Pirates (40 page)

Phoebe bit her lower lip, gathering the biography against her bosom for a moment.

The rain made a thick sheet of gray beyond the rusted screens, blotting out the view, hiding the exotic flowers and the lush foliage, driving the bright, raucous birds into silent seclusion. Knowing what had happened to Duncan might bring terrible, unending pain, she reasoned. Suppose he had been captured by the British and been executed, or killed in battle?

Phoebe put the book down, even turned her back, meaning to walk away, but in the end she couldn’t.

For better or for worse, she had to find out what became of Duncan.

She slumped into one of the vinyl upholstered patio chairs, picked up Professor Benning’s copy of
Duncan Rourke, Pirate or Patriot?
, and opened it to the first page. Immediately, the story gripped her, and she was immersed in it. There were things that made her smile, and, at other times, she had to tilt her head back for a few moments and close her eyes against a fresh and stinging rush of tears.

The author mentioned that Duncan had taken a wife, a mysterious creature thought to have escaped from some prison or asylum, but she had vanished one night, in the aftermath of a battle, and had never been seen or heard from again.

Phoebe ached over those words, sniffled once, and made herself go on reading. The final chapter was upon her within an hour, for it was a short and very concise book, with few embellishments or poetic graces. Sitting up very straight, her heart in her throat and her stomach in a knot, thinking how odd it was to be in such suspense over things that had happened two centuries before, she hoisted her mental skirts and waded into the truth.

The facts were devastating.

Three weeks after capturing Mornault and his motley crew, after their cannon assault on his home, Duncan had taken the lot of them to a place just south of Queen’s Town,
all bound and hobbled. He’d used Mornault’s own ship, now christened the
Phoebe Anne
, in the process, and turned the group over to friends of his, who would in turn deliver them to British authorities.

The mission had been successful—up to that point. Jacques Mornault and his men were eventually tried before an English magistrate—their crimes alone had taken half a printed page to list—and finally faced a firing squad.

Duncan had sailed back to Paradise Island, only to find a detachment of British soldiers, led by one Captain Lawrence, waiting there for him. He was promptly arrested, along with his crew, and so were Lucas and Alex, but only after Lucas was gravely wounded, trying to save his brother.

Tears streaked down Phoebe’s cheeks as the story got worse.

Captain Lawrence, the same man, no doubt, who had served in Queen’s Town and beaten Mr. Billington to a bloody pulp for defending Phoebe in the tavern that day, was determined to make an example of Duncan Rourke. Lawrence had probably heard about the affair with Francesca Sheffield, too, though the writer didn’t cover that element of the story, and felt compelled to take an extra pound of flesh on his comrade’s behalf.

Duncan had been bound to a tree and savagely whipped, but this time there had been no John Rourke to come to the rescue, to cut him free and carry him home and bind up his wounds. Lucas had been incapacitated in the preceding fracas. Alex and the others bound and made to witness the fate that awaited them on the morrow. No, on this second occasion, Duncan had suffered the full measure of his fate, untempered and undiluted by mercy or justice.

He had been left tied to that tree, throughout the night, that he might have an opportunity, in Lawrence’s words, “to contemplate the wages of his sin.” By morning, Duncan was dead.

Phoebe closed the book, groped her way through a screen door and out into the tropical downpour, where she was violently ill. She could not have imagined a crueler or more ironic death for Duncan, and she would have gone back
through time and suffered the whole ordeal in his place, had that been possible.

Anything—she would have done
anything
, to change history.

When her stomach was empty, she stood in the rain, pregnant with the child of a man who had been dead for more than two centuries, heartbroken and sick to the marrow of her bones. She honestly did not know how she would endure the rest of her life with the image of Duncan’s execution vivid in her mind; but for the sake of John Alexander Rourke, her son, she must find a way.

It was Snowball who found her standing there in the courtyard, soaked to the skin, face turned to the torrent, hair plastered to her head and dripping. He took her hand and led her inside to the lounge, where he gave her hot coffee to drink and went off in search of towels and a robe.

Phoebe sat on a stool at the bar, her coffee untouched, staring into the long mirror behind Snowball’s workspace. Instead of her own pitiful reflection, though, she saw Duncan. He was on his knees before the tree that had served as his whipping post, his hands still tied and extended high over his head, his hair matted with blood and sweat, his face abraded by the rough bark. The flesh of his back was shredded.

She watched Duncan die, powerless to help him or to lend even the simplest comfort. Then she gave an involuntary wail of despair and fainted.

Snowball returned to find her on the floor, struggling to raise herself, and made a soblike sound in his throat. “Phoebe,” he said. “Poor little Phoebe.”

He called an ambulance, over Phoebe’s protests, and she was taken to the hospital. Ironically, they put her in the same bed Duncan had occupied during his visit to the twentieth century.

She opened her eyes the next morning to find Sharon, the nurse who resembled Simone, standing beside her bed.

“You looking to lose that baby, Mrs. Rourke?” the other woman asked, her voice at once stern and kindly. “Because
that’s what’s going to happen if you don’t get yourself calmed down somehow.”

Phoebe had already lost her husband, the only man she had ever loved or ever would, and the loss of their child would be the final blow. “Good advice,” she admitted. “If only I knew how to act on it. Maybe I need a shrink.”

Sharon frowned and drew up a chair. “What happened to that good-looking man of yours?”

Explaining was futile—any attempt would probably get her airlifted to some loony ward on the mainland. “He’s gone,” she replied. Those two words said everything, and nothing at all. Duncan was more than gone—he’d been a hero, in all senses of the word, and the fates had rewarded him with a horrible death.

The nurse sighed. “Guess it’s just you and Baby, then. Lots of women in that predicament these days. Me, for instance.”

Phoebe welcomed any distraction from her own miserable situation. Besides, she was genuinely interested. “You’re a single parent?”

Sharon smiled. “I’ve got two boys—Leander and Martin. Things get pretty tough sometimes, but we always seem to make it through.” Her expression turned somber in the space of a moment. “Their daddy was killed in the Persian Gulf.”

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe murmured. She wondered if Sharon’s husband had suffered, as Duncan had, or if his death had been quick and merciful. Of course, she wasn’t about to ask.

“Yeah,” Sharon said with a wistful smile. “I’m sorry, too. My Ben was a good man. But you can only do so much crying and hurting and carrying on, you know? Then you just gotta stop it and get yourself moving again. The sooner you do that, Mrs. Rourke, the better off you and that little baby are going to be.”

Phoebe nodded. “I know you’re right,” she said, as fresh tears burned in her eyes. “And I’m trying.”

Sharon rose from her chair, came to Phoebe’s bedside,
and patted her hand. “You just rest, okay? Just close your eyes and try to think serene thoughts …”

It was in that moment that Old Woman’s name came back to her, and she recalled the power it was supposed to have. She felt the first tremulous, fragile hope, and began to repeat the word, silently, in the sorest part of her heart.

Phoebe was released the following morning, into the jaws of a raging tropical storm, and Snowball took her back to the hotel in his jeep, the rain thundering so loudly on the vehicle’s canvas roof that they didn’t try to talk. She was preoccupied anyway—she’d been gaining strength
and
determination steadily since she’d remembered Old Woman’s true name.

Once they’d reached their destination, Phoebe went to her room, and Snowball returned to his job. He’d been a good friend, though their association had been short, and she would always be grateful for his kindness.

All day, the storm went on, bending palm trees almost double in the wind, causing the T-shirted staff to fasten all the shutters and close all the doors. The electricity was shut off, just in case, and supplies of canned food and bottled water were taken to the cellars, along with blankets, pillows, and a first aid kit.

Phoebe was agitated; it seemed she’d absorbed the energy of the angry elements. Her mind was racing with plans and possibilities, and with every breath she repeated the secret, one-word litany that had been Old Woman’s gift to her.

By nightfall, the storm was at its height, ripping shingles from the roof and rattling the hotel on its foundations. Phoebe, two other guests, and the staff descended to the cellars, carrying lanterns and books and portable radios, talking nervously among themselves.

Phoebe knew, had told herself over and over, that even if she managed to get back to Duncan, she might not reach him in time to keep him from sailing into the hands of the British. She had learned only too well that time did not pass at the same rate in both places—she might get there before Duncan was captured and killed, but she might also find his grave, high on the hillside, beside his father’s.

“Don’t you want to come and sit with us, dear?” asked Mrs. Zillman, one of the guests, a friendly old woman with blue-rinsed hair. She and her husband, Malcolm, had bought a condo during a previous trip to Paradise Island and were back to take legal possession of the place.

Phoebe stared at the closed doors of the elevator and then lifted her disposable flashlight to the panel above. The numbers indicating the different floors were dark, of course, since the power was off. “I’m too nervous,” she answered, and that was certainly true enough. She said Old Woman’s name again, in the privacy of her mind.

Mrs. Zillman smiled sympathetically—she’d probably heard the surface details of Phoebe’s story from members of the staff—and went back to her husband and the others. An instant after she’d gone, there was a soft chiming sound, and the elevator doors whisked open.

Her heart hammering—after all, it might mean nothing except that the power had been turned on again—Phoebe stepped into the cubicle. Had it not been for her flashlight, she would have been in complete darkness when the doors closed behind her.

“Duncan,” she pleaded in a soft, ragged whisper, “be there. Please, be there, alive and safe and stubborn.”

The elevator made a humming sound, though there was no other indication that the thing was powered by electricity, but Phoebe could feel it moving, rising, lifting her. She held her breath when it stopped, and the doors opened.

Duncan’s ruined parlor loomed before her, and she lunged into it, without a moment’s hesitation, clutching her purse and the flashlight. The doors swept closed behind her, and Phoebe didn’t have to look back to know they had vanished entirely.

She was back in Duncan’s world.

Phoebe stood in the center of the gracious room, frowning. There was no storm here, and it was daytime instead of night. She started to call Duncan’s name, then stopped herself. If the British had already taken over the island, she didn’t want to alert them of her presence.

Not that she could qualify as a threat, armed with a flashlight
and a purseful of prenatal vitamins and other such perks of life in modern America.

Was Duncan still alive, or had she arrived too late?

She was still standing there, biting her lower lip and wondering how to proceed, when Margaret Rourke appeared. At the sight of her daughter-in-law, Margaret gave a little cry and rushed to take Phoebe into her arms.

Phoebe returned the hug, then drew back to study Margaret’s face. The exquisite features were drawn, the eyes shadowed and a little sunken, but the Rourke strength was still very much in evidence. Margaret was dressed in mourning clothes, and Phoebe prayed there was only John to grieve for, and not Duncan, too.

“We thought you’d left us forever,” Margaret said.

Phoebe shook her head. She was terrified to ask the question, but could delay it no longer. “Where is Duncan?”

Margaret’s expression was blank for a moment, as if she couldn’t remember the answer, and Phoebe held her breath.

“Why, he’s gone to Queen’s Town,” Margaret said at last, brightening a little. “They took that wretched pirate and his men there, to be turned over to the authorities. Oh, my dear—Duncan will be overjoyed to find you here!”

Phoebe’s relief was like balm to a throbbing wound, but she couldn’t afford to indulge in it for long. Duncan was still on a collision course with Captain Lawrence and a shipful of British troops, and if they didn’t find a way to warn him, Phoebe would probably be forced to witness her husband’s final ordeal. The thought brought gall surging into the back of her throat.

“And the British? Have they arrived yet?”

Margaret shook her head. “We haven’t been expecting them,” she said.

“Trust me, they’re on their way. Are we alone here on Paradise Island—just us women?”

Margaret nodded. “It’s only Phillippa and Old Woman and me. The servants have gone to other islands, and all the men are with Duncan.”

“Good,” Phoebe said, linking her arm with Margaret’s. “Here’s what we’re going to do …”

*   *   *

It was the dead of night, and there was no moon, but Duncan pushed Mornault’s refitted ship, now called the
Phoebe Anne
, toward Paradise Island. His gut told him there was trouble brewing, and his mother and sister were alone there, with only Old Woman to protect them.

Not that the latter wouldn’t make a formidable opponent.