Fyrea's Cauldron. William Maltese

      

      DEDICATION

      For My Dear Sister, “Pandora”

      CHAPTER ONE

      NOT IN LONDON ANYMORE

      “Purely of volcanic origin,” Pierre Yonne said to Marie Camaux who stood beside him at the rail of the steamship as Saint-Georges Island appeared even larger on their horizon. “The Pitons du Daunet on the island’s south side is all lava, or agglomerate masses, dating back to the Tertiary Period.”

      The one teacher in the lone, small school on the yet unsighted Isla Charlotte, Pierre was a storehouse of local information. A curious man could find plenty of things to keep himself occupied when he had a spare moment or two. He was headed back to work after a holiday to visit family and friends in the States, actually glad to have escaped his mother’s constant badgering that he jettison his enjoyable bachelor life in favor of wedded bliss (or whatever).

      “Quite different from what we saw at Bermuda,” he continued. The liner had departed Hamilton, Bermuda, a few days before. “Bermuda is coralline formation, mostly white limestone, highest point only two-hundred-sixty feet.”

      “Certainly, this is all different from England,” Marie said, feeling another splatter of sea spray against her face. Since she had reached warmer climes, her skin had taken on a decided bronze cast, although she couldn’t help remembering all the tales of how exposure to the sun could age a woman overnight. Still, Charles had continually commented, in London, on how her peaches-and-cream complexion would be improved immensely with a little more color.

      Charles Camaux was Marie’s husband, and, if he liked her tan, who else mattered?

      “Yes, I should imagine this is different,” Pierre said, having never been to Europe for any first-hand comparisons, although he still had relatives in France—to hear his mother tell it. The Yonne family had come to the New World with Lafitte during the American Revolution and had set up house there ever since. Pierre’s mother had actually considered her son an expatriate when he took up temporary residence on an island that was a French possession.

      Marie felt a small lurch in the pit of her stomach as the ship changed course to begin a more pronounced riding of ocean swells. She hadn’t weathered the sea part of her voyage at all well, getting sick off Port Johns and staying that way most of the way. At the moment, she could think of nothing less desirable than arriving on Saint-Georges even mildly under the weather. Charles would undoubtedly empathize, but she was looking forward to their reunion too much to have it spoiled by an upset stomach.

      “Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind my visiting you after you’re settled in,” Pierre suggested tentatively, having already gathered from brief discussions that Marie was disembarking with literally no friends or acquaintances (save her husband), on the main island. Pierre, who occasionally made it over from Isla Charlotte, had always been curious about the Camaux family. He was even more curious now that its heir-apparent had gone all of the way to England for a bride.

      “Oh, of course, do feel free,” Marie granted, once again diverting her attention from the upcoming landfall to her attractive companion. More than once, she had regretted how her queasy stomach had kept her so confined to her cabin, since Bermuda, and unable to discourse with someone like Pierre who so obviously knew such a great deal about the area. Marie’s knowledge of Saint-Georges, besides the quick cram-course she had attempted on the internet in the rush before departure, was thoroughly lacking. Charles had always been exceedingly vague whenever she’d questioned him.

      “You will have plenty of time to learn all about the island and the Camaux family after you get there,” Charles had said. “Until then, let’s enjoy London, since I certainly don’t know how long it will be before either of us is back here.”

      In the final analysis, Marie knew very little about her husband, Charles Camaux, except that she loved him. That certainly was enough for her, even if her mother had been frankly appalled at the speed of the courtship and the wedding.

      “In my day,” Carolyne Nelson had said to her daughter, having consented to the marriage only after friends had reported the Camaux family was well-connected at the Court of St. James’s, “this type of shotgun proceedings would have caused more than a few raised eyebrows.”

      However, whatever the wagging tongues, if any, Marie would, at least, be far enough away so that they would make little difference. Obviously, Saint-Georges had its own social order, quite separate from that of the British capital.

      “The harbor of Villeneuve,” Pierre said, pointing to bring Marie’s attention back to the growing landmass.

      “It’s bigger than I expected, “she admitted, seeing the rather extensive docking facilities now in the foreground, and the layers of pink and white houses that climbed the hills beyond.

      “About fourteen-thousand, by way of permanent population, at the last census,” Pierre informed. “Actually, the island’s headcount increases substantially during the tourist season, although not as much as some of the more prime travel destinations in the Caribbean.”

      Yes, Marie had read that; so, why had she expected Saint-Georges to be one of those small atolls she could walk across in a day, instead of this three-hundred-square-mile chunk of densely forested lava rock? Probably, it had something to do with how the tellie programs were forever representing the stereotype tropical paradise with half-clothed natives, and meals obtained by machete from the nearest coconut palm.

      “Well, I’m afraid I do have a bit of last-minute packing to do before docking at the quay,” Marie said apologetically as the ship gave another shift to better align for entrance into the mouth of the harbor. “I do hope, however, you’re serious about stopping by whenever you have the time. I’m afraid I’m not sure just where I’ll be staying...”

      The thought suddenly struck her that if Charles wasn’t there to meet her, she wouldn’t know where to go, or what to do.

      “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble tracking down the bride of Charles Camaux,” Pierre said, giving hint that Marie had, indeed, been self-deprived of a veritable font of information by having been so often confined to her cabin the past few days.

      “Then, I shall be looking forward to seeing you again,” she said, allowing Pierre to take her right hand and squeeze it gently in parting.

      In the rush prior to disembarkation, Marie didn’t catch sight of Pierre again, although, on one occasion, she did look frantically for him when she felt suddenly certain her husband had abandoned her, leaving her to fend for herself on some Caribbean island a few thousand miles from the only people and places she had known all of her life.

      In the end, her face beginning to go damp from a combination of panic and tropical heat, she saw Charles on the quay. She waved. He saw her and waved back. The flooding of relief that rushed through her at that moment managed completely to alleviate all traces of the sickness which had—even until then—lingered in her stomach.

      Soon enough, Marie surrendered willingly into Charles’ welcoming arms. The force of his strength took her breath away. The sudden press of his lips against hers, with such unexpected enthusiasm, was such a surprise in having, frankly, never been matched by anything he’d ever managed during their, albeit brief, London courtship.

      Marie felt each and every line of his decidedly male body pressed against her: his muscled chest, flat belly, firm thighs....

      “It’s so good to see you!” he said, pulling back to look at her. His voice was deeper than she remembered. In fact, he was somehow different. Defining the difference was another matter. Possibly, it just had to do with the time, the place, and the circumstances. After all, this wasn’t London. The brightness of this sun—seeming a totally different than what had shone down on them in England—gave the place a strange air of unreality.

      Certainly, he looked pretty much the same: so, it apparently wasn’t any kind of glaring physical anomaly that Marie sensed. His skin was burnished a deeper bronze than she remembered, making his blue eyes even bluer, but his jaw still had its characteristic squareness, his mouth its sensuous fullness, and his cheeks their distinctive dimples that balanced the