Jane had no idea who this man might be, but she would have wagered what little she owned that he was no local fisherman tossed from his skiff during yesterday’s storm.
He had the hard face of a man who had lived a hard life, the wind, rain, and blazing sun beaten into his very bones. His shirt, open at the neck, revealed the crease of a white scar as though his throat had been slit during the course of some fierce battle. Not the sign of a peaceful man.
But even if he proved to be the spawn of the devil, Jane could not simply abandon him to his fate. She had to try to help him. It was the right thing to do. And despite his harsh appearance, there was something gentler, more sensitive about the curve of his mouth.
His mouth.
Jane’s breath caught as she recalled some healing magic she had watched the Lady of Faire Isle perform upon a nearly drowned girl. Ariane had fastened her lips over that of the girl and breathed her own essence into the child, reviving her. The Kiss of Life, she had called it.
If the man could be roused, supported to his feet, it would make his rescue so much easier. Had Meg learned how to perform this magic?
But one look in Meg’s direction told Jane she could expect no help from that quarter even if she could soothe the girl’s fears or snap Meg out of her strange trance. Having issued her warning, Meg had backed farther away.
Another wave broke closer, this time splashing over the man’s ankles. Oh, where was Seraphine? Had she even made it back to the village by now?
Jane had little choice but to attempt the Kiss of Life herself. She regarded the man doubtfully for a moment, then tried to copy what Ariane had done. She inserted her fingers into his mouth, prying his lips apart, seeking to clear away any obstruction. All she felt was the rough warmth of his tongue, the contact intrusive and disturbingly intimate.
Her cheeks burned. Before she could question the wisdom of what she was about to do, Jane drew in a deep breath. She bent closer and sealed his mouth with her own. She had barely exhaled her first breath when the man startled her, his eyes flying wide open. She stared straight into depths the color of an angry, storm-ridden sea.
Jane reared back, her heart thudding. But she could not be half so shaken as he, poor man. He groaned, peering groggily up at her. Recovering herself, Jane sought to reassure him.
“Everything is all right, sir. I am here to help you and more aid is coming.” At least, she hoped it was.
It didn’t occur to Jane that she was addressing him in English, until he blinked and muttered something in French. Even then his words made no sense.
“Witch or … mermaid.”
“I beg your pardon, monsieur?” Jane replied in his own language, uncertain if she had misheard him or the poor man was delirious with pain.
He moistened his lips and repeated again. “Witch or mermaid … are you a witch or a … mermaid?”
“Neither,” Jane stammered. “I am an Englishwoman.”
He responded with a choked laugh before lapsing back into unconsciousness.
Chapter Seven
XAVIER SANK DEEPER INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA. Some part of his mind urged him to fight, thrust his head above the waves before he drowned. But he could sense the pain nudging at him like the snout of a hungry shark, waiting to devour him should he strike for the surface. Far better that he remain where he was, drifting through the soothing darkness of the ocean.
If only she would let him. But his mermaid bathed his face and chafed his wrists, her siren voice calling to him. “Monsieur? Monsieur, please come back to me. You must try.”
Xavier forced his eyes open to narrow slits and focused on the person hovering over him, a woman with sun-kissed blond hair tumbled about her face, her eyes gentle, her mouth tender. The mermaid that had coaxed him back to life. As he felt the first throb of pain, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss her or kill her.
He groaned and tried to turn away, retreat back into the darkness, but she braced her hand beneath his head and raised him, pressing a cup to his lips.
“Please, monsieur. You must try. Drink this.”
His tongue felt so thick and parched, he obeyed, taking a greedy swallow, only to sputter and choke. Whatever poison she fed him, it tasted viler than his shaman’s brew. But unlike the magical elixir that guided him into a seductive trance, this evil potion revived his senses, made him acutely aware of the throbbing hulk that was his body.
Xavier groaned and swore. Christ, what the hell had happened to him? He felt as if he had single-handedly taken on a press-gang of burly ruffians armed with cudgels and lost. Pain … pain that stemmed mostly from his right arm, a hot burning pain that throbbed up into his shoulder and across his chest, seeming to radiate into every pore of his being.
But there was worse. As his vision cleared, he was horrified to realize that his ship had been invaded by… women. He was lost in a sea of skirts, some like his mermaid gathered close to his bed, still others crowding in the doorway of his cabin, or gawking at him through the window.
The women came in all range of sizes and ages from the little towhead who stared at him while sucking her thumb to the wizened beldame squinting and clicking her gums. They spoke amongst themselves, their voices sounding to him as shrill as a flock of seagulls circling his pounding head.
“Look. He’s coming round at last.”
“Give him another swig of that restorative tea, m’dear.”
“Who is he? Where did he come from?”
“I don’t know. He just appears to have been tossed up from the sea.”
“The sea never left anything that prime at my door. Only dead fish and seaweed.”
“All right, enough!” A tall, haughty-looking blonde elbowed her way through the press, regarding her companions scornfully. “Anyone would think you’d never seen a man before. Clear off and give the wretch room to breathe.”
“Who died and made you queen, Seraphine Remy?” the toothless old woman huffed.
Her indignation was echoed by the others, the clatter making Xavier want to clap his hands to his ears. Except that he seemed unable to move his right arm.
His mermaid leapt into the fray, holding up her hands for silence. “Ladies, Seraphine is right. This poor man needs his wounds attended to, quiet and rest. Please, I beg you, retire. There will be time enough for your questions later.”
Her low reasonable voice achieved what the haughty girl’s commands could not. The women retreated, even the tall blonde leading away the thumb-sucking child. Xavier was left in blessed silence, alone with his mermaid.
He would have breathed a sigh of relief as his rescuer stole back to his side. But even that threatened to hurt like hell. And as his gaze darted about the room, he no longer felt relieved at all.
He was not, as he had supposed, ensconced in his cabin aboard the Miribelle. He lay on a cot, surrounded by unfamiliar whitewashed stone walls, the furnishings sparse but decidedly feminine, a spinning wheel, a workbasket, the hint of a petticoat peeking out from a wardrobe chest.
Memories burst behind his eyes, like painful flashes of lightning. The storm, the Miribelle hurling him from her decks. The cold dash of the sea. Fighting to keep his head above the angry waves, gain his bearings in the darkness. Swimming toward shore, so tired, muscles aching. Resisting the longing to give in, sink below the surface. The tide tumbling him, driving him toward the rocks. Clawing desperately for purchase, almost gaining his feet, hit hard by another wave. Pain … incredible pain. On his feet again, staggering, falling. More pain. And then … nothing.
His mermaid returned to his side and tried to get more of her vile brew down his throat. With his left hand, he managed to dash the cup from her hand.
“No more of that damned stuff. Where am I?” he roared at her. At least he meant to roar, his voice came out more like a croak.
“On Faire Isle.”
“No! Not possible.”
“I assure you that it is.” She bobbed her head, looking so solemn, he had to suppress a mad ur
ge to laugh. She was a most earnest mermaid, nothing like the seductress of his potion-induced trance.
She pressed his left hand. “Don’t worry. You are safe now.”
Safe? On the island of witches, the last place this side of hell he’d ever wanted to be. He grated his teeth as he absorbed this information.
When his rescuer started to draw away, he clutched at her hand. “Where are you going?”
“Only to see if I can find the Lady. Someone should have fetched her by now. I cannot imagine what is keeping her.”
“No,” he said harshly. “I don’t want—” He was mortified to realize he was clinging to her like a child, but in this nightmare world, she was the only thing that seemed real, besides his unrelenting pain.
“Just stay.”
“I will.” She smiled, a sweet solemn smile. With her free hand, she caressed his cheek, the only place he didn’t seem to hurt. “Everything is going to be all right.”
Damned if she almost didn’t make him believe it, until she added, “I am sure the Lady will be here soon.”
What lady? he almost demanded. But as his mind cleared, he knew his mermaid had to be speaking of only one woman. The Lady of Faire Isle. The thought of her tightened the knot in his gut. He had to get the devil out of here.
He grated his teeth against the pain as he tried to rise, a feeble effort at best. The mermaid easily restrained him by pressing her hand on his left shoulder.
“No. Please, monsieur. You must lie still lest—” Her warning was cut off when someone else burst into the room in a flurry of faded gray skirts and flapping apron. An elderly woman with a cloud of white hair and vague blue eyes clapped her hand to her mouth at the sight of him.
Xavier regarded her blearily The old woman burst into tears and cried. “Oh, my dear master, is that really you?”
Master? Now what the devil? Xavier thought. Island of witches, hell. He’d fetched up on an isle peopled by madwomen.
“Is it really you after all these years?” The woman beamed through her tears. “The sea took you away and now brought you back to us.”
With another mighty sob, she flung herself upon his chest, jarring his right arm. She might as well have stabbed him. Xavier choked off a cry at the fresh spasm of pain that spiked through him.
“Mistress please!” His mermaid dragged the sobbing woman away from him. “I fear you are distressing our guest.”
“Distressing me?” Xavier grated, letting fly a volley of oaths that would have blistered their ears if either woman had been paying any attention to him.
The old lady was clinging to his mermaid, half weeping, half laughing. “Oh, you don’t understand. You don’t know who he is. This is a great day for Faire Isle, Jane.”
Jane? Xavier thought as he blew out a succession of quick breaths in an effort to gain some mastery over his pain. That was a ridiculously staid name for a mermaid or even a witch.
Jane struggled to calm the mad old woman, keep her from flinging herself at Xavier again. As she eased her toward the door, Xavier became aware of another presence, another pair of hands gripping the old lady’s arms, reinforcing Jane’s efforts.
“Agnes, my dear. What is all this?”
Xavier could not see who spoke, but the voice penetrated his haze of pain, cool, calm, and authoritative.
The old woman turned from Jane to embrace the newcomer. “Oh, milady. The joyous day we have prayed for is here. The chevalier has returned to us.”
Xavier froze, even his pain forgotten as he realized for whom he had been mistaken. It should have come as no surprise to him. Closing his eyes, he could hear the echo of his mother’s voice.
“You are the very image of your father, Louis.”
Even now Xavier was not sure if his mother had been proud of that resemblance or hated him for it.
The old woman’s cries faded into the distance and silence descended over the room. Xavier became aware of someone returning to his side. Somehow he sensed it wasn’t Jane.
He kept his eyes closed as though he could avoid the confrontation he’d dreaded most of his life and yet had been unable to stop from imagining as well. But he had never pictured it like this, with him flat on his back, wounded and helpless before her.
No matter how he had resisted this moment, a part of him had regarded it as inevitable. He expelled a deep breath. Feeling strangely resigned, he opened his eyes and gazed up at the Lady of Faire Isle.
Tall, slender, she possessed a stately grace despite the simple brown frock she wore. Her chestnut-colored hair crowned her head in a circle of tightly woven braids, the strands threaded with hints of silver. Her countenance was more striking than beautiful. He fancied that it was usually serene, but she paled at the sight of him, her brown eyes wide.
So this was his father’s beloved Evangeline. She was very like her portrait. But even as the thought occurred to Xavier, he frowned, knowing that was wrong. Evangeline was long dead and buried like his own mother. In any case, this woman was far too young to be Evangeline. This could only be Ariane, the eldest daughter.
At least that was the word Xavier meant to form. But the whisper that escaped his lips startled even him.
“Sister.”
“M-my God! Who are you?”
“Nobody that you want to know.”
“Avoiding your acquaintance may prove difficult, monsieur, since the fates have chosen to cast you up on my island.”
“The fates had nothing to do with it. It was the Miribelle when she listed during last night’s storm.”
“The—the Miribelle?” she faltered. “You can’t possibly mean … my father’s ship.”
“No, my father’s ship.” Which Xavier prayed had somehow managed to ride out the storm and avoid breaking up on the rocks.
The lady bit her lip. He noted that she chose to avoid challenging him on the issue of fathers. Instead she asked, “What about the chevalier? Do you know—”
“Dead.” He stabbed the word at her, effectively killing the flicker of hope in her eyes. Xavier felt a fleeting regret for his cruelty, but he was in too damned much pain to soften the blow.
She lowered her lashes, sorrow and resignation softening her features. But the steel was back in her gaze when she regarded him again.
“And you are claiming to be …?”
“I am not claiming anything. If you are as good at reading men’s minds as I have been told, I am sure you can figure out who I am for yourself.” Despite the pain throbbing behind his eyes, Xavier looked defiantly up at her.
She frowned, her gaze narrowing as her eyes locked on his. Xavier returned her stare, refusing to blink, but damned if it didn’t feel like the witch had cracked open his skull as deftly as he flung open the lid of his sea chest, his thoughts threatening to spill like treasures into her lap.
He gritted his teeth and slammed his mind closed, though the effort to resist cost him in pain and sweat, beads of perspiration gathering on his brow. Still, he refused to surrender, their eyes clashing in a merciless duel until Jane rushed forward to intervene.
“Ariane, please.”
His mermaid had been so quiet, Xavier hadn’t even noticed she was still there. Her puzzled gaze flickered between him and Ariane. Jane rested her fingers on Ariane’s sleeve.
“I don’t know what is going on or who this man is. But surely the important thing is that he needs your help. His arm must be set to rights.”
The lady pinched the bridge of her nose and drew herself up more erect. “Of course, you are right, Jane.” She forced a tight-lipped smile. “Very well, monsieur. Let us have a look at this injured arm.”
“There is nothing wrong with my damned arm,” Xavier denied despite the pain radiating up his right side. He shifted, half raising his head. “I only need—”
He choked off a cry of horror as he realized himself the full extent of his injury, the dried blood crusting around the rent in his sleeve, the hint of bone protruding. Ariane bent closer to examine the wound, b
ut even her gentlest touch drove spikes of fire into his flesh.
“Leave it alone,” Xavier snarled. Bracing himself with his left hand, he struggled to a sitting position. Over the protests of both women, he drew his injured arm protectively close to his chest, although the effort caused black dots of pain to dance before his eyes.
“Oh, monsieur, pray don’t. You are only going to make it worse,” Jane said.
Worse? How could this possibly get any worse, Xavier thought as his vision cleared and he stared at the wreckage of his once powerful right arm. He’d witnessed the kind of accidents that could happen too easily upon a ship, sea dogs injured in brawls or falls from the rigging, wounded during fiercely fought battles. He’d realized how fragile a man could be, hale and strong one moment, shattered beyond repair the next.
He’d helped to treat fractures this bad, knew what the inevitable outcome must be, although his mind recoiled from it.
“Oh, God.” He sagged back against the pillows.
“Don’t worry.” Jane soothed. “Ariane will take care of you.”
“The devil she will. Fetch me a doctor. Are there no men on this bloody island?”
Ariane folded her arms across her bosom. “None that will be of any use to you. Most of them are like my son, still in tailclouts.”
“Please, monsieur.” Jane tried to ease his fingers away from his injured arm. “The lady is very skilled. She will have that bone set in a trice.”
Xavier shrank away from her, snarling. “Set? Do you take me for a blasted fool? I have seen this kind of break before. I know that my arm is going to have to be … to be … amputated.” There. He’d managed to say the dread word, acknowledged it aloud.
Ariane’s brows shot upward. “You seem in quite a hurry to part company with your arm, monsieur.”
“Because I have no other choice.”
“I admit it may come to that. But I have had great success setting even worse fractures than yours. If you would just allow me to try—”
“No. Keep your damned witchery to yourself.”
“That’s enough,” Jane cried. She eyed Xavier sternly. “The lady wants to help, so stop behaving like—like a recalcitrant child.”