Time After Time (213 page)

“What’s all the fuss, woman?”

Caralyn turned toward the voice and stared. The man coming in through a back door was the biggest, hairiest man she’d ever seen. Broad shouldered, barrel-chested, legs as thick as tree trunks, arms rippling with muscle, he had to duck to keep from bumping his head on a chandelier made of an old ship’s wheel. The two cases of rum he carried, one under each arm, seemed like no more than cigar boxes. Coarse hair covered the bottom part of his face in a thick, shaggy beard as black as midnight, his white teeth offering a sharp contrast.

“Faith and begora, will ye look at what the wind blew in!”

He placed the rum on the bar then flung his arms wide and embraced Tristan in a hug that would crush the ribs of a smaller man. After much backslapping, he pulled away then proceeded to give the same greeting to Stitch. “Ye been gone too long, my friends.” He turned to Jemmy. “Come give yer uncle a hug.”

The boy’s face glowed as the big man picked him up and held him with a gentleness that belied his strength. “Ye’ve grown, lad. Soon ye’ll be as big as me.” He placed the boy on his own two feet then ruffled Jemmy’s hair, his love for the lad obvious to all.

Caralyn glanced at Temperance and almost burst into laughter. Eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses, her mouth opened in an “O,” Temperance’s expression mirrored her surprise to see so large a man.

“Donal, I’d like you meet Mrs. Temperance Beasley.” Stitch grabbed her hand and brought her forward. Her mouth closed with an audible click before her lips spread into a smile.

“’Tis a pleasure to be sure.” His big hand dwarfed her smaller one as he brought her knuckles to his lips. Temperance blushed to the roots of her hair and giggled.

“Cara,” Tristan placed his hand at the small of her back, igniting a fire in her veins and interrupting her musings. “I’d like you to meet Donal Finnegan, proud owner of Finnegan’s Crooked Shillelagh and historian extraordinaire. If it happened in Jamaica, he knows. Donal, Miss Caralyn McCreigh.”

The big man winked. “There’s been a Finnegan on Jamaica since before the quake in ’92.” He spoke in a charming mix of Jamaican, Irish, and English accents, his words lilting and musical. “1692, that is. Back in the day, most of the pirates went to Port Royal. Only the smartest ones came to the Shillelagh. Calico Jack, Anne Bonney, Blackbeard, and perhaps the greatest pirate of them all, Henry Morgan.” He beamed with pride at the history of his tavern. “Look at the rafter above your head, lass.”

Caralyn looked up and saw all the initials carved into the sturdy rafter. Morgan’s was, by far, the largest. A shiver of excitement raced down her back as she turned her gaze to the big man in front of her. If Morgan had come here, perhaps Pembrook had as well. She held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, the pleasure is all mine, lass,” he said as he took her offered hand.

As with Temperance, a giggle escaped her as he brought her hand to his lips and brushed her knuckles with his shaggy mustache. He studied her for a moment, the brilliance of his blue eyes a sharp contrast to the darkness of his skin and hair.

“McCreigh,” he muttered as his eyes began to twinkle. “Be ye Daniel McCreigh’s daughter?”

Surprised, Caralyn could only stare at the man as a rush of pride and homesickness flowed through her. “You know my father?”

“Oh, aye. It’s me great pleasure to be knowin’ yer da. A fine man,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “with a touch of the blarney. We lifted a few glasses together, he and I, at this verra table, while he regaled me with tales o’ his treasure hunting and how he met yer mother. Tell me, lass, does he still search for Izzy’s Fortune?”

She shook her head. “Sadly, he no longer believes in the treasure.”

Donal finally released her hand. “’Tis a shame,” he pronounced and then his eyes narrowed as he gazed into her face. “Ah, but ye still believe.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good lass. I’ve no doubt ye’ll find what ye been lookin’ for, though many a scoundrel has tried before ye.” His grin widened and his eyes sparkled. “Speakin’ o’ scoundrels, is Alcott with you?”

Tristan chuckled. “He’ll be along shortly.”

“Will ye be stayin’ then?” Fi asked as she glanced at the pile of white duffle bags on the floor beside the door. “An’ will the crew be joinin’ ye?”

“If you have a few rooms available, Fi,” Tristan answered and once again, Caralyn saw the fondness for this woman in his eyes and heard it in his voice. “Most of the crew will stay aboard ship, although a few have family here and will stay with them so it’ll just be us.”

“Aye. I’ll be showin’ ye upstairs after I take care of young master Jemmy.” She grabbed the boy’s hand. His face wreathed in smiles, the expression in his eyes one of adoration. And who could blame him? Fi Finnegan, in Caralyn’s opinion, embodied motherhood personified with her patient manner and gentle smile. “Donal will be happy to see ye again and you remember Mama Annie, hmm?”

“Can I, Papa?”

“May I,” Tristan corrected his speech. “Of course, but mind Mama Annie. As long as you’re with her, she’s the captain.”

“Aye, Papa.”

As Fi led Jemmy toward the windowed Dutch door at the back of the room and the courtyard and house beyond, Donal spread his arms wide to encompass a long table. “Welcome, friends. Make yerselves ta home.” He stepped behind the bar, opened one of the cases on its surface, and started removing bottles. “Can I be getting’ ye somethin’ to wash the salt water from yer mouths? We have rum, rum, and more rum. Local made, ye know. We also have some very fine wine, coffee, tea, brandy, and me own verra special ale. What’s yer pleasure?”

Tristan and Stitch glanced at each other and spoke at the same time. “Rum.”

“Miss Temperance?”

Temperance hung her umbrella on the back of a chair then took a seat next to Stitch. “Tea, please,” she said with a sigh.

“And what of ye, Miss McCreigh?”

“Wine. No. Brandy.” She took a quick peek at Temperance’s face and changed her mind once more. “Tea, please.”

Donal made quick work of serving them. For so large a man, he moved with innate grace and amazing speed and joined them at the table with a mug of ale.

“So what brings ye to me fair establishment? Judgin’ by the looks of ye, I’d say ye have a question or two for auld Donal.” His eyes remained on Caralyn.

“More than questions, Donal,” Tristan said as he finished the rum in his glass and poured himself another. “We need your help.”

The big man’s eyes lit up with pleasure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to remove the foam from the ale. “With Izzy’s Fortune? Have ye found a clue then, lad?”

“Show him, Cara.”

Caralyn opened the valise and pulled out the statue. With trembling fingers, she removed the cloth protecting the piece then handed it to him.

“Aye, ’tis beautiful to be sure.” He sighed as he turned the golden statue around in his big hands. “Look at the details, how lovingly made. And this is part of the treasure? Are ye certain, lass?”

“The maker’s mark is engraved on the base. I’ve done enough research to know
Don
Miguel Ybarra ye Castellano cast several pieces of art for Queen Isabella in gold and silver. I believe this is one of them.” Donal passed the statue to Tristan, who held it in his hands as Caralyn reached into the bag and pulled out the wooden case. Anticipation made butterflies dance in her stomach as Donal took the case from her and unhitched the lock.

A startled gasp escaped the big man as he opened the box and stared at the jewel-encrusted chalice.

“The chalice was made by him as well.”

With a delicateness that seemed incomparable with the size of his hands, Donal removed the chalice from its velvet bed. Sunlight coming in through the small windows struck the jewels, casting a rainbow on the walls. He pursed his lips and whistled then placed the chalice back in its case. “Must be worth a small fortune. What else have ye got in that bag o’ tricks?”

Caralyn pulled the last item from her bag, unwrapped the oilcloth, and placed the book in front of him. “This is Arthur Pembrook’s journal.”

Donal lifted the cover and read the first few pages. After a long time, he looked at them. “I have no doubt the chalice and the statue could belong to Izzy’s Fortune, but I’ve never heard of Arthur Pembrook. Are ye certain this is a journal? It reads like an adventure novel.
Robinson Crusoe
comes to mind.”

Tears stung Caralyn’s eyes in an instant. To come this far only to find disappointment. Could it be she had been wrong? Could it be Pembrook had, indeed, written a novel and not one word of it was true? She blinked several times to rid herself of the tears blurring her vision. No, she couldn’t believe all of it was a lie, fiction created by a man who’d lived in his own imagination, a man who slowly lost his sanity. She had proof Izzy’s Fortune existed.

“He mentions that he changed his name. By the time he came to Jamaica, he called himself something else, though he never mentions his new name.” Caralyn took a deep breath in order to still the sudden pounding of her heart. “He writes quite a bit about his wife, Mary, and a plantation called Collin’s Folly.”

“I know of Collin’s Folly, though not this Pembrook who wrote yer journal. Let me ponder a bit and see what I can remember.” Donal slumped back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He grew quiet as he tapped his lip several times in deep thought.

Caralyn wanted to jump out of her skin. She wanted to shake the big man to help him remember. She did neither. Instead, she sat beside Tristan, her hands folded on the table and waited, as did everyone else. She barely drew breath until Tristan touched her arm. She glanced at him. The expression on his face reminded her that he still believed, no matter that Donal couldn’t remember Pembrook.

All at once, Donal let out a shout and snapped his fingers. “Ah, lassie, ye din’t think I’d remember, did ye?” He patted her hand. Caralyn heaved a sigh of relief. “I don’t know the particulars of how your Pembrook came to Jamaica, but I do know Mary Collins married a man named Andrew Pearce. As I recall, they lived quite happily on the plantation for a number of years.” He took a deep breath, took another swallow of ale then continued his story.

“Mary loved him to distraction, or so it’s been claimed. And the plantation produced a mighty fine rum, but that all changed one night, if I remember correctly. Mind ye, most of what I know is considered folklore, passed from one generation to another—stories me da told me, stories his da told him and so on.” He took another deep breath, his eyes sparkling, his smile beaming beneath his shaggy beard.

“No one knows how your Pembrook or Pearce died. Some say he took his own life. Some say Morgan, lieutenant governor at the time, ordered his death.” He raised his glass and swallowed the remainder of his ale. “’Tis sorry I am, but the plantation’s gone. Parceled out and now belongin’ to others.”

“What about the chapel?” Hope blossomed in Caralyn’s heart once more. “Does it still stand?”

“The Chapel of the Blessed Virgin?” Fiona placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. Caralyn had been so intent on Donal, she hadn’t seen the woman come back into the main room. “Aye, the chapel still stands but ye canna be goin’ there. ’Tis haunted.”

Donal agreed. “’Tis true. Mary Collins found her husband in the chapel. He’d been shot. The pistol was still in his hand. Grief stricken, Mary killed herself to join the man she loved, or so the legend goes. They remain in the chapel where she found him and their ghosts stand upon the cliff, hand in hand, keeping watch. No one has ever dared to desecrate their resting place.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Donal,” Caralyn told him. “What I do believe is that Arthur or Andrew or whatever his name was, buried Izzy’s Fortune in the chapel.”

The big man tilted his head as he studied her. “I hate to be disappointin’ ye, lass, but there’s no treasure in the chapel. There’s nothing except a huge statue of the Blessed Virgin and the tombs of Mary and her husband.” His smile brightened as he patted her hand. “But I understand ye must look for yerself. Fi, my love, will ye bring me the map? Ye know the one I’m talkin’ about.”

As Fi left the room, Tristan asked, “What’s the best way to get to the chapel? Should we rent a carriage? Or can we sail?”

“No matter what ye take, ye’ll end up on foot,” Donal said as he stood and strode over to the bar for another draft of ale. “The chapel is on a cliff, overlooking the sea. Ye can take the
Adventurer
but ye’ll have to drop anchor and take the longboats to the beach.” His eyes shined and his smile beamed as he returned to the table. Fi came back with the map, and Donal pointed to the section marked “Saint James Parrish” on the opposite side of the island. “The chapel be here, surrounded by jagged rocks. Sailors have told me ye can see a glowing light all around, especially at night.” He looked up and caught Caralyn’s eyes. “Is tomorra too soon fer ye?”

Before she could answer, the door opened, letting in a blaze of blinding sunlight and the rest of the
Adventurer’s
crew entered the tavern amid good-natured shouts. She saw Tristan reach into his pocket and remove a small leather pouch, which he passed on to Fiona. She grinned as she stuffed it into her apron pocket. Donal made quick work of rolling the map before he jumped from his seat and greeted his old friends. The noise level grew to deafening proportions.

Caralyn gently wrapped Pembrook’s journal and placed it, along with the statue and the chalice, back in the valise by her feet. Anticipation caused a flurry of butterflies in her stomach, and she couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. Tomorrow, they’d find the treasure, she was certain. Tomorrow, her new life would begin.

Chapter 13

Caralyn placed the valise on the bed in the well-appointed room Fi had shown her. Downstairs, she heard the laughter of the crew, Fi’s sweet voice, and Donal’s baritone rumble as they renewed their acquaintance with the
Adventurer’s
crew. Here, in her room, blissful silence reigned.

She took a moment to study her surroundings. Paintings hung on the knotted pine walls, again repeating the sailing ships downstairs. She stepped closer to one in particular, recognizing the
Adventurer
, captured forever in oil, then looked for the artist’s signature. In the corner, on the right side toward the bottom, she found it:
Fiona Finnegan
.