by Unknown
“Maggie is also the best man’s sister-in-law, by the way. She’s married to one of his younger brothers. He has three. And an older brother. And a younger sister.”
“That’s six kids total.”
“Correct.”
Her uncle sighed into the phone. “I actually think I’m getting the players sorted out. It’s scary. Who’s the best man? He must have a name.”
“Justin Sloan.” She tried to keep her voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “He’s the volunteer firefighter who grabbed me out of the cider mill after it caught fire.”
“Hell, Sam,” Caleb said without so much as a split-second’s hesitation. “Isaac and I are in New Hampshire. Or maybe it’s Vermont. Wait a sec—no, Isaac says we’re in Maine. Bowdoin College. It’d take a while, but we can come fetch you.”
The confusion over his location was all show. A distraction to get her mind off the wedding, Justin, Knights Bridge. Refocus her. Isaac’s college tour. The upcoming Bennett family reunion. Her life.
It didn’t work. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.” Samantha sank against the back of the couch and glanced over at her vintage dress hanging neatly over the chair. She didn’t notice a big stain or tear or something that would help bring her around and provide her an excuse to demur from attending the wedding. “I know I’m not good at figuring out people’s ulterior motives. Do you think the wedding invitation is tactical—so they can keep an eye on me?”
“Yes. There’s also a chance they’re just being polite and they expect you to say no. I get invited to a lot of weddings that it’s understood I’m supposed to send my regrets.”
“I don’t get why people do that.”
“I know you don’t, Sam.”
She stood, not as tired or as stiff as she would have expected. The kiss, maybe. It had energized her. She bit her lip, wishing she hadn’t even thought about it in case her uncle was in one of his mind-reading veins. “You think I shouldn’t go,” she said
“Didn’t I just say that? And how can you go? You didn’t pack a dress, did you?”
“I found a dress in castoffs from a vintage fashion show.”
Caleb was silent. She almost could picture him pacing, scratching the back of his neck, debating whether to skip Bowdoin and head down to Knights Bridge. Finally he said, “You’ve spent too much time alone in your grandfather’s house and apartment. Where are you sleeping tonight?” He added quickly, “No, don’t answer. Damn. If you need me, you have my number.”
“Thanks, Uncle Caleb. How’s Isaac?”
“He’s still sold on Amherst.”
“Because of Grandpa,” she said.
“Harry Bennett’s shadow is long and impossible to ignore. I’m afraid it’s having unforeseen and unexpected consequences for you and for Isaac.” He added knowingly, “You should keep that in mind, Samantha.”
She promised she would, and after she disconnected, took a deep cleansing breath. She noticed the sun had gone down. The millpond was gray and still, and vibrant red leaves stood out against the dusk sky. Her uncle was no doubt right, and attending tomorrow’s wedding was utter madness, but she did have a great vintage dress to wear and shoes that almost fit.
Why not put aside the mysteries of Benjamin Farraday for a day?
It would, after all, be rude to let Olivia, Maggie and Olivia’s mother go to such trouble and then back out for no good reason.
In the meantime, dinner and where to sleep remained problems to be solved.
Samantha went into the outdated galley kitchen and examined the contents of the refrigerator.
Beer. Local cheddar cheese. Three apples. Milk.
“Works for me,” she said.
She got out the cheese and an apple and placed them on a plate, then found a knife and tore off a couple of sheets of paper towel to use as a napkin. She headed back to the living room and stood by the chair with her dress and shoes. She looked at her backpack, her new tent, and then she looked at the couch. She did have those navy flannel pajamas that covered her from chin to anklebone.
And there was a quilt folded on the back of the couch.
She could curl up under the blanket, and Justin wouldn’t even know she was there. It wasn’t a bad option. She liked camping and wanted to try her new tent, but where would she hang her vintage dress? What if spiders got in her borrowed shoes?
Her tent and the hard ground...or the couch and tomorrow’s best man...
Each option had its advantages. Each had its drawbacks.
One thing was for certain. If she opted for the couch, that was where she would stay.
All night.
Seventeen
The rehearsal at Carriage Hill was brief and to the point, and no one freaked out—not even the bride’s mother, which was saying something, because a year ago, Louise Frost would have turned ashen, started sweating and had to leave early. Having Samantha to focus on helped distract her. Louise had pulled Justin aside and told him how much she enjoyed meeting her, how different she was. “You’ve always wanted someone different, Justin.”
He didn’t get into it with her. He couldn’t explain what was going on with Samantha to himself, much less to anyone else.
No regrets about kissing her, though. None. Stupid or not, there it was.
The rehearsal dinner was intimate, elegant and exactly what Jessica and her fair-haired, rangy, easygoing fiancé wanted ahead of the ceremony. They were happy, and that was what mattered to Justin—but his mind kept drifting to Samantha and whether she would be there when he returned to the sawmill.
As usual, Eric was the designated driver for the evening. He edged over to Justin and Mark as they headed outside. “I can make multiple trips if need be. Wouldn’t want anyone careening off the road on the dark drive home.”
“We’re meeting back at the Frost mill,” Mark said. “Beer and stories by the campfire. Works for me. I’m not sleeping tonight, anyway.”
“I’m fit to drive,” Justin said.
His brother grinned at him. “Resisted sampling Scotch from Samantha Bennett’s flask?”
“I should never have told you about that.”
“I wonder if her grandfather had that flask in Antarctica.”
“Feel free to ask her.”
“I will,” Eric said, oblivious to his younger brother’s mood.
Eric collected the rest of his brothers and a few other guys while Justin took Mark—who wasn’t fit to drive—in his truck. As they drove out to the sawmill, Justin decided to clear Samantha’s presence at the wedding with his friend.
Mark shrugged. “Samantha Bennett? The treasure hunter you rescued?” He seemed vaguely aware of her. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
Justin grinned at him. “I could bring an orangutan tomorrow for all you’d notice or care at this point.”
“Wait—she’s an orangutan? I thought she was a treasure hunter.”
“Forget it,” Justin said. “You’re too far gone. You’re thinking about your bride-to-be and only your bride-to-be. As you should be.”
“I’m getting married tomorrow, Justin.”
“Yes, you are.”
“To a Frost.”
“To Jessica.”
“Yeah. Jess.”
Justin could hear the nervousness in his friend’s voice, as if the reality of his imminent marriage was just hitting him. “It’s going to be a great day tomorrow, Mark.”
He nodded, staring out the window into the dark. “I used to think you’d end up with Olivia. Imagine that. If the two of us had married the Frost sisters. Liv and Dylan—they’re good together. You, though, Justin. Hell.” Mark shook his head as if he didn’t get it. “You could have your pick of almost any single woman in Knights Bridge and probably a few of the married ones—”
“Tonight is your night, Mark. Beer and a campfire. Then a wedding in the morning.”
Mark fell silent, for which Justin was grateful. When they arrived at Frost Millworks, Randy Frost had a campfire roaring out by the bro
ok and beer in a cooler of ice. Samantha hadn’t taken off into the woods with her tent. She was there, sitting on a blanket in front of the fire, with a smaller blanket from his couch around her shoulders. The firelight caught the gold in her eyes.
Randy patted her on the shoulder. “For those who haven’t met her yet, this is Samantha Bennett, pirate expert and treasure hunter. She helped build the fire and load the beer into the cooler, and I invited her to stay for a while, at least until you guys get into a serious discussion about saving the world. Then she can call it a night.” He grinned at the younger men gathering. “You all enjoy yourselves. Don’t get yourselves arrested. I’ll see you tomorrow at my daughter’s wedding.”
“Tomorrow will be great, Randy,” Justin said. The rest of the guys chimed in with much the same as Randy headed up to his truck.
Brandon opened a beer. “Tell us about your pirates, Sam. I dressed up as a pirate for a masquerade ball in Boston a few weeks ago.”
She started to get to her feet. “I should go—”
“No, no, stay,” Brandon said, handing her his open beer bottle. “At least have a drink with us.” He got another beer for himself and sat with her on her blanket. “What were real pirates like?”
Samantha sipped her beer. Justin had no doubt she could hold her own with the guys. “Depends on the pirate,” she said. “Some were incredibly ruthless. Others weren’t, although sometimes it was simply a question of practicality. For instance, taking over a ship and leaving the crew on an island, or giving them a vote, basically, on continuing as crew under the new command.”
“Better than killing them but still wrong,” Eric said. “Did a lot of them meet a bad end?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“Shot?” Adam asked, grabbing a couple of beers, handing one to Justin, standing close to the hot fire and resisting the temptation to settle in next to Samantha.
“Hanging was the preferred method of execution,” she said. “Some pirates also died at sea. ‘Black Sam’ Bellamy and most of his crew died in a major nor’easter off Cape Cod. The sunken remains of his ship, the Whydah, were discovered a few years ago. They’ve yielded a lot of fascinating information about those aboard.”
“And treasure?” Justin asked, keeping his voice as toneless as he could.
“Gold, yes,” she said, no indication she thought he was goading her. “It can survive three centuries underwater, unlike valuable perishable cargo like cotton, cocoa, sugar, that sort of thing.”
“Three centuries,” Christopher said. “Long time.”
Samantha drank more of the beer, then set it aside on the blanket. “Pirates were at their height in the Atlantic in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century. The line between a legitimate privateer and an outright pirate was sometimes blurred. A ship captain could have a proper commission one day and be out of work the next.”
“Who was the worst pirate?” Adam asked.
“Blackbeard is fairly notorious. He was an Englishman—his real name is Edward Teach. He was known, obviously, for his black beard. Some say he had forty wives.”
“Ouch,” Eric said.
“He had a fleet of pirate ships. Eventually a bounty was put on his head, and he was killed in a fierce battle off the coast of North Carolina. It’s a grim ending.” Samantha grimaced. “Let’s just say he wasn’t hanged.”
“Go ahead and tell us,” Brandon said, then added with a grin, “We can take it.”
She stretched out her legs in front of her. “He was shot and stabbed multiple times, and the bounty hunter—a man named Maynard—cut off his head as proof he’d killed the infamous Blackbeard.”
Mark gave a mock shudder. “Rough justice.”
Adam, as well as Brandon, was now sitting cross-legged on Samantha’s blanket. Justin stayed on his feet near the fire, watching her as she interacted with the guys. They weren’t giving her a hard time. They were just hanging out, testing her a little, maybe, to see what she was like. They all knew how close she’d come to real trouble in the cider mill fire. That she’d trespassed, avoided telling anyone in town the whole story about herself and her reasons for being there—and that he was falling for her. Hard and fast. He could deny it, but his brothers would see right through him.
“Who’s the pirate you think buried treasure out this way?” Eric asked.
Samantha faltered ever so slightly. “I never said—”
“Okay, okay,” Eric said. “I get it. Top secret.”
“I’m researching an American pirate named Benjamin Farraday.” Samantha eased to her feet, leaving her beer bottle on the blanket. “I’ve only scratched the surface, but I’ll spare you any more historical talk. Pirates fascinate me, obviously.” She seemed momentarily uncertain what to say, then settled for a smile and a simple good-night. “See you all tomorrow.”
Justin walked with her back to the sawmill. The night sky sparkled on the dark, still water of the millpond, and the brook flowed quietly over the dam. There was no wind, but the air was chilly, as cold a night as they’d had since last winter. “The temperature will bounce back tomorrow,” he said. “I’m glad you decided not to camp out in your tent.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.” He nodded back toward the fire. “The guys won’t stay long. We’re all in suits. Can’t be passing out drunk in a suit. Not that we would or ever have, mind you.”
She smiled. “Paragons of virtue.”
“We also have big brother Eric with his badge and reputation. He’d throw us all in jail, wedding or no wedding. We’re just giving Mark a chance to calm down. Jess is staying with Dylan and Olivia tonight. They’re making sure everything is set for tomorrow. Otherwise Dylan would be here.”
“Is Maggie nervous, do you think?”
He noticed the moonlight catch her dark eyes and shook his head. “Maggie doesn’t get nervous. She just said she’ll poison any of us who show up tomorrow with a hangover. She wants everything to be perfect.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
“We have to be there by ten.”
She licked her lips, just enough that it told him their kiss was on her mind. It was on his, too. It had been all evening. She glanced back at the sawmill, then again at him. “Justin—”
He opened the heavy front door. “Head on up. I’ll be up soon. By the way, my feet hang off the couch but yours won’t.” His way of telling her he wouldn’t be a problem tonight. He leaned in close to her. “Sleep tight.”
As he returned to the campfire, he glanced back and saw that Samantha had gone upstairs to his apartment. He sat on her spot on the blanket with his beer. He noticed she didn’t come back down with her backpack. The guys obviously noticed, too, but not one of them said a word. Eric did mutter, “Hell, Justin,” under his breath, but that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Samantha Bennett.
After a few more stories, teasing and laughter, they put out the fire, packed up the cooler and headed home. Justin double-checked to make sure the fire was out, and he scooped up a stray tie—Christopher’s, he was pretty sure. His youngest brother hated putting on a suit.
When he went back upstairs, Samantha was sound asleep on the couch. She had a quilt tucked up to her chin. It was one his grandmother had made him as a high-school graduation present—why, he didn’t know, but that was Gran. He doubted Samantha had anyone in her family who made quilts.
She had one arm flung behind her. He could see she was wearing navy flannel pajamas. They probably weren’t the deterrent for him that she hoped they were.
In fact, they didn’t help at all. If anything they were a particular temptation.
He ducked into his bedroom, imagining himself peeling those flannel pj’s off her, inch by inch.
Or just tearing them off her. That would work, too.
He got out of his expensive suit and left it in a heap on the floor of his small closet. He climbed into bed. Long day. Long week. Tomorrow would be good, with Mark and Jes
s finally tying the knot. Having Samantha there would be interesting. He didn’t know if Olivia and Maggie had been playing matchmaker, at least in part. He wouldn’t put it past them.
And just yesterday Maggie had been warning him about his attraction to Samantha.
Justin stared at the ceiling and the shifting shadows of the night. Only Eric knew about the gold coin, and he probably hadn’t thought about it in years—probably didn’t even realize Justin still had it. For all he knew, it could be a copy, a worthless fake. He could think of a hundred innocuous reasons it could have been at the cider mill. Even that a real gold coin unrelated to pirate treasure could have been there.
Until Samantha Bennett and her mysterious Captain Benjamin Farraday.
He thought of stories he’d heard since he was a boy growing up out on Cider Brook, about the Hazeltons and other early settlers in the area. He’d figured most of the stories were “apocryphal,” as Samantha had put it.
Now he wondered.
He rolled onto his side in his cold bed and swore under his breath. He was in a too-long stretch of celibacy with no particular end in sight, and here he was, alone in bed the night before his best friend’s wedding, with a daring, impossible, crazily attractive woman asleep on his couch. But Samantha wasn’t in Knights Bridge because of him—she was here because of the lost treasure of a pirate who’d been dead for three hundred years.
Eighteen
The brigand Captain Farraday narrowed his black eyes. “You don’t believe in romantic love, Bess?”
His words took her by surprise. Romantic love? What did a pirate know about such a thing? Of course, what did she know, the daughter of a loveless marriage—an arrangement—her mother called her relationship with Lord Fullerton.
Lady Elizabeth thrust her chin up at Captain Farraday. “If I do or I don’t, I would never tell you.”
He grinned at her. “You don’t have to tell me. I have my answer.”
As she sputtered in protest, he withdrew from the small, hot cabin.
Samantha smiled, remembering the passage as she made toast in Justin’s galley kitchen ahead of the wedding festivities. She hadn’t changed her mind with daylight. Maybe she should have. Maybe this one time, a Bennett getting cold feet would have been a good thing.
