Lovestorm (2 page)

But Shaakhan knew the sea was as changeable as a woman. He loved her still when her winds blew and her waves rose and fell in crashing fury. Sometimes, he thought he loved the sea best when she battled with the shoreline and tore away whole sections of beach, threatening the boundaries of the forest. And when the worst of the storm had passed, he never failed to launch his boat into the surf and challenge her undaunted spirit.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes narrowed as he fixed his gaze on an unfamiliar object bobbing on the waves far out on the sea. He had glimpsed it before, then lost sight of it. It was foreign to the sea and sky, and Shaakhan grew curious. What was this thing cradled on the breast of the great salt water, and where had it come from?

Shaakhan hesitated, his paddle poised in midair while silvery drops of water dripped off the blade. Then the waves parted and a dolphin leaped out of the depths and flew over the dugout. Before Shaakhan could do more than gasp in wonder, a smaller dolphin repeated the performance.

The man smiled. “Ah, my friends,” he called to the dolphins. “It is good to see you again.”

Immediately, the larger creature rose out of the water and bounced across the surface on the tip of his tail. The smaller, a young female, contented herself with several excited jumps and a widemouthed hissing.

“What is it?” Shaakhan eased the paddle into the dugout slowly and laid it across his lap. “Do you wish to tell me something?”

The male disappeared beneath the surface of the water and came up beside the female. For a moment, they lingered within arm's length of Shaakhan, then both turned and made a final twisting leap before diving out of sight. When they surfaced again to breathe, it was nearly a bowshot away. Shaakhan saw only a flash of white, and then the dolphins were gone.

Just beyond the point where the dolphins went under bobbed the strange object. Shaakhan lifted his paddle and turned the dugout in that direction. As he narrowed the distance between them, he realized it was some sort of canoe.

Elizabeth lay on her back in the bottom of the longboat. She was no longer conscious of time or of being cold. In fact, she was hot; her face and arms, the surface of her skin, seemed to be burning up. Her mouth was parched, her lips swollen and cracked. Her eyes ached so badly that it hurt to try to open them.

She knew the rain had ceased because she was so thirsty. She missed the sound of the drops hitting the wooden vessel. Now there was nothing but the rise and fall of the waves and the whoosh of water against the hull. Up and down . . . up and down . . . She threw an arm over her eyes and thought of ripe strawberries. Strawberries with fresh cream.

The memory was so pleasant that she didn't hear the scrape of wood as the two boats brushed against each other. She was unaware of the man binding the two crafts together with a bit of bark fishing line and climbing in beside her.

Elizabeth moaned deep in her throat and tossed her head. An arm slipped under her shoulder and lifted her up. “What?” She blinked as a man's tanned face came into focus. “Where am I?” she gasped.

“Mumaane.
Drink . . . drink this.”

A few drops of sweet water trickled between her lips, and Elizabeth clutched at the gourd container.

“No, just a little,” the man cautioned in husky, precise English.

She gulped at the precious liquid until he pulled it away. “Do I know you?” Her voice was cracked and weak. Was this real or a dream? Elizabeth willed her mind to function. “Who are you?”

He smiled, his large, dark eyes kind in his bronzed face. “I am Cain,” he said. “Do not have fear. I will not harm you.”

“A ship?” Elizabeth reached for the water gourd again. “Do you have a ship?” He let her have another sip of the water, and she closed her eyes in weariness. He looks like a pirate, she thought, but a gentle pirate. It was impossible to be afraid of those huge, liquid eyes.

“You are . . . on the great . . . great salt water,” he said. “I take you to land. Be not afraid.”

She knew when he lifted her, but she was powerless to help or to resist him. He laid her on her side and removed his doeskin vest, covering her face with the soft garment.

“To stop the burn,” he said.

The movement of the waves was different. When Elizabeth pushed away the covering and forced her eyes open, she saw the outline of the man above her, bare-chested, dark against the sky. “Who are you?” she asked again.

He laughed softly. “I told you,” he said. “I am Cain.”

″
But . . .” Her mind hovered between light and darkness. “Do I know you?”

“You know me,” he replied. “You have always known me.”

E
lizabeth gradually became aware that there was no movement beneath her. The steady swish of the water was absent; she heard nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes and found she was in a small, shadowy room that smelled of pine boughs. She raised her right hand; it brushed against a rough, sloping wall. Bewildered, she tried to sit up.

“Lie still,” a masculine voice commanded. “You are safe.”

Elizabeth sighed and laid her head back as she recognized the voice of the man who had taken her from the longboat. Wherever she was, she had not been robbed or ravished. Her rings still hung heavy on her fingers.

“Wh-where am I?” Her throat hurt, and she sounded like an ancient crone. “Is this land?”

The man chuckled. “Unless the sea decides to claim it again.” He squatted beside her and held out a bowl. “Have you hunger?”

Elizabeth moistened her cracked lips with her tongue and tried to gather her wits. She was warm, her eyes caught the flicker of a small fire, and the bed beneath her was soft. When she shifted her weight on the mattress, the odor of pine became stronger. She blinked, adjusting her vision to the dim light of the fire. This is not a room in a house, she thought. It is some primitive hut. In the center of the low roof was an opening. “Stars,” she said, half to herself. “It's night.”

“Yes,” her companion agreed. “Yesterday, I take you from the sea. You have fever. You sleep long time.”

She tried to place his accent.
Yorkshire?
His speech was oddly old-fashioned but perfectly comprehensible. Elizabeth put a hand to her hair. It was neatly brushed and bound into braids. It felt damp. She was wearing a crude skin tunic. Whoever did my hair must have changed my clothing, Elizabeth thought. She fixed her gaze on the man once more. “You are . . .” She struggled to remember his name. “Cain?”

“Cain Dare.”

“Yes.” She caught a whiff of what was in the bowl and was suddenly ravenous. “Is that soup?”

“Good.”

He grinned broadly, and she noticed that his dark hair was cut off square at the shoulder. He was wearing a sleeveless leather vest, open in the front; beneath the garment his muscular chest was bare. A wide copper bracelet encircled the bulging biceps of one brawny, hairless arm. A pirate! She remembered her earlier impression with a shiver of excitement. I've been captured by a pirate!

“It is good that you hunger,” he continued. “Food and rest will make you strong.” He set the bowl on the floor and lifted her to a half-sitting position, adjusting a wooden backrest behind her. “There,” he said. “Now you eat.”

Elizabeth started at his touch. There was nothing lewd or familiar about the man's manner, but the heat of his arm burned through her rough garment like fire. He lifted her as easily as though she were a child. She drew in a ragged breath. “Oh.”

Sensing her fear, he withdrew a short distance away and crouched motionless. “You have no danger,” he repeated. “I am friend.” He held out the steaming bowl of soup. “Eat.”

“I have not thanked you for saving me,” Elizabeth said shakily. “I am the Lady Elizabeth Anne Sommersett. I am betrothed to Edward Lindsey, son of the earl of Dunmore. If you take me to Jamestown, or inform my family that I am here, you will be richly rewarded.”

“Eat the soup while it has hot.”

“Don't you understand?” Elizabeth grew imperious. “I am a person of great importance. Do you know where Jamestown is?”

“I know.” He rose to his feet.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow hot. The man was wearing little but an apron of skin about his loins. Hastily, she averted her eyes. Even a pirate would be civilized enough to wear breeches! Was she being held prisoner by a madman? “I insist that you contact my betrothed at once,” she sputtered.

“This one hears you. Do you always talk so loud?”

Torn between the desire to put this ruffian in his place and to fill the aching void in her stomach, Elizabeth allowed herself a haughty sniff. “Send me a serving woman,” she commanded. “I want my own clothes. I cannot wear this . . . this thing.” She fingered the buckskin tunic distastefully.

Cain folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her. “I do not understand what is serving
woman,”
he said.

“The woman who removed my garments, who braided my hair. Send her to me at once!” Elizabeth reached for the bowl of soup and the horn spoon, and took a tentative sip. The broth was delicious! Eagerly, she spooned the rich mixture into her mouth. Even the seasoning was delicate, she was glad to discover—in her experience, cooks tried to cover the taste of spoiled meat with heavy spices.

The man's amused chuckle brought her to an abrupt halt. She glared at him fiercely. “I am not accustomed to asking twice for what I want,” she said.

“I can see that.”

Elizabeth felt her temper rising. “Well?”

“There is no woman here.”

“No woman? Nonsense,” she retorted. “If there's no woman, then who . . . Oh.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. ″You . . .”

“You were wet and cold,” he explained. “I did not want you to have sick.” He shrugged. “There is no need for shame. Your body is lovely, but you be not the first woman I have seen without her clothes.”

“Oh!” Angrily, Elizabeth threw her bare feet over the edge of the bed and stood up shakily. Cain made no move to stop her as she staggered toward the open doorway. Shoving aside a skin curtain, she stepped out into a warm spring night.

In panic, Elizabeth stared around her. There were no other houses, no people, no lights except the stars. The only sign of human habitation was this small hut beneath the trees. Heart pounding, she held her breath and listened. From far off, she heard the sound of the surf. “Where am I?” she cried out. “What godforsaken place is this?”

“This is my home. If I told you name, you still not know where you be.”

Elizabeth shrank back. She was tall for a woman, but this man loomed over her. His shoulders were as broad as a blacksmith's; his sinewy naked thighs gleamed in the moonlight like those of some pagan gladiator.

“You have fear.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” she lied.

He sniffed disbelievingly. “Your tongue say one thing, but body say another. You tremble as a doe before the hunter's arrow.”

“You're not English,” Elizabeth exclaimed suddenly. “Who and what are you?”

“I am warrior of the Lenni-Lenape. Clan of Munsee—the wolf.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “An Indian? You're an Indian?”

″
India be far away.” He waved his hands expressively. “Farther even than the kingdom of the Virgin Queen. This one has told you, I am Lenni-Lenape. Among my people, I am Shaakhan Kihittuun—in your tongue, Wind from the Sea.”

“But you lied to me! You said your name was Cain.” Elizabeth backed away until she bumped into a tree trunk. “You told me—”

“
I do not lie. My grandmother shares your blood. It was she who gave me my English name.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“I take you back to the wigwam. If you run about the night with nothing on your feet, you will take again the fever and die.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard. Cain's soft voice had taken on an edge of steel. “And if I refuse?”

“You cannot. You are a gift from the sea.”

She scanned the ground at her feet for a rock, a stick, anything to defend herself from this savage, but there was nothing.

As if reading her mind, Cain sighed in exasperation. “If you run, I run faster. If you strike me, can you know I will not strike harder? Stop acting like spoiled child and return to house. Your soup will be cold.”

“How dare you give me orders!” she said. “What right do you have to—”

“I have every right,” he replied. “You belong to me.”

Fear trickled down Elizabeth's spine like icy water. The man was mad! Her great-uncle Stephen's wife had been taken with fits of madness. Everyone in the household had taken pains not to alarm her for fear of her violent rages. “Pretend to agree with her,” Grandmother had said. “Be ever wary with the insane.” Grandmother's advice echoed in her mind as Elizabeth forced herself to stand motionless when every instinct bade her flee this crazed savage.

“Come back to the fire,” Cain urged gently. “I do not hurt you.”

Silently, she nodded. For now, there was nothing else she could do. Trembling, she allowed him to lead her back inside the hut.

“Will you sup?” he asked.

“No.” She retreated to the bed and pulled the deerskin covering over her head. Her hunger was gone, driven back by fear. In a futile act of defiance, she turned her back on him and clenched her eyes shut.

Chuckling softly, Cain lay down on the far side of the fire and instantly went to sleep. Elizabeth lay awake until the stars began to fade from the sky.

 

When Elizabeth opened her eyes again, sunlight poured through the roof hole and spilled across the floor of the hut. She was alone in the room.

After a few minutes, she rose from the bed and glanced cautiously out the doorway. There was no sign of Cain. Nothing moved but a half-grown rabbit. The creature sat up on its hind legs and stared at her, twitching both ears in curiosity.

Elizabeth turned back toward the firepit; only a few coals remained, but beside it was a large clam shell containing some kind of porridge. She dipped a finger in the mush and tasted it. It was unfamiliar but delicious. Quickly, she devoured the porridge, two round cakes of unleavened bread, and a smoked fish, washing it down with water she found in a gourd container.

Her hunger satisfied, she looked around the hut more carefully. The roof was sloping, high in the center coming down to low sides. The walls were covered with bark over woven branches. Baskets and bowls hung from the ceiling supports; tanned skins covered the floor. Fishhooks and line were neatly coiled around pegs; dried corn and fish hung from strings against the far wall. What Elizabeth assumed were changes of clothing were carefully folded and stacked on a narrow platform near the entranceway. There was nothing in the hut that could be construed as a weapon, unless she counted the clay bowl of arrowheads beside her bed.

Sinking down again on the pine-bough mattress, Elizabeth tried to still her panic long enough to reason clearly. She was alone, a prisoner of a red Indian, somewhere on the coast of America. She had no way of knowing if anyone else had survived the shipwreck, but if they had, they undoubtedly believed her drowned.

All her life, she had been protected from the world by her birth and position. Her father was a powerful earl with connections to all the great houses of Europe. Since childhood, she had been cosseted and fawned over. Servants had helped to dress her, to prepare her bath and do her hair. She had never gone without a meal, or been cold, or lacked shoes.

Elizabeth stared at her scratched and swollen bare feet in disgust. How many pairs of shoes had she brought with her in her trousseau? Twenty? Thirty? She had no idea. Elizabeth's shoes were not her concern. A maid had always seen that proper attire was laid out for each occasion. Elizabeth sighed. Her shoes had gone to the bottom of the sea with all her lovely gowns, her precious books, and her jewelry. She wiggled her bare toes against the animal skin on the floor.

“You were right, Bridget,” she murmured sulkily. “I should have deserted with you.”

Bridget had been her maid since Elizabeth was ten years old. The black-haired Irish girl was supposed to come to the Virginia Colony with her, along with the undermaid, Nan. But Bridget had been terrified of crossing the ocean. When it came time for the ship to sail, Bridget was nowhere to be found.

Elizabeth laughed. “I called her a traitor, but she was the wise one.”

Her maid Nan had sickened and died two weeks out of Bristol. Her body had been consigned to the sea long before the
Speedwell
reached the West Indies, and for the rest of the voyage, Elizabeth had had to make do with the aid of her aunt's two French maids and useless little Betty. The French girls hadn't been in the boat with her aunt. She was afraid they had died horribly when the ship went down.

Elizabeth rubbed her face with her hands. There was no one to help her. If she was to survive this ordeal, it must be by her own wits, her own determination. She was, after all, a Sommersett, and the Sommersetts had a proud tradition of fortitude stretching back to the ancestor who had come ashore with William the Conqueror. No true Sommersett would allow himself to be intimidated or bested by a mere savage.

This barbarian might be used to dealing with simple native girls, but he had never been confronted with an English noblewoman. This whole situation was obviously a gross misunderstanding due to Cain's ignorance of the workings of the civilized world. Once he was able to comprehend Elizabeth's true station in life and her father's importance, it would be simple to insist that he transport her to the nearest English colony without delay.

Elizabeth sighed with relief. She had been foolish to panic last night when she found out the man was an Indian. He hadn't hurt her in any way—he had rescued her from the sea. She'd not been raped or abused. Cain was not dangerous, despite his misguided delusion that she
belonged
to him.

Actually, the savage had treated her quite well. He had provided food and water and a shelter from the elements, regardless of how crude. Elizabeth glanced about the hut and permitted herself a condescending smile. Except that it was so clean, the hut might have served as a henhouse on one of her father's country estates.