Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (47 page)

"Ahoy," called Henry importantly, standing on the fallen tree as he pointed out into the pink sky of the new dawn. "There's a ship."

With a groan, Jack straightened and turned to look out to sea. They'd spent most of the night shifting the gold and silver coins into Mrs. Rowe's supper basket, their incongruous but useful makeshift treasure chest. The last thing he wished now was any more "visitors" to Carmondy, especially any like the earlier ones. But not only did a ship lie on the near horizon, as Henry had reported, but the captain had lowered a boat, which was even now nearly on their beach.

"Oh, hell," he said wearily as Miriam joined him. "Tell me I'm not really seeing what my eyes say I am."

"Why not, when it's true?" she asked cheerfully, wiping the mud from her hands on the side of his now filthy shirt "And why wouldn't you wish to see Zach, anyway?" "Don't really wish to see anyone other than you, sweet," he said, bending to kiss her. Though the evening certainly had turned out well enough, there were still parts of it he'd rather have missed. "And what makes you think it's your brother, anyway?"

"Because that's his ship," she answered, her cheeks pink after being kissed before Henry. "Well, not quite
his
ship, because he's only the first mate, but his cousin Samson Fairbourne's ship, the
Morning Star
. I'd recognize it anywhere."

"Would you." Jack sighed. He'd almost rather be visited again by Stevens and Paton than any of Zach's high-and-mighty Fairbourne cousins. And why, he wondered suspiciously, had Zach decided to come bustling over to Carmondy on this particular morning? That hadn't been part of their plan at all.

But whether it was or not no longer mattered, because Zach himself was splashing through the shallow water, ready to hear all about the pirates and the storm and to marvel at the newly discovered treasure.

"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" asked Jack crossly when he had the chance to take Zach aside. His friend was looking particularly proper and prosperous this morning, newly shaven and with a clean, pressed shirt and a well-brushed coat that infuriated barefoot, bare-chested Jack all the more. "I thought we'd agreed that Miriam and I would be left here alone for at least a day and a night."

But Zach only smiled blandly. "I thought it best to check on you after the storm, and a good thing I did, too. You can't fault me for looking after my sister's interests, can you?"

Jack couldn't, not even when Zach swept them all off the island and on board the
Morning Star
with the wicker treasure chest carefully hoisted up the side with them. And he couldn't object to the splendid breakfast in Samson Fairbourne's cabin, either, or the hot coffee that spread its warmth through his exhausted body, or the way that Miriam set her chair so close to his that she was nearly sitting in his lap, her hand resting fondly on his knee. She still wore his shirt, too, though with her mother's coverlet tossed over it as a shawl for modesty's sake.

"Now," declared Samson Fairbourne as the last of breakfast was cleared away. He was a large man, enough like Zach to be a brother, and when he declared things, everyone listened. "Are we all ready to begin the wedding?"

Jack felt all that splendid breakfast and coffee he'd consumed rising up to choke him.

"What wedding?" asked Miriam in a tiny voice. Her back had grown straight and stiff, and with concern Jack noted she'd turned as pale as his shirt. "I know I was to wed Mr. Chuff shortly, but I believe that is, ah, not to happen now. Unless… oh, Zach, whatever mischief have you done now?"

"No mischief, muffin," said Zach with enough heartiness to make Jack long to throttle him outright. "But considering the circumstances, I thought you and Jack would wish to wed here, with Sam as captain to do the honors, and without the bother of waiting for the banns to be read on land."

"But a wedding, a marriage—this is something Jack and I have not discussed!" she cried, so plaintively that Jack swiftly rested his hand over hers to reassure her. "We've never spoken of it, not—not even once!"

Zach cleared his throat. "Then perhaps you should be speaking of it now. What shall you say, Jack?"

"I say that you're a meddlesome, traitorous idiot," snapped Jack, slipping his arm possessively around Miriam's waist and pulling her closer. "I say that for someone who pretends to care so much about his sister, you're showing damned little concern for her feelings now, shaming and bullying her like this before strangers!"

"Then perhaps it's high time she had someone else to look after her welfare, someone who'll do a better job of it," said Zach, tapping his knuckle lightly on the table. "You've always told me you'd make Miriam happier than any other man alive, and you came clear around the world to do it. You've more than enough money to support her now. And you certainly seem, ah, devoted to her. You agree, don't you?"

"Aye," said Jack soundly. For Miriam's sake, he wouldn't dream of hesitating. "It's all true. And more: I love her, Zach, I love her, and I don't care who the hell knows it."

Zach nodded solemnly, and turned toward his sister. "And what do you have to say for yourself, muffin? Do you love Jack, too?"

"Yes," she said as she turned to face Jack, her expression so dear and melting soft with emotion that he was afraid he'd cry himself, just from looking at her. "I do love him, and I always have. And
I
don't care who the hell knows it, either, as long as Jack does himself."

"Well, then," began Samson again. "Are we all ready to begin this wedding or not?"

And this time, to no one's surprise, they were.

Miriam and Jack decided not to keep house like other husbands and wives, but instead built an elegant little sloop with a cabin as grand as any front parlor for displaying her collection of shells, and a bedchamber in the stern with windows so they could watch the sun rise without rising themselves. They sailed wherever their fancy took them, best friends and lovers, and in time their little crew included three large, boisterous sons and one small but equally boisterous daughter. And pirating of any sort was strictly forbidden.

Others said the secret of the Wilders' happiness was the treasure they'd found on Carmondy Island, and when Jack and Miriam heard that, they'd smile at each other, their secret safe between them. For they
had
discovered their love there, a treasure more rare than any gold or silver.

And they didn't care who the hell knew it.

With more than two million copies in print worldwide, Miranda Jarrett's bestselling books are enjoyed by readers from Singapore to Poland to Australia. Her critically acclaimed novels of colonial America featuring the unforgettable Sparhawk family have now been joined by her newest series for Pocket Books, featuring the equally memorable Fairbournes of Appledore:
The Captain's Bride, Cranberry Point
, and
Wishing
. Her most recent book,
Moonlight
, gives Zach Fairbourne, Miriam's meddlesome older brother in "Buried Treasure," the heroine he deserves.

When Miranda is not sitting huddled on the aluminum bleachers in the ice rink where her two children skate, she enjoys spending long summer days on Cape Cod, the home of the Fairbournes. Unfortunately, none of her family have uncovered any long-buried pirate gold—yet.

Miranda is a graduate of Brown University with a degree in art history. A two-time RITA Award finalist, she is the recipient of many awards and honors for her writing, including the prestigious
Romantic Times
Reviewers' Choice Award for Best North American Historical Romance. She loves to hear from readers, and can be reached at P.O. Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-0792 (an SASE is appreciated), or by e-mail at [email protected].

For the girls of summer—Cathy, Malena, Carolyn, Eileen, Linda, Bonnie,

Ann (did I miss anyone?)— who still haunt the dunes on Pompano Beach.

Forever young.

A subtle breeze whispered through the stand of bamboo that edged the parking lot, setting the long leafy fingers to stir softly against the side of the dark blue van that was parked discretely in the farthest corner. The last traces of dusk's pale gold and purple sky were visible through the windshield, and it would be but minutes more until the sun would be completely swallowed by the far horizon. The man inside the van checked his watch again and sighed. Eight-thirty. He leaned over to check his camera, set steadily upon the tripod. His client had wanted both still photos and video. Jeremy Noble, of Noble and Dawson Investigations, would give the good senator what he paid for.