“No, I was not.”
The crewman mumbled beneath his breath words Tristan couldn’t quite make out before he apologized. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. It ain’t unusual fer ye to have a woman in yer cabin, though it ain’t happened in a while.”
“It’s all right, Coop,” Tristan said. “Why don’t you join your mates at the Salty Dog? You shouldn’t miss the celebration.”
The seaman’s sharp brown eyes disappeared in the wrinkles of his face as he grinned. “Aye, Cap’n!” He needed no further urging as he scurried down the gangplank.
Tristan watched him for a moment then strode across the deck, the hard soles of his boots loud in the silent night.
At the end of the hallway, his door stood wide open. Candles lit against the darkness created a warm glow on the mahogany paneled walls. He glanced around the room. All the built-in cabinets were ajar. Maps littered the floor, some flat, some curled into long tubes, which rolled back and forth as the ship moved. Perturbed, but not angry, his jaw clenched but only for a moment as he took in the sight before him.
The woman stood at his desk, her hands flat on the surface as she studied a map. Covered in yards of pale blue silk, her backside wiggled as she shoved the current map out of her way to study the one beneath it.
The glow from the candles brought out the golden glints in her hair, which curled down her back in wild abandon. With a well-practiced flick of her hand, she pushed long, light brown hair away from her face then reached for the snifter of cognac on the desktop, finishing the amber brew in one swallow.
Tristan leaned against the doorjamb and twisted the ring on his finger as he admired the tantalizing view before him, no longer bothered by her uninvited presence. A new feeling took hold, one that filled his veins with desire. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. “Are you finding my maps of interest?”
“Oh!” She gave a guilty start and whirled around. A pretty shade of pink colored her face and contrasted with the pale blue of her gown. Her eyes, the color of the deep blue sea, were wide and twinkled in the candlelight. “I’m . . . I’m . . .” She paused to breathe. “You must be Captain Trey.”
“I must be.” He took two steps into the room. She backed into the desk, unable to retreat further. “And you are?”
The muscles in her throat moved as she swallowed hard.
“I . . .”
“If you’re looking for the Sierra Magdalena’s treasure, you won’t find it here. Nor will those maps help you.”
She drew herself up as his words hit her. “I beg your pardon. I am not a thief.”
Tristan smiled as wicked thoughts careened through his mind and took another two steps into the room. He stood only a breath away from her, close enough to see the faint scar on her forehead, close enough to notice her eyes weren’t merely sea-blue, but had flecks of green in their depths as well. Long dark lashes fluttered as she stared into his face and licked her lips.
He knew an invitation when he saw one. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, lowered his head, and tasted those tempting, moist lips.
The woman stilled in his embrace, then melted against him. She tasted of brandy, warm and intoxicating, while her perfume filled his senses and surrounded him with the clean scent of a forest after a rain. The combination of her taste and smell tantalized him; the heat of her response excited him and made him realize one kiss was not enough.
His mouth slid over hers, gently at first, then with more force. Her lips opened beneath his, and beyond the initial taste of brandy, he detected the cool freshness of mint.
“Captain,” she breathed as she turned away and his lips touched the softness of her cheek. Small, dainty hands pushed against his chest. “I am not a common . . . strumpet here for your pleasure.”
Tristan grinned. Oh, she was a beauty with the color of roses in her cheeks and the sparkle of indignation in her sea-blue eyes. Contrary to her words, she had responded to him. Her body still trembled within his embrace.
“My apologies.” He released her and she staggered. “When a man comes aboard his ship and sees a beautiful woman who claims she is not a thief, he can only think one other thing.”
Those beguiling eyes flashed, and for a moment, Tristan battled with himself to keep from falling into their fathomless depths. He pulled a chair away from the table before slumping into it and crossing his legs. “If you’re not a thief and you’re not a harlot come to fulfill all my carnal desires, then who are you?”
“My name is Caralyn McCreigh,” she said and waited, as if she expected him to recognize the name.
He wasn’t listening. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the beauty of her face, the wild curls of light brown hair held back from her small features by a ribbon the same pale blue as her gown, or her full figure emphasized by the cut of her dress.
“I . . . ah . . . I have a proposition for you,” she blurted and raised wide eyes to him.
In that moment, Tristan was lost. Still intoxicated by her taste and smell, he now had to contend with desire sweeping through him with incredible speed and urgency.
“I want to hire you to help me find Queen Isabella’s treasure.”
Tristan said nothing, although his fingers drummed the tabletop. Was it possible? Had she overheard him talking with Graham? How did she know about the treasure?
Of course, everyone knew about the treasure, but how did she know he had searched for it and planned to search for it again? Was it coincidence?
Before he could voice his concern, she said, “You know my father, Daniel McCreigh of the Lady Elizabeth.” She smiled with obvious love for her father. “He told me he’d met you in Kingston. He thought you were an honorable man.”
Recognition dawned for Tristan. He did, indeed, know Daniel McCreigh, the fine, upstanding man who captained the Lady Elizabeth. They had both been in Finnegan’s Crooked Shillelagh, commiserating that neither could find Izzy’s Fortune, though each had searched for quite a few years. He remembered sharing an enjoyable evening with the man, hoisting tankards of ale and regaling each other with tall tales of life at sea. At one point, they’d even compared notes on where the treasure was not.
Tristan studied her, looked beyond her beauty, and saw the resemblance. “Many have searched for the treasure, Miss McCreigh, and yet, no one has found it. Queen Isabella’s treasure may not even be real.”
“Yes, that is true, but I believe it is.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I know, in my heart, the treasure is real.”
As did he, but he couldn’t tell her that. They’d just met. “What makes you think you will succeed where others have failed? Your own father couldn’t find the treasure.”
“I know, but I have these.” She reached for the soft-sided valise on the floor beside the desk, which Tristan hadn’t seen when he’d come into his cabin. She pulled an oilcloth wrapped package from the depths of the case and laid it on the table in front of him. Her fingers trembled as she tugged the string and moved the protective covering aside to reveal a journal before she pulled out the chair beside him and sat.
The leather binding was cracked and brittle. As she lifted the cover with her gloved fingers exposing pages fragile and delicate with age, Caralyn said, “My father was never serious about finding the treasure. For him, it was a lark, an adventure he and I could share, but I was raised on stories of Izzy’s Fortune and I . . .I always believed. Even when I found this journal, Papa refused to come out of retirement to find it.”
Tristan looked from the book to her face. Her eyes were animated and sparkled in the glow of candlelight. Pink stained her cheeks. Enthusiasm colored her voice. He said nothing as he watched her, but his thoughts ran riot.
“This is the journal of Alexander Pembrook,” she said. “He sailed with Henry Morgan.”
She lifted one page after another with a touch so light, so dainty, Tristan’s body responded as if she caressed him. The fine hair on his arms rose as he imagined her fingers on his skin. Excitement rip
pled through him, and his heart beat a little faster in his chest.
She stopped about a third of the way through the journal. “Here.” She pointed to the page and pushed the book toward him. “Start here.”
He moved the candle closer and started to read. The journal entry, dated June 1670, described separating the Santa Maria from her two flagships and overtaking her in a battle, which left the ship with gaping holes in her bow and her crew in bloody heaps. The passage further related how Morgan’s men transferred the treasure to their own ship, set the Santa Maria on fire, and watched her sink into the ocean.
“This is all very exciting,” Tristan commented as he slid the journal back to her, “but is it true?”
“I believe so.” She stared at him, and in the depths of her fathomless eyes, he knew she did. With great care, she searched further through the journal and stopped at another page. “Morgan didn’t trust very many people, and he moved the treasure several times. The last time he did, Alexander was one of the men he selected to help move the treasure and swore to secrecy.”
Tristan rose from his seat. He grabbed her brandy snifter from the desk, found another one for himself in the cabinet over his head, and poured them both a draft of fine cognac. He swallowed his without even tasting it then refilled his glass.
“According to his journal, Alexander moved the treasure once more—stealing it from beneath Morgan’s nose the year Morgan was arrested and sent to England for breaking a peace treaty between England and Spain.”
She tapped the journal with her forefinger. “The final resting place of Queen Isabella’s treasure is the Island of the Sleeping Man. He describes the island quite well, but I have never been able to locate it on any map. I can tell you where it is not because I’ve accompanied my father on several of his adventures.” She took a sip of her brandy. “After he hid the treasure, Alexander . . . reinvented himself, I suppose would be the correct term. He changed his appearance, changed his name, changed everything about himself and settled in Jamaica, but he never stopped writing in his journal.” She turned more pages and pointed to various paragraphs, but she never read from the writings themselves, so he knew she had committed certain things to memory.
“He married Mary Collins, a plantation owner’s daughter and lived happily at Sweet Briar in Saint James Parish before Henry Morgan returned to Jamaica as the lieutenant governor.” Her fingers smoothed over the written words.
“Alexander became very ill after Morgan returned. He didn’t leave the plantation, wouldn’t see visitors. I have the impression he spent a lot of time in a little chapel on the plantation, praying. I don’t know if part of his illness was due to his constant consumption of rum, but I know he believed he’d been cursed for stealing the treasure. He believed Morgan would come for him at any moment.” She paused and took a deep breath before continuing in a rush.
“His writing reflected his illness and his fear. Many of his words are gibberish, out of context, and make little sense, even though I’ve read this over and over. His last entry is August 10, 1680. I imagine he died a short time later.”
Fascinated, Tristan watched her take another sip of brandy then lick her lips once again.
“To my knowledge, Izzy’s Fortune is still hidden on the Island of the Sleeping Man.”
Anticipation surged through Tristan’s veins, and yet he couldn’t allow himself to show it. Why should he trust her? She was simply a woman he’d found on his ship, going through his maps. Perhaps she’d made it all up, wrote the journal herself, but to what purpose? Was she bored with her life? Did she long for adventure?
He studied the book, noticed again the brittle pages, the ink so faded in places he had trouble reading it, and knew with certainty, the journal wasn’t forged.
He felt her intense stare and looked at her.
“You don’t believe me,” she blurted, as if she’d read his thoughts. “I have this.” She reached for her valise again and laid a wooden box beside the book, slipped the lock, and lifted the lid. Nestled in a bed of black velvet lay a golden goblet encrusted with precious gems. Rubies and emeralds sparkled in the soft glow of the candles and created rainbows on the dark mahogany walls. “It was with Alexander’s journal. I found them both hidden in the false bottom of an old grandfather clock my father had purchased many years ago. I don’t think they were ever meant to be found. If an earthquake hadn’t toppled that clock to the floor, I never would have known.”
Stunned, Tristan swallowed hard. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life, aside from the woman next to him. He said nothing as he lifted the goblet from its bed of velvet and inspected the gems, the perfection of the craftsmanship, the tiny inscription at the base.
“I will finance the expedition on the condition I am allowed to join in the hunt and we split the treasure—half for you and your crew, half for me.” She held her breath and waited for his answer.
He came to a quick decision. There were those, he knew, who would think him insane, unstable. A superstitious group, his crew would regard him as quite mad and would object to a woman on board the Adventurer, but he had to take the chance—on her. On the journal. On the golden chalice in his hand and the possibility of finding Izzy’s Fortune.
“I accept your proposition. We leave in four days.”
Chapter 2
Caralyn let out her pent up breath in a long sigh. Relief washed through her with such speed, she wanted to cry. She couldn’t believe he’d agreed without an argument. She had been prepared to beg, and if that hadn’t worked, she’d been prepared to offer . . . herself.
The first part of her plan to gain her freedom had gone off without a hitch, but it was only the beginning. They had to find the treasure, just had to—her future happiness depended upon it.
She’d come to the Adventurer alone and waited for him with the knowledge he might deny her request with a simple shake of his head. And yet, he hadn’t. He hadn’t been irate to find her in his cabin, hadn’t been disturbed she’d gone through his maps. He seemed more amused and curious than angry.
Though her father had spoken of Captain Trey many times, hearing about him had not prepared her for meeting him. She had expected an older man, but the man who sat before her couldn’t be considered old in any way. Young and vibrant, raw energy and blatant sexuality oozed from him, which both frightened and excited her more than she dare admit.
She hadn’t expected him to be quite this handsome, either. He looked like a pirate. Or at least what she imagined a pirate would look like. Dark hair, brushed back from his forehead, formed a queue at the back of his neck, and was held in place by a length of leather. High cheekbones emphasized remarkable, unusual sherry-colored eyes, which bore holes through her and heated her blood. He possessed a beautiful smile, which he flashed at her, and the softest lips. Her mouth still tingled from when he’d kissed her.
Broad shouldered and muscular from years at sea, his long, lean body carried not an ounce of fat. She glanced at his hands and held her breath. Not the hands of a dandy or someone who only used his strength to open a brandy bottle. These hands had known hard work, and yet she detected an inherent gentleness in his long fingers.
“Why have you brought this to me? Why hasn’t your father taken the journal and goblet and set sail?” His fingers touched hers as he handed back the items. A suffusion of heat sizzled from her fingertips all the way to her toes.
“Father said he’s too old and tired to chase rainbows. He said it was time for both of us to give up the fantasy of Queen Isabella’s treasure.” She left out the part about his plans for her marriage. An arranged marriage to a man she didn’t know, a man who would take her away from the home she loved on Saint Lucia, a man who would expect things from her. “He retired and sold the Lady Elizabeth.”
Caralyn didn’t tell him how much it hurt to know her father had sold the ship to a complete stranger. She’d always assumed he would give it to her. After all, she was the only one of his children who loved the La
dy Elizabeth as much as he did.
With nimble fingers, she wrapped the journal in its protective oilcloth, placed the goblet in its box, and tucked them away in her valise. “There is one other thing.” She pulled out an envelope. “It’s a contract, specifying the terms of our agreement.”
Captain Trey took the envelope and removed the contract and its duplicate. Once again, Caralyn held her breath. Though he had verbally agreed, he could still change his mind. The possibility all her plans were for naught still weighed heavily on her heart.
He said nothing as he read the document, but his eyes wandered to her several times. Again, his grin spread from ear to ear. “I am to take you to London by April twentieth, whether we find the treasure or not.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t give us much time, Miss McCreigh. It’s the middle of January.” With a frown, he dipped his pen into the inkwell but didn’t sign. Instead, he stared at her. His remarkable eyes seared her to her very soul. “Did Entwhistle send you?” he asked as his gaze swept over her. Her heartbeat quickened as excitement rippled through her.
She took a deep breath. “I assure you, Captain, I came on my own. No one sent me. Perhaps it is foolish, but no one knows I came to see you.”
He continued to stare at her. Caralyn didn’t blink, didn’t turn away. She kept her gaze steadily on him, praying he wouldn’t back out of their agreement.
“Finding this treasure is important to you.” He wasn’t asking a question. It was a statement of fact and the deep tenor of his voice filled her veins with warm honey.
“Yes. More important than you’ll ever know.” She didn’t elaborate, didn’t tell him the proceeds from her share of the treasure would be enough to buy her out of a marriage she didn’t want. Nor did she tell him how frightened she was to fail in her quest or how much the thought of high adventure filled her with excitement.
“For me as well, Miss McCreigh.” He signed his name in bold slashes on the bottom on the pages before he handed her the documents and the quill.
A Treasure Worth Keeping Page 2