Tristan glanced up at her then excused himself from his companions and strode to the bottom of the stairs. He raised his hand toward her, his gaze warm and inviting, his lips parted in that lovable impish grin. Within the space of an indrawn breath, Caralyn placed her hand in his. The rush of yearning coursing through her intensified. For a moment, a lifetime, she heard nothing except the beating of her own heart, felt nothing except the longing blossoming in her soul, saw nothing except the promise in his eyes.
The spell broke when Hash entered the room and announced, “Dinner is served.” He carried a platter heaped high with chickens roasted to perfection. Tiny round potatoes and steaming vegetables, staples from Fiona’s kitchen which Hash had commandeered, surrounded the birds. As if they’d never eaten Hash’s wonderful creations before, the crew rushed to the long table in the middle of the room, jostling each other for position and the chance to be the first one to sample his fine fare.
Caralyn took a deep breath and allowed Tristan to lead her to her seat.
• • •
With more than a touch of envy, Porkchop watched the people gathered around the table. The remains of a simple dinner and bottles of rum, brandy, and wine, some empty, some on their way to being empty, littered the tabletop. Conversation from the crew of the Adventurer, the Finnegans, and their other guests drowned out every other sound in the tavern, the deep masculine laughter of the men punctuated by the gentler tones of the women.
He sat in the chair in a darkened corner, the same position he’d held since walking into Finnegan’s hours ago, and nursed his third ale, just waiting and watching. When the woman named Cara had showed Donal the treasures in her valise, Porkchop had barely been able to control his excitement. He had wanted to jump up and steal the treasures right from her hand, but that wouldn’t have been wise. And so, he waited for the most opportune time.
For the second time that day, he had been rewarded for his patience. That valise was now upstairs in the room the woman rented, unwatched, unprotected, waiting for him to take it while its owner relaxed with another glass of wine.
No one noticed when he slid out of his seat and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Anticipation and fear made his body quiver, for he’d never done what he was about to do now. He’d never stolen a single thing in his life, but the rules had changed. The items in the woman’s valise were proof Izzy’s Fortune truly did exist.
As quietly as he could, Porkchop crept down the hallway and let himself into the first guest room. Panic seized him. His heart raced in his chest, his body trembled. Indeed, his mouth was so dry, he couldn’t swallow if he wanted to. For several moments, he stood motionless, waiting for the sudden rush of fear to disappear.
What am I doin’? The thought blazed through his brain, but he forced it away and made himself move about the room.
Moonlight gleamed in through the open French doors, and a light breeze heavy with the scent of impending rain, fluttered the sheer curtains. But this wasn’t Cara’s room, for he couldn’t find the valise.
Porkchop inspected three more rooms until he found the treasure he sought. He spotted the soft-sided case beside the bed instantly, but it wasn’t the case that grabbed his attention and held it. Rather, the white silk and lace nightgown resting upon the plump pillows on the bed, shimmering in the moonlight, beckoned him closer.
He couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the garment. Never had he seen such a beautiful thing, and his imagination pictured the woman named Cara wearing it, the whiteness of the gown a contrast to her tanned skin. Pleasure shot through him, not only from the feel of the silk beneath his fingers, but also from the earthy fragrance that tickled his nose. The vision in his mind became clearer and he could see her, light brown hair curling around her shoulders, sea-blue eyes sparkling, the smile on her lips just for him.
A noise, the scraping of a chair leg against stone floor downstairs, jarred him from his musings. He laid the nightgown on the pillows, exactly where it had been, picked up the valise, and crept toward the door. He breathed a sigh of relief to find the hallway empty.
At the end of the long corridor stood French doors leading out to a balcony and a set of stairs to the courtyard below. Treasure in hand, Porkchop held his breath as he tiptoed toward the door and the sweet escape that lay beyond.
A short time later, breathless and aching from his exertions of rowing the boat back to the Explorer, Porkchop knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin and waited for permission to enter before he opened the portal. He stopped two steps into the cabin, startled by the vision before him. Entwhistle stood at the window, his ramrod stiff back toward the door, hands clasped behind him. Fragrant smoke rose and curled around his head and mixed with the dim light coming from the two lanterns in the room. For a moment, the sailor could have sworn he was in the presence of the devil himself. He blinked, several times, unable to move, though his bowels had no trouble twisting in his gut.
“What is it?”
Frigid air seemed to fill the cabin as the captain spoke, adding to the illusion of dread swirling in Porkchop’s brain and trickling down his spine. The sailor shivered. Swallowing the fear that gripped him, Porkchop took another few steps on shaky legs and dropped the valise on the desk. “Thought ye might like to look at these. I took it from one of the woman travelin’ with Trey.”
The captain turned around and the haze of smoke disappeared, though the image of Entwhistle as Satan did not. Porkchop sucked air into his lungs. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, as always, nervous in his captain’s presence.
Entwhistle took a step toward the desk and lowered himself to a chair. He placed his pipe in a glass dish then opened the valise and peeked inside. Porkchop remained on his feet, his muscles taut, as the captain pulled the first item from the cloth case. With the precision of a surgeon, Entwhistle removed the cloth surrounding one of the objects to reveal the gold statue of the Virgin Mary. He inspected the icon, turning it this way and that in his big hands.
“Do you know where they got this?”
“I heared ’em talkin’ ’bout an island east o’ Puerto Rico. They called it ‘The Island of the Sleeping Man,’ but I ain’t never heared of such a place.” Again, Porkchop shifted his weight. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He wanted to wrap his arms around his chest—for comfort, for protection, for warmth against the chill in the captain’s smile, and yet he didn’t move, and his hands remained by his sides.
Entwhistle removed a wooden box from the valise and set it on the desk. His dark eyes glittered as he opened the case and stared at the jewel-encrusted golden chalice. He inhaled deeply as he gently pulled the cup from its bed of velvet. Emeralds and rubies reflected the meager light of the lanterns and cast their colors on the rich mahogany walls.
For the first time in his memory, the sailor saw a true smile on Entwhistle’s face as he examined the goblet and read the maker’s inscription on the bottom. Porkchop could only watch him with fascination as he replaced the chalice in the case with a gentleness that belied the captain’s hard, cold true nature.
Lastly, he removed an oilcloth-protected bundle and untied the strings holding the cloth in place to reveal a book. With trembling fingers, he opened the leather cover and began to read, skimming over the words in his haste to learn the owner of the journal. A sharp gasp escaped him before he turned suspicious eyes toward Porkchop. “Did you read this?”
The sailor swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in his throat. “No, Cap’n, I can’t read, but I be knowin’ whose journal it is. Belongs to a man named Arthur Pembrook who sailed with Henry Morgan. Or so I heard.”
“Where did you get these again?”
“From the woman with Trey.” For a moment, Porkchop forgot who he spoke with as the memory of Cara’s laughter filled his heart with lightness and joy. He’d couldn’t recall a happier time than spending most of the day watching her, listening to her sweet voice, hoping she’d smile at him, look at him, the way
she looked at Captain Trey.
“Have a seat, Thaddeus.” Captain Entwhistle gestured to a chair on the other side of his desk. He poured brandy into a fine crystal snifter and slid it across the desk.
The simple request and offer of a drink took Porkchop by surprise. Never once, in all the time he’d been sailing with the captain had he ever been offered a chair in the captain’s cabin. Never once had Entwhistle called him by his given name. Never once had he shared his supply of spirits, at least not with him. Suspicion and fear grabbed hold of Porkchop, and it took every ounce of his will power not to shudder as he swiped his knit cap from his head and lowered himself to the offered chair.
“Tell me about the women traveling with Trey.” Entwhistle picked up his pipe, filled it with fresh tobacco and lit it. Smoke curled around his head and the image of the captain as the devil snaked through Porkchop’s brain.
The sailor opened his mouth, but no words would come forth. He grabbed the glass of brandy as if his life depended on it and took a big swallow. The warmth travelled to his belly, unraveling the knot in his stomach and loosening the thoughts in his mind. “There’s Temperance Beasley, the other lady’s companion, judgin’ by the way she’s always correcting the younger one and tellin’ her what to do.”
He sighed, realizing he spoke in a rush to get the words out before the captain turned from the charming man in front of him right now to the devil he knew the man to be. “Reminds me of me own mother but the one ye be most in’erested in is Caralyn McCreigh. Ye be knowin’ her father, Daniel, of the Lady Elizabeth. I heared her say she found the book and the cup in an old clock her father bought from an estate here in Jamaica. It’s filled with clues to find Izzy’s Fortune.” He pointed to the golden statue on the desk. “They foun’ that on the island, which led ’em back here.”
“Did you happen to hear what they’re planning to do next?”
“They talked about a chapel on the cliffs on the other side of the island in St. James’ Parish. Finnegan even pulled out a map to show them where it is, but I was too far away to see. They’re settin’ off tomorrow to start searchin’.”
Entwhistle sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “A chapel,” he murmured and said it once again, as if repeating it to himself would jog his memory. His eyes glazed over as he stared at Porkchop. As if realizing he wasn’t alone, the captain jerked in his chair, and the smile he bestowed on the sailor did nothing to inspire confidence. “You’ve done well, Thaddeus. Now finish your drink and toddle off to sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.”
• • •
“I like her, Tristan,” Fiona said as she refilled his glass. “Not only is she beautiful, but kind and adventurous, and might I say, daring. She reminds me o’ someone.”
“And who would that be?”
“Ye, ye scoundrel.” She grinned. “She’s the kind o’ woman ye always searched fer but ne’er thought existed. A far cry from yer mother, who left the raisin’ of ye t’ yer da. An’ she loves Jemmy. I be knowin’ how important that is to ye.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t refute Fiona’s words. After all, he knew them to be true. He glanced at Caralyn now and his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps it was the wine that made her eyes sparkle, her cheeks explode with color, and her smile beam as she danced a lively reel with Socrates, but he didn’t think so.
“I have this for ye.” She handed him a letter she pulled from her pocket. Tristan recognized the seal immediately and heaved a sigh. Another missive from his father, another command to return home and marry the woman the earl had chosen, another opportunity to realize the woman he wanted was not the woman he would spend his life with. Perhaps this letter would contain the name of his future wife. Perhaps not. At this moment, it didn’t matter as his gaze swept the floor and found Caralyn once more.
“Yer da?” Fiona asked.
“Aye.” He tucked the letter into his pocket. There would be time later to read his father’s summons, time to regret the decisions he had no part in making.
“Aren’t ye goin’ to read it?”
Tristan shook his head. “I already know what it says.”
“An’ ’tis not what you want, is it?”
Again, he shook his head and sighed.
“Well, what is it ye be wantin’?”
Tristan knew she waited for an answer but he couldn’t speak. He knew exactly what he wanted . . . something he couldn’t have. From the corner of his eye, he saw Fiona follow his line of sight and sigh.
“Ah, I see. ’Tis her.” She gave him a gentle push toward the dance floor. “Then go and get her. At least dance with the lass. Tomorra be a long way away.”
Tristan needed no more urging than that. He stepped onto the dance floor and tapped Socrates on the shoulder. “I believe this is my dance.”
“O’ course, Cap’n.” The sailor relinquished his light grasp on Caralyn’s fingers and bowed.
She’d had too much wine. Tristan could tell the moment he took Caralyn in his arms, her body soft and pliant and leaning into his, although the tempo of the song did not require them to embrace. Her eyes, the color of the sea he loved so well, twinkled with merriment . . . and something else. Invitation? Promise? Desire? For him? Or was it the wine she had consumed and he only saw what he wanted to see?
Whatever message her straightforward gaze sent, he’d be more than willing to comply. He held her closer still and felt her heart pounding through his body. The heat of her hand on his shoulder seeped beneath his jacket and not only touched his skin, but his soul as well.
“I like your friends.” Her words were slurred, just a little.
“They like you as well.”
He swirled her around the floor, the warmth of her hands, the way her body moved in time to his—all conspired against his good intentions as a gentleman. The music stopped and yet he wanted to keep moving with her, wanted to keep holding her close, wanted to take her upstairs and touch every part of her body, taste the sweet nectar of her kiss, bury himself deep into her softness and feel the ardor of her response.
Instead, he whispered in her perfect, shell-like ear, “I do believe, Cara, you have had a bit too much wine. Perhaps, it’s time for you to retire.”
“I’m not the least bit sleepy.”
He couldn’t help the grin that parted his lips, couldn’t help touching his lips to her ear, couldn’t help delighting in the shiver that shook her. “Be that as it may, we’ve a busy day tomorrow and it wouldn’t do for your head to be pounding.”
Caralyn giggled. “Perhaps you’re right. I do feel giddy and so happy, I could dance all night, but tomorrow will be a busy day.” She sighed then and he felt the reverberations all the way to his toes. “I hope we find the treasure, Tristan. I have such plans.”
“As do I, but nothing will happen unless you get some sleep.”
He released his hold on her but caught her again as she swayed. The urge to kiss her, to taste her tempting lips once more overwhelmed him. Blood sang through his veins and thundered in his ears. In her inebriated state, he could do anything he wished, and yet that wasn’t the way he wanted her.
She hiccupped and another giggle escaped her. “Ooh, perhaps I have had too much to drink.”
“Come, I’ll take you upstairs.” He led her through the crowd of people dancing to yet another lively reel. Graham smirked at him and quirked an eyebrow. Socrates and Mac scowled and tried to impede his progress but the greatest obstacle remained Temperance Beasley.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips, her foot tapping the hard wood floor. “Where do you think you’re going, Captain?”
“I’m escorting Caralyn to her room.” He lowered his voice. “I believe she’s had a little too much to drink.”
The woman raised an eyebrow as her lips pinched together. “Your services are not required. I will take care of her.”
Tristan nodded once and relinquished his hold on Caralyn, trusting her to the woma
n who held her safety above all else. “As you wish, Temperance.”
He watched them ascend the stairs, one riser at a time. Twice Caralyn lost her balance, but Temperance held her in a strong-armed grip. At the top, Caralyn turned and waved to him, her smile warm and inviting, her eyes soft as she let out another burst of laughter.
He stayed where he stood until they disappeared from view then turned, almost colliding with Socrates. The man said nothing but the expression on his face spoke volumes. The sailor would protect Caralyn with his last breath, as would any one of the crew. Tristan nodded, understanding the intent, though he said nothing to defend himself. “I think I’ll turn in as well. We’ve an early start tomorrow, Mr. Callahan, you may want to make the announcement to the men.”
Tristan wandered through the main house behind the tavern and climbed to the third floor. He found Jemmy, tucked into bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, hands curled beneath his chin. He kissed his son’s forehead, pulled the light blanket over his shoulders, and left the house.
He took a seat in the courtyard beneath a flaming torch. Through the multi-windowed Dutch door, he saw that most of his crew had departed though a few hardy souls remained, Hash included, to help Fiona clean the mess from their feast. A grin split his lips but quickly disappeared as he pulled the letter from his father from his pocket. Turning it over and over in his hands, he took a deep breath then broke the seal and read the words.
Again, no mention of his future wife’s name, only a summons to be in London on April twenty-fifth and to be at a specific address in Mayfair at noon to marry a stranger. Odd how Caralyn needed to be in London so close to when he was to be married. He shook his head, dismissing the coincidence, and thought about the letter he meant to write to his father, the words of which remained random thoughts in his head, but perhaps the time had come to take those thoughts and put them into action. If need be, he would beg to be released from his upcoming nuptials. His other option would be to meet the woman before the priest pronounced them man and wife and convince her he wasn’t the man she should want. He could think of half a dozen other men who would be thrilled to be married to an heiress, but he wasn’t one of them. A noise drew his attention. He glanced up toward the second floor of the tavern and his breath seized in his lungs. Caralyn stood on the balcony, her hands lightly resting on the carved balustrade. She smiled at the moon above and he could see her lips move, although he could not hear what she said.
Time After Time Page 172