Tristan rose to his feet then held out his hand to help her. Caralyn slipped her fingers between his as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She clutched Alexander Pembrook’s journal to her chest with her other hand and followed as he showed each man the sketch.
“Does this look familiar to anyone?”
Hector de la Vega peered at the drawing in the captain’s hand. “May I?” he asked as he took the sketch and inspected it closely. His features grew serious as he looked from the drawing to Captain Trey. “I know this place, Capitan.”
“Do you remember where?”
Caralyn held her breath and prayed.
“Si, Capitan. It’s one of the islands surrounding my home.” He released the drawing into Captain Trey’s hand and sighed. “But we cannot go there. Isla de Caja de Muertos is haunted.”
The captain scoffed. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he stated, then turned to her and cocked an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Caralyn shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
Tristan grinned as his voice boomed over the quarterdeck. “Mr. Alcott, set a course for Puerto Rico.”
Chapter 6
“Puerto Rico!” Mrs. Beasley’s high-pitched wail broke the silence. Her face paled, except for the spots of color highlighting her cheeks. Caralyn thought the woman might faint.
She grabbed Caralyn’s arm and pulled her away from the captain. The book almost dropped to the ground again, but Caralyn clutched it against her chest.
Mrs. Beasley lowered her voice and hissed, “Have you taken leave of your senses? This is insanity. Utter madness.” Her eyes narrowed and a white ring formed around her mouth as her lips pressed together to form a thin line. “We must be in England by April twentieth. I promised your brother, who, in turn, I’m sure, promised your father.” She shook her head. “All this nonsense about finding a lost treasure is just that, Miss McCreigh. Nonsense. There is no such thing as Izzy’s treasure.”
“Izzy’s Fortune,” Caralyn corrected.
If possible, Mrs. Beasley’s lips clamped together tighter. Brown eyes glittered with displeasure and glared into her. Caralyn tried to take a step back, suddenly fearing the woman would strike her, but thin fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arm to hold her captive instead.
“I understand, Miss McCreigh. I was young once,” Mrs. Beasley admitted in a voice sharp with agitation. “I defied my parents to run away to be with the man I loved. Look what happened to me. Widowed at twenty-eight.” Her jaw jutted out. A muscle throbbed in her cheek and she pointed a finger as she continued her tirade. “Not a farthing to my name. Forced to seek employment. Dragged hither and yon at the whims of a silly girl.”
“I am not silly.” With a jerk, Caralyn freed herself from Mrs. Beasley’s iron grip. Anger simmered within her and made her eyes burn with unshed tears. “And the treasure does exist. It must. All I’m asking for is one more chance to find it. We will be in England by the appointed time whether we find Izzy’s Fortune or not. Captain Trey has given me his word.”
“And you believe him?” Mrs. Beasley’s scowl deepened, her body grew more rigid.
The urge to defend the captain and his honor swelled in Caralyn’s chest. “Yes, I do. We have a signed contract.”
“What do you suppose your future husband will say when he learns of your . . . ah . . . adventure aboard this ship with all these men?”
Caralyn’s stomach knotted. She hadn’t thought of that. What would he say? What would her future husband think of her if she couldn’t buy herself out of the betrothal contract and was forced to go through with the marriage?
Mrs. Beasley jumped on her hesitation. “You see, you haven’t thought that far ahead. You haven’t even considered what will happen once he learns what you’ve done. He may call the marriage off.” She rushed on, pausing only to draw breath. “The scandal could ruin your chances of ever finding a good match, not to mention what the shame and humiliation could do to your father and the rest of your family.”
We could live down the scandal. My parents did. And yet, she couldn’t stop the little seed of doubt from worming into her brain. What if I finally find the man who will sweep me off my feet? What if I can’t ever marry because of what I’ve done?
Like a dog worrying a bone, Mrs. Beasley demanded more answers. Answers Caralyn couldn’t give her. “What about the danger, Miss McCreigh? This venture of yours could be fraught with peril.” A deep furrow formed between Mrs. Beasley’s eyes as her features pulled into an even deeper frown. “Your safety could be in jeopardy. What if you should not survive this endeavor? Have you thought of that? What will I be forced to tell your family then?”
Caralyn reached her limit of being berated. Her own parents never spoke to her this way. “You have two choices, Mrs. Beasley. I can arrange to have you leave the ship at the next port and I will purchase your passage to England or wherever you wish to go.” Caralyn took a deep breath. She stood straight, shoulders back, head high, every muscle in her body quivering with anger. “Or you may accompany me and share in the profits, should there be any. You’d never have to suffer the whims of a silly girl again. But whatever you decide, I will continue this quest. With or without you.”
The woman snapped her head back as if she’d been slapped. She drew in a sharp breath and her voice shook with rage. “Mark my words, Miss McCreigh. Nothing but ill can come of this adventure of yours. You, and any chance for your future happiness, will be ruined.”
Confidence replaced her nervousness and Caralyn met the woman’s fierce glare with one of her own. “I will live with the consequences of my actions.”
Mrs. Beasley glared at her, huffed in her breath, then spun on her heel and stomped away. Loud and heavy on the wooden planks, her footsteps conveyed her anger and frustration. She stopped at the rail in the same spot where Caralyn had paused earlier and stood looking out to sea, her body stiff, her hands gripping the polished brass.
“She isn’t very happy.”
Caralyn turned and came face to face—or rather, face to broad, muscular chest—with Captain Trey. A sprinkling of dark hair peeked from the open collar of his shirt. Her eyes widened, her pulse rate quickened. Mesmerized by the sight, she could only stare. She tore her gaze away, and glanced up to meet his brilliant, warm eyes. They twinkled with humor and something else. Perhaps regret for Mrs. Beasley’s situation?
Her mouth suddenly dry, she licked her lips. “No, she is not and I cannot say I blame her. She did not ask for the circumstances she finds herself in. It is my fault she’s on this ship at all.”
“Is there something I can do?”
Caralyn shook her head and swallowed the lump that had risen to her throat. “She would like it if we could turn around and go back to Charleston. Other than that, I do not believe there is anything any of us can do.”
“Perhaps there is.” He gestured to Dr. Trevelyan. He and Mrs. Beasley stood at the rail together, deep in conversation. Mrs. Beasley lost some of the tension in her rigid stance and relaxed when she smiled at the doctor. “Give her some time, Miss McCreigh. She’ll come around.”
Caralyn shook her head. “Mrs. Beasley isn’t one to forgive and forget so easily.” She knew the truth of her words as her companion and the doctor strolled toward the mess hall and galley at the other end of the ship. She still smarted from Mrs. Beasley’s past reprimands. “She has a way of calculating my misdeeds and reminding me of them all the time.”
“I’m certain, with the good doctor’s help, Mrs. Beasley will forget how she came to be aboard the Adventurer. Once she catches the excitement of searching for treasure, she’ll soon forgive you as well.” He grinned as he touched the journal clutched in her arm. “Shall we see if we can repair Mr. Pembrook’s journal?”
He led her in the same direction the doctor and Mrs. Beasley had taken, except they didn’t go into the mess hall. Instead, they entered the spacious galley.
Hash sliced vegetables at a big wooden table, the sharp knife hitting the
cutting board with rhythmic thunks as he made quick work of slicing carrots into bite size pieces. A big bowl of potatoes waited to be peeled and quartered. Beside them, onions peeked out of a burlap sack.
The pristine white apron around Hash’s waist emphasized the girth of his belly, which jiggled with his movements. He barely glanced at them as he transferred several handfuls of carrots into a big pot on the stove, his movements surprisingly delicate and graceful for such a large man.
The captain pulled out a chair at the other end of the table. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find the glue.”
Caralyn glanced at the pages and put them in order. They belonged at the end of the journal, the last thoughts Alexander Pembrook committed to paper. A few of the pages had only one or two words on them while some were filled with Alexander’s ramblings, none of which made sense.
While she waited for the captain to return, she glanced around Hash’s domain. Impressed by the cleanliness and order that prevailed, she smiled. Spices in small glass bottles, all neatly labeled, lined a shelf above the stove. Pots and pans in various sizes hung from hooks over the table and made soft clinking sounds as they clanged together beneath the ship’s gentle sway. A floral-patterned china tea service on a handled wooden tray sat on a counter beside the stove.
The aroma of braised beef assailed her nose. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten a thing aside from a quick cup of tea before the sun brightened the morning sky. She eyed the loaf of bread in the middle of the table as the smell of the simmering stew made her mouth water. Her stomach made another unladylike noise. “That smells heavenly.”
Before she could ask Hash for a piece of raw potato or a carrot stick or even a hunk of bread, something rubbed against her leg. She squelched a squeal of surprise then glanced at her skirts. Smudge blinked her big yellow eyes and purred as she rubbed her face along the hem. Her long white whiskers twitched before she leapt into Caralyn’s lap.
“How did you get in here?” she whispered as she scratched the cat behind the ear to produce an even louder, satisfied rumble.
Hash tapped a long wooden spoon against the rim of the pot before placing the utensil on a small plate; then he turned away from the stove. The wide grin on his face made his eyes crinkle at the corner. “It’s all right, ma’am. Smudge and I have become fast friends. Unlike my shipmates, I like cats and this little one is as sweet as they come.”
He waddled around the table until he stood before her then reached down to scratch the smudge of white between the cat’s ears. “She reminds me of Prissy, my sainted mother’s favorite companion many years ago.”
Smudge purred louder beneath the big man’s ministrations until the teakettle whistled and drew Hash away. The cat jumped from her lap and followed Hash to the stove, weaving between his legs, rubbing her sleek body against him. The cook didn’t seem to mind.
With quick, efficient movements, he prepared the tea. Matching sugar bowl and milk pitcher accompanied the cups and saucers on the tray.
“Would you like a cup?”
“I would love one, but I can get it myself. You’re busy.”
“Cups are in there.” He nodded toward the floor-to-ceiling cabinet behind him. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
He lifted the tray and disappeared through another door, one which she believed led to the mess hall where the crew gathered to eat. Smudge meowed in short staccato bursts as she sauntered behind him, her tail straight up.
Caralyn rose from her seat and opened the cabinet. The cups were on the top shelf behind a decorative strip of wood that would hold them in place if the seas became too rough. She mentally calculated the height of the shelf and knew, no matter how hard she tried, she’d never reach them. She looked around the spotless galley for something aside from her chair to stand on. Beside the cabinet, she spotted a small wooden crate.
Even standing on the box, she couldn’t quite reach the cups, though she strained and raised herself up on one tiptoe.
“All I want is a cup of tea,” she muttered as she stepped off the crate, put it away where she’d found it, and pulled a chair over to the cabinet. She climbed on the seat and reached for the cups, but still, she came up short. Her fingertips grazed a handle. She rose on her toes and stretched, determined to get a cup, wishing, not for the first time, she weren’t so blasted short.
“I found the glue.”
“Oh!” Startled by the captain’s deep, rich voice, Caralyn whirled around to face him and lost her balance. She reached for a shelf, for anything to stop herself from falling, but only grasped air.
She never touched the floor. One moment, she tumbled toward the wooden planks below her; the next, she landed in his arms. She inhaled and closed her eyes. He smelled of soap and spice and sea air. Beneath her hand, his heart beat almost as fast as hers.
“What were you doing? You could’ve killed yourself.” He lowered her to her own two feet as gently as he would a child, although he held her much longer than necessary, in Caralyn’s opinion. She didn’t mind. She rather liked being in his strong arms.
“I wanted a cup of tea.” His near proximity, not to mention having his hands on her waist, did delicious things to her insides and made it difficult to think. She feigned irritation to cover her rattled disposition and pointed to the cups on the top shelf of the cabinet. “Whose idea was it to put them so blasted high?”
Merriment danced in his beautiful eyes as he studied her. The corners of his mouth twitched. Without a word, without having to stand on tiptoe or on a chair, he reached into the cabinet and grabbed two cups.
Caralyn folded her arms across her chest. “I suppose you find that amusing.”
“Not at all.” Though he denied his amusement, the twinkle in his eyes told a different story. “We all come to terms with our limitations. Yours just happens to be your height.” His voice lowered and took on a definite teasing quality as he added, “Or lack thereof.”
Caralyn huffed and returned to her seat at the table. This wasn’t the first time someone had teased her about her height but she had no rebuttal. He spoke the plain, unvarnished truth. At five foot one if she stood up straight, she was usually the shortest person in the room.
He fixed tea for both of them, placed the steaming brew on the table, then moved a chair closer to her. His arm brushed against hers as he took his seat. The simple act made Caralyn draw in her breath. Her thoughts scattered. Concentration became impossible. Every nerve in her body zinged from the slight touch.
What is wrong with me? Why does he affect me this way?
“Now that we have our tea and you are no longer climbing on chairs, we can repair Mr. Pembrook’s journal.” He moved the book to the side to uncover the pile of loose pages. “Did you find the places where these belong? It appears Pembrook didn’t number his pages.”
“I know exactly where they belong.” She opened the journal with all the care and delicacy it deserved and showed him the bare binding where the pages were missing.
The captain perused the thick sheaf in his hand. “This is interesting,” he remarked, then read aloud. Caralyn hardly paid attention to the words. Instead, she listened to the deep rumble of his voice, which vibrated all the way to her toes. She studied his face, riveted by the way his lips moved. A vein throbbed in his neck and that, too, caught her attention.
She inhaled his clean spice and sea air scent and hid a smile of delight behind her hand. Without doubt, he smelled better than any man had a right to.
“'Let the light of my heart guide you.’” Captain Trey paused in his recital. “Hmm. Pembrook wrote it three times in a row. I wonder why.”
He turned toward her. Embarrassed she’d been caught staring at him, heat flooded her face and her heartbeat doubled in her chest. She picked up her cup with clumsy fingers and almost spilled the tea.
Stop it, Cara. He’s just a man. Possibly a married man at that.
While she blew on the tea to cool it, she concentrated on bringing herself und
er some semblance of control. When she thought she could trust her voice, she said, “I noticed he repeated that same phrase in several places, but many things he wrote do not make a bit of sense.” She tapped her lips with her finger and whispered, “Always three times though. It must mean something, but I haven’t a clue what.”
“No matter. We will figure it out.”
Caralyn watched as the captain dabbed a thin line of glue on the edges of the pages, then she looked up at his face. His brow furrowed, his mouth set in a thin line as he focused. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth and rested there. She smothered the urge to giggle. So intent on making sure he didn’t get glue where it didn’t belong, he hardly had it anywhere it did belong.
“Hold your breath,” he whispered as he placed the sheaf of pages into the book and held it there for a few minutes.
Either the glue was too old or he hadn’t put enough on the pages, which she suspected, but it didn’t work.
He tried again, using more glue. Still, the thick sheaf came away from the book easily. He wiped at the adhesive, removing the excess with his fingers and tried a third time.
After his fourth attempt with the same results, he shook his head and simply closed the book. “As much as I would like it to be so, I’m afraid I cannot repair Mr. Pembrook’s journal.” He pushed the diary toward her.
Caralyn ran her finger along the cracked leather. “Perhaps we can find a book binder when we arrive in Puerto Rico. In the meantime, I’ll just put it away.” She touched his arm and marveled at the tense muscles beneath his skin. “Thank you for trying.”
His gaze met hers. Caralyn inhaled as his eyes darkened and his pupils dilated. Her gaze traveled down to his mouth to study the quirky half smile on his parted lips and she wondered if he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to be kissed. She leaned toward him, breath held, and . . .
He stood abruptly, breaking the spell she’d been under. “Please excuse me. A captain’s work is never done.” His voice sounded strained as he rushed from the galley, his long strides echoing on the wooden planks.
Time After Time Page 162
