Time After Time (228 page)

Time had become her enemy. She needed to talk to her father, but the man remained suspiciously absent. She hadn’t seen him at all. Hunting, she’d been told, when she asked.

Another sigh whispered through her lips. She missed the easy, carefree days of their search for Izzy’s Fortune, missed the crew and Jemmy. She even missed Temperance, but most of all, she missed Tristan. The taste of his kiss, the feel of his body pressed against hers, the exquisite moments of passion shared. Her heart ached when she thought of his sherry-colored eyes gazing into hers, the crooked smile she loved so well on his face.

“
C’est magnifique!
” one of the seamstresses gasped.

Caralyn’s eyes flew open and her gaze landed on her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t help herself. She glared at the woman in the beveled looking glass and struggled to catch her breath. The ivory satin and lace gown she would wear tomorrow when she vowed to honor and obey a man she had yet to meet made her look like an angel. An angel with a broken heart. An angel not quite so pure. Lord Ravensley, her intended, remained suspiciously absent—did he not wish to marry either?

Her chin trembled, her throat constricted and her body began to shake, as if stricken with fever. The tears she’d been holding at bay released in a torrent and rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t even try to stop them.

“What’s wrong,
ma cherie
?” the seamstress in charge asked in her lightly accented English. “You do not like the gown?”

Caralyn glanced at her mother and tried to speak over the lump in her throat. “I . . . I . . .”

“Leave us, please.” Elizabeth rose from the settee where she’d been offering suggestions on fit and style. The women left the room, chattering among themselves and closed the door behind them.

“Cara, dear, what is wrong?”

“I can’t do it, Mama,” Caralyn managed to say, although the constriction in her throat threatened to choke her. She blinked tears from her eyes as she gazed at her mother. “I’ve finally found the man I’ve been looking for all my life, the one I can love until I die. I love Tristan with all my heart.” Determination straightened her spine and she sniffed. Elizabeth handed her an embroidered handkerchief and she wiped the tears from her face. “I won’t marry someone else. I can’t. Papa promised me I wouldn’t have to if I found Izzy’s Fortune.”

“But Cara—”

Caralyn didn’t wait to hear what her mother was about to say. She stepped down from the foot high platform in front of the mirror and rushed to one of the trunks beside the wall. She slipped the lock and flipped the lid to expose an array of gold and jewels. “Well, I found it, Mama. I found the treasure and where is Papa?”

Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide as she strode across the room to look inside the chest. “Oh, Cara,” she sighed then took her daughter’s ice-cold hands into her warm ones. “You must follow your heart, my love, as I once did, but remember, the choices you make will be the ones you must live with for all your days. Is your captain worth ruining your father’s reputation as well as your own? Is he worth the scandal?”

“Was Papa?”

A beautiful smile crossed her mother’s lips and her eyes glowed. A blush stole across her face. “Yes, he was, Cara, and still is. I loved him then. I love him still, and I have not once regretted my decision. Do you feel the same about your captain?”

“Yes, Mama. I don’t want to live without him.”

“Ah, she is like all the DeMarshe women, is she not?”

Caralyn gasped and whirled around. The duchess, whom she’d come to know and adore, stood in the doorway.

“Headstrong,” she said as she closed the door and strode across the room to join them at the chest, her cane tapping the carpeted floor with each step. To Caralyn, the rhythmic beat sounded like the constant ticking of the clock, telling her time had run out.

The duchess glanced into the trunk. One eyebrow rose as a smile crossed her lips. “Willful. Rash and reckless, with a weakness for men of the sea.” She grasped Caralyn’s chin between finger and thumb. “But knowing her own heart.”

“What am I to do?” The tears fell. She couldn’t help it.

“Life is long. You cannot go through it with sadness as your constant companion.” The duchess sighed then glanced at her daughter. Elizabeth raised a perfectly shaped brow as she held her mother’s gaze then slowly nodded. “As your mother did so long ago, as I once did, you must follow your heart. Go to him. Find this captain of yours and tell him you love him.”

“I can’t.” Caralyn scooped up a handful of gold coins and let them drop back into the chest one by one. “I can’t go to Tristan if I am not free. I must speak with the Earl of Winterbourne and try to convince him to set me free of Papa’s word. I can pay him the dowry Papa promised, but I have no idea where to find him.”

“So that’s why you’ve been trying to bribe my staff and sneak out of the house.” The duchess chuckled. “Why did you not just ask me?” She laid cool fingers on Caralyn’s arm. “By the time you change your clothes, I can have a carriage ready to take you where you need to go.”

• • •

She’s not coming back.

The words echoed through Tristan’s mind as the ticking of the clock reminded him of exactly how long Caralyn had been gone. Three days, four hours, twenty-four minutes. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-six.

He paced the length of his cabin, back and forth, unable to sit still for more than a moment, unable to concentrate on the captain’s log he needed to complete before he transferred ownership of the
Adventurer
to Graham.

Twenty-seven minutes.

He’d yet to receive a response from his father, either. The messages he’d sent after they sailed into port had gone unanswered. He could and should ride out for the Winterbourne estates and confront his father, but where was he? The London townhouse? The estates in Swansea? One of the other estates? The hunting lodge? And what if Caralyn came back after he was gone? Would she think he’d given up waiting for her?

Twenty-eight minutes.

Most of the crew had gone to town to spend their portion of the treasure. Only Stitch, Temperance, Hash, and Jemmy remained onboard. The creaking of the ship and the ticking of the clock were simply repeated reminders of the time he wasted, the time Caralyn was not in his arms.

Tristan sighed, sat at his desk again, and tried to record the details of his journey to find Izzy’s Fortune but every word, every fact reminded him of Caralyn. Indeed, her perfume permeated the cabin. He inhaled, letting the scent he associated with her fill his mind.

“When is Miss Cara coming back? I miss her.”

Tristan looked up from the captain’s log on his desk to see his son in the doorway of the cabin. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and glowed in the pearly light coming in through the window. He looked as if he’d been crying. “Come here.” He opened his arms wide. The boy flew across the room and settled onto his lap.

“I miss her, too, son,” he said, “but I don’t think she’ll be able to come back. She . . .” He stopped himself from saying too much. Only eight, Jemmy wouldn’t understand the obligations of adults, couldn’t understand the circumstances he and Caralyn had found themselves in—to find the perfect mate, the perfect person only to be promised to others, but the boy deserved to know.

Before he could explain, Jemmy whispered, “I wish she could be my mother.”

The words were spoken so softly, so wistfully, Tristan wasn’t sure he’d heard them correctly, but they touched his heart. He held the boy tighter. How unfair he’d been, never realizing how much Jemmy had grown to love Caralyn, never realizing how his actions had affected his son. Guilt raged through him and his own eyes misted, blurring his vision. The ache in his chest, his constant companion, exploded. He held his breath against the pain, and as much as he hated to hurt his son more, he had to tell him. “She’s to be married to someone else.”

“She can’t,” the boy blurted as tears filled his eyes. His voice cracked. “She loves you, Papa. And you love her.
You
have to marry her.”

Tristan sighed and closed his eyes, unable to bear the anguish he saw reflected on Jemmy’s face, anguish that mirrored his own. “It’s not possible, son. I’m sorry. We both, she and I, have responsibilities and commitments, duties to fulfill.” The words sounded weak, even to his own ears. His voice lowered as he uttered, “I am to be married as well.”

“No, Papa!” Jemmy squirmed out of his embrace. Anger stiffened his little body as he stood in front of his father, red faced, hands balled into fists. “You can’t marry someone else! You can’t!”

“But I must.”

“I want Miss Cara! You have to find her and bring her back!” Tears flowed freely from Jemmy’s eyes and ran down his cheeks.

“I can’t.”

“I hate you, Papa!” His son shouted the words and fled from the room as fast as his feet could carry him.

Tristan closed his eyes against the sorrow filling his soul. Jemmy had never said those words to him before and God help him, they hurt. He resisted the urge to chase after his son. For now. He knew no matter what he said, no matter how he tried to explain, Jemmy wouldn’t understand. The boy was too upset to listen. It was the second hardest thing Tristan had ever done. The first had been watching Caralyn leave the
Adventurer
.

“What’s wrong with Jemmy?” Stitch stood in the doorway, concern etched on his face. “He ran past me as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, his eyes full of tears. Temperance is trying to comfort him, but she isn’t doing much good. The boy is inconsolable.”

“I had to tell him Caralyn isn’t coming back . . . had to tell him she’s getting married to someone else, as am I.” He scrubbed at his face then raked his fingers through his hair. His breath hitched in his chest as he revealed the hurtful words his son had thrown at him. “He told me he hated me.”

Stitch shook his head. “I’m sorry. That must have been very hard for you.” The doctor entered the room and headed for the liquor cabinet. He poured a healthy draught of brandy into snifters and handed one to Tristan then pulled a chair closer to the desk. He took a sip of the cognac. “He doesn’t mean it, you know. Children will say things when they’re upset. They don’t realize how hurtful words can sometimes be, but he’ll calm down.”

“I don’t know, Stitch.” Tristan let out his pent up breath. “If you could have seen the hurt on his face, the way he looked at me.” He closed his eyes against the pain, against the sympathy in Stitch’s expression. “He said he wished Caralyn could be his mother.”

“I see. He grew very fond of her very quickly and she of him, I think.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and then took another sip of brandy. “What about you?”

“What about me?” His words were curt. He didn’t mean them to be, but he didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to share the sadness in his heart about Caralyn. He didn’t offer an apology, although he knew he should. The lump in his throat made it too difficult to speak.

The doctor’s eyebrow lifted, but he remained silent for a very long time. When he finally spoke, he said, “You know, I still have the address where Temperance and I brought Caralyn. I would presume she’s still there. She isn’t married yet, Tristan, and neither are you.” He finished his brandy then rose from his seat. He laid his hand on Tristan’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sometimes, a child’s simple view is the right one. Adults always make things more complicated than they need to be. Perhaps you should listen to Jemmy and follow your heart.”

He left the cabin, closing the door behind him. Tristan leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, his thumbs resting under his chin, fingertips touching the tip of his nose. The advice Stitch gave him to heed Jemmy’s words whirled in his mind.

Dare he follow his heart?

He closed his eyes. The memory of all of them sitting down for breakfast at Finnegan’s flashed through his mind. How happy he’d been at that moment. How content. How much he wanted that to be real.

“Yes, damn it, I dare!” He said the words aloud and his heart pounded in his chest, not with pain, not with sorrow, but with hope. He stood, tossed back the brandy, and rushed from the cabin. Stitch was the only one in sight, although he could hear Jemmy’s sobs. The good doctor paced back and forth on deck, his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.

“Ah, you’ve come to a decision, I see.”

Tristan grinned. “If you’ll keep an eye on Jemmy, I’ll take that address.”

Stitch nodded and handed him a slip of paper. “Bring her back to us.”

Excitement pulsed through his veins as he left the ship and hailed the first carriage he saw. His foot tapped the floor in an effort to convince the driver to go faster. He sat back against the cushioned seat and twisted the signet ring around and around on his finger. He stopped twisting and stared at the symbol on it, a smile spreading his lips. He could only imagine the look on his father’s face when he introduced Caralyn as the only woman he’d consider marrying.

Tristan didn’t wait for the carriage to come to a complete stop or for the driver to climb from his perch and place the wooden box beneath the door. He jumped to the cobblestoned street and tossed a few coins to the driver then stood for a moment to catch his breath as the carriage pulled away. Hawthorne House and the carved lions flanking the wrought iron gate greeted him with stony silence.

He strode toward the door, lifted the heavy lion’s head knocker, and waited. And waited. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, pushed his hands into his pockets then removed them again. He stared at the door, willing it to open, willing it to disappear. Unable to stop himself, he lifted the knocker once more and let it drop.

Once the door finally opened, every rule of decorum and propriety left him. He pushed past the startled butler and rushed into the house.

“Cara! Cara!” Tristan’s voice echoed through the cavernous great hall, the chandelier above his head tinkling in response.

“Sir, if you would please—” The butler tried to grab his arm, but Tristan shook him off.

“Cara!” He strode toward the sweeping staircase, expecting to see Caralyn come flying down the stairs. Instead, he saw a young girl, a child of no more than four or five. She stood on a step midway down the staircase, a rag doll clutched in her arms. Masses of light brown hair curled around her head. She grinned at him.