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Synopsis |
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Excerpt |
When Trevor Mandeville leaves behind the drawing rooms of London and journeys to an island paradise in search of a rare orchid, he comes face-to-face with an even more shocking treasure. Stolen from her family at a young age, Joya Penn has spent most of her life running wild and free. Trevor tries to resist her charms, but soon finds himself captivated by the deliciously innocent—yet wildly seductive—young creature with eyes as blue as a mountain lake and blonde hair rippling down her back in an untamed mane.
Given her first taste of desire by the handsome adventurer, Joya believes all her dreams have come true when Trevor agrees to escort her back to London. But her uninhibited ways quickly throw his entire household—and his heart—into delightful chaos.
As Joya despairs of ever being the sort of "proper lady” Trevor could love, Trevor begins to wonder if he’s finally found the treasure he has been hunting for his entire life . . . in the forbidden paradise of Joya’s arms.
Jill Marie Landis is the
New York Times bestselling author and seven-time Romance Writers of American Finalist for the RITA Award. Long known for her historical romances, Jill Marie Landis also now writes The Tiki Goddess Mysteries (set on the island of Kauai, Hawaii, where she lives with her husband, actor Steve Landis).
Coming Soon!
Chapter One
1850
JOYA PENN STOOD on
the valley floor, staring up high mountain walls lush with vegetation, up into
the cloud of mist that had settled upon the upper slopes of Kibatante. The
mountain was inhabited by a great, hulking spirit of the same name who was the
mountain and at the same time, was a god who existed within the volcanic,
igneous rock.
As long as the
spirit of Kibatante slept in the heart of the island, everyone knew that all
would be well on Matarenga.
One of her
sandals had come untied, so Joya bent down and quickly rewrapped the woven hemp
thong around her ankle. As she straightened, she brushed a cockroach off of
the coarse, yellowed fabric of her shin-length trousers.
Her shirt, a
soiled castoff of her father’s, was knotted at her midriff. She found the
garment a nuisance, but the year that her breasts had developed, her parents
had demanded she cover herself. She would prefer not to be burdened with so
many clothes, but her father still insisted. She argued that Matarengi women
felt no need to cover their upper bodies. Why should she? She was perfectly
comfortable with or without clothing. Still, she bowed to her father’s will.
Joya sighed,
feeling adrift as she wiped perspiration from her brow with her forearm.
Wishing that Kibatante’s spirit would slip inside her heart and ease her unsettled
feelings, she touched a pouch tied to a thong around her neck. The small
leather sack was filled with good-luck charms that kept her safe. She opened
the bag and looked at the objects inside—a feather, sharks’ teeth, a shining
piece of rock. The largest among them was her mother’s silver hair comb, which
she had pressed into Joya’s hand on the day she died. She had begged Joya not
to forget her. As if she ever could.
Eight Matarengi bearers, their skin glistening with sweat, were scatteredover the hillside gathering
moss and plant fibers used to pack around orchid specimens to be shipped to
London. Joya had been in charge of leading the men today and the search had
gone well. Tomorrow morning, the hunting party would start back over the
mountain trail to the native village and the house that she and her father
shared on the beach.
Even knowing
that her life was full, she wished she could lose the heaviness that she
carried in her heart. She had the breathtaking beauty of the island paradise
and the lifelong friends she had made among the Matarengi people. She had the
orchids that she and her father hunted, gathered, and packed. They were the
loveliest of flowers, fragile in appearance, yet hardy enough to grow in the
wild and even survive being shipped all over the world.
The work she
shared with her father was fulfilling and, over time, she had recovered as much
as a daughter ever can from the loss of her mother. Despite the fact that she
was no man’s wife, and the fact that she had seen little of the world, she
realized that she was a very lucky young woman.
But ever since
she had been a child, there had been a shadow of sadness haunting her, a
notion that there was something vital, something she could not explain, missing
from her life.
According to
Matarengi custom, she should have been a bride long before now, but her white,
English parents had strictly forbidden her ever marrying into the Matarengi
tribe. She was to marry one of her own kind—something that had proved to be
nearly impossible, for no suitable white man had ever come to the island for
any length of time. Even if she chose to ignore her parents’ dictates, there
was not a single Matarengi male on the island, save Umbaba, her closest
friend, who was even comfortable around her.
She was beginning to lose hope of ever leaving the island or marrying anyone. She wondered if there was
anything in the least desirable about her by English standards. How would she
ever find out, when leaving the island to search farther afield was something
her father refused to allow?
Uncomfortable
with the direction of her thoughts, she began to climb the mountainside,
keeping to the trail the men had hacked out with huge, lethally sharp machetes.
In the lower regions of the valley floor, where the sun rarely fought its way
through the dense growth, the ground was perpetually damp. She took care not to
fall, for her sandals were caked with mud and slippery. Occasionally she had to
pause and chop away branches that intruded across the trail with her own blade.
She passed two
of the men, stopping to direct three others to take rooted samples from various
plants in a deep ravine on the mountainside. She took a specimen from one of
the men, held it close, and examined the root structure. It was a fine orchid,
a soft lavender-rose in color.
She wished she
could accompany the next shipment of flowers to England, walk along the crowded
streets and byways, see the River Thames. She longed to experience the sights
and sounds she had only learned of from her parents’ stories or seen in the
prints in her books.
Whenever she
closed her eyes and thought of London, somehow she easily imagined herself
already there. Sometimes she would dream of England in vivid detail, scene upon
scene, with such complete clarity that the images seemed very real.
Sometimes her
dreams were haunting. Like Kibatante, the spirit of the mountain, it was as if
she could be in two places—in the dream itself and outside of it, watching it
unfold. She always dreamed of a girl, very much like herself, but notherself, in and about London.
Whenever she
awoke from such a dream, it would take her a moment or two to realize she had
actually been safe in her bed asleep and that she had never really left
Matarenga.
The odd
sensation of these dreams-within-dreams had begun when she was a child. More
curious than frightened, she would tell her mother about the experience and ask
for explanations her mother could not give.
Joya could still
recall the way deep frown lines appeared upon her mother’s brow whenever she
tried to explain about the other girl who was her and yet was not her.
"Do not dwell on
such things, child,” her mother, Clara, would always say. "Dreams are only
that. They aren’t real.” Then her lovely mother would smile, but the smile
would never reach her eyes. Afterward, Joya would feel more confused than
ever.
Eventually, she
took up sketching, using bits of charcoal and odd pieces of paper, bark cloth,
whatever she could find, as she wrestled with the images in an effort to
understand. At first the drawings were only the scribbles of a child. As she
grew, she amazed her parents with her skill, but they believed that the girl
portrayed in the sketches was Joya herself.
Only she knew
differently. The young woman in her drawings looked like her, but was
definitely not her. She knew that as well as she knew the names of all the
shimmering, rainbow-hued fish in the lagoon and the orchids on the hillsides.
Drawing what she dreamed about sometimes left her feeling even more adrift
than ever.
One day she had called upon Otakgi, the oldest, wisest man on Matarenga, the man her father called a
witch doctor. From what little she knew of either, Otakgi was neither a witch
nor a doctor. He was a man of magic, a healer, keeper of Matarengi legends and
age-old tribal lore. Even when she had been a young girl with a head full of
strange dreams and a heart full of questions, even then he had seemed ancient.
Otakgi’s skin
was blue-black, thin and wrinkled, as withered as the dried blossoms of the
flame tree. His hair was tightly braided with colorful beads among the woven
strands. He looked as old as the island itself, and it was whispered among the
natives that he was almost as old as Kibatante, as timeless as the turquoise
lagoon that surrounded Matarenga.
Alone, more
frightened of her dreams than of the old man, she had slipped into the shadowy
interior of his small fadu, a native dwelling made of coconut fronds and
bamboo. He was seated cross-legged on a tightly woven mat of pandanus, staring
through the open door, toward the reef and beyond.
She sat in
silence and tried not to wiggle until he came out of his trance, looked over,
and found her waiting.
"I have strange
dreams, Otakgi. Dreams of myself and not myself. I am very confused.” She spoke
in Matarengi, a language she knew as well as, or better than, English.
She was forced
to remain still, even though it was a while before he looked at her again. When
he did, his eyes burned like hot black obsidian. He stared through her, as if
she had no more substance than smoke. When he finally spoke, his voice reminded
her of the rustling of the leaves when the Kusi trade winds blew gently over
the land. He raised both hands, palms up. His long fingers, gnarled with age,
lifted skyward.
"It will be
many, many seasons yet before you know the meaning of these dreams. Do not be
frightened, even if they seem strange, for one day you will find your other
self. You will know the secret of this second spirit, the lost spirit of your
soul.”
When he paused,
silent again, she was afraid that he would say no more, that she would be no
wiser, no more satisfied than when she had entered the fadu.
But the old man
eventually stirred. He hummed quietly to himself and rocked back and forth on
his bare, bony buttocks.
"There is no
need to fear,” he had said, louder now, his voice firm, as if trying to impress
her with the truth. "Be patient.”
And so, as the
years passed, she continued dreaming and drawing and trying to be patient. She
locked her questions away rather than make her lovely mama frown. Her papa, who
had always worked so hard exploring the uncharted interior of the island for
new orchids, certainly had no time for questions.
She had endured
until one day she discovered she was no longer a child, but a woman—and everything
changed. She was no longer allowed to go half naked, like her Matarengi
friends. Soon, none of the young men, save Umbaba, would speak directly to her.
Slowly, she began to feel more and more isolated.
She went to her
parents and begged them to take her to England, to let her experience life off
of the island. Since she could not live a full life as a Matarengi, she wanted
to live among her own kind for a while. They gently refused her outright, but
then debated in hushed whispers behind their bedroom door.
Not long
afterward, her mother died.
Months eased
into years. She tried to lose herself, her questions, her needs, in her work
with the orchids, but late at night, she was forced to battle her aching
loneliness.
Perhaps, if she
could get to London, she would not only find that part of her she felt was
missing, but even meet a suitable man who would find her desirable, someone who
would want her enough to marry her.
She had not
argued with her father about leaving Matarenga in a good while, but today,
almost as if the Kusi winds were charged with change, as if her skin no longer
fit, Joya found herself thinking about what Otakgi had said to her so long ago:"One day you will find your other self.” She was determined to leave the
island. She would demand that her father make some arrangements to send her
along when the boat came to pick up the orchids. She would make her demands
when they returned home from the hunt.
Suddenly, the
ground began to tremble. Her hand closed around the orchid plant as rocks began
to tumble down the mountainside. She was grazed by flying gravel. The Matarengi
became frightened. They shouted to each other, and to her, to take cover.
Kibatante was
stirring. The god of the mountain, keeper of the island, was disturbed.
Chapter Two
I’LL BE DAMNED if I die now. Not when
I’m so close.
Dangling high
above the valley floor, Trevor Mandeville clung with bare, muddied hands to the
twisted, exposed root of a jacaranda tree. The gnarled root was his lifeline,
his only hope.
He cursed and
prayed that it would hold his weight until he was safe on solid ground, until
the idea that he could fail became a memory and the reality that he was mortal
had faded back into his subconscious.
The muscles in
his back and arms screamed as he strained to save himself. A heavy pack on his
back weighed him down. His rifle swayed from the strap over his shoulder and
slapped him in the side. His face was inches from the scarred, loose earth of
the mountainside.
He spat at the
dirt, cursed fate, then himself, and even Dustin Penn, the man he had journeyed
halfway around the world to find. He closed his eyes, imagined staring Death in
the face. Skeletal, hollow-eyed, the Grim Reaper tempted him to ease the
muscles burning in his arms and shoulders.
"Let go,” Death whispered, urging him to give up,
to feel the cool wind rush past him as he
floated through the abyss, down, down through the tangled canopy of
treetops that hid the valley floor.
He was raised
never to leave a job unfinished, never to walk away from responsibility. His
sister, Janelle, had accompanied him to Africa. She was awaiting him off the
mainland coast, on Zanzibar. He refused to abandon her on foreign soil.
So Trevor clung
tighter, strained harder. Pulling himself up hand over hand, he fought for a
toehold in the crumbling earth. Death was something he would not even consider
in this instance, for death meant failure. He always did everything in his
power to avoid failure.
An hour ago, as
he was hiking a barely discernible jungle trail no wider than his shoulders, a
cloud of heavy gray mist had taken him by surprise. Fog settled in,
camouflaging the landscape. Thick as rain, it rendered the trail dangerously
slick.
Around midday he
had stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and shoved it into the top of his pack,
and so when he fell, his skin was scraped by the rough stones embedded in the
mountainside. Now his bare chest, scratched and bleeding, stung.
Sweat mingled
with dampness from the fog trickled down his spine. His knee-high leather gaiters
were covered with trail mud, their crossed laces caked with it. His khaki pants
were filthy and torn, the toes of his leather shoes scratched from kicking the
mountainside.
In the heavy
mist, looming palms and acacia trees around him became hulking dark shapes.
Their leaves swayed with the rhythm of the trade wind. Green parrots dived and
squawked, taunting him. Howler monkeys screamed with the shrill sound of
demented laughter.
Again, Death
whispered in his ear, "Just let go.”
A coarse sound
burst from Trevor’s throat, one that might have sounded like a laugh, but was
really a shout of defiance. It echoed against the face of the mountain and
carried to the treetops.
Failure was not
an option. The jungles of the world were already littered with the bones of
hapless Englishmen who had lost their lives for their orchid-crazed patrons.
Hunters had drowned, been lost or murdered, or fallen to their deaths—men who
loved to gamble, men of adventure willing to die while searching for beautiful
flowers in terrible places, to discover rare, exotic plants that would grace
some wealthy aristocrat’s home.
Sweat slipped
into his eyes and made him blink. He tightened his grip. Hand over hand, Trevor
heaved himself upward, using the rough, twisted root to bring him even with the
raw, broken edge of the trail. Gritting his teeth, he swung side to side like a
pendulum until he dared to let go and grab for a place to land.
He hit the edge
and clung. Before he started to slip again, he quickly scooted his upper body
along with his elbows and forearms, grunting with effort as he dragged himself
along, kicking with his legs. Soon he propelled himself to a secure patch of
smooth, level ground.
Not until he
drew his legs up and crawled a few feet away from the precipice did he allow
himself to breathe. His heartbeat was ragged and wild.
A pair of noisy
red-beaked parrots swooped down for a closer look. Beneath him, the earth
trembled again, but gently this time, as if settling into place.
His
hands shook. He took off his sun helmet, wiped his brow with his forearm,
replaced the headgear, and then adjusted the rifle strap. Unfastening the
canteen at his waist, he took a long pull of water. As his breath settled into
an even cadence, Trevor scanned the sky and tried to see the sun through the
tangle of branches and leaves that canopied the trail.
There
was no indication it might burn through the fog before nightfall. If he did
not start walking again soon, darkness would catch him on the side of the
mountain and he would be forced to either bed down there or crawl along the
narrow path on hands and knees, feeling his way out.
Pushing
himself to his feet, he ignored the swell of weakness in his legs. Resettling
his rifle strap, he took note of the superficial scratches on his chest and
arms. His right cheek stung. He touched it and his fingers came away smeared
with blood.
Starting
out again, he concentrated on the trail, searching for any sign of weakness in
the earth. Around the bend, where the mountainside was less eroded, he came
upon crude steps set into the downhill slope. Flat rocks had been buried in the
earth to form stepping-stones. He experienced a surge of relief when hiking
became easier.
Every
few yards, he could make out an outline of a boot print amid scattered prints
of bare feet in the thick mud along the side of the trail. Trevor smiled with
satisfaction. The shock of his close call slowly ebbed, soothed by the promise
of success. Months of relentless work could finally yield the desired result.
By nightfall, he could actually come face to face with Dustin Penn, the world’s
most elusive and most renowned orchid hunter.
For
years Penn had been shipping notable quantities of rare and unusual finds to
London from different ports in Africa, while somehow keeping his whereabouts a
secret. Over the last twenty years, Penn’s reputation as well as the mystery
surrounding him had grown.
In
the highly competitive business of orchid hunting, hiding the locations of
one’s finds was perfectly normal. An amateur orchidologist and part-time hunter
himself, Trevor kept meticulous notes and maps that he shared with no one. But hiding from the world, as Penn had done,was not the norm.
Unconsciously,
his hand smoothed the butt of his rifle as he wondered how Penn would react to
discovery. Would the man resort to violence to keep his whereabouts secret? Had
he become a deranged recluse? How would he react when surprised?
As
for himself, Trevor hated surprises. He always took great pains to make certain
his own life was well ordered, that he consistently stayed on schedule.
Everything that he could control always went according to plan.
He had learned
at his grandmother’s knee that strict routine was necessary to success and
that discipline kept one’s life from falling into chaos. He was well prepared
to face Penn and whatever challenges came with finding him. Hopefully, there
would be no surprises.
Although he had
never set foot on Matarenga before, Trevor had often trekked over similar
ground. If he had learned one thing, it was that jungles were filthy, humid,
primeval places where nothing was easy or predictable and a man was never
entirely safe. Still, he never felt as fully alive as he did whenever he was on
a hunt. Perhaps it was the challenge of the very unpredictability of the
jungle that attracted him.
He often thought
that if it were not for his responsibilities to Mandeville Imports, to his
grandmother and his family name, he would choose to spend all his time hunting
orchids in the far corners of the world.
Dusk had poured
shadows between the trees by the time Trevor had reached the valley floor. The
air was thick enough to drink, close and stagnant. Moss grew on the trees, as
did many epiphytic vines and plants that eventually destroyed their hosts.
It was too dark
to see the trail now, but the scent of wood smoke had begun to beckon him. He
had slipped his shirt on and left it hanging open until he could clean his
wounds. Beneath the cuts and bruises, his heart raced with excitement. He
hacked away at the undergrowth with his machete until he could see firelight
flickering through the trees.
Caution was of
the utmost importance now, so he moved with stealth. As he edged closer to the
light, he slipped his rifle off his shoulder. Primed and loaded, it would give
him only one shot. Then, if attacked, he would be forced to fight hand to hand
until the end.
He had never
killed another human being before. He did not relish the prospect of doing so
now, but he would fire in self-defense if he had to. After what had happened on
the trail, he was determined Death would have to work very hard to claim him.
Shoving aside a
thick vine that blocked his line of vision, Trevor recoiled when his fingers
touched the cool, dry skin of a huge snake as thick as his biceps. Face to face
with the reptile, he watched its tongue flicker and its eyes close down to
slits. It seemed suspended in air as it hung inches from his face until,
without a sound, it slithered down the trunk of the tree and away.
He crouched low
and focused on the small, nearly circular clearing ahead of him. A low fire
glowed in the center of the encampment. Two small tents had been pitched off to
one side.
Three male
natives hunkered by the fire while a few more worked together on the far edge
of the fire’s light. Trevor let go a soft sigh of satisfaction when one of the
men moved to reveal a tall packing crate. Further stirring in the group gave
him a clear view of three large barrels. Piles of dried moss and coconut husk,
packing material for orchid shipments, were heaped on the ground at their
feet.
Trevor’s gaze
shot around the camp. If not Penn, then someone else was hunting orchids here.
Firelight shimmered on slick, green leaves knitted into a backdrop. To the
right he heard rushing water. Trevor wiped sweat from his brow as he studied
the shadowed jungle landscape, recalling the topography of the last few yards
so that he could commit them to paper when he logged his notes.
Suddenly his
eyes picked up flashes of white against the dark foliage. It was a moment
before he realized that what he was seeing was not reflected firelight, but
thousands of stark white orchid blossoms scattered like countless stars
against the dark backdrop of jungle growth.
His breath left
him in a rush.
Not only did he
hunt and import orchids, but he had inherited his father’s extensive
collection. He knew the breathtaking beauty of one single bloom, but nothing he
had ever seen before could compare to the sight of hundreds of orchid blossoms
exploding across the hillside.
A deep, gravelly
laugh diverted his attention. There was movement in the camp. One of the natives called to another, then all of them
laughed, sharing some joke in their own language.
A white man,
illuminated by the firelight, stepped out of one of the tents. Tall, broad-shouldered,
with a full head of long white hair, he looked about the right age to be
Penn—somewhere between forty-five and fifty. He wore no sun helmet. His shirt
was linen, stained down the front; his pants, muddied khaki, were tucked into
worn gaiters. His fist was wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle. Three
gold earrings dangled from his earlobe to flash in the firelight’s glow.
The orchid
hunter was unarmed. He spoke to one of his men, then laughed boisterously
again, secure in the false belief that they were alone.
Trevor reminded
himself to be calm, clear, concise. He would show no threat. He straightened to
full height. Every muscle protested. He slipped his rifle strap off, pointing
the barrel down. He had traveled halfway round the world for this moment. He
would introduce himself, then present his proposition to Penn.
He
stepped out of the shadows into the shimmering ring of the campfire’s glow and
watched as the man across the fire froze stock still and stared back at him in
shock.
"Are
you Dustin Penn?” Trevor called out.
The
native bearers around the fire jumped to their feet. Those near the packing
crate swung around. In their own tongue, they murmured among themselves. Their
dark eyes shifted to the man .he assumed to be Dustin Penn, and then back to
him. The Matarengi were tense, ready, awaiting Penn’s orders.
Trevor
knew he was already a dead man if Penn wanted him dead. He tightened his grip
on the rifle.
"Who
wants to know?” the orchid hunter shouted back.
Penn,
if it was Penn, had not moved a muscle, although he appeared less guarded than
his men. His voice was rough as the rocky mountainside, his bulk more muscle
than fat. In sharp contrast to his shoulder-length white hair, his skin was
bronze, sun-damaged, and leathered. His eyes were light blue and piercing.
"I’m
Trevor Mandeville. I’m from London.”
Everything
seemed to be going according to plan until one of the bearers beside the crate
shifted to his left. A young white woman stepped out from behind him into
Trevor’s line of vision and walked into the clearing.
"And
I’ve come to—” Trevor’s gaze touched upon the girl and he was arrested. He
could not take his eyes off her. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the
orchid hunter demanding answers, but for the life of him, he could do nothing
but stare at the young woman across the campsite.
Medium
height. Round blue eyes, clear as a mountain lake. Bracketed by deep dimples
was an evenly drawn, pouting mouth, the lower lip slightly fuller than the
upper. Her long hair was blond, thick, tangled, and untamed. Her clear skin had
seen much sun, but she was not as darkly suntanned as her father. Her cheeks
were radiant.
He
was shocked when he realized that not only was she wearing shin-length
trousers, but her shirt was tied below her full breasts, leaving nothing to the
imagination. Her midriff was bare and trim, her navel exposed. She was not
soft, but sleek and finely sculpted, her flesh golden tan.
"Who
in the hell are you, sir?” The
man was yelling at him now.
The
girl quickly crossed the clearing and stood beside the man. Up close, her
features were even more remarkable. Hers was a face Trevor knew as well as his
own. Suddenly, he found his voice.
"Janelle?”
