by Nina Bruhns
Too seductive.
"No," he said firmly, and escaped her hand. "Your first idea was far better. Sully's your relative. Write about him."
He felt her gaze on his back as he went to the small stack of books she'd collected on the piecrust table and examined the spines. He extracted one and set it aside. "Don't use this one. The author's an illiterate idiot. I don't think there's a single accurate fact in the whole book."
"Nothing's accurate about you, is it?" she said softly.
"Not Sully, either."
"No, I don't mean in the book. I mean out there. What everyone in the world thinks." He looked up and she was searching him with dreamlike eyes. "I was right, wasn't I? You're not who everyone thinks you are. You've gotten a bad rap."
"I?" he queried, attempting to turn the subject. Wondering how the hell she'd come to that conclusion after knowing him only a few hours, most of those spent in pursuits that didn't involve talking.
"You." Her head gave a little shake. "Tyree St. James."
"You're wrong, everyone knows I'm the bad guy. I killed my best friend."
"He killed you, too."
"Out of grief. You know these hot-blooded Cajuns. I'd just shot his woman. What else could he do?"
He felt as though she looked right through him, through all the years that came before, right back to the moment of truth.
"You tell me."
A chill of premonition ran down his spine. "Nothing. He killed me and that was that."
"Was it?"
"Aye. It was."
"Oh, I don't think so," she said. "I happen to know quite a bit about my ancestor. Including the fact that he aided the Haitian slave revolt in 1791 by offering transport to one of its leaders, and as a reward was initiated into the leader's voodoo cult."
Tyree folded his arms across his chest. Naturally, no book mentioned that he'd been right by Sully's side during the whole episode. "That has nothing to do with me," he said testily.
"Possibly. But in your own words you are a cursed soul, condemned to walk the earth between life and death."
How did she do that? He couldn't believe it had taken her less than a day to figure out what no one else had for two hundred years. He pressed his lips together silently, unwilling to aid in his own unraveling.
She walked over and stood before him. "Why are you still here, Tyree?"
"It just happened."
"Things like that don't just happen." Reaching up, she laid her hand on his cheek. "Tell me."
He shook his head. "Don't go there, Clara. Don't get involved."
"I already am involved," she murmured. "You saw to that last night."
"And I'm deeply sorry."
"I have a right to know."
He shook his head. He couldn't give in. "Too dangerous." Especially for her.
"Dangerous how? Spill, Tyree. Did Sullivan Fouquet put the curse on you?"
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
"So you believe me, then?"
Clara stared up at Tyree and slowly returned from her flight into full-fledged temporary insanity. Oh, Lord. For a few minutes there, she had actually believed the man was a cursed soul. She snatched her hand from his cheek. Good grief. Magician and hypnotist. Aside from being crazy. He was building up quite a curriculum vitae.
She suppressed the urge to laugh. Could you have a vitae if you were dead?
Of course, he wasn't dead, so the question was moot.
This was getting way too weird.
"Let's say I believe you," she hedged. Regardless of his mental state, he seemed to possess a lot of interesting and pertinent information on the original St. James. Pertinent to her article. "Will you tell me about the curse?"
He smiled. "No."
With difficulty, she held her exasperation in check. "Why not?"
He sighed, looking suddenly tired. "I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Like what?"
He lifted a shoulder. "I don't know. But I'm not taking any chances. I wouldn't want my worst enemy to go through what I've had to for the past two hundred years."
"Even Sully?"
"Sully wasn't my enemy. But no, not even him."
"Even though he put you in this position?"
"You," he said, tapping the end of her nose with a finger, "are fishing."
"But—"
"No dice. I told you, it's too dangerous."
"I don't see how."
He grimaced. "Look, I may be in the middle of whatever this is, but that doesn't mean I understand it. Nobody ever came to enlighten me. I've never met any other wandering souls, I've never talked with God, or even the devil. I have no idea how this whole thing happened, and I'm only going on faith that it'll end when it's supposed to."
Here was something new. "And when's that?"
He halted in the pacing he'd started and planted his hands on his hips. "I'm not sure I should tell you."
"Oh, for crying out loud." Every time he got to something good, he refused to tell her. "What do you think's going to happen if I know? When your time runs out, the curse is going to switch from you to me, so I'm stuck here instead?"
His gaze snapped to her, filled with horror. "This is no joke! Don't even say that!"
Whoa. "Seriously? Is that what'll happen?"
"Nay, that's not what will happen. At least—" He turned away again. "No. That's not what will happen."
She wondered. He was obviously hiding something. The question was, what?
Uh, no. The question was, was she losing her mind? The man's sensual aura and skill with magic tricks had clouded her thinking big-time. He was not cursed—other than maybe with a bad experience that had made him this way—and she certainly wasn't going to be, either.
"Have you ever thought about getting help?"
"You mean like an exorcist?" he asked, and she almost choked. She was about to tell him, no, like a psychiatrist, when he said, "Aye, I tried that once."
This time she did choke. "Excuse me?" His back was still to her so she couldn't tell if he was kidding.
"Mrs. Gaylord, my fourth caretaker, was a devout Catholic. She found a priest who performed exorcisms and invited him down from New England."
"What happened?"
"Obviously it didn't work. He couldn't even see me."
"He couldn't see you?"
Tyree faced her. "Most people don't. You're an exception. Didn't I mention that?"
"Must have slipped your mind."
"Guess I've had other things on it," he said. His mouth curved with a roguish tilt. She wished he wouldn't do that. When he smiled like that, her insides turned all funny and she couldn't think straight.
"Why do you think you caught me lounging on your bed last night? You weren't supposed to see me. And when you did, I was shocked into telling that fib about being a dream. I thought I could escape. But then you … well…"
Oh, God. He had been trying to leave. But she'd gone and— "Asked you to kiss me." She groaned. All her fault.
His smile widened. "And how could I refuse?"
She didn't want to think about that kiss. Or what followed. "So let me get this straight. Not only are you cursed, but you're also invisible?"
"A few people can see me. You, and Mrs. Yates, of course. I've run across a handful of others."
"Why us?" she pressed. Maybe it would give her a clue as to why he persisted in this delusion.
He shook his head. "I've never figured it out exactly. Something to do with believing in elves and the tooth fairy, or some such nonsense."
Maybe not.
"But you know, it's actually a blessing," he said.
The man obviously had serious people issues. This was taking antisocial tendencies to the extreme. Someone must have hurt him badly to make him so wary of human interaction.
"How can it be a blessing?"
"If people can't see you, you aren't tempted to get close to them."
Make that very badly. She knew it was the
wrong thing to do, but her heart went out to him so much she just couldn't help herself. She reached out to give him a hug.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You must be very lonely."
At first he was tentative, but then his arms went around her, and he sighed. "Damn. This is what I've missed most. Just holding someone and being held."
Her, too. The downside of avoiding relationships, for everyone, it seemed. Thank goodness for her dog. It wasn't exactly the same, but he was always warm and fuzzy when needed.
"I used to keep hounds," Tyree said, as if reading her thoughts. "But I'd miss them too badly when they passed on, so I stopped."
She felt him kiss the top of her head and adjust his arms, shifting her slightly against his body so they fit perfectly together, curve to curve, soft to hard, heart to heart.
She loved the way he smelled—spicy, exotic and male. His large body surrounded her, so strong and powerful, yet gentle in the way he held her. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and sure. Tucked against him, she felt safe, secure, like nothing bad could ever happen as long as she remained in his arms.
Which was madness. Because she wasn't going to remain in his arms. She'd be leaving in six short days. She didn't do holiday romances. But even if she did, was this the kind of man to get involved with?
Sure, he was sexy as hell, made love like a god and was a real gentleman when he wanted to be. But could she really consider a relationship with a man convinced he was a 200-year-old pirate?
No. She didn't think so.
As if to drive home the point, Tyree said, "How long are you here? In Magnolia Cove?"
"Till Sunday morning. I only got a week off work." His throat hummed against her temple. "Sunday. By then, I'll be gone."
She drew out of his embrace. "You'll be gone?" She couldn't fathom why the thought of him leaving Rose Cottage before she did suddenly distressed her. But there it was. "Where are you going? When?"
His smile went charmingly lopsided. "Where is a matter of some debate. I'm counting on heaven, myself. When? Saturday."
"Huh?" She could make neither head nor tail of what he was saying.
"I'll be dead, Clara. For real, this time."
"Dead?" She felt a sudden stinging in her eyes and a pool of dread in her stomach. He was dying? "What are you talking about?"
"On Saturday. The curse is up at midnight this Saturday."
* * *
She had to get hold of herself.
Clara settled back into the window seat and gazed out over the beautiful formal garden behind the museum.
Before Tyree left half an hour ago, she'd grilled him over and over until she was satisfied he didn't have some awful, fatal disease with only a week left to live.
"It's impossible," he'd informed her. "Technically, my body is already dead so nothing can live in it. I can't get infections or cancer or even tooth decay. I also can't get you pregnant," he'd added quietly, "in case you were worried," and she'd blanched. That possible complication of their night together hadn't even occurred to her—it had been a dream, after all. One didn't bother about such practicalities in dreams.
She didn't know what to think. About that, about anything. He seemed so calm and serene at the thought of ending his existence. And yet, he was anything but suicidal. His attitude was closer to cheerful.
Something wasn't right. Maybe she should keep an eye on him. Just in case.
No. This was ridiculous. She'd come here to write an article on pirates and adventure, not nursemaid a man with serious problems, regardless of how much she liked him. She had her own problems to deal with.
She reached for the top book in her to-be-read pile on the piecrust table and opened it resolutely.
This contest was her ticket out of Kansas and into the big, wide world she so craved to see. She had just a few days to do the research for her winning article. And that was exactly what she intended to do. No way would she blow her chances by getting distracted.
No matter how much her heart seemed determined to do so.
* * *
Tyree waited anxiously for the rest of the morning and half the afternoon for Clara to return. Mrs. Yates kept clucking at him for being underfoot, but he couldn't seem to involve his interest in anything except watching her putter about.
Finally, he heaved a sigh, flung himself into his favorite armchair and snapped on the TV. Maybe there was something good on the History Channel. He enjoyed shows about archaeology. They reminded him there were things on this planet even older than him. Unfortunately, the show playing was about World War II. He flipped stations for fifteen minutes; then, with a bored huff, he switched it to the news and threw aside the remote.
"What on earth has you so restless?" asked Mrs. Yates.
"Where is she?" he demanded for about the dozenth time.
"Right where you left her, I wager. At the library, doing what she came here to do."
No doubt true. So why was he so on edge?
The weather was on the news, so he cast around for something else to occupy himself and spotted some papers sticking out from the top shelf of the bookcase. Odd. He strode over to investigate. Pulling them down, he discovered an old handwritten diary, along with some modern papers which appeared to be notations. Was this the diary Clara discovered yesterday?
Curious, he opened it at random and began to read.
What the devil!
He knew that chicken scratch and lame wit! This had been written by none other than Davey Scraggs, his book-learned second mate from the Sea Sprite!
Tyree endured a hearty stab of wistfulness at the thought of his old ship. He'd commanded her for eight good years before being banished from her decks by Sully's fatal wound. A sad smile came to his lips. He'd missed her so much he'd even haunted her for one memorable voyage.
The smile faded. Until a new cabin boy came aboard and spotted the ship's dead captain walking her decks at night. Tyree had tried to restrict his movements to times the lad wasn't aboard, but one night he'd run smack into him. The boy had jumped overboard in terror and Tyree was forced to go in after him, holding him afloat until the crew turned the Sea Sprite about and was able to fish him out. The lad was never quite the same. And Tyree had decided, as much as it pained him, he'd best give up the sea forever.
Davey Scraggs was one of the men he remembered with most fondness. Skinny and with bad teeth, he was nevertheless sharp as a ray's sting and interested in everything under the sun. Many a day, Tyree would see him with his bottom perched on a barrel, scratching lengthy paragraphs into the small journal he always kept in the breast pocket of his tunic. Each year at Christmas, Mrs. Scraggs would present him with a new one and take charge of the old. Tyree had often wondered what became of the books.
"Mrs. Yates!" he bellowed.
"Yes, Captain?" she answered from the kitchen.
"Where did this journal come from?"
She peered around the corner. "Oh, the diary."
"Well?"
"You remember old Miss Jane Wiggs on Angel Island, don't you? The last time I visited her in the retirement home she gave it to me for the pirate museum library."
"Why haven't I seen it before?"
"Careful with that!" came the sound of Clara's voice from the back hall. "It's fragile."
He turned and demanded, "Where have you been?"
"Worried about me?" she asked as she came up and slid the diary from his fingers.
Loaded question. He ignored it and took the diary back. Carefully. "What are you doing with this?"
"And you accuse me of being nosy."
He gritted his teeth. "Just answer the question, Clara."
She held out her hand expectantly.
"You are the most stubborn wench…" Nevertheless, he gave her the book.
"I'm reading it," she said. "It's pretty amazing stuff. I wish I knew who wrote it."
"Davey Scraggs," he said with no small amount of satisfaction at her start of surprise. "Second mate on the Sea Sprite."
>
"How did—" She stopped. "Of course. The Sea Sprite was St. James's ship."
"Aye." He told her about Davey and his bent for writing everything down.
"Wow, that's fascinating." She weighed the volume in her hand. "Especially since this one was written the year you—St. James died." A sudden worried frown creased her brow. "Um, Mrs. Yates, I need to speak with you. Privately," she added, and tucked her free hand under the woman's elbow. "Can I help you with dinner?"
He could just imagine what she had to discuss with the plotting old busybody. "May I borrow that in the meantime?" he asked, reaching for the diary.
She snatched it away. "In your dreams, baby."
"Or maybe in yours?" he said with a wink to mask his irritation. He needed to find out if Scraggs had written anything about his death or Sully's curse. It would be just like Davey to root out every detail and record it all in his damn journal. Clara finding out the details of the curse would be a complication he didn't need.
Never mind. He'd get hold of the diary while she was sleeping.
Just then, his attention was snagged by a voice from the TV. He'd left the news on, and the anchor was talking about the arsonist case he'd been following.
"Another historic Low-country home has been badly damaged by fire, this time on Frenchman's Island," the anchor reported. "Investigators believe the fire at the Pryce-Simmons house, built by Harold Simmons in 1784, was deliberately set in order to cover up a robbery."
The Pryce-Simmons house? Why, he knew it well! He and Sully'd spent many a pleasant afternoon sipping ale with old Harold, a wealthy merchant to whom they'd sold portions of the goods they'd been awarded from their privateering voyages. In fact, Tyree had spent time in both of the other houses that had burned down, too. A strange coincidence.
He frowned at the video of firefighters dragging dirty hoses through the smoking interior of the historic house. It made his stomach churn, though he knew the firemen had no choice; they were only doing their job spraying down the room so nothing would reignite.
Something else about the picture bothered him, though, besides the unfortunate and unnecessary destruction of the beautiful and familiar house. If the fire had been set to cover up a robbery, what had the thief taken? Valuable things were strewn everywhere the camera pointed. Antique vases, silver, figurines and fixtures had all been left behind, all portable and easily sold for a small fortune.