by Nina Bruhns
Tyree had obviously read the diary the night she'd found him sitting in the kitchen at the bungalow. And to think it had all sounded so real that she'd almost believed he was the ghost of St. James. She chuckled at her own naiveté.
"What?" he asked, looking up from the computer.
She came back to the present with an awkward awareness. She'd managed to avoid his searching looks or speaking to him, but she didn't like being outright rude.
"Just reading about the night of the duel."
His forehead pleated. "You find it amusing?"
"No." She shifted the book in her lap and sighed. "No. I was just— Anyway, I wondered about this bit of the curse." She turned the page back.
"Which bit?"
"The part where St. James says that thing about the fire."
Tyree leaned back in his seat. "Ah. You mean when Sully said, 'The only fortune I seek now is your soul cursed to eternal hell on earth,' and then I said, 'If so, I'll see you when the flames burn hottest, my friend.'"
She fiddled with the edge of the diary's thick parchment without looking at him. "Do you think the arsonist may know about the curse and is setting the fires because of it?"
He was silent for a moment. "I can't imagine why," he finally said. "Seems a stretch."
"Yeah," she agreed. "It was just a thought. Although … it is kind of strange that Sully's look-alike showed up at this particular time as the fire chief."
That made him smile. One of those sexy crooked ones. "Add it to the list of weird coincidences lately. It's getting pretty long."
"Hmm."
In case Tyree mistakenly thought she had started speaking to him again, she turned back to her reading.
It was interesting to learn what had happened in the aftermath of the duel. Apparently, each captain had left fairly specific instructions as to what would happen to his ship and crew in the event of his death. The fact that they both died simultaneously complicated matters, but in true pirate fashion new leaders were elected and took over with little dispute, carrying on the trade. Although there was some discussion over whether they should still consider themselves privateers or if they reverted to outlaw status, since the letters of marque were made out to the captains, not to the ships.
"I wonder whatever became of the Sea Sprite," she remarked without thinking.
"She went down in a gale off Barbados," he said. "1814, I believe." There was a melancholy in his voice that made her look up. "About a quarter of the crew perished. Davey Scraggs was among them."
"Oh! That's awful."
"Indeed."
It was uncanny how he knew everything about local history. "How did you learn all these things?"
He just gave her a sad smile. She shivered. It was almost as though…
Stop it.
There were no such things as ghosts. Or cursed spirits. He was as alive as she was. Just a little more … complicated.
She blew out a breath and went determinedly back to her reading. But almost immediately she ran across something that made her sit bolt upright in the leather sofa.
"Omigod!"
Her face must have reflected her excitement because he came to his feet immediately. "What have you found?"
"The treasure!" she exclaimed. "Remember the missing chest?"
He looked from her to the diary. "Davey took it? Not possible. He would never have—"
"No, no! Not Davey. A man named— Wait, let me read it instead." She lifted the book and read the spidery scrawl aloud.
"'T'night at the M&P John Peel come up all cherry merry and talking nonesuch about how he'd be a rich man soon. I pressed him and got a fantastical tale about how John follered the old Cap'ns one night to the place where they buried ther loot and he were goin' back to get it.'"
She looked up eagerly. "John Peel. Have you heard of him?"
"Aye, I remember him. He sailed with Sully. Older guy, with a passel of kids. He wasn't like the other men. He enjoyed the family life so he'd only go out with us every two or three years, just when he needed coin."
"Well, that would certainly give him motive."
Tyree looked somewhat baffled. "I suppose it does. Well, in that case, I don't begrudge him taking the chest. It's not like I needed it."
She smiled at his spirit of generosity to a beneficiary who had died generations ago. Had Tyree really recovered the rest of the treasure himself? He claimed he had. Of course, he also claimed he'd done it nearly two hundred years ago.
"I still wonder why Peel didn't go back for the other chests," she remarked.
She didn't doubt that whoever had recovered the bulk of the treasure, there'd been a chest missing. So far, every bit of historical detail Tyree had offered had proven correct. Lord knew where he'd learned it all, but it was always dead-on.
"Maybe he thought one chest of gold was enough?" Tyree tapped a finger on his chin. "Or he might have died before he could come back, as you suggested the other day."
"Is there any way to find out?"
"Clara," he said gently, "this doesn't really have anything to do with the fires."
"Tell me again why we care so much about who's setting the fires? I'm sure Jake Santee is making good progress with the arson investigation."
For a split second Tyree looked distinctly annoyed. Then he said, "You're right. And I guess it would be interesting to know if Peel did find the treasure. Does Davey say anything else about it in the diary?"
She pursed her lips. "I don't know. I haven't read beyond that entry."
"Why don't you skim through the rest and see if anything pops out at you about the treasure or … anything else."
"What will you do?"
He sat back down at the computer. "I want to check something out. There was a big lumber outfit called Peel Timber Mills that started in the early 1800s. If John Peel actually found the treasure, he may have used it to start the company."
She'd barely gotten into her task when Tyree slapped the desk in triumph. "I'll be damned. John Peel did found Peel Timber Mills! And he died less than a year later."
"Let's see," she said, and went to stand next to him.
"I remembered the mills went bankrupt just a few years ago. This is a newspaper article that was run at the time on the history of the company."
She read over his shoulder. "Wow. Quite a colorful account. And it explains why he didn't go back for the other chests."
"Thank goodness, otherwise I'd— Well, I'll be double-damned," he said, pointing to a paragraph she hadn't reached yet. "Look who's a direct descendant of John Peel."
"Maybelle Chadbourn!"
"Our favorite penny dreadful author and founder of the Magnolia Cove Pirate Museum."
Clara stared at the screen, nonplussed. "That's interesting. But I'm not sure what it means."
"Probably nothing." He leaned back in his chair and turned to face her. "There was no doubt a family legend about their money coming from pirating and she got caught up in it." He gazed up at her sardonically. "Much as you did."
She bristled. "I only collected a few swords and ships-in-a-bottle, not a whole museum."
"Yet, here you are," he said mildly, and caught her around the hips. "Thank God." He tugged her close, into the V of his legs.
"Tyree—" She put her hands on his shoulders to keep him from dragging her closer still, but to no use. It was like trying to stop the continental plates from shifting.
He buried his face against her midriff, a motion that brought back a flood of sensual memories. Memories she didn't need right now.
"Please. Don't do this," she pleaded hoarsely.
"I can't let you go, Clara," he said, and pressed a kiss to her abdomen. "I understand you're angry and disappointed. I even understand if you don't want to sleep with me again, though Lord knows I'll try to change your mind." He gazed up at her. "But don't ask me to give up our closeness. I'll go mad if I can't hold you. Just hold you."
She squeezed her eyes shut against the desperation, against the tea
rs that threatened to break through her crumbling strength of will.
Could she do it? Let him back into her arms and therefore her heart? If she did, what would become of her after he was gone? What would happen to her if she didn't? If she let these last two days slip away, without the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, the comfort of his embrace?
Either way, she would lose.
He said he was destined to die on Saturday, but she was beginning to think he had it all wrong.
She was the one who'd surely perish come Saturday.
Of a broken heart.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
"I never meant to hurt you," Tyree whispered. "I need you to believe that."
Clara didn't know if it really was anger or if it was her bitter disappointment that metamorphosed into self-preservation, but suddenly she was fuming.
"Why?" she asked. "So you can feel less guilty as you go off into outer space, or wherever the heck you're going? Or maybe you're not going anywhere, maybe you just—"
"Clara!" he said, giving her hips a firm but gentle shake. "Don't do this."
She pressed her lips together. The truth was, she was being unreasonable. A petulant child throwing a tantrum when her favorite toy was taken away. A toy she'd known from the beginning wasn't hers to keep.
Her anger deflated, but not the hurt. "I'm sorry. I can't help it." Tyree was so much more important to her than any plaything. Too bad he saw this all as some kind of game.
"I'd give anything for things to be different, but they aren't," he said.
"I get it," she assured him. She also had hopes and dreams for her life and they didn't include his fantasy world. "Please, let go of me."
He did, slowly, reluctantly, his expression filled with an emotion she couldn't name and didn't want to think about.
"I'm going to bed," she stated. "Alone. And I'm locking the door. Please don't use the secret passage," she added, certain there must be one in the bungalow since locks hadn't stopped him before.
He didn't say anything. Just watched her gather her things and hold out her hand for the key to his office door. He looked at her open palm, then up into her eyes.
They stared at each other, a silent battle of wills.
Oh, God, she thought.
He wasn't going to let her go.
* * *
There was something about having a woman captive that brought out the worst in a man.
Tyree had witnessed the phenomenon on several occasions during his career, but thankfully had never himself felt the primitive urge to dominate. The closest he'd come was with that Irish wench, but it had been she who'd had the urge, not him.
Until now.
He was oh-so-tempted to keep the key in his pocket and make Clara stay with him. Make her slip out of her clothes and lie back on his oversized, butter-soft, brown leather sofa. So he could feast his eyes and memorize every inch of her, every smooth, beautiful part of her body.
So he could remember exactly what she looked like and, when he got to where he was going, bring out that memory and savor how she had been his for a few precious days.
And long for her. And kick himself for not finding a way to be with her forever.
Inwardly, he swore fiercely. God's Teeth, this was worse than being tied to a stake at low tide to drown when it came up.
He jammed his hand into his pocket and fished out the key, slapping it onto her palm. "I promise nothing," he said by way of salving his frustration.
Her eyes widened, but she didn't give him an argument. She just whirled and fumbled to get the key in the lock, finally succeeded and fled down the stairs.
He strode out onto the back gallery and watched by the rail as her shadow scurried from the house and down the path to the bungalow, hearing the firm smack of the door shutting behind her. Then everything was quiet.
The orchestra of cicadas and other insects gradually took up their instruments and began a lullaby of soft night music. But there would be no sleep for him. Suddenly, he felt the weariness of two hundred years of being awake. Saturday's conclusion beckoned, holding out the prospect of eternal peace and slumber. An end to this unnatural purgatory.
Nay!
This was no way to think. He still had two days to find a means to turn the tides.
Shaking off his lassitude, he stalked back into his office, furious at his brief impulse to give up. Tyree St. James never gave up! He always got what he wanted, come hellfire or brimstone. Which, in this case, were both distinct possibilities.
He swept over to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases where he kept his special collection of books on curses and spells. He'd carefully studied every one of the hundreds of volumes, trying over the decades every possible spell and counterspell that might counteract Sully's curse. Nothing had worked. But maybe he'd missed something.
Starting with the top shelf, he methodically went through each of the books, praying for some new bit of voodoo to show up in their pages that he'd somehow overlooked in the past. But the only thing he discovered was that he must have been very distracted last time he'd gone through them. Some of the books were out of order, and one was missing from its usual spot. At least, he thought it was missing. But in his present state of mind, who knew.
He made himself stop about an hour before dawn. By then, he'd tried reciting half a dozen incantations and had gathered a pile of about five books, which contained cryptic spells that required a second person to perform them over him. He'd ask Mrs. Yates to do the honors later today, just as in the past he'd asked his other caretakers. In his heart, he despaired of any of the spells working this time, either, but he couldn't give up. He'd try them again, and pray something would be different now. Something that would awaken the magic in the words and allow him to remain on earth.
With Clara.
His soul gladdened at the thought.
But what would happen then?
Would he go on for the rest of eternity as a restless spirit, doomed to walk the twilight path between life and death, unseen to all but a few, condemned to watch everyone he loved grow old and die before his eyes? The very state he'd longed for an end to, with every fiber of his being, for nearly as long as he could remember?
Could he really continue like that?
He thought of Rosalind; young, beautiful, vivacious Rosalind, who had been so faithful a companion for so many years. His heart wept at the sacrifices she'd made to remain with him.
Could he do the same to Clara?
Rosalind had been a woman of her time, raised to marry and make her husband's life her own. But Clara was different. She had no intention of becoming an appendage to a man, any man, husband or no. It would kill her soul and spirit to bury herself here at Rose Cottage for her whole life. There were too many things she had yet to see, to experience. And what would she do when she realized he would never age, would always appear a man in his prime, whereas she would lose her youthful outer beauty, her smooth skin and lively step?
Tyree ground his eyes shut, stifling a groan of anguish.
He couldn't do it to her. He'd been dreaming to think he could stay with her. It would be too cruel and selfish.
Nay, he must make the sacrifice this time. And free his love to live the life she deserved, even if it be without him.
But he'd be damned if he'd waste a single minute of the time they had left together.
Determinedly, he rose from his chair and made a beeline for the bungalow. At least he could hold her as she slept. Give her comfort in her dreams. Ease the prospect of his own bleak destiny, if only for the few hours until dawn.
And maybe, just maybe, she would find it in her heart to forgive him when he left her.
* * *
Clara knew she was in trouble the second she awoke in Tyree's arms. Or more accurately, plastered over his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, holding on to him as if there were no tomorrow.
He was awake, stroking her back with lon
g fingers that felt arousingly male and sensually in command.
"I thought I told you not to use the secret passage," she muttered testily. This was ridiculous. She didn't want to feel aroused or sensual. She wanted to feel furious.
"I didn't," he said.
Oh, that's right. The man walked through doors. How could she have forgotten?
"And I made no promises," he added.
She gasped when he rolled her under him. Back in his pirate clothes, white shirt billowing, dun breeches clinging like a second skin, he was handsome and exotic, irresistibly compelling as he scraped stray strands of hair from her face and drew those powerful fingers along her cheekbones.
"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly. Excited by the blatant desire shining in his eyes. Appalled at how easily he was able to break down her firmest resolve not to have anything more to do with him.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss under her ear. "Don't worry. I'm not seducing you."
"Oh, really?" She didn't know whether to be happy or mad. Or even to believe him…
He kissed the spot right next to the corner of her mouth. "Unless you've changed your mind?"
"Not likely."
"But possible."
"No," she made herself say.
He sighed but didn't move other than to settle his body more comfortably over hers, stretching out far past her toes. His strong arms bracketed her head and shoulders, supporting his weight so he didn't crush her.
She closed her eyes and willed herself not to enjoy the feel of him quite so much. But it was no use.
This was so unfair. He played dirty.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
He brushed a kiss into her hair and inhaled deeply. "Just to hold you while we plan our day."
Uh-huh. "What kind of plans did you have in mind?"
He lifted up and met her gaze for a moment, to her surprise visibly focusing.
"I never got around to mentioning it last night," he said, "because we got distracted tracking down John Peel, but I managed to find the whereabouts of three more of Davey Scraggs's diaries. I think we—that is, you—should talk to the people who own them."