Forbidden (13 page)

Her chin lifted. “Then it’s a good
thing for me, isn’t it, Mr. Burleigh, that you cannot claim to be a
god?”

He leaned in, wild and beautiful, and
hissed against the shell of her ear, “Then dub me the Devil,
Princess. Welcome to hell.”

His lips were soft and his breath so
deliciously hot that her nipples tightened painfully against his
broad chest and she gasped.

His words were accompanied by three
harsh cracks of lightning, one after another, that split the air
and made it tremble. After that the storm became too ferocious to
allow further argument and they lay there in the bottom of the
longboat as it was whipped and thrown by the storm. Jocelyn felt
like a toy in the bathwater of an overly rambunctious child and
several times she choked on salt water when a wave tugged them
under. Though she would never admit it, she was glad for Damon’s
solid weight above her, protecting her, anchoring her in the boat
when she would have been tossed aside.

Both of them were soaked to the bone
and shivering, their skin icy and pale, but even so just the
knowledge that another person was there going through it with her
kept a small flame of hope burning in her chest. It felt like they
were in that boat for hours at the mercy of the storm’s fury. She’d
looked beyond Damon’s shoulder as he’d rested his face against the
curve of her neck and watched the bruised sky spin and dip and
lunge until she made herself sick. When the warmth of his breath
against her skin was replaced by the stinging fingers of the cold
she hissed and turned her eyes on Damon. He was staring ahead, his
brow furrowed in concentration and as she watched him a slow grin
began to spread across his face.

Then he looked down at her and grinned.
Bright and happy, and momentarily empty of the darkness that
usually haunted the lines of his face. He looked like a little boy,
his hair wet and curling against his cheeks and forehead, his
lashes spiky with moisture and his gray eyes brimming with good
humor until they toed on the threshold from gray to light
blue.

Her heart softened and she felt herself
slide a bit closer towards an edge that was looming closer every
day.

Then she thought, ‘Wait. Why is he
smiling like that? Doesn’t he know we’re about to die? And why am I
responding to him?’

“Princess,” His voice shocked her from
her brooding. Made her realize that he didn’t need to yell because
the storm was beginning to abate. “I think we’re saved.

* * * *

When they were still drifting about
fifteen feet out from shore, Damon got off of her and rolled into
the water. He grabbed the small craft, his body tense and his mouth
a tight line, and dragged both it and Jocelyn onto the sandy
embankment. For seconds it seemed as if his legs were too weak to
hold him and he collapsed on his knees in the soft white sand, his
head hanging low. Jocelyn watched him, her skin tightening with the
need to go to him, to offer comfort, but she couldn’t do
it.

Spiky lashes and little boy smile
aside, she was still so … angry with him.

Intellectually she knew that he was
right.

It had been reckless to stowaway on the
ship and even if Damon hadn’t tossed her in the longboat there was
no guarantee she would be safe right now. But regardless how true
his accusations that didn’t ease the tightness in her chest.
Between the hurricane, the English and the Marie sailing away,
Jocelyn was beginning to fear that she would never see home again.
She had given up Ava under the impression that once she returned to
the estate she could run it as her father had been doing all these
years. Then once the war was past she could go and see her sister
as much as she wanted. She could have both, and Ava would be happy
leading her exciting, new life immersed in London
society.

At the time the dream had felt like
heaven. But she was thinking about it now, doubting herself, and
her resolve and faith were weakening. She was smart, but even John
Holbrooke had needed her mother’s support during those early years.
He often said that without her he wasn’t sure how he would have
made it.

Right now Jocelyn had nobody to help
her. Her situation was worse than her father’s had been because
instead of building something from scratch she had to take hold of
a wheel that was already in motion. It was like a man who’d trained
and raised a team of horses since they were colts. One day he
decides to race these horses and they go, faster and faster until
all of a sudden the man disappears and in his place is Jocelyn and
she has to lead those rampaging mounts with no prior knowledge,
experience, or even warning.

It was a heady thing, and while she’d
been so sure that she’d be able to pull it off smoothly, reality
was beginning to insinuate itself beneath her stubbornness. That
Damon had tried to warn her was no consolation and just the memory
of his words then sent her into a fury.

She was sick of him being right all the
time, she hated the fact that he could protect her and her sister
when she could not, and she resented the fact that after her
father’s death she had turned to him and clung so willingly. As if
she were weak and without a mind of her own. All of this was his
fault. Nothing this bad ever happened to her before he came
along.

Her mother died after being thrown from
her horse? There was Damon following on the heels of her
father.

John Holbrooke sends a letter to his
former comrade and not two days pass before he too succumbs and
dies.

She finally gets a chance to go home
again, and guess what? A hurricane, the first in an otherwise quiet
season, strikes along with enemy soldiers.

Now she was cold, scared, and trapped
on an island with a man who seemed to be the bringer of misfortune
and suffering.

He was right. He really was the
devil.

When she began to blame his presence
for every broken heel, stubbed toe, and upset stomach, she
suspected that she was going insane.

In a dim part of her mind Jocelyn knew
she was being irrational but she didn’t care.

She wasn’t speaking to him ever
again.

It was a shame he had no similar plans
for her.

“We need firewood.”

She greeted this bland assessment with
stony silence. He looked at her over his shoulder and his eyes,
once so light and gray, seemed dark and hooded. The muscles in his
jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, his fingers tightened into
fists in the sand, the tiny grains shifting life water through his
large hands.

It was the first time she realized that
she wasn’t the only one still angry. The only difference was that
his rage seemed to be burning even hotter than her own.

“We need to make a signal so that the
Marie can know we’re here.”

Her lips twisted, and she hesitated,
more with wariness now than her initial hauteur. She found she
disliked him angry.

“And you plan on doing that by making a
fire?”

He raised a dangerous brow as he rose
to his feet. “Do you doubt it can be done?”

She glared at him for a moment before
turning and looking pointedly at the wide swath of ocean as clear
as the eye could see.

With no ship in sight.

“It needs to be done, Jocelyn,” he
snapped, his use of her name shaking her badly. “There is no reason
we have to make this any harder than it is. I would prefer that you
turn yourself into a help rather than a hindrance.”

She stiffened but he was right. Her
anger, which had been choking her before began to slide away. This
was no time for foolishness, not if they wanted to survive and no
matter how much he aggravated her he had always been there for her.
He’d never met her mother, he’d been just as devastated from John’s
passing as she had been, and on that ship and when she’d fallen
into the ocean, he had been the one to come and save
her.

He’d anchored her in the storm, spoiled
Jet horribly and as far as Jocelyn was aware had no ill will
towards her nails, toes (stubbed or otherwise) or currently calm
stomach.

So maybe he wasn’t a Devil so much as a
rather irritating human being.

And it was because of that that she
couldn’t stop herself from one last dig even as she clambered over
the side of the long boat and onto the wet sand.

“We’ll call a ship alright. Only with
our luck it’ll probably be the wrong one and our corpses can amuse
the English while they have their morning tea.”

His mouth split, more a baring of teeth
than a smile.

“Afternoon tea. We’re long past
morning, Princess, and in either case it’s a chance we’ll have to
take.”

And with that he turned on his heel and
walked away.

* * * *

It was oddly peaceful, if tiring. Once
she was over the wild fluctuations of her mood, she found that she
enjoyed walking on the beach and gathering driftwood. The sky was
still grumbling, as if unsure whether it should be happy yet, and
the air still heavy, but it had stopped raining altogether now and
the winds were dying down. She no longer felt as if knives were
stabbing through her wet clothes, though she still trembled
uncontrollably when she stopped moving for too long. The heavy
black skirts drug along behind her and made walking difficult if
not impossible. Because her hands were full, she kept having to
pause and kick the hem of her skirts aside with her feet, wet
clumps of sand flying through the air with each jerky
movement.

Jocelyn imagined she heard Damon
laughing at her at times but since his amusement seemed to help
ease a bit of the tension between them she let it be. Finally,
dubbing that they had enough for now, she and Damon placed their
findings in a pile next to where he’d pulled the longboat further
up shore and away from the tide. She watched, huddling with her
arms wrapped tight around her knees, as he formed the wood into a
careful pile, the longer drier bits on bottom.

He stuffed some leaves and twigs he’d
found between the pieces of wood and only when he was finally
satisfied did he pull the flint for his tobacco pipe out of his
coat pocket. It took a few tries, the flint was wet and hard to
work with, the driftwood was soggy and liked sending up white tufts
of smoke more than it liked burning, but Damon was stubborn. He
worked at the fire with the same single minded determination he’d
shown fighting and Jocelyn found herself watching him more often
than she watched the tentative flames.

When it was burning to his satisfaction
a decade later, he gathered more leaves and began to place them on
top of the fire. The flames were more hungry now and they rewarded
his gifts by sending up thick black columns of smoke into the now
clear blue sky.

Grunting in satisfaction, Damon got to
his feet.

“Keep putting more leaves and wood in
until I get back.”

She was ashamed for the flash of panic.
“Where are you going?”

He seemed to hear something in her
voice, because his face, which had been implacable and unsmiling
this entire time, softened.

“I’m going to look around. See what
we’ve gotten ourselves into. I’ll be right back, Princess, and if
you need me you just call for me and I’ll come running.”

Strange how she didn’t doubt
that.

He was gone an hour, maybe
two.

His absence gave Jocelyn enough time to
go and answer nature’s call as well as to finally dry her dress in
front of the fire. She grew first warm, then hot, then downright
uncomfortable. Her mourning dress was hot in the best of
circumstances and now that the sun was back out in full force,
these were anything but the best of circumstances. To make matters
worse the salt from the sea dried on the material leaving her skin
feeling itchy and raw. She was glad when he came back to their
little fire with the jacket he’d pulled off bursting with
fruit.

She bit into one almost before he could
sit down and he chuckled when the sweet juices ran down to coat her
chin and neck.

Great, now she was itchy, hot, and
sticky.

“The island seems to be pretty
small.”

She nodded her head as she wiped the
juice from her face with the sleeve of her dress.

“Do you think there’s anyone else here?
Headhunters maybe?” She’d read about headhunters in the books in
her father’s library. The thought left her eyes wide even as she
reached and tugged at the collar of her dress in search of
relief.

Damon’s eyes were laughing even if his
mouth wasn’t. He’d already finished off three pieces of his own
fruit and was paying special attention to clean the pits. She tried
not to grow distracted by the sight of his strong teeth and tongue
dipping and breaking the tender skin of the fruit.

Saints alive, she was hot.

“I doubt we have to worry about
headhunters but just in case I’d slick some mud over that pretty
little face of yours, Princess.”

“Mud?”

“Well I doubt any warriors will be
wanting my head as a trophy. The same can’t be said for
yours.”