Time After Time (196 page)

He grinned as he pushed through the door and left the deafening din of the Salty Dog. A senseless whistle escaped him as he strode over the cobblestones toward the three-masted clipper at berth.

His shoulders relaxed as his stride grew longer. He inhaled and caught the scent of a hearty beef stew as it simmered in someone’s pot. Warm light spilled through the windows of the homes he passed and he heard the telltale sounds of people settling in for the evening.

He loved harbor towns—the charming, quaint villages of England, the rowdy, yet oddly cosmopolitan ports like Charleston, the rough and tumble atmosphere of Port Royal. The sight of the ships from all around the world lined up side by side, their colorful flags waving in the breeze, comforted him as nothing else ever could. He would miss these ports when he obeyed his father’s command and married the woman the earl had chosen—a woman whose name he didn’t even know.

Beneath the glow of a street lamp, he stopped and shook his head.

An arranged marriage. God, he hated the thought.

Shoulders tight once again, he kicked at a rock on the cobblestones and scowled. The earl had given him no choice.

If the truth were known, Tristan didn’t object to the idea of marriage—he just hated the idea of being coerced into it, forced to give up the life he loved.

Part of it was his own fault. All the years he’d searched for treasure, he could have and should have searched for a wife. He could have remained in England and attended the debutante balls where most of the eligible bachelors of his class chose their future wives from the best families.

But marriage and the responsibilities of the earldom wasn’t the life he wanted.

The sea called to him, lured him, begged him to feel its power and glory. From the moment he’d first stepped foot on a ship, he’d known he wanted to sail for the rest of his life. The warmth of a woman’s hand on his cheek could not compare to the cool touch of spindrift on his face. The tedium of running the Winterbourne estates could never measure up to the exhilaration of riding out a storm on the high seas while the sky raged around him. In those moments, Tristan knew he truly lived.

He glanced up as he drew closer to the
Adventurer
. A shadow passed before the windows of his cabin, back and forth, as if someone waited for him with great impatience. It couldn’t have been Jemmy. The boy had been fast asleep when Tristan had left to see his father’s solicitor.

It wasn’t Coop Milliron, either. His faithful crewman paced the length of the deck from bow to stern, his footsteps heavy on the wooden planks. They grew louder in the still night when he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. Moonbeams lit his path. He had no need of a lantern to guide his way.

Tristan studied the shadow and grinned. The silhouette belonged to a woman—he couldn’t deny the full thrust of her breasts or the long skirt that twitched with her step. His grin widened, but only for a moment.

Who was she? What was she doing aboard his ship?

There could be two reasons a woman would be on his ship at this time of night. Either she was a strumpet . . . or a thief.

If she was looking for the spoils from the
Sierra Magdalena
, she’d wasted her time. Though it was common knowledge in Charleston that he and his crew had found the treasure, only a fool would have kept it on board. Tristan had never been a fool.

The other alternative pleased him much more. If she was looking for a night of pleasure, well then, she’d come to the right man.

Tristan quickened his step and bounded up the gangplank. Cooper jumped, startled, and pulled his cutlass from the sash around his waist in one easy, practiced move. The sharp blade glinted in the moonlight.

“Coop!” Tristan raised his hands and sidestepped the weapon.

“Cap’n, ye scairt the hell outta me!” The crewman lowered the cutlass and shoved it back into his sash then patted the handle for good measure. He stood as tall as his short stature would allow which made the white cotton of his shirt strain against the roundness of his belly. “Doncha be knowin’ not to sneak up on a man? Coulda got yerself killed!”

“Who is the woman in my cabin?”

“She dinna give me her name, Cap’n. She been waitin’ on ye fer pert near a hour.” His grin spread from ear to ear then faded as his bushy eyebrows disappeared beneath the red kerchief tied around his forehead. Tufts of dark brown hair, peppered with grey, spiked around the square of cloth on his head. In the moon’s glow, his cheeks were ruddier than normal and his bulbous nose, a result of years of heavy drinking, shined like a beacon in the middle of his face. “Were ye not expectin’ her?”

“No, I was not.”

The crewman mumbled beneath his breath words Tristan couldn’t quite make out before he apologized. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. It ain’t unusual fer ye to have a woman in yer cabin, though it ain’t happened in a while.”

“It’s all right, Coop,” Tristan said. “Why don’t you join your mates at the Salty Dog? You shouldn’t miss the celebration.”

The seaman’s sharp brown eyes disappeared in the wrinkles of his face as he grinned. “Aye, Cap’n!” He needed no further urging as he scurried down the gangplank.

Tristan watched him for a moment then strode across the deck, the hard soles of his boots loud in the silent night.

At the end of the hallway, his door stood wide open. Candles lit against the darkness created a warm glow on the mahogany paneled walls. He glanced around the room. All the built-in cabinets were ajar. Maps littered the floor, some flat, some curled into long tubes, which rolled back and forth as the ship moved. Perturbed, but not angry, his jaw clenched but only for a moment as he took in the sight before him.

The woman stood at his desk, her hands flat on the surface as she studied a map. Covered in yards of pale blue silk, her backside wiggled as she shoved the current map out of her way to study the one beneath it.

The glow from the candles brought out the golden glints in her hair, which curled down her back in wild abandon. With a well-practiced flick of her hand, she pushed long, light brown hair away from her face then reached for the snifter of cognac on the desktop, finishing the amber brew in one swallow.

Tristan leaned against the doorjamb and twisted the ring on his finger as he admired the tantalizing view before him, no longer bothered by her uninvited presence. A new feeling took hold, one that filled his veins with desire. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. “Are you finding my maps of interest?”

“Oh!” She gave a guilty start and whirled around. A pretty shade of pink colored her face and contrasted with the pale blue of her gown. Her eyes, the color of the deep blue sea, were wide and twinkled in the candlelight. “I’m . . . I’m . . .” She paused to breathe. “You must be Captain Trey.”

“I must be.” He took two steps into the room. She backed into the desk, unable to retreat further. “And you are?”

The muscles in her throat moved as she swallowed hard.

“I . . .”

“If you’re looking for the
Sierra Magdalena’s
treasure, you won’t find it here. Nor will those maps help you.”

She drew herself up as his words hit her. “I beg your pardon. I am not a thief.”

Tristan smiled as wicked thoughts careened through his mind and took another two steps into the room. He stood only a breath away from her, close enough to see the faint scar on her forehead, close enough to notice her eyes weren’t merely sea-blue, but had flecks of green in their depths as well. Long dark lashes fluttered as she stared into his face and licked her lips.

He knew an invitation when he saw one. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her, lowered his head, and tasted those tempting, moist lips.

The woman stilled in his embrace, then melted against him. She tasted of brandy, warm and intoxicating, while her perfume filled his senses and surrounded him with the clean scent of a forest after a rain. The combination of her taste and smell tantalized him; the heat of her response excited him and made him realize one kiss was not enough.

His mouth slid over hers, gently at first, then with more force. Her lips opened beneath his, and beyond the initial taste of brandy, he detected the cool freshness of mint.

“Captain,” she breathed as she turned away and his lips touched the softness of her cheek. Small, dainty hands pushed against his chest. “I am not a common . . . strumpet here for your pleasure.”

Tristan grinned. Oh, she was a beauty with the color of roses in her cheeks and the sparkle of indignation in her sea-blue eyes. Contrary to her words, she had responded to him. Her body still trembled within his embrace.

“My apologies.” He released her and she staggered. “When a man comes aboard his ship and sees a beautiful woman who claims she is not a thief, he can only think one other thing.”

Those beguiling eyes flashed, and for a moment, Tristan battled with himself to keep from falling into their fathomless depths. He pulled a chair away from the table before slumping into it and crossing his legs. “If you’re not a thief and you’re not a harlot come to fulfill all my carnal desires, then who are you?”

“My name is Caralyn McCreigh,” she said and waited, as if she expected him to recognize the name.

He wasn’t listening. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the beauty of her face, the wild curls of light brown hair held back from her small features by a ribbon the same pale blue as her gown, or her full figure emphasized by the cut of her dress.

“I . . . ah . . . I have a proposition for you,” she blurted and raised wide eyes to him.

In that moment, Tristan was lost. Still intoxicated by her taste and smell, he now had to contend with desire sweeping through him with incredible speed and urgency.

“I want to hire you to help me find Queen Isabella’s treasure.”

Tristan said nothing, although his fingers drummed the tabletop. Was it possible? Had she overheard him talking with Graham? How did she know about the treasure?

Of course, everyone knew about the treasure, but how did she know he had searched for it and planned to search for it again? Was it coincidence?

Before he could voice his concern, she said, “You know my father, Daniel McCreigh of the
Lady Elizabeth
.” She smiled with obvious love for her father. “He told me he’d met you in Kingston. He thought you were an honorable man.”

Recognition dawned for Tristan. He did, indeed, know Daniel McCreigh, the fine, upstanding man who captained the
Lady Elizabeth
. They had both been in Finnegan’s Crooked Shillelagh, commiserating that neither could find Izzy’s Fortune, though each had searched for quite a few years. He remembered sharing an enjoyable evening with the man, hoisting tankards of ale and regaling each other with tall tales of life at sea. At one point, they’d even compared notes on where the treasure was not.

Tristan studied her, looked beyond her beauty, and saw the resemblance. “Many have searched for the treasure, Miss McCreigh, and yet, no one has found it. Queen Isabella’s treasure may not even be real.”

“Yes, that is true, but I believe it is.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I know, in my heart, the treasure is real.”

As did he, but he couldn’t tell her that. They’d just met. “What makes you think you will succeed where others have failed? Your own father couldn’t find the treasure.”

“I know, but I have these.” She reached for the soft-sided valise on the floor beside the desk, which Tristan hadn’t seen when he’d come into his cabin. She pulled an oilcloth wrapped package from the depths of the case and laid it on the table in front of him. Her fingers trembled as she tugged the string and moved the protective covering aside to reveal a journal before she pulled out the chair beside him and sat.

The leather binding was cracked and brittle. As she lifted the cover with her gloved fingers exposing pages fragile and delicate with age, Caralyn said, “My father was never serious about finding the treasure. For him, it was a lark, an adventure he and I could share, but I was raised on stories of Izzy’s Fortune
and I . . .I always believed. Even when I found this journal, Papa refused to come out of retirement to find it.”

Tristan looked from the book to her face. Her eyes were animated and sparkled in the glow of candlelight. Pink stained her cheeks. Enthusiasm colored her voice. He said nothing as he watched her, but his thoughts ran riot.

“This is the journal of Alexander Pembrook,” she said. “He sailed with Henry Morgan.”

She lifted one page after another with a touch so light, so dainty, Tristan’s body responded as if she caressed him. The fine hair on his arms rose as he imagined her fingers on his skin. Excitement rippled through him, and his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

She stopped about a third of the way through the journal. “Here.” She pointed to the page and pushed the book toward him. “Start here.”

He moved the candle closer and started to read. The journal entry, dated June 1670, described separating the
Santa Maria
from her two flagships and overtaking her in a battle, which left the ship with gaping holes in her bow and her crew in bloody heaps. The passage further related how Morgan’s men transferred the treasure to their own ship, set the
Santa Maria
on fire, and watched her sink into the ocean.

“This is all very exciting,” Tristan commented as he slid the journal back to her, “but is it true?”

“I believe so.” She stared at him, and in the depths of her fathomless eyes, he knew she did. With great care, she searched further through the journal and stopped at another page. “Morgan didn’t trust very many people, and he moved the treasure several times. The last time he did, Alexander was one of the men he selected to help move the treasure and swore to secrecy.”

Tristan rose from his seat. He grabbed her brandy snifter from the desk, found another one for himself in the cabinet over his head, and poured them both a draft of fine cognac. He swallowed his without even tasting it then refilled his glass.

“According to his journal, Alexander moved the treasure once more—stealing it from beneath Morgan’s nose the year Morgan was arrested and sent to England for breaking a peace treaty between England and Spain.”