down his broad chest. In place in his earlobe was the golden hoop he was never
without. When Rylee became aware of his presence and turned to give him a wide-eyed
stare, he smiled slowly.
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“You’ll turn into a prune if you stay in there much longer, precious,” he said.
Rylee’s heart was hammering in her chest. It wasn’t just because there was a man
looking at her as she sat there naked, but that he lounged there in the doorway—arms
folded over his chest, one bare foot crooked over the other—looking so devilishly
handsome in that pose.
“Captain, please!” she managed to say, spreading the washcloth over her bosom
although she didn’t think he could see anything other than her shoulders and head
above the rim of the tub.
“Supper is ready,” he said, straightening up. “Would you like me to help you out of
the tub?”
“No!” she practically shouted.
He arched one thick, dark brow. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” she snapped.
“Q u’une honte,” he said with a sigh.
“I beg your pardon?” she said through clenched teeth.
“I said it was a shame you didn’t want me to assist you at your bath, milady,” he
said, and his grin sent tremors through her lower body.
It was then she realized he had shaved off his mustache and goatee. The absence of
the facial hair made him look younger, more vulnerable, and it also revealed a deep
cleft in his chin.
“I’ll wait below for you,” he said, inclining his head to her.
After he was gone—the door closing behind his exit—Rylee drew in a long, shaky
breath.
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Chapter Twelve
Alsandair stood on the beach and glared at the heaving waves that rolled over his
boots. His hands were on his hips and every inch of his posture screamed outrage and
revenge.
“If he doesn’t calm down, he’s going to have a stroke,” Briarly commented to the
men sitting around the campfire.
“I wouldn’t want to be in Corsair’s boots when Sandair gets off this damned
island,” Kyle said.
“That may be a while,” Captain Andelton reminded them. “Clare Island isn’t a
likely stopover for ships passing by this sea route.”
“Mayhap they’ll see our bonfire and come to investigate,” Bonny remarked.
“Let’s hope so and that it’s soon,” Kyle agreed. “The longer Rylee is with Corsair,
the harder it’s going to be on Sandair.”
Clare Island had proved to be as hospitable as a deserted island could be. There
were numerous fruits growing inland and a small waterfall revealed plenty of fresh
water for drinking. As Briarly, Ruck and a few of the sailors had discovered, fishing the
waters for food hadn’t been all that difficult and there were clams to be had for the
picking. The evening meal had been filling although Alsandair had refused to join
them.
“It must be hell thinking about what might be happening to your woman,”
Andelton said. “My heart goes out to him.”
“If we keep him busy tomorrow helping to build shelter he can take some of his
anger and frustration out that way,” Kyle suggested. “Otherwise he’s going to blow like
a volcano.”
“And I don’t want to be near him when he does,” Bonny put in.
Ataa said something to Kyle and the gambler shrugged. He answered in the
Midworld language then slowly repeated his words in the Jentu language the other
men used. “Your father is not happy and we must give him time.”
The crewmen had taken to instructing Ataa, pointing to different things and giving
him their word for it. The child was proving to be a quick learner with an inquisitive
mind.
“Patience,” Ataa said.
“Aye,” Kyle agreed. “Patience.” He had kept the little boy from bothering Alsandair
who didn’t seem to want—or need—contact with the other men just then.
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“Okay,” Ataa said, smiling. He sat down beside Ruck, the cabin boy. Nothing
seemed to bother the child. His was a pleasant, sweet disposition that endeared him to
every man there.
Alsandair hung his head as he stood there in the frothy foam from the incoming
waves. He was heartsick and his headache was back with a vengeance. He had no idea
what time it was but from the position of the moon overhead, it was most likely eight or
nine of the clock.
“Rylee, forgive me for not being able to protect you,” he said softly.
Had the pirate taken her already? he wondered. Had the bastard put his filthy
hands to her? The mere thought of Rylee being ravished by Andre Corsair made the
blood boil in Alsandair’s veins.
Spinning around, he started walking down the beach, trying to still the murderous
rage building within him. Until they were rescued, he had no way to go after Rylee and
that made him even more furious. He stomped through the wet sand until his progress
was blocked by a tall, black rock that jutted out into the water. Before he knew what he
was doing, he had scaled the rock and was standing on it, once more glaring out to sea.
Down the beach he could see the bonfire the men had built and from his vantage point,
had a better view of the sea but there were no vessels in sight—only a sparkling, black
silk sheet of undulating water festooned with a ribbon of moonlight.
Squatting down, he continued his vigil as the pain increased in his head. He put up
a hand to absently rub his temple and sighed with disgust. Since he’d been a boy of
seven he’d had these brutal headaches and over the years they’d only gotten worse.
This one was gearing up to be a beast—he recognized the signs.
“Rylee,” he whispered. “I will come for you, milady. I will. Just don’t give up on
me.”
A single tear eased down Alsandair Farrell’s cheek.
* * * * *
The supper had been superb, the white wine sweet and dry. Andre had told her a
bit of history about Wicklaw Cay and the men who made it their home. He’d explained
about the natives who lived farther inland and about some of the strange animals she
might see wandering about the jungle. He had asked her questions about her homeland
and her family and had seemed genuinely interested in her replies. They had sat over
coffee and lemon meringue pie and discussed some of the paintings that hung on the
walls of the dining room.
“I have been working on a picture of the Vengeance des Raven, my ship, for over a
year now but I just can’t seem to get it right.” He gave her a steady look. “I would like
to paint you.”
Rylee looked away from the desire running through his intense gaze.
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When it was time to retire, Rylee tensed, dreading going upstairs with her host. All
evening his dark eyes had held her spellbound and she was fearful of what was to
come.
Climbing the stairs with her hand tucked in his, he said nothing until they reached
his room. With his other hand to the small of her back, he ushered her inside then
turned to leave.
“I will let you have your privacy,” he said gently. “I’ll return when you’re in bed.”
The mention of his bed sent chills down Rylee’s spine but she had made a devil’s
bargain with the pirate and she would uphold her end of it, for to do so was to keep
Alsandair safe. She nodded, unable to speak, and he closed the door behind him.
Letting out a long, ragged breath, Rylee closed her eyes and stood there in the
center of the room, feeling lightheaded with fear. It was with moisture gathering in her
hopeless gaze that she began to undress.
* * * * *
Alsandair had finally grown weary of squatting on the rock and had sat down, his
legs crossed before him, his hands wrapped around his ankles. Though his stomach
rumbled and his growing hunger made the headache worse, Alsandair didn’t feel like
joining the men. He could not stand to see the pity he knew would be in their eyes.
Somewhere out there, he thought with growing despair, was Wicklaw Cay and on
that demon’s lair was the woman he loved. He imagined he could hear her sobbing. The
sound cut straight through his heart.
He lay down on his side, his head pressed painfully against the slick rock. With his
legs drawn up in a fetal position, his hands wedged between his thighs, he stared at the
sea until weariness and pain closed his eyes.
* * * * *
She was beneath the covers when the door to Andre Corsair’s bedchamber opened
and the man himself came in quietly. She watched him beneath her lashes as he moved
about the room—taking off his shirt and laying it aside, unbuckling his belt and
removing it, unbuttoning his britches and pushing them down his lean hips. As he did,
she squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to look at his naked body. She heard him blow
out two of the lanterns but the third he left burning. When the covers shifted and she
felt the weight of his body dipping the mattress, she opened her eyes.
“You are leaving the one lamp lit?” she asked in a small voice.
“I can not sleep in the dark,” he told her, and turned on his side so he was facing
her. “Come here, precious.”
She drew in a quick breath—wanting to deny him, wanting to scream that denial—
but without comment she slid closer to him. He smelled of cinnamon and it was a scent
she found very pleasant.
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He wedged his arm under her shoulders and pulled her to him, nestling her against
his shoulder. She was stiff in his arms but he did not seem to notice. He simply held her
with his chin lightly on the top of her head.
“Sleep well, milady,” he said softly.
Rylee pulled back and looked up at him. “You are not going to…to…”
“Not tonight,” he said, and put his hand up so he could return her cheek to his
shoulder. “Just sleep.”
She wasn’t sure she could lie there in his arms and give in to sleep. She could feel
the steady beat of his heart where her left hand was pressed against his bare chest, her
right arm trapped between their bodies. She could feel the wash of his breath over the
top of her head. Her left knee rested against his left leg.
“Relax, bébé,” he whispered. “There will be no ravishing done this night.”
Rylee could hear the laughter in his voice and pursed her lips, annoyed that he
could be so flippant at such a time. But bit by bit, muscle by muscle, breath by breath,
she let the tension slip from her body until she lay as easily as she could in his strong
arms. She heard him chuckle lightly and his hold on her tightened just a little until the
soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing told her he had fallen asleep.
She lay there with her eyes open, staring at the wavering light across the room. He
had turned the lantern down low but there was enough of an amber glow to keep the
darkness at bay.
“I can not sleep in the dark,” he had said, and she mulled that over in her tired mind,
wondering what residual fears of his childhood had carried over into his adult life.
* * * * *
Alsandair was dreaming and in that dream he was whimpering. A fine sheen of
sweat covered his face. He flinched and moaned, jerked and groaned in his sleep. His
fingers scrambled at the rock beneath his legs. His eyes jerked back and forth behind his
closed lids. He was caught in a nightmare.
“Sandair!” she called out to him, her arms reaching for him. She was standing on a grassy
hill, a broad, twisted and gnarled tree bare of its leaves crouched off to her left.
A fierce wind whipped her gown about her legs, her long red hair about her head. Behind her
the sky was gunmetal gray with an approaching storm and lightning zigzagged across the
firmament, thunder rolling ominously. Birds took wing before the advancing tempest, crying out
as they flew. The grass at her feet shifted, the ground rumbled.
He ran to her and gathered her to him, holding her trembling body to his as the storm crept
toward them. Bright flashes of light made her cry out and he hurried her to what little shelter the
knotted tree provided. They sank down on the ground and huddled there as the violent wind
skirled through the stripped branches.
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She clung to him, her forehead pressed against his shirt, her fingers gripping the material.
He cupped her chin and lifted her head. Stark terror had etched lines into her lovely face and her
eyes were accented with dark circles beneath their verdant depths.
“It’s all right, milady,” he said, and lowered his mouth to her trembling lips.
Sweetly he kissed her to ease her fright and to take her mind from the brewing storm. She
shivered and he brought her closer to him, molding her breasts to his chest, imprisoning her
hands against his heart.
“I am here, Rylee,” he whispered.
The kiss deepened until he gently thrust his tongue into her mouth, nibbling on her full
lower lip until she opened for his tender invasion. He tasted the honeyed recesses of her mouth
and claimed her.
Then the scene changed.
The sky grew darker, more demonic as the storm raged closer. Lightning speared faster,
louder with its fury as it sank jagged strikes into the hillside. Thunder boomed and the ground
trembled beneath the onslaught. Overhead, the naked branches moved like the tentacles of some
hellish beast.
He lay atop her—their clothing gone, his shaft buried deep within her welcoming sheath.
Her fingernails dug into his back to spur him on as his lower body moved up and down upon
hers, his cock making a rhythmic glide into her sweetness. His hands gripped her hips. Her legs
gripped his waist. They were wrapped up in one another as the volume of the storm increased
and its ferocity was amplified.
Her warmth was milking him and the sensation of her velvety moistness squeezing him with
each stroke branded him hers. They belonged together and not even the violence of the storm
could separate them.
Beneath them the ground buckled and rolled. Rain came slashing from the boiling, black
clouds to drench them in a cold, clammy blanket. The branches of the tree bent low as the
onslaught of the storm moved directly over the lovers.
He could feel the first p
ulses of her climax starting. The fire in his lower belly intensified and
his cock throbbed with the need to release the seed building within it. He ground against her and
that first faint pulse became a clutching, grasping, greedy hand vibrating around him.
“Sandair!” she cried out as her passion came to fruition.
He was moments from his own release, feeling the gathering deep in his sac. He shifted
against her, lifting her hips higher so he could spill his seed into her welcoming body.
It was then he felt the scraping of the branches against his naked back. He looked around and
was stunned to see the tree had come alive, two fiery, glowing, red eyes set high up in the trunk
glared at him as the thick trunk twisted and bent toward him, its limbs like arms, its branches
like fingers. Fibrous roots came up from the ground and slithered toward him, undulating like
pit vipers. More roots shot straight up into the air then arched downward, their whipping
suckers sinking down into his back and drawing blood, plucking him easily from her body and
holding him suspended high above her as the storm raged.
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Bellowing with fear and enraged with fury, he struggled desperately against the hold of the
roots but they were strong, reeking of the earth, smearing soil upon his body, and they wrapped
tighter and tighter around and around him, soon making his struggles useless for he could not
move in their entwined embrace, could barely even breathe.
She lay there on the ground—her silken limbs stretched wide apart, her naked body
defenseless. Her cries were lost in the boom of the rolling thunder, the shriek of the stitching
lightning.
It came up from the ground as the roots had and it was thick and swollen, pulsing with life,
glistening with need.
“No!” he denied, sensing the intent of the massive taproot that was surging in the brisk
wind like a cobra charmed by a whistle.
The fiery eyes on the trunk glowed brighter and the bark beneath those gleaming orbs
stretched like that of a ravenous mouth. He could hear maniacal laughter coming from that
strange, foreboding maw as the taproot swayed to and fro.
She writhed on the ground, her tearful green eyes locked on the thick, swaying root moving
above her.
“Sandair!” she pleaded. “Help me!”
The taproot began its slow, unstoppable descent and there was nothing he could do to
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