Beloved Castaway Read Online Free PDF Page A

bring the elder man to her doorstep on the morrow.
    “There is already much to be seen of you,” he said in a drawl surely acquired in his native Virginia. “I daresay you’ve placed your health in danger with that ridiculous costume.”
    Anger pure and strong pulsed in her veins, and she longed to answer his rudeness with a bit of her own sharp tongue. Only her faith in God and the knowledge that this man would indeed bring about her release from the bonds of servitude kept her from picking up her expensive skirts and running away.
    “I vow I shall not be any trouble to you, monsieur.” She gathered the velvet of her cloak tight around her neck and lifted her chin in defiance. “Barely any notice will be taken of me.”  
    He continued to weigh the knife in his hand as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. “ Mais non ,” he said evenly, “I rather doubt you would go unnoticed anywhere.”  
    He spoke the challenge all in French, and his easy use of the language startled her. She’d been led to believe Mr. Carter’s education left something to be desired. Heart racing, she watched the blade rather than the man.  
    There seemed to be serious gaps in the information she’d over-heard. Her gaze traveled from the weapon to the face of the man who held it. Dark hair, silver eyes, and a handsome face. All these things she had anticipated, but his quick wit and ability to converse in a language other than his own were things she hadn’t expected.  
    What else had she missed?  
    The captain quirked a dark brow in what seemed to be amusement. “Something wrong, Mademoiselle Gayarre?”  
    She shrugged and, in the motion, accidentally let loose of the fabric she’d been clutching. Her cloak fell off her shoulder and pooled once more in the crook of her arm.
    To her surprise, Josiah Carter sheathed his knife and reached to slide the velvet fabric back into place, brushing the skin of her arm with his fingers in the process.  
    A chill slithered up Isabelle’s spine and lodged in her furiously beating heart. She looked past Captain Carter to focus her eyes to the murky darkness beyond.
    “Look at me, mademoiselle.”  
    He stood too close, this reputed infidel, and on his face he wore a mask of scorn. Isabelle bit her lip to stop it from quivering, then quickly recovered. “You doubt me, sir?”  
    “Perhaps.” His expression turned neutral, and then the captain inclined his head toward her. “Perhaps we have friends in common.”
    What to say? “Perhaps we do. I’m sure a man of your quality has found many friends here. Likely we would find at least one we share.”
    “Perhaps what we share,” he said slowly, “is enemies, not friends.”
    Oh dear. “I was merely making polite conversation, Captain Carter,” she said, the words emerging from a place of unknown strength. “I have found that a man generally delights in speaking of himself.” She paused to lower her gaze for effect. “Obviously, I’ve misjudged you. Forgive my impertinence.”
    Captain Carter inched closer and took hold of her wrist. Isabelle sucked in a deep breath and steeled herself for what she feared would come next, namely, the man’s fist—or worse, his knife.
    The man’s lips moved close to her ear, and his grip tightened. Isabelle watched his hand graze the ivory handle of the knife sheathed at his waist. Without removing his gaze from her face, the captain grasped the weapon.
    For an eternity, they stood in silence. Only the rhythmic pounding of blood in her ears gave her pause to realize time continued to move forward. While she prayed, Isabelle shifted her attention from the Virginian to the knife now in his hand.
    “I prefer to hear you converse about yourself,” Captain Carter finally said, again speaking the harsh words in fluent French, “for I’m sure you’ve quite the story to tell.”
    Much truth lay in those words.  
    Unfortunately, the son of the man who’d placed the highest bid on her virtue was the last