“I know exactly where they belong.” She opened the journal with all the care and delicacy it deserved and showed him the bare binding where the pages were missing.
The captain perused the thick sheaf in his hand. “This is interesting,” he remarked, then read aloud. Caralyn hardly paid attention to the words. Instead, she listened to the deep rumble of his voice, which vibrated all the way to her toes. She studied his face, riveted by the way his lips moved. A vein throbbed in his neck and that, too, caught her attention.
She inhaled his clean spice and sea air scent and hid a smile of delight behind her hand. Without doubt, he smelled better than any man had a right to.
“'Let the light of my heart guide you.’” Captain Trey paused in his recital. “Hmm. Pembrook wrote it three times in a row. I wonder why.”
He turned toward her. Embarrassed she’d been caught staring at him, heat flooded her face and her heartbeat doubled in her chest. She picked up her cup with clumsy fingers and almost spilled the tea.
Stop it, Cara. He’s just a man. Possibly a married man at that.
While she blew on the tea to cool it, she concentrated on bringing herself under some semblance of control. When she thought she could trust her voice, she said, “I noticed he repeated that same phrase in several places, but many things he wrote do not make a bit of sense.” She tapped her lips with her finger and whispered, “Always three times though. It must mean something, but I haven’t a clue what.”
“No matter. We will figure it out.”
Caralyn watched as the captain dabbed a thin line of glue on the edges of the pages, then she looked up at his face. His brow furrowed, his mouth set in a thin line as he focused. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth and rested there. She smothered the urge to giggle. So intent on making sure he didn’t get glue where it didn’t belong, he hardly had it anywhere it did belong.
“Hold your breath,” he whispered as he placed the sheaf of pages into the book and held it there for a few minutes.
Either the glue was too old or he hadn’t put enough on the pages, which she suspected, but it didn’t work.
He tried again, using more glue. Still, the thick sheaf came away from the book easily. He wiped at the adhesive, removing the excess with his fingers and tried a third time.
After his fourth attempt with the same results, he shook his head and simply closed the book. “As much as I would like it to be so, I’m afraid I cannot repair Mr. Pembrook’s journal.” He pushed the diary toward her.
Caralyn ran her finger along the cracked leather. “Perhaps we can find a book binder when we arrive in Puerto Rico. In the meantime, I’ll just put it away.” She touched his arm and marveled at the tense muscles beneath his skin. “Thank you for trying.”
His gaze met hers. Caralyn inhaled as his eyes darkened and his pupils dilated. Her gaze traveled down to his mouth to study the quirky half smile on his parted lips and she wondered if he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to be kissed. She leaned toward him, breath held, and . . .
He stood abruptly, breaking the spell she’d been under. “Please excuse me. A captain’s work is never done.” His voice sounded strained as he rushed from the galley, his long strides echoing on the wooden planks.
Caralyn cringed. What must he think of me? She took a sip of tea and nearly choked as a new thought trickled into her mind. How on earth am I to be with this man for four months and not fall completely under his spell?
Chapter 7
Tristan stood at the wheel, hands resting on the smooth wood, and surveyed his surroundings. Pride swelled his chest and filled his heart. For the life of him, he could imagine nothing better than this. The sails were full as the sun began its descent into the horizon behind him and the Adventurer cut through the ocean at a smart clip. A sigh of contentment escaped him.
As with most evenings, the men gathered on the deck to play cards, mend clothing, or regale each other with tall tales, their bellies full of Hash’s cooking. Sometimes, there would be music and dancing. Those who could write wrote letters home, which would be delivered to the postmaster when they sailed into port. A few read books from the small library Tristan had collected over the years.
He spotted Jemmy sitting cross-legged on a coil of rope, his face wreathed in smiles as Mrs. Beasley read to him. Laughter escaped the lad and Tristan grinned. His son had developed a soft spot for the woman—for both women, if the truth were told, although a bit differently for each. Jemmy regarded Mrs. Beasley as one would an aunt; Caralyn, an older sister or cousin, perhaps. Given the opportunity, Tristan imagined the boy and Caralyn could find trouble.
He studied the interaction between Jemmy and Mrs. Beasley and realized a ship might no longer be the best place for his son. Jemmy needed maternal guidance and the loving comfort only a woman could give, although Tristan had done well without those things. The lad also needed an education that went beyond the common sense lessons of the crew.
Perhaps it was time to return to England, take the reins of the Winterbourne estates, and give Jemmy the best education wealth and status could provide.
In the midst of his musings, he caught Caralyn leaving the galley with a cup in her hand. His stomach did an odd flip and his mouth became dry. Surefooted, she crossed the deck in a hurry, although she did greet each and every man along the way. His smile returned. For a crew that hadn’t wanted to take a woman aboard, they’d certainly changed their attitudes in the last four weeks. Now, they tripped over themselves for a smile or a kind word from her.
His grin widened when he noticed her bare feet peeking from beneath the edge of her pale pink skirts. She had discarded her shoes their second day at sea as had most of his crew. Smudge followed behind her, tail up, slinky body rubbing against everything and everyone. His men tolerated the cat, too, more so than he would have guessed. He’d even caught one of them slipping Smudge a morsel of meat from his plate, and if the truth were known, Tristan himself had grown fond of the feline.
His eyes drifted from the cat back to Caralyn. He liked this woman. In many ways, she reminded him of himself. Single-minded, willing to do anything, even menial chores such as polishing the brass and swabbing the deck, to achieve her heart’s desire. Determination glittered in her eyes while pure joy bubbled in her laughter, and she laughed often.
Though he missed his cabin, the arrangement seemed to be working. He still had access to his day room where he kept the ship’s log, and each evening he and his officers dined with the lovely Miss McCreigh and her sometime difficult, sometimes charming companion.
It was said bad luck would fall upon the ship willing to take a woman aboard, but thus far, Tristan hadn’t had one lick of bad luck. In fact, their voyage had been incredibly smooth.
“Captain?”
Tristan did not take his hand from the wheel but his eyes followed her progress from the short flight of stairs until she stood by his side. “My given name is Tristan. It would please me if you would address me as such.”
“Tristan,” she complied. His name flowed from her lips like honey, infusing him with warmth. “My family calls me Cara.” A flush colored her cheeks, which made him smile. “I brought you some coffee.”
The sun hung over the indigo ocean as if on invisible strings, the pink-orange glow bathed the entire ship. Soon, stars would twinkle in an inky sky like diamonds against black velvet. Tristan sighed. What better place could he ever dream of being? And would that dream be complete without her?
As he grabbed the ceramic mug, he wondered where the thought had come from then quickly dismissed it from his mind. The subtle scent of cinnamon rose from the steaming brew and assailed his nose. The corners of his mouth twitched. Since she’d been on board, the coffee had become decidedly better than the bitter swill he’d grown accustomed to. A culinary genius with meats and vegetables, Hash couldn’t brew a decent cup of coffee to save his life.
“I could take the wheel so you can drink your coffee.”
&n
bsp; He caught the hopeful expression on her face—the wistfulness in her sea-blue eyes and tentative smile gracing her lips, and without a word, took a step away from the wheel.
Caralyn grasped the smooth wood beneath her hands. As Tristan leaned against the wheel housing, he imagined her delicate yet strong hands on him, caressing him, leaving a trail of warmth wherever they touched, searing his soul. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms and a shiver chased down his spine as the visions in his mind grew.
He held his breath as he studied her small features, the slight upward tilt at the end of her little nose, the full smile curving her lips, the perfect arch of her eyebrows and the curling mass of light brown hair pulled away from her face by a thin ribbon. Caught by the constant breeze, silky tresses escaped to curl around her face. Tristan’s fingers itched to tuck the errant tresses behind her ears.
He tightened his grip on the mug instead. It wouldn’t do to touch her, not even a slight brush against her skin with his fingertips because he knew himself—he’d want more. Much more.
“She handles like a dream.” Her mouth, moist and tempting, spread into a grin. “How long have you captained the Adventurer?”
Tristan concentrated on pulling his gaze away from the sight of her lips—not an easy task when the thought of tasting their sweetness flooded his mind. He took a sip of coffee in the hope the steaming brew would temper the sudden desire that made his entire body ache with longing. “Almost eight years. I bought her after the crew and I found our first treasure.” He took another sip of the delicious coffee, savoring the taste of cinnamon on his tongue, even as it burned his throat.
“Now our old ship, the Wanderer—she was a beauty, but barely seaworthy. We almost met our end several times when she took on too much water.” He gestured with his mug to draw her attention to the width and length of the ship. “The Adventurer is bigger, yet surprisingly faster, and Hash loves his galley.”
Her gaze returned to him, her eyes wide and sparkling, her mouth parted slightly. The sun finished its descent into the ocean and illuminated her in rays of red and gold. Tristan inhaled a lungful of air. My God, she is beautiful. But he’d already known that, known it the moment he laid eyes on her the first time. Nothing had changed since they’d left Charleston except he’d come to know her a little better. With knowing came more beauty . . . and more wanting.
He cleared his throat and backed up a step. “How are you and Mrs. Beasley fairing? Has she spoken to you yet?”
“You mean a real conversation?” Her chest rose and fell with her deep sigh and she shook her head. “Other than complaining about anything and everything? No.”
Her hand tightened on the wheel, knuckles white. Tristan winced. He wanted to place his hand over hers in order to relax her tight grip but he couldn’t. If he touched her hand, he’d want to touch her arms, the soft skin of her shoulder, the place where her collarbone encircled her neck, the smooth silk of her cheek and . . .
Her words faded in his ears as he studied her mouth, her creamy complexion, the faded scar on her forehead, which he found utterly adorable. Stop it, he demanded of himself. You are betrothed to be married.
Caralyn’s words became crystal clear once more. “She is unhappy sharing a cabin and a bed with me. She’s tired of having to rinse out her clothing each night and donning damp under . . . ah . . . things in the morning, though I’ve offered to let her wear mine until we reach Puerto Rico.” Another sigh escaped her.
“She is uncompromising and her list of complaints grows daily. She watches me whenever I am on deck. I feel the disapproval in her glare, but I have noticed she’s quite taken with Jemmy and Dr. Trevelyan. She spends all her time with them.” Her eyes drifted to where Jeremiah, Mrs. Beasley, and Stitch sat beneath a lantern on the deck. “I can’t blame her there. Stitch is a gentleman of the first order and Jemmy is the most adorable boy. You must be so proud of him.”
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, as if she couldn’t quite come to a decision, then blurted out, “He must look like his mother.”
He studied his son, not for the first time, and saw his mother so clearly. “Yes, he does look like Rielle. Same silky blond hair, same mischievous smile, same twinkling eyes. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Not only on the outside, but inside, where it counted most. He has her sweet disposition, too.”
The expression on Caralyn’s face conveyed her confusion, and he explained further.
“Jeremiah is the child of my heart though not of my blood. His mother and I were neighbors. We grew up together and I loved her as I would a sister.” He took a sip of coffee and grimaced as the liquid as well as the memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. “She’d made poor choices after the deaths of her parents, one right after the other, and fell for a man who wasn’t worthy of her. I begged her not to marry him, but she was in love and didn’t see Connor for who and what he was. The last time I saw her, I promised her I would take care of Jemmy if anything should ever happen to her.”
His gut tightened, even now, after all these years, by the thought of what could have been prevented. He couldn’t bring himself to reveal the guilt that still gnawed at him, still haunted him late at night. All the arguments he’d had with Rielle had failed to sway her. She had loved her husband and refused to leave him, despite the fact Connor Talbot was an abusive man.
“Jemmy wasn’t quite two when Mr. Arbuckle, Rielle’s solicitor, literally dropped him on my gangplank—for safekeeping, he’d said. It had taken him several months to locate me.” He couldn’t fight the sigh that escaped him, nor could he help the tightening of his jaw or the clenching of his fist.
“By that time, it was too late. When I arrived in England to see Rielle, I learned both she and her husband had died.” Tristan swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. “By his hand.”
• • •
She shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have delved into what was not her business, for now Tristan’s entire body thrummed with tension. Not only could Caralyn see his anger in the white knuckled grip of his coffee cup, his rigid jawline, the muscle that jumped in his cheek, but she could feel it as well. Suppressed fury shimmered around him, cloaking him in a mantle of heat. His eyes darkened in the glow of the lanterns Mr. Quincy lit around the upper deck and Caralyn swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat.
He wasn’t married, didn’t still pine for Jemmy’s mother, but the knowledge did little to relieve her. She, herself, wasn’t free. It didn’t matter, though. She still wanted to smooth the throbbing muscle in his jaw with her thumb, wanted to ease his tension, his anger, his pain before her innocent statement ruined a perfectly lovely evening. “I’m so sorry for your loss. She must have been very special.” She did touch him then, laid her fingers on his arm. Compared to the smoothness of his skin, his muscles were hard steel. “You’ve done a wonderful job with him. He’s such a little gentleman.”
He nodded and let out his breath. The grip on his coffee cup lessened and the rigidity eased from his jaw. The muscle there no longer jumped as he gestured toward the boy. “I can’t take all the credit. The entire crew has had a hand in raising him.” The warm glow of love replaced the darkness in his eyes. “And last year, it became legal. I adopted Jemmy.”
The object of their conversation scampered up the steps, his voice rising as he yelled, “Papa! Papa, will you play?”
Tristan bent down on one knee and faced his son. His voice lowered and Caralyn couldn’t hear what he said but it didn’t matter. Such love showed on the captain’s face, such adoration reflected in the boy’s eyes, her heart melted. Jemmy was indeed the child of Tristan’s heart. Anyone who witnessed them together could see that.
Tristan rose and ruffled Jemmy’s silky blond hair before the boy dashed away. His bare feet made hardly any noise on the wooden stairs as he disappeared below deck.
“My apologies for the interruption.” His eyes met hers and his voice floated over her like a warm mist.
&
nbsp; “No apologies necessary,” she murmured although her throat had gone dry. “As I said, he’s a lovely boy. Sweet. Intelligent. Full of joie de vivre. And a little bit of mischief. He reminds me so much of my nephew.”
Without preamble—they weren’t even on the subject—Tristan said, “I must know. When we first left Charleston, you told Mrs. Beasley this was your last chance. Last chance for what?”
The question surprised her and Caralyn stiffened. Her hands gripped the wheel as she gazed into the horizon, at the deck, at the sails full of wind—everywhere but his face. And yet, it didn’t matter she couldn’t see his handsome features. She still felt his intense gaze. His eyes never left her, the glowing orbs piercing her skin to see straight into her soul.
Caralyn swallowed. I need to find the treasure so I can buy myself out of my betrothal and won’t have to marry a man I don’t know. The words were on the tip of her tongue but she couldn’t utter them, couldn’t drag them from her throat. In her mind, the explanation sounded horrible, terribly selfish, and discourteous. She could only imagine how those words would sound aloud.
He waited with patience. His foot didn’t tap the deck, he didn’t fidget, didn’t gesture with his hands to draw the explanation from her. Indeed, he stood perfectly still except for tilting his head to the side as he gazed at her.
Self-doubt made her squirm beneath his steady scrutiny, made her question her motives. Caralyn opened and closed her mouth several times. How could she possibly explain so he would understand what she really wanted—not an arranged marriage but a romance to take her breath away, a man to sweep her off her feet?
A fairy tale romance and a knight in shining armor wasn’t so much to ask for, was it? And yes, she could have gone to London and met her intended, given him a chance to win her heart, and probably should have, but she didn’t. Instead, for good or ill, she chose to search for a treasure that may not exist, chose one last adventure, one last lark.
A Treasure Worth Keeping Page 7