Beyond paradise (7 page)

"Did ... did you say," Sylvie was still trying to recover from lost breath, "did you say follow us?"

He didn't answer. He was too busy boosting her onto the horse.

"Why are you taking me with you?" she asked. "You have your freedom. Can't you leave me be? Yes, I see you promised not to take my horse away from me, and you're not. What a humorous play on words. I'd be so very impressed under dif-

Elizabeth Doyle

ferent circumstances, I'm sure. But why are you doing this? What use am I to you?"

"Stop talking," he said, but he didn't seem angry, just preoccupied. "We've got a long journey ahead, and I don't wish to spend it conversing." He climbed up behind her and took the reins. It was an awfully awkward arrangement. Sylvie felt as though he were embracing her. His arms touched her on each side, and clasped at the reins near her ribs. She didn't even want to think about where his legs were. It would have been obscene if it hadn't been so ... necessary.

"A long journey?" she asked, glancing at the pistol he'd stashed in his torn breeches.

He lifted her chin with a finger. "Look at me when you talk," he said.

"How can I? I'm facing the wrong way."

"Then don't talk."

He urged Monique into a gallop, and Sylvie thought it awfully traitorous of her to oblige the way she did. Sylvie was immediately lurched even more intimately against his hard, bare chest and the couple headed along the seashore, away from town, and away from any minuscule promise of help. Sylvie knew the island well, and knew that if they continued to travel north, they would encounter no one for a very long time.

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Sylvie was in a panic. His grip was not fierce, but it was enough to keep her from jumping. She knew there must be a means of escape—she could not imagine it any other way. But it didn't seem there would be one as long as they were galloping. She would wait until they stopped and then she would reason with him, or try to remount Monique on her own, or pray that he sent her away. When more than an hour had passed, Sylvie gave up on being prim within his arms. She had tried to lean forward, to scoot herself slightly away from his open legs, to maintain some level of decency. But the ride was hard, and her hopes were battered, and it all just seemed so useless. She used him as a rest for her back, letting him carry the burden of her weight. He didn't seem to care one way or the other, so why not let him be a chair? It was hard to pretend he was a chair, though, whenever she stole a glimpse at his powerful arms, slapping steadily against her sides as they controlled the reins. His arms were so handsome and lean, so elegantly carved with rivers of faint blue winding between the hills of muscle. It was astounding

Elizabeth Doyle

to her that he did not react even when she let her head drop against his shoulder in weariness. He seemed completely disinterested in their contact, as though he bore no attraction to her at all.

At last, he stopped near a grove of banana trees that grew near the sand. It seemed he was hungry. He hopped from Monique, and tied her to a tree. He helped Sylvie down, too, to make it harder for her to take off on the horse without him. He turned his full attention to gathering fruit.

"You realize I was trying to help you," Sylvie couldn't help remarking.

"And you did," he winked. "Thank you very much."

Sylvie rolled her eyes. "Don't you feel the least bit of remorse? I could understand if you said you feel terrible but you have no choice, or you'd never do something like this if it hadn't been that you were going to be hanged, but it seems as though you hold malice toward me, the one who sought to be kind."

To her surprise, he approached her gently, and said with a knuckle to her chin, "I feel terrible, but I have no choice."

"That's what I just told you to say."

"And I said it. What more do you want?"

"Meaning it would be nice."

"All right, then. I mean it."

"That is absurd. You can't just..."

"You know what I think is absurd?" He laughed darkly. "I think it's absurd that you're not afraid of me." He laughed cruelly at a joke Sylvie did not understand. "I think it's absurd that people like you are so spoiled, so used to being treated like royalty, that it hasn't even occurred to you to beg for your life. It hasn't even crossed your mind that I might..." He glanced at her breasts for only a moment. "Well, that you might be in danger. You're not even concerned."

"Believe me, I am concerned. I am just not one to beg."

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He shook his head in disbelief. "You removed my irons, thinking the world will protect you from harm. You have no doubt you'll be well at the end of our journey."

ou tricked me! You made me believe you were too weak to attack me. You feigned agony in your chains. Do you scold me for my kindness?"

"1 scold you for your arrogance. You're so sheltered it's made you reckless. You think that as a lady of noble birth, no harm will ever come to you."

"What makes you think I'm of noble birth?"

He gave her a look that said plainly, Come, now. Her dialect and demeanor made it obvious.

"Well," she said, "what's . . . what's wrong with trusting? Maybe I think you just have a good heart. Maybe I think that anyone in your shoes would do what you have done—maybe I understand this is a run for your life, and that you'll do what you must. Maybe I know that you've no reason to kill me." She nodded this last bit with a great deal of hope.

"Well, maybe you trust too much," he said threateningly.

Sylvie lowered her eyes. It wasn't a gesture of relenting, but of retreat. She didn't like the way his liquid brown eyes were growing hard. She knew that this was not about her, but about something beyond her control, something that had troubled him for years. She could not fix it, and it wasn't safe to try. She muttered, "I'm sorry," though she wasn't certain what she was apologizing for. It was a calculated sentiment.

"You're not sorry," he groaned, but he turned away and returned to the task of gathering bananas. He was willing to let it rest.

Sylvie glanced at Monique. If he had accused her of being too trusting, could any less be said of him? It was true he carried a pistol. But a pistol had only one shot. Could he aim well enough to strike a moving target with only one chance to hit? His back was turned. With a subtle movement,

Elizabeth Doyle

she could play with the knot in the reins, gradually undoing it without seeming to move. She was astonished by how easy it was. She knew that in theater and rhyme, people made many daring escapes, but she had never known that real people could escape from real danger.

She flung herself onto the freed Monique and kicked with all of her might. Monique lurched wildly just as the pirate yelled out. Shocked by the sudden and brutal way in which she had been mounted, Monique reared up, and it took all of Sylvie's strength to keep herself from sliding off the tail.

The pirate caught Monique's reins in one hand and Sylvie's waist in the other. Sylvie panicked, certain that he would kill her for trying to flee. She resisted his hold with squirms and cursing at Monique. Getting away seemed even more imperative than it had moments ago, for now she was certain he would be angry and vengeful. Sweat streaking her face, she dared to glance at him in her struggle, and suddenly stopped. He was grinning. In fact, he looked friendlier than he ever had before. The wind catching his shorn golden hair, the sun touching his golden skin, he looked like a youthful god at play. "That was a really good try," he said with sincerity. "I mean it. That was really close. I almost lost you."

In humiliating defeat, Sylvie could do nothing but share his dark joke at her own expense. She said, "Thank you."

That made him laugh. "And I wouldn't have guessed you could curse like that, either," he said, lifting her from the horse with just a little effort.

Sylvie was genuinely puzzled. "Are you impressed to see me curse like a peasant?"

He shrugged cheerfully. "Yes, I suppose I am. I wouldn't have guessed it." He gazed at her high and low, as though seeing her in a new light. She was a small woman, tiny in the waist, hands, and feet. But she didn't carry herself like one.

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Her face, oval and dotted with a single mole, radiated the certainty and warmth of a very powerful lady.

"Come, were in something of a hurry." He tossed a satchel full of bananas over Monique's back.

"May I ask where we are going?" she asked.

"To meet my ship."

"Your ship? What? I thought your ship was captured."

"No. I was captured, but the ship's just fine. They're waiting for me."

"How did they know you were coming?"

"They didn't. We always wait a little while after someone's captured, just in case they make an escape. If someone's captured in this area, we always wait on the north shore, but only for a week or two, so come, we've got to hurry."

"But why ... why am I coming?" She still had the faintest hope that she could talk him out of this part of the plan. "I won't.. . tell anyone about you, about where you're going. I can lie, tell them you set me free just as soon as you escaped."

"Sorry. I need you just in case someone sees me. I don't want to be hindered by one lonely lawman on a horse, after all this. I need my hostage. Come now—too much talking, not enough riding." He hopped upon Monique, then dragged Sylvie up in front of him, apologizing when she landed roughly in his lap. "Sorry," he said, "did that hurt?"

It did not hurt nearly as much as it embarrassed her. "No," she said quietly.

Her tender expression told him that it was only her modesty which had been wounded. "Sorry," he said again, "I really am." He patted her gently on the side, refrained from giving her a kiss on the head, and then slapped the reins with a gentle whistle.

Elizabeth Doyle

"Oh my lord!" cried Madam Davant. "That cannot be!"

Jervais stepped forward like a soldier. "Madam, I take full responsibility" he said, standing firmly with legs apart, equal weight on each black boot. "I allowed her to visit the prison once, and I should not have. I did not know she would try to return without me, but I am to blame nonetheless. I should never have entertained such a dangerous curiosity."

"Certainly not without telling us," broke in Monsieur Davant.

Jervais nodded humbly. "As you say."

The jailer, having previously felt self-conscious over being the one to let Sylvie in, was suddenly quite convinced of Jervais's responsibility in all of this. "Don't be so hard on yourself," he said generously, slapping Jervais on his massive back. "Anyone could have made that mistake."

Jervais scowled, but not for long. He disciplined himself to remain focused on Sylvie's grief-stricken parents. "I shall, of course, go after her" pledged Jervais. "I caught that pirate once, I can catch him again. But I will need to hire a crew. When the king commissions us, they get their pay, but on something like this, a ... personal matter, I'll need independent funds." He looked worriedly about the modest cottage.

"Etienne Peridot," said Madam Davant, "Sylvie's fiance. He will be able to provide you with what you need."

Jervais bowed in his appreciation. "I shall not fail." Strangely, there was not a soul present who doubted that. There was just something about the way he said it. Though tearful and distraught, they all had a sudden hope as Jervais turned on his heel that Sylvie really would return safely to them all.

Etienne was very busy when Jervais found him. There was a promenade along the seashore, an old tradition borrowed

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from the homeland in which couples and would-be couples took a group stroll up and down the sand, dressed in all their finest. Incline did so while holding and kissing the hand of an angelic blonde. Her hair was the color of ripe lemon, all the way through. Even the underside was not brown, and her eyes were as green as baby grass. "My love for you is like water that burns," he said. "The fire of my longing is forever at odds with the purity of my intentions."

Arlette was melted by his words. "You say such kind things," she encouraged him with a flush.

"No, no," Etienne objected, halting their promenade so that he might clear up the disastrous misunderstanding. "It is not kindness," he told her, clutching both of her bare shoulders, "it is simple truth. My love for you is as true as the glint in your pale eyes, and nearly as powerful as the beauty of your.. . delicate ..." He could not resist a rather crude surveillance of her tall, slim figure. Her delicate what? He could not mention her pert breasts, nor her luscious hips, nor even her minuscule waist. "Your delicate cheek " he said at last.

His choice of anatomy brought a bright smile to her lips. When Arlette smiled, she seemed to light up the beach more brightly than all of the fiery lamps which steered the path of elaborately dressed courting pairs. "No, I'm not really very pretty," she said, hoping to hear more.

"But you are," he insisted, touching her blushing cheek. "You are ... a piece of starlight come to earth."

Arlette had to prevent herself from fidgeting selfconsciously. She did not like having his hand upon her face, for she feared some of her white makeup would come off on his finger, revealing the imperfections of her skin. She feared he would notice the plumpers she wore to make her face look fuller. She feared he would see her for what she was—just a woman, and not a piece of starlight. "I have

Elizabeth Doyle

been meaning to ask you something," she began, with a great deal of trepidation.

"No, no," he said, his long wig of black ringlets dusting his shoulders at the shake of his head, "do not ruin the moment with something so meaningless as speech."

"But I really wanted to ask—"

"Life is so full of questions," he said, "and I, but a mortal, have so very few answers."

Her eyes narrowed a bit. "Well, I think you'll have the answer to this one. I wanted to ask you, why is it that you always want to meet me here, but you never will escort me from home? If my parents knew how I sneak from my bedroom to meet you ... well," she bowed her head, "they would cast me out."