Blackwell 2 - Timeswept Rogue

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "It says here a barroom brawl."

  Ram quirked a brow, waiting for the man to adjust his thinking.

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  "Oh, yes, I see." Which Blackwell was this, Sebastian wanted to ask, but instead did his job and read on.

  "What gift did Captain and Mistress Blackwell receive on the evening after their wedding?"

  Ram's lips curved with memory. "A painting, a portrait of Mistress Blackwell walking on the beach."

  Bailey tossed the parchment aside, sagging into the chair. Word for word, as if he'd written it himself. Incredible. Sebas­tian stood and after flipping the pages to the beginning of the worn ledger, he indicated with a shaking finger where Ramsey was to sign. Ram accepted the writing instrument, pausing to examine the gold cylinder, twisting the middle as English had done, amazed at the instrument's smooth stroke, devoid of odor and splatter as he penned his name. Sebastian compared it to a scrap of paper enclosed in his instructions, and Ramsey recognized 'twas a part of his ship's log, afore the Englishman stowed it in his ledger. Bailey unlocked the courier's case and withdrew a broad leather box, setting it on the desk. A moment later he added a misshapen parcel wrapped in oiled animal skin and secured with rigging twine.

  Ram's heart thudded frantically as he slowly unfolded from the chair. The box and hide were achingly familiar, as if he'd laid his hands upon the like only days afore. He approached the desk, smoothing his fingertips over the worn leather, then the thin gold plate engraved with the initials R.M.G.O. These were his. His.

  The Lloyds agent was already collecting up his papers, "If I may ask, Mister O'Keefe—" Bailey shuffled and stuffed, then snapped the case closed and looked up—"Who are you exactly?"

  Ram's brows furrowed, "I understood this inquisition was to establish just that."

  'It only verified that you are who you say you are, but not how you knew those answers. No one could have possibly known them." No one living, Sebastian added silently, feeling goose flesh rise on his neck.

  Ramsey inhaled deeply, looking the man in the eye. He could offer naught but the truth, and in a deadpan voice said, "I am

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  captain of Triton's Will, an American privateer frigate owned by Dane Blackwell and under the command of President George Washington."

  Bailey's eyes rounded as Ramsey spoke. "Wha—what are you saying?"

  "I am a Continental Marine, sir, who has traveled from here-" he tapped the leather chest—"to here." He gestured to the room, the motion encompassing this house, this century.

  Bailey stared at him a moment longer, his critical gaze nar­rowing a fraction. "I may retire in peace," he muttered dryly, then strode to the door, believing the man would not offer a reasonable explanation. If there was one.

  Her hand raised to knock, Penny froze, wishing she'd heard the entire conversation, A Continental Marine. What bunk! Yet even as she decided Ramsey was teasing the agent, she experienced a niggling doubt. He sounded so confident. But Marines were shaved heads with attitudes, like Tess's dad and Hank. And where was this unmentionable place he'd traveled from, she wondered, lowering her arm and moving back down the hall as the doorknob rattled.

  Leaving the box and bundle untouched, Ram escorted the Lloyds agent to the front door, only too aware that Penelope was nowhere in sight.

  "Give my regards to Miss Hamilton," Bailey said. "And please, apologize on my behalf for intruding on her grief."

  Ram nodded sagely, wishing he could give her the peace she needed.

  "Good day to you, Captain O'Keefe."

  "My thanks, Mister Bailey." Ram bowed and the Lloyds agent smiled, imagining him in frock coat and knee britches. After what he just went through, he was ready to believe any­thing.

  Ramsey closed the door after him and released a heavy sigh,

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  mashing a hand over his face. When he turned away he found Antony watching him, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.

  "You're not going to answer a single question, are you?"

  "Nay, my friend. I fear I cannot."

  The two men stared for a moment, then Anthony smiled, "Well then, let's go deposit that check, I'm bored." Anthony finished off the last of his sandwich, dusting his fingertips. "I'll bring my car around."

  Ramsey strode back to the study, halting in the doorway when he saw Penelope curled in the chair behind the desk, staring at his possessions.

  He frowned. " 'Twas rude, Penelope, not to see the man out."

  She didn't look up. "Don't scold me, Ramsey. I'm not a child.'' Her tone was clipped, and as he moved closer he noticed her stare lay somewhere beyond the box and bundle, her fingers manipulating the key over and over. The movement was frantic, tensing. Guilt tore at him that he couldn't help her find answers yet.

  "Mister Bailey offered his condolences at your loss." She winced, gripping the key. "Your grief . .. 'twill ease in time, love."

  Her gaze snapped up. "What do you know of what I feel? My best friend, my only friend is gone, dead, drowned, eaten by sharks. God, I'll never know." She inhaled a deep breath. "But I've accepted it, damnit. Now why won't anyone let me bury her!"

  "Nary a soul says you cannot."

  "Oh yes there is," she said defiantly. "You, the damn Black-wells and their mysterious crate." She came to her feet. "Well, it can stay locked up another hundred years for all I care." She.flipped the key onto the surface, then rounded the desk, heading toward the door. "I hate them for this."

  Ram lurched and grabbed her hand, but she didn't spare him a glance, twisting out of his grip and leaving the study.

  He didn't follow, giving her the solitude she demanded with­out words.

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  ' 'A woman does not jump off a crowded cruise liner without witnesses," Penny said into the phone. "The police will ques­tion every staff member and guest, Captain. The cruise line is held responsible and do not doubt that I will discover why you allowed a passenger to jump off your ship, then left her in shark infested waters to die." A pause, and though her body shook with suppressed anger, her voice was measured, icy. "Really? How convenient. Make the ensign available to the police, Bahamas and U.S." She hung up without further com­ment, then folded her arms across her middle, staring at the floor. Control, she told herself, don't lose it now.

  When she finally regained control and looked up, she saw Ramsey, walking away.

  Anthony maneuvered his Mercedes down a quiet road lined with palmetto and oranges trees, their branches hovering over the pavement, offering shade to the blaring sun. Beside him Ramsey was content to watch the scenery pass before him, though he knew he was furious, his pride bruised. They'd spent the past two hours at Anthony's bank, trying to cash Ramsey's check. It was impossible and Anthony should have seen this coming. For without identification, Ramsey couldn't prove who he was and open an account. The matter was at the bank's discretion and before they suggested he call Penelope and humiliate Ramsey further, Anthony cosigned on a signature account, which meant Ramsey couldn't get to his own money without his presence and signature.

  Personally, Anthony thought he would have blown his stack long ago, though when Ramsey finally handed over the cashier's check, the look on their faces as they realized how much revenue his accounts would bring to the bank was damned comical. They were apologizing all over themselves and Ramsey's glacial dismissal of the bank president was a study in final retribution.

  Penelope couldn't have done better.

  Damn but the man was a mystery, complete and absolute,

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  his manner, that he addressed him as Antony instead of Anthony, and he'd yet to understand exactly where Ramsey had been all these years and why he kept it a secret. He wanted to ask about what Lloyds had to say, and give him, but even after enjoying a beer at his favorite pub, Ramsey had not offered an explanation. Though he had his suspicions.

  Anthony almost laughed alou
d when he recalled the pub, and the women nearly fighting to fill the empty seats at their table. That seemed to shock Ramsey, though he was polite, buying a round, charming them all with his strange speech and chivalrous manners. But he accepted no offers, though Anthony knew he must have a pocketful of match books inscribed with names and numbers. His impatience to see Penelope was clear, and he wondered if the girl knew just how faithful this man was being to her, when he'd no reason. And what would the papers say when sources learned that Ramsey was living with Penelope, although Ramsey never mentioned it. He hated to think of the mess they'd make of what little pleasure the woman had had in years.

  Suddenly Ram leaned forward, staring ahead with obvious intent. "Rein in, Antony, if you please."

  "Rein what? Oh, stop. Certainly." Tony braked slowly and they came to a stop before a spiked iron gate.

  "Bloody friggin' hell!" Ram muttered, his gaze on the name-plate suspended on the gate. His eyes shifted to the stately home beyond the stone confines, then back to the plate. He sank into the plush seat and mashed his hand over his face.

  "Is there a problem?" Anthony said. Ramsey looked as if he might be ill.

  "Is this not the Blackwell home?" Anthony squinted, leaning forward to see. "I-believe it was, yes," he said, throwing the gear into park. "There was some scandal about twenty-odd years back, you know. Over the sale as I recall. The Blackwells claimed they were bilked out of their ancestral home, though nothing was ever proven."

  Ramsey lifted his head, his heart aching as he stared at the house, memories flooding him. 'Twas Dane's home. Ram had been inside, in nearly every room. From his position he could

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  see the bed chamber where he'd slept on his visits. This house had been a refuge for him, a safe harbor when he felt alone. Until Phillip Rothmere had touched its occupants. Now, it appeared, his cruel fingers could stretch across two hundred years, for the proud name of Blackwell had been replaced with the elaborate scroll of Rothmere.

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  Chapter 19

  God, she hated losing control.

  Swiping at her eyes, she sniffled, then slanted a quick look around the edge of the unused boathouse, hoping no one saw her like this. Staring at her bare toes, she kicked at the water, the waves splashing lightly against the pier. Who did the Blackwells think they were, playing this game and disrupting her life with their secrets? Who did they get to write just like Tess; even the little check marks dotting the i's were the same. If the writing hadn't been so close to Tess's she would have accepted the key without a fuss, opened the crate and returned the con­tents to the family. But there weren't any Blackwells left. A shame, she thought as she sanded the key between her palms, a chill running swiftly over her arms.

  And where did Ramsey go in such a hurry? Avoiding you she thought ruefully, not blaming him for leaving so abruptly after the way she'd treated him. None of her torment was his fault. Well, some of it was. And the sight of the leather box, bearing his initials, made her increasingly uneasy. The tempta­tion to look challenged her, yet she left the study, retrieving the key and respecting his privacy. But that didn't stop her mind from wondering who'd left him those things and whether

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  or not his gifts were as old as hers. Had an ancestor endowed the package? For they couldn't possibly be his. But his words spoken to Bailey kept ringing in her head, sure and proud. A Continental Marine. Was he insane? Questions that desperately needed answers tormented her, but she was afraid to find the truth, afraid Ramsey might be something he wasn't. Aside from overbearing, arrogant and a bit pompous, she thought with a smile.

  "Penny?"

  Startled, she twisted around, shoving the key into her skirt pocket.

  'You ought not be out in the sun so long?'' Margaret shielded her eyes as she peered closer, inspecting Penelope's skin for a burn. "You put on any sunscreen?"

  The actress smiled. "Careful, Margaret, your mother hen feathers are ruffling." Penny climbed to her feet, her heeled sandals dangling from her fingertips.

  "Well, somebody has to look after you. You don't eat right unless I make you. You stay alone far too often for a woman your age, and God knows you're a lousy housekeeper."

  Penny grasped Margaret's arm and brushed a quick kiss to her cheek. "And I love you dearly for it," she whispered.

  Margaret's eyes widened, then misted with tears. She'd known it all these years, of course, but the girl had never come out and said so before now. Oh, she'd shown it often enough, by paying her a ridiculous fortune in wages, giving her time off whenever she wanted and furnishing her with a trip anywhere in the world each Christmas and birthday. But to hear it was enough to make the old woman weep with joy.

  Penny smiled gently. "Hey, none of this, Meggie me rose." She dabbed at the lone tear with the hem of Margaret's apron, then looped her arm through the housekeeper's, guiding her off the narrow pier. "Did you come out just to check on the condition of my skin or did you just miss me?"

  "Customs is here. Front hall."

  She'd heard the bell, but hoped it was Ramsey.

  "Great. Just what I need, more strange people in my house.''

  "It has been a day, hasn't it?"

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  Penny glanced to her side as she opened the pool screen door. "You want details, huh?"

  "No, not really." Her tone wasn't the least bit convincing.

  "To be honest, I don't have any. Just this." She showed her the key.

  "Ain't that a kick. What's it open?"

  Penny shrugged, stepping into the coolness of the house. "Haven't the foggiest, but a crate will be delivered this after­noon, so be on the look out, will you?"

  "Sure. Who from?"

  "The Blackwells think they owe me something."

  Margaret's features slackened. "The Blackwells?"

  "I know, bizarre," she said, pausing to dust the sand off her feet and slip on her shoes. She and Margaret headed to the front hall and found two dark haired men, dressed in somber suits and still wearing their mirrored sunglasses. Secret Service wanna be's, she thought, her lips twitching.

  "Identification?" she said coolly, and they flashed her the familiar I.D.s. She compared picture to face, then said, "This way, gentlemen," and headed for the stairs.

  They'd come for her luggage, or rather, the inspection for contraband, and the convenience was a perk of her celebrity status she didn't mind. Airport managers didn't care for the security threat and chaos her presence caused and she wanted privacy, at all costs. Customs placed a thick plastic seal on her luggage locks in the Bahamas, heat crimped so it couldn't easily be removed. Then customs in the U.S. cut it off, did their inspection and she didn't have to wait around in the airport and suffer the humiliation of having her dirty lingerie displayed to every camera, fan or official who wanted a peek. She met the landing, rounding the rail to the right and stopping before the second bedroom after Ramsey's. She flung open the door and gestured to the designer luggage stacked on the brass bed.

  "Inspect away. I'll be back to sign the papers in a minute," she said, then backtracked down the balcony hall and across to her rooms. She didn't like watching the inspection. It was kind of like not looking your gynecologist in the face during

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  an exam. You just wanted it over with as quickly as possible, no reminders.

  She took the time to rinse the sea salt from her skin and brush her hair, barretting it high off her neck, then made an effort to pick up her bedroom. But it was definitely a three-man job. Well, at least I can take the dirty dishes downstairs, she thought, and left, balancing a stack. A ripping sound caught her attention and .she paused at the landing. What in the world, she thought, heading quickly for the guest room.

  Penny froze in the doorway as customs agents wielded silver switchblades, destroying her luggage with a vengeance. She dropped the dishes. "What th
e hell do you think — !"

  One man grabbed her arm, dragging her into the room and slamming her against the wall. He pressed his blade tip to her throat.

  "Where are they?" he demanded.

  "Where's what?" Penny didn't dare swallow.

  He nudged the blade, a sharp sting answering the motion. Her blood colored the silver point.

  "Give them to me or I'll cut you so bad no one will want you!"

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." Her tone was even, unaffected and she could see it angered him.

  Behind them, the other man tossed a tattered case on the floor. "Nothin'," he sneered.

  Her assailant's body mashed her against the papered wall, his face close, his breath smelling of peaches as he gave the knife a short quick dig.

  Penny inhaled sharply. "I don't have what you want," she bit out precisely. "I swear!" A wet warmth trickled down her throat to her chest.

  In the next heartbeat she heard rapid footsteps, her gaze shifting toward the door, yet before she could make him a soprano, he abruptly backed up and backhanded her across the face, the blow sending her to the floor.

  At the sound of weight hitting the upper deck, Ramsey bolted, overtaking the staircase in time to see a dark figure pass through the old servant's door. His gaze swept the area.

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  "Penelope!" Harsh, tormented.

  "In here," she called. He leapt the railed balcony and found her on the carpeted floor, struggling to sit up. His eyes lit on the stream of blood dripping down her chest and staining her dress.

  "Sweet Jesus!" He slid to his knees, gripping her shoulders, inspecting her wounds.

  "I'm fine, really," she managed, swiping at the blood on her lip, then smoothing her fingertips beneath her chin.

  "I'll kill them!"

  Penny looked up sharply, stunned by the fury glinting in his dark eyes.