Pirate's Wraith, The (19 page)

Meanwhile, she pulled mussels off the rocks and filled up the pot.

“With some garlic, tomatoes, oregano, and basil we could have a real treat,” she said as she brought her cache back to the fire. “I love mussels marinara.”

He put the pot on the fire to boil the mussels. Broken planks from the raft served as plates and she gathered shells to serve as spoons.

Surprised at Harlan
’s prowess in the culinary arts, she asked, “Where did you learn to cook?”

“I was marooned once before with several shipmates.
”

“
How long did it take before you were rescued?”

“
Nearly a year.”

Her forced optimism faded. “Did the ship sink like the
Lyrical?”

“There was a mutiny. I sided with the captain.”

A thread of hysteria twisted through her. “The crew took over the ship?”

“They were later hanged.”

She put her hand to her throat and swallowed hard. “You could get hanged, too.”

He did not comment, but his lips thinned in annoyance.

They shared a small amount of the wine. She longed for bread and cheese to accompany the meal. She closed her eyes and envisioned a nice chunk of cheddar, extra sharp. She could use several thousand more calories.

“I will look for fresh water and see if others are here,” he said after they had finished.

She cast a fearful glance at the forest. “Do you suppose there are wild animals in there?”

He gave her a puzzled frown. “What other animals would live in a forest?’

“Some cute little ducks? Or a few chipmunks?”

“A turtle would be good. It would satisfy you.
”

She could not help stealing a glance at the bulge in his britches. Forget about hunger, she thought. When it came to satisfaction, he would not le
ave a woman wanting. He stood and started to walk away.

“Hey, don
’t leave me.” Her unease concerning wild animals returned. “What if a panther sneaks up behind me?”

A smile grew on his lips. His eyes took on a hungry glow as if he considered whether she might make a very nice tidbit for dessert.

Heat warmed her cheeks. She shouldn’t worry about animals when she had an untethered beast devouring her with his gaze.

A noisy seabird flew by overhead and diverted his attention. “Keep the fire blazing.”

“What if someone comes by—or what if a python ...”

“Flame keeps animals away. Shout if you see someone coming.”

She watched him walk along the shoreline until he reached the bend. When she could not see him anymore, she fed the fire with driftwood and broken pieces of the raft.

“What if I am stuck here with him forever?” she mused. As much as she had wanted to have a baby, the prospect of delivering one in the wilderness terrified her.

Sex on the beach could be a deadly idea.

She decided to try and piece together some sort of shelter. The activity would help to keep her mind off her current situation. Besides they would need a shelter to keep the wild animals away when the fire died out while they were sleeping.

She thought about lying next to him in a small space. That could be very dangerous. He had that cannon in his britches. Just remembering what it looked like sent a hot flush spreading all over her body.

She should build two rooms with a great wall between them. No sense in taking any chances.

Setting about her task, she realized she should build her shelter further from the water’s edge due to the tide, which meant she would have to move the fire, too.

The tide came in bringing her more wood. She rejoiced over one perfect, cylindrical piece. It must have been the top of a mast and would serve as an excellent crosspiece to hold up the sail, which would be the roof for her shelter. However, she could not lift the long piece of wood. In her struggle to try to move it, she got a large splinter embedded in her hand.

Dropping the mast, she tried to pull out the wooden sliver, but it hurt and it would not budge, plus it must have hit a vein because it would not stop bleeding.

Remembering her first aid instructions, she kept applying pressure. However, the minute she let up on the pressure, the bleeding started again.

“Great,” she grumbled. “What else could go wrong?”

Pressing on her wound, she went to the water’s edge to check for more treasures but she could not wander far since she had to continually add more wood to the fire. However, as the sun sank lower in the sky, she saw something large floating in on the tide a long distance away. She could use another log and it looked to be the right size for a crude bench.

She limped as fast as she could toward it just as a wave spat it out onto the sand.

Her blood turned to ice as she came closer. It was not a log but a man and probably dead. He wore only a shirt and breeches. He had no shoes or boots on his feet.

She swallowed the bile in her throat. She ought to make sure he was dead. She knew CPR after all.  While the idea of performing CPR on a water-logged stranger had her stomach churning, she knelt on the sand and shoved him over on his back.

She reeled back in horror and screamed. Though the tissues in his face had swelled in the sea, she recognized him. Christopher Moody had the hilt of a dagger buried deep in his chest.

* * * *

Harlan’s heart thundered as he stood on the beach in shock. His first mate had a knife in his heart while Lesley sat beside him with blood on her hands. He raised his face to the sky and swore, but it did no good.

Moody’s face remained rigid in death. Lesley appeared frozen in place. Harlan shook her until she looked at him.

“What have you done?” He roared. “You have stabbed him in the heart. You—you with your tales of the future. Moody and his famous flag
! What other lies have you told me?”

Her green eyes widened. “I—I did not kill him. He floated in on the tide. Then I saw the knife ... but he can’t be dead. He can’t. His flag ....”

He heard the catch in her throat and it pricked his conscience. He stamped away and stared down into his first mate’s horrible mask of death. His reasoned with himself. Surely, Lesley had no reason to kill Moody—especially since it would ruin her own prediction of the future. Though he knew well enough that those who claimed to know the future were often wrong.

Before she died, Elsbeth had told him he would be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Yet here he was, marooned on a deserted island with a woman who
must be more dangerous than she appeared.

“Christopher Moody became a pirate and had his own flag. I know that for a fact. Something is wrong.”

“Your hands are covered in blood.”

“I have a splinter ... from a mast. I can’t get it out.”

He took her hand in his and felt a distinctive hum. It disturbed him, but he chose to ignore it. He must be going mad. 

He saw the sharp sliver of wood that lay at the base of her thumb. When he pulled out his dirk, she gasped and fought to yank her hand away from him.

“It will fester if it is not removed.”

She went still. Her eyes swam with unshed tears, but she clamped her lips firmly together.

He worked with care. He hated to mar her fine hand, but he had to cut into her flesh. She did not cry out.

He pulled out the splinter and wrapped his scarf tightly about her wound.

“I’ll wash it in the sea.” Her voice quivered.

He helped her to her feet and watched her stumble toward the water. How could she look so much like Elsbeth and yet be so different?  

Shaking his head, he bent to pull the knife from the dead man’s chest. He studied the weapon. It was Moody’s own dagger.

Who would have murdered Moody? He had been fearless in battle and more skilled in the use of a sword than most. Still, many in the crew had hated the cruel taskmaster. More than a few times, Harlan had watched Moody’s face light up with deligh
t as he took the lash to a crewmember’s back. Harlan had always suspected Moody of buggery, too, but he could never prove it.

He pulled off the man’s other clothing. He would give Moody a proper burial but he intended to keep anything that might be of use for there could be no telling how long he and Lesley would be marooned.

Using a plank, he dug a shallow hole at the edge of the woods. It grew dark, but the moon gave off enough light for him to see. He asked Lesley to join him as he said a few words over the grave.

“May his soul find rest
...” Harlan’s paused remembering the confrontation with his first mate in his cabin after Moody had assaulted Lesley. He would have killed him then. Now Moody was dead, killed with his own dagger and Harlan stood on a deserted island with only a slight chance of ever being found. Which was the better fate?

He grabbed the plank to shove the earth back into the grave. “...and peace.” 

Lesley halted him. “That’s it? Not even an ‘Amen?’”

“Yes, yes. Amen. I will need some rocks.”

“To mark the grave?”

“To discourage the animals.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Will they come out at night?”

“Some are creatures of the night.”

“Maybe we should sleep in shifts. I’ll take the first watch.” Her lips trembled.

“There is no need. We have the fire.” His words did not seem to reassure her for she turned her head this way and that, starting at every odd sound.

“I need help in putting up the roof. If it rains I don’t want to get wet.”

He nodded, agreeing to the task as soon as he finished piling up rocks on Moody’s grave. She joined him, lifting up smaller rocks though she winced whenever a rock shifted and pressed against the wound on her hand. Other than that, they worked quietly—side by side. He thought about his fate. He might have been alone on the island without any companion. But could he trust this one with her strange talk and
wild stories of the future? 

When they finished covering the grave, he lifted the mast to the top of her shelter. In securing the ends of the sail to the structure, enough overlap remained of the canvas to serve as a door.

“It’s more like a curtain.” She made a loop on one end of a rope.

He heard her soft sigh of disappointment. For a moment, he gave her a speculative gaze and wondered how she would look dressed in a woman
’s finery. Yet, he could not envision her in wide skirts and lace. In fact, her simple sailor’s garb heightened his awareness of her lithe form. His blood heated at the thought. “It should afford you some privacy.”

“It’s big enough for both of us, I think.”

He battled against a surge of excitement that started his heart hammering in his chest. “Nay. I will sleep out here by the fire.”

“What about the animals?”

“I will stab them and eat them for breakfast.” He teased.

“
Sure.” She pouted.

“
Trust me.” He winked at her.

“
How can I trust a pirate?” Despite her question, she rewarded him with a shy smile.

“
I am a man of my word.” A small, needle-like pain stabbed him with that lie. He had been unfailingly conscientious—once, but being honorable had not helped him succeed. 

He sobered as he considered that maybe in her company he would surely lose all his senses, for he would soon speak as she spoke. Perhaps he would begin to believe the strange things she told him and once his guard was down, she would work her sorcery on him.

* * * *

After a snack of more mussels, Lesley crawled into her home away from home. Her hand still throbbed along with her ankle. Though exhausted from the day’s activities, sleep did not come easily.

She wished there was some logical explanation for this strange trip of hers. How had it happened? And why?

Her sister would miss her and mourn for her. She hated to be the one to cause her sister to grieve. Though they only called each other once a week, Lesley looked forward to the daily updates from her sister in her email or text messages. When they got together, they had so much fun
. Even in the worst of times, her sister could make her laugh. Her sister had made her laugh about calling off the wedding with Jim.

She had not told her sister what happened when she told Jim to move out. In fact, she had never revealed Jim
’s abuse to her sister. However, she always knew her sister suspected the truth.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture her sister in her mind. Maybe she could send her a message—telepathically. She concentrated, scrunching up her face and fisting her hands, but she had no idea
as to whether she had gotten through. 

Cell
phones made the process of communication so much easier.

Outside her canvas doorway, Harlan put another piece of driftwood on the fire. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood for sleeping either and while she knew it would be best to keep her distance from him, she sure could use some company tonight. She didn’t have anything to distract her from her dismal thoughts—not even a romance novel.