Beyond Sunrise (14 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Rather than plunging dramatically beneath the waves, India simply subsided inexorably into them. When the water reached her breasts, she kicked out with both feet, one hand flailing in an awkward attempt to keep herself afloat. She let go of her boots, his bundle, everything except the knapsack, which she held desperately aloft, her arm thrust straight from the water like the mast of a doomed ship.

"Bloody hell, woman," she heard him yelp beside her. "My clothes."

"Damn
your clothes," she said with a gasp, then choked when she swallowed a backwash of lake water. "My notebook."

"Give me that." He yanked the knapsack from her grasp, and she let out a faint mew of protest, fearing he meant to toss it away. Instead, he held it easily above the surface of the lake, his legs and one arm moving effortlessly through the water as she thrashed and splashed beside him. "Can you make it to shore by yourself?"

She nodded, afraid to open her mouth lest she swallow more water.

He took her at her word and struck out toward the bank, only occasionally glancing back to where she flailed along in his wake. Her wool skirt was unbelievably heavy, dragging her down, making each kick, every movement a weighted chore. A wave slapped her in the face and she faltered, her head sinking, briefly, beneath the surface. She sputtered up, blind now to the blue sky and the tree-fringed shore, to anything except water. Water splashed in her eyes, washed into her mouth, stretched out endlessly before her.

"If you put down your feet," said a low, amused voice beside her, "I think you'll find you can touch."

She reached down with one foot, tentatively, doubtfully, and found solid ground beneath her. "Oh, God," she said with a heartfelt gasp, and felt Ryder's arm come around her waist. "Oh, thank God."

For one weak, shameful moment, she allowed herself to collapse against him as he hauled her coughing and gasping into the shallows. She hunched over, hands on her shaking knees as she sucked great droughts of clean, fresh air deep into her lungs. At first, she was only dimly conscious of the man who stood behind her, his strong arm holding her braced against him, one hand keeping the loose tangle of her hair back from her face as she retched and choked.

But as her breathing slowed and her fear subsided, she found her attention captured, inexplicably, beguilingly, by the bare male foot that nestled casually beside hers. She straightened slowly, her hands closing around the muscled forearm that rode low on her waist, every fiber of her being aware of the power of the hard, naked thighs pressing so intimately against her flanks. It was as if time ground down and slowed to a heart-pounding tempo played by the whisper of the wind through the sun-kissed palms and the exotic pulse of the nearby surf. Then he said, "I think you need to improve your dog paddle," and the moment was broken.

She pushed away from him, her wet skirt hanging heavy about her legs, tripping her as she slogged up onto the grassy bank toward where he had thrown her knapsack.

"Either that," he added, splashing behind her, "or learn to take off that damned tartan before you go swimming."

"I hadn't intended to go swimming, remember?" She fell to her knees beside the knapsack, water streaming from her hair, running down her arms, dripping off her nose as she wrenched open the flap and peered desperately inside.

"You're going to get it wet."

He was right, of course. She sat back on her heels, her upper body twisting around as she stared back at the sun-dazzled surface of the lake. She had suddenly remembered what else she'd been holding. "I've lost my boots."

"Your boots?" His low, throaty laugh drew her attention to where he stood at the water's edge, his hands on his hips, his legs planted wide. For one stolen moment, she let her gaze rove freely, almost hungrily over the lean, naked length of him, over his strong, muscled back and narrow waist, the enticing curve of his buttocks, the long, powerful line of thigh and calf. He was as sun-bronzed as a native, his skin tight and smooth and golden, and the beauty of him, the raw sensual power of him, stole her breath all over again. "You lost my bloody clothes."

"Huh. That will teach you to strip them off at every opportunity that is offered. Some of us have more sense."

"More sense?"
He swung around, and she quickly lifted her gaze to the feathery tops of the palms waving against the deep blue sky. "That damned wet tartan of yours is what sank the raft."

India straightened slowly, her split skirt and shirt hanging limp and dripping about her. "You could dive for them, couldn't you? I remember when I was in Bangkok, I watched the children there diving for coins tossed into the harbor. And the water in Bangkok's harbor is considerably murkier than that of this lake."

He was silent for so long that her gaze drifted downward for one, unguarded moment before resolutely snapping back to the treetops. "Well? Couldn't you?"

"I tell you what," he said, his voice taking on that rollicking, teasing edge she was coming to know so well. "I'll make a deal with you."

"What kind of a deal?" India asked warily.

"I'll dive for your boots, if you agree that when we get down to the beach, you'll take off that damned wet skirt and blouse."

"What?"

"You heard me."

She was no longer making even a pretense of not looking at him. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, she stared at him, at the long, lean, gloriously naked length of him, and felt her heart begin to beat so hard and fast she was practically shaking.

"You can leave on your underthings, if you insist," he was saying. "They'll dry soon enough. But everything else has to go."

"But... why?" Her voice ended in a pleading wail.

"Because," he said, walking up to her, "that damned skirt will never dry otherwise. Because it's more dangerous than you seem to realize, wearing wet clothes in this climate." He was so close to her now that his hard, naked thighs were pressed against hers and his warm breath caressed her cheek as he leaned into her. "And because you can't write anything meaningful about the South Pacific when you've never known the warm touch of a tropical breeze against your bare skin."

She shook her head slowly from side to side. Every nerve in her body was quiveringly, achingly aware of his nearness, of the heat of his naked body and the dangerous, unwanted, inexplicable power of the undeniable attraction between them. "No."

Dark, wicked amusement sparkled in the depths of his impossibly blue eyes. "It's a risky thing, you know, walking along the beach without shoes. A coral cut can take years to heal. And if you step on a stone fish..." He shrugged.

India swallowed, hard. "This is blackmail. Extortion."

A nasty smile curled his lips. "Yes."

She watched the water drip from his dark, wet hair to trickle down the golden flesh of his cheeks and throat. She felt his bare chest lift against hers as he drew in a deep breath of air, felt her senses reel as she, in turn, breathed in the hot, heady scent of him. She saw his eyes narrow, his lips soften. And in that moment, she would have done almost anything, said anything to break the unbearable tension of the moment and put some distance between them.

Besides, she needed those boots.

"All right," she said, her hands coming up to flatten against his bare chest, her head nodding once in curt agreement as she pushed him away from her. "It's a deal."

It was a good thing it wasn't far to the beach, Jack decided as he watched India McKnight limp down the path ahead of him, her boots making light squishing sounds, the wet, heavy wool of her split skirt rubbing audibly with every step she took.

She had insisted on walking ahead of him as soon as she found out he had no intention of struggling back into his own soaked shirt and trousers. But then, a man would have to be a fool to subject his body to the kind of discomfort she was undergoing. He supposed her maidenly modesty recoiled at the thought of walking behind a naked man and being forced to stare without respite at his bare ass. But he wondered if she might not have found it the lesser of two evils if she'd realized the explicitly carnal nature of the thoughts running through his head as he watched her.

She might not be naked, but without the rigid shield of whalebone once provided by her corset, her wet blouse and chemise clung to her in a way that revealed every natural swell and hollow. And the natural curves of Miss India McKnight's body were mighty fine indeed, her breasts full and rounded and firm, her stomach flat, her legs strong from years spent trekking through the jungles and deserts of the world.

She was not at all the type of woman he normally found himself attracted to. He kept telling himself that. Oh, she was strong and gutsy, with a quick mind and a wry, dry sense of humor that he couldn't help but like and admire. But she was too out of touch with the woman she was born to be, too tied up in all sorts of knots by her attempts to conform to the image she'd created for herself of a proper but determinedly single Scotswoman, upright and asexual and unassailable.

And yet... There was the interesting matter of that
scientific experiment
she'd once conducted to discern for herself exactly what she was missing by eschewing the marital act. Then there was that kiss.

Every time he thought about that kiss, he felt his blood surge, his chest lift on a ragged breath. It had been wine and honey, that kiss, sweet and hot and so damned overwhelmingly erotic that it haunted his every step. He watched her pause ahead of him, her head turning, a quiet smile lifting the edges of her lips as she watched the sun sparkle golden and brilliant on the outstretched wings of a white-breasted sea eagle, and he wanted...

He wanted to lay her down on the soft sand of a secluded beach, with the whisper of the surf beside them and the wind warm and gentle in the palm trees above. He wanted to strip away what was left of her confining, oh-so-proper European clothes and let the sun dance golden and free over all the secret, hidden places of her body. The smooth flesh of her beautiful breasts would be white, almost translucent, he thought, her thighs long and lean and strong. He wanted to touch her, to taste her there, and there... everywhere. And the image of it, the savage heat of that wanting was so intense, so powerful, that he shuddered with it.

"Thank God," he heard her say, and he realized suddenly that the path beneath their feet had turned to sand. Looking up, he saw the limpid turquoise of the lagoon, visible through the screen of ferns and broad-leafed shrubs that grew thick beneath the overarching palms.

Cool and sweet, the sea breeze wafted over them. She paused at the edge of the rain forest, her head falling back as she drew the fresh, salt-tinged air deep into her lungs. She had her eyes closed, her neck arching invitingly. And it occurred to him, as he watched her lips part, her breasts lift with her breathing, that maybe it had been a mistake to make her agree to take off her clothes.

Chapter Seventeen

Jack spread his clothes to dry on the bleached white branches of an old driftwood log half buried in the sand. The sun was a giant orange ball hovering just above the misty line where water met sky, and he moved quickly to gather dried coconut fronds and pieces of driftwood, and build up a fire before the rapid descent of darkness.

Kneeling in the sand with India McKnight's waterproof match tin in his hands, he glanced up to find her staring out over the gold-washed, gently lapping waters of the lagoon, to where the surf beat in thundering, white-spray savagery against the offshore reef. She might have her back to him, but the taut line of her shoulders and spine told him that she was as aware as he of all the subtle nuances of the night to come.

That kiss had changed everything between them. Oh, the attraction had been there before, there was no denying that, for all they'd both worked so hard to suppress it, to disallow its very existence. But the raw, naked power of that one moment had stripped away all the pretenses, all the unconscious subterfuges thrown up by their instinctive rivalry and petty bickering. Now sexual awareness crackled in the very air between them, underlay every movement, every word.

"We had a deal, remember?" he said softly, and smiled when she spun to face him, her eyes widening with what looked very much like panic. He'd seen her deal with hungry cannibals and rotting bridges and sinking banana-stem rafts, but the thought of being reduced to nothing more than her chemise and pantalets had her in a gut-terror.

She hugged her arms across her chest and gave a little shiver, as if she were cold, when he knew damned well she wasn't. "I'm waiting until you get the fire going."

He grunted, his attention all seemingly for the task of coaxing his small flame to flare up hot and bright and spitting. "The sun might be setting, but it's still hot. You're just stalling. Besides..." He sat back on his heels and reached to tuck the matches into her knapsack. "The fire's going."

She swallowed hard, the muscles in her slim white throat bunching and flexing. She waved one hand through the air in a vague, conjuring gesture. "Shouldn't you go... catch some fish, or something?"

"After you get out of those wet clothes." Jack stood up, his hands dangling loosely beside his naked thighs. Her gaze snapped away to some indefinable point over his left shoulder, but not before he knew what she'd been looking at. He had to try really, really hard not to smile. "Need some help?"

Her gaze wavered back to meet his, her breath coming short and fast, her lips parting in that way that made him think of what it would be like to touch her mouth, gently, with his fingertips. What that mouth would feel like, hot, wet, on him. And then he wondered what she must have seen in his face, because she said, "Turn around."

"What?"

"You heard me. Turn around."

"If you think I'm going to keep my back to you all night—"

"Obviously not. But I can't undress with you watching me like this. Turn around."

He turned around. The setting sun drenched the sand with a rich golden light that picked out the vivid yellow flowers of the red beech and the golden orchids that grew in breathtaking masses at the edge of the rain forest. He felt the evening breeze skim across his bare skin, heard the rustle of the gently swaying fronds of the palms. Someplace in the distance, a curlew cried, its call low and haunting.

"If you don't hurry, you're going to be gathering coconuts by moonlight," he said.

Her only answer was a swish of sand. Then she said, "There," and he swung slowly around.

The lagoon had turned into a rose-tinged sheet of undulating silver reflecting a pink-washed sky against which the black silhouettes of the palms shifted back and forth in a slow, seductive dance. She stood with her head held high, a defiant challenge in her eyes. Her long, chestnut-shot dark hair was loose and half-dry, and billowed enticingly about her shoulders. But the fine cloth of her chemise and pantalets still clung, damp and revealing, to every swell, every curve of the body beneath.

It seemed impossible, looking at her, to remember the woman he'd first met, the prim, frigid Scottish travel writer with her voluminous tartan and stiff, whalebone-reinforced silhouette. The India McKnight who stood before him now was a wholly natural and unconsciously seductive woman with full, high breasts and swelling hips and the kind of slim, long legs that were made to wrap around a man's waist and hug him tight. Jack looked at her, and he wanted her so badly in that moment, he ached.

"I think I'll go—" His chest felt tight, as if he'd run out of air. "—catch some fish, or something."

He caught a big fat sea trout that he roasted on a spit over the fire and served up on banana-leaf plates, with roasted breadfruit and water scooped from a nearby stream with coconut-shell cups.

She was unusually quiet while they ate, lost, he supposed, in her own thoughts. He didn't realize her thoughts were of him until she said, suddenly, "Where is she now?"

Jack looked up, a tender bit of trout suspended halfway to his mouth. "Who?"

"You said you had a daughter. Is she with her mother?"

Swallowing slowly, he stared out at the black line of silver-crested breakers that threw themselves with an incessant boom and crash against the distant, offshore reef. Somehow, he managed to hold himself deceptively still. Only he couldn't seem to control the painful beating of his heart. "Her mother is dead."

"Oh." Beside them, the fire crackled and spit, flaring up in a quick flash of golden red light that danced over the delicate European features of her face. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Why should you be?" His voice came out harsher than he'd meant it to. Harsh and hurting. "Why should you care just because one beautiful, vibrantly alive young Polynesian girl is dead?"

"Because it's obvious that you care," she said, her gaze steady and solemn on his face. He thought she'd drop the subject then. She didn't, "So where is she now? Your daughter, I mean."

"On Rakaia." A few days' sail to the west of Tahiti, Rakaia was a small island of clear turquoise lagoons and sparkling white sand and palm trees that waved gently against a clear tropical sky. An island of laughter and love, and sudden, violent death that came in a hail of bullets unleashed by a curt, English command.

"You left her there?" The shock in her voice surprised him.

"Ulani was a baby, and I was a wanted man, on the run. I left her with my wife's family." Those who were still alive. "It's where she belonged."

She stared at him, her eyes huge in an oddly pale face. He thought perhaps she was appalled to hear that he had taken a native woman to wife. But what she said was, "You could have gone back for her."

He shoved what was left of his meal aside. "I'm still on the run, in case you hadn't noticed."

"But to abandon her—"

"I didn't
abandon
her." He stood abruptly and went to wash his hands in the moonlit, slowly surging surf of the lagoon. "Ulani is far happier growing up on Rakaia than she would ever be someplace like London or Sydney, where little girls are expected to wear corsets, and breathe air fouled with coal smoke, and spend their days sewing seams and learning catechisms."

"How do you know?" She waded into the sea beside him, the lace-trimmed hem of her pantalets floating on the surface of the water as she bent to wash her own hands. "Did you ask her?"

He straightened slowly. "What are you saying? That while no one would have questioned my leaving a baby daughter with her mother's family in someplace like London, it was wrong to leave her on a South Pacific island? That I've somehow failed her, by letting my daughter grow up in a
primitive
society?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying at all. I just think it must be hard for a child, growing up knowing she has a father out there, somewhere, and thinking that he doesn't love her enough—" He heard her voice crack with emotion, although he couldn't begin to understand why. "—that he doesn't
care
enough about her to want to be with her."

He stared at her, at the way the mingling moon- and star-shine played over the fine features of her face, the flaring cheekbones and wide mouth and the strong, square chin. Her hair was dry now, blowing free and beautiful around her bare shoulders, curling seductively against the swell of her full breasts, so obvious beneath the thin linen of her chemise. He felt the anger drain out of him, knew the renewed surge of throbbing desire. And he realized, suddenly, that the anger had been just a defense, a shield, against the desire.

"I care," he said. "It's because I care that I have stayed away from her." Turning, he waded farther out into the lagoon, the water rippling cool and soothing over his hot skin.

"What are you doing?" she called.

"Going for a swim." He dove beneath the lagoon in a shallow arc that brought him back up to the surface. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes and looked back at where she still stood, bathed in the misty glow of moonlight. "Join me," he said, before he could stop himself.

She shook her head, although he noticed she waded a bit farther out into the lagoon, her fingertips trailing over the surface of the dark, star-spangled water. "If I didn't know better, Mr. Ryder, I'd suspect you of trying to seduce me."

He laughed, because of course it was exactly what he was trying to do, and they both knew it. Raw sexual awareness hung in the air, throbbed with the surge of the surf and the brutal crash of breakers against the offshore reef. "I'm just trying to seduce you into enjoying yourself."

"I've swallowed enough water for one day, thank you."

"It's not deep." He let his feet touch bottom, and raised his arms wide. "See?"

She took another step toward him, the fine linen of her pantalets billowing out around her hips as the water rose higher.

"You must like the water," he said. "Where did you learn to dog paddle?"

"I employed the services of a bathing machine at Brighton."

"I think you'll find swimming in this lagoon a lot more pleasant than hanging off the end of a bathing machine in the English Channel."

"I'm not so sure." She took another step toward him. "Brighton was... bracing."

"And what is this?"

She stood before him, the water lapping at her breasts, her eyes huge and dark in a pale, moonlit face. "Sensual."

"You say that as if it were a bad thing."

"It can be."

"Only if you think it is."

She didn't say anything, but it was obvious from the angle of her jaw and the stiffness of her shoulders that as far as India McKnight was concerned, sensuality was an enemy to be guarded against at all costs. And he knew then that she would never relax, never enjoy the beauty of the warm water and velvety tropical night air, unless he helped her.

"Turn around," he said.

"What?"

"I want to show you something. Turn around."

She hesitated, then did as he asked, her body tense and wary as he moved up beside her until his lips were scant inches from her ear. "Now lay back and simply let yourself float. Don't worry," he added when she remained rigidly upright. "I'm here to support you if you need it."

She hesitated another moment, then leaned back, her body held stiff and unnaturally tight as his arms came up to cradle her back. "Relax," he said with a soft laugh. "Let yourself enjoy it, India."

He thought, for a moment, that she wouldn't be able to do it. But the moonlight and the gentle caress of the water were working their own magic, and he felt the resistance and need for control drain out of her, until she floated freely beside him. Slowly, he lowered his arms away from her, and took a step back.

"It's beautiful," she said on a soft expulsion of breath, her eyes wide, her lips parting with awe as she stared at the sky above.

Tipping back his head, Jack gazed up at a deep purple-blue night so full of glowing stars that there seemed scarce any space between them. Heavy with all the sweet, spicy scents of the island, the tropical breeze whispered around them. He felt the warm water lap against him, wash away the sweat and dirt and pain of the hot, exhausting day. And heard her whisper, "Thank you."

He lowered his head, his gaze locking with hers as she let her feet sink slowly toward the bottom. He reached for her, his hands sliding over her wet shoulders, drawing her toward him just as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a triangular-shaped fin slice through the calm, silver-shimmered water some two hundred feet offshore.