned their backs and ran like the cowards they were. But they would be back to kill him. Kill her, too, while they were at it. He had to get out of here before they came back. When those two were calm enough to reason that facing Vincent Lepski without killing him first was far worse than facing a woman who appeared from thin air, they would come and finish their job.

  He tried to rise, but the woman was pressed over his chest, weighing down cracked ribs and a gut that’d taken abuse. He pried her away, slipping beneath her so that he managed to sit with her curled and unconscious in his lap.

  He tucked aside a strand of her hair. Blood seeped from the wound. It caked thick on her temple, and pooled in her hair. The cut looked deep. Nasty. She’d taken the bullet for him. He took a handkerchief from a jacket pocket and staunched the flow, wiping the blood from her skin.

  Her silver hair tumbled over her shoulders in effortless shining waves. He’d never seen a woman so beautiful. Her skin was porcelain, flawless. She held the beauty of the ancients on her oval face. Each angle, each plane seemed to have been weighed and measured until it had reached an exact dimension. High arching brows perfectly framed her eyes. Full rounded lips the color of spring cherry blossoms. Sensuous and soft. A glowing radiance shimmered within her skin.

  Her arms were around his waist, as if she’d come to wrap him in them. Slender and long, her fingers were tucked along his sides as though she had been reaching for him.

  Gossamer soft feathers caressed his arm. He remembered something soft touching him before he blacked out. He reached to touch them. Wings on her back, wrapped around them both. Protective. His fingers sunk into the feathers, delving into the softness. His hard, calloused hands hardly felt them at all even though his hand had sunk well in. He leveraged a tiny feather on his fingertip. Each strand was delicately perfect, shimmering with the gentle luminescence of moonlight.

  A frown formed on his forehead. Unanswered questions flooded his brain, the first being why would this extraordinary woman be wearing wings. Fancy dress? A kinky prostitute? It didn’t fit.

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. Something stirred in his mind. The whisper of a ghost of a forgotten memory. He was good with faces. He didn’t recognize her, and yet … on some deep level he sensed a familiarity. Surely he’d remember such a beautiful woman.

  She wore a thin dress, the material much too fine to keep her warm. Her dress flowed to her ankles, but did nothing to hide the shape of her figure beneath the light folds. Each curve, every angle of her perfect body was evident.

  He wondered how the wings were attached to her dress. There were no harnesses, or ties to keep them on her body. He touched the tip of her wing. Funny how it should be warm. Like touching the feathers of a bird. There was a definite muscle structure beneath the feathers, hard and unbending.

  His fingers slipped along the edge of the wing, behind her shoulder. She sighed, her face turned and he stilled, waited, but her eyes remained closed. There was no further movement. He continued feeling, down to the ends of the wing. There, the feathers were smaller, like silky-soft down. A little more and his fingers reached warm skin.

  There were no ties, no beginning or end between her body and the wings. The wing simply merged to her skin, the bone of the wing disappearing into her back. Part of her body. Her very warm, very real body.

  This was no costume.

  Air stilled in his lungs.

  His police-trained mind rejected the possibility, but the Catholic in him made him want to fall to his knees.

  It was incomprehensible, yet the evidence was in his arms.

  The impossible had come to earth.

  An Angel.

  That was when he reacted.

  His hands jerked from her, the full extent of his horror dawning on him, marathon breath pummeling in and out of his lungs. Cold sweat broke on his skin, soaking his clothes. He wanted to push her away from him, so he could stand and run and leave, but he didn’t want her on the wet, frigid ground. The perfect creature of heaven shouldn’t be left alone and unconscious in a black alley to fend for herself. He wouldn’t leave her unconscious and totally defenseless.

  His muscles ticked as adrenaline fought his reaction to be still. Years of tight control reined him in. He slowed his breathing, relaxed his muscles. His body reacted and slowed so the brain could think. Grasp. Understand. He cupped her face, slipped his hand onto her bare arm.

  She felt so … human.

  Rain fell, in large drops that tapped his shoulders. He couldn’t stay here in the cold, dark, rain with her like this. Neither could he take her to a hospital where God-knew-what might happen to her. He shuddered, thinking about subjecting her to such things. He didn’t want to go there for himself either. He wasn’t supposed to be here, doing what he’d done tonight. The police force wouldn’t stand behind him this time.

  Her dress was soaked to her skin. She must be cold. He took off his leather jacket, wrapped it as best he could over her wings and around her shoulders. He needed to be safe, needed to think. Rest. Sleep.

  Her eyes fluttered open. He was enveloped in brilliant blue so deep he could tumble into their depths. Striking blue, lit brilliantly with raw emotion. She watched him, as though she asked something of him, pleaded with him and waited for an answer, but he didn’t hear the question.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked. His voice cracked with the exertion of speaking. His diaphragm had been pounded so hard it made him nauseous.

  There was a scrape beyond the alley. A rubber sole against the wet ground.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “Can you stand?”

  She watched him, blankness in her eyes. Apparently, angels didn’t speak English. He tucked his hands beneath her arms and lifted her. He slung her arm over his shoulder to stabilize her. He needed his gun. They’d tossed it away when they’d taken it from him. He searched and saw it in
deep shadow on the pavement next to the wall. He limped over to it and picked it up, balancing the angel as he did. The weight of the gun felt good in his hands. At least now he could protect her.

  He lurched to the end of the alley. One foot in front of the other. Teeth clenched against the jarring pain that rode out from his ribs, with the angel heavy against his side.

  “Almost there,” he said. Hopefully they could make it away before they saw them. Just as the thought came into his mind, Haki stepped around the corner. Ben followed. Daman instantly raised his gun.

  “Come to finish off the job?” Daman said.

  “How’d you get her here? That bullet was meant for you, bro,” Haki said. His black eyes glinted ice as he looked at the angel. His gun was pointed right at her.

  “Don’t think about it,” Daman said. “Imagine your afterlife if you kill her.”

  Ben lifted the corner of his lip. “Now is all I’m worried about.”

  Daman stiffened. He could talk through Haki’s thick brain, but Ben was another kettle of fish. Where Haki had a sliver of intelligence to balance out a lack of morals, Ben had neither.

  “Leave this for another day. She’s innocent.”

  Ben sniggered. “What, and let this golden opportunity pass me by? No way.”

  Daman balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to push the angel behind him and take Ben on, but before he could move, the angel slipped from his arms and rose silently into the air above his head. Long and graceful, her wings arched, extending to nearly touch both sides of the alley. She dove toward Ben and clipped the side of his head with the edge of her wing.

  Ben’s head snapped back. He dropped, unconscious before he fell onto the ground. Haki bolted from the alley, footsteps fading into the night. The angel staggered, reaching for the wall to help her to stand. Her wings drooped to the ground, the tips becoming filthy with the wet and the dirt.