Kathryn could no more have kept herself from spinning around and staring towards the rear of the house than she could have kept her heart from taking a leap into her throat.
"Man who killed him was a British officer. Some say he found out McDowell wasn't a privateer but a pirate, stealin' treasure meant for the English king and buryin' it on some spit o'land out in the middle of the sea for himself."
"But you don't believe that?"
Hiram shrugged. "McDowell fell in love with the governor's daughter."
"Cat Russell," Kathryn murmured.
He nodded. "She was high born, liked the good life. The rumor was McDowell wanted to make her his wife but she wasn't about to marry a rough-and-tumble American upstart who sailed under a flag some thought might as well bear the skull and crossbones."
"And? What happened?"
"All I know is what I've told you, Kathryn." Hiram let down the tailgate of his pickup truck and climbed up into the bed.
Kathryn gave a shaky laugh. "Let me get this straight," she said. "Does everybody on the island know that story?"
"Everybody." Hiram looked straight at her. "And not a one of 'em would think twice if you decided to move out of here and take a place in town."
So much for worrying about not spreading rumors about Charon's Crossing!
Kathryn looked at the house. She could feel nothing ominous here today. The only thing she could sense was a bittersweet sorrow. Besides, why would she lend substance to the fanciful tales of haunts and spirits?
She swung towards Hiram. "Thank you," she said, "but I think I'm going to stay right where I am."
"I had a feelin' you'd say that." The old man grinned. "Have the feelin' Elvira will like you just fine, too."
"Elvira?"
"My missus. She's as stubborn as a mule, same as you. You and she ought to get along real well."
For the first time in what felt like a long, long time, Kathryn really smiled.
An answering smile flickered across Hiram's mouth. "She said to tell you she'd be happy to come out here, give you a hand puttin' this place in shape. How's that sound?"
"It sounds terrific."
"Treat her right, might be she'll bake you some fresh cinnamon rolls while she's at it."
"If she'll make me some of that lemonade you served yesterday, it's a deal."
Hiram nodded. "She'll call you. Meantime, I'll fix your shutters and your doors. Should take me a couple of hours, no more."
Kathryn tried not to heave a sigh of relief. "Good," she said. "And you'll check for secret passages?"
The old man chuckled. "It'll be the most fun I've had since I was a boy, playin' at pirates down on the beach."
She smiled back at him. "Can I do anything to help?"
"Not a thing. Go sit in the garden and get some sun. You don't want to go back to New York, lookin' pale as a gh-..."
He tried to bite back the word, but it was too late. Kathryn's eyes met his and they both began to laugh.
* * *
She had intended to see if she couldn't drag a settee onto the terrace, stretch out in the sun and read her way through Matthew's diary. But after her talk with Hiram, the terrace and the garden had lost their appeal.
Besides, she'd been here for days and she'd yet to walk down the cliff to the sea. So she collected the journal, a glass of iced tea, and made her way to the cove.
The path itself was steep, the footing uncertain enough to make her pause a couple of times, but when she reached the bottom, she caught her breath with pleasure.
An arc of white sand bordered an azure sea. Lustrous shells, as intricate and beautiful as tiny sculptures, were strewn across the sand; tall coconut palms swayed under the touch of a gentle breeze.
Kathryn sank down under one of the palm trees, leaned back against it and stared at the waves lapping the shore. It was so serene here; she almost dreaded opening the journal. Something—intuition, maybe—warned that what she was going to read was not going to be pleasant.
Hiram was at the house, installing new locks, fixing the shutters and looking for secret passageways but deep in her heart she knew the truth. Nothing he could do would change anything. The answers to what was happening at Charon's Crossing lay inside this leather-bound book and it was time to find them.
Slowly, she opened the diary and began to read.
An hour slipped by, and then another. The sun moved higher into the sky but Kathryn was aware of nothing going on around her. She was caught up in a period that had existed almost two centuries before. It had been a dangerous time and an exciting one, and Matthew's brief entries made it clear that he had enjoyed every moment.
His ship was fast. His men were loyal. The Caribbean Sea offered prize after rich prize to Atropos and her dashing captain...
And Catherine Russell had stolen his heart.
An entry written on a day in March of the year 1812 was typical.
Today we have taken yet another French merchant ship. My men are jubilant, as am I. We are amassing riches beyond our wildest dreams and a reputation that precedes us on these blue waters. How I long to hold my sweet Catherine in my arms again and tell her of this victory.
Kathryn lingered over the last line, and over others like it in the entries that followed. There was no mistaking what had happened. Matthew McDowell, the man who had thought to conquer Catherine Russell, had been himself conquered. He was, at long last, in love... and it was tearing him apart.
His journal said it all.
I am torn with jealousy. Cat says we cannot yet let her father know that we have pledged our hearts to each other. I agree that she knows him best but I am beside myself with anguish when I see her laugh and flirt with the titled English bastards who flit in and out of Charon's Crossing. They all speak as if the silver spoons they were born with are still stuck in their mouths and look at me as if I were some exotic, dangerous specimen best viewed at a cautious distance.
Cat laughs when I protest.
"Why, Matthew," she says, slipping into my arms in the darkness of the rose garden, "you are jealous!"
There is no sense in denying what is so painfully obvious. Cat teases me gently, then assures me that I have no need for jealousy. She says her actions are meant to keep her father from realizing that she and I have fallen in love. He insists, she says, that she should marry well. Cat, of course, sees that a marriage to me would meet that condition. But her father must be persuaded, and she is convinced he is not ready to listen. She weeps sometimes, when she tells me of this, and it breaks my heart to see her so distressed.
I have thought about the problem a great deal these past weeks and I am convinced there is no longer a need for subterfuge. I am an American, yes, and I surely have no title, but in all other ways, I am an appropriate suitor. I am captain of the most successful privateer in these waters. I have amassed more than enough money to provide well for a wife. Most importantly, I adore Catherine. I will devote my life to making her happy. What father would not be glad to give his daughter in marriage under such circumstances?
Cat agrees but begs me to be patient, but I am running short of that commodity. I also know what she does not, that the international situation is fraught with danger.
The news from home makes it clear that President Madison and his advisors have finally grown weary of dancing to the English tune. Though I have profited by their dalliance, I am, at heart, a patriot. I, too, have tired of the game. We fought hard for our independence from British tyranny; that we succumb to it again makes my blood flow hot. In truth, I will not be unhappy if War comes and I must go from capturing the French to ending the English stranglehold on ships that sail the high seas.
If that happens—nay, when it happens, for I know in my heart that it will—then Catherine must already be my wife. Otherwise, we will be trapped on opposite sides of a War, perhaps lost to each other forever.
Truly, this grows ever more complex. I have tried to make Cat see it but she is too unworldly to understan
d all the ramifications.
"We can always elope," she insists, and then she goes into my arms and kisses me and I am lost to logic.
How innocent she is, and how I love her!
Innocent?
Kathryn frowned and looked up from the journal.
It seemed almost painfully clear that the only innocent in this story was Matthew. Catherine Russell had been playing Matthew for a fool. Any woman would know that, today or back in 1812.
She had wanted to have her cake and to eat it, too. The miracle was that Matthew had not seen through her scheming ways but then, he was a man in love, though how he could have been in love with such a manipulative, spoiled brat...
Kathryn lifted her face to the sea breeze.
What was it to her? So he'd been a jerk. Lots of men were. Lots of women, too. People in love weren't always reasonable or sensible. They let passion rule their heads. Her parents had proved that until the day they'd finally ended their marriage.
And that was how Matthew had loved Catherine. You could sense it, in the words he'd written. You could feel it, in the way he'd touched her and kissed her and...
Kathryn blinked. What the hell was she thinking? She didn't know how he'd kissed Catherine. A dream, a hallucination, call it what you liked, wasn't reality. And even if you climbed out on the farthest limb of self-delusion and said it was, it wasn't she that Matthew had held in his arms, it was the woman he'd thought she was.
"Kathryn?"
A shadow loomed over her. She gave a start of surprise and her heart leaped but when she looked up, it was only Hiram.
"Hiram," she said, with a little laugh. "I didn't hear you."
"I wanted to tell you that I'm leavin' now, Kathryn. Shutters are fixed, locks are all changed." He jerked his chin up towards the house. "Everythin's locked up tight."
"Oh." Kathryn closed the journal and scrambled to her feet. "Sorry. I sort of lost track of the time."
"No problem." Hiram held out a ring of keys. "Figured you'd want these."
She nodded as she pocketed them. "Thanks."
"Figured you'd want to know, too, that I checked for hidden doors and such." The old man's eyes met hers. "Didn't find a thing."
Kathryn felt a light blush rise to her cheeks. "No. I didn't really think you would but I figured it couldn't hurt to check..." Her words trailed away. "Well," she said, and stuck out her hand, "thank you for coming by."
"My pleasure."
"Shall I write you a check now?"
"We'll add it on to the bill." Hiram smiled. "Eager to get back to your book, hmm?"
Kathryn looked down. She hadn't realized she was clutching Matthew's journal to her breast.
"Yes," she said with an answering smile, "I guess I am."
"Well, I'll see you next week." Hiram started up the cliff path. Halfway to the top, he stopped and looked back at her. "Just remember what I said," he called. "There's no disgrace in changin' your mind and takin' a place in town."
It was easier to nod than to argue. She was impatient for Hiram to be gone, impatient to get back into Matthew's world.
Moments later, she was.
June the twelfth, 1812
Sweet Jesus, I cannot believe what has happened! I am in possession of information that may well change the course of history.
Last night, I was at Charon's Crossing. Lord Russell was away, having gone to Jamaica on business for the Crown, and Cat and I were truly alone. We were almost carried away with passion in the darkness of the garden, but Cat regained her senses in time.
I know I should be grateful. God knows I would not wish to sully her innocence but I burn to make her mine, to strip away her gown and kiss her sweet flesh, to...
Color flew into Kathryn's cheeks. She turned the page quickly, unwilling to read such things. Matthew's longing for Catherine Russell was too intense. It was personal. And painful, though she knew it was crazy that the thought of a man she didn't know hungering for another woman should send such a sharp ache knifing through her heart.
The next page seemed safer. She took a breath and bent over the journal again.
... and, in my growing despair and frustration, foolishly blurted out what I have lately been thinking, that perhaps she finds more excitement in the secrecy of our meetings than joy in our relationship. Heaven forgive me, I said even worse things, accusing her of having no intention of letting me ask her father for her hand or, indeed, of ever becoming my wife.
"Finally," Kathryn said.
But the next sentence wiped the smile from her face.
I begged Catherine's forgiveness as soon as the foolish words had left my lips. I tried to explain that it had been desperation speaking, not me, but Cat was stunned, as well she might have been. She wrenched free of my arms and fled to the house, with me in pursuit.
And thus it was that I came upon an incredible scene...
* * *
They were in the drawing room, gathered around the fireplace, three men in huddled conversation.
Matthew only caught a glimpse of them before he fell back into the shadows as Cat slipped by, unseen. He recognized them all. One was Lord Waring, a despicable blowhard whom he'd seen slobbering over Catherine's hand far too often. Cat said he made her stomach turn but since he was head of the British garrison, she had no choice but to treat him politely.
The other was an influential Englishman, head of the most powerful bank on Elizabeth Island. The third man was the bewigged Lord Russell himself, who had evidently returned early from his trip.
Matthew hesitated. Now what? The situation seemed to have been dropped into his lap by fate. He could storm inside and confront Russell, stand up and declare his intentions and to hell with Cat's pleas that he be patient.
But even in his present state of mind, he knew that it would be foolish to do such a thing. First he had to soothe Cat, for he had upset her terribly. Besides, there were others in the room with Russell. No, this was certainly not the time to ask for Cat's hand.
He took a couple of deep breaths. There was nothing for it but to slip out the way he'd come, through the garden, without being seen. Tomorrow, he'd get a note to Catherin'l, beg her forgiveness for the things he'd said.
The banker lit a cigar. Waring frowned, pulled a ruffled handkerchief from his sleeve and waved it ostentatiously before his nose. The banker paid no attention and Waring walked to the French doors. Matthew fell back further into the shadows as he cracked them open.
The men's voices drifted out into the night.
"...great news, Killingworth," Russell said, "but can we trust this information?"
"Dammit, Russell, how many times must I tell you? Henry Clay and the Warhawks have won! On the first of June, President Madison sent the American Congress a secret message informing them that he intends to declare war on Great Britain on June the eighteenth."
Matthew stiffened. Christ, what was this?
"I'm simply trying to be certain we have our facts right," Catherine's father said in his upper-class English drawl. "If we make any precipitous moves..."
"Our spy in Washington has never been wrong, has he?"
Russell's appreciative chuckle drifted into the night.
"No. No, he has not. He's been worth every pound we've paid him."
"Then why should we doubt him now?" Waring asked. "The American government will make a formal declaration of war in six days."
"And no one in these waters will know it but us."
"Exactly."
There was a creak of wood, the sigh of upholstery. Russell's shadow drifted past the partly open doors.
"That's it, then, gentlemen. I shall move to seize all the American ships lying in the harbor on June the nineteenth, one day after war has been declared in Washington."
"Excellent," Waring said, chuckling. "By the time the Americans on Elizabeth Island find out they are at war with us, it will be all over."
"Remember," Russell said, "I'll want no ships destroyed. Make sure your troops underst
and that, Waring. Those ships will net the three of us a very tidy profit in a prize court. As for the Americans themselves... once we've pressed enough of them to give every British ship that sails these waters a full crew, the rest can rot in Dartmoor prison for all I give a damn." His voice roughened. "I have spent too much time pretending friendship for the roughnecks as it is. When I think how I've had to suffer their company in my home... the captain of the Atropos, especially. The man's a dirt-common bastard with pretensions of grandeur."
"His pretentions are all he'll have left, once his ship's been seized and he and his men are in chains," Waring said, and the three men laughed.
Matthew felt the blood drain from his face. He clenched his fists, felt his nails cut into his flesh. But he stood his ground, telling himself that there was more to avenge than his own honor.
When there was no more to learn, he slipped away into the night.
* * *
Luck, at least, was on his side.
Almost all the American ships that sailed the Caribbean under the protection of the British Crown were lying at anchor in the Hawkins Bay harbor.
The next day, working carefully and stealthily, Matthew sent word to their captains that there would be a meeting that evening on an isolated point of land on the far side of the island. By the time the meeting ended, Matthew and the others had hatched a plan.
They would strike first, at midnight on June the eighteenth, and seize Elizabeth Island from the unwary British.
The captains all agreed that an attack on Charon's Crossing and the capture of Governor Russell would force the garrison to capitulate and would avoid a difficult and possibly prolonged and bloody battle. They agreed, as well, that Matthew was the man to lead the attack since he was most familiar with the grounds of Charon's Crossing.
He was honored, and more than willing. But he had one demand.
Before he led the assault, he would go to Charon's Crossing and lead Catherine to safety.
Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 17