Beyond paradise (21 page)

Her eyes met his with a startle. "What?"

He broke into a smile. She returned it. "I was just trying to break the tension," he said, taking her face in both hands. He offered her a gentle, platonic kiss upon her frightened lips. "I really do need to bathe in full, though," he grinned kindly, "so if you don't want to watch, maybe you'd better go to the cabin."

Sylvie lowered her eyes in excited embarrassment. "All right," she said, dropping her rag in the bucket, "I'll ... I'll go make our beds."

"Bed," he corrected her before she could get up, "one bed."

Her eyes held more bite now. "I..." She swallowed hard, forcing courage into her weakened body. "I wanted to make something perfectly clear to you, Jacques, and I apologize that I didn't do it sooner. Please listen." He didn't look like he was paying very close attention, but she went on nonetheless. "I rescued you because I had to," she said in a pleading,

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breathless tone. "Don't you see that? I couldn't let them hang you—I couldn't let anything like that happen right before my eyes, not when I had the power to stop it. But make no mistake ... I did not do this with the intent of sharing your bed. You are not my husband."

"Yes, I am," he said calmly, "and you will share my bed."

Sylvie gritted her teeth and spat, "How dare you repay kindness with callousness! Aren't you listening to me? That I could not let you die does not mean I intended to love you."

"You already do love me," he said, propping his elbows lazily behind him. "You fell willingly into my arms, and tried to refuse marriage only because you were betrothed to another, or so you said." He cracked a dark smile. "Of course, I'm assuming you're no longer planning to marry him. If the detail of your already being my wife wasn't enough to stop you, I would think being on the run from the law would fairly well end the engagement."

Sylvie stamped her foot and cried, "But only hours ago you said you wanted me to lie about our wedding, to go ahead with my life!"

"A few hours ago, I was as good as dead. What else was I going to say?"

"But you're only alive because I saved you!"

"Yes, thank you. Now you're my wife again."

She screamed and kicked and tugged at her own hair. He watched with mild amusement. "I will not be your wife," she said as soon as she was calm enough to do so, "I don't care what you say, that wedding did not count. I may have had a mind to save a pirate, but I certainly will not..." She paused, fearing that she was about to say something very hurtful.

Jacques, after waiting to no avail for her to finish, offered, "Will not marry one?"

Sylvie looked away from him, but nodded. She waited for his response, and didn't know which she feared most, that he

Elizabeth Doyle

would scold her for bedding someone she could not bear to marry, or that he would reveal wounded feelings. Either would be painful to her, for on the first count, she was most certainly guilty, and on the second, well, she couldn't bear to hurt him. He was so fierce at times, and then at others ... he was as tender and vulnerable as she was.

His reply was angry and clear. "You already have married a pirate," he told her, "like it or not. So get in our cabin and make our bed and I'll join you in a matter of minutes. Go."

Sylvie shook her head disbelievingly. Her lips quivering, her eyes boiling in anger, she stared at him, trying to fathom the cruelty she'd heard. "Don't you dare," she whispered in a voice made thick and liquid by emotion, "Don't you dare ..."

There was so much panic in her reddening face that he softened himself and his approach. "I won't," he promised, giving her shoulder a good squeeze. "Sylvie, I won't hurt you. That's not what I'm saying."

Her head was shaking back and forth. "But you ..."

"A compromise," he suggested firmly. "That's all I'm demanding."

She cocked her head with a great deal of suspicion.

"For now, we share a bed. Nothing more," he offered, "Nothing more until you want it. I think I have the right to demand that much." Judging by her flushing, and the way her fingers had lingered over his biceps, he guessed he would not have to wait long. But he didn't let his face tell any of that. He gazed at her only with stern compassion.

Sylvie crossed her arms. She did not want to share his bed, not when this merchant ship had so many spare bunks. Not when Jervais's ship had gotten her spoiled for her own kicking space at night. Not when even the manly smell of him made her long ... If she ever let him bed her again, she knew it would be the same as agreeing to the marriage. She had to avoid the temptation. "How can I trust you?" she asked,

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though she knew she was being false. She had already spent chaste nights in his arms, had already been shown that his word was worthy of trust.

"How can you not?" he laughed. "We're on a ship in the middle of nowhere. What are you going to do if you can't trust mc' r

She ignored that remark, for truly, her concern was not over trusting him, but herself. "I suppose . . ? She cringed. "I suppose it's reasonable," she relented, "but I want to be clear—if you try anything, I'll defend myself."

As hard as he tried, he wasn't able to lick away the smile from his lips. The thought of petite Sylvie trying to fend off his advances and thinking she could succeed was not only amusing, but a bit adorable. Still, he brushed away the thought as quickly as he was able, and nodded reverently. "All right. It's an agreement."

Twenty-one

The cabins on board the merchantman were incomparably more luxurious than the ones aboard the old barque. Built for a smaller crew, the ship allowed for each person to have his or her own cabin, in theory at least. Sylvie, of course, was being forced to conserve space. The cabin she'd selected for Jacques and herself had an odd shape to it. It was round, except where it flattened to an oval at the outside wall. The ship must have been built for someone rather eccentric, because there was no practical reason for the turret-shaped cabin, but it was appealing. The roundness made her feel as though she would be sleeping in a tower. There was a lovely red-and-white-checkered quilt tossed over the bed and some richly carved chests in the corners. The room nearly felt homey She could really see herself living there for some time, and feeling at ease.

She was still fluffing the feathered mattress when Jacques arrived, wet from his sponge bath, his torn breeches clinging obscenely to his moist skin. "I like this cabin," he said, glancing appreciatively at the relatively high ceiling.

Elizabeth Doyle

"So do I," she said, straining not to look at him. "Would you mind putting on some clothes?"

"I couldn't understand that," he said, tossing his towel over a trunk. "Try looking at me."

With no choice then, she turned her chin to face him, but not her eyes. "I said please put on some clothes."

"Ah." He smiled mischievously at her discomfort, and sauntered toward his chest. "Sylvie, tell me something." He lifted its top and shuffled through his old clothes. "Why did you have the men bring my old trunk when they could have brought something more valuable, something we could have sold?"

Her reply was softly spoken. "I just. .. I just thought you might be attached to some of it. I. .." She lowered her eyelashes vulnerably. "I'd been keeping it for you."

He was genuinely touched. She couldn't bear to look at him now, even though he had covered himself with an ivory shirt. She knew that his brown eyes would be moist with tenderness and affection. And she just couldn't bear that right now. "It was nothing, really," she said, "I just knew that if I only had one trunk, that... well, that it would contain everything that meant anything to me and I..." She accidentally looked up at him and saw that his eyes were exactly as she'd imagined they would be. "... and I would want them saved."

This time, it was he who turned away. He did so by way of bowing his head and pretending to fumble with his clothes. She was the kindest person he'd ever met, kinder than he'd ever be. It wasn't his fault, though, he reasoned silently. How could he know kindness when nobody had ever shown him any? Nobody except Sylvie. He chewed pensively on his lips, nearly to the point of breaking through the skin. He felt guilty. He felt bad about the way he had forced her to marry him. It was selfish, he knew But she had intended to use

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him, u> bed him just for his handsomeness and then toss him away. Wasn't that equally selfish? The truth was, he thought, that someone like him couldn't have someone like her. Not for keeps. Not unless he forced it to be so. And he was not Sylvie. He would not throw away his only chance at having something good, something he'd always dreamed of, just for the sake of morality. He could never be selfless like Sylvie.

"So, uh . . . how does it feel to have cheated death once more?" she asked cheerfully, clasping her hands behind her back and swaying, yearning desperately to change the subject.

Relieved by her attempt, he smiled. "Soon, I'm going to think I'm unkillable," he confessed. "I'm going to think I have a guardian angel."

"Well, it seems to me," she said, raising her dark eyebrows, "that you do have one. Me." She tapped playfully on her chest.

"I can't argue," he grinned, his face growing even more handsome in his show of cheer. It was amazing, she thought, that even with all of his bruises, all she could see when she looked at his face was perfection. "It seems I'm badly in your debt. Now, what would my guardian angel like to wear to bed? I've been sorting through my clothes here, and all I've been able to find are a couple of shirts that may be large enough to look like a sleeping gown."

"One of those will do," she said. "Here, toss one to me." He did so, and she caught it expertly.

"My lady," he said, "I'd no idea you had such coordination"

"Did you think I was clumsy?"

"No. But neither did I know you were so skillful. Here. Try it again." He tossed her a sheathed knife, and again, she caught it. "Stand farther back," he said. "Go on, back up."

Elizabeth Doyle

She did so, and caught the shoe he tossed her without a fumble. "Amazing," he said. "I'd always heard women couldn't do that."

Sylvie scowled. "Who told you a thing like that?"

"People who didn't know what they were talking about, as it turns out." He shrugged. "Say, you mentioned wanting to learn everything there is to know about being a pirate, didn't you?"

"Yes," she replied warily.

"Maybe you should learn how to fight."

Sylvie was taken aback. "Excuse me?" she asked with a ticklish grin.

"Why not?" he asked. "It's not that I'd favor sending you into battle, but it isn't safe being on a pirate ship, or even a merchant ship populated by pirates. We're bound to be confronted at some point. You ought to know a thing or two, at least about how to defend yourself."

"You must be joking," she said, though her broad grin gave away her interest.

"No, I'm not. Now come," he said, swaggering toward her with dubious intent. "What would you do if we were attacked and someone came up to you like this?" He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her toward him, making her laugh out loud in a fit of nervous energy. "I'm serious," he said, looking down at her. "What would you do? Come, now." To make her take matters more soberly, he inched up her skirt, still squeezing her like a python against him.

"Stop that!" she said, struggling to break free. She was trying to continue her laughing, but was genuinely troubled by the way in which her modesty was gradually becoming compromised. "Stop it," she repeated.

"Make me," he said. "That is, you know I'm not going to do it, but what if I were someone else?" He thrust his hand

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between her legs, touching the fabric of her drawers, just to show her how easy it was.

"Stop it!" she cried, and this time, her face was rather red and upset. So he lowered her skirt over her petticoats and gave her a reassuring pat on the waist.

"Do you see my point?" he asked. "You should know how to defend yourself."

"But I can't," she said, her face moist with humiliation. "There's nothing I can do. You're just. . . bigger than I am."

"But there are things you can do," he said. "There are ways to beat people who are bigger. Men do it all the time with each other." He shrugged. "Men don't say, Well, he's larger so I'll just give up. They always fight. They use weapons if they have to, or they use skill. There's no reason you can't learn, too."

Sylvie was positively intrigued by the notion. She had always been taught that a woman had no way to defend herself, that she had to rely on the kindness of men. But what if it weren't true? What if a woman could learn to do battle every bit as well as a man? What if she could learn how to demand that others treat her with kindness and with dignity? What if she did not have to rely on charity and good will for her safety, but could do as men did, and rely on her own right hand? It was a brand-new idea, and it sent a coolness through her veins, leaving a trailing shiver on its way down. Biting her lip, she nodded.

"You want to?" he asked, clearly pleased, if his smile were to tell her anything.

She nodded again.

"All right," he said, releasing her from what had relaxed into a gentle, friendly embrace. "I'll need my sleep first. I feel a lot better, but. . ." he stretched his neck painfully to one side, "I'm going to collapse if I don't get some rest."

Elizabeth Doyle

"I'll need some new clothes," she said excitedly. "I can't fight with this corset on. I'll need breeches, just like yours."

"Hmmm." He bit his lip pensively. "I don't think I have anything that will fit you."

"I can make them," she said. "I was raised to be a wife, remember? I know how to sew. Perhaps you can find some old cloth from a sail or something. Or just give me a pair of breeches and I'll size them down."

He nodded, seeing the enthusiasm in her eyes and imagining it was ringing in her voice as well. It was exciting for him to see her so delighted. It was a common interest. She wanted to learn how to do something that had always been a source of thrill for him. He tried to keep his smile mild so he wouldn't lessen her enthusiasm by competing with it. "Well, in the morning then. I'll, uh . . ." He looked cautiously at the comfortable bed, covered in such an invitingly plush red-and-white quilt. "I'll turn my back while you change." He didn't know why he offered to do that, it just happened. She was his wife, after all, his wife. There was no reason that he should have to look the other way. But he climbed under the blanket, sinking deeply into the plush feathers below, and studied the bandaging around his wrists while she changed.