“Where have you been?”
“Oh!” Caralyn jumped and tightened her grip on the handles of her valise.
Her brother sat in a chair beside the grandfather clock in the great hall. The single lamp above his head created a halo of sorts and highlighted the abundant grey, which streaked his light brown hair.
Charles, her senior by only five years, but in attitude and thought, so much older, glared at her with obvious annoyance. He rose from his seat and stalked toward her, the echo of his hard-soled shoes on the marble tile reminiscent of a death knell. A white ring formed around his mouth as his lips pressed together in anger and color suffused his usually pale cheeks. “No, don’t tell me. You’ve been down to the docks. Again. Without Mrs. Beasley to accompany you.” His nose wrinkled. “I can smell you from here.”
Caralyn said nothing as he drew closer and stood within arm’s reach. He towered over her, as did most people, and glared at her. Her gaze rose to his face—his angry face—and she drew in a deep breath. It wouldn’t be unexpected for him to reach out and slap her. She’d seen him do it to his own children. She’d also seen the fear in their eyes and wondered what had happened to the carefree young man she had once idolized.
“When I said you could stay with me, I expected you to obey the rules of this house, not traipse all over Charleston in the middle of the night.” His brows drew into a frown and his breath wheezed in and out of his lungs. “I am responsible for your safety, though God knows it’s a thankless, impossible task.”
Caralyn ignored his words and pasted a smile on her face. “Not to worry, brother dear. My plans have changed and you will no longer be responsible for my protection. I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.” Just to be flippant, she added, “To plan my wedding.”
His expression changed and his features softened. The white ring of anger around his mouth disappeared, as did the glare in his icy blue eyes. He looked once more like the brother she adored.
“Good. It’s about time you came to your senses. I agree with Father. You are twenty-four years old. You should be married.” He pointed a finger at her and shook it in her face. “Perhaps a husband and children can turn you into a proper lady, not the hoyden you’ve become. Father spoiled you overmuch, I think, letting you run around in boy’s trousers and sail with him on the Lady Elizabeth. Marriage will change that.”
His barbed words stung and tears blurred her vision. Caralyn swallowed against the growing lump in her throat and fought back the only way she knew how—with sharp words.
“Is that what happened to you?” She drew herself up to her full height of five foot one. Shoulders back, chin lifted, she returned his unrelenting glare. “Marriage changed you from the sweet, funny boy who used to lift me up on his shoulders to the cruel, tired, unhappy man I see before me.”
Charles opened his mouth but she interrupted him before he could utter a word, even as redness crept up his face, in spite of his rigid stance and balled fists.
“If this is what marriage is—” She paused and struggled for composure. “Then I don’t want any part of it, Charles. Your poor wife. I feel sorry for Vanessa. All she does is try to please you and what does she get for her trouble? You, snapping at her. I’ve seen you make her cry with just a look.”
She continued, giving voice to the opinions she had formed over the past few years. “You’re the same with your children. They, too, do everything in their power to make you happy and they get the same treatment from you. When was the last time you told Vanessa you loved her? When was the last time you spent the day with your sons? Or hugged your daughters?”
“How dare you criticize me when you have no idea what my life is like,” Charles bellowed. His voice shook the rafters and echoed down the long hallway. Even the crystal chandelier overhead tinkled with the vibration.
“I’ll dare a whole lot more, brother dear.” With angry tears blurring her vision, she stood up to him. “At one time, you were in love with Vanessa. What happened? Is it too hard to be a kind, gentle husband? Are the obligations of fatherhood too much for you?” She reached out and laid her hand on his arm. His muscles were tense beneath her fingertips. “The first year you were married, I saw such happiness, but now, I see resentment and anger. I don’t want that to happen to me.”
Her fingers smoothed the muscle throbbing in his cheek and her voice softened. “I want a marriage like Mama and Papa’s. I want to still be in love after thirty years. Don’t you want the same?” She removed her hand from his face and turned, striding purposefully down the hallway, hopefully leaving her brother with much to consider.
She stopped on the first landing and concentrated on breathing. One obstacle managed. Now all she had to do was make it to her room without running into Mrs. Beasley, the very suitable companion her brother had hired the day after she’d arrived in Charleston alone, having traveled from St. Lucia by herself.
Since then, Caralyn had found imaginative ways to become separated from the prim widow who insisted on accompanying her everywhere she went and imparting lessons on how to be a proper lady.
No lights appeared beneath Mrs. Beasley’s door. Caralyn forced herself to tiptoe past, just in case the woman was lying in wait as she had done on other occasions.
Smudge met Caralyn at the door to her room on the third floor, her meow of welcome making her long whiskers twitch. The cat circled then rubbed her body against the hem of her gown. Caralyn laid her valise on the small table beside the door, picked up the cat, and cuddled her next to her chest. She smoothed her chin along the feline’s soft fur as her fingers scratched the patch of white between the black ears. Smudge’s eyes closed as she purred.
“Are you ready for a great adventure, Smudge?” The cat purred louder and moved her head so Caralyn could rub the perfect spot.
As she scratched the cat’s head, she looked around her room and frowned. Her nieces and nephews had been in here, she knew. And they’d left a mess.
The jar of cream she used on her hands was left open. Gobs of the thick salve coated the handles of her brush and comb, and face powder was sprinkled on every available surface of the vanity. Greasy little fingerprints smudged the mirror. Hair ribbons created a colorful rainbow on the floor amid her shiny hairpins.
The armoire doors gaped open to reveal—nothing. Her gowns were scattered on chairs, on the bed, on the floor. One shoe peeked out from beneath the bed, the other unseen.
The cat leapt from her arms and jumped on the bed to stretch out alongside a bump under the quilt, and blink her big yellow eyes.
Caralyn grinned. She couldn’t help it. One of the culprits was still here. Four-year-old Elizabeth, named for Caralyn’s mother, snuggled beneath the coverlet, her light brown curls spread out on the pillow. She wore one of Caralyn’s nightgowns, its frilly lace collar hiding her slim neck, and clutched a bright yellow ribbon in one hand. White powder dusted her cheeks and forehead. She slept as only the young did―full of peace, exhausted from a day of chasing her older siblings and getting into mischief. Her long eyelashes fluttered on her cheek while she sucked her thumb.
Caralyn sighed as she arranged the quilt around the child’s shoulders and wiped some of the powder from her face. “Betsy” murmured around her thumb and burrowed deeper into the bed, but did not awaken.
Out of all her nieces and nephews, Betsy was her favorite, the one who reminded her of herself the most. She would miss this girl.
“Sleep, my angel.” Caralyn kissed Betsy’s forehead then removed the ribbon from her hand. “Tomorrow brings another grand adventure.”
She straightened and adjusted the blanket once more, almost hiding the girl’s angelic face. Caralyn grinned. “If you’re an angel, we must do something about those horns.” She resisted the urge to chuckle as she set about cleaning the mischief her nieces and nephews had created in her room.
Finished, she washed her face, slipped into a nightgown, and then rubbed cream into her han
ds. As she slid beneath the covers, Caralyn cuddled up to her niece and closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her for a long time.
The ugly scene where her father broke his promise to her and announced that she would be married replayed in her mind. Her reaction had been less than mature; it embarrassed her now. She had cried and begged to be released from the agreement he’d made, and when he denied her, she had run to her room, locking herself in, refusing to speak with him, even after he mentioned through her closed door that she might be able to buy her freedom. To this day, she could only remember that she was to marry the son of the Earl of Winterbourne and where she was to go in London to marry him.
Her throat constricted and tears stung her eyes. She regretted making her mother worry, but she’d been so angry, felt so betrayed that she hadn’t cared when she’d left a note and then boarded the first ship for America she could find.
Despite her father’s now broken promise that she could marry a man she loved, despite everything, she did not regret the adventure about to begin. Excitement churned through her veins. When she did finally fall asleep, it was to dream of a fortune in treasure and the handsome man who would help her find it.
Chapter 3
Thaddeus “Porkchop” Bing snuck out of the Salty Dog and scurried through Charleston as fast as his bowed legs and over-large breeches would carry him. Filled with excitement, he could hardly contain himself and grinned like the idiot his crewmates often accused him of being.
Captain Entwhistle would be very pleased by the news he couldn’t wait to impart. He rubbed his hands together then reached down to pull up his trousers, which threatened to puddle around his ankles. Not for the first time this night, he admonished himself for not having the foresight to wear a belt, or at least a length of rope to keep his pants up.
The Explorer waited, not in Charleston Harbor proper, but a short distance away by rowboat. This positioning was no accident as Captain Entwhistle preferred to keep his whereabouts unknown until he chose differently.
With a sigh, Porkchop climbed into the small dinghy, picked up the oars, and began to row. In no time at all, his breath came in short gasps and his muscles trembled with exertion, but he didn’t pause until he reached his destination and the rowboat bumped against the side of the ship.
“Who goes there? Announce yerself!” a surly voice yelled from the deck.
“Shut yer rotten mouth, ye scurvy scum,” Porkchop mumbled under his breath. “It’s me, Porkchop,” he called.
He maneuvered the boat toward the rope ladder hanging over the side of the two-masted schooner then climbed aboard. His shipmate didn’t offer a hand in assistance, but Porkchop didn’t mind. He wouldn’t have offered a hand either. That was just the way of it aboard the Explorer. More scavengers than treasure hunters, each man on this ship looked out for himself and himself only. Loyalty belonged to one man—Wynton Entwhistle, the man who kept gold in their pockets, though not as much as Captain Trey kept in those of his men.
“Is the captain here?”
“Where ye think he be?” Johnny Campbell snarled and lowered the lantern in his hand. “Buggerin’ idjit, ’course he’s aboard.”
Porkchop ignored the nasty jibe and stomped across the deck. He stopped long enough to tug at his trousers then knocked on the captain’s door.
“Yes?”
As Porkchop swung the door open, the quill in Captain Entwhistle’s hand paused in mid-air over the map spread out on the desk. Covered in tiny tick marks, the edges of the parchment curled and threatened to roll into one long tube. The captain looked up but did not rise from his chair. His eyes narrowed and his face took on a reddish hue, which Porkchop could see quite clearly in the glow of candlelight.
Porkchop swallowed hard and after a moment’s hesitation, announced, “He’s goin’ after Izzy’s Fortune.” He kept one hand on the doorknob, the other held up his trousers. “Jes’ like ye said, Cap’n.”
“When does he leave?”
“Four days.” Porkchop glanced around the captain’s cabin and compared his own meager living quarters with the opulence before him. Teak paneled the walls here, and the bunk contained a real feather mattress, while he slept in a hammock strung between the ship’s side and a large wooden column, his worldly possessions stowed in a locked box below his makeshift bed. Jealousy surged within him, but only for a moment.
If nothing else, Porkchop knew his limitations. He knew he wasn’t smart or savvy enough to command his own ship, although he often dreamed of such. There wasn’t a man alive who would take orders from Captain Porkchop. He swallowed his disappointment and said, “Least-wise, that’s what I heard ’im tell his man.”
The captain grinned but Porkchop wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t a good smile and only meant one thing. He and his shipmates would get no rest, and they surely deserved a rest after the weeks they’d spent following the Adventurer and Captain Trey. Even in Porkchop’s limited experience, he knew the Explorer could never match the Adventurer’s speed. To add to their misfortune, they hadn’t been able to outrun the sudden storm that almost capsized the ship. By the time they’d caught up, Captain Trey had already claimed the treasure as his own, much to Captain Entwhistle’s fury.
Porkchop and the rest of the crew had no choice but to watch as the booty was loaded onto the other ship while Entwhistle cursed Captain Trey’s luck. At the time, he had been afraid the captain would order them to board the Adventurer and take the treasure for themselves.
Entwhistle stood and began to pace the confines of his cabin, the plume of the quill fluttering in the breeze of his own creation. “Did you happen to hear the course they’re setting?”
“No, sir.”
“No matter. We’ll be waiting for them when they leave port.” He stopped pacing long enough to look out the small window. “Gather the crew. I want everyone back on board before dawn.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Porkchop backed out of the room and closed the door. He heard the snick of the lock slip into place, tugged at the waistband of his trousers, and quickly obeyed the captain’s orders. He knew the penalty awaiting him if he did not. Captain Entwhistle was not above keelhauling a man if his orders were not carried out with the utmost speed.
As he climbed down the rope ladder, he realized he’d forgotten to impart the most important news—Captain Trey’s impending marriage. He shook his head, debated with himself, and decided that tomorrow morning would be soon enough to tell Captain Entwhistle.
Chapter 4
Tristan stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, and breathed in the salt air.
“What have you done, Father?” He spoke the words aloud, knowing there would be no answer. His jaw clenched as resentment toward his father and his still unnamed bride—Gilchrist had left town before he could ascertain that information—made his stomach bubble with bitterness.
He exhaled his pent-up breath as he studied the sunlight shimmering on the water and forced himself to relax. His jaw unclenched. The burning in his stomach eased.
Unbidden, the image of Miss McCreigh popped into his mind and made the corners of his mouth twitch. Miss McCreigh’s eyes sparkled like the rays of the sun on the rippling ocean. And her smile—well, that could melt even the coldest man’s heart.
From the moment he met the lovely Miss McCreigh, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The battle he waged within himself had no end—promised to one but attracted to another. The thought of her made him as giddy as a young boy, and yet he knew he shouldn’t be thinking of her in such a way, even though she did have marvelous eyes, and they did twinkle brighter than the stars in a black velvet night.
He shook his head, chuckled with the irony of the situation, and moved toward his desk. I am most decidedly mad and belong in Bedlam!
Still, he couldn’t help but be impressed by Miss McCreigh. She certainly knew how to stock a ship for a journey. All morning, a steady stream of supplies had arrived. Angus MacTavish shouted orders and the men rushed to obey as no one
wanted to rile Mac’s ire. The quartermaster had a legendary temper. His tongue-lashings had scarred men for life.
Kegs of water, barrels of flour and oats filled the hold, enough for a good, long journey, although Tristan did wonder how many men Miss McCreigh thought she’d be feeding and if she didn’t know they’d be putting into port often.
A small ship by most standards, the Adventurer was built for speed and her crew numbered only twenty-four, not including his officers or Jemmy.
Chickens squawked and if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he heard the plaintive bleating of a goat. His grin widened. They’d have fresh milk. Bright yellow bananas, scarlet apples, and other colorful fruit filled several wooden boxes and kept company beside sacks of potatoes and rice. Coffee beans and small tins of tea had been packed in the galley. Crates of wine and other spirits were delivered, too, packed in such a way as to survive even the worst of storms. Beef and ham, smoked and packed in finely ground charcoal, rested beneath sausage links suspended from hooks in the ceiling.
No detail went unnoticed. She’d even thought of cords of wood for the stove in the galley and a small, brass hipbath.
Though he hadn’t seen her since the night he’d found her on his ship, he’d heard from her in the form of short notes written in her beautiful penmanship, all scented with her unique perfume. Her maps had been delivered the day after they’d met and he’d studied them—to his utter frustration. He compared hers to his, making tick marks on the islands already searched, but no matter how long he stared at said maps, he couldn’t find the Island of the Sleeping Man. It simply did not exist.
Izzy’s Fortune. If the island didn’t exist, then perhaps the treasure didn’t either. And yet, he still believed. He’d seen the jewel encrusted goblet, hadn’t he?
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