by Meg Hennessy
She tried for a breath but he held her firm, reminding her of his strength and that no other man would love her as much as he had. But that was then, not now. She had betrayed him.
Her hand moved up his shoulder, pulling him deeper into the kiss that he had thought to demand from her. Damn her, he wanted her to resist, insist he release her, be forced to accept his power over her, but that wasn’t happening.
Instead her power oozed over him like molasses on a hot day, robbing him of the strength he needed to resist.
Her fingers continued across the breadth of his shoulders and played with the hair at the back of his neck, like she had done so many times before. He liked it now as he had then. His body nearly curled in response, heat turned inward, upward, so quickly it was now he who needed that breath of fresh air or he’d topple her over and submit to the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. But she was more than that; she was the woman who had betrayed him.
He pushed her away, dismissing her from his arms—his heart—his life.
He noted she swallowed hard and forced a straightness to her back, like he had seen on the pirogue. She wet her lips, tasting the remains of their kiss, never taking her eyes off of him. “Disappointed I did not resist?”
There they were standing in their child’s room, his son’s room, where he had entrusted his son to Colette and she had taken him to America. The sense of betrayal so real, he needed to breathe it out before it suffocated him.
“Perhaps.” He had to admit, a little struggle of resistance might have relieved the cork inside him that was about to blow.
She straightened her shoulders in an attempt to look stronger, but she had melted under his touch, a fact they had both witnessed. He had found her vulnerability, her weak spot, the way to render her helpless. He didn’t want Colette back in his life, for he no longer trusted her, but in thirty-five days, she’d be begging him for mercy.
“But I enjoy much more the fact that you could not resist. Buenas noches.”
…
Toma, hermosa. Te hará bien.
Colette tried to wake up, but the dreams kept her paralyzed in the bed. A shadow appeared over her and she heard the voice again saying, Toma, hermosa. Te hará bien. Her body felt weak, and suddenly her ankle started to throb. She bolted upright in bed.
She was covered in sweat. Her heart hammered, and she gasped for air. The pain in her leg blazed a streak of fire from foot to hip. She threw the covers off and hoped the air would chill her to an awakened state.
Glancing around the room, she felt disoriented at first, until she remembered Donato, the house, Enio’s room, the island. Her eyes moistened, tears fell down the sides of her face, each drop filled with the burning anguish over her missing son.
She crushed the pillow to her face and for the first time since his abduction, she allowed herself one and only one deep-seated cry.
Finally recovered from the dream, Colette noted that the pain in her leg had vanished. She pushed free of the bed, trying to walk off the odd feeling that had swept over her tonight.
Donato’s kiss had surprised her, especially when he had run his hand over her throat. She knew what he was thinking. They were standing in the very last place he’d seen his son, thanks to her. As a man of vengeance, the temptation to exact revenge on her was clearly in his mind. But fear him, she did not. She had learned who he really was long ago, when he had surrendered to her brother’s ship, risking death and Jordan’s fury to keep her and Enio safe.
In spite of his attempts to pretend otherwise, the loving touch had been there. Whether he wanted her to feel it or not, the stroke of his hand was gentle even when he had applied pressure to her throat. How easily he could have crushed her. He had thought to force the kiss, but try as she might, she could not resist. The hot touch of his lips over hers had turned her knees to mush, leading her back in time, when she had been here, with him.
Unable to quell the pain of separation from her son, she retraced her steps into Enio’s room and sat down in the leather rocking chair, the same chair she had been rocking Enio in when Jordan had arrived to take her home.
Enio would be safe now had it not been for her leaving, for Donato always had the island well-fortified, and no doubt the security had increased since she left. Without hesitation, she had packed up her son that night and had led Jordan’s men to Donato’s gold. Once on the American mainland and back with her family whom she had missed for so long, she had lived her proper life in fulfilling her long-ago vow through her works of charity. She had never allowed herself to think about her decision to leave Donato, because it had been expected that she return home. Now…back here…back on the island…his home…his arms, her mind felt muddled and incapable of sorting anything out rationally.
Her heart started to sputter against the wall of her chest, and taking a breath made her dizzy. She ran her fingers over her temples, refusing to allow herself to remember this.
She turned out of Enio’s room and back into their adjoining rooms. It was too late to rethink all of this. When Jordan had appeared, it had been like a dream. She hadn’t known who she was for so long, and when her memory had started to work, she’d only remembered bits that had been lost, and she’d thought she wanted to return to her life.
She walked over to the window and watched the angry wind. Then whose life was this? Who had stood at this window many times? Whose dresses filled the wardrobe? Whose son once slept here? Whose husband— She stopped the tumbling thoughts.
The storm had abated, and though it wasn’t howling, the wind still blew across the island, creating a menagerie of whitecaps spilling over the banks of the cay.
She turned to her room and opened her armoire packed with beautiful dresses of red, gold, green, sheer, and sparkling, all from Donato. She pulled on a robe, high-necked and long-sleeved, then threw a woolen mantilla over her head and shoulders.
Walking through her bedroom and Donato’s, she hesitated, seeing the fluttering light from his office across from the indoor patio. A sense of guilt niggled. Jordan’s men had robbed Donato. She had told them of the hand-painted vase with a key to the hidden drawer of gold.
Unlike Donato, Jordan’s men had been pure pirate and loyal only for coin. Though they had proven otherwise when the British had attacked New Orleans, Jordan knew he had to pay his men. It had been the only way to guarantee her passage.
Donato had always claimed his men were loyal to him, sus camaradas, he’d call them, but who and why, she never knew.
The fountain in the center of the patio continued to spill water over the basins, powered by the large cistern on the hills behind the hacienda. The soft pinging sounded rhythmic and soothing. The lanterns along the indoor patio created shadows in the long corridors leading to the kitchen and dining room. For only a second or two between gusts of wind, she heard the soft melodious sound of guitarists, reminding her of the beautiful dances held in the ballroom.
She walked across the inner patio to Donato’s study. The door was open, and when she slowly walked in, he was there, poring over the maps, planning their journey.
He had shed the black velvet coat and waistcoat. He wore only a shirt, opened at the collar and rolled up over each forearm, exposing luscious thick muscles she ached to touch with her fingers.
He looked up, surprise raising his dark eyebrows, accentuating his rakish look, but the usual soothing color of his eyes darkened. Slowly, he came to his feet and gave her a slight bow, acknowledging a woman entering the room.
“Colette.” His voice low, hesitant, as if waiting for battle.
Colette lost her nerve, suddenly feeling stripped of strength, for she had no reasonable ground to stand on for having taken his son from him. She froze, cleared her throat. “I must speak with you about…about what happened in our child’s room.”
“I have much on my mind and no longer wish to spar with you.” He dropped his stylus and came around the desk. “I don’t deny the temptation, for I miss my son, but I do not
blame you nor do I wish to harm you, Colette.”
“I know that.” Colette tried to stroll naturally around the room, running her fingers along the desk as she passed it by, but Donato looked tired and impatient.
“Then what is it you must speak about tonight? If the storms abates, we have a long journey starting tomorrow. That is, if you still insist on coming?”
“I do.” Her glance around the intimate shadows of the study made the stolen kiss in Enio’s room resurface in her mind, along with the feelings of craving more, wanting more from him. She swallowed hard, packing desires away and trying to put her mission back on track.
“I am here…” She inhaled, regrouping her thoughts. “Donato, I am sorry that I took your son from you in the way that I did.”
She waited, hoping he wouldn’t ask for an explanation, for at the moment, she didn’t have one. But instead he looked away from her, and that brought a slight chill to her heart. Had he become so hardened toward her that he would not, or could not, accept her apology?
“I apologize for the kiss,” he responded.
Was that a reciprocal response? Did he accept her apology if she accepted his?
“But…” he continued before she had time to respond, “I will remind you, tomorrow will be here soon. Get some sleep.”
“I know.” Defeated in her attempt, she tried to explain, anyway. “There was so much I do not remember, but seeing my brother that day when he arrived, I felt…I had to go home.”
“But your home was not America.”
“No, but my family…” Her attempt to mend a wrong failed. He continued to watch her as if waiting for more, but more she could not offer, not now, not until she remembered. “I cannot say more, or explain, for I do not remember much of that night when I was taken.”
“That was nearly four years ago. Perhaps you should not try to rekindle the past.”
“I wish that to be true, but my mind nags me to remember. My apology was for the sake of civility. We will be together for a time. I know I hurt you, Donato, so terribly. I am deeply sorry.” Wrapping the mantilla around her throat, she headed for the door but halted when he softly spoke her name. She kept her back to him.
“I know how hard it was to say this apology to me. Gracias. Does that mean you regret having left this life here?”
Keeping her back to him, Colette closed her eyes, striving to keep herself calm, unbroken. If she collapsed her facade, even for a second, and allowed her feelings free rein over her actions, she would turn around and put her arms around his neck and kiss him like he’d never been kissed. But that was not possible, for she was who she was and nothing would change that reality. “No, Donato, I left to return to my own life.”
“And you are happy, with this life that is yours?”
Her body physically swayed from his question as if hit broadside. The burn dived down into her belly as the words fell away, leaving only a raw passion for life bubbling to the surface without permission.
Her apology was necessary, for she had hurt him tremendously. Having Enio taken from her, she now understood the great pain she must have caused Donato, but she could not dismiss his life filled with vengeance any more than she could deny her chosen life.
She turned to face him, needing to take the focus of the conversation off her. “You will get Enio back?”
“Si.” He allowed her to change the subject.
“Will you then take him from me, as you told my brother?”
“No, I did not.” He shook his head. “I meant…my son will always be with me.”
Colette caught the meaning, even if he didn’t say it. He just let the statement float around them. He didn’t invite her to return to him, nor did he say she couldn’t. It was simply a fact: he’d never allow Enio to be taken from him again. If she wanted Enio, she’d have to be with Donato.
“Why did you not come sooner?”
He looked surprised by her question. “Were you disappointed?”
“I…” She couldn’t admit that buried deep inside her heart there had been a desire to see him from the moment she left. She swallowed hard and pulled in a labored breath. “I was puzzled.”
“When a mere baby, Enio needed his mother. Now, at eighteen months, there is a role a father has to play as well. It is time for the boy to return home.”
“Capitán!” Ramón’s voice came from the inner patio. He sounded breathless as footfalls pounded through the inner patio.
“What is it?”
“The storm has abated.”
Donato nodded. “I know, tomorrow we prepare—”
“No, Capitán, you must come, all the ships are damaged from the storm. We have no ship worthy of sail.”
Chapter Ten
Donato heard Colette’s intake of air. She walked over to stand next to him and placed a light touch to his arm. He wanted to shrug off his reaction to the feel of her fingertips, of her deferring to him for support, the tenderness, the feeling of being in this together. He glanced down at her hand, then up at her. Just as quickly as she had put her hand on his arm, she removed it.
“The fleet?” Donato returned his attention to Ramón.
“Gone.”
“Gone? How?”
“The waves pounded the docks.”
“No ship is seaworthy?”
“None.”
Donato pushed through the study door with an entourage behind him consisting of Ramón and Colette. Some of the men, who lived in the portales perpendicular to the house, had lined the outdoor gardens.
The storm had abated, leaving everything sea-washed and cold. It was a chilly night, and though the rumbling clouds had moved on, the angry sea continued to roil with frothy waves that hammered the coast.
Any hope of catching up with Rayna ended with Ramón’s message.
That meant he’d have to go to Spain. If he had to, could he get Enio back and escape? Would he be arrested? How much did his father know of Donato’s treasonous acts?
Colette was behind him as they ran to the dock. From his corner vision, he could see her limping; the faster they went the more pronounced her limp. He slowed down for her, taking her arm to assist. Together they surveyed the damage.
Hulls crushed, poles down, sails ripped into shreds. He checked his schooner first, having planned to take that ship across the Atlantic. The hull had been smashed against the wall of boulders he had thought guarded his island. But now they had destroyed his ships. The ships would have been moved to the other side of the island for protection, but the men who did that had been on the water with him.
“All of them damaged, Capitán.” Ramón continued to describe the obvious to Donato.
He had to think. His heart pounded against his chest; fear of not being able to give pursuit paralyzed his mind. He felt numb. Defeated.
“Can we repair the sloop?” He visually evaluated a different ship, but feared the worse.
“Perhaps, but it would take a few days. We don’t have all that is needed on the island.”
“Maldita sea,” Donato swore under his breath, knowing the isolation of the island did not lend itself to this type of emergency, and if he had no ship, getting anything would be difficult. But that reminded him of the supply ship. “Where’s the clipper? Wasn’t it on the other side of the island?”
He had bought a small clipper during the war, had used it for supply runs between the Jardines de la Reina islands and Cuba. It was a small ship and not heavily armed to survive the open waters, but if intact, he had no choice.
The island was twenty miles long and thirty miles wide, which made the cay more than six hundred square miles. On the eastern side of the island were several coves surrounded by boulders. Though much farther from the hacienda, the clipper was usually moored there for easier access to Cuba.
Donato retraced his steps back up the hill and toward the stables. Colette tried to keep up with him, but fell on the cobblestones of the large walkway. She didn’t cry out for help, but struggled to get to h
er feet. Her robe was soaked from the dampness, and her hair stuck to her face.
Donato raced back and scooped her up before she could resist his help. He changed direction and headed for the inner patio.
“No, I go with you,” she protested.
“No, this time you do as I say.”
“But I can ride now.”
“One ride does not make you a rider. You slow me down. Wait here.”
He pushed through the outside gate and ran the length of the gardens to enter the inner gate, taking an immediate left into his room, then hers. He put her on the bed and turned to leave when he caught her grimace of pain as her body shivered from the wet robe.
He unbuttoned her wet robe and peeled it off her body, then covered her with a warm quilt. She pulled it up to her chin, her teeth chattering. “Merci.”
From under the coverlet, he pulled off her boot and started to massage her ankle, because it was habit, because he cared, because it was what he had always done when she was in pain and it had always worked.
She groaned, rolling her head from side to side, her breathing labored. A slight film of perspiration shone across her forehead.
“Relax, cariño.” As everything else he was doing by habit, so was his sobriquet for her. He dismissed his mistake and ran his hands over and over her ankle, working the muscles to release under his expert fingers. He felt them give, and Colette moaned. “Better?”
She kept her eyes closed, but her thrashing had ended and her breathing had calmed back to normal. “It is better. Only you have such a touch, Donato.”
He looked down at his hands on her sore ankle. Her skin glowed like porcelain in the fire-washed room, smooth as silk beneath his coarse fingers, fragile and delicate. He felt her female energy rush through his body with unrepentant heat. He allowed his hand to travel upward along her leg, kneading her calf with the palm of his hand. How easy it would be to slide along her body, dipping into every contour, emerging in more need of her. He heard a slight intake of air as he pushed his hand up behind her knee.
