The duchess glanced into the trunk. One eyebrow rose as a smile crossed her lips. “Willful. Rash and reckless, with a weakness for men of the sea.” She grasped Caralyn’s chin between finger and thumb. “But knowing her own heart.”
“What am I to do?” The tears fell. She couldn’t help it.
“Life is long. You cannot go through it with sadness as your constant companion.” The duchess sighed then glanced at her daughter. Elizabeth raised a perfectly shaped brow as she held her mother’s gaze then slowly nodded. “As your mother did so long ago, as I once did, you must follow your heart. Go to him. Find this captain of yours and tell him you love him.”
“I can’t.” Caralyn scooped up a handful of gold coins and let them drop back into the chest one by one. “I can’t go to Tristan if I am not free. I must speak with the Earl of Winterbourne and try to convince him to set me free of Papa’s word. I can pay him the dowry Papa promised, but I have no idea where to find him.”
“So that’s why you’ve been trying to bribe my staff and sneak out of the house.” The duchess chuckled. “Why did you not just ask me?” She laid cool fingers on Caralyn’s arm. “By the time you change your clothes, I can have a carriage ready to take you where you need to go.”
• • •
She’s not coming back.
The words echoed through Tristan’s mind as the ticking of the clock reminded him of exactly how long Caralyn had been gone. Three days, four hours, twenty-four minutes. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-six.
He paced the length of his cabin, back and forth, unable to sit still for more than a moment, unable to concentrate on the captain’s log he needed to complete before he transferred ownership of the Adventurer to Graham.
Twenty-seven minutes.
He’d yet to receive a response from his father, either. The messages he’d sent after they sailed into port had gone unanswered. He could and should ride out for the Winterbourne estates and confront his father, but where was he? The London townhouse? The estates in Swansea? One of the other estates? The hunting lodge? And what if Caralyn came back after he was gone? Would she think he’d given up waiting for her?
Twenty-eight minutes.
Most of the crew had gone to town to spend their portion of the treasure. Only Stitch, Temperance, Hash, and Jemmy remained onboard. The creaking of the ship and the ticking of the clock were simply repeated reminders of the time he wasted, the time Caralyn was not in his arms.
Tristan sighed, sat at his desk again, and tried to record the details of his journey to find Izzy’s Fortune but every word, every fact reminded him of Caralyn. Indeed, her perfume permeated the cabin. He inhaled, letting the scent he associated with her fill his mind.
“When is Miss Cara coming back? I miss her.”
Tristan looked up from the captain’s log on his desk to see his son in the doorway of the cabin. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and glowed in the pearly light coming in through the window. He looked as if he’d been crying. “Come here.” He opened his arms wide. The boy flew across the room and settled onto his lap.
“I miss her, too, son,” he said, “but I don’t think she’ll be able to come back. She . . .” He stopped himself from saying too much. Only eight, Jemmy wouldn’t understand the obligations of adults, couldn’t understand the circumstances he and Caralyn had found themselves in—to find the perfect mate, the perfect person only to be promised to others, but the boy deserved to know.
Before he could explain, Jemmy whispered, “I wish she could be my mother.”
The words were spoken so softly, so wistfully, Tristan wasn’t sure he’d heard them correctly, but they touched his heart. He held the boy tighter. How unfair he’d been, never realizing how much Jemmy had grown to love Caralyn, never realizing how his actions had affected his son. Guilt raged through him and his own eyes misted, blurring his vision. The ache in his chest, his constant companion, exploded. He held his breath against the pain, and as much as he hated to hurt his son more, he had to tell him. “She’s to be married to someone else.”
“She can’t,” the boy blurted as tears filled his eyes. His voice cracked. “She loves you, Papa. And you love her. You have to marry her.”
Tristan sighed and closed his eyes, unable to bear the anguish he saw reflected on Jemmy’s face, anguish that mirrored his own. “It’s not possible, son. I’m sorry. We both, she and I, have responsibilities and commitments, duties to fulfill.” The words sounded weak, even to his own ears. His voice lowered as he uttered, “I am to be married as well.”
“No, Papa!” Jemmy squirmed out of his embrace. Anger stiffened his little body as he stood in front of his father, red faced, hands balled into fists. “You can’t marry someone else! You can’t!”
“But I must.”
“I want Miss Cara! You have to find her and bring her back!” Tears flowed freely from Jemmy’s eyes and ran down his cheeks.
“I can’t.”
“I hate you, Papa!” His son shouted the words and fled from the room as fast as his feet could carry him.
Tristan closed his eyes against the sorrow filling his soul. Jemmy had never said those words to him before and God help him, they hurt. He resisted the urge to chase after his son. For now. He knew no matter what he said, no matter how he tried to explain, Jemmy wouldn’t understand. The boy was too upset to listen. It was the second hardest thing Tristan had ever done. The first had been watching Caralyn leave the Adventurer.
“What’s wrong with Jemmy?” Stitch stood in the doorway, concern etched on his face. “He ran past me as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, his eyes full of tears. Temperance is trying to comfort him, but she isn’t doing much good. The boy is inconsolable.”
“I had to tell him Caralyn isn’t coming back . . . had to tell him she’s getting married to someone else, as am I.” He scrubbed at his face then raked his fingers through his hair. His breath hitched in his chest as he revealed the hurtful words his son had thrown at him. “He told me he hated me.”
Stitch shook his head. “I’m sorry. That must have been very hard for you.” The doctor entered the room and headed for the liquor cabinet. He poured a healthy draught of brandy into snifters and handed one to Tristan then pulled a chair closer to the desk. He took a sip of the cognac. “He doesn’t mean it, you know. Children will say things when they’re upset. They don’t realize how hurtful words can sometimes be, but he’ll calm down.”
“I don’t know, Stitch.” Tristan let out his pent up breath. “If you could have seen the hurt on his face, the way he looked at me.” He closed his eyes against the pain, against the sympathy in Stitch’s expression. “He said he wished Caralyn could be his mother.”
“I see. He grew very fond of her very quickly and she of him, I think.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and then took another sip of brandy. “What about you?”
“What about me?” His words were curt. He didn’t mean them to be, but he didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to share the sadness in his heart about Caralyn. He didn’t offer an apology, although he knew he should. The lump in his throat made it too difficult to speak.
The doctor’s eyebrow lifted, but he remained silent for a very long time. When he finally spoke, he said, “You know, I still have the address where Temperance and I brought Caralyn. I would presume she’s still there. She isn’t married yet, Tristan, and neither are you.” He finished his brandy then rose from his seat. He laid his hand on Tristan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sometimes, a child’s simple view is the right one. Adults always make things more complicated than they need to be. Perhaps you should listen to Jemmy and follow your heart.”
He left the cabin, closing the door behind him. Tristan leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, his thumbs resting under his chin, fingertips touching the tip of his nose. The advice Stitch gave him to heed Jemmy’s words whirled in his mind.
Dare he follow his heart?
He closed h
is eyes. The memory of all of them sitting down for breakfast at Finnegan’s flashed through his mind. How happy he’d been at that moment. How content. How much he wanted that to be real.
“Yes, damn it, I dare!” He said the words aloud and his heart pounded in his chest, not with pain, not with sorrow, but with hope. He stood, tossed back the brandy, and rushed from the cabin. Stitch was the only one in sight, although he could hear Jemmy’s sobs. The good doctor paced back and forth on deck, his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.
“Ah, you’ve come to a decision, I see.”
Tristan grinned. “If you’ll keep an eye on Jemmy, I’ll take that address.”
Stitch nodded and handed him a slip of paper. “Bring her back to us.”
Excitement pulsed through his veins as he left the ship and hailed the first carriage he saw. His foot tapped the floor in an effort to convince the driver to go faster. He sat back against the cushioned seat and twisted the signet ring around and around on his finger. He stopped twisting and stared at the symbol on it, a smile spreading his lips. He could only imagine the look on his father’s face when he introduced Caralyn as the only woman he’d consider marrying.
Tristan didn’t wait for the carriage to come to a complete stop or for the driver to climb from his perch and place the wooden box beneath the door. He jumped to the cobblestoned street and tossed a few coins to the driver then stood for a moment to catch his breath as the carriage pulled away. Hawthorne House and the carved lions flanking the wrought iron gate greeted him with stony silence.
He strode toward the door, lifted the heavy lion’s head knocker, and waited. And waited. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushed his hands into his pockets then removed them again. He stared at the door, willing it to open, willing it to disappear. Unable to stop himself, he lifted the knocker once more and let it drop.
Once the door finally opened, every rule of decorum and propriety left him. He pushed past the startled butler and rushed into the house.
“Cara! Cara!” Tristan’s voice echoed through the cavernous great hall, the chandelier above his head tinkling in response.
“Sir, if you would please—” The butler tried to grab his arm, but Tristan shook him off.
“Cara!” He strode toward the sweeping staircase, expecting to see Caralyn come flying down the stairs. Instead, he saw a young girl, a child of no more than four or five. She stood on a step midway down the staircase, a rag doll clutched in her arms. Masses of light brown hair curled around her head. She grinned at him.
Tristan couldn’t help himself. He grinned back. “Hello, sweetheart.”
The girl giggled and scampered down the remaining steps. She looked at him with the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “Who are you?”
“My name is Tristan.” He bowed before her, completely enchanted. If he and Caralyn were ever to have a daughter, this was what she would look like. He crouched down to be eye level with her. “And what is your name?”
“Elizabeth Caralyn McCreigh.”
His heart pounded in his chest as he looked at her. He could see Caralyn in her sparkling blue eyes, her mass of bouncing curls, her mischievous grin, and assumed she was either niece or sister.
“How old are you, Elizabeth?”
“Four and a half. Almost five,” she told him, her voice full of pride then showed him the doll she carried. “This is Apple Annie. She’s almost five too.”
Delighted by this little elfin creature, charmed by those flashing blue eyes, Tristan asked, “Do you know where Caralyn is?”
“Aunt Cara?”
“Young man!”
Tristan turned at the sound of a woman’s commanding voice and stared, his mouth open. Except for the whiteness of her hair piled high upon her head, the resemblance to Caralyn astounded him. Her mother, perhaps?
He rose from his crouched position and watched the woman come closer. Spots of color highlighted her pale cheeks as she crossed the marble floor, her cane tapping with each step she took. The butler walked several steps behind her, back rigid, thin lips pressed together in anger.
“Betsy, go and find your grandmother. Ask her to meet me in the salon,” she ordered. Once the girl scurried back up the stairs, she turned to the butler. “It’s all right, Crandall. You may go.”
The butler hesitated for a moment then bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Your Grace?
Crandall left the great hall, but not before scowling at Tristan, his intent clear. He didn’t go far, either. Tristan almost grinned, realizing the butler’s footsteps ceased once the man was out of sight.
The woman faced him once again and Tristan found himself the subject of the boldest assessment of his person he’d ever experienced. Disconcerted, surprised, he returned her frank stare with one of his own.
An eyebrow lifted and her head tilted to the side. “Now, young man, what is the meaning of this? Who are you? Why have you come barging into my home, bellowing at the top of your lungs like a fishwife hawking her wares?” she demanded, her voice full of authority, an authority he recognized.
“My apologies, Your Grace.” He bowed before her, recognition finally dawning. Of course. Hawthorne House. The lions crouching beside the gate. The lion’s head knockers. The woman before him was the dowager duchess of Lion’s Mead.
“I sometimes forget my manners. As captain of the Adventurer, I am accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. I want—” he began then changed his mind when he caught her expression. “Pardon me, Your Grace. I am Tristan Youngblood, Lord Ravensley. With your permission, I would like to speak with Caralyn.”
The duchess continued to scrutinize him, her eyes missing nothing. She let out a sigh and the hint of a smile crossed her lips. “So you are Cara’s captain.” She hooked her hand into the crook of his arm. “There is much we need to discuss, young man, beginning with what happened between you and my granddaughter. Crandall, please bring a bottle of our finest cognac.”
Granddaughter? Caralyn McCreigh was the duchess’s granddaughter? His heart sank. No matter what he and Caralyn felt about each other, he knew he’d never be able to convince her father to allow her out of her impending marriage . . . unless he had this formidable woman on his side, and he wasn’t sure he could be successful. On legs as heavy as wooden blocks, Tristan allowed himself to be escorted into a very lovely salon, the duchess still holding his arm.
“Please, sit down, Lord Ravensley.” She pointed to a chair upholstered in red, green, and gold as she took the one opposite.
Tristan sat on the edge and looked around the room. The portrait over the fireplace caught his eye and he stared as he spoke. “Tristan, please. I’ve been away for a long time. The title of lord does not sit easily on my shoulders.”
The grand lady bowed her head as the door opened. Crandall entered, carrying cognac and crystal snifters on a silver tray. Another woman followed, younger than the duchess, but bearing the same resemblance to the woman sitting across from him, the woman in the portrait and Caralyn. She must be Caralyn’s mother. Tristan rose to his feet. The woman stopped and simply stared, her mouth open as the butler responded to the duchess’s summons.
After a word or two with Crandall, the duchess turned to Elizabeth and said, “May I present my daughter, Elizabeth, Caralyn’s mother. Elizabeth, this is Cara’s captain.” One brow cocked over a blue eye as she smiled.
“Oh! But she’s—Oh!” Her paralysis broken, Elizabeth stepped forward and extended her hand. “A pleasure, Captain. Caralyn has told us so much about you.”
“If I may, I’d like your permission to speak with Caralyn then her father,” he insisted as the duchess poured cognac into a crystal snifter and handed it to him. He remained on his feet, anxious, every nerve in his body poised to search the manse from top to bottom until he found her.
“You have my permission, my dear man; however, neither one of them is here at the moment.” The duchess took a sip of her cognac but her eyes never left him
. “Caralyn left about an hour ago.”
“Where did she go?” He put his glass on the tray, the cognac untouched. “Will she be back soon? It is of the utmost importance that I see her, Your Grace. Please.”
“I remember you, Tristan,” the duchess said, her voice full of fondness. “The last time we met, you were about ten. You were in a hurry then, too.” The duchess leaned forward and pierced him with her stare. “Do you love my granddaughter?”
“Do you love my daughter?”
Both women spoke in unison then grinned at each other, as if they shared a secret, a secret that somehow concerned him. And Caralyn.
Startled by the question, Tristan opened his mouth then closed it. The circumstances he found himself in were the most unusual. Uncomfortable, his uneasiness and suspicion growing, he knew honesty would be best. “Yes, I love Caralyn. More than life itself. More than I ever thought possible.”
“And do you promise to cherish her for the rest of your days?” The question came from Elizabeth.
Puzzled and confounded, Tristan nodded. “Of course. It is my deepest wish.”
“Good.” The duchess rose and walked to the door. Elizabeth followed. Crandall waited outside, a note in his hand, which he passed to her.
Stunned by the unexpected reaction to his honesty, his declaration of love for Caralyn, Tristan rushed toward the door. “But I . . . I don’t understand. Please, I must see Caralyn. You must tell me where she is.”
The duchess winked at him and handed him the paper. “This is the address where you will find Caralyn. Crandall has had my fastest horse saddled. Go. Now.” She winked at him again.
Confused, bewildered, feeling as if too much liquor addled his thinking, though he hadn’t touched the brandy she’d offered, Tristan opened the folded paper. Tears misted his eyes and his throat constricted in an instant. Joy filled his soul and made his heart thunder in his chest. The address was his own. Or rather, his father’s London townhouse.
A Treasure Worth Keeping Page 27