Dushayne was there again and she wasted no time, determined to move, to speak and to find some answers. She struggled upright in bed, then realized she was naked and pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts. He did not turn away but watched her with a disinterest that told her she was the only one who was embarrassed.
Isabelle reached for the water and groaned as the pain of damaged muscles spread from her fingers to her neck. Forcing herself to drink the water, she thanked God for the feel of it sliding down her throat, freeing her voice.
“You are Sebastian Dushayne.”
“Yes, and you are?”
“Isabelle Reynaud.”
He bowed with old-world courtliness. “How do you do, Mistress Reynaud.”
“I am not married.”
“Yes, I know, but mistress is a term we use for every grown woman.”
“Where am I?”
“You are in the Castillo de Guerreros on the Isla Perdida.”
“The Castle of Warriors on the Lost Island?”
Dushayne nodded and Isabelle wondered what it would take to get more than basic answers from him.
“The village healer sent some of her salve to ease your bruises and sore muscles. Sit up and I will put some on your back, where you cannot reach.”
Isabelle wanted to say no, but she also knew that to reject his help would send all the wrong messages, to him, to the healer, even to the servants. She could see one peeking around the corner of the door. “Let the servant do it.”
“Are you afraid I will seduce you?” Genuine humor made her blush. “Believe me, Mistress Reynaud, I am not the slightest bit interested in a woman with a body that is no more than bruises and hair still filled with sand and seaweed.”
Even though her arm blazed with pain at the action, Isabelle raised her hand to her head. Her hair felt like lengths of used raffia. Who knew what was in it besides sand. “I need to wash it. I hate the sand. I want to wash it right now.”
“Yes, I will send my housekeeper to help you. But first the salve. It will make it much easier to move.” He added, “Please,” as though it was a password of some kind, and Isabelle gave a half nod and looked away from his smile. He did have dimples.
She leaned forward. Even that hurt. She held back the groan and kept the sheet in front of her. The air felt warm on her back and she waited for the even warmer touch of his hand.
Isabelle could not see his face, but watched him scoop a portion of the salve from a stone dish, and rub his hands together. They were strong, well-shaped hands, tanned, with long fingers and blunt-cut nails, with a pronounced curve of white cuticle. There was a scar on one knuckle, the white of it in contrast to the warm tan of his skin. The scar did not look very old.
He raised his hands to her back and Isabelle stared out the window at the water, today looking as benign as a baby’s bathtub.
Sebastian Dushayne smoothed the cream, warmed by his hands, from the back of her neck all the way down her spine, then began to rub it in with the most sensual of pressure, not too soft and not hard enough to hurt, but just firmly enough to make her feel wonderful. He might not be interested in seducing her, but that did not mean she was oblivious to it.
Dushayne ran his hands very slowly down the outsides of her arms and then, even more slowly, up the insides of her arms so that his fingertips brushed the edge of her breasts.
She straightened instinctively but said nothing, wondering if she was overreacting, deciding she was when he stepped back a moment for more salve.
Dushayne used both hands to massage the cream into her lower back, the feeling so relaxing that Isabelle dropped her head, her long hair falling around her face, loosened crystals of sand spilling onto the sheet.
Moving his hands over her hips, he cupped her buttocks and she wondered whether the magic was in the salve or in his hands.
“That is quite enough.” Isabelle used as firm a voice as she could command, the kind she used to the children who were using markers to make tattoos on one another.
Dushayne ended the treatment abruptly. The next thing she felt was his breath near her ear. “No,” he whispered. “Do not lie. It is not nearly enough and we both know it.”
Isabelle wasn’t lying. It wasn’t nearly enough pleasure, but it was quite enough temptation. She turned around to tell him that and saw the door closing.
How could she even be thinking about something so physical when she still ached, when her friend was dead, when Sebastian Dushayne himself was such an unknown?
For now, all she wanted was sleep. The scent of the ointment was part of its power, she was sure, so soothing.
She pulled the sheet up to her neck and prayed for strength to resist and tried to recall all the questions still unanswered.
Sebastian closed the door quietly.
“Sit here,” he told the servant, indicating the chair near the door. “Come to me for help if she is upset or has nightmares.” The servant nodded and Sebastian headed for the beach. He needed a woman or a swim in cold water, and right now there was only one woman he wanted.
Isabelle Reynaud was a sweet confection. Tiny, not so much short as fine boned and perfectly proportioned, what a Regency man would have called a “Pocket Venus.” Her hair was so dark and so long that he wondered how her neck could bear the weight of it. He could hardly wait to feel that hair once it had been washed, to taste her, to make himself part of her.
But the woman would need to grieve awhile. He understood that, even if death no longer moved him.
Anticipation would make her surrender all the more satisfying. He could spend weeks tutoring her in the finer points of erotic pleasure.
What a lovely surprise Joubay had brought for him. Sebastian decided she was meant as a consolation if Joubay’s idea for ending the curse did not work.
Damn, damn, damn. The old man was free now. Even worse, without him in the world searching for the solution, there was no hope of ending it. A dozen women were not consolation enough.
Shedding his clothes, Sebastian walked into the water, dove into a small wave and swam out to the deeper, cooler part of the harbor.
Three
Isabelle closed her eyes and prayed, for Father Joubay, the ship’s owner, herself and Sebastian Dushayne. She was not sure which one of them needed it more.
Her dreams were filled with grief this time, the dead, bloated bodies of Father Joubay and the captain and a Sebastian Dushayne who did not care if the birds feasted on them. Just as the dream verged on a nightmare, Father Joubay rose from the water and walked through it to the shore, looking like his mortal self. “Do not grieve. We are buried and our souls have gone to God.”
She fell more deeply asleep, sure she could feel Father Joubay’s hand comforting her.
“Do you remember that moment in New Orleans?” he asked. “How I threw out my prepared sermon and talked about how much help was needed on this little Caribbean island?”
“Of course I do. How no one had the most routine vaccinations, and health care was centuries out of date.”
“The Church of Lost Souls was filled with people who understood, who’d been through Katrina.”
Their eyes met as Isabelle remembered, as Joubay announced he was looking for someone trained in medicine willing to accompany him and volunteer for a year. Isabelle had smiled and Father Joubay had smiled back, and their pact was made.
“Dearest Isabelle,” Father Joubay spoke with some urgency as his body began to fade and drift upward. “Do not abandon your commitment. Do not grieve, or better yet, let grief fuel your good deeds. There is so much need here and you are the key.”
All right, Isabelle decided as Father disappeared into the clouds. Let her grief fuel her good deeds. She would stay for the year she had promised. She would sing hymns as Sebastian Dushayne demanded. She would do her best to update the medical care, introduce routine inoculations and set a standard that could save lives. It was what Father Joubay had asked her to do. It was why she had come.