Beyond paradise (4 page)

"No pirates today," said Jervais. "I have come only to appease the curiosity of a lady." He tilted his head at Sylvie.

The jailer looked as though he had only just noticed her. Then he scrutinized her from head to foot with hateful, narrow eyes. "What does she want?"

"She wants to see what I do for my gold," jested Jervais. "She wants to see a pirate."

The spite in the jailer's eye told Sylvie that he had been rejected by far too many women, and now wished to hold the rest of the lot responsible for his anguish. Sylvie could spot men with such childishly vengeful hearts from a farm's distance. "Wants to see a pirate?" he scowled, peering at Sylvie as though she might try to rob him. "Well, why don't you tell her to sail a merchant ship to France? Then she'll see a pirate soon enough." He laughed loudly, as the thought of seeing her captured and tortured seemed to delight him.

"Please," said Jervais with a diplomatic smile, "we'll only be a moment. I thought I would show her my most recent conquest." He lifted a ring of keys from a hook on the wall. "May we?"

The jailer was still peering at Sylvie with hatred. "Yes, go ahead," he said at last. "It doesn't trouble me."

Jervais thanked him and then took Sylvie by the hand. "Wait!" she cried. "I need a purpose. I need to have a reason

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for going in there. I don't want them to think I've come only to stare."

"But you did come only to stare."

"But I don't want them to think that! Oh, hurry. Look around for something for me to bring."

"To bring?" He chuckled. "What do you want to bring him? Flowers? These are cold-blooded murderers, Sylvie. They're not going to begrudge you for being without a gift."

"Well, it doesn't have to be a gift!" she cried frantically. "Just something to do! Maybe I could bring him water."

Jervais put a gentle and calculating hand upon her shoulder. It was always nice to think of an excuse for touching. "Listen to me, Sylvie—it seems as though you've become frazzled about this. If you're having second thoughts ..."

"No!" she snapped, "I'm not! Just. . . there." She pointed to a bucket and a ladle. "Let me bring that. That way I can tell him I've been sent to give them all their water."

Jervais lifted the rusted tin pail, chuckling to himself. "Quite a rough jail we're running here, sending pretty women to bottle-feed the inmates. They'll be quite impressed, I'm sure."

"Don't let her drop that pail!" cried the jailer. "The handle's rusted and ready to break."

Sylvie was really learning to hate that man. If he referred to her in the third person one more time .. .

"Don't worry," Jervais assured him. He wrapped his arm fully about Sylvie now, and led her down a damp hallway.

There was a density in the air. The stone floor and walls were damp, and the moisture was drawing mosquitoes. Sylvie had to slap several from her arms, but could not prevent the bites. This was not what she had expected. She'd thought she would pass by rows of prisoners, reaching their bony hands through bars, begging for the keys to freedom. But instead, she was simply in a corridor lined with heavy, locked doors. It took a

Elizabeth Doyle

moment for it to occur to her, but when it did, she spoke her realization aloud. "No light?" she asked Jervais, her voice mouse-like. "The prisoners are in those rooms, and they have no light?" She knew there were no windows, and though the corridor was aglow with lanterns, she doubted that the rooms were.

"No light," he confessed, "but this place is much nicer than Bicetre. The prisons in Paris are much worse. Or better, depending on your point of view," he added with a proud but sly smile.

Sylvie's heart was pounding. There was some slimy moss at her feet, and she was afraid it would make her tumble. So she latched onto Jervais's strong arm, and felt that if she could melt into his skin, she would never feel afraid again. He was so sure of himself. He was so calm. She swallowed hard as he jangled the keys before a locked, wooden door. She would race in and race out. That was suddenly her plan. She would never forgive herself if she fled now, nor could she ever face Jervais if she did. But she could walk in, hand over some water, and then walk out. It would be enough; she would still have seen a pirate. Her hands were moist, and she had to rub them against her gray gown. "They're chained up," Jervais explained, "so they won't be able to hurt you. But just in case, I'll stay by your side."

And to Sylvie's complete bafflement, she heard herself say, "No."

Jervais looked down at her with astonishment, and found her own expression to be just as surprised. But she cleared her throat and repeated herself.

"No, I can do this," she said, "I can go in there by myself."

Jervais studied her hard. His eyes were dark in the shadowy corridor. They looked to be the same color as his charcoal ponytail. His strong features were fixed as he simultaneously

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studied Sylvie and her words. "Very well" he shrugged at last, for he was a man who understood the need for bravery ... though he'd never before supposed that a woman could share that need. "I'll wait right out here," he said. "If you stay too long, I'll come after you. But I doubt you'll have any trouble. They're well chained." He flung the heavy door wide, but Sylvie could see nothing within. It was the closest she'd ever felt to being blind. Jervais took a lantern down from the wall. "Here," he said, "that should help." Swallowing, Sylvie took the offering, and stepped into the moist, cave-like room. Gently, she halfway closed the door behind her. She lifted her head up high, waited for her pale blue eyes to grow adjusted to the dim light, and then stepped toward the center of the room. A piece of her expected that something would reach out and grab her in the darkness. She was trying not to make any noise with her footsteps, as though hoping not to awaken any monsters. And then suddenly, something did grab her. But it was not an arm or a tentacle. It was a feeling. She felt as though she had fallen, and her stomach had risen to her chest, tickling her on its way up. But she had not fallen, and was still standing, her own hand covering her mouth. The lantern light seemed to dance around the walls as Sylvie fell to her knees beside a man she had never met. It was not love at first sight, but it may have been hope at first sight. An eerie, inexplicable hope came over her, a feeling that something wonderful was about to happen.

Five

"Do you ... do you want some water?" she asked meekly, thankful that she had remembered her alibi.

The man did not reply, and she didn't think he should. He was like some sort of a beautiful ghost, and words would have been too mortal for such a creature. Could there have been some mistake? This man didn't look like a killer, or even a pirate, as she'd imagined them. He looked like a man, or something much lovelier. This was not the monster at whom she'd come to gawk. He looked like an angel. She splashed the ladle in the pail, and then lifted it, tempting his lips with cool drops that fell upon his stubbled chin. He gazed upon her with distant suspicion, and would not open his mouth. Sylvie took the silent moment as an opportunity to let her eyes wander.

He really was beautiful. Moisture trickled along his bronzed biceps, slipping into the valleys of each gap between muscles. He was shirtless; his stomach was taut and his waist was slender. He had sandy hair, which looked blonder than its true color in contrast to his copper skin. His eyes were liquid

Elizabeth Doyle

brown. They caught Sylvie in the midst of her embarrassing stare. She felt ashamed, though she should have been used to being caught in embarrassing stares. She lifted her eyes once more, and studied his expression. His own eyes were bitter, but they were not bitter against her. She could see he was a man who did not cast hatred in the wrong directions. He knew who his enemies were, and who they were not. He looked at her with calm puzzlement, absently grinding his teeth, managing to keep an impending threatening bite from his eyes.

Sylvie tried once again to give him water. "Drink," she said kindly. "It's clean."

Still, he did not move, but continued to gaze at her rather blankly.

Sylvie scooted nearer, instinctively glancing at his shackles, making certain they were secure. She slid the ladle to his lips once more. "Drink," she said in a near-whisper. In reply to his suspicious squint, she nodded. "I'm only here to help."

He looked into her sky blue eyes, so strikingly pale beneath her dark brows, then sniffed the ladle. Smelling its coolness, feeling tempted by its icy aura so near to his lips, he drank cautiously, keeping his eyes on the strange girl who now knelt before him. When the ladle was empty, Sylvie offered him another, and then another. It seemed he was nearly dying of thirst. Overwhelmed with compassion, she tore off the very edge of her underskirt, thinking to use it as a rag. That she was revealing an ankle in his ominous presence did not elude her. It excited her, even as she hurriedly covered the offending skin. She saw him glance down when she did it. "It's all right," she told him, wringing out the rag in her pail of water. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She pressed the wet cloth to his forehead, something he did not resist. She wiped his cheeks, darkened by sandy stubble, and dabbed at his cushiony lips. She felt a flutter in her gut, but did not receive its message. He was a criminal, she

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reminded herself, no matter how gentle he seemed now; no matter how handsome his face, he was a criminal. She found herself wiping water from his flushed lip with a lingering thumb. Then she could not believe she had done it. She lifted her gaze from his lips to his warm eyes. He was still looking at her. Had he understood her gesture? Did he realize she had been so foolish as to find him handsome? Something told her that he knew. But she wasn't sure what made her think that. His stare was completely unreadable.

She thought she ought to see whether there was any dried blood in need of wiping. She knew, after all, that these men were often beaten. She saw a little on his arm, and went to work dabbing it. She would not look up at him anymore. She was feeling strange. The man winced as Sylvie carelessly rubbed an open cut. She stopped what she was doing. "Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped. He was looking away from her now, biting his lip, trying to fight the pain. "I'm sorry," she repeated. Strangely, he didn't seem to care about the cause of his pain, only the fact that it was there. When his suffering had passed, he looked again at his nurse, and even offered the slightest hint of a smile for the briefest of moments, as though to say he didn't blame her. Sylvie nearly melted under his smile. She had never wanted someone to smile at her so badly in all her life. For a moment, it seemed that a tender look from him would feel the way the night before Christmas had felt when she was a child. It would make her feel open to wonder.

In a flash, she imagined if a man as handsome as this were to take Etienne's place at her side before the altar. She imagined looking into his brown eyes, taking her vows before her parents, and knowing that she would share his bed. It took a thought as ludicrous as that to break her from this dangerous stream of fantasy. Just look at him, she thought. He is manacled to a wall, dripping with sweat and grief, and

Elizabeth Doyle

quite possibly a killer. A little chuckle escaped her. She only thanked goodness that this silent killer could not read her thoughts. Or could he?

He appeared interested in her. This was natural, she supposed, as there was nothing else to look at. The cell was wet from rain water which had leaked in and never flowed out. The dampness smelled of illness waiting to happen. No doubt, disease had grown in its murkiness. She was the only thing in the room which was not gray. His curiosity should not have surprised her, but somehow, it did. His expression said plainly that he wondered who she was. And yet it also said plainly that he could still sleep well, never knowing the answer.

She wanted to touch the stubble on his face just once. The chance would never come again. Could she reject it? She would always wonder how the roughness would have felt under her hand. The more she stared at him, the more she was certain she had never seen such an attractive man. In fact, few others would have described him so strongly. But it was Sylvie, and only Sylvie, who was evaluating him now. To her, he looked like a creature born of dreams, his silence making it so easy to imagine he was something else—not a pirate at all. She glanced over each shoulder. They were alone. She could do it. She could reach out and touch him. He was completely bound, and could not prevent it. She could see what he felt like under her hand. Did she dare?

The thought was so thrilling that she was now completely robbed of her senses. There was a dizziness in her head, and a fullness in her heart. Would it be wrong? No one would ever know she had done it. She had never thought of doing something this insane in her entire life. Why not? It wouldn't hurt him. It would be only one caress, or . . . no. She didn't dare go further. Could she kiss his cheek, and pretend it was for the sake of pity? She felt positively possessed. She couldn't remember who she was. It had been minutes since the last

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time she thought of her family or her life. She was completely entranced by the moment. She could really do it. There was nothing stopping her. She could lean over and kiss his rugged, handsome cheek. She could reach out to touch his cheek, without the rag, with only her bare fingers. It was so delicious an impulse that she found her hand trembling as it reached out. The prisoner did not flinch, but continued to gaze calmly into her pale eyes. She was almost there. Her hand was nearly brushing his rugged cheek.

A loud bang made her jump. She whirled around to see that her private moment was now very public. The cell door had been opened. The hallway expanded before her eyes, and blocking its light was none other than Jervais. "Are you all right?" he asked gruffly.

Sylvie took a deep, gasping breath. She felt as though she had been caught committing some unforgivable crime. But Jervais looked natural, unimpressed by the sight before him. And when she anxiously peered at the handsome prisoner, she saw that he had lost all interest in her, and had now turned hateful eyes upon his captor. Yes, she knew immediately that Jervais had captured him. She could see it in the prisoner's eyes. "Oh, I. . " Sylvie smoothed out her apron, as though it had been crumpled. "I'm fine. I... I was just. . ." Once again, she glanced warily at the bronzed, fair-haired captive, whose jaw was now flexed in stubborn anger, his eyes fixed on the pirate hunter. "I was just offering him some water," she explained.