Looking for a Hero (21 page)

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 away 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.”

T
he 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.

Again she heard the knock, and she stumbled from the storyteller's chair, with a whispered prayer flowing from her lips: “Please let it be Morgan.” They needed to talk—or maybe she just needed to listen. In spite of the evidence, she found it impossible that the man she loved could have killed so brutally.

She wanted to show him the wallet and ring. She wanted him to stare at them and look puzzled.
She wanted him to say he didn't know where they'd come from.

But they'd been in his room, hidden away in one of his socks. He'd said they were nothing more than dispensable trinkets—things he could replace quite easily with just another slash of his blade.

She put her fingers to her lips to stop their trembling, then opened the door. “Good evening.”

Gordon Lancaster stood on the other side of the screen door with his hands tucked into the pockets of khakis. He wore a dark blue summer-weight blazer, a pale blue shirt, and a smile that conjured visions of Count Dracula—charm and sophistication masking an evil mind.

She shivered. “What are you doing here?”

“We were invited to dinner with your friends. Had you forgotten?”

“No, I hadn't forgotten, but I never accepted.” He continued to smile. “I hope you will. We could talk about our common interest in sailing ships, maybe old clothing,” he said, his laughing eyes trailing up and down the velvet coat she wore. “Or we could merely talk about each other.”

“We could also talk about how you found my house. I didn't tell you where I lived, and I doubt Nikki did, either.”

His smile turned to a much wider grin. “I met your aunt a few days ago. In fact, we had dinner
together just the other night—even your daughter joined us.”

Now she remembered why his name had sounded so familiar when they'd met in the alley. Mr. Lancaster—Gordon—was Evalena's A-l husband material.

“Your aunt told me a lot about you, and I was quite pleased to learn that Evalena's cherished niece was the same beautiful woman I'd bumped into on the street.”

“My aunt talks too much sometimes.” The grandfather clock struck and Kate turned to look at the time. Eight o'clock. “It's late,” she said, facing Gordon again. “My daughter's asleep, and I honestly don't feel like going out.”

“I understand completely. However, I am in town for only a few brief days. Perhaps I could keep you company here this evening? There's no need to entertain me. We could simply sit out here on your porch and talk.”

“Not this evening.”

He put his hand on the door. “Just an hour or two. That's all.”

The phone rang, its piercing chime skittering through Kate's nerves. “Excuse me a moment.”

She rushed to the phone. “Hello.”

Nikki was on the other end, her voice scolding as she asked what Kate was doing at home when they had plans for an evening out.

“I couldn't shuttle Case off to Evalena's tonight. She needed me, and besides, I told you I didn't want to go out.”

While Kate listened to Nikki's lecture, she caught sight of Gordon leaning against the newel post, his penetrating eyes studying her through the screen. “Gordon Lancaster is here,” she told Nikki. And it didn't look like he planned to leave. “Why don't you and Jack pick up some Chinese and come over?” she asked, quickly coming up with a way not to be alone with the man.

There was happiness in Nikki's voice as she gave Kate a definite yes.

“Okay. I'll see you soon.”

Kate put down the phone and ran her fingers through her hair as she walked toward the door. Pushing open the screen, she stepped onto the porch. “Nikki and Jack are coming here, instead of us joining them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but a smile quickly replaced his frown. “It will be delightful to see your sister-in-law again.”

“I hope you like Chinese.”

He nodded.

“I need to change,” she said, remembering that she was still bundled up in Morgan's coat. “Why don't you make yourself comfortable out here on the porch? I'll be just a few minutes.”

She didn't wait for an answer. Instead, she attempted to walk casually back into the house, feeling the glare of his eyes on her back with each step she took.

Rushing up the stairs, she peeked in on Casey and tucked the sheet and blanket that had drifted down to her waist back around her shoulders. She
brushed a curl away from Casey's lips and planted a kiss on her cheek.

She wanted to crawl in bed with Casey and sleep just as soundlessly, anything to block the memories of the days she'd spent with Morgan, to interrupt the persistent need she had to see him again, in spite of everything.

Put him out of your mind
, she told herself.
Forget him
.

Wandering to her room, she removed Morgan's coat and draped it over the back of a chair. Suddenly she saw him sitting there, the velvet stretched across his muscular arms and chest, his hair cascading over his shoulders, his devilish smile watching her as she removed her shorts and blouse, then went to the closet and pulled a flowered sundress from a hanger and slipped it over her head.

His make-believe smile turned to a look of need, of desire, and her body ached, wanting so much to be held by him again.

But he was only a dream this time. A dream that would fade eventually—if she could find the nerve to push him from her heart.

She went downstairs again. She was almost to the front door when she heard the familiar squeak of a floorboard. Gordon Lancaster was standing near the back door when she entered the kitchen, his hand braced against the wall next to her key rack, staring out into the yard.

“I heard a noise,” he said, turning slowly. “I had the oddest feeling that someone had sneaked
into your home, but I saw no one inside or out. I hope I haven't frightened you.”

She shook her head, but he had frightened her. His very presence made her uncomfortable, but she didn't know why, and she wished he were still outside on the porch, wished Nikki and Jack would arrive shortly.

She peered out the door, hoping the noise Gordon had heard had been Morgan stalking around outside, but all she saw was darkness. She latched the door and turned to Gordon. “Would you like a drink?”

“Brandy, if you have it.”

“I have wine.”

“That will do, thank you.”

He wandered about the kitchen, just as Morgan had done that first time, touching the refrigerator, the stove.

“You have a lovely home,” he said, when she handed him the glass of wine.

“Thank you.” She leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped her Chablis. When she heard footsteps on the front porch, she sighed with relief.

“Nikki and Jack are here.”

“Good. The more, the merrier.”

She hadn't seen Jack in several weeks, and he hugged her when they entered the door. His sandy-colored hair was windblown—but it looked that way even when the weather was calm. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and looked far better than she ever imagined a museum curator should
look. He reminded her of Indiana Jones, and he was the perfect man for Nikki: rugged, intelligent, and definitely in love.

Introductions were made, white containers of Chinese food were heaped in the middle of the kitchen table, and Kate set out plates, silverware, and wineglasses while Jack popped the cork on a better bottle of wine than the one she'd already opened.

Nikki laughed at one of Jack's jokes, Gordon sipped at his wine, and Kate tried to relax. It had been far too long since she'd sat at the kitchen table and enjoyed the company of other adults—without any children present.

“I've been to England many times,” Jack said, leaning casually in his chair as he talked to Gordon. “Where exactly are you from?”

“Dover. Ever been there?”

“Once,” Jack said. “I took part in an archaeological dig in the area. I wouldn't mind going back.”

“It's a beautiful place,” Gordon stated. “No matter where I travel, I'm always eager to return home.”

Kate dipped a battered shrimp into tangy sauce and nibbled at the end while Gordon talked of his home, a magnificent estate not far from the white cliffs.

“Has it been in your family a long time?” she asked.

“Several centuries. It was a gift, for services rendered to the Crown.”

“Pretty nice gift.” Nikki laughed.

Gordon nodded slowly, swirling his wine before taking a sip.

“Nikki tells me you're a historian,” Jack said. “Any particular era?”

“Late-seventeenth, early-eighteenth centuries. I consider myself an expert on the pirates of that period. That's why I find the ship that appeared here so interesting.”

“Jack thinks it's authentic,” Nikki said to Gordon. “What about you?”

“I'm not the expert that Jack is, but from the little I've seen of it, I'd venture a guess that it' close to three hundred years old, and that it's a ship called
Satan's Revenge
that disappeared in seventeen-oh-two.”

“I agree,” Jack said. “It's aged better than any other ship I've seen, which is a mystery. Of course, there's also the mystery of where it's been for the past few centuries.”

“I wish it hadn't shown up here,” Nikki said. “But unfortunately it was in the harbor a few minutes ago.”

“It's still there?” Kate asked, her heart slamming hard against her chest.

“Where else would it be?” Gordon asked, a well-defined black brow raising slightly.

“Oh, I don't know.” Kate laughed nervously. “I thought someone might have sneaked on board and tried sailing it away.”

Nikki frowned at Kate, and she was afraid she'd said too much.

“It would be impossible for one person to sail
a warship like that all on his own,” Gordon said. “It would take an entire crew, or at least two very skillful sailors.”

“Kate's one of the best sailors I know,” Jack said. “Think you could handle something that size without any help?”

“Of course not. I wouldn't even want to try.”

Gordon refilled his glass of wine and took a sip, staring over the top of the glass at Kate. “I've heard stories that the pirate Black Heart once tried to sail
Satan's Revenge
by himself—and failed.”

“Did he drown?” Nikki asked.

“No,” Gordon said, “he disappeared, just like his ship. No one knows what happened.”

“It shimmered,” Kate said, then noticed all eyes had turned to her for an explanation. “I read an account about it. There was a prisoner on board. Thomas Low. He was thrown overboard in the storm, but he saw
Satan's Revenge
vanish in a flash of light.”

“Lightning, more than likely,” Nikki stated. “Things don't just disappear into thin air.”

“It seems highly plausible to me,” Gordon said. “I've heard many such stories of ships disappearing in the waters not far from here.”

“The Bermuda Triangle?” Jack asked.

“Yes, exactly.” Gordon poured himself more wine. “This story of Low's has me puzzled, though. I was under the impression he disappeared at the same time as the ship.”

“No. He died at home. In Dover,” Kate said.

Gordon laughed. “I assure you, he did not die
in Dover. He was an ancestor of mine. A great-uncle many times over on my mother's side. A remarkable man, by most accounts.” He sipped his wine. “I can only assume the man who told that story about the ship disappearing in a flash of light must have been an impostor. I know Low's true history inside and out—and Kate, he disappeared the same time as Black Heart and
Satan's Revenge.”

Kate's hands shook. She put her glass on the table and stuck her hands between her knees so no one could see them trembling.

Nikki reached across the table for the wine and refilled her glass. She was laughing. So was Jack. So was Gordon Lancaster. But Kate didn't find anything humorous in the ongoing discussion.

“You know,” Nikki said with a grin, “a pirate's been roaming the streets lately. I even saw a pirate on that ship. Maybe it's Thomas Low. Maybe
he's
the one responsible for the murders in town.”

“Highly unlikely,” Gordon said. “Thomas Low was an honorable man. I would imagine if you wanted to place the blame for these killings on an eighteenth-century pirate, you should look toward Black Heart. You may not be aware of this little known fact, but Black Heart was such a vile and despicable man that he murdered his own family.”

“That's impossible,” Kate blurted out, just as a streak of lightning bolted across the sky and thunder shook the pictures on the walls. “He wouldn't have done something like that.”

“You act as if you knew him personally,” Nikki said.

“No, of course I didn't. But Joe knew everything about him.”

“History books are not always full of accuracy,” Gordon stated. “The truth is often stretched or misrepresented. Would you like to hear the actual facts about Black Heart?”

“No,” Kate said firmly.

“I would,” Nikki said. “Come on, Kate. There's a storm coming. This will be just like telling ghost stories when we were kids.”

Jack refilled everyone's glasses. “Go ahead, Gordon. I'm always ready for an interesting tale.”

“The story isn't pleasant, but it is the truth.”

Kate drank her wine, trying to steady her jittery hands while Gordon told a tale similar to Morgan's. He painted a clear picture of the voyage to the West Indies, of hot days and balmy nights, and a party to celebrate an anniversary. And then he told of a mutiny attempt, when the sailors were drunk and didn't know what they were doing. He told a tale that Kate found impossible to believe, of Morgan despising his father, of wanting him dead so he could inherit his wealth.