Nicole Jordan (11 page)

She nodded fervently. “There is nowhere I would rather be.” She gave him a curious glance. “Don’t you prefer your home to anywhere else?”

“I’m not particularly attached to my home, no. Possibly because I have spent little time there since I entered the army. My estates are in Yorkshire. The land there has a sort of rugged beauty, but nothing like your island.” Max paused before adding, “Why don’t you tell me about Cyrene? On my last visit I was too preoccupied with Yates’s critical state to notice much about it. But I understand that several thousand people of different nationalities live there.”

“Yes,” Caro replied. “The population is largely Spanish, but also British, French, Italian, and even Greek.”

“Thorne told me the prominent families are English. How did that come about?”

Her mouth pursed as she debated how much to say. The remarkable history of how the island had come to be settled centuries ago by the first Guardians of the Sword was a well-kept secret.

“I suppose you could say wars have been the main cause. The first Britons came here long ago, even before the Moors took control of the western Mediterranean. And scores of British exiles settled here over the centuries as the result of various political and military upheavals. Cyrene eventually became a Spanish possession, and then was ceded to Britain nearly a hundred years ago.”

“With the Treaty of Utrecht.”

“Yes, along with Menorca and Gibraltar. The English population increased significantly after that, and the Spaniards began to copy our English customs as well. Menorca ultimately reverted back to Spain, but we remained a British protectorate, with our own rule and our own lieutenant governor. We’ve always been rather independent-minded.”

“How did you manage to keep from being swallowed up by all the different conquering forces over the years?”

“We were wise enough to pay tribute to the ruling powers for protection,” Caro said dryly. “It’s also fortunate that we are somewhat isolated and have our own natural defenses. Do you see the cliffs there?” She pointed to the jagged, soaring cliffs that rimmed the western edge of the isle. “Much of the island is difficult to scale. We also have three fortresses and dozens of watchtowers overlooking the more vulnerable coves and bays. And note the whitecaps there below.”

Caro lowered her hand to the sea, indicating where the brilliant blue waters gave way to shallower green flecked with white. “Those are rock reefs, and around them swirl dangerous currents. Captain Biddick knows all the navigable channels around the island, but to the uninformed, the currents can be treacherous.”

“So Cyrene generally escaped the bloody history of many other Mediterranean isles.”

“Thankfully,” Caro said. “The biggest threat has always been pirate raids. There are numerous incidents of pirates pillaging and carrying off slaves. But any larger invasions were never successful. When the Moors tried to attack Cyrene nine hundred years ago, a great storm sank half their fleet. And a decade ago, when the French gathered for an assault, a strange fog enveloped their ships for days and sent several of them crashing into the reefs.”

Max looked skeptical.

“Those are historically documented facts, not legends,” Caro insisted.

He was afforded a good view of Cyrene as they sailed around the southern tip. Caro hadn’t exaggerated about the natural defenses that protected the island, Max saw. The towering cliffs, the rocky reefs, the wicked currents, all would have been significant deterrents to invasion over the centuries.

Additionally, during their approach, he counted no fewer than eight watchtowers, along with an imposing fortress guarding the rugged western coastline. Plus another castle stronghold at the southern end of the island, where the hills were the lowest and most vulnerable to attack.

“Sir Gawain Olwen lives there,” Caro informed him, pointing to the latter. “Olwen Castle has been in his family for centuries.”

“The man who heads the Mediterranean branch of the Foreign Office? Thorne’s superior?”

“Yes.”

Another massive fortress fortified with cannon overlooked the seaport to the southeast, Max noted as they sailed closer. Simply to access the small harbor, they would be required to navigate a narrow strait formed by two jutting rock promontories.

Significant defenses indeed.

When the schooner changed course to approach the strait, Caro pointed to the bluffs on her right. “Thorne’s villa, where you will be staying, lies a few miles up the coast. The house overlooks a secluded cove and has a magnificent view of the sea.”

“What about the ruins? I remember they face east, but where exactly are they?”

Caro felt herself blush at what she suspected was his deliberate reminder. “Another seven or eight miles directly north of Thorne’s estate.”

“I intend to visit there again with you.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She rarely visited the ruins anymore, since there were just too many emotional memories for her there. Certainly she would never go there again with Max. She was far too likely to lose command of her senses there with him.

“I will be happy to draw you a map,” Caro said, “so you may visit on your own.”

“I never expected you to be so fainthearted.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am not fainthearted. I simply don’t wish to be your lover.”

“Why not?”

Because nothing can come of it. Because I won’t
make myself so vulnerable to you again, for you will only leave me….

“Because you will only be on Cyrene for a brief time,” Caro replied.

“Time enough for us to become better acquainted. There is so much more to lovemaking that I never showed you.”

Her heart somersaulted wildly, but with effort she summoned a nonchalant smile. “Pray let me repeat myself, Mr. Leighton. I am not interested.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” Max raised a hand to trace his thumb along her lower lip to the corner of her mouth—and smiled when Caro drew back sharply. “See? You can’t deny you felt that.”

She couldn’t make any such denial. Max had only to touch her and fire leapt between them.

“You can’t pretend I don’t affect you,” he murmured. “I recognized all the signs of an aroused woman last evening—your shallow breath, your rapid pulse, your flushed skin.”

She cleared her throat. “Perhaps. But according to medical journals, arousal is a common phenomenon in nature.”

“Is that why your body felt so tight?”

How did he know how her body had felt? Had he been aware of the hot tingling inside her? How her nipples had contracted into taut buds that throbbed with a pleasurable ache…

Averting her gaze, Caro pretended to study the bluffs overhead. “A natural phenomenon,” she insisted more hoarsely than she intended. “Simply a spontaneous physical reaction to an…attractive man. Just as your condition is natural and predictable.”

She sent Max a provocative glance. “The male of a species is readily stricken by lust. That is your trouble, Mr. Leighton, I’m certain. You are suffering from simple lust.” Caro let her lips spread in a smile. “And I know the perfect cure. Another woman to capture your interest. I know several beauties who would welcome your attentions. Two in particular you will find far more appealing than you find me. I will introduce you at the first opportunity.”

Max stood looking at her with veiled amusement. “I am not interested in any woman but you, sweeting.”

It was true, he thought with conviction. He still desired Caro—keenly. The passing days had made no difference to his strange obsession for her, in fact had only sparked his craving.

Caro stirred his blood like no woman ever had. Against his will her spirited challenges had pierced the protective shell he’d formed around himself, making him slowly begin to come alive again. And for the first time since the tragedy, his dark memories of Philip had diminished.

Oh, yes, he wanted Caro. Even more so during the past week. His dreams had quieted since he’d told her about his nightmares. The trouble was, they had also become more erotic…and featured Caro prominently, despite his effort to keep them tame. Simply looking at her now made him recall vividly what it felt like to lose himself in the magic of her sweet body. Made him want to plunge deep inside her and feel her velvet heat close around him…

“We will be lovers again, I have no doubt,” Max observed with unwavering assurance.

Arching an eyebrow, Caro managed a laugh. “You are very arrogant.”

“Merely confident.”

“Your confidence is misplaced. I have no intention of succumbing to any seduction.”

“Shall we put it to the test?” Max asked.

Her brows snapped together. “What do you mean?”

“I thought we should hold a competition. To see how long you can resist me. I wager it will only be a matter of days.”

She regarded him warily, obviously debating with herself, Max saw. He’d deliberately provoked her, but he doubted she could stop herself from taking up his challenge. Caro Evers was not the kind of woman to back down.

He was right.

“I would require certain terms,” she said. “If I succeed, my prize will be that you cease to plague me. Agreed?”

“Yes, since I have little concern you will succeed. As for length…say, until the next new moon?”

“That is more than a fortnight from now.”

“Crying craven so soon?”

She gave him a defiant look, then tossed her head. “Very well. If you want a competition, I will gladly give you one. But you are sure to lose.”

Max had to work hard to control his smile of triumph. Caro obviously wouldn’t consider the possibility of defeat, but neither would he. He was prepared to employ whatever tactics necessary in order to win her.

Turning away, Max focused his gaze on the approaching harbor. The vista held an enchanting charm characteristic of the Mediterranean, he thought, listening to the cries of gulls and terns that swooped down to greet them.

Above, bathed in golden warmth, a bustling town perched precariously on the hillside, its whitewashed houses gleaming in the sun, colorfully accented by splashes of blue trim and roofs of red tile, shaded by tall palms and draped with bougainvillea. A steep cobblestone lane zigzagged down the steep face to the water.

The harbor itself smelled of brine and fish and tar but appeared spotlessly clean. Along with dozens of fishing vessels, Max saw two ships lying at anchor. Caro seemed to recognize them, and appeared relieved.

Max would have asked her about them, but just then the schooner began to slow as the captain shouted orders to lower sails. And Caro spoke first, informing him of her plan.

“Once we dock, Captain Biddick will have someone show you to Thorne’s villa. It isn’t too long a drive from town.”

“You won’t be accompanying me?”

She flashed him a pert glance, reminding him of the competition they had just declared. “You hardly need me. And I must meet with Sir Gawain as soon as possible to discover what he has learned of Isabella in my absence. I have dispatches to give him as well.”

“Shouldn’t we discuss my participation?”

“That can wait. He will need time to read the letter of introduction Thorne wrote for you and to decide how he wishes to use you, if at all.”

Max’s mouth curved. “You weren’t in favor of my joining you. Can I trust you not to thwart my cause, angel?”

“If you are as skilled as Thorne says, then I will welcome your help. And regardless of my opinion, Sir Gawain will make up his own mind about you. He is an excellent judge of character.”

Max might have made a reply in defense of his character, but Caro’s attention was riveted on the quay.

“It is possible someone will meet me,” she murmured, her gaze anxiously scanning the crowd that had gathered there. “Ah, there is Señor Verra.”

She seemed to be acknowledging a tall, swarthy man who stood beside a cart drawn by two mules. And when she lifted her hand to wave, the man responded in kind.

“I hope you will forgive me for abandoning you,” Caro said sweetly to Max, suggesting an obvious desire to be rid of him.

“Of course,” he replied, keeping his tone easy. “Your friend Lady Isabella comes first. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Perhaps the day after. Dr. Allenby may need me tomorrow since he has been without an assistant all the weeks I’ve been gone. But I will arrange to have some of our island gentry call upon you first thing tomorrow morning so you will feel welcome.”

Clutching the leather pouch Thorne had given her, she crossed to the quarterdeck, where the captain stood. They conferred for a moment, with Captain Biddick nodding several times, before he escorted her to the railing.

Despite her skirts, Caro scurried agilely over the side and down a rope ladder into a small skiff, which rowed her to the docks.

Max felt oddly bereft at her departure. Moments later he suffered a decided pang of jealousy as Caro spoke animatedly with Señor Verra. He watched as she allowed Verra to assist her into the cart, feeling a surge of pure male possessiveness, and continued watching as they began the long climb up the hill.

Max was almost startled when the captain spoke at his elbow.

“Welcome to Cyrene, Mr. Leighton. I trust you will enjoy your stay on our beautiful island.”

His mouth curled wryly as he watched the retreating cart. Caro had won this round, he conceded. He had no idea when he would even see her next. And considering the fact that she had just driven off with another man, his campaign to win her had just suffered a decided setback.

But he had always relished a challenge, Max reminded himself. If he had any say about it, he would definitely enjoy his stay on Cyrene.

Chapter

Five

Brandy in hand, Max moved restlessly across the study to the French doors, which looked out upon the vast Mediterranean. Thorne’s luxurious villa sat high on a bluff above a secluded cove and offered every possible comfort. Like many Spanish-style manors, it boasted four galleried wings built around an open central courtyard. But it was the magnificent night view of the sea that called to Max.

He opened the doors to let in the gentle, salt-tinged breezes. In England autumn would be ripening, but here summer seemed still to linger, with a swollen half-moon casting a silver light over the endless, shimmering stretch of water.

Beholding such scenic splendor, he found it easy to believe in mystical spells. To accept that Cyrene was an isle of bliss with the ability to seduce the senses and arouse wild, primal urges in its inhabitants. He did indeed feel a strange, beguiling power. He attributed it, however, to the island’s extraordinary beauty. Here was a genuine paradise, with a serenity he’d found nowhere else in the world.

He shouldn’t feel so restless, then. Since his arrival this afternoon, he’d taken a long swim in the cove and enjoyed an excellent dinner served by Thorne’s capable staff, then strolled in the terrace gardens and perused several rare volumes of history in Thorne’s well-stocked library until it was time to retire to bed. But peace had eluded Max.

As usual he resisted sleeping so as to keep his dark visions at bay.

Fingering the knife in his pocket, Max took a slow swallow of brandy. For a time after Philip’s death, he had tried to drink his nightmares into oblivion, but sotting himself hadn’t helped.

After his visit to Cyrene last year, however, he’d had his guardian angel beside him, keeping him company, giving him strength.

It comforted him simply to think of her. Her image alone could often banish the chimeras that plagued him.

He closed his eyes now and let his mind fill with vivid memories of Caro. The pulse of her throat under his fingertips when she arched in pleasure against him. The taste of her warm lips as she opened to him. The fiery ecstasy as her sleek heat clenched around his aching shaft…

Perhaps he was under Caro’s spell, not the island’s, Max reflected. And he might never be free of the haunting power she held over him. Might never be able to get her out of his mind, his blood—

Max tensed suddenly, unable to shake the feeling of being watched. He caught the pungent odor of a cheroot at the same moment he saw the red glow of ashes in the darkness.

A figure stood in the shadows of a carob tree, within striking distance.

Needles of alarm pricked Max’s spine, making him reflexively reach for his sabre. Finding no weapon hanging at his side, he withdrew the knife from his coat pocket. Just then the stranger ground out the cheroot beneath his heel and strode forward, into the light from the study.

He was followed closely by a shorter, bulkier man.

“I see,” the first gentleman said easily as he sauntered past Max into the room, “that you have made yourself at home with Thorne’s brandy.” When Max’s eyebrow shot up at his temerity, the stranger introduced himself. “I am Alex Ryder. And this is Santos Verra.”

Verra was the man Caro had driven off with this afternoon, Max recalled.

“
Buenas noches,
Señor Leighton,” the Spaniard said, flashing a grin that made his teeth gleam white in his swarthy face.

Ryder had dark hair and eyes as well, but his tanned skin was the result of bronzing by the sun rather than the olive complexion of many of the Mediterranean peoples. And his accent was pure, blue-blooded British. Verra, Max surmised, looked to be about ten years older than himself; Ryder near his own age of thirty-two.

Meeting Ryder’s gaze, Max knew instantly that he was dealing with a worthy adversary; those keen, dark eyes held the alert, measuring intensity of a man who would give no quarter in battle or otherwise.

Ryder didn’t offer to shake hands but helped himself to a generous glass of the aforementioned brandy and offered his Spanish friend one as well.

When Max’s mouth curled dryly, the Spaniard flashed another grin. “Señor Thorne will not object, I assure you. We are compadres.”

“Do
you
object?” Ryder asked Max coolly as he settled himself in a stuffed leather chair.

“If I did?”

Ryder returned a dangerous smile as he eyed the knife Max held. “I would take your lack of hospitality into consideration.”

“If you expect me to be hospitable, you might explain why you’ve been watching me.”

“Sir Gawain Olwen sent us to welcome you—and to ask you a few questions.”

“Ah,” Max said, relaxing for the first time. He did understand. “You’re here to see if I pass muster.”

That brought the first gleam of approval to Ryder’s eyes. “Something like that.”

Restoring the knife to his pocket, Max settled in an opposing chair and regarded his unexpected visitors. Of the two, Ryder seemed far less forthcoming than the jovial Verra. Max thought he would do better to address the Spaniard if he hoped to learn anything while they conducted their own investigation of him.

“Captain Biddick told me something about you, Señor Verra. You own the local tavern.”

“
Si,
señor. I have the finest wines and liquors on the island. I supply Thorne with all his vintages. You should try the Madeira.”

“I have—and found it most excellent. Biddick never mentioned you, though,” Max said to Ryder.

“I only arrived yesterday. I have been in Spain.”

Remembering the two ships lying at anchor in the harbor, Max nodded. “I take it you both work for the Foreign Office?”

“For Sir Gawain, yes.”

“Any new developments regarding Lady Isabella Wilde?”

“Only one thus far. We’re certain now that her ship was taken to Algiers, but her trail went cold after that. Regrettably, we are still searching for her.” Ryder’s dark eyes narrowed measuringly. “Now it is my turn to ask the questions.”

“By all means, ask.”

“I hear you have volunteered to be part of a rescue mission if we mount one. Why?”

His tone held both skepticism and challenge, but Max answered easily. “Because Miss Evers was instrumental in saving my lieutenant’s life, and I would like to repay the favor.”

“Thorne has vouched for you,” Ryder admitted. “And we have John Yates’s testimony. Yates thinks you a candidate for sainthood, by the way. And Sir Gawain is impressed with your credentials. You’re obviously brave and intrepid and a good commanding officer, but I am not convinced that you are what we need.”

“And you base this opinion on…?”

“You’re a professional soldier, Leighton. Accustomed to certain rules and conventions of warfare. But any rescue attempt we conduct will be nothing like a military offensive. We won’t use an army outfitted with artillery.”

“Of course not,” Max replied. “Instead you’ll rely on stealth, lightning strikes, night raids.”

“Some army men might think a frontal assault is the only honorable means of conducting a war.”

“A frontal assault has strategic value when you have superior forces, but not when your objective is to liberate a hostage. If Lady Isabella is being held captive under guard, a direct attack could be the surest way to get her killed.”

“Exactly,” Ryder said, sipping his brandy. “And our organization has few rules for a reason. We’re more interested in success than adhering to convention.”

“Let me guess. You operate in highly select units—small but effective. Your customary tasks involve spying, espionage, clandestine missions…in short, a guerrilla operation.”

“
Now
you begin to impress me,” Ryder acknowledged, his smile grudging.

Max glanced at Señor Verra. “In Spain I became acquainted with a number of Resistance fighters. You have that look about you, señor.”

“I have a cousin who was in the Resistance, but my skills run to smuggling.” Verra grinned broadly. “I was a smuggler before I came to be employed by Sir Gawain. I am the wily one.”

“We each bring various specialties to the organization,” Ryder said.

“And what is yours?”

“Munitions. Ordnance. Explosives.”

The dangerous one,
Max thought. “And Thorne?”

Ryder smiled with real amusement this time. “Thorne is the daredevil. Nerves of steel.”

“I presume Sir Gawain is your master strategist?”

“Yes. He gives the initial orders—but even those are not sacrosanct. He expects us to use our intellect and instincts as well as our skills in the field. We plan for contingencies, but events don’t always go as expected or planned. In such cases, we’re free to break the rules of honor and convention if need warrants.”

Such freedom held a vast appeal for Max, who more than once had questioned the orders of his superior officers, even the great Wellington.

“We could use an expert tactician,” Ryder added. “It’s possible you could fill that role.” He paused, although his intense gaze never wavered. “But I will be frank with you, Leighton. Most of us have worked together for years, and we don’t welcome outsiders readily.”

Max understood what Ryder wasn’t saying. They were more than a band of adventurers and rebels who’d joined together to do daring deeds; they were a close-knit group of friends who risked danger and death together. “A brotherhood of sorts,” he murmured.

“Yes. We would die for one another and for our cause.”

“And just what is your cause?”

The mocking gleam in Ryder’s eyes grew enigmatic. “I will leave that for Sir Gawain to explain. He would like you to call on him day after tomorrow to discuss your role…. Presuming you are still interested in joining us on those terms—risking injury and death for your fellow compatriots.”

Averting his gaze, Max stared down into his brandy, flashes of war passing before his mind’s eye. He’d known enough blood and gore to last a lifetime and beyond. But the possibility of dying wasn’t what terrified him; it was having his friends die for him that made his gut wrench.

Could he stomach that horror again?

“If I do join you,” Max said finally, his voice low, “I promise to give you no cause to find me wanting.”

Ryder nodded with apparent satisfaction. “That is what Caro said of you, and I tend to trust her judgment.”

The mention of Caro made Max raise an eyebrow. “What would she know of risking death?”

The corner of Ryder’s mouth curved. “Caro is one of us, didn’t you know?”

“
She
works for the Foreign Office?”

“Yes, and she will be accompanying us on any rescue.”

“You are jesting,” Max said skeptically.

“Not at all. We couldn’t stop her if we tried. Nor would we wish to. Have no fear, Leighton, Caro will pull her own weight. I know few men who are a better shot or who possess her expertise with a rapier, not to mention her skill as a medic. And there are times when only a woman can accomplish our designated mission. That alone makes her invaluable.”

Max found himself shaking his head. He had known Caro was unconventional, but not to that extent. He found it difficult to reconcile her two personas—a guerrilla agent employed by the British Foreign Office and the enchanting woman he knew as his guardian angel and healer. Evidently she was even more remarkable than he’d realized. This new divulgence, however, made him wonder what else Caro hadn’t told him, what other secrets she might be keeping from him.

Realizing his thoughts had wandered, Max returned his attention to his unexpected guests. “So what is your verdict of me?” he asked Ryder. “Have I swayed your opinion in the least?”

“It’s early yet,” Ryder drawled, his eyes glinting. “Another glass of Thorne’s superb brandy might go a ways toward persuading me.”

With a wry smile, Max waved his hand toward the decanter. “Pray, help yourself. I’m certain Thorne will understand if we deplete his stock for a commendable purpose.”

He studied her silently as he undressed her, his jeweled eyes hidden by a fall of thick, dark lashes. Yet she saw his hard, virile face tighten when he bared her breasts to his gaze. His strong hands cupped the swells, his thumbs coaxing, making the sensitive tips engorge painfully under his light touch.

A heated tremor eddied deep in the pit of her stomach.

For a time he went on stroking the hard points of her nipples to aching peaks before he bent closer to kiss her throat where her pulse hammered wildly. Then his mouth lowered to suckle one breast, closing hot and moist over the taut bud.

Fire plummeted to her yielding, throbbing center.

He nuzzled softly, his lips roughly tender, his tongue tracing burning caresses around her fullness. Unable to bear the torment any longer, Caro molded herself against his powerful body, opening to him, clutching the hard muscles of his shoulders.

At her urgency, his hands skimmed down her back and lifted her up. Her breath splintered at the first thrust of his rigid flesh parting the slick folds of her body. She felt impaled, stretched taut….

“Take me deeper, sweetheart.” Raw desire darkened his husky voice, and she heard her own breathy plea in response.