by Tina Donahue
Diana’s delicate profile was to him, her lips parted in sleep, hands pillowing her head.
She’d agreed to be his wife, nothing else. He could take what he wished from her, but she’d offer nothing freely. She considered him uncivilized and without redemption, certainly not a man she would have chosen for herself.
James cleared his throat. “You all right?”
Tristan nodded. He picked up his oars and rowed hard. No matter Diana’s initial appraisal of him, he would change her mind and have her desire.
Chapter 4
Gentle heat awakened and disoriented Diana. She wasn’t certain where the warmth came from, unless she’d brought an oil lamp too close to her mattress. She reached out to push the thing away and touched something much larger instead, quite solid and muscular.
Her eyes snapped open. She snatched her hand from Tristan’s calf and squinted at the sun trailing white light across a flawless blue sky.
Tristan’s hair was tangled and damp. Whiskers shadowed his face but didn’t hide her scratch marks. She regretted her assaults and should have apologized but was too ashamed to bring up the subject. “Have you rowed the entire night?”
“Rested some. We all did.” He winked. “But I appreciate your concern.”
He was so gentle and disarming she smiled.
He flushed and reached down.
She went weak, expecting him to touch her.
He removed his waistcoat from her lap.
Her heart turned over at him having covered her. She should have thanked him for his kindness but was now too shy. She pushed up and looked over. Beyond the rising mist, a faint outline signaled land. “Is this another part of Madagascar?”
“A series of islands, one of which is mine.”
Surprise raced through her. “We’re to live on your island?”
“The one to the far left. The only habitable land in these parts.”
Evergreens carpeted the isle. A small section to the right was rocky and the same reddish color as Madagascar. There was also a brief beach dotted with palms and other trees, the long, flat leaves swaying in the wind.
No buildings, though.
Pink patches floated up. “What is that?”
“Birds.” He raised his face, watching their flight. “We call them flamingoes.”
They trailed across the sky creating a lovely scene, but didn’t answer where she and Tristan might live, not to mention Peter and James. There wasn’t even one hut on the sand.
Close to shore, the men jumped out and pulled the skiff onto the beach. James and Peter faced the land and raised one arm as they might in greeting.
Tristan offered Diana his hand.
His palm was oddly comforting, his youth and vigor evident in how easily he lifted her into his arms, his embrace strong yet tender. There were blue flecks in his gray eyes and lines at the corners, proving he’d laughed often and well.
His heat warmed more than the sun had. His heart’s impressive thundering encouraged her to snuggle close. She melted into him, their mouths near enough for a kiss. Diana wanted that badly, even though she shouldn’t have.
Voices sounded in the distance.
Tristan looked over, carried her to the shade, and put her on her feet.
Two riders approached on horseback. Their geldings were magnificent, both men young and handsome. Their long, straight hair was dark brown, features a blend of islander and European, though she couldn’t determine which group or nationality. Each wore breeches and a brace of pistols over his cinnamon-colored chest.
The man on the right stared at Tristan, his scowl deadly.
Alarmed, she touched Tristan’s hand. “Who are they?”
“Island men loyal to me.”
“Are you quite sure? The one on the right appears angry.”
“Adamo’s most likely thinking about Canela.”
Diana’s heart caught. Canela surely lived here and was either Adamo’s sister or would-be-lover.
Diana couldn’t blame him for whatever resentment and jealousy he harbored. Tristan was a splendid man, tall, strong, commanding. Canela must have thought so too, unless she was blind.
Tristan spoke to Adamo and the other young man in fluent French.
Diana had studied the language but had little command and didn’t recognize this dialect.
They wheeled their horses around and departed. Surely, not to get Canela and bring her here.
Diana ached with worry. “I need to ask you something.”
Tristan regarded her, his manner accepting, attention complete.
Nothing like what she’d expected. Most men simply ignored women or look annoyed when interrupted for any reason not centering on them. She was reluctant to ask him about Canela, not wanting to challenge his honor or fidelity, but also afraid to learn the truth.
She slumped. “Are we staying on the beach?” After saying a few words over them as ship’s captain, he could pronounce them wed and take her here.
Tristan smoothed her hair. “Adamo and Phillipe left to fetch the priest. After the vows we’ll ride to my plantation.”
Surprised, she wanted to ask what he meant, but he’d already crossed the sand to James and Peter. They discussed something in low tones, then looked at the sea.
She fought anxiety and excitement in equal measure at the prospect of Tristan’s plantation, Canela, marriage, coupling. Exhausted, Diana rested against a palm.
The men returned with three geldings. Phillipe handed a small sack to Peter. Adamo tossed a pouch to Tristan. A short, swarthy man, who wore a long brown tunic and a crucifix, joined them. After Tristan greeted him in what sounded like Portuguese, they strolled away.
Peter stopped at her side. “Here.”
She recognized the bananas and grapes her brother had taken from the sack, but not slices of a yellow fruit or vegetable that glistened in the sun.
She touched the rough edge. “What is this?”
“Pineapple. Quite tasty.” Juice flowed over his mouth and dripped onto his chest.
“Good heavens.” She slapped his arm lightly. “You were taught better manners than that.”
“We ain’t in England, all right? You want this or not?”
Her belly’s insistent growling answered for her. She gobbled pineapple slices, two bananas, and grape clusters, then sucked her fingers clean, something she would never have done back home. After less than a day on this island, she’d already forgotten her proper English training but didn’t have time to dwell on the matter.
Tristan and the priest approached.
The holy man faced her and Tristan. James stood at his captain’s side, Peter at hers. She felt wholly surrounded and completely alone.
Gently, Tristan took her hand.
His touch was so reassuring she lifted her face to his, loving his tender smile. The priest spoke. She had no idea what he said. Tristan’s eyes held her. They possessed. He seemed to care if she accepted him.
At last, the priest wound down and fell silent.
Diana couldn’t breathe. “Is it over?”
They were now man and wife and he’d take her?
“Not yet.” He squeezed her hand. “The priest wants your answer as to whether you’ll have me or not.”
“Oh.” Pushing caution aside, she nodded. “I will. I mean, I do.”
Tristan kissed her knuckles and spoke to the priest. The man resumed the ceremony only to stop again. “Now, it’s my turn.” Tristan bumped her arm. “Should I say yes?”
She enjoyed his playfulness more than she should. “I believe you say I do.”
“As you wish.” Grinning, he spoke his vow in English and Portuguese.
The priest said something she guessed was a blessing.
“Nearly over.” Tristan faced her. “Lift your hair.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to do so and quite nicely too.”
He had, rather than dem
and as many men would. Pleased, she did as he wanted.
From the pouch, Tristan removed a narrow silver band studded with diamonds. He fastened the necklace around her throat.
She touched the dazzling but odd piece.
Peter leaned in. “Now you’re wed. You’re wearing your marriage collar. On this island it shows a woman’s been taken.”
So another man wouldn’t dare touch her. “I see.” Tristan wore nothing to prove he belonged to her, not another, especially Canela. Foolish jealousy raced through Diana, heating her skin. “What shows your vow to me?”
He gathered her in his arms and claimed her mouth, delivering heavenly warmth and true affection, not mindless lust. She opened herself to him willingly, welcoming his tongue, savoring his taste as he enjoyed hers. His kiss grew heated not cruel, passionate not vulgar. She wreathed her arms around his neck and molded to him. Woman to man, wife to husband, lover to loved.
Tristan deepened his kiss, pleasuring her beyond reason, his stiffened shaft pressed against her mound. Her cleft grew even damper and wanting. He gave her such a sense of being cherished and protected she would have been content to kiss him for days on end.
Too soon, he eased his mouth from hers.
James and Peter cheered. The priest laughed.
She’d forgotten about them. “Enough.”
Tristan smiled. “Well put. Now we ride to my plantation.”
Peter snickered. “Wait till she sees it.”
She was afraid to know what he meant. “Is it dreadful?”
Tristan lifted his eyebrows. “I’ll let you be the judge.”
Peter and James laughed.
She hoped they were teasing. Even if they weren’t, she should be able to clean Tristan’s house, hut, or whatever he and the others lived in. Three men couldn’t mess things up that much.
Tristan led her to the blackest gelding. With Diana astride on the saddle, he mounted behind her, his muscular thighs pressed close, rigid rod against the seam between her buttocks, arm wrapped securely around her waist.
She blushed hotly.
They took the lead, the others falling well back. With no prying eyes on them, he rested his hand on her belly and brushed her mound. Her heart stalled, then beat far too quickly. The horse climbed a narrow path through the forest and onto a rise. Tristan slipped his hand beneath her shirt, cupped her breast, and drew his thumb over her taut nipple.
She sagged into him.
He pressed his lips to her ear. “Do you find pleasure in this?”
His breath was hot, his touch unbearably pleasant. She struggled to think and speak. “Do you want me to?”
He stopped playing with her nipple.
She shouldn’t have toyed with him as men often did with women, but couldn’t help herself. Their days together had only begun, and she wanted him to take their vows seriously. To have their feelings grow, binding them to each other for all time so no other woman, not even Canela, would ever come between them.
He reined in the horse, wound the leather straps around the horn, and eased her face to his. She met his gaze as a reverend’s daughter should, with studied innocence.
His smirk said she hadn’t fooled him. “Already you crave my touch.”
“Already you crave my flesh.”
He laughed and kissed her quite hungrily. She smiled. He did too, their mouths still joined. Teasing gave way to passion, her desire as lusty as his growls and grunts. He cupped her mound, wordlessly stating she now belonged to him, no other man.
She didn’t want anyone else.
After he was sated and she still hoped for more, he unwound the reins and prodded the gelding. At the highest point, forest still surrounded them, sweetly scenting the air, but in between the vegetation, there was a glorious view of the sea and surrounding valley. Pastures where countless cattle grazed and flooded rice fields.
Stunned, she gestured. “Everything here is yours?”
“It is.” He wheeled his horse to the left and rode a short distance before reining in the gelding.
A brief clearing opened within the forest. Within it stood a sprawling stone structure that glistened white beneath the sun, its design similar to classical Greek buildings she’d seen in books. “My word. Did you build this or did you have it built?”
“I killed the man who once owned it.”
Diana twisted to look at him.
As they rode closer, several shouts rose in French and another language she’d never heard. Thankfully, the tone was friendly and came from a large group of adult males and females along with a sprinkling of young children. The men approached first, wearing naught except breeches. Their smiles were wide and welcoming. So were the women’s.
Diana could hardly believe their beauty, their complexions light brown, features exotic, dark hair hanging straight to their waists, their lush breasts quite naked. Some had leather marriage collars decorated with brightly tinted beads. All wore colorful silk cloths tied low on their hips, the fabric fluttering above their bare feet.
Tristan helped Diana from the horse.
The others reached them and dismounted.
A young woman ran up and threw herself into James’s eager embrace. Laughing, he swung her in a full circle, then very nearly devoured her with his kiss. Two other young women sprinted to Peter.
The taller girl reached him first. Holding her hands behind her back, she regarded him shyly. “Bonjour, Pierre.”
The other one pushed her aside and gave him a sultry smile.
Before they could touch him or he could do the same to them, Diana hurried their way.
Tristan grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
She fought him. “What are you doing?”
“Stopping you from interfering with Peter. It’s not your place.”
“Of course, it is. He’s my brother. He’s just a boy.”
“Soon to be a man. Besides, you have your husband to please. After you’ve been washed and prepared by the women I intend to have you.”
Diana went hot, cold, then back to hot, desire warring with her fear of the unknown. “As is your right, but I can surely wash myself.”
“They can do so much faster.”
He led Diana to the oddly designed mansion. Walled off on the outside, it opened into an interior courtyard before leading to the living areas.
They entered a cool, darkened hall.
Feet slapped the marble floor. “Tristan!”
An island girl ran up and threw herself into his arms.
He released Diana’s hand.
Her stomach fell. So this was Canela, simply gorgeous and bare-breasted, looking to be no older than twenty.
The girl showered kisses on his cheeks and mouth.
Diana wanted to tear her apart but couldn’t sink to playing the jealous fool, and stepped back.
Tristan grabbed her wrist and finally extricated himself from Canela. She promptly hung on to his arm, her cheek pressed to his biceps.
Diana pushed away hurt. “So this is how it is.”
He gave her an odd look, then spoke to Canela in French.
Shock swept over her exquisite features followed by anger, her dark eyes blazing. Despite her outrage, she kept her tongue and stared at the diamond marriage collar.
“Canela.”
She started at Tristan’s voice, grew indifferent, and nodded. “I will tell the others what you desire.”
She’d answered in heavily accented English rather than French.
As she padded down the hall, Diana pulled her wrist free and strode away. Tristan followed. At last, she stopped but kept her back to him. “You best take care.”
“Why? What have you planned for me now?”
With those careless words, she forgot her wounded pride and indulged in righteous fury. How casually men treated women’s feelings. They seduced or wooed and once they’d won a woman over they made the other rules in their own favor. Well, no
t here or with her. “It’s what Adamo has planned. He hates you because he’s in love with Canela, isn’t he? He wants her but finds it impossible as she belongs to you.”
“You belong to me, and your bath is waiting.”
As if that made everything better.
Diana told herself she shouldn’t mind if Tristan loved another woman or two hundred, yet she cared greatly. Already she wanted him for her own and hated herself for such weakness. “You forced me to wed you, and will soon force me to lie with you, and—”
“Keep behaving in this manner, and I’ll wonder why I forced you at all.”
“Do what you must, but hear this. You had better not use Canela or any other island woman for your pleasure from this moment forward.”
He looked at her innocently. “Why Diana, are you jealous?”
She lifted her chin. “Civilized. At least until you betray me. The moment you allow another woman to so much as kiss you or you kiss her, I’ll find another man. I’ll lie with him and bear his children.”
The feigned innocence evaporated, Tristan’s features now dark and dangerous. “You had better think long and hard before you consider such a thing. Any man who dares touch as much as your little finger won’t be long for this earth.”
“Then I’ll have to make quite certain my lover is very careful.”
Tristan advanced so quickly Diana had to step back and ran into the wall.
He pulled her close. “You shan’t have time for a lover. I intend to keep you quite busy.”
His mouth was on hers, his kiss possessive and hard. Not even a moan could have escaped her. He used her fully, with a husband’s right, and pressed his lean hips into hers, making certain she knew his arousal, her duty to satisfy him for as long as he desired.
She yielded. Not from fear but the feelings he stirred. She didn’t want to wound him, nor did she want him to hurt her.
At last, he seemed to understand. His kiss grew tender and exploring, then finally torrid. Their tongues battled to see which one would fill the other’s mouth. She won a few times and so did he, the bawdy sounds they made proving satisfaction.
When they’d finished, he looked sheepish.
Not knowing what to say, she stroked his cheek, careful not to touch the scratches she’d given him.