Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “Please, Papa. I’ll keep up, I promise.” He crossed his heart with his finger. “I won’t get in the way. Please?”

  Who could resist the hope in those cornflower blue eyes? The crooked grin? Tristan was just as lost looking at his son as he was looking at Caralyn. He gave in. He couldn’t help himself. “All right, but only if you follow every one of my orders. Do I make myself clear?”

  The boy nodded with so much enthusiasm, he almost lost his balance. Tristan steadied him with a quick hand to his son’s shoulder. The grin Jemmy gave him melted his heart. Love swelled his chest.

  Tristan climbed down to one of the waiting boats first, grabbed a rope to steady himself, straddled the seat, and reached up for the next person while Mac did the same in the other dinghy.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asked as he grasped Caralyn around the waist and guided her to a seat.

  “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.” Her words were breathy, as if she’d run a great distance. Her eyes were wide and her smile faltered. A slight tremor raced through her, one he could feel. Tristan wondered if she could feel the same shiver race through him as he released her, although with a great deal of reluctance. She made herself comfortable next to Jemmy.

  Tristan settled himself and picked up the oars.

  “Now, Cap’n, ye know ye be doin’ my job.” Gawain Jacoby gestured to the oars in the captain’s hands.

  He thought about handing the paddles over to his crewman but knew he couldn’t. Not now, not after touching her and feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin clothing she wore. If he didn’t keep himself occupied, he’d want to touch her again. “Today, Mr. Jacoby, I shall row.” Tristan slapped the oars into the water and began to row.

  The small boat, even loaded with supplies, cut through the sea easily as they rounded the huge rock outcropping that formed the sleeping giant’s knees.

  The thunderous roar of the water as it fell unimpeded two hundred feet into the cove below drowned out conversation. Misty vapor created a rainbow more beautiful than he’d ever seen, the colors rich and vibrant. The sight took his breath away.

  Caralyn caught his attention as she pointed upward where the gaping maw of a cave opening dotted the sheer rock wall.

  “What?” Although he knew she spoke, he missed most of what she said in the rumbling torrent of gushing water. He rowed the boat past the cascading cataract and into an idyllic cove surrounded by lush vegetation and sandy white beaches.

  “How are we supposed to get up there?” she repeated, louder, and Tristan twisted in his seat to study the hole in the granite where the slumbering man’s heart would be. Unless they could scale perfectly smooth rock, they had to find another way. “There has to be another entrance to the cave. Otherwise, sunlight would not have been able to shine through it to guide us.”

  He stopped rowing for a moment and just took in the sight before him. There were several words Tristan could have used to describe the Island of the Sleeping Man. Perfect came to mind as did heavenly and peaceful, despite the cacophony of birdsong. Perhaps even magical and enchanted, as if the island could cast a spell over him and anyone else who dared to venture on the pristine shores.

  Tristan wasn’t the only one mesmerized by the tropical beauty. Caralyn pointed out some of the sights to Jemmy, her blue eyes twinkling, her mouth curved into a serene smile, her infectious laughter echoing off the rock walls surrounding the inlet. In that moment, he wanted to lay her down on the soft white sand and—

  He didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. Instead, he rowed again, the physical exertion a great distraction as he focused on bringing the boat to the middle of the cove. Tristan hopped into the warm, tranquil water and pulled the dinghy onto the sand beside the remains of what had once been a fire-pit. Scorched stones formed a semi-circle roughly three feet across, but he could tell there had been no fire in the pit for a long time. Along the tree line, someone had built crude shelters using the bounty of the island.

  He helped Caralyn and Jemmy from the boat then started to unpack the supplies with Graham and Gawain’s assistance.

  “Jemmy and I are going to explore,” Caralyn told him as she gestured to a grouping of huge boulders where the waterfall cascaded into the cove.

  “Stay within my sight. Jemmy, you listen to Miss Cara.”

  Caralyn held Jemmy’s hand as they scampered along the edge of the water, unconcerned her well-worn boots were becoming drenched. Tristan grinned as he watched her. For a moment, the smile on her face made her look as young and carefree as his son. Her laughter left him in no doubt she wasn’t a child. She was all woman, a soft, sensual, alluring woman who’d make a wonderful mother.

  The thought careened through his mind before he could stop it, and he shook himself free of the implications. What the hell am I thinking? One minute, I want to lay her in the sand, the next, I’m thinking what a wonderful mother she would be.

  With a sigh, he pulled his gaze from her and grabbed one of the canvas tents from the boat. He was just about to drop it on the sand when something made him stop. Gooseflesh rose on his arms and a cold shiver raced down his back. The fine hair at the back of his neck rose. Dried leaves crunched and crackled as if the sleeping giant had awakened and thrashed the forest in anger because his slumber had been disturbed. The piercing squawks of the birds died, replaced by a heavy silence. Tristan’s stomach clenched and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the area, looking for the source of his unease. He saw nothing. No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but the feeling of impending peril wouldn’t stop.

  He walked a few paces away from the boat and dropped the tent. Again, the rustling at the edge of the forest made him stop and take stock, but it wasn’t until he heard the strange, eerie grunting noise that his heart leapt into his throat.

  The rustling sound grew louder and the leaves closer to the edge of the forest shimmered and shook. Small saplings, just beginning their growth toward the sun, crashed to the ground, the sound deafening in the stillness of the cove. He glanced down the beach toward Caralyn and Jemmy. They didn’t hear what he heard, couldn’t have heard what he feared and yet, he didn’t even know what he feared. So far, there was just noise, but the din was enough to strike terror in his heart.

  He started running toward them while keeping an eye glued to where the sand ended and the thick copse of trees and ferns began, shouting orders to his men to get everyone back in the boats until the danger had passed. His heart pumped in his chest, but his blood ran cold as a feral pig burst through the foliage and thundered straight for Caralyn and his son. “Cara! Jemmy! Don’t move!”

  Caralyn stopped and turned. She waved at him, oblivious. It wasn’t until she started to twirl toward Jemmy that her eyes as well as her mouth opened wide as the animal raced closer to her. She didn’t scream, although Tristan wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.

  Her face lost all color and her body stiffened, but only for a moment. In a blink of an eye, she pushed Jemmy behind her then reached into the top of her boot and withdrew a wicked looking knife. The honed edge glinted in the sun.

  Amazed, his heart hammering in his chest, Tristan drew his pistol without stopping his run across the sand, took aim, and pulled the trigger at the same time Cara flung the knife toward the animal.

  The shot echoed within the small, protected cove, the sound bouncing off rock wall. Mrs. Beasley’s scream accompanied the panicked shouts of Dr. Trevelyan and Graham. Blood spurted where the bullet pierced the boar’s head and the pig squealed as the knife struck him between the eyes and buried itself halfway up to the hilt. The pig died instantly, yet the momentum of its breakneck speed kept the animal sliding in the sand before coming to rest a mere foot in front of Caralyn.

  A wave of relief washed through Tristan with such force, his limbs weakened and his muscles had the consistency of water, but still he made it to where Caralyn and Jemmy stood. He dropped to his knees in front of them and gathered them both close to
his heart. “Are you all right? You don’t know what I thought when I saw that boar coming straight for you.”

  He pulled away and inspected them both. Even though the swine had died before it even came close to them, Tristan still had to check, still had to reassure himself. He ran his hands down Jemmy’s arms, which proved to be next to impossible. The boy squirmed with excitement, his face animated, his hands moving as fast has his mouth.

  “Did you see it, Papa? Did you see what Miss Cara did with the knife? Did you?”

  “Yes, I saw.” Torn between awe and relief, Tristan raised his eyes and met Caralyn’s. Hers were wide and brilliant blue—no guile, no fear, but no pleasure or pride, either.

  “We’re all right,” she insisted and tilted her head when she spoke. She didn’t blink, didn’t turn away. “Truly. Just a little startled.”

  Though Caralyn insisted, Tristan heard the slight tremor in her voice. Indeed, the quaver echoed in the quaking of her body—or perhaps it was his body which quivered. “Stitch should take a look at you both. Just to make sure.”

  “It’s not necessary, Tristan.” She laid warm fingers on his arm and the tingle of her touch surged all the way to his rapidly beating heart. “The pig never came that close. We’re fine.” She lowered her voice. “Please, let’s just drop the subject. Neither Jemmy nor I are hurt. How could we be?”

  He should listen to her and drop the subject, he knew, and yet, he couldn’t. Tristan drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, but the simple action did nothing to ease his tension or the fear still raging through him. Caralyn didn’t understand how the thought of losing either one of them made his heart hurt. He glanced at his son, those big blue eyes wide and shiny, and realized Jemmy didn’t seem at all upset over the near miss with the swine. Indeed, the lad’s fascination over Caralyn’s knife throwing abilities surpassed any fear he might have harbored.

  Before he could utter another word, Stitch and Mrs. Beasley joined them at the water’s edge, as did Graham, Socrates, and the rest of the small group. The good doctor did a very cursory examination while Mrs. Beasley expressed an opinion or two, which for once, coincided with his own. With no cuts or scrapes or bruises, both Caralyn and Jemmy were pronounced perfect.

  As they walked back to the makeshift camp, Tristan placed Caralyn’s hand in the crook of his elbow. “Perhaps you should take Jemmy and Mrs. Beasley back to the Adventurer. It isn’t safe for you here. There may be more feral pigs.”

  She stopped and removed her hand from his arm. Tristan stopped as well and watched the physical change come over her with something akin to awe. The way she straightened her spine, threw her shoulders back and raised her chin struck a chord deep within him. He saw determination in the ramrod stiffness of her back, fortitude in her relentless stare, and persistence in the solid line of her mouth.

  “No, Captain, I will not go back to the ship. I’ve waited a lifetime to search for this treasure. Neither you nor a wild boar will stop me.”

  “You realize, as captain, I can order you to return. Indeed, I can have you locked in your cabin for the entire journey. For your own good.”

  The blueness of Caralyn’s eyes darkened until they became the color of a storm-tossed sea. Unshed tears shimmered in their depths. Her chin and lower lip quivered as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You wouldn’t be that cruel.”

  No, he wouldn’t be that cruel. He couldn’t, not when she stood before him, unafraid and defiant and fighting back the threatening tears. The tricorn hat, tilted at a jaunty angle, and her attitude reminded him of Jemmy.

  They stood not more than a foot apart, their eyes only on each other. The rest of the world could have disappeared. Tristan knew stubbornness, tenaciousness, and perseverance when he saw them and looking at her, right now, right this moment, he saw all those qualities. They were instilled as deeply in her as they were in himself.

  He tilted his head slightly and silently admitted she’d won this battle. Caralyn accepted her win with grace.

  Socrates came up along side them, dragging the dead boar, the muscles in his arms bulging. Sweat glistened on his brow. “He’s a big one, Captain.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Callahan. Tonight, we feast.” Tristan grabbed both Caralyn and Jemmy by the hand and continued on to the small boats beside the fire-pit, right behind Socrates and their future dinner. “Mr. Jacoby, go back to the ship and bring the rest of the men. Ask for volunteers to stay with the Adventurer, but let them know they’ll not miss out on the fresh meat. Mac, please start a fire. Graham, Stitch, and I will finish putting up the tents. Socrates, I assume you’ll take care of preparing the meat until Hash arrives?”

  Once the men rushed to follow his orders, he turned toward Caralyn. “I could use a bit of brandy. How about you?” He pulled the flask from the boat, untwisted the top, and handed it to her. Caralyn tipped the silver bottle, but only took a small sip, as if her nerves didn’t need steadying. She handed the flask back to him then started to walk away. “Where are you going? You should stay close to the boats, close to us.”

  Caralyn said nothing although she did turn toward him, her smile as infectious as ever. She slipped her hand into Jemmy’s, as if daring Tristan to physically stop her. At the last moment, she changed direction and sat beside Mrs. Beasley on a blanket on the soft sand.

  “She is the most stubborn, most inflexible—”

  “Recognize yourself, do you?” Graham asked as he pulled another tent from the boat.

  Tristan twisted to stare at his friend, saw the grin spreading Graham’s lips, then finally smiled himself. “I’m not at all stubborn.”

  Graham cocked an eyebrow, smile still firmly in place, but only mumbled, “Of course. You don’t have a stubborn bone in your body. Right, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Alcott. Not the captain. Ain’t no stubbornness here,” Socrates agreed.

  “What are you talking about?” Stitch asked as he grabbed the sack Hash had so thoughtfully prepared.

  Voice on the edge of laughter, Graham replied, “We were just commenting on the fact the captain doesn’t have a stubborn bone in his body.”

  Stitch’s eyebrows shot upward and dimples appeared in his cheek as he grinned. “Indeed. I quite agree. Not one persistent, mulish, tenacious bone. For some, perseverance is an excellent trait. For others, that same quality just causes trouble.” The doctor’s gaze drifted toward the blanket.

  Tristan ignored Stitch’s comments as well as Graham’s hearty chuckles. He glanced in Caralyn’s direction, not only to assure himself of her safety, but to catch another glimpse of her infectious smile. She and Jemmy were deep in conversation, the boy’s face set in a serious expression, his eyes only on her.

  “I’ve never seen anyone handle a knife like that.” He didn’t even realize he’d said the words out loud or that they were filled with awe until Socrates grunted. Tristan faced him and finished his thought. “Who taught her?”

  Socrates grinned as he pulled said knife out of the boar’s skull. “I did, many summers ago. We practiced day in and day out until she could hit the bullseye ten times out of ten. Very persistent, our Cara was. Still is from what I can see.” He wiped the blood from the blade through the thick hair on the carcass then flicked his thumb over the sharp edge. His grin still in place, he muttered, “You have my sympathy, Captain.”

  Chapter 9

  “What do you mean, we lost them?” Captain Entwhistle’s face turned a peculiar shade of mottled red as he raised his cold glare toward Porkchop. “Explain,” he bellowed.

  Porkchop swallowed hard though his mouth had gone dry. He stood in front of the captain’s desk on legs that seemed like blocks of wood instead of flesh and bone, his stomach twisted in knots, bile burning the back of his throat. The crewman opened his mouth several times, but not a word would come forth. Sunlight seeped in through the windows of the captain’s cabin to warm the room but did nothing to dispel the icy fear that made Porkchop shiver.

  In truth, he couldn’t e
xplain. He hadn’t been the one keeping watch, hadn’t been the one to lose sight of the Adventurer’s white sails on the horizon. He had been the one to have the ill fortune of drawing the low card from the deck to decide which one of them would have the dreadful task of telling the captain the news. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  “Well?” The captain pushed out of his chair and rose to his full height. The chair toppled backward to crash into a small cabinet filled with porcelain and glass curios. Tinkling glass plinked to the floor, sounding like a broken music box. Entwhistle didn’t seem to notice. His icy stare never left Porkchop’s face. A muscle throbbed in the captain’s cheek as he leaned forward on his desk, the heat from his hands fogging the satiny finish of the desktop.

  The fury in the captain’s eye, the tension in his body, made Porkchop back up a step, then two. He squeezed his buttock muscles tight, afraid the knot in his stomach would unravel and he’d soil himself right then and there.

  “Speak, you bloody imbecile.”

  Porkchop jumped. He hated to snitch on any of his crewmates despite how they treated him, but faced with Captain Entwhistle’s barely suppressed rage, he couldn’t help himself. “It were Petey,” he confessed in a rush. “Petey was watchin’, but he were jokin’ an’ carryin’ on like he al’ays does.”

  Hands balled into fists, the redness of his face deepening, Captain Entwhistle said not a word as grabbed the cat o’ nine tails from the hook on the wall and slammed the door as he left the cabin.

  Porkchop breathed a sigh of relief. He still stood. Still breathed. The captain hadn’t killed him. He didn’t want to witness what the captain would do to Petey, and yet, he couldn’t help himself. On tiptoe, he crept toward the door and cracked it open as the first lash of the cat o’ nine tails laid open the flesh on Petey’s back. The scream that followed made Porkchop wince and close his eyes.

  With each crack of the whip, each subsequent scream, the crewman jumped—ten times in all before silence reigned once again. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Captain Entwhistle grab the spyglass from his mate’s hand. He held the device to his eye and scanned the horizon. As he lowered it, he drew in a deep breath. Mouth set in a grim line, he ordered, “Set a course for Jamaica.” He stepped closer to Petey. “Trey has friends on the island. You’d better pray he’ll visit them like he always does.”