Desire in the Sun (16 page)

A dark shape on the white sand far down the beach caught her eye. At that distance she could not ascertain what it might be. Whatever it was lay inert. It could very well be nothing more than a piece of flotsam washed up by the storm. But it could also be a man. …

Lilah scrambled down the other side of the promontory, picking up her skirts and stumbling along the beach in a near run. Shells cut her feet and she disregarded the pain. Once she fell to her knees, scraping her palms as she caught herself, but still she pushed herself up and ran on. She had to see, had to know. …

She was still some yards away when she knew for certain that the shape was a man. He lay unmoving,
shirtless and barefoot, one arm flung up past his head and the other cuddled beneath him. She would recognize that coal-black hair and the breadth of those shoulders anywhere.

Joss.

“Joss!” Lilah breathed a prayer that he still lived even as she dropped to her knees beside him. He didn’t move. His back with its faint tracery of scars was turned to her. His broad shoulders gleamed a pale bronze in the sun. His breeches were damp but drier than her dress, and his hair was already drying into crisp waves around his head and neck, its confining thong lost in the sea. She could detect no sign that he drew breath.

“Joss!” She put her hand on the satiny skin of his shoulder. It was warm to the touch. Relief flooded through her, until it occurred to her that the warmth of the skin might be due in part to the relentless sun.

Grasping his far shoulder with both hands, she struggled to turn him onto his back. He was heavy, and the task wasn’t easy, but at last she managed it. As his face and chest rolled into view, she gasped. A wicked-looking gash had been sliced into the flesh of his forehead. Although the cut was imbedded now with sand, and any blood that may have flowed from it had been washed away by the sea, Lilah guessed that it had once bled profusely. Was the lack of bleeding now a bad sign, or a good one? Did it mean that he was …? She refused to even think the word.

“Joss!”

Frightened, she shook him. Her hand moved from his shoulder, hesitated, then nestled in the soft wedge of fur on his chest to feel for his heart. There, beneath her fingers, was the faintest of beats.

“Thank God!”

He was alive, then, but at what cost in terms of injuries? He was not merely sleeping, he was unconscious. That great gash might have damaged his skull.

The possibility that he had survived the horrors of the night and the sea only to die of an injury on this sundrenched shore unnerved her. Biting her lip, Lilah ran her hands gently around the gash, and then all over his skull down to his neck and behind his ears. The curling tendrils of his hair clung to her fingers like beseeching hands.

His skull seemed to be in one piece. She was no doctor, but she had learned a little about human anatomy from nursing the sick aboard the
Swift Wind.
It was possible that he had some other injury that was not outwardly visible. Moving a little so as to give herself the greatest possible view of his body, she ran her hands over him, probing the broad shoulders, the ribs that seemed to have healed since that day in Mathews Court House, the length of his spine. His skin was warm and smooth and whole, he was lean but firmly muscled, and as far as she could tell the bones in his torso were intact.

Shifting again, she slid her hands down each of his arms. They, too, were warm and sleek, lightly furred and so firmly muscled that they were hard to the touch beneath the satin of his skin. And they, too, seemed to be intact.

That left his hips and legs and feet as possible sites for injury. Unless, of course, he had damage to some internal organ, something she would not find by looking or feeling. If that was the case, she could do nothing about it, so she resolved to put the possibility out of her head.

The thought of running her hands along his narrow hips and hard-muscled legs was unsettling. Lilah glanced at the area of his abdomen covered by his breeches, flushed, and shifted her attention to his legs. For a long moment she stared at them, sprawled out against the white sand as they were, each muscle and sinew clearly delineated by the rough wool breeches that, dampened, clung to him like a second skin. His legs looked straight
enough, and the narrow bare brown feet with the toes pointing toward the sky seemed attached just as they were meant to be. That one long look was enough to make up Lilah’s mind for her: She would leave well enough alone for the time being. If she were to discover that he had a broken leg, or hip, she would be at a loss to do anything about it anyway.

“Joss!” Her inspection done, she tried once more to rouse him, calling his name and shaking him gently by the shoulder. The stubby black crescents of lashes remained resolutely closed against cheeks that were darkened by several days’ growth of beard. He didn’t stir, didn’t respond in any way. Crouching beside him, Lilah stared down at him in dismay. What ought she do now?

She could just sit on the beach beside him, hoping and praying that he would wake up on his own. But what if he didn’t, or what if it took days? They would both have to have water, and she at least would have to eat. And they needed some sort of shelter from the sun. Already she could feel its bright rays burning her tender skin. She could not leave him exposed on the beach to broil like a fish. And she knew from experience with Barbados’s blinding sun that her own skin would turn painfully red in a matter of hours if she did not protect it from the sun. There was no one to help her. What needed to be done, she would have to do herself.

Over the course of the next hour, Lilah managed to drag Joss to where the palm trees, with their interlocking tangle of bushes and vegetation, shaded the sand, then erect a crude shelter over him by leaning some driftwood she scavenged from the beach against the trunk of a leafy palm. She found some fresh water in a small rock pool on the promontory. The fresh water, a remnant from the last few days’ storm, would evaporate in a day or so. The shelter was so crude that it would keep out nothing more than the gossamer rays of the sun. Her arrangements for survival were strictly temporary, but at least they would keep the
two of them alive until Joss woke, or they were rescued, or she figured out what to do next.

Joss stirred and groaned as she tried to clean some of the crusted sand from his wound. Lilah was encouraged by this evidence of life. But he still didn’t open his eyes, or respond when she called his name. So she sank back on her heels, disappointed, and continued with what she was doing.

The gash was not particularly deep, but it was long, slicing from just above his right temple all the way across his forehead to end over his left eye. The edges were jagged, and sand clung tenaciously to the scabbing that had already started to form. As Lilah carefully wiped as much of the sand from the cut as she could with the dampened end of her petticoat, it occurred to her that infection was a real danger. Betsy’s father was a great believer in salt water as an aid in healing. He used it frequently as he practiced his arts on the other slaves, and Lilah herself had seen the simple remedy work wonders around Heart’s Ease. Using a seashell for a cup, she brought some seawater back to the makeshift shelter. Shielding Joss’s eyes with her hand, she gently poured the water into the wound.

Joss groaned, and opened his eyes to look right into her face.

“You’re awake!” Lilah smiled down at him in delight, and left off pouring the water.

“Water!” he muttered, his eyes closing again, his tongue coming out to touch dry lips.

“Just a minute.” She had a little fresh water in another seashell just outside the shelter. Turning, she crawled out, fetched the shell, and, cradling it carefully so that none of its precious liquid spilled, brought it back to him. His eyes opened as she knelt beside him, her hand sliding beneath the back of his head to lift it just enough so that he could drink. He drained the small amount in two gulps, and closed his eyes. Lilah lowered his head carefully back to
the sand. Chewing on her lower lip, she looked down at him in concern. He was silent for so long that she had begun to fear that he had lost consciousness again when he spoke without opening his eyes.

“Christ, my head,” he mumbled, lifting a hand toward the gash. She caught his hand before he could touch it, and returned it to rest on his chest. “It aches like a sore tooth and burns like hellfire!”

“You’ve got a bad cut,” she said.

“The damned plank hit me. …” His voice trailed off as he obviously started to remember the night before. Wincing, he made an abortive movement to sit up.

“Where are we?”

“Stay still!” she ordered sharply, her hand flying to the center of his chest to push him back. Her action was unnecessary. He was already falling back with a groan.

“I don’t know where we are,” she admitted.

“I’ve got the mother of a headache. But what I can’t understand is why the damned thing burns so.”

“I put seawater on it to clean it out. That’s probably why it burns.”

“Seawater!”

“Betsy’s father is an Obeah man, and he swears by seawater for preventing infection. He says the salt promotes healing.”

“Christ! No wonder it burns!” He frowned as his eyes focused on her face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. In much better shape than you are, believe me. Does anything hurt besides your head? I tried to check for broken bones, but—”

“You did, eh?” His lips sketched a faint smile. “No, nothing hurts. Except my head. It hurts enough for the entire rest of my body.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I expect I’ll survive.” He looked up at the rough pieces of driftwood that formed a slanting roof some three feet above his head and torso. “What is this?”

She followed his eyes. “Driftwood. You were unconscious, and I was afraid to leave you lying out in the sun. So I got some driftwood and made a kind of lean-to. And I found some fresh water.”

“You built a lean-to over me?” His face was a study in mingled pain and surprise. She smiled down at him.

“Actually, I had to drag you across the beach first, so I could lean the wood against a tree.”

He studied her for a long moment, his expression difficult to decipher. “You dragged me across a beach, built me a shelter from the sun, took care of my cut and found fresh water. I’d say that makes you a pretty remarkable lady, Delilah Remy. As resourceful as you are beautiful.”

The admiring gleam in his green eyes brought a faint, glimmering smile from her. “And you are an incorrigible flirt,” she answered before she thought. Then her eyes widened on his face with dismay. That was exactly the sort of reply she would have made if he were still the Jocelyn San Pietro she had thought him when they had met that never-to-be-forgotten night at Boxhill. But everything had changed since then. He was no longer in a position to tease and flirt with her, and she was no longer free to respond to him. He was a slave, her slave, and to permit any relationship other than mistress to servant to exist between them was both unthinkable and dangerous. Remembering how he had kissed her on the
Swift Wind,
his fierce passion and her fiery response, she flushed. Shipwrecked or no, she could not for a moment forget who and what they both were. The consequences could be disastrous for both of them.

“I’m going to get some more water,” she said in a constricted voice. His eyes narrowed on her face. If he could read her thoughts, she didn’t care. He had to know just as she did that the attraction that had never died between them was impossible. Forbidden.

XVII

W
hen Lilah returned with two seashells full of water, Joss was standing outside the crude shelter. He was half turned away from her, his fists on his hips as he stared out to sea. His black hair fell in disordered curls around the nape of his neck, his shoulders were wide and gleaming in the bright sunlight, his arms corded with muscle. His waist was hard and narrow, and the nether regions of his body discreetly hidden by the sandy black breeches looked just as leanly supple as the rest.

As she stared at him, Lilah’s step faltered. When she resumed walking it was at a slower pace. Since nursing the sick aboard the
Swift Wind,
she knew much more about the anatomy of the male body than she had when she’d left Virginia. Bare chests, backs, arms and even legs and other less mentionable parts were no strangers to her anymore. But the brief, necessary glimpses of male flesh that she had been exposed to on the ship had been strictly impersonal. Seeing Joss standing there bare to the waist, muscles sleekly powerful beneath smooth skin, the thick wedge of hair on his chest stretching from one flat brown nipple to the other before narrowing down to disappear beneath the waistband of his breeches—that was personal. He was magnificently, beautifully male, and just looking at him made her mouth go dry.

It was shameful that the mere sight of his unclothed
chest should affect her so. Just looking at him aroused the most wanton feelings inside her, and she was not a wanton female. To treat him strictly as a servant would be the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.