Page 5 of Desert Island Duke

Caro shielded her eyes and could just make out an answering wave from one of the little figures on the shore.

“If that’s my father, I can guarantee he’s got a spyglass trained on us right now.”

Hayworth stretched his hand out to pull her up from the sand. “In that case, I’ll be on my very best behavior.”

Her stomach flipped as his large fingers enfolded hers, and she struggled gamely to her feet. He brushed a small avalanche of sand from his thighs and turned to survey the lush forest that ringed the perfect crescent of beach.

A series of tree-covered slopes rose steeply toward the center of the island, and Caro sent up a prayer of thanks that they weren’t on a windswept, treeless speck of land no bigger than a handkerchief.

“Look at this place. It’s paradise.” He gestured at the foliage. “I see coconuts, and we can fish in the sea. All we need is a source of fresh water and some shelter, and we’ll be able to survive here for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Caro gaped. “We won’t need to survive for weeks. People will come looking for us as soon as they realize the Artemis is overdue in Cape Town.”

Hayworth raised his brows. “I bet we were blown off course. You said we were on our way from Madagascar?”

Caro nodded. “I heard Captain Thomas say we were being pushed north, towards the Seychelles.”

“Well, there are hundreds of islands dotted about in these waters. Unless some local fisherman happens upon us, it really could take weeks for us to be found. We should hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”

“Dear God,” Caro muttered, appalled. This wasn’t Paradise; it was Purgatory.

Hayworth, however, seemed remarkably upbeat about the prospect of being stranded. Perhaps he really had taken a blow to the head. He strode purposely off across the beach, his long legs eating up the distance. “Come on, we need to get out of the sun.”

Since there was nothing else to do, Caro followed him, trying not to notice the way his fawn breeches clung to his long legs.

As soon as they reached the shade of the coconut palms, he turned back to her. “Right. First things first. We need water, fire, and shelter.”

“Agreed. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to make camp, you know. I spent several months in the rainforests of Brazil, before we sailed to Madagascar.”

Of course, in Brazil she’d had the support of her family and a small army of local helpers, but there was no way she’d admit that to Hayworth. She might not have much practical experience, but she was confident in her own resourcefulness.

“How fortunate, to have been stranded with someone so perfect,” he said smoothly, and Caro narrowed her eyes, unsure whether he was being sarcastic or not.

“Between my time in the army,” he continued, “and your experience of living in all sorts of exciting places, we should make an excellent team.”

Caro gave an unconvinced sniff.

He spread his cravat over a nearby bush, then patted his sodden jacket. With a triumphant crow, he reached into a pocket and withdrew a brass object, about three inches long.

“Ha, look at this! A folding knife. Past Max was clearly a man of foresight.”

“You don’t remember putting it in your pocket?”

“No. But I do remember winning it from a rifleman in a game of cards in Portugal. It was just after Salamanca.”

“You remember your time as a soldier, four years ago, but not what happened last week?” Caro couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice.

Hayworth grinned. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to me eventually.”

Caro prayed that day came long after they’d both left this island. She was already regretting her impulsive fabrication. As soon as Hayworth remembered he was a duke, and not a groomsman, there would be hell to pay. He’d probably strangle her in fury—if this blasted island didn’t finish her off first.

He coaxed the small silver blade from the handle with a practiced flick of his thumbnail and held it up for her inspection.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, with a wicked smirk. “But size isn’t everything. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

Caro’s cheeks heated at his bawdy inference. She wasn’t so innocent as to misunderstand his meaning. Men loved embarrassing women by alluding to the size of their manly accoutrements. Considering Hayworth’s monumental confidence, she had little doubt that his own personal ‘blade’ was more than adequate. She made a concerted effort not to look down at the front of his breeches.

“It’s not going to be much good for cutting down trees,” she said briskly, “but it’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

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