by Nina Bruhns
No way would she be able to change him and his fantasy world—nor was it her place to try. He was who he was. But she had other plans for her life than to spend it cosseted away on some remote island estate with an eccentric, if captivating, recluse. No matter how heavenly his naked body felt joined with hers.
Their eyes met again and she felt herself weaken. Damn him for being so sexy.
She looked away and closed the diary. Rising, she deliberately yawned, and said, "I can barely stay awake. Think I'll have an early night."
His brow rose a fraction and she was careful to keep her face neutral so as not to send him any "follow me" signals or a look that could be interpreted as encouraging.
"Are you sure, my dear?" asked Mrs. Yates. "I've baked some oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies for our evening tea."
Clara groaned appreciatively. "Save me one for tomorrow, Mrs. Yates." She made for the door before the two of them completely broke her resolve.
"I'll try to locate those letters of marque before morning," Tyree said, his eyes darting to the diary in her hands.
"Great."
"Do we still have a date, then?" he asked as she walked past his chair. "For treasure hunting?"
She couldn't resist trailing her forefinger over his. Playing with fire. "Wouldn't miss it."
* * *
Four hours later Tyree rubbed the spot where Clara had lightly touched his fingers. It still tingled down a path as clear as if she'd drawn it with a black marker.
The letters of marque lay before him on his desk, a yellowed parchment bearing a neat black scrawl, affixed with the distinctive wax imprint of the U.S. Department of War seal.
He wondered if he was doing the right thing giving them to her. It went without saying he didn't want ghost hunters swarming over Rose Cottage testing for otherworldly presences, nor did he want cops investigating reports of strange sightings on the property. Either could lead to an investigation into Mrs. Yates's real estate and financial holdings. Something he wanted to avoid.
But what about historians coming at him from the other end of the spectrum, from his own life and demise? The letters would undoubtedly trigger investigations into their authenticity. Could that scrutiny also lead to someone uncovering irregularities in the title to Rose Cottage and the myriad other trusts and accounts Mrs. Yates oversaw for Tyree?
He didn't think so. He prayed not. For he had given his word to Clara.
But he'd do anything to avoid jeopardizing his legacy. Too many deserving people depended on the income.
He rose and gathered up the document, glancing at the clock. 2:15 a.m. Now was as good a time as any to drop it off in Clara's bungalow. And he hadn't forgotten about the diary. He must find out if he could allow Clara to continue her reading. He feared old Scraggs might have weaseled the whole curse from eyewitnesses that fatal night. If Davey'd recorded it, Tyree might just have to rip out that page. Or at least hide the diary until it wouldn't be a danger to anyone.
If he took the diary from her, she'd surely be mad as that Spanish captain whose cargo of French brandy Sully had purloined back in '96. Tyree had relieved the captain of his wild Irish mistress on the same occasion, but he hadn't taken that nearly as badly. Now, there had been an interesting voyage home. And cause to avoid brandy and wild Irish females ever since.
Tyree chuckled at the memory. Come to think of it, was Fergussen an Irish name? He tried the knob on the gardener's bungalow door. Locked. How sweet. She thought she could keep him out. Silly wench. He concentrated his thoughts and let himself drift through the door.
Holding the parchment close to his chest, he passed through the solid wood. Even after all this time, it still confounded him how this spirit thing worked. It seemed impossible that a material could be firm and substantial sitting on a desk, but as soon as he picked it up its molecules changed so dramatically as to be able to pass through any solid barrier along with him.
To be sure, his whole state of being seemed impossible, so what was one more mystery? But whatever it was, he was grateful for it. Otherwise, staying clothed might have proved a thorny task.
Tyree arranged the parchment on the small kitchen table so she would be sure to see it. Then he quietly turned on a light to look around for Davey's journal. It was nowhere to be found in the main room of the bungalow. Devil take it.
He stood and gazed at the closed door to Clara's bedroom, baffling his compulsion to enter. This would not be a good idea.
But he must find that diary.
He'd simply go in and search for the book. Nothing more. He wouldn't even look at her. Lying there in his big four-poster bed. Asleep. Perhaps wearing one of those pretty, frilly diaphanous things women wore at night.
Nay. He'd go straight to the journal, grab it and depart without so much as a glance at her.
But what if she'd hidden it?
What if she'd hidden it under her pillow?
Or had it in bed with her, clutched to her bosom?
He silently groaned, wrenched out a chair at the table and sank into it, clutching his head in his hands. God in heaven.
Maybe the curse had already lifted; maybe he'd left the world behind and this was hell.
This particular agony was far worse than any mere fire and brimstone he could imagine. Wanting her. Having her within reach, but not being able to take her.
Or maybe it was a test. Another in a long line of earthly trials designed to see if he was worthy of a place in heaven, despite having killed his best friend.
The thought quelled the fire in his blood sufficiently to bring him to his feet and turn them toward Clara's room. He'd pass this one, too, as he'd passed all the others.
Taking a fortifying breath, he went through the door and stood for a moment getting his bearings. Despite the few peculiarities and special powers of his state, his physical abilities remained largely the same as before he died. He wasn't able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or stop speeding bullets with his bare hand—they went right through it—or see any better in the dark. A damned nuisance.
Luckily, he'd brought a penlight. Which he took out of his pocket and had a look around. The journal was not on the dresser, not in the armoire, not on the vanity, or table or chair by the window, not on the floor or the nightstands. He let out a silent curse. And shone the light onto the bed.
His angel. The one he'd seen in the library window earlier today. She lay ensconced in a cloud of lace that was the coverlet, the tresses of her pale hair curling over his pillow and about her head like a nimbus. Perhaps this was heaven, after all.
But alas, he was not meant to share her cloud.
He spotted the journal on the bed by her hand, papers strewn around as though she'd fallen asleep working. Leaning over the mattress, he gingerly collected the papers and deposited them in a neat pile on the nightstand, then slipped the diary from the bed. Hesitating, he was unable to stop himself from reaching up and caressing her cheek. So warm, so smooth and peaceful. In her sleep she made a little noise and turned her face, placing a tiny kiss on his fingers.
His heart melted. He slammed his eyes shut for a second, then leaned over and softly, gently kissed her lips. Then before he could do anything they'd both regret, he twisted away and swept from the room.
Taking a seat at the table in the kitchen area, he pored through Davey's journal, searching for the entry about the night he died. He couldn't help but stop and read many another passage, though, so many memories did it bring back for him of that last year on the Sea Sprite. He laughed again over the antics of his unorthodox crew, once more felt the adrenaline rush of taking an enemy ship captive and emptying her hold, shed a sad tear over two friends they'd lost to fever. Davey had left out nothing.
He knew before he reached them that the pages he sought would contain everything he feared. And sure enough, they did. Everything, down to the last drop of blood and each word of the curse.
Suddenly the door opened behind him and he heard a feminine gasp.
/> "What are you doing here?" Clara asked.
He looked up and saw hazy sunlight peering through the windowpanes. How could it already be morning?
Clara stared at him from the doorway, one finger unconsciously touching her lips as she took in his attire. "How did you get in?"
He hadn't even noticed when he'd reverted to his pirate togs. Letting out a swift sigh, he rose to his feet and snapped the book shut.
"I'm sorry, I can't let you continue reading this." She frowned, but he headed her off before she could speak. "I brought the letters of marque, though."
Her gaze dropped to the parchment lying on the table. Then she swiped a hand over her eyes. "I can't deal with this without coffee," she said, and walked to the kitchen.
He shooed her away. "I'll do it. You get dressed. Or something." Best to have this conversation with everyone fully clothed. Her sleep shirt wasn't frilly or diaphanous, but it was short enough to be far too diverting.
He flipped off his aggravating eye patch and threw it on the table on his way to the counter, knowing no matter what he did with it, it would miraculously reappear upon his eye on the morrow. As for the modern clothes he'd been wearing last night, they could now be found exactly where he'd pulled them out of the drawer to don yesterday. He batted down the high bucket tops of his boots to knee level. What a pain they were. Footwear had come far in two hundred years.
He filled the coffeemaker with water, ground the beans from the cupboard and dumped them into the basket. After a quick survey of its various buttons and LCD screens, he pressed a combination and left it to drip.
Still no Clara, he discerned, and heard the sound of the shower running. This time he groaned aloud, and forced himself to take a seat at the table and not move until the sound ceased. Honor was a hard taskmaster.
When she reemerged toweling her hair, dressed in a short, tight jean skirt and skimpy tank top, he jumped to his feet.
"Are you trying to kill me?" he asked with exasperation.
She halted and her eyes flashed to his before her lips twitched and she asked, with a shade too much curiosity, "What would happen if I did?"
He folded his arms over his tunic. "Nothing. You've seen the movie Groundhog Day?" She nodded, her grin widening. "Well, my life is like one long, bad, two-hundred-year-old version of Groundhog Day. So you can forget about your little plan to make me die of frustration. It won't work."
He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her. "No cream?" she asked.
"Don't push it, wench."
She blew on her coffee and took a long sip and he was supremely proud of himself for not watching her lips, and also for not trying to figure out whether she had on one of those sexy bras under her top.
She had no such disinclination about him. "You're dressed like a pirate again," she observed.
"Aye," he said. "Unfortunately it happens every morning."
"Like in the movie."
"Aye."
She took another sip and nodded. "Did you know Groundhog Day is my all-time favorite movie?"
He gave a moue of distaste. "I hate it."
She chuckled. "Why am I not surprised?" She put down her coffee cup. "Okay, I'm awake now," she said. "So what's all this about not letting me read the diary?"
"That's right. I can't let you."
"Why not?"
He exhaled. "Let's just say … there are circumstances about … about the curse and all, that could make it dangerous for you to know the details."
"That's crazy," she said.
He let out a short bark of laughter. "Tell me about it."
"Seriously. Why is it dangerous?"
"We've been through this before, Clara. I can't explain. You just have to trust me. You could get hurt."
"Does this have anything to do with the fires?"
He jerked her a look of surprise. "Of course not." Then he thought about it for a second. An intriguing possibility. But how could it? He shook his head. Now he really was going crazy. "Nay. The fires have nothing to do with the curse."
She gave the diary which he was holding in his hand a bleak look. "That was my best source, you know. For the article."
"I'm sorry."
"He has such great stories in it. Like the time you risked your life to rescue that three-legged dog from those hungry French soldiers." She gave a heartfelt sigh.
Christ. Thank God he'd skipped the first part of the journal. "The cur bit me for my trouble," he informed her gruffly. "I should have let them eat it."
She gasped. "Tyree!"
He waved his arm. "Enough. This won't work, either."
She made a face. "Fine. Okay, what if I promise not to read that part? The part about the curse?"
"Surely you jest."
"Hey, you expect me to trust you. Don't you trust me?"
"In a word—"
She raised a warning finger. "Careful."
He swallowed his knee-jerk response. Did he trust her? Well, he'd let her stay, hadn't he? Did he suspect her of some nefarious purpose in being here? Nay, he was sure she was who she professed to be, doing exactly what she'd said.
He weighed the diary between his fingers as if it were her heart. "Can I trust you to keep your word?"
"Only as far as I can trust you to keep yours."
"My word is my honor," he said.
"As is mine," she responded.
Fair enough. He'd ages ago outgrown his archaic chauvinist bent, having lived long enough to know that most women possessed far more honor than many men who purported to live by its rule.
His gaze swept over her tank top and snagged on a lacy strap peeking out at the shoulder. He followed it down to the mouthwatering outline of a bra pushing her breasts up like the most wanton of corsets.
God's Teeth.
Tyree always kept his word. But that didn't mean he was always virtuous.
"I'll tell you what," he said, and slowly smiled. "Perhaps we can strike a bargain."
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Clara knew that look on Tyree's face, and it spelled nothing but trouble.
Now she understood why he'd been so good at his chosen profession. It wasn't just tight breeches and a billowy shirt that made a man a pirate. It was his actions. A pirate didn't follow rules. He simply took what he wanted. And though Tyree denied it, she had the distinct feeling what he wanted was her.
"What kind of bargain?" she asked.
One black brow arched. "Would it matter?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"What you have in mind."
She was also beginning to realize that her own pirate fantasy ran deeper than she'd ever imagined. No wonder the men wearing eye patches at Halloween parties had never done it for her. But fantasy or no, this one was well on his way to stealing her very breath.
Whatever happened to not wanting to risk getting any closer?
Unfortunately, at the moment Tyree's fantasy world coincided a little too neatly with her own. She really had to get him to change those clothes.
"I want you to teach me something," he said. "Something I've wanted to learn for a long while, but never had the opportunity."
"What makes you think I'll know this thing?" she asked, vainly attempting to tame the squeak in her voice.
His smile turned devilish and her nipples twisted into tight knots. Damn, how did he do that with just a look?
"Aye, you know how."
"But you don't?"
"Nay."
How bad could it be? They both knew when it came to anything sexual, he had it all over her, hands down. As it were.
"Well?"
"What do you want to learn?"
He stood there smiling like the rogue he was. But didn't answer.
Her mouth dropped in disbelief. "You're not going to tell me?"
"How badly do you want to read Davey's journal?"
"Forget it, St. James," she said firmly. "No deal." She rinsed out her cup and headed for
the front door. "Mrs. Yates will be making breakfast for us."
"It doesn't involve sex, if that's what concerns you," he said from behind her. There was something rough and seductive about his voice … like callused hands on soft skin.
She shook off a shiver. "You're not very convincing."
"Sweeting, I like my women willing, not obligated. Takes all the fun out of it."
She wasn't so sure, but she didn't need to tell him that. "No taking off any clothes?"
He held up two fingers in a pledge. As if he'd ever been a Boy Scout. "I swear I won't remove a single stitch."
"And me?"
He waggled his eyebrows. "Only if you want to."
She ground her jaw. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"And obnoxious," he reminded her.
She thought furiously. She really, really wanted to read that diary. And she figured she could handle anything as long as it didn't involve him being naked…
"Oh, all right. You have your bargain. So what is it?"
"You give me your word you won't read any of the section that I mark as off-limits? Nothing to do with the night of my death?"
"Yes, yes, I agree. And in return you want me to teach you to…?"
He gazed at her in that powerful, heart-stoppingly sexy way he had, his black lashes all thick around his dark, bedroom eyes. He let them drift slowly over her breasts down to the nipples that had tightened so hard they were almost painful.
He lied, she thought in desperation… He's going to make me—
"Unhook your bra," he said.
Her heart stopped. "I knew it! There is no way—"
"Nay, just show me how it unhooks," he said, calm as could be. "I've never touched a real one—" he coughed "—before yours."
She regarded him evenly. "You're kidding, right?"
"You needn't take it off. We do have an understanding." He added in that slow drawl, "Don't we?"
Oh, Lord.
"That's right," she blurted out and bolted for the door. "And this isn't part of it."
"Your choice," he said, ambling after. "Just let me know if you change your mind."
* * *
To his credit, he didn't stare at her breasts during breakfast. He didn't have to. Clara's own imagination was working overtime picturing Tyree's requested lesson. But in every scenario she came up with, she ended up naked under him.