Beyond Sunrise (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Jack let his fingers slip down her arm to close around her hand. "I think we'd better get out," he said, plowing through the water, toward shore.

She hung back. "What's the matter? What are you doing?"

"There aren't any crocodiles on this island," he said, his voice calm as he dragged her behind him. "But every once in a while a shark gets into the lagoon."

"A shark!" She whirled around, her hand clutching his, her long dark hair whipping through the air as she stared out across the moonlit stillness of the water. "Where?"

He shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the now flat, empty surface. "All I saw was a fin."

"A fin? Oh my God." She broke into a run, stumbling in the shallows as the sand shifted beneath her feet, the gentle waves sloshing around her as she fell to her hands and knees at the edge of the surf. Reaching down, Jack grasped her hand to help her up, then paused as a sleek, rounded body broke the surface of the lagoon. For one, miraculous moment, the porpoise soared through the air, moonlight glimmering on its dark, wet hide as it arced gracefully back into the water with a gentle splash.

"Oh, Jesus," Jack said, laughing. "It's a bloody porpoise."

"You—you
fiend"
She tightened her grip on his hand and pulled, and it was so unexpected, he lost his balance and crashed, still laughing, into the surf beside her. Low and husky, her laughter joined with his, so that the sound of their laughter floated together out over the warm, moonlit lagoon. And then they weren't laughing anymore. She was staring at his mouth, her expression still and intense.

He brought up one hand to spear his spread fingers through the heavy fall of her hair, drawing it back, his grip tightening as he cupped her head in his palm. In the glow of moonlight, he saw her eyes dilate until they looked black, saw her slim white throat work as she swallowed. The sea sighed around them, warm and soft. And still he waited, giving her time to pull away from him, to end the moment, if that was what she wanted.

She didn't pull away.

He leaned forward, his gaze locked with hers. He heard her make a breathy, wanting sound, deep in her throat, felt her hand slide up his bare, wet chest to wrap around his neck and draw him to her. Then he tipped his head, and kissed her.

Her lips were sweet and welcoming, and opened beneath his. His hand spasmed in her hair, once, then swept down her back to draw her body up against his. She was warm and pliant and soft, so soft against the hard length of him, only the wet clinging linen of her chemise and drawers coming between his nakedness and hers.

Groaning, he deepened the kiss, his tongue mating with hers as she rolled onto her back, drawing him with her. He covered her, felt her thighs part beneath him as he settled his weight over her, and the kiss turned into something hot and hungry. The surf crashed against the distant reef with a wild, thundering roar, and the warm sea spilled around them.

He tore his mouth from hers, her head tipping back, her neck arching as he kissed her throat, his lips brushing against her thrumming pulse point before traveling lower, to the tender flesh that showed above the delicate lace edging her chemise. She tasted of the sea and the warm night air, and of herself, and the need in him, the need to have her, to surround himself with her moist heat, to join her body with his, was so powerful, so damned near overwhelming that he shuddered.

He lifted his head and stared up at her. Her lips were parted, her face pale and beautiful in the moonlight. "Make love to me," he said softly.

She bracketed his face with her hands, cradling him as if he were something precious and dear. "I can't."

He swallowed, hard. His skin felt so hot and tight, it hurt, but somehow, from somewhere, he managed to dredge up a crooked smile. "I notice you didn't say you don't want to."

Her eyes were wide and solemn, her breath soughing as hard and heavy as his own. "We both know that would be a lie."

He dipped his head, his lips brushing hers in a soft, tender kiss. "Make love to me, India," he whispered, kissing her trembling eyelids, the curve of her cheek, the tender flesh at the base of her ear. "Here, tonight, with the moonlight soft on your face, and a tropical breeze warm against your bare skin."

He felt her shudder beneath him, her hands desperate and seeking as she ran them over his shoulders, down his back, then up again to touch his face. And he knew, even before she said it, what her answer would be.

"No."

He kissed her once more. Then he pushed himself up and rolled away from her. While he still could.

"You're thinking of what I told you," she said. "About that man I was with, before."

He swung his head to look at her over his shoulder. She sat at the surf's edge, her arms wrapped around her bent knees to hug them close to her chest. "No." He shook his head, once, from side to side. "That was an experiment. But this...
this
would be for pleasure, and you're only allowed to break the rules if you don't enjoy it." He paused. "Isn't that right?"

She lifted her chin in that way she had, that way that used to annoy him and now only made him want to kiss her again. "I don't break society's rules."

He laughed, and stood up. "Don't you? In a society that expects a woman to devote herself exclusively to making a home and caring for a family, you travel the world by yourself—a single woman, with no escort, no companion. You say you have no intention of ever marrying because, with the law the way it is, you'd be giving up not just your independence, but all control of your life, and you refuse to do that." He felt the surf curl around his ankles, the receding wave sucking at him, beckoning him. "And then you say you don't break society's rules."

She stared up at him, her nostrils flaring wide as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Don't you see? That's precisely why I must maintain a reputation for strict moral rectitude, why people must see me as an essentially sexless being, a travel writer. Not some amoral female who wanders the world, scorning her proper place in society and taking a lover in every port."

He felt a sad, wry smile twist his lips. "And do you care so much about what other people think? I wouldn't have expected it of you."

She held herself very still. "You're only saying that because you want me to make love to you."

"I want you. But that's not why I said it."

He turned, conscious of her watching him as he waded out into deeper water. Then he dove beneath the surface of the lagoon and let the gentle waves wash over him, warm and soothing.

He didn't sleep.

India thought, at first, that he had gone to stand there, on the rocky spit of sand jutting out into the lagoon, because of what had happened between them at the water's edge. For the longest time, he watched the sea, and she watched him, a dark solitary figure silhouetted against the silver path spilled across the water by the westering moon. She supposed he thought that if he stayed away, she might somehow manage to fall asleep. Only, how could she sleep, knowing he was out there, wakeful, alone? How could she sleep when his kiss, his touch, the very scent of him had awakened within her such heat, such aching desires as she had never dreamt could exist?

It was good, she decided,
that tomorrow would mark the end of their journey together. She would never see him again. In time, she told herself, she would forget this tight, painful need that burned within her, forget the magic of his touch and the intoxicating vortex of his kiss. Forget the way he could warm her heart with just a smile. She told herself these things, to reassure herself. She was unprepared for the yawning, bitter sadness, the desperate yearning that rose up within her, sweet and hurting.

She tossed from one side to the other, sleep continuing to elude her despite the scented softness of the bed of ferns he had heaped up for her beside the glowing embers of the fire. On this balmy night, with the tropical breeze a warm caress that brushed sinfully across the bare flesh of her arms and legs, the fire was for comfort more than anything else, a defense against the savage darkness of the rain forest and the yawning emptiness of the sea.

The thought drew her attention, inevitably, back to the man who still stood looking out across the wide Pacific. Her gaze roved over him, over the lean, taut line of his back, the dark angle of his profile as he stared at the blackness of infinity. And she knew then that while he had left her alone so that she might sleep, it was also true that wakefulness was his constant companion. He rarely slept.

She sat up, her arms wrapping around her bent knees, her thoughts on the things he had told her, about the girl child he had abandoned on that faraway, mysterious island, about the beautiful woman he had loved, and who had died.

His wife.

It was not shock India had felt when he told her of the island girl he had taken to wife. Not shock, but an emotion more intimate, more powerful. And India realized now, as she listened to the gentle slosh of the ocean beside her, that what she had felt was something she didn't often experience, something she was ashamed, even now, to own. Because what she had felt was envy. Envy for this man, who had once loved so deeply, so vibrantly. And envy for the woman he had loved with such a powerful passion that he had flouted every expectation, every rule of his society and service, to make her his own.

India had never considered herself an impulsive person. But she could not have said what it was that caused her to stand and walk toward him. It was not a conscious decision. It was a need. A need to understand this man, whose life had become so unexpectedly, so fundamentally entwined with her own.

Chapter Nineteen

She could see him standing at the water's edge, his body taut as he watched her walk out to him. The air was soft and warm and sweetly scented with brine, the sea a dark, star-glittered presence that stretched beyond tomorrow.

"Why don't you ever sleep?" India asked, pausing only a short distance from him.

A flicker of a smile lightened his eyes. "I do sometimes."

"It's because of what happened on Rakaia. Isn't it?"

He didn't answer her, but she knew from the tightening of his jaw, the cording of the muscles in his throat as he swallowed, that it was true.

"Tell me," she said. "Tell me how your wife died."

He turned, his gaze sweeping the distant line of breaker-shattering reefs. "You don't want to hear it."

"Tell me."

He swung his head to look at her over his shoulder, his gaze narrow and piercing. "You want to hear? You want to hear how three sailors from the
Lady Juliana
raped an island woman so viciously that she died?"

India felt a sick, hollow dread settle heavily within her. "Not... not your wife?"

"No. Another village girl. But the Rakaians handled the situation badly. They thought the island was theirs, you see. They thought they had the right to exact their own justice on these visitors who had broken the island's laws."

"They killed them?"

"Yes."

It would have been the penalty for such a crime in England, of course. But the captain of the
Lady Juliana
wouldn't have seen it that way, India knew. He'd have seen three British sailors murdered by hostile natives. "The captain..." Her voice was a scratchy, broken whisper. She thought, too late, that he'd been right: she didn't want to hear this. "What did the captain do?"

Something flared in Jack's eyes, something that blazed up, deadly, then grew cold and hard. "He lined up thirty of his men and ordered them to open fire on the village. Men. Women. Children. It didn't matter. Those who could ran for the edge of the forest. Only, Titana couldn't run very fast. She was a month away from delivering our second child." He drew in a long, ragged breath, then let it out in a rush. "She was eight months heavy with child, and they shot her down like a rabid dog. Like she was nothing. Because to them, she was nothing."

"I don't believe it," India said, although even as the words left her lips, she knew what he'd told her was true. She simply didn't want to believe it.

He shifted to face her, his hard gaze locking with hers. "Why can't you believe it, India? For the same reason you can't believe that thirty years ago in the Subcontinent, a British squadron strapped the Sepoy rebels they'd captured to the mouths of cannons and literally blew them to hell? For the same reason you can't believe the good, God-fearing Puritan colonists of New England had a nasty habit of surrounding native villages and burning their inhabitants alive?" He took a step toward her, his eyes blazing. "What do you believe? That the world is divided—simplistically, dangerously—into good and evil? That the white men represent the force of civilization and good, which means the darker races of this world must be barbaric and evil?"

She stood her ground, although her heart was beating so hard and fast, her chest ached. "You are wrong about me. I have seen the ruins of the once-great cities of Central and South America that were laid waste by the brutality of conquerors
from Europe.
I have walked the mosaic floors of Arab homes that were old when Englishmen still wore uncured animal skins and roasted people in primitive trials by ordeal." She brought her hands up together, as if in prayer. "Don't you see? One of the reasons I am driven to write is because I want to try to dispel all the comfortable delusions people like to live with, to challenge their preconceptions and prejudices, to help those who are unable to travel understand the other peoples with whom we share this world. You can accuse me of many things, but don't you dare accuse me of cultural elitism."

The air seemed to echo with the thrum of her emotion, mingling with the distant crash of the breakers and the slosh of the surf at their feet. She watched as a strange, unexpected smile curled the edges of his lips. "Except, of course, when it comes to cannibals."

She was surprised into a shaky laugh. "Yes. Although perhaps by the time I sit down to write this book, I will have come to a more philosophical, less personal perspective of anthropophagy."

He reached for her, his hands closing over both of hers to draw her closer. At some time, he had put his trousers and shirt back on, although he wore the shirt unbuttoned and loose, so that it flapped in the warm breeze. She was intensely aware of a haunted, almost desperate glow in his eyes, and the way the moonlight glazed the dark sinews of his throat, his collarbone rising and failing with each breath. "I think it would have been better," he said, his voice a husky whisper, "if I had continued to think of you as an arrogant, self-righteous Scotswoman, convinced of the superiority of her race and scornful of any unfamiliar culture."

"Better why?" she asked, her hands trembling within his, although she made no attempt to remove them. "So that you could continue to keep me at a distance?"

He gathered her hair in his hands and lifted it from her neck before letting it fall down her back again in a soft, sensuous tumble. A dimple slashed one lean cheek. "And here I thought I was trying to seduce you."

"That's just biology." She touched his beard-roughened cheek, gently, with her fingertips. It was something she'd been wanting to do for what seemed like forever, although she'd resisted the impulse. Now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. "You blame yourself, don't you?" she said quietly. "You blame yourself for your wife's death. Hers, and all those who died with her."

His hands stilled in her hair, his eyes narrowing, his nostrils flaring as he drew in a quick breath. "Wouldn't you?"

It would have been easy to say, No,
of course not,
to tell him that the blame was not his, that responsibility for that dark day lay with the captain of the
Lady Juliana
and the men who had followed his order. But India knew something of what it was like to bear a burden of guilt, and so she said, instead, "I don't know."

"I think you do." A ghost of a smile softened the fierceness of his features. "I might blame myself for Titana's death, but you blame yourself for your mother's life." He shifted his hands to her shoulders, holding her close when she would have stepped back in surprise. "You think that if she hadn't had you, your mother would have left your father. That without you tying her to that cold, narrow house in Edinburgh, she could have had the life of adventuring she'd always dreamt of."

"How?" India whispered hoarsely, her gaze wide and frightened as she searched his face. "How could you know?"

"Because we're alike, you and I," he said softly, his hands moving over her shoulders in a gentle, caring caress. "We've simply found different ways of punishing ourselves."

She watched, breathless, as the warm tropical breeze ruffled the dark hair at his forehead. She watched his head dip, his features taut with a hunger she understood. His eyes looked as black and wild as the sea, and for one, dangerous moment, she almost fell into them. Then he brushed her parted lips with the pad of his thumb, and said, "You need to go back now. Before biology gets the better of us both."

She could have stayed. A part of her wanted to stay, to taste again the wickedness of his kiss, to know the magic of his hands and the secrets that his body could show hers. But everything she'd told him before was still true, and so were the other things, the things she hadn't told him and that he hadn't guessed. And so she turned and walked away, and left him there, with the wind, and the sea, and his past.

The passage through the barrier reef off La Rochelle was wide and easy, the lagoon opening out into an arcing, white-sand-rimmed bay that formed a natural harbor. The air blew off the sea cool and salty-sweet, the high feathery fronds of the palms overhead shifting lazily with the trades. Backed as it was by a thickly overgrown series of low foothills that rose lush and green above the clear, vivid turquoise waters of the bay, the village could have been beautiful. It wasn't.

Pausing upwind of the settlement, Jack let his gaze drift over the rotting lumber hovels roofed with rusting sheets of imported iron that straggled away from the beach. Lacking both the shabby elegance of an English colony and the neat prosperity that characterized the German settlements in the Pacific, the French trading post of La Rochelle was simply squalid and sad, and half-obscured by indiscriminate piles of rotting garbage that included what looked like the bloated corpse of a man, floating facedown just offshore.

Jack saw India's eyes widen as she stared at the corpse gently rising and falling with the placid surf, but she didn't mention it. All she said was, "Patu isn't here."

Jack squinted out over the sun-sparkled harbor. A battered old sloop rode at anchor on the far side of the bay, and some half a dozen native outrigger canoes lay propped up on forked branches stuck in the white coral sand. But other than that, the bay was deserted. "He will be," Jack said.

It was close to midday by now, and blazingly hot. Anyone with any sense had long ago disappeared into the lavender-colored shadows of the mangoes or one of the ugly plank buildings strung out along the bush track that passed for the settlement's main street. He knew that. And yet...

"What is it?" she asked, her brows drawing together as she studied his face. "You think something's wrong, don't you?"

He shook his head, his gaze lifting to the walled French compound that had been sited, with deliberate intimidation, at the top of a low rise. "I'm not sure. It just seems... different."

"Why? Weren't there dead men floating in the bay the last time you were here?"

He glanced over at her, and smiled. "You're going to put that in your book, aren't you?"

"Of course," she said, her sensible boots kicking up loose sand as she set off down the beach again. Her voice drifted back to him. "Right after the part about the cannibals."

His smile fading slowly, Jack watched her walk away from him, her back straight and tall, her head held high, her knapsack with its precious notebook gripped securely to her side. He watched the sun warm the curve of her face, glint in the chestnut highlights of her hair, and he knew a surge of regret, an unexpected and baffling desire to reach out and hold this moment before it could slip away. Hold her in his life.

It was a strange, useless thought. He was a renegade, a hunted fugitive doomed to a short, violent life spent alone and on the run. While she... she roamed the world freely, deliberately. And while Jack yearned, secretly, desperately, for a home and a family, he knew that India was determined never to tie herself down to any place, anyone... any man.

The call of a seabird drew his attention, briefly, to the sun-dazzled bay, where a tern sailed low and graceful on an updraft. Jack watched it come in, its wings spread wide as it glided to water level. Then he started down the beach, toward the acacia-shaded path that led to the French compound.