Master of Paradise (16 page)

“I told you before. Beau Vallon was always an
empty dream. Your desires are illusions. They’re built on
evil.”

“But it was
my
dream! Where do I go
now? What do I do?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, it
was in a soft, compassionate tone. “What did you want before you
wanted Beau Vallon?”

“Nothing. I never wanted anything else.”

“I don’t believe that.”

In despair, she suddenly cried, “I want to
stop having to fight so hard for what I want. All my life, I’ve had
to fight for what others take for granted. A roof over my head. A
good-night kiss. A home. I’ve fought so hard, Rodrigo! So many
years, so many struggles. Without help from anyone. I’ve had to
fight for my very name—for the right to use my own name.” She
looked up suddenly and realized, from the blue blaze of his eyes,
that she could be talking about him. “And it’s come to nothing. I
want to stop fighting. I want what’s mine by right. I want—” She
tried to put it in words, but couldn’t.

“Some things are worth fighting for.”

“I no longer care about the fighting. I want
peace.”

“In short, you want paradise. But paradise
isn’t a place, Gabé. Paradise is living by your convictions.
Knowing in your heart that you’re doing the right thing.”

“Yes, that’s it,” she said, quieting. She
pushed herself up stiffly and sat perched on the edge of the bunk.
“I want peace in my own heart. But if Beau Vallon won’t give it to
me...what will? Don’t you see? I had something to believe in. And
you took that away from me.”

“Perhaps what I did was bring you back to the
place you were meant to be.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“As a child, you always championed the
underdog. It’s why you took the responsibility of looking after
Cullen on your shoulders as if you were looking after the Holy
Grail. I always admired that quality in you.”

“It’s not a quality I’m known for.”

“Perhaps not now. I imagine it’s been lost in
ambition, in your need to fight for everything you wanted, as
you’ve said. But as a child, it was your most dominant trait.”

She tried to recall. It had been so long
since she’d thought of anything but getting what she wanted.

“Do you recall when I first came to Westbury
Grange? Thirteen years old, my father murdered before my eyes,
snatched from the only home I’d ever known. Angry with the world.
You befriended me when no one else would. I was spit upon at
school. Called names that would make you blush even now. They
called me Roderick, and every time they did I felt they’d stolen
some part of my soul. You understood that about me, because you’d
felt it yourself. You called me Rodrigo and gave me the pride I
needed to keep going. You, Gabé, saw my soul for what it was. You
befriended a suffering boy and eased his loneliness with your love.
I don’t know that you ever realized what that meant to me. How I
cherished you for it, even as a child.”

Their eyes met and she felt for a moment the
empathy of their youth.

“I saw in you then a compassion that
Hastings’s evil has tried to kill. But somewhere, Gabé, somewhere
deep inside, that compassion lives. Such compassion as can’t help
but weep on seeing what you saw today. In any case, now you see
what I’m fighting for.”

Mention of Hastings made her draw away. She
stood, needing to put distance between them. “Hastings is trading
in slaves, isn’t he? And you’re fighting him.”

“Yes, but not Hastings alone. My people have
been fighting such invaders since we first came here. It’s a family
mission, if you will. You remember I told you the Soros were the
first to settle these islands? They were Portuguese explorers who
fell in love with them on Vasco da Gama’s second voyage in the
sixteenth century and stayed. They lived in peace, growing or
making what they needed to survive.”

“It sounds like heaven,” she said wistfully,
thinking that was what she’d hoped to find when she’d come.

“It was, of course. But when the French came,
they brought their avarice and their slaves. My great-grandfather
saw how they were destroying his home and turned pirate to try to
turn them away. It was fruitless, of course. Yet we never ceased in
our battle. There has passed through the Soro family a sacred
trust, to do what we must by any means at our command, until
slavery is abolished in this land. I’m the fourth generation that
has turned pirate toward this aim.”

“So when they hanged your father—”

She felt him tense. “They hanged him because
he believed in the rights of man. I watched him die and knew it was
my turn to take up the gauntlet. It burned in me, this knowledge
that I was now the successor to a valorous cause. I grew up that
day, ready to fight the English that had taken over where the
French left off. I would have slaughtered them all, given half a
chance.”

“But instead—”

“Instead, they took me to England. As cold
and bleak a land as the hand of God ever created. Douglas took me
in, and set out to fashion the perfect English gentleman and
Company man.”

“I never understood why he did so.”

“The same reason he kept your mother,
perhaps. Because I represented paradise to him. He never could
abide the thought of losing the paradise he’d glimpsed here as a
young man. You know, I’ve always felt a certain odd sympathy for
Douglas.”

“Odd, indeed.”

“I sometimes think if he could ever escape
the clutches of his pernicious son, he might be capable of a truly
honorable act.”

“I suppose you also feel sorry for Hastings,”
she said with more bitterness than she’d intended.

“A little, perhaps.”

“Then you’re more magnanimous than I am.”

He was quiet a moment. “I used to suspect he
was half in love with you and didn’t know it.”

Everything inside her stilled.

“It would help explain why he’s never
accepted you as his sister.”

Seeing her stone face, he returned to the
subject at hand. “Now you know why I had to leave you and come back
here. And now I tell you that I’ve always loved you. Never, for one
day since I left, did I stop thinking of you, longing for you. I
saw your face in every sunset. I heard your voice in the wind. But
I had to put my own needs second.”

“And mine,” she murmured. “I gave you the
secrets of my soul, yet you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the
most important thing in your life.” He stood and reached for her,
but she brushed him off. “You don’t know what it did to me when you
left. You have no idea of the consequences I had to pay because you
wouldn’t trust me!”

The silence reverberated through the cabin.
She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she feared she’d say more
than she wanted to reveal.

“Perhaps that’s true,” he said at last, his
voice a coaxing hush. “But that’s all past. What’s real is you and
I here now, and this malignancy that’s spoiling our paradise. You
and I have fought Hastings before. Will you help me now to do what
I must?”

She sat down and struggled to organize her
jumbled thoughts. “What is it you hope to accomplish?”

“I want to stop Hastings.”

“And how will you do that?”

“Ideally, I’ll capture him, take him before
Admiral Fulton, and make him confess.”

“But of course he’d never let you take him
alive.”

“That’s probably true.”

She suddenly saw Hastings’s evil face in the
cold white light of a Bedfordshire dawn. And she saw the faces of
those African families in the hold of that slaver. She remembered
then a bonfire where a slave was tethered, awaiting her master’s
pleasure. And Hastings’s voice, talking about his plans, sailing
for Zanzibar the first of the month. That was just a few days
away.

She faced Rodrigo and said softly, “Maybe
there
is
something I can do to help.”

The
Madagascar
was a four-masted
schooner that made a regular run between Diego-Suarez, Mahé, and
Zanzibar. It was French-owned, and held a complement of twenty
sailors, plus room for another twenty passengers—surprisingly
luxurious for this part of the world. Disguised as a French couple,
Rodrigo and Gabrielle boarded it in Mahé. They’d made a midnight
landing on the far side of the island, where they were met by two
of Rodrigo’s spies, given a change of clothing, and booked passage
under the name D’Allard.

Wallace had not wanted her to come along, but
Gabrielle had pointed out that a French couple would be the least
likely candidate for such a clandestine operation. Cloaked in
layers of petticoats and a veiled bonnet, Gabrielle felt stiff,
suffocating in satin after her days dressed in the easy freedom of
sailors’ clothes.

She was rightly nervous about being spotted.
It turned out that all of the passengers were buzzing over the fact
that a mysterious and important passenger was aboard, complete with
a small detachment of guards to protect him. He was ensconced in
the captain’s cabin, where two heavily armed guards were posted at
all times. With Rodrigo’s usual supporting players aboard, they ran
a deadly risk that they might be recognized and overpowered.

When they were underway, as Rodrigo waited on
deck, he surprised her by sending her down the passageway to have a
look. Reluctantly, Gabrielle sauntered toward the guards with her
best dramatic shimmy, and gave them her most brilliant smile. In
French, her tone lowered so whoever was on the other side of the
door couldn’t hear, she said, “I’m told we have a distinguished
passenger aboard. My, but he must be important, having you strong
men to guard him
personally.
”

The guards exchanged self-conscious
looks.

“When will I get a look at this man of
mystery?”

“Our charge has no intention of leaving the
cabin for the duration of the journey,
mademoiselle.
”

“But never? Surely he must need sustenance,
as we all do. He
is
human, is he not?”

They chuckled a little at the comment. “There
are rumors to that effect,
mademoiselle
. However,”—the guard
leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially—“we sometimes
have our doubts, those of us who work for him.”

In a stern tone meant to make up for his
partner’s informality, the other guard said, “The gentleman will be
taking all meals in his cabin. We have orders that he is not to be
disturbed.”

“Even,” added his partner, “by such a
charming
mademoiselle
as yourself.”

“He’s never to leave,” she murmured, as if
regretful. “The poor man. How awful for him. But that, one
supposes, is the price of power, is it not,
messieurs?
”

With a smile full of seductive promise, she
left, giving them a view of her best sashay from behind. She looked
perfectly calm, but her body trembled, thinking of Hastings being
on the other side of that door.

Up on deck, out of hearing range, she told
Rodrigo what she’d found out. “He’s being extremely cautious,” he
noted.

“He’s always been cautious—in his own
diabolical way.”

“Maybe a little too cautious for someone who
thinks his forces are pounding me to death in the Amirantes.”

“He’s never been one to leave anything to
chance. So what do we do now?”

“If he comes out and spots us, we’ll have to
move. If the guards are correct and he doesn’t come out, we’ll wait
till midnight, then we’ll take over and sail the ship due south.
El Paraiso
will be waiting just off Ile aux Vaches.”

They’d been underway for the last couple of
hours, and no one seemed to suspect them. Buoyed by the prospect of
accomplishing their mission, she barely noticed Rodrigo’s growing
concern as they stood at the rail and he stared off wistfully into
the distance.

Soon, they passed an unusually beautiful
island, lush with palms and serene beaches, with mountains at each
end. Like most of the granitic islands, it resembled a fried egg;
the greenery inside forming the yolk, the surrounding white sandy
beaches spreading out from the center. They’d sailed on the
afternoon tide, and now the sunset cast the island into emerald
relief, glistening in a burnished orange glow. It was six o’clock,
and the sun was setting like clockwork, as it did every day so
close to the equator. Just as the sunrise always came twelve hours
later, no matter the season.

“What is it?” she asked, noting the attention
he was giving the island.

It was a moment before he spoke, so lost was
he in his thoughts. Finally, he answered, “Praslin. The
second-largest of the granitic islands. There are plantations on
either end. But in the interior of the island, buried deep in a
primordial jungle, is a haven like nothing you’ve ever seen. You
recall me telling you of
meú avô
—my grandfather, Reis?”

“Of course. The one who raised you because
your father couldn’t stay at home with you.”

“Yes. After my mother died, he was my closest
friend. He used to bring me to this place. It’s the most mystical
place I know. The French call it the Vallée de Mai. But
meú
avô
said it’s the Garden of Eden. Plants have survived there
that exist nowhere else on earth—including the
coco de
mer.
”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the forbidden fruit the Bible speaks
of. Sometime I’ll show it to you. When you see it, you’ll know
why.”

His talk of mystical places endeared him to
her. She, too, felt the energy of the place, as if she could
experience all the emotions that had passed within the confines of
an enclosed area. What would it be like, she wondered, in a jungle
believed to be the Garden of Eden?

“
Meú avô
always said if I was in
trouble to go there. It’s a difficult journey, straight through the
jungle to the center. That, and the superstition about its origins,
keeps people away. He always said I’d be safe there.” He turned his
head and their eyes met. She had the feeling he’d told her this as
more than conversation. His face once again took on a troubled
shade, and he stared out to sea.