Beyond paradise (22 page)

When she had taken off her gown, stockings, boots, and corset, she climbed in beside him, far away from him, wearing only his shirt and her knee-length drawers. She felt positively naked with her calves bare, and worried that his legs would brush against hers in the night. It would feel obscene, it would feel exciting. She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes tightly. "I'm ready," she said, forgetting that he couldn't quite understand her when she wasn't looking at him. But he saw that her mouth was saying something, and guessed he knew what. So he leaned over and put out the lantern. Crossing his hands behind his head, he took a heavy breath. He thought this constituted what people called a long,

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arduous day. He had awakened on board a pirate hunter's A % been beaten brutally by the captain himself, been on his way to a good hanging, then visited by the woman he loved . . . the woman he what? Well, maybe not that, but certainly the woman of his dreams—and then was rescued by her. Now, it seemed he was going to have a pleasant slumber on a soft bed on board his very own ship. It had been a long day.

"Jacques?" Sylvie asked, receiving no response, of course. "Jacques?" she repeated, shaking him to get his attention.

He turned sleepy eyes on her. "What is it?" His voice was so masculine, it felt like a sin to hear it in the dark.

kt I had another thought."

"What's that?" he asked, squinting as the light from the porthole was not bright enough to make lip reading an easy task.

"I thought you should teach me those signals. You know, the ones you and Sebastien show one another? The ones you do with your hands? I thought you should teach me those, too."

"Why?"

"Well, I don't know. I just thought maybe it would be useful. Maybe we would need to signal each other if we were ever attacked, or. . . maybe we could speak more easily in the dark, if we did the hand signals against each other's skin." Or maybe she wanted to be a part of something.

Jacques reached back and rubbed a muscle on his shoulder. "No, I ... I don't think it's necessary. I can see you pretty well."

She felt hurt by his reply, but she wasn't sure why. She was still thinking of it as a practical matter. "Well, would it really be so hard to teach me?"

She hadn't meant to give him an out, but that's exactly what she'd done. "Yes," he said softly, "it's really fairly diffi-

Elizabeth Doyle

cult. It would take a lot of work to teach someone from the beginning. Really, I don't think we'll need it." He offered her a false smile, and continued rubbing his shoulder. It was feeling stiffer by the moment.

Sylvie sensed the truth, but she couldn't bring herself to believe it. She decided to let him rest with her assurance that there were no hard feelings, but there were hard feelings, indeed. "Well, I'm sure you would know best on the matter. Good night."

"Good night." His smile was stiff.

Sylvie crossed her arms over her breasts, her eyes growing round in the darkness. She tried to see the ceiling in the dark, to study the shapes of its wooden planks, to give her alert eyes something to do. She heard Jacques's breathing grow heavier, and it gave her some relief. It made her thoughts even more private somehow, knowing he was asleep and that even if he were gifted with telepathy, he could not sense her. She could think as loudly as she wanted! She squeezed herself hard. What arrogance. And she was not thinking of Jacques, but of her own dim-witted self. She had assumed he loved her. Assumed! What kind of a person assumes she is loved? She must truly be as spoiled as Jacques thought she was. She winced at the thought of her own stupidity.

There was something she had never faced. But her conscience was so strong that she faced it now without aversion. She had been flattered that Jacques wanted her so desperately as a bride. It was true. She had been so busy fearing the consequences and being angry with his tactics that she had overlooked that very obvious emotion. Flattery. She had assumed he must love her, for there could be no other reason for refusing to enjoy her only as a lover. The only reason he would have demanded more was uncontrollable, passionate love. She giggled quietly at herself. She now saw that there could have been other reasons. He may have been very tradi-

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tional at heart, or he may have been possessive. The one thing she now knew it was not, was love. Because he didn't want to teach her how to talk with her hands. He didn't want to show her his secret language. He didn't want her to learn his native communication, the words that were closest to his heart, the way he visualized language when he was alone. He wanted to keep her out there —in that world that had rejected him and treated him so poorly. He didn't want her in there, talking to him the way Sebastien talked to him, the way only those he loved were allowed to talk to him.

She turned her head and watched him sleep soundly. Making sure his eyes were closed, she whispered, "Jacques, I have been a fool. I feared your love, and now that I know there was nothing to fear ... I am sorry for it."

Twenty-two

Jacques was impatient to begin Sylvie's fighting lessons. His face had turned a lot of interesting colors in the night, his bruises taking on a deeper shade of purple, but some of the pain had mellowed to soreness, and he actually felt a great deal better. A clean pair of beige breeches clung to his tight thighs and round buttocks. His fiill-sleeved ivory shirt looked as elegant as it did masculine. A black sash around his waist held a sword and a set of knives, and he was playing with them before Sylvie even awakened. She opened her eyes, feeling astoundingly cheerful, and saw him, a pale-haired, youthful warrior attacking an invisible enemy with his cutlass. It was an irresistible sight.

"Oh, hello," he said, sheathing his cutlass the moment he realized she was awake. "Are you ready for your first lesson?"

Sylvie tried not to giggle, but failed. "I haven't even rubbed the sleep from my eyes," she protested.

The tiniest trace of disappointment crossed his face. "Oh hurry up then." He tossed her a shirt, breeches, and a

Elizabeth Doyle

sash. "We don't have time for you to sew your own clothes. Just roll up the legs and use the sash as a belt. I've picked out the perfect knife for you to try." He lifted it carefully from his trunk, observing that the handle needed polish. Under all of the tarnish, it had a beautifully ornate carve to it, lions and flowers set in bronze. He rather wished she could see it when it was all fixed up. Perhaps he would find some polish when they reached dry land and work it into a shine as a gift to her. The blade was curved and pronged at the end, making it look as elegant as it was deadly.

"I think 1 shall need something to eat first," she suggested, sitting up and moving her face into the porthole's stream of sun.

"All we have is what you brought," he said, setting the knife down tenderly, as though it already belonged to her. "It won't hold us for long. We're going to need to find more food when it's safe to stop."

"Should I forgo then?" she said, feeling very sad to ask. Her stomach was pitifully hollow.

"No," he shrugged, "you should have breakfast. Just eat sparingly. Come, we'll see how the men are doing."

He looked ready to go on deck, but Sylvie looked cautiously at the clothes he'd tossed her. Did she dare wear them in front of strange men? She didn't mind Jacques seeing her in them, or even Sebastien, Remi, or Frangois. Even her brief encounters with them had made her feel she could be at ease. But the others . . . she really didn't know them. They'd just been in the cell with Sebastien. Failing to guess her thoughts, Jacques asked, "What's the matter? Don't think the breeches will stay up?"

"No, it isn't that," she said. "I just ... I don't know, I'll feel strange wearing a man's clothes."

His smile made his eyes twinkle. "You'll look lovely."

"Thank you," she said, "but I'll still feel odd. Do you think I should at least wear a corset underneath?"

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"What for? The breeches will already be too large around the waist. No sense in making yourself smaller."

"Yes, but. . . it will prevent. . ." she cupped her hands an inch away from her breasts, "... movement," she explained with a smile.

He laughed. He didn't want to say the first thing that came to his mind—that she wasn't really all that large, and that the bagginess of the shirt would probably be enough to create modesty in her case. Somehow, even he, with his pitifully limited knowledge about women, knew better than to say that. "I don't think it will be that bad," he said with a thoughtfully diplomatic look.

"Are you sure?"

"Fairly sure."

"All right," she agreed reluctantly, "I'll try it."

"I'll be on deck," he announced, and fled before she could ask him to turn around while she dressed. He just didn't want to offer to do that again, nor did he want to be asked. It just didn't seem right.

His crew mates were happy to see him. The air was fresh and the sun was friendly. It was a beautiful day to be a man of the ocean. Frangois, with his outrageously long beard flapping in the warm breeze, asked, "Did you sleep well, Jacques?"

"Yes," he said. "I feel guilty, though. I haven't done a lick of work and all of you have worked through the night."

"Nonsense," he replied, "this ship practically sails itself, though it's slow. We left Sebastien and that Englishman, Stephen, to keep us on course all night, and Juan kept the lookout. We slept just as well as you—put the night shift to bed a few hours ago."

Jacques propped a boot up on a bench. "Any idea where we are?"

"Trying to get out of the Caribbean, heading east. The farther we get from civilization, the safer we'll be."

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"And the hungrier."

"We'll have to rob a ship for food when we get the chance. I don't think we should pull into any ports. We should just keep moving. Better starved than captured."

Jacques looked warily at the sturdy, handsome ship. "It's a great ship for sailing the high seas," he agreed, "but how are we going to attack another vessel? There are only a dozen of us and our ship moves slowly."

"This big, old merchantman has a lot of cannons, though. We may not be able to beat anyone man to man, but we can surely outgun someone."

"But we can't steal from them without boarding them. Then, even if they've surrendered, they'll see how few we are and fight back."

"Come now," Remi interrupted, his long, fair hair streaked by the sun. An uncharacteristically joyous smile spread across his face. "Stop worrying, will you? We're worlds better off than we were yesterday at this time." He stretched his arms wide. "We have the sunshine and the open air, our own ship, and our freedom. Why dwell on a few minor obstacles?"

"Like starving?"

"Yes, like starving! You're such worriers. We'll get by. Now, where's that princess who set us free?"

"I don't think she's technically a princess," said Jacques with a dreamy smile.

"Well, she's a princess to me. Princess of this ship! That's what we'll call her."

"I like that," he said, the sun warming his bruised but beautiful face, blowing his short, silky hair. "I think she's in our cabin, worrying about her clothes. She'll have to wear breeches while she's out at sea, and I think she's afraid you're going to gawk. So promise me you won't."

He didn't have to worry. Sylvie came on deck, her oversized breeches rolled into a cuff, her tiny waist bound by a

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black satin sash, and her cuffed, full sleeves puffing out in the wind around her slender arms. Her hair was tied back and plaited, exposing her face for what it was—a porcelain plate of perfection, set off by two brilliant sapphire eyes. She looked more beautiful as a tomboy than she ever had as a lady-in-waiting. What woman wouldn't look stunning in velvet and bodices? But only a few could look delectable in the most practical of attire. And there was something about a woman with a deadly weapon ... The men all glanced down at the knife stuck in her sash. "Hurt me," said Frangois with a wry grin.

Remi gave him a warning nudge. "You look good," he said mildly, then turned away to hide his embarrassing body language.

"Thank you," she grinned. In truth, she was awfiilly fond of the way she looked, too. The breeches were comfortable—she had never had such freedom to move. And she rather liked having no hair in her face.

"What's the knife for?" asked Remi, glancing cautiously at Jacques as though to say, / was just asking—just an innocent question. Really.

"Jacques is going to teach me how to fight," she answered brightly.

"Oh really? How nice. Jacques, can I speak to you? Now?"

Sylvie moved to the edge of the boat, leaned into the railing, and smiled at the wind. She loved the way the sunshine ignited the water with gold. She took a long, deep breath through her nose. The sea air felt healthy and exhilarating in her lungs. She wasn't sure she had ever felt so very awake before. While she admired the vastness of the sea and the enormity of the planet, Francois coaxed Jacques to his side in confidence. "Jacques, why did you tell her you're going to teach her how to fight?"

"Because I am," he shrugged. "Why not?"

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"Why not? Are you crazy? You can't teach a woman how to fight. They don't have the coordination or the ability. You're going to get her killed. I know she said she wanted to help us on this voyage, but surely you know that she's already helped enough. She'll only be a nuisance if she tries to help us sail, and I pray you're not actually going to let her engage in battle. She could really get killed."

Jacques put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm not going to send her into battle," he said. "I just thought she ought to know a thing or two about how to defend herself. In case anything happens, in case we fail to protect her."

That assurance caused Francois to relax visibly, but still he said, "You're wasting your time. If anything happens and we fail to protect her, it's over. The best thing you could teach her is not to put up a fight. She'll only get herself hurt."