“They’re gone,” I grunted. “Come on.”
And I led the way out of the club.
26
Hannah
Even with his limp, Rourke walked fast, slamming his good foot against the sidewalk as if it had personally wronged him. When he stepped onto his left leg—the injured one—he didn’t make a sound, didn’t let his face betray the pain. But I could see the sweat breaking out on his brow. The dancing must have left him in agony.
“How far is it?” I asked.
“Not far.” He’d nearly kissed me. I was sure of it. Now he wouldn’t even look at me. “A mile.”
A mile. And he was going to walk it all because he didn’t want to show weakness. I could almost see the pain radiating up his leg, tightening his ass and lower back and even his shoulders, each time he took a step. God, he’s—
I bit my lip as realization hit. He’s as stubborn as I am.
I stopped. “I can’t walk any further in these heels.”
He turned and glowered. “It’s only a mile.”
“I have blisters,” I lied. I lifted one foot and nodded at my shoe. “You put me in these things. We’re getting a cab.”
For a second, his scowl disappeared. His eyes widened, full of concern that he’d in some way hurt me. Then he frowned again. I could tell he suspected it was a ruse. I stood firm, staring back at him.
“Fine,” said Rourke grudgingly. He finally looked me in the eye. “We’ll get a cab.”
“The library?” I asked as we pulled up outside the massive stone building. “The library’s open now?” It was well into the evening.
“It is for Hobbs,” grunted Rourke. He passed some bills to the driver and we climbed out. “They like him, here. Let him do his research at all hours.” He limped up the steps and held the door open for me. “He donates some of the old books he finds to the library.” Rourke sighed as we made our way through the huge, echoing building. “And... he speaks their language.”
“Spanish?”
Rourke grimaced and pushed open a door. “Intellectual.”
The reading room was small and lined with thick leather-bound volumes that deadened all sound from outside. An ancient grandfather clock ticked a slow heartbeat. A man sat hunched over an enormous book, its pages edged in gold. He was wearing a tweed suit and white cotton gloves, keeping his place with one finger while he scrawled notes in a notebook with the other. I couldn’t see much more than tousled blond hair and the tops of his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Hobbs,” said Rourke bitterly.
At his voice, the man’s head jerked up like a startled rabbit. He had one of those happy, cherubic faces that mustn’t have changed much since he was sixteen: I pegged him at about thirty, now. He broke into a wide, excited grin. “Rourke!” he said, delighted. “Wonderful!” His British accent was amazing: it spoke of country estates and horses and a stiff brandy in the evening while reading The Times.
Hobbs ran around from behind his desk, grabbed Rourke’s hand and pumped it up and down, barraging him with questions about where he’d been, how the Fortune’s Hope was doing and if the fine weather was agreeing with him. He spoke as if he’d been ripped from the last century. I liked him immediately.
What I couldn’t understand was why Rourke seemed so cold towards him. Watching Hobbs, you would have thought they were best friends but Rourke was nothing but terse and sour in return.
“And who is this fine lady?” asked Hobbs.
I blinked and then flushed.
Rourke rolled his eyes and introduced me. “Listen,” he barked. “We’ve found the map to the Hawk.”
Hobbs’s eyes widened. He stared at Rourke for a beat to check that he was serious. Then his lungs slowly filled. “Good heavens!”
“The map led us to a point just off an island. But when we got there, there was no ship,” I told him. “Just a chest, lying in shallow water, with this message and a ruby.” We laid our finds, together with the map, on the desk. Hobbs leaned over them and stayed there for several minutes, transfixed. Every now and again, he’d mutter something like, “Quite extraordinary,” or “Well, I do say….”
Rourke gave me a look, as if to say, see? But I just shook my head at him. I couldn’t work out why he disliked the man so much. I thought he was adorable. If Hobbs was a book, he’d be a scholarly textbook from a small London publisher, with the price in shillings on the cover and a quote in Latin at the start.
At last, Hobbs straightened up. He went to the back of the room, slid out a thick, leather-bound volume, and plucked a hip flask and two glasses from behind it. “Rourke has told you the story of Charles Mace and his lover, Esme, I take it?”
I nodded.
“Though knowing Rourke, I suspect he glossed over the more romantic parts,” said Hobbs.
Rourke let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. I leaned forward eagerly.
“Esme was a gypsy dancer, said to be the most beautiful woman on all these shores. Her family didn’t want her running off with a pirate captain and she wouldn’t leave her people and run away with him, so they had to meet in secret. Esme was a strong swimmer and a fine sailor: they’d meet by moonlight in secret harbors and caves all around the area.”
I was entranced. So romantic! Next to me, Rourke gave a despairing grunt.
“So: picture the scene,” said Hobbs. “Mace knows he’s going to be caught. He doesn’t want the British to get his treasure. He wants to leave it for Esme. But she’s penniless and alone: if he sends the Hawk to the bottom and leaves her a map to where he sunk it, how will she recover the treasure? She has no boat, no crew….”
Now Rourke was grudgingly leaning forward as well. “So…?”
“Well, understand that I’m hypothesizing here, but...it would make sense for Mace to leave Esme a map to a smaller haul, first.” He picked up the ruby. “This would be something she could easily trade for a boat and a crew. That would let her go after another, bigger cache of treasure that would let her pay for a bigger boat and crew, and so on. Finally, she’d get to the Hawk and, by that point, she’d have what she needed to recover the main treasure.”
I picked up the note we’d found in the bottle. “But why all the writing?” I asked. “Why not just give her another map?”
“Because Mace knew everyone would be after the treasure,” said Rourke. “He was worried someone other than Esme might read the note.”
“Exactly,” beamed Hobbs. “So it describes where to find the next haul in terms of places only the two of them know.”
I re-read the note. Not all of it made sense, yet, but it did seem to be full of references to things that had happened. That place where we… The time when we.... And look for our secret garden. “How many clues?” I asked urgently.
Hobbs pointed to a line in old English I’d had trouble deciphering. “Three,” he said. He poured whiskey into the two glasses. “This is the first one. It’ll lead you to the second one, that will lead you to the third one and that one will lead you to the Hawk.”
Two more clues! A longer journey than we’d thought: we’d have to move fast to save Katherine. But there was hope. Hobbs handed me a glass and raised his in a silent toast. I started to drink, then remembered Rourke didn’t have a glass and looked at him guiltily.
“He knows I only drink rum,” Rourke explained.
I drank, the whiskey smoky and mellow. Then I realized something. “Wait: these clues are designed so that only Esme can understand them?” My heart sank. “We’re screwed! We don’t know what she knew! We don’t know all their secret meeting places or their history or—”
And just then, I felt it: a crackling streamer of pain that seemed to erupt from the floor and snake up through my foot and leg—
Oh God! I knew what this was....
The pain exploded through my whole body. I dropped my glass and screamed so hard my throat ached. It felt like every nerve had been plunged into acid. My legs buckled and I stumbled: would have fallen, if Rourke hadn’t
grabbed me around the waist.
The room vanished in a blurry haze and I was only dimly aware of being gently placed in a chair. I heard Hobbs say, “Dear lady!” and then Rourke was leaning over me, his eyes wild with fear...and then I saw that fear deepen.
He’d realized what I hadn’t told him.
It was the worst pain I’d ever felt, like a thousand butcher’s knives had been shoved deep into me and someone was slowly twisting them. Pain is meant to be momentary. A burn, a cut, a broken bone...it hurts, but the pain always recedes. There was no relief from this: it was like I’d pressed my whole body against a hot stove and I couldn’t move away. All I could do was pray for it to end.
And what if it didn’t? I’d known that the disease would hit me hard when it came, because I was older...what if I’d skipped straight to the final stage? What if the pain just went on and on until my heart gave out?
I wanted to writhe and thrash but the slightest movement made the agony worse. I felt my fingers locking around the arms of the chair. My eyes were screwed shut, now, but I could feel that my cheeks were wet. I was sobbing.
And then I became aware of a presence, right next to me. Rourke’s big body, hunkered over me like a bear, his grizzled jaw next to my cheek, and his lips at my ear. “What can I do?” he said in a hoarse whisper. I could hear the frustration in his voice, the anger at being helpless. Beneath all the pain, my heart swelled. He wanted to help me. It killed him that he couldn’t.
But I couldn’t even answer him. I could only sit there, rigid as a statue, tears flowing down my cheeks. After a while, he began to stroke my hair with his big, calloused hand, and that helped, a little. I was dimly aware of him muttering to Hobbs, explaining the disease and the cure.
At last, I thought I felt the pain start to recede: like looking up from the bottom of the sea and seeing the tide drawing back. I didn’t want to hope too soon in case it started again. But bit by bit, it ebbed away and my taut muscles started to relax. I slumped there panting like I’d run a marathon. I was soaked in sweat and everything ached from being tensed so long. The one thing that felt good was Rourke’s hand on my head. When I managed to open my eyes, both men were standing over me. Hobbs looked worried but Rourke looked terrified.
“How long?” My voice came out as a croak and my jaw ached from grinding my teeth together.
“Twenty minutes,” said Hobbs. He passed me a glass of water.
Rourke ran his hand over my hair one last time and then awkwardly dropped it to his side. I immediately felt an ache of loss. He turned to Hobbs, his fists bunching. “How do we work out the clues?” he roared. “We need to find the wreck!”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him shout but the other times had all been simple anger. This was different: there was a thread of panic woven into the rage. Hobbs heard it, too. I saw his gaze flick from Rourke to me, astonished, and I caught my breath. He’s never seen Rourke worry about anyone else, before.
Hobbs nodded and pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I have something that might help.” And he hurried from the room.
Rourke took a step towards me and I thought for a second that he was going to smooth my hair again: that would feel so good. But he hesitated and then clasped his hands behind his back as if to remove the temptation. “You should have told me!” he snapped.
“You wouldn’t have taken me to the Hawk,” I croaked.
He fumed silently for a while. “Aye,” he said at last. “I might not have done.” Then, forcing out the words, “How long do you have?”
I swallowed some more water, still trembling from the memory of the pain. “Days.”
Rourke cursed under his breath and stared at the floor.
I had no idea what to say. So I said, “Why are you such an asshole to Hobbs?”
Rourke looked at me and scowled. “I’m not an—” He sighed and went quiet for a moment, brooding. “He’s just not like me.” He looked at the door Hobbs had vanished through. Just for a second, I saw a hint of pain there. Then he shook it off. “I used to cut him in on the haul, when he helped me find something. You know what he spent his share on?”
“Books,” I said immediately.
That threw Rourke. “...yes,” he said. “Waste of money.”
“And buying a bar just so you can drink in it isn’t?”
He glared at me. “You should be in a damn hospital.”
“Hospitals can’t help me,” I said. “Only that stone can.” My strength was slowly returning but I was still shaking. The knowledge that the pain could return at any time, without warning...that scared me so much I wanted to throw up.
Rourke laid a warm hand on my shoulder and I shook a little less.
At that moment, Hobbs returned, carrying a carved wooden box that he set on the desk. He lifted the lid and unfolded layers of silk the color of blood. Then he lifted out a thick book bound in shining brown leather. “Be careful,” he told us. “It’s three hundred years old.”
I eased myself out of the chair and stumbled over, my legs still shaky. The book didn’t have a title or an author on the cover and it didn’t have the grand, showy bindings of an expensive book. But it was well-loved, worn from constant use. I opened it to a page at random.
There was a date and a carefully written entry. I waited until night and slipped out of our camp. Charles was waiting for me with a horse and a bottle of wine. The moonlight lit up his eyes and it was like falling into water so deep you couldn’t see the bottom—
I looked at Hobbs. “This is her diary,” I said in wonder. “Esme’s diary!”
Hobbs nodded. “I acquired it about five years ago. Cost me a great deal of money.” He looked at Rourke and me. “It’s yours.”
I threw my arms around him and hugged him. But when I straightened up, Rourke was glowering off into the distance. What was it with him? If you only watched Hobbs, you would have sworn they were best friends. If you only watched Rourke, you’d swear they were mortal enemies.
And then I glanced at Hobbs’s disappointed face and I got it. They were friends. That’s why he was helping. Rourke just didn’t show it...ever.
Well, I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. I elbowed Rourke in the ribs and he cursed and stared at me, puzzled.
I glanced meaningfully at Hobbs.
Rourke growled and looked away. Looked back and saw I was glaring at him. By now, Hobbs was carefully packing the diary back into the box.
“Hobbs,” said Rourke reluctantly.
Hobbs looked up, a puppy hoping for a treat.
“...thank you,” said Rourke.
A slow smile spread across Hobbs’s face. He nodded and pushed the box into my hands. “Godspeed,” he told us.
I hurried down the steps of the library, the box clutched to my chest. Rourke fell in beside me. “Where now?” I asked. “Back to the Fortune’s Hope?”
Rourke shook his head. “Ratcher’ll be waiting for us. He’s probably got his boat moored right next to ours.”
Ours. Our boat. I knew it was just a slip of the tongue but I liked the way that sounded. “So what do we do?”
Rourke rubbed his stubble. “Well, we can’t leave. Even if we got past him and away, he’d just follow us. We need to tie him up here in Havana for a while.” He studied me as he thought...and then he got that look in his eye, his thoughts forgotten. His gaze soaked into me and immediately, the slumbering heat awoke. God, how did he do that to me?
Rourke finally tore his gaze away. “The Chief of the Harbor Police owes me a favor,” he said. “And a bottle of rum.” He took out his phone.
“Why does the Chief of—”
Rourke sighed as he dialed. When he’d comforted me, in Hobbs’s office, I’d seen a different side of him but now I could sense all his defenses sliding back into place. “Sometimes, when I was back and forth around ports, I used to bring in stuff that wasn’t...strictly allowed.”
My eyes widened. “You’re a smuggler, as well?”
“Was a
smuggler,” he muttered. His whole mood was darkening. “And it wasn’t like that.” He put the phone to his ear and turned slightly away from me.
I should have shut the hell up but I was too shocked. I was realizing how much I didn’t know about him. He’d hinted that he and the people he used to work with were into some shady things, but I hadn’t thought—”What did you smuggle? Drugs? Guns?”
“For God’s sake, lass!” he snapped. “What does it matter?”
Then the call connected and he turned from me, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish into the phone. It was strange, hearing Spanish with a Scottish accent, like an exotic spirit stirred with a razor-sharp knife. Any other time, I would have just listened, entranced. But I couldn’t enjoy it. My face was burning as if he’d slapped me. Maybe I was just shaky after the attack, but his snapping at me...hurt. The dress, the dancing, then the way he’d comforted me when I was in pain. I’d thought we were connecting. I thought he liked me.
I turned my face up to the heavens and let the cool night air bathe my eyes, blinking back the beginnings of hot tears.
Rourke finished the call and turned back to me. I quickly turned to face the street, arms wrapped round myself against night’s chill. I felt him watching me, the back of my neck prickling. I could feel the anger rolling off him in waves. I still didn’t understand what I’d done wrong. Why is he so angry?
But the longer he gazed at me, the more his anger seemed to subside. And it wasn’t replaced by the hot lust I’d felt before. This was something else. Something tender.
He sighed. “I’m not used to this,” he muttered. “Been a long time since I talked to a girl.”
“You can tell,” I said, still hurt.
“Even longer since I danced with a girl.”
“That, you can’t tell,” I mumbled. I finally turned to face him. Just looking at him made me take a quick little breath. God, he was gorgeous. And those deep blue eyes were staring right into mine with such intensity. There was still anger there, but not at me. At himself.
“The Police Chief’s going to help, but it’ll take a wee bit,” he said. “We can’t go back to the Fortune’s Hope.” He glanced behind me. “But I know a place….”
Captain Rourke Page 12