“Well?” Graham prodded as Sarah delivered two heavy-bottomed glasses and placed them on the table. Tristan grinned as Graham’s merry brown eyes followed the gentle sway of her hips.
“Well what?” Tristan replied after he swallowed.
“Don’t play games, Tristan.” Graham rested his elbows on the table. “I’ve known you too long. I was there when Tippy gave you the letter. I know the family seal when I see it. Was it your father? Is he here?”
Tristan stared at the light amber brew in his glass as he chewed the last of his bread. “No, my father isn’t here. He sent his henchman, the honorable Theodore Gilchrist, Esquire. If we’d made port in Jamaica, I would have met Paul Farnsworth, another in my father’s employ. Apparently, Father has all my regular haunts covered. The earl was bound and determined to give me the news.” The information Mr. Gilchrist imparted made his stomach churn, made the bile rise in his throat, made him want to disregard convention and lose himself on the high seas. Brown eyes twinkling with curiosity, Graham sat up straighter. “What news?”
Tristan pulled a half-smoked cigar from his vest pocket and used the candle on the table to light it. As he exhaled, blue-grey smoke swirled to the ceiling. “I have a little less than four months to put my affairs in order, go back to England and then—”
“Then what?” Graham lifted his glass and took a long drink.
“I am to be married.”
“Married!” The navigator choked on his rum as he spit out the word. He coughed into his hand, his face red. For a long time, he stared and said nothing. “I would offer congratulations, but I gather you don’t regard this as good news.”
Tristan twisted the signet ring on his finger while he looked around the room—at the hunk of bread on a plate in the middle of the table, at the cigar smoke drifting around him—anywhere but at his shipmate. “No, I do not.” He stopped twisting the ring long enough to rake his fingers through his hair; then he picked up his drink.
“You can’t be surprised.” Graham leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. His black-booted foot rested on the empty chair next to him. “Your father has been trying to marry you off for the past five years. Every time you go home, he introduces you to another eligible young woman. Perhaps he sees this arrangement as the way to get the deed accomplished.”
Tristan tossed back the rum as if it were water and ignored the burning sting the liquor left in his throat before he gave voice to his concerns. “God help me, I don’t want a marriage like my parents’. They barely tolerated each other before my mother passed.”
He twisted the ring on his finger and caught the glitter of the lion’s amber eye. “There was never any love between them. I doubt there was even fondness.” He lowered his voice. “My father has had the same mistress since before I was born and my mother . . . my mother went through lovers like . . . well, like you and I go through bottles of rum.”
Sarah sashayed to the table and refilled both glasses. Tristan nodded his thanks but didn’t offer her a smile, as was his wont. The news of his impending marriage settled like a rock in his stomach.
“Was your parents’ marriage arranged?” Graham swept his tongue over his lips in anticipation then reached for his refilled glass.
“Of course. It’s the way it’s done.” Tristan let his breath whistle between his teeth and crushed his cigar in the tray, frustrated by his father’s announcement. “I don’t want to marry a woman I don’t know, have never met. I believe—”
“But you don’t have to, Tristan. You’re an adult. Almost thirty. Tell your father no.”
Tristan snorted. “If it were that easy, I would. You don’t understand. Your parents met, fell in love, and married, the way I would like to, but . . . marriage is expected.” He lowered his voice to a whisper though he doubted his words could be overheard in a room full of laughing men and women. “For a man of my position. As the next Earl of Winterbourne, I have an obligation to make the most advantageous match, which means marry for money to fill the family coffers and produce future earls. And as my father’s solicitor informed me, though my younger brother and his wife have been married for nine years, there are no children from the union.” He rubbed his fingers over his freshly shaved face and found he missed the beard he’d grown during his last voyage. “Father wants heirs.”
“You jest.”
“I wish I did.”
Graham leaned back in his chair and studied the liquor in his glass. A smile crossed his face after a moment. “What about Jemmy?”
Tristan shrugged. “Father doesn’t know the adoption papers have become final, but I don’t think he would accept Rielle’s son as his heir. She was my friend and I loved her as such, but Jemmy isn’t of Youngblood . . . blood.”
The navigator nodded, and Tristan knew he understood more than his spoken words. Graham shook his head. “No more treasure hunting. No more sailing around the world at a moment’s whim. No more getting stinking drunk and spending our time with willing women.” He grinned to reveal a compliment of pearl white teeth beneath his shaggy beard. “I pity you, my friend.”
“Four months,” Tristan repeated, his tone and mood somber until an idea grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go.
Izzy’s Fortune. If he could find the infamous treasure of Queen Isabella, he could fill the Youngblood coffers with more than enough gold to last several lifetimes. He wouldn’t have to marry a woman he didn’t know, wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life with a woman he didn’t want. He could have the time he needed to find what he wanted most.
Love.
Passion.
A woman who could share his dreams.
Who am I trying to fool? There is no such woman.
But Izzy’s Fortune. That, at least, had a chance of being real.
And if he found the treasure before Wynton Entwhistle of the Explorer, so much the better. An open rivalry existed between the two men and had from the moment they met some years ago when they’d both gone after the same fortune. Since then, Tristan had managed to stay one step ahead of the scheming seaman, much to Entwhistle’s regret and frustration.
Tristan glanced at Graham, smiled, then started to chuckle. “Four months is long enough to try one last time to find Izzy’s Fortune.” His gaze darted around the room to the crew in the midst of their merriment. “Do you think they’d mind?”
“Hell, no!” Graham slammed his glass on the table. “When do we leave?”
“Three days. No, four. We’ll need that long to gather supplies. Once we leave Charleston, I don’t plan on coming back—at least for a long time. Remember, I’m expected in England to—” Tristan choked on the word “—marry.”
“Again, you have my pity.” Graham laughed. “Who is this woman? Is she at least pleasant to look at?” He waved his hands in front of his face as his grin grew wider. “She isn’t some ugly beast with rotten teeth and pitted skin, is she?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t even ask her name.” Tristan wasn’t surprised he had not asked a most important question. He supposed the announcement that his marriage had been arranged without his knowledge or consent had shocked him into not thinking at all. “I should find out, shouldn’t I?” He tossed back his drink in one swallow. “I’ll pay another visit to Gilchrist in the morning, but in the meantime, I’m going back to the ship.” He stood and flipped a gold coin on the table. “I’ll relieve Coop so he can celebrate with his mates.”
“Are you certain?” Graham rose as well, although he never released the glass of rum in his hand, nor did he take his gaze from Sarah MacNamara and Rosie Flint. “I could just as easily take the watch.”
Tristan shook his head. “No, you stay.” He glanced at Sarah wending her way through the tavern’s rowdy customers. Her hips rocked back and forth as she sidestepped with innate agility the various hands aiming for her backside. She met his stare and grinned. “Sarah and Rosie would be disappointed if you didn’t keep your promises.”
Tristan made his way throu
gh the men, and again accepted their congratulations and well wishes before he handed another small leather bag filled with gold to the barkeep. He saluted his crew. “Drink up, me hearties! You’ve earned it.” He resisted the urge to tell them to keep their eyes, as well as their hands, on their gold.
“Aye, Cap’n!”
His men would be in sad shape tomorrow, sporting colossal headaches, perhaps still drunk from this night’s revelry, so he gave them a reprieve. “I expect you all to be onboard the Adventurer in two days.”
Again, their rousing chorus of “Aye, Cap’n” met his ears.
He grinned as he pushed through the door and left the deafening din of the Salty Dog. A senseless whistle escaped him as he strode over the cobblestones toward the three-masted clipper at berth.
His shoulders relaxed as his stride grew longer. He inhaled and caught the scent of a hearty beef stew as it simmered in someone’s pot. Warm light spilled through the windows of the homes he passed and he heard the telltale sounds of people settling in for the evening.
He loved harbor towns—the charming, quaint villages of England, the rowdy, yet oddly cosmopolitan ports like Charleston, the rough and tumble atmosphere of Port Royal. The sight of the ships from all around the world lined up side by side, their colorful flags waving in the breeze, comforted him as nothing else ever could. He would miss these ports when he obeyed his father’s command and married the woman the earl had chosen—a woman whose name he didn’t even know.
Beneath the glow of a street lamp, he stopped and shook his head.
An arranged marriage. God, he hated the thought.
Shoulders tight once again, he kicked at a rock on the cobblestones and scowled. The earl had given him no choice.
If the truth were known, Tristan didn’t object to the idea of marriage—he just hated the idea of being coerced into it, forced to give up the life he loved.
Part of it was his own fault. All the years he’d searched for treasure, he could have and should have searched for a wife. He could have remained in England and attended the debutante balls where most of the eligible bachelors of his class chose their future wives from the best families.
But marriage and the responsibilities of the earldom wasn’t the life he wanted.
The sea called to him, lured him, begged him to feel its power and glory. From the moment he’d first stepped foot on a ship, he’d known he wanted to sail for the rest of his life. The warmth of a woman’s hand on his cheek could not compare to the cool touch of spindrift on his face. The tedium of running the Winterbourne estates could never measure up to the exhilaration of riding out a storm on the high seas while the sky raged around him. In those moments, Tristan knew he truly lived.
He glanced up as he drew closer to the Adventurer. A shadow passed before the windows of his cabin, back and forth, as if someone waited for him with great impatience. It couldn’t have been Jemmy. The boy had been fast asleep when Tristan had left to see his father’s solicitor.
It wasn’t Coop Milliron, either. His faithful crewman paced the length of the deck from bow to stern, his footsteps heavy on the wooden planks. They grew louder in the still night when he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. Moonbeams lit his path. He had no need of a lantern to guide his way.
Tristan studied the shadow and grinned. The silhouette belonged to a woman—he couldn’t deny the full thrust of her breasts or the long skirt that twitched with her step. His grin widened, but only for a moment.
Who was she? What was she doing aboard his ship?
There could be two reasons a woman would be on his ship at this time of night. Either she was a strumpet . . . or a thief.
If she was looking for the spoils from the Sierra Magdalena, she’d wasted her time. Though it was common knowledge in Charleston that he and his crew had found the treasure, only a fool would have kept it on board. Tristan had never been a fool.
The other alternative pleased him much more. If she was looking for a night of pleasure, well then, she’d come to the right man.
Tristan quickened his step and bounded up the gangplank. Cooper jumped, startled, and pulled his cutlass from the sash around his waist in one easy, practiced move. The sharp blade glinted in the moonlight.
“Coop!” Tristan raised his hands and sidestepped the weapon.
“Cap’n, ye scairt the hell outta me!” The crewman lowered the cutlass and shoved it back into his sash then patted the handle for good measure. He stood as tall as his short stature would allow which made the white cotton of his shirt strain against the roundness of his belly. “Doncha be knowin’ not to sneak up on a man? Coulda got yerself killed!”
“Who is the woman in my cabin?”
“She dinna give me her name, Cap’n. She been waitin’ on ye fer pert near a hour.” His grin spread from ear to ear then faded as his bushy eyebrows disappeared beneath the red kerchief tied around his forehead. Tufts of dark brown hair, peppered with grey, spiked around the square of cloth on his head. In the moon’s glow, his cheeks were ruddier than normal and his bulbous nose, a result of years of heavy drinking, shined like a beacon in the middle of his face. “Were ye not expectin’ her?”
“No, I was not.”
The crewman mumbled beneath his breath words Tristan couldn’t quite make out before he apologized. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. It ain’t unusual fer ye to have a woman in yer cabin, though it ain’t happened in a while.”
“It’s all right, Coop,” Tristan said. “Why don’t you join your mates at the Salty Dog? You shouldn’t miss the celebration.”
The seaman’s sharp brown eyes disappeared in the wrinkles of his face as he grinned. “Aye, Cap’n!” He needed no further urging as he scurried down the gangplank.
Tristan watched him for a moment then strode across the deck, the hard soles of his boots loud in the silent night.
At the end of the hallway, his door stood wide open. Candles lit against the darkness created a warm glow on the mahogany paneled walls. He glanced around the room. All the built-in cabinets were ajar. Maps littered the floor, some flat, some curled into long tubes, which rolled back and forth as the ship moved. Perturbed, but not angry, his jaw clenched but only for a moment as he took in the sight before him.
The woman stood at his desk, her hands flat on the surface as she studied a map. Covered in yards of pale blue silk, her backside wiggled as she shoved the current map out of her way to study the one beneath it.
The glow from the candles brought out the golden glints in her hair, which curled down her back in wild abandon. With a well-practiced flick of her hand, she pushed long, light brown hair away from her face then reached for the snifter of cognac on the desktop, finishing the amber brew in one swallow.
Tristan leaned against the doorjamb and twisted the ring on his finger as he admired the tantalizing view before him, no longer bothered by her uninvited presence. A new feeling took hold, one that filled his veins with desire. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. “Are you finding my maps of interest?”
“Oh!” She gave a guilty start and whirled around. A pretty shade of pink colored her face and contrasted with the pale blue of her gown. Her eyes, the color of the deep blue sea, were wide and twinkled in the candlelight. “I’m . . . I’m . . .” She paused to breathe. “You must be Captain Trey.”
“I must be.” He took two steps into the room. She backed into the desk, unable to retreat further. “And you are?”
The muscles in her throat moved as she swallowed hard.
“I . . .”
“If you’re looking for the Sierra Magdalena’s treasure, you won’t find it here. Nor will those maps help you.”
She drew herself up as his words hit her. “I beg your pardon. I am not a thief.”
Tristan smiled as wicked thoughts careened through his mind and took another two steps into the room. He stood only a breath away from her, close enough to see the faint scar on her forehead, close enough to notice her eyes weren’t merely sea-blue, but
had flecks of green in their depths as well. Long dark lashes fluttered as she stared into his face and licked her lips.
He knew an invitation when he saw one. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, lowered his head, and tasted those tempting, moist lips.
The woman stilled in his embrace, then melted against him. She tasted of brandy, warm and intoxicating, while her perfume filled his senses and surrounded him with the clean scent of a forest after a rain. The combination of her taste and smell tantalized him; the heat of her response excited him and made him realize one kiss was not enough.
His mouth slid over hers, gently at first, then with more force. Her lips opened beneath his, and beyond the initial taste of brandy, he detected the cool freshness of mint.
“Captain,” she breathed as she turned away and his lips touched the softness of her cheek. Small, dainty hands pushed against his chest. “I am not a common . . . strumpet here for your pleasure.”
Tristan grinned. Oh, she was a beauty with the color of roses in her cheeks and the sparkle of indignation in her sea-blue eyes. Contrary to her words, she had responded to him. Her body still trembled within his embrace.
“My apologies.” He released her and she staggered. “When a man comes aboard his ship and sees a beautiful woman who claims she is not a thief, he can only think one other thing.”
Those beguiling eyes flashed, and for a moment, Tristan battled with himself to keep from falling into their fathomless depths. He pulled a chair away from the table before slumping into it and crossing his legs. “If you’re not a thief and you’re not a harlot come to fulfill all my carnal desires, then who are you?”
“My name is Caralyn McCreigh,” she said and waited, as if she expected him to recognize the name.
He wasn’t listening. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the beauty of her face, the wild curls of light brown hair held back from her small features by a ribbon the same pale blue as her gown, or her full figure emphasized by the cut of her dress.
“I . . . ah . . . I have a proposition for you,” she blurted and raised wide eyes to him.
Mischief and Magnolias Page 28