The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

It was nearly midnight. Ryder had thoroughly enjoyed himself in the warm water of the Caribbean for the past hour. There was a half-moon that lit his way. It glittered starkly off the waves. He felt for the first time as if he really were in paradise. He chose to forget the awful heat of the afternoon. It was so beautiful, the black vault of the sky overhead with the studding of stars, so calm, so silent, that he felt peace flow through him.

He wasn't a peaceful man. Thus, it was an odd feeling, but he didn't dislike it. He stretched out naked on his back, knowing full well the sand would likely find its way into parts of his body that he wouldn't like, but for now, it didn't matter. He stretched, feeling himself relax completely. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds he hadn't heard before. He'd read about the coqui or the tree frog, and thought he heard some chirping into the soft darkness.

He also knew a turtledove when he heard it and sighed as the sounds became more distinct, each adding to his relaxation, his sense of well-being.

It was just so damned exotic here, he thought, stretching yet again, only to have the sand make him itch madly. He jumped to his feet, ran splash­ing through the surf then flattened into a dive into the next good-sized wave. He swam until he was exhausted, then walked slowly back to the beach. He realized he was ravenous. He'd been too hot to eat much at dinner and the strangeness of the food hadn't added to his appetite.

There were coconut trees lining the perimeter of the beach and he grinned. He'd seen a black man shinny up a coconut tree earlier. His mouth was already watering. But it wasn't as easy as it looked and Ryder ended up standing on the beach, rubbing a scraped thigh, staring with malignant hatred at the coconuts just beyond his reach.

There were other ways for the son of an English earl to get at a damned coconut. He found a rock and aimed it carefully at the coconut he'd selected. He was on the point of throwing it when he heard something.

It wasn't a coqui nor was it a turtledove. It wasn't like anything he'd ever heard in his life. He held him­self perfectly still, lowering the rock slowly, silently. He listened hard. There it was again, that strange sort of low moaning sound that didn't sound remotely human.

His feet were tender, for he was an Englishman after all, but he managed to move silently enough through the trees that lined the beach. The sound became louder the closer he got to the great house. He ran lightly up the grassy slope toward the back of the house. He eased around the side so he could see onto the front lawn. He stopped behind a bread­fruit tree and looked out onto the beautifully tended grounds. The sound came again and then he saw a strange light welling up from the ground itself. It was a narrow, thready light, blue, and it smelled of sulfur, as if it were coming up directly from hell and the moans were of the souls entrapped there. He felt gooseflesh rise on his body; he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then he shook his head. This was beyond absurd. He'd said with absolute certain­ty to Grayson that it was naught but a mixture of chemicals. It was true, it had to be.

He saw candlelight flicker in one of the rooms on the second floor of the house. Probably Grayson and he was most likely scared silly. Then he heard a hiss from behind him and turned very slowly, the rock ready now, his body poised.

It was Emile Grayson.

Ryder smiled. He liked Emile. He was about Ryder's own age, intelligent and ambitious. He, like Ryder, wasn't the least bit superstitious, though he hadn't once disagreed with his father during din­ner or their talk afterward.

"What is it?" Ryder said behind his hand in a deep whisper.

"I don't kn

ow but I do want to find out. Now you're here to help me. I've tried to make some of the male slaves keep watch with me but they roll their eyes back in their heads and moan." Emile paused just a moment, then added, "One slave did help me. Josh was his name. We kept watch several nights togeth­er. Then one morning he was found dead, his throat cut. I've had no more volunteers."

"Very well," said Ryder. "Go around to the other side of that damned light and I'll ease closer from this way."

Emile slithered like a thin shadow from tree to tree to work his way to the other side of the thready light. A neat trap, Ryder thought, pleased. Blood pumped wildly through him. He hadn't realized really how very bored he'd been during the voyage because he'd bedded two ladies, both of them charming, and from long experience, time passed more smoothly if one made love during the day and if one slept with a wom­an cuddled against one's chest during the night.

When Emile was in position, Ryder simply straightened, the rock still held in his right hand, and walked directly toward the light. He heard an unearthly shriek.

The light became a thin smoke trail, bluer now, the odor foul as the air of hell itself. A few chemicals, he thought, that's all, nothing more. But who was doing the moaning?

He heard a shout. It was Emile. He began to run. He saw the figure then; white flowing robes covered it, but there was a very human hand showing and that hand held a gun. Ah, was that a pillow slip over the man's head? The hand came up and the gun exploded toward Emile. Ryder yelled at him. "You bastard! Who the hell are you!"

Then the figure turned and fired at him. Ryder felt the bullet pass not three inches from his head. Good God, he thought, and ran straight for the fig­ure. The man was tall and fit, but Ryder was the stronger and the more athletic. He was gaining on him. Any moment now he would have him. He sliced his foot on a rock and cursed, but it didn't slow him.

Then suddenly, without warning, he felt a shaft of pain sear through his upper arm. He stopped cold in his tracks, staring down at the feathered arrow tip that was sticking obscenely out of his flesh.

Damnation, the man was escaping. Emile, shout­ing hoarsely, was at his side in another moment.

He said blankly, "Where the hell did that bloody arrow come from? The man had an accomplice, damn him!"

"It's nothing! Get him, Emile!"

"No," Emile said very calmly. "He will come back."

With no more words, Emile ripped off the white sleeve of his shirt, then turned to Ryder, and with­out pause, without speech, he grasped the arrow firmly and pulled it out.

"There," he said, and began to wrap the shirtsleeve around the small hole that was oozing blood.

Ryder felt momentarily dizzy but he was pleased that Emile had acted swiftly.

"Yes," he said. "There." He looked up. "The bas­tard got away, curse him. Both of them." He looked back down at his arm. "When you've got me wrapped up, let's go examine the light and smoke, or what­ever it is."

But there was no more smoke, no more thin thready blue light. There was, however, a faint sulfurous odor and the grass was scorched.