Forbidden Desire

by Tina Donahue

  “Before I tell you, you must promise not to scream or swoon. I’m not good with women who carry on so.”

  Diana’s irritation doubled. “Poor Peter. We do try your patience, don’t we? Tell you what, I’ll try to keep my head as I did when Vincent threatened to shoot you and me in the longboat. Will that do?” Peter had nearly wept then. She’d been eager to tear Vincent apart and would have if given the chance.

  Peter’s face colored. “I suppose. Heath said Netta and Aimee are both lovely, perfect in every way. He can think of nothing else. He wants them for his own but must never touch them. He plans to leave the isle and live amongst the natives we trade with or work his way back to England. Aimee and Netta don’t understand.”

  Diana didn’t either. “Are you saying he wants two women at once?”

  “Since they look alike, it’s probably like having one to him.”

  “Have you lost all good sense? What he’s proposing is unheard of. In England, he’d probably face arrest. Perhaps hanging.”

  “We’re not in England any longer.”

  He kept reminding her as did other things: bare-breasted women, naked children, and Diana making love with Tristan behind vegetation during previous festivities. The celebrants hadn’t been far away. If that didn’t convince her they were no longer in England, she’d fought off pirates, had her nipples rouged, and had worn a diamond in her navel on her wedding night. Clearly, they were no longer in the civilized world. Even so, one man and two women was unthinkable. “Does their culture allow such a thing?” Tristan didn’t need the island men killing Heath over his randy ways. Perhaps Heath planned to leave to spare everyone the trouble he’d cause. “Does anyone here do that?”

  “I’ll ask.” Peter snickered while doing so.

  During her answer, Netta waved frantically, unmindful of her mutilated hand. A first. Aimee spoke rapidly too. They interrupted and talked over each other.

  Peter gestured for silence.

  They calmed and looked at Diana expectantly.

  She did the same with Peter. “I believe I heard love is love. After that, I couldn’t keep up. What else did they say?”

  “That love is sent to us by mère de l’homme, the greatest goddess of all. She’s the one the islanders believe in. For them not to accept what she offers is a terrible insult. She might not call them home to her loving arms when they die. The priest said the goddess is wrong and what they think she said is actually wicked, made up by depraved men who’ll be damned to hell’s eternal fires for their vile lust. Aimee explained the priest meant well, but they believe the goddess. Nothing you say will change their minds. Netta made a point of that.”

  Diana suspected her father would have run screaming from the isle. He’d taken morality seriously and lived a life of prayer, deprivation, and unending gloom. She preferred the island ways no matter how unconventional. “We certainly can’t tell them to rebuke their goddess. What did they want to know from me? If I approve? I’m afraid I’m too English to give them my blessing. They must do what they think is right for their situation.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  More discussion followed and grew heated, the words flying too fast to catch or translate. Netta kept pointing at Peter then Diana and the door.

  Thankfully, Merry’s newest crying spell had worn her out and she slept peacefully.

  Peter sighed loudly. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Quit being dramatic and tell me.”

  “Very well. They want to know if all Englishmen act as Heath does. Kissing and loving one moment then running away the next and threatening to leave. They wonder if he’s sick in the head. I believe he is. If two women wanted me, I certainly wouldn’t—”

  “Have you forgotten Laure already?”

  Peter’s cheeks turned pink. They were as smooth as Diana’s. Whiskers had only begun to sprout at the corners of his upper lip.

  He shifted his weight. “I was boasting. Please don’t say anything to Laure. What should I tell Netta and Aimee?”

  “I can’t read Heath’s mind, but I can guess since he’s English he feels what he wants is wrong. He was raised to believe differently than them. Not that either of their upbringings matter. You said he’s departing when he can. Is Tristan all right with that? Do we have anything to worry about from pirates or authorities finding us here?”

  “Tristan wouldn’t let him leave if there’s a problem. Perhaps Heath’s going to forsake England forever and live out his life with the other islanders.”

  She’d have to ask. “If he does go, he’d abandon Netta and Aimee. They could be with child by then. That wouldn’t be right. Please tell them to think carefully about what they intend to do. I don’t want them hurt. Go on.”

  “I hope this is the end of it.”

  “Present your case well and it will be.”

  He spoke longer than Diana expected.

  Aimee and Netta listened without comment, their lovely faces not giving away their thoughts.

  “There. Finished.” He strode to the door.

  Aimee stood. “Votre soeur doit dis àpersonne ce que nous dit. Mȇme pas son homme. Nous voulons sa promesse.”

  Diana couldn’t wait until she knew French fluently, especially the islander dialect. Aimee had spoken so quickly, the words blurred into each other, all incomprehensible. “What did she say?”

  “She doesn’t want you telling anyone what they said.”

  “I don’t like keeping secrets from Tristan, but I won’t betray their trust. Nor will you. Promise me you’ll say nothing to him or the other men.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. Go back on your word and risk my wrath. Do tell them their secret is safe with us.”

  He rattled off his comment.

  Aimee nodded.

  Netta shot to her feet. “Demandez votre soeur combien il est facile de changer d’avis de l’anglais.”

  Diana rubbed her forehead. “What now?”

  “She wants to know how easy it is to change an Englishman’s mind.”

  Chapter 5

  Heath cut more trees than he needed and didn’t stop despite his aching arms and his cramping back. The pain and physical activity should have calmed his thoughts and killed his coarse needs. If anything, his feelings magnified. He tasted Aimee and Netta on his lips. Their scent followed him everywhere no matter how far he traveled from where they’d been. Their dewy flesh, tightened nipples, and ripe breasts beckoned.

  Cursing his desire, he lugged the wood through the forest. His initial destination had been his house where he could work in peace. He hadn’t the strength to go that far and brought the logs to a far corner in the courtyard, away from the women and children. His search for tools to saw, plane, and fasten the wooden pieces enticed the most curious boys to his side. Once he had everything he needed, except solitude, a few girls had joined the crowd.

  The little ones shifted in place and fidgeted. They also stared at him in wonder. As one would a king or a god.

  Despite his inner turmoil, their youth and openness touched Heath as few things had. He’d never considered having a family. That was for men who had proper occupations and money, not a roving mariner who had to work constantly to feed himself, his meager wages spent on food and clothing. He should have ordered them to leave or asked their mothers to keep them away from him, but couldn’t stomach their disappointment.

  Aimee and Netta’s were still too fresh in his mind.

  He laid his tools in the order he’d need them.

  A taller boy toed the hammer.

  Heath wagged a finger. “Personne ne touche à rien. Vous devez garder la bonne distance.” No one touches anything. You must keep a proper distance.

  The girls stepped back readily and held their hands behind themselves. The boys nodded but didn’t move.

  Heath ord
ered them to join the others. “Heed what I say or I won’t let you watch.”

  The one who’d touched the hammer was the last to obey. A born leader or rascal. Heath had been no different, shoving his way through life when he’d had no one to care whether he lived or died or to show him how the world should work.

  The boy eyed him and the materials. “What are you going to make?”

  “Cribs for the infants.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Watch and I’ll show you. What’s your name?”

  “Ourson.”

  Little bear in French. It fit him well. He had a fearless manner and sharp mind. “I’m Heath. Nice to meet you. Care to shake hands?”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “That’s how proper Englishmen greet each other and others around the world. Take my hand and make certain you move yours up and down like I do.” Heath shook firmly.

  Ourson couldn’t have been more solemn. He even put muscle into his grip.

  “Well done.”

  He smiled, showing his missing baby teeth, the adult ones not yet grown in.

  The other children clamored to do the greeting. Most giggled so much Heath could scarcely understand their names. “Who’d like to help me with my work?”

  “Me.” Ourson elbowed those closest to him. “Quiet. I go first.”

  Heath intervened before they fought. “Everyone will have a turn. Ourson, hand me my blade.”

  He held it as one would priceless jewels. “Did you make this too?”

  “No. A swordsmith most likely did.”

  “A what?”

  “Swordsmith. A man who forges metal into various shapes like the blade you hold. A blacksmith created this hammer.” Heath touched the head. “These nails too.” He picked them up and showed Ourson.

  He stared. “How do you make them?”

  “You melt metal and shape it while it’s hot.”

  “Do it now. I want to see.”

  The other children bounced in place, voices raised, asking for a show.

  Heath laughed. “I haven’t the materials or tools to do so. I’m certain Tristan took—ah, he found these when he sailed on ships.”

  “That he did.” Peter strolled by. “Along with many other things. What a time that was.”

  His wistful tone matched an elderly man recounting his wayward youth. Peter had much to learn about the world. When Heath had been his age, he’d already survived on his own for years with no parental guidance as Tristan and Diana tried to show Peter.

  Heath hadn’t the benefit of books either, as Peter did. Certainly nothing close to the luxury found here. He doubted Peter ever had a moment’s hunger in this wild, lovely place. Someone should knock some sense into him. Tell him how lucky he was.

  Ourson sat cross-legged on the dirt. Several boys imitated him. The girls drifted away to watch the women who made pottery or wove cloth.

  Hands on his knees, Ourson rocked. “Capitaine always brought gifts when he returned from his voyages. Silk for our mothers, tools for our fathers, and toys for us. When Diana came here, he stopped sailing. Will you go and bring us something?”

  Once Heath left these shores, he’d never return. Despair filled him, restricting his breath. His chest and belly hurt.

  Tristan strode from the mansion, glanced at the gathering around Heath but didn’t comment or stop.

  He’d either forgotten Heath’s plea or planned to ignore it. “Tristan, wait.” Never seeing Aimee and Netta again would kill Heath. Remaining here deprived of their loving touch would destroy him.

  Tristan slowed but didn’t look over.

  “Please, I need an answer on what we discussed. Have you decided—”

  “No. I’ll let you know when I have. No need to ask again. Make certain what you do doesn’t hurt the children.” He caught up with James and left.

  Ourson tapped Heath’s hand. “What must Capitaine decide?”

  Heath had forgotten to speak English so the children and women wouldn’t understand. With each day, he grew more attuned to this isle. He behaved as a native but would never belong. “Matters I spoke to him about.”

  “What are those?”

  His freedom or captivity. If Tristan refused to let Heath go, he’d have to steal an islander’s skiff and leave. The man on watch might shoot him. Should he withstand that problem, survival in such a small boat, by himself, wasn’t likely but couldn’t be worse than the slow death he’d endure in this place. Perhaps he could implement his escape shortly after the other natives who traded here left. He might be able to catch up with their vessel, or stow away on it where they’d anchored. If they took Bishop’s. If not, their boats might not be large enough to hide him.

  Ourson tapped harder. “What are those matters?”

  “Ah, whether we should make our own tools and materials. These surely won’t last forever.”

  “How do we make them? Is it hard?”

  “No. All one has to do is pull metal from heated rocks, melt it further then fashion the material into whatever’s needed. A blade, saw, pot. I’m certain Tristan has books on the subject.”

  “When you make those things, I can help.”

  Several boys shouted they wanted to do the same.

  At the noise, the women looked over. Thankfully, Netta and Aimee weren’t among them. Heath had learned they helped where needed. At the looms, potter’s wheels, the mansion kitchen, or with mothers who were too busy tending newborns to care for their older children.

  Wherever Aimee and Netta worked today, he prayed they understood how terrible he would be for them. That they deserved far more. He’d prefer they cursed and hated him rather than hungered for another touch as he did with them.

  Weariness washed over him, yet his pulse wouldn’t slow. He swung from agitated to tired without pause.

  Ourson’s endless questions distracted him briefly. If Heath had been lucky enough to have a son, he would have chosen him. Painstakingly, he explained the process of turning a log into furniture. His words didn’t register with Ourson, but Heath’s actions did. As the pieces took shape beneath his hands, Ourson no longer scratched, bounced, or rocked. He watched transfixed. A future carpenter if ever there was one.

  “No one ever showed you this before?”

  He shook his head. “The men work at their houses or in the fields and pastures.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “He tends the horses. I want to do that and this.”

  “A fine goal.” Heath ruffled his hair. “You’re a bright boy but I’m afraid I’m through for now.” The sun shone directly overhead. He’d only made it to midday, his exhaustion complete. If he didn’t nap, he’d collapse.

  “Ourson.” A young woman in a dark blue cloth smiled gently. “Come along. We must go home.”

  He pushed to his feet but didn’t leave. “I want to stay with Heath.”

  “Another time. I need your help with our meal. Papa expects us.”

  “Go.” Heath pushed him gently. “Never keep your mother waiting. You’re lucky you have one.”

  “Everyone does.”

  “Not me.”

  “Why?”

  “That tale’s for another day. Go or your mama may not let you help me next time.”

  Ourson raced to her.

  Heath had difficulty moving. Everything ached but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the pain in his heart. He stored his materials in a safe place the children couldn’t access and plodded to his house. He couldn’t call it home. This isle would never be that for him. His future lay elsewhere.

  Once he escaped, got shot trying, or drowned, Royce would surely rejoice. Ourson might miss him for a day or two. Netta and Aimee would move on. They’d have no choice.

  Yards from the mud structure, Heath’s feet no longer wanted
to move. If not for the sun burning his shoulders and insects bombarding him, he would have dropped to the ground and slept there.

  His grass-stuffed mattress urged him forward. He drew back the cowhide over the entrance.

  An oil lamp barely lit the interior, its flame turned low. The lamp didn’t belong to him. His eyes adjusted to the gloom. Flowers stuffed in bottles or piled in bowls decorated his Spartan surroundings. The fragrant petals competed with the enticing meal on his rough-hewn table: roasted beef, fresh rice bread, boiled eggs, and other fare.

  Netta and Aimee stepped out of the shadows.

  Aimee undid her purple cloth, Netta her deep rose one.

  The silk grazed their sleek thighs and fluttered to their feet. The delicate curls between their legs matched their dark hair.

  He clutched the cowhide to remain standing. This couldn’t be real.

  Netta joined him, her scent musky and sweet, nipples taut, lips moist.

  Heath wanted to devour her. He didn’t dare move.

  She pressed closer. Their toes touched.

  Heat shot through him. “What are you doing?”

  “What we have to. No matter your English ways, our desire will never be wrong. The goddess wants her children to be happy. Diana said to do whatever we want.”

  He reeled. “You spoke to Diana about coming here, being with me, taking off your cloths?”

  Aimee approached, her breasts bobbing with each step. She smelled better than heaven ever could. “Diana promises never to tell anyone, not even Tristan. Everything will be all right no matter what the priest said.”

  Heath went hot then cold. “You talked to a priest too?”

  “Not today.” Netta unfastened Heath’s breeches. She grazed his skin.

  He trembled.

  She glanced up. “The islanders we trade with needed the priest so he’s with them now. The love we share is not his concern.”

  Aimee helped Netta lower Heath’s breeches.

  His cock sprang out, thick and stiff, balls tight to his body. “Stop.”

  “Why?” Aimee cradled his rod and searched his face. “You want us, no?”

  With her caressing him, he couldn’t think much less speak. She rubbed her thumb over his crown.