By the Bay (5 page)

Putting on a happier smile than she actually felt, she
strode across to her aunt. Auntie smiled at her and said, “Well, here’s my girl now.”

The man rose to his feet and even though she’d only got a dim look at him in the darkness the other night down by the bay, she recognized him immediately and something like an electric shock went through her.

She didn’t want to see him here, not here. He was her secret in the darkness, a man who could not ever live up to the
plain
everyday of
Owen
and
Florence’s
restaurant.

He didn’t speak, but stood looking at her with stunning brown eyes and a look as shocked as her own. “Sit down, Philippe,” Aunt
Florence
commanded. “We don’t stand much on manners here and I know you’re tired after working in the kitchen all day.”

“In the kitchen?” Jillian murmured. What kind of dream man was this to be working in her aunt’s kitchen.

“Philippe is our new dishwasher,” Aunt
Florence
went out, tugging
J
Illian down into the chair at her side. “Just started today.”

A dishwasher!  How unromantic could you get?

“This is my niece Jillian Blake, my sister’s daughter. And this is Philippe
d
e Beauvois, late of France.”

“Mademoiselle Blake,” he said in that rich deep voice she would never forget, tilting his head politely. “But not recently from France, Madame
Florence
. I was born there, but grew up in the islands.”

“You sure sound French,” Auntie argued.

“It is the language of my family, of the people with whom I grew up and worked.”

“As a dishwasher?” Jillian asked, th
a
n felt cruel. In bad times, people did the work they could find to make a living. There was no shame in this man doing such labor.  But somehow, she imagined him otherwise.

He laughed softly. “Formerly I pursued another career,” he said, “but chance cast me up on these shores and I was in need of an occupation. I met
Monsieur Owen
and he gave me this opportunity.”

He was dressed oddly as well, she thought, wearing the dungarees and thick shirt of an ordinary fishermen. Somehow the clothes seemed as
out of place
as the job.

In the darkness, hearing his voice and barely seeing his face or form, she had imagined him otherwise. He’d seemed a figure of excitement and exotic possibilities.
There you go, Jillian
, she scolded herself, letting your imagination work overtime again.

Even in denim pants and an old plaid shirt,
he
was a figure to cast into a daydream. 
Strongly
built with muscular arms and chest, his skin was
bronzed
from working in the wind and
water
, the lines of his face weathered with experience. His brown eyes were large and framed with long, dark lashes and they seemed to see right through her.

She felt her face heat and realized she was staring.

“You looked as if you were used to being out in the elements,” she said, more to direct his attention away from her embarrassment than because she had anything particular to say. “You can’t have been washing dishes very long Mr.
d
e Beauvois.” She stumbled a little over the
pronunciation
of his name.

He nodded, sipped his coffee and then said, “Most of my life has been spent at sea.”

“Oh,” Aunt
Florence
said. “You’re a fisherman. You should be able to find plenty of work in Port Isabel then and better pay than we can give you here.”

“No,” he said quietly, his eyes still on Jillian. “I am not a fisherman.”

“But you said . . .” Aunt
Florence
protested, confused. She stopped speaking, looking from one to the other as though seeing what was happening between them.

Jillian stood up. “I’ve got to go. I only meant to leave Mother alone for a couple of minutes.”

Auntie also rose. “No,” she said, “I’ll go. You take a break and have some dessert, th
a
n Philippe will walk you home.”

“I have my car,” Jillian protested.

“I’ll take it,” Auntie said firmly. “Then Philippe can walk me back here.”

Her mouth still open to object
, Jillian watched her aunt’s departure.

“You might as well obey,” her companion said, laughter in his voice. “It would seem that when Madame
Florence
gives her orders there is nothing else to do.”

Jillian sank into her seat. Without a word, Uncle
Owen
came over and placed a piece of chocolate pie and a cup of coffee
in front
of her. Then he went back to his counter.

“Your mama is ill?” he asked.

She nodded. “I look after her.”

“And your papa?”

“Dead a long time ago when I was just a baby.”

She picked up her fork, but somehow, though Auntie’s pies were delicious, couldn’t manage to take a bite. The fork trembled visibly in her hands and she put it down, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“We were talking about you,” she reminded him. “About you’re being a fisherman.”

“No,” he said gently. “I was saying that I had spent my life at sea, but that I am not a fisherman. I captain a privateer vessel operating under a letter of marque from
the city-state of
Cartegena
.”

He said it as simply as if he were confessing to being a mender of shoes.

She gaped at him, finally closing her mouth to say, “You’re a pirate.”

“A privateer,” he corrected gently, then drank some of his coffee.

She took a deep breath, th
a
n looked for reassurance to where Uncle
Owen
stood, big and comfortingly solid, behind his counter. He chatted with one of his regular customers but she could tell he was keeping an eye on her.

“Isn’t that illegal?” she asked. “I mean I’m not quite sure what a privateer is . . .I have read about Jean
Lafitte
and the battle of New Orleans.”

He leaned forward eagerly. “You know Jean?” he asked. “And perhaps his brother Pierre as well?”

“I’ve heard of Jean
Lafitte
,” she agreed cautiously. “After all I do teach history
sometimes.”

“History.” His eagerness sank into sadness. “Of course. For you, my world and my time, they are of the past. This is 1942 as
Owen
told me. Tell me then how am I to return to my world and my ship.”

“You have a ship?”

“L
a
Belle Fleur,” he agreed. “At least it was mine until four days ago when my men mutinied under that infamous coward Jack Lightning and I was cast ashore to die.”

“You died?” she asked weakly, glancing again at Uncle
Owen
, and wondering how long it would take to get the town constable here if she screamed. She told herself she needed to humor the mad man or he might kill them all.

“They cast me on to the island across the bay from here and left me without food and water to die. I managed to cross the bay and when I got here. . .” He gestured to indicate the people around them,
Owen ,
the few fishermen lingering over a late supper
,
and outside
at
the little town itself. “I do not know if I am
a
live or not until you and
Owen
see me, speak to me. And I find that unlike a spirit, I am still in need of nourishment and rest. So, strange as it seems, I confess to still being a live man, though one to whom things most strange are occurring.”

She stared at him, th
a
n hurriedly got to her feet. “I really must get home. My mother will be asking for me. She worries.”

He nodded, got up and followed her.

She turned to face him. “I can go by myself.”

He shook his head. “But Madame
Florence
, she has given me my instructions. I am to see you home.”

She looked at
Owen
. He smiled encouragingly, th
a
n glanced knowingly at a friend seated at a nearby table. She got the message. Auntie might trust this strange young man who had washed up on their shores, but Uncle
Owen
did not easily trust anyone, especially not with the young woman he considered to be his niece. Old Ramon, a longtime friend of burly build and powerful constitution would be trailing after them. She would be safe enough if she chose to let this Philippe person escort her home.

It was easier than arguing. Besides most likely he was only teasing her with this pirate talk and she wanted to spend the extra few moments with him. He was entertaining if nothing else
.

She turned and left the restaurant, acutely conscious that Philippe De Beauvois was just behind her and that behind him would be Uncle
Owen’s
good friend.

Chapter Six

Florence
Harrison
Jackson
told herself that her heart had hardened against her sister a long time ago. After Davis died, she’d been a different person and
Florence
who loved her as though she were her own mother, had tried to be patient with those changes. But the treatment of Jillian, the use of her young life so that she could not live in any normal fashion with girlfriends and boyfriends and hopes and dreams of her own had lost
Florence’s
sympathy for her widowed sister.

She could forgive Christine for abandoning her, but she could not forgive her for what she had done and was doing to her daughter. She and
Owen
and the other aunts had been all that was left to stand between Jillian and the madness that was her mother.

They hadn’t been particularly successful at it. Christine
’s
was such a mesmerizing personality, something about her drew people’s sympathy and affection. Even when she was least herself, she was still a loving person and with Davis gone, the whole power of that love and need centered on her daughter. No wonder that Jillian could not successfully pull away from her mother and stand on her own.

But even now with all the hard experience of the years behind her,
Florence
stood and looked at her sister with a melting heart. Christine was the most beautiful still of a family of good-looking women. She was slender with long slim hands and feet, a mass of wavy brown hair, and delicately perfect features.
Davis had been born with light red hair, but from Christine’s family there was also such a heritage, not one she had displayed, but had passed on to her daughter.

From her had come the
bright
red hair carried from
two
generation away from
Florence
and Christine’s own grandmother who had been famously
scarlet of hair and high of spirit. She’d come with her husband from distant Europe to the wilderness of Kentucky and raised her family wearing an
apron
, but fully able to use a gun if need be. She was legendary in the family and
Florence
couldn’t help thinking when she saw her small niece for the first
time
, that here was Grandmother reborn.

Jillian was meant to be like that, feisty and adventurous and bold enough to face down any difficulty, but Christine’s clinging ways had made her cautious and fearful, a brave soul capped in a
bottle
of doubt.

Still it wasn’t right to blame everything on Christine. Her sister was a sick woman. It had happened in
such a brief time
and even though she’d been
in the same house when Davis was killed she knew that more than the fact of his death had changed Chris
.
In the weeks that followed she had rapidly dwindled into illness, dwelling on her own role in the happening.

Now
Florence
sat thoughtfully by her sister’s bedside and tried to put the past aside. She had seen the way those two young people looked at each other tonight, like magic was happening between then.

That boy, well, not a boy really, probably he was well into his thirties. Something was
wrong
with him perhaps, some injury or illness that kept him from the army, but she knew instinctively that it was not because he shrank from his duty or feared conflict.

But he was bright and interesting and could carry on a good conversation.
Florence
definitely required that men be worth talking to. And he was magnificently male, the kind of man her Jillian deserved.