He tossed the banana peel away as easily as he had accepted the isolation fate dealt him, and he walked on.
He used the camouflage of the crowd so he could safely scan the dock.
There were five ships.
And no dogs. He’d only heard the hounds twice: once when he’d been running only for half a day and again that morning before he’d crossed the steep rocky gorge that separated the north and south sides of the island.
The first time the dogs had trailed him he’d used river mud to muck up his scent. The last time he’d used a tin of pepper he’d stolen from a small traders’ outpost. He’d known he had one weakness: he’d never been able to run worth a damn. But he figured by crossing that gorge he had about two hours on them. Two hours to get away.
At dockside, two of the ships were ready to depart. One was a sleek wooden clipper,L’Amelie.The other was a squat ocean steamer with a steel hull that rose up to the main deck. It was small, one-tenth the size of a large ocean liner, the kind of double-stack steamship that served as both a packet and freighter between the larger islands of the South Seas. The ship’s name was obscured by a group of pallet boxes and a wooden cage filled with a few braying goats.
After four years in a French hellhole like Leper’s Gate, there was no decision. Hank finished the banana and moved toward the island steamer. He walked with slow purpose toward the boarding ramp, eyeing the crewman who handled the loading of the ship.
Sneaking on board was one option. He examined the ramp, then the winches that lifted the pallets and crates, weighing his chances of making it on board unseen.
It wasn’t a cinch.
He rubbed the stubble on his jaw that had turned into a week’s worth of itchy beard, then he weighed his options with what another prisoner once called his knack for mother wit.
He had liked that. Mother wit.
He could use some of that wit now. He supposed he could bluff his way aboard, then stow somewhere. He spent a moment listening and trying to gauge the attention and manner of the crewman on the dock.
The crowd suddenly shifted. There was a commotion nearby.
He froze, not looking and half waiting to feel the cold barrel of a French rifle pressed against his unlucky neck.
“Let me pass, please! That’s my ship!” It was the sweet voice of a woman. Better yet, an American woman.
He turned, and the crowd shifted again, shoving and pushing. There was a little shriek of surprise, then like manna from heaven, a tall blonde fell into his arms.
Oooo-wee. My lucky day.
She grabbed his priest’s tunic to catch her balance. He steadied her, holding her waist with both hands.
She was so tall that her nose came up to his chin and the feathers on her brown hat brushed his face. He caught a whiff of that distinctive scent of a female. Something he hadn’t smelled in years. He savored it for just a brief second.
She released her death grip on his black tunic and glanced up at him from a face too damned gorgeous to be real.
“Sweet Jesus Christ,” he muttered, then caught himself with a cough and added, “. . . will bless you, my dear.”
She straightened swiftly, her face flushed. “I’m so terribly sorry, Father.”
He wasn’t the least bit sorry. Hell, she was the damn best-looking woman he’d ever seen. And she was a woman, not some green eighteen-year-old fresh from her daddy. She looked to be... thirty. And all ripe female.
She jammed her cockeyed hat back on a thick wad of blond hair, giving him a direct look from an unusual pair of golden yellow eyes. She reached out and touched his chest, brushing the wrinkles from the front of his tunic.
Mating howls went off in his head.
“Please forgive me. I’m late.” She removed her hand and waved a finger at the ramp, her voice rushed. “My ship is leaving.”
He glanced at the crates still waiting to be loaded, then at the dark spout of coal smoke burping from the stacks. “You have a few minutes.”
“Do I? Oh.” She seemed to relax a bit and gave him a quiet smile. “I haven’t taken many voyages.”
Come to Papa, sweetheart. I’ll take you on a voyage.
Her gaze had shifted to his hands, which were still gripping her waist, then with an unsettling frankness, she looked him square in the eye again.
