Siren Island: Shipwrecked (An Erotic Adventure Series) by Virginia Wade Page A
Authors: Virginia Wade
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waterlogged dress weighing me down. I collapsed onto the sand and closed my eyes. The sound of screams awoke me.
“No! Dear Lord, no!” It was Pricilla.
“What is it?” I sat up, squinting under the sun. I licked my parched lips, wishing I had water. My chaperone stood over a nearby corpse. “Don’t look at it. Get away from it, Pricilla. There’s nothing you can do for him.”
The crazy woman had managed to stay afloat with her shoes, petticoats, and crinoline on. My toes peaked out from beneath the darkly colored material of my garment. It was scandalous to not be properly dressed, but I could have cared less. Long brown hair was tangled around me, my hairpins having loosened and fallen out in the water. A movement on the beach caught my eye. Someone was coming!
“Look, Pricilla!”
“Why has the Lord forsaken us? How could he do this?” She knelt and wept, bowing her head. “So many people are dead,” she wailed.
“Someone comes!”
It was a man. He plodded barefoot towards us, a slight swagger in his walk. It wasn’t until I saw his face that I recognized him. My fiancé’s older brother, Jack, had survived the shipwreck. He wore a waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. It was far too hot for a sack coat. I met him for the first time aboard The Lady Jane, and I had loathed him on sight. There was something about him that made me feel as if he knew what I looked like naked. His reputation as a gambler and blackguard were well known. The name Jack Carlyle was not mentioned in polite society.
“That horrible man,” blurted Pricilla. “They kill the innocent, yet the devil lives.”
I rolled my eyes. My chaperone was frequently dramatic and prone to fainting spells, which I had learned to accept over the years.
“Cover your legs, my dear!”
What did it matter now? I’d lost half my clothing to the ocean. Who would care if my legs were exposed in this isolated place? I could feel sand under my corset, rubbing painfully into my skin. I would remove the contraption at the first opportunity.
“Good morning!” he shouted. “Fancy finding you here.” His grin was huge, white teeth flashing. “Miss Wordsworth. Miss Mayfair.”
“Good morning, Mr. Carlyle,” said Pricilla primly.
“It’s just Jack. The formalities hardly matter now, eh?” He took a lengthy drink from a wine bottle. “Thirsty?” There was a pleasing southern drawl to his voice.
I eyed him with disdain. “Have you seen Samuel?”
He shook his head. “There are survivors down the beach. Come on. I’ll take you to them.” He reached for me, helping me to my feet.
“Thank you.”
His presence always set me on edge. There was something about his look, a certain gleam in his eye, that made me feel like I was parading around in front of him naked. He took in my appearance, the bedraggled hair laced with sand, the crumpled dress still damp with seawater, and my shoeless feet, which I quickly hid under my hem. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I never left the house without my bonnet and gloves.
“What survivors, Mr. Carlyle? Who are they?”
He squinted at my chaperone. “You’ll be relieved to hear that the Reverend Jeremiah Hancock is alive and well, prayer book and all. He’s in the middle of a sermon as we speak.” Sarcasm laced his voice.
“Oh, thank God.”
“There are women, men, and a few crew members.”
“What about Samuel?”
His dark eyes rested on me. “Yes, what about that plucky little brother of mine? Where could he be?”
It was no secret that the Carlyle siblings were frequently at war. Samuel, light haired and sweet, was the apple of his mother’s eye, while Jack, dark, brooding and sinful, was barred from the family home. They’d gotten into fisticuffs at the onset of the voyage and had avoided each other ever since.
I tingled from his look, appraising me, missing nothing. He seemed to enjoy my distress and the fact that my fiancé was missing and more than likely dead. I was now
“No! Dear Lord, no!” It was Pricilla.
“What is it?” I sat up, squinting under the sun. I licked my parched lips, wishing I had water. My chaperone stood over a nearby corpse. “Don’t look at it. Get away from it, Pricilla. There’s nothing you can do for him.”
The crazy woman had managed to stay afloat with her shoes, petticoats, and crinoline on. My toes peaked out from beneath the darkly colored material of my garment. It was scandalous to not be properly dressed, but I could have cared less. Long brown hair was tangled around me, my hairpins having loosened and fallen out in the water. A movement on the beach caught my eye. Someone was coming!
“Look, Pricilla!”
“Why has the Lord forsaken us? How could he do this?” She knelt and wept, bowing her head. “So many people are dead,” she wailed.
“Someone comes!”
It was a man. He plodded barefoot towards us, a slight swagger in his walk. It wasn’t until I saw his face that I recognized him. My fiancé’s older brother, Jack, had survived the shipwreck. He wore a waistcoat, shirt, and trousers. It was far too hot for a sack coat. I met him for the first time aboard The Lady Jane, and I had loathed him on sight. There was something about him that made me feel as if he knew what I looked like naked. His reputation as a gambler and blackguard were well known. The name Jack Carlyle was not mentioned in polite society.
“That horrible man,” blurted Pricilla. “They kill the innocent, yet the devil lives.”
I rolled my eyes. My chaperone was frequently dramatic and prone to fainting spells, which I had learned to accept over the years.
“Cover your legs, my dear!”
What did it matter now? I’d lost half my clothing to the ocean. Who would care if my legs were exposed in this isolated place? I could feel sand under my corset, rubbing painfully into my skin. I would remove the contraption at the first opportunity.
“Good morning!” he shouted. “Fancy finding you here.” His grin was huge, white teeth flashing. “Miss Wordsworth. Miss Mayfair.”
“Good morning, Mr. Carlyle,” said Pricilla primly.
“It’s just Jack. The formalities hardly matter now, eh?” He took a lengthy drink from a wine bottle. “Thirsty?” There was a pleasing southern drawl to his voice.
I eyed him with disdain. “Have you seen Samuel?”
He shook his head. “There are survivors down the beach. Come on. I’ll take you to them.” He reached for me, helping me to my feet.
“Thank you.”
His presence always set me on edge. There was something about his look, a certain gleam in his eye, that made me feel like I was parading around in front of him naked. He took in my appearance, the bedraggled hair laced with sand, the crumpled dress still damp with seawater, and my shoeless feet, which I quickly hid under my hem. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I never left the house without my bonnet and gloves.
“What survivors, Mr. Carlyle? Who are they?”
He squinted at my chaperone. “You’ll be relieved to hear that the Reverend Jeremiah Hancock is alive and well, prayer book and all. He’s in the middle of a sermon as we speak.” Sarcasm laced his voice.
“Oh, thank God.”
“There are women, men, and a few crew members.”
“What about Samuel?”
His dark eyes rested on me. “Yes, what about that plucky little brother of mine? Where could he be?”
It was no secret that the Carlyle siblings were frequently at war. Samuel, light haired and sweet, was the apple of his mother’s eye, while Jack, dark, brooding and sinful, was barred from the family home. They’d gotten into fisticuffs at the onset of the voyage and had avoided each other ever since.
I tingled from his look, appraising me, missing nothing. He seemed to enjoy my distress and the fact that my fiancé was missing and more than likely dead. I was now
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