Caralyn held her breath. Nothing happened. No poisoned darts flew, no sound echoed in the small chamber.
He tried again, pushing at the coffer with the tip of the umbrella. Another inch. Then two. Still nothing.
One more time, Tristan shoved the strongbox. A metallic ping resonated in the air as the chest scrapped across the hard packed dirt. Her nerves on edge, Caralyn jumped, as did Tristan, but still, nothing happened. No darts flew across the chamber, the walls didn’t suddenly collapse, the floor remained solid beneath their feet.
Tristan gave a relieved chuckle. “I can only assume the last poor fellow to touch the chest released all the darts.” He glanced around the chamber at the people under his protection and grinned. “I think it’s safe now.” He returned the umbrella to Mrs. Beasley. “Caralyn, would you like to—”
Before he finished his sentence, Caralyn approached the chest and knelt in front of it. She held her breath and said a silent prayer. With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid. No gold coins filled the box. No fortune in loose gems either. The sweet taste of freedom, so recently acquired, turned bitter as she stared at a burlap wrapped object inside the coffer.
With great care, she untied the string and peeled away the fabric to reveal a jewel-encrusted statuette of the Virgin Mother. How she wanted to cry, to just let the tears roll down her face and give in to the painful realization that she would never be able to buy herself out of a marriage she didn’t want. She bit her lip and swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“Well, what’s in there?” Graham stepped away from the chamber wall. “Emeralds? Rubies? Gold?”
Caralyn took a deep breath to get her emotions under control and lifted the golden figurine from the chest. “No precious gems, Graham. No gold coins,” she said, her voice tight even to her own ears. “Just this.”
She held the effigy as if it were made of glass instead of gold and showed them all what this adventure beneath the mountain had brought.
“I warned you, didn’t I?” Mrs. Beasley harrumphed and grabbed the statue from her hand. Her eyes, behind the lenses of her glasses, narrowed as she pinned Caralyn with an unforgiving stare. Her voice hardened. “I knew from the beginning there was no such treasure, that this was all a lark to avoid the inevitable. Now, perhaps, you’ll listen and we can leave this godforsaken place for England.”
Even a small piece of paradise couldn’t please her companion. Caralyn hung her head. Her hopes, her dreams, died a painful death, and yet she wasn’t willing to concede defeat. Not yet. She still had time, still had the rambling thoughts Andrew Pembrook had committed to paper all those years ago.
She shifted from one foot to the other. Angry words were on the tip of her tongue. Tired, hungry, so filled with disappointment her heart hurt, she opened her mouth to unleash those words but couldn’t utter a single one.
“There’s a piece of parchment.” Tristan’s comment grabbed her attention. Caralyn faced him as he pulled the folded note from the bottom of the coffer.
She gazed into his eyes, saw the twinkle of understanding in their depths, and knew his faith hadn’t faltered, not for a moment. He believed in Izzy’s Fortune, believed they would find the legendary treasure so many sought. “Read it.”
A slight smile curved the corners of his mouth as he unfolded the heavy parchment. “It says, ‘Take the hand of the Blessed Virgin.’”
Caralyn studied the statue Mrs. Beasley held. This Virgin Mary did not have hands which one could hold, which meant there was another statue, one that did. The disillusionment and frustration of moments before disappeared as quickly as they had come. Hope once more flooded her heart.
“There was a chapel on Pembrook’s plantation,” she all but whispered. “He mentions it many times in the course of his writing—I believe he spent a great deal of time there, praying—perhaps for forgiveness for stealing the treasure; perhaps so Morgan wouldn’t find him and kill him. What say you?” She retrieved the golden statuette from Mrs. Beasley and held it up. “Does this warrant a visit to Jamaica?”
“Jamaica!” Mrs. Beasley exclaimed. Her entire body stiffened. Bright spots of color stained the woman’s cheeks and her eyes glittered. “There is no treasure, Miss McCreigh! No reason to continue this—this farce, no logical—”
“Lovey.” Stitch said the word softly and gently touched her shoulder. Mrs. Beasley’s mouth snapped closed, and her lips pressed together into an unflattering line. She sniffed and her eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. With one last glare at Caralyn, she allowed the good doctor to draw her away toward the tunnel. He spoke to her softly, the words a quiet hum Caralyn could not hear, but whatever he said to the woman seemed to appease her.
“We set sail tomorrow after a good night’s sleep,” Tristan announced to those remaining in the chamber. “But we’ll have to stop for supplies first. We’ll continue on to Puerto Rico.”
Caralyn glanced at the statue then at him. In the light of the lantern, his unusual eyes sparkled. A sweet smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and she wanted more than anything to touch his tempting lips with her own.
“Faith,” he whispered as he tilted her chin with the tip of his finger. “Keep your faith. I believe Izzy’s Fortune is out there. And it’ll be more than just that gold statue in your hand.”
Caralyn nodded then smiled and slid her hand into his.
• • •
They’d spent more time beneath the mountain than Tristan had realized. No longer overhead, the sun had long begun its decent into the horizon. The heat and humidity seemed to dissipate, and a cool breeze whistled through the palm fronds, making them rattle against each other. The colorful birds were silent.
While in the cave, Jemmy had been quiet and reserved, hovering close to Tristan. Now, full of renewed energy, he scrambled over rocks and fallen trees, and swung from the vines within his reach, his constant chatter a balm for the weary group trudging down toward the secluded cove.
Tristan turned his head and studied Caralyn beside him. She had grown quiet, as if lost in thought. Perhaps she still bristled from her companion’s unkind words. If he could find a moment with Mrs. Beasley, he would talk to her about the way she spoke to Caralyn. No one had the right to disparage someone else’s dreams. “Cara?”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She responded with a single word but didn’t say anything more.
It didn’t take nearly as long to reach the camp as it had to reach the tunnel, and the smell of roasting pork met Tristan’s nose. His entire crew, except for two, were in various stages of activity. A few more canvas tents dotted the sand. Stacks of firewood rested beside the fire pit. Socrates walked the length of the beach, back and forth, the blade of his long knife reflecting the light of the fading sun, on the lookout for feral pigs, in case there were more.
Woody, Coop, and Ephraim made use of one of the dilapidated grass huts and played a game of chance. A few more of his men were lounging in the cove’s crystal blue water.
Hash had cut the wild pig into four sections, each one on a spit, which Gawain Jacoby and Mad Dog turned slowly. Flames danced in the fireplace and sizzled each time a drop of pork fat dribbled into the heat. Hunger made Tristan’s stomach rumble.
Mrs. Beasley, ahead of the small group, marched straight to her tent without a word and closed the flap. Tristan watched her and a slight smile curved his mouth. Judging by the way she had stomped across the sand, back ramrod stiff, perhaps Stitch had already taken care of the problem of her criticism and harsh words.
His smile grew and his suspicion proved correct as Stitch sidled up beside Caralyn. He heard the good doctor’s words clearly. “I’m sorry.”
Caralyn glanced at him. “For what?”
“For the way Mrs. Beasley spoke to you in the cave.” His face flushed as he rammed in hands into his pocket. “She doesn’t mean it, you know.”
She placed her hand in the crook of his arm and smiled at him. “You ha
ve nothing to be sorry about, Stitch. Mrs. Beasley has never been afraid to speak her mind, and she means every word of it. She should take a lesson from the way Tristan reprimands his son. Never a harsh word. Always with love and kindness.”
The flush on his face deepened. “I’ll have a talk with her.”
Again, Caralyn flashed him a beaming smile. “I appreciate your offer, but it isn’t necessary. It’s the way she is and I’ve accepted that. I realize she isn’t happy being dragged from pillar to post in search of a treasure that may or may not exist. I realize I give her cause to chastise me.”
“Be that as it may, Miss Cara, I shall still speak with her. Despite her tendency to chastise you, as you put it, Mrs. Beasley has a beautiful heart. When she chooses, she can be kindness itself.”
“You’re quite fond of her, aren’t you, Stitch?”
If possible, the man’s face turned even redder, the color staining his ears as well as his throat. His mouth opened several times, but no words issued forth, just a strangled groan.
Tristan couldn’t help himself. He chuckled as the doctor made a hasty retreat to his own tent. “You embarrassed him,” he said to Caralyn. “He didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“How could anyone not notice?” she asked with a laugh. “He called her Lovey. Not once, not twice, but several times.”
Tristan shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t interested in Stitch and Mrs. Beasley. The sparkle was back in Caralyn’s incredible eyes and the grin on her face did something strange to his heart. The urge to kiss her once again, to take her in his arms and lay her down on the sand became undeniable. His pulse picked up its pace and his heartbeat so fast, he thought his chest might explode.
“Did you find the treasure?”
“Are we richer than Midas?”
“Where is it?”
“Are we going back for it tomorrow?”
Whatever thoughts and wishes he harbored toward Caralyn quickly disappeared beneath the barrage of questions from his crew as the men accompanied the small party to the fire pit.
“Been wonderin’ when ye’d be back,” Hash remarked as Tristan cut a small piece of pork and slipped it into his mouth. “Been waiting fer ye. Ye find that blasted treasure?”
Tristan grinned and spoke to all the men gathered around him. “We did not find the treasure. We did find a gold statue of the Blessed Mother and a clue.” He gestured toward Mac. “Show them the statue.”
The Scotsman pulled the burlap wrapped effigy from his sack and released the tie that held it together with great care. The men oohed and aahed and passed the icon from one hand to the other. The parchment came next. One after another, they read the written words and tried to decipher the clue. Instead of being disappointed because there were no jewels or coins, the crew became more excited. This was their proof, and each one, to the last man, couldn’t wait to begin the next part of their adventure.
“Where to next, Cap’n?” Gawain asked.
“We’ll continue on to Puerto Rico for fresh supplies then Jamaica.” Tristan glanced at Caralyn. The grin parting her tempting lips melted his heart. “Miss McCreigh believes there is a chapel on Pembrook’s plantation.”
The excitement grew and their voices became louder, gestures more animated as they dined on fresh pork and small roasted potatoes Hash pulled from the glowing ashes of the fire.
Mrs. Beasley did not join in either the meal or the conversation. She stayed in her tent, using exhaustion for her excuse, but Tristan suspected she might still be angry they were continuing their quest. Or, she was embarrassed by the clothing lent to her as her gown had been truly ruined by the excursion into the cave.
The conversation and laughter around the fire pit did not end with the meal. The hopes and dreams of every man was shared long after the moon rose high and stars twinkled in the velvety black night.
Belly full, clean and warm, and exhausted from his adventures of the day, Jemmy snuggled beside his father. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. In seconds, he slept, despite the loud laughter all around him. Or perhaps because of it.
Tristan gazed at his son’s blond hair shimmering in the moonlight and grinned. He’d never known anyone who could fall asleep so quickly or completely.
Content, feeling the warmth of his son’s heavy body leaning against him, Tristan let himself relax. The day had been long and yet, he wasn’t tired. Indeed, despite only finding one gold statue in the cave, he was exhilarated. After years of searching for Izzy’s Fortune, he’d finally found some proof it truly existed. His eyes roamed to the crew gathered around the fire.
This is the life! What could be better than to be surrounded by people you loved and trusted and who felt the same about you? To be on the trail of a fabulous fortune? To be on an island paradise with a beautiful woman?
With a start, he realized Caralyn wasn’t among those gathered around him. Stitch and Socrates were missing as well. He glanced at the tent behind him, the flap now open. No light shined from within. Mrs. Beasley was gone, too.
He spotted Graham lounging against one of the logs that had been set up around the fire, a piece of pork in his hand. “Where is Cara?”
The man shrugged his shoulders and took another bite of the meat. “Haven’t seen her in awhile,” he said around the food in his mouth.
“I saw her walk over to the waterfall awhile ago,” Gawain offered then gestured to Stitch, who paced the sand further down the beach.
With great care so as not to disturb Jemmy’s rest, Tristan rose to his feet and lifted the boy in his arms. His son murmured but did not awaken as Tristan carried him to their tent and laid him down on a bedroll in the soft sand. He sighed deeply as Tristan covered him with a light blanket. He left the tent, spoke a few words with Hash, and went in search of the woman with the dancing sea-blue eyes.
He found Socrates standing guard atop a huge boulder near the first in a series of three glistening pools fed by the waterfall. “Sorry, Cap’n, ye can’t be comin’ any further.”
Tristan stopped and glared at the man who impeded his progress. “And why not?”
The crewman shifted his weight from one foot to the other and a big grin spread his lips. “Miss McCreigh needs her privacy.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest. Never before had Socrates Callahan taken such a stance. “I beg your pardon?”
Socrates lowered his voice. “She’s takin’ a bath. Mrs. Beasley’s up there with her.”
His imagination took flight. Tristan envisioned Caralyn in the moonlight, water sparkling on her skin, her hair flowing down her back. He had not forgotten about laying her down in the sand and exploring every inch of her body, of touching her skin to see how soft it truly was, of feeling the weight of her milky white breasts in his hands. Hot blood surged through his veins, and the urge to surprise her while she bathed became undeniable.
Before he could even consider acting on his desires, Socrates shook his head. “Now, Cap’n, I know ye can order me to step aside and I might consider it ’cause ye’re the captain, but I don’ think ye’ll be doin’ that. Ye have respect for Miss McCreigh and so do I.” His red hair gleamed like fire in the moonlight as he took a step closer and pointed to Dr. Trevelyan’s lonely figure pacing the sand farther down the beach. “Jes’ like I tol’ Stitch, ye’ll have to wait until they’re done.”
Tristan bowed his head. As much as he would have liked to at least catch a glimpse of his fascinating mermaid, he wouldn’t invade her privacy—not with a guard dog like Socrates on duty. “As you wish.” He stuck his hands in his pocket and strolled toward Dr. Trevelyan.
Chapter 11
Caralyn shot out of the water in the small pool beside the cascading waterfall and pushed her hair out of her face. It felt wonderful to be clean, to be rid of the smell of the cave. With her stomach full of Hash’s wonderful dinner, and plans in place to continue the search for Izzy’s Fortune, contentment spread through her.
She treaded wate
r and listened to the noises coming from camp. The men were in high spirits, their ribald laughter competing with the chirping crickets, the breeze that rattled the palm fronds, and the constant rush of water as it fell to the cove below her. She grinned and floated on her back. Above her, the bright ball of the moon glowed.
“Miss McCreigh! You haven’t a stitch of clothing on!”
Startled, Caralyn gasped and sank to the bottom of the pool. She turned quickly and through the shimmering water saw Mrs. Beasley standing on a rock above her, arms folded across her chest, body stiff with indignation. She rose to the surface, exposing only her head, in time to hear another tongue-lashing.
“Young lady, this goes beyond what could be considered proper, beyond decency. I’ve never seen such heathenish behavior.” The woman took a deep breath and began to tap her foot on the rock on which she stood. “Even for you, Miss McCreigh. Your family will hear of this, I assure you.”
Too full of the satisfaction of finding another piece of Pembrook’s puzzle, Caralyn grinned. “Tell them. Tell them everything I’ve done. I’ll bet you a pound Father won’t be upset, though Charles might be.” Her grin widened and the urge to laugh tickled her. An invitation fell from her lips before she could stop it. “Why don’t you join me, Mrs. Bea—Temperance? The water is warm and quite lovely. It’s much better than the baths we’ve been taking in the hipbath. At least take your shoes and stockings off and put your feet in.”
The woman sniffed but she did gaze at the water with what Caralyn thought was longing.
“It’s improper,” she stated, but without as much arrogance as usual. “As are these clothes I’m wearing.” She gestured to the loose white shirt and tan trousers that replaced her ruined gown. The pant legs were rolled to her knees, exposing the white stockings beneath, and a length of rope, tied around her waist, held the trousers in place.
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