by Nina Bruhns
Why hadn't the thief taken them?
Tyree quickly popped in a tape and set up the VCR to record the news at 11:00 p.m. They'd no doubt repeat the story, and he could examine the scene more closely. Looking for what, he wasn't sure.
But one thing he was sure of. He didn't care for coincidences.
* * *
Clara sliced okra at the kitchen table, deep in thought.
Mrs. Yates had given her exactly the same story as Tyree. He had no health problems. The curse was up on Saturday.
Mrs. Yates was mildly surprised that Tyree had divulged that bit of information, but she hadn't seemed worried. And had confirmed it all. Back in Psych 101, Clara had learned about shared hallucinations. She wondered if there was such a thing as shared delusions.
In any case, there was another thing Clara had learned over the past thirty years: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Obviously, her two hosts were harmless, so from now on she would just go along with their little eccentricities. She'd call Tyree by the name he insisted was his, nod politely when he talked about being cursed and copy his attitude about whatever was happening on Saturday at midnight. Next time he tried one of his little magical illusions, she'd find the strings and mirrors he used to fool her.
Sooner or later he'd let the truth slip. She'd pump him for all the information she could for her article. And hopefully he'd reveal where he'd found all his interesting tidbits, as well as show her whatever historic documents he'd managed to collect.
Such as the letters of marque. If that was really true, if Fouquet and St. James were actually privateers and not pirates, she was about to change local history. No small achievement.
The two professions were nearly identical, but with one huge difference. Pirates were criminals, working beyond the law. Piracy was a hanging offense. Privateers, on the other hand, were officially sanctioned by the war department of the day to prey on enemy vessels during times of war. If Fouquet and St. James possessed legal letters of marque, they would be patriotic heroes, not outlaws.
And by changing history with her article, Clara would be a shoo-in for first prize in the Adventure Magazine contest.
When supper was ready, she set the table for three, wondering why Mrs. Yates pursed her lips at the sight.
"Won't Tyree be joining us?" Clara asked.
"The captain doesn't really eat," was the reply.
"His loss," Clara said, unperturbed. "Your chicken gumbo smells wonderful."
As it turned out, Tyree did join them. But his place setting remained pristine as they chatted of this and that. Clara studiously avoided any controversial topic, including why Tyree didn't touch so much as a morsel of food. He did have a sip or two of wine, but then he set his glass aside and ignored it for the rest of the meal. If this was a regular thing, it was a miracle he held on to his magnificent physique.
His arms were sinewy and muscular, nothing slight about them; his torso was lean but solid—no ribs poking through those six-pack abs. And his thighs, she vividly recalled, had been hard as iron.
Her face flooded with warmth as she realized he'd caught her staring at his body. A little smile curled the corners of his mouth.
"Finished?" he asked. When she fumbled for a response, he pointed at her empty plate. "With your supper?"
"Oh. Yes," she managed.
"Let's go watch the sunset," he suggested.
"The dishes—"
"Oh, no, I'll take care of those," Mrs. Yates said.
"But I should—"
"I happen to know Mrs. Yates has a top-of-the-line dishwasher," he said. "I bought it for her myself. Come." He pulled out Clara's chair. "The sunsets here are quite breathtaking."
Clara found herself following Tyree down a crushed oyster-shell path toward the salt marsh. The temperature had cooled a few degrees from the heat of the day, but it was still sultry and warm. Once they'd passed the white picket fence and left behind the jumble of pinks, marigolds and daisies of Mrs. Yates's English garden, they entered the unique forest of oaks, palms and tall grasses that seemed to define the sea island environment. It was a combination Clara had never seen anywhere else. Lushly green, yet sparse enough to allow a generous view of the darkening sky, sharply fragrant with a kaleidoscope of scents from sweetgrass to rotting plough mud, and the sounds of the humming insects and rattling sedges filling her senses.
Tyree took her hand and they walked out onto an old wooden pier that extended far into the waving brown-green sea of marsh grasses. It was like walking the plank into another world, linked to this one only by his hand holding hers, silent except for the sigh of grass and the soft groan of the shifting boards underfoot.
"This is one of my favorite places," he said as they came to a small, square fishing platform about halfway down the pier. "I like to come here and just lie on my back and listen to the lap of the water. Especially on a clear night. I can watch the stars for hours. It's almost like—"
He stopped, but somehow she knew. "Like being at sea?"
"Aye." He dropped her hand and went to the silver weathered rail, leaning his elbows against it as though it were the rail of a ship. "When the wind's died and we're stuck in some godforsaken place and the men are all passed out from drink and there isn't a sound to be heard and the ship's barely rocking. And I should be mad as hell 'cause I've got my orders and there's plunder to be taken, but it's like God's lain down for a nap and everything around us is holding its breath for Him to awaken." He turned to her and smiled. "How can a man be angry when God's sleeping all about him?"
And how could a woman be doubtful of a man who could say something so lovely? She swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled back. "Impossible," she said.
He held out his hand to her, and she took it, expecting to be pulled into his embrace. But instead he continued walking down the pier.
Near the end, it emerged from its cocoon of marsh grass into the open water of the inlet. Clara's breath caught.
"It's so beautiful!"
Slate-green water rippled below gnarled gray planks, reflecting the bright oranges and reds of the setting sun. Across the inlet, black silhouettes of stately Spanish moss-draped oaks mingled with tall, elegant palms along the blazing horizon.
"You were right about the sunsets here."
"Nothing like them in the whole world," Tyree agreed.
She sighed. "I suppose you've been around the world, so you'd know." She turned to find him watching her.
"I suppose," he said, his fingers toying with hers, not quite letting go, not quite holding on.
Awareness zinged through her. She took a step back.
"Watch yourself," he warned, and grasped her hand harder. She was right on the edge. "There are no guardrails this far out."
Didn't she know it. She made a quick effort to shore up the ones around her heart. The man had an uncanny way of slipping past them.
She felt a tug and suddenly she was right in front of him, looking up into his soulful eyes. Oh, Lord. He was going to kiss her. She tried to resist, she really did. But for some reason, when he reached out and touched a strand of her hair, she couldn't move.
And when his mouth began to descend to hers, all she could do was close her eyes. And pray she had the will to say no.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Damnation.
Tyree caught himself just in time. His lips were within inches of Clara's. Folly and a fool's errand.
Ignoring the ache in his arms to hold her and the tightness in his throat to taste her, he veered up at the last second and kissed her softly on the forehead.
Her eyes popped open. Was it relief he spied in their depths, just beyond the disappointment?
He motioned to a lone wooden Adirondack chair that perched at the end of the pier. "Make yourself comfortable."
"What about you?"
He answered by stretching out on the wooden deck next to the chair and stacking his hands under his head. "I'm fin
e down here." Far less temptation. "Tell me about Clara Fergussen," he said, partly as a diversion, partly because he really wanted to know. "Why is it so important to win this magazine contest?"
And so, he heard all about how she'd grown up on a small farm in Kansas, a place where adventure was a bad word and travel something to be avoided at all cost. Clara, in whose veins the blood and spirit of an outlaw pirate flowed so generously, and whose dearest dream was to sail around the world on a yacht, living life to the extreme.
She sounded so much like Tyree at age fifteen, he had to remind himself she was Fouquet's relation, not his own.
"You'll do it," he said. "I'll help with your research, if you like."
"Will you?" she asked, and he could hear her smile. "I was hoping you'd say that. Come with me to the museum tomorrow and help pick out books?"
"Can't."
"Oh." That was definitely disappointment.
"It's Tuesday. Museum's closed."
It was dark by now, the horizon a thin, ragged ribbon of flame against an indigo sky. He heard her shift in the wooden chair, and felt, more than saw, her look down at him.
"In that case, is there something else you can show me?"
A good time came to mind.
"Maybe his favorite places?"
Like that spot on Tyree's inner thigh that had begun to itch madly for her touch. She'd found it last night, clever girl.
His already uncomfortable arousal pitched. This was not good. How was he to avoid her bed tonight, let alone for the whole week?
"There has to be somewhere open," she mused.
He couldn't sleep with her again. It wouldn't be fair to her when he disappeared. Besides, he couldn't risk it.
May you haunt this earth for two hundred years, St. James—or until you find a love so strong the lady is willing to die in your place…
What if she fell in love with him and somehow found out about that provision in the curse? Too dangerous.
"What about the Moon and Palmetto?"
"No," he said emphatically. Sleeping with Clara was the absolute worst thing he could do. Going to the Moon and Palmetto was a close second. "I've only been there once since I died, and that was once too many."
He must simply suffer through this last week and hold out against the overwhelming temptation.
"Where shall we go, then?" she asked.
He got to his feet and helped her from the chair. "How would you like to see where the treasure used to be hidden?"
"The lost treasure? You're kidding!"
"It's not lost. I recovered it a few years after my death. I needed something to live on."
She stared at him wide-eyed in the moonlight. "You have a huge stash of gold at Rose Cottage? No wonder you're afraid to let anyone near it."
"I am not—"
"Ever hear of a thing called the bank?"
"Don't be silly. There's no gold. I invested it ages ago." Most of it, anyway. There was still a small stash of bullion at the Federal Reserve Bank in New York. Maybe he'd transfer ownership of it to Clara. She was Sully's descendant, after all, and as such deserved a share of the spoils.
She chuckled. "So you're a millionaire, I suppose?"
"Millionaire? Heavens, no," he said with a wink.
He had far more than a mere million.
But what was the use of having all that money if you couldn't share it? Tomorrow, he'd have Mrs. Yates speak to his broker. Clara would have her yacht trip, and the yacht, too, if she wished, after he was gone.
"Thank God," she said. "I'd hate you to think I only like you for your money."
He grinned. "Nay, I know exactly what you like about me, and it's not the size of my wallet."
She blushed charmingly and poked him in the chest with her finger. "You're obnoxious, you know that?"
His grin widened as he started humming an old tune from the radio. Something about wanting you in my arms, with all your charms, in a dream.
Her mouth dropped open, scandalized. After half the chorus she turned and started marching down the pier toward shore. But he hadn't missed the laughter in her eyes, or the slight hesitation before she'd turned. Like she was deciding between running away or throwing her arms around him and making all those dreams come true again.
He sauntered after her, whistling. Wishing like hell it was just lust he was feeling. That he didn't like her quite so much, along with wanting her so badly he could barely walk straight.
He caught up with her effortlessly and took hold of her hand just as she reached the fishing platform.
"Clara, sweeting, wait."
She turned, her eyes sparkling in the glow of the moon, her lips parted in breathless anticipation. He could so easily have taken her then. Pulled her body to his and lowered them both to the swaying floor of the pier. Rocked himself into the cradle of her embrace until she cried out like the sea birds swooping and diving around the inlet. It would have been so easy.
And so wrong.
She was alive and vibrant. She deserved to stay that way, and be with a man who could spend a whole lifetime with her, laughing and sharing love and adventures along with his body.
Tyree could offer her nothing but death.
"What is it?" She looked up at him and the lure of her was almost too much to bear. So luscious and soft.
"I need your help," he heard himself say.
She nibbled on her lower lip, obviously suspecting he would do exactly what he was trying so hard not to. He couldn't decide if she'd welcome it, or was getting ready to flee again.
"Help with what, Tyree?"
"You know those fires that are being set?"
For a second she looked confused. "The historic houses, you mean? To cover up the robberies?"
He nodded. "Exactly. I want to find out what is being stolen."
She looked even more puzzled. "Why?"
"I'm getting a bad feeling about that whole thing. I think the guy is after something specific."
"Well, of course he is. Why else would he be doing it?"
Tyree decided to tell her what was really bothering him. "I'm worried the robberies might have something to do with Sully and me."
"Huh? How could they possibly have anything to do with you and Sully?"
He jetted out a breath. "We knew the owners of all three of those houses that were set on fire. We did a lot of business with them."
"You mean the original owners?" she asked incredulously. "Two hundred years ago?"
He spread his hands. "I know it sounds unlikely, but … I'd feel better if I knew exactly what the guy was stealing. Will you help me?"
"How?"
"You're a reporter. Nose around."
"Tyree, I'm not a reporter. I'm not even an official travel writer yet. Why don't you nose around?"
He gave her his best social-misfit-agoraphobic-hermit smile. "I'm shy."
She rolled her eyes. "My aunt Bessie."
"C'mon, please?"
He could see she was reluctant to get involved with any of his flights of fancy, but couldn't help being curious. Luckily, Sully's lingering spirit tipped the scales.
"Oh, all right," she relented, and started walking down the pier again. "But you'll have to show me those letters of marque first."
"You drive a hard bargain," he said with some relief, and followed after her. He'd planned to show her the letters in any case.
He wasn't sure why this fire thing bothered him so much. He had to admit, his theory sounded preposterous even to himself. Still, better to relieve his mind and feel foolish than to find out too late it was something he should have dealt with. He didn't have much time left to waste.
How was it he could be bored to tears for two centuries and now suddenly have ten things nipping at his heels to be done before Saturday? Nothing made sense anymore.
Not since Clara had come into his life.
* * *
Reaching shore, Clara and Tyree strolled back through the gardens to the main house, where they found Mrs. Yat
es knitting in the living room. It wasn't late, and Clara decided to do a little work before retiring, so while Tyree stretched out in an oversized leather armchair in front of some TV reality show, Clara fetched Davey Scraggs's diary.
After lighting a vanilla-scented candle on the mantelpiece, she curled up at the end of the cushy velvet sofa and started to read. It was so peaceful, time flew by before she realized she'd finished over five pages of notes.
She smiled inwardly. Strange how it worked sometimes. Here she was on the biggest adventure of her life, yet the only thing that could possibly make the evening feel any homier or cozier would be a plate of her mom's oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies.
She stole a glance at Tyree. Okay, maybe one other thing might make it cozier. Too bad he'd chosen the armchair instead of the sofa by her. Even if she wasn't interested in pursuing a romantic entanglement, it would be nice just to sit next to him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his body, maybe catch a drift of his scent now and then. Brush shoulders.
He glanced up and their gazes met. They both smiled. She looked away first, heat creeping up her neck. He'd been a perfect gentleman all day. Hadn't so much as tried to kiss her, despite his mild flirting. He'd apologized for last night, and both of them agreed it had been a mistake not to be repeated. Neither was interested in that sort of involvement.
And she wasn't. Honestly.
She squirmed. So why was her body relentlessly reminding her of all the pleasure she could experience with him? Of his slow hands and skillful mouth, his commanding weight on her and his consummately sensitive touch?
Maybe…
Good grief. What was wrong with her? Could she really consider inviting him to her bed, knowing it would be nothing more than physical gratification? Was she capable of sleeping with a man with whom she had no intention of pursuing a relationship?
She really liked Tyree. It was so tempting to sweep away her qualms and for once allow herself to indulge in a passionate affair. But she knew by doing so she would only end up hurt. Because she did like Tyree. Far too much to risk getting any closer.