Читать книгу Forbidden Desire - Tina Donahue - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Faucon Island

Sweat poured down Canela’s face and chest. The puny wind did nothing to cool, pushing her hair against her damp neck instead. She clawed it away and grabbed soiled breeches from a pile that reached her calves when she stood. On her knees like a slave, she pounded the cloth against a rock as she wanted to do to her captors who kept her prisoner on this loathsome isle. Their ugly faces evolved into Chadwick Vincent’s, the pirate who’d betrayed her and failed to kill Tristan. He became her next target then the Englishwoman Diana.

Canela longed to punish, crush, and kill.

Frenzied with hate, she beat the clothing mercilessly.

Feet shuffled close. Fanette huffed. She couldn’t have been more repulsive, her ankles thick, toes fat and hairy. She thought she ruled the world. “Put a hole in those and you go without food until sunset tomorrow.”

White-hot loathing roared through Canela. The fare here was barely edible and not enough to keep a child alive. In the past, she’d eaten the finest meats and fruits. Then her hair shone, skin glowed, her beauty surpassing everyone’s even the Englishwoman’s.

Now though…

Her hands bore calluses from hard labor and her shoulders drooped from lugging baskets too heavy for an Englishman to carry. She labored from dawn to dusk but it was never enough to satisfy these vile beasts.

She longed to have Fanette’s head between her hands and battered the breeches accordingly.

“Heed what I say.” Fanette smacked Canela with a switch.

A searing sting raced down her arm.

Fists tightened, Canela pushed up, ready to beat the woman senseless.

The switch came down repeatedly, driving her to the ground. She covered her head with her arms and wailed. “Pardonne moi.” Forgive me.

“For being foolish and lazy? Or for defying me?” Fanette struck again.

Canela cried out. “Everything. Please.”

Breathing hard, Fanette stopped. “When will you learn to do what we ask without destroying everything you touch? No wonder your people wanted to get rid of you. Clean those breeches properly then do the same with the others. If you dare leave here. I promise to bring more and more for you to wash. Today you go without food. Tomorrow too if you fail to learn submission to your betters.”

Canela would have gladly starved before considering them or anyone superior to her.

“Do you understand? Or do you need more of this?” Fanette brandished the switch.

Canela forgot pride, for the moment, and bowed submissively. Under Fanette’s watchful scowl, she cleaned the breeches carefully and hung them on a branch to dry.

“Do the others now as you should. The women’s cloths come next. Then whatever else needs washing. That pile had better be much lower when I return. If not, prepare for true punishment.” She trudged away.

Surf flowed around the breeches and licked the sand. A small, green lizard skittered past, skirting the water.

Canela scooped up the creature. The thing snapped its jaw, trying to bite. She twisted its slender body. Bones cracked. Smiling, she hurled its limp form into a wave and winced. Her arms ached from washing too many clothes and from welts where the switch had struck. Several stripes bled lightly. Her perfect skin ruined again.

She trembled with outrage but didn’t cry. Weeping was for fools and those she’d make pay for the abominations done her.

Torture and death filled her thoughts. Horrific images made the day pass more swiftly.

The moon was high before she finished her tasks. She gobbled wild berries to quiet her growling belly. No one watched or guarded her. There wasn’t anywhere to escape. Endless water separated this isle from the next. Wild boars roamed the forest. The sturdiest man wouldn’t survive an attack.

If she chose to live outside the settled areas, no islander would complain. They’d have one less mouth to feed. She, alone, would have to find enough food and fresh water to sustain her.

With no other choice, she carried the basket on her back as a beast would. Despite the short walk, the cleaned breeches and cloths grew unwieldy, forcing her to stop for breath and what strength she could gather.

She plodded into the island community, a series of mud homes. No stone house like Tristan’s. No jewels, colorful silks, or looking glasses. The comforts here were horribly primitive, yet still denied her and the other prisoners. The men had a penned off area where they slept beneath the sky no matter the weather. They had to endure the worst rain and storms.

So did she. As the only female slave, her open-air enclosure was far smaller than the one afforded the hogs.

She dropped the basket in front of the cowhide that served as Fanette’s door. If good fortune was with Canela, Fanette would trip over the clothes and break her neck.

At this hour, most everyone slept. One man guarded the shore. None the community. The male prisoners had their ankles shackled. They could barely shuffle much less walk, run, or cause trouble.

As a woman, she could move freely. No one worried about her.

If she had a blade they would.

To get to her dirt bed, she had to pass the crude wooden fence surrounding the men. Clouds shrouded the moon and cast the world into deeper shadows. Dark shapes littered the ground. The prisoners, she guessed.

A soft trill sounded. Perhaps from a bird. Perhaps not.

Canela slowed. Wind stirred her cloth and hair.

Another trill, this longer, quieter.

The silvery light dimmed further, then went out. Similar to when one extinguishes a candle or an oil lamp. The moon no longer able to pierce the heavy clouds.

Something rustled and scuffed.

Unafraid, she gave into curiosity and padded closer.

A hand clamped her wrist. “Scream and I’ll break your neck.”

Chadwick Vincent. Yellow Scarf to her people. A name given because of the bright cloth he wore on his head. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the color or his ugly face, but she’d never forget his hideous voice.

She’d offered him Tristan’s stone house, the island she’d called home, its riches, and herself, even speaking the English Vincent knew. He’d wanted Diana. Only white skin would do for him.

Canela clutched his balls and squeezed. “Release me or regret it.”

His hand fell away from her. He panted, agony in each breath. “I only wanted you to stop and not alert the others.”

He’d once threatened to put a bullet in her head and promised to strangle her if she didn’t answer his endless questions quickly and truthfully so he could take Diana as his own. When Canela had still offered him her flesh, he’d given her to his foul pirate crew saying they might want a savage. He was better than that.

Not any longer.

She increased the pressure on his sac.

He made an angry sound.

She wasn’t afraid. He might be able to break her fingers or arm, though not before she crushed his manhood. Her labor during these endless months had made her quite strong. “Why would you want anything from me, a mere savage? You craved Diana.”

“I still do. I dream of her neck between my hands as I squeeze the life from her. Surely, you’ve thought the same.”

“Why would you care?”

“Don’t you want to escape?”

She’d thought and dreamt of little else. “Do you?”

“What do you think?”

“That no man could be a greater fool than you are. You wear shackles, sleep in a pen like an animal, and have no pistol to protect yourself, yet you dream of escape.” She laughed quietly. “Have you prayed to your white god, hoping he would save you? Why would you ask him to help me?”

“We can band together, or you can stay here and work until you’re old and ugly. I’d say a few more years of endless labor should do it. No man will want you then, English or islander. The choice is yours.”

She dug her nails into his testicles. His breeches provided some protection, though hardly enough.

He winced.

“Tell me how beautiful I am. Make me believe you.”

“You are.” He gulped air. “My men wanted you immediately.”

She clenched her jaw. “Not them. You.” She sank her nails deeper.

He groaned.

Her smile widened. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“If you harm me, you’ll never have my answer or know what I have planned for us.”

“Us?” She gave him a hard squeeze.

He gasped.

She let up slightly. “Tell me your idea. I may listen.”

“I can’t. Not while you’re hurting me. Please stop.”

So the invincible pirate was finally on his knees to her where he belonged. “Say or do anything that displeases me and I promise to make you regret it.” She eased her grip but didn’t release him. “Tell me how we can leave.”

He swallowed loudly and sucked in air. “You know French, I don’t. Nor do the men. Only Storley did.”

The pirate who’d claimed Canela after Vincent had pushed her away, disgusted by her brown skin. Storley had died the second month here, trampled by a horse. An accident, their captors had said. Canela knew better. Storley had wanted to die. “After all this time you need me to tell you what the islanders say?”

“This is the first chance I’ve had to speak with you. I’ve tried since the bloody moment we set foot here. You must get the key to these shackles and learn where they keep their pistols.”

“So you can shoot them then me. I think not.” She let go and backed away.

“Trust me, or you’re a slave till death. That may be fifty years or more. Think you can stomach that? Alone, you can never leave. You need help from me, my men, and the other prisoners here.”

Canela edged closer. “To do what? Take the sloop the islander’s now have? The newest captives said it came from Benedict Bishop, a white merchant.”

“I have no idea of its origins. Though a fine vessel, I don’t want it. I’ll settle for nothing but Tristan’s.”

She gripped the rail. “You expect to take it when my people come here to trade?”

“What else?”

“To return to my land?”

“I’d enjoy nothing more.”

She wasn’t certain if he lied. “Why not use Bishop’s ship?”

“Have you forgotten Tristan has men watching his shores? If they see a sloop other than his approach the cove, they’ll warn the others. We need surprise on our side. With his longboats and some of his men rowing to the beach, those who guard won’t suspect anything’s wrong until it’s too late. By then, we’ll have the upper hand and can mount our attack.”

“Not until you arrive there. You need to leave here first.”

He made an impatient noise. “With your help in getting the key and the weapons, me and the others can overpower Tristan’s crew. We’ll already have defeated the islanders here. We can then sail to Tristan’s island and take it as we should have before.”

Her excitement dimmed, replaced by rage. “And Diana too?”

“I want that bloody bitch dead, same as you. Maybe you want it more. What say I let you have the honor of doing her in?”

“Let me? Without my help, what can you do? I no longer need you to agree. Tell me you understand that.”

He breathed hard. “I do.”

“Remember it well or die here, a slave for the islanders to whip and work to death.”

“Yes, yes.” He made an impatient sound. “Have these beasts discussed the next time Tristan’s sloop will arrive?”

Even though they had, Canela wasn’t about to tell Vincent. He’d used her cruelly. She’d make him pay. “When they do, I may tell you.”

“Best you make that will, instead of may. Do you know where the pistols are?”

She did. Her time spent here hadn’t only involved filthy work. Early on, she’d learned where the men stored the weapons. At first, she’d wanted to use them on herself. Soon, she daydreamed about killing the islanders. Now, she’d indulge in her fantasies about shooting Diana, Tristan, and Vincent. “I can find out. The islanders here outnumber your men. How do you hope to fell so many?”

“Do they have drink? Spirits? Ale or rumfustian?”

“No.”

“What about potions and things savages call magic? Something to put them out, hopefully for hours.”

They had a healer who mixed potions to make one sleep, the same as Simone did for her and Canela’s people. “We shall see.”

“You’ll need to do more than that or this hellhole is your future.”

Not any longer. “We can speak about this again tomorrow when the moon rises. Not before.” Confident in her new power, she padded to her enclosure.

* * * *

Vincent sneered at Canela’s retreating figure and cupped his aching balls. Wasn’t like him to cower to any woman, especially a savage, but he’d play her game to get what he wanted then make her regret everything she’d done tonight. First though, escape.

Another moment here would drive him mad.

Even growing up wretchedly poor in England hadn’t prepared him for such deprivation. His stomach growled constantly, begging for any food, even the leaves and grass he forced himself to eat so he could sleep. These island bastards worked him near to death, worse than any captain on a merchant or pirate ship.

Next to them, Tristan had been kindness itself.

Vincent couldn’t wait to slit Tristan’s bloody throat for causing this misery and starting these problems.

As captain, Tristan had been honor-bound to share Diana. That’s what pirates did. After everyone enjoyed her womanly charms, Tristan and the crew could have ransomed her to Bishop, collected the funds, and gone on their merry way.

But no, Tristan had demanded her flesh for himself alone. His notion of a grand romance. The pirate prince and the reverend’s daughter.

Vincent spat. Both would regret what they’d done to him. Canela too. He’d save her death for last, the moment he no longer needed her.

* * * *

These last days, Heath’s worries had kept him from civilized niceties. His stubble itched. He hadn’t combed his hair. Even when he was in the courtyard, as now, he kept to himself as much as he could to avoid seeing Netta and Aimee.

Thankfully, they hadn’t crossed his path.

He missed them terribly.

Tristan emerged from the mansion freshly shaved and wearing clean clothes.

Heath left the loom he’d yet to repair.

Gavra grabbed his arm. “Where are you going? Follie needs this to work so she can finish here and help me in the kitchen.”

“I’ll fix it in a moment. I have to speak to Tristan first.”

“No. Before you do that, you see to what we need.”

“Forgive me, but no.” He shook her off as gently as he could and blocked Tristan from leaving the courtyard.

Tristan backed into a child. The girl tumbled to the ground and wailed loudly. Tristan glared at Heath. “What is the matter with you?” He patted the youngster’s head. “Pardonne-moi. Vous souhaitez un tour?” Forgive me. Would you like a ride?

Her tears flowed but she lifted her chubby arms.

Tristan swung her above his head.

The other children gathered and bounced, each screaming for him to twirl them around.

He laughed. “Vous porterez sȗrement me out, mais chacun d’entre vous a votre tour.” You will surely wear me out, but each of you shall have your turn.

Heath wanted to bellow. He’d already waited an interminable time to settle matters and end his torment on the isle.

Tristan couldn’t have been more perverse. He gave each child a particularly long ride. They staggered past him like drunken sailors, their giggles and shrieks blending.

Finished, he stepped around Heath.

“Wait a moment.” Heath grabbed his arm.

Tristan clenched his jaw. “Take care with what you say to me and do. This is your first and last warning.”

“Understood.” Heath released him. “I need a word. I’ve waited days to speak to you.”

“Is something wrong with the crops? The cattle? The pigs or horses? James and Royce are here. So are the islanders. Why didn’t you speak to them? My God, man, you’ve been here long enough to know I don’t have time to settle every single thing. I have my wife and daughter to tend to now. I deserved a few days without interruption.”

“Yes, I know. Congratulations. I wish all of you long lives and good health, but only you can resolve this.”

Tristan sighed loudly. “If this is about Royce loathing you, there’s nothing I can do to make things better. Quit coming to me like a silly schoolgirl and settle the matter between yourselves.”

Heath danced to the side to keep Tristan from leaving. “I don’t care if he shoots me. In fact, I welcome it. His hatred isn’t what I need to discuss.”

“Then what is? Out with it.”

“Not here. A private place is best. We could speak in the room where you store the liquor or where you keep your books.”

“No. Stay away from my library. Peter’s finally doing his lessons. I want nothing to keep him from them. I’ll educate him as a gentleman even if it kills him. If I don’t, Diana will have my head.” Tristan pointed. “Never repeat that.”

“I swear I won’t. Isn’t there anywhere else we can talk without anyone overhearing?”

“Why? The women and children don’t understand English. Even if they did, what have you to hide?”

To mention his desire for Aimee and Netta would most likely coax Tristan to a more secluded area. Unfortunately, Heath hadn’t the courage to face Tristan’s outrage, though he had to say something. “This is about me and the island women.”

Tristan’s color rose.

Heath guessed it wasn’t from embarrassment.

“Come with me.” Tristan strode into the birthing room and crowded him. “Talk. Or should I say confess? What have you done?”

“Nothing. Nor shall I. As long as I’m here, I can’t be a proper man. Much more of this and I’ll surely go mad. I’m no bloody priest.”

Tristan’s mouth quirked as he struggled not to smile. “Is that all?”

“You can’t be serious. I know Royce expects me to endure celibacy for my remaining days, but you do too? I refuse.”

Tristan got in Heath’s face. “You what?”

“You heard me.” He no longer cared if Tristan killed him. Anything would be better than this. “I want to leave. I must.”

“How? You expect to take a skiff to civilization? Surely, you don’t think we’d let you have the Lady Lark. Or leave for that matter. You are aware there is a price on my head. James’s and Peter’s too.”

“I’ve done everything I could to win your trust, yet you still believe I’d bring the authorities or pirates here.”

“Money does terrible things to men, even honorable ones.”

“Should I include you in that assessment?”

Tristan’s face darkened. “I don’t care about such things.”

“Neither do I. I want my freedom. The chance to live a normal life. I’d wager you and the others wouldn’t last a minute in my position, yet you expect me to endure and to thank you for the restrictions. Where’s the fairness in that?”

“Who said life was fair?”

Heath spoke through his teeth. “A decent man would let me go.”

“I hope you know an insult isn’t going to sway me.”

“I’ll beg if I have to. Do you want me on my knees?”

Tristan growled. “Of course not.” He rubbed his forehead. “I can’t give you an immediate answer. I have to think about this.”

Heath threw up his hands. “How long will that take? Please don’t tell me years. I won’t last that long.”

“Has an island woman shown interest in you? If so, I want her name.”

“Why? Do you intend to lecture her?”

“No. Until Diana can speak fluent French, I’ll have to ask Gavra or Simone to keep the women in line when it comes to Englishmen, including you and your shipmates.” Irritation flashed across Tristan’s face. “Bloody hell. Have they been having the same problem as you?”

“I have no idea. They work in the fields or with the animals. We don’t converse now any more than we did on the ship. I only met them through Bishop.”

“Never mention that swine again.” Tristan paced the opulent room. Marble abounded along with silk coverings on the bed. “It isn’t bad enough I have no end of trouble with the crops, animals, and Peter, now I have your problems to consider.” He stopped and looked over. “You’ve yet to give me a name.”

“There is none.”

Tristan laughed. “Liar. I see the truth on your face. It’s Veronique, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea who that is. If she or the other women have shown interest, I wouldn’t know. On Royce’s orders, I’m not to look at or speak to the females here.”

“He’s a good man. You should follow his lead.”

“By wedding an island woman and getting her with child?”

Tristan planted his hands on his hips. “You bloody well know what I mean. Keep away from the women while I sort this out.”

“I want to leave with the islanders who come to trade. They should be here in weeks, surely no more than a few months. They have to travel before the cyclone season begins. To get rid of me even faster, Royce and the men here could take me to Mozambique in the Lady Lark or to the other natives’ isle as they did Bishop’s crew. Blindfold me. Keep me in the hold so I don’t know the route. Bishop never told me. I wasn’t his captain or quartermaster. Without the knowledge, I could never repeat it to another soul. Not that I would anyway. I give you my word.”

“Which counts for nothing if pirates waylay the ship and beat what information you do know out of you or scuttle the sloop and everyone drowns. At that point, I’d have Simone’s and the other women’s grief to contend with, plus worrying about a possible attack on these shores. No thank you. Why didn’t you consider this before you agreed to stay here?”

Heath could barely contain his outrage. He squeezed his fists to keep from shaking. “What choice did you allow me? It was either give you my allegiance as a free man, or be a slave for life to the other islanders, the same as Canela and the pirate everyone calls Yellow Scarf. No one said I’d never lie with a woman for the rest of my days. If they had, I would have spared you this trouble and shot myself.”

Tristan’s mouth jerked again.

Heath clenched his jaw. “This isn’t funny.”

“No one is laughing. Nor do I wish you ill. You have proved repeatedly you can be a good man, but that doesn’t give you license to behave as an islander. This is their land, not mine. We must respect their people, in particular, the women. If we don’t, they could revolt, then where would we be? There are no habitable islands around here, save this one. I expect you to remember that while I speak with James and Royce to determine the best course. I’m sorry for the suffering you have to endure, but these things can’t be rushed. You’ll simply have to understand and behave yourself. That above all.” He left the room.

Heath sagged against the wall, no further now than he’d been days before. Tristan could drag this out for months, clear to the storm season when the weather trapped everyone here. After that, he could conveniently forget the problem. By then, Diana would most likely carry a second child. So would Simone and Gavra and countless other women. Peter could be wed. Aimee too. And Netta, despite her hand. They’d have children. They might expect him to care for the babes until he died from loneliness or old age.

He tore into the courtyard.

The women looked up from their looms, the wash, and the potter’s wheels.

Heath raced to the wall.

Gavra shouted, “Where are you going?”

Heath had no idea. He dashed into the forest. Bushes and trees rushed past. The cliff came up sharply. He veered before he shot over the side, bolted the way he’d come then back once more. A futile race to nowhere that he couldn’t stop until his calves ached, feet hurt, and lungs burned.

He sank to the ground and could have cried. Despite his fatigue and pain, the clean, sweet air reminded him of Netta and Aimee. Their lips on him. Hands searching, arousing, comforting.

Everything he could never have.