Treasure of the Heart
by
Ruth Saberton
Polwenna Bay 4
Edition 2
Copyright
All characters, organisations and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this book are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and / or legal right to publish all materials in this book.
Copyright © 2015 Ruth Saberton
Editor: Jane Griffiths
Cover: Carrie May
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher. If you wish to share this book please do so through the proper channels.
www.ruthsaberton.com
Also by Ruth Saberton
Runaway Summer: Polwenna Bay 1
A Time for Living: Polwenna Bay 2
Winter Wishes: Polwenna Bay 3
Escape for the Summer
Escape for Christmas
Hobb’s Cottage
Weight Till Christmas
Katy Carter Wants a Hero
Ellie Andrews Has Second Thoughts
Amber Scott is Starting Over
The Wedding Countdown
Writing as Jessica Fox
The One That Got Away
Eastern Promise
Hard to Get
Unlucky in Love
Always the Bride
Writing as Holly Cavendish
Looking for Fireworks
Writing as Georgie Carter
The Perfect Christmas
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
While writing TREASURE OF THE HEART I had a wonderful time researching the myths and legends that are such an intrinsic part of the beautiful county of Cornwall where I am lucky enough to live and which provides so much inspiration for Polwenna Bay. From long forgotten holy wells, echoes of ancient times and old religions, to stories of wrecks and smugglers and even tales of ghosts and sea monsters – Cornwall’s wealth of folk lore never fails to excite a writer. The village where I live has a ‘haunted’ cave linked to tales of smugglers and the church in the next bay is rumoured to have been used as a place to store their loot. As writers always do, I took a pinch of the truth and added a big dollop of my imagination!
As always, Cornwall and Polwenna Bay itself are vital to the atmosphere of this story – the village and the wild elemental weather as much a part of the narrative as the characters and the plot. I feel blessed every day to live in this magical and beautiful county and I love sharing my passion for it.
I really hope you enjoy this latest trip to Polwenna Bay. If you do, I would really appreciate a review on Amazon or GoodReads. These make all the difference to the success of a book and are like gold dust for writers.
I love to hear from my readers. Contact me at [email protected] and please visit my website, www.ruthsaberton.co.uk for my blog and news of upcoming books.
Brightest wishes,
x Ruth x
Chapter 1
“That’ll be eighty-eight quid and ninety-five pence. Is there anything else? Pork scratchings? Crisps? Better say now, because you won’t want to queue again and it’s only going to get busier between now and midnight.”
Adam Harper, landlord of The Ship Inn, leaned against the real-ale pumps. The tone of his voice conveyed an interesting alchemy of greed, stress and genuine concern. At least, Issie Tremaine assumed this was Adam speaking. The rotund figure stretching a cupped hand over piles of empty glasses bore a resemblance to the pub’s landlord, and he had the same sort of thinning hair. Still, it was hard to know for certain who was behind the highwayman’s mask and costume. Equally, the plump Wonder Woman stacking the dishwasher could have been the landlord’s wife Rose; the rowdy crowd of pirates necking tequila at the furthest end of the bar might well be a group of local fishermen; and the moth-eaten Wookiee feeding the juke box could be local chip-shop owner and Star Wars fan Chris the Cod.
“Talk about stand and deliver,” grumbled Issie’s brother-in-law Ashley Carstairs, peeling notes from his wallet and passing them over. Even though half his face was covered by his Phantom of the Opera mask, it was clear that he was looking puzzled. “Just how many people did I buy drinks for again?”
“Pretty much everyone in here,” replied Issie’s sister, who was dressed as the bride of Frankenstein and sporting green hair. Mo Carstairs’ red curls peeked out from under the wig as she shook her head despairingly. “Seriously, Ashley, even you don’t have enough money to keep this lot in beer.”
Ashley dropped a kiss onto Mo’s painted nose. His lips already had an emerald tint to them, probably because he and Mo never seemed to be able to go more than five minutes without snogging, Issie thought fondly.
“I’ve got a lot to celebrate this year,” he was saying, and his tone was serious now. “I should be buying champagne, not just a few pints here and there. Tonight is a night I didn’t always think I was going to see.”
Mo reached onto her tiptoes and wound her arms tightly around his neck. “This is just the start,” she promised. “Things are only going to get better from now on. I promise. The next twelve months are going to be even more wonderful.”
“Gross! Cut it out, you two, and get the beers sorted! Some of us have got some serious partying to do, unlike you old married folk!” said Issie’s twin Nick, abandoning his fishermen mates and, on the lookout for beer, joining them. Clad in full Jack Sparrow gear, Nick drew admiring glances from just about every girl in the place – and didn’t he just know it! Issie was filled with amusement; she wondered if the same girls would be quite so admiring if they knew that Nick had taken at least four hours to get ready and used more mascara than her and Mo put together? Or that he’d shrieked like a scalded cat when Tara Tremaine had waxed his eyebrows?
Deciding to save this arsenal of embarrassing sibling information for a more useful time, Issie passed Nick a foaming pint of Pol Brew and glanced around thoughtfully. It was New Year’s Eve and the low-beamed pub was rammed full of drinkers, all in party mood and – as was the tradition in Polwenna Bay – wearing fancy dress. The thirty-first of December was a highlight in the village calendar and locals and holidaymakers had flocked to The Ship, all determined to outdo the previous year’s costume and drink as much alcohol as possible before midnight struck. As always it was a wonderful excuse for alter egos to emerge. Issie often thought a psychologist would have a field day analysing who had chosen to come as what. So far tonight she’d spotted an entire Marvel comic’s worth of superheroes, plus a number of fairies and several dodgy attempts at Ross Poldark – which would fool no woman, no matter how much mulled wine she’d knocked back. On her way to the pub Issie had been caught up in a crowd of marauding Vikings, chatted to Dracula and smoked a sneaky cigarette with Cruella de Vil.
And all this before she’d even had a drink! Anyone who thought life in a small Cornish fishing village was dull had clearly never visited Polwenna Bay.
Although the evening had only just begun, Polwenna’s narrow streets already thronged with so many people in costumes that the village made Disneyland’s efforts look half-hearted. While her brother-in-law put his depleted wallet back in his pocket and teased Adam about ordering a new Range Rover with the night’s takings, Issie glanced across the pub to the quayside, which was bustling as though it was peak season. Everyone
was in high spirits, filled with a potent cocktail of optimism and alcohol. The trawlers were all lined up against the harbour wall while their crews celebrated, the steep valley sides were starred with the lights from cottage windows, and beneath the marina’s Christmas tree a young couple were kissing as though they never wanted the embrace to end.
Issie bit her lip and looked away from them, concentrating hard on the bright slice of moon floating above the harbour and the reflections of Christmas lights dancing in the inky water. The moon was so beautiful and so lonely that her throat tightened. Would this deep unhappiness stay with her forever?
The idea made her heart twist. Issie turned back to the bar and focused her attention on the glass of cider Adam was passing in her direction. She took a big gulp to stop it from spilling, felt the kick of the alcohol hitting her bloodstream and closed her eyes with relief. A drink: that was all she needed. In fact, forget one drink. She needed several, and what better place to be to get them than right here in The Ship and on New Year’s Eve? After a couple of pints she’d be having fun and not in any danger of thinking about… about…
Issie almost swore out loud, annoyed with herself for being so pathetic. It was New Year’s Eve, for heaven’s sake! This was no time to be dwelling on the past and all the stupid mistakes that had gone before. This was a night for new starts and new adventures. There was no point mourning what she’d lost.
He clearly wasn’t.
She tightened her grip on her glass until her fingertips were putty-coloured.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
Thinking was deadly; it was the first footstep onto a rickety bridge that would eventually splinter and send her plummeting headlong into the darkest chasm imaginable. No, dwelling on how stupid she’d been would be fatal. What she needed was a distraction. And fast.
Issie took another gulp of her drink and flipped her blonde braids back from her face with a practised toss of her head. It felt a little like flicking a switch into another mode, from contemplative to autopilot maybe, or perhaps from self-destruct to totally combusting. Who knew?
Who cared?
Glancing across the pub and catching the eye of a suave 007, Issie leaned forward, raised her glass and curved her lips upwards into an expression of promise. It was almost too easy – and by the time Ashley’s round was distributed, Bond’s jaw was swinging open, partly because this was a move that never failed and partly because Issie’s pirate-wench outfit had given him more than an ample glimpse of her scarlet Wonderbra.
“Stop it,” said Mo sternly to Issie, as the sisters elbowed their way through the crowd to the window seat where the rest of their friends and family were gathered.
“Stop what?” said Issie, wiggling a little so that her dress slipped seductively off her shoulder. Bond was making a beeline towards her, with a bottle of Bolly and two glasses; she waved at him merrily.
“Giving Teddy St Milton the green light when you’re not in the least bit interested in him.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” fibbed Issie. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Don’t give me that bollocks, Isabella Tremaine. I know you, remember? It’s not fair to encourage him just because you’re bored.”
“Who says I’m bored? Maybe I actually like Teddy?”
Mo snorted, sounding just like one of her horses. “Yeah, right.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”
“It means that I know you’re not at all interested in Teddy, or not in any way that really counts. There’s no challenge for you there,” her sister said. “You need a man who’s going to keep you on your toes and make you think – an intellectual equal – and Ted’s never going to offer you that. You’d die of tedium in minutes. Don’t screw your nose up at me like that. You know it’s true.”
Issie did know, but she wasn’t about to admit this to Mo. Right now a spot of no-strings, no-intellect sexy tedium was exactly what the doctor had ordered.
“It’s just a bit of fun,” she protested.
Teddy, whose journey across the pub had been interrupted by a burly-looking Batman who reeked of Old Spice, glanced over and gave her a wink. Issie couldn’t help herself; she winked back.
Mo shook her head so hard her green wig nearly flew off. “And that is exactly what I mean! Issie, you are totally encouraging him. Unless you were actually winking at Mickey Davey? In which case there really is no hope.”
Issie almost spluttered her drink everywhere. Mickey Davey, aka Batman, was a relative newcomer to the village with a florid face and a penchant for loud shirts, gold chains and slip-on shoes. He delighted in telling all and sundry how he could get a deal on anything. Not long ago he’d bought the Mermaid Beach Café, which he’d promptly renamed Davey’s Locker. Apart from selling pasties and the odd cup of coffee, not a lot of business seemed to go on there; how he afforded his big gold Rolls Royce was anyone’s guess.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Mo said, slapping Issie on the back. “But think about what I’m saying, yeah? Messing with someone like Teddy St Milton is asking for trouble.”
“Jeez, Mo, I’m having a laugh, not looking to marry the guy,” Issie grumbled as she placed her drink on the table and nudged her brother Jake to move up a seat. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
“To you maybe, but are you certain Teddy sees it that way?”
Issie couldn’t look her sister in the eye. All of a sudden the beer rings on the pub table seemed endlessly fascinating. Oh look, they were making the Olympic pattern. How amazing.
“Issie?” Mo said darkly, when her sister didn’t answer.
“There’s nothing going on,” Issie muttered mutinously. For God’s sake! She’d only snogged the guy a couple of times, and maybe had a bit of a fumble after a few drinks. It was no big deal. What was it with Mo these days? Since she’d hooked up with Ashley she’d become so serious about everything. Of course, Issie understood the reasons why, but privately she thought life had been easier when all her sister had cared about was horses.
“Be careful, Issie; he’s a lot more like Ella than you might think,” Mo said. “This is a bit of a gypsy’s warning, but I’ve a feeling Teddy could be very bad news if you upset him.”
Not many people could pull off giving a stern lecture while dressed as Frankenstein’s bride, but somehow Mo managed it. Issie, now sitting in between Jake and Caspar Owen, the village’s resident writer (who’d come dressed as himself, as far as she could see) pretended to listen to the conversations ebbing and flowing around her – but, inside, she was wondering whether Mo was right.
Was she being unfair to Teddy? Surely not. Mo was just overreacting. It was New Year’s Eve and Issie was only having a bit of fun. Like her, Teddy was single and up for a laugh. So what could possibly be wrong with just having a few drinks with him? After all, he was loaded. He was good-looking too, if you liked the public-schoolboy thing – which personally Issie didn’t (dark, brooding and slightly edgy being more her style). Anyway, the point was that Teddy had always enjoyed more than his fair share of female attention, so there was no reason to think she was anything special to him. He was as game for some no-strings New Year’s fun as she was. No, Issie decided, Mo was just overdoing the older sister role. Besides, her sister had her own axe to grind with the St Miltons, having been enemies with Teddy’s sister Ella practically since the dinosaurs had roamed Polwenna Bay.
“Who do you think should get the prize for the best costume, Issie?” Jake’s question interrupted her thoughts, and it was with some relief that she turned her attention to the fancy dress. Each year Adam and Rose awarded a yard of ale to the person with the best costume, based on a pub vote, and the villagers usually got more competitive as the night wore on.
“Well it won’t be you,” she said to Caspar. “You haven’t even bothered.”
He looked outraged. “Yes I have! I’ve come as a writer. Me! Besides, I can’t imagine Hemingway dressing up to go to the pub.”
Caspar wrote racy bodice-rippers and was to Hemingway what Justin Bieber was to classical music – not that this stopped him from taking his “art” very seriously indeed. When he had writer’s block everyone knew about it, and heaven help whichever woman he’d decided was going to be his latest muse. “Death by bad sonnet” was how Tara Tremaine had described it.
“I bet Hemingway would have dressed up if there was a yard of ale in it for him,” teased Jake’s girlfriend, Summer. She was dressed as the Princess Leia to Jake’s Han Solo, complete with the Chelsea-bun hairdo; she’d certainly pulled the stops out. As had Tara Tremaine and the local doctor, Richard Penwarren. Clad only in their Baywatch swimwear, they might be chilly but they were certainly giving The Hoff and Pamela Anderson a run for their money. Big Rog and Little Rog Pollard, the local father-and-son builder duo, had come as Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble, and primary-school teacher Tess was rocking the naughty fairy look so completely that several pirates had jumped ship and joined the Tremaine table.
“I’ve been flat out editing,” Caspar said indignantly. “Burning the midnight oil. Wrestling the muse. Searching for inspiration. Anyway, Issie, talk about the pot calling the kettle black! You’ve dressed as yourself too.”
“I have not!” Issie protested. “I’m a sexy pirate wench.”
“I rest my case,” grinned Caspar. He pointed to her necklace. “I especially like the medallion.”
Issie’s fingers rose to touch the heavy gold coin hanging from her necklace. Although it was technically her grandmother’s, this was Issie’s most treasured item.
“That’s wrecker’s gold, you philistine! It’s the last of Black Jack Jago’s loot!”
“Black Jack Jago?” Caspar leaned forward, his author’s antennae on full alert. “Like Betty Jago from the village shop? Is there a story here?”
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