Beyond Sunrise Read online

  Jack shifted his gaze to the tall, determined woman beside him. “He might get away with it, but you won’t. They’ll know you helped me.”

  Urging him none too gently out the door, she turned the key behind them, then swung to fix him with a steady stare. “Why is it that you credit me with absolutely no intelligence, simply because I’m a woman?”

  Jack felt the earth shifting dangerously beneath his feet, and it had nothing to do with his concussed head or cracked ribs. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “Shhh,” she hissed, her arm tightening around his waist as she steered their steps down the shadowy path to the lagoon. “Keep your voice down. We’ve planted evidence to suggest that you took to the jungles again, and the men Captain Granger has watching the Sea Hawk will be able to report that Patu and I sailed alone. No one will suspect me.”

  “Simon Granger is letting the Sea Hawk go?”

  “The navy has nothing against Patu. He told Captain Granger the Sea Hawk is partially his.”

  The path they followed ran through the line of pandanus and coconut palms that edged the lagoon, heading out toward the northeastern end of the village. Away down the beach, he could see the shadowy silhouette of an outrigger canoe, drawn up on the sand just beyond the water’s reach. Jack frowned into the moonlit darkness. “Then who the hell is supposed to have helped me escape?”

  “Your business partners,” she said, her head half turned away from him, her eyes narrowing as she squinted at the long stretch of white sand bathed in moonlight and washed by the gentle swish of the dark, foam-flecked surf.

  “My business partners?” They left the shadowy shelter of the trees, and Jack stumbled in the soft sand and would have fallen if her arm hadn’t still been around his waist. The resulting jerk seared his insides with white hot pain and took his breath, so that he was still gasping when he said, “What business partners?”

  She swung her head to meet his gaze. The moonlight fell full on her face, illuminating the smooth planes of her cheeks and showing him her smile. The smile he liked. The one that caught at his gut and squeezed his heart and threatened to steal his soul.

  “Why, the cannibals, of course,” she said, the smile widening into something at once naughty and delicious. “Who else?”

  As they neared the canoe, a shadow separated from the dark line of the outrigger and stepped forward.

  “Holy moly,” said Patu, the whites of his eyes shining wide in the moonlight as he stared at Jack. “What did they do to you?”

  “I’m fine,” said Jack.

  Detaching himself from India’s side, he went to brace his arms against the outrigger and, leaning over, proceeded to be violently, noisily sick. “Oh, Jesus,” he groaned, hanging on tight to the poles, his forehead pressed against the smooth wood. It felt as if he’d vomited up his ribs, and that they’d torn apart his insides on the way. For one hideous moment, his sight dimmed, and all he could hear was the sucking, hollow rhythm of the sea. Then, from an unfathomable distance, came the sound of India’s voice.

  “This afternoon, I thought he had a concussion,” she was saying, her Scot’s accent curt and crisp with censor, as if his broken head was all his own bloody fault or something. “Now I think he’s added a couple of cracked ribs.”

  There was a long pause, then he heard Patu expel his breath in one of his hard, worried sighs. “That windward passage,” he said, “it makes the channel through the reef at Futapu Bay look like nothing. The cross tides are deadly. If he gets sick or passes out at the wrong moment . . .”

  Patu’s voice trailed off, but his words seemed to hang in the air, the implications of what hadn’t been said weighing down on them. “Then I’ll have to go with him,” India said calmly.

  Swallowing the rebellious heavings of his stomach, Jack roared, “Are you out of your bloody mind?” and swung around so fast the stars and the moonlit swells of the sea and the shadowy waving fronds of the line of palm trees blurred into one spinning mass that spiraled down to a pinprick of light, and went out.

  When he finally came to, he and Patu both argued with her. But in the end they had to acknowledge that India was right.

  He would make it no other way.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  THEY MADE GOOD time at first, running up the shallow, reef-sheltered lagoon on the port tack. The outrigger had no jib sail, only a sprit main, so that while India knelt awkwardly at the front of the narrow dug-out, her hands clutching the thong-laced, hand-hewn planks that had been used to build up the gunwales, Ryder perched like a native with only his left knee in the canoe itself, his bare right foot stuck out to grip the left rail while he trailed the paddle behind to starboard as a kind of primitive rudder.

  But then, long before dawn, the light wind died, leaving the night calm and turning the lagoon into a shimmering black mirror that reflected the stars overhead in a myriad of jewellike flashes. Only the ceaseless crash of the surf against the offshore barrier reef broke the silence, and, nearer, the splash of Jack Ryder’s paddle joined with the soft ripple of twin waves curling away from the outrigger’s prow as it cut through the water.

  Turning her head, India watched the shore slide slowly past, white sand gleaming in the moonlight, the feathery, exotic silhouettes of coconut palms and pandanus trees rising dark and still behind. And she thought, How strange it all is, and how beautiful, and she was seized with a profound awareness of how ominously fateful this night had become.

  There could be no going back from this moment. She’d known that when she’d made the decision to accompany Jack on his desperate bid for freedom. The seamen Simon Granger had left aboard the Sea Hawk would know Patu had sailed without her, which meant that when Jack Ryder was found missing in the morning, they would know she’d been responsible for his escape.

  “Regrets?”

  India shifted her gaze to where Jack now knelt, the paddle in his hands flashing back and forth with all the skill and thoughtless ease of a native islander. “No.”

  “You haven’t seen the passage yet.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not afraid to die.”

  A strange smile curved the ends of his lips and brought a hint of a dimple to one cheek. “Why not?”

  “We all die.”

  “Some sooner than others.”

  She nodded toward the glorious firmament overhead. “And how much difference do you think thirty or even fifty years make, when measured against eternity?”

  “It makes a difference to you.”

  “I’ll be dead.”

  The dimple deepened, then disappeared. “Would no one mourn your death?”

  “I suppose my publisher might regret the demise of my books.”

  He gave a short laugh, and for one telling instant, the smooth, flawless rhythm of his paddling broke. It resumed almost immediately, but not before she’d seen the way he clenched his jaw, his breath hitching as if in pain.

  “Your ribs are hurting you,” she said, reaching for the paddle. “I wish you would let me do that. It’s why I’m here.”

  Her hand closed over one of his where it gripped the smooth wood, and he stopped paddling, the outrigger canoe gliding lazily through the calm, dark water. His gaze met hers, and something arced between them, something that made her exquisitely aware of the male power of the hand beneath hers, and the gentle kiss of the moonlight, and the stillness of the warm tropical night around them.

  “I’m fine,” he said, his voice husky. “You’re only here in case I pass out, remember?”

  “Precisely. And don’t you think I should learn how to do this before I’m faced with the prospect of having to maneuver through the passage with you out cold?”

  His eyes held hers a moment longer, then he eased his hand from beneath hers. “All right. But you’re going to need to turn around—preferably without capsizing us,” he added when the canoe rocked dangerously as she moved to position herself about a foot in front of him, her back to his chest.

 
; “You need to get closer than that,” he said.

  She scooted backward, and heard the amusement in his voice when he said, “Closer.”

  She threw him a glance over her shoulder. “If I move any closer, I’ll be almost on top of you.”

  She saw his teeth flash in the moonlight. “Don’t worry. I know from experience that it’s not a good idea to make love to a woman in an outrigger canoe.”

  She inched backward until she felt the warm, hard length of his thighs bracketing hers. “And I’m supposed to be reassured by that statement, am I?”

  He gave a soft laugh. “Just take the paddle. No, not like that,” he said, when she whacked him in the elbow. “Here. Like this.”

  She felt his arms come around hers, his cheek pressing against her hair as his hands closed over hers, guiding them into position on the smooth shaft of wood. She felt the calloused strength of his hands covering hers, and the hardness of his chest pressed against her back, and knew the power of a response within her that was no less compelling for being animalistic and primitive and unwanted.

  “Loosen up,” he said as she continued to move the paddle from one side of the canoe to the other in awkward, labored jerks. “Just let your body move with mine.”

  She tried. She really tried to imitate the graceful shifts of his body, but it didn’t work.

  “You’re fighting it,” he said, “making it harder than it should be. Let your body find its natural rhythm. Feel it. Then surrender to it.” He breathed, and his warm breath tickled a stray curl that lay against her cheek. “That’s it,” he coaxed as her body began to glide sinuously with his. “Feel the rhythm. Feel it.”

  Once she let herself go, India discovered it was all too easy to do, to relax against him, to let his body guide hers into a primitive cadence of thrust and pull, thrust and pull, that seemed to call to the building need within her. For one moment out of time, she lost herself in the magical glow of the moon and the whisper of the waves and the intoxicating sweetness of being cradled in the arms of this man, with the tropical night warm around them.

  Then he said, “If we come through this alive . . .”

  India let her head fall back to touch his shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut against an unexpected upsurge of emotion. “No.” She shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

  It was all still there—the pearling of the waves, and the sweet spicy scent drifting from the palm-fringed shore of the rugged island gliding past beside them. But the moment was no longer one out of time. She was suddenly, gut-wrenchingly aware that this man—this man whose kisses set her on fire, whose body moved now in such intimate, perfect rhythm with hers—was a hunted fugitive, and that they might both die tonight, trying to fight their way through the treacherous windward passage ahead of them.

  “All right,” he said. “I won’t say it.” She turned her head against his shoulder to meet his gaze. In the silvery light of the moon, her eyes found his, and she saw there the need, and the want. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not going to have to decide what your answer will be, when the time comes.”

  The sun rose as quickly as it had set, splashing the world with a fiery, richly saturated red glow that gave way all too soon to a clear, brilliant light.

  Squinting against the glare off the glasslike lagoon, Jack Ryder stared up at the limp sail, and swore. “At this rate, the tide will have turned before we get there.”

  India studied his tightly set face. She had insisted, at one point, on paddling by herself for a while, but they made so little headway that he’d soon taken over from her again. Now the rising sun showed her all too clearly the twin grooves dug between his brows by pain, and the unhealthy pale tinge that had crept into his face. She wanted to tell him that he needed to rest, that he’d been badly hurt. But his life depended upon their reaching the northeast passage in good time, and so, to a certain extent, did hers.

  “How bad will that be?” she asked. “If the tide has turned?”

  “With the incoming tide meeting the strong current pouring out through that narrow channel?” A cold smile curled his lips. “Bad.”

  India shifted her gaze to the line of breakers thundering against the string of low islets and half-submerged coral shelves that formed the surf-battered barrier some quarter of a mile or so offshore. “Does he know about the northeast passage through the reef? Simon Granger, I mean.”

  Jack grunted. “No one in their right mind would try to make it through that passage at this time of year. Besides, even without steam up, the Barracuda is a hell of a lot faster than the Sea Hawk. He’ll think all he needs to do is sail straight for Rakaia, and wait for me there.”

  It was a possibility that had been secretly troubling India all night, but she was surprised to hear him give voice to it with such careless unconcern. “Then we can’t go there,” she said, leaning forward earnestly.

  “We’re not. We’re going to Waigeu.”

  They swung around a wide rocky headland, and a faint whisper of a breeze ruffled across the still, shallow waters of the lagoon. India looked up, the sail stirring as the first breath of the trade winds touched the limp canvas. “Waigeu?”

  Suddenly, the wind snatched at the sail, and Jack moved quickly to shift his weight to the port rail. “It’s an island between Rakaia and Tahiti. There’s a priest there, a Father Paul.” He wrapped his free hand around the pole. “Or at least I hope he’s still there. He counts something like a dozen islands and atolls as part of his parish. Rakaia is one of them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He glanced down at her, the sun gleaming on his sweat-sheened, sun-bronzed skin, the wind catching at his ragged, open shirt and billowing it out behind him. “According to Simon Granger, Rakaia is deserted. Which means that either the entire population was wiped out in the epidemic, or else those who survived have fled elsewhere.”

  “You think this Father Paul will know if Toby Jenkins is still alive, and where he might have gone?”

  “Toby, and Ulani.”

  “Ulani is your daughter?”

  She saw the answer in his face, and the naked pain it revealed was so profound that she had to turn her gaze away, to the turquoise-tinged water sliding past beneath them. The lagoon was transparent enough that she could see, quite clearly, the white sandy bottom, nearly covered by bulbous sponges and feathery groves of pink and blue and yellow coral. Here and there, bright flashes of color reflected the light, schools of brilliantly green trumpet fish and tiny jewelfish, and one fat white spotted puffer who swam lazily by.

  She became aware of a new sound building, mingling with the snap of the small sail and the gentle rippling of water around the outrigger and the crash of the surf against the reef. “What’s that noise?” she asked, looking up.

  He nodded beyond her, to where a turmoil of dark water snaked its way out to the open sea. “The passage,” he said, his voice grim. “What you hear is the tide, rushing in through the channel. It’s after six.”

  “We can’t make it through that,” India said, her throat tight as she twisted around to stare at the narrow, churning pass through the ominously dark, semisubmerged bulk of the coral reef. “We’ll have to wait until the tide shifts again.”

  His chest lifted with a huff of what might have been laughter as he looked out at the open, purple-blue sea beyond the reef.

  “What is it?” she asked, peering desperately into the misty distance. “What do you see?”

  “Sails,” he said after a moment, a strange curve of amusement pulling at his lips. “Coming around the headland from La Rochelle.”

  “The Sea Hawk?” India asked, although even as she said it, she caught sight of the sleek little yacht already riding at anchor, just outside the passage. “Oh, God,” she whispered, her stomach hollowing out with fear. “Tell me it’s not the Barracuda .”

  He swung his head to meet her gaze, and gave her such a rakish, devil-damn-the-world smile that her breath caught in her throat, and a painful and totally unwan
ted realization clutched at her heart, taking her by surprise and bringing a sting of tears to her eyes. “It’s the Barracuda.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  JACK STARED AT the wind-whipped surf breaking hard against the coral rocks on either side of the dark, roiling waters of the passage, and swore softly beneath his breath.

  Patu had been right: given a choice between a relatively quick, watery death, here, with the tropical sun warm and golden above him, versus the kind of ugly, humiliating end the Admiralty had planned for him, Jack had nothing to lose. But he wasn’t about to risk India’s life by trying to make it through that channel against the tide.

  He shifted his weight to bring the canoe’s prow about, and heard her cry out. “What are you doing?”

  “Heading toward the beach.”

  “Don’t.” The outrigger rocked as she leaned forward to close her strong hand over his, stopping him. “I’m here to help you escape, not to be responsible for your recapture.”

  He met her gaze squarely. “I could lose myself in the jungle. Wait until—”

  “No.” She shook her head, her hand tightening around his. “You’re hurt. How far do you think you’d get?”

  Not far, Jack knew. The pain in his head seemed to reverberate through his body, tightening into a dizzy whiteness punctuated by bolts of red fire that speared his chest every time he breathed. And the problem was, this time it wouldn’t only be Simon and his boys on Jack’s trail. With Poirot’s consent, the men from the Barracuda would be able to hire natives to track Jack. And if they caught Jack, they would also catch India. By helping him escape, she had put herself on the wrong side of the law, and they both knew it.

  He hesitated. “Do you see those boilers?”

  Her calm, determined gaze never wavered from his face. “Can we make it?”

  Jack pursed his lips, his breath coming in a long, painfully drawn-out sigh as he stared at the churning passage, the wind-whipped waves leaping and crossing each other in an angry, racing swirl. “Maybe.”