by Nina Bruhns
She made a feeble attempt to refocus also. "And ask what?"
He shook his head. "I wish I knew. If they were local, I'd say ask them if you could skim through the journals, but they're spread out around the state and we don't have that kind of time. Any ideas?"
Other than the ones inspired by his body pressing erotically into hers?
"Um … well…"
"Trouble concentrating?"
"Not at all," she lied. Clearing her inappropriate thoughts, she reasoned, "Obviously we should ask where they got the diaries. Maybe a descendant of Davey Scraggs sold them and is still in the area."
He nodded. "And possibly kept some. In which case, he or she might be in real danger."
She shifted under him, instantly regretting the movement. His thigh dropped between hers, bringing their bodies into even closer contact.
He stifled a soft groan. "Sweeting, I believe this is where I try and get you to change your mind about making love again."
An unwilling smile curved her lips. As much as she wished she could hate him, it was impossible. He was obviously doing his best to be a gentleman—as far as that went with a pirate. He hadn't even made an attempt to remove her sleep shirt. His chivalrous behavior was almost enough to make her soften. But not quite.
She exhaled slowly, and her smile faded. "I don't think so, Tyree. It'll just make it harder when we part ways. And there doesn't seem to be any way around that."
He bent down, his face coming so close all she saw was his eyes. Mysterious, sultry as midnight. His long, black lashes lowered and he moved closer still, brushing his nose and cheek over hers.
"I'd like you to imagine," he said, "just for a moment, that everything I've told you is true."
She began to protest, but he hushed her. "Just pretend. Pretend it's true that I am dead, that I am indeed Tyree St. James—the original one—and that your infernal ancestor put a two-hundred-year hex on me."
Again, she opened her mouth to speak and this time he met it with a gentle kiss. "Use your ample imagination, Clara. Put yourself in my place."
That was far too great a leap. But he seemed so intent on her cooperation that she allowed her mind to try and wrap itself around the outrageous idea.
"All right. Now what?"
"Now imagine, despite all precautions, you fell in love with a wonderful mortal woman, someone you long to spend the rest of your life with. Except your life, such as it is, will end in less than two days."
Her eyes sprang open but his stayed stubbornly closed so she couldn't look into them.
"What would you do, Clara?" he asked.
But she was still stuck back at the part where he fell in love. A stinging started behind her eyelids. Could it be true? Could it really be true? Or was this simply part of his elaborate, out-of-control delusions?
Either way, the smartest answer for both of them had to be…
"I would let her go," she answered unsteadily. Whatever was to happen Saturday night, whether his trapped soul finally flew up to heaven, or he left on a long business trip, or he voluntarily checked himself into the nearest mental institution, there was one thing she was sure of. She couldn't be with him.
"You have to let me go," she whispered.
His body tightened around her, rebelling against her words. "I can't do that," he said. "Not until I have no choice."
She didn't fight him, and he didn't stir, not for a long time. They lay there cleaved together like lovers, yet irretrievably separate.
She didn't want to think about what he'd said. About being in love with her. If he really was in love with her, he would find a way to be with her. As she had twice tried. The only situation that was unsolvable would be if he really was a ghost. And she refused to believe that.
There were no such things as walking spirits.
She was not that gullible.
She had not fallen in love with a dead man.
Not a ghost of a chance.
He was simply a guy who had been through a lot of heartache and as a result had some problems, chief of which was the inability to commit.
Which was fine. Really. Because she honestly wasn't ready for this.
Any of this.
Especially the part where she was beginning to doubt her own sanity, due to the niggling feeling that he just might be telling the truth.
Oh, God. If he would just let her go, she'd finish up the few items of research she had left, enjoy herself at the Pirate Festival tomorrow, head back to Kansas bright and early Sunday morning, and hopefully forget she'd ever met a pirate named Tyree St. James.
As if reading her mind, he rolled off her and lay by her side, holding his head between his hands. "This is madness," he muttered, then bounded out of bed. "Meet me in the kitchen," he ordered, and then he was gone.
She lay there, cold and aching, wondering what the hell had happened to her good sense over the past few days. Wondering how the hell she'd get through the next two.
Concentrate on your goals, she told herself as she rose and got ready to face the morning. That had always worked before. One day at a time. One step at a time, if necessary.
Today, she wanted to double-check some information on Sully's sister, her own great-great-great-great-great grandmother, Theresa Fouquet, which was the last thing she needed in order to complete her article. She was glad she'd decided to do the actual writing back home in Kansas. She'd need that—to pour herself into an activity that took all her attention and energy. So she couldn't think about—
"Tyree!" she gasped, startled at his unexpected reappearance in the open frame of the doorway.
He stared at her, his face turning a peculiar shade she'd never quite seen before. She looked down at her attire—a short skirt and his second bra, sky blue, of the sheerest lace. Her top was still clutched in her hands, ready to be pulled over her head.
Her traitorous body reacted instantly. Her nipples hardened and reached toward him, the rest of her turned to malleable clay, eager for his hands to mold her into whatever shape his passion willed.
Frozen to the spot, she was unable to flee, unwilling to surrender. "What is it?" she asked, fighting a tremor in her voice. Uncertain she could deny him if he decided to claim another lesson.
"There's a phone call for you," he said, his expression indecipherable. "It's Jake Santee."
* * *
Clara took perverse pleasure in seeing Tyree squirm as she talked to Santee. He didn't like it when she flirted with the other man. Not that she was interested in the inspector. Despite his handsome features and ripped body, the guy was far too rigid and forbidding to be attractive. To her, anyway. But Tyree didn't have to know that. Besides, Jake was undoubtedly completely clueless to the innuendo. He was always one hundred percent business.
"It seems the first two victims did own diaries," Jake stated after apologizing for calling so early.
"We were afraid that would be the case."
"We?"
"The insurance consultant, um, James Tyler. Didn't Chief Sullivan mention him?" She raised a brow at Tyree as he scowled, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms banded across his chest.
"Tyler? You're working with him?"
She tipped her head. "Well, we've exchanged a few theories. As a matter of fact, he was able to track down three more diaries for you last night."
Tyree's scowl deepened.
"Excellent. Can you fax me the information?"
She smiled. "Why don't I just bring it on over to you at the station? Say, in about an hour?"
Tyree jerked off the counter and stalked over to her, hands on hips. She showed him her back. She was being petulant again, but Lord knew she needed this. To give him a taste of his own medicine. Torment ran both ways.
"Sure, that's fine. I've got a couple more things to tell you but they'll wait."
She could feel Tyree standing behind her. Close. If she leaned even a fraction of an inch backward, she was sure she'd hit his solid chest.
"I'll look forward to it,"
she told Santee in a throaty voice. "See you soon."
Tyree's fingers gripped her shoulders and pulled her back against him. Cool and rock hard.
Before Santee hung up, the inspector asked, "Can you also bring the diary you have? I'd like to take a quick look at it."
"It would be my pleasure," she said, and reached out to return the phone to its hook.
Tyree grabbed it and banged it down for her, trapping her between the counter and his immovable body. "What do you think you're doing?"
"You heard. Dropping off those names to Jake," she said, attempting to slip past him.
He caught her by the waist. "Who said I planned to give them up?"
"Don't be absurd. You want this case solved even more than Santee does. Though God knows why."
His arm tightened around her. "I don't want you going to the station."
"Why not?"
"Fax him the information. Or e-mail it."
She turned around to face Tyree. "Why?" she demanded, pushing against his grip.
A muscle bunched in his cheek. "I don't want you talking to him."
"By what right do you—"
"You're mine," he growled with a finality that was deafening, silencing her in shock. "Mine. Until Saturday night when I have to go, you're mine. Even on Sunday when you leave this place without me, you'll be mine. Every time you meet a new man, maybe even marry one, you'll still be mine. Mine, for the rest of your life. Do you hear me?"
He wrapped his hand around her jaw and his mouth came down on hers, claiming her, putting an end to any protest she might have mustered even before it formed in her mind. Dizzying her with the intensity of his kiss. Of his feelings.
She whimpered, giving herself up to it, to him, to the whole impossibility of the situation.
"Yes. I'm yours, Tyree," she whispered, clinging to him like a lost child, knowing this was inevitable. "Only yours."
On and on the kiss went, deeper and deeper, mixed with his moans and her sobs, ending only when Mrs. Yates walked into the kitchen and exclaimed, "Oh! I beg your pardon!" Mrs. Yates immediately backed out of the room again, but the spell had been shattered.
Tyree held her until her thundering heart had slowed and her sobs had turned to hiccups. Lifting her face, he drew his thumbs across her cheeks, gathering the tears. "Don't cry," he said softly. "Damnation. Please don't cry."
His eyes glistened when she looked up at him. "Oh, God, what are we going to do?"
"There's nothing we can do," he said hoarsely. "Except go on. Accept what is to be."
"How can I?"
"Win that contest and follow your dreams. You'll do fine."
"I don't want to. Not without you."
"You must. Clara, I didn't mean what I said about—" He swallowed. "Sweeting, someday you'll find a good man. I want you to marry him, have his children, be his heart and soul. Just know that—" His voice broke and he suddenly set her away, striding from the room. "Forget about me, Clara. I can't give you what you want."
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
"I'm so sorry I interrupted," Mrs. Yates apologized a while later as she came bustling back into the kitchen. Clara peeked up from where she'd sunk onto one of the age-worn kitchen chairs and Mrs. Yates hurried over. "Oh! My dear! Whatever is wrong?"
Clara lifted her head from the table, swiped at her eyes, and gave a weak chuckle. "You name it." It was either that or dissolve into another gush of tears.
"Did he hurt you?" Mrs. Yates demanded.
"Define hurt."
"Why, that old scallywag! I should have stopped that kiss when I came in. I thought I heard a muffled sob, but, well—" she turned scarlet "—then I thought … oh, my…"
This time, Clara's laugh was genuine, if half-hearted. "No, Mrs. Yates, Tyree wasn't hurting me with his kissing."
"Then why are you crying? Did he—"
"No, he didn't. It's just—" She laid her forehead back down on the table. What was the use of hiding it? Her problem had to be obvious to anyone with eyes. "It's just, I'm in love with Tyree, and the whole thing is so hopelessly impossible."
"Oh." Mrs. Yates sat down with a thunk. "Oh, dear me."
Clara sighed. "Yeah. That pretty much sums it up."
"This is all my fault."
"No, of course it's not."
"If I had just minded my own business—"
"I am an adult."
"—and not interfered—"
"I have to accept the consequences of my own actions."
"—and not tried experimenting with those spells—"
Clara blinked. "What?" She sat up straight. "What did you say? Spells?"
Mrs. Yates had a guilty look on her face. A very guilty look. "Well. The thing is … I may have done something … just a wee bit … imprudent. That is to say, without thinking it through. All the way."
Clara rubbed the tears from her cheeks and frowned. "What are you talking about, Mrs. Yates?"
The old woman fiddled with the lace hankie from her apron pocket, plucking at one of the threads. "Indeed, I'm afraid it is all my fault." She yanked on the thread and half the hankie unraveled into pieces in her lap.
Mrs. Yates looked from it to Clara in dismay. "You see, one of the spells I cast was to make you fall in love with him."
* * *
Ho-boy. Ho-boy, oh boy, oh boy.
Clara marched down the oyster-shell path toward Magnolia Cove telling herself to be calm.
If there were no such things as ghosts, how could there possibly be such things as curses and love spells?
There couldn't. So she had nothing to worry about. Mrs. Yates was just a well-meaning old lady with bats in the belfry.
Bats and potions.
Clara halted and fisted her hands, honking herself on the forehead. No. No. No. No. She took a deep breath and kept marching.
Maybe she wasn't cut out for this adventure stuff. Her imagination was obviously far too spirited to take the strain. Maybe she should forget about the article and the contest, and just stay home in Kansas and try to appreciate her pleasant, unexciting copy editor's job. Find herself a nice steady guy with a farm and a tractor and have herself a bunch of kids and—
Oh, God, who was she kidding?
Mrs. Yates had confessed to putting a love spell on her so she'd fulfill the part of Sully's curse where a woman in love could lift it by dying in his place. She also admitted she'd done it Clara's first night at Rose Cottage, hadn't thought about the actual consequences, and would never forgive herself if Clara really did—
Well, there was no risk of that. She might be feeling a lot of things at the moment, but suicidal wasn't one of them. Homicidal, maybe…
Especially since Mrs. Yates had also confessed to working several other spells, as well, but adamantly refused to go into any more details.
Clara arrived at the station and dropped off the names and the diary for Jake, saying she'd pick it up again on her way home. Telling herself all the weird things that had happened this week had nothing to do with Mrs. Yates's hocus-pocus, she went to the museum and finished up her Fouquet research.
It didn't take long. It felt strange to pack up all her notes when she was done and put away the heavy, musty books for the last time, clearing the window seat and big wooden table so they looked as though she'd never been there.
She wanted to take some photos of the museum and the village for her article, so she'd brought along her camera today.
After snapping several of the library and the courtyard, she wandered down Fouquet Street and took pictures of the places she wanted to remember. She got several of the Moon and Palmetto, outside and in, especially the spot where the duel had taken place. The magazine would like that. Very atmospheric.
Her next stop was the graveyard. Sully and Elizabeth's ostentatious headstones had been spruced up and draped with flowers for the festival tomorrow. They looked sweet, even with their dopey rhymes. After taking pictures from several angles, she turned
her gaze back toward St. James's grave.
Of course, she'd have to get photos of that, too. And she wanted to see how the Noisette rose she'd planted on it was doing. After she'd cleaned it up the other day, she'd known something was missing. Life and color. The world's memory of St. James had been tainted by the one dark moment in his life. He deserved some lightness and beauty, even if it only adorned him in death.
She heard Tyree's footsteps as she bent to sniff one of the fragrant red rosebuds. She recognized the measure and strength of his stride. The muted scrape of his leather boots on the pathway. The resoluteness of each footfall as they grew closer.
Except there was a slight hesitation as they came around the final bend. And then to an abrupt halt behind her.
"Did you do this?" he asked.
She turned to him, unprepared for the disbelief in his expression. As if he doubted his own eyes, which were now raised to hers.
"Yes," she said, "after you left the other day."
Following a long silence, he asked, "Why?"
There were a thousand reasons she could give, but ultimately none of them mattered. Because every reason sprang from her love for the man standing before her. But he didn't want that love.
"Just because," she said, trying to keep the defensiveness from her tone. "I felt like it."
He smiled. "Thank you. It looks very nice. I like roses."
She raised her chin. "But did he?"
"Who?"
"St. James. Did he like roses?"
A strand of Tyree's hair danced around his face, lifting in the breeze as rose petals fluttered. "Aye. He liked roses. Red best of all."
She refused to ask. "Excellent."
"Red like your lips," he murmured.
"Tyree."
"Red like the blood of your heart."
"Tyree."
"Red like the tips of your—"
"Tyree!"
His smile went roguish. "—cheeks when you blush."
She felt herself do so furiously. "Oh! You are—"
He raised his hands. "I know. I know. Far too witty for this tedious setting. Come on. I have something to show you."
Without thinking, she snapped a picture of him as he glanced one last time at the rose and gravestone.
