Beyond paradise (20 page)

"Sebastien, will we be able to sail this ship with only twelve men?" Jacques placed his arm about Sylvie's shoulder as he asked the question.

"It won't be easy, I..."

"And one woman," Sylvie added boastfully. "Don't forget. You've got twelve men and one woman."

Jacques casually fingered her hair with affection. "That's true, angel, but you don't know how to navigate or steer or..."

"Then teach me," she said proudly.

Jacques looked at his friends, who shrugged and nodded respectively. "Well, I ... I suppose there are some things we can teach you," he said, squeezing her shoulder.

"There's nothing you can't teach me," she announced. "Listen, all of you. I got you out of this, and for that I want a little respect. You'll not treat me as though I'm a burden. You'll teach me everything there is to know so I can be useful. Agreed?"

Their nods were subdued but unambivalent. Sylvie grinned with pride.

"Jacques," said Sebastien, noticing that his friend was quickly losing the initial burst of strength granted him by the cold wind. "Why don't you go to the cabins below. Have Sylvie here tend your wounds. We can manage."

Jacques would not have accepted the offer had the pain of his earlier beating not returned. But as it was, he was begin-

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ning to feel that he would be useless until he got some rest. "Arc you sure?" he asked.

"Yes. We're out of their line of sight now. We'll steer a crooked course to make sure it stays that way."

Jacques nodded his gratitude. "You'll get me if any trouble arises?"

Sebastien laughed good-heartedly. "Looking as you do? I don't think you'd be much help. The best thing you can do for us is get well."

Sylvie took his hand in agreement. "Come, Jacques. I'll tend your wounds, as they say."

He took her chin gently in his hand. "All right," he said in such a way that it sounded like thank you.

Sylvie smiled her most endearing smile in reply. Then she walked him to the comfort and safety of the cabins, and of her tender hands.

"Excuse me. Did you say gone?"

Why did he always have to draw the short stick? Why was it always he who must bear the news? The cabin boy cringed before his massive captain. "Uh, yes ... gone, I think is what they said."

Grumpy would not have described Jervais's state of mind when he'd answered the demanding knock at his cabin door. A good night's rest. He was a man who could not live without it. He worked hard all day, and the only thing he asked was that his cabin be off limits until morning. He had thought nothing could be more infuriating than to have such a sacred rule broken . . . again. But it seemed his crew was working hard on proving him wrong. "I'm a little weary from sleep," said Jervais, leaning against his door frame, "so let me make sure I understand. The merchant ship has simply run off, and we are carrying nothing but string."

Elizabeth Doyle

"Yyyyes. Well, not the part about its simply running off, sir. It had help."

"Do tell."

"Well, sir, the pirates ..."

Jervais's black eyes flared. "The pirates? What about them?" He grabbed the cabin boy by his collar and shook him until the young man had to struggle for breath. "Do you mean to tell me that all of those pirates escaped my ship on the merchant vessel?"

"Only some of them," he gasped. "Only about a dozen."

Jervais let him go, sending him flying against a wall. He paid no heed to the young man's distress. "How long did it take you to realize they were gone?" he growled. "Why am I hearing this now, when it is already presumably too late?"

"Well, the men were ... well, sir, they were ... locked in a storage room. All except for Baudier, who was hit over the head and rendered unconscious. When one of the crew heard them yelling and came down to let them out, they felt too anxious to awaken you. They... well, they were scared. They ... they thought they'd best try to fix it themselves so they tried to shoot some cannons, but.. . well, it did no good. The vessel was too far away."

"Would it be outrageous of me to ask how my crew got locked in a storage room and a dozen pirates broke free of their bonds and escaped the brig?"

"No, sir, it wouldn't be outrageous at all. Very to the point, I would say."

Jervais glared.

"Well, sir, I ... this is the difficult part."

"This is the difficult part?" he scoffed. "What was the easy part?"

"Good point, sir. Good point. Well, you see, the truth of the matter is ... well, it's about Mademoiselle Davant."

Jervais missed a breath. "What?"

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•She, uh . . . she, uh . . ."

Jervais grabbed his collar once more and shook him brutally. "Don't tell me they've abducted her," he growled through clenched teeth. "If you tell me that, I swear it will be the death of you."

"Uh, no, sir—no, sir!"

Jervais released him. "Then what?"

"She, uh . . . well, she's the one who . . . who helped them escape. She locked up the crew and set the pirates free. She's with them now on the merchant vessel."

Jervais neither moved nor spoke. For one moment, he didn't feel capable. Something moved through his bones, something soft that stung. Betrayal. Sylvie had pretended she was considering his courtship when all the while she had aligned with those filthy pirates. Had she fallen in love with one? Is that what had happened? He rubbed his face in thought. It was something he didn't do often, as he wasn't a very reflective man. But at that moment, time seemed to have frozen, and he felt consumed by the need to think. She had betrayed him. The reason why was something he could guess about for many long weeks to come. But at the moment, he just couldn't get past the memory of her blue eyes, which he'd never dreamed capable of anything but honest reflection. He couldn't stop thinking about her. He wished he had crushed her. He wished he had beaten her to her grave. If he had known that she was untrue, that she was not at all the woman he'd thought, he'd never have been so tender, he'd never have been so patient. He would have broken her, he would have tied her down, he would have forced her to love him. The way he loved her.

"Go get my first mate," he told the cabin boy. "I don't care how long we have to search or whether we ever reach home—we're going after that ship." And he meant it. For this time, he was not merely seeking revenge against pirate

Elizabeth Doyle

vermin. This time, he was seeking revenge against the woman who had broken his heart.

Far away from the rocking of ships in turmoil, a blond fifteen-year-old mourned for her sister. Chantal had never been so lonely in all of her life. She idolized Sylvie, saw her as an image of perfection, a perfection she herself could never achieve. But she did not envy or despise her for this. She treasured her sister's companionship, finding joy in her company and in the promise that she might learn to be just like her. Now, there was no one. Living alone with her parents was the strangest thing she had ever experienced. There was an empty chair at every supper, and all of their footsteps seemed louder although the house had grown emptier by only one body. Chantal suddenly felt like an only child, and wondered how others withstood it, having no one with whom to share trials and delights. To be outnumbered by authority figures in the home, two to one. It felt lonely and oppressive.

"Do you think they'll find Sylvie?" she asked at supper one night, bringing up the unspeakable.

Her father froze into silence. Her mother cast an angry glare. "Why do you ask us questions we cannot answer?" she replied harshly. "I told you not to worry over things which are beyond your control." She returned to sipping her soup, as though the discussion were quite over.

But Chantal persisted. "Why isn't Etienne trying harder?" she asked. "What if Sylvie is killed?"

Husband and wife met each other's eyes in an expression of conspiracy that implied they had discussed this many times before. At last, it was Madam Davant who answered, "He is doing everything he can. He has been very generous in providing the funds for her search. What more would you have

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him do?" Then, fearing the girl might actually answer that, she added, "Now, finish your supper"

"Why did the pirates take her?" she asked, ignoring her mother's final command.

"They are pirates," she replied hastily. "Who knows why they do what they do?"

"But if they are so bad, then why did Sylvie visit with one?"

This time, it was her father who growled, "Because she was foolish and disobedient. Curiosity robbed her of her senses. She trusted someone who did not deserve that trust, and look what happened." This was the story he had been able to piece together in his mind. Sylvie had disregarded all warnings about the wretchedness of criminals and pirates. She had been tempted to go see one for herself, and in being so naive, had been tricked and captured. Why? Why had he not sensed that Sylvie had a streak of recklessness? She had always been so well behaved, so gentle. Chantal, they had worried about, with her stubborn heart and occasionally sharp tongue. But Sylvie had been their dream child, their model of the perfect daughter. If only they had sensed her one shortcoming before it was too late. If only they had paid more attention . . . but how could they have guessed? How could they even have imagined that she would be so foolish?

"Listen to your father," her mother chimed in. "This is what happens when you're disobedient. So remember to heed us."

Chantal pouted against that warning. "Maybe he didn't kidnap her," she said, "maybe Sylvie wanted to go with him. Maybe she's having fun and she doesn't want anyone to rescue her."

Her father pounded the table with his fist, causing all of the plates to shake. "Go to your room," he growled.

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Chantal gazed at her mother for support, but found that her eyes were even angrier than her father's. So she pushed away her plate and stood up. "Yes, sir," she said grouchily, and spun away before they could say anything more.

She would have been surprised to overhear her mother's words as soon as she had shut herself in her room. "You were too hard on her," the tight-faced woman said quietly to her husband. "We are not the only ones suffering, you realize. The girls were close." Then, without waiting for his reply, or perhaps intentionally cutting it off, she carried her empty plate to the counter.

Her husband scratched his pointed beard. "If the pirate hunters come back emptyhanded, we'll have to . . ."

"I know," she said, clenching her face into a hardened expression, the kind of gesture that prevented tears.

"I just want to prepare you for .. ."

"I know," she repeated. Head bowed, she took a ragged breath. "I just hope she ..." she could barely say it, "... she hasn't... suffered."

"So do I," he said sternly, then rose to his feet. He placed a reassuring arm about his wife. He knew her well, and knew that she was too proud to shed tears, even on behalf of her firstborn. Theirs, too, had been an arranged marriage. But the years had brought them as close together as romantic love ever could have. "I hope that if she does return," he said, offering hope, turning his lady's thoughts toward the more appealing possibility, "that her fiance will not reject her."

"Well, if he does," she answered curtly, "then he does, and we are through with him."

"I agree," he said, resting his chin on her head. "Violette," he whispered, staring out at the moon in hope that even it would not hear, "do you think we made a poor match for her? Do you think she went astray because she couldn't bear to marry him?"

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"Nonsense," she muttered, and not at all in a whisper. "He is a fine match. Wealthy and reasonably handsome. She should have been delighted."

"But she wasn't," he reminded her. "You know that she wasn't."

"We couldn't entertain the fancies of a young girl, you know that. She was too young to know what was good for her. If you ask children to arrange their own marriages, they'll marry peasants and sailors—anyone who makes their hearts flutter. But the fluttering wears off, and they have nothing left. It was our responsibility to choose. We did well."

"But she was so disappointed when we told her." His voice was still whispery. "Do you remember the look on her face?"

"Yes," she said through tightly pursed lips, "I remember. But we cannot blame ourselves for her mistake. We did our best."

"I hope so," he sighed, planting a kiss in her graying hair. "I hope so."

She buried her proud head against his chest. "I just hope she isn't suffering."

At that moment, Sylvie was far from suffering. In the midst of the vast, silvery ocean, she was tending the wounds on Jacques's naked arms. She was tempted to kiss them as she dabbed with a cloth, but she resisted. She moved her hand to his tender, swollen face, but that was no help. His youthful but rugged jaw was just as appealing as his arms. And there was something about the way he watched her. His eyes were confident but passive as he observed her tender nursing, as though from a distance. She felt somehow as though he were evaluating her, as though he were thinking about how to kiss her, how to move inside her. It made her feel as vulnerable as

Elizabeth Doyle

a little girl to be gazed at in such a manner. She felt herself blush. "You don't have to do this," he said, noticing her discomfort. "I can tend my own wounds, since you've already done my back."

"Th—that's all right," she stuttered. "I don't mind."

He wondered at that. Did she really not mind? He knew she resented being his wife, and in fact, was going to deny his marital rights the moment they stepped into the cabin. Yet, it was amusing to see how much she was enjoying this particular task. Yes, he could see she was enjoying it. He didn't fancy himself an expert on women, but he knew what a blush meant, he knew what trembling hands meant. She was attracted to him. She found him handsome. It was very, very interesting to watch her struggle with herself. "Well, in that case, I have some wounds lower down," he teased, maintaining a stoic expression so she couldn't be certain.