Forbidden Desire

by Tina Donahue

  “We have a cloth of flowers and many colors, though mostly red. Tristan calls it cal-i-co. That tells them we mean no harm. Rollan waves it for them to see.”

  Heath clamped Rollan’s shoulder. “And you’ll do so again this time. Do the islanders have a glass as we do?”

  The men nodded.

  “When our longboat reaches shore, what happens then?”

  Rollan spoke. “The chief, his men, and people hide until their strongest warriors tell them to come out. The chief wears a feathered robe and headdress, and has falcon talons around his neck. His men also have the claws but no feathers.”

  The protocol sounded simple enough, except few things in life were. “Will our weapons alarm them?” Heath wasn’t about to chance arriving without protection.

  “We take only one pistol and put it here.” Julien gestured to his back waistband. “We can also take a cutlass, but no more than that.”

  Meaning a brace of pistols. He couldn’t blame the islanders. If heavily armed strangers approached Tristan’s isle, Heath would shoot their bloody heads off before their feet touched sand or they could explain themselves. “Anything else?”

  Rollan folded his arms over the table. “Their community is far less advanced than ours, but everyone there is kind. None will give us any trouble.”

  * * * *

  Canela finished her special stew. The fish stench and strong taste kept the sleeping herbs from being too obvious. Luckily, the afternoon heat made everyone drowsy. When they’d napped earlier, she worked without observation. Except for Vincent.

  He stared at her from the pen.

  She inclined her head slightly to let him know the plan was finally in motion, and to give him a false sense of his own importance.

  He grinned.

  Ugly fool. Vile swine. She would see him dead soon.

  Nursing the violent images in her mind, she filled the chief’s bowl and those for his men. She’d serve them first as she had these past days, familiarizing them with her slavish devotion. Like most males, they adored the attention.

  Fanette had instantly objected to Canela’s actions and the men’s response to her. Until now, Fanette had made certain to keep Canela from their sight and lust.

  No longer.

  The chief and his men warned Fanette to keep her tongue or they’d cut it out.

  Canela delivered the bowls to the chief’s house where the men met each day. She sat on her heels, face down to await their request for more. They always wanted a second or third serving.

  Today was no different. She took the chief’s empty bowl.

  He cupped her breast and rubbed her nipple. “Merci.”

  Pushing back outrage, she nodded submissively and gathered the other bowls. At the pot, she doled out generous portions for the islanders, except for the few children and infants. She barely filled Fanette’s bowl.

  Fanette kicked dirt on Canela’s leg. “More, you stupid thing.”

  She gave it. Gladly.

  Conversation ceased during the meal. The islanders rested against shaded trunks and devoured their food. None complained about an odd odor or taste. Not even Ismay. She grinned at Canela from across the yard.

  Canela smiled in return. She poured the prisoners’ stew from the smaller pot and brought it to them. They reached for it greedily, eyes crazed with hunger.

  Vincent turned his bowl over. Steaming liquid and soggy vegetables splashed on the ground. “The key.”

  His men and those from Bishop’s ship concentrated on their food, not his quiet words.

  Vincent growled. “Answer me.”

  She kept her voice as low as his. “I have to wait for it until the right time.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Not long.”

  She returned to the fire and refilled bowls for the chief and his men.

  They proved too alert and ate their second helping as greedily as the prisoners did their first.

  Canela’s skin prickled. If she hadn’t used enough sleeping magic or the wrong herb, she’d be here forever, serving Ismay, lying beneath these disgusting pigs. Panicked, she backed to the entrance. “There is far more. I can bring it to you.”

  She swiped the prisoners’ empty bowls and filled them with fish stew.

  Someone yawned loudly. The priest. His sluggishness meant nothing. If he wasn’t eating, he slept and complained if anyone needed him for a blessing.

  The others paid no attention to him. Nor did they show any effects from the herbs. Not even Ismay. She slurped and chewed happily, gaze on the water, face serene.

  Something was wrong.

  Canela backed toward the forest. Death from wild boars was preferable to living out endless days here.

  Vincent pushed to his feet and motioned her back.

  She shook her head.

  He pointed.

  A woman had closed her eyes. Two men slouched against trees.

  That proved nothing. It was hot, the work hard, the…

  Yoland stumbled out of her house, hand to her head. She sank to her knees and dropped to the ground.

  Ismay pushed up and fell over.

  Others didn’t look, move, or open their eyes.

  Canela ran to the chief’s house. He sagged in his feather-covered throne, chin to his chest, lids down. Two men lay on the floor. One slumped in his chair. Another lay across the table.

  She kicked his foot.

  He didn’t move.

  She tested the others.

  They slept.

  Canela feared trusting it. She grabbed the chief’s blade and pointed the tip at his chest. Prepared to kill him, she untied the cord from his breeches that held the shackle key. Next, she took his brace of pistols. The leather and weapons lay heavy on her shoulders and against her chest. Far from being a burden, they gave her strength and power.

  She dragged the other braces and pistols outside.

  Fanette’s bowl slipped from her hand. She planted her stout feet widely apart but still swayed. Drool ran down her chin. “You.”

  Canela smiled. “Oui. Me.” She rammed her elbow into Fanette’s belly.

  Fanette staggered and hit the ground. Dust puffed up.

  Canela straddled her. “Now who is stupid and foolish?” She drove the chief’s blade deep into Fanette’s throat.

  Her lips moved but only gurgling sounded. Blood filled her mouth. Her limbs quivered.

  One man lifted his head and dropped it.

  Canela stilled and waited.

  He didn’t move again, nor did anyone else, except the prisoners. Vincent gripped the top rail, his men and Bishop’s slightly behind him.

  Canela dragged the weapons to them.

  “The bloody key.” He put out his hand.

  She trained a pistol on a man to the right. His hair was red, like James’s, but he had no spots on his skin. “You. Come closer. To the fence.”

  “What in the bloody hell are you doing? This ain’t no time to play games.” Vincent strained and grasped wildly for her weapon.

  Canela stepped back and spoke to the other man. “Do as I say or die.” She cocked the gun as Tristan and James did before they killed a lame horse or a sick animal. The pistol was more unwieldy than she’d expected but fear made her strong. Revenge did too.

  The man shuffled forward.

  Canela tossed the key.

  He and Vincent jumped for it. Vincent lost his balance, fell back, and hit the ground hard. The redhead held the key in his palm.

  “Unlock your shackles.”

  Vincent bared his teeth and pushed up. “Me first.”

  “Do as I say. No one else.” Canela held the pistol in both hands. “Defy me and you die.”

  “Free me first, Raymont.” Vincent glared. “If you don’t, you’ll bloody well wish you we
re dead when I get my hands on you.”

  Raymont looked at Vincent.

  Canela fired. The boom was louder than thunder. The gun jumped in her hands as something alive would.

  Blood sprayed from Raymont’s chest. He dropped.

  The men recoiled. Vincent kept his tongue.

  Canela avoided the hot barrel and returned the pistol to the brace as Tristan had done with his. She pulled out another weapon and directed it to a man with pitted cheeks. “Get the key. Unshackle yourself and the others I point out.” She chose sheep amongst wolves. Those she could cow easily. Those who’d hungered for her.

  A man from Bishop’s crew held out his hands as one would when wanting to discuss not demand. “What about the rest of us?”

  “You starve.” She shrugged. “Or you can die now if you speak again.” Canela pointed the pistol at him.

  He said no more.

  The men she chose gathered away from the others.

  She spoke to the prisoner with holes in his face. “Toss the key to me.”

  He did.

  “Come out slowly. Bring Vincent with you.”

  He bellowed. “Shackled?”

  She smiled.

  * * * *

  “Terrain à venir.” Land ahead. Phillipe pointed from the crow’s nest.

  Faucon Island. Half the journey finished. Relief washed through Heath so quickly, he nearly sagged to the deck. Luckily, he hadn’t or the men would’ve thought him daft.

  He trained his glass on the deserted beach surprised not to see anyone. Though early, some should have been about. Perhaps idleness was another reason these people hadn’t fared as well as Netta and Aimee’s.

  He inched his glass to the right and stopped on a large black pot. A native woman stirred whatever cooked, her back to him. Wind pulled her long hair.

  Something moved to the left. Brightly colored feathers. The chief’s cape and headdress were far more ornate than Rollan had let on. The chief’s back was to them. He gestured to the forest as one would when giving directions then he ducked into a mud house.

  Rollan rushed up. “Do we drop anchor here, Capitaine?”

  “Oui. You, Etienne, and Julian will accompany me to the isle.”

  “Me too.” Michel joined them. “I would like to go.”

  “Of course.” Ourson would want to hear every detail, no matter how dull. “Once we give the chief and the others our good wishes, we’ll make arrangements to transfer our cargo to them and tell the priest to gather whatever he wants to take for the journey home. Then we can be on our way.”

  Rollan shook his head. “We should stay here a day to listen to the chief and share his food.”

  Heath had hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. “Given how little he has, it would make more sense if we simply left.”

  “To refuse would insult him.”

  “Can’t have that.” Heath quelled his frustration, ordered the men to drop anchor, and prepare the longboat.

  He gave Phillipe his glass. Better it stay here than accompany Heath to the isle where the chief might want it, despite having his own. “Rollan. Do you have the calico?”

  He showed it to Heath. Many an English maid had worn the pattern.

  “Everyone have their pistols?”

  They nodded.

  “Not me.” Michel’s face fell. Exactly as Ourson’s did whenever Heath disappointed him.

  “There are several in the great cabin. Take one, but hurry back.”

  “Oui, Capitaine.” He returned within minutes.

  With four strong islanders rowing, the longboat approached the beach quickly. The chief didn’t appear again. The native woman who’d stirred the food had left too.

  Oddly enough, the priest lay on his back in a shaded area, asleep or unconscious from too much drink or women. Rich food couldn’t have put him in that state since they had no fancy fare here.

  Heath shaded his eyes. A naked child, possibly two or three years old, toddled through the community. His thin cries reached the longboat.

  Where in damnation was his mother, or at least the woman who cooked?

  Rollan had said everyone hid when a boat approached. They should have taken the poor child with them.

  Expecting the warriors to come out, Heath twisted and craned his neck.

  Michel gasped.

  Englishmen in filthy and torn breeches raced toward the longboat.

  Its bottom hit sand.

  A man with pockmarked skin wore the feathered headdress and cape. He held a pistol in each hand, raised one and shot. The crack pierced the quiet air. Julian fell over the longboat and splashed into the water.

  The man shouted, “Anyone tries anything and you’ll join your friend.” The men flanking him raised their pistols. “Toss your weapons on the sand. Guns and blades.”

  Heath translated for the islanders.

  He and the others obeyed readily.

  Heath prayed those on the Lady Lark wouldn’t come to investigate the noise. These men would cut them down in a moment. They had to be the prisoners Tristan had mentioned.

  A young native woman padded toward the boat, her face an angel’s, eyes belonging to a devil. Medusa in the flesh.

  Canela pointed her pistol. “Welcome.”

  Chapter 15

  Aimee settled Merry in her crib and kissed her chubby fist. With surprising strength, she grasped Aimee’s thumb.

  “No need to fear, little one. I promise not to leave until your mama comes for you.” She wiggled her hand.

  Merry gripped more tightly.

  “How strong you are. The same as your papa. And as beautiful as your mama.” Like Tristan, Aimee hoped Merry’s eyes wouldn’t change. Years from now, every boy on the isle would desire her, though only the bravest would win her heart.

  Perhaps Netta and Heath’s son. Or one Aimee might have with him.

  She slumped. It was foolish to hope for an infant no matter how much she yearned. The goddess decided who would have a son, daughter, or remain barren.

  Pirates too. They’d taken so much. First, Netta’s fingers, then both her and Aimee’s virginity, trust, and hope. Now, the future, leaving Aimee no chance to conceive.

  She stroked Merry’s tiny hand, reluctant to pull away. The infant’s pale skin, long, dark lashes, and pink cheeks enchanted. She stopped squirming. Her eyelids grew heavy.

  Diana must have rested too. No sounds came from her bedchamber.

  “Netta, come look.” Aimee spoke softly. “She sleeps but still holds on to me.”

  Merry’s rosy lips moved as they would when she suckled. Perhaps she dreamed of being at her mama’s breast. Nourished. Protected. Loved.

  “Netta.”

  She faced the tall window and the sea beyond, arms wrapped around herself as she did when chilled. Even at this early hour, the day grew too warm and sticky.

  Carefully, Aimee eased her thumb from Merry’s hold and padded to Netta. Her color was poor, face worried. Aimee hugged her. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me. Did you feel something bad? Did the goddess talk to you about Heath? Is he all right?”

  Anguish filled Netta’s eyes. “He has to be.” She pulled away from Aimee. “I simply miss him. I have to stop being so foolish. You heard Tristan. Heath’s a good mariner and capitaine. Nothing could be wrong.”

  * * * *

  Canela ordered her men to haul the bodies from the chief’s home and leave them in the forest. Vultures, boars, and other animals would welcome the corpses. The house would serve her until she left. Never again would she squat by a fire or sleep on the ground.

  The tall Englishman stood outside the chief’s mud dwelling. Even with a glass, no one could see it or him from the Lady Lark. He stared at the carnage Canela had left. She’d used too many herbs. Ev
eryone dead. Even the priest. His prayers and god wouldn’t help anyone now.

  Before the visitors arrived, her men had hidden those bodies easily detected from the longboat or ship. The dead rotted in the shade beneath leaves and branches.

  Each time the wind died down, the ripe odor returned.

  The Englishman showed no emotion or fear. His handsome face might have been carved from the marble in Tristan’s stone house.

  Canela liked this man’s courage but hated it too. He wouldn’t frighten easily. Assuring his obedience would take more than force, though that would do for now. She pointed her pistol at him and spoke English. “Tell me your name.”

  “Heath Garrison.”

  “You serve as capitaine?”

  He nodded.

  Rollan, Etienne, and Michel stood mute behind him, unskilled in hiding their horror even though they were supposed to be men now, not boys. When the pirates came and killed their families, they squealed and wept like the girls.

  Canela had propositioned the pirate capitaine, offering to delight him in his bed. She would have gladly killed anyone he chose in order to share his power and rule.

  He’d enjoyed her as he had the other girls then gave her to his men. Like Vincent and Tristan, he preferred an Englishwoman, the whore he’d brought with him. He made her mistress of the isle, and later the stone house.

  Canela would have those things now. She gestured to the pirate with ruined cheeks, wanting him at her side. Goodwin he called himself. A disgusting man who looked foolish in the chief’s finery, but his meekness and loyalty to her rule made him valuable. “Who is the pirate with the scar on his forehead?”

  “Zimmerman.”

  Zimmerman’s scrawny frame and timid ways would fool anyone, especially a naïve islander. “When he returns from the forest, he and Michel will row out to the Lady Lark.”

  At his name, Michel drew back.

  Canela pointed her pistol at him and spoke French. “How is Ourson? Is he strong or is he like his papa who is weaker than a woman?”

  Michel’s dark eyes sparkled with tears. No different from a helpless female. “Please, Canela, you cannot do this.”

  “I already have. If you want Ourson to live when I reach Tristan’s shores, I expect you to row to the Lady Lark and convince the islanders to join you here. To feast and celebrate with the chief. Once everyone arrives, your friends will die then—”