Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (46 page)

"Wake up, sweetheart."

Miriam smiled sleepily at the sound of Jack's voice, but she didn't obey. Why should she, when she'd never in her life felt this contented and blissfully happy? Instead she yawned and wriggled closer against him, relishing the warmth of his body against hers and the way his arm curled so protectively around her beneath the coverlet

"I'm sorry, love," he said softly, "but I need you awake."

With a sigh she opened her eyes, and grinned up at his face over his. How could she argue with being needed by him? But though he kissed her as she'd hoped he would, when he drew back she saw at once how serious his face had become, his expression taut and watchful. And not only had he pulled on his breeches while she'd still slept, but at his waist once again hung the cutlass in its scabbard.

"What's wrong?" she asked as she pushed herself up onto one elbow, instantly, completely awake.

"Nothing, I hope," he said softly, pressing one finger across her Bps as a warning to be more quiet "But I do believe we have guests, princess."

"
Here
?" Immediately she rolled to her knees, shoving her hair back from her face as she scrambled to search for her clothes. She didn't stop to question why, for Jack's instincts for self-preservation had always been remarkably keen. The little fire had long ago died down to embers that gave no light and the moon that had guided their way on the river had hidden itself in the clouds, and she gave a small hiss of frustration as she groped vainly through the shadows.

"Tis not your father or Zach, lass," said Jack, "nor is it Chuff, either, if that's what's worrying you. But whoever it is, I'd rather they didn't find us first. Here now, hurry and put this on."

"But this is
your
shirt!"

"It's all I could find," he said sheepishly. "God knows what's become of your things, but we haven't time to hunt for them now."

She was already pulling the shirt over her head. The hem hung nearly to her ankles and the sleeves flopped over her hands, but at least the linen was coarse enough to cover her sufficiently.

"I'm ready," she said breathlessly as she tugged her hair free from the collar. She wasn't frightened as much as excited, the same as if this were another of their long-ago games. She wasn't completely convinced it wasn't— until she caught the faint gleam of Jack's remaining pistol in the glow of the embers.

"What are you doing with that?" she asked, though even in the half-light it was clear enough that he was wiping the gun's flintlock dry with well-practiced efficiency. "I thought you told me it wasn't loaded."

"It wasn't then," he said evenly. "It is now."

Their glances met over the pistol in his hand, neither speaking the single question that hung in the air between them. Yet even so, Miriam's heart cried the answer: he'd promised there'd be no more piracy, no more thievery, no more fighting, and because she loved him, she'd believed him. Yet what other meaning could there be to a loaded gun in his hand?

"Be easy, sweetheart," he said, though of course she was anything but. "Trust me, and I swear no harm will come to you."

She wanted to shout that she didn't want his protection, or his assurances, either—it wasn't herself she feared for—but instead all she did was nod in miserable silence. If he saw no harm or contradiction in his actions, then nothing she could say would do any good, anyway.

He made sure the lock wasn't cocked as he hooked the pistol onto his belt, then held his hand out to her with his usual gallantry. "Come, lass," he said. "Let's see to our visitors."

Despite her unhappiness, she joined him, and together they quickly edged along through the tall grass, deeper into the shadows of the scrub pines. Across the water lightning flashed through the clouds, and the wind that ruffled uneasily through the branches over them carried the heavy, wet scent of the storm from the sea. Gently Jack pulled Miriam down beside him, where they could see the beach and not be seen in return. In the next moment a small boat with two men at the oars appeared from behind the rocky point.

"Damnation, I was right about the voices," whispered Jack. "But why in blazes would anyone else row out to Carmondy on such a night?"

Miriam didn't care so much about why as who. She peered at the small boat pushing through the currents as it drew closer to the island, trying to recognize the two men by the lantern in the prow. They were not young men; they were too old to have rowed this distance on some youthful lark, and from the deft way they handled the boat as well as from their well-worn clothing Miriam knew they were sailors, sailors she'd seen before.

"Those two were in the Lion's taproom all afternoon," she said slowly. "They kept to themselves, mostly, and Father wasn't happpy that they made their rum last so long and ordered nothing to eat with it. I didn't catch their names, but if—"

"Will Stevens and Asa Paton," said Jack, his whispered voice oddly flat. "They're my father's old mates, Miriam, and mine, too, from the
Dasher
."

"Oh, Jack, no." Her chest squeezed tight with horror as she watched him methodically pull the pistol from his belt, the easy way it settled in his hand. Stevens and Paton were the same men that had nearly destroyed his life before, and they could end it now without a thought. And there were two of them, while in Jack's hand there was only one gun with one ball loaded to fire, and worse, one promise he'd made to her.

One man raised his hand to point in the direction of the old gallows-oak behind them, his long gray hair streaming in the wind, and raised the lantern high to see better. Candlelight spilled into the boat and over the small, golden head of a third person huddled on the forward bench. Miriam gasped, and grabbed Jack's arm.

"Oh, dear God, look," she whispered in terrified disbelief. "They have Henry."

Jack saw, and he swore, quietly and violently, and she felt his body coil and tense even more beside her.

"Henry must have been boasting in the taproom about knowing you," she babbled, unable to help herself or keep the tears from her eyes, "and that you always came to Carmondy, and they must have thought he could lead them to you."

"It's not me they want," said Jack. "It's my father's share of Avery's gold."

As they watched, the two men jumped from the boat and dragged it onto the sand. The storm rumbled closer, the lightning flashing more brightly now behind the blanket of clouds, the water dappled and driven by the rising wind, but Stevens and Paton were too intent to notice. As Jack had guessed, they'd brought shovels with them, but they also wore cutlasses and pistols much like Jack's own. Stevens, the one with the trailing, grizzled mustache, reached into the boat and grabbed Henry, hauling him roughly by one arm over the side and onto the sand. The boy yelped with pain and fear as he struggled to keep pace with the two men as they half dragged him up the beach. Even at this distance Miriam could tell he was crying, and it took all her will not to run to him.

"They're hurting him," she said, her own tears streaking her cheeks. "Oh, Jack, he's still only a little boy!"

Yet when Jack looked at the boy held tight in Stevens's grasp, he saw more than Miriam's little brother. He saw the future and the children he wanted so desperately to have with her, the woman he loved more than his own life. But he also saw the grimmest part of his past, the weeping, terrified Indian women he hadn't been able to save. His future and his past now twined together, neither possible to ignore.

Rapidly he began unbuckling the belt with his cutlass. This was
his
island, his and Miriam's, not Stevens's or Paton's or even his father's. He still knew it better than anyone, and if he could just get Henry away, he knew they could vanish into the island's secret places and be safe. Carefully he set the pistol on the ground before Miriam, and the cutlass with it.

"What are you doing?" she asked frantically. "Oh, love, where are you going?"

Gently he touched her face, brushing away her tears with the tips of his fingers. He couldn't begin to tell her how dear she was to him, but maybe, this way, he could show her. "Stay here, Mirry, where you'll be safe, and I'll fetch Henry. Whatever happens, don't let them see you, mind? Promise me that, Mirry. Don't let them find you."

She nodded, understanding the danger, even as her eyes overflowed with fresh tears.

"Wait," she said, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "For luck."

He smiled, and kissed her on her forehead. "For luck, and for love."

Slowly Jack crept through the tall grass and the shadows. The two men had pulled off their coats and cutlass belts and begun to dig into the sandy soil not far from the oak, their backs to Jack.

"Would've been like Johnny to hide his gold with dead men to watch it," said Paton with a glance up at the gallows-like branch that had given the tree its name. "You can almost hear him a-laughin' at us now."

Stevens's only answer was to curl his fingers into a sign against the evil eye and tap his forehead before he spat and concentrated again on digging.

A few paces away Henry squatted where he'd been ordered to stay, his arms folded tight around his little body and his misery. The wind gusted again, and this time with it came the first splatter of raindrops plopping dully into the sand, but Stevens and Paton kept digging, grunting with exertion.

Jack frowned, wondering how best to get the boy's attention. He couldn't risk calling to him, but he also didn't want to expose himself any further in the open. An owl's sudden agitated hooting startled him enough that automatically he whipped his head about, half expecting to see the bird swooping down upon him. But there was nothing except the scrubby pines and weeds where he'd left Miriam, and his grin spread as suddenly as the owl's call had come.

Clever lass, he thought with unabashed adoration, his clever, clever lass, and when he looked back toward Henry, the boy was now staring directly at him. At least
he
had recognized his sister's wild-owl call. When Jack beckoned, Henry came running, a flash of lightning showing his arms pumping and his round-cheeked face alight with relief and the same excitement that Jack so loved to see in Miriam.

But as the boy ran, his toe snagged in a knot of dried seaweed and he cried out as he pitched forward. Without thinking Jack lunged forward, catching Henry around the waist to carry him to safety. But he was only halfway up the dune when he heard the unmistakable click of a flintlock being cocked.

Not now
, he thought desperately,
not when we're so close
. Still he stopped, the boy in his arms, and after one endless moment, turned slowly to face Stevens's pistol.

"Look'ee, Asa, it's Little Jack, the cowardly bastard," said the man with a cackle as his finger played idly around the trigger. "Come back to cheat us one more time, have you, laddie?"

The gunshot rang so close that Jack jerked to one side, convinced he'd been hit. But instead it was Stevens who was staggering backwards toward the oak and screaming with pain as he clutched the shattered pulp of his shoulder, his arm now dangling broken and useless and his gun in the sand. Behind him Paton snatched up the fallen pistol and aimed the long barrel not at Jack, but at the child in his arms, and automatically Jack twisted away, shielding Henry as best he could with his own body.

This was not how he'd wished it to end for any of them, not for Henry or Mirry or himself. At least he could die knowing he'd done right for her after all, that he'd proven he could be a good man worthy of her love. But dear God, why did he have to die to prove it?

The brilliant flash seared his eyes, a white-hot ball of flame that zigzagged from the sky to the oak. The explosion hurled him backwards into the sand, blinding him, surrounding him with the sounds of splintering, cracking timbers and the pungent scent of singed wood. Beneath him the ground shook as the oak's great roots ripped from the soil, and when the trunk toppled to the beach, the crash was louder than the thunder overhead.

Then Miriam was screaming his name, over and over, and he felt something soft and warm wriggling impatiently to be free beneath him. Dazed, he rolled over and shook his head to clear it. With an effort he opened his eyes, a thousand tiny sparks darting through his vision.

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the cool rain wash over his eyelids. He couldn't remember when the rain had begun, but he was grateful for it now. Carefully he opened his eyes again, and this time there were no sparks or flashes, only Miriam's dear, wet, worried face, with Henry—that wriggling mass that had been beneath him—now clutched tight in her arms.

"You're all right then, Henry?" he asked, his voice sounding thick and distant in his ears. "Nothing amiss?"

The boy shook his head, but his gaze was fixed on the great tree lying across the beach. Trapped beneath the trunk and the tangle of broken branches were one of Stevens's legs and Paton's right arm, all that remained uncrushed, and with a gasp of horror Miriam turned her brother's face away and into her hip.

Unsteadily Jack rose to his feet, his knees wobbling beneath him. Every muscle in his body ached, every nerve seemed stretched and beaten, but the wild joy he felt at still being alive made him forget everything else.

Except, of course, for Miriam. She was hanging back with Henry, hesitant, her hair in sodden tangles over her shoulders and his rain-soaked shirt sliding to one side as it clung to her body, and in her hand she still clutched the pistol she'd used to shoot Stevens.

She had never looked more beautiful, he decided, nor had he loved her more.

"Oh, Mirry," he said, his words still slurring softly as he frowned at the pistol. "Must I make you promise to give up pirating, too?"

She gasped, then laughed, and before she wrapped her arms around him she tossed the empty gun over her shoulder.

But instead of thumping in the sand, the pistol landed with a ring of metal on metal. With Miriam's shoulder tucked neatly beneath his arm to steady him, they crossed to where the pistol had dropped, into the hollow beneath the arching web of the oak's roots. Although the worst of the storm had already passed, lightning flickered and flashed one more time, over a long-buried lattice of rotting wood, a rusted padlock, a ransom of gold and silver coins with the likenesses of a dozen different kings and queens. His father's treasure.