Caralyn looked up and saw all the initials carved into the sturdy rafter. Morgan’s was, by far, the largest. A shiver of excitement raced down her back as she turned her gaze to the big man in front of her. If Morgan had come here, perhaps Pembrook had as well. She held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Ah, the pleasure is all mine, lass,” he said as he took her offered hand.
As with Temperance, a giggle escaped her as he brought her hand to his lips and brushed her knuckles with his shaggy mustache. He studied her for a moment, the brilliance of his blue eyes a sharp contrast to the darkness of his skin and hair.
“McCreigh,” he muttered as his eyes began to twinkle. “Be ye Daniel McCreigh’s daughter?”
Surprised, Caralyn could only stare at the man as a rush of pride and homesickness flowed through her. “You know my father?”
“Oh, aye. It’s me great pleasure to be knowin’ yer da. A fine man,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “with a touch of the blarney. We lifted a few glasses together, he and I, at this verra table, while he regaled me with tales o’ his treasure hunting and how he met yer mother. Tell me, lass, does he still search for Izzy’s Fortune?”
She shook her head. “Sadly, he no longer believes in the treasure.”
Donal finally released her hand. “’Tis a shame,” he pronounced and then his eyes narrowed as he gazed into her face. “Ah, but ye still believe.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good lass. I’ve no doubt ye’ll find what ye been lookin’ for, though many a scoundrel has tried before ye.” His grin widened and his eyes sparkled. “Speakin’ o’ scoundrels, is Alcott with you?”
Tristan chuckled. “He’ll be along shortly.”
“Will ye be stayin’ then?” Fi asked as she glanced at the pile of white duffle bags on the floor beside the door. “An’ will the crew be joinin’ ye?”
“If you have a few rooms available, Fi,” Tristan answered and once again, Caralyn saw the fondness for this woman in his eyes and heard it in his voice. “Most of the crew will stay aboard ship, although a few have family here and will stay with them so it’ll just be us.”
“Aye. I’ll be showin’ ye upstairs after I take care of young master Jemmy.” She grabbed the boy’s hand. His face wreathed in smiles, the expression in his eyes one of adoration. And who could blame him? Fi Finnegan, in Caralyn’s opinion, embodied motherhood personified with her patient manner and gentle smile. “Donal will be happy to see ye again and you remember Mama Annie, hmm?”
“Can I, Papa?”
“May I,” Tristan corrected his speech. “Of course, but mind Mama Annie. As long as you’re with her, she’s the captain.”
“Aye, Papa.”
As Fi led Jemmy toward the windowed Dutch door at the back of the room and the courtyard and house beyond, Donal spread his arms wide to encompass a long table. “Welcome, friends. Make yerselves ta home.” He stepped behind the bar, opened one of the cases on its surface, and started removing bottles. “Can I be getting’ ye somethin’ to wash the salt water from yer mouths? We have rum, rum, and more rum. Local made, ye know. We also have some very fine wine, coffee, tea, brandy, and me own verra special ale. What’s yer pleasure?”
Tristan and Stitch glanced at each other and spoke at the same time. “Rum.”
“Miss Temperance?”
Temperance hung her umbrella on the back of a chair then took a seat next to Stitch. “Tea, please,” she said with a sigh.
“And what of ye, Miss McCreigh?”
“Wine. No. Brandy.” She took a quick peek at Temperance’s face and changed her mind once more. “Tea, please.”
Donal made quick work of serving them. For so large a man, he moved with innate grace and amazing speed and joined them at the table with a mug of ale.
“So what brings ye to me fair establishment? Judgin’ by the looks of ye, I’d say ye have a question or two for auld Donal.” His eyes remained on Caralyn.
“More than questions, Donal,” Tristan said as he finished the rum in his glass and poured himself another. “We need your help.”
The big man’s eyes lit up with pleasure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to remove the foam from the ale. “With Izzy’s Fortune? Have ye found a clue then, lad?”
“Show him, Cara.”
Caralyn opened the valise and pulled out the statue. With trembling fingers, she removed the cloth protecting the piece then handed it to him.
“Aye, ’tis beautiful to be sure.” He sighed as he turned the golden statue around in his big hands. “Look at the details, how lovingly made. And this is part of the treasure? Are ye certain, lass?”
“The maker’s mark is engraved on the base. I’ve done enough research to know Don Miguel Ybarra ye Castellano cast several pieces of art for Queen Isabella in gold and silver. I believe this is one of them.” Donal passed the statue to Tristan, who held it in his hands as Caralyn reached into the bag and pulled out the wooden case. Anticipation made butterflies dance in her stomach as Donal took the case from her and unhitched the lock.
A startled gasp escaped the big man as he opened the box and stared at the jewel-encrusted chalice.
“The chalice was made by him as well.”
With a delicateness that seemed incomparable with the size of his hands, Donal removed the chalice from its velvet bed. Sunlight coming in through the small windows struck the jewels, casting a rainbow on the walls. He pursed his lips and whistled then placed the chalice back in its case. “Must be worth a small fortune. What else have ye got in that bag o’ tricks?”
Caralyn pulled the last item from her bag, unwrapped the oilcloth, and placed the book in front of him. “This is Arthur Pembrook’s journal.”
Donal lifted the cover and read the first few pages. After a long time, he looked at them. “I have no doubt the chalice and the statue could belong to Izzy’s Fortune, but I’ve never heard of Arthur Pembrook. Are ye certain this is a journal? It reads like an adventure novel. Robinson Crusoe comes to mind.”
Tears stung Caralyn’s eyes in an instant. To come this far only to find disappointment. Could it be she had been wrong? Could it be Pembrook had, indeed, written a novel and not one word of it was true? She blinked several times to rid herself of the tears blurring her vision. No, she couldn’t believe all of it was a lie, fiction created by a man who’d lived in his own imagination, a man who slowly lost his sanity. She had proof Izzy’s Fortune existed.
“He mentions that he changed his name. By the time he came to Jamaica, he called himself something else, though he never mentions his new name.” Caralyn took a deep breath in order to still the sudden pounding of her heart. “He writes quite a bit about his wife, Mary, and a plantation called Collin’s Folly.”
“I know of Collin’s Folly, though not this Pembrook who wrote yer journal. Let me ponder a bit and see what I can remember.” Donal slumped back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He grew quiet as he tapped his lip several times in deep thought.
Caralyn wanted to jump out of her skin. She wanted to shake the big man to help him remember. She did neither. Instead, she sat beside Tristan, her hands folded on the table and waited, as did everyone else. She barely drew breath until Tristan touched her arm. She glanced at him. The expression on his face reminded her that he still believed, no matter that Donal couldn’t remember Pembrook.
All at once, Donal let out a shout and snapped his fingers. “Ah, lassie, ye din’t think I’d remember, did ye?” He patted her hand. Caralyn heaved a sigh of relief. “I don’t know the particulars of how your Pembrook came to Jamaica, but I do know Mary Collins married a man named Andrew Pearce. As I recall, they lived quite happily on the plantation for a number of years.” He took a deep breath, took another swallow of ale then continued his story.
“Mary loved him to distraction, or so it’s been claimed. And the plantation produced a mighty fine rum, but that all changed one night, if I remember correctly. Mind ye, mos
t of what I know is considered folklore, passed from one generation to another—stories me da told me, stories his da told him and so on.” He took another deep breath, his eyes sparkling, his smile beaming beneath his shaggy beard.
“No one knows how your Pembrook or Pearce died. Some say he took his own life. Some say Morgan, lieutenant governor at the time, ordered his death.” He raised his glass and swallowed the remainder of his ale. “’Tis sorry I am, but the plantation’s gone. Parceled out and now belongin’ to others.”
“What about the chapel?” Hope blossomed in Caralyn’s heart once more. “Does it still stand?”
“The Chapel of the Blessed Virgin?” Fiona placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. Caralyn had been so intent on Donal, she hadn’t seen the woman come back into the main room. “Aye, the chapel still stands but ye canna be goin’ there. ’Tis haunted.”
Donal agreed. “’Tis true. Mary Collins found her husband in the chapel. He’d been shot. The pistol was still in his hand. Grief stricken, Mary killed herself to join the man she loved, or so the legend goes. They remain in the chapel where she found him and their ghosts stand upon the cliff, hand in hand, keeping watch. No one has ever dared to desecrate their resting place.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts, Donal,” Caralyn told him. “What I do believe is that Arthur or Andrew or whatever his name was, buried Izzy’s Fortune in the chapel.”
The big man tilted his head as he studied her. “I hate to be disappointin’ ye, lass, but there’s no treasure in the chapel. There’s nothing except a huge statue of the Blessed Virgin and the tombs of Mary and her husband.” His smile brightened as he patted her hand. “But I understand ye must look for yerself. Fi, my love, will ye bring me the map? Ye know the one I’m talkin’ about.”
As Fi left the room, Tristan asked, “What’s the best way to get to the chapel? Should we rent a carriage? Or can we sail?”
“No matter what ye take, ye’ll end up on foot,” Donal said as he stood and strode over to the bar for another draft of ale. “The chapel is on a cliff, overlooking the sea. Ye can take the Adventurer but ye’ll have to drop anchor and take the longboats to the beach.” His eyes shined and his smile beamed as he returned to the table. Fi came back with the map, and Donal pointed to the section marked “Saint James Parrish” on the opposite side of the island. “The chapel be here, surrounded by jagged rocks. Sailors have told me ye can see a glowing light all around, especially at night.” He looked up and caught Caralyn’s eyes. “Is tomorra too soon fer ye?”
Before she could answer, the door opened, letting in a blaze of blinding sunlight and the rest of the Adventurer’s crew entered the tavern amid good-natured shouts. She saw Tristan reach into his pocket and remove a small leather pouch, which he passed on to Fiona. She grinned as she stuffed it into her apron pocket. Donal made quick work of rolling the map before he jumped from his seat and greeted his old friends. The noise level grew to deafening proportions.
Caralyn gently wrapped Pembrook’s journal and placed it, along with the statue and the chalice, back in the valise by her feet. Anticipation caused a flurry of butterflies in her stomach, and she couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. Tomorrow, they’d find the treasure, she was certain. Tomorrow, her new life would begin.
Chapter 13
Caralyn placed the valise on the bed in the well-appointed room Fi had shown her. Downstairs, she heard the laughter of the crew, Fi’s sweet voice, and Donal’s baritone rumble as they renewed their acquaintance with the Adventurer’s crew. Here, in her room, blissful silence reigned.
She took a moment to study her surroundings. Paintings hung on the knotted pine walls, again repeating the sailing ships downstairs. She stepped closer to one in particular, recognizing the Adventurer, captured forever in oil, then looked for the artist’s signature. In the corner, on the right side toward the bottom, she found it: Fiona Finnegan.
A woman of many talents, it seemed.
The huge four-poster bed, draped in netting, looked inviting and much bigger than the bed she currently shared with Temperance in the captain’s cabin. A colorful patchwork quilt covered the bed and pillows, plump and soft, rested against the carved headboard.
Oh, to sleep in a real bed without Temperance’s constant kicking and snoring.
Delighted by the idea, she pulled her brush from her valise then crossed the room to the mirror in the corner. A smile parted her lips as she studied her reflection and pulled the brush through her hair. The woman in the mirror returned her grin.
Who is that woman? And why does she look so happy?
Caralyn knew the answer immediately. Despite the fact she was to be married to a man she didn’t know and she had yet to find Izzy’s Fortune, though she had no doubt she would, this had, indeed, been a grand adventure. Temperance Beasley had turned from paid companion to close friend and found love with Stitch; Caralyn had been reunited with Socrates, whom she had always adored; and most importantly, she’d met Tristan.
A finer man she couldn’t imagine. Not only handsome and charming, he had integrity and honor. His word was his promise and he needed nothing more than to simply state his intention. Every man on the crew had complete and utter trust in him, as did she. He captained with compassion and kindness, much as her father had done aboard the Lady Elizabeth, earning the deep respect due him. This adventure wouldn’t be half as exciting, half as fun, if she hadn’t been with Tristan and the crew.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. “Yes?”
The door opened and the object of her musings stood in front of her, his arms laden with folded bath towels, the grin she’d come to love parting his lips. Caralyn inhaled and held her breath. Could it be possible he’d grown more handsome in the space of a few moments?
“Fi asked me to bring these to you.” He glanced around the room then spotted a small table beside a hipbath and headed toward it. Caralyn exhaled in a rush as she watched him. He moved with easy grace and a sure-footed confidence that thrilled her beyond reason.
He turned after depositing the towels on the table and his gaze fell on the bed then rose to meet hers. She saw desire in his eyes—hot, raw, and utterly stark. Warmth suffused her. Indeed, heat rushed to her face and neck, and a shiver raced down her spine. She couldn’t take her gaze from his, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe for a moment.
Then like a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t, Tristan blushed. His mouth twisted into an impish grin. “Fi says there’s plenty of hot water if you want to freshen up.”
The yearning in his eyes remained. Caralyn swallowed hard to ease the sudden dryness in her throat. How easy would it be to walk into his arms and touch her lips to his? How easy would it be to fall into the bed between them and give into the rush of longing filling her? How easy would it be to forget the promises made for her and stay with this man forever?
“I’ll see you downstairs.” He closed the door behind him but not before he glanced at her one more time. Again, the smoldering gleam in his beautiful eyes made her heart beat faster, made the quivering in her belly grow, made her want to throw propriety out the window and press her lips to his.
She took a deep breath to quell the trembling in her body, and yet that did nothing to stop the thoughts racing through her head. Brush in hand, she sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight, the enormity of her dilemma heavy on her shoulders.
The answer remained as it always had. Find the treasure. Give the earl a bag of gold worth more than her promised dowry, and walk away from a marriage she never wanted in the first place. She wouldn’t even have to meet his son—her intended—though she should so she could explain.
And then what? You can’t go home again after disgracing your family.
A long sigh escaped her, but then she began to smile once more. She wouldn’t have to go home. She could go anywhere with her share of the treasure. If she wanted, she could buy a plantation or an inn or open a dress shop or anything else she
so chose. She could change her name, as Pembrook had done, and begin life anew. She could stay with the Adventurer and hunt for other treasures with Tristan, as she desired. With the proceeds from Izzy’s Fortune, she could do anything she wanted. The possibilities were endless.
If she found the treasure.
Not if. When.
Feeling much better, Caralyn rose from the bed. Though a long, leisurely soak in the tub beckoned, she was much more anxious to rejoin everyone downstairs and settled on a quick sponge bath. She pulled a fresh gown from the valise, shook the wrinkles from it, and dressed. She finished brushing her hair, leaving the long tresses to tumble down her back. Before she left her room, she tossed her nightgown across the pillow so she wouldn’t have to rummage through her bag later.
Caralyn stopped midway down the stairs and gazed into the common room. Her heart swelled in her chest, and tears misted her eyes with unexpected joy. Boisterous laughter, jokes, and bits and pieces of conversation met her ears. How fond she’d become of these men. They might be rough and tumble, but they were so true and faithful—to each other and their captain—she couldn’t help admiring them and the life they led.
Graham had concluded his business and joined the rest of the crew, and now stood deep in conversation with Tristan and Donal. Rum nearly splashed out of his glass as he gestured with his hands in the midst of yet another tall tale. Fiona and another woman Caralyn had yet to meet made quick work of keeping all glasses filled while the wonderful aroma of roasting chickens permeated the air. Later, after dinner, she knew there would be music and dancing, as the Adventurer’s crew used nearly any excuse to celebrate. And what better excuse than to be reunited with old friends and pursue a treasure reported to be beyond belief? The men who regularly frequented Finnegan’s for games of chess or checkers, who’d been there all afternoon, sipping on mugs of ale, would be invited to share in the festivities.
Time After Time Page 171
