by Susan Grant
“The best part of all, Carly, is that the water makes a rainbow as it falls.”
She hoped to entice Andrew into going for a hike if he returned before sunset. If he returned by then. He’d been aboard the Phoenix all day, overseeing the crew as they made repairs and unloaded the remainder of the cargo. The men skilled in carpentry were already busy fixing areas damaged by the warship that were now accessible in the calm, shallow waters. Others were cleaning the ship from top to bottom, polishing the wood, scraping barnacles off the hull, patching sails and sewing new ones—a chore Carly had volunteered to help complete. It would take months to finish everything.
She scooped up a handful of warm sand and trickled a stream into her palm. From somewhere inland, the scent of flowers wafted by. Sea birds soared overhead, borne on the afternoon trades, and the cooling breeze lifted her hair, making it weightless around her shoulders.
The agreeable sensations reminded her of the very un-Carlylike decision she’d made after Andrew left that morning. Until she faced having to leave the island, she would live from day to day, enjoying the simplest pleasures, savoring her newfound appreciation of life and the heady sensation of being in love—truly in love—for the first time. A fragile happiness she prayed would not be shattered and taken unexpectedly by events beyond her control.
Carly gathered her things and walked back to the village. Deep laughter and the sound of masculine conversation emanated from the cleared area in front of the choupanas. The odor of tobacco and perspiration hung in the humid air. Apparently in the midst of a meeting, the men were gathered around the tables.
“Milady!” Cuddy’s call alerted Andrew to her presence.
Feeling a blush creep slowly up her neck, Carly waved and hastened her pace. Her long night of erotic abandon with their captain was too fresh in her mind—and between her thighs—to allow her to face him in front of his crew.
Andrew beckoned to her.
No way.
Her face heated further. Smiling serenely, she gave a friendly wave, walking away as quickly as she could without appearing to run.
She heard the men laugh.
Andrew jogged up behind her and grabbed her arm. “Slow down, Carly.”
“Not now,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Come. The men want to see you.”
“I don’t feel social.”
“Whyever not?” His eyes sparked wickedly.
She was going to kill him. “You know . . . why.”
“Because we made love?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “I don’t have the kind of face that keeps secrets. And I’d rather not have everyone know we’re sleeping together.” Glancing behind him to the grinning men, who seemed to be enjoying every nuance of their conversation, she said sullenly, “Though it looks like they already do.”
Acting affronted, he snatched her hand and pressed it between his rough palms. “They most certainly do not. I like to think I have a bit of discretion, Miss Callahan. ’Tis a small island, though. They will sort it out before long.” He drew her closer and brushed his lips over hers.
She reared back, her face hot. “What do you say we don’t give them a head start? I’d rather wait until they know I’m staying here.”
“They know.”
Her gaze swerved to the men. Cuddy grinned and waved. Gibbons, massive arms crossed over his chest, gave her a fatherly smile.
“What in the world did you tell them?”
“Only that you do not wish to marry the duke,” he said. “And that in less than three weeks, at the prearranged time, I’ll send a party to deliver the happy news to Richard’s men.”
Speechless, she blinked. The enormity of what Andrew had done, the promise he’d made to her—and kept—meant more to her than he could imagine.
“Come,” he coaxed, pulling her to the center of the group.
She inhaled deeply and smoothed her hair off her forehead, offering a weak smile to the familiar faces surrounding her. Booth shot her a chilling look. “Keep’n her will get ya killed, Cap’n.” Then he rose to his feet and marched off. Her smile died on her lips.
Before she could contemplate the implications of Booth’s overt display of hatred, Andrew announced, “Lady Amanda, who prefers we call her Carly, has chosen not to honor her betrothal to the duke of Westridge.”
The men cheered wildly.
“As agreed, I will distribute gold equal to the amount of the ransom.”
That brought more applause and a few whistles. Her chagrin faded into relief.
“Will ya stay with us on the island, milady?” Jonesy called out, his question echoed by the others.
“I sure will,” she said, propping her hands on her hips. “I prefer your fine company any day to that of the worthless worm Richard. As for your captain”—she sighed theatrically—“I suppose I can endure him if I must.”
“Endure me, she shall.” Andrew curled one hand behind her head and kissed her soundly on the mouth. As she stood in breathless surprise, he nuzzled the side of her neck. Desire throbbed to life between her legs.
The men whistled their approval.
Andrew gave them a cheery salute. Lacing his fingers with hers, he led her away. Once on the path, he casually draped his arm over her shoulder. He smelled faintly of exertion and tobacco.
“Not everyone’s pleased with your change in plans,” she said.
“My men? Like hell they aren’t. They’re getting their gold and they don’t have to risk their dirty hides to have it.”
“Booth isn’t.”
“’Tis simply the way the man acts.” He paused by a barrel of rainwater, scooped some into a cup, and handed it to her before helping himself. “Have you eaten?” he asked quietly.
“Not since lunch.”
“I’m ravenous.”
“I’ll find us some fruit and bread,” she said. “There’s leftover pork, too.”
Andrew cupped her chin in his hand. In her earnest desire to please him, she’d missed the point. “I’m not interested in food.” He dropped the statement into her lap with a meaningful glance.
“Well, to be honest, neither am I,” Carly said with saucy candor. “Particularly after your little performance in front of the men. Nice kiss, by the way.”
Chuckling, Andrew trailed one finger down her sun- warmed throat, raising gooseflesh in its wake. “You’ve bloody well fired up my appetite now,” he said, fingering the knot of silk tied above her breasts.” ’Twill take hours to satisfy.”
Her eyes widened. For once, she was speechless. No swift rejoinders or witty remarks.
Pleased with himself, Andrew clasped her hand and brought her home.
“It is not a plump bottom!”
Andrew flipped her onto her stomach, playfully nipping her left cheek. “You have the most deliciously round bottom, then. ’Tis as provoking as hell.” On all fours, he leaned over her, nibbling his way up her back. Then he rolled to his side, pulling her with him. They lovingly stroked and kissed each other.
With a lazy stretch, she shifted position and winced. “A bath in the spring would sound nice right now. Or better yet, a tub of hot water.”
“Easily arranged.” Both tenderness and guilt flooded him at the sight of her swollen lips, her cheeks and chin abraded by his whiskers. He should have shaved this afternoon. He shouldn’t have taken her so many times since last night, for that matter. Why hadn’t he given more thought to how his appetite would affect her?
“You wouldn’t mind?” she asked.
He kissed the tip of her freckled nose.” ’Tis no bother, love. You’ll have your hot bath. Then we’ll sleep.”
“Just sleep, huh?”
“Indeed.” With mock indignation, he declared, “However irresistible I am to you, you must allow me to rest. I am exhausted.” He fell backward on the mattress to prove his point.
She gave a genuine belly laugh. “Nice try, Spencer, but you know and I know, it’s me who can’t keep up with you. Don’t worr
y, though—” She winked suggestively. “Tomorrow I’ll be as good as new.”
“If not, there are other ways to give each other pleasure.” He brushed his lips over hers. “In fact, I know of one you particularly enjoy.”
She sighed into his mouth.
“You know the one, then,” he said huskily.
“Oh, yes.”
He gave her a gentle, lingering kiss before pulling away. “If you insist on distracting me, you will never have your swim.”
Carly giggled as he faked a limp across the dirt floor to where his clothing hung on the opposite wall. She dressed in his oversized shirt while he tugged on his pants. Without a belt, they dipped below his navel. “What a hunk,” she murmured, running her gaze over his muscled torso.
He slid a wary glance downward. “A ‘hunk’?”
“It’s my twenty-first-century way of saying that you’re incredibly good-looking.”
He scratched his bare chest and grinned. His jaw and chin had that scruffy look she loved. His chestnut-colored hair, streaked from the sun, stuck up in all directions. She tenderly combed it with her fingers, revealing the red spots on his neck where she’d given him love bites. Looking lower, she noticed scratches on his left shoulder. Scratches? The love bites she remembered, but the scratches? It must have been another wanton moment . . . but which one? “Everyone’s going to know exactly what you’ve been doing all afternoon, Captain.”
“Will they, now?”
“Yep. You look like you’ve been very thoroughly made love to.”
“That I have.” Not bothered by his disheveled appearance in the least, he wrapped his arm over her shoulders, holding her close in the twilight as they walked to the beach.
A sudden snapping of sticks and the thud of booted feet interrupted the peaceful sound of crickets, frogs, and surf.
She and Andrew were barefoot.
“Looka here. Now ain’t this sweet?”
The raspy voice chilled her soul.
“Think yer one of them bluebloods now, Spencer?”
Andrew stiffened. He moved her to the edge of the path before turning his attention to the dark form behind them. “You’ve been taken care of, Booth. If it’s not to your satisfaction, leave. No one will stop you.”
The man’s hair was damp and slicked back from his face, revealing narrowed, bloodshot eyes. The evening breeze brought the odor of booze. “You promised me my share of the ransom. And I ain’t leavin’ without it.”
Crap. Her pulse kicked into double time. She should have known the bastard wouldn’t give up without a fight.
“Mr. Booth,” Andrew warned.
“Yer high an’ mighty now that ya got yerself the lady. ’Twasn’t so long ago you were rottin’ behind bars. Where were yer gentlemen and lady friends then?”
“Go about your business, Booth,” Andrew said in a low, ominous tone. “Now.”
Booth’s gaze veered to her, freezing her with the icy hatred in their depths. He gave a harsh laugh. “Spencer, yer a bigger fool than I thought. I can’t believe yer givin’ up a fortune for this titless wench.” Mortified, she inhaled sharply. Then Andrew lunged for Booth, knocking him to the ground with a horrific scrape along the pebbly sand.
Chapter Seventeen
Carly cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed toward the village. “Help! We need help! At the beach!” Urgently she scanned the ground. She was damned good with a gun; some of that skill had to transfer to sticks and stones.
She heard the revolting thud of a fist hitting flesh, then Andrew’s muffled grunt of pain. Both were large men. But what Andrew had in height, Booth made up for with sheer bulk. Guilt swamped her as she chose a fist-sized rock, then discarded it to snatch a larger one. This wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t asked for a swim.
But the two men would have come to blows eventually. That was her fault, too. She’d been wrong to keep Booth’s assault a secret. It had allowed him to do what he pleased unchecked. Now he’d attacked Andrew.
Adrenaline pumped in her veins; ragged breaths tore at her dry throat. She tested the weight of the rock, raised her shaking arm as the men tumbled past. Damn it. They rolled too fast, too unpredictably. She pranced backward, aiming at Booth’s head. Then Andrew’s shoulder blocked her view. Frustration bit at her insides. If she threw the rock at Booth, she could just as easily hit Andrew. The helplessness and choking fear she’d felt that night alone with Booth came flooding back—this time multiplied a thousandfold.
If Booth killed Andrew, not only would she lose the man she loved, but she’d be left alone on an island in the 1800s with no protection or means.
“Help!” she shouted toward the ocean, desperate now, praying that another couple had opted for a late swim.
Voices sang out from the direction of the village. Her knees nearly buckled with relief. Gasping, she glanced up the hill. Torches burst through the lush jungle, conveyed by what had to be fifty women and men, some in nightshirts, cutlasses drawn. Chickens darted ahead, squawking, while roosters crowed and the flea-bitten black-and-white dog that followed her around hoping for scraps sprinted in frenzied circles to the wails of crying babies.
Gibbons aimed his pistol. “Booth! Leave the captain be or you’re a dead man.” But the same problem that kept her from hurling the rock prevented him from firing.
Booth slammed Andrew onto his back. Andrew twisted free and locked his arm around Booth’s thick neck, wrenching him backward.” ’Tis enough, man!”
Blood sprayed in bursts from Booth’s mouth and battered nose while he struggled in Andrew’s stranglehold. His face turned purple; a vein pulsed in each sweaty temple.
Teeth bared, Andrew gave his forearm a savage jerk. Booth gurgled, clawing at his arm. “What’ll it be, Booth?”
He shuddered, wheezed his surrender. Andrew released him, and he sagged to his hands and knees, gasping, splattering droplets of blood onto the sand.
Brushing grit from his torn pants, Andrew straightened. Blood streamed from a cut above his right eye; bruises and dirty scrapes marred his shoulders and back. He took the pistol Gibbons handed him and beckoned to her.
She hurried to his side. “You’re hurt,” she said tightly.
He ignored her remark, his attention trained on Booth. He spoke softly so only she could hear. “Honor is at stake here. Yours, love, and mine. I have to do this.” His expression was bleak as he pressed the muzzle to the back of Booth’s head.
Carly’s heart lurched. Was he going to execute him?
“Now,” he began calmly, “what exactly occurred between you and Mr. Booth?”
Hesitant, she eyed Booth, then searched the crowd for Theo. The boy was unaware of the danger her confession might place him in, yet she had to tell the truth. She’d held her silence for too long, and now they were all paying for it. “He assaulted me.”
Andrew’s eyes turned hard.
“Months ago . . . about the time of the Neptune ceremony. He found me on the deck one night, and he . . .” She took a shuddering breath.
“Speak,” Andrew whispered harshly.
“He cornered me, pushed me into an alcove where no one could see us. He took himself out of his pants and—” She averted her eyes from the back of Booth’s head. “I thought he was going to rape me.”
Andrew’s eyes flashed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“He said he’d hurt Theo.” She studied the boy’s wan face and lowered her voice. “I couldn’t risk that. I figured I’d eventually settle the score. But when things quieted down, I let it go.”
“Let it go?” Andrew demanded, aghast. “He humiliated you. He made threats against one of my sailors. You should have told me, Carly. You should have trusted me.”
“Trusted you?” She gaped at him. They were still whispering, but they might as well have been shouting at each other. “You didn’t believe a word I said at that time. You thought I was mad.”
“Whether or not I thought you daft,” he said stiffly, “you shoul
d have come to me.”
“I wanted to. But I wasn’t able to trust.” She smoothed her hand over his beard-roughened cheek. “I was afraid to rely on anyone.”
Was she ready to tell him exactly why?
“’Twas my duty to protect you then. I failed. It won’t happen a second time.” He butted the muzzle against Booth’s head. “I’ve heard about all I can stomach.”
“Finish what ye started then,” Booth muttered in a gravelly taunt.
Andrew’s expression was so cold, so foreign to the man she’d come to know, that she braced herself, repelled by the prospect of viewing Booth’s imminent demise at such close range. “You freed me from prison, Mr. Booth. ’Tis the reason you are still alive—the only reason. In exchange, I want you to leave. Know this—if you return, for any reason, I’ll kill you.” He and Booth regarded each other for several almost unbearably tense heartbeats. “Now get the bloody hell off my island. Ryan, Carstens!” he shouted to Booth’s cronies. “Take him. He’s in no shape to row.” Dispatching one of the children, Andrew said, “Find a cask of drinking water—make that two—and bring them to the shore. Make haste!”
Booth spat a bloody glob of saliva onto the dirt, scrutinizing Andrew and Carly in turn as his friends lifted him to his feet. The entire village followed the three men to where the longboats sat on the beach. Andrew kept the pistol aimed at their backs. The crowd magically dispersed, allowing him a clear view of their retreat.
Only after the men shoved one of the small boats into the surf did Andrew lower the pistol. Carly wound her arms around his waist. He drew her to his chest, burying his hand in the hair at the nape of her neck. “He’ll not hurt you anymore,” he murmured.
“Spencer, you bastard!” The shout interrupted their brief kiss. Booth was balancing himself in the boat, one arm clutched to his belly. “I’ll have my gold!” he bellowed, hoarse, defiant. “One way or the other! If not from you, then from Westridge!”