Beloved Captive (22 page)

When Micah next arrived at the schoolroom, he did not come bearing plans to build more furniture. Instead, he offered up an alternative location: the old fisherman’s shack where he’d been residing since coming to live in Fairweather Key.

“Absolutely not,” Emilie said as she reluctantly followed Micah through the center of town, then past the courthouse square. “I refuse to allow you to give up your home. It just wouldn’t be right.”

Micah stopped short, and Emilie almost slammed into him. “Let’s get something straight, Miss Gayarre.”

“Emilie.” She shrugged. “We’ve known one another long enough, don’t you think?”

“All right.” He paused, seemingly to collect his thoughts. “As I said, let me be clear on this. I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but you do not get to decide whether I donate this place as a school or not.” Micah leaned toward her, his expression serious. “Do you understand, Emilie?”

Well now. This was a side of Micah Tate she’d not seen before. “I do,” she said.

“Then you’ll broach no further nonsense. If you don’t want to teach the children in the new school once it opens, then maybe someone else will.” He turned and continued to walk, leaving her to decide whether to follow.

It occurred to Emilie that she’d seen the place where Micah called home, though she could not recall when. True to his claim, it was a glorified fisherman’s shack that looked from the outside to be uninhabited. Somewhere between the original owner and now, few amenities had been added.
 

The one positive attribute it held other than that it was being offered at no cost was the commanding view the building held. From where she stood, Emilie could see for miles in all directions.

“I kept meaning to fix this place up, but I never got around to it, what with the wrecking business keeping me busy.” Micah paused. “But it’s clean, and it’s kept me dry on many a rainy night.”
 

A memory returned, and she knew why the place looked so familiar. She turned to look to the east and saw the place where she and Isabelle had sat on the day she arrived from Havana. This had been the shack she’d thought looked the same as she felt.

“I was told the fellow who built this was determined to put a lighthouse here.” Micah turned his back to the sun and stared off toward the horizon. “The wreckers ran him out of town. Guess they were worried that a lighthouse might put them out of business.”

“That’s terrible,” she said as she joined him on the summit and looked down on the spot where the Fairweather Key lighthouse had eventually been built. “But it is a lovely view.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, his voice pensive. “With a little work, I think the children will have a decent school,” he said, “although they’ll have a bit of a walk to get here.”

She nodded. A school could be made of the shack, although it was not her first choice of location. “But, Micah?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Yes?”
 

“Where will you live?”

“Ah, still worried about me, are you?” He turned to face Emilie with a grin. “I’ve got a couple of options, actually. Mrs. Campbell’s place offers the best of both worlds: a clean bed and more food than I can ever attempt to eat. Then again, I can always bunk aboard the
Caroline
.”

“Surely you’ll choose the boardinghouse.”

He held his hand to his brow to shade his eyes and gazed off toward the horizon. “Actually, I’m leaning toward staying on the
Caroline
.”

“You would live aboard your boat?” Emilie shook her head. “I can’t imagine sleeping somewhere that’s never still.”

Her mind slid back to the days spent aboard ship, then dipped dangerously close to the worst of her memories. Memories she’d all but sealed up and hidden away.

Before a return to those awful days could happen, she changed the subject. “So, tell me, Micah, what makes you so interested in the children’s education?”

His smile faded. “I just am,” he said.

“I see.” She didn’t, although there was obviously more to his statement, a story still untold. That much she could see. “Then I’m pleased that our school is the recipient of that interest.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased.” His grin broadened. “Let’s see if you still feel that way after you’ve been put to work beautifying this place.”

“Put to work?” She offered an expression of mock horror.
 

“Oh, of course. You’re one of those delicate Southern flowers who might wilt if called upon to labor.” His poor imitation of a Southern drawl combined with the falsetto pitch of his statement sent her into a fit of laughter.

For a moment, she forgot her upbringing and returned the jest with a quick response in the same tone and accent. As soon as she delivered the line, she covered her mouth with her gloved hands.
 

“Well now, Emilie,” Micah said. “You can be quite funny when you try.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’ve just never seen that side of you. That’s all.” He shrugged. “I think I’d like to see more of it.”

Emilie adjusted her shawl and straightened her backbone, shoulders erect as she’d been taught in finishing school. “I’m afraid my father would not approve,” she said, again in the silly accent.

“Perhaps not,” Micah said, his voice softening, “but would he approve of me?”

“Of you?” Confusion and Micah’s stare marred her ability to develop a witty response.

Silence hung between them until he finally ducked his head. “Yes,” he said. “I’m just wondering if he might think me not worthy of spending time with his daughter.”

“My father thinks of little but himself,” she said, “and even less of the appropriateness of those with whom I spend my time.”

“I’m sorry, Emilie. Surely your ma—”

“My mother is dead.” Emilie gathered her shawl tighter and gestured toward the shack where she would soon be teaching. “I cannot express how very much I appreciate this kindness. The children and
I will be forever in your debt.”

Micah reached to touch her sleeve then drew back his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.” She shook off the need to add to her reply and gestured toward the future schoolhouse instead. “Could I see the interior?”

He led the way, opening the door to allow her to enter first. Inside, Emilie found a tidy but spare room of roughly twice the dimensions of her current classroom. In one corner, a table and benches matched the ones Micah had delivered to the boardinghouse. The other held a curtained area that was obviously used for sleeping.

She walked toward the kitchen area to peer out the window at a view that was lovelier than the one in the front. Blue skies hung over a slope of gently rolling hillside that spilled out onto a narrow beach and the glassy ocean beyond.

“I never tire of this,” Emilie said. As she turned, her attention still on the landscape, she said, “Fairweather Key is one of the loveliest places—”
 

A
thud
. Emilie dropped her shawl and knocked her bonnet awry on whatever she’d collided with. She reached down to retrieve her shawl and found it draped over a pair of muddy boots. Only then did she realize she’d run directly into Micah.

Emilie straightened slowly, her crooked bonnet hiding some of the heat that spread in agonizing slowness from her neck up into her cheeks. “We should. . .”

“Go?” Micah supplied as he reached to gently straighten her bonnet.

A nod sufficed in answer. Suddenly, nothing about this setting felt appropriate.

That feeling chased Emilie as she found the door, the path toward home, and finally the gate to her cottage. Only then did she realize Micah had trailed a respectable distance behind her.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Emilie,” he called from the gate.

She paused at the door. What she could not tell him was that the fright did not result from him, but rather from the realization of what this nice man would think of her once he knew the sordid details of her recent past.

And of her birth.
 

Emilie mumbled a response that she hoped would suffice and slipped inside, her heart pounding from the brisk walk and the encounter with Micah Tate. Her mother’s miniature, now in a place of prominence on the mantel, caught her attention, and she walked over to snatch it up.

“I know nothing about men, Sylvie, and less about how to repair the damage I’ve done. Why aren’t you here to advise me?” She shouted the question, then in a fit threw the miniature. It landed on the rug undamaged.

Stepping over the portrait, Emilie walked to the window and caught a glimpse of Micah Tate’s red hair disappearing down the path toward town. “You’ll make some woman a fine catch,” she said as she turned away. “I’m sorry it won’t be me.”

Chapter 23

July 8, 1836

Santa Lucida

Caleb slipped into the stall and made short work of preparing Rialto for their ride. The fact that he felt he must hide his intentions grated at nerves already strung tight by Fletcher’s and his mother’s constant presence.

He urged the mare into a trot and then, once the terrain leveled out, attempted to bring her to a gallop. Though Rialto was willing, Caleb was not able.

While the world spun, he gripped the reins and tried not to fall into the vortex encircling him. His boots dug into the stirrups, and while he struggled to remain in the saddle, he also gave thanks he hadn’t given in to the urge to ride bareback.

Bringing her to a halt was not nearly as difficult as climbing off to try to find solid ground. Rialto spied a patch of grass, and he let her go to take her fill while he rested from the ride.

Another week, maybe two, and his recovery should be complete. Given the fact that the bullet had done its damage some six weeks ago, a recuperation of two months seemed excessive, yet it was far better than the outcome that had been predicted initially. This he knew from Fletcher, who answered any questions posed to him with blunt honesty.
 

Caleb’s mother, however, tended to ignore the difficult queries and only partly answer the others. If Mary-Margaret Benning Spencer had her way, Caleb would believe his injury was nothing more than a flesh wound and his recuperation one lengthy nap.
 

Likely, this ability to see what she wished was what kept her from giving up. “A talent I’ve not yet acquired,” he said softly as he laced his fingers behind his head.

The sun was warm, but the breeze kept the temperature from being oppressive. Caleb found the shade of a tamarind tree and leaned against its rough bark. Through the feathery fringe of its leaves, dappled sunlight teased his outstretched legs and skittered across his shoulders and chest.
 

He let out a contented breath. Surely God had taken extra care when He created Santa Lucida.

From his vantage point, Caleb spied the slowly bobbing mainmast of the
Cormorant
and the green sea beyond. While the mainmast made his heart ache for another adventure, the color of the ocean put him in mind of a dark-haired woman in a frock of the same color. He wanted to look into her brown eyes and hear her explanation. To know why she could kiss him and then, mere hours later, shoot him.

Caleb leaned forward and touched the still-tender wound that had nearly taken his life, then tried to muster up the anger that marked his first days of awakening. Now, however, anger had turned to something much more dangerous: the need to find her and exact revenge for what she’d done to him. And to his career. While Caleb had tap-danced at the precipice of eternity, the secretary of the navy had been forced to find another man for the job Caleb had been offered. News of his recovery and subsequent readiness for a new assignment had thus far brought only silence.

Caleb’s feeling toward the woman in green was not unlike the emotion that had tempted him to play judge and jury to the vile Thomas Hawkins rather than bundle him off to Havana to allow
the authorities there to string him up after a proper trial. He knew how close he had come to ending Hawkins’s life with a bullet.

The thought was sobering, yet Caleb could provide more than ample justification for considering the act something other than murder.
 

“Murder is murder.”

Caleb scrambled to his feet in search of the voice.

“I delivered you because I delighted in you.”

The bluster went out of him as Caleb nearly fell back into his spot beneath the tamarind tree. Had God really spoken to him? He, a man who plotted murder in his heart and held revenge on his mind?

A man like Paul, perhaps? Or David?

“Father,” he whispered, “is that You?”

Silence.

“God?” This time he spoke above a whisper yet not loud enough to attract the attention of anyone who might believe he’d lost his mind.

Silence.

Tiring of the feast, Rialto ambled in his direction, and Caleb rose to grasp the horse’s reins. She gave a soft nicker and nuzzled his palm.

“I delivered you because I delighted in you.”

Caleb froze. “Delivered me from what?” he shouted, not caring upon whose ears his question fell.

“I delivered you from yourself.”

The statement haunted Caleb for days after the encounter. If indeed what happened beneath the tamarind tree could be called an encounter.
 

Soon he’d begun to believe that he’d been delivered not only from himself but also from the entirety of civilization as it stood outside of Santa Lucida. With no response from the naval department and no one but Fletcher and his mother for company, Caleb was going stark raving mad.
 

Several times he tried to coerce Fletcher into another visit to Havana, or even a run about the islands to test the seaworthiness of the
Cormorant
’s sails. He accomplished neither, though he did find the empty hours useful for pushing himself and Rialto to faster and longer rides. One week after his first near-disaster with the galloping mare, Caleb was back to full speed.

The sun warmed the stiffness that had settled in his injured shoulder, so he often left off his shirt when he was certain no women were about. His mother teased that he’d soon look like the natives should he continue to brown himself. Something about the fading scar and the fact that he’d survived gave Caleb the ability to laugh at her jokes when he did not feel at all like laughing.