by Nina Bruhns
Not good.
"Actually, I thought we'd take the Sea-Doo," Tyree was saying. "What do you think, Clara?"
She yanked herself out of another image of him removing her bra. "Hmm? I'm sorry, I was—" She cleared her throat. He must be talking about the day's planned excursion to the treasure's hiding place. "What's a Sea-Doo?"
"Sort of like a motorcycle that rides on water."
She remembered seeing those on TV. Far too cozy. "Can't we get there by car?"
He shook his head. "Only by water."
"Don't you have a regular boat?"
His lips curved up knowingly. "Scared?"
Of sharing a narrow seat, bodies pressed tightly together and clinging to his waist for dear life? Oh, yeah. "Let's just say I'd prefer a boat."
He leaned back in his chair and grinned. "No problem. I have a boat, too."
When they were ready, they walked to a dock where a sleek, arrow-shaped speedboat was tied up along with a Sea-Doo.
"For a guy who never leaves his property you have some pretty impressive horsepower here," she remarked.
"I'll admit to taking an occasional late night boat trip around the marshes. Can't keep an old sailor from the sea."
He said the last with such wistfulness that she asked, "Don't you ever go sailing?"
"Nay," he answered, but didn't elaborate.
From the dock, he lowered down her tote, the picnic basket Mrs. Yates had prepared for them, a life jacket and a pair of waders he had insisted on bringing for her. He still wore his ridiculous pirate boots and skintight breeches, but had shed his white tunic in favor of a sleeveless T-shirt. It was a strange combination, but on him it somehow worked.
She was trying to decide whether to risk climbing in by herself when she felt Tyree's hand on her waist.
"I'll go first," he said, and with a graceful move leapt into the boat, landing like a cat. He reached up for her. "Jump. I'll catch you."
She leaned down to grab his hands, took a deep breath and jumped. She found herself wrapped in his arms in a wildly rocking boat.
"Landlubber," he chided, holding her close as the motion underfoot slowed. "Never been on a boat before?"
"Not a lot of them in Kansas." She tried to take a step away but fell right back into his embrace. "At least where I grew up."
"What are you going to do for a whole year on that yacht without me to hold you?"
She gazed up at him and wondered the same thing. Two days and she'd already miss him.
She drew back. "Guess I'd better start practicing, huh?"
"Guess so." He steered her to the captain's chair behind the wheel and plopped her into it. "You drive."
"But—!"
"Just take it easy. You'll do fine." He smiled at her reassuringly.
And to her surprise, she did. First, he took her a few times around the inlet, to get her used to the feel of the big engine behind the simple controls. Then he took her out into the wide, shallow channels between the islands, where they scupped and scudded across the low waves, their hair streaming out behind them and their laughter echoing across the sparkling blue water.
She had no idea where they were. If for some reason Tyree abandoned her, she didn't have a clue how to get back to Frenchman's Island. But she didn't care. She knew he'd never do that. He'd never leave her alone.
"Ready to find some treasure?" he called above the noise of the rushing wind.
"I thought you said it wasn't there anymore," she yelled back.
He shrugged, grinning. "Never know, I might have missed a chest or two."
He was teasing her. She could tell by his eyes, all crinkled up in amusement. Still, the thought of finding a treasure chest brimming with gold and jewels and pieces of eight made her grin right back. Boy, wouldn't that be a story…
"Which way?" she shouted with a whoop.
She followed his directions and soon they were chugging through a maze of tall sea grass, forging a path through the watery wilderness like an icebreaker.
"Are you sure you know where you're going?"
"Hope so," he replied, and pointed in front of them. "Watch out for the alligators."
"Omigod!" she squealed, and bounced from her seat to clutch at him. "Are they real?"
He grabbed the wheel and steered around the nasty-looking creatures. "Never seen an alligator before, either?"
"I thought they only lived in Florida." She held him a little tighter.
"Hell, no. We've got tons of them. Here, I'll show you."
"No, thanks!" Before she could protest he'd switched seats and turned the speedboat, taking them back to where the pair of reptiles floated. "I really don't—"
"Look at those teeth."
"I'd rather not."
She had no idea how she'd ended up sitting on his lap behind the wheel with her arms around his neck. But when he pulled her a little closer, she suddenly noticed where she was. She looked up from the alligators into his eyes. And couldn't remember what they were talking about.
"I suppose it would be a bad idea for me to kiss you right now," he said softly.
"Yeah," she agreed. But for some reason her fingers didn't. They crept up and toyed with the strands of his long black hair. "A very bad idea."
"That's what I thought," he said, but his face moved a shade closer. Not touching, just enough so she could smell the salt on his skin mixed with the low note of musky spice he always carried. Enough to imagine the feel of his stubbled cheek on hers.
"Maybe just a little one?" she whispered, and let her lips skim his ear.
He shifted his legs and her breasts bumped up against his chest. "Think we can keep it little?" he murmured.
She eased out a breath, loving the feel of his hard body against hers, the tension of his muscles as he held her, the obviousness of the arousal he didn't try to hide.
"No, probably not."
He held her just like that for a long moment. "I don't want to hurt you," he said.
"Me, neither."
"Then I suppose we'd better not."
"No," she agreed again. And drew out of his arms.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life.
* * *
Somehow Tyree banked the urge to change Clara's mind about that kiss. They both knew it was better this way. His body would eventually learn to accept it.
He eased the speedboat up to the shore of the tiny, uninhabited island they were making for and handed her the waist-high waders. "Better put these on."
"So attractive," she mumbled, but put them on over her sneakers anyway. The only way from the boat to shore was to wade through a wide band of thick mud and rushes, crawling with fiddler crabs.
At the sight of the crabs, she balked. "There are millions of them!"
"Shall I carry you?" he asked with a wink. Cheap thrill, but he'd take what he could get.
For a second, she looked like she was actually considering the offer. "Do they bite?"
"Through those things?" He pointed to the wader boots, which were probably thick enough to stop an attacking dog.
She grimaced. "I guess this should go under the heading of Having An Adventure."
"That's what you're here for," he said. "Here, hold my hand so the mud doesn't suck you down."
"You're going to ruin your leather boots."
"Trust me, they'll be fine in the morning."
"Hmm."
He knew she still didn't believe his story, Groundhog Day or no. To be honest, it was nice just being a regular guy for a change, instead of some kind of cosmic freak. Well, sort of regular. But his eccentricities didn't seem to bother her overly much. Aye, it was very nice being normal again.
"How the heck did they carry big heavy treasure chests through this mud?"
"We used gangplanks. And it was just Sully and me, so we brought everything in small loads. Lots of trips."
She grinned. "Worried that helpers would come back and make off with the treasure if they knew the location?"
> "You got it. Even Sully and I didn't know exactly where the cache was hidden. It took us both together to find it. He only knew half the route and I knew the other half."
Clara gave him a sardonic glance. "So how do you know where it is now?"
He chuckled. "Took me almost two years to find the right place, wandering around every coastal island and waterway within a hundred miles. Not that I had anything better to do. I needed funds to buy a place to live, so I didn't have to set up residency in some poor innocent's household."
She laughed. "As their resident ghost?"
"I told you I'm not a ghost. I'm a—"
"Yes, yes. A lost, wandering soul."
"Big difference."
"Which is?"
"A ghost is permanent, I assume. Not that I've ever met one. My tenure is temporary. I'll be gone soon."
"On Saturday."
"That's right,"
After that, she was silent. And for the first time in memory, he didn't want to think about leaving. So he put it out of his mind.
They trudged down the twisting animal path he'd memorized almost two centuries before, and finally arrived at the correct spot.
Tyree halted and let his gaze wander over the meadow around the old gnarled oak where he and Sully had hidden their cache.
"This is it."
He'd never forget this patch of earth. It had been tough going digging those holes with nothing but a pick and shovel, and a rusty saw for the tree roots. Green grass was dotted with meadow flowers and crisscrossed by tangles of flowering creepers.
"So peaceful," Clara said. "You're sure this is the right place?"
"Aye."
"How did you really find it? Did you find a reference in a book? Or maybe a treasure map?"
He laughed out loud. "Nay. We made no map."
She waited for him to continue, but when he didn't she shuffled the toe of her wader in the dirt. "So, did you bring a spade today?"
He grinned. "Nay."
"So you didn't miss a chest or two."
"Actually, I did."
Gold from the first one had bought the estate where he'd built Rose Cottage. After that, he'd moved them one by one to his property, and over the next fifty years with Rosalind's help had sold or exchanged most of the treasure for land or other investments. He'd kept some bullion, now safely stored in the reserve bank, as well as one chest filled with odd coins and other things which hadn't been worth much at the time. That he'd buried under Rose Cottage for emergencies. It had never been touched.
"Really?"
"Aye, there was one chest I never found. I dug everywhere." He shook his head. "We must have miscounted when we buried them. Ah, well. Let's have a look around."
They deposited their gear in a shady spot and took a walk around the whole island. It didn't take more than an hour.
"So you really think you miscounted?" Clara asked after they removed their boots, spread the blanket and broke out Mrs. Yates's lunch.
"We must have. Trust me, there were no other chests here."
"Hmm. Sandwich?" she asked, and he shook his head no.
"Even Bill Murray ate," she said in a mildly reproving tone.
"It was a movie, Clara. Bill Murray wasn't dead." He could practically hear her bite her tongue against saying he wasn't, either.
"All right, if it pleases you." He smiled and accepted a ham and cheese sandwich, stretched out and nibbled, watching her as she speculated about possible reasons for the missing chest.
"Could St. James and Sully have been followed?"
"I can't see how. Though, I suppose anything's possible."
He and Sully had been very careful, but nothing was ever foolproof. The crews of both their ships knew they cached their shares of the spoils together. Every sailor received a generous portion, but there were inevitably those whose greed exceeded their good sense.
"Still," she said, "if someone had followed, he'd have come back and taken the whole lot, not just one chest. That makes no sense."
"Dead man's treasure," Tyree said solemnly.
"Huh?"
"Sailors are a superstitious lot. Taking a dead man's treasure is inviting his revenge from beyond the grave. In this case, there were two dead men."
"And that cabin boy's tale of the ghost of St. James rescuing him at sea," she murmured thoughtfully. "Adding to the superstition."
He glanced at her sharply. "How did you know about that?"
"From a book about local hauntings I found at the library yesterday. Okay, how 'bout this. Maybe whoever took the chest died before he could come back for the rest?"
He smiled and relaxed. Was she starting to believe him? Maybe. Regardless, she obviously had no idea how bad he used to be at math.
"And maybe he wrote down the location before he died."
He couldn't resist teasing her just a little. "Or she. It could have been a woman who followed us."
"True." Clara glanced at him, attempting to look nonchalant. "If it was a woman, perhaps she didn't even have to follow you."
With a grin, he crooked an elbow and propped his head on his hand. "You mean Sully and I may have indulged in a little pillow talk?" His grin broadened. "Do I detect a note of jealousy?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said archly.
But he knew a jealous woman when he saw one. For the life of him he couldn't figure out why it pleased him so much.
"Aye, well, I don't think Sully's Elizabeth could even write, so I doubt it was her. And as for me—" he sent her a wink "—you know firsthand I don't do a lot of talking while sharing my pillow with a pretty wench. Leastwise not about treasure."
Her cheeks turned a delightful shade of crimson. "St. James might have talked in his sleep."
It was strange hearing himself constantly referred to in the third person. But in a sense, it gave him a distance from his past he hadn't experienced before. As though he were a new man, with a new life, talking about someone completely different.
"No woman ever complained of nocturnal discourse while I was alive."
"And after?"
"I don't sleep, and I've shared my pillow with only one other woman besides you. After dying, that is."
Shock skidded across her face. Then uncertainty. "Really? Why not?"
He rolled onto his back and gazed heavenward, watching the tall palms sway in the breeze. "As you may have noticed, I try to avoid human entanglements. Especially with young women."
"Why?" she repeated.
The words slipped out before he could stop them. "The price is far too high."
He could feel her eyes on him, gentle and sympathetic. "Who was she?" she softly asked.
"Who?"
"The other woman. The one you fell in love with."
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Clara didn't think Tyree would answer. He lay on his back staring up at the sky for so long she thought he might have fallen asleep. Except his eyes were open.
"Her name was Rosalind," he finally said. "Rosalind Winters. I'd traveled to Charleston to arrange for furnishings for Rose Cottage, which was newly built. I ran into her while having a look around a fabric merchant's warehouse. She could see me, just as you can." He turned his head and smiled. "She was beautiful like you, too. And it had been so long since I'd been close to a woman. At least, it seemed long at the time."
"What happened?"
"The merchant was busy with another customer, so I wandered with her among the fabric bolts. She had exquisite taste. I asked for her help in picking out materials and furnishings for the cottage. When she agreed, I gave her the bag of gold I'd brought, the drawings for Rose Cottage and the directions to Frenchman's Island."
"Weren't you afraid she'd take the money and run?"
His lips curved up, his eyes a million miles away. "Nay. I stole a kiss to seal the bargain and asked her to come help me set up the house when the things were delivered. She came and never left."
Clara fought a stab of ir
rational jealousy and anger at the woman who had so obviously hurt him. "Where is she now?"
"She's dead," he answered with a deep sigh. "But enough of this." He climbed to his feet. "We have work to do."
Clara winced at her insensitivity. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad."
He waved a hand. "Ancient history."
Obviously not, if it still influenced the way he lived. He'd as much as admitted this Rosalind was the reason he avoided relationships. Could she also be the reason he was so obsessed with death? Clara thought about that as they packed up their picnic things and headed back to the boat. She'd have to ask Mrs. Yates about the woman.
"Are you up for a quick stop on the way home?" he asked as they slogged through the mud and he helped her over the side of the speedboat.
"Where did you have in mind?"
He revved up the engine. "The Pryce-Simmons house."
"The place that burned?"
"Aye. It's time for that nosing around you promised me." She'd hoped he'd forgotten. Naturally, he hadn't, since he'd brought her the letters of marque that morning.
"But the cops might still be there," she shouted over the engine as they sped along a wide natural channel between two flat islands. "Doing forensics and such."
"That's what I'm hoping."
"What am I supposed to ask them?"
"What the guy was after."
"You don't think they'll get a little suspicious?"
He grinned over at her. "Don't worry, you were in Kansas when the other fires started. You won't turn into a suspect."
"Great."
"Just bat your eyelashes and say you're writing an article. That's true enough."
"Bat my eyelashes, eh?"
"Hey, it would work with me."
"What if the investigator is a woman?" she muttered.
As it turned out, it wasn't a woman. Or a cop. It was the arson inspector from the Old Fort Mystic Fire Department, according to the bright red emblem on a beat-up yellow truck parked in the driveway. She could see both it and the man as she hopped out of the boat and tied up at the Pryce-Simmons dock.
"Remember," Tyree said as the inspector looked up from the rubble. "Don't say anything about me or Rose Cottage."
