A Treasure Worth Keeping

by Marie Patrick

  “I’ve never seen anyone handle a knife like that.” He didn’t even realize he’d said the words out loud or that they were filled with awe until Socrates grunted. Tristan faced him and finished his thought. “Who taught her?”

  Socrates grinned as he pulled said knife out of the boar’s skull. “I did, many summers ago. We practiced day in and day out until she could hit the bullseye ten times out of ten. Very persistent, our Cara was. Still is from what I can see.” He wiped the blood from the blade through the thick hair on the carcass then flicked his thumb over the sharp edge. His grin still in place, he muttered, “You have my sympathy, Captain.”

  Chapter 9

  “What do you mean, we lost them?” Captain Entwhistle’s face turned a peculiar shade of mottled red as he raised his cold glare toward Porkchop. “Explain,” he bellowed.

  Porkchop swallowed hard though his mouth had gone dry. He stood in front of the captain’s desk on legs that seemed like blocks of wood instead of flesh and bone, his stomach twisted in knots, bile burning the back of his throat. The crewman opened his mouth several times, but not a word would come forth. Sunlight seeped in through the windows of the captain’s cabin to warm the room but did nothing to dispel the icy fear that made Porkchop shiver.

  In truth, he couldn’t explain. He hadn’t been the one keeping watch, hadn’t been the one to lose sight of the Adventurer’s white sails on the horizon. He had been the one to have the ill fortune of drawing the low card from the deck to decide which one of them would have the dreadful task of telling the captain the news. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

  “Well?” The captain pushed out of his chair and rose to his full height. The chair toppled backward to crash into a small cabinet filled with porcelain and glass curios. Tinkling glass plinked to the floor, sounding like a broken music box. Entwhistle didn’t seem to notice. His icy stare never left Porkchop’s face. A muscle throbbed in the captain’s cheek as he leaned forward on his desk, the heat from his hands fogging the satiny finish of the desktop.

  The fury in the captain’s eye, the tension in his body, made Porkchop back up a step, then two. He squeezed his buttock muscles tight, afraid the knot in his stomach would unravel and he’d soil himself right then and there.

  “Speak, you bloody imbecile.”

  Porkchop jumped. He hated to snitch on any of his crewmates despite how they treated him, but faced with Captain Entwhistle’s barely suppressed rage, he couldn’t help himself. “It were Petey,” he confessed in a rush. “Petey was watchin’, but he were jokin’ an’ carryin’ on like he al’ays does.”

  Hands balled into fists, the redness of his face deepening, Captain Entwhistle said not a word as grabbed the cat o’ nine tails from the hook on the wall and slammed the door as he left the cabin.

  Porkchop breathed a sigh of relief. He still stood. Still breathed. The captain hadn’t killed him. He didn’t want to witness what the captain would do to Petey, and yet, he couldn’t help himself. On tiptoe, he crept toward the door and cracked it open as the first lash of the cat o’ nine tails laid open the flesh on Petey’s back. The scream that followed made Porkchop wince and close his eyes.

  With each crack of the whip, each subsequent scream, the crewman jumped—ten times in all before silence reigned once again. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Captain Entwhistle grab the spyglass from his mate’s hand. He held the device to his eye and scanned the horizon. As he lowered it, he drew in a deep breath. Mouth set in a grim line, he ordered, “Set a course for Jamaica.” He stepped closer to Petey. “Trey has friends on the island. You’d better pray he’ll visit them like he always does.”

  While the crew of the Explorer rushed to change course, Porkchop left the safety of the captain’s cabin and rushed to help Petey. He untied the man’s hands from the main spar and gently laid him on the deck on his stomach.

  “Don’ touch me, ye bloody whelp.” Petey managed to utter between clenched teeth. “Ye tol’ ’im it were me, din’t ye?” Blood spilled from the many gashes, and the shredded remains of Petey’s shirt, stained crimson, lay in tatters against the man’s back.

  “Serves ye right, ye idjit. I got me enough scars on me back to be takin’ another whippin’ for ye. Now, jes’ hold still and I’ll fix ye right up.” He expelled his breath, thankful it hadn’t been him who’d received the lashes, thankful the captain had stopped at ten and not killed Petey. “We’ll be in Jamaica ’fore too long. Ye’ll be right as rain by then.”

  • • •

  From her spot on the blanket, Caralyn watched the men set up camp, her attention focused on Tristan. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. Heat, humidity, and exertion caused perspiration to bead on his forehead and his thin shirt to stick to his back, which emphasized every rippling muscle as he worked. Truthfully, the sight did strange things to her insides, and a shiver worked its way from her head to her toes and back.

  Before she knew it, three old canvas tents surrounded the fire pit, now cleaned of debris, all without her help. A coffee pot burbled on the grate over the crackling fire Mac had prepared. The last thing the men did was move several big logs to surround the fire-pit before they trudged toward the grouping of tumbled rocks at the bottom of the waterfall they’d passed on their way into the cove. The rocks formed several serene pools away from the force of the thundering water.

  “May I join you?” Tristan stood at the edge of the blanket, blocking the rays of the sun. She hadn’t seen him come back as her attention had wandered to Jemmy and his fascination with a turtle. Caralyn shielded her eyes as she glanced up at him and her breath hitched in her chest.

  Sunlight silhouetted his long, lean frame and reflected off the water droplets in his hair to create a halo of sorts. He looked like a Greek god standing before her. Again, a shiver raced from her head to her toes and back while a thousand butterflies danced in her stomach.

  Tristan didn’t wait for her answer as he lowered himself to the blanket spread out on the sand. The rest of their small group, all freshly washed and sporting the same shimmering droplets, quickly joined him.

  “Jemmy, leave the turtle alone. It’s time to eat.” Tristan grabbed a burlap sack, placed it on his lap, and untied the rope holding it closed.

  “Aye, Papa.” The boy picked up the turtle and moved it closer to the blanket before he sat, legs crossed.

  Caralyn hid her smile behind her hand as Tristan stopped in the middle of pulling foodstuffs from the sack. A sighed escaped him as he glanced at his son and the turtle slowly inching its way across their makeshift table.

  “Jemmy, your new friend cannot join us for lunch.” The boy’s eyes opened wide as he moved the turtle off the blanket. “And you didn’t wash your hands.”

  Caralyn rose to her feet and held out her hand to the boy. “Come on, Jemmy, we’ll go wash our hands together.” She grinned in Tristan’s direction but didn’t say a word as Jemmy stuck his hand in hers. They walked toward the jumble of rocks where the crew had gone earlier. Tristan’s eyes followed her—she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back but resisted the urge to turn around and smile at him.

  When she and Jemmy returned, a small feast was spread out on wide, glossy leaves. Hash had packed bread, cheese, and fruit in the burlap sack. He’d also added a bottle of wine and a small glass jar of milk. They drank from tin cups and ate with their fingers as if they were on a picnic in the country.

  Caralyn bit into an apple. Juice dribbled down her chin, and she wiped it away with a grin. She felt like a princess from one of her favorite novels, Arabian Nights, although a tropical island was the farthest thing from the Arabian desert. The constant chirping and squawking of the birds, the clucking of chickens, the hypnotic rush of the waterfalls, the gentle lap of the water on the sand made this more of a paradise than anywhere else.

  Nothing could have been more perfect, except perhaps, to find Izzy’s Fortune. For a moment, Caralyn allowed herself to dream of the tr
easure they would find and what they could do with those riches.

  She could stay here—they all could—and build a life far from the trappings of society. Or they could set sail for distant and exotic places, only stopping long enough to pick up fresh supplies. She wouldn’t have to marry the man her father had chosen for her.

  From beneath the fringe of her lashes, she snuck a quick peek at Tristan. The Adventurer’s captain sat across from her, relaxed, joking with his crew and Jemmy but still vigilant. From time to time, his stunning eyes scanned the tree line, and then satisfied there would be no repeat incident with a wild animal, he’d rejoin the conversation.

  He must have felt her staring at him because his gaze slanted in her direction and he grinned. Caralyn’s face warmed, and a trickle of excitement shimmied down her back.

  “We should start exploring before it gets too late.” Tristan rose with the fluid grace of a jungle cat then extended his hand for her. Caralyn grasped it only to learn there were more than simply a thousand butterflies in her stomach. She put the estimate at about a million.

  The rest of the party rose as well and dusted off their clothing.

  “There’s a small path beside the waterfall where we all cleaned up.” Caralyn pointed to an overgrown footpath barely visible between the tremendous growth of ferns, trees, profusion of flowers, and sheer granite wall. “From what little I saw, it seems to follow the mountainside. That might be our best course.”

  Tristan stood next to her. The warmth exuding from him curled her toes. “Looks like a good place to start.”

  She watched with interest as he filled a sack with the pristine white sand from the beach. As he tied it around his waist, she couldn’t resist asking, “What is that for?”

  “A means to help us find our way back.”

  Caralyn tilted her head to the side as he repeated the process twice more and tied those sacks to his belt as well. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  He grinned at her. The smile curving his mouth could have charmed the birds from the trees. Caralyn simply stared, unable to draw her attention away. The urge to kiss the rakish grin from his lips, to taste his mouth, overwhelmed her.

  “Are you ready?”

  Caralyn pulled her focus from his lips. Despite almost being killed by a feral pig, and perhaps because of it, excitement rippled through her. “Of course.”

  Armed with pistols, machetes, and hearts full of hope, Tristan led them across the shifting sand and into the tropical forest, one hand clutching Jemmy’s, the other wielding the long, sharp machete. Caralyn followed close behind, as did Mrs. Beasley, Dr. Trevelyan, and Graham. Mac brought up the rear. He carried a lantern as well as several thick candles and matches in a large leather pouch that strapped around his shoulders and hung down his back. Socrates stayed behind to wait for the rest of the crew and finish preparing the boar for roasting.

  Birds cawed and squawked, producing some of the strangest sounds Caralyn had ever heard. Some grew silent as the group passed by then resumed screeching, as if they were admonishing the humans for invading their perfect world. Others left their perches in a flutter of colorful wings. Chickens scurried out of the way. Caralyn saw eggs scattered along the path.

  Flowers bloomed everywhere—pushing up from the ground between giant ferns, dangling from trees and bushes in all the colors of the rainbow, from the palest pastels to the most vivid hues. Though she didn’t know the names, she recognized some of the blooms from her home on Saint Lucia.

  Vines clung to the sheer granite wall, cascading from the top of the mountain down to the forest floor to create an emerald curtain, punctuated by bold, vibrant blooms. Caralyn inhaled the sweet scent of a blossom and sighed with pleasure.

  She slapped at her face, grateful for her long sleeved shirt and trousers as insects buzzed all around them. Spiders created the most beautiful and intricate webs, which shimmered in patches of sunlight. Despite the beauty of her surroundings, a shiver raced up her spine. Where there were spiders, there were bound to be snakes. Sneaky and silent, cold and scaly, snakes terrified her. She listened to the sounds all around her and shivered once more.

  The farther they advanced into the interior of the island, the more rigorous the climb became. The trail they’d started on disappeared into unrelenting greenness, broken only by boulders and piles of rocks they needed to circumnavigate. Fallen trees, some rotting, some still bursting with life, created another barrier they needed to surpass. In many cases, climbing over half-rotted logs teeming with insects seemed more dangerous than scaling the huge boulders in their way.

  No one spoke except Jemmy, who, as promised, not only kept up with the quick pace but chattered non-stop. Being younger, the lad had no problem climbing over boulders or half-rotten trees. Indeed, several times he caught a vine hanging from a tree limb and swung across obstacles in his way.

  Half way up the steep mountain, they stopped beside another waterfall, this one smaller and less thunderous. Water poured from a hole high up in the rock wall and cascaded straight down. Years of constant pounding by the steadily flowing liquid had worn a deep, crystalline pool into the hard granite. Crevasses allowed water to escape the pond and flow into a stream they’d traversed several times.

  “We’ll stop here for a few moments to catch our breath.” Tristan signaled to Mac. The Scotsman dutifully turned around to allow Tristan access to the leather pouch and the tin cup contained within. He dipped the vessel into the sparkling pool and passed it around. “Is everyone all right?” One by one, they drank their fill of the cool, refreshing water until Tristan stopped with a full cup in front of Mrs. Beasley. Concern made his eyes squint. “Mrs. Beasley?”

  The uphill climb had affected Mrs. Beasley the most. Although perspiration trickled between Caralyn’s breasts and soaked the thin corset beneath her shirt, Mrs. Beasley suffered more. One look at the woman’s reddened face and a rush of sympathy rolled through Caralyn. The umbrella she carried protected her from the sun, but offered nothing against the oppressive heat and humidity.

  “She’s a little overheated, but she’ll be fine, Tris. I’ll take care of her.” As Stitch helped Mrs. Beasley sit on one of the boulders surrounding the small pool, Caralyn hid a smile behind her hand. Dr. Brady Trevelyan had called Mrs. Temperance Beasley “Lovey” several times during their hike, and not once did the woman put him in his place. Indeed, she grinned at him like a lovesick fool.

  “Lovey” still didn’t put up a fuss when Stitch took a knife to her black bombazine gown and cut away the high lace collar and several of the buttons along the bodice. He also stripped the lace from her sleeves and demanded, albeit quietly, she remove at least one of her petticoats.

  Caralyn used the reprieve to examine their surroundings. The trail continued upward and disappeared around an outcropping of more tumbled boulders. If they kept following it, they’d reach the top of the mountain, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t think climbing to the summit was where they wanted to go. Another path, smaller than the one they traversed, branched off to the right and led toward the leeward side of the island. Again, she didn’t think that path was the correct one to follow. They needed a cave, an entrance inside the mountain to get beneath the sleeping giant’s heart.

  They were close, so close. She could feel it in her bones, the excitement mingling with the hope in her heart.

  Hot and sweaty, she crouched next to the crystalline pool and dipped a handkerchief into the cool water, causing the reflecting sunlight to ripple. As she rose and began to mop at the back of her neck, her gaze followed the cascading water from its source at the top of the mountain to where it stopped in the pool then finally settled on a spot where the rocks seemed to be darker. Behind the cascading water, shadows played tricks on her, and then something shimmered and winked within the darkness.

  Her eyes went wide. She stopped wiping the back of her neck and stared at the curious glimmer and the inkiness around it. She squinted, trying to bring what she
saw into clearer focus. A moment passed, then two; then laughter bubbled up from her chest. “Tristan,” she managed to squawk. “I found it!”

  Tristan stood beside her in a heartbeat. The heat of his body radiated out and beckoned her to lean close, but she resisted the call. “What did you find?”

  His words fanned her ear and the butterflies in her belly took flight. She pointed toward the shadows behind the flowing water and the winking object within. “Did you see that?”

  He focused on the shadows, his concentration deep. Caralyn almost bounced out of her skin when she heard his sharp gasp.

  Tristan untied the bags of sand from his belt and let them drop to the ground. The machete settled atop the sand. His soft leather boots came next then his shirt. He winked as he handed the garment to her and dove into the water.

  Caralyn’s heart pounded so loud she could barely make out the shouts from the rest of their party. She watched his sleek body cut through the water before he disappeared beneath the waterfall where it met the pool in turbulent, misty waves. A moment later, he pulled himself onto a rock shelf behind the cascading water.

  She exhaled and clutched his shirt to her chest. His scent tickled her nose. Her knees shook, and a strange warm sensation coursed through her belly. She loved the smell of him.

  “Now where does he think he’s going?” Graham sidled up beside her, his focus going back and forth between Tristan’s watery shadow and her.

  She barely glanced at him. “I think there’s a cave behind the waterfall.” Still watching Tristan through the veil of water, Caralyn worried the fabric in her hands. What did he find? Was it a cave? A doorway to all the treasures that awaited them? Or had the shadows simply played tricks on her? The urge to call out to him, to jump in the water after him washed over her like a wave crashing against the shore.

  Graham harrumphed but said nothing more. Understanding dawned in his eyes, and a knowing smile curved his mouth.