Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “What if we don’t find Izzy’s Fortune? And even if we do, what if this gentleman should decline your offer? What will you do then?”

  Her throat constricted and unshed tears burned her eyes. Her heart beat a slow painful rhythm in her chest. “I . . . I . . . I will do what is expected of me.”

  His expression betrayed nothing, although the corners of his mouth tilted upward. “Then I wish you good fortune with your plan, dear lady, but for now, I must say good night.” He rose to his feet, nodded toward her then headed off to his tent.

  Caralyn watched him until the flap of his tent closed. She let her pent up breath escape her. The night had grown quiet. Crickets chirped, palm fronds rattled, logs crackled and popped in the fire and the constant rush of water on the sand were the only sounds to keep her company.

  She stared at the flames flickering in the fire pit, but didn’t see them. Her mind raced with unanswered questions and doubts. What if they didn’t find the treasure? And if they did, what if the earl didn’t accept her proposal? Could she truly spend the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love?

  The fine hairs at the back of her neck rose and her skin began to tingle. She turned to see Tristan standing behind her. Moonlight danced on the drops of water in his hair and his loose white shirt ruffled in the breeze. Her heart did a funny little flutter in her chest.

  “I thought you might have turned in for the night.” Tristan lowered himself to the blanket beside her. He reclined against the log, his forearm resting on his bent knee, his gaze on her.

  “I’m not the least bit sleepy.” The funny little flutter in Caralyn’s chest grew to amazing proportions. How easy it would be to snuggle up beside him and rest her head on his chest, easier still to touch her lips to his. Though the impulse raced through her, she did neither. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we shouldn’t leave for Puerto Rico tomorrow. Perhaps we should continue our search of the island. There may be another cave.”

  He gestured toward the book in her hand. “Have you found something that leads you to believe this?”

  “No, I just . . . I just can’t believe the gold statue is all there is on this island. I was hoping for more.”

  “As was I, but we do have a clue, something we didn’t know before. Like you, I believe the treasure may be on Jamaica, hidden from prying eyes in the chapel Pembrook writes about, but it would make sense to search here a bit more.”

  Caralyn opened the journal and began to read. As she turned the page, flames from the fire showed through the paper, highlighting lines that were not on either side. Her breath caught in her lungs for a moment and she doubted what she saw. She also wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. “Look at this. Do you see what I see?”

  Tristan took the journal from her and turned the pages as she had done. “There’s two pages stuck together.”

  By the light of the fire, he tried to separate the two pieces of paper. “I can’t. My fingers . . .”

  Caralyn reclaimed the diary and tried as well. “I can’t separate them either.” Without a thought to the consequences, she tore the pages from the book and held them up to the flames. A sigh of frustration escaped her. “Nothing is clear.”

  Tristan rose, grabbed the lantern hanging from a post, and brought it closer. He turned the wick, shedding more light. Caralyn held the pages in front of the lantern, but still, with the papers stuck together and writing on both sides, nothing became clearer. Perhaps it was just random lines—senseless scribbles—drawn by a man who had lost his sanity. With more frustration than she realized, she folded the pages and pushed them into the pocket of her gown. Perhaps, in the light of day, she’d be able to see the lines more clearly. Or with a bit of steam, she might be able to separate the two pages.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll begin searching the rest of the island,” Tristan said as he took her hand and helped her to rise. He grabbed the book, which had fallen to the sand, handed it to her then escorted her to her tent. “But for now, we both need our rest.” He squeezed her hand and bowed slightly from the waist. “Good night.”

  Caralyn said nothing as she slipped through the opening of her tent and tied the flaps closed. Once she secured Pembrook’s journal in the oilcloth and placed it in her valise, she crawled onto the makeshift bed. Temperance’s light snores filled the interior of the canvas room. As she’d stated to Tristan, she wasn’t the least bit sleepy, yet as soon as she became comfortable, her eyes closed and she dreamed not of treasure and riches, but of a man and the wonder of his kiss.

  Chapter 12

  From the small, secluded cove where the Explorer lay at anchor, Porkchop had a perfect view of ships entering and leaving Kingston Harbor. He’d spent days in the crow’s nest, a spyglass to his eye, fighting his fatigue, fighting his boredom, fighting his fear the captain would find displeasure with him, but his patience paid off. Relief shot through him and he grinned as the Adventurer finally came into view.

  Porkchop lowered the spyglass and tucked it into the sash around his waist before he climbed down from his perch. Perhaps the news would make the captain happy, although Porkchop doubted anything would ever make him happy. Entwhistle’s already foul mood had worsened since they lost the Adventurer at sea and set sail for Jamaica to wait for Captain Trey to arrive, though there had never been a guarantee the vessel would come here. Only a simple hope shared by all those who sailed with Captain Entwhistle.

  Not a patient man by any sense of the word, Entwhistle had the capacity to punish his crew out of frustration and did quite often. Porkchop and the rest of his shipmates merely had to survive his sudden outbursts of rage and cruelty for misdeeds, real or imagined.

  Porkchop took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and swung the portal open when the captain bade him enter.

  “Sorry to be disturbin’ ye, but I thought ye might like t’ know.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and swiped his knit cap from his head as he stood before Captain Entwhistle’s fine mahogany desk. “The Adventurer is coming into port.”

  The captain stopped writing in the log book on his desk and stabbed his pen into the inkwell. His body stiffened as he inhaled and glared at Porkchop.

  The murderous gleam in the captain’s dark eyes made Porkchop shiver. He took a step away from the desk. Not for the first time he thought about giving up life at sea. Or at least leaving Entwhistle’s crew, but as quickly as the idea popped into his head, it was gone. He couldn’t imagine another life, and he doubted anyone else would have him on their ship. He took a deep breath and waited for the captain’s orders.

  “I want you to follow him. And don’t lose him this time or I’ll nail your hide to the yardarm.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Porkchop backed out of the cabin and breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, he had survived an encounter with one of the meanest, orneriest men on the sea. He pulled his knit cap over his head, hitched up his trousers, and said a few words as Petey helped him lower a rowboat to the water.

  The harbor teemed with ships and people of all nations going about their business as Porkchop rowed the dinghy through the obstacles. Stevedores unloaded cargo as men and women, dressed in the finest clothing, disembarked the vessels and proceeded on their way in this island paradise. Hansom cabs made a nice profit ferrying passengers to their destination. Vendors selling fresh fruit, their voices raised above the din, attracted newly arrived travelers to their booths for a taste of something sweet.

  Porkchop dragged his rowboat to shore away from the hustle and bustle. No one seemed to notice him, which was just as well, as he didn’t want to be noticed. He wandered along the street until he found a bench under the awning of a tavern where he could watch the harbor. He pulled a clay pipe from his pocket. After filling the bowl with tobacco, he puffed it alight and made himself comfortable as he waited.

  From his vantage point, he watched the Adventurer furl her sails and drop anchor then lower a longboat to the water.

  He recognized Mr. Alcott and the boy, Je
mmy, as they climbed into the boat. Dr. Trevelyan tossed several duffle bags and two soft-sided valises into the boat then climbed in to help the two women board the vessel.

  One didn’t give chase to another crew without coming to know who they were and, in Porkchop’s case, admiring them. There seemed to be an easy camaraderie and respect between the captain and his crew, which the sailor envied. He doubted there was backstabbing as with his own shipmates, and he was certain no one called anyone else “idjit.”

  Captain Trey climbed into the boat last. Porkchop grinned as the captain sat beside one of the women and said something to make her laugh. The sound carried across the water and cut through the din surrounding them as though by magic.

  Porkchop stiffened as the boat bumped against the dock and lowered his head. He didn’t want to be seen. Just as he recognized the Adventurer’s crew, he knew they would recognize him as well.

  He needn’t have worried. No one paid him the least bit of attention as Captain Trey helped the women to the dock with tender courtesy. From where he sat, Porkchop heard the discussion and grinned.

  He should have known. Where else would the captain go but Finnegan’s, the tavern on the hill, which had been in existence since 1685? As Trey and his party climbed into a horse-drawn landau for hire, Porkchop dumped the ashes from his pipe into a planter beside the bench, rose, and tugged up his trousers. He tucked his pipe into his pocket and trudged up the hill to Finnegan’s.

  • • •

  Caralyn sat next to Tristan in the close confines of the landau and tried to relax, except she couldn’t. Between the excitement of following Pembrook’s clues and the warmth of Tristan beside her, her body and mind were in a constant state of chaos.

  Time passed with amazing speed and three weeks had come and gone since their visit to the Island of the Sleeping Man and Puerto Rico. Caralyn had become more and more aware of the captain’s often overwhelming presence, the heat he exuded, the controlled power he held at bay. The slightest touch of his hand made her blood race through her veins and her body quiver. As Kingston passed before her eyes, she barely noticed the many changes since she’d last visited.

  The driver stopped the carriage before a two-story stone building on a hill and applied the brake. Tristan disembarked first and held his hand out to her. Her fingers tingled; indeed, her entire body tingled as she allowed him to help her from the carriage. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he helped Temperance then paid the driver while Stitch unfolded his long legs and climbed out. Jemmy jumped out of the conveyance of his own accord, barely able to stop chattering for even a moment.

  Graham remained in the landau, his back against the seat, arms along the cushioned tops. “I will join you shortly.” He grinned then chuckled. “Save some rum for me.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder and the carriage moved away.

  Caralyn waved one last time then took a moment to gather her thoughts and look around. The sign over the door swung in the breeze. In bright green letters on a white background were the words Finnegan’s Crooked Shillelagh, Est. 1685. Cut through the words was a long, misshapen cane.

  Dr. Trevelyan opened the solid oak door and held it while everyone passed through. Caralyn didn’t miss the grin he shared with Temperance nor the blush that rose to the woman’s face. Compared to the bright light of outdoors, the confines of the tavern were dark and cool. Caralyn stopped in the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the difference until Tristan laid his hand on the small of her back and ushered her farther into the huge room. Only a handful of people occupied the tables, some quietly conversing, some sharing a game of chess. Paintings, as well as brass sconces, covered the walls, mostly of ships in full sail facing the bracing waves of the ocean. Stairs, off to the left, rose to the second floor.

  A woman stood behind a long mahogany bar, her back toward the door. Long, flaming red hair curled past her hips and moved as if it had a life of its own as she placed clean glasses on a shelf. “Make yerselves ta home. I’ll be right with ye.”

  “Take your time, Fi.”

  The woman stopped, the glass hovering in mid-air before she carefully placed it on the shelf. She turned her head to look behind her, and when her gaze fell upon them, she let out a squeal. “Saints be praised!” She ran around the bar. “Donal! Come quick!” Well along with child, her rounded belly did not prevent her from jumping into Tristan’s arms and planting a kiss on his cheek.

  Caralyn watched the display with a touch of jealousy, a feeling new and alien to her. Her body stiffened. Her stomach twisted and she couldn’t help wondering if the woman carried Tristan’s baby. Why she would think such a thing, she couldn’t explain. The thought just popped into her mind, unfounded though it may have been. By sheer force of will, she controlled the urge to pull the woman away from Tristan by her long red hair.

  She shouldn’t have worried. Tristan’s response was that of a loving friend. He kissed her on the cheek and let her go. The knot in Caralyn’s stomach loosened. “You’re prettier than ever, Fi. How are you?” Tristan glanced at her stomach and grinned.

  She laughed, her green eyes sparkling, her cheeks pink, but didn’t respond as she turned her attention to the good doctor. “Stitch. Ye look like a man finally findin’ what he wants.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek but her eyes went directly to Temperance.

  “Fi, my dear, once again, I am astounded by your beauty.”

  “Donal!” She called again. “Where is that man?”

  She glanced behind her for a moment then turned her attention to Jemmy. Affection for the boy was evident in her beautiful smile and lovely voice with its strong Gaelic lilt, as if she’d just left the verdant green of Ireland. “Aye, look at ye, Master Jemmy.” She pulled the boy against her for a hug. “Ye’ve grown a foot, I swear, since the last time I saw ye.”

  “Aunt Fi, you’re squishing me,” the boy mumbled into the woman’s stomach and pulled himself free from her arms, his face bright pink. He glanced at her belly, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

  “Ye kin touch it,” Fi said and laid his hand on her stomach. “Young Donal is expectin’ a brother but I think he’ll be just as happy with a sister.”

  “Fi, I’d like you to meet Miss Caralyn McCreigh.” There could be no mistaking the obvious pleasure in Tristan’s voice or the gleam in his eyes as he said the words. Liquid heat filled her veins like warm honey as Caralyn held out her hand to the other woman. “Cara, this is Fiona Finnegan, one of my dearest friends.”

  “Oh, and ’tis a delight to be meetin’ ye, Miss McCreigh.” No simple handshake would do as Fiona pulled Caralyn into a hug.

  “And this is Mrs. Temperance Beasley,” Stitch said as Fiona released her and turned her attention to the woman standing beside him.

  Caralyn hid her grin as Mrs. Beasley was treated to the same exuberant greeting. Her companion stiffened within the embrace then relaxed and returned the warm welcome. In that moment, Temperance seemed truly happy.

  Temperance Beasley’s transformation could be described as nothing less than amazing in Caralyn’s opinion. Weeks at sea had changed her, or perhaps, the affection Stitch continually bestowed upon her had done that. She no longer frowned, no longer scraped her hair back into a tight bun or wore widow’s black. Indeed, with the bright new wardrobe they’d purchased in Puerto Rico, and her long auburn hair flowing down her back in graceful curls, she looked like a much younger, much happier woman.

  “What’s all the fuss, woman?”

  Caralyn turned toward the voice and stared. The man coming in through a back door was the biggest, hairiest man she’d ever seen. Broad shouldered, barrel-chested, legs as thick as tree trunks, arms rippling with muscle, he had to duck to keep from bumping his head on a chandelier made of an old ship’s wheel. The two cases of rum he carried, one under each arm, seemed like no more than cigar boxes. Coarse hair covered the bottom part of his face in a thick, shaggy beard as black as midnight, his white teeth offering a sharp contrast.

  “Faith and
begora, will ye look at what the wind blew in!”

  He placed the rum on the bar then flung his arms wide and embraced Tristan in a hug that would crush the ribs of a smaller man. After much backslapping, he pulled away then proceeded to give the same greeting to Stitch. “Ye been gone too long, my friends.” He turned to Jemmy. “Come give yer uncle a hug.”

  The boy’s face glowed as the big man picked him up and held him with a gentleness that belied his strength. “Ye’ve grown, lad. Soon ye’ll be as big as me.” He placed the boy on his own two feet then ruffled Jemmy’s hair, his love for the lad obvious to all.

  Caralyn glanced at Temperance and almost burst into laughter. Eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses, her mouth opened in an “O,” Temperance’s expression mirrored her surprise to see so large a man.

  “Donal, I’d like you meet Mrs. Temperance Beasley.” Stitch grabbed her hand and brought her forward. Her mouth closed with an audible click before her lips spread into a smile.

  “’Tis a pleasure to be sure.” His big hand dwarfed her smaller one as he brought her knuckles to his lips. Temperance blushed to the roots of her hair and giggled.

  “Cara,” Tristan placed his hand at the small of her back, igniting a fire in her veins and interrupting her musings. “I’d like you to meet Donal Finnegan, proud owner of Finnegan’s Crooked Shillelagh and historian extraordinaire. If it happened in Jamaica, he knows. Donal, Miss Caralyn McCreigh.”

  The big man winked. “There’s been a Finnegan on Jamaica since before the quake in ’92.” He spoke in a charming mix of Jamaican, Irish, and English accents, his words lilting and musical. “1692, that is. Back in the day, most of the pirates went to Port Royal. Only the smartest ones came to the Shillelagh. Calico Jack, Anne Bonney, Blackbeard, and perhaps the greatest pirate of them all, Henry Morgan.” He beamed with pride at the history of his tavern. “Look at the rafter above your head, lass.”