My Timeswept Heart Read online

  Sloane was vindictive, Tess knew, doubting her father was aware of the vengeance his princess engi­neered.

  "Come on, dress. I've booked myself on a cruise." At Tess's raised brows, Penny said, "If you couldn't help, I was going to take a trip. Then come back after the news hit the papers. After it had cooled down."

  "Oh, real smart move, Pen." She grabbed the dress. "Nothing like running and making yourself look guilty." She stepped into it anyway.

  Penny ignored that, riffling through Tess's dresser, then shimmied into a pair of holier-than-thou jeans and an overwashed sorority tee-shirt.

  "The ship leaves at midnight." The redhead opened her clutch and withdrew the ticket. "Pier Four." She

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  stuffed the Jaguar keys and ticket in Tess's hand as she passed. "There's an overnight bag in the trunk. Use my credit."

  "No!" Tess barked over her shoulder before check­ing the front of the house. They were there, waiting, watching.

  "Use it, damn you. You're in this mess because of me. And cover your hair; there's a hat on the car seat."

  "Yippee. I get to play movie star," she remarked in a flat tone, heading toward the back door. On im­pulse she grabbed up a silver frame and stuffed it in her bag. Her hand on the knob, she turned back to the actress. "The keys are by the phone. Stay here a while if you can, then run the creeps to Miami and back." A tapered black brow shot up. "Maybe even into Sloane's house?"

  Penny grinned. "Enjoy the cruise. Bahamas, first class, port out."

  "My, aren't we the snot."

  They laughed for a brief second, then sobered.

  "In the desk, bottom left drawer, is—" Tess swal­lowed-"my will."

  The other woman's eyes filled with panic. "Won't need it." Then she peeked around the faded gingham curtain. "We'll bop till we drop when this is over." As Tess turned the knob, Penny gave her a quick fierce hug. "I owe you, bud," she whispered, tears flowing.

  "Never owe the ones you love, Hamilton. Don't you know that by now?"

  Tess was gone.

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  25.6 South of the Tropic of Cancer Caicos Islands, West Indies 1789

  "Has she shown her colors?" Captain Blackwell asked without looking up from his charts.

  The boatswain dragged his cap from his head, crunching it nervously. "Ah, nay, sir."

  "Then do not disturb me until she does." Only his eyes lifted, and the boatswain couldn't keep from flinching. "Unless, of course, she sends a volley our way." The captain's lips twisted wryly. The sarcasm was lost on the man. "Dismissed, Mr. Potts."

  "Aye-aye, sir." The young boatswain made a hasty

  retreat.

  His shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, fists braced on the desk, Captain Blackwell examined the charts and maps for another moment, then, with a curse, straightened and turned away. He snatched up his spyglass and, through the broad window in the aft of his cabin, sighted in the approaching ship. Who have you sent this time, Phillip? Am I that near to discovering your lair? God's teeth, but she was clos­ing fast! Likely naught in her hold, he mused, his powerful legs shifting unconsciously with the roll of the vessel. Dark clouds tumbled overhead, graying the sea. The storm would reach them by nightfall. They'd have to sail further out, clear of the reefs and rocks to remain safely in these waters. He lifted the glass again for another judgment. Suddenly he grabbed his weapons, strapping on his sword and shoving the flintlock through the belt of his breeches

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  as he strode from the large cabin, jackboots thump­ing on slick wood.

  Duncan McPete suppressed a smile when the cap-tain climbed up onto the quarter deck. Knew he couldn't stay below, Duncan chuckled to himself. He could see the eagerness in the man, the hope that this would be the time he would send the bastard to Davy Jones.

  "What ails you, sir?" Duncan asked when a dark scowl creased his captain's tanned features. The man kept blinking, then sighting down the scope.

  Captain Blackwell held the glass out to the man beside him. "Take a look, Mr. Thorpe," he ordered.

  The first mate scanned the horizon for the ship, then repeated the measure. He lowered the scope, flushing red.

  "What see you, Mister?" the captain demanded.

  "I-I can't seem to locate her, sir."

  Blackwell dropped a hand to the man's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Neither could I, mate. I thought perhaps I'd suddenly gone mad."

  Gaelan Thorpe sighed with relief as the captain called up to the crow for a report and was relayed the same readings with equal amounts of embarrassment.

  "There she is, sir!"

  All turned starboard aft to see the vessel even far­ther away than before. Captain Blackwell knew his crew, his ship, and the courses set. They couldn't have veered off and never so quickly.

  " Tis a damned ghost ship!" someone shouted.

  "Aye," another said, several voices rumbling in agreement.

  "The keeper of the treasures be angry, Capt'n. Turn

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  about!"

  His boot braced against a crate lashed to the rail, Captain Blackwell twisted slowly, eyes pale as seawa-ter sweeping over his crew, "Not—another—word." He spoke softly, yet the warning carried to each and every man. Men scurried to their duties before catch­ing the cat.

  Blackwell didn't believe in the myths that prevailed in these waters. Yet as he turned back and saw a shroud of black fog magically engulf the other vessel, for an instant he doubted. His God and himself.

  Tropic of Cancer

  Bahamas

  1989

  She blended easily with the vacationers in her French-cut, black maillot swimsuit. Relaxing for the first time in a week, Tess adjusted the canvas chaise, stuffed her bag beneath her head, then donned her mirrored sunglasses. She'd spent several sleepless nights until she was certain those meat chunks hadn't followed her to the Bahamas, then finally began to enjoy Penny's generosity. The Nassau Queen was on its return trip to Florida. She still didn't know what to do with her little acquisition, but hadnt been without it once, Tess couldn't go to the captain or the police; that would force her to explain how she happened to possess the packet and why. And then there was the possibility of her juvenile record surfacing. She didn't think she could stand the shame of her past coming back. Not now.

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  She flinched, startled when a waiter bent close, warning her about the sun and asking if she'd like something cool to drink. Iced tea, she decided, then sat upright, unzipping her bag to obediently apply some sunscreen. She was coating her leg when she saw them. The bottle dropped to the deck. She didn't retrieve it. panicked, she stood, automatically zipping closed the bag and slipping the strap over her head and beneath an arm. How did I miss them? Then she realized that they must have flown to the Bahamas and chartered a boat to one of the outer islands to have caught up with her. Oh, God! What did that matter now?

  They'd found her.

  The two men were dressed like the waiters, blue flowered shirts, white trousers; one balanced a tray, a glass and a folded linen cloth resting in the center. It was the waiter who'd taken her order. Tess glanced fearfully around her. Calypso music blared, vacation­ers danced dirty, played shuffleboard and water polo, flirted, and baked in the sun, happy, relaxed. Oblivi­ous. No one noticed their approach. Maybe if I call attention to myself, they'll leave me alone, she thought desperately, unwilling to chance a bystander getting hurt. The man with the tray slipped his hand inside the cloth. Her gaze caught on the nose of a silencer two seconds before he lifted the linen—and the weapon.

  I'm a dead woman.

  In one fluid movement Tess backflipped over the rail and plunged feet first into the Caribbean waters. The impact sent her glasses scraping against her face, her sandals tearing from her feet. The bag clubbed

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  her in the head. She swam for the surface as soon as she could bring her arms down. Muscled legs scis­sored, arms dug through the liquid, air passed her lips, churning with the bubbles of th
e propellers. She went deeper than she anticipated and was gasping for air when her head surged above the cool water. She managed to suck in a lungful seconds before she was dragged into the ship's backwash. Terrified, she fought, the undertow quickly pulling her toward the propellers. Her strength was depleting. For God's sake, she begged wildly, stop the engines! Then through her blurred vision beneath the tropical wa­ters, Tess saw the distinct shape of a fin.

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  CHAPTER THREE

  Propellers, like blades of a massive Cuisinart, churned, drawing their tender meal closer. The engine hummed, its sound vibrating the water sealed over her helpless body. Bubbles, her own and those of the ships, swirled, grazed her skin like delicate fingers, teasing her with their valuable contents. Tess desper­ately fought the scream grinding in her constricted throat when the daggerlike fin passed again. Her lungs begged for mercy as she swam frantically against the current. The shark bumped her. And the scream erupted, silenced by a gush of water. She was drowning, arms flailing in a wild frenzy.

  It nudged her again, her back, then again under her arm, and just as black spots cloaked her vision, she was catapulted to the surface. She choked and sputtered, struggling to tread water while vomiting up food and half the Atlantic. Exhausted, her eyes sting­ing, Tess inhaled a waterless breath and realized the ship was moving rapidly.

  Away.

  Panic shot through her like hot lead.

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  "Come back! Oh God! COME BACK!" she screamed, but her throat was raw, and nothing emerged above the thump of the engines. Frantically she waved her arms, coughing on the backwash bub­bling at her throat. No one had noticed her unusual departure. Except the two men looking down at her from the rail, grinning. And waving back. Then she realized she was moving also. She twisted sharply, her eyes rounding in horror at the sight of a fin slicing through the water beside her shoulder. The shark, she thought hopelessly, stran­gling on a new wave of terror. She fought, yet couldn't take her eyes off the fin as it suddenly dipped below the surface, instantly replaced with the slick, rounded snout of a dolphin. Treading, she blinked back salt water, gaping in disbelief. A dolphin! Her muscles relaxed and Tess laughed out loud, her in­credulous relief blending quickly into hysterical sobs. It was useless, she knew, no one to hear, no one to

  care.

  The dolphin chittered, its nose nudging her. She fo­cused on her ... it? ... him?

  "Well, I'll be damned," she said, her voice sandy-rough. The duffle, her cheap, yellow-plastic K-Mart special was buoyant, filled with air, and the strap still entwined around her was trapped in the dolphin's mouth. "Thank you, you beautiful creature," she sobbed, patting and hugging hard, wet skin.

  "Thanks."

  Clinging to the mammal, Tess dunked her head back, smoothed the hair from her face, then scanned the open seas for land. She waited for her fear to sub­side into something more rational. It didn't.

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  No land, she thought matter-of-factly, adjusting her grip. She froze.

  "No land!" she whispered, her head snapping in all directions. She went berserk, twisting and turning, her eyes wild as she searched the horizon. "Oh God, oh God, oh God! NO LAND!" She gripped the dol­phin, wrapping her arms around its torso enough to crush it. It squeaked, shooting a mist out the hole on top of its head, then dipped beneath the surface. Tess came up sputtering. "Calm down, Renfrew," she told herself, gaining only marginal control after she'd lo­cated the cruise liner sailing away under clear skies. No help there, she thought, dismally watching any possible rescue within the hour rapidly fade. Those goons would never alert anyone to her predicament, She twisted a look in the direction the swells were tak­ing her and sucked In her breath, choking on a mouthful of water. Tess stared in horror, alarming dread sapping what was left of her composure.

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Where the hell did that come from?

  The blue horizon had vanished behind a jet black wall, not like a storm but nearly opaque swirls of dense fog climbing upward from the ocean into infin­ity. The surface wobbled eerily, a velvet drape scarcely catching the breeze, smoky mist curling and convuls­ing like a living thing. The rumbling echo of thunder reached her above the din of the sea. She recoiled.

  "Take me that way!" she commanded the animal, wrapping an arm around its fin and trying to urge it back toward the cruiser. It squealed, its powerful flip­pers dragging her through the water—toward the eb­ony curtain.

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  This is a hallucination, she reasoned wildly, a near death kind of vision, and she briefly considered re­leasing the dolphin. But it was her only lifeline. The current would take her 'in the same direction regard­less.

  The elements gave her no choice. Closer. Closer. Her stomach rolled with burning nausea. Closer Her head suddenly felt light, as if just waking from a dream. Lightning crackled violently across the murky blanket. A sickening, heavy sensa­tion melted through her limbs, numbing them, and Tess strained to keep hold of the dolphin. Closer. Her heart drummed so hard she could feel it in her throat, hear its frantic thump in her ears. Never a religious person before now, she prayed for strength, for any­thing that would keep her alive. The dolphin carried her—closer. Sinking into unconsciousness, Tess never saw the undulating fingers of mist reach out, never felt the icy tentacles wrap around her and suck her past the bar­rier, swallowing her. Instantly the black wall vanished behind her, leaving no trace of woman or dolphin on calm seas beneath blue Bahama skies,

  1789

  Tropic of Cancer

  West Indies

  The last of the seasoned deck hands raced to secure crates and barrels as the storm raged, bearing down upon them with a swiftness none had ever seen. They fled belowdecks to safety and to wait out the storm as

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  the frigate pitched and rocked, towering walls of wa­ter crashing over its starboard side, washing anything poorly roped into its blackened depths.

  The captain manned the helm, his tall form lashed to the wheel, relentlessly guiding his ship further be­yond the scattered barrier islands. The Sea Witch was an armed vessel, heavily loaded with fresh stores and merchandise; therefore, her water line was already low. She plowed into the storm and like an angry par­ent, it slapped her back, her figure-headed bow dip­ping, taking on more water.

  "Get below!" Blackwell shouted, his words carried away on the wind.

  The few remaining above deck were only too pleased with the command, yet Mr. Thorpe shook his head. "You cant do this alone, with only one look­out!"

  "That's an order, blast you!" Blackwell's eyes pierced the younger man and, even in the torrential downpour, Gaelan Thorpe recognized his fury. The first mate nodded sharply and using a hand spike, knifed a path to the passageway. He allowed himself a last look at his captain. He was without an oil cloth, barefoot and barechested, his powerful arms strug­gling with the wheel. Normally they would have sim­ply ridden out the storm, but the treacherous waters forbade such a luxury. Gaelan's eyes widened as a mountain of water welled up beyond the port side. His gaze shot to the captain. He was fearlessly wait­ing for the crush. It hit, and Gaelan Thorpe was washed below by the force.

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  The woman clung to the dolphin, her head resting on top of the smooth slope just beyond the fin. She could hear his breath through the hole near her face. It was a comforting sound. He'd saved her life, kept her afloat, and she rewarded him the only way she could—with a name. Richmond—Mighty Protector. One arm was slung limply around his fin, the other dangled in the water. It was useless, the arm, having been wrenched badly during the storm; the pain of it throbbed up to her neck. Her left leg burned near the ankle. Her shoulders were scorched, and blisters had formed, burst, only to be replaced by more. The cycle was continuous since the storm had subsided and the sun had shown its angry face. Her skin felt tight, itchy, her lips dry and cracked. Her stomach roared at its emptiness, and she heaved. But there was nothing left to vomit. Her thirst was insatiable.

  Tess was oblivious
to her surroundings, to the clear azure waters, the schools of brightly colored fish skit­tering playfully around her legs, or the twenty-four-gun frigate sailing within a hundred yards of her.

  Anchored in calm waters, repairs to the frigate were underway when the shout, "Man off port!" came down from the crow, the seaman pointing out

  the area.

  Captain Blackwell frowned, scanning the crystal surface. "All are accounted for, Mr. Thorpe?" he asked, putting the spyglass to his eye.

  "Aye, sir. We lost no one," the first mate answered, his gaze dropping to the blistering rope burns about the captain's forearms. He had yet to see to his own wounds, more concerned with how his men and ship had fared.

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  The captain perused the waters. "I see I must take the boy to task," he mused aloud, "for 'tis but a dol­phin." Captain Blackwell lowered the glass, watching the animal draw closer.

  Duncan McPete suddenly appeared with a tray bearing peculiar-colored drinks.

  Blackwell arched a brow, his gaze shooting between the man and his tray. "Another one of your mysteri­ous concoctions, Mr. McPete?"

  Duncan lifted his chin—and the offerings. "I as­sure you, sir, 'tis naught but the juice of fruits from our stores."

  Blackwell sighed, snatching up the glass, unwilling to insult the man with a reminder of how ill Duncan's last formula had made him. He examined the con­tents in the sunlight. "Pink, Duncan?" he questioned skeptically, then took a sip. Both brows shot up, and the captain drained the glass without stopping, elicit­ing a huge grin from his manservant as he plunked the glass back on the tray. "Write that one down," he said softly, patting his stomach. His rare smile faded when he saw nearly half his crew scurry toward the rail.

  "Captain! Come quick, sir!"

  Blackwell was already striding across the deck, muscled legs easily adjusting to the dip of the vessel. He could hear the ear-piercing squeak of the dolphin as the crew stepped back to allow him passage. His chiseled features spoke his annoyance as he folded his arms and addressed his crew, refusing to take the three paces to the rail.