by Tina Donahue
Gavra grabbed her arm. “Come. We need to tell Capitaine about this.”
“You go.” Simone twisted, freeing herself. “I have to tend his wound.” The laceration was hideous but hopefully not deadly. “Bring the men back with you to carry him to the stone house.”
Gavra stopped on the path and looked over. “Tristan may say otherwise.”
No. He was a good man. He wouldn’t let anyone die here, not even a pirate, and certainly not a stranger who appeared as civilized as Tristan was.
Simone dragged several palm fronds to the man’s side. The leaves were large with flat surfaces that had collected rainwater. She ripped his breeches and drawers, cleansed his wound thoroughly, then covered it with her healing leaves.
What Tristan called periwinkle. Before pirates killed her grandmother, she’d taught Simone about the magic in this plant.
Using a wide strip from the stranger’s linen shirt, she covered the leaves and wound as best she could. The bleeding had slowed considerably. However, he needed a poultice and potion to make certain he healed and didn’t lose his leg.
She touched the silk knotted above his wound, reluctant to untie it yet.
Once she’d confirmed he had no other ghastly cuts on his legs, she straightened to examine his arms and scalp.
He stared at her naked breasts, the cloth tied about her hips, and then her eyes. His were as green as a new leaf, lushly lashed, and quite alert.
He clamped her wrist.
Her breath caught.
* * * *
Tristan Kent snuggled into Diana, his cock buried deep within her soft, heated sheath. His ears buzzed.
She purred throatily. “I thought you said you had tasks to get to.”
“They can bloody well wait.” Given the relative quiet, the other men were still asleep or enjoying their women. Time enough later to clean up the mess the cyclone had left. “Are you with me?”
She wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed her mound into him, taking more of his length inside. “Till my last breath.”
A promise he could live with easily. For Tristan, making a happy and safe home for Diana, their children, and Peter was all he required. He’d once promised her that he’d never spill blood again and wouldn’t. Didn’t want to, unless someone threatened their peace.
He settled her legs on his shoulders so he could drive deeper and immediately reconsidered his outrageous move. Gulping air, he pressed his face to her velvety throat. “Will this harm the babe?”
“Our loving each other?”
“Me taking you like a madman, a savage, a blasted beast.”
“I think not.” She tightened her cunt around his cock, delivering more delight. “It’s not yet been three months since I knew for certain I’d conceived. The babe is nestled securely within me. My belly’s still far too flat.”
The gentle roundness promised new life. Diana may not have seen the change in herself, but he did. Her complexion glowed. Her amazing eyes were a deeper violet. Even her hair was more lustrous, blacker than ever, making her flesh paler in comparison. “I best take care with the babe and you.”
“Rubbish. Love me. Use me. Tame me.”
Laughing, he thrust with abandon. Their mattress rustled and the bed frame creaked.
Diana clung to him as she had from the beginning when he’d captured her, spirited her to his island, took her as his bride, and loved her to exhaustion.
As he did now, succumbing to passion, spilling his seed within her.
“Capitaine! Capitaine!”
Gavra. Her hard, fast knocks pounded the door.
Gulping air, Tristan eased from Diana and grabbed his breeches.
She followed and pulled her silk gown off a chair. “Do you think one of the men is hurt?”
“How? Everyone spent the last week here. Even if they hadn’t, Simone would be the one to heal them, not me.” He called, “What is it, Gavra?”
“A man is on the beach.”
Tristan’s skin crawled. “Get James.”
“I’m already in the hall, my friend, well aware of the situation, and waiting for you to get up.”
“I’m here too.”
Peter.
Tristan pulled on his brace of pistols. He snatched Diana’s gown and tossed it on the bed. “Stay in here until I return.”
“No. I want to know you’re safe. You said no one would find us here. Is it Bishop?”
“If it is, he’ll be dead the moment I see him. At that point, you can view the body before we toss it into the sea.”
She made a face. “I never want to see that devil again. Call me after the fish consume him.”
“Well said.” He pecked her lips and opened the door a crack.
James and Peter slouched against the opposite wall, one yawning, the other stretching. Gavra tapped her foot. What Tristan would expect from a woman irritated by circumstances, rather than alarmed.
He crossed his arms. “Given how each of you looks, I trust we don’t need the other men to mount an attack?”
James rubbed his eyes. “Adamo and Philippe went to the beach and used the glass. No ships anywhere. The one that did come close is in pieces now, the lone survivor on the sand.”
“How near is he to dying?”
“Better ask Gavra. She saw Simone treating him and came here.”
Gavra looked at them expectantly. They’d spoken English without thinking, rather than French the islanders understood. Tristan hated to ask the obvious but had to know the truth. “Is he a pirate?”
“Not like the others who came here. More a captain as you are, dressed as you were. At least, Simone believes so. She said he could also be a merchant.”
Right now, he was trouble Tristan didn’t need. He slipped into the hall. “Let’s take a look.”
Dressed, Diana left the chamber. “I’m coming too.”
He cupped her elbow and led her away from the others. “Have you forgotten you’re with child? My child?”
“Ours. How could I not remember as I’m carrying the infant? I promise to be careful. However, I’m not an invalid. Back in England, women still plow fields and do other demanding tasks even when they’re about to give birth.”
“That’s there, not here. Thankfully, we’re more civilized.”
She kissed his knuckles. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t go farther than the point, but I want to be there. I’m your wife, not a child.”
“You’re my life. If anything were to happen…”
“It won’t.” She eased into him. “I promise.”
“You had better or I’ll chain you to our bed and will never let you leave the bloody thing.”
“I shall remember that promise and wait breathlessly for you to fulfill it.”
She would not make him laugh. “Best you keep your tongue in addition to your distance. Your French is still too poor. The islanders won’t know what you’re going on about.”
“I’ll be as stiff and quiet as a statue.”
Not in his bed she wouldn’t.
Hand in hand, they followed the others down the hall to the outside.
* * * *
Of all the people to discover him, Royce hadn’t expected such a beautiful young woman. Simone the other native had said.
She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Her light brown skin complemented her dark hair. The ends grazed her waist. He detected a bit of European in her exotic features, and island custom in what little she wore. Simply a red silk cloth tied about her hips, those curves as lavish as her breasts. The mounds were full and lush, begging for a man’s touch, her deep brown nipples quite tight. How a woman reacted when aroused or perhaps afraid.
Wary that she might scream, he’d released her quickly and had expected her to run.
She checked his arms, hands, and head. He supposed for injuries.
At last, she finished and peeked at him.
Cautiously, he pu
shed up, hoping she wouldn’t bolt.
She sat back on her heels.
Needing an ally here, he tried a smile.
Hers was wondrous, broad and carefree, no deception or caution in her soft brown eyes.
His arrival would eventually change that. No better way to destroy a woman’s trust and happiness than wresting her from an island Eden to imprisonment, lifelong slavery, repeated rape, and birthing children only to have them torn away.
Guilt and shame churned in his gut. Fear for his family competed with the other emotions. “Are you the only one here?” Besides Tristan, his crew, and the other island woman. Their conversation had mentioned Tristan, but not Diana or Peter.
Simone tilted her head. A tress fell across her breast. Confusion swept her lovely face.
Royce had deliberately spoken English so she wouldn’t know he’d heard her speak French earlier when he’d feigned unconsciousness. He next tried Portuguese and received her same bewildered reaction. At last, he used her language.
Her eyes lit up. “My people live here. Once we have you in the stone house, I can see to your injury.” She touched his thigh. “Does it hurt?”
Not as much as when he’d arrived on this shore. “My head is worse.”
She brushed back his hair, her touch as light as an angel’s.
Despite his callous intent here, and what prudence demanded, his lids slid down, his heart pounding as hard as it had when she’d stroked his ribs.
She explored his wound carefully. “I can make a potion to take your pain away. As soon as the men arrive I—”
Voices and footfalls interrupted.
Tristan led the way, his manner and appearance precisely as rumor had described: tall, golden skin, blond hair, and light eyes that offered naught except challenge and possibly death if anyone dared threatened him or those he loved. Following him was an equally tall man with long red hair, his face and chest freckled. Had to be James Sullivan, Tristan’s friend and former quartermaster during their piracy.
An adolescent boy, fifteen or so, brought up the rear. Gangly, as youth were prone to be, he had long dark hair streaked with blond, his skin brown from days outdoors. Diana’s brother, Peter. His features matched Bishop’s depiction.
Tristan, James, Peter, and island men trained their pistols on Royce.
The land to their side jutted out, rocky and reddish as those found in Madagascar. A white woman stood there, wind whipping her dark hair and simple sheath-like gown in violet silk. Her slightly rounded belly didn’t prove pregnancy, though Royce would have staked his life on it. She wore a choker about her throat, the diamonds glittering in the light.
Royce’s pulse pounded. Diana was here, as Bishop had predicted. Along with too many armed men, as Royce had feared, though all islanders, not pirates.
He collapsed on the sand and tried to roll over, pretending to escape from so many weapons. Unable to, he reached to Simone for help, her face the only kind one here.
She curled her fingers around his.
He dropped his arm, feigning unconsciousness.
Chapter 2
“What are you doing?” Simone waved Tristan and the others back. “He can barely keep his eyes open, yet you threaten him with your pistols.”
The men didn’t lower their weapons. Staring at the stranger, they inched closer as they would when facing a dangerous bull.
Since the last pirate attack, everyone here had forgotten kindness again, acting with caution or suspicion instead.
Simone refused to behave the same even though she had cause. In an earlier raid, she’d lost everyone she loved and would have died if not for the surviving islanders protecting her. That didn’t mean she’d turn her back on someone in need simply because he was white. This man posed no danger to those here, especially in his current condition.
“Do you see a weapon on him? Has he harmed you in any way?”
Peter made a derisive noise. “What makes you think he won’t? No one invited him here. He’s an intruder and probably English in the bargain. I say we tie him up before he can hurt anyone.”
Tristan elbowed the boy.
Diana edged down the path, speaking English Simone didn’t understand.
Tristan pointed at his wife, his English fast and firm, though not harsh.
Diana stopped and slumped. “Très bien, mon…ah…pauvre français, il…sera si…cela signifie que je peux rester.” Very well, my, ah, poor French it will be if that means I can stay. She breathed hard, struggling with the words. “Qui…est-il?” Who is he?
Simone called out, “A man who might die.” She touched the ligature around his leg. “He needs healing. Far more than I can do here. We must bring him back to the stone house. Please.”
Diana looked baffled.
The islanders exchanged troubled glances.
Tristan slipped the pistol into his brace and strode forward.
The men followed, everyone regarding the stranger’s blood-soaked breeches, the cut on his forehead, his torn and soiled clothes.
Peter squatted near the man’s legs. “How long before he dies?”
Simone pushed Peter’s hand from the linen protecting the leg wound. “If I see to his injuries, I can save him. He needs a poultice and a potion to keep him from the fever or worse. He stopped bleeding but could start again unless I tend to his wound.”
Tristan observed the sea. “James, you and Peter bring him to Canela’s old room.”
Peter shot to his feet. “Why me?”
“Because I said so.” Tristan looked over. “The rest of you fan out and scour the island for anything amiss. Check for wreckage or other survivors.”
The islanders ran up the path.
James scratched his chest. “Doubtful there would be many, or anyone at all, who could have lived through the storm that raged these last days. Only a stroke of luck or God’s grace helped this fellow to our shore.”
“That may be, but I want to be certain.”
Diana shouted something in English and flapped her hands. “Que se…passe-t-il?” What is going on?
Peter snickered. He lifted his face to her and spoke French. “Your language skills are improving. In a year or two your French and island dialect should be as good as mine.” He glanced at the others. “Care to wager she didn’t understand what I said?”
Confusion swept her features.
Peter laughed.
Tristan bared his teeth at Peter. “Help James. Now.”
Peter sobered. “Aye, Captain.” He grabbed the stranger’s feet, James his upper body.
Tristan spoke to Diana, his English words gentle and coaxing. She didn’t look happy but finally nodded and left the scene.
Flapping noises and squawking sounded, both difficult to pinpoint, possibly the chickens Gavra had mentioned earlier.
Tristan pointed to the containers. “What’s that?”
The man stirred and pulled from Peter, then fought James.
“Easy now.” James lowered him to the ground. “We’re not trying to hurt you.”
Simone touched the man’s arm. “Let them carry you to the stone house. There, I can tend to you.”
Pain and fear flooded his eyes. “Don’t let them kill the birds and fowl.”
He’d spoken French as the others had.
Tristan looked over. “That’s what’s inside the crates?”
“Oui. They’re Edward’s.”
Tristan touched his pistol. “And who would that be?”
The stranger winced and gripped his leg above the wound.
“Take care or you’ll bleed again.” Simone eased his hand away. “Must we talk about this here, Capitaine?”
Tristan stared at the man. “Who’s Edward?”
He panted. “The cabin boy. An eleven-year-old. The chickens and birds were his pets during the long journey. He came from a farm and wanted a taste of home. Before the ship sank, he begged me to see to the creatures’ we
lfare. I promised I would, even though I intended to save him before anything else. A wave pulled him from the plank the crates were on, the same one we clung to. I tried my best to reach him, to direct the timber in that direction, but…” He squeezed his eyes shut, grief etched on his face.
Sympathy passed over Tristan’s features, then disappeared beneath vigilance. “Who are you?”
“Royce Hastings, a merchant from London.” He wiped his cheek on his shoulder. “I was on my way to Mozambique to trade. The captain thought the worst weather was over, but the storm doubled back on us and became too swift and severe to escape. Is the port near? Did the others survive?”
“How many were there?”
“I have no idea the exact number.”
“The ship was yours, yet you don’t know how many crew it held?”
“I don’t own any ships. My best guess is seventy men, both crew and passengers. Do you think the others lived?”
“If they did, the islanders will find them. What area were you planning to trade in?”
“Damnation, my head aches. Everything keeps whirling.”
Simone frowned at Tristan. “He needs healing, not questions.”
Tristan focused on Royce. “Where were you headed, Mr. Hastings?”
He spoke three words or names Simone had never heard. “Then south to the other coastal ports. What is this place? What’s it near? Who are you and these people?”
Tristan searched the water. “I’ll see to Edward’s pets.”
“Wait a moment. I promised to keep them in sight always. I owe that to the boy.”
“You can keep your word to him later. For now, Simone needs to tend your wounds.”
“Hold on. I have questions.”
Tristan lumbered across the drenched sand to the containers.
Royce gaped at Tristan’s scarred back.
“Best we get on with this,” James said. “You ready, Peter?”
“No, but I’ll make do.”
James grabbed Royce’s arms. Peter faced away from them and lifted Royce’s feet.