Beyond Sunrise Page 15

  It seemed impossible, looking at her, to remember the woman he’d first met, the prim, frigid Scottish travel writer with her voluminous tartan and stiff, whalebone-reinforced silhouette. The India McKnight who stood before him now was a wholly natural and unconsciously seductive woman with full, high breasts and swelling hips and the kind of slim, long legs that were made to wrap around a man’s waist and hug him tight. Jack looked at her, and he wanted her so badly in that moment, he ached.

  “I think I’ll go—” His chest felt tight, as if he’d run out of air. “—catch some fish, or something.”

  He caught a big fat sea trout that he roasted on a spit over the fire and served up on banana-leaf plates, with roasted breadfruit and water scooped from a nearby stream with coconut-shell cups.

  She was unusually quiet while they ate, lost, he supposed, in her own thoughts. He didn’t realize her thoughts were of him until she said, suddenly, “Where is she now?”

  Jack looked up, a tender bit of trout suspended halfway to his mouth. “Who?”

  “You said you had a daughter. Is she with her mother?”

  Swallowing slowly, he stared out at the black line of silver-crested breakers that threw themselves with an incessant boom and crash against the distant, offshore reef. Somehow, he managed to hold himself deceptively still. Only he couldn’t seem to control the painful beating of his heart. “Her mother is dead.”

  “Oh.” Beside them, the fire crackled and spit, flaring up in a quick flash of golden red light that danced over the delicate European features of her face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should you be?” His voice came out harsher than he’d meant it to. Harsh and hurting. “Why should you care just because one beautiful, vibrantly alive young Polynesian girl is dead?”

  “Because it’s obvious that you care,” she said, her gaze steady and solemn on his face. He thought she’d drop the subject then. She didn’t. “So where is she now? Your daughter, I mean.”

  “On Rakaia.” A few days’ sail to the west of Tahiti, Rakaia was a small island of clear turquoise lagoons and sparkling white sand and palm trees that waved gently against a clear tropical sky. An island of laughter and love, and sudden, violent death that came in a hail of bullets unleashed by a curt, English command.

  “You left her there?” The shock in her voice surprised him.

  “Ulani was a baby, and I was a wanted man, on the run. I left her with my wife’s family.” Those who were still alive. “It’s where she belonged.”

  She stared at him, her eyes huge in an oddly pale face. He thought perhaps she was appalled to hear that he had taken a native woman to wife. But what she said was, “You could have gone back for her.”

  He shoved what was left of his meal aside. “I’m still on the run, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “But to abandon her—”

  “I didn’t abandon her.” He stood abruptly and went to wash his hands in the moonlit, slowly surging surf of the lagoon. “Ulani is far happier growing up on Rakaia than she would ever be someplace like London or Sydney, where little girls are expected to wear corsets, and breathe air fouled with coal smoke, and spend their days sewing seams and learning catechisms.”

  “How do you know?” She waded into the sea beside him, the lace-trimmed hem of her pantalets floating on the surface of the water as she bent to wash her own hands. “Did you ask her?”

  He straightened slowly. “What are you saying? That while no one would have questioned my leaving a baby daughter with her mother’s family in someplace like London, it was wrong to leave her on a South Pacific island? That I’ve somehow failed her, by letting my daughter grow up in a primitive society?”

  “No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I just think it must be hard for a child, growing up knowing she has a father out there, somewhere, and thinking that he doesn’t love her enough—” He heard her voice crack with emotion, although he couldn’t begin to understand why. “—that he doesn’t care enough about her to want to be with her.”

  He stared at her, at the way the mingling moon- and star-shine played over the fine features of her face, the flaring cheekbones and wide mouth and the strong, square chin. Her hair was dry now, blowing free and beautiful around her bare shoulders, curling seductively against the swell of her full breasts, so obvious beneath the thin linen of her chemise. He felt the anger drain out of him, knew the renewed surge of throbbing desire. And he realized, suddenly, that the anger had been just a defense, a shield, against the desire.

  “I care,” he said. “It’s because I care that I have stayed away from her.” Turning, he waded farther out into the lagoon, the water rippling cool and soothing over his hot skin.

  “What are you doing?” she called.

  “Going for a swim.” He dove beneath the lagoon in a shallow arc that brought him back up to the surface. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes and looked back at where she still stood, bathed in the misty glow of moonlight. “Join me,” he said, before he could stop himself.

  She shook her head, although he noticed she waded a bit farther out into the lagoon, her fingertips trailing over the surface of the dark, star-spangled water. “If I didn’t know better, Mr. Ryder, I’d suspect you of trying to seduce me.”

  He laughed, because of course it was exactly what he was trying to do, and they both knew it. Raw sexual awareness hung in the air, throbbed with the surge of the surf and the brutal crash of breakers against the offshore reef. “I’m just trying to seduce you into enjoying yourself.”

  “I’ve swallowed enough water for one day, thank you.”

  “It’s not deep.” He let his feet touch bottom, and raised his arms wide. “See?”

  She took another step toward him, the fine linen of her pantalets billowing out around her hips as the water rose higher.

  “You must like the water,” he said. “Where did you learn to dog paddle?”

  “I employed the services of a bathing machine at Brighton.”

  “I think you’ll find swimming in this lagoon a lot more pleasant than hanging off the end of a bathing machine in the English Channel.”

  “I’m not so sure.” She took another step toward him. “Brighton was . . . bracing.”

  “And what is this?”

  She stood before him, the water lapping at her breasts, her eyes huge and dark in a pale, moonlit face. “Sensual.”

  “You say that as if it were a bad thing.”

  “It can be.”

  “Only if you think it is.”

  She didn’t say anything, but it was obvious from the angle of her jaw and the stiffness of her shoulders that as far as India McKnight was concerned, sensuality was an enemy to be guarded against at all costs. And he knew then that she would never relax, never enjoy the beauty of the warm water and velvety tropical night air, unless he helped her.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I want to show you something. Turn around.”

  She hesitated, then did as he asked, her body tense and wary as he moved up beside her until his lips were scant inches from her ear. “Now lay back and simply let yourself float. Don’t worry,” he added when she remained rigidly upright. “I’m here to support you if you need it.”

  She hesitated another moment, then leaned back, her body held stiff and unnaturally tight as his arms came up to cradle her back. “Relax,” he said with a soft laugh. “Let yourself enjoy it, India.”

  He thought, for a moment, that she wouldn’t be able to do it. But the moonlight and the gentle caress of the water were working their own magic, and he felt the resistance and need for control drain out of her, until she floated freely beside him. Slowly, he lowered his arms away from her, and took a step back.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said on a soft expulsion of breath, her eyes wide, her lips parting with awe as she stared at the sky above.

  Tipping back his head, Jack gazed up at
a deep purple-blue night so full of glowing stars that there seemed scarce any space between them. Heavy with all the sweet, spicy scents of the island, the tropical breeze whispered around them. He felt the warm water lap against him, wash away the sweat and dirt and pain of the hot, exhausting day. And heard her whisper, “Thank you.”

  He lowered his head, his gaze locking with hers as she let her feet sink slowly toward the bottom. He reached for her, his hands sliding over her wet shoulders, drawing her toward him just as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a triangular-shaped fin slice through the calm, silver-shimmered water some two hundred feet offshore.

  Chapter Eighteen

  JACK LET HIS fingers slip down her arm to close around her hand. “I think we’d better get out,” he said, plowing through the water, toward shore.

  She hung back. “What’s the matter? What are you doing?”

  “There aren’t any crocodiles on this island,” he said, his voice calm as he dragged her behind him. “But every once in a while a shark gets into the lagoon.”

  “A shark!” She whirled around, her hand clutching his, her long dark hair whipping through the air as she stared out across the moonlit stillness of the water. “Where?”

  He shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the now flat, empty surface. “All I saw was a fin.”

  “A fin? Oh my God.” She broke into a run, stumbling in the shallows as the sand shifted beneath her feet, the gentle waves sloshing around her as she fell to her hands and knees at the edge of the surf. Reaching down, Jack grasped her hand to help her up, then paused as a sleek, rounded body broke the surface of the lagoon. For one, miraculous moment, the porpoise soared through the air, moonlight glimmering on its dark, wet hide as it arced gracefully back into the water with a gentle splash.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Jack said, laughing. “It’s a bloody porpoise.”

  “You—you fiend.” She tightened her grip on his hand and pulled, and it was so unexpected, he lost his balance and crashed, still laughing, into the surf beside her. Low and husky, her laughter joined with his, so that the sound of their laughter floated together out over the warm, moonlit lagoon. And then they weren’t laughing anymore. She was staring at his mouth, her expression still and intense.

  He brought up one hand to spear his spread fingers through the heavy fall of her hair, drawing it back, his grip tightening as he cupped her head in his palm. In the glow of moonlight, he saw her eyes dilate until they looked black, saw her slim white throat work as she swallowed. The sea sighed around them, warm and soft. And still he waited, giving her time to pull away from him, to end the moment, if that was what she wanted.

  She didn’t pull away.

  He leaned forward, his gaze locked with hers. He heard her make a breathy, wanting sound, deep in her throat, felt her hand slide up his bare, wet chest to wrap around his neck and draw him to her. Then he tipped his head, and kissed her.

  Her lips were sweet and welcoming, and opened beneath his. His hand spasmed in her hair, once, then swept down her back to draw her body up against his. She was warm and pliant and soft, so soft against the hard length of him, only the wet clinging linen of her chemise and drawers coming between his nakedness and hers.

  Groaning, he deepened the kiss, his tongue mating with hers as she rolled onto her back, drawing him with her. He covered her, felt her thighs part beneath him as he settled his weight over her, and the kiss turned into something hot and hungry. The surf crashed against the distant reef with a wild, thundering roar, and the warm sea spilled around them.

  He tore his mouth from hers, her head tipping back, her neck arching as he kissed her throat, his lips brushing against her thrumming pulse point before traveling lower, to the tender flesh that showed above the delicate lace edging her chemise. She tasted of the sea and the warm night air, and of herself, and the need in him, the need to have her, to surround himself with her moist heat, to join her body with his, was so powerful, so damned near overwhelming that he shuddered.

  He lifted his head and stared up at her. Her lips were parted, her face pale and beautiful in the moonlight. “Make love to me,” he said softly.

  She bracketed his face with her hands, cradling him as if he were something precious and dear. “I can’t.”

  He swallowed, hard. His skin felt so hot and tight, it hurt, but somehow, from somewhere, he managed to dredge up a crooked smile. “I notice you didn’t say you don’t want to.”

  Her eyes were wide and solemn, her breath soughing as hard and heavy as his own. “We both know that would be a lie.”

  He dipped his head, his lips brushing hers in a soft, tender kiss. “Make love to me, India,” he whispered, kissing her trembling eyelids, the curve of her cheek, the tender flesh at the base of her ear. “Here, tonight, with the moonlight soft on your face, and a tropical breeze warm against your bare skin.”

  He felt her shudder beneath him, her hands desperate and seeking as she ran them over his shoulders, down his back, then up again to touch his face. And he knew, even before she said it, what her answer would be.

  “No.”

  He kissed her once more. Then he pushed himself up and rolled away from her. While he still could.

  “You’re thinking of what I told you,” she said. “About that man I was with, before.”

  He swung his head to look at her over his shoulder. She sat at the surf’s edge, her arms wrapped around her bent knees to hug them close to her chest. “No.” He shook his head, once, from side to side. “That was an experiment. But this . . . this would be for pleasure, and you’re only allowed to break the rules if you don’t enjoy it.” He paused. “Isn’t that right?”

  She lifted her chin in that way she had, that way that used to annoy him and now only made him want to kiss her again. “I don’t break society’s rules.”

  He laughed, and stood up. “Don’t you? In a society that expects a woman to devote herself exclusively to making a home and caring for a family, you travel the world by yourself—a single woman, with no escort, no companion. You say you have no intention of ever marrying because, with the law the way it is, you’d be giving up not just your independence, but all control of your life, and you refuse to do that.” He felt the surf curl around his ankles, the receding wave sucking at him, beckoning him. “And then you say you don’t break society’s rules.”

  She stared up at him, her nostrils flaring wide as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Don’t you see? That’s precisely why I must maintain a reputation for strict moral rectitude, why people must see me as an essentially sexless being, a travel writer. Not some amoral female who wanders the world, scorning her proper place in society and taking a lover in every port.”

  He felt a sad, wry smile twist his lips. “And do you care so much about what other people think? I wouldn’t have expected it of you.”

  She held herself very still. “You’re only saying that because you want me to make love to you.”

  “I want you. But that’s not why I said it.”

  He turned, conscious of her watching him as he waded out into deeper water. Then he dove beneath the surface of the lagoon and let the gentle waves wash over him, warm and soothing.

  He didn’t sleep.

  India thought, at first, that he had gone to stand there, on the rocky spit of sand jutting out into the lagoon, because of what had happened between them at the water’s edge. For the longest time, he watched the sea, and she watched him, a dark solitary figure silhouetted against the silver path spilled across the water by the westering moon. She supposed he thought that if he stayed away, she might somehow manage to fall asleep. Only, how could she sleep, knowing he was out there, wakeful, alone? How could she sleep when his kiss, his touch, the very scent of him had awakened within her such heat, such aching desires as she had never dreamt could exist?

  It was good, she decided, that tomorrow would mark the end of their journey together. She would never see him again. In time, she told herself, she would for
get this tight, painful need that burned within her, forget the magic of his touch and the intoxicating vortex of his kiss. Forget the way he could warm her heart with just a smile. She told herself these things, to reassure herself. She was unprepared for the yawning, bitter sadness, the desperate yearning that rose up within her, sweet and hurting.

  She tossed from one side to the other, sleep continuing to elude her despite the scented softness of the bed of ferns he had heaped up for her beside the glowing embers of the fire. On this balmy night, with the tropical breeze a warm caress that brushed sinfully across the bare flesh of her arms and legs, the fire was for comfort more than anything else, a defense against the savage darkness of the rain forest and the yawning emptiness of the sea.

  The thought drew her attention, inevitably, back to the man who still stood looking out across the wide Pacific. Her gaze roved over him, over the lean, taut line of his back, the dark angle of his profile as he stared at the blackness of infinity. And she knew then that while he had left her alone so that she might sleep, it was also true that wakefulness was his constant companion. He rarely slept.

  She sat up, her arms wrapping around her bent knees, her thoughts on the things he had told her, about the girl child he had abandoned on that faraway, mysterious island, about the beautiful woman he had loved, and who had died.

  His wife.

  It was not shock India had felt when he told her of the island girl he had taken to wife. Not shock, but an emotion more intimate, more powerful. And India realized now, as she listened to the gentle slosh of the ocean beside her, that what she had felt was something she didn’t often experience, something she was ashamed, even now, to own. Because what she had felt was envy. Envy for this man, who had once loved so deeply, so vibrantly. And envy for the woman he had loved with such a powerful passion that he had flouted every expectation, every rule of his society and service, to make her his own.