Paradise Island (8 page)

Men of many walks of life had woven words that touched her and in the end they left her as empty as those words. At the moment she clung to self-preservation and prior knowledge. As tempting as Gregory was, he was just a man, tarnished with the same untrustworthy brush as them all. And in his position, kidnapped, cuffed and facing a court for final judgment, he would say anything to be released.

His voice was a soft growl. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

She would like to believe the alluring promise that her father could be alive and that only Gregory could find him, but she didn't trust him. His details were sketchy. She could commit to nothing until she was given solid proof. His words were not enough.

She had the immediate pressing issue of her missing ship, crew and friends. More terrifying than that was that she had no idea where she was or what truly happened.

“We'll discuss this further in the morning,” she said in short, clipped tones.

“Estelle, you have to believe me,” his voice was low, intimate. Tinged with a hint of desperation.

“Call me Captain,” she said curtly.

“What is your plan now,
Captain
?”

“At this moment in time there is no need to discuss anything with you. I cannot accept at face value what you told me is true. You have no proof, nothing except your words and they mean little to me.”

“Damn it, Estelle. For the sake of your father, open your mind.”

Anger bit a swift hot path through her veins. “I do not accept cursing from my prisoners either. You have no right to refer to me by my name. It is Captain. You will be the worse off if you do not remember to use it.”

“
Captain
,” Gregory held his breath and slid the words from between clenched teeth. “Need I remind you I am a captain of The Royal Navy? Would it not be better to work together and find a way out of this place, aid me in finding your father, rather than you lead me to God knows where?”

“I do not have to share my reasons with you. You are my prisoner and I owe you no explanation.”

“It might be easier on the both of us if we worked together.”

“That will never happen,” Estelle said.

“Of all the bullheaded … I am willing to work with you for the sake of us both. This is not a normal situation. We do not know where we are, or what has happened to us. It is only reasonable that you free my hands and we work together to get us to safety.”

“And then what, Mister Marshall? Will you still come quietly to Paradise and bravely face your future? Not so long ago you promised me a lifetime in jail at best if I did the
honest
thing and set you free.”

“Of all the mulish women in this world, I have to be kidnapped by the queen.”

“It is a harsh life and if I am a little ‘mulish' as you say then I have had to be,” Estelle said.

“If you were treated well, you would not think life to be harsh at all.”

“What would you know about treating women? I have a trail of evidence and hundreds of women to call you, and all the men in this world, wrong,” Estelle said.

“I have never mistreated a woman and I think that men who do to be the most lowly. If I treated you well, you would have clothes, food, comfort, … love.”

The weight of his words opened a little dark cavern long tucked away in her heart. In the life she had chosen she would never have love. The kind that shares, grows, takes away the pain and the loneliness of the world. Living as she did, she could only watch that type of love from a distance, treat it as something that could never be hers. So she had put it from her mind to save her the agony of ever trying to find it.

“How do you know what a woman wants,” Estelle said, hating the way her voice sounded so hoarse.

She watched his features soften as he studied her. “A woman should be cared for, protected, respected. She is the heart and soul of a man's life, the pinnacle of her children's life. A woman … ”

“You have no idea about what women want,” Estelle cut him short.

“A woman like you couldn't understand what it is like to be any of the things I stated.”

“Let me tell you about women like me. Through your misplaced view on how women should be and what they should want out of life, you, who through total ignorant inaction allow women like me to be thrown out of our homes and onto the streets with only the clothes on our back. No protection. No money. An outcast.”

“I … had no idea,” Gregory said.

She didn't want to hear anymore. Perhaps it was because of the sympathy she heard in his quietly spoken voice, the way it laced through her mind and made her throat close up with a hot lump. She didn't want his pity. She didn't want to feel sorry for herself. She had picked herself up from that dark night years ago and had scratched a life for herself, created her own family of other lost women, carved an entire island into her own safe haven.

“It created me. I am the sum of my experiences. I could still be that quiet girl, silent at my father's side, or I could be the master of my own destiny. I made my choice. I am happy with it. And I have had enough of this conversation. You need to sleep,” Estelle said.

“I am not tired and I will not be sleeping until you free me.”

Estelle locked his gaze and begun her song. The notes started deep in her throat, the melody slow and enthralling. It was the whisper of an angel that would build to a choir. The melody, calming and soothing filled the small cave in harmony with the crackling fire.

His eyelids drooped. Estelle sensed him fight to stay conscious. The melody flowed strongly. She became intensely aware of him, was drawn to his fight to keep his eyes open. A connection began between them, the first tremulous threads that brought her close to him. Her consciousness flowed along the sound of her voice so that his awareness surrounded her.

She was aware of the multitude of questions that filled his mind. Her curiosity stirred. He fought, taking her with him into her own consciousness. His will slipped past her defenses, probing, finding, comprehending. Panic fluttered through her veins. This had never happened before and it took a moment before the panic subsided enough for her to react. Her mind was her private sanctuary and there was no room in it for him. She concentrated, imagined him from her mind, pushed him away and withdrew him from her mind.

She had never experienced any sort of connection when she had used her song. He fought against the intoxicating threads of her voice in a way that had never happened before. She intensified her song, increasing their connection, overrunning his resolve. She used the sultry notes to weave a path into his mind. She reached out, felt his will pull her to him then she plummeted into the innate power within him.

She was intensely aware of the power of his will, his intelligence and sheer determination of his spirit. She stopped struggling, fascinated by the feelings that stirred to life within herself. She dwelled there, absorbing his energy, learning about him, touching his mind and tasting his thoughts. She allowed herself to filter gently into every corner of his consciousness, bombarding his fortitude with her own tenacity.

Her song was working, dampening his alertness. Even as his awareness blended with the realm of sleep, he fought for release, fighting the somnolent layers as they pounded him into the shadowy depths of unconsciousness.

Estelle felt him slip beneath the last layer through to the world of dreams and inner thoughts. She felt the urge to stay where she was and watch his thoughts as they would eventually tumble through his mind. She could learn a lot about a man like him, but she knew to stay meant that she was still connected to him. It was a connection she needed to break.

Estelle severed the link between them, her heart pounding in her ears. She raised a shaking hand and rubbed her eyes, clearing her vision. It had never been that way, there had never been a connection between herself and the person she used her voice on. He had fought her, used her gift to enter her mind before she recovered enough to push him out.

Their connection was strong. He had suddenly become more of a threat than she'd first imagined. At least now she could watch him without the fear of him knowing. Although his face was relaxed in sleep, his brows slashed a thick dark horizontal line over his closed eyes. Small lines were etched into the corners, fanning outwards. His nose was straight, strong, the nostrils slightly flattened over the somewhat severe line of his mouth. His lips were full but remained harshly masculine. She decided he had a handsome well-formed male face. It was a face she could get used to looking at.

She snorted rather indelicately, settled comfortably against the rock wall and continued her lazy perusal. His chest rose and fell with each breath. The flickering fire sent a delicate sublime light over him that made his skin even more golden because of his deep tan. His square shoulders were relaxed, coated with an array of interlacing muscles. The flickering light drew sharp contrasts between the undulating planes of his physique, his well-defined pectoral muscles. Her eyes dwelled on the rigid line that ran from his breast bone to his navel. Even in sleep his stomach muscles contracted, hardening the line the defined his midsection.

Her eyes grew greedy and they traveled lower, over his toned long legs that were stretched before him, his knees bent a little, his feet tipped outwards. The material of his pants were stretched tight over well-defined thighs and fit snugly over his lean hips. Her primal flicker of interest sparked a physical response deep within her. He would be a man she might have chosen for a few hours of play, if the situation was not as it was.

But he was a sleek, lethal animal, a dark predator, powerful, intelligent, strong in mind and body with a dark ruthless edge and if she had half a wit about her she should not forget it.

She had more pressing issues to think about. Her missing friends; her crew; her ship. A forlorn dread seeped deep into her bones and she rubbed her hands on her arms in a sudden grip of cold. Too many questions filled her mind.

Too much horror.

She hoped wherever they were, they were safe. She had to believe that Dalia's gift had worked somehow, and that she had been able to save them from Cutlass's attack. She had to believe they were saved, and that maybe only she and Gregory found themselves in this position.

If she didn't believe that they were alive, then she didn't know if she could go on. Hope was a tenuous thing. It gave purpose, a reason to keep going in insurmountable odds and that was what she drew on. Hope that somehow her dearest friends were still alive and well and that they had survived the attack and were on their way back to Paradise. If something happened to her and she never made it back, she knew her friends would keep the island alive and that the lives of all those that lived there would continue. She could trust them with that.

And what of her father?

She was shaken to the core with Gregory's revelations. To think that her father might still be alive was more than she could ever wish. In Gregory's position, she would say anything. He was a man in a dire situation. Trusting what he said would take more than mere words. There had to be some solid evidence, or she had to logically conclude that they were just hollow, desperate words.

The thought grounded her, pushed the heavy sludge of fear, threatening to overpower the hope that she desperately clung to, drove home the dire circumstances in which she found herself. The only course of action would be to discover where in the world they were and find her way home. With Captain Gregory Marshall as her prisoner. A steely reserve kicked down the heady tide of desperation.

Estelle pulled her gaze from Gregory into the fire and she watched the burning yellows and reds flicker, dance and weave upon the burning driftwood. She tucked a large piece of wood into the center of the fire and watched blue and white sparks drift upwards and twirl to the roof of the cave.

As the shower of sparks disappeared, she saw an intricately, quite beautiful painting on the craggy ceiling of the cave. She ignited the end of a long stick and brought the flame to the roof so that she could see the image in greater detail.

It was a line of ships. Black, with long spindly masts that reached impossibly high, so tall that they might overturn a normal ship. White froth peeled from the bows as the ships cut through the water. Impossibly high. Impossibly swift. Her mouth went dry as she recognized them. They were the ships that had attacked the
Wanderlust
. Jack Cutlass's ship. But how had he managed to sail so quickly? It didn't make sense.

On top of the masts was a design drawn by a meticulous, talented hand. The lines had faded, barely there and were so much of the shadows it was amazing that she saw it at all. But although it had aged through the wear and tear of many years, it was a subject that made her blood pump an icy chill through frigid veins. It was the same design as that on the ring she'd taken from Gregory at the pier. She went to take the ring form her satchel, but thought better of it. Better to keep it hidden.

The skull with a black yawning mouth looked at her as though it were mid-way through a silent scream, laughing in the face of death, joyous in the gates of hell. The hollow greedy eyes, mirthless, stared blank with the dark edge of hell locked in their black depths. The head was held into place with two crossing bones beneath the chin dripping blood. The sign of death. The sign Jack Cutlass sailed under.

Beneath the drawing were the words
Mortis Rex
written on a scroll in the clasp of a skeleton's boney hands. A dark shiver pervaded her mind. They were holed up in an old pirate's cave, a safe haven from the pounding seas, or a hideaway from prying eyes. Estelle hoped that the cave was old enough that it wasn't still used by one of these ‘Mortis Rex' pirates. But pirates kept to what they knew, and this looked like a cave that had been known for a very long time.

Estelle moved away from the painting and in doing so, tipped the flaming end of the stick in another direction. To her amazement the drawing continued. The paint here was so faded that, in parts, the painting had disappeared altogether.