LITMIR.BIZ

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Canela strolled close to the pen, her hands filled with tubers for the cook’s stew.

      Vincent stared then glanced over both shoulders.

      No one watched them. She’d made certain before edging near.

      He made a noise to get her attention. She raised her eyebrows to acknowledge him but didn’t stop. He’d have to wait until she decided to hear him again. In a few days, perhaps. Maybe a week. Her people weren’t expected until next month, if they came. She’d learned that shortly after she and Vincent had spoken.

      At the community fire, Canela offered the vegetables to Ismay, the cook. She was half Fanette’s size. Ismay’s food was terrible but she was young and easy to fool. She’d agreed readily to Canela helping her, not guessing why she’d offered this time but never before. “Are these all right? If you want, I can dig for others.”

      “Those are plump enough but you need to clean and cut them so they soften in water.” She handed Canela the blade.

      Its long, sharp edge would easily slice through human flesh and make the victim squeal. Canela smiled sweetly. “Merci. Do you need anything else? Rice perhaps? Or herbs? I can fetch them.”

      “The spices are already here. Yoland keeps the herbs.” She was the community’s healer.

      Ismay named what she wanted, explained how each looked, and where Canela could find them.

      “If I forget, will Yoland help me?”

      “She’s with her mama today. No one expects the poor woman to live. The priest is there to help her journey past life.”

      He’d done nothing to save Canela’s people when the pirates invaded. Like a meek woman, he’d hidden in the forest. Here, he barely looked her way, unconcerned with her suffering. Him, she’d truly enjoy killing. “Should I disturb them to get what you need?”

      “Both are at her sister’s. You can go to Yoland’s home.”

      “What if she finds out I was in there instead of you?”

      “How would she? I have no plan to tell her.”

      Despite the assurance, Canela bit her lip, feigning caution.

      “Fanette will never know either. She’s also with the sick mama. Now go.” Ismay flapped her hand.

      “Merci.” Putting on a show, Canela kissed Ismay’s fingers and darted to the mud house.

      It stank of dried earth and filth, identical to everything else on this isle. Herbs filled bottles and cups. In the past days, she’d learned which Yoland used for the sleeping potion. However, now two cups held similar brownish-green contents that resembled dried moss. Canela wasn’t sure which was for food, the other for rest, or if they were the same.

      She took both, along with what Ismay had requested, and delivered them with a tentative smile. “Are these the ones you need? As stupid and foolish as I am, I can never be sure.”

      “These will do.” She took everything except the second bowl with the brownish-green substance. “Bring this back and never use it.”

      “Why? Is it poison?”

      “It has powerful magic to make one sleep.”

      Her pulse leapt. “By putting it on their eyes?”

      Ismay laughed. “In their food. Too much and they may never wake.”

      Excitement warmed Canela more than a man pleasuring her. “I promise not to even look at it lest I grow tired from its power.” Fighting her smile, she raced back to the mud house.

      * * * *

      Netta wrung her hands. “We have to fix this.” Heath couldn’t leave. He’d given her the greatest gift, desiring her and accepting who she was despite her deformity. “You have to fix this.”

      “Me?” Aimee paced their home the same as Netta. “How? We searched the forest, shore, and beach for him.”

      “We should have gone to his house. I can do that now.”

      “Wait.” She caught Netta at the doorway. “How can we make things better when he speaks nonsense? He wants us so much he has to leave? What man ever said anything that foolish? An islander would have made us his on the forest floor and moved in here or asked us to join him in his home.”

      “Heath is English.”

      “Do their men behave as he does?”

      Tristan couldn’t keep away from Diana. James was the same with Gavra. Simone and Royce were always within each other’s arms. Peter was the worst. He thought of nothing except taking Laure. “Do you think he has an illness only some Englishmen get?”

      “We have to find out.”

      “How?”

      “By asking someone who’s English. Come.”

      Netta dug her toes in the dirt and refused to budge. “Not Tristan. He wanted to keep Royce away from Simone. They suffered greatly because of him. What if Tristan does that to us and Heath?”

      Aimee cradled Netta’s face. “We can ask Diana to help us. She knows about English men.”

      “What does it matter if she does? Although her French is improved, it’s still too poor for her to converse easily. Everyone has to talk slowly and point to things to make her understand. With her help, we might send Heath away even faster.”

      “We can have someone turn our French into her English and back again so everyone understands each other perfectly and quickly. What Tristan calls translate.”

      Aimee wasn’t making sense. If they asked Tristan to help, he’d know everything then. As a woman, Diana might keep their conversation secret. No man would, unless… “I know who can help us. Come with me.”

      * * * *

      Diana rested her head against the bedchamber chair, Merry on her lap. A more perfect child didn’t exist. A noisier one either. Hour upon hour, she cried. Diana nursed and changed her repeatedly. She rocked her and walked so much, she’d nearly worn a path in the marble floor. The screams didn’t abate. She showed Merry the splendid English gown Tristan frequently asked Diana to wear before their bed play. The rose silk and scandalous cut always set him on fire.

      Unimpressed, Merry bawled endlessly only to stop without warning. Like now. She even slept. Blessed peace at last.

      A fist hit the bedchamber door hard enough to shake the wood.

      Diana flinched. Merry wailed.

      Peter, Netta, and Aimee piled into the room. Peter screwed up his mouth. “Can we come in?”

      “You already have. You woke Merry.”

      Netta and Aimee exchanged a glance. Peter translated.

      Netta gestured imploringly. “Nous pardonner. Nous voulions dire aucun mal.”

      Sounded like an apology, but Diana couldn’t be certain. Fatigue had muddled her brain. English was hard enough at this point, French impossible. “Please tell them everything is all right and to sit.”

      Peter rattled off the words effortlessly, his accent as fine as Tristan’s. There was hope her baby brother would eventually be the gentleman Diana wanted.

      Aimee and Netta perched on the mattress. Peter paced like a caged animal and kicked the door.

      So much for civilizing him. “Stop that.” Diana bounced Merry to calm her. “Why are you here?”

      “They forced me. I had no choice. Everyone threatens me with Laure.”

      Diana stroked Merry’s back. “What did you do with that poor girl now?”

      “I took a moment, one single moment from my studies to speak to her. Aimee and Netta saw me and threatened to tell Tristan unless I

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