Blake opened the door to his private sanctuary and stepped back to allow Mrs. Edwards to enter first, then ordered Bud to stay outside. The dog gave him a doleful look and dropped to the wood planks with a bone-jarring thump.
After closing the door, Blake retrieved a set of clean trousers and shirt for himself and his guest. “You will have to make do with my own wardrobe, though I imagine you will be swimming in my clothes.”
Now that she was his guest aboard the Valiant, it was too late for him to be feeling uneasy with his decision. Yet something was amiss. He could feel it in his bones. Despite the softness in her eyes, he wondered whether he could trust her. The mysterious woman had claimed to be at his mercy.
Perhaps she had misled him.
Perhaps it was best to keep an eye on her. A close eye.
Cara stared for a long moment at the clothing he held out to her. His masculine hands gripped the material with a tension that permeated the close space between them. Her gaze moved from his long fingers to the back of his hand, from the wide cuff of his sleeve to the collar of his soiled shirt. Dark whiskers shadowed his neck and lower face. His unkempt appearance gave him an aura of an uncivilized pirate rather than a respectable sea captain. In his deep-aquamarine eyes, she saw distrust.
Could she blame him?
He had a right to be suspicious of her, even though he could not possibly know about her second sight or her life in the future. It was enough that she was a woman on a ship of superstitious sailors.
The floor of the cabin tilted beneath her, gently rolling with a low wave. She shifted her weight to balance herself, unaccustomed to the constant movement, unaccustomed to anything about this time or place.
Confusing thoughts and speculation muddled her mind. She mentally shook off the discomfort and accepted the clothing from the captain. “Thank you . . . for everything.”
He acknowledged her appreciation with a silent nod. “Now if you will allow me a moment to gather a few personal articles to take with me—”
“I don’t expect you to give up your room.”
“Cabin,” corrected Blake. “And I do not mind doing so for a few nights.”
“I can sleep somewhere else. It’s no problem. Really! Surely there’s another cabin for me to use.”
“Not one that is nearly as comfortable as this one.”
“A bunk is all I need.”
She glanced around the clean cabin paneled in rich, dark teak with a row of small windows at eye level wrapping around the back wall. In the center of the floor stood a polished table and four captain’s chairs. Beneath the multipane windows, a wide berth beckoned her with thick bedding to cushion her sore, aching muscles. Though tempted to curl up under the blankets, she forced herself to say, “There is nothing here I can’t live without.”
“Privacy, perhaps? A lady should not be expected to do without certain necessities.”
“I don’t need—”
“Mrs. Edwards,” argued the captain in a firm, low voice. “You are going to stay here in my cabin. There is no bathtub, I’m sorry to say. But I will have my steward bring a basin of fresh water and soap. He can wash out your clothes as well, if you would like.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Her nautical costume had been made in a modem era with who-knew-what subtle differences that might rouse the suspicion of someone laundering it.
He moved past her to a bureau built into the wall and opened a drawer. With his back to her, he continued, “I will have some food sent down to you in an hour, unless you prefer it sooner.”
“You won’t be joining me at your own table?” she asked, recalling the parade of platters that had been marched to the captain’s quarters aboard the Mystic of the distant future.
“I will take my meal elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“It is not your concern.”
“But it is my concern. My presence on the Valiant is causing you to give up your bed and table, not to mention worrying your crew over a female on this ship.” She paused, staring at the back of his head as he bent over his task. His black hair was cut in short layers that grew longer at the nape of his neck, curling over the fold of his collar. The style suited him, though he would probably look good with hair of any length.
Little things about him gained her notice in ways far beyond her professional observation. Sure, he was attractive. But she had met plenty of physically appealing men in her line of business without falling for one of them. It didn’t have to be any different with this sea captain. She could maintain her objective distance. And he, she was certain, could be counted on to behave in the manner of a gentleman.
An officer AND a gentleman. Cara smiled to herself, knowing in her own unique way that this man had more honor in his little pinky finger than his 1990s male counterpart.
“We could share the cabin,” she offered.
Captain Masters straightened with a slowness that accentuated every muscle movement beneath his soiled white shirt and dark pants. He turned to her.
“Share, you say?”
She nodded. “I trust you.”
A glint of mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Do you now? And suppose you misjudge me, ma’am?”
“I haven’t. I am rarely wrong about people, Captain. You are a man of your word. And if you give me your word that you will respect my virtue, I will consider myself perfectly safe with you in this cabin.”
“It would not be proper, Mrs. Edwards. You know as well as I.”
She sighed in resignation. The man was more than an officer and a gentleman. He was a Puritan. Or pushing for sainthood.
His piercing gaze unsettled her. Looking for any excuse to turn away from those disturbing eyes, she stepped to the dining table and dropped the clean clothing onto the polished wood surface. The book she’d studied for her role as a sailor had not included information regarding the proper etiquette for a woman on her own in the nineteenth century. As it was, she had certainly crossed the line with her fictitious excuse about stowing away on the Mystic. And wearing men’s pants had to be nothing less than scandalous.
Fingering the cloth beneath her hands, Cara murmured, “I have certainly made a mess of things.”
“Desperate measures would be expected of any mother searching for her child. However, it is unfortunate you did not have a man to send, rather than putting yourself in such grave danger. This is no place for a woman.”
“Where I come from, women are not as sheltered as they are here.”
“And where would that be?”
Cara mentally kicked herself for the casual remark. She had to be more careful to watch her words. Oh, how hard it was to weave a web of lies without being caught in the stickiness of it all. Sometimes her job required playing a game of deceit and secrecy. Now here she was trapped by her own secrets.
“Actually . . . I am from everywhere and nowhere in particular.” She fidgeted with a button on the folded shirt. “My parents were missionaries. I grew up all over the world.”
“Is that how you met Mr. Edwards?”
“Yes, we spent some time in Switzerland, where his family became quite friendly with my parents.”
“I understood you to say he was Swedish.”
Swedish? Or Swiss? Already she was tripping over her own lies! This wasn’t like her at all.
“Y-yes . . . Lars was from Sweden.” Covering her eyes as if overcome by sudden sadness, she allowed her voice to waver just enough to sound tired and brokenhearted. “I’m sorry, Captain. Lars was my whole life. I loved him deeply. At times I can’t contain my grief.”
“I should not have mentioned him.”
“No, it’s all right. I must learn to cope with my loss.”
She sniffed as if holding back a tear. “We were traveling to the Orient when he became sick in San Francisco. Our ship had to sail without us. We had every intention of finding passage on a later vessel, but Lars grew worse. He passed away only six short months ago, God rest his soul.” Her final few wor
ds tumbled out on choking sobs. Phony sobs. And crocodile tears. It was one of the best performances she had ever given on the job. So convincing, in fact, that the captain gently touched her shoulder. Caught up in the little scene, she instinctively turned into his arms to be comforted by him.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Edwards.” His baritone voice rumbled through her with a tenderness that touched her heart, pressing guilt down upon her.
This had been a mistake, she realized too late.
She didn’t dare look up into his face, afraid to witness the sincere compassion in his eyes. His honest sympathy would certainly unravel the fine fabric of her deceitful drama. Instead, she worked hard to make her sorrow as believable as possible.
“It has been difficult.”
“I can only imagine. And now your son, too.”
“Andrew,” she said in a hushed whisper. The boy’s name brought back the real drama of her situation. “I must find him. I can’t go home without Andrew.”
If I can go home at all!
The unbidden thought sent a shiver of dread down her spine. With the Mystic wrecked upon the cliffs, she wondered once more how she could possibly find her way back to the future when she finally located Andrew.
Masters took her chin in his hand and lifted her head. Through her tears, she reluctantly looked up at him.
“I wish . . .” He paused, studying her. “I wish I could promise we will find your boy. But you should know the odds are not good.”
“I don’t want to hear about the odds, Captain. I have come too far to give up now.”
Much too far.
She allowed her lower lip to tremble slightly. Another tear fell. As he brushed it away with his thumb, she felt the pad of skin against her cheek. The gesture was meant to be innocently consoling, yet she sensed an undercurrent of something entirely different flowing through his touch. Something deeper. Something hidden beneath layers of his memory, so that not even he was aware of its existence.
A flash of a familiar vision blinded her for a moment. She gasped at the startling image.
“What’s wrong?” He leaned back and looked down at her.
Cara wanted to dismiss the sudden realization as a figment of her imagination.
It couldn’t be.
Not him.
He can’t be the boy I saw in the rumpled clothes.
The picture in her mind had come and gone so quickly. Could she really be certain it was the same image she had seen the previous night on the other ship . . . before she had stepped back in time?
She wanted to take his hand, to close her eyes again, to look into the darkness of his soul and see if she could find that battered little boy again. But how could she explain it to Captain Masters? How would he react if she told him of a past she could discern like a fortune-telling gypsy?
“It’s nothing.” Dropping her eyes from his gaze, she stepped away from him and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Perhaps you were right. Perhaps you should leave.”
“As you wish.”
She listened to the solid footfall of his boots as he departed. When she was certain he had left, the air seemed easier to breathe. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs until her rib cage could expand no more. As she slowly released the breath in a long and quiet exhale, she felt her body relax, the tension drain from her tired and sore muscles. With each cleansing breath, she became more and more aware of the masculine essence of the captain, even though he was no longer physically present. His living quarters held his scent, wrapping around her with the warmth of a soft down comforter. The smell of damp salt air mingled with wood polish, shaving soap, and musk cologne. A faint odor of tobacco told her the captain enjoyed an occasional smoke—or entertained visitors who did.
She looked around the cabin, wondering about the man who occupied this place. This was his domain. She sensed the power, the independence.
And a hidden past.
Cara recalled the startling recurrence of the horrible vision. When she had earlier tried to zero in on Andrew, had she stumbled across the tragic childhood of this man instead?
She glanced over at the bureau where Masters had been riffling through the drawer. If she could find a personal item, preferably a piece of jewelry, perhaps she could find some clues to her clairvoyant vision. Invasion of privacy was not exactly her favorite thing to do. In her line of business, she often had to breach the private lives of innocent people to find out the truth. There was always justifiable cause, though—a trail of a criminal or a missing person. But was snooping among the belongings of Captain Masters justifiable?
Not really.
However, looking for necessary information about her case would certainly be an acceptable reason to explore. For starters, she wanted to know what year it was. Unable to ask anyone without drawing more suspicion to herself, she had hoped to have an opportunity like this one. If her search for a calendar or a captain’s log brought her into contact with some of his personal items, so much the better.
Walking toward the ship’s galley with his dog at his heels, Blake was certain the widow had lied to him about her husband. On the beach she had said the man had died two years ago. In his cabin, she had claimed to have lost her dear Lars only six short months ago. And it also seemed the Swede might have been Swiss, if not for her adroit explanation that he had chosen not to challenge. What else was she hiding from him? Perhaps she was not a grieving wife at all.
Blake entered the warm galley as his cook leaned over the oven door and took out a sizable portion of roasted beef and vegetables. Bud crept forward, eager for a handout, only to be shooed away by Keoni, who then slipped the mutt a large bone from the counter.
“Now get out from under my feet, you old beggar,” he scolded, sending the dog out of the galley to enjoy his treat.
The aroma of the hot meal wafted under Blake’s nose, prompting a loud rumble from his empty stomach. Keoni gave him a sideways glance.
“You, too? Here, take this.” The brawny Kanaka tossed a small red apple to Blake, who snatched it out of the air. “You look like hell, Kaikaina.”
“I appreciate the food, not your opinion.” He bit into the fruit, one of a supply bought from a mission along their coastal run for hides. “Considering what I’ve been through since last night, I’m entitled to look like hell, and I deserve a little sympathy.”
Keoni laughed off the request for pity. “Not you, oh-great-one. The gods not only save your life, they bring you a woman, too. I say you are entitled to nothing but envy.”
The mocking respect went unchallenged by Blake. He took another bite, chewed for a moment, then swallowed. “The gods did not bring me that woman. She is a widow searching for her son. Though I suspect you already knew. Your galley is a brew-pot of gossip that rivals an old biddies’ quilting bee.”
The friendly gibe broadened Keoni’s grin, which soon faded into a serious expression. “Are you going to help her find the boy?”
“She can’t very well go it alone. A woman? Unescorted? She wouldn’t last a day.”
“It appears that way.” The cook went back to his chore in the small work space, his dark brows beetled.
“What bothers you, my friend?”
“Nothing . . .”
“You have always spoken your mind to me, Keoni. Don’t tell me you’re going to let your superstitions get the better of you.”
“It is more than that.” He placed the roast on a large wooden platter with cooked potatoes and carrots, adding a loaf of crusted bread.
Blake realized there was enough food to feed more than the widow Edwards, and he remembered he had not informed Keoni that the woman would dine alone. How had the thought slipped his mind as he’d stood and watched the entire preparation? He was not one to forget such simple matters. But then, he was also not one to allow errant thoughts of beautiful widows to interfere with his duties. Yet he could not seem to shake her from his mind.
“I should have told you that I have given my quarters over to our g
uest. Give her only the amount of food she may need, leave the rest here.”
“What about you and the mates?” Both of them knew neither he nor Mr. Bellows and the second mate would take their meals with the crew in the forecastle.
“A table in the between decks will be suitable.”
Keoni shook his head. “Not for you.”
“What do you mean, not for me? I am the captain here.”
“And you will dine at the captain’s table.” The cook picked up the heavily laden platter as the ship’s steward arrived on silent feet, instinctively on time. Jimmy was a red-haired, freckle-faced Irish lad of sixteen, eager to please and efficient as hell. The young man held out his hands to take the food from Keoni, but the cook shook his head. “This time I will do the honors.”
The steward glanced at Blake for direction. “Sir?”
“Humor him, James. He has more knives than we do.”
“Aye-aye. Captain,” he answered, glancing nervously at the array of sharpened blades on the wood counter before exiting the galley.
The arrogant Kanaka appeared pleased with himself as he carried the food out the door. Passing Blake, he murmured, “You no come with me, you no eat. She can’t kick you out of your very own cabin.”
“She didn’t kick me out. I offered.”
“You think so?”
“I know so!”
“That’s a haole woman for you. They have you dancing on the end of a string before you know which end is up. Don’t dance to her tune, Kaikaina.”
“I am not dancing,” insisted Blake, following the aroma of the food.
Sometimes he wondered if it was worth having such a deep friendship that was so damnably unconventional by ship’s standards. Despite his respected authority over the rest of his men, he could not change his obstinate Island brother.
Keoni continued to tease in his broken dialect. “Maybe you not dancing . . . yet. But maybe you tapping your toes to da music. Think so?”
“I’m not tapping my toes and there is no music.”
The Kanaka knocked on the cabin door, then winked at Blake. “It is an ancient chant, aikane. As old as the earth itself.”
Mystic Memories Page 6