Looking for a Hero (13 page)

 

Morgan was asleep in the easy chair when Kate walked into the room. The children had gone home and Casey had gone to Evalena's for yet another evening. Kate knew her daughter and
aunt were conspiring. They wanted her to be alone with Morgan. Tonight, unlike last night, she didn't seem to mind. She liked his company and wanted to take advantage of it as long as possible.

He looked vulnerable and peaceful with his eyes closed in sleep. He'd removed his jacket and the ties were loosened on his shirt. One leg was slung over the arm of the overstuffed recliner, an open book rested in his lap, and one arm hung lifelessly over the other side of the chair.

He looked like he belonged in that comfortable old seat, in this room.

She picked up the now empty plate she'd brought up to him at lunchtime. Two photo albums sat on the desk, one opened to a page filled with newspaper clippings about Joe's death, about Nikki shooting Joe's killer, about Joe's funeral.

She closed the book, not wanting to remember the worst time of her life.

From the corner of her eye she saw Morgan stir, saw the look of concern on his face. “'Tis sorry I am about your husband.”

She smiled, accepting his sympathies just as she had accepted those of so many others, then she leaned against the desk and looked at the pile of books stacked beside the recliner. “So, what do you think about everything that's happened in the past three hundred years?”

“'Tis overwhelming when you attempt to digest all the information in one day.” He rose from the chair, moving slowly toward her. “Is it possible
for me to leave the room now? I feel as if I've been locked away forever.”

“Was it all that bad?”

“Nay. I learned much.”

“Did you find anything on time travel, anything that might help you go home?”

He leaned beside her on the edge of the desk. His sleeve brushed against her shoulder as he folded his arms over his chest. His hip touched hers, and she moved away, afraid of letting him get too close, afraid of letting her feelings get caught up in something that couldn't last.

His gaze followed her across the room. “I learned very little about my ship, and nothing about my crew.” His jaw tightened. “From all I read, I fear that only one man survived the storm—the man who had been my prisoner.”

Kate stepped behind the chair where Morgan had been sleeping, and rested her hands on the leather. “At least one person survived.”

“'Twas he who should have died.”

“Why? Who was he?”

“The bastard who murdered my family.” He paced across the room, staring out the window. “My crew perished in that storm. I was hurled through time. But that bastard lived a good long life. He should have died at the end of my sword instead of peacefully in his bed in Dover.”

“He's dead. Does it matter now how he died?”

“Aye. It matters greatly.” Morgan turned, stalking back to the desk. He picked up one of the books and flipped it open to a page he'd marked.
“He told many a tale about his imprisonment on
Satan's Revenge
and his torture at the hands of Black Heart.” Morgan shook his head. “I gave the bastard bread and water, which was far more than he deserved. He was chained, but I did not hang him from the yardarm, as I'd wanted, nor did I cut his skin away inch by inch. I made the mistake of allowing him to live until he could be tried by a court of law, and because of my foolishness, the blackguard lived a long, rich life.”

Kate moved toward him and touched his arm, hoping to give him comfort. “I'm sorry.”

Morgan slammed the book shut. “At least he wasn't able to claim
Satan's Revenge
as his own. He'd wanted her—just as much as he'd wanted everything else that I loved. But she disappeared.” A satisfied grin touched his mouth. “My ship had a mind of her own. Like any good woman, she'd never willingly give herself to someone low and disgusting.”

“Do the books say what happened to her?”

“She disappeared in a flash of light…glimmered like a ghostly figure, or so the story went. There was no fire. She didn't sink. She just vanished, and at that very same moment, the storm cleared and the sky turned blue.” His eyes settled on hers, hatred mixed with thoughtfulness turning their azure color to a stormy blue. “'Tis only a guess, but I strongly believe
Satan's Revenge
traveled through time, as I did.”

 

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to find Thomas Low.

He also wanted to stay.

Standing in the kitchen, watching Kate prepare the evening meal, brought back images of the life Morgan had once known. Servants had prepared the food and he'd rarely gone into the kitchen, but as his family sat around the dining table, they'd talked of the day's events, of travels they had taken, of trips that were on the horizon. After dinner, his mother would play the harpsichord and sing, his father would puff on his pipe and read books on agriculture, and his sister would dance, or sit on his lap and listen to fairy stories.

He smiled wistfully. Those had been the grandest of times.

And he was able to recapture some of that closeness and warmth here in Kate's home.

“Kennedy Space Center isn't too far from here,” Kate told him, as she slid a plate loaded with Evalena's apple pie and the deliriously cold treat called ice cream in front of him. “We could drive there this weekend, maybe. You, me, and Casey. You could see the launching pads, some of the spacecraft, and even a moon rock.”

He smiled, listening to the sweetness of her chatter, talk that sounded as if she believed he'd be there forever. They'd talked briefly about the disappearance of
Satan's Revenge
. She'd insisted it had been hit by lightning; he contended that he'd see his ship again. She talked of the future; he thought only of today.

He could not stay, no matter how much he wanted to. And he could not allow her to believe that he would.

She sat down across from him and folded her arms on the table. “You're awfully quiet.”

“I cannot stay, Kate. I must go home.”

She bit her lip, and her gaze focused on his plate. “I know, but you should take advantage of every moment you're here. There's so much to see and do.”

“And you wish to be my guide?” he asked, far too cruelly. “You wish to spend every spare minute with me, knowing I could leave at any time? 'Tis rather foolish, Kate.”

She pushed up from the table and went to the kitchen sink, where she stared out the window into the darkness. “If you're worried I might fall in love with you, you're wrong. There's no chance in hell of that happening.”

“'Tis glad I am that that matter is settled. I am not the kind of man a woman should love.”

“No,” she said. “No, you're not.”

She turned on the television, allowing the noise of other people to fill the silence of the room, then busied herself by cleaning the dishes.

Morgan stared at the stiffness of her back for the longest time. 'Twas better that she remain angry with him. 'Twould be good for him to leave—the sooner, the better.

A flicker on the television caught his attention, and he turned to see a dark-haired woman standing before the silhouette of a ship. “They say seeing
is believing,” the woman behind the glass said, “but I'm still not sure if this is real or a magician's illusion.”

Morgan pushed up from the chair, knocking it over in his rush to the TV.

“Just after sundown this evening,” the woman continued, “what appears to be an eighteenth-century sailing ship washed up on the beach near the St. Augustine lighthouse. From all outward indications, the ship is in good condition, except for a missing mast. Whether it is a replica—or, unbelievable as it might sound, the real thing—has not yet been determined. Police have boarded the vessel….”

Kate's shoulder brushed lightly against his arm as the woman disappeared from the picture and
Satan's Revenge
came into view. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Please tell me that isn't your ship.”

“I cannot.”

The voices on the television became nothing more than a loud hum as he looked at Kate. “I must go.”

“But the police are there. You'll never be able to get on board, and how on earth do you think you can sail her away from here?”

“'Tis something I will deal with when the time comes.”

He cupped her cheek, fighting the urge to kiss her. “You will tell Casey good-bye for me?”

“What about the pancakes she wanted to fix for you tomorrow and the next day?”

“I cannot stay, Kate. I have told you this already.”

“Do you think you're just going to walk on that ship and
presto
, you're back in seventeen-oh-two?” she blurted out. “Do you really think leaving is going to be that easy?”

'Twould be as difficult as leaving her behind.

He searched her eyes, seeing her hurt displayed by the mere hint of tears pooling at their corners.

His throat tightened, but he swallowed the torment that ripped through him. “I do not know what will happen. I only know that I must try to go home.”

One tear spilled from her eye. “Fine! Go!”

Her frustrated anger warmed his heart. It had been many a year since anyone had cared enough to be angry when he left.

“May I have my weapons?”

“Sure, why not?”

She pulled away from his touch, running from the room and up the stairs. He followed, much more slowly, and entered the office, where he'd felt strangely at home.

Shrugging into his coat, he'd fastened each button by the time she had unlocked the cabinets and withdrew his dagger, sword, and pistol.

He shoved the cutlass into its scabbard and the other weapons under his belt, and then he looked again at the sadness in Kate's eyes.

“I will miss you,” he said.

“No, you won't. You'll be too preoccupied fighting off the police and getting your ship back
out to sea. The second you leave this house you'll forget all about me and Casey.”

“Nay, I will not forget.”

She shrugged, obviously not believing his words, which was for the best, and then she went to her husband's desk and opened the drawer. Taking a box from the back, she opened the lid and dumped the contents into her hand.

His mother's ring rested in the softness of her palm.

“Does this belong to you?” she asked.

“Aye. 'Twas my mother's wedding band.”

“I found it on the island,” she said, her lips trembling as she smiled. “I wasn't sure it belonged to you at first. Now I know.” She let the ring and chain slide into his outstretched hand.

His fingers closed around hers. They were cold, but the teary gleam in her eyes warmed his heart.

“I wish I could give you something in payment for all you've done for me.”

“You don't owe me anything.”

“Ah, but I do, Katie. I owe you more than mere money. I would give you this ring if I could, but 'tis the only remembrance I have of my mother's.”

“All I want is for you to be careful,” she said. “The next time I'm browsing through those history books, I hope to read that you were pardoned by the queen, and that you lived a long and happy life, instead of disappearing in seventeen-oh-two.”

“Thank you.” He managed a faint smile. “I will think of you often.”

“Me, too.”

He squeezed her hand, then let go of its warmth. “Farewell, Kate,” he whispered, and without another word, without the kiss he'd wanted to taste, without wiping away her tears that would haunt him forever, he walked down the stairs and out into the night.

Suddenly the world felt empty, void of life, and the loneliness he'd known for seven long years wrapped around him once again.

F
or long hours Morgan stood in the dark, hidden amid the buildings lining the waterway, waiting for an opportunity to board
Satan's Revenge
. He'd found her resting regally against wooden moorings, while men and women—some in uniform, some not—rushed about her chaotically, waving sticks with shining light beaming from them, and stringing yellow ribbon from one end of her hull to the other, as if that would keep out a man determined to get on board.

In the distance he could see moonlight shining on the
castillo
, the pointed spires of cathedrals, and the bridge he'd run across in his hurry to get to his ship. Further off, somewhere in the town that twinkled with a thousand lights, slept Kate. He
drew in a deep breath, willing himself to forget her, and turned once more to look at his vessel.

Earlier, her decks had been littered with men, her holds searched and her hull inspected above and below water, but as the hours passed, most of the curious disappeared, as did those who had a reason to be there. Still, there were far too many around for him to easily slip on board.

So he waited, longing to stand at her helm, listening to her unfurled sails rustle in the wind as she effortlessly breezed over the water. Her mainmast had been destroyed, but her foremast and mizzen stood tall and firm. Once he got to her, once he drew in her anchor, he would take her out to the open sea, and if God would give him another chance, he'd find a way home—crew or no crew.

Night droned on, the moon sailing slowly across the sky, and when Morgan saw the first sign of pink and orange peeking over the horizon, he noticed the quiet, and the changing of the guard. One by one the vehicles left, until only two remained. He could not wait any longer, hoping for a better time.

Dashing through the shadows that morning light had not yet touched, he eased his way close to the ship. He neared her stern, touching the well-remembered wooden planking, finding at last the wooden slats that climbed her side. They were simple enough to scale. Reaching the top, he peered over the railings, then slipped quietly onto
the deck and crept toward the hatch, down to his cabin.

Home at last
. He sucked in the scents of cedar paneling, lamp oil, the faint traces of smoke, and the ever-present and longed-for brininess of the sea. He smoothed his fingers over the table where he kept his charts, over the bottle of ink set in its own carved-out niche in the mahogany that kept it from tipping with the roll of the ocean. For just one moment he tested the massive bed where he'd slept but an hour or two at a time, and remembered the comfort of another bed in another room, where an emerald-eyed woman with honeyed hair and the spirit of a fiery angel had cared for him.

That's another life
, he told himself.
Your place is on the sea, in another time
.

And Kate will never be with you
.

Opening a floor-length cabinet recessed into the wall, he moved aside his sextant, telescope, and journal, and removed a flask of the finest rum he'd ever tasted. He filled a crystal goblet with the liquor and felt its burn as it slid down his throat. God, but it tasted good. Enough of this and he'd wipe away the memories of the past few days, and the nagging thoughts that he might prefer staying here to going back to his empty home.

Taking another swig of the potent rum, he drew out his dagger and pried loose the cedar panel at the back of the cabinet, pulled away the wool batting he'd shoved inside to keep the secret compartment from sounding hollow, and withdrew a
small black velvet pouch. In it were opals, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, a fortune in precious jewels he'd taken in just one raid on a Portuguese East Indiaman. He'd never seen such a prize, nor had his crew, and they'd divided it equally. Now, most of it rested at the bottom of the sea with his men.

Morgan retrieved another pouch from the cabinet, and tested the weight of gold doubloons and silver pieces of eight in the palm of his hand. The contents of that pouch alone would more than pay for a new mast, for a new crew of wanderers, cutthroats, and fugitives from Her Majesty's ships, and for information that would help him recapture Low.

It would also pay for a bevy of women to help take his mind from the beautiful lady he was leaving behind.

Above him he heard the lift of a hatch, unfamiliar voices, and footsteps on the stairs leading to his cabin. There was no time to stow away his treasure, no time to rid the room of evidence that someone had been there. He had to hide.

He tossed down the remaining drops of rum, shoved a pouch into each boot, and shook them down to his ankles.

Voices grew louder. Footsteps neared.

The only means of escape that he could readily see was the window, a tight fit for a smaller man than he. Still, he saw no other way to leave. Loosening the latch, he pressed against the wood frame. Again he pushed, harder this time, until at
last it gave, and swung open on rusted hinges.

He hoisted himself up and thrust both boots through the narrow passage, pushing hard to squeeze all the way through. Expelling his breath so his chest cavity would shrink, he wiggled the rest of his body out the window and sucked in a quick gasp of air before turning, one hand gripping the ledge, the other closing the window until it rested on his knuckles, his fingertips barely over the sill.

He hung on the side of the boat, knowing he could drop down to the water and escape, but his plan was to stay on board
Satan's Revenge
and eventually sail away. Nay, he'd hold on tight—and wait.

Voices filled his cabin. A man's laughter. A woman's giggle.

Lovers?

Suddenly all was quiet, and Morgan could sense the first kiss, then heard the faint sound of the woman's moan, low, deep, and full of passion.

He'd had a devil of a time getting on board, yet two people with nothing more on their minds than a romantic liaison had managed to find their way down to his cabin. Why couldn't they have gone somewhere else?

The woman laughed. “Stop it, Jack. I knew I shouldn't have brought you with me, not when I'm on duty.”

“You wouldn't be on duty if you hadn't been paged. You'd still be in bed, and we'd be making love right about now.”

“Two more weeks and there won't be any pages in the middle of the night.”

“You mean you're actually going to go off duty while we're on our honeymoon? No playing cop for a while?”

“I'll be your subservient little wife. I promise. Until then,” the woman continued, her voice turning serious, “I've got to make sure no one sneaks on this ship.”

“No one's going to sail her away, not with that hole in her side.”

Bloody hell!

“It's not someone sailing her away that's got the mayor's office and mine worried, it's vandals. Just look at the stuff around here. There's a fortune in antiques.”

“Several fortunes.” Morgan could hear the distinct sound of the man walking about the cabin, could easily imagine him trailing his fingers over the desk, the tables, the bed. “I've seen old ships before, but nothing like this.”

“It's a replica.”

“I don't think so,” the man said, “although I don't understand why it looks so new. I'm going to bring someone from the museum back with me later today so we can authenticate a few things. Then I hope to get in to see the mayor.”

“Why?”

“The museum could use a ship like this in its collection.”

“If I know you, you'd rather sail it around the
world while you look for a bunch of other old stuff.”

“Now there's a thought. Would you go with me?”

“If I didn't like my job so much, I might consider it.”

The man laughed. “You're too dedicated, Nikki. Someday I hope to change your mind.”

“You could try.”

Morgan heard the kiss again. He adjusted his fingerhold, wondering how much longer they would keep up their leisurely lovemaking and their infernal prattle. He wanted to get back on the ship, hole or no hole. With the riches on board and the obvious concern for the welfare of
Satan's Revenge
, he imagined the damage would be repaired within a matter of days. All he'd have to do is wait.

And he didn't want to do that hanging from the window.

“Are we still on for dinner tonight?” the man asked.

“I don't know. We've had all those reports about a fully armed pirate roaming the streets. Last night this ship turns up, and then I get called out about a murder. I may be working overtime for a while. You'll forgive me, won't you?”

“This time,” the man said, and Morgan could hear the deep warmth in his voice.

“I love you,” the woman said softly.

“Me, too.”

Silence again. Finally Morgan heard the man's
footsteps moving toward the door. “Call me when you get home.”

“I will.”

He left the cabin, but the woman remained.

She paced the room, opening map drawers in the table, rifling through the storage compartments below Morgan's bunk, and then he heard the clink of the rum bottle against a crystal goblet.

Again he heard her pace, then stop beside the window.

He heard the tapping of glass against glass.

“Hey, you out there.”

Bloody hell!
She was talking to him.

“Did you enjoy the liquor? If I were prone to drinking on duty, I might have some myself. Hell, I might even invite you in to share some with me.”

Morgan looked down at the water below.
Drop, you fool
, he told himself, but he waited, hoping against hope that she'd tire of the game and leave.

He heard the window creak open. “It's a long way down to the water,” she said, and he saw and felt clammy hands latching onto his wrists. “If I find out you haven't taken anything, I'll let you go.”

He'd taken a pouch of jewels and one of gold and silver doubloons. She wouldn't let him go and he couldn't be caught.

When he saw blond hair poke through the window, a forehead, and then two wide blue eyes, he gave the hull one swift kick. He pushed away from the ship, from her grasp, from her sight—he
hoped—and in less than a heartbeat, he landed on his back in the water and sank deep below the surface.

The jewels, his clothing, the gold and silver weighted him down, kept him close to the murky bottom as he twisted about and swam for the dock, for the piers he could see buried into the sand. Slowly he pulled himself to the top, sucked in air, then went under again, swimming away from his ship, away from the dock, until, once more, he needed to breathe.

He'd reached a sandy stretch of beach. Far behind him he could see
Satan's Revenge
, and hear the shouting of a guard. Crouching low to the ground, he rushed to a stand of trees, to a cluster of buildings that stood not far from shore. Water sloshed in his boots; the jewels, gold and silver, had slipped under his feet, filling each step with pain, but still he ran until he reached a narrow alley filled with empty crates and barrels spilling with garbage.

Squeezing between two stacks of wooden boxes, he squatted out of sight, catching his breath, watching and waiting until he knew it would be safe to walk out in the open.

The morning was just coming to life. He heard the sounds of many vehicles in the distance, doors opening and closing in the buildings around him, and the sound of footsteps not too far away.

Had the woman found his hiding place?

He moved further back into the shadows until the unmistakable sound of boots died away.

He could hear the sound of an engine, and peered around the boxes. A car drove by much too slowly—and stopped. The blond woman he'd seen through the ship's window sat behind the wheel, staring into the passageway.

Once again it seemed he was a wanted man, yet this time he'd done nothing wrong. He'd merely taken what rightfully belonged to him.

But a pirate had been spotted in town, and a man had been murdered. Morgan laughed to himself. He had been accused of many things in the past six years simply because he bore the name “Black Heart.” It did not matter that most of the wrong doings had occurred when he was hundreds of miles away. He was a pirate. That in itself has been enough evidence to prove him guilty.

That could be enough to prove him guilty again.

The car drove away at last. He hadn't been seen—and he had to keep it that way.

Easing down to the pavement, he pulled off his boots and dumped out the water. He shoved the bags of jewels and doubloons into his coat pocket, then rested his head against the cool wall of the building.

He'd have to hide again, at least until his ship was repaired. Maybe he should consider purchasing other attire so he wouldn't continually stand out in a crowd.

Maybe he should go back to Kate.

That thought brought a smile to his lips.

Ah, Katie. I believe our paths are destined to cross again
.

 

A pair of dark eyes looked out across the beach, to the ship he'd sailed into harbor on, to the cluster of buildings not far away. Pearly white teeth shone when he smiled. He liked the changes he saw in this new century he'd been miraculously thrust into. There was so much to offer a man such as himself, a tall, slender, and handsome fellow with freshly trimmed beard and hair, not to mention his newfound attire.

He turned to the glass-fronted shop he stood before and examined his reflection. The boots fitted him well. He rather liked the style, the way the black and white snakeskin hugged his feet and ankles and gleamed in the moonlight. 'Twas a stroke of good fortune to find a man of nearly the same exceptional stature, a man with the same impeccable taste.

A man with a wedding ring that, to his misfortune, he no longer needed.

Holding out his left hand, he admired the diamonds that glistened in the light from the street lamp. “What a perfect morning,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”