by Patti Berg
Kate smiled, and buried her face in her daughter’s hair. “We’re going to miss him, Case, but we’ll always have memories of our time together.”
“We can dream about him, too.”
“That’s right. Pleasant dreams. Ones that make you happy all through the night. Ones you remember the next day and the next.”
Casey snuggled close, and Kate rocked her gently. When she heard her daughter’s soft, gentle breathing, she carried her up the stairs and tucked her into bed. Smoothing a curl away from her brow, she kissed her.
“I love you,” Kate whispered, then wanted nothing more than to go to her own bedroom—and dream.
But her room felt big, and far too empty. Wind and the smell of rain blew in through the open French doors. She thought she’d closed them earlier, but maybe she hadn’t. She shut and latched them now, then sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed she’d shared with Joe, and touched the white ceramic frame that held a picture she’d taken of him on their sailboat. He’d been her dearest friend. Her lover. He’d been her life for so many years that it had seemed nearly impossible to go on without him. But she had gone on, and she’d found Morgan.
Morgan. She could still see his beloved face, hear the sound of his hypnotic voice, feel the beating of his heart. Memories of him were strong and powerful. Her fingertips could almost feel the sleek line of the scar on his face and the growth of whiskers breaking through on his cheeks. Her lips could almost feel the thick welts on his back, the curving scar on his hip. She knew the feel of the hair on his chest, brushing ever so lightly over her sensitive breasts, the taut stomach muscles she’d kissed when she’d begun her first intimate exploration of his body, the softness of his lips on her mouth.
She felt the comfort of his arms encircling her, the happiness that he poured into her with his kiss, his voice.
“I love you,” he’d whispered, and she’d been too foolish to whisper the same words back, even though she’d felt them in her heart.
He was gone, but she’d never forget him or stop loving him. He’d given her much more than he’d ever know—he’d given her hope, he’d given her a reason to stop dwelling on the past and start looking forward to the future.
He’d shown her that a heart could break—but a heart could also heal, and move on.
She lifted the picture of Joe that she still held in her lap, and looked at the old familiar face. She touched a finger to her lips and then to Joe’s smiling face, holding it there until she was able to smile. She took a deep breath, opened the dresser drawer, and put the picture inside.
“I’ll always love you,” she whispered, then closed the drawer.
Wiping a tear from her cheek, she left her bed room and walked down the hall to the room where Morgan had slept. She leaned against the doorjamb and looked inside, just as she’d done that day Casey had read to him in bed. His big, worn leather boots sat beside the nightstand, desperately in need of leather wax. His gray trousers with too many brass buttons in front hung over the back of a stiff wooden chair. The room seemed empty, but felt so full. This is where she’d shaved away his beard, where she’d kissed his wounds, where he’d asked her, in the midst of his fever, to climb into bed and keep him warm.
Someday she might be able to close Morgan’s memory away in a drawer, but not now.
She curled up in the bed where he’d slept, and drew his battle-and sea-weary velvet coat into her arms.
“I love you,” she whispered, and hoped he could hear her.
She closed her eyes, but sleep refused to come. Hunger gnawed at her belly, her heart ached, and she wanted nothing more than to be inside a ship’s cabin that smelled of cedar and salt water, where the floor swayed, and a strong, loving man stood looking out to sea.
Climbing from the bed, she slipped into Morgan’s coat, fastening the fifteen brass buttons in front. It hung past her knees, beyond her finger tips. It felt warm, and it carried Morgan’s scent, the natural muskiness of his body that reminded her once more that he’d been born more than three hundred years ago, that he was very different from a twentieth-century man.
He’d tried to be modern. He’d changed his clothes, but underneath the oxford shirt beat the heart of a pirate.
Smiling at all the memories she had, she went to the tall dresser to tuck in a bit of white cotton sticking out of a nearly closed drawer. She pulled it fully Open, and looked at a stack of neatly folded undershirts inside, with an assortment of colored boxers beside them, and at least half a dozen pair of white cotton socks.
Her mind quickly conjured a picture of Morgan going into a department store, feeling completely out of place in his pirate clothes. She saw a sales clerk coming up to him. “May I help you?” she’d ask, and his eyes would quickly scan her body before he’d accept her offer.
How odd it must have seemed to him to purchase clothes in 1998 instead of 1702. She wondered if he’d been baffled by the prices, by the plastic wrapping, and if he’d attempted to pay for his purchases with a gold doubloon, or a ruby or emerald or diamond.
She wished she’d been with him to ease him through the newness of everything. If he came back, she’d have another chance. There was so much about this time that she could teach him. And there was so much about life that he could teach he.
The black-and-white bag Morgan had asked Casey to take upstairs rested underneath the shirts, folded just as carefully as the underwear, and Kate took it out.
A cash register receipt rested at the bottom, face up, and she saw the price for each of the things in the drawer, but saw nothing noted for the Levi’s, the boots, or anything else.
The fear that had nagged at her earlier came back again with full force. She pulled out the receipt, hoping another one lay beneath it, but there was nothing more in the bag.
Where had he gotten the boots and clothes he’d been wearing? she wondered.
She rifled through the shorts and the socks, and in the toe of one she felt something thick and heavy, and also something round. Sticking her hand deep inside, she pulled out—
A wallet.
A man’s wedding ring.
Tears fell unbidden from her eyes as she looked at the plain golden band, at the inscription inside: AMF loves EDT—1963. When she opened the wallet, the Texas driver’s license stared up at her, and the face of a dead man.
Her fingers trembled, not so much with fear, but with the fact that she’d just found evidence that suggested Morgan was a murderer.
Damn you, Morgan! Damn you!
As if they were hot coals, she dropped both the ring and the wallet back onto the underwear and slammed the drawer shut. She didn’t want to look at them or touch them. She wanted to forget they were there, wanted to forget she’d ever seen them, but the part of her that had been a cop’s wife told her she had to call Nikki, told her that no matter how much she loved Morgan, he’d done something vile, something unforgivable.
And she’d slept with him.
What a fool she’d been.
Behind her she heard the sound of heavy boots. Cowboy boots.
Morgan’s distinctive walk.
Her heart hammered. Why couldn’t he have walked in five minutes before she’d found those horrid things in the drawer?
His fingers softly brushed over her hair. The heat of his body radiated through her clothes, warming her skin, wrapping around her cold, frightened heart.
“I have come to ask you to go home with me.”
One hand settled on her shoulder, the other caressed hair away from her neck, sending shocks of electricity skittering through her insides. Warm breath, like the whisper of an island breeze, swirled about her ear.
She jerked away, moving across the room, cowering beside the bed. Love had nothing to do with the feelings racing through her now.
He’d murdered in his past. She had evidence pointing to him as a murderer in the present. Yet he stood before her now, asking her to go far, far away with him, to be part of his life.
“Do not run awa
y from me, Kate. I apologize for last night,” he said. “’Twas wrong not to tell you I would be leaving tonight.”
Anger, love, and fear shot through her heart, her soul, more painful than anything she’d ever known. “Do you think I care about that anymore? Do you think I care for you at all, now that I know what you; are?”
“I have told you nothing but the truth about myself. I have held back little of my past.”
“I don’t care about your past. Not now. I don’t care about your future, either. Just get out of my house.”
He came toward her, his head shaking, a smile on his face. She wanted to rush into his arms, she wanted him to hold her and tell her he wasn’t a murderer, but she wouldn’t believe it. Not now.
She couldn’t let him touch her, couldn’t look into his eyes and fall back under his spell. She had to get away.
She rushed past him, out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and stopped when she reached the kitchen. She stood at the counter, staring down at the cold, white, empty kitchen sink.
Behind her she heard the swing of the kitchen door, the slow, heavy step of his boots on the hardwood floor.
Suddenly, strong, powerful hands pulled her back against a chest as hard as granite. Fingers clutched at her arms, refusing to let her go.
“Have I hurt you so greatly that you cannot look at me? Have I wronged you so much that you would send me away without a smile, a kiss?” His chest rose and fell heavily against her back. “Not even a farewell?”
Warm lips kissed her jaw, the hollow beneath her ear, and her head fell back against his powerful body.
“Do you not love me, Katie?”
The damnable knot that he could so easily cause to form in her throat settled there again. Of course she loved him. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be hurting so badly right now.
Still, she shook her head. “I don’t love you,” she said, turning slowly in his arms, daring to look into his eyes before she pushed away from his chest and moved a safe distance across the room.
She took a deep breath. “How could I love you when you’ve killed two people since you’ve been here?”
His eyes narrowed, and then he laughed. “I have killed no one…recently.”
“There’s evidence that says you have.”
“And what, pray tell, is this evidence?”
“Cowboy clothes.”
“I do not know the word ‘cowboy.’”
Kate hated hearing the sound of mock innocence in his voice. “Cowboy,” she said emphatically. “A man dressed in boots like you’re wearing. A man in jeans.”
A grir teased his lips. Damn it, she didn’t want him making light of the moment. Every time he did that he pulled her deeper into his hypnotic spell.
He looked down at his boots, at his jeans, then shrugged. “The haberdasher explained to me that this clothing is not customary in St. Augustine. I did not, however, choose to purchase the short pants and the odd-looking white shoes he thought would be the better choice. The fact that I’m wearing cowboy clothes seems to be flimsy evidence. Is there something else that makes you think I’ve murdered two men here in your city?”
“Gold doubloons.”
“I have many.”
“There was one in the dead coin dealer’s hand.”
His devilish laughter rang out again. “He was a coin dealer, madam, or have you forgotten?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. But it’s that gold doubloon that’s making the police look for a pirate. For you.”
“I’ve been branded before with even less evidence. But my dearest Kate, I would have thought you’d give me the benefit of the doubt, especially after last night.”
“Don’t make light of last night.”
“Tis not me who has forgotten what we shared. Tis you who calls me a murderer, even though you have no proof.”
“I do have proof.”
His eyebrow raised. “What? Another gold doubloon? These articles of clothing I wear? I beg you to tell me, Kate. What other proof do you have?”
“The things you left here.”
“I left many things behind. A jewel-hilted cutlass that saw me through many battles. A pistol. The dagger you once used to hold me at bay. I also left behind the coat you’re wearing…and my heart. I will not need that if I leave alone.”
She turned away, unable to look into the dark fathoms of his eyes. “What about the other things? The things you hid? Weren’t you afraid I’d find them?”
“My treasures?” He laughed. “I have riches hidden on my ship, on my island, and in ports too numerous to mention. I’m not the least concerned that you found a few dispensable trinkets. What do jewels or other riches mean to me if I can’t have you?”
She spun around. “How can you be so cold?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“You’re a murderer.”
“Ah, that again. You have evidence, weak as it is, but you have not asked me where I was at the time of the murders.”
“You weren’t with me. I know that much.”
“I read in your books that a person in this country is innocent until proven guilty. That does not seem to apply to me, though, does it?”
“I want you to be innocent. With all my heart I want to believe you.”
“Perhaps you should, but I have no alibi that can effectively ease the ache in your heart. I cannot tell you where I was when the first person was murdered, I’m not even sure where I was when the second murder occurred, but I did spend some time last night in one of your public houses, trying to get drunk.”
“Why?”
“So I could forget about you. Alas, I was not successful. No amount of rum will ever make me forget you. That is all that matters, Kate. Evidence be damned! My love for you should be enough to erase anything that attempts to come between us. Now, lest you have forgotten why I came here tonight, I will tell you again: I wish to take you back with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, forcing out each word. “Not now. Not ever. I’ve made myself accept the fact that you had to kill people in your own time, but you have no excuse for it now.”
“I offer no excuses, madam. Perhaps if you would stop haranguing me like a sea witch—”
Tears came. She couldn’t help it, not with the tone of his voice, that wouldn’t allow her to keep her anger at full force. “I’m not a sea hag,” she said amidst the flow of tears.
“Tis not a sea hag I have called you, Katie,” he said too tenderly. “Tis a sea witch you are. You have bewitched me, and not even your accusations will dampen my feelings for you.”
He tilted her chin and wiped away her tears with the rough pad of his thumb. He leaned over and kissed her lightly, his lips soft, tasting rich and wonderful.
“Go with me, Kate. I cannot bear to go back to my time without you.”
“I can’t.”
She took a deep, ragged breath, trying to collect her wavering emotions, and walked out of the kitchen, going to the living room and curling up in the storyteller’s chair with Raggedy Andy.
“I will ask you just once more: Go with me?” He stood in front of her with his feet spread wide, as if he were already standing on his ship, sailing back to the eighteenth century. Looking up through damp lashes, she could see his arms crossed over his chest, his glorious hair hanging over his shoulders so it brushed his folded arms. Gold rings gleamed in his ears, and a scar slashed across his face.
He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
He was the most tender man ever to touch her.
He was a pirate.
She loved him.
And he’d offered no excuses to prove his innocence.
He remained steadfast, never once changing his stance, looking all powerful as he stood above her.
Swallowing the anguish she felt inside, she looked down at the floor and whispered, “I can’t go with you.”
Kate watched one boot move, then the other, and finally heard him
pace across the living room. She looked up just long enough to see him standing with his back to the screen door. His eyes burned deep into hers, and she quickly looked back down at the floor.
“Have you forgotten what we shared last night?” he asked.
That was something she’d never forget. “No,” she whispered.
“Tis impossible for me to believe you. Tis easier for me to believe that what we shared was love on my part, and a sham on yours.”
“That’s not true.”
“Nay? Let me refresh your memory, madam. You came to the ship and begged me to make love to you. When I asked, like a gentleman, if that’s what you truly wanted, you told me, quite frankly, I might add—that that was the only reason you’d come.”
“I didn’t know what else to say.”
“That’s obvious, madam. You know quite well when to use your tongue and when to hold it. Too many times I have professed my feelings for you only to be met with silence or indifference. Now you accuse me of murder!”
He laughed, not devilishly this time, but with anger and scorn.
The screen door opened with a creak. “Do not feel that you have accused me wrongly, Kate. As I have told you before, I am a murderer. I have killed many, and when I return to my own time, I will, no doubt, resume that activity and continue it until I find Thomas Low. I am also a thief. Unfortunately, I have not been able to steal the only thing in this century that I have wanted. That, madam, is your heart. I’m afraid you keep it locked up far too tight.”
A tear spilled down Kate’s cheek when the screen door screeched shut. She didn’t bother to wipe it away, not when it was being joined by even more tears. Instead, she pulled Raggedy Andy into her arms and looked toward the door and the darkness outside.
“I love you, Morgan,” she whispered. “I love you.”
Chapter 18
And after all, what is a lie? Tis but
The truth in masquerade.
LORD BYRON, DON JUAN
The knock came unexpectedly, waking Kate from storm-tossed dreams of a sailing vessel fighting high waves, thunder, and lightning, while two men battled on her deck, fury etched deeply in their faces as swords slashed with deadly intent.