Time After Time (199 page)

Kegs of water, barrels of flour and oats filled the hold, enough for a good, long journey, although Tristan did wonder how many men Miss McCreigh thought she’d be feeding and if she didn’t know they’d be putting into port often.

A small ship by most standards, the
Adventurer
was built for speed and her crew numbered only twenty-four, not including his officers or Jemmy.

Chickens squawked and if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought he heard the plaintive bleating of a goat. His grin widened. They’d have fresh milk. Bright yellow bananas, scarlet apples, and other colorful fruit filled several wooden boxes and kept company beside sacks of potatoes and rice. Coffee beans and small tins of tea had been packed in the galley. Crates of wine and other spirits were delivered, too, packed in such a way as to survive even the worst of storms. Beef and ham, smoked and packed in finely ground charcoal, rested beneath sausage links suspended from hooks in the ceiling.

No detail went unnoticed. She’d even thought of cords of wood for the stove in the galley and a small, brass hipbath.

Though he hadn’t seen her since the night he’d found her on his ship, he’d heard from her in the form of short notes written in her beautiful penmanship, all scented with her unique perfume. Her maps had been delivered the day after they’d met and he’d studied them—to his utter frustration. He compared hers to his, making tick marks on the islands already searched, but no matter how long he stared at said maps, he couldn’t find the Island of the Sleeping Man. It simply did not exist.

Izzy’s Fortune. If the island didn’t exist, then perhaps the treasure didn’t either. And yet, he still believed. He’d seen the jewel encrusted goblet, hadn’t he?

Am I just on a fool’s mission to avoid the inevitable? Should I sail home to England and at least get to know my future wife before we’re expected to fall into bed and produce an heir?

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and focused his attention on the maps spread out on his desk. The shouts from the men continued, the creaking of ropes and pulleys in need of lubrication as the supplies were lowered below deck sounded loud even in his cabin with the door closed.

He drew his finger across the island of Tortuga, Morgan’s base of operations for many years as well as a safe haven for other pirates who roamed the Caribbean. Was it possible Morgan knew what Alexander Pembrook had done and retaken the treasure?

Yes, anything was possible. And who knew what had happened over the past one hundred and sixty years. Time and Mother Nature were fickle mistresses. Earthquakes, fires, and hurricanes changed the landscape. Entire towns, or a grand portion of them, tumbled into the sea, which had been Port Royal’s fate in 1693, and although rebuilt, some things were lost forever.

And yet, anticipation swept over Tristan. His pulse quickened. Every nerve in his body quivered with excitement. He couldn’t wait to begin this adventure. Even the knowledge that this was his last one before he settled into married life couldn’t put a damper on his growing enthusiasm.

The shouting of the men changed in tone, then all sounds ceased. An eerie silence settled around him. He heard nothing, not even the creaking of the ropes. With a sigh, Tristan rolled up all the maps in one long, thick tube, placed them in a cabinet above the desk, and smothered a curse when he stubbed his toe on Caralyn’s trunk resting by the door.

On deck, the men, almost every single one of them, stood in a circle. The faces he could see were a mixture of awe, suspicion, confusion, and derision. They mumbled among themselves, whispered comments and opinions Tristan couldn’t quite hear. Graham Alcott and the ship’s physician, Brady Trevelyan, uninvolved in the disturbance, leaned against the brass railing on the opposite side of the deck. Tristan caught Graham’s eye, but the man only grinned, held up his hands in mock surrender, and shook his head. Tristan would get no help from that quarter.

“What is all this?” Irritated, stubbed toe throbbing inside his boot, Tristan stalked across the deck, pushed aside several crewmembers, and entered the circle. And then he knew what had caused the sudden, deafening silence. Irritation quickly turned to amusement and his heart lightened in his chest.

More beautiful than he remembered, Caralyn McCreigh stood as tall as her petite stature would allow, shoulders back. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed as she turned in a slow circle and stared each man down. A light breeze fluttered the tendrils of sun-kissed brown hair around her face. “I have permission to board this ship.” Her voice rang out clear as a bell and sharp as diamonds as her gaze fell upon him. “Tell them.”

This may well prove to be the grandest adventure
. The thought fluttered through Tristan’s mind and made him more anxious to begin their journey.

He grinned and swallowed a sudden burst of laughter. If the crew thought they could intimidate her, they’d be sadly mistaken. One look at Caralyn’s flashing eyes should tell them she would not be bullied. Not even by MacTavish, the bandy-legged Scotsman, who stood almost toe-to-toe with her, his bushy mustache a white slash in the middle of his red face.

Tristan cleared his throat, reached out, and took her hand, drawing her closer to him. Heat sizzled up his arm and his heart skipped a beat only to resume with a painful thud. “May I present Miss Caralyn McCreigh, our benefactor for this treasure hunt?” He smiled at her then noticed the metal cage in her grip. “And who is this?”

Caralyn held up the cage. “This is Smudge, my mouser. I cannot abide mice or other vermin aboard ship.” The cat blinked her huge, yellow eyes then stretched one paw from between the metal bars and showed everyone her long, menacing claws. The tight circle of men loosened, each one backing up a step or two. Tristan stared at the cat and smothered a groan. Though he didn’t share them, he understood his men’s superstitions. The cat might be more trouble than having a woman on board, and yet the sight of the feline didn’t dampen his excitement.

“Why don’t you wait for me in my cabin?”

“Of course.” Caralyn gave a slight nod, then head held high, skirts swishing around her, she swept past the men and disappeared through the doorway beneath the quarterdeck. As soon as she was gone, the circle tightened again, leaving Tristan in the middle this time.

He turned slowly and faced each one of his crew until he came face to face with MacTavish. “Is there a problem?”

The Scotsman returned his stare without flinching. His face reddened even more and his body stiffened, prepared for confrontation. Though shorter than the rest of his crewmates, the man’s barrel-chest and thick, muscular arms made him appear larger. “We canna sail with a woman aboard ship.” MacTavish’s mustache twitched as he said the words in his heavy Scottish brogue. “’Tis bad luck, as ye well know.”

Tristan eyed the quartermaster and forced his clenched fists to relax. He understood. He truly did. The men had their beliefs. However, the
Adventurer
was
his
ship.
He
captained her. If he decided to allow a woman on board, then so be it. “I’m sorry you all feel this way. Miss McCreigh has great knowledge of Izzy’s Fortune and she has provided us with the provisions you loaded into the hold today. Perhaps you can overcome your superstitions in light of that.”

MacTavish rocked on his heels and crossed his arms over his wide chest. As the unofficial spokesman for the group, he had a lot to consider. After a moment, he held up one finger and turned to the rest of the crew.

Tristan left the circle and leaned against the ship’s brass railing as MacTavish spoke with the men. After a series of soft-spoken questions and many hand gestures, the quartermaster joined him at the rail. “The woman we can abide, I suppose, but that . . . that black demon . . .” He shuddered. “A black cat, Cap’n, is worse than a woman on ship. The men refuse.”

Tristan’s jaw clenched. The beat of his heart elevated and pulsed in his neck. He rubbed the back of his neck to relieve the building tension. “That’s their decision. They’re more than welcome to leave now.” He took a deep breath to still his anger and exhaled slowly. “I am captain of this ship. Miss McCreigh is my guest . . . as is her cat.”

The Scotsman’s face drained of color. “But, Cap’n—”

Tristan cut him off, his words clipped, his voice commanding. “Make the decision, Mac. We set sail in less than thirty minutes. I suggest you make preparations.”

He turned on his heel and noticed Jemmy for the first time. The boy clung to a rope swinging from the main mast, but his eyes were on the doorway where Caralyn had disappeared. Tristan tried not to smile. Jemmy seemed truly and utterly smitten with their guest, if he were to judge by the wide eyes, toothy grin, and long sigh that escaped the lad.

All of eight, bearing the silky blond hair and cornflower blue eyes of his mother, Jemmy faced him, saluted and as agile as a monkey, climbed higher on the rope. A blend of pride and fear overwhelmed Tristan and his heart swelled with love for the boy he’d adopted. He couldn’t resist the urge to call out a warning. “Be careful, Jemmy.”

The boy saluted once more and disappeared into the crow’s nest.

Tristan traversed the short corridor that separated his cabin from his officer’s quarters and entered his room to find Caralyn unpacking her trunk and hanging day dresses in the built-in cabinet. Smudge purred from her perch amid the pile of clothes—his clothes—on the bunk. The cat’s huge, pale yellow eyes opened and closed slowly, almost hypnotically before she stretched out a paw and began to bathe herself.

He cleared his throat.

Caralyn gave a short, startled squeak then whirled around to face him, eyes wide and beguiling. She held a frilly petticoat up to her chest. “I beg your pardon. I would appreciate it if you would knock before entering my cabin.”

More amused than angry, although he should have been, Tristan leaned against the doorjamb and grinned as he twisted his ring around his finger. “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

“Yes.” She shook the wrinkles from the pristine petticoat in her hand as her eyes darted around the rich mahogany-paneled cabin. “I believe I shall be quite comfortable.”

His gaze went from her and the lace-trimmed undergarment in her hand to the pile of silk stockings and frilly drawers on the chair. “You should be comfortable, milady. This is, after all, the captain’s cabin. My cabin, to be more specific.” His smile grew as wicked thoughts swept through his brain and a surge of desire heated his blood. “Were you planning on spending the voyage with me?”

A blush crept up her neck and stained her face. Her eyes widened even more and turned a slightly darker blue. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she whispered, “But my trunk was here. I thought . . .”

Those enticing thoughts careened through his brain faster and faster. To spend time with a beautiful woman—this woman—making love couldn’t have appealed to him more. He imagined how silky her skin would feel beneath his fingers, how her face would flush as he brought her to climax time after time. His body reacted as blood flowed from his brain to his groin. The cabin became too warm, too stifling, as the evidence of his arousal pressed painfully against his trousers. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

Caralyn stood motionless. Energy radiated from her in heated waves. The blush that stained her face and neck darkened as she stared at him with huge, glittering eyes.

As soon as he said the words and saw her reaction, he wished he could take them back.
What the hell am I thinking? She’s a lady and I’m betrothed to another
. And yet, he couldn’t stop the thoughts once they’d taken root. For an insane moment, he wanted to grab the petticoat from her hand and fling her across the bed, clothes piled high or not, and taste, once more, the sweetness of her mouth, feel the softness of her body beneath his.

Before he could apologize, a chorus of voices rose from the deck.

“Now what?”

The issue of who would take the captain’s cabin would have to wait while he unraveled whatever new drama unfolded on deck. “Stay here.” He slammed the door as he left his quarters; however, the door did not remain closed. It swung open almost as fast. The breeze ruffled his hair.

Caralyn grabbed his arm, her fingers hot where they touched his skin. Her voice trembled as she said, “We are equal partners in this venture.”

Her boldness didn’t surprise him. After all, she’d been brash enough and confident enough to wait for him on his ship in the middle of the night and propose this adventure. He liked women who were self-assured and forthright, and the impulse to kiss her and find out if her daring extended further overwhelmed him, but the noise from the deck grew louder as his men hurled belligerent responses to whoever had them in such a state. Above it all, he heard one woman’s strident voice, demanding to see the captain.

“Sweet Mother, what is that?”

Mouth open in an O, her face as pale as the sails which powered his ship, Caralyn stared at him. A small sound escaped her as her body stiffened, and if he wasn’t mistaken, tears glimmered in her wide eyes. Her mouth closed with an audible snap of her teeth and her chin trembled. The urge to console her—for what he didn’t know—surged to the forefront and he took a step toward her, his arms open, ready to draw her into the comfort of his embrace, and yet, he couldn’t allow himself to touch her, hold her. If he did, he might not be able to let go.

He turned on his heel and hurried down the short hallway toward the deck.

The most amazing scene met Tristan as he stepped through the doorway and stopped short. His men stood in a half circle while the feisty woman they faced held them at bay with the sturdy umbrella she brandished like a sword. Tendrils of vibrant chestnut hair poked out from the straw hat upon her head. Her stance as a fencer seemed at odds with the somberness of her black dress, though he could see touches of white lace at the cuffs of her sleeves and collar.

As with many women, Tristan couldn’t hazard a guess regarding her age. Face unlined and smooth, except for the small wrinkles created by her frown, she appeared older than Caralyn, but not by much. A few years, perhaps, but certainly no more than ten. “I’ll break this over someone’s head if you don’t move back and let me board.” A jab of the umbrella punctuated every one of her clipped words.