Mystic Memories (15 page)

And make love to her.

“I must find Lupe,” he said abruptly, heading for the door. “She should be on her way back with your breakfast.”

“Blake, wait.”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder. “I will return, Cara.”

Late in the gloomy morning, Cara bathed and dressed in her clean clothes Lupe had brought back to her. Although the distance to the beach was only a mile on the high, flat tableland, Blake wanted her to be ready to leave after the midday meal in order for them to have ample time to descend the cliff trail. He was concerned about her lack of strength and planned to make her take as many rests as necessary.

Despite her quick recovery from the twenty-four-hour bug, she knew it would take her a while to feel completely restored to normal again. But she intended to make it all the way back to the ship without a single complaint. She didn’t dare do anything that would risk losing her transportation to San Diego. Even though her sixth sense had not been very keen over the last day or so, she had picked up something from Blake about his reluctance to continue helping her. Right now, she had no other ally to aid her search for Andrew. Until someone else came along with the means to get her from port to port, she had to make the best of things.

After eating a hearty lunch that included more medicinal broth, Cara accepted a leather pouch of the herbs from Lupe, who told her how to prepare it. As she said goodbye to the old woman, Blake walked up to the two of them.

“
¿Cuánto le debo?
” he asked Lupe, reaching into his jacket for money.

She shook her head. “I am only a handmaiden of my Lord,” she told them in Spanish. “He sent you to me so I may be of help. No money is expected.”

Extending his gratitude, Blake held out a handful of
reals
. Again, she waved it off with a shake of her hand. He glanced at Cara. “You speak their language better than I do. Tell her if she will not accept for herself, at least take it as a gift to the church.”

After Cara spoke reassuringly to Lupe, the old woman nodded, accepting the charity on behalf of the mission. Their farewell was interrupted by a small boy approaching with two horses that had been saddled and bridled, both having lassos coiled around the large pommels.

When Blake asked for her assistance with the language once more, Cara learned from the barefoot child that the animals were sent by the
mayordomo
of the mission for the short journey to the cliffs.

She stroked the white blaze on the chestnut mare, who nuzzled her palm. “She’s beautiful. Bet she runs like the wind.”

“You know how to ride astride?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I suppose I should not be surprised.”

According to the boy, the
mayordomo
expected the extravagant sum of sixteen
reals
, the normal cost of a full day’s use. This amount of two dollars was actually for the saddles, not the horses, which were more or less thrown in for free.

Blake considered the deal, then turned to Cara. “Perhaps if you were a bit stronger you could handle her. These horses know only two speeds—a slow walk and a fast run. Nothing in between. It would be best if you rode with me.” She didn’t welcome the idea of the two of them on the back of one horse, with her arms wrapped around his middle, her breasts pressed against his back. Nope. Huh-uh. This was not a good thing. She was already having a tough enough time keeping her hands to herself, continually reminding the little horny devil inside her body that ladies in the nineteenth century didn’t go around groping handsome and virile men.

Ladies don’t do ANY of the things you’ve been doing since you got here.

A valid point
, she told that impish voice. Still, she somehow managed to resist the temptation to let her libido run amok.

“I think I’d rather walk,” she said, hoping to convince Blake that she didn’t need the horse. “It’s only a mile. I could use the exercise.”

“Nonsense.”

He paid eight
reals
for one mount to the wide-eyed boy, who ran off to deliver the money to his superior. Blake led the chestnut mare to a low stone wall so Cara could easily climb up behind him.

Well, at least she’d given it a shot. Now it looked like she was going to be snuggled up to Blake whether she liked it or not. That was the trouble . . . she knew darn well she’d like it. Too much.

As they rode toward the mission entrance, the
padre
and his two helpers stood at the gates, their faces without smiles. Cara sensed their suspicion and fear. When the horse passed, the neophytes took a step back, crossing themselves. The Reverend Father remained rooted in his spot, his chin high as if in defiance.

Though she and Blake bid “
Muchas gracias
” and “
Adiós
,” the slender man barely acknowledged their words, giving an almost imperceptible nod.

Cara maintained her smile, murmuring, “What’s gotten into them?”

Leaving the mission behind, Blake turned his head slightly to speak over his shoulder to Cara. “Perhaps Lupe told them about your . . . vision.”

“If so, I doubt they would’ve behaved so oddly. Seeing the angel of mercy would be a blessing. But they acted like we’ve been cursed.”

A cold chill prickled her arms with goose bumps.

“I would bet it is
you
who frightens them,” he said.

“Me?!”

“Didn’t you notice that the father never once came to your room?”

“Actually, I was sort of out of it yesterday.”

“Out of it?”

She clarified, “I didn’t notice much of anything.”
Except Gabriella
.

And you
.

“When I carried you in there unconscious, he thought you were a boy in those clothes, with that shorn hair. He was quite taken aback to learn you were a woman. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone told him about Lupe’s claim that you were one of them.”

Unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone, Cara itemized, “So I am a woman, which immediately puts me on a lower rung of intelligent life. And I dress like a man with short hair, which marks me for suspicion. I’m part Indian, which means less than zero. Ah—! Let’s not forget I had the audacity to survive my illness.”

“Not only survive, Cara. To them, your turnaround probably seemed miraculous. You beat the devil.”

“Or else they think I
am
the devil.” Another involuntary shiver rippled through her body.

“Cold?”

“A little,” she fudged, though it was partly true that the cool, stiff breeze was a bit uncomfortable.

“Try not to dwell on it,” he suggested. “Think of something warm.”

“I am.”
Your body
.

The rest of the ride proved to be just as difficult as her mind had predicted. By the time they arrived at the trailhead at the top of the cliffs, her muscles were sore from the tense position she’d maintained the entire time, trying to keep from relaxing too much, leaning too close, holding on too tight.

She slid down from behind Blake, landing with a jolt that nearly buckled her weak knees. He followed, but with more finesse than she’d displayed. Then again, he hadn’t been sick in bed yesterday either, she reminded herself.

“What do we do about the horse?” she asked, giving an appreciative pat to its cheek.

“She knows her way back to the water.” He headed toward the trail with his leather bag in hand.

The animal turned its face to her. She smiled into the dark equine eyes, silently thanking the mare. “Yes, I suppose you do.”

“Are you talking to that horse?”

“Don’t you talk to your dog?”

“That’s different.”

“It is?”

“Of course. Bud is . . .”

“One of God’s creatures, just like this sweet mare.” The chestnut dropped her head, allowing Cara to give her a quick kiss on the bony ridge of her nose. “Be a good girl now and show me how you can find your way home.”

Impatient with her, Blake groused, “Oh-for-the-love-of—”

His muttering was silenced as the horse turned back toward the mission. Cara made a big production of dusting off her hands, then casually marched right past the slack-jawed captain, left staring at the departure of one very perceptive and obedient horse.

Her smug victory in one-upmanship was short-lived, however. Stopping at the edge of the cliff, she looked down four hundred feet to the surf below. Getting there was going to be far more difficult than the climb had been two days ago. And that was before the fever and chills had knocked her for a loop, draining her of half her energy.

On the way up, she’d been extra careful to follow a few yards behind Blake, noting every placement of his step so she could duplicate it. As agile as spider monkeys, they’d jumped over breaks and scrambled up steep faces. Always keeping her eyes focused upward, she’d seen only the gray skies beyond Blake.

Now, she had an entirely different view of the near vertical drop. Looking down, she saw the craggy shoreline white with foam from the crashing waves. Any other day she might not have balked at this adventurous test of her physical and mental outdoor skills. She and Mark would have considered it a Sunday stroll in the park. But today she wasn’t up to snuff. Not by a long shot.

Leading the way again, Blake stayed close, almost too close. Though grateful for his constant handholds to steady her, she had to concentrate all the harder when a zing of electricity would zap through her body at the slightest touch of his flesh.

Calling directions up to her, he told her how far to inch her foot to the left or right for the safest toehold. She practically jumped out of her skin the first time his fingers gently wrapped around her ankle, guiding her shoe down to an imperceptible lip in the rock. Twice, he was positioned below her as if on the lower rung of a ladder, coaching her downward movement until she was sandwiched between the slick granite and his hard body. His labored breathing in her ear was more disconcerting than the dizzying height.

The second time it happened, she briefly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to regain some equilibrium.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his breath warming her neck.

“Shaky.”
Thanks to you
.

“Then we’ll rest here for a few minutes.” He slightly shifted his stance to stabilize his weight on the ledge.

“Here?” she squeaked, acutely aware of his pelvis against her bottom.

“I don’t want you to become overly tired.”

What about overly stimulated?
She wanted to ask but decided against letting him know she was getting turned on while perched on a twelve-inch precipice one hundred feet above the jagged rocks.

By the time they reached the stony beach below, her nerves were beyond frazzled, though not only from their exhaustive descent.

Her entire time-traveling experience had become one big, scary high-wire act strung between two centuries. Struggling to keep her wits about her with Blake, she had leaned too far one way with the lies about Andrew. Before she lost her footing completely, she had tried the truth and went too far the other direction. Up until now, she had tried both deceit and honesty, only to find that neither one had worked well with Blake.

Doubts and fears rolled over her, threatening to upset her precarious balance even further. Once again, she began to wonder how in the world she was ever going to find Andrew, let alone get home.

Chapter
10

N
ot long after Blake and Cara reached the base of the cliffs, the
Kānaka
from the
Valiant
brought the longboat to shore. He helped her to board, settling her in the stern sheets near him, then gave the order to shove off. Facing aft, his men stretched out well at their oars, pulling them through the rough swells while Blake took the place of the steersman.

The skies grew darker with each passing minute. A sense of impending danger settled in his bones. With luck, they would reach the ship before the gale, slip anchor, and escape the clutches of another southeaster. Masking his concern, he glanced at Cara, surprised to see her watching him.

Her eyes searched his face.

She knew.

Damnation.
He wanted to reach out and pat her hand reassuringly. But guiding the boat took precedence, for which he was grateful. Better to have his hands occupied with his duties than to display gentle emotions in front of his men. As a commanding officer, he had the sterling reputation of being a fair-minded disciplinarian,
not
a tenderhearted fool.

The boat dropped heavily into a deep trough, jarring his teeth. The next swell rose in a high arc, then collapsed over the bow. Two of the Sandwich Islanders were drenched, yet they whooped in laughter, joined by the other two.

Whether they enjoyed the exhilaration or loved defying death, he did not know. Perhaps a little of both.

From the greenish look of Cara, she didn’t share the same exuberance for the wild ride. Lord, how much more could she take? No woman should suffer as much as she had. Still, she gave him a weak smile and clung to the boat.

He urged the men on. The
Kānaka
complied. They could not have given any more of their strength or spirit. Several more waves dumped water into the hull before they reached the
Valiant
, where Bud barked excitedly. No sooner had they climbed aboard than the rain descended upon them.

“Lay aloft and loose those topsails!” bellowed Blake as the anchor chain surged and snapped and surged again. Crewmen sang out at the sheets as they hauled them home. The storm bore down as the sails filled and the ship pitched. He told the mate to leave the longboat tied off at the buoy. They would return for it later when they retrieved the anchor. With no time to think, he relied on instinct.

Grabbing Cara’s hand, he tugged her toward the hatch. Bud followed close behind. In the midst of the madness, Keoni suddenly appeared, raindrops splattering off his wide shoulders. The wind roared. Squinting up at his huge friend, Blake hauled Cara in between them.

“Get her below,” he commanded, grabbing her a bit too roughly by the back of her shoulders and pressing her toward Keoni.

Cara shouted over the noise, “I can make it on my own.”

“No, goddamn it!” he shouted back, mad as hell at her spunkiness and scared as hell of losing her. He glanced up at his friend. “
Get her out of here!
And make
damn
sure she’s safe. Sit on her if you have to!”

He knew he’d catch the devil from her later, but right now all that mattered was saving this ship. And he couldn’t be clearheaded if he worried whether she’d been washed overboard on her way to his cabin.

As Keoni started to escort her away, Blake headed toward the helm, shouting over the wind to his first mate, “All ready forward?”

“Aye-aye, sir, all ready,” responded Mr. Bellows.

“Let go!”

The chain rattled through the hawsehole. “All gone, sir.”

“Let go aft!”

A startled cry spun Blake around. He saw Cara’s eyes widen in fright, then look upward as if scanning the rigging for something or someone. He saw nothing but McGinty working his way down to the fore topmast. Having no idea what she was doing and no time to ask, he motioned angrily at Keoni.

The cook caught her around the waist with his right arm, lifting her off the deck and bracing her against his side, her back to him. She grasped his bicep, squirming in his hold without any luck.

“Blake, I need to tell you . . .” Her words faded away as Keoni carried her off, Bud following them. He thought he heard the words “fore topmast” and “yardarm,” though he had no idea what she meant. And no time to consider the question. The mast looked perfectly fine to him.

Two hours later Blake went down the companionway, stripped off his wet tarpaulin, and headed toward his cabin to check on Cara. His wide gait did little to accommodate the erratic motion of the storm-tossed ship. In the meager light of a lantern swaying from a hook, he knocked twice on the door of his cabin, paused, then rapped once. The floor beneath his feet tilted violently, pitching him against the bulkhead. If he had not been so tired and miserably wet, he would not have been so easily buffeted.

The door was opened by his steward, who stood stiff and nervous in the presence of his captain, while Bud rounded the boy’s legs and came out to greet Blake.

Without looking down at his dog, he tossed the tarpaulin against the opposite bulkhead and patted him on the head but kept his attention on Jimmy. “Where’s Keoni?”

“Sir, he left me in charge, sir,” a lilt of Irish clinging to his words.

Bracing his hand on the door frame to maintain his balance, Blake almost laughed at the absurd idea of this young man trying to keep Cara in line. They were equal in height and weight. Having seen the fine tone of her arms, he would bet money that she was just as strong, if not stronger, though her recent illness might have given her a disadvantage.

“How is . . . Mrs. Edwards?” he inquired.

“I’m fine,” came her weary voice from behind the door.

She appeared beside the teenager, clearly unobservant of the young man’s smitten expression.
Must she arouse every male in her presence?
he wondered, as if it were her fault. Which it wasn’t. He was being petty, he knew. Perhaps it was his exhaustion, he told himself, refusing to accept the possibility that he might actually be jealous of a sixteen-year-old who was still wet behind the ears. If Jimmy had the chance, he would not know the first thing about pleasing a woman like Cara.

Shucking off his damp jacket, then scooping up the dripping tarpaulin, Blake held them both out to the young man. “I need dry clothes . . . again. See to it they’re in my temporary quarters as soon as possible.”

“Aye-aye, sir.” The lad took the woolen garment, then turned to Cara, his nervousness bringing out the brogue. “ ’Twas a pleasure to sit wit’ you, ma’am. If you be a’needin’ anythin’, I’ll be happy t’ get it. Anythin’ a’tall. I’ll come back—”

“Thank you, Jimmy,” she answered, smiling at him as she clung to the door for balance. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

As he slipped out of the cabin, her attention was drawn to Bud, trotting past her legs and flopping down in his favorite corner. With an amused expression, she turned back to Blake and invited him to enter.

Behind her, another lantern swung from the ceiling above the dining table. The dancing candlelight cast a shimmering halo about her head and shoulders. Her short dark hair framed the beauty of her luminous eyes. A man could drown in the depths of passion that he saw in those eyes.

He could hardly blame Jimmy for his behavior, feeling his own response to her sensual presence.

As he walked through the portal, he glanced about his quarters, noticing that Jimmy had stowed every loose item for the duration of the storm. His enamored steward was quite the reliable boy.

He went to a drawer and withdrew a small towel to dry his hair, then turned around and leaned against the bureau, his feet planted wide to counter the turbulent motion. He noticed Cara had taken a similar position with her back against the closed door, her hands by her narrow hips, her palms pressed against the wood. She wore an entirely different set of clothing, with a pair of trousers that fit quite well. And she was barefoot again.

“Different clothing, I see.”
Still the same fascinating toes,
he silently added, then scrubbed his scalp vigorously with the towel.

She glanced down at the white duck trousers. “Jimmy found a storage locker of old clothes.”

Blake did not tell her that the locker had been removed to make room for the uncured cattle hides they had been collecting from the ranchero owners. Along with all the other excess cargo, the chest had been left in San Diego for the duration of their stay on the California coast.

Either the lad had bartered with one of the crew for her present set of clothes or he had “borrowed” them. Then Blake realized that the fit was as close as her own garments, perhaps better. The clothes were Jimmy’s, he realized. No doubt about it. He stifled a smile.

Cara asked, “Why are you smiling like that?” Flattening his palm on his chest, he softly mimicked the Irish lilt. “Ah—Cara, m’darlin’, you’ve won another heart.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yes, indeed.” He dropped the accent. “And Keoni and whoever else happens within a hundred yards of you.”

“Not the
padre
,” she reminded him, leaning far to her left to compensate for the ship’s list.

“He is
supposed
to be immune.”

Slowly making her way across the unsteady cabin floor, she headed toward the bed, her arms extended for balance like a tightrope walker. He would have offered to help but decided it was best to stay as far away as he could from his berth and her body.

After she reached her destination, she plopped down on her fanny, looking as exhausted as he felt. Her legs dangled over the wooden rail that she gripped with her hands. Her bare feet enthralled him.

“Did you come here with a reason?” she asked, her torso shifting with the motion of the storm. “Or is this just a social call.”

Damn, how she can distract a man from his purpose each and every time.

“No . . . yes. That is—” He stopped drying his hair and gripped the towel in his hands. “I wanted to know about the message you wanted to give me before Keoni brought you down here.”

“About the mast? Did you keep an eye on it as I asked?”

“We lost it. Snapped like a twig in the wind.” He let out a tired sigh. “McGinty was up there.”

“Oh—no!” Her hand cupped her open mouth, then dropped away. “Is he all right?”

“Yes. Though I doubt he would be if I hadn’t been hearing your voice echoing inside my head about that damn mast.” He paused, staring down at the rough cloth in his hands. “How did you know the mast was going to go?”

“I . . .”

Her hesitation brought his eyes up. An unsettling feeling began to grow inside him. He cocked his head, studying her for a long moment, then repeated, more insistent this time, “How did you know to tell me, Cara?”

She dropped her gaze to the floor at his feet and took a deep breath. The long exhale bore the weight of the world.

“Okay, here it is—” She looked back up at him. “I saw it happen while I was up there on deck. That is, I saw it in my head—the broken mast, the ripped sails, the tangled rigging.”

“When I heard you gasp—”

She nodded, her shoulders hunched. “But I didn’t see the sailor. I didn’t know about him. Usually, I pick up
something
if a person is in danger.”

The southeaster gale keened and moaned. Waves dashed against the windows. The
Valiant
pitched and rolled. And Cara seemed to be taking the blame for it all, as though she had somehow let him down by not knowing of the accident with the seaman.

A part of him didn’t believe her story. More accurately, could not begin to fathom it. She was a madwoman, he reminded himself, his gut twisting from a deep-seated fear that he could not quite name. Was he afraid of her? Yes. No. Perhaps.

Staring at her slumped figure at the edge of the bed, he didn’t see a wild-eyed sorceress or a frightful witch. He saw only a woman he had grown to care about in a very short time. Maybe he had fallen under her spell. Yes, definitely so. Whether it was natural or mystical he couldn’t say. Yet no argument in his head seemed to be able to stop him from going to her side and sitting down next to her.