by Nina Bruhns
If not heaven, then where? Ask anyone who'd read Maybelle Chadbourn's penny dreadfuls and the answer would no doubt be … farther south.
But he didn't believe that. True, he'd been hotheaded and hot-blooded when he was alive, but despite his profession he'd never deliberately harmed a person. Certainly never killed anyone other than during wartime. Except for Sully and Elizabeth, and they were both terrible accidents for which he'd already done two centuries of penance.
He raked both hands through his wet hair. Never mind. He'd find out soon enough where he was going. Right now, there were more important things to think about.
Like how he could delay that departure. By about seventy years.
In the beginning, he'd carefully studied books on voodoo, vainly searching for a way to reverse Sully's curse. He'd secretly observed ceremonies in slave quarters, memorized long, mysterious chants. Nothing had worked. All he'd learned was that only the person who cast it could undo a curse. And Sullivan Fouquet was long dead.
There seemed to be only one answer to his dilemma.
Somehow, in some way, he had to bring Sully back. The real Sully.
* * *
"Can I borrow the computer, Mrs. Yates?" Clara asked, walking up to the front desk of the museum. "There's something I'd like to check on the Internet."
She was pleased with her morning's efforts, so she'd decided to take a little break.
"Certainly, dear. Just don't ask me how the thing works. I'm afraid I can't help you there."
The computer set up on an old library table was surprisingly up-to-date. In no time, she was online. Her mission: to find out everything she could about Tyree.
The first thing was to find out if Tyree St. James was his real name. Since he owned Rose Cottage, that should be easy enough to find out in the county land records.
After dismissing a twinge of guilty conscience over invading his privacy, she managed to search her way to the correct county Web site and, after a slight delay tracking down the plat and lot numbers for the estate, was able to access the complete history of the property.
To her shock, Tyree didn't own it as he'd claimed. Mrs. Yates did. And before her, the estate had been held by a series of women, changing ownership every ten to twenty years, all the way back to…
Stunned, Clara stared at the computer screen, certain it had to be wrong. After the original land grant, the first registered private owner of Rose Cottage was a Mr. James S. Tyler, nearly two hundred years ago. But within a year, it had been deeded to one Miss Rosalind Winters, who had retained ownership for over fifty years.
Rosalind!
Could it be…?
No. This was too weird. How could Tyree have known about Rosalind Winters?
He must have done a property search, as well. Perhaps he researched each owner and became obsessed with this Rosalind for some reason.
Or maybe she had a great-great-great-granddaughter of the same name who still lived somewhere in the area. That wouldn't be so strange. Certainly no stranger than Clara herself, a relation of Sully's, turning up out of the blue.
Damn.
Was history repeating itself? If he'd already gone through this before and been hurt in the end, no wonder he was so leery of getting involved with Clara!
How could she fight that?
Did she really want to?
Clara let her forehead drop to the edge of the desk and closed her eyes.
She should leave him alone.
It wasn't fair to make him go through it again. She would also end up hurting him when she left, just as Rosalind had apparently done.
And she was going to leave.
Tyree had made his own choice not to go with her. She shouldn't feel guilty. She'd asked him and he'd said no. Period. What more could she do? She wasn't about to spend her life in hiding, and she evidently wasn't important enough to him to change his ways. End of story.
So why did her heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise? "What's going on?" Tyree's deep voice behind her sounded concerned.
She jerked her head up and reached for the computer's mouse. "Hi. Nothing much." She quickly logged off and hoped he hadn't seen what she was up to.
"Sure?"
"Yeah." She saw he was holding the handle of a basket. "What's that?"
He lifted it up. "I thought you and Mrs. Yates would enjoy eating lunch alfresco."
"Tyree, that's so sweet! Have you told Mrs. Yates?"
He shook his head. "Wanted you there with me to help catch her when she fainted."
Clara laughed. "Not big on cooking, eh?"
He winked. "Don't tell her, but I faxed the deli and had it delivered."
She grinned. "Your secret's safe with me."
He kissed the end of her nose, smiling. "I know."
She got up and followed him to track down Mrs. Yates, who'd disappeared into the stacks. "Is that how you got the bras, too?"
"Nay. I picked them out myself."
"Really? You went to the store?"
"Before they opened. Don't worry, I left cash and the tags by the register."
She didn't want to know. She really didn't. "Please don't tell me you broke in."
"Okay," he said with another wink. "Ah. Here's Mrs. Yates."
"Oh, no," Mrs. Yates declared when they asked her to join them on the picnic. "I'm in the middle of a small project. You two go on without me."
From the sparkle in the older woman's eyes, Clara figured it was just an excuse to let them be alone.
"At least fill a plate for yourself," she insisted, unsure if she was grateful for Mrs. Yates's thoughtfulness or not. Alone with him, Clara found it impossible to resist Tyree's charms, and she feared she'd just get more tangled up in the web of desire he was spinning around her and be unable to pull herself free when it came time to leave. A time that was getting closer by the minute.
The grass had dried nicely after the morning showers, so Tyree spread the blanket in a sunny spot in the courtyard garden under a magnolia in full bloom.
He nibbled and tried to relax as Clara ate, but couldn't seem to get comfortable. He sensed an uncertainty about her. Her mouth smiled as she chatted, but her eyes, on the rare occasions they met his, contained questions.
What had changed?
Instead of pushing, he decided to give her some breathing room. Leaning on an elbow, he inquired about her morning's research on Sully, prompting her to relate everything she'd uncovered, down to the smallest detail. She'd found nothing new or earth-shattering, but it would all add some nice flavor to her article.
"I also learned something interesting," she offered as she finished up her lunch, "about his name."
"Yeah?"
"Apparently Sullivan was the name of the family that held his parents' indenture."
Tyree stared. "Really. He never told me that."
She put her chin in her hand, and he could tell she was pleased she'd uncovered something about her ancestor he didn't already know.
"Mm-hmm. I guess it was pretty common for servants to give the master's name to a child."
"Aye." That was true enough. But it usually implied a certain degree of respect or liking for the overlord or, in the case of slaves, no choice.
"I wondered, when you said he was Acadian, why he didn't have a French first name. That explains it."
"I suppose it does."
Suddenly, the courtyard door swung open and the man himself stepped through it. Sully halted just inside the garden, hands on hips. Tyree leapt to his feet as adrenaline shot through his veins.
"Sully," he growled, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Captain Sullivan," Clara greeted him cheerfully, also rising. She motioned him over. "Join us. Would you care for some lunch? We have a ton of food left."
"No, thank you, Miss Fergussen. I've already eaten." He glanced suspiciously from her to Tyree. "I didn't realize you two were acquainted. Mr. Tyler, isn't it? In antiques?"
Sully'd always had a phenomenal memory for
detail. "Aye. Miz Fergussen and I met a few days ago. How's the arson investigation going?"
Sully looked around unhurriedly, taking in the cozy picnic. "You from around here, Mr. Tyler?" he asked, ignoring Tyree's question.
"Virginia. How about you, Captain?"
Sully folded his arms over his chest in that familiar power stance. Not that it intimidated Tyree in the least. However, he did have to stop himself from wrapping a protective arm around Clara. Or maybe a possessive arm.
"You and Miss Fergussen both seem to take an unusual interest in my heritage, Mr. Tyler. Are you a relation of Fouquet's, as well?"
He ground his jaw. "Not in this lifetime."
Sully's black brows arched elegantly. "Or perhaps. Who's that other pirate? The nasty one who killed Fouquet and the woman? Blackbeard, that's it. His descendant, maybe? Here for the festival?"
The bastard hadn't changed a bit in two hundred years, still irritating as poison ivy. Instinctively, Tyree reached for his sword to teach him a lesson. Unfortunately, it wasn't there.
Clara stepped between them. "A distant cousin several times removed, I believe," she fabricated, and swatted at him behind her back. "Which is also why we're both interested in the fires. Did you have something you wanted to tell me?"
Sully held Tyree's gaze a moment longer, then his demeanor changed back to professional. "Something to ask." He pulled the paper bag containing Davey's second diary from his back pocket. "Either of you recognize this?"
"I may have seen it at the Pryce-Simmons House," Tyree said evasively. "Can't be sure. There were a lot of old books lying about."
"Did you handle it?"
He shrugged. "Don't recall."
Before Sully could ask him more questions, Clara moved in and pretended to study it closer. "Hmm. It looks just like a journal I'm reading for my research. But it can't be that one. I have it with me in the museum."
Sully appeared genuinely surprised by that information. "A second journal? May I see it?"
"Why, of course." She glanced hesitantly at Tyree.
He nodded and said, "I'll grab the picnic things and be along in a minute."
Sully smiled. "No hurry. Let me help."
Tyree deliberately allowed Sully to take their discarded bags and wrappers to the trash, and pretended not to notice him slip a few into his pocket. For fingerprints, no doubt. Which was fine. Tyree'd been careful to wear gloves at the crime scene, which only left the ones he may have left on the diary. With any luck there'd also be a second set of prints, which would lead the investigators to the right suspect.
As he followed Clara and Sully into the museum and up the stairs to the second floor, he felt a creeping queasiness in his stomach. There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself. Things were going exactly as planned. The fact that Sully and not the actual arson investigator, Jake Santee, had shown up here told him this visit was more personal than official.
Yet, he was still uneasy. By all appearances, this man was not some incarnation of Sullivan Fouquet. And clearly Andre Sullivan had not expected to find Tyree at the museum. So what was the good captain after?
Suddenly it hit him. The answer was obvious.
Clara.
For the second time, Tyree reached for his sword only to find it wasn't there. Until now he'd always been grateful he'd dropped it before he died. Suddenly, he changed his mind.
He clamped his teeth together. Nay. He didn't mean that. Bloodshed never solved anything—as gratifying as it would feel to run Sully through for everything he'd been put through for the past two centuries.
The other man's voice sliced into his unpleasant thoughts. "You all right, Tyler?"
Forcing the deep scowl from his face, he muttered, "Right as rain. Any progress on the investigation?" instead of allowing his temper to get the better of him. Or his irrational jealousy.
"Your insurance company anxious for an arrest?"
"I'm just the consultant," Tyree reminded him. Luckily he was prepared to prove it. That morning he'd printed up a few business cards in case anyone came calling with questions.
He pulled one from the wallet he always carried in public.
"James Tyler, Antiquarian. Spotawood, Virginia," Sully read, then looked up. "Mind if I keep this?"
"Interested in antiques, Sullivan?"
"My lady friend is. In fact, she's up in northern Virginia right now on business. Wouldn't be surprised if she came back with something old and expensive in her luggage."
Tyree tried to keep the shock from his face. Lady friend?
So much for Sully being after Clara.
He gathered himself. "I'll look forward to her call. What's her name?"
Sully tucked the card in his pocket. "Lisa Grosvenor."
And so much for this man being Sully. He figured the real Sully would never betray his Elizabeth with another woman.
"Now, about that journal…" Sully prompted.
Just then Mrs. Yates walked out of one of the small library rooms.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed, her face going white as a sheet. "Oh, dear!"
Tyree strode over and steadied her as she stumbled. "Mrs. Yates, are you ill?" When she looked up at him, he gave his head a small shake. "Can I get you a glass of water?"
"Perhaps you could help me downstairs to my desk?"
"Of course."
"Ma'am, would you like me to call the paramedics?" Sully interjected, reaching for his cell phone.
"Heavens, no. No need for that. I'm fine, really."
Clara hurried over to her other side. "Are you sure?"
"I'll make certain of it," Tyree said. With that, he took gentle hold of Mrs. Yates's arm and helped her downstairs.
Soon as they'd rounded the corner to the lobby and were out of earshot, she turned to him, eyes anxious. "Is it really him?"
She looked so rattled, he was worried she might expire on the spot. Naturally, she knew all about Sully and, having worked at the museum for years, had recognized him instantly.
"I don't know," Tyree confessed. "He claims his name is Andre Sullivan and he's no relation."
She searched Tyree's face worriedly. "Do you believe him?"
He raked a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to believe."
Suddenly it occurred to him that Mrs. Yates was acting very agitated. Far more agitated than the situation, however complicated, warranted. It was, after all, Tyree who was cursed and stood to bear the brunt of whatever the man was up to.
"Mrs. Yates," he said, narrowing his gaze. "Do you know anything about this?"
She looked stricken. "Me?"
"You."
Closing her eyes, she fanned her face with her handkerchief. "Why, I can't imagine what you could possibly mean, Captain."
"Don't you 'captain' me, Lavinia Yates. What have you been up to?"
"Nothing," she insisted, the portrait of innocence. "Nothing at all. Now, I declare, you better get yourself upstairs and make sure he isn't working his magic on Clara."
He was about to tell her Sullivan was involved with another woman when her words suddenly struck him. Work his magic.
Maybe Sully hadn't come back to do mischief to Tyree. Maybe he'd come for Clara. Not to try his masculine wiles on her, but to involve her in Tyree's curse.
The words of the provision came back to him with a roar … until you find a love so strong the lady is willing to die in your place…
And they were looking through the diary at this very moment, which contained the full text of the curse.
Muttering a string of oaths he lowered Mrs. Yates into her desk chair, turned and shot up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Not bloody likely.
Not a chance in hell he'd stand idly by while Sully tricked his woman into giving up her life for him.
He'd do whatever it took to see that didn't happen. Even if it meant spending another two hundred years as a cursed soul. He'd gladly endure two thousand, if it meant keeping Clara safe.
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
"Just what the hell are you doing here?"
Clara jumped at Tyree's question, growled from the hall doorway behind her. The book she was holding slipped from her fingers as she whirled in surprise.
"What's wrong?"
"Where is he?" he demanded, gaze scanning the room.
"If you're referring to Andre Sullivan," she said, willing her pulse back to normal, "he's gone." And thank goodness for that, judging by the murderous expression on Tyree's face. "Why?"
"Did he look at Davey's journal? The one you have?"
"That's what he was here for, so of course he did."
Tyree's expression grew even blacker. "Did he say anything about it? Ask you anything?"
Where was this going? "He asked me where I'd gotten it."
"Did he read any of it?"
"Not really. Just a line here and there." Why was he so upset? Had something happened downstairs? "Tyree, what's going on?"
"And you? Have you been honoring our agreement regarding the diary?" he asked heatedly.
She eased out the breath she'd been holding ever since he stormed in. "I haven't read the entry from the day St. James died, if that's what you mean." Though for the life of her she couldn't figure out why she was still enabling his mania by going along with that request. Just to annoy him, she added, "Yet."
His answering look was dark and indecipherable. After a long silence, he finally said, "I see I'm fighting a losing battle. Would you like to know what the entry says?"
"Of course," Clara said carefully.
"Very well, I'll tell you."
She couldn't believe it. "Can't I just read the passage?"
"I'd rather tell you myself."
He paced restlessly away from her, then returned to stand directly before her. She didn't dare move away for fear he'd change his mind.
"Davey wrote down the entire text of the curse as it happened. At first, it's a bit jumbled. Something about the devil and flames and hell on earth. Then it gets specific and I am sentenced to haunt the earth for two hundred years, neither living nor dead. But at the last minute, Sully added a provision."