by Sarah Monzon
He shrugged. “Your website lists your physical address. I live in Cape Coral, so it only took a couple of hours to get here, no big deal. As for what I want…well…I just want you to take me to where you took that photo.” His gaze shifted to her hand near the knives. “No need to stab a guy over something as simple as that, is there?”
“You’re serious?” She leaned heavily on the counter.
He nodded, but his lips trembled. Was he trying to stifle a grin?
Her arms crossed over her chest. “Treasure hunting, pirating”—she spat the word. Just saying it left a bad taste in her mouth—“is illegal and destroys submerged cultural heritage all for the sake of man’s greed.”
Trent’s jaw began to tick, but that was the only clue to his frustration. The rest of his body remained the epitome of relaxation. “If you want to get off your high horse and look up the laws, go right ahead. Permits are required, and the state takes twenty percent of the articles found for museum exhibits, but it isn’t illegal.”
“My high—” Summer repeated and then clamped her lips shut. This would be a good time to count to ten before speaking. “My answer is no. I didn’t see a ship anywhere in sight when I dove there, and even if there was one, I wouldn’t take you there so you can rob a historical landmark.”
Trent stood and held her gaze. Her chin jutted forward. No backing down. No matter how much his blue eyes were melting the heat in her veins. His mouth opened, then shut with a small shake of his head. After a second of skimming her desk, he reached for a pen and Post-it Note and then bent to jot something down. The pen landed with a soft thud on her desk.
He paused, the door open a crack, and turned back to look at her. “If you change your mind, here’s my number…babe.” He smacked the paper onto the inside of the paneled door and ran his finger over the top to make it stick before stomping out into the blinding Florida sunshine.
***
Infernal, insufferable woman. All she had to do was take him to a specific spot so he could look around, and she’d called him a pirate. Might as well have tacked on looter and thief. Trent shoved the helmet onto his head and straddled his bike. He gripped the throttle, and pictured his hands around her shoulders. Maybe a good shake would knock some sense into her. With a rev of the engine, he peeled out of her street faster than a streak of heat lighting. Burned rubber singed his nostrils, and a glance over his shoulder showed skid marks where his bike had been parked.
He wanted to hit his head against a wall. Without Summer’s help he’d never get to search the galleon. Why did she have to make it so difficult? He shook his head. His departing “babe” remark was sure to be the preverbal nail in the coffin of his dreams. What was with her reaction to that word anyway? A bit touchy.
Trent merged into northbound traffic on I-75. He’d planned on sticking around Fort Lauderdale for a few days while he and the photographer hashed out and finalized the itinerary for the diving trip, but with her refusal to participate and decision to be tight lipped about the location, he had no reason to stay in town. He wasn’t the type to wait around for a woman’s call. Especially if the likelihood of that even happening was nonexistent.
A large, anvil-shaped thundercloud loomed in the distance. The dark underbelly cast a gloomy shadow while the sun illuminated the puffy whiteness of the rest of the cloud towering above. It would be just his luck to be caught in an afternoon rain shower.
A cherry-red Corvette sped past and wove through traffic, nearly clipping him. Trent swerved and swore. What was with people today? Did everyone wake up without a brain in their head? He’d already received a verbal lashing. He didn’t want to add road rash to the list of wounds he’d need to lick.
The power of his Harley and the wind of the open road helped him regain some of the control he’d lost. So things hadn’t gone according to plan. That was no reason to give up. Especially since he was so close. Plan B started to formulate in his mind. Maybe he didn’t need Summer Arnet after all.
Chapter Four
Seville, Spain, 1689
“Tío Pepe?” Isabella stood agape at the man in Captain Montoya’s cabin. Her mother’s brother had reportedly been lost at sea, but there he was in the flesh, and very much alive. “What are you…but I thought…how did…” She shook her head, unable to sort out the evidence in front of her.
Juan de la Cruz, Pepe to Isabella, rushed forward and enveloped her in his arms. He squeezed her close, then released her, cradling her head in his large hands and smoothing away chopped strands of hair from her brow. “It looks like we both have a lot of explaining to do.” His voice held only tenderness, and Isabella was relieved to note no censure or condemnation, in his words or gestures, for her appearance.
Juan walked to the still-open door of the cabin and closed it. “Now then.” He returned to Isabella and took both her hands in his. “Tell me why you are standing before me dressed as a lad and not the beautiful girl I last saw four years ago, hmm?”
Isabella worried her lip. How much should she tell him? She’d like nothing better than for Hernando to get what he deserved, and she had no doubt her uncle would give it to him. But that would leave Pepe rotting in a prison cell and her alone again with no family.
She looked into his concerned face, then down at her clothes, pinching the seams of her stepfather’s breeches and pulling them slightly out at the sides. “If I’d known how freeing men’s clothes were, I might have started wearing them sooner.”
Her uncle quirked a brow and folded his arms over his chest.
“I’m off on a grand adventure, Uncle. It’s time to start a new life in a new world. There is nothing left for me here in Spain now that Mother is gone.” The thought of her once graceful mother strangled her. It had only taken Hernando two years of marriage to rob her mother first of her spirit and then her very breath of life.
“I was sorry to hear of her passing. If circumstances had been different…if there had been a way to return to Spain sooner…” Juan spoke barely above a whisper, emotion choking him. He cleared his throat. “But what of the prospect of marriage? If your stepfather no longer wanted the responsibility of your care, surely he could have arranged a suitable husband for you.”
It took all of her control not to bark out a sarcastic retort. As if Hernando were ever interested in her care. He was only interested in control, and if the way he’d kept looking at her, touching her, was any indication, the only prospective husband for her he would have sought was himself. She would rather die than become his wife.
“There is no husband in my future, Uncle.”
He rubbed his chin with the back of his fingers. “I see. So you are to be a sailor then?”
“Sí.” She stood a little straighter. The king’s soldiers stood at attention when receiving orders from their commanding officers; maybe sailors did the same aboard merchant ships. “That is why I am here. Captain Montoya has just hired me on to his crew and sent me to find his first mate, that is, you. I was to report for duty.” She relaxed her stance and eyed her uncle. Had Díos answered her unspoken prayer? She’d thought he’d stopped listening to her cries long ago when her mother had perished and Hernando had not. But what else but the hand of God would bring a dead uncle back to life to be the first mate on the vessel to her freedom?
Juan began pacing the large cabin, his index finger hooked to his chin and his lips pursed. Isabella followed him with her eyes, waiting with hitched breath. Finally he stopped and turned toward her, his eyes clouded.
“There is more to this story I think than what you have told me, but I will not press. I know I should force you off this ship to ensure your safety, but my selfish heart wants you close. I have not seen family in four years, and I find I cannot let you go so readily.”
Isabella rushed forward. “Oh, thank you, Uncle. You have no idea—”
A hand in the air stopped her midstride and midsentence.
“This will not be easy, my dear. The sailor’s life is no fiesta, and the high
seas a temperamental mistress.”
“Yes, but—”
“Let me finish.” She hung her head, and he tipped her chin up with a finger. “I will try to protect you as best I can, but I have my own duties to perform, and I fear if I give you special treatment, the other men will notice and begin to question.” His eyes roamed her face. “Your disguise is good, but nothing could hide the beauty of your eyes and the delicate features you inherited from your madre.”
She patted his cheek, the stubble rough on her palm. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“Señor de la Cruz.” The door burst open, and Isabella dropped her hand. The lanky man in ill-fitting, sweat-stained clothes halted just inside the cabin. His scraggly hair was pulled back in a queue, but a strand hung in front of his eyes as they darted from Juan to Isabella and back again. She shifted her weight away from her uncle. No doubt it appeared strange to see two men standing so close together. She must be more careful in the future. One slip of the tongue, one wrong move, and she could be found out. No telling what her fate would be then.
“What is it, Luis?”
“A fight has broken out on the main deck between two of the men.”
Juan swore under his breath and trotted out the door, Isabella close on his heels. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the dark interior of the cabin to the bright sunlight. Men’s voices shouted and cheered, but she couldn’t see past the wall of muscular backs.
“Psst…up here.”
Isabella turned and found a young boy of about ten years hanging from the rigging that led from the side of the ship all the way to a contraption that resembled a bucket at the top of the center mast. She remembered looking at one of her uncle’s books as a small girl, and if she remembered correctly, the large bucket at the top of the mast was called some kind of bird’s nest.
The boy motioned her over with his hand. “You can see better from up here.”
Tentatively she gripped the coarse rope above her head and set her booted foot on a low rung. The rope ladder groaned and swayed under her weight. White-fisted knuckles clung to the rope. Her stomach jumped to her throat.
“Hurry up or you’ll miss it. Señor de la Cruz is already starting to break up the fight.” The boy’s voice beckoned from above.
She managed to balance her weight on the unstable cords and hoist herself up beside the boy. The ocean breeze pulled at her linen shirt and dried the perspiration beading on her forehead.
“My name is Luis.”
Another Luis? Isabella’s brows puckered.
“I am named after my father.” Luis indicated with his head toward a man on the outskirts of the crowd. The same unkempt man who’d retrieved her uncle.
The circle of bodies began to disperse, the presence of the first mate and threat of punishment having cooled the men’s passion for a fight.
“What is your name?”
She turned back to the boy. He was small for his age, and skinny. The odor emanating from his body made her want to pinch her nose. As it was, she had to wrestle the reflex to gag. A few of his teeth were black with rot as he smiled at her.
A name. She couldn’t very well tell him her name was Isabella. “Benito.”
“First time aboard a ship?”
She grinned. “Is it that obvious?”
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry. Stick with me, and I’ll show you everything there is to know about living on the high seas.”
“Thank you, Luis. I shall forever be in your debt for your kindness.”
Luis laughed and started to climb down the rigging. “You talk funny.” He jumped and landed on the wooden deck with a thud. He waved and scurried away down some steps and into the belly of the ship.
Isabella winced. She’d been on board Captain Montoya’s galleon less than an hour, and already she’d raised suspicion. She had to do better. Be better. No one could suspect who she really was. If anyone ever found out… She shook her head. Best not to entertain that as even a possibility.
Juan’s gaze caught hers, and a jerk of his head had her descending her precarious position. Relief washed over Isabella as her feet touched the solid boards of the main deck. She hoped she’d never have to climb the unstable rigging again.
She caught up with her uncle at the top of the same stairs Luis had descended moments earlier. As they took step after step, leaving the bright sunlight for the dim quarters of paneled wood, Juan spoke over his shoulder, his words drifting back to the wide-eyed Isabella.
“This galleon has five levels—the half deck, upper and lower gun deck, the orlop deck, and the hold.”
They stopped at the bottom of one flight of stairs, sunlight streaking in from small windows and dancing off dust particles drifting in the stagnant air. Large, heavy cannons aimed out of the square holes spaced along the outer wall. Isabella wasn’t sure if she should feel safe with their presence or nervous at the possibility of a danger so great that their use was warranted.
The fast-paced tour ended in the hold of the ship. Isabella’s head spun. How would she keep it all straight?
Juan’s lamp illuminated countless barrels. “These contain our survival for the next months—fresh water, wine, dried fruit, salted beef.” He turned and looked her in the eye. “This will be a completely different life than you are used to. Most of the food we eat is not fresh, nor is it hot. Fires are a dangerous thing on a vessel built of wood. We limit the use of a cooking fire to once a day.”
She smiled. “Do not worry about me, Uncle. I will be fine.”
“There is only a small supply of fresh water. After so many weeks in the heat, it begins to grow algae and is unsuitable, so we mainly drink wine. There is no luxury of a bath either.”
Isabella patted his arm. “The more unpleasant I smell, the less likely the other men will suspect I am something other than what I appear.”
Juan huffed and turned to scale the steps from the ship’s depths. Isabella’s lips curved. She could see right through Pepe. He was trying to change her mind. Sweet man, but he did not understand that stale food, dirty skin, and hard work sounded like heaven to her.
They ascended to the half deck through an opening Juan had called the great skylight. Now near the stern of the vessel, the mizzenmast towered above them. Isabella had no idea how she was going to remember all the information and terms of things that Pepe had told her. Why couldn’t sailors use the same vocabulary as everyone else? What was wrong with using front, back, left, and right to refer to the parts of the ship?
“Are you listening to me?” Her uncle’s voice snapped her out of her musings. She caught the smirk of one of the other sailor’s behind Juan’s back, and her cheeks flushed hot. She gave a small shake of her head and mumbled an apology.
“As I was saying, you are new to the ways of the sea and you are young. I am going to assign you a number of duties so that you can acquaint yourself with the ship and survival upon it.” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. “You will help young Luis with his duties as cabin boy when the captain has need. On top of that you will swab the deck and keep her surfaces clean. In the case of an attack, you will work as a powder monkey and transport gunpowder from the orlop deck to the cannons on the upper and lower gun decks.”
“Juan! In my cabin now!”
Isabella turned and watched as the captain stalked across the deck, his boots thunking on wooden boards. A scowl etched deep lines in his striking features.
Juan tilted the handle of a swab in her direction, and she reached out to take it. As he passed her, he tipped his head and whispered in her ear, “Keep your head down and try to stay out of trouble.”
Chapter Five
Florida, Present Day
The room nearly vibrated with each rapid rotation of the three commercial-grade dryers in the laundry room at the upscale hotel where Summer’s mother worked. The moisture from the steamers and the heat from the dryers weighed down the air and caused perspirati
on to drip down Summer’s spine. She took a swig from her water bottle and fanned herself with her hand. How anyone could work in the windowless room, with the constant noise and energy-sapping humidity, was beyond her.
Mom brought two corners of a pillowcase together and with the flick of her wrists, snapped the soft cotton fabric. She laid it on a long work countertop and smoothed out the wrinkles before folding it over again into a perfect square.
How long had her mother worked as a maid in this hotel? As far back as she could remember, her mother had donned the drab gray work dress with freshly pressed white collar and cuffs and tied a matching pristine apron around her waist. Her name tag pinned to her breast and her curly silver hair twisted into a bun, completed the uniform that bespoke a station in life in a country that professed to no longer have a caste system.
“If you’re going to sit there and sulk, you might as well help me.” Her mother held a bundle of sheets in her arms.
Summer slid off her stool and grabbed one end of the bedding, stepped back, and shook the fabric. It was light and smelled like lavender and honeysuckle.
Mom eyed her. “What’s with the sour face? You look like you’ve been sucking on lemons all morning.”
Summer brought her end of the sheet to her mom and kissed the older woman’s cheek. “I just needed a bit of your sugar to make lemonade, Mom.” She slid her hands down the cotton weave and stepped back to pull taught the fabric and fold it over once more.
The lines around her mom’s eyes and mouth softened. “So tell me, what has my sweet girl down in the dumps?”
Summer took a deep breath and let it out slowly, lungs deflating—just like her dreams of ever making a career out of her photography. “You know the magazine Our World? The editor called me today.”