by Nina Bruhns
"Sure?"
A strained laugh. "I'm not even wearing a bra." Slapping her hand over her mouth, she let out a muffled curse.
She was still in her sleep shirt. Large and almost to her knees, it covered far more territory than her outfit had yesterday. But he could tell she was naked under it. Naked and his for the taking.
He definitely shouldn't.
"I suppose you have X-ray vision, too," she said, her voice oddly raspy. He must have looked confused, for she added, "Along with walking through walls and being invisible…"
He gave a wry half smile. "Alas, nay." Who needed X-ray vision? The memory of her lush, curvaceous body was still vivid in his mind.
"Thank the Lord for small mercies."
She looked terrified. Yet in her eyes burned a desire that was unmistakable. A desire for the same thing he wanted.
He'd never get through the rest of the week without tasting her again. Without feeling her silken body under his, without hearing the sound of his name pouring from her lips like a prayer.
So he would.
He took her cup before she dropped it, and set it with his on the counter. She backed away, but he followed her, pursuing her step by step until her bottom hit the kitchen table.
"Tyree," she said in a strangled whisper. "We shouldn't—"
He grasped the hem of her sleep shirt so she couldn't escape. "I'm a pirate, Clara. I take what I want."
"Privateer," she corrected. "And we're not at war."
He slid his hand up her silken thigh, wanting her too much to stop and think. "Men and women have been at war since the beginning of time. It's what makes life interesting."
His hand reached her bare hip. She let out a whimper. A small, throaty noise filled with trepidation. And longing.
Or was it he who had whimpered?
He pulled her to his chest, banding his arm behind her, and urged her closer with a hand to her sweet backside.
His.
He covered her mouth with his and kissed her.
Groaning long and low, he closed his eyes as the taste of her burst through him. Her hands kneaded his shoulders, alternately pushing him away and pulling him back.
"Tyree, please."
"Surrender," he urged softly. "Let me take you." He deepened the kiss, claiming her mouth with his tongue as he wanted to do with the rest of her. His fingers reached her breast and claimed it, too, squeezing, caressing.
She moaned and her arms circled his neck, this time holding him fast.
She tasted so good. So young, so open, so vibrantly alive. Everything he wasn't. He wanted to suck it all in, swallow it, absorb the very essence of her being. So he'd remember for all eternity.
He tugged at her sleep shirt. "I want this off."
Suddenly a loud, high-pitched trilling ripped through the air. They tore apart, breathless. He searched for the source of the noise as she gazed at him, eyes wide and wild.
"Alarm clock," she finally said between gulps of air. "It must be six-thirty."
"Let's shut it off." He grasped her hand and started toward the bedroom.
She balked, tugging her hand from his. "N-No. Don't."
He stopped dead and stared at her, the buzz ringing in his ears like the aftermath of a cannon shot. She took a step backward. Away from him.
"Clara—"
"I can't."
"Sweeting—"
"I can't do just sex."
Anger flooded him. "This isn't just sex and you know it!"
At his words, her expression turned even more desperate. "But it can't be more. We'll never work. I'm leaving and … God knows what you're doing. My life has just started, and yours—" She halted, folding her arms over her abdomen.
"Is over?" he supplied.
Once again, his gut felt sliced through, but the pain was far worse than the first time Sully had dealt the blow.
She shook her head and her gaze dropped away. "I don't know. I don't pretend to understand a thing about you. All I know is—" she swallowed "—I like you too much to do this to myself, or to you."
He reached for her. "Clara—"
She jumped back. "Please, Tyree. I'm not strong enough for both of us."
He slammed his eyes shut, insides churning with need. And indecision.
She was right. He knew she was right. He'd told himself precisely the same thing after that first night, and again yesterday. Warned himself over and over to keep his distance or disaster would result.
The obnoxious buzzer stopped abruptly.
He opened his eyes and met her gaze. Frustration seared through him, but it broke his heart to see her so distraught.
"Don't worry," he said, his whole body a knot of aching disappointment, along with his heart. "It's all right. I'll—" He sighed and gave her a weak smile.
"Live?"
"That, or a fair imitation." He drilled a hand through his hair. "I better go."
* * *
Determined to forget about Clara and what had just happened, Tyree strode back to his office and went online to check his outstanding auction bids. He was winning one and losing two, so he upped them all to where he was sure to win.
That took all of fifteen minutes. And he was back to thinking about Clara.
How the devil was he to get through the rest of the week? He waffled between the idea of storming back to the bungalow, crashing through the door and simply taking her, or packing up his truck and hitting the road to anywhere but here.
Of course, his present state precluded any sort of really good door-crashing. He'd just glide through it. Didn't make much of a statement. How could you ravish a woman after a wimpy entrance like that?
And as for the truck, he'd enjoy a road trip if it weren't for the cops. They tended to get a bit tetchy about vehicles on the freeway with no driver. He'd have to stick to the back roads and drive at night. Wouldn't see anything anyway. Why bother.
With a heavy sigh, he went back online and cancelled all his bids. He wouldn't be around to receive the items anyway. Mrs. Yates would just have to find homes for them, which annoyed her to no end.
He logged off and looked at the clock.
Seven-thirteen.
It was going to be a hell of a long day.
* * *
When Tyree left, Clara went back to the bathroom and took a marathon shower. A cold one.
She'd had to tell men no before. But never, ever, had it been as difficult as with Tyree. Never before had she so wanted to just let herself go and enjoy the moment, worrying about the future in the morning.
She wanted him beyond anything she'd ever experienced. She groaned into the spray and turned the handle all the way to cold, gritting her teeth against the icy chill.
It didn't help. She still wanted him.
She felt like crying. Was she being stupid? Should sex be a part of her new adventurous spirit?
Uncertainty rained down on her along with every drop of water that hit her skin.
Maybe.
She was an adult. Single. Lonely. Would it really matter so much if she had a quick fling?
But could she really sleep with a man, then walk away after only a few days—and nights—without a backward glance? No feelings? No regrets? No pain?
Not a chance.
But was the pain perhaps worth being with him, if only for a short while?
Maybe not.
But then again, maybe it was.
She'd have to think about that one carefully.
In the meantime, her research had to be completed, which meant she had to forget Tyree and get to the museum. Try to be productive despite her chaotic mind.
Somehow she managed to get through breakfast without jumping out of her skin at every creak of a stair or brush of a branch against a windowpane, thinking it was him. On her walk to the museum, she passed the Moon and Palmetto and decided to eat lunch there later. In the window was taped a large, colorful poster for the big Pirate Festival on Saturday. There was also a brochure advertising an histori
c walking tour of Magnolia Cove, which included the graveyard where Sully and Tyree St. James were buried. The real, original Tyree St. James.
A shiver crawled down her spine. Could her Tyree really be…?
No.
She shook off the absurd thought. The man who'd touched her this morning had been very much alive, all parts in full working order.
She should go to the graveyard. Take some pictures. See for herself that Tyree St. James was dead and buried, not some wandering spirit. Maybe put flowers on the grave of her childhood obsession. And her new one.
Anyway. She had a lot of work to do before the weekend, between the museum and seeing everything she wanted to see. There would be no time for obsessions, other than her article.
Forget the man. Forget the situation. Forget the ache low in her belly. Concentrate on her research, nothing more.
* * *
Naturally, he wouldn't let her concentrate.
He was spying on her. Sort of.
The first time Clara spotted Tyree, she was looking through a book by the back window of the library and happened to glance outside. He was sitting there on a bench in the garden. Ripping petals off a flower. She dropped her book. After she bent to pick it up, he was gone.
She thought she was seeing things.
Until she saw him again, in the stacks between the rows of books. Watching her with such a fierce expression it made her gasp. Bolts of electricity shot through her whole body as she recognized his look. Hunger. Hunger for her.
She turned and fled.
This was so not fair. Why did she have to be the strong one? The one to put on the brakes and build the barrier?
Life had been so much easier when her dream pirate was still a fantasy that existed only in her mind.
Add to that her research was not going well. She was trying to find out why Fouquet had turned to a life of plundering on the high seas in the first place—be it as a pirate or a privateer—and not one book offered a reason. She needed something better than simply for the money. Something more romantic and compelling.
Early in the afternoon, she whacked her tenth source onto the stack of volumes she'd already searched through, and gathered her things. Lunch at the Moon and Palmetto sounded pretty good. Maybe she'd skip the sandwich and go straight for the beer.
It was late enough that the business crowd had thinned and she was seated right away by a waiter dressed as—what else?—a pirate. They were all dressed like pirates. Black-and-white striped calf-length pants, open black vests, and kerchiefs tied over their heads. Mercifully, no eye patches. She almost laughed. They looked like cartoons compared to Tyree. Enticing, sexy, handsome Tyree.
Who was now sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the cave-like pub, staring at her.
She puffed out a breath and ignored him, checking out the place instead. It certainly looked like something out of the distant past. Low-beamed ceilings topped walls that sloped like they'd been through a hurricane or two. The rough wooden floor was strewn with sawdust; plank tables and spindle chairs were set up in untidy rows, along with a few more private booths sectioned out along the side where she was sitting. Paintings, posters and memorabilia—all centered around pirates—occupied every available inch of wall space.
When her order came, she took a long sip of her beer and leaned her head against the back of the booth, letting her eyelids drift down.
What a day. And it was only half over.
"How's your research going?"
Her heart stopped, then restarted with a lurch.
"Why are you following me, Tyree?" she asked, trying to sound calm and reasonable when what she really wanted to do was first smack him silly and then rip his clothes off, throw him on the floor and—
"Am I bothering you?"
She cracked an eyelid. "Yes."
"Good," he said, and settled into the booth, sliding his beer along the table. "Then we're even."
She cracked the other lid, taking in his well-fitting jeans and snug white T-shirt. "You're making this very difficult."
"What?"
"Trying to pretend you don't exist."
He took a sip. "Sorry."
"Are you a glutton for punishment, or what?"
"Guess I must be. I can't seem to leave you alone." She wanted to be mad. She really did. But he looked just as miserable as she felt.
"Listen," she began, but he held up a hand. "Here." He slid one of those high-tech cell phone headset gadgets that looked like a black hair band with a mouthpiece, onto her head. "Now people won't think you're talking to yourself."
She squeezed the bridge of her nose between her fingers and counted silently. When she reached ten, she looked up. "Fine, Tyree. Whatever."
"So, you were saying?"
She shook her head. "Never mind. The moment passed."
"All right." He took another big sip from his beer. It was the most she'd ever seen him drink. Of anything.
"Are you going to get drunk?" she asked, only half joking.
His somber mien splintered slightly. "Cheeky wench."
"I'm sorry about this morning."
He waved a hand. "No apology necessary. I shouldn't have— Anyway, tell me how your research is going on the old baggage."
"Badly. I'm trying to flesh out his background, but no one seems to know why Fouquet started out on his piracy career," she said dejectedly. "Legal or not."
"Maybe you should switch topics," Tyree suggested. "Write about the arson case instead."
"You forget I'm doing this for Adventure Magazine. There's nothing adventurous about arson. So do you know?"
"Know what?"
"Why Sully became a privateer."
He pursed his lips belligerently. "Safer than being a pirate." She glanced up. "Which you said he started out as in Louisiana."
He nodded. "Unlike me. I was never an outlaw."
She smiled. "And yet here you are, known far and wide as the Blackbeard of Magnolia Cove. Hardly seems fair."
"Tell me about it."
"So why did Sully become a pirate? Was it just for the money?"
"He was a Cajun," Tyree said, as though that explained everything. But everyone already knew he was Cajun.
"So all those Cajuns living down in Louisiana are really pirates, not hardworking citizens?"
"Funny." He drummed his fingers. "No, Sully was one of the original Cajuns. Or practically. His parents were among the seven thousand French Acadians forced to leave their homes in Nova Scotia in the mid-1700s."
"Forced?"
Tyree shrugged. "Nova Scotia ended up British and the Acadians were French. The British took their land, forced them to give up their religion and still wound up sending them to the American colonies as indentured servants, little better than criminals."
"I had no idea."
He pointed at her. "You're Acadian, too, if you're his sister's descendant."
"With a name like Fergussen?"
"Names don't matter. It's the culture that's important. You should know this stuff."
"Well, I'm from Kansas, not Louisiana like Sully."
"Sully was born in Connecticut, along with his sister Theresa, your ancestral grandmother, while their parents worked as unpaid labor on some British lord's farm."
"You mean like slaves?"
"Practically. That's one reason we always captured slave ships when we ran across one, regardless of its flag."
"And helped the slave rebellions down in the Caribbean."
Tyree nodded. "Many a freed slave sailed with both our crews."
"I still don't understand the piracy."
Tyree traced the edge of his beer with a finger. "Sully was nine when he witnessed his mother's rape and his father's hanging for defending her against that British lord. Sully was transported to Louisiana, to a distant relative, and Theresa was hired out to a middle-class family going west."
"My God! She couldn't have been more than eleven. Did they ever see each other again?"
"
Only letters. Sully learned the pirate trade shortly thereafter in the swamps of south Louisiana. Then came the War of Independence and with it a way to go legit and get revenge for his parents, too. We met in '81 on a rebel schooner plying the New England coast. The rest is history."
Clara sat back and digested his information. "Wow."
"He didn't talk much about his past. I expect Theresa didn't even know the whole story. He would have protected her from the truth."
She tipped her head at Tyree. "What about you?"
"Me?"
"Why were you on that rebel schooner?"
He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench and took a sip of beer. "Nothing nearly as dramatic. Just bored."
"How old were you?"
"Fifteen."
Her brows shot up. "A little young for that much boredom."
"My daddy had one plantation, three sons and a whole collection of hickory canes." His eyes softened. "When my mama died, I decided to seek my fortune elsewhere."
"Since you were the baby of the family and not in line to inherit."
"More research?"
She smiled. "Lucky guess. You loved your mama a lot."
"Everyone loves their mama," he said gruffly. With a scowl, he pointed at the remains of her sandwich. "Are you finished?"
God, he was sweet.
"All done."
"Good. Let's get out of here. The place gives me the willies." He slapped a twenty on the table and jerked his head toward the entrance. "This way."
"Wait!" she said, jumping to her feet. "Show me where it happened."
He fisted his hands on his hips. "Right where you're standing," he said, and her jaw dropped.
She looked at the floor, suddenly seeing the dark, stained wood beneath the sawdust, imagining it covered with blood. Were there still traces? Of course not. It had been too long.
"We were all sitting over here." He pointed to a place across from the booth they'd shared. "A long table. I was at one end, and—"
"Is there anything you need, miss?" a passing waiter asked. She started. "No, thanks. I'm just … looking at the spot where the duel took place."
"Ah, where the famous Captain Sullivan Fouquet died."
"And Captain St. James."
"I guess. Blackbeard killed Captain Fouquet. Ran him through in cold blood, the blackguard."
