Treasure of the Heart

by Ruth Saberton

  As the boat steamed westwards, Luke looked back over the stern, watching the lacy wake peel away and the village grow smaller. He’d never in his life seen a place like this Polwenna Bay. It was like something out of a story book. He had to admit that the place was pretty, with all its quaint cottages, but getting to it had been a nightmare. The United Kingdom’s so-called motorways all seemed to be dotted with potholes and lines of cones like some bizarre version of Grand Theft Auto. And then there was the jet lag, not to mention having to drive on the wrong side of the road and use a stick shift. As if that wasn’t challenging enough, there was the whole business of wiggling a tiny car through winding lanes that left only inches to spare either side of the wing mirrors. By the time he’d arrived at his destination, Luke had been ready to drop.

  Maybe Stella was right and this was a ridiculous idea. In the warmth of Key West, Luke had been utterly convinced that he was onto something big – but several days on and a mile out into the English Channel, he was starting to wonder. He couldn’t have felt more alien if he’d landed on Mars.

  “Honey, have you ever been to England?” Stella had asked when, fired up with enthusiasm and still in his shorts, Luke had bowled into Zara’s to tell her his plan.

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to visit,” he’d replied. “My mom’s crazy about the place. She loves all the history and the royal family.”

  Luke was pretty crazy about history himself. History had been his major before he’d come back to help Mal. England was full of cool old stuff, Luke had thought with a flare of excitement. Romans. Castles. Ancient buildings. It would be awesome to visit anyway, even without the added thrill of following a hunch.

  But Stella had just laughed. “Yeah, I love Hugh Grant and Prince Harry is a hottie, but seriously, honey? England in January? It’s gonna be real cold.”

  “It’s cold there even in the summer!” one of her friends had piped up. “You’d have to be mad to go there now. The Brits come to Florida for the winter if they can afford it.”

  Luke nodded. He knew this was true. Snowbirds from all over the world flocked to the Keys in the winter.

  “We’re all flying down to Grand Cayman for a few weeks’ R and R,” Stella had continued, laying her hand on his arm and then running her nails along his bicep. “I need to sort out my accounts and do some business. Why don’t you come too? Forget this crazy idea, baby, and just kick back for a week or two. Maybe we can even have a look at getting a dive boat later on?”

  Luke had scrutinised her slowly from the top of her platinum-blonde head to the tips of her scarlet toenails. Stella was gorgeous, there was no denying that, and it would be easy to go along with what she wanted. The idea was more than tempting: he’d no longer have to struggle and strive to make ends meet. She was offering him sponsorship and luxury, an existence that would suit most guys to perfection. But Luke wasn’t most guys.

  The image of a girl with bright blue eyes and honey-coloured braids danced in front of Stella’s surgery-perfect profile, and Luke’s pulse quickened. While new adventures and endless possibilities existed, he could never chain himself down – even if the chains were made of gold.

  “Excuse us,” Luke had said to the rest of the dinner party, taking Stella’s arm and leading her onto the water terrace. He’d come to say goodbye, and that was what he was going to do. “I’m going to England. There’s a ship that’s washed up and maybe there’s treasure too. I’m going there to give finding it my best shot.”

  “You want to find treasure? Well, fine. Everyone knows there are countless lost ships off Florida. Let me sponsor you and set you up properly.”

  “I can’t accept that, Stella.” Luke had replied steadily.

  “Why not? It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” she’d insisted. Her breasts, swelling beneath the silk of her dress, rose and fell with agitation. “I’ve not known you long but we’ve had fun. Why not accept my offer? Why make your life harder than it needs to be?”

  He’d shrugged. “I guess that’s me all around, making life tougher than it could be. I’ve enjoyed your company, Stella, and you’re a sexy, gorgeous woman, but I’m not going to take advantage of the fun we’ve had.”

  She’d laughed and, stepping forward, brushed against him. Luke had felt the heat of her perfumed body through the flimsy dress, and momentarily he was torn between leaving and staying.

  “You’re sweet,” Stella had said. “Do you really think you’re taking advantage of me? I’m fifty-one, honey. I’m rich. I’m single and I’m very horny right now. Who’s taking advantage of who?”

  She was spoilt, pampered and used to having whatever she wanted. That she couldn’t have him only made her want him more, Luke realised. The sensation of her breasts against his chest made his head spin, though, and it had taken a great deal of willpower to choose England rather than her.

  Even though he’d made his mind up, Stella had insisted on being a part of his new venture.

  “I want to do something with all this money,” she’d said, when he’d protested. “Stocks and shares are so boring. It’ll be fun for me to have a part in something so unusual – and it’ll drive my girlfriends wild with jealousy. No strings either, honey. Strictly business. I’ll get my lawyers to draw up something official. Sixty percent to me, forty to you?”

  He’d smiled ironically. “Nice try. How about sixty to me, forty to you?”

  “Fifty-five to you, forty-five to me?” Stella had offered, holding out her hand.

  Luke had hesitated but he needed a sponsor; there was no way around that practicality. The dregs of his checking account wouldn’t even buy him a bus ticket to Miami. If the deal was official then Luke figured that Stella’s dollars were as good as anyone’s. Their relationship, such as it was, had moved now from pleasure to business, and this was the way he was determined to keep it. Whether Stella thought the same was anyone’s guess, but she’d been as good as her word: the next morning he’d met with her lawyers to hammer out a sponsorship deal. Stella would pay for the flights and cover his living costs, plus anything else he needed. In return, whatever he found was to be split with her.

  He’d not been back to her hotel room. Bored, sexy Stella would have to find her entertainment elsewhere. He couldn’t imagine it would be too hard; Key West was filled with young men looking for fun.

  So this was how, almost a week on from watching that snippet of rolling news, Luke Dawson was staying in a small Cornish village, renting a very damp cottage that was practically paddling in the sea, and driving the smallest car he’d ever seen in his life. His jaw had almost hit the steering wheel when he’d seen the price they paid for gas here. Jet-lagged and almost seeing double from the effort of driving from Heathrow to Cornwall through the endless rain, Luke had managed to park his car in the allotted bay (narrowly missing the big gold Rolls that some imbecile had parked well into Luke’s space), then staggered through the dark and drizzle before finally collapsing through the door of the tiniest house he’d ever set foot in. He’d been too tired to really take in his surroundings; even the musty smell and damp bed linen hadn’t stopped him from passing out for almost twenty hours.

  Today he’d risen just before lunch, ripped from sleep by squawking seagulls. Pulling open the curtains, he’d seen the village for the first time. It was stunning, if bleak, and for a while he’d just gawped at the view. Florida was pancake-flat, and its sparkling ocean was so bright in the glancing sunshine that the first thing he usually did was reach for his shades. Polwenna Bay was the antithesis of all that. Its steep valley sides rose sharply from the harbour, clad in deepest greens and darkest browns, and dotted with cottages that seemed to cling on for grim death. The sea was pewter and the sun was as coy as a teenage girl; mostly it hid behind thick clouds, although it peeked out every now and again when it thought nobody was looking. Seeing that the tide was in, and alarmed by the amount of people wandering around with metal detectors, Luke had decided he’d better haul ass and start exploring
. The remains of the ship would be underwater for a good few hours yet, so the next best thing had seemed like a boat ride along the coast.

  Seemed was the operative word. Fifteen minutes into the trip, Luke had come to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to learn much from it at all. Sure, the scenery was spectacular in its own kind of fashion, and the big man behind the wheel of the boat was telling some awesome tales about wreckers and smugglers – but there was a frustrating lack of hard facts. The tourists were lapping up the stories (or at least, those of them who weren’t leaning over the side of the boat were), but Luke doubted there was much truth in any of these tales.

  And he was so goddamn cold!

  He’d been in England for less than forty-eight hours, but already he was certain he was getting seasonal affective disorder. Where was the sun? The colours? The warm breezes? Everything was sludge green or mud brown here, and he included the sea in that list. What the hell had the Brits done to it? Luke was used to deep blue water, gin-clear and teeming with colourful fish, but the sea here was murky and freezing cold. If Luke was ever brave enough, or crazy enough, to attempt a dive here, he probably wouldn’t be able to see more than a foot ahead anyway – and he’d need to be wearing more rubber than something from a bondage dungeon. And as for girls in bikinis – one of the big perks of working a dive boat – well, they were all wrapped up in jeans and sweaters. Luke didn’t blame them a bit; there was no way he’d risk baring any flesh here. He’d probably get frostbite.

  Jeez. What a place. Give him Florida any day.

  Luke pulled up the hood of his new coat and plunged his fingers deeper into the pockets. He could even see his breath clouding the air, and his nose had gone numb. It was starting to rain again, too. He hoped the trip to the alleged wreck site of the Isabella would be worth the effort. The swell he could cope with fine, but catching pneumonia wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind when he’d flown out of Miami.

  “This is where the ship went down!” announced the skipper, knocking the engine into neutral. Folding his arms over his enormous belly, he surveyed his captive audience triumphantly. “Us Penhalligans have lived here for centuries, and I’m telling you that this is the spot! Over two hundred years ago, the Isabella hit rocks no more than fifty yards from here. We call them the Shindeeps because the water’s that shallow. We’ll go no closer than this. Many a boat’s met her end here.”

  “You don’t know that for sure, Dad. There’s no proof,” pointed out the young man who’d taken the wheel. Clad in a smock, jeans and rigger boots, he was clearly a fisherman too, but one who was taking his father’s tour with a big pinch of sea salt. “It could have been within a mile of here,” he added helpfully.

  The father shot his son a look that should have sent him straight to the seabed. “You wrecked a boat here yourself Joe, my boy. How much proof do you need?”

  Joe bit his lip and said nothing. Luke shivered. This was an unlucky place; he could feel it. Having spent most of his life on the ocean, he’d encountered his fair share of watery graveyards. He glanced across the sea. Sure enough, the waves were boiling around a bank of razor-edged rocks that lurked just beneath the surface. The lights of the village were hidden now by the curve of the coastline, but the headland before the bay was in full view. It was easy to see how, if a man had been standing there with a lantern, the crew of a ship might have been fooled into thinking they were safe to approach the land. It was perfectly possible that the Isabella had foundered here, and equally possible that several smaller boats had managed to reach her in order to steal her cargo. The wreck could have washed up onto the beach many years later and then been covered by sand over the centuries.

  A frown line deepened between his eyes. Yes, the Isabella’s treasure might well have made it to shore. The coastline was riddled with inlets and caves – his rented cottage was only yards from one – and any smuggler with a good knowledge of the tunnels beneath the cliffs could have hidden their loot.

  His skin tingled again with excitement. Although this place was cold and bleak, there was something about it that made him feel alive.

  Now that the skipper had delivered his speech and a fair few passengers were beginning to be sick, the boat was heading back to the harbour. The rolling of the sea and the smell of the diesel were like oxygen to Luke, but he had every sympathy for the unhappy tourists. His stomach was lurching too, except that in his case this was due to hunger: he hadn’t eaten since a very glamorous flight attendant had served the airplane meal. Luke grinned at the memory. That was probably the last bit of glamour he’d see for a while, judging by the raincoats and the way the people here walked along with their bodies bowed against the elements. The beautiful people of Florida with their butterscotch tans, micro shorts and designer shades seemed just as unbelievable now as this skipper’s yarns of sea serpents and smugglers. Key West was another world.

  The rain was easing a little now. By the time Luke had disembarked, weak sunshine was trickling across the village. Smoke drifted above the mossy rooftops and seagulls circled over the harbour. Small boats bobbed lazily in the marina, and at the foot of the harbour wall a small slither of sand was playing peek-a-boo with the waves. Luke checked his chunky dive watch. The tide was on the turn. Maybe in a few hours he could scramble over the rocks and have a look at what was left of this ship for himself. His stomach growled loudly. According to his body clock it was breakfast time – and what he wouldn’t give for some pancakes and maple syrup! No hope of any of that here. What was it the Brits liked? A fry-up?

  Hell, who cared what they ate here. He needed to find some food. On the way to the boat he’d spotted a pub alongside the quay. He’d find something there, Luke decided as he sprinted up the flight of steps that led to a heavy door, and he could thaw out for a bit in the warmth. Maybe he’d even have a drink.

  He pushed open the door and instantly the scent of woodsmoke and stale beer coiled into his senses, mingled with the mouth-watering aroma of home-cooked food. Jeez, his mom would go mad for this place. With its low beams, small windows and crackling log fire, it was everything he’d imagined an English pub would be – and it looked like the perfect place to sit down and enjoy a hearty meal. It would probably take a little getting used to, though. The group of fishermen in the corner were playing a very loud game of dice, and there were dogs roaming about the place too. Luke had already observed that the English seemed to have dogs everywhere. Perhaps that was how they protected themselves in this country, instead of having the right to bear arms. Personally, Luke thought that dogs were preferable to guns anyhow.

  A menu board covered in elaborate italic chalk writing proudly proclaimed that tomato soup was on a special and that the alarmingly named Spotty Dick was today’s top pudding.

  Spotty Dick? Seriously? Was this an example of the famously eccentric British humour?

  Luke was stepping forward to take a closer look when he stopped dead in his tracks. The tingling feeling was back and his blood was coursing so swiftly through his veins that it was like a head rush. For a moment he could do nothing but stare. Behind the bar, oblivious to his arrival and wholly intent on pouring real ale, was none other than the girl with the golden braids.

  It was her. It was Issie.

  And what was more, at her throat glinted the very golden coin that had caught his attention five thousand miles and another world away.

  Chapter 11

  Issie noticed the stranger the second he stepped into The Ship. How could she not? As the door had swung open, she’d glanced up from the pint she was pulling and almost dropped the glass. Guys like this didn’t walk into the pub very often.

  In fact, they didn’t walk into this pub at all.

  For a moment he’d stood framed in the doorway, the sunlight glinting on the ringlets of dark brown hair that brushed his collar. There was an air of quiet strength and confidence about him, and as he approached the bar the man moved with the grace of a panther.

  “Who’s that?” breathed
Silver Starr from her perch on a nearby bar stool.

  Usually Issie would have quipped that if the local psychic didn’t know then there was no hope for the rest of them, but on this occasion she was rendered speechless. The stranger was staring at her as though he wanted to rip her most guarded secrets from the depths of her soul. Her breath caught in her throat as the greenest eyes she’d ever seen transfixed her.

  “My pint!” wailed Big Roger Pollard as frothing Pol Brew foamed over the rim of the glass and sloshed into the drip tray. He made a dive to save it but only succeeded in knocking the glass flying. Seconds later, beer and shards of glass were everywhere.

  With a cry of dismay, Issie dragged her attention back to the job in hand and busied herself mopping up beer and sweeping up the mess, while Big Rog grumbled and Adam Harper muttered darkly about docking her wages. Red-faced and furious with herself, Issie fixed her gaze on the dustpan and brush, trying desperately not to feel as though a bolt had gone straight through her. This was ridiculous, Issie scolded herself as she wrapped the broken glass up in newspaper. She was a woman in her twenties, not a teenager. Fancy being distracted just because a fit guy happened to walk into the bar. Pathetic!