by Nina Bruhns
“The legend was right,” she said.
“About what?” he asked with a content smile.
“You do have voudou.”
A million things catapulted through his mind at her unexpected statement. He lifted up onto his forearms and gazed down at her warily. “Why would you say that?”
“No mere mortal man could make me feel this good. You are amazing.”
He let out a nervous laugh. “Chère, a man doesn’t need voudou to give his woman a good loving.”
Her smile turned mischievous. “No wonder Wesley Peel wanted to find the diaries. He was probably hoping for your love potion recipe.”
“Now you’re being silly.”
But she persisted. “A bitter disappointment when he didn’t find it, I’m sure. Or maybe he did?” She glanced consideringly over at the stack of diaries on the nightstand. “Hmm.”
“Elizabeth, arrête. I do not want to talk about voudou.”
“Why not?” Suddenly her head cocked as though something occurred to her. Then her eyes widened. “I was right. That’s how you did it…. It is, isn’t it?”
Ah, hell. “Did what, chère?”
“Came back to life!”
Merde. He rolled off her onto his back and scrubbed his face. How the devil had she stumbled on to that theory? “I told you, I don’t know how it happened. It’s not like I asked to be raised from the dead.” Not in so many words.
“But when we were at your friend James Tyler’s house, you yourself said before he died, Sullivan Fouquet—you—put a voudou curse on Tyree, and—” She sat up with a gasp. “Tyree St. James! He’s still alive, too, isn’t he? You call your friend James Tyler ‘Tyree’…because that’s who he really is!”
“Chère,” he said evenly. “You are in imminent danger of starting to sound like Wesley Peel.”
“Just because he’s crazy doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”
She stared at him and he could practically hear the cranks and pulleys of her mind at work. Leading her to a logical conclusion he must not let her reach, at any cost.
“Mon coeur—”
“My God. It all makes sense now.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It doesn’t. Nothing about this situation makes any sense, whatsoever. And blaming it on voudou—”
“So you deny it, then? You’re telling me I’m wrong? That the legend is wrong, and that Davey Scraggs and all the men of your crew were also wrong when they whispered about your gift for the curse?”
He scrambled to find an explanation to the unexplainable. One that would satisfy her so she wouldn’t pursue the topic any further. “I’m saying they were a bunch of superstitious sailors. And Wesley Peel is a madman. Surely you don’t believe in such things as curses and the like?”
Her face fell slightly. “Well, I don’t believe in transmigration, either,” she said pointedly.
He couldn’t argue that one. Neither did he, and yet look where he was. He did, however, believe in voudou and his own ability to cast curses. At least…his former ability. He’d seen it work too many times not to believe. His thirst for revenge had been a powerful motivator, and Jeantout had been a powerful teacher. Sully had learned his lessons well.
But now, it seemed, he was paying for them.
Elizabeth was gazing steadily at him, waiting for him to affirm or deny. God’s Bones.
He calmly got out of bed and began dressing. “I’m hungry. How about you? Why don’t we go down and have breakfast.”
Her jaw dropped. “So that’s it? End of discussion?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Tell me the truth. Did you put a voudou curse on Tyree St. James before you died?”
He jetted out a breath. Debated lying. But couldn’t see the point. “Aye. I did.”
“And is he still alive?”
“It’s more complicated than that. But essentially, aye. He’s alive.”
“Because of your curse?”
“Elizabeth—”
“Answer the question, Sully.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “So he claims.” And the details of his ordeal were too closely matched to the words for Sully to have any doubt of it, either. “But only God knows for sure.”
“And what about you?”
“Me? Me, I’m hungry. Let’s—”
She stepped in front of him, all serious and unwilling to let it go—or him through the door before he’d answered.
“You’re messin’ with things you should leave well alone, chère,” he warned. “You really don’t want to get into this.”
“But I do. Did you come back to life because of some voudou spell you put on yourself?”
“Non. It doesn’t work like that,” he bit out. Desperately not wanting this to go any further. But not knowing how to stop it. It was like hitting a tidal wave in the middle of the sea—no way around but straight up, and all you could do was pray it didn’t break until you were on the other side.
“Then what did it, Sully? Why did you come back?”
He glared at her, and she took an unwilling step backward. She wanted the truth? All right, he’d give it to her. “I’ll tell you why I came back,” he growled, and leaned down into her face. “Revenge. I came back for revenge.”
Elizabeth gasped at the vehemence in Sully’s voice as he ground out the word. But before she could recover her wits, he’d swept through the door, making her jump as it slammed hard behind him.
Revenge?
“On whom?”
A sickening nausea crept through her insides as an awful thought occurred to her. He despised the Sullivans…
But no, it couldn’t be them. Okay, he may be the illegitimate son of Lord Henry, but that was hardly sufficient reason to hate the family enough to return from the dead for revenge. It didn’t add up.
Of course, nothing about this absurd situation added up to anything but insanity.
With a worried mind, she went to her own room and got ready for the day. Then she picked up the phone and called home. Her mom answered. Caleb was still not feeling well, but he wasn’t feeling worse, so that was good. After a quick chat with him, she asked to talk to her mother again.
“Can you do something for me?”
“Sure, darling. Anything.”
“I can’t explain right now, but I really need to know what happened to that servant family, the Fouquets. How and why they left the Sullivan estate.”
“A-all right.” It was clear her mom was puzzled, but thankfully didn’t ask her reason for wanting the information. She honestly didn’t know what she would have said. The truth? Scarcely. Her straightforward, logical mom would think she’d gone off the deep end from some mysterious Southern disease.
Yeah. A disease called love.
Elizabeth hung up feeling even more nervous and jumpy than when she’d called. She couldn’t shake the instinctive feeling that Sully’s need for revenge had something to do with the Sullivans. And she was pretty darn sure she wasn’t going to like it when she found out what it was. In fact, she had a sinking feeling it was going to be the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.
Bad analogy. Very bad analogy.
She thought of Caleb, the innocent caught in the middle of all this weirdness, and her heart nearly broke. She could leave Sully today, right now, and she would survive. She’d hurt like hell, but she’d live through it.
She wasn’t so sure about Caleb. He needed that bone marrow transplant badly. His slight downturn yesterday was just the beginning. Soon he’d be back in the hospital. And then, how long would he have? Sully was his last chance.
Too bad there wasn’t a voudou spell she could cast and—
Oh, my God!
She stood frozen, suddenly dizzy with hope. Sully! He could do it! If he’d brought back Tyree and himself, why not Caleb, too?
Then reality—unreality?—suddenly came crashing back.
He would never do it. If he wouldn’t even get a simple bloo
d test, he surely wouldn’t cast a voudou spell to save Caleb’s life.
Unless…Unless somehow she could make it better. Get him to forgive the Sullivans for whatever harm they’d caused him.
Then, maybe he’d…
She let out a laugh that sounded half hysterical, even to herself. Voudou? Was this how desperate she had become? She didn’t even believe in it! Admittedly, there was something crazy supernatural going on with Sully. But she was more inclined to believe it was God who’d sent him back to earth to learn an important lesson—one he’d missed last time around—in order to get into heaven.
But…but if there was even a breath of hope for Caleb…She had to try.
So she straightened her spine. And went down to breakfast.
As usual, Mrs. Butterfield chattered on as she served them a scrumptious morning feast of ham and grits, waffles with maple syrup and plenty of rich, aromatic coffee. Sully had to admit, he’d never eaten so well in his life as he had for the past several days here at the Pirate’s Rest Inn.
Nor had the company been as agreeable. Mrs. Butterfield was always agreeable, of course. And Elizabeth was trying very hard to be pleasant. Even though she hadn’t yet looked him in the eye.
“So,” asked Mrs. B. “What are you two up to this morning?”
“Physical therapy,” he answered cheerfully. “Every morning at ten for the foreseeable future, I’m afraid.” He glanced at the wall clock. “Jake called and said he’d pick me up at nine-thirty.”
“And what about you, dear?” she asked Elizabeth.
There was a slight pause. “Oh, I thought I’d visit the cemetery. I want to see Sullivan Fouquet’s grave.”
He dropped his coffee cup.
“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Butterfield exclaimed, running for a cloth and dabbing the hot liquid that had splashed his shirt.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. B.,” he said, cutting Elizabeth a scowl. What was the woman up to now? “How clumsy of me.”
“Not to worry, it’ll wash out. Did you burn yourself?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Butterfield said, disposing of the stained linen. “I think that’s a splendid idea. The graves are quite spectacular.”
“Graves?” his lover asked, too innocently for his liking. “Fouquet has more than one?”
Sully grimaced. Tyree had warned him that some town committee thirty years ago had moved his and Elizabeth Hayden’s graves together. Better for the tourist trade, they’d decided. More in line with the romantic myth of tragic lovers that Maybelle Chadbourne’s penny dreadful novel had created. The stone monument they’d erected was…different…according to Clara. Tyree had just laughed and mumbled something about the advantages of being the villain of the story.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Butterfield continued earnestly. “Poor Captain Fouquet and his beloved fiancée, Elizabeth—Oh! What a coincidence! That’s your name, too!”
“Yes, imagine that,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “Do go on.”
“Poor Captain Fouquet and his beloved Elizabeth were cut down in their prime by his dastardly partner, Captain St. James.” She shuddered dramatically. “Such a dreadful man.”
Sully snorted eloquently.
Mrs. Butterfield looked offended. “He was dreadful! The philandering rogue shot Miss Elizabeth in cold blood!”
“Perhaps she deserved it,” Sully couldn’t resist saying, though naturally he didn’t really believe that. It just irritated him having his colossal stupidity carved in stone for all to witness.
Mrs. Butterfield gasped in outrage. “Well!”
“Ignore him, Mrs. B. He’s been in a snarky mood all morning. You were saying about the fiancée?”
“Ah, she was the town beauty. And—”
“I am not in a snarky mood,” he muttered.
“—the captain loved her very much. After St. James shot her, she died in—”
“Just because I don’t want to talk about voudou,” he grumbled under his breath.
“—his arms. It was so romant—” Their hostess blinked. “Voudou?”
Nothing got past the old bat.
He plastered a smile onto his lips. “Aye, apparently Miz Hamilton, here, believes in spells and curses. Now, me, I—”
“You—” Elizabeth jumped up in outrage, poking her finger at him “—are such a…Such a hyp—” Suddenly she snapped her mouth shut, plopped back down on her chair, smiled brightly and turned back to Mrs. Butterfield. “You were saying about Sullivan Fouquet and his dear sweetheart?”
Mrs. B looked from Elizabeth’s perky smile to his stormy frown and back again. And probably decided she’d have no part of whatever lunacy was going on between them. No doubt she knew they were sleeping together—that wasn’t the kind of thing one could hide from an innkeeper—and chalked it up to a lovers’ tiff.
Their hostess drew herself up and said very primly. “It’s true. They were very much in love. Devoted to one another. It was a terrible thing, their true love being cut short like that.”
Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “They sound like the perfect couple. Well. Except for the bloodthirsty pirate part.”
“Privateer,” Sully said between his teeth. “And she was—”
Elizabeth ignored him and blithely continued, “Would you mind if I cut some roses from your garden, Mrs. Butterfield? I’d like to place them on my namesake’s grave.”
Sully slapped his hands on the table so hard the china cups threatened to jump out of the saucers. “You will not—”
If he could have turned Elizabeth—this one—over his knee right then he would have done so with relish. But since that was out of the question—for the moment—he marshaled his ire and gave her an imperious look. “I think I hear Jake’s truck pulling up in front and I forgot the backpack with the journals upstairs. Would you mind getting it for me?”
Reluctantly she lifted her chin and went up to fetch it. When she returned and held it out to him, he took her arm instead, and said, “I’d like you to come with me.”
She balked, but he didn’t give her an option. He simply propelled her out the door and down the front steps.
“Sully! Let me go this instant,” she ground out as he pulled her down the path. “I don’t want to go with you.”
“And I don’t want you to go to my grave. Flowers for your namesake? Mon Dieu, what has gotten into you? If you are still angry about this morning, I’m sorry I was rude. I don’t like talking about voudou.”
“That’s all well and good, but I don’t—”
Luckily they’d arrived at the curb where Jake was waiting in his truck and she couldn’t complete the thought. Sully wrenched open the door and deposited her on the bench seat, then climbed in beside her, forcing her to the middle. “Hope you don’t mind if Elizabeth comes along?” he said after greeting Jake.
“Not a problem.” The other man hiked a brow at her churlish expression and tightly crossed arms, but didn’t comment. “After I drop you off I’m headed for Morrisey Island. I’m meeting Professor Rouse there to go over some details about the fire.”
Elizabeth’s face immediately animated. “Oh! Can I come with you? There’s something—I mean, I’ve never been to a fire scene and would love to see what you do. I promise not to get in the way.”
The woman truly must think him an idiot. “I’m sure Jake will be far too busy to—”
“Hell, she can come along if she wants. It’s probably pretty boring hanging around the hospital waiting for you.”
To his astonishment, she turned and twined her arms around Sully’s neck, then gave him a long kiss that could leave little doubt as to what they’d spent the night doing. “Please, darling? I won’t bother Jake at all, I swear.”
After that head-spinning kiss, he could hardly say no without appearing an unreasonable boor. Which was doubtless exactly what she was counting on.
He grasped her jaw in his hand just hard enough to get her attention. “No bothering Professor Rouse, eithe
r,” he said intently. It was fairly obvious what she had in mind. “The man just lost his home. He won’t want to engage in a discussion of voudou with you.”
“Voudou?” Jake asked in surprise. “You interested in voudou?”
“Because of the arsonist,” she explained, lifting the backpack she still held. “I heard that Wesley Peel may have been collecting these old diaries to find the words to a voudou curse Sullivan Fouquet put on Tyree St. James. I thought that was interesting.”
Jake nodded. “Yes, I’ve considered that theory. But Peel was also stealing paintings by an artist named Thom Bowden. The two things don’t seem to mesh.”
Sully thought otherwise. Back when Thom Bowden had been a regular patron of the Moon and Palmetto and sketched Sully and Tyree for coin, their crews also frequently sat as his subjects—including Davey Scraggs. Thom Bowden had done the pencil drawing of their treasure island with which Elizabeth Hayden had planned to betray them. And according to the diary, Wesley Peel’s ancestor John Peel was the very one who’d followed Sully and Tyree to the island.
It was all too incestuous to be a coincidence.
“It’s about money,” Sully said. “Not voudou. Tyree’s—James Tyler’s research proved that John Peel recovered one of Fouquet’s treasure chests and used the gold to establish his lumber mill. He must have left some private family papers telling about finding the treasure, and now that Wesley Peel has lost the mill, he’s hoping to find more of it.”
Elizabeth gave him a penetrating look. “But he won’t, will he?”
“Non,” he said levelly. “There is no more treasure to be found.” So she had been listening yesterday.
Jake chuckled. “How do you know that? Did you find it?”
The devil. He grinned, and winked at Jake. “Non, James Tyler did. How do you think he could afford that incredible estate he lives on and to go gallivanting off on a year-long honeymoon?”
Jake laughed at that, as he was supposed to. “Yeah, right.”
“Okay, then how do you explain the painting?” Elizabeth said, interrupting their banter. “The one Wesley Peel was stealing from the Moon and Palmetto when he set the fire that injured you?”