Beyond Sunrise (2 page)

He stared at her through squinted eyes. "You're writing a bloody book about this, aren't you?"

A faint, unexpected hint of color touched her cheeks. "As a matter of fact, I am. I'm thinking of calling it
From Mandalay to the Cannibal Islands."

"Huh. Given your argument, one would think you'd have started in the Americas, and called the book
From Peru to the Cannibal Islands."

He was silently laughing at her, and her chest rose and fell with indignation when she realized it. "You made it up, didn't you? What you said about the Faces of Fatapu? They're not a natural formation. You just said that so I'd go away and leave you alone."

Jack let out a soft sigh. "That's why I said it, all right. But that doesn't mean it's not true."

"Prove it."

He should have told her he didn't need to prove a bloody thing to her. He should have told her to get the bloody hell away from him and stay away. Instead, he said, "You're forgetting about the cannibals."

She shook her head. "You told me you're not afraid of cannibals."

"I'm not. But you should be."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"Women make good eating."

He said it with a smile, meaning to scare her. Instead, a gleam of interest lit up her eyes. "Really? Have you ever eaten one?"

The question was so unexpected, Jack almost jumped. "Bloody hell. What do you think I am?"

"I heard you lived with cannibals once. For two years."

"Not here."

"Where?"

Jack half turned away, then swung back on her. "Look, you want me to take you to Takaku, or not?"

A flicker of surprise animated her expressive face. She'd make a lousy poker player, Jack thought. "Does this mean you'll do it?"

"For ten pounds."

"Ten pounds! But that's outrageous!"

He shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

She looked at him through the narrowed eyes of a woman who had haggled her way from Egypt to Mexico. "Five."

He grinned. "Eight."

"Seven and a half."

"Done." He jerked his head toward the German settlement of Neu Brenenberg, tucked into the side of the verdant mountain that rose dark and steep on the far side of the bay. "Have these men take you to a place called the Limerick. The old one-legged Irishman who runs it looks like a pirate, but he keeps a bungalow hotel you'll find considerably cleaner than that steamer you just got off. Unless you like rats, of course."

"Actually, I came to appreciate their presence on the steamer," she said with a slow smile. "They scared away the cockroaches."

He found he liked her smile, liked the way it banished that spinsterish pinch of earnestness and hinted at the existence of another side to this woman altogether. "I'll pick you up from the Limerick at first light," he said gruffly, and took a step back.

He stood and watched as, with the aid of one of the seamen, she clambered down into the waiting longboat. Then she paused, her head falling back and her brows drawing together as she stared up at him. "You will be there, won't you?"

It was his last chance to get out of it. For one, oddly suspended moment, he was intensely aware of the golden heat of the tropical sun on his bare shoulders and the violent boom of the distant surf and the rocking of the dock beneath his feet. Then he said, "I'll be there. Now get the hell out of here, would you? I need to take a leak."

Chapter Three

On the deck of the HMS
Barracuda,
First Lieutenant Alex Preston paused to watch Captain Granger lean against the rail and lift a spyglass to one eye. Around them, the wind-whipped waves of the tropical blue sea surged, foam-flecked and empty. Captain Granger's jaw tightened in a careful checking of emotions that Alex could only guess at.

Already, the light had taken on a richly drenching golden quality that spoke of the imminent descent of darkness. Even after some six months of sailing these equatorial waters, it still amazed Alex how rapidly night replaced day here. One minute, the sun would be shining fierce and bright. Then, suddenly, the world would be bathed in a glorious tapestry of orange streaked with red and purple, a breathtaking panorama that disappeared all too quickly to plunge the earth into starry darkness.

"I thought you weren't expecting Ryder to show up until tomorrow, sir," said Alex.

Captain Granger lowered the glass, but kept his gaze on the wide, swelling sea. "I'm not."

Alex studied the other man's hard, closed profile. They'd been friends once, Captain Granger and Jack Ryder—or so it was rumored. That had been back in the days when they'd both been junior officers, before the Australian deliberately caused the sinking of their ship, the HMS
Lady Juliana,
and the death of more than half its company, including the
Lady Juliana's
captain. As the only officer left alive, Simon Granger had spent six weeks with the surviving crew members in an open lifeboat before being rescued by Malay fishermen somewhere in the Dutch East Indies. The incident had made Granger a hero, and Ryder an outlaw.

But the Admiralty, like Disraeli's Conservative government, had been distracted at the time by events in South Africa and India, Afghanistan and Turkey. It had only been recently, with the victory of the Liberals and their leader, Gladstone—a near-cousin of the
Lady Juliana's
ill-fated captain—that the Admiralty's determination to capture Ryder and bring him to justice had resurged.

It was the reason Alex was here now as first lieutenant, an appointment almost unheard of for an officer of his age and experience. For Captain Gladstone had been Alex's uncle, and the Prime Minister was cousin to Alex's mother. The appointment was a dream come true. Yet Alex felt the weight of his new responsibility and his family's expectations sitting heavily on his shoulders. They expected him to make certain Captain Granger didn't allow his past friendship with the renegade to interfere with the execution of his orders. Only, if the need were to arise, Alex wasn't exactly clear on how he, as a mere first lieutenant, could be expected to control his own captain. Even if Alex's mother's cousin was the Prime Minister of England.

"You must be looking forward to getting your hands on the man, sir," said Alex. "After so many years."

"Looking forward to it?" The captain's nostrils flared, his chest lifting as he sucked the salt-tinged air deep into his lungs. "I'm just following orders, Mr. Preston."

Alex kept his gaze fixed on the captain's face. There was no hint of impatient anticipation, no thirst for the chase. Yet Simon Granger had volunteered to be the one to bring Ryder in. "The man's a disgrace to the service and to England," Alex said, his voice rough with emotion, for Alex was a man with high ideals and
little
but contempt for those who fell afoul of them. "He never should have been allowed to roam free for so many years."

The captain turned his head then, his gray eyes narrowing as he studied Alex. "Tell me something, Mr. Preston; why did you join the navy?"

Alex lifted his chin with self-conscious pride. "To serve Queen and country, sir."

A slow smile curled the captain's lips. "Nothing else?"

Alex felt himself growing unexpectedly warm under the other man's scrutiny. "And to see something of the world." There was no need for Alex to mention the other reason—the one that had to do with being a gentleman's younger son, and the need to make his own way in the world. That was a driving force common to every officer in the navy.

"You're from Norfolk, aren't you?" said the captain. "Yes, sir."

"And this is your first assignment overseas?"

"Yes, sir," said Alex, wondering where the captain was leading, for he surely knew Alex had spent his first years in the navy on a steam sloop based out of Southampton.

Granger swung away to stare once more at the surrounding sea, pale silver now in the vanishing light. The island of Takaku, with its steaming volcanic peaks rising up steep and wild, was only a dark silhouette against the fading orange of the horizon. "Ever make love to a Tahitian woman, Mr. Preston?"

Alex felt himself heat, once more, with embarrassed confusion. "No, sir. Why?"

Captain Granger pushed away from the rail and turned toward the stern, his voice carrying back to Alex on the warm trade winds. "Because until you do, I wouldn't be too quick to judge Jack Ryder."

India's encounter with Jack Ryder should have prepared her for the proprietor of Neu Brenenberg's bungalow hotel, but she still found the gnarled, one-eyed, one-legged Irishman who ran the Limerick a shock. The man said his name was Harry O'Keefe, although India had her doubts about the veracity of that.

He looks for all the world like a character out of Mr. Stevenson's
Treasure Island, she wrote in her notebook later that evening.
One can't help but wonder what crimes this Australian and Irishman have committed, to make them so eager to live with the shadow of a German gunboat protecting them from the long arm of British law.

Still, she thought, absently chewing on the end of her pencil, she had to admit that the appalling Australian had been right. The Limerick's rooms were unexpectedly, refreshingly clean, and she could find no fault with the hearty Irish stew Mr. O'Keefe had sent up for her supper. The lack of a lock on the door she had solved by shoving her trunk in front of it.

The sound of a child's laughter carrying through the open window on a fresh sea breeze brought India's head up. She heard a woman's laughing admonition, and a man's voice, deep with amusement. India hesitated a moment, then laid aside her pencil and crossed the room to where the light muslin curtains billowed in the warm night air.

Mingling moon- and star-shine bathed the scene outside her window in a clear, silvery-blue light. She could see the white line of the surf, breaking on the beach below, and the feathery, wind-ruffled darkness of the palms silhouetted against the night sky. It was early yet, the inhabitants of the tidy little German settlement of Neu Brenenberg not yet having settled down for the night. Two men, their voices low murmurs, bent over a chessboard set up on the deep veranda of a nearby house. And, beyond them, India could see a young family, out for a stroll along the beach.

The child—a boy of about five, she decided—played at the surf's edge, shrieking with delight as he ran from each breaking, racing wave. From higher up the sand, his parents watched him. The woman had her arm linked through the man's. And as India stood at her window, watching, she saw the woman rest her head on her man's shoulder in a simple gesture of love and contentment that caught at something inside of India. Something that hurt, and left her feeling restless and sad.

Turning away from the window, she jerked the curtains closed against the night. Her gaze fell on her notebook, but she felt oddly disinclined to write more, and decided to retire instead.

By the time she parted the bed's mosquito netting and put out the oil lamp, the night had quieted. Yet she could still hear the child's laughter echoing through her memory, still see in her mind's eye the way the man's arm had slipped, warm and tender, about his wife's waist to hold her close.

Fluffing and refluffing her pillows, India shifted, wakeful, restless, in her lonely bed. She reminded herself that she remained unmarried by choice. That she was living the life of freedom and adventure about which she had always dreamed. It was true, all true. Yet as she lay alone in the darkness, her hand crept up to touch her breast, then slipped down to ride, thoughtfully, on her empty womb. It was a long time before she slept.

She was up early the next morning, dressed in what she called her Expedition Outfit, which she had had especially made to her own design by a tailor in Cairo. She checked for what was probably the third time to make certain that her notebook and pencils were in her waterproof knapsack, also specifically made to her design. Then she slung the knapsack along with a canteen over her shoulder, and sallied forth to await Mr. Ryder's arrival on the bungalow's porch.

Dawn was just breaking in the east when she let herself out the hotel's front door. A rich panoply of pink and gold and orange light spilled in exotic splendor across the smooth silver water of the bay, and she paused, one hand curling around the edge of the half-closed door as the beauty of the moment stole her breath. Around her, the small, orderly German town still slept; the only sounds to come to her were the gentle sloshing of the incoming tide and the chorus of tropical birdsongs that filled the warm, steamy air. She felt both exhilarated and oddly humbled by the magic of the moment. And she thought,
This
is why I travel, why I have chosen the life I lead.

Smiling to herself, India went to stand expectantly at the top of the steps, her eyes straining to catch sight of Mr. Ryder's
Sea Hawk
in the rapidly lightening bay below.

An hour later, the sun was well up in the sky and the village around her stirring. Mr. Ryder had yet to arrive. India was sitting in one of the porch's tattered wicker chairs, her gaze on the wind-rippled expanse of the bay, the toe of one boot tapping an annoyed tattoo on the plank flooring, when Mr. O'Keefe came whistling up the hibiscus- and fern-shaded path that ran around the side of the hotel.

"Blimey," said the Irishman, his head falling back as he stumbled to a halt at the base of the steps and stared up at the sight of India in her Expedition Outfit. The long-sleeved, belted blouse was nothing out of the ordinary, constructed as it was of a dark blue cloth woven loosely enough to allow good air circulation, yet sturdy enough to protect her from the fierceness of the tropical sun, as well as from snakes, insects, and savage vegetation.

But it was the rest of India's outfit that generally excited the most comment. The skirt was cut full enough to be modest, but not so full as to hamper the movements of a woman who made her living tramping through jungles and scrambling up cliffs. An unfortunate incident that had occurred while climbing to the High Place in Petra and had nearly cost India her life had convinced her of the wisdom of having the skirt discreetly split. And because nothing wears quite as well as a good Scottish plaid, India had had her Expedition Outfit cut from the McKnight tartan.

"Well, you'll be a hard one to lose in the jungle wearing that getup, that's fer sure," said Mr. O'Keefe, rubbing the tip of his nose with a splayed hand that did not quite manage to obscure his broad grin.

"That seems unlikely to become a problem," said India, who had long ago become inured to such reactions to her Expedition Outfit, "seeing as how Mr. Ryder has failed to put in an appearance as promised."

"Sure then, but it's liable to be noon or more before anyone'll be seeing Jack, given what I hear about last night's game, and him liking to have a good bottle of brandy at his elbow when he's got the cards in his hands."

India rose slowly to her feet. "Are you telling me that Mr. Ryder spent last night
gambling?
And drinking?"

Mr. O'Keefe's one remaining eye blinked. "Aye."

India stared off across the sun-sparkled, vivid blue waters of the bay. She'd always been frustratingly myopic, but if she squinted, she thought she could make out the shape of the
Sea Hawk,
still riding at anchor near Mr. Ryder's dilapidated dock. A rush of cold fury surged through her, surprising her with the shaking, blinding intensity of its passion.

"Tell me, Mr. O'Keefe," she said, stooping with swift decision to assemble knapsack, canteen, and pith helmet. "Where might I find someone willing to drive me to the far side of the bay?"

"You want I wait?" asked the woolly-headed Melanesian boy who had driven India around the bay in his rickety pony cart.

Standing in the sun-baked, grassy verge beside the cart, India looked down at the palm-shaded pandanus roofs of the scattering of small huts that had been built into the side of the hill between the road and the beach below. A start-up copra plantation, Captain Simon Granger had called this establishment. Well, India had seen several such places in her tour of the South Seas, but none as ramshackle as this one. Instead of the neat, iron-roofed, colonial-style bungalow one might expect, Mr. Ryder's home appeared indistinguishable from a common native hut. Nor could she see any significant signs of cultivation. There were a few racks of drying copra, their pungent sweetness filling the hot, steamy air. But as far as she could tell, Jack Ryder must simply lie around waiting for the coconuts to fall out the surrounding trees and into his lap.

"Miss?" said the boy in the cart.

India looked up into the boy's dark, flat-nosed face. "No, you needn't wait." She handed him the agreed fare, and a generous tip besides. "Thank you," she said, and adjusting the angle of her pith helmet, she set off down the narrow, muddy track to the primitive buildings below.

The leafy canopy of the jungle overhead came alive with a twittering, screeching, rustling protest as India pushed through a thicket of dripping ferns still wet from the previous evening's rain. The Australians had an expression for it: going troppo, they called it, when a white man abandoned the trappings of Western civilization and assumed the clothing and lifestyle of the natives. Well, thought India, it was difficult to imagine anyone going more troppo than Mr. Ryder.

Shaded by a stand of coconut and breadfruit trees, his house stood in a clearing on a spit of land overlooking both the bay and the thundering ocean beyond it. As she drew nearer, India realized the structure was slightly larger than most native huts, more like two huts put together. The walls were of woven bamboo, the roof of pandanus fastened with coconut fiber thongs to supporting purau-bough rafters. In place of window glass, bamboo blinds swung from the eaves, while on the porch, a young, dark-skinned, bare-breasted woman was squatting on a mat and grating a coconut. She looked up as India approached.