Authors: Anne Stuart
He'd seen the look on her face. The man had been about to rape her. He'd already discovered she'd been put in the care of a man whose reputation for brutality was legion in the town of Mariz, and yet she'd looked at his dead body in horror. Hell, he'd done the world, and her, a favor. Yet her shock and horror had vibrated through her.
At least he hadn't had to force her to come with him. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she'd resisted. Whether he would have knocked her cold. Or lowered the enveloping hood of his burnoose. Hell, there was even a chance she wouldn't have recognized him. Last time she'd seen him he'd been bleeding to death inside. He'd been twenty pounds lighter, with curly red hair. She might find it hard to reconcile that memory with a man with dark-stained skin and hair, and a hell of a lot more muscle.
But she'd come, compliant in her shock, following him through the streets of Mariz until she'd finally had enough. Her breathing was shallow, shocky against his chest, and he knew a moment's panic. People could die of shock. Or just disappear into their own little worlds and never come out again.
The gray cabin was at the back of the companionway, a relatively large room with a minuscule private bath. He laid her down carefully on the bed, his eyes already accustomed to the dark, and stood over her for a moment. He could hear Travers coming along after him, hear the quiet murmur of conversation, but for the moment he was alone with the woman he'd wounded so grievously.
He touched her pale face, pushing a silky strand of hair back. She didn't move, didn't react to his touch, simply lay there in her own, healing cocoon.
He couldn't help himself. Leaning forward, he brushed her lips with his, clinging for a moment. "Damn you, Francey," he whispered. "And damn me."
He was halfway to the door when Travers entered. "I told the captain to get under way immediately," he said in a hushed tone. "And the doctor's coming down. We'll take care of her."
"You haven't done a bloody good job so far, have you?"
"Look, this wasn't my fault. I didn't know…"
"Didn't you?" Michael interrupted. "Where's Cardiff?"
"Topside."
Michael smiled then, shoving back the hood of his burnoose, and Travers took a wary step backward, coming up against the door. "You're not going to kill him, are you?" he demanded nervously.
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
The
True Blue
was already moving by the time he dumped his robes and found Cardiff. Ross was sitting on a deck chair, an angora lap robe spread across his short legs, a dark amber glass of whiskey in his small hand. He watched Michael approach, and there was no fear in his eyes. More proof for Michael that the man wasn't equipped with much common sense. He should be very, very frightened.
"You look like a terrorist," Ross observed, not bothering to rise from his seat.
"Isn't that what I am?" Michael said flatly. "We have wonderful euphemisms for it, but isn't that really what I do for a living?"
"It's all in how you look at it. I take it you saved the fair damsel? Lovers reunited and all that garbage?" His voice was waspish.
"Ever hear of a man named Juan?" Michael asked casually. The faintest flicker in Ross's eyes told him the answer.
"Half of the male population of Spain is named Juan."
"We're talking about a particular Juan. One who'd been given a free go at the American prisoner. If I'd been a day later she would have been gone."
"Don't be melodramatic," Cardiff snapped. "I know this has been love's" young dream, but you don't have to get carried away. As a matter of fact, why aren't you down with her celebrating your happy reunion? Didn't she like you as an Arab? Or didn't she recognize you? Is that what's eating at you? The innocent love of your life didn't even know who you were."
It was amazing how easily Ross could get under his skin. "Maybe I'm more aware of security issues than you are, Cardiff. I thought it would be just as well if she didn't see me."
"You're kidding! How deliciously noble of you, Michael. I didn't know you had it in you. Any other sacrifices you're planning to make for your lady fair?"
Michael smiled then, a thin, feral grin. "Just one," he said, moving forward. A moment later Ross was over the side, floundering in the filthy waters of Mariz harbor, his deck chair floating beside him as the yacht steamed away.
"I'll destroy you!" Cardiff shrieked, treading water. "I'll have you drummed out of the service! I'll have you ruined! For God's sake, don't leave me here, Michael! You wretched, filthy swine."
Even in such an extreme moment Cardiff didn't curse, Michael noticed absently. The angora lap robe had caught on the railing. He tossed it after him, waving a farewell salute. "See you in Malta," he called across the water. And without bothering to see whether Cardiff could even swim, he turned around and went below.
The gray cabin was hushed, still, a sickroom. Francey looked very small in the big bed, lying perfectly still, the dark sheets drawn up under her chin. Even in the darkness he could tell she was pale, and her breathing was heavy, drugged. Travers rose from the chair beside the bed when Michael returned, and his voice was only a whisper.
"She's resting quietly. The doctor gave her something to help her sleep."
"It didn't look to me like she was going to need help," Michael said.
"He thought she'd do better with a deeper, drug-induced sleep. To help her through the transition." Travers fiddled with his tie, the gesture drawing Michael's attention from Francey's still figure. "Er…what happened to Cardiff? Is everything okay?"
"He'll be meeting us in Malta," Michael replied, moving past Travers to the bed.
"Really?"
"Count on it," Michael said grimly. He touched her hand, lying outside the cover. It was cool and limp. "Don't give her any more drugs. She's been through enough as it is—she doesn't need to deal with being out of it. She's tougher than you'd think. Her body will heal itself without any pharmacological help."
"I have to pay attention to my doctor."
"You've been ignoring her welfare for the past month. Another couple of days won't make any difference." He sank into the chair Travers had left. "Leave her alone."
He didn't have to look to know that Travers had puffed up with outrage. Lord, he was so tired of dealing with people and their inflated ideas. All that mattered right now was Francey. In two days they would be back in Malta, and she would be gone from his life forever. He would finish with the Cadre, with no human or emotional distractions to slow him down. But for now nothing much seemed to matter but the woman lying on the bed. The woman who had almost died for him. For his idiot superior's idea of security.
"Listen here, Michael or whatever your name is," Travers fumed, "I don't like your attitude."
"Sod off," Michael said pleasantly. "Get out of here or I'll put you out." He turned to glance at the man, and one look at Michael's impassive face was enough. Travers slammed the door when he went.
Michael slid down in the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and tilting his head back. He felt bone weary, and yet curiously more alive than he had in weeks. He refused to worry about Francey…she was far more resilient than most people he'd met in his various lives. Once the drugs wore off she would heal in her own way, her own time. As long as certain people didn't interfere. People with their own twisted agendas. People like her cousin. Like Ross Cardiff. People like him.
He glanced down at his hands. The skin was stained dark on top of the layers of tan, and his short hair was an unnatural black. He should have taken a shower, washed off some of his disguise, but he hadn't wanted to leave her for any longer than he had to to rid himself of Ross Cardiff, at least temporarily. If she awoke in the darkness she would see only his light eyes in his unnaturally dark face, and she wouldn't know him.
But she wouldn't awaken, not if her drugged breathing was any sign. Not for a long, long time. She'd gone someplace safer than the world she'd been thrust into, and she wouldn't be returning for a while.
She wouldn't feel the weight of his body as he sat on the bed next to her. Wouldn't know he'd pulled the sheet down away from her body. Someone had cleaned her up, dressed her in a chaste white nightgown complete with a row of tiny buttons down the front. She hadn't felt it when someone fastened those buttons. She wouldn't feel his long, dark fingers as they undid them.
Her skin was smooth, pale and creamy in the shadowy light. He sank his fingers into her thick, tangled hair, feeling for the lump at the back of her head. She'd hit the wall hard when Juan had shoved her, enough to make her black out for a moment. She might have a concussion, or worse.
The lump was small enough, and the faint moan that broke through her drugged sleep was one of discomfort, not excruciating pain. He moved his hands back, down over her shoulders, pushing her nightgown away from her body.
She had bruises. Cruel marks, some fresh, some older and yellowing, on her shoulders, on her ribs, on her breasts, and Michael wished he'd taken longer with Juan. And that he hadn't been so merciful with Cardiff.
There was a row of striped bruises on her wrist. He put his hand on them, and they matched his long, hard fingers perfectly. He cursed then, slowly, savagely, the whispered words filling the cabin. It took him longer to refasten her buttons, and he realized with abstract amusement that his fingers were trembling. He drew the sheet back up over her chastely, and then lay down beside her, full-length, drawing her unresisting body into his arms.
She felt small, slight, almost not there at all, and his grip tightened. Soon she wouldn't be. His act of throwing Ross Cardiff overboard had been one more rash move on his part, one of a series of rash moves. He'd stated his enmity, loud and clear, and Ross would have his revenge. Michael wasn't afraid of being cashiered out of the service. Even Ross wasn't powerful enough to do that if Michael didn't want to go—too many people were in awe of his reputation.
But Cardiff was the kind of creature who could find a man's weak points and then use them, twist them, until you had no choice but to do his bidding.
He knew Michael's weak point. He'd put her in a Spanish prison. He could use her again and again, until something backfired, as it almost had tonight, and Francey would wind up dead.
He would have no choice but kill Cardiff then. It only made sense to do it earlier. Francey wouldn't be safe as long as Cardiff held any power. And keeping Francey safe had become Michael's prime directive, more important than wiping out the Cadre, the security of what was left of the British Empire, or the safety of the entire free world. And he was perfectly ready to do anything, anything, to ensure that safety.
But for now, for the next few hours, she was as safe as she could ever be. Wrapped tightly in his arms, where no one, and nothing, could wound her.
For the next few hours. And then he would be gone, and she would never even know he'd been there. He would vanish into the night like her drunken Arab savior. And before long she would forget he'd ever existed.
He could only hope that fate would be kind enough to grant him a similar amnesia, because he didn't know how long he would be able to take it otherwise.
Francey dreamed. For a while she was back on the island, not in the lagoon this time, but lying on the bedroll, wrapped in Michael's arms. She could feel his warm, smooth flesh against her face, the strength of his arms around her, and for a time everything was safe. And then things shifted, and the man holding her was a threat, a dark, huge stranger who rescued her and then abandoned her. Sunlight poured into the cabin, and she refused to open her eyes. The back of her head pounded, her muscles felt thick and drugged, and she wanted to crawl back into the warm dark nest and take Michael with her. Her stomach felt empty, queasy, and the bed felt rocky and unstable beneath her.
"How are we feeling today?" The voice was far too cheerful, but it was blessedly familiar. Making the supreme effort, she opened her eyes a fraction, enough to see Daniel's cherubic face hovering far too close.
"Like pig droppings," she said succinctly. Or rather, she tried for a succinct tone. Her voice came out blurred and fuzzy, and her tongue felt thick. It took most of her strength to lift her head from the pillow, to look at the empty mattress beside her. She was lying in the middle of the oversize double bed, the covers wrapped tightly around her. She was alone, as she had been all night long.
"You need some food," Daniel said, his hands fluttering ineffectually. "You need to lie on the deck in the sun and recuperate. You've been through a ghastly time, Francey, and I can't say how sorry I am that you couldn't find me. You need to just empty your mind and let yourself heal…"
"I need answers." Some of the fuzziness faded. She managed to sit up, fighting off the dizziness, the pain in the back of her head. "I need to know what in God's name is going on."
Daniel looked distressed. "I'll tell you what I can, Francey."
"You'll tell me what you
know
, Daniel," she said. "I'm not going to be fobbed off with vague fairy tales this time. I want to know who Michael Dowd is. More important, where he is. I want to know who that little man was. I want to know why I was locked away in a Spanish prison, and how you managed to find me and rescue me. And I want to thank the man who brought me out of there. I want—"
"All in good time," Daniel said soothingly. "First you need a hot shower, something to eat and a vitamin B-12 shot. Then we'll sit down and I'll tell you everything."
The promise of a hot shower distracted her as nothing else could. She almost gave in. "Where are we going?"
"We're on our way to Malta," Daniel said. "We should be there midday tomorrow, and the next day we'll fly back to the States. Both of us. What do you think of that?"
"I don't know. But if we're on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean, I suppose you can't get too far. You did say a hot shower?" Even she could hear the yearning in her voice.