First Comes Desire

by Tina Donahue

  “Where would he be at this time of morning?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Think. You know his duties.”

  He finished his yawn and rolled onto his belly. “Perhaps he’s with the cattle.”

  “Can I get to the pastures on foot?”

  “No. You need a horse. Now leave me be.”

  “Gladly.”

  She dashed to the stables. Using her poor French and hand gestures, she convinced an island man to saddle a bay mare for her. After he helped her mount, she smiled. “Merci. Pâtures?”

  He nodded.

  When he didn’t indicate their location, Diana warned herself to be patient. She repeated the word, pointed right and left, then lifted her eyebrows in a questioning expression.

  He gestured to the right.

  Deliberately, she kept the mare at a slow, steady pace. Life as a reverend’s daughter had prepared her for endless household and church tasks, not horsemanship on this island. Once in the forest, she rode up a hill and topped the crest, this one different from the one she and Tristan had been on. No farmland lay below, only an impressive amount of cattle grazing. A sprinkling of island men stood to their left, Tristan among them. His blond hair danced in the wind.

  Relief washed over Diana.

  She ached to join him, but held back, reluctant to discuss their personal problems in front of anyone. She’d wait until after the midday meal to tell him last night’s questions and her concerns didn’t mean she’d given up on their future. She simply wanted to make certain they were secure, and to work with her husband to ensure happiness, especially for their children.

  She rode back to the mansion.

  * * * *

  Tristan didn’t arrive for the midday meal.

  When Peter finally came to the table, Diana jumped from her chair. “Where is he? Please, you must tell me.”

  Peter dropped into his seat. “Tell you what? Who are you going on about?”

  “Tristan, of course. Have you seen him?”

  The boy shoved two pineapple slices into his mouth. His cheeks puffed with the fruit. “Last I saw he was headed for the fields.”

  Hours passed.

  He entered the dining room during the evening meal.

  She pushed to her feet, barely able to contain her emotions.

  Tristan leaned down to James. “I need to have a word with you.”

  “Tristan, wait.” She rounded the table.

  “Not now.” He spoke to James. “Come on.”

  They left the dining room.

  * * * *

  The following day was a repeat of the last. In the evening, Diana remained alone in her and Tristan’s chamber. The bed was horribly empty without his large body taking up most of the space. The silk sheets were never warm without his heat.

  She worried well into the night. When the oil lamps finally burned out, she refilled and lit them so Tristan might see her waiting for him. She made certain the shutters were open as he liked.

  He never came.

  Sleep overtook her.

  * * * *

  Tristan lay on the grass, face tilted to the stars, gut churning. After he finally broke down and confided his worries to James, the man was absolutely no help.

  James hugged his knees to his chest and rocked like a schoolboy, unable to stay still for a second. “We must be going.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Very well, I must be going.” He pushed to his feet.

  Tristan kicked James’s leg, bringing him back down. “I thought you were going to help me.”

  “I have bloody well tried these last hours but you refuse to listen. Diana is yours. Haven’t I said that any number of times? I have. She’s required to take the good with the bad. It’s in the wedding vows.”

  “I never heard of any vows that mentioned piracy or hanging. And what of my children, if I’m foolish enough to have them? I have to think of their future.”

  “That’s a long way off, my friend.” He punched Tristan’s arm. “Tell you what, when your daughters are of an age to wed, I say you and me set sail and drag several Englishmen back here for the little beauties to choose from. How’s that sound?”

  So outrageous, Tristan finally smiled. “Lovely way to begin a union.”

  “’Twas the way you and Diana began yours.”

  He sobered. “Look what it did. How trapped she is.”

  “You have gone mad. Trapped?” James threw up his hands. “She has all she wants to eat, a beautiful place to live, no real work to be done, and you, her dangerous angel.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “What about our children not being raised in a civilized world?”

  “Like England, you mean.”

  “Where else?”

  “Let me think. How about a place where no one hangs? When’s the last time we did so here or beat a man till his blood flowed? Or threw him into prison where he died from lack of food and a broken spirit? Or forced a woman to lay with any number of men so she could feed her little ones? Or made some man king by virtue of his birth when all other people are considered less majestic than him, not worthy enough to have shelter, enough food and drink, a future for their children? What makes you think England’s so civilized?”

  Tristan couldn’t have been more stunned. “Have you been reading my volumes on Aristotle?”

  “On what?”

  “You mean who. Never mind. Where did you come up with those notions?”

  “Just looking at what we got here.” His gesture took in the land. “My father was a shoemaker and could barely feed my seven siblings, our mother, and me. This is by far the nicest home I’ve ever had. Isn’t it the same for you?”

  It was. Still… “It has no cities. No commerce. Not like England. Here, my children would know none of that.”

  “Then how would they miss it? This would be their home, England simply a word. As far as them getting wed, what would be wrong if they chose one of the island people? Perhaps the sons Gavra might give me.” James pointed. “You saying my boys ain’t going to be good enough for your girls?”

  As far as Tristan was concerned no man on earth would be good enough for his daughters. Though he wasn't about to tell James. “Even if our children fancied each other, it’s hardly a solution. What if the crops fail? What if a storm hits and destroys everything?”

  “Then we move to another island. We begin again if we must. Besides, what makes you think living in England’s so safe? Diana’s mother died from the pox and her father got the fever. You see any of them sicknesses here?”

  He did not.

  James slapped Tristan’s arm. “Keep Diana. It’s your right as her husband. Go to her and let me go to my woman.” He rolled away and escaped at a run.

  Tristan bypassed the other side of the compound, where he’d spent last night, and approached his bedchamber from the outside. Uncertain what to do, he finally sat on the windowsill.

  Diana’s left arm circled her head. Her right rested on his side of the mattress, slender fingers splayed over the sheets seeming to search for him.

  Unless she reached out in her dreams for England. Home.

  In this barbaric land, he’d insisted she lie naked and willing in his bed each night. A small mole graced her right shoulder, another her left breast. He’d licked both so many times he’d never been able to keep count and had suckled her flesh shamelessly, always ending with a hungry kiss. Her nipples puckered at her wanton dreams or the cooling breeze. He didn’t want to consider which.

  No matter how long he stayed away, his love and desire for her remained. He needed her more than life.

  If James had been here, he would have said to take her.

  Tristan swung his legs over the sill and shed his clothes before crossing the room. Dizzy with longing, he draped himself over Diana and entwined his fingers with hers.

  Her eyes flew open. She searched his gaze, her worry turning to relief
and finally arousal. “Fill me.” She pressed into him, her nipples hard against his chest, skin moist, her scent holding the promise of sex.

  Surprise and pleasure raced through him. Given their last conversation, he’d feared she’d spurn his love. “Are you certain? The shutters are open, the lamps lit.”

  “I don’t care who watches. I want you. I’ve missed you terribly.”

  Her sweet confession touched his soul. “What of my having to remain here? I can never go back to England, though you—”

  “Hush.” She brushed her mouth over his. “My place is at your side.”

  Her warmth and scent did wicked things to him, yet his caution remained. “For how long?”

  “Till my last breath.” She meant it. The truth shone in her exquisite eyes.

  “What of our children? Are we to deny them their chance?”

  “You said you’d never allow them to starve or be in danger. I believe you.”

  “I said the same where you’re concerned.”

  “I thank you.” She ground her hips into his.

  Blood pooled in his groin, thickening his cock. “I hope you know I would never allow any men but the very best to wed my daughters.”

  “Spill no blood, that’s all I ask.” She kissed his neck.

  Desperate to be inside her, he trembled at her wet heat. However, he had to be certain there were no barriers between them this night or any other. “I shan’t spill blood. What about Peter’s future?”

  Her head fell back to the pillow. “Can you turn him into a farmer?”

  Tristan laughed.

  “I’m serious.”

  Hence, the problem. “I’ll convince the boy piracy isn’t for him. Past that, I make no promises especially when it comes to women. He’s fast becoming a man. No way to stop it.”

  “Very well. Where have you been? You need a shave. Were you deliberately avoiding me until your cuts healed?” She squeezed his fingers.

  Pain shot up his arm. He winced.

  Diana lifted their hands and gasped. “Good heavens, what have you done to yourself?”

  His knuckles were swollen, skin scabbed. “Beat up a tree.”

  “What—why?”

  “I was picturing you with another man.”

  She gaped. “Why?”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.” His mouth fit perfectly to hers, his kiss rich with raw lust, pure possession, and aching need to prove she’d always be his. He drove his cock into her sheath.

  She moaned throatily.

  He imprisoned her arms above her head, same as the first time he’d had her. Then, she’d been a virgin and he’d taken care with her untried flesh. Not tonight. His actions imprisoned and tamed, aroused and satisfied.

  Her breasts shook from his relentless thrusts.

  He stroked her nub.

  Her mouth fell open on a strangled gasp. Her channel tightened around his rigid cock.

  The pressure stole his breath. He took what was his.

  When he’d finished, he remained inside, suckled her throat and each nipple, loving how her cunt pulsed around him with her climax.

  The first of many.

  He took Diana vaginally, orally, and anally, to prove she’d never be free from his touch.

  * * * *

  The following morning, Canela joined the other woman in Tristan’s bedchamber where they presented the new gowns to Diana. The Englishwoman’s lids were puffy from lack of sleep, cheeks and chin reddened, lips swollen slightly. Tangled sheets lay in a heap on the bed. The room stunk of sex.

  Canela bristled.

  Diana smiled at the other women. “These are lovely. I—wait a moment, let me say that properly.” She chewed her lip, frowned, then nodded. “Elles sont si belles.”

  The women giggled and smiled.

  Diana hugged them, then pressed the first gown to herself, unconcerned with her nudity.

  Tristan wore his scarlet robe. He lifted the violet gown. “Same color as your eyes. I like this one best. Did they make enough for you?”

  Gowns covered both chairs. He’d never given Canela so much.

  Diana laughed. “I think these will do for quite some time.”

  “Until they don’t fit any longer.” He caressed her belly.

  Cheeks burning, Canela faced the window. Adamo waited for her near a stand, still offering his heart and endless love, but no plan to get rid of Diana. Not even after Canela had shown him the bruise on her arm and shoulder, injuries she’d given herself but blamed on the Englishwoman. She’d told him Diana had pushed her when she hadn’t moved quickly enough, and had caused her to fall against the wall.

  Fury had burned in Adamo’s eyes, but his only suggestion was that she wed him so he’d be the one to rule her.

  She’d argued, coaxed, pleaded, tempted. He’d finally lifted his fist and promised to kill Diana if she ever did such a thing again.

  Canela wanted him to do so today.

  “Gavra, Veronique.” Tristan gestured them closer and spoke French. “Please help my wife dress.”

  They hurried to her.

  He thanked the other women and gave each a gold bracelet for their work. When they left the chamber, he looked over. “Canela.”

  The Englishwoman seemed unconcerned at Tristan speaking to her. Canela wasn’t certain whether to be outraged or hopeful that he’d give her a gift, even though she hadn’t worked on the gowns.

  He inclined his head to the window. “Adamo’s waiting for you.”

  She wanted to scream at Tristan for ignoring and humiliating her. With no other choice, she left quietly, but he wouldn’t put her out for long. The stone house belonged to her, along with the lovely jewels and island. She’d settle for nothing less.

  * * * *

  Despite Diana’s desire to belong, which included strutting about nude, the new gowns did give her pause. The design bared her arms and shoulders, except for thin straps, and had a slit up the left seam that showed a great deal of her leg when she walked or sat.

  “Was the opening in the skirt your idea, Tristan?”

  He scratched the healing cuts on his jaw. “Makes it easier for you to walk and sit I would think.”

  “After last night, I can’t do, either.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m sore too.”

  “Then I’ll have to be especially attentive to you tonight.”

  He gathered her to him for a hungry kiss. When Diana was breathless, he tore his mouth free and playfully swatted her ass. “Do your lessons. I have to see to my own work with the geldings.”

  “Will you be joining us for the midday meal?”

  “Aye. See you in a bit.”

  Given the lovely morning, Diana chose to tackle her French lessons in the courtyard. A woman worked the loom, one was at a potter’s wheel, several sewed, and another plucked chickens. All were competent and lovely. They radiated good health, the promise of a future. Two women were heavy with their coming infants, most likely their second or third pregnancies considering how they repeatedly scolded the same children. The small boys and girls behaved for a while, then tore through the courtyard unmindful of their piercing shrieks and bare skin.

  Diana smiled at their reckless joy. If her father or his kind had been here, the nudity would have horrified them. Shouts of “heathens” and “savages” would have frightened the little ones, filling them with unnecessary fear and shame.

  How right Tristan had been about words having power, to use them with care.

  These children were perfect. Why would any creator be ashamed of them? Stroking her belly, she found it far too flat, new life not yet stirring within her. Perhaps in a few weeks.

  She looked over.

  Canela slipped behind a stand of palms.

  The other women hadn’t noticed the girl. Diana figured she should follow their lead. She put her lesson aside and pointed at the potter’s wheel, then herself. “May I try
?”

  The young woman gave her a blank stare.

  Diana struggled with her imperfect French. “Puis-je essayer?”

  The girl’s eyes lit up. Smiling shyly, she scooted aside to give Diana the wheel.

  She made a mess quickly. Clay had flown on her new gown, shoulders, and onto little girls who’d come close to watch.

  The women laughed.

  Diana brushed hair from her cheek. “Make fun now, but I’ll show you how skilled I am on a loom.”

  The islanders exchanged quick looks.

  Diana pointed to the loom closest to them.

  They all spoke at once, impossibly fast, their words blending. Having no idea what they’d said, Diana pointed to her gown, then the loom. She hoped her gestures would explain how competent she was in weaving cloth.

  The women conversed briefly, pushed to their feet, and hurried inside, leaving Diana alone in the courtyard.

  Her face burned at having run them off, possibly having offended them. Perhaps custom allowed only certain women to use the looms. She stood to follow and apologize, but didn’t, remembering her poor French. Anything else she said might make it worse.

  Hopelessly torn, she stayed at the looms. The one nearest her wasn’t like any she’d seen in England. Its construction was quite primitive, the heddles little more than crude hooks used to separate the threads. The shuttle was fashioned from materials that belonged on a ship. Her immediate guess was Tristan or James had built this.

  Wanting a closer look, she kept her hands behind her so no one could say she’d touched or harmed the thing. She bent at the waist, on the same level as the heddles. A chicken cackled loudly behind her. Startled, she spun around.

  Feed flew in her face.

  She blinked wildly and coughed at the dust.

  Another volley of feed stung her shoulder and arm.

  She flinched and looked up.

  Her smile pure evil, Canela threw more feed, hitting Diana’s chest. The children giggled. Diana grabbed Canela’s arm.

  She screamed. “Adamo!”

  Diana expected him to come running. He didn’t. “Why are you calling him?”

  She yanked her arm away. “How dare you hurt me.”

  “Hurt you? You deliberately threw feed in my face. Stop it.” Diana frowned at a little boy who tossed dirt at her and laughed as he had at play.