LATE AFTERNOON found Hope leaning against her bedroom window, staring out at the top of the small bluff. Funny. She had been visiting this island all her life, and she'd owned it for the past nine years. At one time or another, she had traversed the length and breadth of her small kingdom, exploring this, examining that. For the second time in two days, she recalled having felt that someone or something was always watching her. Or watching over her. When she grew older, Hope had shoved away those feelings, telling herself it was only a lonely child's overactive imagination.
But now it was time for the adult in her to face up to the past, to delve into that feeling—that eerie yet comforting feeling. Those pictures, now dry, had to be evaluated. All five had been enlarged, and each one confirmed her original impression. There were men up there. And they weren't real men, not today's men. Spirits? Ghosts?
She had to take more pictures. She had to find out more about those men and the strange rock.
She reached for her camera, loaded it and almost ran out the back door toward the top of the hill. There had to be answers!
When she came within fifty feet of the rock, she felt a presence. What kind, and whether it was good or bad, she couldn't tell. But this time, perhaps she'd find proof that she wasn't crazy. . . .
She clicked the shutter, shooting from one angle, then quickly from another, and another and another. She knelt, bent, sat and stood, approaching from every possible angle to photograph the large boulder.
When her film was exhausted, she sat down on the ground. Her mind whirled with possibilities. None of them overrode the feeling of being watched. She leaned against the rock, relishing its warmth and the fresh dampness of the breeze, which carried the threat of a storm. Usually, no matter what season, the evenings were cool to downright cold. But not tonight. Not at the rock, at least. How strange.
Before it grew too dark for her to see her way clearly, she decided to take the path down the hill. Levering her shoulders away from the stone, she had the eeriest sensation that someone was actually holding her, imprisoning her with a comforting warmth that reached around her like loving arms. Despite the nonthreatening feeling, panic rose in her throat, and she shoved herself against the force, standing up and propelling herself toward the path.
As soon as she escaped, logic returned.
This was impossible. She turned, and stared back at the rock once more as night slowly swept down over the island. The thing was just a rock with moonlight glinting off the silver particles of mica embedded in it. Nothing more.
Just a rock.
Dark clouds scudded across the brilliant full moon, boiling with their impatience to release the weight of their water. Rain would come in torrents tonight, she was sure.
Deliberately pushing away the thoughts of ghosts on her island, she entered the house and made her way upstairs to bed and drifted into a deep sleep.
Morning turned out to be as wet as she had silently predicted. Even so, she felt better, more rested than ever. After a quick breakfast Hope was in the darkroom, developing what she had thought so important yesterday but which would doubtless look silly in the morning light.
Two hours later, the film developed, her pounding heart thudded in her ears. She sat at the kitchen table, the pictures fanned out across the surface. She had played with their order until, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, she thought she had them in the right sequence.
She saw four men fighting in a clearing, three of them dressed like voyageurs. The French trappers had come to this area hundreds of years ago seeking the animal pelts that had clothed the European aristocracy. In the last photo, one of the men lay mortally wounded. He was the one wearing an old-fashioned military uniform, an elegant coat reaching down to his knees and a tricorne hat at his side.
She stared at the picture, trying to make out his facial features, but they were just hazy enough to be muted. Some event up there by the rock was being reenacted again and again. How old were these men, and what were they doing on her island? She really should be more frightened than she was. Ghosts, in any form, should scare her.
She picked up one of the pictures and studied it closely. Through a magnifying glass, she stared at each part of the uniform, straining to recall information stored long ago. She didn't know why she thought so, but she was almost sure the uniform was French.
Then her mind began clicking like a ticker-tape machine. French. Of course! This territory, along with parts of Michigan and Canada, had been fought over by the French and the British, with the voyageur trappers sometimes caught in the middle.
But what year was that? Mentally she dredged up past history classes, churning over facts she thought were long forgotten. Champlain had been the first to discover the value of the fine furs of what was now Canada. But word spread swiftly, and soon there were hundreds of Frenchmen settling in what was dubbed “New France,” making their fortunes in shipping furs to the Europeans. Then the British came to Canada's Hudson Bay, and the French and Indian War followed. That was sometime in the mid-I700s, she was almost certain.
“My God,” she whispered, realizing suddenly that this wasn't a figment of her imagination. These photographs were real; the situation depicted was real. Excitement blossomed in the pit of her stomach. It ran the length of her body, tingling down to the tips of the fingers holding the photo, and to the tips of her toes.
Lightning cracked, and thunder erupted right behind it. Large raindrops rat-tat-tatted against the kitchen window, hammering for her attention.
Her mind totally absorbed with the photos, Hope didn't notice nature's floor show. She glanced at the scenery in the photographs again, her eye catching on a small sapling near the men. A sapling? She remembered it as a huge oak! Could that be the same tree?
She jumped from the chair, a photo still in hand, and dashed for the back door. With a leap worthy of an Olympic sprinter, she was off the back porch and headed toward the path to the top of the hill. Rain poured from the clouds, but she didn't feel it. Dodging trees and branches, she was aware of her feet sliding in the mud and moss, amid the rivulets flowing down the hillside. By the time she was halfway to the top, her warm-up suit was soaked through. It hung like a lead weight from her shoulders and waist. With quick, fluid movements she shed it, then kicked off her running shoes.
She ran the rest of the way, hair streaming behind her in thick strands of dark, shining satin. When she reached the top, she halted, gasping. She realized she had no breath left to climb the twenty or so feet to the base of the boulder.
Lightning raked the sky again. As it did, she held the photo in front of her, wiping raindrops from her eyes as she peered at the huge, dripping oak tree positioned against the boulder. Excitement mounted in her like a tidal wave. Damn! She was right; it was the same tree! And the same eggplant-shaped boulder!
She laughed aloud into the wind, her arms in the air as she yelled her excitement. “Eureka!” she screamed to the sky. And the sky answered with a thunderbolt that reached out to stab the boulder, the mind-shattering sound immediately echoing its anger.
The last thing she remembered was the rock glowing brilliantly; then her hair stiffened as she was thrown to the earth by the electrical power of the thunderbolt. Her head hit a gnarled tree root that time and the elements had exposed. Then everything was dark.
CHAPTER TWO
A callused hand gently stroked her brow. A rough, deep voice muttered a curse or a prayer; Hope wasn't sure which. Goosebumps played along her bare legs. Fat raindrops dripped from the oak towering above her. Oddly, her torso and arms were warm. She snuggled into that warmth, her eyes closed tight. A throbbing on the side of her head prevented her from sinking back into a blissful nothingness.
“Faith! Oh, my Faith, please wake up, chérie!” the deep voice implored her, and her eyelids fluttered open to see who was disturbing her rest. Her head throbbed like a drum.
She moved her lips but no sound came out. She tried again. This time, his mouth closed over hers, and
he let a sigh of relief escape. His mouth was warm, even warmer than the arms holding her. His touch was so soft, so gentle, so sweet…
She jerked her head away, some remote part of her brain screaming that she didn't even know who was holding her, attempting to kiss her back into the world. She tried to focus her eyes, but no matter how hard she tried, she saw two of him.
Two dark heads were bent over her. Brows furrowed above indigo-blue eyes revealed concern. Two shocks of ebony hair felt almost to his shoulders. Two mouths were speaking sweetly hushed endearments, and two hands stroked back her wet hair. He touched the bump on her head and she winced.
“Ouch,” she complained, her hand trapping his thick wrist so that he couldn’t hurt her again.
“Oh, darling,” he crooned. “I am so sorry, my Faith. Does it hurt very much?”
“Like hell,” she said with a grunt. She tried unsuccessfully to push herself up. But his arms were too strong, and his grip too sure. “Who the hell is Faith?”
“Do not curse,” he ordered. “You always did have a difficulty keeping your mouth closed at me right time.” He sounded gruff, but the smile that dimpled his handsome face gave him away as relief flooded his eyes. She studied the beautifully mobile lips, so fascinated that she was no longer aware of the chilling air.
“Faith?” His dark brows drew together again. “My darling, are you feeling better? Do you remember what happened?” His fingers lingered a moment on her bare waist, then traveled up to cup her breast in his warm hand. “What are you doing here, so far away from Port Huron?” His questions were rapid-fire. “And why did you come to me with no clothing? Surely, you were not so eager…?”
He might not have thought she was eager, but his hopes had certainly been high, Hope thought as she moved her shoulder against his powerful thigh and felt the stirrings of basic desire. Her mind was a jumble of confusion, her emotions working by instinct. Finally she struggled from his tender grasp and sat up across from him on the spongy moss under the broad spreading oak branches.
He had to be tall, because even with his knees on the ground, he towered above her. “Who are you?” she asked, pushing aside her hair and staring up at him.
She ignored her own nudity, because there was nothing she could do about it. Besides, her logical mind told her he should be the one who was embarrassed. After all, it was her island, not his!
“Do you not remember?” His voice was soft but raspy like rough velvet, with just a hint of an accent. French, that was it. He was French. She glanced at his shoulders, measuring him. And his uniform was French. It was the same as the man in the photos.
The man in the pictures! Her eyes darted to his again. Now that she could see his face, she wondered how she could have missed the resemblance before. He was as familiar and handsome to her as the fantasy lover of her own dreams.
“You're the man in the picture?” she whispered. Another blistering crack of lightning punctuated her sentence.
He frowned, “You have a portrait of me? But you never told me that before, chérie. When was it done? By whom?” As he spoke he shrugged out of his uniform jacket, revealing a beautifully cut white shirt fitted snugly across his chest, with full sleeves buttoned at his wrists. The shoulder padding of the jacket was minimal; his shoulders were just as broad without the extra fabric. He tucked the jacket around her and she hugged it to her, more aware of the chilling dampness now that his body heat was gone.
Without thinking, she shook her head and became even dizzier than before. She stopped immediately, placing a hand to her head as if to stop the motion. “No, no, no. Not a painting, a picture. You know, a photograph.”
His frown deepened. Then he smiled, and she felt his warmth come flooding back. “You have a big bump on your head, darling. You will feel better in a little while,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Meanwhile, come back into my arms and let me keep you warm until this squall ends. Although the branches are shielding us from most of the rain, it must be chilling you. Then we must leave immediately.”
Leave? Immediately? Now who was crazy? She smiled, even as a shiver swept over her body. It was best to humor him. After all, it surely wasn't every day he saw a naked woman sitting under a tree in a thunderstorm. And it was no less unusual for her to find a man in a uniform who looked as if he came out of a museum, either! Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she should be asking him questions before he disappeared. Logically, she knew that she was talking to a ghost, but emotionally she couldn't seem to get her act together. “And where are we going that we have to leave so quickly?”
A dark, arrogant brow lifted above a clear blue eye. “To France, of course.”
“Of course,” she muttered, pushing a dripping strand of hair behind her ear. Then she remembered more. If he was here, where were the other three men from the photos? Her gaze darted to the shadowed bushes and trees, trying to locate other outlines. It was one thing to meet a ghost, but it was another to meet four of them! And the other three had looked dangerous. Suddenly she laughed. As if those months in Central America hadn't been enough to send her off the deep end, now she could claim to be frightened of four ghosts!
But he couldn't be a ghost! He was so solid. All over! Could ghosts have erections?
She stopped laughing and stared at him. He moved toward her, and she edged backward until the tree trunk behind her blocked her way. Breath caught in her throat as she looked into his eyes. When she raised a hand in protest, her other hand held the lapels of his jacket together. “You stay back. Just stay there until we get this mess straightened out.”
His arms were outstretched, imploring her. “Faith, my darling, what is the matter? Do you not know I would not harm you for the world!” He looked so lost, so loving. Except Hope had seen the glint in his eyes as he begged so sweetly. He wanted to do more than protect her….
“Just hold it there a damn minute, buster,” she said threateningly, her eyes blazing at him, her posture telling him better than her words exactly how she felt about being wrapped in his arms. She raised a finger of her free hand. “First. My name is Hope, not Faith.” Another finger went up. “Second. You're a ghost. I might be stupid enough to sit here and discuss running away with you in a rainstorm, but I'm sure not stupid enough to fall into your loving arms!”
If she could have captured the look on his face with her camera, the film would have portrayed complete and utter shock. She wanted to laugh, to shout, to scream. On the other hand, she couldn't control the shivering that had begun around the vicinity of her spine and echoed throughout her entire body. It wasn't from the cold; it was from nerves.
He cleared his throat, then gave her a wan smile, but Hope knew something she had said had registered in his mind. He looked down and flexed his fingers, long fingers that looked capable of playing a difficult sonata on a piano. “But surely I am not a ghost, chérie. I am here. You are here. Do these look like the hands of a spirit?”
“No, but that's what you are, just the same.” She stared at him, wondering once more if she was crazy and he was sane. Even to herself she sounded irrational, but then the whole situation, beginning with the photos, had been irrational! “Either you're a ghost or a refugee from an asylum.” She took a deep breath, then offered him a shaky smile. Perhaps if she ignored the thumping in her head and had time to gather her thoughts together, her mind would start working better. “I know,” she said. “Why don't you tell me about yourself, and then I'll tell you about me?”
His deep blue eyes opened wide, a frown marring his high, strong brow. Then he shrugged his shoulders under that fine lawn shirt and smiled, as if to humor her. “I am Armand Santeuil.”
“Santoy?”
He nodded.
“How do you spell that?”
“Just the way it sounds. S-a-n-t-e-u-i-l. I am a captain in the French army, sent here—never mind why, you will remember later—and you and I fell in love. Remember?” He waited for her reaction, but there was none other than her f
ixed smile. He continued. “I finally persuaded you to leave your father's care and meet me outside Port Huron. Then we were leaving for France immediately, where we would marry and continue a line of little Santeuils.” His smile lit up the area under the tree with a dazzling light. “You promised me at least ten of them.”
Hope's mouth dropped open. “Ten children?”
“Oui.”
“Faith must have been built like a Sherman tank,” she muttered.
Once more he frowned. “What is this Sherman tank?”
She waved a vague hand in the air. “Never mind. Continue.”
She could sense his irritation at her imperious command, but her mind was too busy to cope with his confusion. It was probably nothing compared to her own, anyway. Any minute she was sure she'd find herself under this tree, soaking wet and shivering with cold, awakening from a dream.
“Continue with what? That is it,” he stated, “Now it is your turn to remember.” His hand reached out to stroke a strand of wet hair off her cheek. His touch was warm, his hand substantial yet sensuous against her skin. Without realizing it, she leaned toward him, almost craving his touch. Quickly she backed away.
A ghost! He was a ghost! She kept repeating that fact to herself. And she still didn't really know a thing about him. Not even it he was the good guy or the bad. If he was good, why did the other three men kill him? Surely he must have done something wrong for them to attack him.
Her mind spun again, and to slow it down and buy more time to think, she began talking. “My name is Hope Langston. I work as a photo journalist for one of the top magazines in the country. I travel all over, then return here to work and rest. This is my island, it's been in my family for quite a few years.”
He shook his head slowly, a faint but sympathetic smile playing about his sensuous lips. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. No, chérie. Do not attempt to deceive me. You are Faith Trevor. Your father is a British officer recently sent to Port Huron in the New France territory that is attached to the colonies. He refused us his permission to marry, and we decided to do so against his wishes.” He smiled. “You are my betrothed.” His blue eyes seared right through her, “Do you remember now, chérie?”
The Ivory Key Page 2
