The Lost

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, ta

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 a

“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.

From her own experience she knew that if God wanted her to do something else, she would know.

Finally, at last, Isabelle’s sleep was as pure as her body and as sweet as her heart.

When she woke the third time, Isabelle had no idea what time of day it was or even if it was the same day. She did feel one hundred percent better and decided that the healer’s salve was worth investigating.

The sun shone, so she pushed up from bed, wrapped a sheet around her nakedness and went to the window.

The opening looked out onto a village that was a few hundred yards from the castle, or was this a fort? The one main street was quiet, only a woman and a girl walking its length.

That meant it was probably noontime. This part of the world still understood the merits of a siesta, though more sleep was the last thing Isabelle needed right now.

If she could find some clothes and dress, she would ask someone to show her to the cottage that was going to be her clinic and her home.

There was a shy knock at the door and Isabelle turned back from the window just as a woman came into the room, carrying a bundle of neatly folded clothes.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Doctor. It is a surprise to see that you are up and about. Are you feeling that much better?”

“Yes, thank you, amazingly better. What is that ointment that Mr. Dushayne gave me?”

“Ointment?” She seemed uncertain for a moment. “Oh, yes, it is the curing cream that the healer makes. It is all most of us need.”

Isabelle heard the defensive tone in that last sentence and recalled Father Joubay’s They do not want you. Well, she had faced that before in so many different guises that she was not surprised.

“I can see why you find the cream essential. It really worked. I am so looking forward to meeting the honored healer.”

The woman cackled. “She is no more honored than a witch doctor. She drinks too much, demands the finest pieces of fish and gives the best care to those who bring her anything that shines.” The woman raised her index finger, making the final point. “But she does know how to heal almost everything and that makes us tolerate her shortcomings.”