Mystic Memories (4 page)

Staring at the seaman’s bloodied back, Blake shucked his coat and tossed it to the cook. “Stow this for me. And get me an oilcloth.” He then turned to Johnson. “I am taking that sailor below. When I come back, I will be his replacement. You shall have your full crew,
sir
.”

“I forbid it! You are an officer. You are my guest.”

“I am a sailor first, Captain. And right now you need my hands and my skills a hell of a lot more than you need one more goddamn officer on this brig.”

He did not back down from his challenge, certain that Johnson would not refuse the renowned skills of Captain Blake Masters. A first-rate seaman, Blake was also well known as one of the youngest captains on the high seas. At thirty, he had more years of experience than most officers his age. For this reason, Blake was all too aware of the current breach of etiquette between fellow officers. This was not his command. Yet he could not stand idly by and watch the brig go down with all hands. Lives were at stake, including his own.

Johnson snapped to, commanding the ship as he should have done earlier. Precious time had been wasted. The crew hastily set to work.

Blake carried the beaten sailor to his berth. Sadly, there was no time to tend his open wounds. He could only leave the moaning man and return to the deck.

Moments later, he spied someone slipping out of the captain’s quarters with a dark bundle held tight to his chest. The sailor glanced about. Amid the escalating wind and rain, amid the shouted orders and echoed responses, amid the chaos on deck and aloft, it appeared that one of the spartan crew was taking advantage of the confusion to commit thievery against the captain. Though that bastard deserved the loss of a few coins, Blake was infuriated that one man would risk the ship and his fellow mates at such a dangerous time as this.

Blake glanced up at the poop deck. Johnson had his back to them, the nefarious flogging rope in his hand. Blake advanced on the thief, hoping to hell he could divert trouble before the captain spied the criminal in his midst and again doled out retribution with the rope.

As he crossed the deck, he wondered how it was that he had not seen this sailor earlier. Nothing about the man looked at all familiar. Where had he been when the crew had been gathered for the flogging? There were so few hands on board that it was impossible for the captain or other officers not to notice his absence. Unless he was a stowaway. Unless he was . . .

The thief looked up as Blake closed the distance between them. He halted in midstride.

. . .
a woman?

Chapter
3

B
lake thought he must be mistaken as he looked into dark eyes that peered out beneath a rain-drenched fringe of hair and a knit cap. Surely the face could not belong to a young man. It was too pretty by anyone’s standards. And yet the idea of a female on a ship, masquerading as a sailor, was even more preposterous. The fleeting moment of speculation vanished when the captain called out, “You there!”

The stranger glanced over his shoulder at Johnson, then slowly turned around while surreptitiously sliding the satchel behind his back.

“What have you there, boy?” demanded Johnson.

“It is mine, sir,” Blake answered, taking one long stride and confiscating the leather bag. The thief looked up at him in surprise. Those hauntingly beautiful eyes mesmerized him. He felt his body respond with an unexpected flash-fire in his loins that startled him beyond comprehension. He had only a heartbeat of time to regain his composure. Dragging his gaze away from the exotic feminine eyes staring up at him, he looked at the captain once more. “I mislaid it earlier. He was bringing it to your cabin for me.”

Blake hoped to heaven the rain obscured the old man’s vision so he would not catch the lie. The rough seas pitched and rocked the brig, slamming the thief into Blake’s chest. In spite of the layers of masculine attire, there was no question in his mind any longer that this sailor was a woman.

“Go to the fo’c’sle!” Blake shouted over the noise of the storm. He would tell the captain he’d sent the boy down to take care of the injured seaman. Later, he would allow himself time to wonder what brought a lady aboard dressed as one of the crew.

The woman mutely nodded and darted directly toward the hatch, managing the slippery tilting deck with the experience of an old salt. She certainly knew her way about the ship, by the looks of it. But her hasty escape was quickly thwarted by the first mate, who shouted orders for all hands to lay aloft. She paused, peering through the sheets of rain at Blake, with question in her eyes. Her hesitation cost her.

“All hands aloft!” The captain repeated the first mate’s order, marching across the distance to the woman at the hatchway. It became clear to Blake that Johnson could not see that the sailor was neither a man nor one of the regular crew. The rest of the men were too busy at their duties to pay any attention one way or the other. Yet the captain— arrogant fool that he was—could not see what was quite obvious to Blake.

“I ordered you aloft, boy!”

The thief nodded, keeping his head down.

Wise of her
, thought Blake as he approached the two on the wave-washed deck. If she were to look up and Johnson saw that slender neck and delicate chin, he was sure to realize she was not one of his own sailors.

She darted toward the rigging without acknowledging the order, which further riled the captain.

“I expect an answer from you!”

Though she paused, she kept her back to him. Blake closed in, not knowing what he would say. But he could not let anyone, least of all a woman, fall victim again to the madman’s anger.

“Turn around and look at me when I speak!” bellowed Johnson, struggling to stay upright despite the erratic motion of the unsteady ship. Waves broke over the railing and rolled across the deck. The disguised woman began to turn around, but her response was not quick enough to suit the captain.

When the man jerked his hand back, Blake saw the flogging rope lifted high. Throwing his body between the officer and the thief, he took the full impact across his chest. Despite the searing pain, he grabbed the thick rope with both hands and yanked it out of the grasp of the startled captain.

Horror in his eyes, Johnson threw his arms across his face as if expecting Blake to turn the rope on him. For one brief moment, Blake was all too tempted to give in to the fury that raged within him. Before he could rein in his own urge to extract revenge for the innocent victims, a woman’s scream startled him.

He spun halfway around as a towering wall of water crashed down on them. Knocked off his feet, he slid across the slick wood deck, slamming into unseen objects, gulping for air and swallowing seawater. Amid the cries and chaos, he heard a man holler . . .

“She’s headed for the cliffs!”

Cara slowly emerged from a fitful sleep to the soothing sound of gentle surf rolling across rocks and pebbles. The terrifying nightmare was behind her now. She was no longer surrounded by an ocean of black water, numbing her body with its freezing temperature. As she drew her mind from the depths of the dream, she felt cold, yet safe. The water was gone. Only the sound of the sea remained.

Rolling onto her back, she opened her eyes to bright, glaring sunlight. She blinked once, twice, then shielded her eyes with both hands. In her groggy state of confusion, she realized she was not in her cabin on board the
Mystic
, but lying on a beach. A cool, salt-tinged breeze ruffled over her cheek. A shiver of cold rippled through her body.

She propped herself up on her elbows and looked around. Bodies were strewn about the stretch of sand, half in the water, half out. Only one man moaned. Were the rest dead?

The nightmare had been real.

Dropping back onto the damp sand, she let out a groan of disbelief, struggling against a frightening sense of disorientation. Pressing the heel of her palms to her eyes, she felt the slight burn in them from sand and salt water. She tried to ignore the chill breeze as her mind raced through surreal memories of the previous night.

After she had stepped through the invisible portal into the captain’s quarters, the ship had pitched and swayed in heavy seas. From the shouted orders topside, she had assumed all hands were on deck, but she couldn’t go unnoticed for very long on the small brig, in spite of her authentic costume.

If she had been caught in the captain’s quarters, she would have been in worse trouble. She had no choice but to sneak out during all the commotion, make her way to the hold, and seek a hiding place until it was safe to emerge. But her plan had gone haywire as soon as she’d reached the storm-battered deck.

Everything had happened so fast. It was all a blur of motion in her head now. The wind. The rain. The shouts. The commands. A man grabbed her bag, claiming it as his own. He wasn’t one of the crew, she was certain—not by the way he addressed the captain. There had been no time to think. Less time to react. The wall of water took them by surprise. White foam. The roar of rushing bubbles in her ears.

Cara slid her palms from her eyes and gazed out at the deceptively calm ocean, recalling her struggle to stay afloat. She had swum until every muscle in her arms and legs burned with the pain of exhaustion. Her body rode the crest of mountainous waves only to plunge into deep troughs the next instant. Swamped by the salt water again and again, she had continuously fought her way to the surface, numbed by terror, driven on by her stubborn will to live. Somehow, some way, she had succeeded.

Now what do I do?
she wondered uneasily, pushing herself into a sitting position. Her gaze traveled over her damp period clothing to the clumsy shoes on her feet. Another shiver shook her, as much from fear as from cold. Rubbing her arms with her hands to stimulate warmth, she shoved the heel of her foot into the moist sand, digging a furrow as she anxiously contemplated her fate. She had not been on the brig more than a couple of minutes when she’d found herself up to her neck in trouble, then tossed into the sea.

She wrapped her arms around her upraised knees and dropped her head forward, allowing the heat of the early-morning sun to seep into her spine. Mentally beseeching divine guidance, she murmured, “Where do I go from here?”

“You will be coming with me.”

Her head popped up at the sound of the gruff masculine order. She had expected an inner prompting, a gut feeling that would guide her toward her next step. She hadn’t expected the baritone message of the man kneeling next to her.

It was the man from the ship—her ally against the captain.

“You!” As she pushed herself halfway to her feet, her vision blurred, then nausea hit. She had swallowed too much saltwater. A firm hand on her upper arm gently lowered her to the beach.

Sitting on the sand, she stared at him, trying to bring his face into focus. Thick black hair framed his tanned skin, bringing back the memory of the moment when she had first seen him on the ship. He had spotted her coming out of the captain’s quarters, yet he had not betrayed her. Instead, he had lied for her, protecting her from the commanding officer. This man with the firm set to his jaw had stepped in the way, taking the full blow of the flogging rope that had been meant for her.

Why?

Cara saw something disturbingly intimate in his deep-blue eyes. Unnerved, she looked away. Then she realized her jacket was missing. She didn’t remember losing it, but she’d probably discarded it to keep its weight from pulling her under. The damp, red-checked shirt clung to her curves, revealing the outline of her small breasts. Her gaze snapped back to his.

“Yes, I know,” he said, acknowledging her gender.

A split second of panic swept over her, urging her to take off at a dead run, to get as far away from him as she could. But her exhaustion would make escape across the sand impossible.

While her wary gaze lingered on him, he gently draped a damp peacoat over her shoulders. She didn’t question whether it was his. She didn’t care. At least it warmed her from the bone-chilling breeze on her damp skin.

“I knew you were a woman when I saw you on the ship.”

“But the captain—”

“—was an imbecile and a fool. If he had an empty bucket for a brain he would have more sense than he displayed last night. And perhaps he would still be alive— though I have to admit the seas are safer today due to his demise.”

“The captain’s dead?”

“Yes, and all but two of the crew. The
Mystic
lies aground by the cliffs to the north.” He tilted his head toward the rocky bluffs, a good half mile away.

Panic tightened her chest like a vise. She asked in an unsteady voice, “Is the ship salvageable?”

“Not without timber and tools.”

How would she find her way back to the future if the time portal had been destroyed? “I need to see it for myself.”

“No, the rocks are too slippery. Considering the harrowing ordeal you have been through, I doubt you are steady enough to keep your footing.” The blue of his eyes deepened, and his narrowed gaze allowed no argument. “My offer still stands—”

“Your ‘offer’ sounded more like an
order.
”

“Be that as it may, you are invited to come with me. My men will be coming ashore soon to look for me.”

“Your men? Who are you? How do I know you’re not a pirate of some sort?”

“I am Captain Blake Masters of the
Valiant
, a merchantman that has been two years on the coast gathering cattle hides from the owners of the rancheros. We will soon be on our way back to Boston with a full hold. But, alas, no pillaged loot from innocent victims, I assure you. And you would be . . .?”

“Cara Edwards.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he responded with a single nod. “As I was saying—I was a guest on the
Mystic
when circumstances altered the events of the evening.”

Cara could see that he’d planned to say something else but changed his mind. For a moment she sensed his intense anger and disgust, as though his feelings were her own. She knew, too, that his hatred was directed at the captain. “I take it you weren’t on friendly terms.”

“Captain Johnson and I met only yesterday when he made anchor here off San Pedro.”

Cara glanced around. “
This
is San Pedro?”

“Yes.”

Her surroundings looked nothing like the same area in 1998. In her own time, a long and rocky breakwater protected the enormous twin harbors of Los Angeles and Long Beach, where oil tankers and cargo ships passed one another every day. Now she looked upon a barren stretch of land with little vegetation and no trees.

She had been on the
Mystic
in the twentieth-first century. And she had come through to the same ship in an earlier time and at a different location. What year was it? She couldn’t ask without raising unwanted curiosity in Captain Masters. It was bad enough that she couldn’t explain how she, a woman, had ended up on a merchant sailing ship.