by Meg Hennessy
“Donato—” Her voice fell on deaf ears, for as quickly as he had awakened, he fell back asleep. She pushed off the bed and pulled on a nightdress. The dark sea had merged with the dark sky, and the slow rocking motion of the ship made her sleepy.
She settled next to him on the bed with her arm across his chest. She felt the beating of his heart, each breath he took, and the burn of fever that threatened his health. A lone tear escaped her eye, irritating her, feeling weak, when after such a journey, she knew she was not. No longer able to fight the soothing rock of the ship and his even breathing, she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her away.
…
Before the sun rose over the waters, Donato woke up. He opened his eyes slowly, trying to focus in the early dawn light that reflected off the ocean waters and shimmered on the ceiling of the small cabin. He looked around, orientating himself to where he was and how he’d gotten here.
Memories of the previous night were few, and what he could remember was confusing. He felt on fire, hot, sweaty, and drew in each breath with much effort. He glanced at his hands; the morning light made the white of his bandaged fingers glow. The dressing on the wound in his arm had been refreshed.
The journey, the long voyage to find his son, filled his mind, and he was overwhelmed with panic. He remembered the storm, the longboat, and trying to save—Colette. Where was Colette? What had happened? “Colette!”
“Shhh.” She rose up from next to him in the bed. “What is it? What do you need?”
He dropped back on the bed, relieved the moment he heard her voice. “Lo siento, lo siento. I dream bad. Go back to sleep.”
But she didn’t; instead she pushed off the side of the bed and lit a lantern. She ran her hand over his forehead. “You are burning up.”
He watched as she brought a basin of water over and set it next to the bed. She then poured him a drink of water and sat down on the edge. “Here, you must drink. You have a fever. You need this.”
He did feel thirsty, his mouth parched. He accepted the glass as she tilted it to his lips. The cool liquid eased the tightness in his throat. He placed his hand over hers to steady the mug. Through his thick bandages, he felt her respond. The touch so innocent, yet so intimate.
In the flickering light of the lamp, he noted she was wearing a nightdress, her golden hair swept over one shoulder and loosely braided. The neckline of her chemise dipped low enough to expose the rounded edges of her breasts. Her cleavage vacillated with the soft intake and release of her breath. Her narrow face, widened by prominent cheekbones, was accentuated by her large green eyes. Even in the dark, he could see their color. Heavily lashed, they were mysteriously caressed in the soft, iridescent light. Everything he had seen the first time he saw her.
The night her ship had been taken.
She captivated him now as she had then.
Waves sloshed against the hull with a soothing rhythm. The ship creaked with each slight turn and dip in the calm waters. The salty air felt heavy on his face, and moist within his lungs. “What happened?”
“You haven’t slept in days, and now you must.” She spoke in such a low whisper, he had to struggle to hear her. But it was sultry with a hunger that only Colette would understand. And right about now, he wanted to know if the beautiful woman who sat before him in a magnificent state of undress was his Colette or…the dutiful sister of Jordan.
He slid the palm of his hand up along her arm. A slight gasp escaped her lips, but she held steady. His hand traveled along her shoulder until, in spite of the bandages, he was able to cup the base of her neck within the palm of his hand. Her gaze fell to his lips. As he slowly pulled her toward him, she licked her mouth once, then twice, in anticipation.
He pulled her into his web, wrapping both arms around her body. Her lips touched his the instant he had her completely within his grasp. They were soft, sweet, and inviting.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the other, before running his tongue along their seam. A soft moan escaped her throat as she moved her weight over him. He pulled off one cap sleeve of her gown and then the other, running kisses along her collarbones.
A fine mist of ocean air gave her body a light sheen; her skin tasted salty. He drew aside her long hair to expose her throat, and this time he wanted nothing more than to savor the flawless pearl luster of her skin.
He drew her over his body to the side of him. With her next to him, he pulled the nightdress down to expose her breasts. He hesitated, taking in the beauty of her sculpted body, feeling a strong charge through his own as if still in a storm of thunder and lightning. The torrid heat of his body that might have been a fever turned on him and plunged low inside to start a throbbing need for her.
With clumsy, bandaged fingers, he captured her breast in the palm of his hand, bringing the round full nipple to his mouth. He sucked each one with patience, rolling his tongue around their nubs, lightly taking them between his teeth until he felt her arch toward him and place her hands on his shoulders, clawing at his back.
“Donato.” She whispered his name, not attempting to disguise her want.
The bedclothes were between then, her on top, him underneath, and perhaps that was the best scenario, for he wanted nothing more than to roll over on top of her, spread her legs, and sink inside her. He suspected by Colette’s response, she’d not resist that idea, but that was not what he wanted, how he wanted this to happen.
It was a thirty-five day wait, for her as well, for she had made no attempt to change the timeline whether by lengthening it or shortening it. But fifteen days had passed. Thirty-five days of waiting had dwindled to twenty.
He unwound his hold on her and fell back on the bed. The fever burned through any resolve he might have had. Whether thirty-five days or twenty days, it did not matter, for he was a victim of fever and exhaustion, which allowed for rest only.
She positioned herself beside him in the dark, not asking why he had disengaged. But instead she reached up with her hand and traced it along the side of his face. “You will be strong again.”
Her comment made him curious. “How do you know that, Colette?”
“God is with us on this journey. He will keep you strong for the sake of your son.”
Donato was a religious man and believed God could, and sometimes would, intervene. Perhaps their survival of the storm made that a reality. But where had he been during all the years fighting in war, the endless days of killing and blood for the ruling class of Spain?
He glanced to the side of him. Colette had her eyes closed and breathed easy. She had pulled the gown up and had the cap sleeves in place. He needed to distract himself before he risked his health and broke his own rule.
“Colette,” he whispered. “How did Jordan find you when you were on the island with me? How did he know the precise place to breach the island?”
“Aurélie,” she answered, sounding half asleep. “Jordan’s wife, she has the power of sight and was able to lead him to me.”
“Then why did she not lead him to the mysterious treasure?”
“She had read France from my medallion, but nothing else from the hand-drawn maps.”
“One of the medallions was yours?” Though he knew the answer, he liked her talking about it.
“My father had them made.” She stirred, then shifted her position as if he were disturbing her sleep.
“Jordan believes this mysterious treasure is in France?”
“That is what Aurélie read.” Colette yawned and readjusted herself. “Jordan did not share with me his thoughts.”
“Do you believe the legend? That there is a treasure?”
She turned and faced him, running her gaze over him as if to see his motive. No motive, at least not yet, but soon. “There is something, I think.”
…
Colette sighed, watching the waves that stretched out behind the stern. The days ran into more days. Donato had given himself less than twenty-four hours to recover and though in her mi
nd, he was not completely well, he was again at the helm. She longed for his company and felt her heart to be as much adrift as the widening wake behind them.
She had chosen to spend more of her time in the cabin, for she felt underfoot when on the main deck, especially when her leg would ache and slow her movement, but the crew was always kind and overly respectful, which made her wonder about them.
Jordan had immersed himself in the world of piracy to find her. When they had sailed back to Louisiana, he had warned her about his crew. They were in it for prize, he’d said. If no bounty under his leadership, they’d find a different crew to join, or worse, take his ship. He had warned that to be a captain of pirates was no guarantee of obedience or loyalty.
Donato’s crew was different. She had noticed it earlier, but confirmed it when Donato was ill. She noted the solemn mood of the ship, the constant inquiries to his health. When Donato walked about the ship, the men would stop their duties and give a slight bow of their heads in respect.
Why? If they were pirates?
Adding that observation to the fact that they were chasing a ship sailing under a Spanish royal flag moved her from curiosity to suspicion as to the real identity of Donato de la Roche.
Donato had a reputation as a terror of the gulf waters. He was wanted for piracy, and as Jordan had confided, even Jean Lafitte had feared him. But Donato, like Jordan, robbed only French corsairs…for the same reasons.
Then…where were the pirates?
She leaned on her elbows, watching through the stern window, day turning to night. The fire red of sunset played off the rolling waves that lingered in the wake of their ship, cutting through the water. Her mind fell into the rhythm of the moving waters, remembering the night she and Donato had slept together when he was ill.
Twenty-eight days at sea.
Twenty-eight days with no sign of the Spanish royal.
Seven days left of the thirty-five.
And why thirty-five, exactly?
She rose from her chair and changed her attire for bed, pulling a nightdress over her head. Donato rarely appeared in the cabin; with hammocks swinging from every crossbeam, he must sleep elsewhere. By day, the wardroom and stateroom were clear and clean. At night it looked like a hundred bats hung from the ceiling.
The bed felt cold and damp as she crawled beneath the blankets and coverlet. She appreciated that Donato had brought silk and wool coverlets from the hacienda for the bed, along with feather pillows and satin bedclothes—a special touch for a female passenger.
Donato had asked about the treasure, and she wondered why the interest. On her return to France to see her grandmother, the older woman had talked about hidden treasures and the foiled revolutionists and how victory had been theirs, though no one would ever know. She had instructed Colette to never part with the medallion, one made for her and one made for Jordan.
Colette watched out the stern window as she rested on the bed, seeing the moon rise over the soft, undulating waters in rhythm with the silent rock of the ship. Having said her prayers, she hoped God heard her pleas to have her son restored to her and they could all return home safely to the island.
That thought choked up in her throat. Her broken marriage, her lost son—how would she put the pieces of her life back together, and would Donato want to try again? When he had said he had a wounded heart, the pain of knowing what she had done to him had pierced her own.
Having lived for so long with no memory of who she was or where she had come from, the moment she had heard Jordan’s voice, she had remembered her family. She had felt obligated to go home, for Jordan had always been her safe haven. So much so that she had willingly destroyed the life she had made for herself with the man who rescued her from pirates. Without Donato, what might her life have been? What might she have suffered?
When she had danced with Donato at the hacienda and he’d kissed her, she had nearly died from wanting more, but he had withdrawn from her. The night he had fallen from exhaustion, his kiss was as passionate, as ardent, as core-stirring as were all his kisses, yet again, he had withdrawn from her.
She had pretended not to notice, but had stayed awake afterward, burning with an unfulfilled need that nothing would relieve accept Donato’s kisses, his arms around her, him inside her.
She now knew that, understood that, but unfortunately, she suspected, so did Donato.
She drew a deep breath, already feeling deprived of something only he could give her. Hadn’t he tortured her enough by now? Why day thirty-five? What was the significance?
She heard men enter the stateroom, talking in low voices as if not wanting to be heard.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed to stand. Gaining her sea legs, she silently crossed the room and pressed her ear to the door.
“We could launch the longboat when we reach Spain. Make contact and deliver.” A man’s voice could be heard.
“Too dangerous.” Donato spoke. “It would be better to do this on land.”
“Now who has the dangerous idea?” another asked. “If caught, we are revolutionists, and would be tried for treason and all lose our heads.”
“If caught,” Donato agreed. “But that is a risk we have taken.”
“Too risky, Su Excelencia. You do not know what King Ferdinand knows or why he would lead you into such a trap by taking your son.”
Colette sucked in her breath and flattened herself against the door, her mind spinning faster than her heartbeat. Donato was the one who had placed their son in danger, not her.
…
Exhaustion had started to assault Donato’s ability to think. As revolutionists, the idea of sailing into Spain had them all on edge. The discussion had barely begun when the door to the cabin opened. The men shifted their attention when Colette stepped out with that damned little pistol of hers.
“You have put our son in danger, not me. It is you who made him a pawn in a political game. It is you, not I! You are a revolutionist against your own country.”
Obviously, she had been listening at the door.
The salty ocean suddenly turned acidic and as silent as death. The only sound was the lapping waves against the hull of the ship. The men slowly stood and faced Colette. Her hair hung wild and free over her shoulders. Dressed in a chemise, every deep breath reflected the cleavage between her breasts. Her round full hips were accentuated in the moonlit room. As foolish as her move was to point a pistol at a man of his rank, Donato had to admire her raw guts to do so.
“Podéis retiraros.” Donato asked the other men to leave, but they weren’t quick to respond.
“No, Su Excelencia, debemos protegeros,” Ramón answered quietly.
“Mi senora knows enough Spanish to know what we are saying. I do not need your protection. Leave us, por favor.”
The men filtered out the door and up the stairs, though Donato knew one or two would linger in the companionway. Colette hadn’t taken her eyes off of him from the moment she entered the stateroom.
Donato walked around the table so that nothing stood between them. “I warned you about that pistol.”
“Since it is I and not you who has the pistol, a warning from you seems rather foolish.”
“What is it you wish to do with it, shoot me?”
“The idea has more merit than perhaps you’d like to think.”
So she had heard the discussion, knew their fears of Spain, and now knew why.
“All right, Colette, you have me at your mercy, do with me as you wish.”
“It is what you will do for me.”
“Anything for the lady with a pistol.”
“Answer my questions. Why did you lie to me?”
“About?”
“Who you are. You have a title. These men aren’t pirates. In what political scheme have you involved our son?”
Donato took a step closer to her.
She retreated the same. “Do not.”
“You will run out of room if you continue to retreat
from me.”
“I do not retreat.”
“Then I guess you will not use that pistol on me.”
“I hate revolutionists.”
He had heard the story about how revolutionists had taken her parents and how the great Jordan had been there to save her. But that had been nearly twenty years ago, and the plight of Spain was now, today, urgent. He was as sure of his cause as he was of her undeniable passion.
“I know one revolutionist you don’t hate.” Donato approached her, but halted with her pistol held flush against his chest.
“You play a dangerous game, Donato.”
“Ah, but you like danger, cariño,” he whispered in her ear before he wrapped his hand around her wrist and forced her to drop the pistol. A slight whimper came from her throat as he pulled her into his chest, his lips a fraction from hers. “You try to deny, but you like everything about me.”
“No, no, you are wrong,” she whispered, but the force of her voice had been usurped by her desire for him. He could feel her heart beating against his chest, pulsating like a leaf in the wind. “I hate you, a revolutionist.”
He wrapped his hand in her hair and forced her face to his. “Tell me again, Colette, I did not hear.”
“I hate revolutionists, and that’s what you are,” she again whispered, though barely audible.
She kept stepping back. He kept pace until he had her against the wall between the stateroom and the cabin. He held her flush against the wooden panels, kissed her temples, her forehead, and ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth.
“You don’t hate me, Colette. Admit it.”
She ducked, breaking free, and stepped into the doorway of the cabin. He matched her retreat with his advance.
“Keep retreating, Colette. If you fall back to the bed, I will spread your legs.” He held her head in his hands and kissed her again. “Because you want me to do just that.”
“Donato, don’t do this to me.”
“I dare you. Let me taste you, kiss you, and you will feel my hot breath on the very spot you hope to deny me. Go ahead, fall on that bed.”
Colette collapsed against him, clutching his shoulders with her small hands. “I don’t want you to be this person. First a pirate—”
