Master of Paradise (13 page)

Gabrielle had to admire the theatrics of his
display. No one could see the scene without being moved by the
sheer visual splendor of it—of a leader so willing to assume the
same risks he demanded of his followers.

At the sight of it, the reluctant recruit
hung his head. “You’ve shamed me,” he said. “If you’ll still have a
sorry cur like me, I’ll be more than proud to wear your mark
forever.”

As Rodrigo watched with suspicious eyes, the
man fixed the rope firmly in his teeth, then refused to bend over,
taking the piercing of his flesh as he stood. He nearly turned
blue, gritting his teeth fiercely, but when the deed was done,
Rodrigo surprised them all by laughing aloud. Tugging the ruined
shirt from his breeches, he tossed it aside, rounded the table, and
crossed the beach to hold out his hand.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Higgins, sir.” But he didn’t take Rodrigo’s
hand.

“You’re a good man, Higgins.”

“I was nearly a coward, sir.”

“Coward?” Rodrigo asked as if he couldn’t
believe what he was hearing. “Tell me if you would, good Higgins,
what glory there is in being born fearless? I assure you, there
isn’t a fearless man among my crew. We’ve been slaves, every one of
us, in one manner or other. The very definition of a slave is one
who, through no action of his own, is forced to live in fear.
Sooner or later, every man among us comes face to face with his own
terror. It’s the conquering of that terror that makes us brave, and
strong. It’s through the banding together of our collective horror
that we can fight that which we fear most—the injustice that
brought us here in the first place.”

So seductive were his words that Gabrielle
was mesmerized. She, too, had suffered injustice in her life: A
form of slavery forced on her by Hastings’s demented jealousy. It
would be so easy to become lost in Rodrigo’s words of hope and
retribution. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to be strong.
To reject the emotions his words threatened to unleash.

With a straightening of his stance, Higgins
took Rodrigo’s hand and shook it vigorously with both his own. “I
thank you, sir, indeed I do. And I pledge to our cause my fealty,
for what it’s worth.”

Rodrigo put his hand to the back of the man’s
neck. “Go sign the articles, Higgins, then go rest.” Then, turning
to scan the rest of the crowd, his gaze fell on Cullen. “And you,
boy? Would you care to wear our mark, and swear loyalty to me as
your captain? Or do you prefer to remain my prisoner?”

For an instant, Cullen’s eyes flicked to
Gabrielle, where she stood in line debating her dilemma. She caught
the fear in his eyes, the hesitation. Once again, he was looking to
her to protect him. And for a moment, even though she’d have to
stop it, she wished he’d have the courage to do it. Reject his
Ashton legacy, walk to the front of the line, bare his back, and
for once in his life, startle her with some resource of
gumption.

But it was not to be. Cullen dropped his gaze
and said timidly, “Thank you, sir. Perhaps another time.”

Rodrigo looked at the boy thoughtfully, then,
with a slight nod, moved off without another word.

At that moment, the man before Gabrielle
stepped forth to offer his back. She knew it was now or never.
Raising her voice, she turned and addressed Rodrigo directly.

“I, too, question whether I care to be
obligated to you, sir—a man who is clearly my inferior with the
blade.”

There were gasps all around. She felt at once
that she was in the theater, and the climactic scene was at hand.
All around her, she heard murmurs. “Dangerous words,” said one.
“He’s never been bested with a sword,” cried another in outrage.
And still another suggested, “Hang the scoundrel.”

Rodrigo just stopped in his tracks, his back
still to the scoundrel in question. Slowly, he turned, and she saw
the sensual mouth smile ever so slightly. “Bold words, indeed, lad.
But I assure you, if you can best me with your sword, I’ll wear
your
mark and call
you
Captain.”

“Retrieve my sword and we shall see who
deserves the title. And the respect.”

Wallace made a move to apologize but Rodrigo
raised a restraining hand. He rounded her slowly, looking her over
with great care. She quailed inside but vowed she could do
this.

“You look pretty frail,
meníno.
”

“I’m not a boy.”

This seemed to amuse him. He crossed his arms
over his bare chest and put a thumb to his chin, considering her.
“You speak Portuguese, too. A man of many talents, it would seem,
eh, Mr. Wallace?”

“A man of many
boasts,
” scoffed
Wallace. “Have you no’ heard of the captain’s prowess with a
sword?”

“The question is, has he heard of mine?”

Rodrigo grinned. “The gentleman’s sword,
then, Quartermaster. And my own.”

As the swords were brought, Rodrigo readied
himself for combat. Sitting in the chair, he extended his boot and
one of the Africans ran to kneel before him, pulling it off. The
other boot was removed and he stood before her in his bare feet,
with no clothing to encumber him now save a skintight pair of
breeches.

Gabrielle tried not to think how Hastings’s
stuffed boots might hamper her, and she dared not remove them and
reveal the feminine curves of her feet. But she dismissed it as
unimportant. She knew something Rodrigo didn’t. Both had studied
fencing with the same master. She knew everything the maestro had
taught him. She could anticipate his every move. As he took his
sword and faced her, she gave him a cocky wink.

It never once occurred to her that she might
lose such a battle—not just of skill, but of wills.

They faced each other and Gabrielle saw the
flicker of surprise when she matched his Italian stance. “Nicely
done,” he murmured as he gave her leeway to make the first
thrust.

As they danced about the sand, she tried not
to look at him, but to keep her focus on his steel. It was
difficult at best. He’d never looked so like a god before, his pale
breeches clinging to his muscular frame, his skin a golden brown
and bedewed with sweat, his hair falling in wayward waves over his
eyes. His body exuded a raw, fierce domination held in check—like a
lion lazily swishing his tail before suddenly pouncing on his prey.
She raised her gaze to his chest. That was hardly better. She
recalled too well the feel of it, hard and tempered, remembered how
easily his nipples hardened beneath her tongue. She watched the
muscles in his arm coil and expand as he wielded the heavy sword
with an ease that bespoke his expertise.

She had to concentrate. She must think of her
mission. She must think of Cullen. She must cling to her fury at
Rodrigo for taking her brother and forcing her into this position.
What she mustn’t think was how beautiful he looked with his golden
hair shimmering in the sun. With his feline’s eyes flicking
contemptuously over her frame. With his grin showing impossibly
white teeth in a bronzed and handsome face.

She lunged, launching the attack, but he
danced away so quickly, she barely saw him move. His bare feet made
him nimble, glancing off the broiling sand of the beach as if
propelled by a vault. As she chased him about, he moved like a
phantom, like mist beneath her blade, there one moment, dissolved
into thin air the next. But she knew the moves. So she began to
anticipate what he might do, then test him to see if she was right.
Invariably, she was. If she lunged just so, he moved to the right
to prance easily out of reach of her blade. She let him get away
with it several more times, varying her attacks so he wouldn’t
guess her aim. So far he hadn’t touched her with his steel.

Then, suddenly, as he veered right, she
pivoted and slashed her blade up the front of his leg. It cut
through the skintight breeches in a long slice, drawing blood,
exposing the gash on his sleek, hairy thigh.

Now he knew she meant business. Glancing at
his wound the way he might express annoyance at a buzzing fly, he
asked in a deceptively gracious tone, “Why didn’t you tell me you
wanted to play rough?” Then he whirled and engaged her for the
first time. As his saber clashed against hers, the force of it
reverberated through her arm, numbing it to the point that she
nearly dropped her weapon. She could scarcely believe the force of
the blow. No competitor she’d ever fought, no matter how strong,
had ever matched the might of Rodrigo’s attack.

He swung at her again and again. She feinted
and parried, but soon enough, she was completely overwhelmed. The
wound to his leg didn’t faze him. He pounced on her with the grace,
stealth, and power of the king of beasts stalking a gazelle. She’d
seen such brutal yet lissome swordplay only once before: when she’d
watched her half brother, Hastings, fencing with his coach. Yet,
she felt instinctively that Rodrigo was using only a fraction of
his potential. That while she was losing ground fast, he was merely
warming up.

On the defensive, she backed away from him
until she came flush against the table. She put her hand to the
wood and leapt upward so she stood on the edge above him. But her
boots made it awkward. As he feinted, she nearly fell backward.

He caught her just in time. His hand on her
arm sent shock waves of a different sort rushing through her. As if
he’d swallowed lightning and was transferring it to her. With a
single pull, he righted her and sent her sprawling to the shore.
The boots tripped her so she slid along the sand. It was so hot, it
blistered her hands. Looking up, she saw him coming toward her with
resolute intent. But her eyes settled, unwillingly, on the gaping
breeches of his thigh. She noticed the crisp golden hairs matted
with blood, the bronze of his thigh that matched his naked chest.
How close she’d come to severing him for life.

“Need some help,
meníno?
” he taunted
in a trenchant tone.

She was panting, nearly exhausted from her
efforts. Her arm ached beneath the increasing weight of her sword.
But her pride mounted her to her feet. She charged him with a
growl, but he easily sidestepped, sending her hurtling back to the
table.

It occurred to her then that if she could
anticipate his every move, he could do the same with her. He proved
it by feinting and, avoiding her blade with a quick riposte,
slashing up to knock the hat from her head. She watched it fall
backward and drift like a feather toward the surf as she wondered
if she’d felt her wig slip, or if it had just been her
imagination.

“You must be heated in such finery,” he
commented. In spite of her alterations, he’d noted the quality of
Hastings’s clothes. Did nothing escape his attention?

She was about to find out.

“But this is hardly fair,” he said smoothly.
“I fight bare-chested, and you’re confined by clothes. If you
follow my example, it might give you the advantage you need.”

Too quickly for her to anticipate, he ripped
her shirt with the point of his blade so it fell open, revealing
the length of cloth that bound her breasts flat underneath.

Suddenly she understood that he’d known all
along. But when had he guessed?

Effectively put on the defensive, she fought
with all her strength and skill to keep his blade from her chest.
But he fooled her again with a quick movement and the blade cut
upward to sever the cloth in two. It was an astonishing maneuver,
for though it stripped the cloth from her, it left her flesh
unmarred.

As he contemptuously flicked the cloth away,
she felt her breasts sway freely.

“You devil!” she hissed and he laughed his
glee. Angrily, she lunged at him, but the boots tripped her
instead. Seizing his opportunity, he flicked his sword-tip at the
side of her head and the eye patch went the way of the cloth. His
blade missed her eye by a hair’s width.

While she was recovering, he made a quick
circle with his blade and, with a mighty swoop, sent her sword
flying to the other side of the beach.

Incensed, she reached up and yanked off the
wig. Her hair fell to her shoulders and she stood before him like a
wild thing, her hair a shambles, her breasts heaving.

He laughed and, tossing his sword aside,
swooped down on her, parting her ruined shirt with large hands and
running them up her ribcage to cup her breasts firmly.

“Ah, Gabé, I knew if I took your brother,
you’d come to me. But I never expected such a marvelous
charade.”

He lifted her easily, guided her breast to
the level of his mouth, then clamped his lips on her with a moist,
hard suction that jarred her with its suddenness, even as it curled
her toes within her ridiculously overstuffed boots. She heard a
passionate moan and realized with a shock that it was coming from
her own throat.

But she wouldn’t give in. He’d abandoned her
once before. He was a man without a heart, a man who gave himself
only to a cause. But she had a cause of her own.

Grasping his shoulders, she shoved herself
away. She stood before him, her body damp and steaming, staring him
down as she shoved her tousled hair back over her shoulders.

“Very well. If it’s your desire to expose me
to your men, allow me to assist you, by all means. I’ll merely rip
the shirt off my back, as you did yours.”

She moved her hands to do so and he was on
her in a flash, grasping the sides of her open shirt and wrenching
them closed so roughly, one of the side seams split. She stared
defiantly into his face, hers gleaming her triumph.

“Shall I fetch the needles?” he countered.
“I’d relish seeing my mark on your flesh.”

“I’d rather die!” She tried to jerk away but
couldn’t. “I came to get the brother you stole from me.”

She reached up to slap him, but he jerked her
to him so forcefully, she couldn’t get her hand past his arms. She
heard her shirt rip again, but she was beyond caring.