Looking for a Hero (6 page)

The grin touched his face again. “Mark my words, madam. You will find I am not an easy man to forget.”

W
hat the bloody hell?
This was not St. Augustine! The woman, in spite of her obvious skill at sailing, must know nothing of navigation, for surely she'd set her course in the wrong direction.

The curve of the shoreline and the breadth of the inlet to the bay looked just as they had the last time he'd entered the city. But the church spires were new, as were the masses of houses and buildings littering the waterfront. And who the bloody hell had constructed the monstrous round lighthouse, circled with black and white stripes, that jutted into the sky like some vainglorious god's tribute to his manhood? Was not a simple gray stone structure enough?

Nay, this was not St. Augustine, nor any other city he'd traveled to.

Yet…he shoved his fingers through his hair, confused by the familiar sight of Castillo de San Marcos standing guard at the edge of the city. The high stone walls, the parapets and towers had the same line and curve as he remembered, but they appeared older now. Worn. Battered, not unlike his own fortress.

How could this possibly be St. Augustine?

What had happened in the short year he'd been gone?

Morgan's head snapped to the left when a strange, exotic vessel breezed across the water, followed shortly by many others that looked nearly identical. They were small boats like the one he stood on now, and their orange, yellow, blue, and green sails turned the bay into a rainbow of colors.

God forbid! He had never seen sights like these, and he felt he must surely look the fool, the way Kate stared at his obvious puzzlement.

He could not let her know that he found the city odd, that he almost believed a mighty magician must have cast a spell over the town. She would surely call the authorities and have him carted off to an asylum for the mad.

Nay, he must remain calm. He must appear strong, in control of his wits, even though he was beginning to believe he'd lost his mind.

Another vessel screamed past him, its sound almost deafening, its speed quaking the water and leaving behind a wake nearly as high and strong
as a storm-tossed wave. The boat had no sails, there were no men bearing oars, and he wondered how it could move so swiftly across the water. Surely this was something his tired mind had conjured.

He hadn't conjured the strange objects inside Kate's vessel, though, like the one she'd held to her mouth many a time during their voyage. The woman's mannerisms had been quite odd, the way she'd attempted to talk to the thing. Naturally, no one had answered, and then she'd sworn. “Damn it!” seemed to be her favorite choice of words.

He'd like to swear, too, but he could not let her see his frustration. She stared at him as if he were an odd creature from a foreign land, when he was the one who should be staring with mouth agape. But he stayed calm, even though the world about him appeared to be spinning out of control.

It was a blessing that the dark blue waters of the bay hadn't changed, but he longed to see galleons laden with riches from ports around the world, and heavily armed warships, teeming with men, whose masts reached high into the heavens. Where had they gone?

Where the gleaming white sands had once run directly into the harbor, there now were great stone walls to separate the sea from shore. The vegetation that had grown wild had been cultivated and now came closer to resembling his grandfather's estate in Kent than the untamed land he remembered.

There was much to marvel at and admire, yet it all caused him great consternation. Not only was it mentally impossible to fathom these changes, it was physically impossible to perform such a transformation in the span of one short year.

Of course, what other explanation was there?

He ducked as the woman tacked without warning and the boom nearly knocked him from the boat. “Bloody hell, woman! Do you intend to send me overboard?”

She grinned. “I wouldn't think of it.”

'Twas a lie, of course. She wanted him gone and had made that obvious from the moment they'd met. He'd have to keep a watchful eye on the woman—a task he'd find none too difficult. She was a beauty, a woman a man would never forget.

He braced his feet on the deck, contemplating the wildness of her hair, the brightness of her eyes, the angry set of her lips. Nay, he would not forget this woman. In fact, he planned to know her better, and when he did, he'd ask her to explain what the devil had transformed the world he'd known.

He surveyed more of his odd surroundings, like the people standing on green lawns that circled the Castillo, looking out across the waterway, and, by God!, the massive bridge spanning the channel.

He closed his eye tightly, opened it again, then rubbed it. Who could have built such a bridge in a matter of months? And…bloody hell! What were those bright and shining objects moving
swiftly over the top? They weren't carriages or wagons, yet he could faintly see the shapes of men, women, and children inside. They traveled rapidly, almost soundlessly, over the gray stone structure, without the aid of horses or oxen.

Deep in his chest he could feel the beat of his heart pick up momentum. A tightness wrapped around his throat as if he were being strangled, and a fear that he'd never known before overwhelmed him.

What was happening? Was he caught in the middle of a dream? He considered himself a learned man, a reader of books, a man greatly interested in what could be, if mankind had the power to imagine great things. But even his own imaginings had never conjured something so wondrous as this.

He turned toward the woman, who was readying the craft to tack. She seemed not the least confused by what was going on around them. Wind blew through her hair, the ship glided easily over the water, and when Casey climbed from the cabin, Kate pulled her daughter close and allowed her to assist in sailing the ship.

“Do you know how to sail?” the child asked, looking toward him.

“Aye.”

“Mommy's teaching me. I want to be a pirate someday, and pirates have to be really good sailors.”

“Aye. That they do.”

Suddenly Morgan realized that this could not
possibly be a dream. He had to have gone to heaven, in spite of his hell-bent life, because he never would have dreamt of guardian angels, and surely that's what he was seeing now.

But guardian angels didn't carve a man's neck with his very own blade, nor did they come at him with claws, or knees swiftly aimed at his balls.

This was surely not a dream. Perhaps he'd gone to hell, after all.

“Where have you taken me?” he asked, no longer caring if he appeared the fool. He had to know the truth.

The celestial creature with eyes the color of emeralds glared at him as if he'd gone mad. Of course, he'd expected nothing less. “St. Augustine,” she said.

“'Tis not as I recall.”

“Maybe you were drunk the last time you were here.”

“I do not imbibe to the point of oblivion, madam. Nor do I mistake one city for another. I have sailed to nearly every major port in this world, and I know the intricacies of all those cities. This place may bear a striking resemblance to St. Augustine, but I assure you, it is not.”

“Yes, it is,” the child said, making him feel even more the fool. “I was born here. Six years ago.”

He shook his head slowly, trying desperately to understand what was going on around him. “When last I was here, Spanish warships blockaded the harbor to keep the British away. Houses
had been destroyed by cannon fire, and there was no bloody bridge across the river.”

“That
bloody
bridge has been here for a good seventy years, and it's been centuries since there were any Spanish
or
British warships in the harbor. You know what I think, Mr. Farrell? I think you've damn well lost your mind, because I seriously doubt you were here in the eighteenth century.”

“I was here in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and two—”

“Yes, of course you were,” she interrupted. “And I'm the Queen of England.”

“You are no Queen Anne, I can assure you of that, madam.”

“Knock it off, will you? Your accent's convincing. You look crude enough to be a pirate, but I'm not falling for your pathetic little act.”

She took a deep breath, working up the energy to lecture him more, he assumed. “Once we're docked and I make sure you're off the boat, you can argue the progression of St. Augustine history with someone else.”

“Aren't we going to take him home with us?” Casey asked.

“No, Case. We won't be seeing Mr. Farrell again.”

“Your mother and I have differing opinions on that subject,” he said, kneeling before the child. He reached out to brush a strand of hair from her lips, but Kate slapped his hand away.

“Don't touch her.”

“He won't hurt me, Mommy.”

“I don't want him near us.”

Morgan winked at the little girl whose lower lip had jutted out, then rose to his full height, towering over the woman as he moved close to her side.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

Kate looked up. Her pretty pink lips were pursed tightly, her green eyes squinted into a frown. He had the oddest feeling she was contemplating aiming her knee at his groin once more.

What a damnable woman she was, but he admired her spirit.

She nudged him out of the way as she tacked again. “I'm not afraid of you or anyone else.”

“That's not entirely true, madam. Your entire body bristles whenever I near you. Either you're afraid of me, or some other emotion—desire, perhaps—makes you shiver.”

“You're a smug bastard, aren't you?”

“Mommy! That's a nasty word.”

“The child's correct. I daresay, one might mistake you for a barroom wench when you continually use such language.”

“And it's quite obvious you've known a lot of barroom wenches.”

“I've known a few. I choose to know no more. They may have the same devil in their tongue that you possess, but they have not the same fire in their eyes. You may wish to be free of me once we've docked, my dearest Kate, but I do not wish to be free of you.”

“What are you, some kind of lunatic?”

He looked at his unfamiliar surroundings, at the harbor filled with small sailboats, at the beautiful woman and heavenly child who'd appeared in his life when he least needed them. “I am not mad, madam. I am merely a man who finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings, a man who would greatly benefit from your continuing generosity.”

“I've already given you enough, Mr. Farrell.”

“That is not possible, madam. There is much, much more I would have from you.”

 

With Casey's hand held tightly in hers, Kate rushed away from the boat, away from the marina, and away from Morgan Farrell and his blasted eyes and hair and innuendoes. Damn, but he unnerved her.

“Please, Mommy,” Casey begged, trying to tug out of Kate's grasp. “Don't leave him alone.”

“He's crazy, Case. We don't need someone like that in our lives.”

“He's not crazy,” Casey said adamantly. “He's a pirate. If Daddy was here, he'd ask him to go home with us.”

“Your father invited home every homeless person he came in contact with. I didn't mind it when he was around, but I don't feel comfortable having strangers in the house when just you and I are there.”

“He won't hurt us.”

“We don't know that, Case. Please, let's not talk about this anymore. We've got to get home. I'm
sure Evalena's worried sick about us by now.”

Casey stopped dead in her tracks, stubborn yet again, and Kate rapidly counted to ten. Patience wasn't a virtue she possessed, and counting had been a habit since childhood.

“I think he's scared, Mommy,” Casey said, looking toward the marina.

Kate didn't want to look back, but she couldn't help herself. Casey's pirate stood like a stalwart statue at the edge of the docks, his arms folded mightily over his chest. He was wearing his blue velvet coat now, even though he'd expressed his desire that she keep it. “To protect your honor, madam,” he'd said. Ha! He sure knew how to play the gentleman, but he was anything but. That was obvious by the way he tucked his cutlass, his dagger, and his pistol under the wide leather belt he wore.

“Please, Mommy. Let's go back and help him.”

“He's a grown man, Case. I'm sure he can take care of himself.”

The proof of her words stared her in the face. The usual throng of summer tourists flocked around him, flashing cameras, asking him questions, and he just stood there, as if he owned the world and was afraid of nothing.

He ignored the people around him, interested in something else entirely, something a good distance away.

Her
.

Across the heads of women, men, and children, over the occasional car that passed on the street
between them, he stared, and she could feel the radiating heat of his one azure eye.

Her heart beat rapidly. A lump caught in her throat, and she found it difficult to breathe.

What was he doing to her?
Get away
, she told herself.
Leave. Fast, before his incredibly gifted skills as an actor fool you into believing there's a nice guy under that scruffy beard and ugly scar
.

“Come on, Case,” she said, the tone of her voice offering no room for argument as she tugged Casey up the street. “We're going home. Mr. Farrell will be perfectly fine now that he's back in his element. He's an actor, not a pirate, and right now he's doing what he does best—entertaining the crowds.”

 

The whole lot of them were mad, inspecting his clothing, his hair, the patch on his eye and the scar down his face.

“Where's your parrot, huh?” some nasty street urchin wearing short ragged trousers chortled. “Did you leave him on Treasure Island?”

“Look over here,” a woman called out, as she stuck a black box in front of her face. “Smile.”