Master of Paradise (20 page)

“Come,” he said, leading her along the path.
They arrived at last to a hollowed-out root in a tree. “A ferry
tern,” he said, pointing. There, a lovely white bird sat close to
her chick. She looked up at them with the softest, most trusting
black eyes Gabrielle had ever seen. No fear. No alarm. No instinct
to protect her young. Just a look of such sublime welcome that
Gabrielle felt moved to tears.

She bent so she was within inches of the
bird’s sweet face. “I’ve never seen a bird that wouldn’t fly away
at this close range. Or at least become upset and want to keep you
from her young.”

“They don’t know danger here,” Rodrigo
explained. “They don’t even build nests. They just lay their eggs
on the branch of a tree and fly away. It never occurs to them that
anyone will harm them, because no one ever has.”

She looked up at him with a new understanding
in her eyes. “That’s why you love it so.”

“It’s why my family has loved it for hundreds
of years. It’s why we’ve fought to protect it from the greed of
evil men who want to spoil it.”

“Men like Hastings.” Once again, she felt the
fist of guilt squeeze her gut. “I can’t believe I allowed him to
trick me as he did.”

“I wouldn’t be too hard on myself about that.
Hastings is clever—he certainly fooled me.”

“Why do you think he’s so evil?” she
asked.

“Who knows how the twig was bent?”

“He’s always been that way. There’s something
missing in him. He has no feelings for other human beings. He has
only contempt for our father. His mother was just a smothering
burden. I know he was relieved at her death. And yet he’s so
relentless in his pursuits. What drives him? What does he
want?”

“Sometimes I look back on that mean little
boy and think of how he was excluded from the bond of Seychelles.
You, me, Cullen, Douglas, and Caprice: We all had these roots in
paradise. Hastings had heard all the stories of its splendor from
his father. How jealous he must have been. It’s only natural that
he’d grow up to be obsessed with Seychelles and want to possess
them. He just wants what everyone wants: paradise.”

“Is that what this fight of yours is all
about?”

“Of course, Gabé. Everybody wants paradise.
What makes our situation so unique is that the paradise that all
the characters in this little drama want is so tangible. We can
feel it, touch it, smell it. It’s real. It’s all around us.”

She’d never thought about it in this light,
but it was true. Douglas, Caprice, Rodrigo, Hastings, even Cullen,
and of course, herself; they all wanted paradise.
This
paradise. “So you and Hastings are locked in a struggle to see who
will be master of paradise?”

“You could say that.”

“So you will have to kill him.”

“Probably.”

“And then what? Won’t there be other
contenders? A whole society of plantation owners? An entire economy
based on slavery? And like Hastings, won’t this-endless succession
of enemies all have the power of England behind them?”

He said nothing. There was nothing he
could
say.

In that moment, Gabrielle understood for the
first time just how hopeless Rodrigo’s stand really was. She
suddenly realized that he was locked in a battle that, in the
scheme of history, he couldn’t possibly win.

“Is it safe?” Gabrielle asked.

Over the last few days, as they’d taken the
time they needed to recover their strength, she’d been overcome by
a sense that they must never leave the sanctuary of this valley.
Toward this end, she’d hidden from Rodrigo the fact that her leg
had all but healed, still using the staff to walk. She no longer
needed it, thanks to the salve he’d made, but she knew if Rodrigo
discovered how much better she was feeling, he’d insist they leave.
To face certain defeat. Ever since her realization of his hopeless
struggle, she was loath to hurry him into a situation that was sure
to end in his destruction. So while she mended, she’d engineered
her efforts toward distracting him enough—making him happy
enough—that he’d want to stay.

For a couple of days, her plan succeeded.
Rodrigo had wanted her for years, and the thought of having her for
the taking in this paradise of his heart seemed to him, at times,
too good to be true. He could spend hours making love to her as if
there were no tomorrow, and no pressing business at hand. But he’d
begun to grow restless and long for a change of scene. So she was
indulging his yearnings by following him through the jungle to a
distant beach.

“Safe enough,” he answered. “The only two
plantations on the island are far removed from the interior. It
isn’t likely we’ll run into anyone. If we do, there are plenty of
places to hide.”

They climbed a hill and came down the other
side. There, glistening in the sun, was the most beautiful beach
she’d ever seen. Not a long stretch of endless sand, but a series
of small, secluded coves dotted with palms. Huge granite boulders
jutted out into the ocean, the waves crashing against them and
scattering in a sea of foam.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” she cried. She ran a few
steps before catching herself, then dropped to her knees in the
sand, burying her hands. When he came up behind, she smiled up at
him. “It’s just the sort of sand my mother used to tell me about.
Feel it, Rodrigo! It feels like silk.”

“Let’s find some shade,” he suggested. “I
don’t want you staying in the sun too long.”

It was easy to underestimate the severity of
the equatorial sun. Already, her skin had turned a rich golden
color. There was no way of avoiding it. But she’d learned that even
an hour of unprotected exposure could lead to a painful burn.

They found a spot where two silver-trunked
takamaka trees leaned horizontally toward each other, their leaves
creating a protective patch of shade. Dropping to the sand,
Gabrielle hugged her knees, looking around her with appreciative
eyes. The beach, closer to the water, was strewn with long strands
of green kelp and smooth white coral. Across the sea, she spotted
islands all around, the hills shaded in light and dark greens, with
rocky areas that looked almost pink in the afternoon light.

The sea was clear and clean. With the tide
in, the shallow water covered slabs of granite interspersed with
sand, so that part of the water looked so green it was almost
black, while a portion was so clear she could see the tan of the
beach underneath, and patches showed in various shades of
aquamarine. In the distance it was all swirled together so that it
looked striped—or like a thin layer of aqua covering buried
islands. To the left of their cove stood round rocks shaped like
mounds of wet clay the artist had squeezed with a fist, letting the
clay ooze through his fingers, then leaving it to dry.

Beyond the coral reef, breakers rolled in,
creating a rim of white. As Rodrigo settled down beside her, all
was quiet except for the far-off roar of the waves and the gentle
singing of the water lapping up on the beach. Occasionally, the
warm wind blew and the water surged forth to embrace the sand, like
a lover that had been too long away.

Gabrielle instantly fell into the mood of
this peaceful setting. She wasn’t a woman who welcomed inactivity.
Her mind was too turbulent and full of roiling thoughts, her body
accustomed to movement and the pursuit of goals. Yet she looked
about her with the new appreciation of one who’d recently faced
death, and felt the serenity of her surroundings seep into her
soul. Even the palm trees angled toward the sea, almost lying on
their sides, looking as if they could drift down and take a
nap.

She looked at Rodrigo, lying back on one
elbow, surveying the sea with an expert’s eyes. When they glanced
at each other, they merely smiled. There was no need for words.
They could read their thoughts in each other’s eyes. In the days
they’d spent together, they’d rediscovered the effortless affinity
they’d shared as children. They found no need for endless chatter.
Being silent together, simply holding hands, was as companionable
as their most riotous nights of love.

She turned onto her stomach and put her cheek
to the sand. It was unbelievably tranquil. She felt no need to
move, or even think. The earth sang a lullaby to her, soothing her
cares, assuring her of the rightness and order of things. It was
like being at the very end of the world. Stretching her arms wide,
she felt she was embracing all of creation. As if she were truly
one with all its rhythms. None of the old worries mattered. She
couldn’t even recall the things she’d considered important in her
other life. This was what life was—to lie with her ear pressed to
the sand and listen to the hymn of the sea as it resonated to
chords in her own soul.

“I can’t believe this,” she said dreamily
after an hour or more had passed in which she’d done nothing more
than run her foot back and forth along the unbelievably sensuous
sand. “Normally, I’m anxious to leave after staying in one spot for
too long. I become bored with sitting. But I could stay here
forever, under this odd tree that’s so obligingly sheltering us
from the sun. It seems I’ve been here always, at peace, knowing I
belong.”

She rolled over on her back and looked up to
see him smiling down at her. “You do belong here,” he told her.

“I never felt that I belonged anywhere
before. Even when I came to Seychelles at last, I didn’t seem to
fit. Nothing my mother told me seemed to be true. I began to think
her stories were just the fanciful memories of a young girl denied.
But I do feel I belong
here
...with you. Without people and
their restrictions, I feel light of cares—free to be who I am.
Shall I tell you a secret?”

His eyes lit with amusement. “Please do.”

“Sometimes I think I don’t really like
people. I could stay here always, and see no one but you, and be
completely happy for the rest of my life.” She paused as a feeling
of melancholy marred her good humor. “Why can’t it always be like
this, Rodrigo?”

He reached over and ran the back of his
finger along her shoulder. “It can,” he promised.

With his thumb, he slipped the torn shirt off
her shoulder and leaned to plant a kiss on her heated flesh. She
laughed, a renewed feeling of happiness bubbling inside. “Feeling
like playing, are we?”

“You’re not dressed for play.”

“I’ll take mine off if you will,” she teased
in the tone of a taunting child.

They laughed as they stripped off their
meager clothing and tossed it aside. But Gabrielle’s laughter
snared in her throat as she caught sight of the magnificence of his
body. Her gaze rested on the coiled biceps and lean forearms, the
strength of which was accentuated by the thick leather cuffs he
wore at his wrists. It gave him the look of a fierce warrior even
when he smiled. As if his every thought, his every waking desire,
was how to conquer her trembling body with the creative mastery of
his will.

Her eyes traveled the length of him, down the
stalwart chest, lightly tufted with hair of gold, to the taut, flat
belly, to the potent proof of his desire as it throbbed and pulsed.
A pagan god in all his glory, struck from molten gold, empowered by
the sun. “You’re so beautiful!” she exclaimed. “No man has the
right to be so beautifully formed.”

She sat up and began to scoop sand into a
mound.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Paying tribute to you.”

He watched her with a curious frown as her
hands moved in the sand, patting, shaping, using her fingers to
carve in details. Occasionally, she glanced at him for inspiration,
then went back to her task. As it developed, she leaned over it,
shrugging him away when he bent to see. “Wait till it’s finished.
An artist must be free to create unimpeded. You wouldn’t crash my
rehearsal, would you, before I learned my lines?”

Finally, she gave a triumphant sigh. “There!”
she announced, glancing at him with twinkling cobalt eyes. “It’s
perfect!”

He looked to see that she’d made a duplicate
of his erection out of sand. Like his, it was veined and hard, full
of life and character. The head was clearly defined, even down to
the indentation at the tip. It could have passed for the real
thing.

She ran her hand over it. It was tightly
packed and seemed vital and active beneath her touch. “This sand is
so soft, I swear this is real.”

“Which do you prefer,” he asked in a voice as
heated as the sun, “the flesh or the sand?”

“Oh, let me see...” She pretended to consider
as she continued to stroke her fingers over her handiwork. Leaning,
she kissed the projection of hard-packed sand. “So you like the
sand, do you?”

“Well, now that you mention it, this is the
most incredible sand I’ve ever felt. I can’t seem to stop touching
it. It’s so...sumptuous.”

“It’s granitic sand. That’s why it’s so
soft.”

“I don’t care why. I just love the feel of
it.”

“Then, by all means, don’t let me deprive
you.”

He pushed her down on her back in the sand.
When she laughed and said, “What are you doing?” he held her pinned
down. Her struggles forced him to hold her tighter. Soon, she was
gasping in the heat, his locking her beneath him stirring her
blood.

He took a palmful of the silken sand and let
it sift through sun-browned fingers onto her pale skin. He trailed
it along one breast, then the other, until each nipple was rimmed
in a circle of white sand. He sprinkled it between her legs, the
light touch of the silt tantalizing in its gentle padding against
the sensitivity of her most vulnerable core. Then he took his hand
and rubbed the luxurious grains into her skin. Her cleft grew wet.
Her abdomen coiled like a fist. Her nipples hardened as a
suffocating sound escaped lips that parted beneath the systematic
storming of her senses. He scooped up another fistful and palmed it
over her breast. This he kneaded into her like dough, the friction
of the gentle grains delectably sensual, shooting through her with
mind-numbing pleasure, awakening a coarse and lurid ache in her
loins.