Beyond paradise (12 page)

word? The one that's not like kind, but... oh yes, he's a

pig."

They both laughed, but Jacques wouldn't allow himself to be diverted. "Why are you doing it?" he pressed her. "Is this really the only way to honor your family?"

"I'm afraid it is," she said timidly. "There really isn't anything else that's expected of me as a daughter. When I marry Etienne, my family will have wealth. They've never had that before. A title earns respect, but it does not buy new shoes for my sister nor does it feed the hungry horses. I want to give this gift to them for all they have done for me. And I want to set an example for my sister, Chantal. She's a fine girl," she said proudly, a soft light crossing her face at the thought of her, "but her nature will make life difficult for her. She doesn't want to obey—she wants to be free. I love her for that, but she will only suffer unless she learns that she cannot choose her destiny. I want to set an example for her, to show her that one can do what she must and still be happy. If I were to rebel, to struggle against this marriage, what message would that send her? She looks up to me. I don't want her to fight all of her life—that will only bring her pain. I want her to do what she must, and find the joy to carry on from deep within, as I shall."

Jacques was struck by a sudden awareness that Sylvie was not just a more respectable and desirable person than he; she was, in addition, what was commonly called a "good per-

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sorT from the standpoint of the heart. It was something he had never been. Even, perhaps, something to which he had never been witness. There was such an inherent determination in her to spread light in a dark world, it seemed she was not even aware. He wished he had what she had—that light-filled heart. But still, her righteousness did not make her "right" She was wrong about the marriage, he was certain. "You only have one life. Are you sure you want to give it to someone you don't even respect?"

"I want to give it to my family," she said, "and that's what I intend to do."

"Isn't there another way you could help them?"

"For example?" she jested. "Become a pirate and bring them my loot?" She had a beautiful, white smile. "How about you?" she asked, deep and cheerful concern in her eyes. "I'll bet you have a lot of young ladies at every port, do you? That's what we hear about pirates on Martinique."

"No." His answer was mysteriously dry. Only the slightest trace of a smile let her know he was not offended by the question.

"You don't?" she asked brightly. "I'm very surprised. Are you sure?"

"Yes."

If she hadn't found him so handsome she would have told him that he was too good-looking not to have a lady. But as it was, she didn't think he needed to hear it, and she was afraid that if she said it, he would see in her eyes that her compliment was no pleasantry, but an expression of true feminine admiration. Sylvie lowered her eyes to hide. "Well, they must spread a lot of false rumors on shore then," was all she said.

Jacques swallowed awkwardly. Something about the subject made him uncomfortable.

Sensitive to his unease, Sylvie wasted no time in reaching

Elizabeth Doyle

for a change of topic. "What about your family? Do you have one?"

Apparently, this topic was even worse. He shook his head with a frozen, scared look in his eyes.

Sylvie reached for him compassionately. "Are you orphaned?" she asked, absently squeezing a muscled arm.

He couldn't answer. His expression was dazed and he bit his lip.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He was looking at the hand which clasped his forearm. Somehow, amidst the turmoil of his heart and the confusion in his mind and the swelling in his breeches, he decided that there was only one way to end this conversation. He stole from her a rough kiss, clutching silky, tangled hair in his palm, refusing to let her withdraw until his lips had gotten a good taste of her. Sylvie pulled away in fear. He looked at her harshly, either angrily or sorrowfully, she wasn't sure. He looked as though he were going to do it again, as though he were going to tug at her hair once more and force her into another kiss, maybe force her into more. She could not run from his advances; there was nowhere to go. She was frantic to see what he would do, whether he would hurt her. He stared at her a moment longer, absently grinding his teeth, seeming to consider her fate. Then he filled her tender body with relief by rising to his feet and turning to the door. Sylvie let out a sigh. But when he actually reached for the door handle, she found herself standing up and shouting, "Don't go! What's the matter? What's gotten into you?" She didn't want him to leave. She wanted his anger to flee, but not the tender gaze she'd known only moments ago.

He didn't answer or even turn, and that frustrated her beyond measure. "Don't you dare just walk out!" she cried, tossing something at him.

He caught the shoe and turned.

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1 said, don't walk out!" she cried, "and stop pretending you can't hear me. It's not as though you're completely deaf!"

Normally, he would have smiled at the private joke that invoked in him. But he was so wound up in his attraction and in his anger, having been rejected, that he handled the matter strangely. He shouted, "What makes you think I'm not?!"

Sylvie was so startled that her voice grew quiet. "But you . . . you can hear me most of the time."

"I can't hear you any of the time," he cried, frustrated that she could be so dense. "I can't hear anything any of the time, Sylvie. I'm watching your mouth move."

She touched her lips. "You ... but I... I thought..."

"That we were all in asylums?" he asked cruelly.

"No, of course not... I didn't mean ..."

"Yes," he said harshly, "I was born this way—they thought I was mentally deficient, and I grew up in an asylum."

"But you . . ." Her eyes were flitting about as her thoughts reeled rapidly. "You watch my mouth in French, and your captain's in Spanish, and your crewmates' in English, and ..."

He nodded with a wide-eyed look that said, "Yes, and?"

"God, you're smart," she whispered.

He started to turn away.

"Wait!" she cried, pounding her foot so he could feel the vibration. He turned. "I... I don't want you to go, Jacques. I want you to talk to me."

His expression mellowed. "Listen to me," he said with some understanding in his tone. "I know you're a good person, Sylvie. I know you want to help me or console me or something, but you've just got to let me go. I'm feeling . .. angry."

"Is it about the kiss?" she asked, never one to dance around a thought. "Because I'm not angry about it, I. .."

"It's about everything," he said, leaning into one leg,

Elizabeth Doyle

striking a pose that made her want to suck her lip. "It's just... everything." When she did nothing but stare at him, he felt he shouldn't walk away without saying just a few more words. He would rather have held his peace, but he added in as mellow a voice as he could muster, "Listen. I know that ... I know that I shouldn't have kissed you. I mean, this is ridiculous. You're a comte's daughter, and if we can get you off this ship you're going to be married. It's just ridiculous."

Sylvie was not listening. "Jacques," she said, "it isn't because you're deaf that I wouldn't kiss you."

He nodded instinctively, as though that were a given. "Oh, I know, I know. It's a lot of things, it's . .."

But his eyes were shifty and distant, so she repeated it. "It isn't because you're deaf."

He widened his gaze, enabling her to see a profound vulnerability there. "No, of course, you. .. you didn't even know."

"But you feared I was about to find out."

Something happened to Jacques's heart. He felt it thicken, its sluggish juice tickling the back of his eyes, dimpling his chin. "I... it's been hard."

Their eyes were locked and unblinking. They spoke as though in a trance. "Did they hurt you in the asylum?"

"They shaved my head and beat me."

Sylvie swallowed. "Your parents?"

"They were embarrassed. I never saw them after they left me there."

"Have you ever... have you ever had someone who loved you?"

He tried to smile, but it didn't quite work. "Let's just say nobody's betrothed their daughter to me." He sometimes hired women at port, but didn't want to tell her that. She was tender, and he didn't want to insult her genuine sensibilities.

li

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• flow did you escape?" she wanted to know. "How did you get out of that awful asylum?"

That was hard for him to answer. She could see that from the way his Adam's apple rose and fell. "Merchant ship ," he said then had to clear his throat. "Needed free help, so he took some of us from the asylum, chained us together and had us work"

"Blanchet?" she asked, recalling the name that had brought such furrows across all the men's brows. "Was that the man who took you?"

He nodded. "He just came into the asylum one day, looking for strong, young men."

"And he beat you?"

Again, he nodded.

"And your friends?"

"They were all on board Blanchet's ship when it was raided by pirates. They're not from the asylum—they were just regular crew, but we knew each other, and we were the ones who joined this ship, while the others opted to be killed."

Sylvie shivered. So it was true. Pirates killed anyone who wouldn't join. She didn't need to ask why Jacques had joined the pirates. She was quite certain she would have done the same, had her life been at stake. But what she did wonder was, "Do you like it here?"

"Oh, yes," he said without hesitation. "This is the best life I've ever had." And she could tell he meant it.

"How do you do it?" she asked. "How do you live like that—no home, no family, no wife, no one who . . . who's ever really . . . really loved you?"

"I don't," he said, "I don't really live ... the way . . . you seem to mean it. I just go. I just keep going. It's like . . . living, but less . . . reflective. I suppose."

Sylvie thought of how fierce he had been in escaping the

Elizabeth Doyle

prison—doing absolutely whatever it took, and treating her as a mere tool of escape. Then she thought of his kindness ever since the urgency wore off. He was strong and kind, both. Such a rare combination. And to think that it sprang from someone who'd had to create himself without any external help. It had to have been something he was just born with. A light that grew inside him independently, no matter what tried to squelch it. She loved the way his dark eyes softened the shock of his pale hair. She loved his muscles and the scant way he always dressed. Her heart was telling her to touch, to touch what she was coming to adore. She reached out and found that his skin was as smooth as it was firm.

"Sylvie," he said emotionally, as though he were begging of her something unmentionable, "I don't need your pity."

His eyes were so sad, she couldn't resist the urge to move her face nearer. "It isn't pity," she said, "it's an admiration such as I've never felt" She didn't know how to kiss, but moved her lips near enough for him to show her.

He knew what she was inviting him to do, but paused, brushing her lips affectionately with a stroke of his thumb. He wanted to do it, but he just couldn't believe that she wanted to. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Her heart melted to think what he would show her, what he would teach her. She had never been so wildly attracted, with both body and heart, to anyone in her life. "I don't know," she confessed breathily. "Resisting handsome men has never been one of my fortes."

He smiled. He knew he was handsome, though it had never done him much good. No woman had ever wanted him, as far as he knew, and dreams of having a bride some day had only brought him to tears in the early mornings of the asylum, when he was a sorrowful boy, awakened each dawn by a bucket of icy water. As a pirate, he had enjoyed the mercenary ladies at his ship's many ports, but he was too hard-

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headed to think that someday he would have a real lady, a bride, someone who would stay .. . always. Sylvie was arousing a dangerous hope in him, a ridiculous hope, given who she was. And who he was. "Do you ... do you even know what you're inviting me to do?" Her face was so innocent, rich with compassion, but ignorant of so much else. He brushed his knuckles across her cheek as though touching the most fragile porcelain.