Master of Paradise by Katherine O'Neal Page A

the
sobbing woman so he went stumbling back. Taking the woman’s chin in
his fist, he yanked back her head and said in a menacing tone,
“Now. Are you ready to be a good slave? Or do you need another
lesson?”
    As he shed his clothing and some of the
others rose to join him, Gabrielle turned and ran. She ran as if
she were being chased by demons from hell. She ran as fast and as
far as she could, trying to expel the horrid vision from her mind.
Her instinct was to fight them, to storm into the clearing and rip
the men from the woman and make them pay for their abuse. But
reason stayed her hand.
    Their words had put Rodrigo in a new light.
And she saw her father and Hastings in a different light as well.
They were partners in an evil conspiracy, and Rodrigo was trying to
stop them.
    She ran all the way back to State House. In
her bedroom, she paced the floor, panting through burning lungs,
asking herself the same question over and over: What am I to
do?
    She knew now, with a woman’s instinct, that
Rodrigo had told her the whereabouts of his hideout for a reason.
He’d wanted her to go to him. He’d taken Cullen knowing she’d
eventually decide to do the very thing she knew she must: go after
him herself.
    If Hastings’s fleet got there first, Cullen
could be killed in the attack. Still, she wasn’t ready to face
Rodrigo on his own terms. She needed time to think. But there was
no time. Hastings would probably be home soon. She needed an idea.
Something daring, something no one would guess. Not Rodrigo.
Certainly not Hastings.
    Suddenly, she halted mid-step. The perfect
scheme seized her in its grip. It was so obvious, why hadn’t she
thought of it sooner? Impulsively, she sneaked down the hall to
Hastings’s formal bedroom and threw open his armoire, rummaging
through his clothes. Yes, there was just what she needed here—even
a man’s ceremonial wig. She picked up a shirt, held it to her
breasts, and turned to the mirror.
    A vision filled her head of a mass of shadowy
figures surging to their feet beyond the footlights as she yanked
off her wig. She’d fooled them all, she thought, stripping off her
feminine clothes. Why couldn’t she do so again?

CHAPTER 12
     
     
    The gaggle of taverns in Shantytown was
little more than a ragged collection of open huts, fashioned from
gayak wood with woven latanier leaves forming roofs in case of
rain. There were no walls, no hidden pockets of safety; just enough
wooden posts to keep the roof above their heads. Even at night it
was warm enough that enclosing partitions were deemed
unnecessary.
    For Gabrielle, this meant unwanted danger.
There were only a handful of taverns, but each was within easy
spying distance of the other. Even through the rain, she could look
from one into the other and see the collection of French overseers,
British seamen, and American whalers sprawled about the rickety
tables or huddled over their grog. Already she’d been observed in
three of them, asking questions she hoped would lead her to
Rodrigo.
    It was raining again. She entered the fourth
tavern, shaking off the warm water, altering her walk, her stance,
the slant of her eye to better fill Hastings’s clothes. It was
stifling in the suit and cloak, the rain increasing the muggy heat
instead of alleviating it. The boots were too big, in spite of the
rolled-up stockings she’d used to stuff the toes, and rainwater had
seeped in, sloshing maddeningly as she walked. She had to work
consciously not to limp or drag them unnaturally. Not for a moment
could she forget her role. To be discovered as a woman was
dangerous from any standpoint. These men were rough, accustomed to
living a thousand miles from the nearest law. What would they do to
a woman caught lurking in the dark bower of their midst?
    Then there was Hastings. He was clever enough
to figure out her intentions. Already, he could have men searching
for her. She had to make her escape quickly, if at all. Mahé was an
island. The only