Master of Paradise (22 page)

He put a finger to his lips to caution
silence, and stared hard at the two men who stood at the top of the
hill, looking out over the horizon beneath hands that shaded their
eyes. From his stern glare, it seemed Rodrigo recognized them.

The men started their gradual descent down
the hill toward the beach. As the interlopers turned to feel their
way down a particularly steep granite slide, Rodrigo took her hand
and pulled her along behind him. The coral cut her feet as they ran
through the water. She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
In a quick dash, Rodrigo scooped up their clothes, then raced with
her for a nearby granite boulder.

From there, they could track the progress of
the two men. They came relentlessly, pausing now and again to
survey their surroundings as one pointed and the other listened
with apt attention. Gabrielle now recognized one of them as Delon,
the man to whose plantation she’d followed Hastings the night she’d
left Mahé. Seeing him brought the memories back as freshly as if
they’d just occurred. It brought with it a renewed hatred for her
half brother, and a wave of grief for Cullen. All the things she’d
managed so successfully to suppress.

As the men came closer, it became apparent
they would pass right by the hiding place. Gabrielle pressed
herself against the granite, her toes burning in the sand, willing
herself to disappear. If Delon spotted them, he’d go to Hastings
with the news. Hastings would tear the island apart until he found
them.

Soon they could hear the men’s voices. They
spoke in French, but both Rodrigo and Gabrielle spoke French and
understood.

“It’s a bit hilly,” Delon was saying. “I’d
prefer something flatter. We’ll have to clear a great deal of land
to plant that many coconuts. Better flat land than hilly.”

“Are you certain this is a wise venture?”
asked his companion.

“We feel confident copra will become the new
money crop. Wait and see, my friend. Soon there will be copra
plantations on all these islands. We’ll simply be the first.”

“But where will we get the money—not to
mention the slaves—for such a venture? If I understand your plans,
this will be one of the biggest plantations these islands have ever
seen.”

“Don’t you worry about that, my friend. The
governor has guaranteed it. There will be no end to the money
or
the slaves.”

“Speaking of Cross, where is he? I haven’t
seen him for weeks.”

“He’s taken over the old Soro place on
Fregate.”

“Fregate? Why there? It’s so
inaccessible.”

“He likes that about it. Besides, how could
he resist occupying the throne of his old enemy?”

Delon’s companion laughed at the image, but
soon again frowned at the terrain they were surveying.

“Perhaps farther along, we’ll find land more
hospitable. I must be honest and say I don’t take a liking to these
hills.”

They moved along. Gabrielle slumped in
relief, sitting with her back against the boulder, staring out at
the sea. She didn’t have to look at him to feel Rodrigo’s tension.
Where he’d been relaxed and indolent earlier, he was now as taut as
a rope stretched to its breaking point.

She didn’t want to speak. But someone had to
say what they both knew was on his mind.

“Please tell me you’re not going to
Fregate.”

He was silent.

“I don’t want to leave our valley,” she
said.

“We can’t stay there forever.”

“Why not? What else is there out there for
us? Cullen is dead. You’ve taken away Beau Vallon. And you admit
that you’re fighting a hopeless cause! I’ve been happy here for the
first time in my life.
The first time...happy!
I never even
knew what the word meant!”

When he spoke, his voice was gentle, but
resolved. “Gabé, we can’t just crawl into a hole and hide while
evil takes over the world.”

She saw it was useless to argue. “Very well.
But don’t underestimate him again. He’s sure to have guards
everywhere.”

“True. But his defenses will be down. He
thinks me dead. Besides, I know every inch of that island. Don’t
forget. It’s my home.”

The way he said the word “home” pained her.
She could see the anger in his eyes.

“I have to know what he’s doing there,” he
said. “You may stay here.”

Sensing his determination, she stood and
began to pull on her clothes. “No. If you go, I go with you.”

They landed their makeshift raft at a beach
Rodrigo identified as Anse Parc. Even from the water, Gabrielle
could see the old pirate walls, now badly deteriorated from the
elements.

On the day-long voyage to Fregate, Gabrielle
had experienced an acute anxiety, a sense of impending doom that
overcame her the moment they left their magical valley. But she
brightened somewhat as she felt Rodrigo’s excitement at the sight
of this island.

“My great-grandfather built those walls,” he
said.

It took some doing to float in over the coral
reef. The tide was choppy, making it perilous. Gabrielle clung to
the rope that held the sail he’d fashioned from dried palms.

“You can see why he chose the island,”
Rodrigo called to her. “It’s the most isolated of the granite
islands. Also virtually impregnable. There’s no way to get on the
island during the southwesterly monsoons because of the tides. He
could hide out here and no one could follow. But at times like
these, during the northeasterly monsoons, the island is open to
assault from this direction. That’s why he built the walls. To keep
those brave enough to navigate the reefs out of his fortress.
They’re still fortified with old cannons. There, see?”

Taking her hand, he helped her from the
raft.

“Where did you live?”

“The house is on the other side of that
peninsula.” He pointed to a hill above the beach.

They climbed the hill. By now, Gabrielle was
acclimated to the heat. She made the trudge without trouble. At the
top, she gasped. There before her on one side was a valley
spreading out from the hill, covered with giant trees—bwa-d-fer and
gayak mostly—mixed with palms and wild native grasses. The palms
rustled in the sultry breeze, glistening in the sun. On the other
side, they looked down at the beach from which they’d just come, an
idyllic pristine-sand cove surrounded by distended rocks and the
old pirate walls.

“I’ve never seen anything more lovely,” she
told him sincerely.

He nodded, looking out over the unusual,
startling green of the ocean with serene eyes. “I used to love this
spot as a boy. I would sit here and look out at the sea, and relive
my grandfather’s stories of the family adventures.”

“That would be your grandfather Dario?”

“No, Dario was my great-grandfather, the
first pirate Soro. He was a real pirate. Ruthless as sin. Stole
everything he ever had. My great-grandmother included.”

“Stole her?”

“Kidnapped, more precisely. She was Danish.
Golden-haired, like me. He saw her one day in Cape Town, took a
shine to her, waited for dark, then threw her over his shoulder and
sailed off with her.”

“And she stayed?”

He smiled. “Turned out she was a bit of an
outlaw herself. She liked being the kidnapped wife of the most
notorious pirate in this part of the world.”

Gabrielle laughed. “I think I’d have liked
your great-grandmother.”

“I think I would, too.”

“And your grandfather, the second pirate
Soro?”

“
Meú avô
—raised me after my mother
died when I was a baby. He was long retired by then, of course.
Reis had also been a pirate, but he was more of an idealist than
his blood-and-thunder father, Dario. By the time Reis grew to
adulthood, the French—your mother’s people—were drifting in. With
their cotton plantations and slaves. Reis hated them. And always
was more interested in destroying their slave ships than in
amassing booty. They attacked this island a half-dozen times over
the years, but never could roust him from it. God, I loved that old
man!”

“And your father? The third pirate Soro?”

“Silvera Soro. Yes, he was a pirate, too—of
sorts. He inherited a lot of Reis’s idealism and love for these
islands. Even more than his father, he felt they had to be
protected from the outsiders who would spoil them. By his time, the
British were taking over the islands. He attacked slavers and
occasionally British shipping and John Company outposts. But his
operations were mainly out of the Amirantes—D’Arros, in fact. I
rarely saw him. The British watched this island carefully. After
meú avô
died, he’d come back to see me at least once or
twice a year. They finally caught him on one of those visits, in
fact, and hanged him without a trial.”

For the first time, she felt she understood
him. That she’d glimpsed who he was and what he valued. She could
feel it in the love reverberating through her. She went into his
arms and held him close, realizing that, come what may, they’d made
the right decision in returning to his home. Perhaps it would
strengthen him for the fight to come—strength he would need.

His arms tightened about her and he held her
for a long time, saying nothing.

“Be still,” he whispered momentarily.
Expecting danger, she stiffened in his arms. “Stay quiet and look
behind you.”

She did. Instead of the threat she’d been
expecting, there was a small bird resembling a pigeon but with the
tiniest wings she’d ever seen.

“It’s a white-throated rail. The last
flightless bird in the Indian Ocean. Kin to the dodo. You’ve heard
of them, haven’t you? My grandfather remembered seeing dodoes on
Mauritius in his youth. Now, of course, they’re extinct. Killed off
by cats and dogs because they couldn’t fly. You’re looking at the
last of these kinds of birds left in the world. Only a handful
remains in a few havens on the islands.”

The sight of the bird gave her a renewed
surge of anxiety. The truth was, she felt her lover every bit as
endangered as this bird. Once again, she wanted to rush back to
their safe haven in the Vallée de Mai.

“Come,” he said, moving away but holding out
his hand. “I’ll show you my home.”

They walked for quite some time, down the
meadow and up another hill, through dense foliage and partially
cleared fields. Rodrigo explained that much of the old brush had
been burned off to plant the coconuts, breadfruits, takamakas,
casuarinas, and banyans that were all around them. As they neared
the house, they passed through fields of sugarcane, vanilla,
tobacco, sweet potatoes, maize, coffee, cinnamon, papaya, bananas,
and vegetables, all gleaming in tropical splendor.

“There are your gardenias,” he said.

She looked to where he was pointing. A
luxuriant bush some thirteen feet high was ablaze with small white
flowers with purple spots. “The
bois citron?
” she asked in a
childlike voice. When he nodded, she walked to the massive shrub in
a trance. These flowers had come to symbolize her longing for this
Seychelles paradise. The blossoms were small and delicately
feminine, with a sweet, lemony scent. Lovely and fragile, much like
her mother, who’d loved them so.

She had tears in her eyes as she buried her
nose in them, drinking in their scent. She hadn’t found them as
she’d expected at Beau Vallon. Instead she’d found them here—at
Rodrigo’s stolen home.

“We must go,” he reminded her gently.

Reluctantly, she followed him. But not before
she’d picked a tiny blossom to smell along the way.

They had to be careful. Occasionally they
heard a sound and were forced to hide in the nearby brush. By the
time they drew up on another hill, it was growing late. Soon the
sun would slip down over the horizon, leaving behind a brief orange
glow. But it was still sizzling. Gabrielle was damp and her tongue
felt swollen from thirst.

“There,” he said simply, pointing down the
hill.

She followed his gaze to a lovely but simple
two-story wooden plantation house. It had an open, covered porch
curling around the perimeter so the inhabitants could sit out in
the shade at any time of day. From where they stood, they were
afforded a side view, so she could see the huge banyan tree out
front, with its aerial roots forming an archway that led to the
front door. It seemed a gracious, intimate home overlooking the
most beautiful ocean in the world, just strolling distance from the
most extraordinary palm-lined beach.

But the sight was marred by the appearance of
a number of half-clothed African slaves. One was a woman whose
child—a young boy of no more than four—clung to her legs, his cries
piercing the aura of serenity and calm. A white foreman strode
forth to see what was happening, striking out with his riding crop
as one of the male slaves stepped forth to offer assistance. The
whip lashed the would-be samaritan’s face, and he fell back,
groaning in pain. As the child increased his screams, the foreman
made a gesture of contempt and arrogantly strutted up the stairs
and inside Rodrigo’s house.

When Gabrielle glanced at Rodrigo, he was
livid, clenching his fists in balls of rage.

He swore viciously in his own tongue, turning
away from the sight. “
Bastardia!
They kidnapped me from my
homeland. Forced on me their language, their customs, their narrow
sense of justice. Stole my name, my home. The God-given right to
freedom. They enslaved me as surely as—” He turned tortured eyes on
her, reminding her of a wounded beast who, in his pain, readies for
attack. “You wish to know what it is to be in chains? This. Being
forced to watch as they destroy your hopes and dreams and the very
soul of your land—and being powerless to stop them.”

She ached to see his pain, that pain that
he’d revealed to no one during his long confinement in England—not
even her. Reaching out, she put a gentle hand on his arm, felt it
bunch and tighten beneath her touch. “Then we’re both in chains.”
He looked at her, accusingly suspicious of her words. “For I’m
bound by my love for you.”