Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (20 page)

They had spent three harrowing days and nights out on the ocean, but the fourth morning had found them winging toward a tropical isle, neatly directed by the tide as if it had been their destination all along.

The surf had tossed their boat upside down, pitching them out so they’d nearly drowned. Tristan had been in no condition to fight the current, and Harriet had been pulled under by the weight of her sodden clothes, so they’d just managed to wade to shore.

As they’d lain on the sand, counting their blessings and saying their prayers, they’d watched in dismay as their boat was smashed to bits on an outcropping of rocks.

Since then, many days had passed, and Tristan had amazed her by remaining alive. His injuries had festered, but he claimed the salt water was healing, so he swam often, and the therapy actually seemed to be helping. His pallor had faded, his wounds closing, the redness of infection disappearing as if it had never been.

His energy and vigor were gradually returning, along with his cocky attitude. Whenever she heard him barking orders, she breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he was on the mend.

As for herself, she was still in a state of shock, too inundated to think clearly or make plans. She’d survived their ordeal, and for the moment, it was the sole aspect upon which she could focus.

Their island—which Tristan had dubbed
Eden
—was small, with a slight rise in the middle from which the ocean was visible all the way around. They were totally alone, much as Adam and Eve had been, and she felt vulnerable and exposed.

Her stockings and shoes had been lost in their frantic struggle to get on shore. Her gown was torn to shreds to use as bandages, so she was clad only in her chemise. When worn under a dress, the garment was very functional, but as a piece of clothing in and of itself, it provided no protection whatsoever.

The straps were narrow and the hem very short, hanging to just above her knees. Her arms were bare, her feet were bare, her shoulders and a good deal of bosom were bare. For a woman who had been covered from chin to toe her entire life, she might as well have been naked.

Tristan, too, was hardly dressed, sporting a pair of male drawers and naught else. No shirt. No stockings. No shoes. Back on his ship, he’d taken up the battle in only his trousers, but she’d ripped those away to check a gash on his leg.

The drawers hugged his narrow hips and fell to mid-thigh, and they were a light cream color, so whenever she happened to notice him out of the corner of her eye, she was always initially stunned to suppose that he was nude.

He called to her again, and finally, she rose and went to him. He limped and was easily fatigued, and she worried that he might overtax himself and have a relapse.

She’d told him that nothing frightened her, but she’d been lying. Her greatest fear was that he would perish, and she would be left on her own in the godforsaken spot.

“Are you all right?” he asked as she settled next to him.

“Just a tad unnerved—by the silence and the isolation.”

“Which is certainly understandable.”

“Do you imagine anyone will ever find us?”

“Of course they will. We’re in the shipping lanes. Ships must travel by here all the time.”

She’d kept a constant vigil, but she hadn’t seen the least hint of a vessel.

“What if they don’t?” she said. “What if no one ever comes for us?”

“You can’t think that way.”

“No one will look for me.”

Helen would miss her, and Helen would eventually grieve, but months might pass before she realized that Harriet had vanished.

“Well, plenty of people will miss
me
,” Tristan said. “They’re probably organizing a full-scale search even as we speak.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Let’s do. I refuse to allow you to sink into the doldrums. Not so early anyway. After we’ve been here a year or two—”

“A year or two!” She was aghast.

“I was joking, Harriet.”

He reached out and patted her hand, the gesture sending a jolt of sensation up her arm. Tristan was still too incapacitated to engage in any sexual activity, but their attraction remained blatant and impossible to ignore.

“Will we starve?” she inquired.

“No.”

“Will we freeze to death?”

As it was insufferably warm, the question was ludicrous, but he chuckled and answered it kindly.

“Definitely not.”

She didn’t know why she was being so petulant and unhelpful, but she was perplexed over why nothing ever went as it should.

Her life had been one disaster after the next. Who was set adrift by pirates and lived to tell the tale? The event was just one, in a long line of calamities that seemed specifically designed to test her mettle.

Why was she so unlucky? Why had she been singled out for such drama and heartache?

Although she grasped the fact that it wasn’t Tristan’s fault they’d been targeted by his pirate-brother, she couldn’t move beyond the notion that he’d caused the incident. The idea made her ill-tempered, made her want to snap at him, to blame him.

“Come,” he said. “I need to show you something.”

“I’m too tired,” she grouched.

“I know, sour puss, but come with me anyhow.”

He was being too considerate, and she felt petty and ungrateful. When he stood and extended a hand to her, she hesitated, then linked their fingers, recognizing that she couldn’t stay on the beach forever.

He pulled her to her feet, and while she should have drawn away, she didn’t. She clasped hold of him as if he was her last tether to sanity. She was extremely distraught, and it was all she could do to keep from flinging herself into his arms as if she was a tiny child.

She wanted him to insist everything would be fine, and she couldn’t bear to be separated from him for a single second, being absurdly terrified that she might blink and he’d disappear.

While they’d been growing close in his cabin, their predicament in the longboat—with her not knowing if he would live or die—had altered their relationship. They were joined in ways she didn’t comprehend, as if their connection now existed on a celestial plane that was too difficult for mere mortals to fathom.

They wandered from the dunes into the trees and brush, and they walked slowly, letting Tristan catch his breath.

She hadn’t ventured out much herself. She’d stuck to him like glue, like a leech on a thigh, and as they progressed, it became apparent that they were on a path humans had hacked through the foliage. Soon, they were in a clearing, staring at the remnants of a hut that someone had built from twigs and sticks.

Tristan approached the front—there was no door—and tried to enter, tried to bring her inside with him, but she dug in her heels.

“How did you find this place?” she queried.

“I was exploring.”

“While I was napping? I thought you’d dozed off, too.”

“No. I decided we should get off the beach, that we should have more protection from the elements.” He kissed her sweetly, tenderly. “It’s all right, Harriet. Don’t be afraid.”

“Who does it belong to? What if they come back?”

“They won’t come back.”

“How can you be sure?”

An odd expression crossed his face. He looked troubled, and she studied him, then gasped.

“They’re dead, aren’t they? The people who were here, they perished.”

“I found...a...skeleton. I’m certain it was the occupant.”

“What happened to him?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he suffered an accident. He was lying at the bottom of a ravine.”

She wondered if he was telling the truth. Had the person starved?

Since they’d arrived, she’d been so dazed that she hadn’t focused on long-term concerns such as victuals or shelter. She’d been foraging on the beach, had been sipping rainwater from pools up on the rocks.

Could the island provide sufficient sustenance? Even if there was food aplenty, what did she and Tristan—a city dweller and a sailor—know about existing off the land?

“Were there signs of others ever being here?”

“No. We’re quite alone.”

As he uttered the word
alone
, his tone underscored their dilemma as nothing else had.

Like a spoiled toddler, she plopped down to the ground and started to cry. She hated to seem so weak, but she couldn’t help it. She was weary and hungry and more miserable than she could ever remember being.

The soles of her feet were lashed with cuts from the rough sand. Salt from the ocean had crusted her hair. Her fair skin had been burned by the relentless sun, so she itched and chafed.

Her eyes were sore, her limbs were sore, and her entire body ached as if she was coming down with an ague.

“Are you crying again?”

“Yes.”

“Stop it. I’ve told you before: I can’t abide feminine hysterics.”

“You haven’t begun to see
hysterics
. I’m scared, and I’m unhappy, and I won’t pretend otherwise.”

He knelt down and took her hand.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” he claimed.

“It’s pretty bad.”

He gazed around and sighed. “Yes, I suppose it is. It could be worse though.”

“How? How could it possibly be worse?”

“You could be trapped with an ogre—instead of me.”

“You
are
an ogre.”

“I promise I’ll grow on you.”

His attempts at humor failed, and she cried even harder. She wished she would simply wake up and discover that she’d been dreaming, but unfortunately, her quandary was all too real.

He sat and pulled her onto his lap. He was silent, holding her until the torrent was spent. As she calmed, he kissed her again and dried her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“No.”

At her continued petulance, he laughed. “For pity’s sake, Harriet. Buck up, would you? We have to make some plans.”

“What sorts of plans?”

“I don’t intend to perish here. Do you?”

“No.”

“Then we must figure out how to carry on.”

“I haven’t a clue what to do.”

“You’d be surprised how easy it will be. I’ve been scouting the area, and if we have to be stranded, the spot has ample bounty. There is fruit in the trees and a fresh-water stream. We may even catch some fish.”

“Fish! You’re mad. I’m from London; I don’t know how to fish.”

“Well, I do.”

“You do?”

“Yes. When I was a boy, I passed several summers in Scotland with one of my friends from school. His name was Aiden Bramwell, and his father was an African adventurer. He would take us camping in the wilderness. I realize I don’t look it, but I’m quite capable in a pinch.”

“I’m not capable at all.”

He shrugged. “You’ll learn to be.”

“Yes, I imagine I will.”

“And don’t be sad. I can’t bear it when you are.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just so overwhelmed.”

“One step at a time, Harriet, and I’ll be right here with you. I’ll never leave you alone. Not for a moment.”

In her deteriorated state, the reassurance was exceedingly welcome, and she wondered if he felt the strange connection that now flowed between them. She’d once heard that survivors of a disaster were irrevocably linked, and it appeared to be true—on her end anyway.

“Let’s get up and get moving,” he said, sounding like the ship’s captain he was. “The day is waning, and we ought to accomplish a few chores before dark.”

They rose and explored the immediate vicinity, then set to work, shoring up the dilapidated hut.

The poor, departed soul who’d dwelled in the shack before them had been a civilized man rather than a savage. He’d left behind a cooking pot, a fork, and many pieces of sharp glass that could be used for cutting. He’d made a broom and had woven grass mats and blankets.

Once the place was more habitable, she picked fruit, while Tristan gathered wood. He actually started a fire in the pit in the center of the floor, and at witnessing the feat, she was so amazed that she was speechless. By the time the sun dropped in the west, her condition—and her mood—were much improved.

Their situation was still dire, but it no longer seemed hopeless. Her hunger had been sated, she’d taken a bath in the stream to wash the salt from her skin. The light from the fire reduced her sense of isolation.

As Tristan stoked the flames, she yawned, her torso heavy with fatigue. She was sore in every muscle, down to the tiniest pore, and she wanted to rest for a week, but she was worried about their sleeping arrangements.

So far, they’d spent their nights snuggled together on the beach, but he’d been too weak to attempt any mischief. Obviously, after the energy he’d exhibited during their busy afternoon, he was rapidly recuperating.

Would they commence the sexual affair that had nearly begun in his cabin?
Should
they commence it?

She was beyond caring what occurred between them. She only knew that she wasn’t going to sleep by herself—no matter what!

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“I’m too exhausted for words.”

A sound echoed in the trees—probably a branch falling—and she jumped, then relaxed as total silence descended again.

“It’s disconcerting, isn’t it?” he said. “Being here like this? It doesn’t seem real. I keep expecting native savages or wolves to leap out and accost us.”

“So do I.”

“I’ll stay in here with you,” he promised, as if reading her mind. “Even if you demand I leave, I won’t go.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not. Not when you’re with me.”

“Simply remind yourself of how marvelously competent I am. I can be valiantly protective, too.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Other than being tossed overboard by a pirate, you mean?”

“Yes, other than that.”

The both chuckled.

He nodded toward a floor mat. “Lie down. I’ll watch over you.”

She was too weary to stand and walk to it, so she crawled over and lay on her side, her knees curled to her chest. As she was drifting off, he joined her, spooning himself to her back, an arm draped across her waist. He nuzzled her ear, her cheek.