Beyond paradise (16 page)

A knot tightened in her gut. Jacques. What if he were up

Elizabeth Doyle

there, being harmed? She willed herself to stop worrying. This ship raid would save her life. If it hadn't been for this— she gazed horrified at Jacques's hammock—those ropes of bedding would be squeezing her through the night, and she would be forced to take whatever Jacques saw fit to give a wife. She had no choice but to side with Jervais. Though she was sorry. She really was.

When the door burst open, it was done by none other than the dark-haired demon himself. She had forgotten how huge he was! His massive chest and shoulders could barely fit through the cabin's entrance, and he had to duck to avoid its frame. It had been so long, he looked like a stranger. A most welcome, beloved stranger. "Jervais!" she cried.

He took her in his arms, squeezing her tightly and swinging her from side to side. He said nothing. He wasn't good with words. "Jervais," she sobbed. She hadn't expected tears, but they came nonetheless. She was crying all over his black, silken shirt. "Jervais, you're really here." All of her life seemed to return to her. Seeing him again was like seeing home. Soon, she knew, she would see her parents, her sister, and ... what's-his-name. That fiance she had. "It's such a relief," she sniffed. "Did you . .. did you win?"

"We slaughtered them like schoolchildren," he muttered in that deep voice of his. He was holding her still, yet she didn't feel comforted. He was so strong it was hard for him to be tender. He did not even think to stroke her back.

"Can we go?" she asked anxiously. "Can we leave this horrible place? Will you take me home?" She pulled away from his chest and dried her eyes with the backs of her hands. Jervais had forgotten how pretty she was. He had remembered how she made him feel, so alive and masculine, and his notion of her appearance had been quite positive. But he had forgotten the details: her perfectly oval face and pointed nose, her shockingly bright blue eyes, the eyebrows that were

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darker than her hair, and that small, fairy-like frame of hers. He had forgotten she was such a little beauty. He wanted to just pick her up and carry her everywhere he went.

'Yes, we can go," he said. "We'll burn this ship to its bones."

That didn't make Sylvie as happy as it was meant to. "But Jervais?" she asked timidly, as one who had something to hide. "Did the . . . the pirates ... are they ... all right? What did you do with them?"

He thought the wrinkle in her nose was adorable, but the question was not. "Are you still worrying about the welfare of criminals, after all you've been through?"

Sylvie recalled that there was only one way to speak to Jervais and be heard. Timidly was the wrong approach. She squared her shoulders and said sharply, "Just answer my question, please."

"We had to cut a few throats." he said casually but proudly. "Most of them are being stuffed in the hold so we can hang them when we get to shore. I mean, try them." He lifted a corner of his mouth cynically, knowing well what chance any of them had of surviving a trial.

Sylvie had to know. "What about the one ... the one who brought me here? The fair-haired one."

"In the hold," he shrugged, then his eyes darkened. "Why?" he asked, worry trembling in his voice, "Did he ... did he ... hurt you?" His teeth were clenched so tightly, he thought they might crack.

"No," she was eager to insist, fearing for Jacques's life. "No. Absolutely not." In reply to his disbelieving gaze, she repeated herself. "I said no."

He wasn't in the mood to argue. He wanted to get off the ship, or more importantly, to get Sylvie off the ship. "Let us go," he said, offering the guidance of a hand upon her back. "Let's get far from here. Everything will be all right. I am here now."

Elizabeth Doyle

Realizing she was about to leave the cabin for good, she found herself hesitant. She stretched out her arms and caught herself on the door frame. "Wait," she said, turning about, "I..." She what? What was it she wanted to do? She looked at the bunk where she might have lain this very evening . .. where she had lain only hours ago. If time were marked by thumps of her heart, it would have been years that had passed. "I need to bring something."

"Certainly. What?"

Her eyes fell upon Jacques's trunk. She did not know what was in there, aside from the occasional shirt she'd seen him unpack. But on the chance that he had personal possessions, things that might mean something to him, things that he would not want to lose, she did not want them to dissolve in flames. At that moment, it felt like the only thing she could do for him. Save his things. It wasn't much of a gesture, but at that moment, it seemed all-important. "That trunk," she said. "Can you bring it?"

Jervais struggled to follow the line of her pointed finger. Every pirate had a trunk at the end of his hammock. All of them looked a little too heavy for one man to carry. He glanced down at Sylvie's hopeful eyes. Well, maybe they were too heavy for a mortal man to carry, but damned if he was going to let her think him mortal. He would carry that trunk single-handedly or break his back trying. "Easily," he replied.

Sylvie was given her own cabin, the one right beside Jervais's. She had not been able to look up as he'd led her past the pirates, furious and frightened by their defeat. Some of them had watched her, she was sure. She could feel their eyes on the top of her bowed head. They no doubt thought her a traitor—how could they not? For they were wounded, drenched in sweat, and herded up like prisoners of war while

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she was free, and on the enemy captain's arm, no less. She could not bear to look them in the eye, nor could she watch the flames be set upon their vessel. So much destruction. Was it all for her benefit? Must even the proud vessel, whose sails seemed to be alive whenever they were filled with sun and wind, be sent to a fiery death in her honor? She hated all of it. She had let Jervais lead her quickly to her cabin because she was, at that moment, a coward. She wanted to see nothing, even though she had been the cause of it all.

Her cabin was clean, its wood well polished. She truly adored the sudden privacy, something she had not known of late. Her room had a real bed and a real chest of drawers. Jervais had even brought gowns for her to wear. She wore one and fingered the others admiringly, thinking it had been quite a thoughtful and generous thing for Jervais to do. Almost gentlemanly? She rarely thought of him as a gentleman. He was so rough and overbearing. But she wondered for a moment whether he might not have a softer side. She could remember a time when he was all she thought about. She remembered when her parents had told her of the marriage they'd arranged, and her heart had sunk with such miserable disappointment that they had not chosen someone more appealing. She had regained her composure quickly, reminding herself of her duty to the parents she loved. She had managed to quickly convince herself that this marriage of wealth would be a blessing to her and her loved ones. But she had allowed her heart to roam. She had allowed herself to entertain fantasies, for what harm could they do? Promising her vows was one thing. But fidelity of the heart, that was something that was earned, not taken. And Jervais had been such a wonderfully alluring target for her need to desire someone. But now . . .

Oh God. She dropped her face in her hands. Was she really married? No. No, of course not. That was not a real wed-

Elizabeth Doyle

ding, and she had not taken her vows. Nobody would have to know about that unfortunate, embarrassing incident. But what about the other, uh . . . well, the other unfortunate, embarrassing incident? The one of a more intimate nature? She was on the verge of self-loathing, but then a sleepy memory filled her and brought a smile to her lips. His beautiful light hair in the gray afternoon light. His chiseled, bronzed face looking down at her. The muscles that surrounded her as they made love on that hammock that should have been uncomfortable, but wasn't. It was a thrilling, yet strangely comforting, memory. Thrill and comfort. How had he managed to give her both? God help her, he had touched her heart. His alternate savagery and courteousness, his alternate toughness and alluring vulnerability. She thought of his confession about the way he'd been treated in the asylum. Why did that make him all the more attractive? Why, whenever she thought of that, did she long even more fervently to touch him?

She broke from her daydream. She couldn't help it. She couldn't save him from his fate now. The guilt was intolerable—the knowledge that it was her presence on the ship which had brought it down, that she had been caught in the middle of a war in which she had no interest. The war between the pirates and the hunters. She wanted nothing to do with the destruction that either of them wrought. Yet, she was in the midst of it. The guilt of knowing that he was bound once again in the hold could be alleviated only by one thought: That there was nothing she could do. She may have adored him only hours ago, but then he had wounded her. He had betrayed his promise to bring her home and threatened to keep her forever—as something like a concubine, from the way she saw it. Sylvie threw up her hands in the midst of her thoughts. She'd had no choice but to hope for rescue. She would speak at his trial. She would tell them he had treated

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her well. She would ask that they spare his life. But could she be miserable that she had been saved from him? No. It had been a close call, indeed. She could only thank Jervais for the fate he had spared her.

There was a knock at her door. Speak of the devil, it was the pirate hunter himself. "May I come in?"

He was suspiciously well groomed. Freshly bathed, his hair was slicked back and he smelled of strong soap. It should have been arousing to Sylvie, but strangely, she felt nothing. Though he was tall, dark, and strong, he no longer gave her butterflies the way Jacques had. "Of course," she said, stepping out of the way, "come in."

Jervais had to duck to step through. "You look lovely," he remembered to say at the very last moment. He realized he should have said it sooner.

Sylvie smiled meekly, patting her maroon satin gown. It shone brilliantly and felt so fresh and clean compared to what she'd been wearing. "I have you to thank," she replied. "It was very considerate of you to bring these gowns."

It was not until then that she noticed he was carrying a folded napkin. He sat at her desk and unraveled it, revealing fresh, sweet-scented bread. "I suspected your dress would be mined," he replied, then nodded at the bread. "Are you hungry?"

Even if she had not been famished, the scent of the bread would have aroused her appetite. It looked delicious. "Yes," she said, "thank you." She tucked her skirts beneath her and sat on the bed.

He handed her a slice and then watched her eat it, as though he had never seen a woman eat before. His dark eyes were intent and unblinking. "How long until we are home?" she asked between mouthfuls.

Jervais swallowed awkwardly, an uncharacteristic response. "We'll be moving slowly" he said after a pause.

Elizabeth Doyle

"We're bringing the merchant ship in tow and..." He had asked the crew to steer a crooked course so he might have more time with Sylvie. "And the winds are against us."

Knowing nothing about ships or winds, she nodded, entirely satisfied with his answer. He smiled in return, only his was a more calculated sort of a grin. He was pleased she had bought it. "Sylvie, I.. ." He cast his eyes downward, composing himself in order to finish his sentence without breaking into a dark chuckle. "I am sorry that Etienne was unable to make it," he said at last, chewing his lip to stop a smile. "I thought surely he would want to be here, but I'm afraid he doesn't care much for sea travel."

Sylvie shrugged, more interested in her bread than in the topic. "I imagine that's so," she replied.

Jervais scowled. He had hoped to see some glimmer of rage, or at least annoyance, that her fiance had not troubled himself to oversee her rescue. He saw none. Sylvie seemed perfectly content. "I told him how important it was." Jervais would not give up so easily. "I told him that any man worth the might in his right arm would want to see personally that his bride was returned to safety."

"I imagine that was useless," she remarked disinterestedly. "Etienne doesn't believe in things like chivalry. He feels women ought to look after themselves."

"How convenient for him." He emphasized this with crossed arms and a quick nod of the head.

Sylvie broke into that warm smile that always melted Jervais's heart. "Nobody will ever accuse Etienne of too much generosity," she confessed, "nor too much bravery."

Those were the words that made Jervais relax in his chair. This was the conversation he'd wanted to have. The one he'd needed to have if he were going to plant the seed of thought in time for it to grow during their short voyage. "Sylvie," he

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swore, his voice low and masculine, "if you had been mine, you would not have been captured."

Sylvie's eyes fluttered up at him quizzically. "If I had been what?"

11 you had been in my care," he said, "I would have watched over you. I would have protected you. I would not have let you do something so foolish and unsupervised."

Sylvie was still stuck on her question. If she had been his? That's what he said, wasn't it? What did he mean by his? His ... his mistress? His ... his what?

"I know women like you," he said, shocking her by leaning forward and taking her hand. She looked down at their joined fingers. Hers looked like a child's in his massive palms. His clasp was firm and sensual. "You think you want to do as you please," he said, trying to catch her eyes and arouse her with the timbre of his voice, "but really, you want someone to be firm with you, to set limits and to keep you safe." She was still staring at their hands, so he forced her chin upward with a finger. "Listen to me, Sylvie." His dark eyes burned into hers. "You don't have to marry a man like Etienne, a man who can't protect you or be true. A spineless man is no good for you, and you know it. Sylvie, you have a choice."