Now You See Him(54)

She shuddered as the vision of Juan's dark, sightless eyes filled her, and for a moment she struggled in the man's arms. She'd forgotten how strong he was. He subdued her effortlessly as he swung up some angled walkway. And then he was setting her down carefully on her unsteady feet, and she blinked in the darkness, at the man waiting for her, the man he'd brought her to.

"Francey," the man said, his voice raw with concern as he held out welcoming arms.

Why had she thought the Arab would bring her to Michael, who would make everything better? Michael didn't exist. "Daniel," she said, her voice a breath of a sigh that covered her crushing disappointment and relief. She reached out for him, falling into darkness, warm and safe at last.



Michael caught her, her slight, weary form no burden at all as he scooped her up again, holding her against the enveloping robes. "Where are you putting her?" he demanded, his voice terse with the tightly suppressed rage that had been riding him for the past few days.

"The gray cabin. It's the quietest, most out of the way spot. What in hell did they do to her?"

Michael didn't bother to answer, shouldering the older man aside as he carried her into the companionway. In fact, he blamed the old man as well as Cardiff. Travers had allowed him into her life in the first place, oblivious to the danger he was putting her into. He must have heard tales of the Cougar—he must have known what she was getting into. If her cousin had made any effort to protect her in the aftermath, that effort had been negligible. Michael was so angry he wanted to kill, and disposing of that sadistic little guard hadn't been nearly enough to slake his murderous rage.

He'd seen the look on her face. The man had been about to rape her. He'd already discovered she'd been put in the care of a man whose reputation for brutality was legion in the town of Mariz, and yet she'd looked at his dead body in horror. Hell, he'd done the world, and her, a favor. Yet her shock and horror had vibrated through her.

At least he hadn't had to force her to come with him. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she'd resisted. Whether he would have knocked her cold. Or lowered the enveloping hood of his burnoose. Hell, there was even a chance she wouldn't have recognized him. Last time she'd seen him he'd been bleeding to death inside. He'd been twenty pounds lighter, with curly red hair. She might find it hard to reconcile that memory with a man with dark-stained skin and hair, and a hell of a lot more muscle.

But she'd come, compliant in her shock, following him through the streets of Mariz until she'd finally had enough. Her breathing was shallow, shocky against his chest, and he knew a moment's panic. People could die of shock. Or just disappear into their own little worlds and never come out again.

The gray cabin was at the back of the companionway, a relatively large room with a minuscule private bath. He laid her down carefully on the bed, his eyes already accustomed to the dark, and stood over her for a moment. He could hear Travers coming along after him, hear the quiet murmur of conversation, but for the moment he was alone with the woman he'd wounded so grievously.

He touched her pale face, pushing a silky strand of hair back. She didn't move, didn't react to his touch, simply lay there in her own, healing cocoon.

He couldn't help himself. Leaning forward, he brushed her lips with his, clinging for a moment. "Damn you, Francey," he whispered. "And damn me."

He was halfway to the door when Travers entered. "I told the captain to get under way immediately," he said in a hushed tone. "And the doctor's coming down. We'll take care of her."

"You haven't done a bloody good job so far, have you?"

"Look, this wasn't my fault. I didn't know…"

"Didn't you?" Michael interrupted. "Where's Cardiff?"

"Topside."

Michael smiled then, shoving back the hood of his burnoose, and Travers took a wary step backward, coming up against the door. "You're not going to kill him, are you?" he demanded nervously.

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

The True Blue was already moving by the time he dumped his robes and found Cardiff. Ross was sitting on a deck chair, an angora lap robe spread across his short legs, a dark amber glass of whiskey in his small hand. He watched Michael approach, and there was no fear in his eyes. More proof for Michael that the man wasn't equipped with much common sense. He should be very, very frightened.

"You look like a terrorist," Ross observed, not bothering to rise from his seat.

"Isn't that what I am?" Michael said flatly. "We have wonderful euphemisms for it, but isn't that really what I do for a living?"

"It's all in how you look at it. I take it you saved the fair damsel? Lovers reunited and all that garbage?" His voice was waspish.