Beyond paradise (33 page)

"You have my word."

"The word of a woman isn't worth much."

Sylvie cringed at the realization that she was going to have to listen to such talk for the rest of her natural life. If only she could make Jervais understand that this is the reason she could never love him. But the marriage would be worth it, nonetheless. It would be worth every burden she'd have to bear, if only she could bask in the glory of having saved Jacques's life. "Then don't set him free until we are wed," she suggested. "That is, if I can trust your word." In

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truth, she didn't doubt this, for she knew that in his own backward way, Jervais was a man of honor.

He didn't think the question of his word was worth addressing. He ignored it by pacing away from her, deep in thought. "If," he said, "if I agreed to do this, and I'm not suggesting I will, then what do you plan to tell your parents?" He asked this in order to get a sense of how thoroughly she'd thought through her plan, of how sincere her intent was.

Her answer came quickly and firmly. "I shall tell them that honor bound me to wed you for your gallant rescue. But we must wed before we reach landfall, else they will prevent it."

Jervais nodded his satisfaction. "Very well, young lady. We have an agreement."

Sylvie gasped. Her practiced, formal demeanor completely melted, giving way to a hot wave of relief that shook her to the core. Had it been anyone other than Jervais, she would have asked, Do you mean it? but as it was, she just thanked him with a long gaze from her tearful eyes. "Don't look so surprised," he said cheerfully, the absorption of his joyous victory seeping to the curve of his lips. "You had me from the moment you walked in the door. There's little I wouldn't do for you, Sylvie. That's the power of a woman."

Or the power of prayer, she thought, glancing upward with her hands clasped before her mouth.

Jervais stormed into the brig, where he could already smell the stench of dying men. He liked that smell, when it was coming from pirates. He'd not bothered to have them fed or watered, as there was no point in hanging them with full stomachs. The pirates looked weak and miserable, lying in their own filth, chained to one another. Jervais looked mar-

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velously clean and bright in comparison, and enjoyed the anger his fresh appearance stirred in the eyes of his would-be victims. "You," he said, kicking Jacques to frill attention. "You. I'm going to feed you."

Jacques blinked hard, trying to wake himself up from the half-slumber that had come over him in the darkness. "Huh? Why?" He had barely caught the motions of Jervais's lips. He was still making awkward movements with his eyelids, trying to cope with the light from the hallway.

"Because I'm setting you free," said Jervais with such a callous squint that Jacques wondered what the cruel finale to his joke would be.

"What are you talking about?" he growled angrily, for he thought it was bad enough he would hang on this night—he didn't appreciate being tormented first.

"I said I am setting you free," replied Jervais with un-readably fixed eyes. "You'll be leaving in two nights, so I'm feeding you to make sure you live until then. Men! Get me some rice! Not the good kind, the old batch."

Jacques was not even a little bit hopeful. He didn't think there was even the smallest possibility that this mythical freedom would come to pass. "What is the joke, Jervais?" he asked groggily, not even affording his captor the dignity of a surname.

"There is none," Jervais informed him, crouching by his side so that his words would not travel across the room. "On this night, I shall marry Sylvie Davant. It is a wedding gift to her that I set you free. You will be given back your ship and a few of these rats to help you sail it, and you will be on your way. Don't ever cross my path again."

The image of Jervais's wedding to Sylvie caught in Jacques's mind and would not move. Still, he managed to peer around it and address a more immediate concern. "You expect me to believe you would let me go for the sake of charity to your

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bride?" That did not sound at all like the Jervais Tremblay he had vaguely come to know.

"I don't care what you believe," replied Jervais. "Tomorrow, you are a free man. I suggest you thank me."

"I would thank you if I believed you, but I don't. There's something else going on. You ... oh, now, one moment. Oh, no ... You didn't." Seething anger made its way to his eyes and glowed through them in the form of disgust. "You blackmailed her with my life, didn't you? Didn't you!"

"I did no such thing." But his eyes fluttered away for just one moment, letting Jacques know that his guess was not far from the truth.

"Yes, you did, you son of a—"

"I told you, I did not."

"You're a liar. I know what you did. You told her you'd hang me unless she wed you. You bastard!"

Jervais rose angrily to his feet, glaring down at his ungrateful captive with disdain. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that you are going free and you should be thankful. If I were a man of less honor, I would have her and your neck both! That woman has saved your life by marrying a man who keeps his word. She has chosen wisely."

"I'm not going."

"The hell you're not."

Jacques shook his head with a casual frown. "I'm not."

"You have no choice!" he bellowed. "Do you understand me? I have vowed to spare your life, and I will keep that vow! Would you rather hang?"

"Yes. I would rather hang than let Sylvie suffer in your bed for the likes of me. Shoot me now and lose her forever! That's what I want!"

"You're a fool!"

"I love her!" he shouted so passionately that every line in

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his face deepened. "I will not let her make this sacrifice for me!"

"Sacrifice?" Jervais looked suddenly as though he might very well spoil everything for himself by doing what he was being asked to do .. . shoot Jacques. "What makes you think it was a sacrifice?"

Jacques merely gazed at him goadingly.

"Clearly," said Jervais, "you've not met my competition. Believe me, it was no sacrifice."

"I'm not leaving this ship," Jacques said calmly. "You'll tell Sylvie that your arrangement is off, that I'm to be hanged no matter what she does, and that she must not marry against her will."

"I'm so touched," spat Jervais. "Your devotion to a woman you've known only long enough to tear her petticoats is enough to make me ..."

Jacques fought his chains for a chance to grab Jervais around the throat. He moved so suddenly that his opponent flinched, even though it was irrational.

"You don't like my mentioning her petticoats?" asked Jervais, encouraging the futile outburst. "What a shame. Because from now on, those are my petticoats." He tapped his chest in emphasis. "And let me explain something. I would rather set you free and have you live with the vision of Sylvie in my bed than let you die as a martyr for her. So you shall be expelled from this ship whether it pleases you or nay. And when you sail away, it will not be in glorious escape, but by the mercy and pity of the man who is now bedding your little love. Think of me at every dawn, because to you, I am now the reason that the sun rises. Live with that. Men, make him eat!" He turned his back on Jacques as though he were nothing more than a rat at his heel, and left him at the mercy of his sailors.

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Etienne was positively purple when he received the news in the hallway on his way to Sylvie's cabin with another gift. "I am sorry," said Sylvie, her hand on the arm of her new groom-to-be. "I have made my decision."

Etienne could only stammer. "But ... I..." He looked at Jervais with absolute reproach. "You can't mean ..."

Jervais wore a small but smug curl on his lips. "You lose, Etienne. Go away."

"But... why ... but this is preposterous. You can't—"

"Yes, she can. It was a fair contest and I won. Shake my hand."

Etienne only stuttered in reply to the outstretched hand. "Why, I ... I can't let you do this. I won't allow it, Sylvie! When your father hears—"

"Don't threaten my bride," said Jervais staunchly, and there was no humor in him this time.

"Well, I wasn't threatening ... I—"

"Yes, you were. Now, out of our way. I'm taking my bride for a stroll."

Etienne fumbled with the hilt of his sword. "Well, I... I... I should challenge you to a duel!"

Jervais rolled his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you, Etienne. Stop playing with that thing."

Etienne stomped his foot. "But it isn't fair! I ... I wanted her! Sylvie, I wanted you!"

Sylvie tried not to adopt a look of pity. "Etienne," she began gently, "there are many women who would be lucky to..."

"Yes, and many of them are already carrying your children, no doubt," interrupted Jervais. "Here's a thought. Go home and marry one of the wenches you've ruined."

"But I don't want any of them!" cried Etienne unthinkingly. "I want only Sylvie! She was promised to me."

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"Be gone," growled Jervais.

Etienne watched them go with a quivering lip and an increasingly limp hold on his trinket. It was a cruel world, he realized for perhaps the first time in his life. It was a cruel world, and women could not be trusted. He glanced down at the brooch he had stolen from his mother and had planned to give to Sylvie. It was her loss, really, he reasoned. His regular lover would be receiving the brooch now. Sylvie would get nothing—nothing but an overbearing sailor with hardly a livre to his name. She would be sorry. Oh, he would see to it that she was sorry. Just wait until her mother heard this!

Thirty-three

Sylvie was restless all night in her cabin. But it was not fear that kept her legs pacing back and forth across the room; it was joy. She didn't care that she would be Jervais's wife, that she would have to suffer his undoubtedly callous treatment. All she cared was that Jacques would live. He would live! And she had saved him! She could feel her joyous pulse pounding in her throat. "I love you," she whispered to the room, imagining his face. "Sail away from here, Jacques. Don't forget our plans. I'll be left behind, but a piece of me shall go with you to Paris. Don't ever forget our dream." She knew Jervais would keep his word. He had already prepared the merchantman for sail and had stocked it with food. And they had never found the gold ... it was still hidden on board, and Jacques and the others would have it to start their lives anew.

It was late, and Sylvie knew that Jervais would be in his cabin by now, but not yet asleep. She wanted to thank him again. She wanted to tell him how much this meant to her, that on some level, her devotion to him was true, for he had

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done something noble and good for her sake. He had granted her a wish more precious than he could imagine. She didn't want him to think she took it lightly, or that she would treat him with disdain after their marriage. He had honored his commitment, and she would honor hers. She would be the wife he desired, loving and willing in his arms. There was nothing she wouldn't do for the man who had saved Jacques. She just had to go tell him again. Or perhaps she just couldn't bear to stay in her cabin any longer, given all her nervous energy.

Jervais answered his door with a grunt, but his expression softened when he saw who it was. "Hello," he said, quickly rebuttoning his shirt. "I apologize for my partial state of undress—I wasn't expecting you. Come in." He widened the door just as soon as he felt he was properly covered, and watched her stroll giddily past him.

"Jervais," she said, bright and moist in the eye, "I just wanted to thank you again for . .." She shook her head admiringly, as though she were too deeply in awe to finish a sentence.

Jervais cut his dark eyes to the side and said awkwardly, "No need to thank me. We had an agreement."

"Yes, I know," she said, "and I just wanted you to know that I really will be a good wife to you, if I'm able. I will hold no grudge over the way in which our betrothal was arranged."

Jervais supposed he was glad to hear that, yet something in her voice bothered him a little. "Well," he said, scratching his neck sleepily, "I'm sure that you've had a trying time of late, and I ... I imagine it will take some adjusting to return to a ... a relatively normal life once we're wed."

"It will not," she said brightly. "After what you've done, Jervais, I just want you to know—I am truly indebted." Cautiously, she lifted his massive hand to her shoulder and held it there, brushing it with her fingertips.

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"Well, you needn't be,'* he grunted, trying to back away from the intimate touch.

But she held his hand still. "Jervais, I will try to love you."

"Try?" he nearly scoffed at her unfortunate phrasing, but was stopped by the sensation of his hand being brought to her breast. Indeed, she guided it until his palm was sinking into her warm flesh.

"Jervais, you may have me now if you like ," she said in all earnestness. "I mean it," she nodded somewhat shakily under his intense gaze.

He pulled his hand away and turned his back. "We are not yet wed."

"I know that," she answered pleasantly, touching his shoulder with care, getting in the habit of placating him in the way she imagined she'd have to do all her life. "But it is only one more night until we are, and I wanted to prove my sincerity."

"You have proved it," he grumbled.

Sylvie bowed her head and a gentle flush burned her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "I realize my mistake now. You don't care for forward women. I'm sorry, Jervais." She privately nodded her resolve. "I should have guessed that. I'll just stand here and . . . and let you take the lead."

Jervais spun around with a searing glare. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded furiously. "Why are you offering yourself to me like a harlot?"

Sylvie's lips fell apart. "A ... a harlot?" she asked. "But I... we are going to be married in the morn. I just thought..."

"This morning you wouldn't let me kiss you."