Only You: Duke of Rutland Series III Page 4

  The lacy fringe of her lashes lifted and he felt as if a thread went taut between them, connecting them, alone together on this wretched beach.

  “You’ve had another knock on the head. I worried if you would regain consciousness or become demented.”

  “I assure you, I have all of my wits.”

  She laughed at his grimness, picked up the shell she had unearthed, waded into the sea and filled it with water. “You were too heavy to drag up the beach, so I covered you with palm fronds to shield you from the sun.”

  She ripped off the hem of her chemise, knelt beside him, and washed his face. Her fingers trembled. He flinched not only from her touch but the sight of long shapely calves.

  “You have a gash across your forehead but it will heal.”

  “I feel like dying.”

  “I’ll decide when you die, Lord Rutland, not you. Although, I should have let the sea have you when you kept up that witless fight with Damiano.”

  He glanced around. “Damiano?”

  She shuddered. “The mast cut him in two.”

  “It was no more than the swine deserved. Are there any other survivors?” Nicholas started to rise, but fell back against the log.

  She brushed her long golden mane behind her shoulders and peered toward the west. “I walked the beach for miles and didn’t see evidence of any others. Not even a drift of flotsam from the Santanas to mark its existence. Not that I would welcome Damiano, Capitan Diogo or his crew’s hellish company. I desire no remembrance of them.”

  He attempted to rise again. She waylaid him by taking hold of his face with both her hands, and rubbing her thumbs along his jaw. He felt as though he were being stroked by the wings of an angel. She looked like an angel too, damn it all, with those enchanting turquoise eyes that matched the sea. He liked her cool hands upon his face, but it made it damned hard to concentrate on what to do about this predicament. She had no idea how her touch seemed to make him a bumbling idiot. Perhaps he was demented.

  Maybe, if he didn’t look at her mouth again he’d be able to think. But damn if he didn’t look anyway. It was impossible to not look at those full luscious lips that were meant to be kissed.

  She withdrew her hands. “I’ll scout around and find something to make a poultice.”

  “You know of such things?”

  She sat back on her heels. “You find it remarkable that a thief would have healing knowledge?”

  “We are on equal footing, Miss Elwins. We have survived thus far and will need each other to continue to do so.”

  She smiled with his concession and her face took on a mesmerizing radiance. She leaned over to pick up the coconut she dropped, giving him a tantalizing view of her full breasts and rosy nipples. He cleared his throat, listening to the thudding of her smashing through the grassy husk, pounding the inner shell on a rock until it cracked open. She offered the crude vessel to him. He lifted the sweet water into his parched mouth, amazed by her resourcefulness, from diving off the ship, cutting through rigging, covering him with palm fronds and gathering coconuts.

  “Eat the coconut meat inside,” she ordered.

  Not accustomed to taking orders, he slanted a look at her.

  “We are on equal footing, Lord Rutland,” she repeated his words. “You need your nourishment if you are to be of help to me.”

  With avid interest, he saw a spark in her eyes and an amused twitch of her mouth. She was a dazzling vision and like a schoolboy with his first infatuation, she could cut him out into little stars if she had the whim.

  What other secrets lay behind her playful smile? The innocent appeal of a thief this beautiful could easily operate undetected by charming her victims. Why, she could steal the Crown jewels out of London Tower and be long gone before anyone noticed. He grunted. Despite her past crimes, he needed her.

  He chewed on a piece of fibrous coconut and his strength seemed fairly restored. “Are we on an island or a continent?”

  She shielded her eyes, scanning the treetops and the mountain behind. “On board the ship, I observed the stars through the shrouds. I think we are in the northern region of the Caribbean. Whether we are on an island or continent, I cannot tell.”

  “Your knowledge of the sea?” he said, more of a question than a statement.

  “My father kindled my imagination and set fire my thirst for learning, taking great delight in sharing his knowledge of the ocean. He spent many hours taking me out in his dingy, catching fish, teaching me how to use a knife and how to live off the sea. During those idyllic days, he instructed me about the stars.”

  “Did he ever take you on his voyages?”

  “I never accompanied him but he told me tales about the places he visited especially the Caribbean. He returned with books, shells, and rare fruits. With some accuracy, I’ll be able to identify what we can eat.”

  She gestured with a coconut chunk. “To think one of my favorite books was Robinson Crusoe and here we are living Defoe’s imaginings. Who would have thought?”

  “Reading fiction and surviving it are two different experiences.”

  He followed her searching gaze out over the horizon, a thin seam where the crown of the sky and the flat of the sea hemmed each other into a line of sapphire. The harsh cry of a seagull fractured the serenity. “We will explore later to find out if we are on an island. For the time being, we need to deal with necessities like food, water and shelter.”

  He glanced at the palm trees with their giant fronds and vines clinging to their massive trunks. Shelter would be easy enough to do. “We will build a signal fire first to herald a passing ship.” Now that he had a thread of hope that his father and brother might yet live, he had to get off this godforsaken patch of earth.

  “We will not.”

  He turned so fast a muscle in his neck snapped. “Excuse me. Did I hear you right? We have to get off this barbaric coast. I have to rescue my sister and find out who committed this horrendous act to my family.” He clawed at the sand at his side, his soul burning at his inability to protect them. Of one thing, he was sure. He would not fail to find who was responsible and make them pay. “We will build a signal fire first to herald a passing ship.”

  “No, we will not.”

  “Did I hear you right?”

  She stood there, her posture, ramrod straight, a mutinous expression on her face. “Oh, you are favored by the gods, Lord Nicholas? Shall we hail a Spanish ship and become slaves of the Spaniards? They make the Portuguese look like saints. Or the Caribes? A lovely indigenous Indian group that resides on this tail end of the earth and who are predisposed to cannibalism. Perchance you are inclined to be someone’s dinner.”

  Heat burned in his chest. There was nothing demure about the woman. Didn’t she realize as a gentleman, he knew best? “I’ll take that risk. We can live on coconuts for the time being,” he said with enough glaring force that would make his tenants cower.

  “And you are expert at starting fires?” She made an outrageously exaggerated curtsy. “Where is your tinderbox?”

  “You do not believe I can perform the task?” Shaking off his dizziness, he stood, towered over her. Most women would take a step back. Miss Elwins stood her ground. He gritted his teeth, regretting the part about being on equal footing. Miss Elwins was demonstrating she had the upper hand.

  “I suppose being a gentleman, you know a great deal about setting fires,” she sniffed, her tone inferring that since he was really a softly reared aristocrat, he knew nothing.

  He needed to set clear boundaries, and the sooner she realized he was the one who possessed the sounder logic the better off their relationship would be. “Your suggestion of obtaining food is admirable, but for today, I want you to pick-up driftwood.”

  “Suit yourself, Lord Rutland. I wish you luck building your fire. I’m off to scavenge for food which is a greater priority.” She headed down the beach, kicking up puffs of sand from her heels.

  He tore off his coat and threw it on the ground. Mi
ss Elwins thought he couldn’t build a fire. She could curtsy herself all the way to Windsor Castle and back. He’d show her.

  Chapter 4

  Alexandra stomped down the beach, kicked a coconut out of the way. A sharp pain jagged from toe to ankle. Cursing, she hopped on her good foot while holding her injured toe. Apart from the King, Lord Rutland was the most dignified and memorable man she had ever met….and he knew it. Oh, to take him down a peg.

  She sat down on a log and massaged her foot. To think she had saved his life and he commanded her like she was one of his servants.

  Yet, she could not quell the rioting in her stomach. She had studied him while he was unconscious, reposed like a warrior taking his rest. Regardless of his pathetic state, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His face was shockingly handsome with high cheekbones and full lips. His bearded jaw spoke of determination and…stubbornness. Or did it hide a weak chin?

  His thick wildly unkempt hair, dark in the sunlight, waved over his temple. And he had a patrician nose. A giggle bubbled up from deep in her throat from her imaginings on the ship. Beak nosed? What would his imperial majesty think about that notion?

  While he’d been unconscious, she checked for bone breaks. His arms and legs were sound, but would have been thinner if she had not fed him aboard the Santanas. His coat had parted. She had walked her fingers over his ribs, skipped them over his abdomen, stopped at the waistband of his breeches. How shameless she had been. Her cheeks reddened from the memory.

  Oh, when he was awake and stood up, he was a ferocious man, and how those blue eyes of his had raked her. Heat flooded her with his awareness of her attire. She shook her head. Not much to do about the thin chemise that stuck to her skin. If he couldn’t stomach the impropriety, then she should have let him go down with the ship.

  Would he hurt her? How he had fought Damiano with his powerful fists. Instinct told her he would not hurt her.

  Why did she let him continue to let him believe she was a thief? The overwhelming culpability of what happened to Molly she had not been able to come to terms with yet. Like a bird grounded with a broken wing, guilt kept her a prisoner.

  “I’m so sorry, Molly.”

  There was no echo, nor reverberation. If anything, the firmament consumed her words and her infinite, hopeless apology. But not her memories. She would never be rid of those.

  And then to, days of secrets, hiding still another truth weighed on her shoulders with backbreaking force. Her throat constricted. Best to keep her identity as a ship captain’s daughter. Too many questions would follow and she had no means of answering them.

  Apart from her musings of Lord Nicholas, her spirits soared as food was in abundance. Their newly acquired diet would restore their health from the deprivations they had suffered aboard the Santanas. Fresh fruit hung heavily from the trees and her arms ached with the weight of mangoes, bananas and coconuts she had collected. She passed a herd of wild pigs, grazing on the edge of the beach, and then waded into the sea to cool her skin. Colorful fish darted around her knees, so plentiful and tame, and if her arms weren’t full for fruit, she could pick them up.

  Despite being God knew where, she took a deep breath of satisfaction. The wind was freshening and waved through the palms lining the deserted pink sand beach on which she followed her solitary footsteps. A sea hawk with its wings spread wide, floated motionless upon the updrafts issued from the land, and in the distance, the frothy creaming of waves broke upon an outer reef.

  Her father had described this quarter of the earth, but his descriptions were nothing in compare to the soft, compelling beauty of these seas, and the endlessly changing shades of turquoise, greens and blues. The scenery induced her soul to complacency for it seemed incredible that here nature could prove to be an adversary…much like Lord Rutland.

  She smiled. No matter his prevailing pride, she was blessed with such an agreeable climate and situation, and she would not be alone. This land with its bountiful fruits was far superior to being a prisoner on a ship and to be sold as a sex slave to a sadistic man.

  Lord Rutland was not where she had left him. She followed a muttered curse and pushed through a canopy of palms. He stooped over a pile of driftwood, spinning a crude arrangement of twine procured from a vine, and a stick, reminiscent of Cro-Magnon man. At least he took her advice and moved the unlikely inferno away from the sea and potential hostile intruders. “How is the fire-starting?”

  He threw down his contraption and stared at the bounty in her arms. “Food. I’m starved.”

  Cro-Magnon. She clutched the fruit to her breast. “I thought you said food was not a requirement.” She held up a mango, dangling it back and forth. He cut the distance between them with long purposeful strides, snatching the ripened fruit from her hands. Lord Rutland’s predictability was a supreme art. “You may want to peel it first,” she suggested.

  He ripped open the peel and sank his teeth into the fruit. “I know what a mango is, they are grown in our conservatory at Belvoir Castle.” Juices flowed down his bearded chin. He was barefoot, his stockings and boots propped upside down on a log to dry. His shirt sleeves were rolled up over his elbows and his breeches were torn and filthy, his appearance contradictory to the well-spoken aristocrat.

  “We should demonstrate some refinement and chew our food before we swallow. After surviving infinite probabilities, I’d hate to see you choke to death.” She sat cross-legged in the velvety sand, and peeled a banana, popped a piece in her mouth, savoring the sweetness. She had eaten small amounts during the day, careful not to overdo.

  “Not when you haven’t had anything to crow about in your stomach for a month.” He sucked the pit, threw it aside, grabbed a bunch of bananas and devoured the lot of them.

  She wagged a finger at him. “It is dangerous to stuff yourself. Be mindful that people who have suffered starvation, follow their instincts to consume a lot of food, and then die.”

  He grabbed a coconut and started smashing it on the limestone rock. “I waited all day for you to return with food.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  “It is not in my nature to joke about food when I’m starving.”

  She gave a weary sigh. “This morning you brushed away my ideas of procuring food and water, claiming a fire was more important.”

  He pounded the coconut with renewed vigor. “When I went hunting at home, I crafted fires easily enough. Without a tinderbox, I’m having the toughest time getting one started.”

  He hated being useless. Alexandra was less forgiving. “I’ll start a fire if it makes you happy.”

  “Be my guest. He bowed with the scornful elegance of a haughty aristocrat and waved his hand toward the pile of wood.

  So, it would be a contest of wills. Alexandra stood, dusting sand off her bottom and gathered a dry coconut husk he’d chipped off. She stared at him, her fingers deftly separating the hairs, but the intensity of his gaze sucked the air out of her lungs. She turned her back to him and knelt by his stack of wood. With shaking hands, she sculpted a dome of fibers.

  From inside her bodice, she unpinned her father’s spectacles. Her heart squeezed as she smoothed her fingers over the polished glass, thanking providence for this useful part that belonged to Samuel. She squinted to find the sun behind her, and then turned, focusing the rays through a lens, and onto the coconut strands. Smoke curled. Sparks flared. She blew into the husk fibers, adding twigs, then breaking up branches until a fire commenced, and then glanced over her shoulder for his Lordship’s approval. The look of incredulity on his face was priceless.

  “That is unfair, Miss Elwins.”

  His tone was irascible.

  “You let me waste an entire day—”

  “You needed a little humbling, Lord Rutland.” She turned back to the fire. “That knock on your head has left you overbearing.”

  He did not answer her rebuke. His face paled from grey to that of a tallow-hued cadaver. He rushed to a palm tree, bent over and reliev
ed himself of his dinner.

  Alexandra looked to the heavens. “I could say, I told you so—not to stuff the food down your throat because your stomach has shrunk, but you wouldn’t want to hear that would you, Lord Rutland?”

  He collapsed by the fire, holding his head in his hands. “How I value your recommendations, shot from the quiver of infallible wisdom. What other sufferings do you live to taunt me with, Miss Elwins?”

  Her lips twitched with his disgruntlement. She picked up a leaf she had collected from her scavenging. “You bring misfortunes on yourself. I found some medicine, Lord Rutland that will help your head wound heal.”

  He slid down, propping his head against a log. “Call me Nicholas. I think we can exclude with formality. There is no society here to condemn us.”

  She nodded her head. “And call me Alexandra.” She knelt beside him, split open an aloe leaf, dug her finger into the sticky gel, and applied it to his wound. When he flinched, she lifted an eyebrow.

  How easy to imitate Molly’s treatment of patients in Deconshire, smearing the balm over his gash. Molly, who had cared for her all her life and taught her herbal skills.

  Her stepmother, Lady Ursula’s last words reverberated in her head. Met Molly in London. She refused to tell me your whereabouts. I hired a thug from St. Giles, took pleasure in watching Molly turn purple…how she struggled to pull his hands from her throat, gasping for her last breath.

  Aware he was staring at her, she picked up a coconut vessel, and lifted his head to drink. She laid him back down, turned and broke up small pieces of banana, placing them in the coconut shell. “Eat one at a time and—slowly.”

  “Alexandra?”

  She didn’t want to get into a discussion. No. Not about Molly. Not about her own past. She crossed to the opposite side of the fire, breaking up small twigs. Sparks crackled and hissed, rising once, and then sinking back to earth.

  The silence of the night murmured with a rustle from under the palms, small nocturnal creatures seeking a meal. If not for the horrific events of the past few days, they wouldn’t be there either. She scrubbed a hand over her face. A profound weariness seeped through her bones as her mind replayed each nerve-shattering hour of their time on the Santanas. Lord Rutland’s fight with Damiano, the storm and her current fate.