Beyond paradise (11 page)

"One more time? Oh, are you reminding me again of the peasant girl I bedded? I told you I'm sorry. I didn't know she was only twelve—she told me she was much older."

His mother closed her eyes, gathering patience. When she opened them, she said calmly, "My son, I want you to go out there and act like a man in mourning. I want you to give the appearance in every way of a man who will fight to the death to bring honor to his bride. I want you to declare revenge against the pirates, I want you to swear that you will see her

Elizabeth Doyle

returned safely, and I want you to appear enraged. Do you understand me?"

Etienne rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh, his lanky shoulders collapsing at the end of it. "It is so unfair being a man," he said. "Women are allowed to breeze through life, expecting people to protect and rescue and woo them. And we men have to put out all the effort. We have to talk them into fancying us, talk them into bedding us, provide for them, risk our necks if they get into any sort of trouble, and what do we get for it? Criticism if we don't seem manly enough. It is really an injustice, Mother. You have no idea. Sometimes I wish that I had been born a woman so that I might just laze about and have everyone take care of me."

"Son, what exactly is it that you do all day?"

"Well, I... nothing, I suppose. But most men . .."

"You don't see women peasants in the fields?"

"Well, peasants. Come, Mother, they don't count. I was talking about... well, regular women."

"And who are these women that you're always taking care of?"

"Well, not me personally, but..."

"And you feel obligated to protect them from what?"

"Well, men, I suppose."

"I see, son. Do you find women to be very self-pitying?"

"Very self-pitying!"

She touched his chin with a clenched knuckle. "Had you been born a woman, my son, I could only wish for you that you, too, would discover the joys of being a woman in a world full of men like you."

"Why, thank you, Mother."

Etienne truly felt miserable about Sylvie's disappearance. He may not have been able to show it in ways that other peo-

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pie could understand, but his disappointment ran deep. He had really looked forward to having her as a wife. Her looks were very appealing to him—she was small and had such dazzling blue eyes. He might have preferred hair that was golden or black rather than the sort of mix of cinnamon, sand, and fire that shimmered in hers. But it suited her. She was a very attractive young woman, and would be a very cheerful person to have about. Sometimes he gazed at his bed and smiled, thinking how lovely it would be when she joined him in it. He really missed her, and he was truly upset about the turn of events which had robbed him of her. His life would not be as pleasant without her, there was no doubt. Secretly, he prayed violently that she would be found.

"I am so forlorn," he told a green-eyed lady with long, chestnut hair. "How it pains me to think that I might never see her again, that I might be . . . available." He rested his pitiful head near her breast.

"Oh, you poor dear!" She brought his face closer to her plump breasts, stroking his wig and resisting the urge to weep.

Etienne's eyes were wide open against her cleavage. "It's not easy," he said, "being as sensitive a man as I am. People don't seem to understand a man who can be reduced to tears over something so trivial to them as love."

She clutched her mouth and then released it. "I understand," she said. "I truly feel for you. How awful to have the woman you love stolen by a filthy gang of pirates. How wretched!"

"You really understand?" he asked, squeezing her a bit closer. "You don't mind my ... my embarrassing sensitivity?"

"Not at all!" she cried. "Oh, you poor dear. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, since you have mentioned it." He rolled about until his chest pressed firmly against hers and his lips caressed her chin.

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"Stop that," she said, writhing to get away.

"Don't be coy. We both know what we want." He squeezed her and cupped the back of her head in his hand.

"We both know what^ow want," she corrected him. "Unhand me."

Etienne was startled. "But you said you wanted to console me."

"Console you—not bed you!"

"But what better way to console me?"

"Agh!" She relieved herself of his presence with a mighty shove and rose to her feet, tending to her gown to restore a look of presentability.

"I don't understand you women," he growled. "All you ever do is entice and then change your minds."

"I never enticed you!"

"You were stroking my hair."

"You tried to trick me!"

"Well, naturally," he laughed. "Did you expect me to just ask you to go to bed with me? You would have said no! I mean, honestly, think of my position."

She stormed away, leaving Etienne with a pain in his breeches and an expression of bewilderment upon his face. Women—dishonest, fickle, and completely unpredictable. He was supposed to sword-fight for the sake of one of them? Just one, when there were so many others out there? All of them just as untrustworthy as the next? No, thank you. The day he took up arms, it would be for something worth fighting for. Something like ... something like ... well, he couldn't think of anything right at that very moment. But he was certain that if the need truly arose, he would be the first to stand for justice. He was just waiting for that right time.

II

Twelve

When Sylvie awoke, she found herself alone. Completely alone. All of the men had left the cabin and she could hear them singing low, haunting songs on deck as they worked. It was eerie. There was no sunlight streaming through the portholes. The sky was gray and she could hear rain. She crossed her arms tightly within her blanket. It was rather chilly. She could only imagine how the men must feel, standing outside in the icy cold, doing whatever it was that pirates did to keep their ships afloat. She glanced at the floor, and saw a napkin full of biscuits. Jacques had left them for her. That made her feel truly like a lazy princess, to think that not only had she remained in slumber while all of the pirates rose—hung over, no less—but that Jacques had fetched her breakfast and not even awakened her.

It felt too cold to get out of the hammock, but she decided she must. She wished for a change of clothes, but wishing did not bring it. She had to shiver in her gown. Just as she reached to examine the biscuits, the door flew wide open. Her

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heart lurched, but it was only Jacques. He was soaking wet and drying his hair with an old shirt. "Bon jour," he said, lifting a satchel, "I brought lunch." But nothing in the satchel could have been as delicious as he looked, with raindrops shimmering on his bare muscles.

"Lunch?" she asked. "I was just about to have the breakfast you left me."

"It is nearly midday" he said. "Did you only just awaken?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "It's harder to tell it's morning when there's no sunlight, I suppose." He dropped the old shirt and rubbed fiercely at his bare arms. "Freezing out there."

Sylvie had a nearly irrepressible urge to help him dry off. But instead, she clenched her fists and said, "Thank you for the... for the food."

His smile was wry and handsome. "You won't thank me after you taste it. Here, sit down. The others are still working. I came early so you could eat without their ogling you."

"Thank you," she said. He could be so strangely considerate for a kidnapper.

He sat on the floor with one knee up, and spread some dried meat and bread across a cloth. Sylvie joined him, a girlish tenderness rising in her heart as she crossed her legs beneath her. He looked so handsome. "Why do you cut your hair so short?" she asked, a question born of tension.

"I don't," he grumbled, his mouth full of bread. "They cut it off when they arrested me. I think I'm supposed to feel humiliated, but I rather like it." He rubbed it back and forth, cherishing its simplicity. "It stays out of my face this way."

Sylvie smiled, as she rather liked it, too. "Why do you scrape your chin?" she asked. "Don't you want a beard?"

He shook his head and grumbled, "They itch."

That had never occurred to Sylvie before, but now that he

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mentioned it, she imagined that beards would indeed iteh. dlef just eut your hair with a knife?" she asked pleasantly.

"No. Pirate hunter did."

Sylvie was stunned. "Jervais?"

He met her eyes cuttingly. "Yes, your dear friend, Jervais." His sinister interest in the topic of her acquaintance reflected in his woodsy eyes.

"He's not my dear friend," she replied, feeling somehow that it would be safest to make that clear.

"Then what is he?"

"He .. ." Sylvie had never really thought about that. He was a man to whom she had always been attracted. He was a man who had given her dreams and naughtiest fantasies an outlet during her gruesome engagement. He was someone who seemed to return her interest, despite her unavailability. But ultimately, the answer was "nothing." He was nothing in her life—not a friend, not a lover, not a fiance. Nothing. "He is simply someone I know from living in St. Pierre," she replied. "We are merely acquaintances."

Jacques doubted it. Sylvie was much too pretty to have a following of platonic, disinterested male acquaintances. If there was anything Jacques understood about love, it was the quest's cold, unyielding set of rules. One of those was that every man wanted every pretty woman, no matter what her circumstance. Whether Sylvie wanted him or not, Jacques wasn't sure. But there was no doubt in his mind that Jervais wanted her. It was sickening. "Well, that's a fine acquaintance you have," he remarked. "Makes his living killing people who have done him no harm, just for a filthy gold coin."

Sylvie said nothing. She knew what Jervais would say— that his job was noble, and that he was keeping people safe from villains. But she would let Jervais fight his own battles;

Elizabeth Doyle

she could not afford to argue with the one man keeping her alive. "How did you become a pirate?" she asked instead.

Jacques stuffed something in his mouth that must have been tobacco and deliberated with every chew. "Well," he began, struggling to clear the way for his voice, "I was born a prince, but I sought adventure."

Sylvie's eyes sparkled at him.

"I grew weary of the confines of royal life—the pressures of ruling, always having people bow down before me, never knowing whether the women loved me for me or just for my title. I decided I had to get away from it all, to seek out my truest self."

He looked at her candidly, blankly. Sylvie burst into laughter in which he quickly joined her, his eyes narrow with delight. "I was a poor boy," he said truthfully. "I needed money and didn't know an honest way to earn it. What on earth did you think I was going to say?"

"I liked your first story better," she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Well, I liked my first story better, too, but unfortunately, I don't get to pick my life's story." His eyes were bright, his chest shaking from laughter, and before he knew it, he had touched her hand.

Sylvie's heart leaped at the feel of his touch. She looked down at his exploring fingers, marveling at the beauty of the coarse, golden hand large enough to encompass hers in a single grasp. It made her flush. Jacques watched the pinken-ing of her cheeks, and the way the blush set off her eyes. She had such pretty eyes. He wasn't sure he had ever seen eyes that were quite so blue as that before. Her hair was such a wreck at the moment, he didn't have the heart to tell her. But he didn't care. He had never liked hair that was so tidy it looked as though a man could get his fingers stuck in it. He preferred the way a woman looked first thing in the morning,

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unguarded and unadorned, no pretensions, no apologies. Just natural and raw and vulnerable to his touch. He liked women that were wild like the wind, and whether Sylvie knew it or not, her unkempt hair and ragged dress made her look like just such a woman on this rainy afternoon.

"What about you?" he asked her. "You said you are betrothed. Is it true, or did you just say it to keep me from misbehaving?" His smile was mellow.

"It is true," she confessed with a sigh. "Etienne. He is the wealthiest man on the island."

Jacques studied her curiously to determine whether she was really the sort who would love for money. He found her eyes to be very warm and frank, and that told him something. Had she been a woman who attached money to personal value, she would have glassy eyes with him, a man who had nothing. So he was certain she was not a lover of gold. "Arranged marriage?"

"Of course."

He nodded. "Of course." He now paid attention to her hand, separating her fingers with his thumb, tracing circles on her palm. It was a small and delicate hand, but it had been worn a bit. She spent time outdoors, he could see. "Why would you do it?" he asked. "Why would you marry someone who had been picked for you?"

"Because it's my place as a daughter," she replied defensively. Her hand stiffened against his so awkwardly, he was obliged to release it.

"You seem like such a free spirit," he said. "I'm surprised to hear you've become so conventional at the drop of one question."

"I have my sacred shrines," she replied. "One of them is my family. I love them and there isn't anything I wouldn't do to bring them honor."

Then what was she doing with Jervais? he wondered. "Do

Elizabeth Doyle

you love your betrothed?" he asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it nonetheless.

"No." There was no regret or guilt in her voice. The answer rolled from her tongue in a manner that was matter-of-fact and comfortable.

"Well, will he at least be good to you? Is he a kind man?"

"Hmmm." Sylvie tapped on her chin over that one. "Let's

see. No, kind isn't the word I would use. What's that other