Mystic Memories (7 page)

“Not one that is nearly as comfortable as this one.”

“A bunk is all I need.”

She glanced around the clean cabin paneled in rich, dark teak with a row of small windows at eye level wrapping around the back wall. In the center of the floor stood a polished table and four captain’s chairs. Beneath the multipane windows, a wide berth beckoned her with thick bedding to cushion her sore, aching muscles. Though tempted to curl up under the blankets, she forced herself to say, “There is nothing here I can’t live without.”

“Privacy, perhaps? A lady should not be expected to do without certain necessities.”

“I don’t need—”

“Mrs. Edwards,” argued the captain in a firm, low voice. “You are going to stay here in my cabin. There is no bathtub, I’m sorry to say. But I will have my steward bring a basin of fresh water and soap. He can wash out your clothes as well, if you would like.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Her nautical costume had been made in a modem era with who-knew-what subtle differences that might rouse the suspicion of someone laundering it.

He moved past her to a bureau built into the wall and opened a drawer. With his back to her, he continued, “I will have some food sent down to you in an hour, unless you prefer it sooner.”

“You won’t be joining me at your own table?” she asked, recalling the parade of platters that had been marched to the captain’s quarters aboard the
Mystic
of the distant future.

“I will take my meal elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“It is not your concern.”

“But it
is
my concern. My presence on the
Valiant
is causing you to give up your bed and table, not to mention worrying your crew over a female on this ship.” She paused, staring at the back of his head as he bent over his task. His black hair was cut in short layers that grew longer at the nape of his neck, curling over the fold of his collar. The style suited him, though he would probably look good with hair of any length.

Little things about him gained her notice in ways far beyond her professional observation. Sure, he was attractive. But she had met plenty of physically appealing men in her line of business without falling for one of them. It didn’t have to be any different with this sea captain. She could maintain her objective distance. And he, she was certain, could be counted on to behave in the manner of a gentleman.

An officer AND a gentleman
. Cara smiled to herself, knowing in her own unique way that this man had more honor in his little pinky finger than his 1990s male counterpart.

“We could share the cabin,” she offered.

Captain Masters straightened with a slowness that accentuated every muscle movement beneath his soiled white shirt and dark pants. He turned to her.

“Share, you say?”

She nodded. “I trust you.”

A glint of mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Do you now? And suppose you misjudge me, ma’am?”

“I haven’t. I am rarely wrong about people, Captain. You are a man of your word. And if you give me your word that you will respect my virtue, I will consider myself perfectly safe with you in this cabin.”

“It would not be proper, Mrs. Edwards. You know as well as I.”

She sighed in resignation. The man was more than an officer and a gentleman. He was a Puritan. Or pushing for sainthood.

His piercing gaze unsettled her. Looking for any excuse to turn away from those disturbing eyes, she stepped to the dining table and dropped the clean clothing onto the polished wood surface. The book she’d studied for her role as a sailor had not included information regarding the proper etiquette for a woman on her own in the nineteenth century. As it was, she had certainly crossed the line with her fictitious excuse about stowing away on the
Mystic
. And wearing men’s pants had to be nothing less than scandalous.

Fingering the cloth beneath her hands, Cara murmured, “I have certainly made a mess of things.”

“Desperate measures would be expected of any mother searching for her child. However, it is unfortunate you did not have a man to send, rather than putting yourself in such grave danger. This is no place for a woman.”

“Where I come from, women are not as sheltered as they are here.”

“And where would that be?”

Cara mentally kicked herself for the casual remark. She had to be more careful to watch her words. Oh, how hard it was to weave a web of lies without being caught in the stickiness of it all. Sometimes her job required playing a game of deceit and secrecy. Now here she was trapped by her own secrets.

“Actually . . . I am from everywhere and nowhere in particular.” She fidgeted with a button on the folded shirt. “My parents were missionaries. I grew up all over the world.”

“Is that how you met Mr. Edwards?”

“Yes, we spent some time in Switzerland, where his family became quite friendly with my parents.”

“I understood you to say he was Swedish.”

Swedish? Or Swiss?
Already she was tripping over her own lies! This wasn’t like her at all.

“Y-yes . . . Lars was
from
Sweden.” Covering her eyes as if overcome by sudden sadness, she allowed her voice to waver just enough to sound tired and brokenhearted. “I’m sorry, Captain. Lars was my whole life. I loved him deeply. At times I can’t contain my grief.”

“I should not have mentioned him.”

“No, it’s all right. I must learn to cope with my loss.”

She sniffed as if holding back a tear. “We were traveling to the Orient when he became sick in San Francisco. Our ship had to sail without us. We had every intention of finding passage on a later vessel, but Lars grew worse. He passed away only six short months ago, God rest his soul.” Her final few words tumbled out on choking sobs. Phony sobs. And crocodile tears. It was one of the best performances she had ever given on the job. So convincing, in fact, that the captain gently touched her shoulder. Caught up in the little scene, she instinctively turned into his arms to be comforted by him.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Edwards.” His baritone voice rumbled through her with a tenderness that touched her heart, pressing guilt down upon her.

This had been a mistake, she realized too late.

She didn’t dare look up into his face, afraid to witness the sincere compassion in his eyes. His honest sympathy would certainly unravel the fine fabric of her deceitful drama. Instead, she worked hard to make her sorrow as believable as possible.

“It has been difficult.”

“I can only imagine. And now your son, too.”

“Andrew,” she said in a hushed whisper. The boy’s name brought back the real drama of her situation. “I must find him. I can’t go home without Andrew.”

If I can go home at all!

The unbidden thought sent a shiver of dread down her spine. With the
Mystic
wrecked upon the cliffs, she wondered once more how she could possibly find her way back to the future when she finally located Andrew.

Masters took her chin in his hand and lifted her head. Through her tears, she reluctantly looked up at him.

“I wish . . .” He paused, studying her. “I wish I could promise we will find your boy. But you should know the odds are not good.”

“I don’t want to hear about the odds, Captain. I have come too far to give up now.”

Much too far.

She allowed her lower lip to tremble slightly. Another tear fell. As he brushed it away with his thumb, she felt the pad of skin against her cheek. The gesture was meant to be innocently consoling, yet she sensed an undercurrent of something entirely different flowing through his touch. Something deeper. Something hidden beneath layers of his memory, so that not even he was aware of its existence.

A flash of a familiar vision blinded her for a moment. She gasped at the startling image.

“What’s wrong?” He leaned back and looked down at her.

Cara wanted to dismiss the sudden realization as a figment of her imagination.

It couldn’t be.

Not him.

He can’t be the boy I saw in the rumpled clothes.

The picture in her mind had come and gone so quickly. Could she really be certain it was the same image she had seen the previous night on the other ship . . . before she had stepped back in time?

She wanted to take his hand, to close her eyes again, to look into the darkness of his soul and see if she could find that battered little boy again. But how could she explain it to Captain Masters? How would he react if she told him of a past she could discern like a fortune-telling gypsy?

“It’s nothing.” Dropping her eyes from his gaze, she stepped away from him and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Perhaps you were right. Perhaps you should leave.”

“As you wish.”

She listened to the solid footfall of his boots as he departed. When she was certain he had left, the air seemed easier to breathe. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs until her rib cage could expand no more. As she slowly released the breath in a long and quiet exhale, she felt her body relax, the tension drain from her tired and sore muscles. With each cleansing breath, she became more and more aware of the masculine essence of the captain, even though he was no longer physically present. His living quarters held his scent, wrapping around her with the warmth of a soft down comforter. The smell of damp salt air mingled with wood polish, shaving soap, and musk cologne. A faint odor of tobacco told her the captain enjoyed an occasional smoke—or entertained visitors who did.

She looked around the cabin, wondering about the man who occupied this place. This was his domain. She sensed the power, the independence.

And a hidden past.

Cara recalled the startling recurrence of the horrible vision. When she had earlier tried to zero in on Andrew, had she stumbled across the tragic childhood of this man instead?

She glanced over at the bureau where Masters had been riffling through the drawer. If she could find a personal item, preferably a piece of jewelry, perhaps she could find some clues to her clairvoyant vision. Invasion of privacy was not exactly her favorite thing to do. In her line of business, she often had to breach the private lives of innocent people to find out the truth. There was always justifiable cause, though—a trail of a criminal or a missing person. But was snooping among the belongings of Captain Masters justifiable?

Not really.

However, looking for necessary information about her case would certainly be an acceptable reason to explore. For starters, she wanted to know what year it was. Unable to ask anyone without drawing more suspicion to herself, she had hoped to have an opportunity like this one. If her search for a calendar or a captain’s log brought her into contact with some of his personal items, so much the better.

Walking toward the ship’s galley with his dog at his heels, Blake was certain the widow had lied to him about her husband. On the beach she had said the man had died two years ago. In his cabin, she had claimed to have lost her dear Lars only six short months ago. And it also seemed the Swede might have been Swiss, if not for her adroit explanation that he had chosen not to challenge. What else was she hiding from him? Perhaps she was not a grieving wife at all.

Blake entered the warm galley as his cook leaned over the oven door and took out a sizable portion of roasted beef and vegetables. Bud crept forward, eager for a handout, only to be shooed away by Keoni, who then slipped the mutt a large bone from the counter.

“Now get out from under my feet, you old beggar,” he scolded, sending the dog out of the galley to enjoy his treat.

The aroma of the hot meal wafted under Blake’s nose, prompting a loud rumble from his empty stomach. Keoni gave him a sideways glance.

“You, too? Here, take this.” The brawny
Kanaka
tossed a small red apple to Blake, who snatched it out of the air. “You look like hell,
Kaikaina
.”

“I appreciate the food, not your opinion.” He bit into the fruit, one of a supply bought from a mission along their coastal run for hides. “Considering what I’ve been through since last night, I’m entitled to look like hell,
and
I deserve a little sympathy.”