LITMIR.BIZ

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crossed Aimee’s face. “How did you know that?”

      “I overheard your people speak of the men who came here and brutalized everyone. It doesn’t make sense they’d do so to Netta. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen at the time. Still a child. Why did they choose her to maim?”

      Sorrow registered in Aimee’s lovely eyes. She glanced past him. “Netta should tell you when she can.”

      Heath couldn’t imagine when that would be. His reaction had crushed her.

      “I have to go and comfort her.” Aimee brushed her lips over his. “In time, we can all do this again.”

      Not likely. He needed to leave this isle before his base desires hurt Netta even more. Aimee too. If he could have swum to a populated island, he would’ve done so tonight.

      Once Aimee’s footfalls faded, he left the room.

      Gavra blocked him in the hall. “What did you do?”

      He spoke French as she did. “I sailed here with Bishop when I shouldn’t have. Where the hell is Tristan? I need to speak to him immediately.”

      Even if Tristan decided against the departure, Heath would never look at, speak to, or touch Netta or Aimee again.

      God help him if he couldn’t get to the other island.

      Chapter 3

      Faucon Island

      Sweat poured down Canela’s face and chest. The puny wind did nothing to cool, pushing her hair against her damp neck instead. She clawed it away and grabbed soiled breeches from a pile that reached her calves when she stood. On her knees like a slave, she pounded the cloth against a rock as she wanted to do to her captors who kept her prisoner on this loathsome isle. Their ugly faces evolved into Chadwick Vincent’s, the pirate who’d betrayed her and failed to kill Tristan. He became her next target then the Englishwoman Diana.

      Canela longed to punish, crush, and kill.

      Frenzied with hate, she beat the clothing mercilessly.

      Feet shuffled close. Fanette huffed. She couldn’t have been more repulsive, her ankles thick, toes fat and hairy. She thought she ruled the world. “Put a hole in those and you go without food until sunset tomorrow.”

      White-hot loathing roared through Canela. The fare here was barely edible and not enough to keep a child alive. In the past, she’d eaten the finest meats and fruits. Then her hair shone, skin glowed, her beauty surpassing everyone’s even the Englishwoman’s.

      Now though…

      Her hands bore calluses from hard labor and her shoulders drooped from lugging baskets too heavy for an Englishman to carry. She labored from dawn to dusk but it was never enough to satisfy these vile beasts.

      She longed to have Fanette’s head between her hands and battered the breeches accordingly.

      “Heed what I say.” Fanette smacked Canela with a switch.

      A searing sting raced down her arm.

      Fists tightened, Canela pushed up, ready to beat the woman senseless.

      The switch came down repeatedly, driving her to the ground. She covered her head with her arms and wailed. “Pardonne moi.” Forgive me.

      “For being foolish and lazy? Or for defying me?” Fanette struck again.

      Canela cried out. “Everything. Please.”

      Breathing hard, Fanette stopped. “When will you learn to do what we ask without destroying everything you touch? No wonder your people wanted to get rid of you. Clean those breeches properly then do the same with the others. If you dare leave here. I promise to bring more and more for you to wash. Today you go without food. Tomorrow too if you fail to learn submission to your betters.”

      Canela would have gladly starved before considering them or anyone superior to her.

      “Do you understand? Or do you need more of this?” Fanette brandished the switch.

      Canela forgot pride, for the moment, and bowed submissively. Under Fanette’s watchful scowl, she cleaned the breeches carefully and hung them on a branch to dry.

      “Do the others now as you should. The women’s cloths come next. Then whatever else needs washing. That pile had better be much lower when I return. If not, prepare for true punishment.” She trudged away.

      Surf flowed around the breeches and licked the sand. A small, green lizard skittered past, skirting the water.

      Canela scooped up the creature. The thing snapped its jaw, trying to bite. She twisted its slender body. Bones cracked. Smiling, she hurled its limp form into a wave and winced. Her arms ached from washing too many clothes and from welts where the switch had struck. Several stripes bled lightly. Her perfect skin ruined again.

      She trembled with outrage but didn’t cry. Weeping was for fools and those she’d make pay for the abominations done her.

      Torture and death filled her thoughts. Horrific images made the day pass more swiftly.

      The moon was high before she finished her tasks. She gobbled wild berries to quiet her growling belly. No one watched or guarded her. There wasn’t anywhere to escape. Endless water separated this isle from the next. Wild boars roamed the forest. The sturdiest man wouldn’t survive an attack.

      If she chose to live outside the settled areas, no islander would complain. They’d have one less mouth to feed. She, alone, would have to find enough food and fresh water to sustain her.

      With no other choice, she carried the basket on her back as a beast would. Despite the short walk, the cleaned breeches and cloths grew unwieldy, forcing her to stop for breath and what strength she could gather.

      She plodded into the island community, a series of mud homes. No stone house like Tristan’s. No jewels, colorful silks, or looking glasses. The comforts here were horribly primitive, yet still denied her and the other prisoners. The men had a penned off area where they slept beneath the sky no matter the weather. They had to endure the worst rain and storms.

      So did she. As the only female slave, her open-air enclosure was far smaller than the one afforded the hogs.

      She dropped the basket in front of the cowhide that served as Fanette’s door. If good fortune was with Canela, Fanette would trip over the clothes and break her neck.

      At this hour, most everyone slept. One man guarded the shore. None the community. The male prisoners had their ankles shackled. They could barely shuffle much less walk, run, or cause trouble.

      As a woman, she could move freely. No one worried about her.

      If she had a blade they would.

      To get to her dirt bed, she had to pass the crude wooden fence surrounding the men. Clouds shrouded the moon and cast the world into deeper shadows. Dark shapes littered the ground. The prisoners, she guessed.

      A soft trill sounded. Perhaps from a bird. Perhaps not.

      Canela slowed. Wind stirred her cloth and hair.

      Another trill, this longer, quieter.

      The silvery light dimmed further, then went out. Similar to when one extinguishes a candle or an oil lamp. The moon no longer able to pierce the heavy clouds.

      Something rustled and scuffed.

      Unafraid, she gave into curiosity and padded closer.

      A hand clamped her wrist. “Scream and I’ll break your neck.”

      Chadwick Vincent. Yellow Scarf to her people. A name given because of the bright cloth he wore on his head. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the color or his ugly face, but she’d never forget his hideous voice.

      She’d offered him Tristan’s stone house, the island she’d called home, its riches, and herself, even

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