Her Passionate Pirate

by Neesa Hart

  Rafael wiped a hand over his face and gave Cora a meaningful look. “Then let’s order dinner. I’m starved.”

  Chapter Seven

  She knocked the breath out of me. That’s all there is to it. I never would have believed that such a slip of a woman—I swear she wouldn’t last through the first gust of a summer gale—could have brought me so readily to my knees. But I didn’t know she had the power to take me to paradise, either.

  Juan Rodriguez del Flores

  Captain’s Log, 16 June 1860

  Over the next several days, they fell into a pattern that left Rafael feeling simultaneously energized and frustrated. Most days Cora would go to the college for her classes and her research. He had learned that she rarely worked with the diaries out of her house. In order to preserve the fragile paper and keep the volumes as intact as possible, she scrupulously adhered to the laboratory environment. The few pages she had at home were copies, meticulously and painstakingly duplicated by an advanced photoreproductive system. That way, Cora could study every nuance of the works, from Abigail’s handwriting and the pressure of her pen to the paper type and source, without risking any damage to the original copies. Early on, the project had run low on funds, and additional duplications had become cost prohibitive. She’d taken to studying the books in the lab and making research notes on her computer.

  As a scientist, Rafael’s respect for her methods grew exponentially as he began to delve into her research notes. She was punctilious and thorough. Her attention to detail astounded him. She identified patterns and subtleties in Abigail’s writing that a less-exacting person would have easily missed.

  Every evening she brought him her report for that day. He would spend the next several hours in his third-floor room poring over Cora’s notes. He discovered, much to his surprise, that Abigail’s writing was actually quite erotic. That gave almost incontrovertible proof that the well-bred daughter of a Southern gentleman had sustained a relationship that went well beyond a simple seduction by her lover. The affair had been extended and, evidently, quite torrid. To his growing frustration, however, any proof that her lover had been Juan Rodriguez del Flores remained stubbornly elusive.

  His determination to find the remaining diaries heightened. Fortunately his association with the project had netted the rewards he’s hoped. Money was flowing, and he was close to reaching the three-million-dollar goal he’d set. His contacts in Chapel Hill kept him apprised of the situation. They also seemed to have a handle on the media. His public-relations rep was doing her usual spectacular job keeping the press off his back. Except for the occasional nuisance call and the constant prodding of his sister Elena, he’d been blessedly free to peruse his research.

  He systematically examined Cora’s house for any possible place Abigail may have stashed her diaries, working his way steadily from attic to cellar. In this, he’d found unexpected allies in Kaitlin, Molly and Liza. They seemed endlessly fascinated by the twists and turns of the old house, and loved exploring it with him. Though he made certain the girls stayed away from anything that might be even remotely dangerous, he’d had to rescue Benedict Bunny on three separate occasions. Liza had a habit of cramming the stuffed toy through even the smallest of openings ostensibly, she told Rafael, so Benedict Bunny could report what he’d seen. Thus far, the rabbit hadn’t been any more successful in finding any additional diaries than he had, but Rafael was hopeful.

  And though his days were spent in arduous pursuit of his research, he spent most of his nights in an increasing haze of sexual frustration as Cora’s door remained firmly locked. Twice he even heard that annoying click of her lock as he made his way through the house and up to the third floor.

  He had sensed from the beginning that Cora was not the kind of woman who took sex lightly. He liked her for that. She’d come to him only when she felt prepared to bond with him in an extraordinary and intimate way. Desire alone would not be enough for her.

  So he’d launched a systematic campaign to wear down her defenses, using every opportunity to heighten her need and seduce her senses. He touched her whenever possible, kissed her every chance he got. When he did, he sensed the desire in her. Yet somehow, despite their proximity, they were rarely alone. Several times he caught her looking at him with banked fire in her eyes, but she would quickly mask the emotion. And soon Rafael found himself reaching for his patience.

  She had his libido running at full-throttle, and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could play this game of slow and steady foreplay.

  By Friday night, as the girls chattered about their day and Cora asked for a mind-numbing amount of detail, he was running through an entire battery of mental exercises just to keep his arousal in check.

  “Aunt Cora,” Kaitlin was saying, “did I tell you that we’re going to try watercolors tomorrow in art class?”

  Cora shook her head. “No, really?” She’d found a children’s art class at the recreation center and enrolled her niece. Though Kaitlin had only attended two classes, she seemed to be loving the experience.

  “Yes,” the girl said. “I need to get some paints before class.”

  “Okay.” Cora shot Rafael a questioning look. “Will you all have time to do that tomorrow?” she asked sweetly—too sweetly.

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded her shrewdly. She’d started this pattern of slightly goading questions earlier in the week, as if she was testing the boundaries of his restraint. He refused to take the bait. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem. We’ll go first thing in the morning so I’ll have time to study your notes on Abigail’s second volume in the afternoon.”

  With a practiced eye, he noted her swift intake of breath. The first volume had shown a younger, more naive Abigail. She had obviously written the second volume after her love affair began. It was then that her writing took on its sensual and erotic flare.

  Cora held his gaze, but her hand fluttered to her throat where it pressed against the pulse he knew was throbbing there. “Oh? I didn’t realize you’d gotten that far.”

  He nodded. “You’re very thorough.” Placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “Interesting how different the tone of her writing is now, don’t you think?”

  Cora reached for her water glass. “Definitely interesting.”

  Liza, obviously unaware of the undercurrent, joined the conversation. “Guess what we found today, Aunt Cora?”

  Cora held Rafael’s glance a second longer, then looked at her niece. “What, sweetie?”

  “Me and Molly and Benedict Bunny were in the attic with Rafael while Kaitlin was at art. We found this big thing…”

  She looked at Rafael for help.

  “The wooden chest,” he clarified. “Yours?”

  “No,” Cora answered. “It was one of the things we found when we were looking for more diaries. We went through it thoroughly, searching for hidden compartments or panels, but it didn’t yield anything.”

  “I liked the clothes,” Molly said. The chest had been filled with vintage, turn-of-the-century dresses.

  Cora smiled at her. “So did I.”

  “I think the beads were the best,” Liza chimed in.

  Molly set her fork down, “When I grow up, Aunt Cora, can I have one of those dresses to wear?”

  “Sure,” Cora responded.

  “Me, too?” Liza pressed.

  “You, too.” Cora looked at Kaitlin. “What about you?”

  Kaitlin smiled slightly and shook her head. “I don’t like fringe. It tickles.”

  “They didn’t all have fringe,” Cora said quickly, then cast a quick glance at Rafael. He saw her eyes momentarily widen. She cleared her throat. “Did they?”

  His gaze narrowed. “All the ones I saw did.”

  “Oh.” Cora took a drink of her water.

  He leaned forward. “Were there others?”

  She seemed to consider the question, then nodded. “Two other garments, but they weren’
t preserved as well as the ones you saw today.” She flashed a smile at Kaitlin. “That must have been what I was thinking of when I said no fringe.”

  “Were they the same period?” Rafael pressed.

  Cora’s gaze dropped to the table. “No.” She pushed her plate away. “There were some Civil War period things.” She said the words quietly. Like a confession.

  Interesting. “Oh?” he said.

  “Really?” Kaitlin said, her interest having been peaked by Rafael’s stories about Abigail and del Flores. “Do you think they might have belonged to Abigail?”

  Cora shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe.”

  Her equivocation heightened his suspicion. As passionate as she was about Abigail Conrad, even the idea that she’d discovered some of the woman’s possessions would have put Cora in hot pursuit of the truth. She wouldn’t be satisfied to let anything, not even something as seemingly inconsequential as a ballgown, go unexamined.

  Excited at the possibilities, the girls plied her with questions. Rafael tapped his fingers on his thigh as he watched and listened. Something was eluding him. Cora talked readily with the girls, but still did not meet his gaze. His eye narrowed as he concentrated, and he felt a familiar twitching of the scar beneath his patch. The scar always pulled when he focused this hard.

  “Was it a pretty dress?” he heard Liza ask. “Red, like the one we saw today?”

  “No. Light green,” Cora replied.

  “Did it have beads on it?” Molly asked.

  Cora shook her head. “They didn’t use beads then, Mol. They used something called seed pearls.”

  Molly frowned. “What’s a seed pearl?”

  “It’s the tiny little sliver of an irregular pearl that they put inside an oyster to make it grow a bigger pearl.”

  Rafael watched Cora with piercing intensity. She was answering their questions, but picking each word with care. He began replaying the entire conversation in his head, searching for the niggling detail that hid the truth.

  “An oyster?” Kaitlin said in disbelief. “They stick it in an oyster?”

  “Sure,” Cora told her. “That’s how they get pearls. When a little piece of grit gets inside an oyster, the oyster secretes a substance to coat the grit and stop the irritation. The secretion forms a hard surface and begins to form a pearl. The longer the grit stays in there, the bigger the pearl gets.”

  “Eeeew,” Molly said. “It’s like oyster spit.”

  “That’s gross,” Kaitlin concurred.

  Liza nodded emphatically. “I swallowed a marble once, and Mama made me barf it up. Is that how they get the pearls out of oysters?”

  Cora laughed and shook her head. “No. They just pry open the shells.”

  “If I found an oyster,” Kaitlin asked, “could I have a pearl?”

  “Maybe. Not every oyster has a pearl in it.”

  Molly looked at Rafael. “Have you ever found a pearl in an oyster?”

  He kept his gaze trained on Cora. “No,” he said, “but it’s always exciting to find something unexpected.”

  Cora finally looked at him again. “Isn’t it?”

  “What was in the trunk, Cora?” he asked softly.

  Her eyelashes fluttered. “I told you—clothes.”

  “You said Civil War period things,” he pointed out.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the girls swivel their heads to look at their aunt. “There were no diaries.”

  The girls looked at him. “Then what was there—besides the light-green dress with the seed pearls?”

  Her color heightened, but she didn’t look away. “A jacket, a sash, accessories. You know, that kind of thing.”

  Rafael tasted victory. “What kind of jacket?”

  She frowned at him. “Oh, all right.” She tossed her napkin to the table. “It was very elaborate. It almost looked like a costume, instead of a piece of clothing.”

  “Red, black and embroidered with gold thread?” he asked as he felt his excitement rise.

  “Yes.”

  “Did it look Spanish?”

  She gave him a disgruntled nod. “Yes.”

  “By any chance,” he drawled, “did it look like the jacket del Flores is wearing in his portrait?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  Rafael scowled. “I knew it.”

  “Knew what?” Molly demanded.

  Kaitlin touched her arm. “Knew that Juan Rodriguez del Flores had really been in this house,” she said, her tone pure excitement. Kaitlin, especially, had found the possibility of Abigail’s affair with the pirate completely fascinating. “It’s so romantic.”

  Cora frowned at Rafael. “It could be a replica. I have no way of knowing.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It was in the trunk with those later garments. The fabric looked period, and the stitching was done by hand, not machine, but still…” She shook her head. “I couldn’t be sure. I wanted to have it authenticated before I said anything.”

  “You could have told me,” he said, struggling to tamp down a burst of irritation. He thought they’d progressed beyond her distrust.

  “I didn’t think about it at first.” At his skeptical look, she insisted, “I didn’t. We were talking about the diaries, and I just forgot about it.”

  “And later?”

  “I don’t know. I just wanted to be sure. Until now, there was no proof whatsoever that Abigail’s, er—” she glanced at the girls “—boyfriend was del Flores. It could have been anyone.”

  “Oh, Aunt Cora,” Kaitlin gushed, “it had to be. It just had to be.”

  “I think it was,” Molly added.

  “Me, too,” Liza said.

  Cora’s expression showed her exasperation. “No one knows for sure. The only thing scholars have proved is that del Flores made two voyages to Cape Marr. He could have been here for any reason, and it would be irresponsible to jump to conclusions.”

  The last was delivered with the same stern note he’d heard her use with Jerry. “You should have told me,” he said quietly.

  “I’m sorry.” She shoved her fingers through her hair. “I really am. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just didn’t plan on discussing this until I knew what I was talking about.” She leaned back in her chair. “But you’re right. I should have told you.”

  He watched her for a long second, then nodded, somewhat mollified. Stroking the line of his scar with a long finger, he carefully sifted through the options, searching for truth. “The stories about Abigail and del Flores have been around a long time,” he conceded. “It’s not so difficult to believe that someone might have had the jacket made as a costume for a masquerade ball.”

  Cora nodded. “And subsequently stored it in the trunk. During the 1920s those kinds of parties were very popular. It’s extremely plausible.”

  “I agree,” he concurred. “And I’m thankful you had the foresight to have the piece studied.” He couldn’t quite keep the condemnation out of his tone. She should have told him this. It quite possibly changed everything.

  Cora’s expression turned worried. “You know what will happen if people find out about this.”

  He nodded. Proof of del Flores’s relationship with Abigail would bring the nightmare Cora had feared. “They won’t.”

  “You can’t keep it a secret for long,” she warned him.

  “Why is it a secret?” Molly asked.

  “Because,” Kaitlin informed her, “if people find out that del Flores was really here, they’ll try to find the rest of Abigail’s diaries before Aunt Cora and Rafael do.” Both adults knew the stakes were considerably higher.

  “But they’re ours!” Molly was outraged.

  “Yeah,” Liza said. “They can’t have ’em. They’re ours.”

  Rafael gave them a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. If they’re here, we’ll find them.” He glanced at Cora again. “But I want to see that jacket.”

  “I sent it to a friend at the Daughters of the American Revolution
headquarters in Washington, D.C. She’s a textile expert, and she’s looking at it. She said she’d have it back to me with a report by next week.”

  “Did you tell her what it was?”

  “No, just that I needed to know the period and the possible origins of the fabric. Sheila’s no dummy, though. She knows I’m working on the diaries. She’ll figure it out.”

  “And you trust her?”

  Cora’s eyebrows lifted. “She wouldn’t have the jacket if I didn’t.”

  It grated him that Cora had taken someone else into her confidence, but not him. It was completely irrational of course, for he’d known the woman less than a week. Still, he couldn’t keep the edge from his voice when he asked, “Does anyone else know?”

  “No,” she said. “I was alone when I found it.”

  Rafael relaxed, leaned back in his chair. “Thank God.”

  The children seemed to sense that the strange tension had lifted and again launched into a stream of questions about Cora’s find in the attic. She described in detail the jacket, the dress and the other few items she’d removed from the trunk. She kept a wary eye, Rafael noted, on him.

  He was waging a silent war with himself. The familiar rush of adrenaline he felt when he narrowed the net on del Flores had settled on him like a mantle. Long ago he’d quit asking himself why this ship, this person, this story, were so important to him. He no longer allowed himself to wonder what it was about del Flores’s relationship with Abigail and the mysteries therein that he found so addictive. A part of him suspected that he didn’t want to know the answer. So this was the side of himself he kept carefully tucked away.

  The intensity.

  The obsession.

  Even the word left a bad taste in his mouth. Since the day his brother Zack had hurled it at him in an angry accusation about irresponsibility, abandonment and self-centeredness, Rafael had carefully avoided explanations. Though his reaction to Zack’s tirade had been a stream of expletives and a furious departure from his brother’s control, the years since had not softened the blow.

  Not when other people said it, too.

  Not when he’d fallen in love for the first time because of it. At twenty he’d felt indestructible, and Jocelyn Ayres had been a professor at UNC where he was a struggling student. She’d hired him as a research assistant. He thought she’d shared his passion for del Flores and Abigail. They’d enjoyed mind-blowing sex, made all the more spectacular for him by the idea that this woman was his soul mate. He had learned, too late, that ambition and not affection had driven her to use his research to advance her own career.