Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  “What?” The woman glared at him, her dark brown eyes narrowed.

  “We’re under way, ma’am.” Dr. Trevelyan drew her attention to Charleston slipping away.

  Mrs. Beasley stomped her foot, folded her arms across her chest and pinned Tristan with a glare. “But . . . but I have no baggage. I . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I demand you turn around or whatever it is you do and take me back.”

  Though her stare might frighten others, it failed to intimidate him at all. Tristan had faced more threatening foes, his father included. He glanced at Caralyn. Hope lit her eyes to an even bluer blue. Although he could take both women back to Charleston, the simple fact remained he didn’t want to, and as captain, he made the decisions. Besides, perhaps Caralyn would bring him luck and they’d find the treasure. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. Miss McCreigh mentioned this is her last chance. ’Tis mine as well.”

  Mrs. Beasley huffed and turned her attention to Caralyn. “Well, you’ve gotten your way once again, Miss McCreigh, but your brother will hear of your antics as soon as possible. I’m certain he won’t be happy.”

  Caralyn didn’t respond. She didn’t even spare a glance at her companion. Her eyes, brilliant blue and shiny with tears, remained on him. She mouthed the words thank you. Tristan’s heart swelled.

  “And you, young man, I’ll be watching you. I know your kind.” Her eyes narrowed again as she grabbed Caralyn by the shoulders and started to push her toward the doorway beneath the quarterdeck. “As long as I am on this ship and Miss McCreigh is under my protection, you will keep your distance.” She turned to face him and blinked behind the lenses of her glasses. “We may be on a ship filled with men, but the proprieties will be observed at all times. Do I make myself clear?”

  Tristan nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He winked at Caralyn, grin still in place. “The question of who should have the captain’s cabin has been settled. You and Mrs. Beasley shall take it for the duration of our journey. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have a ship to guide and a treasure to find.”

  Chapter 5

  Calloused hands tight on the thick rope, spyglass tucked safely in his sash, Porkchop scrambled from his perch in the crow’s nest. “Cap’n Entwhistle,” he called out long before his feet touched the deck. In his haste, he tripped over a coil of rope and sprawled on his stomach. The loud guffaws from the rest of the crew cut into him like a whip crack against his back. Face hot, Porkchop cussed his shipmates beneath his breath, hauled himself to his feet with as much dignity as he could scrape together, and glared at Johnnie Campbell and Toothless Will. Laugh all they want, he had important information for the captain.

  With one last tug on the waistband of his trousers, he knocked on the door and swung it open before he received any response.

  Captain Entwhistle paused in the process of lighting his pipe. The flame on the end of the long, slender stick he used died in a puff of smoke. Porkchop found himself on the receiving end of an ugly, hateful stare. Fear, lightening fast and sharp as the edge of a cutlass, made his mouth dry and his hands shake.

  Porkchop swallowed hard and tried with all his might to quell the rapid beating of his heart, the quaking of his knees. The uncomfortable knowledge Captain Entwhistle could kill him without the slightest bit of remorse for disturbing him raced through his mind. He slid his knit cap from his head and bowed at the waist. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n. The Adventurer be leavin’ port.” The words left Porkchop’s mouth in a rush. “She’s got women on board.”

  Captain Entwhistle gave a slow nod. The knowing smile, which split his lips, appeared worse to Porkchop than the deadly glow in his eyes of only a moment before.

  “Ah, very good.” Entwhistle placed his pipe in the brass tray on the desk and rose to his full height of six foot four, his tall lanky frame filling the small confines of the cabin. Without another word, the captain swept past him. Porkchop let a sigh of relief escape and followed the captain through the doorway onto the deck.

  “Step lively, men. The chase begins.”

  • • •

  Caralyn hung the last day dress in the cabinet, closed the trunk, and rubbed her hands together, all beneath the heat of Temperance Beasley’s angry brown eyes. The woman sat in the desk chair, body stiff, hands folded in her lap, knuckles white. The serviceable straw hat she’d worn earlier perched atop the desk. Lips pressed together, forehead furrowed, she had yet to utter a word, but Caralyn knew the silence wouldn’t hold for long. A tongue-lashing the likes of which she’d never forget was in the making—she just wondered when it would take place.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Beasley.” Caralyn took a deep breath and walked the few steps to stand in front of her chaperone. Remorse for her actions weighed heavily, but the idea of an arranged marriage sat like lead in her belly.

  The woman raised her head. The iciness in her glare made Caralyn take a step back. She shivered but not with cold. Fear and uncertainty made gooseflesh break out on her arms, and she rubbed her skin briskly to get rid of the bumps. “It was never my intention you should be stranded on this ship with me, but you must understand. This is my last chance for true happiness.”

  A knock on the door interrupted her apology or anything Mrs. Beasley might have said. With a sigh, Caralyn permitted entry.

  Dr. Trevelyan’s muscular frame filled the doorway. His glance went from her to Mrs. Beasley, and a smile graced his features to light up his whole face. Light brown eyes sparkled with undisguised pleasure as he stepped into the room. He approached Mrs. Beasley without another glance in Caralyn’s direction and offered his hand. “Your presence is requested on the quarterdeck.”

  Caralyn bit her lip to hide her grin. Faced with such courteous behavior, Mrs. Beasley didn’t quite know what to do, as evidenced by the confusion flickering in her eyes and the tenuous smile tilting the corners of her mouth. She blinked, several times, behind the lenses of her glasses. With a slight nod of her head, she gave her hand to him and allowed him to escort her from the cabin.

  Almost as an afterthought, Dr. Trevelyan said over his shoulder, “Captain Trey would like you to bring the journal, Miss.”

  Quick to obey, Caralyn dug the journal from the bottom of the small valise next to the desk, removed the protective oilcloth and followed them out to the deck. Before she climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck, she paused at the rail and gazed into the distance. The sight astounded her, as always.

  The Atlantic Ocean spread before her in undulating patterns of blues, greens, and white-crested waves as far as the eye could see. A powerful wind filled the sails and caused her hair to escape the pins holding the heavy locks in place. In moments, the silky tresses whipped around her face. As Caralyn pushed the errant locks behind her ears, she inhaled and caught the fresh scent of salt water. Pure joy made her smile widen, made her want to giggle and hug herself at the same time.

  She belonged on the water. Nothing in the world compared to being on a ship as it cut through the waves at a smart clip. The gentle sway of the deck beneath her feet soothed her, relaxed her tense muscles. Her smile grew as her father’s words rang in her ears. “You’re a child of the sea, Cara. My mermaid.”

  She drew away from the sight and climbed the steps to the quarterdeck. The crew of the Adventurer stood at attention, bodies stiff, chests puffed out. Their attitudes were so different from when she’d first stepped aboard, at least on the surface.

  Caralyn did catch one or two men glare at her as she made her way to Captain Trey at the wheel. Beside him, Mrs. Beasley stood with her hand tucked in the crook of Dr. Trevelyan’s arm. The frigid chill of her gaze bored into Caralyn, yet the woman said not a word.

  Despite the coldness of Mrs. Beasley’s glare, a thrill Caralyn couldn’t deny surged through her to make her stomach quiver even more. Not only was she right where she wanted to be, but the sight of Captain Trey added to her exhilaration. Long, muscular legs slightly apart, he stood tall, in full command of the power of the ship beneath him. T
he wind ruffled the sleeves of his loose white shirt and caressed his dark hair. He held the wheel as she imagined he’d hold a woman, his grasp light yet firm, easy and relaxed. Knowledgeable. Sensuous.

  Impulsive by nature, Caralyn struggled to control the desire to run her fingers through his hair and feel its silkiness by hugging the journal closer to her chest. He turned to her and grinned. Her mouth went dry. Gooseflesh pimpled her skin as a rush of warmth infused her entire body.

  “I believe a formal introduction is in order.” Tristan released the wheel to a slim man whose bald head gleamed in the sunlight and took her hand. “Miss McCreigh, Mrs. Beasley, this is Mr. Wyvern.”

  The man nodded in greeting but his eyes never left the horizon and his hands remained steady on the wheel. “Me mates call me ‘Mad Dog,’ ma’am.”

  Amused, Caralyn couldn’t help but comment, “That’s an interesting nickname. Why do they call you Mad Dog?”

  A blush crept up his face, his ears, and covered his entire bald head. “I’d rather not say, ma’am.”

  Tristan led her away and introduced her and Mrs. Beasley to the rest of the crew.

  They met Aaron Willis, the cook, whose round stomach and apple cheeks gave testament to the fact that he sampled everything he prepared and enjoyed every morsel. He shook her hand with plump fingers and winked. “Call me Hash. Everyone does.”

  To her delight, most everyone they met had a nickname. Thomas Milliron, the ship’s cooper who kept all their barrels and crates in shape, was naturally called “Coop.” Jared Singleton, the carpenter, went by “Woody,” and so it went. Even Doctor Trevelyan had another name. The crew called him “Stitch,” which made him flush.

  “Ah, Miss Cara, ye’ve grown into a fine young woman.” A tall, lanky man grasped her hand and held it. “A far cry from the hoyden who ran around in hand-me-down trousers and insisted on climbing the rigging.” He grinned and revealed white teeth beneath the heavy beard covering the bottom half of his face. Caralyn tilted her head as she studied his features. His eyes, chocolate brown, twinkled as his smile widened. His voice lowered and he winked. “I’m disappointed ye don’t remember me. What did ye always want to learn?”

  “Knots. I wanted to learn how to tie knots,” she whispered as recognition slowly dawned and pleasure swelled within her. Socrates Callahan had sailed with her father aboard the Lady Elizabeth and patiently taught her how to tie knots, among other things. He hadn’t changed much, though it had been a long time since she’d seen him. “Socrates?”

  “One and the same.” He took off his hat to reveal a wealth of fire-red hair.

  “Oh, it’s been too long, Socrates.” Caralyn giggled and threw herself into his arms. “I haven’t seen you since . . . since I got this scar on my forehead. Papa never forgave you for that, even though it was my fault.”

  “And yer father was right.” He wagged a finger in the air and tilted his head as he cocked an eyebrow. “Ye had no place climbin’ under the bowsprit so ye could kiss the mermaid.”

  Caralyn rubbed her fingers over the scar as memories assailed her. Vivid visions of clinging to the bowsprit’s ropes so she could press a lucky kiss upon the Lady Elizabeth’s figurehead flitted through her mind and caused a shiver to race up her spine. She hadn’t expected a rogue wave to nearly drown her.

  If not for Socrates’s timely intervention, she’d have lost her life. Though in the process of his pulling her to safety, she’d nearly cracked her head open on the ship’s brass railing.

  Daniel McCreigh had been livid and Socrates had left the ship. A wave of sadness washed over her for her part in the man’s misfortune. “Where did you go after you left the Lady Elizabeth?”

  He shrugged but his grin remained in place. “I traveled here and there, signed on a couple different ships before I met Cap’n Trey. Been lookin’ for treasure ever since.”

  “I see you two know each other,” Captain Trey stated in normal tones, yet Caralyn heard a tinge of something else. Jealousy, perhaps? She glanced in his direction and found her suspicions justified. The captain held himself rigid, his beautiful sherry eyes narrowed as he observed his crewmember.

  Socrates bowed slightly. “Miss Cara and I are old friends. I sailed with her father for many years.”

  “I still know how to tie knots.” She squeezed his hand one more time and moved on to meet the last member of the Adventurer’s crew.

  “My second in command and navigator, Graham Alcott.”

  “A pleasure, dear lady.” Mr. Alcott kissed her hand.

  Though she’d never met the man before, she’d met many like him. Charming, good-natured, always with a smile, his eyes twinkled with merriment and humor. Those like him were fortunate to know the secret: Life is an adventure and should be lived to the fullest. He grinned as he released her hand and she knew, without a doubt, he’d never want for anything.

  “Last, but not least, my son, Jeremiah.” Tristan’s hand squeezed the boy’s shoulder. Caralyn caught the gleam of undisguised love in Tristan’s eyes. The glow repeated in the boy’s eyes. “We call him Jemmy, isn’t that right, son?”

  Taken by surprise the captain had a son, one who appeared to be about seven or eight years old, Caralyn’s eyes widened and her stomach tensed. A child usually meant a spouse. She recovered quickly by holding out her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Jemmy.”

  Jemmy glanced at his father. After a slight nod from the man beside him, the lad extended his hand and shook, though his face turned the brightest pink, and a silly smile parted his lips. The wind ruffled his silky blond hair as well as the sleeves of the loose shirt he wore. Cornflower blue eyes twinkled—with mischief, if Caralyn wasn’t mistaken.

  Charmed by the young boy, she grinned. “I have a nephew your age. You must call me Cara.”

  Again, the boy looked to his father for reassurance.

  “Miss Cara,” Tristan corrected as his gaze met hers over Jemmy’s head. He reached for the journal in her hand. “May I?” Their fingers touched and a surge of warmth tingled up her arm. Her heart pounded in her chest from the unexpected heat rushing through her limbs. She inhaled and raised her eyes to his only to exhale in a rush. Never had she met someone who exuded such raw energy, such restrained power, or had such unusual eyes and so dazzling a smile.

  He held the leather-bound book high. “This is the journal of Alexander Pembrook. He sailed with Henry Morgan and took part in stealing Izzy’s Fortune from the Santa Maria.” He moved with feline grace as he paced before his men, his steps certain as his long legs ate up the distance from one side of the quarterdeck to the other. His deep, rich voice touched every nerve in Caralyn’s body until everyone else on deck blurred in her vision and there was only him.

  “He recorded everything, even the fact he stole Izzy’s Fortune from beneath Morgan’s nose.” He paused for effect and eyed each of his crew in turn.

  The men started whispering among themselves, the buzz of their voices becoming louder and more intense, their gestures more animated as their enthusiasm for treasure hunting intensified. The captain turned toward her and captured her in the warmth of his gaze. The world as she knew it ceased turning.

  That’s when Mrs. Beasley pinched her on the arm. Caralyn jumped and stifled a yelp.

  “Get that dreamy look out of your eyes, girl,” the woman demanded in a harsh whisper. “He is not the one for you. Might I remind you of your wedding in April?”

  “I am well aware of what my future holds,” Caralyn snapped and rubbed her arm. “I need no reminders of my fate.”

  She would have said more but her attention was drawn once more to Captain Trey as he continued to address the crew.

  “According to this journal,” he said as he held the book high once more, “Izzy’s Fortune is buried on the Island of the Sleeping Man. Have any of you heard of this island—the name, a rumor, anything?”

  The men glanced at each other, their voices raising as they all spoke at once, but no one, not a single soul, had heard of the
Island of the Sleeping Man.

  Disappointment rushed through Caralyn, made her stomach drop, and a sigh escape her through lips that seemed frozen into a fake smile. Sudden tears blurred her vision and a lump rose to her throat. It was all for nothing. It doesn’t exist.

  Captain Trey approached her and tilted his head. A slight smile curved his lips. “Have faith, Miss McCreigh. Just because the name doesn’t sound familiar doesn’t mean the island doesn’t exist. I believe. Do you?”

  Her breath hitched in her chest. “Yes. I believe.”

  His hand brushed hers when he gave her the journal. Shocked by the intense heat that singed her fingers, Caralyn jumped and dropped the book. It landed face down on the deck. The spine split and the leather cover cracked even more, tearing away from the rest of the book. Several pages came loose and scattered on the deck.

  With a horrified cry, she dropped to her knees and picked up the book but not before a single sheaf of paper, caught by the wind, floated across the quarterdeck and out to sea. Several more would have taken the same course if Mrs. Beasley hadn’t had the foresight to step on them to keep them in place.

  Captain Trey dropped to his knees as well and retrieved the pages from beneath Mrs. Beasley’s shoe. Caralyn studied his face, so close to hers. Those sherry-colored eyes bored into her and made her insides flutter.

  He started to hand the papers to her then stopped and withdrew a folded piece of parchment from the pile in his hand. “Well, what have we here? This must have been hidden between the leather cover and the book itself.” He unfolded and stretched the parchment across his knee. “I believe we now know what this mysterious island looks like.”

  The parchment contained a sketch of a small, idyllic cove, tall palm trees, and a rock formation above the cove that faintly resembled a man, flat on his back with his hands folded across his chest. His belly rose higher than his feet. It was the most beautiful thing Caralyn had ever seen. “Oh,” she breathed as she took the sketch from him with shaking fingers. “The Island of the Sleeping Man. It is real!”