My Timeswept Heart

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Tess was outraged for about two more seconds, then she remembered where she was. She took a deep breath, mollified when she saw the captured sailors, clean and adequately dressed and eating like starved animals. God, they looked so thin.

  "I'm sorry for that," she said, lifting her gaze to meet Dane's, then offering Duncan her best smile. "I realize it could have been that idiot in yellow satin who could be celebrating tonight." And likely doing it on me, she thought with a blast of reality. This was going to take some getting used to, and a bit more thinking before she opened her mouth again. "Ah, did you lose any men, Dane?"

  "Nay." He saw relief sweep her features.

  "Well. That's reason enough to have a party."

  "I'm delighted you approve," he shot back sarcas­tically.

  Tess frowned, unreasonably hurt by his attitude and was glad when he left them alone. What's gotten into him now? she wondered, watching his retreating back as he strode to the helm. Her gaze shifted to her surroundings again and she saw that every man aboard was smiling at her. What's changed their atti­tudes toward me? Don't ask, Renfrew. You'll never

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  get a straight answer.

  "Good evenin', Lady Renfrew," She turned toward the voice. Gaelan Thorpe, blond and handsome and dressed in much finer clothes than she'd seen on him yet, was holding out a wooden mug.

  She accepted it, thanking him as she took a sip. She coughed and sputtered for a moment, leading Gaelan to think he'd somehow poisoned her.

  "Are you ill, mistress?"

  "No," she managed in a squeak, waving away the hand that was about to slap her back. "I don't drink, Mr. Thorpe, at least not straight rum."

  "Forgive me, m'lady." He flushed, looking down at his hand. "It seems I've given you my cup."

  Her gaze shot between the containers, and Tess burst out laughing. He looked too upset over such a little thing. "How's mine, Mr. Thorpe?"

  "Oh, I haven't tasted it, m'lady, I swear."

  "Calm down," she told him, switching the cups and sipping the sweet fruit drink. "You should have, it's great. Maybe we ought to mix them?" she said, making a move to pour some juice into his.

  "Mix?" He covered the mouth of the cup, appalled at the suggestion.

  "Sure. I had this drink once when I was about sev­enteen, a Bahama Mama. If we blend the two I bet it will come close." She didn't mention that it crept up on her that night, beaning her like a sledgehammer, and she'd found herself in the back of a vegetable truck on the way to Miami with no notion as to how she got there. She did remember it took a week to recover. That was her last drink.

  "Not game?" She grinned; he was still protecting

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  his drink. "Suit yourself." She lifted the cup to her lips but stopped before it touched. Her eyes grew wide, and Gaelen saw stark terror blanch across her face. Trancelike, she set down the cup and, not tak­ing her eyes off some distant spot, moved with a rapid step to the passageway. A hand covered her mouth before she dragged her eyes from the horizon and ducked through the portal. Tess grasped the wall rail, then sagged back against it. Oh, God, oh God, not again! She didn't think she could take it. Another ship, another battle, the blood, the death— flooding her mind was the image of the machete coming toward Dane's head. Her hands trembled. A tightness formed in her throat.

  "Tess?" She looked up. Dane was scowling at her. "What is the matter?"

  "Th-that ship-?"

  "Aye," he said slowly, watching her.

  "Well!" she demanded. "Whose is it? Is it friendly? Will there be a battle?"

  Dane relaxed. He'd been ready to cut Gaelan to shreds, having thought he'd offended her. He offered his arm. She stared at it for a moment, then looked up at him. "Come see for yourself what flag she flies," he challenged, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

  Relief swept through her. Dane wouldn't take her back up if there were any danger. Lifting her chin, she accepted his arm and stepped through the door­way with him. They walked toward the starboard rail, and Tess saw a small boat coming toward the Sea Witch. The other ship was as large as the frigate, glowing like a sparkling topaz on the black velvet

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  waters. Her skin chilled at the mystical vision, sails flapping gently, the hum of flutes drifting on the breeze. The four men in the small dinghy disap­peared from her view as they neared. Unable to douse her curiosity, she stepped away from Dane and peered over the rail as one man, darkly dressed, climbed up the side of the ship, his booted feet catching the wood rungs embedded in the hull, pow­erful legs eating up the distance with a strength and agility even Tess could admire. She moved quickly back behind Dane and Duncan and the first officers. She still wasn't sure about all this. The visitor climbed onto the rail, standing straight and tall, his hands on his hips, legs adjusting to the dip of the vessel.

  "Blackwell, you bloody clank-napper," he bel­lowed. "What sort of captain are you to leave a rum doxy's trail of debris halfway across the Indies!" Then he leapt to the deck with a thud, landing a few feet before Dane.

  "I'm your superior, that's the captain I am. Show some respect, you horse's arse, 'afore I run you through," Tess inhaled sharply as Dane went for his sword.

  "Forgive this young pup, m'lord," the visitor spoke in a mocking tone, sweeping into a low bow. "Your humble servant, sir. I've forgotten that I stand in the presence of a scholar of the sea."

  "More like the scourge," someone behind him said. Dane and the visitor locked gazes, then the pair burst into laughter. Both men stepped forward, grasping hands, then finished with a firm embrace, slapping each other on the back,

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  "God's teeth, Ram, it's good to see you," Dane said, moving back, his pale gaze looking over the man.

  "Aye, and you also, my friend." His brows drew together. "How goes your quest?"

  Dane frowned. "Bennett's pilot rudders were not of much Mse. The man's writing is abominable, and not one of us can decipher the mess."

  "Mayhaps you'll give this lowly servant the oppor­tunity to have a look," Ram tossed cheekily. "I dare­say I managed to read your scratching for years."

  Dane chuckled. "Only if that arrogant attitude im­proves."

  "As I recall, 'tis what moved you to contract me, Dane," Ramsey said as he glanced over the ship, re­membering a time long past, yet as he was about to bring his gaze back to Dane, it halted on the figure standing between Duncan and the first mate.

  "What tasty piece is this, Dane? Since when have you taken to allowing cats—"

  "Have you suddenly gone blind, man?" Dane hissed, his eyes filled with quick anger.

  Ram glanced at Blackwell, arching a brow at the muscle working in the man's jaw. His eyes shifted back to the woman. If she was not a whore, then . . . Ignoring all, he moved toward her, his stride purposeful, his smile rakishly charming. Dane groaned audibly, matching his steps. Ram stopped before Tess.

  "Such a rare beauty," he murmured as if to him­self; his eyes, dark as chocolate, skimmed her from head to toe.

  What a line, Tess thought, then said, "Thanks,"

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  offering her hand with the intention of shaking his.

  The man grasped her fingertips, bringing her hand to his lips. His eyes never left hers. "Don't tell me you've taken a wife, Blackwell?" he questioned be­fore placing a soft kiss to the back.

  "No, he hasn't," Tess corrected quickly. Jeez, what a hunk!

  A chestnut brow lifted, and his lips pulled into a pleased smile. "How fortunate," he whispered. Slowly he eased her hand down, his gaze never wav­ering. "I beg an introduction, Captain Blackwell."

  Dane gnashed his teeth, unsure what he was feel­ing after her quick denial of their relationship. "Gen­tlemen, may I present the Lady Tess Renfrew of Scotland."

  Tess shot Dane a sour look. I suppose that "lady" stuff will never change, she thought, deciding to let it go. She drew back her hand.

  "Lady Renfrew, this drooling sot is Ramsey O'Keefe, Captain of Triton's Will, sister s
hip to the Sea Witch."

  Sister ship, huh? Remembering where she was, Tess curtsied, looking up as she straightened. "Pleased to meet you, Captain O'Keefe." She smiled, her gaze shifting beyond him. "And the other men?" Ramsey gestured sharply for the men to come for­ward and introduced his first and second officers, shocked when she heartily shook each man's hand. Aye, there was something different about this woman, and he made it his first priority to discover exactly what it was.

  "Where did you find her, Dane?" Ramsey asked, glancing to his friend.

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  "Blackwell fished me out of the sea, Captain O'Keefe, and I can answer for myself."

  Dane fought a grin at the surprised expression on Ramsey's face. Ahh, but Tess will set the rake on his rear, he thought, and wasn't certain he wanted her within yards of O'Keefe, master of debauchery that he was. *

  "You must be the reason we've been asked to dine aboard."

  "I doubt it." Tess folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Captain Blackwell doesn't inform me of his plans." Her tone implied she didn't care for this little surprise.

  "God, Dane, she's priceless!" Ram looked at Blackwell. "Is she wed? Betrothed?"

  Tess glanced around herself. "Did I suddenly dis­appear or something? If you talk to me, Captain O'Keefe, then talk to me!"

  He grinned. "It will be a pleasure, m'lady."

  "Sure you can manage that?"

  Ramsey chuckled deeply. "Aye. I believe I can."

  Captain O'Keefe was a handsome man, Tess thought, and he damn well knew it. On a scale of one to ten, Dane being her idea of a ten, O'Keefe was pushing a strong eight. O'Keefe was ruggedly handsome, well-built, confident, almost too confi­dent for those tight britches of his, but that's where the similarities between the men ended. Dane wasn't aware of his good looks, and when he looked in a mirror it was to check for food on his face or some­thing like that. O'Keefe had a winning smile, oodles of charm, and used them to his advantage, mostly with women, she gathered. He was interested in the

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  image he projected, which wasn't bad because it cer­tainly was a fine, fine image. Dane watched as Tess let her gaze wander over

  Ramsey. He could recognize admiration when he saw

  it. And worse yet was that Ram returned the perusal.

  I should have gone to the Triton, Dane thought, then

  chided himself for this sudden spurt of jealousy. Tess

  wasn't his, at least not in her eyes. And in yours? he

  silently asked. Do you want this woman? A woman

  who insists she's from the future?

  "Dinner will be served in less than an hour," Dun-can spoke up in the hard silence.

  "Come look over those pilot rudders, Ram, whilst I change for dinner," Dane said, drawing Ram's at­tention from Tess.

  "Nay, I believe I'll stroll the deck with the lady, Captain. Get to know the lass before you shove me overboard."

  "Gee, sure was nice of you to ask, O'Keefe," Tess bit out sarcastically, then turned her back on the man and spoke to Gaelan. "How about a turn around the deck, Mr. Thorpe?"

  Gaelan cleared his throat, his gaze shooting be­tween his captain, who was desperately attempting to hold back his laughter, to Captain O'Keefe, whose mouth was hanging on its hinges.

  "An honor, m'lady." Gaelan offered his arm, try­ing to hide a smug smile as she accepted it.

  "Call me when chow's on," she tossed over her shoulder as she moved in a sedate pace with the first officer.

  "Chow?" Ramsey asked curiously. Dane shrugged.

  Ramsey folded his arms over his chest, admiring

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  her slender curves, the gentle sway of her hips. He shook his head in self-recrimination. Any man could see she was not a bawd, and as his eyes touched on Dane's crew, Ram noted he wasn't the only one who'd come to that conclusion. Men admired her as one would a Rembrandt, from a distance, daring not to touch lest they destroy the masterpiece. Ram loved art, the kind you could fondle a bit.

  Dane chuckled close at his side. "Your charms are sadly waning, old man. I dare say 'tis a first, Ramsey O'Keefe, denied the company of a lady and at her own choice." Dane's laughter was quiet and hearty.

  Ram didn't take his eyes off her. "Is she yours, Dane? Have you bedded—?"

  "Don't be crude," Dane growled softly. "And after that royal set-down, 'tis clear even to you, the lady belongs to no one."

  Ramsey's lips split into a wide smile. "Then she's fair prey?"

  "The woman's not a pheasant, Ram." When she glanced back over her shoulder, Ram nodded ever so slightly. "What is it about her, Dane?" Ramsey asked quietly, then looked at his friend. "Do not tell me you have not noticed this? Her clipped speech, that frosty independence? I don't believe I've ever encountered a woman quite like her."

  Blackwell inclined his head to the passageway, and Ram followed. "And in you entire life, O'Keefe, I doubt you ever will," Dane heard himself say.

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  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "She has arrived, sir."

  The blond man tensed, yet no one would know it, for his slender body remained draped across the delicate chair, a leg flung over the arm.

  "Send her in," he ordered with a lazy wave, as if he really couldnt be bothered. He brought the crys­tal goblet to his lips and sipped, staring out the open veranda doors, the soft trade wind gently ruf­fling the sheer drapes.

  A moment later the liveried servant reappeared in the doorway, eyes downcast.

  "Mistress Cabrea, sir."

  The man in the chair inspected the ocean view for another moment before he lifted his gaze to the woman.

  "Yellow doesn't become you, Lizzie. You look as if you've been painted all one hideous shade."

  She flushed at the insult. "A gentleman usually stands when a lady enters the room, Phillip."

  "When a lady does, perhaps I might consider the absurd notion."

  The corner of his mouth lifted, and Elizabeth's

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  lips pressed tightly together in her effort not to snap at him. She busied herself with methodically remov­ing her gloves, finger by finger, then slipped the small feathered hat from her head. She carelessly tossed the dusty articles on the polished table and moved into the room, the wide panniers swaying as she strolled to*the sideboard, Elizabeth lived for the moment when she could relay her news the instant she'd confirmed it. She allowed herself a small pri­vate smile as she filled a miniature goblet with the sweet orange liqueur.

  "Lizzie."

  His voice sliced the quiet, a note of warning in the tone. She jolted, spilling a tiny drop on the wood table. With a finger, she swiped at the spot, sucking the liqueur from her fingertip as she faced him.

  "Must I force the information from you, my pet?" His tone implied he would enjoy the task. Her fingers tightened on the goblet, her perfect features marked with quick fear. She swallowed. Phillip Rothmere was not a man one should aggravate, she reminded herself.

  "Oh, honestly, Phillip," she said, lifting her chin and nervously tucking in a stray blond curl. She adjusted her gown, tugged at her sleeve, then fo­cused her attention on the lush scenery beyond the terrace, uncertain what he would actually do when he heard.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see him rise from his chair and move toward her. Then he was near, a long thin finger pushing beneath her chin, forcing her to meet those Nordic blue eyes.

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  "The Chatam. What's become of her and her cap­tain?"

  Elizabeth briefly considered why she associated herself with a man who would send an unguarded woman to the most dangerous section of this island to do his bidding. It was the money, she finally decided, bringing the glass to her lips.

  " Twas destroyed." He tensed beside her. "All but one are dead, and your precious brig is naught but a pile of kindling floating on the sea," she finished with some satisfaction.

  His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing to mere slits as his heavily jeweled fingers tightened on the delic
ate goblet. It shattered, spraying them both with the blood red wine. Elizabeth didn't dare com­ment.

  "How?" he breathed. He hadn't moved.

  A pale, tapered brow arched. "Need you ask?"

  He grabbed her by the hair. "Tell me!" he said softly, yanking her head back. His liquored breath was hot on her cheek, and Elizabeth lost her nerve, fearing he would strike her.

  " Twas Blackwell-" She didn't get any more than that out when he shoved her to the floor, then strode to the bar. He sloshed wine into a fresh glass, tossed back the liquid, then refilled the crystal, lift­ing it to his lips. Suddenly he hurled it across the parlor. The fine glass crashed against the stucco wall, wine dripping like blood, the outburst sending inquisitive servants scurrying for cover.

  He whirled about, his ice blue gaze skewering the woman. "You lie!"

  "Nay. 'Twas he!" Elizabeth recoiled against the

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  curtains as he stormed toward her. "A man was found yestereve on the shore. 'Twas Bennett's quar­termaster." Her words rushed out as she came to her knees, her expression pleading for him to believe.

  He loomed over her, his broad hands closing painfully over her arms. "Where is this sailor?" he said carefully.

  "At the church. He is dying, Phillip. I tested his strength last eve with your questions until the friar bade me go."

  His grip tightened, and she cried out. "What else, Lizzie?"

  Tears wet her eyes; Elizabeth swallowed repeat­edly, not daring to climb to her feet to ease his hold. "Blackwell has the pilot rudders." His glare sharp­ened and a muscle ticked beneath his eye. "The sailor saw him and a young boy go into the cap­tain's cabin, Phillip. Blackwell has them! He will come for you!"

  Phillips face suddenly cleared and he chuckled lowly, shoving her away as he straightened. "I so dislike the hope I am hearing in your voice, Liz. Rid yourself of it," he commanded with a wave of his hand.

  Elizabeth tried with a little dignity to right herself amongst the cumbersome layers of fabric and whalebone of her gown as he casually strolled to the open doors and rocked back on his heels.