“You can’t. It’s not . . .” Jonathan still couldn’t seem to form his thoughts into words. His eyes drifted from her knees, to her thighs—God help him, her thighs—continuing up without conscious thought to her bosom, which was definitely not bound as it had been when she was in disguise.
He swallowed, fighting down a surge of irrational lust. “You are not leaving this ship dressed like that,” he said finally, his voice deadly serious. He tore his gaze away to glare at the scattered crewmen looking their way with interest. “In fact, you’re not staying on this ship dressed like that either,” he hissed. “Go and change immediately!”
“Whatever for?” she asked in confusion. “It’s much more comfortable, easier to clamber about after you. And if I need to fight . . .” She drew her sword and lunged forward with a sharp thrust. “Much better than skirts.”
Jonathan grabbed her arm, dragging her out of view behind a stack of crates. “It’s indecent,” he hissed, glancing down once again, then away just as quickly when he noticed the dark hollow between her breasts. “And button your shirt, for heaven’s sake!”
Sarina ripped her arm away and sheathed her sword. With a frown, she fastened one more button on her shirt. “There. Satisfied?”
Jonathan glared. “Go. Change. Now.”
Sarina glared right back, fists on her hips. “No.”
Jonathan growled, turning to pace away a few steps and back again. He could feel hairs on his head graying with every moment, seconds of life dribbling away with every beat of his furious heart. At this rate, he’d keel over of old age before he reached thirty.
“Why must you fight me on everything?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Not everything,” Sarina replied. “Just when you’re being impossible.” She paused for a moment, pondering. “You’re just impossible more often than most.”
For some reason, the comment hit Jonathan as funny. He blinked at her, fighting the urge to laugh, but lost the battle. His shoulders shook as he tried to hold back, anger and frustration finally giving way to helpless surrender as he burst out laughing.
Sarina eyed him warily. “You’re really quite mad, aren’t you?”
Of course, that only made him laugh harder, tears springing forth as he clutched his stomach.
She huffed in frustration. “What on earth is so funny?”
Jonathan struggled for breath, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “Oh, Smith,” he said through the remaining chuckles. “Why do I even try to tell you what to do?”
Sarina shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”
A strand of hair had sprung free of her queue, and without thinking, he reached out to tuck it behind her ear. Sarina flushed when his fingers lingered on her cheek briefly before he pulled away.
“Captain?” Max’s voice cut through the moment. Jonathan straightened, stepping back from Sarina.
“What is it?”
“The men are ready.”
Jonathan nodded. “Good. Fine. That’s . . . good, then.”
Max tipped his hat with a significant glance at Sarina before turning away.
“We should go,” Jonathan said finally. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about the gown?”
Sarina sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you see this is much more practical?” she asked, indicating her garb with a sweep of her hands.
Jonathan knew he’d lost the battle. “Could you at least fasten your coat?” he asked. “So your . . .” He waved a hand toward her breasts, her legs. “. . . assets aren’t quite so fully on display. It’s distracting,” he said gruffly.
Sarina smirked. “You find me distracting, Captain?”
Jonathan leaned in, determined to regain his footing. He leered at her, raising an eyebrow. “Immensely,” he said, the words a low rumble. Sarina reddened and looked away with a slight gasp, and he knew he’d at least scored a point. She stepped back and buttoned her coat with trembling fingers.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to get to my sword now,” she grumbled.
Unable to resist prodding her further, Jonathan moved toward her and reached under the lowest coat button for her belt. Sarina’s eyes flashed up toward him as she froze.
“What are you doing?” she whispered breathlessly.
Jonathan held her gaze, slowly unbuckling the belt, his fingers brushing over her waist. He could feel her warm skin through the thin material of her shirt, her quick, shallow breaths vibrating under his hands. It would be easy to slip his arms around her and draw her close. He could smell her already, the fresh scent of soap wafting off her skin. He could duck beneath that ridiculous hat, press his lips to the soft skin behind her ear.
Taste her one more time.
The splash of a dinghy hitting the water brought him back to his senses, and instead of indulging his fantasies, he pulled back, the belt and sword dangling in his hand. Sarina swallowed thickly, looking up at him—lovely and pink-cheeked, eyes glassy and wide—and for a moment, he considered forgetting all of it. Kane, the treasure, his vengeance.
For a moment, he considered sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her back to his quarters, not to emerge for hours . . . or days.
Perhaps weeks.
But instead, he reached around her waist and re-buckled the belt over the long coat, adjusting the sword so it hung properly at her hip.
“There,” he said gruffly.
“What?” Sarina licked her lips, still a bit dazed.
Jonathan looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can reach your sword now.”
“Oh.” Sarina looked down, touching the buckle absently. “Oh! Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.” She fidgeted, patting her hair, making sure it was tucked securely behind her ears. “Well, then, we should probably go, right?”
“Right.”
She looked up at him hesitantly, biting her lip, then drew a deep breath and turned on her heel without another word.
“I can’t believe you stole horses,” Sarina hissed at Jonathan as they made their way cross-country toward Savannah. The ship had dropped the dinghy closer to shore, near a hidden alcove to the north, and made a quick retreat to deeper waters. They’d rowed inland along the Savannah River but put to shore well before reaching the town. To Sarina’s surprise, they’d found the horses tethered to a few trees only a short distance away. Jonathan had somehow sent word to a contact in Savannah, who provided the mounts.
Or rather, liberated them for Jonathan’s use.
“Not stolen,” Jonathan corrected with a grin, looking at her over his shoulder. “Just borrowed for a bit.”
Rina didn’t respond, focusing instead on staying astride her rather skittish horse. She’d been surprised that Hutchins, Jenkins, and James accompanied them in the dinghy—filling it to its capacity, much to her rather nervous observation—but grateful that Rafferty did not come along. The master gunner had leered at her when he saw her attire, eyes raking down her form and back up again, leaving a chilling shudder in their wake. He finally spat onto the deck, holding her gaze for a disturbing moment before turning to return to his post. The man both disgusted and unnerved her. She’d hoped the encounter with the bucket had cooled his interest, but instead she feared he might be just biding his time.
“Just relax,” James said, riding up beside her. “The horse can sense if you’re nervous.”
“Well, then she should be sensing a lot,” Rina muttered as the white mare sidestepped a bit before continuing onward. She leaned forward over the horse’s neck. “You should be a bit more supportive as the only other female in this lot,” she said. “Where is the bond of sisterhood, I ask you?” The mare shook its mane, whinnying loudly, and James burst out laughing, earning a glare from Jonathan.
“Quiet!” he ordered, although he had been just as loud a moment earlier. “We need not attract unnecessary attention.”
Rina rolled her eyes at James, who shrugged in response, but they kept quiet for the rest of the journey. It wasn’t long before Jonathan held u
p a hand and the little group stopped right outside the town. They tied the horses to some scraggly trees and continued on foot. Rina couldn’t keep herself from stealing a few glances at Jonathan along the way, still a bit muzzy and confused after what had happened—or nearly happened—on the ship. When Jonathan had touched her, she’d lost all rational thought, once again caught up in the feeling—the hot, achy feeling—that he seemed to pull out of her whenever he got near. She had no doubt that if they had been somewhere a bit more private, there would have been a repeat of the incident in the barn. Or perhaps even worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it—at any rate, something more.
Rina sighed at the thought. Her self-control was sadly lacking.
She couldn’t understand how he could make her so furious, so frustrated one minute, and the next—with one hot look or one lingering touch—she was putty in his hands.
It was rather irritating. And confusing.
“We should split up,” Jonathan said as they neared the town square. “Jenkins, you go with Hutchins and start at the northwest corner of town, working your way along the river. Ceron—“
“I’ll take Rina,” James offered.
Jonathan’s eye flashed. “Sarina is with me,” he said sharply. “You and Baines start at the southwest corner. Miss Talbot and I will begin here. Building by building, tything by tything, ward by ward, men. No stone left unturned. We’re looking for a blue door. We’ll meet in St. Lucius Square once every inch of this bloody town has been searched. Understood?”
A low chorus of “Yes, sir,” met his order before the men turned to go their separate ways.
Searching the town turned out to be a rather simple proposition. Savannah was laid out in an organized grid pattern, with rows of buildings arranged around several open squares. It took less than an hour for Jonathan and Sarina to walk through their allotted portion of the town, examining every door they came across. The search, however, was fruitless, and they made their way to St. Lucius Square, hopeful that the others had found what they were looking for.
Their disheartened expressions quickly ended that hope.
“I don’t understand,” Jonathan muttered as they gathered on the side of the road to avoid the carts and foot traffic moving along. “It has to be here.” He fixed each of his men with a rigid look. “You’re certain you didn’t miss anything?”
“We looked everywhere,” Max replied, and the others nodded in agreement. “There was no home, or shop, or even a bloody stable with a blue door.” He frowned, leaning in to add quietly, “Maybe she was wrong.”
“She’s never wrong.”
“There’s always a first time.”
Jonathan tugged at his hair, conversing in low tones with Max, and Rina took the opportunity to look around the crowded square and let her mind wander. A few children played in front of what appeared to be a school, tossing rocks in some sort of competition. A couple large men stacked sacks of grain in front of the general store, pausing to wipe sweat from their foreheads every few minutes. A young couple walked along the opposite side of the road, the woman blushing prettily at something the man had said.
A shout drew Rina’s attention, and she turned to see that one of the children—a young boy—had run out into the middle of the road, a cart loaded with barrels headed straight for him. She stared in horror as the driver finally noticed the boy and quickly pulled up on the reins, his eyes wide and frantic. The boy stood frozen in terror as the horses bore down on him, tossing their heads in protest as the driver wrestled with the reins.
Rina opened her mouth to scream. Then, in a flash of movement, the boy was thrown to the side of the road, and it took a moment for her to realize that Jonathan had done the throwing. He lay in the dusty grass, his body taking the brunt of the impact, the boy lying on his chest, his mouth open in shock.
It was too late for the cart, though. The horses reared, panicked whinnies filling the air as the driver fought to get them under control. Instead they fought back, breaking free of the cart with a mighty jolt. The driver jumped off, rolling across the dirt road, and the cart careened down the road, weaving erratically before falling over onto its side. Barrels bounced out in every direction, a few breaking open and releasing a flood of indigo dye onto the street.
When it was all over, Rina finally drew a breath and raced across the street to check on Jonathan and the little boy. The driver got to his feet, weaving his way in the same direction.
“Jonathan? Are you all right?” she asked, falling to her knees next to him. She helped the little boy up, brushing off his knees. “Are you hurt?” she asked him.
The boy shook his head, but his eyes filled with tears.
“Albert?” A woman pushed her way into the small group gathered around them. “Albert, oh my heavens, are you all right?” She gathered the child up in her arms, and Rina realized she was the boy’s mother.
The boy sobbed, holding her tightly around the neck as she got to her feet. She kissed his damp cheek, examining his arms and legs. Finding no lasting damage, she turned to Jonathan, who’d finally managed to stand up as well.
“Thank you,” she said, “Mister . . .”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Carlson,” he said.
“Mister Carlson,” she repeated. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Jonathan shrugged, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same.” Waving off any further thanks, he added, “Perhaps you should get the boy to the doctor? Make certain there’s no unseen injury?”
The woman nodded, thanking him again before hurrying off down the street. The crowd broke up, many reassembling by the overturned cart to help the driver right it. Jonathan swept the dust off his clothes as Max retrieved his hat.
“Well, that was exciting,” Max said wryly. “So much for not attracting attention.”
Jonathan beat his hat against his leg to remove the dust before replacing it on his head. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said. “Now, back to the problem at hand.”
“We could start again,” James suggested. “Perhaps we missed something.”
“Or question some of the townsfolk,” Hutchins offered. “Maybe the door is inside a building.”
Jonathan held up a finger. “Good thought,” he said. “But how to go about it without raising suspicion?” He began to pace, lost in thought.
Rina sighed, watching the men re-loading the cart as they stepped around puddles of dye to retrieve the unbroken barrels. She looked across the street, spotting the remains of one of the crushed barrels on the front porch of a little shop, a flood of indigo dye down the steps finally slowing to a trickle.
She gasped.
“Jonathan,” she murmured.
“There’s no other way,” Jonathan said, as if he hadn’t heard her. “We’ll divide up and talk to people. Try to be subtle,” he ordered.
“Jonathan?” Rina repeated, a little louder.
“Perhaps start at the general store,” he continued. “Or the church.”
“Church?” Hutchins snorted. “Do you wish to be hit by lightning?”
Rina took a deep breath. “Jonathan!” she shouted.
Jonathan turned toward her in irritation. “Good lord, Smith, no need to shriek like a madwoman. What is it?”
She glared but was too excited to properly chastise him. Instead, she pointed across the street. “Look!”
As one, the men turned to see what she was pointing at: a small shop with the remains of one—no, two—barrels scattered about the front porch, indigo dye splattered everywhere, the blue liquid streaking the entire facade.
Including the door.
They stood and stared, until Max let out a soft chuckle.
“Bloody hell,” Jonathan murmured, and they started across the street.
I dare not describe in excessive detail my latest discovery, at least not until I deem whether or not it proves trustworthy. If my enemies were to liberate this record from my possession, I would n
ot wish my errant words to lead them to what I intend to claim for myself.
I do believe, however, that I draw closer to discovering the treasure’s final resting place with every passing day.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 30 March, 1665
They converged on the shop porch, gingerly stepping through the spreading dye. Max gallantly pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiping off the doorknob and opening it with a flourish. A bell sounded overhead, and with a glance at Sarina, Jonathan gripped his sword hilt and stepped through first, the others following close behind.
“Hello?” he called, blinking in the dim interior. “Is anyone there?”
Silence greeted them as they spread out, moving between the tables and shelves. Jonathan scanned a collection of snuff boxes, picking one up and toying with the latch.
“Odd to leave a shop unattended,” Jenkins said, his voice loud in the hushed room.
“Look around,” Jonathan ordered. “We know what it looks like, but not its size, so if you see a cup of any kind—a tankard, a chalice . . . a bloody sherry glass, let me know.”
They made their way quietly through the shop, closely examining the displays, flipping through stacks of books, even searching stacks of clothing, just to make sure they didn’t miss anything. It only took a few minutes—the shop was not overly large—until they gathered near the counter at the back, all empty-handed.
Max eyed a curtained doorway behind the counter. “Perhaps back there?”
Jonathan was about to agree when the bell over the door rang again, and a boisterous voice called out, “Deepest apologies, gentlemen. Quite a mishap involving a cart of indigo dye.” The man kept rambling, rubbing at his fingers with a handkerchief, his hands stained blue. “I fear I will never remove it,” he muttered. “My wife will be quite displeased, quite displeased.” He looked up, taking in their little group.
“Horace Abernathy,” he said, “and how may I be of assistance today?”
Jonathan took in the man from the top of his shiny head—quite obvious since it barely reached Jonathan’s shoulder—to the round belly bursting forth from a crimson waistcoat. The man removed a pair of spectacles from his pocket and wiped them with a clean edge of his handkerchief before placing them on his nose. He peered at them through the glasses, blinking owlishly at Jonathan. Then he gasped, glancing about nervously.
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