Mystic Memories

by Gillian Doyle

  “I’m glad you approve. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She began to close the door, but he stopped her. “Is there something else? A message from the captain, perhaps?”

  Despite his warm smile, Keoni seemed to lose a bit of the humor in his dark eyes. “Captain Masters conveyed his apologies and wished you a good evening.”

  “I see.” She did understand his avoiding her, but knowing this didn’t stop the part of her that felt the sting of his rejection. Something had happened between them that was more than physical, more than lust. She had reached through the darkness and touched the depths of his soul, if only for a brief instant. It frightened him. And her.

  “Mrs. Edwards? If you don’t mind, I need to collect the dishes.”

  “Of course.” Brought back from her thoughts of Blake, she noticed Keoni had dropped the heavy accent of the islands. “Just give me a minute.”

  After putting on the shirt, Cara let Keoni inside the cabin to collect the plates, waiting at the open doorway. Bud followed him to the table, obviously hoping for more meat to be thrown his way.

  The cook shook his finger at the dog. “E hele aku ‘oe i kahi ‘ē!”

  Bud tucked his tail and slunk over to her. She leaned down to console the animal. “What did you say to him?”

  “I told him he will be on this platter tomorrow night.”

  “You didn’t!” She blanched, then looked up at him as she covered the dog’s ears. “Tonight’s dinner? That wasn’t . . .?”

  “ʻĪlio? Dog-meat?” The Kanaka gave her an impish grin. “ʻĪlio good eating.”

  “Keoni!” Her stomach churned up more than acid indigestion at the possibility that she had eaten one of man’s best friends. “Tell me you’re lying. Please!”

  “Aww—,” he scoffed playfully. “You know how to ruin good joke, lady.”

  Cara straightened and walked over to the Hawaiian. He was a good six inches taller than Blake, so she had to tip her head back to look up at him. “Don’t do that to me again, Keoni.”

  The grin remained on his face. “You one tough wahine, eh?”

  “When it’s necessary.”

  “Not necessary with me.”

  “Oh, I think it’s mandatory with you.”

  His laughter nearly caused him to drop the dishes in his hands. Chuckling to himself, he set the stacked dishes back down on the table. “Sit. We talk. Get to know each other betta, eh?”

  Initially suspicious of his underlying meaning, she gazed into his open face and realized that Keoni was more than a big, handsome Hawaiian with a charming smile and an extra-large dose of self-confidence. Despite the glint of flirtation in his black eyes, she did not feel threatened that he would behave inappropriately toward her. Beyond the taunt and tease, he was respectful of her. Of all women, she sensed.

  She stepped back and gestured with a flip of her hand for him to sit down. But she was too restless to take a seat. Instead, she walked over to one of the tiny windows and looked out upon the darkened sea. The sun had gone down, but she hadn’t noticed when.

  “What time is it, Keoni?”

  “Six bells, ma’am. That would be seven o’clock to you.” His voice came to her in a softer, gentler tone. She glanced back, noticing he hadn’t opted for a chair either. Instead he had perched one hip on the edge of the table, his arms folded across his barrel chest. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing a glimpse of bluish marks on his skin.

  She shifted about to face him. “Is that a tattoo like the captain’s?”

  He nodded. “It is.”

  “You two go back a ways together, don’t you?”

  “We do.”

  “I thought you said you wanted to talk. Now all I can get out of you are a couple words.”

  “I want to get to know you. You get to know me. I didn’t say I would help you get to know my kaikaina.”

  “Why do you call him that? What does it mean?”

  “Little brother.”

  “He’s not, is he?”

  “Kanaka? Would that make a difference to you?”

  “Of course not. And if you knew me, you’d know I don’t judge people by their race or color.”

  His big shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Tell me more about you, then. I want to know the mysterious widow who washed up on shore.”

  “Why? So you can report back to Blake—uh, Captain Masters?”

  Her slip did not go unnoticed. The Kanaka grinned. “So I can protect Blake, Mrs. Edwards.”

  “From me?”

  “Yes.”

  She felt a guilty flush because that had been her recent thought, too. “I’m not here to hurt him. He brought me on board to help me find Andrew.”

  “So he told me.” His eyes were steady. Direct. “Your son is missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when we find him, you will leave.”

  “I . . . um, of course. Yes, I plan to return home with Andrew.” She eyed him from across the cabin, wondering what he was really thinking. Keoni had a strong mind. It was as if an impenetrable wall was shielding his thoughts from her. Whether he was practiced at this sort of blocking technique or he came by it naturally Cara couldn’t be sure. But she was sure he was not someone she could easily read.

  “Okay, you win.” She threw up her hands in defeat. “I’m a notorious pirate, La Grande Femme, who heads a band of cutthroat men from the dregs of the earth. Now that my secret is out, you can take me back to my secret island and I’ll split all my plundered riches with you. There, how’s that for a colorful history?”

  “Good bedtime story.” Smiling, he pushed away from the table, picked up the dishes, and walked toward the door. “I will be back later to see if you need anything else before I turn in for the night.”

  “I hope you keep your promises better than your captain does.”

  “Mo’betta.” He winked. With a short whistle for the dog to follow, he stepped out of the cabin.

  “When you come back later, will you leave Bud with me for the night?”

  “I’ll post him outside your door.”

  “Actually, I’d rather have him inside the cabin with me”— Keeping a straight face, she looked at Keoni—“just so I won’t worry about him ending up on the breakfast menu.”

  Laughing at her gibe, he closed the door behind him, then tapped lightly and reminded her to lock it.

  “I know, I know,” muttered Cara, doing as she was instructed. After securing the bolt, she slowly turned and leaned back against the wooden door.

  The ship creaked and groaned around her as she tipped her head back, closing her eyes. Her mind relived the turmoil of the last twenty-four hours. Flashes of memory assailed her. Feelings of fear, terror, sadness.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for this experience. Despite her acceptance of psychic phenomena, she had never believed she would ever travel through time except perhaps in her dreams. And in her own fantasy world, she’d never considered the feeling of isolation from all that is known and familiar.

  An undercurrent of despair rose like incoming tidewaters, threatening her strong grip on the hope she carried with her—hope of finding Andrew, hope of taking him back to his family.

  Pressing her palms to her closed lids to push back the melancholy speculation of an uncertain future, she vowed to herself, “I can’t give up hope.”

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  Under a canopy of high clouds the following morning, Blake stood on the quarterdeck at dawn, watching several humpback whales half a mile or so off the leeward side of the ship, following the southward course of the Valiant. Not even the graceful gray giants could lift his spirits. He’d been in a foul mood all night, unable to sleep in the cramped and unfamiliar berth of the first mate, who had been bumped to the second mate’s cabin.

  They had made good time to San Juan, and were about to anchor a good distance from the rocky shore. Mr. Bellows handled the crew with speed and efficiency, carrying out orders with little ne
ed for the captain of the ship to be disturbed.

  Walking toward the bow, Blake kept a watchful eye on the weather. Even under the best of conditions, landing here had always proved difficult. The stiff offshore breeze churned froth from the choppy waves, promising a challenging time in the longboat for the oarsmen.

  It was still the middle of the season for southeaster, which would put them in danger if another storm surprised them, as had been the case in San Pedro.

  He scanned the overcast skies, questioning his agreement to take Mrs. Edwards to the mission.

  There was much that he questioned about his actions concerning the mysterious widow, especially his gross loss of control in his cabin. All night long he had called himself every form of despicable, lowly creature on this earth and beyond.

  To make matters worse, she’d forgiven him. Not a single venomous word of reproach had come from her. By God, she had even made up excuses for his abominable behavior! Wild, irrational excuses that made no sense to him. No sense whatsoever.

  For the life of him, he could not figure out why she didn’t hate him outright. Any other woman would have screamed at him, hit him, thrown half a dozen dishes at him. But not her. No, she had held him to her breast, soothing the dark beast within him—the beast he did not understand.

  Thankfully, he had come to his senses before—

  “Captain?”

  At the sound of her voice behind him, he spun about and found her not three feet away, with Bud sitting obediently at her side. She was wearing her own clothing—shoes, trousers that fit, and the dingy shirt with loose sleeves that rippled in the chill wind. Despite her unfeminine dress, her dark beauty struck him silent for a brief moment.

  He wanted this woman.

  The intensity of his desire ripped through him like a whaler’s harpoon, piercing his chest, his heart, his lungs—defying all reason. He wanted her as he had wanted no other woman. In that instant, he did not care a whit about her past, her questionable stories, or anything else.

  Keoni had teased him about dancing to her tune. Hell, he would waltz on air if that was what it took to have her in his bed.

  Suddenly, the memory of his brutality surfaced like a monster from the deep. After what he had done, he did not deserve her.

  Self-loathing filled him. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he battled back the demon in his mind. He addressed her with a shortness of temper that was not meant to be directed toward her. “What are you doing on deck?’ ’

  “I needed fresh air.”

  If his curt greeting offended her, she did not show it in the least. Instead, she turned her face to the wind, closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath as though she smelled a sweet bouquet of roses.

  Sighing contentedly, she opened her eyes and looked out across the water. “I absolutely love the ocean,” she said without taking her gaze from the seascape. “Oh, look . . . whales! I’ve never seen so many in my life!”

  His heart swelled in his chest. Watching her, he marveled at her rejuvenation. She was hale and hearty despite her brush with death—and his own violence. He found himself in awe of her strength.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the crew had slowed their work, darting furtive glances toward their passenger. The fact that she was a woman was no secret, even if she did dress in the clothing of one of their own kind. They were a moral lot of able-bodied seamen who would not likely overstep their bounds with Mrs. Edwards. But Blake could not be completely certain.

  As captain of the Valiant, he was known for his fair-minded treatment of his crew, though not for any degree of warmth or sentimentality. He was respected and admired. The Kānaka were the only ones to almost entirely ignore his rank as chief officer on the vessel, often trying to joke with him.

  But they all knew the consequences of crossing the line with him. Torture was out of the question. However, insubordination meant being left at a foreign port to find passage home on another merchant ship, possibly with a captain as sadistic as Johnson, of the fateful Mystic.

  Blake barked, “Mr. Bellows, see to it McGinty and his mates keep their eyes on the sails.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!” The mate turned back to the crew, shouting reprimands for their sluggishness. The dawdlers scrambled to the task, knowing the first mate would have them on double duty soon enough if they failed to meet his standards.

  Still agitated with his men, Blake turned back to Mrs. Edwards. “I told you to stay below.”

  “Aren’t we going to Capistrano?”

  “After breakfast,” he answered brusquely, unaccustomed to having his orders ignored. He wanted her out of sight as much as possible.

  “Will you join me?”

  “No . . . thank you.” He lowered his voice so it would not carry beyond the two of them. “And you know why.”

  She stepped closer. “I’m not afraid of you, Blake.”

  He stood his ground. “You should be.”

  The stiff breeze ruffled her short hair. She wrapped her arms around herself to ward off the cold. Her luminous dark eyes gazed up at him. “You are a good man.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Yes, I do. More than you realize.” His steward passed within earshot, causing her to pause. She smiled warmly at Jimmy. Blake glared at him. The young fellow hurried by, but not before stumbling over his own feet, then righting himself.

  “See what you cause?”

  “I only smiled, for crying out loud.”

  “Yes. My point exactly.”

  “What point? I can’t be pleasant with another human being?”

  “You are a distraction, madam.” To them and to me. He gestured with his hand for her to proceed ahead of him. “Allow me to escort you back to my—to your cabin.”

  “I know the way.”

  Obviously fuming, she marched off with his dog at her heels, leaving him standing in the wake of her anger. Good. He would much rather deal with her in a full pique. He deserved her ire, not her soft-spoken sympathy. He felt mean-spirited, though, for ruining her innocent, glorious excitement over seeing the whales.

  “Damn it all to hell,” he muttered as he strode the short distance to the railing, half tempted to pitch himself overboard. Swept up in a maelstrom of feelings surrounding the mysterious woman, he didn’t know from one minute to the next which would pop to the forefront of his mind. Whether it was his desire for her or his hatred of himself, he was at the mercy of the moment. If others were to know the confusion in his head, they would wonder if he was going mad.

  Perhaps he was.

  With an angry shake of his head, he called out to his steward, “Jimmy, have the cook put some food together for my immediate departure.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” answered the boy, dashing off toward the galley.

  “Mr. Bellows, ready the boats!”

  The first mate responded in voice and action.

  Restless to get started, Blake made his way down to his cabin and pounded on the door. Receiving no response, he knocked again. Still no answer.

  Where is she? A small amount of concern accompanied his curiosity. He had seen her come down here only moments earlier. Or had he? When she’d walked away, he had stepped to the railing. Perhaps she had disobeyed his order. Again. Where would she have gone?

  The galley, of course, he thought to himself, recalling the camaraderie between her and Keoni. Jealousy pricked at his worrisome thoughts regarding her safety. If she was biding her time with his friend, there would be hell to pay.

  He pounded harder this time. “Mrs. Edwards!”

  “That’s not the signal,” she said petulantly from the other side. “Two knocks, then a pause, and a third.”

  “I was only testing you,” he lied, having forgotten his own instructions from the night before. In spite of his dark mood, he could not help but grin at her refusal to answer the door. It also seemed his own foolish jealousy had been unfounded.

  He heard her unbolt the door, then saw her face as she opened it “What do
you want?”

  “I’ve changed my mind . . . we’re leaving. Now.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “Considering the ride will be rough, anything you eat now would have a difficult time staying down. It would be best to take something along and eat it when we land.”

  “Salt beef and biscuits?”

  “If so, we can manage to survive long enough to have a decent meal at the mission. It’s only a mile from shore. I promise you won’t starve.”

  She arched her brow. “Like your promise last night?”

  “No.” His sharp retort further provoked her sassy tongue.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, Captain.”

  “Trying or not, you have certainly succeeded.”

  “I haven’t done anything!”

  “Mrs. Edwards . . .” Blake reined in his temper once more. “Can we possibly carry on a rational conversation without sparring with one another for the duration of our time together?”

  In lengthy silence, he endured her studied gaze upon him, resisting the impulse to shift his stance like a recalcitrant student under the scrutiny of a disciplining schoolmistress.

  Finally she spoke, her voice softened considerably. “It seems I can do nothing right in your eyes, Captain Masters. My mere existence appears to be an aggravation to you. I am sorry you have been forced into a position of responsibility for my safety. If I could somehow change our circumstances, I would. So for now”—She looked heavenward in divine supplication.—“I will try extra hard to stay out of your way, to do as I’m told, and to not talk unless spoken to . . .”

  Blake interrupted her as she was taking a breath to continue. “Let’s just start with those three, Mrs. Edwards, shall we?”

  Her mouth snapped shut.

  “Very good. Are you ready to leave now?”

  She nodded, already complying with her promise not to talk. He stifled the urge to smile. Confound her anyway. It was impossible to stay angry with the woman.

  And yet at some deep level of knowing, he suspected it would be better if he could.

  Chapter 7

  Cara braved the harrowing trip to shore in the longboat, wishing she could man one of the oars so she would feel a little more in control of her situation. A few years earlier, white-water rafting with Mark had taught her how to handle even the most dangerous level-four rivers. While today’s experience didn’t measure up to the same degree of danger, it was a challenge to the Sandwich Islanders, who were pulling them toward land against a nasty headwind and waves breaking over the bow.