The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  But it had been a long, agonizing night as the realization of her situation finally found root in her mind. Rowan had gone for the treasure anyway. Had he done so because Morgan had disappeared, or had that been his plan all along? Hadn't she had any effect on him whatsoever? Maybe that's why God had sent her back in time in the first place--to try and save Rowan. But when God knew Rowan would go for the treasure anyway, He plucked Morgan back to her own time. To protect her. To protect her heart. Her head spun trying to figure it all out.

  But one thing was clear. She had not only lost Rowan, but the world had been turned upside down.

  All the good that America had done for the world and for her own people--the freedom she offered, the technology, the innovation, the charity, the missionaries, the wars she joined in the fight against tyranny--all of that had been ripped away as if thousands of pages had been torn from a history book.

  Not to mention that for some reason her good friend Tiffany was now a prostitute!

  And Rowan had died twenty years younger than he would have.

  And it was all her fault.

  How did one live with that?

  One didn't. One went mad. Which is what Morgan felt like she was doing, a slow descent into insanity. Yet at the moment, it sounded more appealing than living beneath the weight of her guilt. Had she failed God? Was there something she was supposed to have done back in 1694 that she hadn't?

  It was all too much to consider.

  So, she prayed and prayed ... and prayed.

  And despite her agony, despite her tears, she felt God's presence. She felt Him smiling down on her. Most of all, she'd felt His peace. As if all this craziness was part of some master plan and she had only to trust Him.

  Trust. Not something she did very well. No, that's not true. She'd trusted in structure, order, plans, and schedules--everything in its place and time.

  But now everything was out of place and time!

  She rubbed her eyes again and slowly stood, gazing once more at the map on her desk. During the long hours of the night, she had heard one thing from God. Or so she'd thought. Maybe it was just her own desire, her need for closure. But the urging had grown stronger and now overpowered her with the first rays of the sun.

  She must go to Little St. James Island. She must see Rowan's grave for herself. She must sit by his gravestone--if there even was one--and tell him how much she loved him, how much she missed him, and how sorry she was.

  She had to say goodbye.

  Her research had told her that Little St. James was now a resort for the rich and famous, but they had reserved a small section on the western coast of the island as an historical landmark containing a small fort and graveyard, where Rowan was purportedly buried. But how to get there? It would take money and connections she didn't have.

  "Breakfast is ready, dear!" her mother called down the hall.

  Morgan smiled. She knew just what to do.

  ♥♥♥

  "But you can't leave." Morgan's mother pressed down the folds of her flowery dress and slid into a chair in their living room. Complete with stockings, pumps and a pearl necklace, she was all ready to go to church. The Anglican church, apparently, was alive and well in the UBE, though Morgan couldn't swear to the "well" part, since her mother seemed no closer to God than when she'd attended the nondenominational church in the American San Diego.

  "You're not well," she added. "You shouldn't be traveling." She fumbled with her purse and scowled. "I knew I shouldn't have allowed you to call your father."

  "Mom, I'm twenty-four. You can hardly send me to my room. Besides, as I keep trying to tell you, I'm not sick anymore. I'm only going to Little St. James for a few days. It's a British colony, anyway. No harm will come to me."

  In fact, Morgan had discovered that Britain owned most of the Caribbean and much of Mexico too. Another odd turn of events. Still, she hated appealing to her father for money. But how else could she afford to travel there, let alone pay the exorbitant fee required to even land on the island. She didn't even want to stay at their stupid resort, but the travel agent said anyone setting foot on the island must pay for a week's stay.

  Her father had definitely choked at the price. But in the end, it was her cancer that made him agree, saying she needed the rest before she started chemo. Though she hesitated to correct him at the risk of losing his generous gift, a twinge of conviction made her confess that God had healed her of the cancer. To which he laughed and insisted all the more that she needed rest. Before she'd hung up, she'd told him that she loved him, and that God loved him too, and she prayed those words would sink deep into his soul one day.

  Now, as her mother fidgeted on her chair, searching her purse for her pills, Morgan felt compelled to try to convince her again of the reality of God. She glanced at the clock on the wall and bit her lip. She had to leave or she'd miss her plane.

  "Mom." Morgan knelt on the carpet before her mother's chair. "God loves you. You don't have to do anything to gain His love. He'll always love you the same, no matter what. He just wants a relationship with you. He wants you to talk to Him like a real person."

  Confusion churned in her mother's eyes.

  "He's like Jesus, Mom. He does miracles--healing, casting out demons, raising people from the dead. He hasn't changed."

  "Honey, everyone knows all that stopped with the apostles."

  "My health is living proof that isn't true, Mom. Why do you put God in a box when He has so much more to give you? Peace, for one thing. Freedom from worry and fear."

  Her mother cupped Morgan's jaw and smiled. "I don't know what happened to you, Morgan, but I'm glad to hear you speak of God."

  Morgan took one more glance at the clock, stood, and grabbed her suitcase. "I love you, Mom. I'll see you when I get back." She leaned down and kissed her mother's cheek then hurried out the door before her mother made a scene.

  After a six-hour grueling flight--during which Morgan questioned her sanity more than once--she landed on St. Thomas. From there she would take a charter boat to Little Saint James, just a few miles offshore. Exhausted, she gathered her things from the overhead, and filed out behind tourists giddy with excitement--and alcohol. Each of them traveled with lovers, friends, or family.

  Morgan was alone.

  Alone, yet braver than she ever remembered being, for she would have never made this trip by herself before. Yet, what did she truly hope to accomplish--other than further heartache--by visiting Rowan's grave? If she could even find it.

  As soon as she began descending the steps onto the tarmac, a breeze ripe with tropical flowers and brine whisked away all her dour thoughts. She drew it in like a heady balm and glanced over the waving palms and ficus, the lush mountains rising to meet a cerulean sky, the turquoise water of the bay, and she smiled.

  She was home.

  People behind her cleared their throats. "Miss?" She continued down the stairs, excitement trembling through every nerve. That excitement only grew as she took a cab to the docks where she'd chartered passage on a boat. A yacht was more like it. Filled with people who reeked of wealth and privilege. Not that Morgan had anything against being rich. People who worked hard to earn their money deserved to enjoy it. She just despised the way some of them flaunted it and looked at her ragged jeans and t-shirt as if they would ask her to serve them drinks at any moment.

  By the time those drinks were served--not by her, thankfully--and the boat took off, the sun kissed the horizon, causing it to blush in crimsons and corals. Morgan kept to herself by the starboard railing, gazing with delight over the sparkling sea she'd come to love so much. Gripping the wooden rail, she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the water gushing against the hull, relished in the rise and fall of the boat over the waves, and tried desperately to pretend she was back on the Reckoning.

  But the roar of the motor, clank of ice cubes, and mindless chatter of her fellow travelers forbade her even one moment of fantasy.

  Just as well. It would
only cause her more pain. And she didn't need more pain. Especially when Little St. James came into view. Memories, fresh from only two days ago, pierced her already-wounded heart--the crescent moon-shaped emerald bay, crystal shores, and rising jungles beyond. She could even picture Rowan's ship at anchor, teetering back and forth as wavelets came in from the sea.

  But instead of the magnificent Reckoning, there were expensive sailboats and yachts bigger than houses and a fancy wharf that stretched from the water to several small buildings onshore and then beyond them to a large white one that resembled a palace. As the sun sank into the sea, men wearing shorts and flowery shirts scrambled out to light torches lining the walkway. Lights winked at them from the buildings, and a band began to play as the boat came to a halt and the crew helped the now-inebriated passengers onto the dock.

  Against her every attempt to stop them, tears clouded her eyes.

  "Are you all right, miss?" one nice man dressed in a hotel uniform asked her.

  "Yes, thank you. Can you tell me where the historic fort is?"

  He took her suitcase and walked her down the wharf. "About thirty or so meters down the road toward the west, Miss. But you can't go there at night. They've already closed up shop, I expect."

  But Morgan did not let that stop her. She could not let it stop her. There was no way she could sleep tonight, knowing Rowan's grave was so close. She checked her suitcase at the hotel's concierge and headed down the paved road, grateful when the music and laughter behind her began to fade. Not so grateful when the pavement turned to gravel and the darkness grew as thick as the jungle lining the road. But a light ahead gave her hope, revealing a locked gate, beyond which she could only make out shadows.

  Gripping the steel bars, she hoisted herself up and over the fence with ease and dropped to the dirt on the other side. Her heart thumped like the pounding of the waves in the distance. She could feel Rowan on this island, could almost smell his unique manly scent, hear the smoothness of his voice, see his confident swagger.

  What was she doing? He was dead.

  And she was a fool.

  She started forward. Stone walls rose from the shadows, thick and aged. A small fort, no bigger than a large house perched on the edge of a cliff, materialized out of the darkness. Two cannons poked through openings in the wall, pointing their now closed muzzles toward the sea.

  With only the light of a half-moon to guide her, she inched around the fort, seeking the graveyard. A mist rose from the Caribbean, curling over the edge of the cliff and swirling about her ankles. An icy chill chiseled up her back. Hugging herself, she navigated the rocky ground, stubbing her toe more than once and peering into the shadows. From what she'd read, Rowan's grave was clearly marked and just meters from the fort.

  Then she saw it. A rounded stone grave marker rose from the ground like a hand reaching from the underworld. It had to be. Her fingers tingled. Blood rushed to her head. She drew a deep breath and started for it, tears already burning behind her eyes. Mist curled over the stone, and Morgan dropped to her knees and swatted it away.

  Rowan Dutton

  1671-1694

  Pirate and Friend

  Despite her tears, she couldn't help but smile. Only Nick would have taken the time to carve Friend into the stone. Closing her eyes, she leaned her palms on top of Rowan's grave

  "Oh, Rowan, I miss you so. I'm sorry I left you."

  She finally gave her tears release, and they came pouring down her cheeks with abandon. Sobs waved through her like a summer squall, and she gripped her stomach and leaned her forehead on the dirt. She didn't know how long she lay there, but long enough for the mist to cover her like an icy blanket and mud to cake her cheek.

  She pushed herself up and stared once again at the stone, running her fingers over the words--the last remnant of the man she loved. Waves pounded in the distance, crickets chirped, and a night bird sang a mournful song. Rowan's only companions for centuries.

  "What a lonely place to be laid to rest," she whispered.

  An aged male voice sounded, sending her heart into her throat. "No, he's not been lonely."

  She leapt to her feet, batting tears from her face, ready to fight or run if need be. "Who's there? What do you want?"

  A man appeared out of the mist. An old man by the way the moonlight formed crevices on his face. He wore dirty jeans and a plain cotton shirt, and held a cane in his hand. He stared at her and smiled.

  "I've been waiting for you for a long, long time."

  Chapter 31

  "What are you talking about?" Morgan backed away from the strange man. "Who are you?

  "My name is Caleb Niles. But that isn't important." He kept staring at her as if she were a ghost--a delightful, magnificent ghost.

  "Listen, I'm sorry," Morgan said. "I'm trespassing. I get it. But I came a long way to see this grave."

  "I know you did, Miss Shaw." He kept smiling at her.

  Morgan took another step back. "How do you know my name?"

  He held up a wrinkled hand. "I'm not going to hurt you. Far from it." He sighed and leaned on his cane. "I came to help you." He glanced down at Rowan's grave. "Who do you think's been caring for this grave all these years?"

  Fog slinked around her legs, shooting icicles through her and spinning her thoughts into chaos. "How do you know about Rowan Dutton?"

  "He's my great-great-great-great, well, too many greats to count." He chuckled. "Let's just say I'm his grandson by eight generations or so."

  At first such delight swept over her that she nearly ran to hug him. But then confusion--along with reason--wrestled her joy away. "Wait. He died the day I ... he died without having children."

  The man's lips slanted. "That's one version of it, I suppose."

  A cloud moved, freeing the moon to coat him in silvery light, allowing Morgan to search for any sign of insanity. But she found only clarity in his eyes. He knew her name, but he could have gotten that from her father. Still, she'd told no one about Rowan. "Did my father send you?"

  He shook his head and smiled again.

  "What do you want?"

  Waves thundered and a salty breeze fingered his thin, gray hair.

  "It's what I can give you that's important."

  Yup. The man had to be crazy. He'd probably been the caretaker for this historic site for decades and had succumbed to delusions of being related to Rowan. And besides, who smiles like a giddy schoolboy at someone they've never met?

  "Listen, I just want to be left alone. If you don't mind." She glanced at the grave. "I promise I'll leave soon."

  "He told me you'd come. The message passed down through the centuries, of course. But he told me you would." He began fishing in the pocket of his jeans. Morgan prepared to run should he pull out a weapon. "And when you did, he said to give you this." He withdrew an object, a piece of jewelry from the way the moonlight glimmered on it, and held it out to her.

  The amulet.

  Morgan's legs gave out. He caught her elbow before she fell to the dirt. "How ... what?" she mumbled as a buzzing filled her head and traversed down her body.

  She grabbed the trinket, studied it, caressed it, made sure it was the same one. It was. Then holding it to her chest, she stared at the man in wonder, unable to speak.

  He was still smiling. "He passed it to his son who passed it to his daughter who ... well you get the idea. Instructions were passed along with it for the offspring who would be alive in this time. Then it came to me." He waved his cane over the scene where moonlight dripped like milk from trees and frosted the mist that waltzed over the ground. "It hasn't been a bad assignment, really. Great place to spend my retirement, especially since my wife died two years past."

  "I'm sorry," Morgan managed to mutter, still clutching the amulet. "What instructions? Why give it to me now?"

  His gray brows rose. "Because you must go back to Rowan. If you don't, I'll never be born."

  "But you're obviously here."

  "In one reality, yes." />
  Morgan squeezed the bridge of her nose and groaned. "None of this makes sense."

  "Rowan wasn't supposed to die when he did," the man said matter-of-factly. "He was supposed to marry you and have eight children and be happy and turn away from piracy."

  Eight? Morgan gaped at him. "But you don't know that. How can you know that?"

  "Because I'm here talking to you now."

  "But he's buried right here." Morgan stared at the grave then back up at him. "But you're here too. How can that be?"

  He shrugged. "All I know is I'm supposed to tell you that you must go back. You're the only one who can save him."

  "Then why did God send me back to this time in the first place?" Morgan groaned. "I don't get it." She rubbed the amulet, trying to conjure up tears. Of all the times to not be able to cry!

  "It's your tears that make it work," he said.

  "I know." She had figured as much after the last time the infernal trinket had hurled her through time. Tears of sorrow had sent her to the past, tears of joy to the present. What sort of tears would work now? Even so, was it really possible to go back? A thrill sped through her. "I still can't believe it."

  "After all you've seen, this you don't believe?" He laughed, but then his laughter faded. "But there's just one problem."

  Her gut clenched. Of course.

  "There's no guarantee what time you'll end up in. You have a three-year window. You could arrive long after Rowan's been killed, or you could end up at the same time you left. I hope for my sake, it's the latter."

  "But when I returned here, it was as if no time had elapsed."

  "That's how it should work. But there's no guarantee."

  "You mean I could end up in 1696 with Rowan dead, no friends, no family, no means to make a living?"

  He nodded. "And once you go, you can never return. It's a huge risk." He rubbed his jaw like Rowan used to do, and she blinked at the similarity.

  Morgan's palms began to sweat. "But the fact that you're here proves it will work ... right?"