Forbidden (22 page)

Ava was funny and sweet, the apple of
Clay’s eye and he treated her like the daughter he’d never had. So
when she’d seen her niece’s bright blue eyes scanning the contents
of that dreadful letter she had fully expected her to faint, or
cry, or throw some sort of hysterics as Americans were want to do.
What she hadn’t been prepared for, was the look of icy fury that
crossed the girl’s young features and the foul expletive that
exploded from her mouth. Kristen’s eyes had widened and she’d paled
at the impropriety, but one look at Clay as he stood, hand on Ava’s
shoulder in an offer of comfort, had made her frown in surprise.
Clay was a proud man, a proper man, and she’d expected him to scold
the child for her tongue, but he hadn’t. His head had cocked to one
side and he’d regarded his niece with new eyes. Then, apparently
reaching some conclusion that was a mystery to Kristen, he’d
grinned down at the top of his niece’s head as if she’d done
something to make him unbelievably proud.

Ava had read the letter once, then
again and her eyes had narrowed. Then she’d gotten abruptly to her
feet and turned to her uncle.

Pushing the letter into his face she
snarled, “It isn’t true. She isn’t dead.”

They’d stared at each other for a long
time. At six feet Clay was a powerfully built man and his green
eyes brooked no nonsense and by comparison the blond haired sprite
in front of him looked like a child throwing a tantrum. But
something in her eyes had convinced the older man and he’d nodded
his head. He couldn’t leave his holdings in England but he gave
permission for Ava to travel with Kristen and three servants to
Barbados to inquire after her sister’s disappearance. During the
entire trip all Kristen could think was that the girl was dead. She
was truly distraught for her niece, who in Kristen’s mind, had
simply experienced such a terrible shock that she couldn’t handle
the truth. She’d broached the possibility with her but Ava had
stood firm. Now they stood in the captain’s quarters aboard a boat
called the Gentle Marie and Ava was staring down the older man with
the same ferocity that she’d stared down Clayton.

Only the sailor didn’t handle the
scrutiny half as well. He was sweating and his eyes kept darting as
if he could find escape.

“Ava!” Kristen knew no matter how
scandalized she was by her niece’s behavior it would do no
good.

“It’s fine Aunt Kristen,” she said, her
eyes still trained on the Captain as he fidgeted. Her eyes, once so
pretty and warm were as cold as ice and just as sharp. Almost
deadly, and Kristen had a moment to thank the heavens that such a
look had never been leveled on her. “He’s a sailor after all and a
man besides. Sometimes a little crude language will get you more
results than pretty words and fluttering lashes.”

“We looked for her, Miss Holbrooke. We
searched high and low for your sister and Mr. Burleigh but there
was no sign of either of them.”

Ava crossed her arms, cocked her hip
and began to tap one dainty foot. She looked like an angry
schoolmistress.

“And how long did you search for them
Captain?”

The man licked his lips.

“A … while.”

“How long is a while to you Captain? A
week? Two? A month mayhaps?” She’d moved up from schoolmistress to
general. “Just how long did you and your sailors dedicate towards
locating my sister? Surely you realize that just because your
incompetence failed to locate them after two or three days, it in
no way means that they are dead.”

One of the servants that had been sent
with them for protection, a heavily built man with an explosion of
red hair looked at his little mistress and snickered. There was no
mockery in his eyes but respect and Kristen found herself liking
him more for it.

The captain flinched as if
struck.

“We didn’t search for two or three
days.” He tried to sound indignant but fell short.

Ava raised a brow, “Oh? Then for how
long?”

“We … we ended the search the morning
of that first day.”

Complete silence filled the room and
even Kristen was appalled.

When she next spoke her voice had lost
the icy quality from before and instead was light and teasing. That
somehow only made it worse.

“And you didn’t think that the Earl of
Standford’s beloved niece deserved a bit more of your
time?”

“My ship was in ruins!” And there was
the anger, the indignation he’d been reaching for. “My men and I
barely pulled out of that hurricane. And don’t get me started on
those filthy English bastards girlie.” He shot an accusing finger
at Kristen and she felt her temper flare. “With those vultures
breathing down our necks we were lucky to make it back into
Barbados with our tail between our legs.”

Kristen’s hands smoothed along her
skirts and she looked at the captain from beneath her dark
lashes.

“I’d appreciate it if you refrained
from blaming your inadequacies as a sailor on an entire country …
Captain. And in the future I think it would be prudent to remember
that such language is in no way appropriate, especially while in
the presence of a young woman and lady. ” Her lips quirked. “I’m
sure you’ve noticed what such slips in the men before you have done
to her vocabulary.”

He flushed and looked down guiltily,
“My apologies ladies.”

Kristen gave a small humph of
satisfaction but Ava was in no ways satisfied.

“You can apologize by returning my
sister to me.”

“But it’s been nearly a month! Even if
she survived the storm there’s no way she’d last long out at sea
with no food or water.”

Ava’s chin angled stubbornly, a move
Kristen had seen so much in Clay that she found herself smiling as
a surge of affection spread through her veins. She really did like
her little niece.

“Damon Burleigh is the devil.” She said
without preamble and Kristen watched the captain blink. “He’s
stubborn, and bitter and mean. Damon can’t die, he won’t, and if
he’s alive then Jocelyn will be too.”

The captain looked a bit lost by this
stretch of logic, “Why … why do you say that?”

Ava looked at him as if he were an
idiot. Then she caught Kristen’s eye and saw that the older woman
was confused as well as the servants and infamous midshipman. Her
mouth dropped open and she said in a voice that indicated plainly
that her words should have already been common knowledge, “Because
he loves her.”

Chapter Nine

Hmm, I’m tired my dear boy. I’ve been
writing for a while now and my hand shakes from exhaustion. I feel
him over my shoulder; he’s watching me even as I write. Death is
tracing icy patterns on my spine and his touch leaves me uncertain
and questioning all the decisions I’ve ever made in this life. I
find myself missing my Sarah with each brush he makes against me,
if I close my eyes I can see her beloved face. Right now I can tell
you each and every happy memory we’ve ever made as well as all the
sad ones. Because you’re such a cynical bastard I know you’ll
probably say it’s simply the opium making me hallucinate. But I
know better. It’s a sign. She’s waiting for me, there, on the other
side, and that’s a comfort…

They’d been on the island close to two
months and had fallen into a sort of routine. Those first few
painful days after their argument Jocelyn had been
uncharacteristically stiff with him. She’d started talking to him
again by the fourth day but only in impersonal, ladylike tones that
made his skin crawl.

She called him ‘Mr. Burleigh’ a lot and
she would glance down modestly whenever he spoke to her. At night
in the newly finished shelter she slept curled on her side and made
no conversation because apparently she fell into a deep, coma like
sleep immediately after her head touched the ground and awoke
refreshed and energized before Damon could peel his own tired lids
open.

It was an act of desperation that
earned him his name back.

He’d been exploring the island, as was
his habit during the day, and he’d come across a sturdy piece of
wood. It was longer than he was tall and looked like the mast of a
small boat that had washed up on shore. He’d huddled by their
bathing pool for the next few days, smoothing the wood out and
cleaning it. When he was done he strapped it between two trees that
stood sentry over the beach with the strongest lengths of vine he
could find. Then, worried that the pole would fall, he got more and
more vine and went over the work he’d just done.

Then he’d brought Jocelyn to come and
see the results.

“It’s for your stretches. I don’t know
much about ballet but I remember the bar thing your tutor always
made you practice on.”

She’d blinked at the pole for a long
log time, and then her eyes had filled with tears.

“Damon….” his name was like music, like
a thousand angels singing the halleluiah chorus.

Then she said, “It’s too low.” And
everything was right in his world again.

He’d fixed the bar to her satisfaction
and afterwards they fell into the easy rhythm that seemed to come
so naturally between them. He went down to the beach everyday with
Jocelyn and together they formed messages for any passing boats,
some of which were quite rude, mostly due to Damon’s influence
though Jocelyn added her own share when the mood struck her. When
such practices became more game than cry for help Damon decided it
would be best if only one person handled the job.

In the morning he set new traps and in
the evening she emptied them while he checked the baskets. They
feasted on rabbit, fish, the occasional crab, and when Damon was
lucky with his spear, deer. Jocelyn was always so pleased with his
findings and she praised him so much he felt his chest swell and he
would strut and preen as if he’d not only caught the beasts but
birthed and raised them too.

Oh he noticed the way she’d bite the
inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at him, her exaggerated
exclamations, and rapturous moans after she ate what he cooked.
Damon knew he was being laughed at but that didn’t change the fact
that he was providing for the most important person in his life,
and he was doing it well. It made him proud so Jocelyn could giggle
all she wanted as long as she remembered who kept her belly full.
When the boar tracks began to appear more and more often, Damon set
out the traps that had taken him the longest to make and began to
spend more hours in the woods searching for it.

The deer meat was fine, but it was
tough and it didn’t last very long because the deer on the island
were small things compared to the mainland. They needed more
substantial meat and Damon was determined to get it.

One day he struck his knife into the
trunk of a tree and was rewarded when Sap leaked from around the
edges. He’d noticed the leak in the longboat early on and he had an
idea on how to make makeshift oars with long poles and thick leaves
and vines. He used sap and small pieces of driftwood to seal the
hole and was pleased with the results. He doubted it would get them
far but if they got desperate, as they surely would once the cold
season hit, then he figured it would get the job done. But only
when they were desperate. He wouldn’t trust tree sap, leaves, and
vines with Jocelyn’s life and once he’d explained the situation to
her, the longboat was dragged further inland and set to one side so
to prevent it drifting off once the tide began to rise.

They spent their free time, of which
they had much too much of, playing. That was the only word Damon
had for it. He began to give her swimming lessons. She balked at
first but it wasn’t long before she learned how to float. The
actual swimming part seemed beyond her but Damon was insistent that
she keep at it. Somewhere along the line he had stopped wearing his
shirt and coat and the black dress was now a permanent fixture on
the bottom of the shelter. Because he was a mature, rationally
thinking adult, he did his best to ignore the flashes of her body
he received and tried to brush off the heat of her gaze whenever
she became too caught up in the marks on his back and the play of
muscles in his chest. She would have tossed her shoes as well but
he wouldn’t let her. They argued over it until he explained to her
about parasites, worms, and ticks and she gave in with a shudder.
When they weren’t swimming or arguing, they were dancing. Jocelyn
put his gift to good use and one day she dragged him over towards
her bar and began to teach him what she called the ‘basics’ of
ballet.

The five positions were easy enough if
you ignored the fact that his legs and feet were too big to twist
around so unnaturally. Grand plie’s made his balls ache and when he
tried to do the standing on his tip-toe thing (he could never
pronounce the name correctly) he fell flat on his ass. Jocelyn
would cackle at him, yes cackle, and make him stand up to do it all
over again. She was as strict as a commander and when they were
through Damon often found himself aching, close to death, and
feeling dangerously insecure about his size, posture, and overall
worth as a human being.

So the ballet lessons stopped and if
the devilish gleam in Jocelyn’s eye as she agreed to release him
from the torture was any indication, she was in no way surprised.
He felt as if those lessons had been revenge for something but damn
if he knew what. But she seemed to have forgiven him for something
and from then on any dancing they did was for entertainment. He
taught her the steps of the Hindu dance of death he hadn’t gotten
to perform after his mother’s death and in returned she taught him
the waltz. The steps to which he’d never had to learn since he
spent most of his time on his plantation rather than attending
parties.