Looking for a Hero (9 page)

“Don't call me that.”

“Ah, Katie.” His hand inched out from under the covers, and he reached toward her cheek. She pushed away from the bed and walked to the window, not wanting to know his touch, not wanting to get any closer to him than she'd already allowed herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked back at him.

His smile had drained away. His Adam's apple rose and fell, and he took a deep breath before he spoke. “I apologize for the ruse. 'Tis difficult to tell the truth when one has lived a lie for many years.”

“What other lies have you told me?”

“Most of my life has been a fabrication, but one of my own design. Now my life has taken another
turn. You would not believe the truth if I told you, for I scarce believe it myself.”

“Try me.”

“Come close, Katie. I fear you cannot hear me from such a distance.”

“I have perfect hearing. What's your story?”

“I've come here from another time—long before you were born.” He took a deep breath; his eyes fluttered closed, then opened again. “There was a storm at sea. The waves were frightening, and my ship—
Satan's Revenge
—was being ripped apart. Suddenly I was struck by lightning and tossed overboard. By the time I washed up on the island, nearly three hundred years had passed.”

“You mean to tell me you traveled through time?”

“Aye. As difficult as it is to believe.”

“Oh, it's quite difficult to believe.”

Again he gasped for breath, and through the sheet Kate could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was feverish. He was ill. No wonder he was telling such tales.

“Why don't you go back to sleep, Mr. Farrell? You'll feel better when you wake up. Maybe then you'll remember what really happened to you.”

“I know quite well, Kate. I was born in the year of our Lord sixteen hundred and seventy-three. It was seventeen hundred and two when my ship and I were separated, and just today I was informed that it's nearly the year two thousand.”

“And I suppose you're a real pirate, too?”

“Aye, madam, although I was once a gentleman.”

His eyes closed, and she stood by the window, waiting, watching, hoping he'd go back to sleep. When his breathing had steadied and the set of his jaw had relaxed, she moved quietly toward him. She untied the unnecessary patch and tucked it into the pocket of her shorts, wrung out another cool washcloth, and replaced the warm one on his forehead.

“I would have you believe me, Katie,” he whispered.

She couldn't help but smile, and on unconscious impulse, she caressed her palm over his cheek.

“Sleep, Mr. Farrell. Just sleep.”

F
or long hours he tossed and turned, his body aching, shivering with a chill so deep in his bones he believed he was sailing on the godforsaken North Atlantic, and that he'd never know warmth again.

Somewhere near, he heard the chirp of birds, the distinctive rustle of wind through the shaggy-headed palms, and the unmistakable bliss of children's laughter.

And then something teased his nose, a pleasant memory of a sweet-smelling woman with long and wild honey-colored hair and eyes that sparkled like the rarest of emeralds.

Comforting hands spread over his chest, his stomach, pulling back the bed coverings before
deft fingers loosened the buttons on his trousers, spreading a heat through his loins that he had not the strength to enjoy. Opening his eyes, he saw Kate hovering above him like a celestial spirit encircled in gold.

“I didn't mean to wake you, Mr. Farrell. I just want to make you more comfortable. Please. Go back to sleep.”

He managed to smile, lifting a weak, almost useless hand to her cheek. So soft. So smooth. “Lie down with me, Katie. 'Tis cold I am. So very cold.”

Gentle laughter rang through his ears. She stepped back, letting his hand fall heavily to his chest.

“I'd rather run you through with your cutlass,” she stated flatly, tugging not too gently on the ends of his trousers. “Now, go back to sleep.”

Ah, but the fire in her words soothed his pain and warmed his soul. He would sleep peacefully knowing she was near.

But the peace he sought would not come so easily.

“Please, Morgan, please. Don't let him hurt me.”

He jerked at the chains, twisting and turning, but the bonds at his arms and legs were far too strong, and he could not get to the frightened little girl running from Thomas Low
.

“She is mine,” Low hissed. “Your efforts to keep her from me have been in vain. I always win, Mr. Farrell. Always.”

He wanted to strangle the bastard, wanted to feel the
shudder of his last dying breath, but he could not escape. “I'll see you dead,” Morgan shouted
.

“Not today, Mr. Farrell. Not today.”

Melody had scrambled to the top of the railing around the quarterdeck, linking her arms through the rigging. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Help me, Morgan,” she cried. “Please.”

The chains cut into his wrists. Blood welled up from the shredded skin, but that pain was nothing compared to the ache in his heart for the sister he could not help, for his parents, who'd been sent to their watery grave just moments before
.

Low stood at arm's length from his sister, hands clasped behind his back. “Come down, child,” he coaxed. “I will not harm you.”

Morgan saw the quiver in Melody's lips as she looked to him for help. “Dear God,” he prayed silently. “I know not what to do. Give me guidance. Please.”

“Morgan!” she screamed
.

Low moved closer, teasing Melody with his advances
.

“Jump.” Morgan shouted. He hated the sound of his words, hated himself for what he was asking of his sister, but there was no other choice. “Jump,” he cried. “Please.”

“But I'm afraid.”

“Say your prayers,” he whispered, swallowing down a lump of fear. “Say your prayers—and jump.”

Melody looked at him one last time, trust and faith mixed with terror in her sweet childish face
.

“I love you, Melody. I love you.”

She smiled faintly. Then she disappeared over the side
.

“I love you,” he whispered, and as if his little sister had heard his words, a soft hand touched his cheek.

“Melody?” he asked, but she did not answer, and even in his sleep, he knew she never would. She was gone—forever. Unconsciously he reached for the cross he'd taken from her lifeless body, for his mother's ring that he'd retrieved from Thomas Low.

He grasped the delicate piece made of rubies and gold, but the heavy wedding band did not fill his hand.

His eyes flew open. Kate sat beside him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Farrell.”

“What have you done with my possessions?”

She raised an eyebrow at his abruptness. “For your information, I have washed your clothes, I have locked away that blasted arsenal you carry around, and I've spent nearly two days taking care of your worthless hide.”

He didn't care about anything she'd done for him. All he could think of was his mother's wedding band.

“Where's my ring?”

“You weren't wearing one.”

“It was around my neck.”

“Well, it's not there now, and if you don't stop yelling at me, the only thing you'll have around your neck are my hands.”

If not for her anger, for the redness rising in her
cheeks, he might have continued to bellow, might have gone on questioning her until doomsday. Losing his mother's ring was something he could not abide, but being rude to a woman did not set well, either.

“I do believe you
would
strangle me, madam.”

“I would,” she stated, pacing across the room, then back again to the side of the bed. “Of course, killing you would be a pretty stupid thing to do after I've nursed you back to health.”

“Aye. 'Twould have been smarter to let me die on your lawn.”

“I should have thought of that earlier,” she said, a smile softening the anger in her face. “I made you some chicken soup. Can you sit up?”

He'd found the strength to get upset about the loss of his mother's ring, but in spite of his efforts to lift his shoulders and arms, he hadn't the energy to rise from the bed.

Kate sighed, something he was learning was as commonplace as her quick-tempered passion and her seemingly unwilling generosity.

She unfolded the stiff arms that she'd clasped over her chest, leaned over, and slipped a hand beneath his head. He savored the softness of her breasts against his cheek, the sweetness of her perfume, and the steady beat of her heart as she propped him up with extra pillows. A man could easily leave the sea behind if he were to have a comfort like this woman in his home.

Sitting beside him, she lifted a bowl from the
bedside table. “I suppose you don't have the strength to feed yourself, either?”

He answered her with a smile, and gave a silent prayer of thanks when she placed the warm spoon against his lips and let the salty brew slide over his tongue and down his throat. Again and again she ladled the soup into his mouth, the only sustenance he'd had in God knows how many days.

“Who is Melody?” she asked cautiously, her eyes intent on the spoon and his mouth.

“My sister, God rest her soul. Why do you ask?”

“You called her name while you slept. I thought she might have been your wife.”

“I have no wife, no children that I know of, nor do I have any other family. I have only you now. And Casey.”

Those words made her look up. “You're taking a lot for granted, aren't you?”

“I have told you…I have nowhere else to go.”

“You can't stay here forever.”

“Rest assured, madam, that that is not my desire. I have but to regain my strength, and men I shall try to find my way back home.”

“And where is that?”

“I have told you already.”

Pushing up from the bed, she set the bowl back on the table and moved about the room, opening a window to let in the slightest of breezes that rustled the lacy white curtains. She stared out at the gathering clouds. “I thought it might be best if you stayed in bed the rest of the day, and maybe
tried coming downstairs this evening.”

“I believe you do not wish to acknowledge where I have come from.”

She turned, shaking her head. “You make a pretty convincing pirate, Mr. Farrell, but I don't believe you traveled through time.”

A more stubborn wench he'd never met. 'Twould be difficult to make her believe.

Walking slowly across the room, she lifted the tray from the bedside table. “The bathroom's over there,” she said, pointing to the door across the room. “If you have the strength later, you might want to take a shower, or soak in the tub.”

“Have you a servant to carry the hot water?”

She laughed cynically. “The pipes carry the hot water, Mr. Farrell. In case you've forgotten, you just turn a knob and water flows right out of the tap.”

An ingenious idea, he decided. One he longed to investigate. Knowledge of such things would benefit him well when he returned to his own time.

“And what of my other bodily needs?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Figure it out on your own, Mr. Farrell. I'm in no mood to humor you.”

 

Kate crept into Joe's office, the place where she'd slept the first few months after his death. She'd felt closer to him there. At times she'd imagined him sitting at his desk, polishing a pistol, a sword, or one of his other special “finds.” In the
past six months, she hadn't seen him there at all. She no longer smelled his aftershave, no longer heard the sound of his footstep on the hardwood floor, or the stories he'd so often told Casey.

Joe was gone.

If time travel truly were possible, she'd go back and.…She laughed to herself. Time travel wasn't possible, and she couldn't change history.

Going to the bookshelves, she pulled down a few of Joe's favorite volumes on pirates. She carried them to the desk and sat, flipping one open to the index. Running her finger down the alphabetical listing, she stopped next to the name
Black Heart
. She started to thumb to the proper place, then hesitated, turning one more page until she found the F's.
Falcon, Fame, Fancy, Farquhar, Farrell
. Her hands began to shake as she turned back one page and compared the numbers with those under
Black Heart
.

Identical. Every one the same.

She flipped to page 43. There were no pictures, but she read the text.

Kate flipped back to the index, having learned nothing she didn't already know, except that the names
Morgan Farrell and Black Heart
were synonymous. What she hoped to see was a picture.

She tried page 81 and page 115, and finally, on page 147, she found it. The work was rough and dark, the colors faded, but Kate could easily see a scar sweeping down the right side of the man's face, and a patch over his eye. The lips were too thin, the nose too straight, and the jaw a little too weak to resemble the man lying in her extra bedroom. Still, the hair in the painting was the darkest of browns, and it rippled over the man's shoulders, stopping halfway down his chest—so much like Morgan Farrell's hair, which she'd nervously touched and admired. Rings hung from both ears—just like the earrings Morgan Farrell wore, and tucked under a wide leather belt were a pistol, a dagger, and a sword with a jeweled hilt.

Kate twisted around in the oak swivel chair and looked at the weapons she'd locked away in Joe's display cabinet. The cutlass Morgan had given her, the one he'd said was worth a fortune, looked identical to the one in the painting.

Not for the first time since Morgan Farrell entered her life, her heart thundered in her chest. The man in the next room being the same man who had lived three hundred years ago seemed
too impossible to believe, yet the proof she should trust was in the book before her.

She read the caption beneath the painting.

Could the man she'd nursed and the man in the picture be one and the same?

No, it was impossible. He was delusional. He'd been injured, he wasn't thinking straight. He couldn't have traveled through time.

Maybe he was interested in pirates, just as Joe had been. Maybe he was a collector of pirate memorabilia and owned Black Heart's sword. Maybe he knew the history of Black Heart and liked acting out the part. Maybe there was some resemblance between him and the man in the picture, but she found it difficult to imagine the man in the next room as a generous benefactor, or even a beloved friend.

Yet she remembered well the tear sliding down his cheek while he slept, the way he'd lovingly called out his sister's name, the way he'd reached for the cross at his neck, and the ring that had
disappeared. Men without heart, without compassion, wouldn't do those things.

Sliding open the desk drawer, she removed the velvet box where she'd put the emerald ring she'd found on the island—the ring that might belong to Morgan Farrell. It was the most beautiful ring she'd ever seen, and she wanted very much to call it her own.

As she slipped it on her barren wedding ring finger, the odd feeling that it belonged there overcame her. She held up her hand, wiggling her fingers, and watched the way the sun's rays glinted off the diamonds and emerald, splashing a kaleidoscope of light about the room.