Under Her Brass Corset (4 page)

Jasper helped collect the smashed knickknacks from the wood floor. He shook out pieces from the crocheted doily. Then looking to put the tatted cloth back on the table, he stared directly into the partly open satchel Abigail had been carrying. Enough light from the lamp on the table let him see inside the dark folds of tapestry. Nestled among papers lay what brought him to England—the Crystal Compass of Avalon. Gratification kept him transfixed. When he couldn’t find the compass where he had left it in the attic floorboards more than fifteen years ago, he had feared it had fallen into the wrong hands.

“Did you find anything else in the trunk with the map besides other papers?” he asked, looking at Abigail, hoping she hadn’t noticed his glance into her satchel.

Her gaze shifted from the floor toward the table. “No,” she answered quickly.

Not questioning her lie, he pretended to have his attention on picking up the pieces of porcelain. “If you get a box, we can save these,” he suggested, hoping to get her out of the room.

“I think they’re far too broken to fix.” She stood up. “I’ll get a wastebasket.”

He watched her leave the room. His heart went out to her. A whole month of troubles had landed in her lap. If his guess was right, the downward spiral was his fault. The thief had to have been looking for the Crystal Compass, and had quite possibly killed Abigail’s father for that purpose. On top of that, the financial burden Abigail suffered left Jasper facing a lot of guilt.

Jasper looked at the satchel and reached inside, plucking the glass ball from its cozy hiding place. It seemed the best time to also leave the key he still had, which had come in handy. Skeleton keys were a blessing. The same one for the front door had fit the attic door, and was probably the only thing that prevented Abigail’s thief from getting in the attic. Not that it mattered since she had already moved the compass from its hiding place.

In his palm, he held up the glass ball and inspected the condition. He hadn’t held the globe of glass in a long while. Given to him by the famed Lady of the Lake, Morgan Le Fay, the device pointed the way to all sources of the proverbial Fountain of Youth. While there was no magical water to regain youth, there was water that gave the drinker immortality.

When Jasper saw Abigail returning from the kitchen with a wastebasket, he hid the compass behind his back. Her crestfallen expression pained him. If only she had known him as a friend, then he could offer her a consoling hug.

“Is anything missing?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve noticed.” She lifted a hand to her hat and pulled out the pins fastening it to her hair. “Why would someone do this? You don’t think the troll—”

“It wasn’t the troll.” He watched her smooth down the table runner on the dining table so that the tassel hung over the edge where it belonged. She placed her hat on top and wiped the back of her hand across her cheek.

“I guess that would be too easy.” She turned, obviously surveying her belongings.

When her back was to him, he slipped the compass into the pocket inside his cloak. He went to her and took the wastebasket. “How about I take you somewhere else to get a meal?”

“I can’t leave this mess.” She turned toward him, her sorrowful gaze begging him to comfort her. “Besides, there’s no place open at this time of night.”

“Then we’ll stay, clean up and rummage up something for you to eat from your kitchen.”

“Thank you.” She put a hand to her mouth trying to cover her sob.

The heartrending sound of grief tore down his last defense against emotional involvement. He took the chance that the shambles of her house and the devastating loss of her father would allow her to accept his arms around her. He pulled her close and found no resistance. She buried her face between the folds of his cape and wept uncontrollably. The dampness of her tears wet his shirt against his skin. Her uncontainable weeping broke his heart. Willing all his strength into her, he hugged her tighter. After a time, she went silent and tipped her head back, looking up at him. He had once vowed not to befriend her, and as he bowed his head, he saw no way to break the spellbinding hold she had on his soul. She wanted to be kissed, and there wasn’t a power in all creation to stop him from that end.

Slowly he closed in on her mouth. She pressed her hands up his chest before embracing him about the shoulders. He tried telling himself she didn’t know what she was doing, that she was mindlessly reacting out of grief. And then her fingers were on his neck, stroking upward behind his ears, burrowing into his hair and scratching at the back of his head.

“Captain—” Her breath touched him first, and then her lips.

He restrained himself, expecting her to change her mind. But she held to the kiss, moving her mouth as if she searched for the perfect fit. He probed her tear-flavored skin with his tongue, and she opened for him. With her breath heavy against his, he crushed her lips. Her tongue coiled around his and then backed away to let him explore her mouth. In the past, though he had spent restless nights dreaming of her in his arms, the vision of their first kiss always eluded him. Nothing he ever imagined had prepared him for the aggressiveness of her movements or the sounds of her enjoyment.

Seconds ticked by. A full minute passed. Twice he tried drawing back from the passionate claim of her mouth against his. Both times she defeated his efforts by a disapproving whimper and a firmer hold on his head.

Then she broke the connection. She slid her hand from his hair and one of her fingers slipped over the string holding his eye patch in place. He watched her hand hovering near his face, questions in her eyes as to how he was injured.

“I offered you supper.” She stepped back, sliding out of his arms. “I should see what I have on hand.”

Reluctantly he let go. “I’ll finish cleaning up this mess.”

She gave him a wave over her shoulder to go ahead as she left the room. He felt as if he should follow her to the kitchen and apologize for kissing her. In the end, he decided it best that he let her have the time alone to recover from whatever embarrassment she suffered.

When she returned fifteen minutes later, she looked better. Her red-rimmed eyes were clear and her face was free of tears.

“I hope leftover stew is all right,” she said, straightening the other end of the table runner. The flare of red on her cheeks spoke a thousand words and he pretended not to notice the sudden shyness in her glances.

“Anything is fine with me. It’s not often I get the chance to have a home-cooked meal.” He helped her arrange the silverware, not even remembering the last time he bothered to eat any food. Immortals couldn’t die from starvation, so he only ate in certain situations. This was one of them.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” he asked.

“No, I’ve got it all under control. It’s on the stove heating.” She turned and surveyed the room. “You’ve straightened up in here rather quickly.”

“I’m used to getting things done.” Each time he looked at her, she avoided his glance. This wasn’t the way he wanted to remember her—upset, afraid and withdrawn.

“I’ll go get our food.” She left him at the table, returning a few minutes later with a tray containing two steaming bowls.

They sat and ate, and talked of unimportant topics. He told her of his recent travels. Something as mundane as having a sail repaired seemed to interest her enough to ask detailed questions about the process. Eventually they moved across the foyer to the parlor. The mess there amounted to overturned furniture. He righted it all and then coaxed her to sit and tell him about her work at the museum.

He took in his surroundings with a modicum of satisfied familiarity. Not much had changed. From the worn sofa to the slightly frayed gold fringe on the drapes at the window, everything made him feel as if he had stepped back in time. It made him happy to look over at Abigail and see she hadn’t reverted to a young girl. He didn’t want those days to return. The gorgeous woman with the dark chestnut hair was everything he had hoped she’d be in person.

A tightening in his chest reminded him not to let his indulgences in a fantasy spill over into reality. “It’s well after midnight. I should go.” He stood.

“Not yet. Let me get you more tea—maybe something stronger? My father always kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk.” She got up and went to the rolltop by the window. “He said my mother didn’t approve. I told him he didn’t have to hide it from me. He continued to keep it here, maybe as a reminder of her.”

She hurried off toward the kitchen and returned with two glasses. Carefully she poured a small amount of whiskey in each glass. Without hesitation, she downed her shot and poured another. Then she glanced at him, a hint of red dashed across her cheeks.

She coughed into her hand. “Pardon me, but I seldom partake of liquor. It is a bit strong.”

Jasper smiled, enamored of Abigail. Every nuance of her personality attracted him. Hours passed as they drank. He watched her relax under the influence of liquor as they engaged in idle conversation.

When Abigail blurted out, “You are a very attractive man, Captain,” he realized how unused to the whiskey she was.

“I should get going now. Your neighbors may question why a man is leaving your house in the wee hours of the morning.”

“I don’t care what my neighbors say. Have another drink.” Abigail reached for the bottle.

Jasper stopped her. “How about I fix us some more tea instead?”

She shrugged and yawned. He took that as a yes. Picking up the glasses, the discarded tea cups from earlier, and the almost empty bottle of whiskey, he returned them to the kitchen.

When he came back, he found Abigail with her legs drawn up on the sofa and her head turned against the back cushion. He set the cups on the low marble table and picked up his cloak and hat from the chair. Holding all in his arm, he quietly leaned down and inhaled the rose scent from Abigail’s hair, storing the memory of it safely in his mind.

“I shall miss you, Abby.” He kissed her gently on her temple.

In the stupor approaching deep sleep, a soft moan hummed from her. “Are you going?”

“Yes. Goodbye, me beauty.”

He hurried from the room and out the door. He sat his hat on his head and whipped the cloak around his shoulders. The ache inside him had tightened to the point he struggled to take a deep breath. Angry for having emotions at all, he marched down the steps and through the gate. He paused at the sight of the white cat.

“What are you looking at?” he snapped. “I’ve gotten what I came for.”

The cat strolled away.

Jasper glanced back at the house. He hit the wrought iron fence with his cane, creating a resounding crack stirring the air. The scent from the disturbed roses followed him for several paces, reminding him what he gave up. And for the second time in his four-hundred-year-old existence, he wished he had never taken that drink of water from the spring of Avalon.

Abigail stood on the wharf looking at the ships anchored in the mist-shrouded harbor. She tapped her foot on the plank dock in frustration. Which vessel belonged to the slick-talking Captain Blackthorn? She felt a fool for letting her emotions get in the way of her initial instincts. That night when he followed her was no accident. It couldn’t be. Not after he’d wormed his way into her good graces and her home, and then stolen the snow globe out of her satchel.

She studied the massive ships anchored in the waterway, mostly fishing vessels. One in particular caught her eye. The old brigantine rigged with what appeared to be an odd formation of pipes seemed a likely fit for Captain Blackthorn. He too had managed to stand out as something more than ordinary. It was also the only ship that lacked a flock of seagulls circling it.

“I can take you to him.” The short man the captain had called a troll two nights before stepped out from alongside a lopsided tool shanty on the weathered dock.

“He said your kind doesn’t associate with humans,” she said, surprised, not sure why she even made reference to the captain’s slur against the little man. She certainly didn’t believe fairy-tale trolls existed.

“The captain’s a funny man. If I didn’t associate with people, then why am I talking to you, miss?” the troll replied.

He didn’t look as ugly in the foggy morning light, and she was relieved he didn’t ask what she meant by her comment of “his kind.”

“To distract me,” she answered. “To trick me into falling for whatever game the two of you are up to.” She glanced again at the ship sitting moored far from the others in the harbor.

“I don’t know the captain, miss.”

“Then why are you here?” She returned her stare to him, suspiciously prepared to pick apart whatever statement he gave.

“When you left your house this morning, you appeared aggrieved by more than your father’s passing. I assumed it had to do with the captain’s late-night departure.”

“Were you spying on me?” Was this the man she sensed following her over the years? “How do you know about my father?”

“There’s little I don’t know about your family, Miss Thatch. We have lived in the same vicinity of each other all your life.” His mouth spread into a wide, snaggletoothed grin.

“What is it you want from me?” She hoped he’d get to the point.

“Nothing, miss. It’s what you want from me that brings me here.”

“Riddles. You and Captain Blackthorn spoke them the night before last. He said you were…” The word “troll” seemed too ugly to say aloud and she resisted.

“A troll.” He said it for her.

“Yes.”

“He’s right.”

“Well I don’t trust a thing Captain Blackthorn told me. He’s a liar and a thief.” She turned her head and looked at the odd ship again, wondering if the smoke rising from the mast was a distress signal.

“And still, you seek him out.” The troll chuckled softly.

“Like I said, he stole something from me and I aim to get it back,” she replied with adamancy, even though the desire to see the captain continued to tickle her insides.

“You express a lot more hurt than anger, Abigail Thatch.” The man’s bushy brow rose, making his eyes look bigger. “Are you sure that’s your only interest in seeing him again?”

“Yes,” she snapped, hating he saw the raw truth.

She had a right to feel hurt. The captain had made her trust him. When they had kissed, sparks of lust had ignited inside her like fireworks. In all her life, no one had created, and yet comforted such an emotional uproar in her soul. How could she not suffer from pangs of depression now?

“My interest, sir, is none of your business,” she declared with more determination.

“Then let me row you out to his ship.”

“I knew it. You
are
in cahoots with him.” She gnashed her teeth, holding back her seething anger.

“Do you not want to go out to his ship then?”

“Just take me there,” she said, having no other way to confront the captain. Letting time pass only meant giving him the opportunity to sail away with her property.

“This way, then.” The troll directed her down the dock.

Even while she considered it a trap, she followed the little man. It wasn’t as hard to think of him as a vile criminal the more time she spent around him. There was no doubt in her mind, however, that he was a part of the captain’s schemes.

At a ladder alongside a fat weathered-wood pylon, she looked below at a small rowboat. Without prodding, she climbed down. Her dress slid against the dirty, wet rungs. Twice the fabric snagged on rough splinters and tore. She continued on her mission. Come hell or high water she was going to get her snow globe back.

Abigail sat to the back of the small wooden craft. She assured herself she was stronger than the little man and that it was all right to go along with him. If he tried anything, all she had to do was either knock him overboard or dive in the water herself.

“We’re not going to that ship, are we?” She stared at the black smoke curling into the sky.

“We are,” the troll answered.

“That’s Captain Blackthorn’s vessel?”

“It is.”

“Is it on fire or something?” She stared at the unusual ship, wondering why the docks weren’t littered with curious spectators.

“I believe Captain Blackthorn is a bit of an eccentric and likes to do things that make him stand out from the rest of us. Though, as often as he’s moored in the harbor, most folks don’t pay quite as much attention to him anymore.”

Abigail glanced at the troll, not seeing anything about him that made him less peculiar than the captain. But there wasn’t time to debate what looked obvious to her. She had to try to turn her concerns to confronting the captain. What did she say to him? Did she outright accuse him of theft?

The oddities of the ship distracted her. She studied the antiquated monstrosity with the strange additions of brass pipes protruding from the hull. Unidentifiable gizmos hung attached at various places. Nothing appeared to belong. Yet each looked needed by the way they fit together. She read the name
Illusion
on the side, lettered in black paint, faded with age.

“What is she doing here?” Captain Blackthorn’s demanding voice rained down on them, splintering Abigail’s quiet contemplations about the bizarre ship.

With the sun in her eyes and at his back, the captain formed a mere silhouette. Her memories filled in the details. She’d never forget the way the dark shadow of stubble followed the strong lines of his jaw. Nor how the piercing roughness of his whiskers made the area around the rim of her lips tingle when they kissed. She imagined the brush of his chin against other parts of her body, stimulating her flesh with a prickling sensation.

“No, don’t tell me.” The captain’s unamused tone chilled her. “Her father has already seen to her good fortune.”

Abigail said nothing, since the comment was obviously directed at the troll. It did suggest the troll might not be in on the captain’s shenanigans.

“What is he talking about?” she whispered to the little man. “What good fortune is he referring to?”

“Good luck is not for you to question, Abigail Thatch. Accept that two men have had your best interest at heart, and you
will
find happiness at the other end of your rainbow.”

“What rainbow? Please don’t start talking in riddles to me. I’m not up to the challenge.” She gathered her satchel and stood, prepared to get on the ship with or without the captain’s permission.

“I suppose since you’re here, I should show you my gracious hospitality,” the captain said reluctantly. “Please, come aboard, Miss Thatch.”

“Row me closer,” she told the troll while pointing at a rope ladder dangling down the side of the ship.

“I think he means for you to use that.” The troll directed her to look up at a small foot-and-a-half square platform sliding slowly down between two brass pipes attached to steel. Behind it, she noticed a track with a cable fastened to the platform.

She glanced back at the troll. “He has a lift on the side of a ship,” she said in disbelief.

“It appears he does.” The troll positioned the boat next to it when it leveled out parallel with them.

She carefully stepped onto the contraption, testing the sturdiness with the weight of one foot. Then she put a hand against the brass pipe, using it as a rail to balance herself.

The lift jolted once when it began its ascent. Abigail looked down and watched the troll for a second, and then she stared up at her destination.

In the seconds it took for the platform to raise her to the top, she debated her sanity. There was no elegant way to get off the platform other than climb over the bulkhead rail of the ship. She lifted her skirt to her knees and swung one leg over. Then she pulled her other leg over and hopped off the side to stand on the deck. The clank of the platform drew her attention from smoothing down her skirt with the brush of her hand. She glanced over the side and saw the steel plate folded up tight against the hull.

“How are you this fine day, Miss Thatch?” The captain’s voice pulled her around.

He stood by what appeared to be a control box one deck level up. She assumed it contained the levers for making the lift work.

“I could be better.”

The captain made a dashing sight in his billowy white shirt and his tight leather breeches. The power and beauty took her breath away when he neared the steps. He was a rogue if ever she saw one—a scoundrel all the way down to the familiar black knee-high, bell-cuffed boots.

Aargh.
The sound sputtered in her throat as she remembered why she had hunted him down. After sorting through the mess a vandal had made of her house, she discovered the odd snow globe missing from her bag. Captain Blackthorn had access and opportunity. She felt duped by his gentlemanly manners, and even more so now as he moved into a position for her to see his face clearly.

“You have two eyes,” she charged, irritated by his deceitful use of the eye patch. She had run into con artists before, and to have this one get the better of her made her feel stupid for pitying him for the loss of an eye.

“I have.” He agreed, his somber expression curving into a grin.

The night before, he had made her feel unlike herself, timid and reserved. She had wanted his kiss and the feel of his hands caressing her skin. Her body had ached to know him inside her. Yet the unfamiliar had put limits on expressing her desires. Intimacy with someone new kept her reserved. The right and wrong of thievery boiled her blood. Nothing got in the way of her anger.

“And you stole my snow globe,” she accused, not letting his boyish dimples and twinkling blue eyes distract her from her rage.

“Actually—” He put a hand up to stop her from speaking. “The snow globe, as you call it, is mine.”

“How do you figure?” She watched him walk down the steps from the quarterdeck, his arrogant smile irking her. A shiny gold hoop pierced his earlobe.

“I left it in your father’s care many years ago.”

“Why?” She looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not that much older than me. I would have known if you were a friend of my father’s.”

His stroll toward her showed a certain swaggering confidence, so his sudden burst of laughter didn’t surprise her.

She had guessed he was in his mid-twenties. Was she wrong?

“I’m older than you think,” he answered.

She took in the length of him. Leather straps and brass buckles adorned his sleeves, his breeches and his knee-high boots. He cut a stunning figure of a man, his image so swashbuckling, so piratical. He intimidated her with his towering frame. His wide shoulders blocked the morning sun so that the rays cast a halo of light around his head. She slid her foot back in retreat of the angelic glow masking the devil of a man.

Tense with misplaced yearning, she hated how her attraction to the nefarious thief remained strong.

“If you knew my father, why not tell me?” She continued to move back a step for each one he took toward her. “You pretended to be missing an eye. Was that to gain my sympathy?”

“Why don’t we go below to my cabin and relax? Then I’ll see what I can explain.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” She bumped into the railing at her back and reached into her skirt pocket to retrieve her gun.

She lifted it free of the deep folds and aimed it at him. He stopped advancing. He stared intensely, his expression serious. Then he laughed a deep throaty roar, showing apparent amusement instead of fear or concern.

“The snow globe has gears. What does it do?” she demanded, wishing he’d stop looking so pleased to see her.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, still chuckling. “You are more intriguing than I had ever noticed or could have ever imagined.”

“Intriguing?” She blinked several times, shocked by his word choice, surprised by the change in his personality. “What was your opinion of me before? Gullible? You scared me on purpose, ransacked my house and then walked off with my snow globe. Did you truly believe I’d not come looking for it?”

“I did not turn everything in your house upside down.”

It was the only thing he refuted.

When he moved alongside her, she turned and kept her gun on him. Not that he seemed to care as he leaned on the rail and stared at the bustle of activity along the wharf.

“That careless plundering was the doing of your cousin,” he continued. “I didn’t think he’d figure out the details of—”

“I don’t have a cousin.”

“You have more than one, I daresay. Your grandfather cavorted with women on a regular basis for as long as I’ve known him. He probably doesn’t even know how many children he’s spawned.”

“My grandfather? I don’t even know my grandfather.”

“His name is Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard.”

“Blackbeard was my great-grandfather from two hundred years ago and Teach wasn’t his true name. You couldn’t have known him.”

“I know his grandson, Eric Teach, and I assure you, Eric is a ruthless—”

“I told you, Teach wasn’t Blackbeard’s name. It was Thatch.”

“Are you sure?” He turned his head and looked at her. His mouth cocked up on one side, making the dimple in his cheek more prominent.