Nicole Jordan (33 page)

The following morning Max stood braced at the ship’s railing, watching as Cyrene’s rugged, picturesque coastline grew ever closer. A brisk breeze had set whitecaps jumping in the blue waters and waves surging against the bow, yet he scarcely noticed.

He’d spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning on his pallet. For once, however, his restlessness had nothing to do with nightmares. Instead, it was his offer of marriage and Caro’s adamant refusal that had kept his thoughts in turmoil.

He had indeed proposed to her in part because it was the honorable course. He fully understood his obligations as a gentleman. He’d been caught in a flagrant act of seduction. Thorne had walked in on them as he was about to claim Caro’s body. Yet no matter how good a friend, Thorne could not have forced him to propose, Max reminded himself.

He had chosen to do it willingly.

Caro, however, had spurned his proposal out of hand, in no uncertain terms. He couldn’t deny that many of her reasons for rejecting his suit were valid. And her first was the most important.

The bald truth was, he wasn’t certain he wanted to become a Guardian. They needed his special expertise in military tactics, perhaps. And he had a talent for the kind of skirmishes the Guardians often engaged in during their missions. But did he have an obligation to use his skills on their behalf?

Admittedly, their goals were laudable, as was their determination to serve a greater purpose. This was not war. Their intent was not to kill people or to battle armies for superiority. Rather, they were set on righting wrongs and championing noble ideals. But did their high-minded aspirations really make a difference to his own circumstances?

Unseeingly, Max gazed across the bright expanse of azure sea. For him it all boiled down to one issue: He didn’t know if he could live with the terror of losing Caro at any moment, never knowing whether she would return from a mission alive.

The trouble was, he would be required to face that hell regularly, whether or not he joined their cause. If he left, he wouldn’t have to watch a tragedy happen, yet no matter where he went, he wouldn’t be able to escape the knowledge that she could die. At least if he became a Guardian, he could try to protect her. But even then he couldn’t control fate.

With a muttered oath, Max ran a hand roughly though his hair. The damnable dilemma was, as long as Caro remained a Guardian, he would never be free of his fear.

And Caro saw the Guardians as her life’s calling. How could he persuade her to give it up? He didn’t have that right, nor was he certain he wanted it.

Yet what was his alternative? Returning to England, to a tame, safe, boring existence? What meaning would his life have then? Could he bear to live the rest of his life without Caro?

He didn’t want an empty, meaningless existence. He wanted a purpose to his life, a future that made him look forward to each and every day. He wanted friends, love, family. He wanted joy.

For so long he had felt no joy. Until Caro. She was his joy.

He couldn’t imagine ever wanting another woman the way he did her. No one else had ever made him ache, made him shudder at a simple caress the way Caro did. If he chose to leave Cyrene, he would be giving her up for good. And without a doubt, it would be like a light going out of his life.

Perhaps it might be possible for him to visit the island occasionally. But he wanted more than just a few stolen hours with Caro now and then. He truly wanted her for his wife. He wanted her as his lover, his companion, his life’s mate. Forever.

And if he were to overcome her objections and convince her to wed him? He would first have to accept who and what Caro was. He would have to come to terms with his fears about her possible death. Acknowledge the fact that no matter how much he might want to protect her and keep her safe, he couldn’t wrap her in cotton wool.

If he was honest with himself, though, he would never want to dim her special fire—her courageous, determined spirit that made up her very essence. Her willingness to risk her life for others was part of what made her special. Her courage was one of the things he loved most about her—

Max felt his heart skip a hard beat.
Love.
Was that what he felt for Caro? Having never before experienced the emotion, he had no basis for comparison. Yet he suddenly had no doubt. He loved her.

Turning abruptly, Max stared fixedly across the schooner, searching out Caro from among the women who were gathered on the quarterdeck. She was there, pacing restlessly, avoiding his gaze as she’d done all morning.

His mind reeling, Max leaned weakly back against the railing. It stunned him to comprehend his feelings. He truly loved Caro. Not only because of the fierce desire that he had always felt for her, but because of her courage and honor and strength and inner beauty.

She had possessed him.

And he wanted to possess her in return. He wanted to bind her to him any way possible.

His thoughts went back to their night together at the Berber stronghold, to the soul-shattering passion they’d shared then—and again last evening. He’d held nothing back either time. He had been driven by the desperate need to bury himself so deeply inside her that their union fused them together into one being. So tightly, so profoundly, that neither of them could break free.

Was that why he had failed to withdraw from her body during climax as he should have? Had he subconsciously wanted to plant his seed in her? Because getting her with child was a way to bind Caro to him? Had he surrendered to man’s most primal instincts to procreate? Or was it that making Caro part of him had become so vitally important to him?

He hadn’t wanted children. Never wanted to risk losing anyone who could become so precious to him. But the image of Caro swollen with his child seared him with a rush of tenderness.

Would she want to bear his children? Did she even want children? She had claimed not to—

Fiercely Max shook his head. The questions were coming too swiftly for his dazed mind to fathom, and none of them mattered in the least if Caro refused to wed him. He would first have to convince her that he wasn’t making a noble sacrifice for her. He would have to prove his love to her. And even before that, he would have to face his own demons.

He turned back to stare out at the sea.

It was a long while later before Max realized they had rounded the southernmost tip of the island and were approaching the harbor. They were near enough that he could glimpse the dazzling white walls of the town above, glittering in the sun.

He remembered the last time he’d made this journey, only a few short weeks ago. Even then his interest in Caro had been more than physical. But he’d never expected to lose his heart and soul to her.

Max glanced back over his shoulder, wondering if he should confess his shocking revelation to her. He doubted she would believe him. Caro had little faith in her own attractions. She still believed it was the island’s enchantment that was influencing him. But the time away from Cyrene had shown him beyond doubt that the island’s legendary spell had nothing to do with his desire for her. His craving for her had been just as great, no matter how distant.

She was the passionate lover who set him aflame.

It made no difference to him that Caro exhibited few of the feminine qualities expected of genteel females. That in the eyes of society, she didn’t quite fit in. That she was utterly out of place for the times. She was wholly unique, and he loved her for it.

In centuries past, Caro would have been a warrior princess. She was still a warrior.

Drawing in an aching breath, Max shut his eyes, remembering the dismaying image of Caro wielding her saber against a horde of fierce Berbers. And worse, when she had ridden after her fallen compatriot, prepared to sacrifice her own life for her friend.

Max felt himself shudder. Could he bear to deal with that fear for the rest of his life?

Could he bear not to?

Chapter

Twenty

Perhaps she truly
was
a coward, Caro reflected as the skiff carried her from the schooner to the docks. She’d made certain she was among the first to debark, scurrying down the rope ladder without so much as a glance at Max, focusing her sole attention on getting Isabella home.

She saw no reason to prolong their farewells. She wanted no sad, pathetic good-byes with Max or repeats of last evening’s arguments. Yet if she was honest, she would admit the true reason she was fleeing: she feared that if she had to face him once more, she might create a scene by retracting all her adamant refusals and begging him to stay.

Even now she felt Max’s gaze boring into her back. But she wouldn’t let herself dwell on him at the moment. Her only goal—the only thing that mattered now—was helping Isabella resettle into island life after her ordeal.

Pretending an enthusiasm she didn’t feel, Caro told Isabella about various changes that had occurred during her long absence.

When the skiff reached the quay, Sir Gawain was waiting there to greet them. Caro wasn’t surprised to see him. Lookouts posted in the towers of Olwen Castle would have watched for their arrival and informed him the moment the schooner neared the island’s southern point.

On the quay, Sir Gawain bowed low over Isabella’s hand like a gallant courtier, his expression grave but pleased. “Welcome home, my lady. You have been sorely missed.”

Isabella responded with a musical laugh, resembling something of her usual flirtatious self. “You cannot have missed me as much as I missed you, I promise you, my dearest sir. You have my undying gratitude.”

Rising up on her toes, she embraced him fondly and kissed his lined cheek. In return, Sir Gawain stiffened, his face coloring the slightest degree.

Caro had sometimes wondered if the two of them had once been lovers. If so, they had been totally discreet, for she’d never heard any rumors to that effect. But the stark flash of admiration and awareness in the baronet’s eyes clearly showed his attraction to the beautiful widow. But then, that was true of nearly any man who came near Isabella.

He seemed relieved to turn to Caro. “I gather your mission went well?”

“We encountered a few problems, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Ryder was injured, but he should recover fully.”

“And Mr. Leighton? Did he comport himself well?”

Caro felt her own face flush. “Very well. You would have been pleased with him.”

Sir Gawain nodded solemnly. “I expected nothing less.” To Lady Isabella, he added, “I doubt there will be much awkwardness over your return to Cyrene. Few people know of your capture. They believe you have been traveling abroad all this time. But I would appreciate your discretion regarding our involvement in your rescue.”

“You may count on me,” Isabella assured him.

“To account for your lack of baggage, I suggest you claim that your trunks were swept overboard during a storm.”

“A great pity,” she said with a smile. “All those marvelous Paris fashions sunk to the bottom of the sea.”

Sir Gawain had arranged for a carriage to take the ladies to Isabella’s estate in the southwest interior of the island, so shortly she and Caro were ensconced in a landau, driving across Cyrene. The October breeze was a bit brisk, but Isabella had insisted that both sides of the double hood be folded back. For much of the journey she sat silently drinking in the view as they passed acres of olive groves and vineyards and prosperous farms basking in the golden sunlight.

“I never knew how much I loved this island until it was nearly lost to me,” she finally said.

Caro well understood the sentiment. She loved Cyrene deeply, but unlike her friend, she’d always known she belonged here. The island was
part
of her. And she suspected it would be much like severing a limb if she were to leave it to live anywhere else.

When they turned through the iron gates of her estate and drove up to the great hacienda, Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. Her third husband had been a wealthy member of Spain’s minor nobility, and his will had deeded the vast property to her, against all custom and the protests of his conventional relatives, who had severely disapproved of his choice of wives.

“I vow I will never take this for granted ever again,” Isabella said with a fervency that left no doubt of her sincerity.

It brought tears to Caro’s own eyes to watch Isabella’s joyous reunion with her servants, and then again when she wandered through her magnificent home, touching various objects, staring at portraits, as if recalling cherished memories. Once more Caro was reminded how special home and hearth was, how precious it was to be among loved ones.

But then in typical Isabella fashion, the lady shook off her dark mood with a laugh and rang for her butler, declaring she was sick to death of coffee and the Berbers’ mint concoction and longed for a cup of genuine British tea.

She also ordered a roast of beef for dinner—another British dish she hadn’t tasted in months—and begged Caro to stay to share it with her.

“Of course I will stay, for as long as you need me,” Caro responded. “Would you like for me to sleep here tonight as well?”

“No, my dear. I will be perfectly all right, once I am properly fortified with familiar food. But you must come and visit me tomorrow, if you can tear yourself away from Dr. Allenby. I am sure you are eager to return to his clinic and bury yourself in work. But you must promise me an hour or two of your time every day, for at least a short while, until I am more myself again. Nothing will help me recover more quickly than your delightful company.”

Caro smiled. “I promise, since I consider you my most important patient.”

It was only late that evening, when Caro returned to her own home, that the despairing emotions she’d held at bay returned to haunt her. Even though she tried to sleep, searing memories of Max kept intruding—dozens of them, one bleeding into the other mercilessly.

The ache inside her swelled until it was a painful clawing in her chest. Max hadn’t even left the island yet, and already she felt bereft.

Her throat tight with the pressure of tears, Caro buried her face in her pillow, fighting back sobs. She couldn’t allow herself to dwell on what might have been. She and Max had no future together, and there was no point in wishing otherwise.

Directly after breakfast the next morning, she drove to Dr. Allenby’s clinic. He took one look at her dark-shadowed eyes rimmed with fatigue and ordered her back to bed.

“There is no need, I assure you,” Caro protested. “I am perfectly fine.”

“You don’t look fine to me,” Allenby retorted. “That mission clearly took more out of you than you are willing to admit.”

“It was difficult, but I suffered no ill effects. At least nothing that food and rest cannot cure.”

The doctor grunted. “I heard all about it. Nearly got yourself killed.”

“What about you?” Caro asked, trying to change the subject. “Have you fully recovered from your illness?”

“More or less.”

“You look weary yourself.”

“My only trouble is that I am getting old.”

Caro couldn’t disagree. Dr. Allenby might have recovered his health, but he no longer had the same vitality he once had. He needed her now more than ever. “Well, I am ready to resume my duties as your assistant. I intend to help you, whether you wish me to or not.”

“Suit yourself,” Allenby grumbled. “If you insist on defying my wisdom, I suppose you might as well make yourself useful.”

From that moment on, Caro threw herself into her work in an effort to forget the man who was the cause of her sleeplessness.

She saw Isabella every day, for she was determined to help her friend reclaim her former life. Not that Isabella truly needed her support. The vivacious widow’s popularity was greater than ever after her long absence, and she was welcomed back eagerly into the social fold, with several impromptu dinners and evening parties immediately held in her honor.

Caro turned down those invitations, however, secluding herself away, for fear of encountering Max. She couldn’t bear to see him again, for it would only intensify the raw wound that breaking off with him had opened up.

She evaded her friends for that reason as well. She ceased treating Ryder’s wound, since he could rely on a real doctor now. And she refused to see Thorne altogether, since as far as she knew, Max was still his houseguest.

Thus, for the next week she saw nothing of Max, and heard nothing about him, either, although any day, she expected to learn that he had departed for England.

She told herself that she couldn’t wait for him to leave Cyrene, for then she could attempt to move on with her life. Perhaps then her misery could begin to diminish. As it was now, merely rising each morning proved to be an exhausting exercise in sheer willpower.

Even the island’s beauty no longer had the power to soothe her. She avoided the grotto and the Roman ruins entirely, and anywhere else that reminded her of Max, including Sir Gawain’s castle.

When she failed to appear at the castle, John Yates paid her a visit to report on the Newhams. He seemed to have recovered from his wounded heart, Caro was glad to see.

“I cannot believe what a witless fool I was to be taken in so easily,” John told her with a rueful smile. “I suppose I was just susceptible to a beautiful face. But I intend to find the Englishman who employed Danielle to discover the Guardians’ membership. And now that Isabella is returned safely, we will have ample agents to devote to a full investigation. Sir Gawain has decided to allow the Newhams to go free in a few weeks, but he will have them followed to see where they lead.”

Caro was pleased that John hadn’t suffered too deeply except for his pride. But she had difficulty summoning interest in the Newhams or their machinations.

When Dr. Allenby didn’t need her services, she was left with too much time on her hands, so she took her aging mare on long, slow treks across the island, wandering the wild hills to the north, amid swaths of bracken tangled with juniper and laurel and myrtle. At this season, the maquis was richly hued and heavily scented, and the strawberry trees, which flowered in autumn rather than spring, provided even more vibrant color, appearing almost ablaze.

Frequently when she returned, Caro found herself remaining in the horse’s stall, more for companionship than anything else. The mare was the only one she could safely share her secrets with—and it did seem as if the animal was willing to lend a sympathetic, nonjudgmental ear.

Mostly Caro argued with herself in muttered undertones, repeating all the reasons why she had been right to refuse Max’s grudging offer of marriage.

“I would make him a dreadful wife,” she insisted as she groomed the dozing mare. “Can you just imagine? I would always be haring off in the middle of the night, seeing to a patient. Or I would be called away from Cyrene on a mission and be gone for days or even weeks, while he suffered terrible nightmares about me…. No, it is far better this way. Max should count himself fortunate that I gave him a reprieve before it was too late.”

At other times, she wound up stubbornly railing against the fates and Max himself, and wishing she had never known him.

He was to blame for her current anguish, she had no doubt. He made her want things she couldn’t have. Worse, he had made her realize all that she was missing, just as he’d threatened to do.

Until now she’d always been satisfied with her choices. She had made a good life for herself, independent of any man. Before Max she had never minded her solitary existence, never minded the loneliness.

Yet now she felt truly alone—so completely alone, it was a raw ache inside her. Merely thinking about the empty future without Max ripped open a longing so deep and wide that she nearly wept.

Early one afternoon upon returning from a ride, Caro did weep. Surrendering to her desolation, she leaned against the mare’s neck and sobbed out her heartache. When she finally regained control of herself, she felt drained to the point of numbness, yet even then, the relentless ache still clawed at her.

Was it possible to die from a hollow feeling, Caro wondered as she pushed herself wearily away from the mare and left the stall.

To her dismay, when she entered her house, she was told that Lady Isabella was waiting for her in the blue parlor. Swiftly Caro scrubbed at her face, but she couldn’t hide the evidence of her tears from her dearest friend.

“My heavens, have you been
crying
?” Isabella exclaimed, tossing aside her book and rising abruptly from her position on the settee.

“Not at all,” Caro lied. “I merely have something lodged in my eye.”

Not believing her, Isabella took Caro’s hands and drew her down to sit with her on the settee. “You must tell me what is troubling you, my dear. You have been moping around for the past week, ever since we returned from Barbary.”

“Surely not,” she murmured, her protest sounding lame even to her own ears.

“I suppose it is your Mr. Leighton.”

When Caro winced, Isabella’s sensual mouth turned down in a frown. “You will forget him in time. It is never easy to get over a charismatic man like that.”