by Tina Donahue
“No different from how we looked with your foolish dance.”
Netta laughed. “Gavra bounced up and down like a ball. Right, Aimee?”
“She did. Peter and Laure bumped into each other. Like this.” She smacked her fist into her palm. “He nearly knocked her down. Zola and Adamo couldn’t keep up with the steps. One went this way.” She pointed. “The other that way.” She swung her finger. “Some went in circles. A few hopped like birds. If the priest had been here, he would have said the white man’s devil had possessed everyone.”
The women laughed until they couldn’t breathe. The men’s delighted roars shook the benches. Even Royce and Simone joined in.
A pleasant meal followed. Everyone joked, ate, drank. All good friends and part of the island family now.
James caught the last brandy drops on his tongue. “Do we have more of this or are we to deprive ourselves on this grand night? Heath? You’re in charge of spirits. What say you?”
“What else? I’ll bring more. Excuse me.” He eased his leg past Aimee.
His knee grazed her thigh. Riotous heat filled her. She should have moved but couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Netta didn’t give him extra room either. She stared at his muscular arms and back.
Free of the bench, he breathed hard and tramped to the stone house.
“We need more bread and fish.” Aimee stood and grabbed Netta’s hand. “Help me with the trays.”
Royce cleared his throat loudly.
Even if he’d threatened Aimee with his pistol, he wouldn’t have stopped her.
She tugged Netta inside the house and pulled her toward the liquor supplies rather than the kitchen.
Netta resisted. “What are you doing?”
“Seeing to our future since you refuse to.”
“Is this about Heath? It is. No. Release me.”
“In time.” She patted Netta’s hand. “You want him. Never lie about that. I know the truth.”
“That I accept my fate? I have and intend to live alone. I will never have a husband. No children either. Or—”
“How wrong you are. Promise not to leave my side no matter what happens.”
Netta cringed. “What do you plan to do?”
“Give me your word and stay by my side at all times. Do as I do. Please.”
“You ask too much.”
“I only want your happiness and mine. Quiet.”
They’d reached the small storage room lit by a lone oil lamp. The bobbing flame couldn’t eat away the shadows. Stuffy air intensified the musty odor.
Netta sneezed.
Heath spun around and stared. His eyes shone golden in the scant light. Moisture gleamed on his throat and brawny chest.
Words failed Aimee. Her need proved too great to deny. She cupped his bristly cheeks and brought his mouth to hers.
He inhaled sharply.
Sagged against him, she drowned in his heat, savored his scent, and parted her lips.
His tongue filled her and explored.
She did the same with him. The tastiest food had never satisfied as he did, his clean taste indescribable and pure man. The same as his whiskered cheeks rasping hers. No weapon could have made her feel safer than he did. He gentled his brute strength and held her carefully.
Her ears buzzed. She came alive as she never had, wreathed her arms around his shoulders, and pressed close.
The prominent bulge between his legs nudged her mound. Her sex responded and grew damp, congested, wanting of him.
The same as Netta’s surely did. Aimee knew her sister too well to believe anything else. Reluctant to leave his embrace, Aimee nevertheless pulled away and snatched what breath she could.
Her moisture shone on his lips. Carnal hunger burned in his eyes.
She stepped aside and left him to Netta. The only woman she would ever share him with.
* * * *
Netta had always believed the moment Aimee and Heath embraced, she’d bolt and would banish their intimate moments from her mind.
Her legs barely supported her. Unable to flee, she froze.
Heath pulled her into his arms and claimed her lips, his mouth hard yet tender, his beard-roughened skin more balm than irritation.
She drove her fingers into his thick, silky hair and suckled his tongue. Complete madness. This couldn’t last. She should have strangled Aimee for pushing her past temptation until she couldn’t control herself.
Netta’s tongue played with his then forced it from her mouth so she could fill him.
He made an amused sound and allowed her what she willed.
Her smile touched his.
If Netta could have decided the future, she would have joined him and Aimee in his mud house, worn his marriage collar proudly, and given him the sons all men craved. Daughters too. He only had to want her as she did him.
She’d lied about surrendering to her fate. From his first night on the isle, she’d yearned for a kind word, a loving touch, respect, acceptance, this.
He deepened their kiss. His chest crushed her breasts. He pushed his magnificent sex against her mound. They shared each breath. Their hearts beat as one.
Lightheaded, she tore her mouth free and gulped air.
Aimee joined them.
* * * *
None of Heath’s bawdy dreams had matched this.
Aimee kissed his throat, Netta his chest, their lips softer than velvet, tongues wet. Even the sun couldn’t match their heat. They smelled of flowers, clean skin, an ocean breeze, a summery day. Life at its best.
Pity if he had to die for these few moments.
Muted laughter and music sounded from the courtyard. No growls or orders from Royce. Yet. Once he happened by this room, the accusations and threats would surely come.
Heath would deal with them when he had no other choice. He pressed his toes into the cool marble to keep still so Aimee and Netta wouldn’t come to their senses and leave.
They all should, though together, and remain that way throughout the night and tomorrow, perhaps the following weeks. This confined space wasn’t large enough for him to take them fully or repeatedly unless they stood. Only a bedchamber would do. There were certainly enough in the mansion.
Though besotted, he wasn’t mad enough to invade Tristan and Diana’s home. That left his mud house or the surrounding forest. The trees were closer. He should suggest them.
Netta captured his mouth and slipped her tongue inside, blocking any possible words. He suckled her deeper then took command and filled her mouth instead.
She slumped against him, a prisoner to his will.
Aimee kissed his scarred back and stroked his ass and thighs.
His hair stood on end. Her touch branded him, the same as Netta’s mouth. He swayed into one then the other, unwilling to neglect either, unsatisfied because he couldn’t get closer.
They bumped into a rack. Glass tinkled. A broken bottle would cut their feet and put an end to enjoyment.
He pulled away to warn them to take care.
Aimee slanted her mouth over his. Netta cupped his balls and stroked his cock.
Delight barreled through him, impossible to contain. He shot to his toes.
They followed. Aimee enjoyed his mouth. Netta unfastened his breeches and stroked his thick curls.
His cock stiffened so much his skin stung. His balls ached. Nothing on God’s good earth seemed more fitting than taking them here and now without end.
Feet slapped the hall floor.
Fear slammed into him. Not for himself. Netta and Aimee. No telling what their people would think of one man with two women. Heath being English only made matters worse.
He twisted away from Aimee and grabbed Netta’s hand, or rather what remained of it.
She recoiled.
Heath should have let go
but couldn’t. Up close, the injury was far worse than he’d dreamed. Three fingers and a good portion of her palm were gone leaving only her thumb and forefinger. Whoever mutilated her had used fire to sear the wound, resulting in ragged edges no longer charred but grayish white against her rich brown skin.
He couldn’t hide his horror at what she’d endured.
Tears slid down her cheeks. She yanked her hand away and dashed from the room.
“Netta?” Gavra spoke from the hall. “Wait.” She called out. “What happened?”
He’d done it this time and had to make things right. Heath buttoned his breeches and eased past Aimee.
She grabbed his arm. “If you follow Netta that will make her run faster. She believes you find her ugly because of her hand.”
“What? Never. I’m sickened by what the pirates did to her.”
Surprise crossed Aimee’s face. “How did you know that?”
“I overheard your people speak of the men who came here and brutalized everyone. It doesn’t make sense they’d do so to Netta. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen at the time. Still a child. Why did they choose her to maim?”
Sorrow registered in Aimee’s lovely eyes. She glanced past him. “Netta should tell you when she can.”
Heath couldn’t imagine when that would be. His reaction had crushed her.
“I have to go and comfort her.” Aimee brushed her lips over his. “In time, we can all do this again.”
Not likely. He needed to leave this isle before his base desires hurt Netta even more. Aimee too. If he could have swum to a populated island, he would’ve done so tonight.
Once Aimee’s footfalls faded, he left the room.
Gavra blocked him in the hall. “What did you do?”
He spoke French as she did. “I sailed here with Bishop when I shouldn’t have. Where the hell is Tristan? I need to speak to him immediately.”
Even if Tristan decided against the departure, Heath would never look at, speak to, or touch Netta or Aimee again.
God help him if he couldn’t get to the other island.
Chapter 3
Faucon Island
Sweat poured down Canela’s face and chest. The puny wind did nothing to cool, pushing her hair against her damp neck instead. She clawed it away and grabbed soiled breeches from a pile that reached her calves when she stood. On her knees like a slave, she pounded the cloth against a rock as she wanted to do to her captors who kept her prisoner on this loathsome isle. Their ugly faces evolved into Chadwick Vincent’s, the pirate who’d betrayed her and failed to kill Tristan. He became her next target then the Englishwoman Diana.
Canela longed to punish, crush, and kill.
Frenzied with hate, she beat the clothing mercilessly.
Feet shuffled close. Fanette huffed. She couldn’t have been more repulsive, her ankles thick, toes fat and hairy. She thought she ruled the world. “Put a hole in those and you go without food until sunset tomorrow.”
White-hot loathing roared through Canela. The fare here was barely edible and not enough to keep a child alive. In the past, she’d eaten the finest meats and fruits. Then her hair shone, skin glowed, her beauty surpassing everyone’s even the Englishwoman’s.
Now though…
Her hands bore calluses from hard labor and her shoulders drooped from lugging baskets too heavy for an Englishman to carry. She labored from dawn to dusk but it was never enough to satisfy these vile beasts.
She longed to have Fanette’s head between her hands and battered the breeches accordingly.
“Heed what I say.” Fanette smacked Canela with a switch.
A searing sting raced down her arm.
Fists tightened, Canela pushed up, ready to beat the woman senseless.
The switch came down repeatedly, driving her to the ground. She covered her head with her arms and wailed. “Pardonne moi.” Forgive me.
“For being foolish and lazy? Or for defying me?” Fanette struck again.
Canela cried out. “Everything. Please.”
Breathing hard, Fanette stopped. “When will you learn to do what we ask without destroying everything you touch? No wonder your people wanted to get rid of you. Clean those breeches properly then do the same with the others. If you dare leave here. I promise to bring more and more for you to wash. Today you go without food. Tomorrow too if you fail to learn submission to your betters.”
Canela would have gladly starved before considering them or anyone superior to her.
“Do you understand? Or do you need more of this?” Fanette brandished the switch.
Canela forgot pride, for the moment, and bowed submissively. Under Fanette’s watchful scowl, she cleaned the breeches carefully and hung them on a branch to dry.
“Do the others now as you should. The women’s cloths come next. Then whatever else needs washing. That pile had better be much lower when I return. If not, prepare for true punishment.” She trudged away.
Surf flowed around the breeches and licked the sand. A small, green lizard skittered past, skirting the water.
Canela scooped up the creature. The thing snapped its jaw, trying to bite. She twisted its slender body. Bones cracked. Smiling, she hurled its limp form into a wave and winced. Her arms ached from washing too many clothes and from welts where the switch had struck. Several stripes bled lightly. Her perfect skin ruined again.
She trembled with outrage but didn’t cry. Weeping was for fools and those she’d make pay for the abominations done her.
Torture and death filled her thoughts. Horrific images made the day pass more swiftly.
The moon was high before she finished her tasks. She gobbled wild berries to quiet her growling belly. No one watched or guarded her. There wasn’t anywhere to escape. Endless water separated this isle from the next. Wild boars roamed the forest. The sturdiest man wouldn’t survive an attack.
If she chose to live outside the settled areas, no islander would complain. They’d have one less mouth to feed. She, alone, would have to find enough food and fresh water to sustain her.
With no other choice, she carried the basket on her back as a beast would. Despite the short walk, the cleaned breeches and cloths grew unwieldy, forcing her to stop for breath and what strength she could gather.
She plodded into the island community, a series of mud homes. No stone house like Tristan’s. No jewels, colorful silks, or looking glasses. The comforts here were horribly primitive, yet still denied her and the other prisoners. The men had a penned off area where they slept beneath the sky no matter the weather. They had to endure the worst rain and storms.
So did she. As the only female slave, her open-air enclosure was far smaller than the one afforded the hogs.
She dropped the basket in front of the cowhide that served as Fanette’s door. If good fortune was with Canela, Fanette would trip over the clothes and break her neck.
At this hour, most everyone slept. One man guarded the shore. None the community. The male prisoners had their ankles shackled. They could barely shuffle much less walk, run, or cause trouble.
As a woman, she could move freely. No one worried about her.
If she had a blade they would.
To get to her dirt bed, she had to pass the crude wooden fence surrounding the men. Clouds shrouded the moon and cast the world into deeper shadows. Dark shapes littered the ground. The prisoners, she guessed.
A soft trill sounded. Perhaps from a bird. Perhaps not.
Canela slowed. Wind stirred her cloth and hair.
Another trill, this longer, quieter.
The silvery light dimmed further, then went out. Similar to when one extinguishes a candle or an oil lamp. The moon no longer able to pierce the heavy clouds.
Something rustled and scuffed.
Unafraid, she gave into curiosity and padded closer.
A hand clamped her wrist. “Scream and I’ll break your neck.”
Chadwick Vincent. Yellow Scarf to her people. A name given because of the bright cloth he wore on his head. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the color or his ugly face, but she’d never forget his hideous voice.
She’d offered him Tristan’s stone house, the island she’d called home, its riches, and herself, even speaking the English Vincent knew. He’d wanted Diana. Only white skin would do for him.
Canela clutched his balls and squeezed. “Release me or regret it.”
His hand fell away from her. He panted, agony in each breath. “I only wanted you to stop and not alert the others.”
He’d once threatened to put a bullet in her head and promised to strangle her if she didn’t answer his endless questions quickly and truthfully so he could take Diana as his own. When Canela had still offered him her flesh, he’d given her to his foul pirate crew saying they might want a savage. He was better than that.
Not any longer.
She increased the pressure on his sac.
He made an angry sound.
She wasn’t afraid. He might be able to break her fingers or arm, though not before she crushed his manhood. Her labor during these endless months had made her quite strong. “Why would you want anything from me, a mere savage? You craved Diana.”
“I still do. I dream of her neck between my hands as I squeeze the life from her. Surely, you’ve thought the same.”
“Why would you care?”
“Don’t you want to escape?”
She’d thought and dreamt of little else. “Do you?”
“What do you think?”
“That no man could be a greater fool than you are. You wear shackles, sleep in a pen like an animal, and have no pistol to protect yourself, yet you dream of escape.” She laughed quietly. “Have you prayed to your white god, hoping he would save you? Why would you ask him to help me?”
“We can band together, or you can stay here and work until you’re old and ugly. I’d say a few more years of endless labor should do it. No man will want you then, English or islander. The choice is yours.”
She dug her nails into his testicles. His breeches provided some protection, though hardly enough.
