Captain Rourke

by Helena Newbury

  Except today, I couldn’t keep my eyes on the horizon. They kept drifting to her, as she sat at the prow, her long hair streaming out in the wind as if she was the boat’s figurehead.

  She’d put on the new tank top and shorts. I don’t know if it was the scoop-neck tank or the new bra but everything seemed to be pushed up and together and my mouth damn well watered every time I laid eyes on her. And the shorts...I should have specified something long because the fisherman had brought her tight khaki things that only came a few inches below her ass. Every time she shifted position on the deck, the ropes would go limp in my hands as I forgot what I was doing and just stared, transfixed by her legs. God, she was beautiful. And special: bright and vibrant in a way I’d forgotten existed. I was starting to feel things for her that went far beyond simple lust. I liked having her on board, however much I protested: the boat felt alive, with her here, in a way it hadn’t since Edwards died. Even the damn monkey liked her. And when she was around, I could almost forget the pain in my leg.

  She was smart, too. I’d taught her port and starboard, fore and aft and she’d picked them up fast. She’d deciphered the clue and figured out the location we were heading to now. And she saw things, things I didn’t want to admit to myself. I was rough on Hobbs. I just didn’t want him or Carla or anyone else thinking they were my friends. Not after Edwards. I wasn’t going to go through that again. And I didn’t want anyone making me remember. If I was nice to Hobbs, the next thing I knew he’d be coming aboard and drinking rum with me and then he’d want to talk and then—

  I didn’t need friends. And my strategy had worked just fine ever since Edwards died: stay angry, snap and growl until people had no choice but to stay away. Except...for some reason, it didn’t work on Hannah. She wasn’t scared of me the way the others were. And when I did manage to push her away, I ached like a lovesick kid.

  Maybe she wasn’t a mermaid. Maybe she was a siren, singing some sweet song that had got inside my head. Because I’d been starting to have thoughts where my story didn’t end with the sea taking me, where I had some sort of a future...with her. Dangerous bloody nonsense like that. Seeing her in agony at the library had been the most gut-wrenching experience of my life.

  I realized I’d let the ropes slacken again and growled, hauling them tight. I had to get this done, find the cure and then get her off my boat so she could go back to Nebraska and I could go back to the end of my life.

  But when we arrived, it wasn’t that simple.

  The heading took us to a point just offshore of another small island: a lifeless, barren rock. More rocks littered the sea around it. They stuck up through the water like vicious teeth, some as big as houses, and I had to slow right down to thread us through them.

  I knew we were in the right area but there was nothing marking the exact spot other than this “Secret Garden” the message mentioned and we didn’t know what that was. Hannah said Esme hadn’t described anything like that in her diary so I’d just have to search and hope I recognized it when we found it. I figured I probably had a square mile to cover and that may not sound like a lot on the surface, but it’s a huge area underwater.

  I put on scuba gear and dived but within minutes I was grinding my teeth in frustration. The rocks were even more of a pain beneath the water. They blocked my view so I couldn’t just gaze around the way you would in a field. And it wasn’t like we were looking for a huge shipwreck. We knew now it would be a chest. I’d have to laboriously swim up and down in a search pattern, examining every square foot.

  After two trips back up to the surface for fresh air tanks and three solid hours of swimming, I was exhausted. I got the launch back to the Fortune’s Hope, climbed aboard, and collapsed panting on the deck. After a few seconds, something blocked out the fierce sun: a woman’s body. All I could see was a silhouette but—God, is she naked?!

  My eyes adjusted and I started to make out details. She wasn’t naked but she’d changed into the swimsuit I’d bought her and it hugged every glorious curve of her. Deep, lush green, it set off that golden hair and made her pale skin look even more milky and perfect. She leaned down over me and I wanted to weep at how her breasts bobbed and swayed.

  She reached beneath me and helped me shrug off the straps of my air tank and pull the mask off my face. “You okay?” she asked, concerned. I was hypnotized by those blush-pink lips, close enough to kiss.

  “Aye,” I muttered. “Give me a minute and then I’ll go back down.” I told myself I was resting but, in truth, I just wanted to be close to her for a few minutes.

  The deck shifted and she changed her stance for balance, putting a foot either side of me. I swallowed as I looked up at her: the smooth muscles of her legs, the soft skin of her inner thighs….the swimsuit was pulled tight at her groin and my eyes locked there for a second.

  I’d been thinking about that part of her. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’d imagined it a thousand times: how the blonde curls would feel against my thumb, how she’d gasp when I spread her and entered her….

  “If I went down with you,” Hannah said, “we could cover twice the area.”

  “No,” I said immediately. She was right: we could swim side by side, just six feet between us, and together we’d cover a stripe of the search area twice as wide. But this wasn’t about bloody logic. I didn’t want her down there, where it was dangerous. “You’re not diving,” I growled. And I started to get up, raising my knees and getting my hands under me.

  But she didn’t move, just stood there straddling me. God, she was as stubborn as I was. She was forcing me to stay and argue because it was either that or invade her personal space. I felt the anger flare and pulse. Didn’t she know I was just trying to protect her?

  She glared down at me and crossed her arms, not giving an inch.

  Well, fine. I pulled my feet up and stood right where I was. She drew in a gasp as I started to come up. Leaned back a half inch...and then caught herself and forced herself to stand her ground.

  My head came first, rising straight up her body, my face an inch from where that tightly-stretched Lycra covered her groin. If I’d exhaled, she would have felt it.

  I got my legs under me, wincing as my bad leg protested, and pushed up. My chest was close enough that it skimmed her stomach, her torso...she wasn’t moving, so I didn’t give an inch, either. We locked eyes, challenging each other, both anticipating the moment—

  And then it happened: my chest hit the underside of her breasts and I felt that soft, warm weight and it took everything I had not to buckle and just grab her and kiss her right there. I rose and they lifted with me, compressing against my chest. Oh Jesus!

  And then I was standing, gazing down into her eyes, her breasts pushed tight against me.

  I glared at her.

  She glared at me.

  We were so close, I could feel her heartbeat, and it was racing just as much as mine. I could feel the heat of our bodies throbbing into one another.

  I drew in my breath, fighting to control it. But I couldn’t. The closeness of her, those eyes, those soft lips, the honeysuckle smell of her hair…. Dammit, I’m going to kiss her....

  Her eyes suddenly went huge and scared, then screwed shut.

  “Hannah?” I asked, frowning.

  She fell. She fell like someone had cut her strings and it was only because I was so close that I managed to grab a hand. I let her slowly down to the deck, fear flooding through me. “Hannah?!”

  Her body began to move but it wasn’t under her control. I watched in horror as every muscle began to contract, becoming as tight as her joints allowed and then tighter, knotting and spasming as her nervous system short-circuited. Her face twisted into a howl of agony but no sound came out, just terrified, irregular panting. I dropped to my knees beside her and stared into her eyes and she stared up at me in terror.

  A ripple of pain passed through her from head to feet, so strong that her body inched along the deck. Her legs kicked, her hands clawi
ng at the deck. Sweat was breaking out on her forehead and tears filled her eyes. My own chest contracted tight. She needs a doctor! She’d said they couldn’t help but it didn’t matter: I was past reason. I looked around for help—

  And saw only pure, unbroken blue. There was no one to help, no nearby hospital or medical center because, like a fool, I’d taken her all the way out here even after I knew she was ill. You idiot, Rourke! You fucking idiot! I moaned in dismay and stroked her hair, running through my options. The satellite phone? Even a coast guard chopper would take a good half hour to reach us, all the way out here, plus as long again to transport her somewhere….

  Her back arched. Not just a reaction to pain: this was her body fighting against itself. My stomach knotted as I watched her bend higher and higher. The body is terrifyingly strong, when it’s out of control. In the navy, I’d seen victims of nerve gas who’d bent and twisted so hard they’d snapped their own spines. I grabbed her shoulders and pressed her down to the deck, even though it made her sob in pain. I felt my own eyes grow hot. It was the helplessness: she was going through sheer hell and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.

  Except hold her.

  I hunkered over her, clumsy as an ox, and gripped her tight, pressing her against me and trying to soak up the worst of the spasms so that she didn’t wrench something out of its socket or break her back. I held her there for what felt like hours. Her tears were wet against my cheek and I felt a big, hot up swelling of...something. What if this is it, this time? She’d said she reckoned she only had days left. What if she just—

  She went limp in my arms. I drew in a horrified breath and felt for her pulse but I couldn’t find it. Edwards had always been the one who was good at this stuff, sewing up someone’s arm or checking them for concussion. Where is it? Where is it?

  There. Weak and irregular, but there. I let out a shaky breath. Not knowing what else to do, I stroked her hair back from her forehead and kept stroking it as our breathing slowed. I’d been so caught up in her and her pain that I hadn’t noticed that my bad leg was screaming from my awkward position, but now it hit me. I scooped her up into my arms, swung my legs around, and wound up sitting on the deck with her across me, her head cradled on my bicep and her ass in my lap.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at me. The confirmation that she was alive, and okay, was the sweetest sight I’d ever seen. I went to say something angry, to call her an idiot for being out here when she was so ill, to push her away, but….

  But I just couldn’t. She was so beautiful. So strong, so stubborn and yet she lay broken in my arms. However deep I reached for the anger, I couldn’t find it.

  She swallowed. Then, her voice weak, “I have to go down with you.”

  I shook my head. “If this happens again, down there, you’ll die.”

  “If I don’t help you, and we don’t get through these last two clues and find the cure, I’m dead anyway. And so’s Katherine.”

  Jesus. She was still more worried about her sister than herself. I looked around us. There had to be another way. This ship used to be filled with people! Time was, I could have had ten men diving at once, searching for this thing. We’d have found it in an hour!

  But I’d chased them all away. The only person I saw, as I looked around, was Edwards, leaning against the rail near the prow. He nodded at me.

  It was her or nothing.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s teach you to dive.”

  30

  Hannah

  Sitting on the deck, Rourke gave me a crash course in scuba diving. He was serious and intense, his Scottish accent making it even more somber: he made absolutely sure that I knew how dangerous it could be. He wanted me scared and I was scared: the open ocean all around me would have made me twitchy at the best of times but we’d be going down into its depths, out of easy reach of the surface. I’d be relying on a machine to let me breathe.

  Rourke showed me how the regulator and mouthpiece worked and explained how I’d have about forty-five minutes of air. He gave me a weighted dive belt that would cancel out my body’s buoyancy and help me stay down. Then we got into the launch and headed out. When I was sitting on the edge of the launch, ready to go in, the fear started. This wasn’t like snorkeling: I couldn’t see the bottom. I felt the fear spread, bone-deep and chilling. I’d avoided the ocean for years. Now I was about to willingly sink right into its depths. What if I can’t get to the surface? What if I get trapped? Why the hell am I doing this?

  Because if I didn’t, Katherine was dead.

  Rourke put his hands on my bare upper arms. “Okay?” he asked, concerned.

  I gulped. And nodded.

  And before he could talk me out of it, I jumped off the boat.

  At first there was total panic. I was in a cloud of bubbles, falling headfirst. Falling fast and my head was underwater. I’m drowning!

  I had to force myself to breathe in, my body tensing as it anticipated water. But cool air filled my lungs instead. Another breath and I began to calm a little. I was breathing...underwater!

  The bubbles cleared and I saw Rourke. He made the sign for okay?

  And I cautiously returned it. I was okay. I looked around in wonder. I was floating a little beneath the surface, not sinking and not rising, just hanging there as if I’d gained the power of flight. A brightly-colored fish swam past my nose, flicking its tail. Then, a massive turtle, its shell at least two feet across, cruised slowly by.

  I watched and, after a few moments, my breathing slowed and settled. It was amazing: if snorkeling had let me glimpse another world, scuba diving let me fly around in it. I didn’t have to keep returning to the surface: already, I’d been under longer than I could have held my breath. I turned to Rourke, my eyes wide with wonder. And I thought I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

  He led the way down to the bottom and we began the search. I couldn’t believe how colorful everything was. I’d always imagined the bottom of the sea as being flat, pale sand. But there was coral in orange, purple and pink, lush green seaweed and fish in electric blue and canary yellow. We swam over dark crevices, some of them geysering bubbles and heat. We passed the wreck of a fishing boat. The freedom was intoxicating. Why had I only discovered this now? I turned to look at Rourke, though I had no idea how I was going to explain, without words.

  I found him looking right at me. His gaze was tracking inch by inch along my bare legs as they kicked through the water. I could feel it as clearly as if he’d been touching me: up my thighs, up over my groin, over my stomach. He spent a long time on my breasts, the heat of his gaze throbbing steadily into me, turning into a twisting, lashing energy deep in my core.

  Then he reached my face and realized he’d been caught. He looked quickly away and we swam on, my whole body feeling scalding hot against the water.

  After only a short while, Rourke tapped my arm and made the hand sign for ascend. I blinked at him: was something wrong? But I nodded and swam up with him. “What’s up?” I asked when we’d hauled ourselves into the launch.

  “Nothing. Time to come in.” And this time, he couldn’t hide his grin. “It’s been forty minutes. Your air’s almost up.”

  What? I’d lost all sense of time. But he was right: my gauge was almost on empty. His had a little left. “Why did I use more air? I’m smaller than you.”

  “Aye, but I breathe slower. You will, too, with practice.”

  We went down twice more that day. Swimming side by side, we covered ground fast. Luckily, the water was shallow enough that we didn’t have to waste time decompressing each time we came up. But there was a huge area to search. When the sun set, we still hadn’t found the next clue.

  The instant we returned to the Fortune’s Hope, a warm, furry lump whacked into my chest and swarmed up my body to my shoulder. Yoyo grabbed hold of my ear and chirruped loudly, disgruntled at being left alone all day. He only relaxed when I gave him some serious stroking. “I swear you’re part cat,” I muttered, not minding a
t all.

  Yoyo blew a raspberry and plucked a hair grip from my hair, then tried unsuccessfully to clip it into his own hair. He was always imitating us and he was a borderline kleptomaniac when it came to small, shiny things: two of my hair grips had disappeared completely. I grabbed a banana and used that to distract him while I plucked the hair grip from his head.

  That night, I searched again for something to read. I’d pored over Esme’s diary for so long that I could recite it in my sleep and I wasn’t sure I could face more of The Shipboard Doctor’s terrifying medical conditions. But on a low shelf at the very back of the room, I found the one other book on board: the ship’s log.

  I read for hours, losing myself in it. If Esme’s life was a searing romance, the log was a real-life adventure novel that stretched from the Caribbean to the coast of Africa and all the way south to Argentina. Rourke, Edwards and their crew had searched for lost Mayan gold, Spanish treasure ships, and the riches the Nazis had smuggled out of Europe in World War II. The Fortune’s Hope had been through the Panama canal, been briefly seized by the Colombian authorities after they’d been mistaken for drug runners and had taken fire from pirates off the coast of Mozambique. Rourke had been bitten by a snake, thrown in jail by a corrupt dictator and was once lost at sea for two days with nothing but a bottle of rum. Edwards, who came across as the softer, gentler of the two, had tangled with an octopus, had a brief but tempestuous fling with the daughter of the aforementioned corrupt dictator and had been quarantined after the Fortune’s Hope was used to transport doctors to an Ebola outbreak in Africa (thankfully, his symptoms turned out to be flu).

  And through it all, they’d been there for each other. I looked towards the door, towards the deck where Rourke slept. They’d been close as brothers….

  I found the last entry that mentioned Edwards. They’d been on a diving expedition to search for Spanish gold. There were four days of happy, routine entries...and then nothing. A whole page had been ripped from the log. That was two years ago. Since then, it had just been Rourke on his own, sailing gradually farther and farther from shore.