by Patti Berg
“Oh.” His declaration left her nearly speechless, and heat rose to her face. She turned away so he couldn’t see the frustration rushing through her, the emotions she didn’t know how to handle.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to speak rationally. “So, how much longer do you think you’ll be here?”
“A day. Two perhaps. Satan’s Revenge is being repaired. Once that is complete, I will find a way to avoid the guards and sail away. ’Twill not be easy without a crew.”
“Maybe you could shanghai a sailor or two.” She laughed lightly in spite of the anguish tearing through her.
She could hear him walk toward her, felt the soft brush of his chest against her back. “There is only one shipmate I would want at my side,” he said softly. “But I cannot ask her to give up her life in this century to go with me.”
She ignored his words, fighting to keep her emotions under control. Ignoring the gentle touch of his fingers as he smoothed hair away from the back of her neck was harder to do, especially when he leaned close and whispered into her ear. “Will you miss me when I go?”
Of course she would, but what difference would that make to him? He was going to leave whether she had feelings for him or not.
She pulled away. “Casey’s going to miss you. I imagine my aunt will, too.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Kate. Will you miss me?”
She shook her head, working up the courage to tell him a bald-faced lie—that she wouldn’t miss him at all. “You’ve caused nothing but trouble since you walked into my life,” she declared. “You’re a pirate, and I’m the widow of a police officer who used to arrest men like you, men who take what they want, when they want it, and to hell with what’s right or wrong.”
He gripped her arms, pulling her against his chest. “Will you miss me?”
“No. I can’t afford an extra mouth to feed, and I can’t stand having my life disrupted.”
His hands fell away from her arms. She heard him take a step back. Heard his frustrated and angry sigh.
Wrapping her fingers tightly around the railing, she stared absently at the jasmine and gardenias.
He didn’t move. He didn’t touch her. Silence hung around her as heavy and stifling as the humidity in the air.
Without a word he marched from the porch, his heavy footsteps beating like sledgehammers on the planks, on the stairs. She heard the crunch of his boots on the gravel-and-crushed shell walk, then absolute quiet. Suddenly she heard his tread again, as if he’d changed his mind about leaving. She heard him crossing the mushy, rain-soaked lawn, heard the rustle of shrubbery just before his powerful body materialized before her.
Grabbing her hand from the railing, he shoved something small and gold into her palm, then squeezed her fingers into a fist around it.
“That, madam, is a gold doubloon. It is worth a small fortune, or so I have been told by a very curious St. Augustine shopkeeper. I have many of them. I have jewels, too. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds—and any one of them, my dearest Kate, will more than pay for the room and board you have given me.”
He took hold of her other hand and placed another doubloon inside, also tightening that hand into a fist. “That is for the generosity you will continue to show me, because I have nowhere else to go and am of no mind to look for other lodging. When I am ready to leave, I will give you even more.”
“I don’t want anything from you, especially ill-gotten goods.”
She started to throw the doubloons in his face, but he trapped her fists in his hands. She could almost hear the grind of his teeth. “You have a closed mind, madam. One that concocts its own beliefs in people, without seeking to know the truth.”
“That’s not true.”
“What do you know of my life before or after I became a pirate? You know nothing, Kate, only what you read in those spurious books in your dead husband’s office. I am a thief, a murderer. And I have a black heart that is as cold as the icy Atlantic. Believe the worst, if you want. I will not attempt to tell you anything different. But I will tell you one thing, where you are concerned: I do not always take what I want when I want it. If I did, you would have been in my bed days ago.”
With that he was gone, his long legs, his furious pace, carrying him down the street and out of sight.
And tears rushed from Kate’s eyes, tears she didn’t bother to wipe away, tears that were shed because she wanted him in her life but didn’t have the courage to make room for him in her heart.
No one stared at him when he walked into the public house. The men did not seem to care that his hair was longer than most other men’s, that he wore rings in his ears, or that he had a menacing scar on his face. They seemed to be interested only in the darts they were tossing, the billiard balls they were hitting, and the comely redhead leaning against the bar watching them with a seductive smile and teasing eyes.
Morgan skirted past them, ordered a rum from the innkeeper, and made his way to a table in a darkened corner of the tavern, not too far from a door with an exit sign above it. Years of hiding, of being cautious, had taught him to look for a ready means of escape, should the need arise.
He leaned back in the hard wooden chair and sipped his rum. It tasted watered down, an inferior quality, to be sure. Still, it warmed his throat, and if he drank enough, it might dull the ache that ripped at his heart.
Damn fool woman! She fought him with every ounce of breath, but beneath her resolve, he sensed passion burning to be shared. She had loved her husband, perhaps she still did, but he’d been dead many a year and ’twas long past time she stopped denying her needs.
He tossed down a swig of rum and thought about the heat of Kate’s skin against his, the radiance of her emerald eyes, the silkiness of her hair when it smoothed over his cheek. He longed to hold her in his arms, to sweep his hands along the curves of her body, over her soft, lush breasts. He wanted to taste the sweetness of her mouth, wanted to slide his fingers up the insides of her thighs, and stroke the warm, moist center of her being.
He wanted to love her—at least once before he made his way back to his own time. He wanted to drag memories of her back to the past with him, because, God forbid, he’d never find anyone like her again.
“Would you like another rum?”
The voice startled him, and Morgan looked into the eyes of the tempting redhead he’d seen leaning against the bar. She could readily ease the need raging in his loins, but it wasn’t a quick tumble that he wanted.
He wanted Kate. Rum might quench his thirst, but it could never numb his desire.
“One more,” he stated, swallowing the last drop in his glass. He pulled a wad of green bills from his pocket and placed one marked with a 50 in the woman’s hand. “Bring me a better quality this time. Something stronger.”
She stared at the money, then looked at him and smiled. “Maybe you’d like some company, too?”
He shook his head. “Just the rum.”
“You’re sure?”
“Aye.”
The woman laughed. “Suit yourself.”
He wanted Kate, but the rum would have to suffice.
Again he leaned back in the chair and studied the intricate drawings on the paper money. The coin dealer had given him far more than he’d ever expected for a gold doubloon and a silver piece of eight. The man had wanted to purchase even more, but Morgan had seen the gleam in his eye as he’d studied the coins. No doubt they were worth far more than the cunning devil had offered.
Still Morgan had taken the money. Using gold and silver for his purchases the day before had drawn too much attention. The paper money he’d used to pay for his drinks had raised not even one brow. ’Twas best to stay inconspicuous.
The redhead slid another glass of rum in front of him, then sauntered off, her slender hips swaying before his eyes. Disinterested in her too obvious moves, Morgan took a sip of the rum, favoring the way this darker and more potent drink burned his throat. At last he’d found something
that suited his needs.
Across the dimly lit room, the door opened, letting in a stream of streetlight and a woman who looked vaguely familiar. Blond. Of average height. Pretty, even though she had a hardened expression on her face.
She was the woman he’d seen on Satan’s Revenge.
Morgan leaned back, letting the shadows cover his face, and listened intently to the woman’s exchange with the innkeeper and redhead.
“There’s a strong possibility he’s dressed as a pirate,” the woman said. Her back was to Morgan as she addressed the fellow behind the bar. “A big guy. Long dark hair. I’m sure you’d remember him if you saw him.”
The redhead turned her head, looking at Morgan over her shoulder. A generous smile curved her painted lips, and she moved over a step or two, so Morgan wouldn’t be seen by the woman from the ship.
Morgan winked, pulled another one of the bills from his pocket, and tucked it under his glass then quietly, stealthily, opened the exit door and slipped out of the tavern.
The night was warm, humid. Dark, threatening clouds littered the sky, but thankfully the streets were still buzzing with people, and he wove between men, women, children, and hand-holding couples until he was far from the inn.
When he neared the shop where he’d sold his coins, he slowed. A crowd swarmed in front of the building, and that same yellow and black ribbon that had surrounded Satan’s Revenge had been strung up to keep the spectators from getting too close. Red lights flashed on top of nearly half a dozen vehicles, and people in various uniforms scurried about.
Two men bearing a stretcher emerged from the shop. A black bag rested on top, its silhouette taking the form of a man—a man with the same exceedingly large girth as the coin dealer Morgan had spent time with earlier.
He moved closer, peering over the shoulder of an elderly gentleman whose height came close to matching his own. Morgan watched the blond woman from the ship walk up the street and stop beside the vehicle where the stretcher had been placed. She gripped the edge of the door, stared at the black bag for a moment, then shook her head. She twisted around, exchanged a few words with a man in uniform, then looked out at the crowd, searching, Morgan imagined, for him.
“Hey, Sergeant!” someone called out from the door of the building, and the woman turned and walked toward the shop, disappearing into the well-lit interior.
Morgan expelled the breath he’d been holding. He was guilty of nothing, but still he had to hide. Going back to Satan’s Revenge was his only option. He could stay out of sight there, and when the ship was repaired, he could sail away.
And never see Kate again.
’Twould be for the best, he told himself, although his heart ached at the thought.
Working his way through the mass of bodies, Morgan came to a sudden stop when he saw a pair of cold brown eyes staring at him through the crowd. An instant later, they were gone.
Morgan’s pace quickened as he shouldered through the gathering. The eyes had looked familiar. They’d looked evil, vile, like the eyes of Thomas Low. But Low had survived the storm three hundred years ago. He’d died at his estate in Dover—he hadn’t traveled through time.
Still, Morgan searched the crowd, looked up and down the street, but he saw no one with eyes like Thomas Low’s.
’Twas the murders that had made him see those evil eyes. The coin dealer’s death brought back too strong a reminder of what Low had done to Morgan’s family. No wonder he’d seen those eyes in the crowd. The sooner he got back to his own time, the sooner he wreaked his revenge on Thomas Low, the sooner his mind would ease, and he’d cease seeing Low in his nightmares—and in the faces of strangers in a crowd.
Chapter 13
’Twas but an instant past—and here he stood!
And now—without the portal’s porch she rush’d,
And then at length her tears in freedom rush’d;
Big—bright—and fast, unknown to her they fell;
But still her lips refused to send—“Farewell!”
LORD BYRON, THE CORSAIR
It was well past midnight when Kate uncurled her body from the front porch swing and stood at the railing. For long hours she’d waited for Morgan’s return. Now, she hoped that if she waited just another minute or two, she’d hear his boots crunch on the walkway, see the moonlight shining on his hair.
But he did not come.
Off in the distance she heard the mournful cry of a siren, the barks and howls of dogs disturbed by the noise. Deep inside her chest, she thought her heart had ceased to beat, that the only thing keeping her alive right now was the worry that pulsed in her brain.
Was he hurt?
Dead?
Mad?
Ready to strangle her for being so cruel?
She wondered if she would ever see him again.
His smile.
His scar.
The dimples at the corners of his mouth.
When she shut out all the noises and sights around her, he came to her in an instant, his azure eyes sparkling brighter than all the wishing stars in the nighttime sky, his hair swirling in the wind, wrapping around her like millions of silky ropes, pulling her close, so very, very close.
Once again she could feel the whispery touch of his lips on her jaw, the feathery caress of his fingers over her cheeks. And his words. My God, his words. “Ah, Katie. I will miss you greatly when I go.”
“Don’t go,” she whispered into the air, and prayed that the breeze would carry it to his ear.
Another siren screamed, its sound reverberating through the thick, humid night, through her fearful thoughts.
She had to find him. She had to.
If only to see him one last time, if only to kiss him good-bye.
Running into the house and up to her bedroom, she slipped out of her shorts and into jeans and tennis shoes, wrapped a light sweater about her shoulders, and shoved her house key and wallet into her pocket.
The grandfather clock downstairs struck one time as she rushed through the door and out to the street. The bars in the old part of town would still be open and she hoped he’d stopped off in one for a drink. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was sitting on a park bench, staring at all the new and different things in this century, or that he’d gone to the castillo, or to his ship.
He could have left this century entirely.
That thought ate away at her. She had to find him.
No cars passed her as she strolled up St. George toward the center of the city. It was quiet. Much too quiet. Even though she knew it was senseless, she peeked behind bushes, around trees, and in between houses lining the street. She peeked into the dark recesses of one bar, and when she saw no one familiar, she admitted to herself that Morgan would have gone to his ship—and he would be trying to go back home.
She headed for the bridge that would take her to the island where the ship was moored. Just before she reached the Episcopal church, the sound of footsteps joined hers on the street. Her heart slammed in her chest, and she jerked around, but no one was there.
No one.
She walked faster, and the steps caught up with hers again.
Her strides lengthened. Her pace quickened, faster, faster, as a lump formed deep in her throat.
Another block. Another. Still the heavy, evenly spaced footfalls followed her. Could it be Morgan, watching her every move? No, he wouldn’t frighten her that way.
She came to a dead stop at Cathedral Place, and spun around, ready to confront whoever was stalking her trail. But there was no one in sight.
Not a man.
Not a woman.
Not a child, or even a dog.
She was all alone.
In the dark.
And she was frightened.
She jogged the next block, wanting to get away from the confinement of buildings, desperately needing to get to the bridge and out into the open where she could have a better view of what—or who—was around her.
When she saw
the marina, she took a deep breath and slowed her pace. She hadn’t heard the footsteps for nearly a block. She hadn’t seen another person at all, and she laughed, sure that her imagination had been playing tricks on her.
“Good evening.”
The sudden, unexpected voice surprised her. Her shoe stubbed on a raised section of sidewalk, and she tripped, but an elegant hand reached out and caught her before she fell.
“I did not mean to startle you,” the man said in a slow, deep, vaguely accented voice. “Forgive me. Please.”
She pulled away, instantly putting her hand over her chest, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart, but the effort was useless.
The man looked harmless, but still she was alarmed by the way he’d appeared out of nowhere.
“Lovely night for a walk.”
“I’m meeting someone. A friend.” The words rushed out of her mouth as she backed away, tripping again, and once more she nearly lost her balance.
The tall, slender man with jet black hair and a well-trimmed beard and mustache cupped her elbow. He looked as if he could have stepped out of the pages of GQ, but that didn’t make Kate want to stop for a chat.
“I really have to be going.”
“Perhaps I should escort you. I’m sure your friend wouldn’t mind, not at this time of night.”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
He smiled, and she couldn’t miss his pearly white teeth, his icy brown eyes. “Be careful, then.”
She rushed off, not looking back, her jog turning into a run as she reached the Bridge of Lions, a run that consumed nearly all her breath, all her strength. At the far end she stopped long enough to look back across the deserted bridge, but the man who’d helped her was nowhere in sight.
She closed her eyes, saying a short, simple prayer of thanks, and adding one for protection, then heard the sound of a car’s engine slowing down beside her.