My Timeswept Heart Read online

  "What is a 'Coast Guard'?" Gaelen asked carefully.

  "You're a seaman, Mr. Thorpe, figure it out." When he continued to stare at her, she practically shouted, "They guard the coast!' then spun away, moving to the large window and wrapping her arms around her middle.

  "Sir, forgive me. If we've upset the lady, I shall—" Aaron Finch cut his words off when his captain in­clined his head sharply for them to vacate his cabin.

  "No one meant to insult you, m'lady," he said after they'd departed.

  She laughed short and without humor. "Yeah, right. They just think I'm playing with half a deck." And I know they are. If she played along better she'd certainly look less of a fool. "When do we get to shore, Captain?"

  Dane took one last look at the map before he rolled it up and tied the hide lacing. Phillip was on one of those uncharted islands. He was sure of it. Yet with­out any coordinates he'd been unable to locate the exact one. How could she know of its existence? He'd

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  only gleaned that much from crude translations with a few natives and an old Dutch missionary.

  When he didn't answer, Tess glanced over her shoulder. "Blackwell," she persisted. "When do we get to dry land?"

  "We don't."

  He removed his sword and belt from a series of hooks on the wall, strapping them on as he strode to the hutch. Opening a drawer, he removed a large wood box, then lifted the lid. Tess was mesmerized as he swiftly loaded two antique flintlock pistols, then shoved them in the band of his trousers. He slipped a knife into each boot, then removed a third from the drawer and walked over to her, holding it out.

  Tess frowned between the vicious-looking blade and the man. "What are you up to now, Blackwell?"

  "Take it, protect yourself."

  "From what?"

  "Stay below and lock the door behind me."

  Tess shook her head. "Quit ignoring the question and tell me what's going on."

  He grasped her hand, his eyes turning paler as he forced her to accept the sheathed knife. "Do not come on deck for any reason. Is that understood?"

  Tess shrugged, then twisted slightly and tossed the knife on the velvet bench. When she turned back, he was already stepping out the door, a hand on the latch.

  "How did you know the existence of the islands?" he asked softly, his back to her.

  "I've seen it on a tourist map. Or have you forgot­ten that / still live in the twentieth century?"

  His broad shoulders sagged a bit. "Nay, Lady Ren-

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  frew, I have not forgotten." Then he closed the door behind him.

  Over the stern of his ship, Dane sighted down the scope, his lips pulling into a thin line. The vessel was weaving, shifting ballast, trimming sail, testing her speed. Showing her muscle. A sure sign she intended to do battle.

  "Wind speed, Mr. Finch?"

  "Twenty knots, sir."

  "Ours?" Dane lowered the scope.

  "Nearly twelve, sir."

  The captain muttered a curse, squinting against the setting sun. The brig was sleeker, mayhaps a touch faster, for her hull was empty, above her water line; she'd covered too much distance not to be.

  "Mr. Thorpe, full sail. Let's not give her a gander at what she's challenged." The boatswain's whistle shrilled and men scurried up the rigging. "Mr. Potts?"

  "Aye, sir?"

  "Is your station fit?"

  Potts flushed, then straightened his shoulders and met the captain's ice green eyes. His duties included the charge of the forward hull, its equipment. "Aye-aye, Capt'n, Fo'c'sle cannons ready an' armed."

  The captain nodded sharply, calling for reports from the gun deck. Men bellowed into funnels, deep voices carrying down through narrow pipes running between decks, alleviating the confusion in the com-panionway.

  His legs braced wide apart, the stiff breeze plaster­ing his dark shirt to his chest, the formidable Captain

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  Blackwell on the quarter deck instilled confidence in the men preparing for battle. He watched the brig ap­proach. The Sea Witch was swift, strong, heavily gunned, and Dane knew how to maneuver her as in­stinctively as he breathed. Though the sun was rap­idly descending, the frigate had one more advantage; she was pointed pitch black and now sported solid black sails.

  His gaze darted to each station checking the area, then he nodded to a crew man. Lifting the scope to his eye, he could count her guns, fewer than eighteen topside, and could make out her numbers to be half his own. Silently he said a prayer that she would not engage, for their sake. Another champion, Phillip? Bloody coward, he thought, hoping the worm was aboard, itching to run the bastard through himself.

  For a brief instance his mind conjured his father, thin, pale, broken; his fortune gone; his home stolen, destroyed. And Desiree. His chest tightened, every muscle in his body clenching with reined anger as he remembered her unspeakable disgrace. The situation forced Dane to reassess his priorities, and somehow Lady Renfrew had slipped into that category, though he was loath to admit it. He lowered the spyglass and mashed a hand over his face, trying to clear his thoughts for what lay ahead.

  "What's going on?"

  His hand dropped sharply. Tess stood before him.

  "Have you no sense at all! Get below!" The brig was swiftly approaching.

  "I will not!" she blasted, hands on her hips. "And you don't have to bite my head off!"

  A low growl rumbled in his chest as he advanced,

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  and she took a step back, bumping into the rail. He caught her shoulders. "Must you always fight me?"

  She twisted out of his grasp. "I don't always fight, Blackwell. Not until I 'met you. And you can't just give me a knife, tell me to protect myself, then order me to stay put! It doesn't work that way."

  "It does on my ship! Now get below!"

  "Hell, no!"

  Heads came around at that. "Don't you under­stand?" he said, his gaze darting to the brig. "The sight of you aboard will be cause enough for attack!"

  "That's ridiculous!" she scoffed.

  He grabbed her by the arms, hoisting her off the deck and up in his face. "For the love of God, woman, get to safety! I cannot be worried for your life and my men and ship, too!"

  She blinked. He looked so desperate she almost re­lented. "Dont you think you're overreacting just a bi —?" She was cut off in mid-sentence when he un­ceremoniously tossed her over his shoulder, then stormed to the passageway.

  Her humiliation was nothing compared to the air being punched out of her lungs with each step he took, her pounding on his back of no consequence against his determination. He's enjoying this, she thought, his hands clasping her bottom and thighs with a bit too much familiarity. She felt a painful jolt as he kicked open the cabin door, and her ears were ringing when he pitched her on the bed. She started to get up, but he shoved her down, pointing a finger in her face.

  "Stay there! Do not move or I swear, by all that is holy, I will tie you to this bed!"

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  She bristled at that. "Just try it, you ape, and-"

  In a heartbeat he was in her face, hands braced at her hips, and he continued to bear down on her, forc­ing her to dig her head into the pillows.

  "I cannot spare a man to post guard, but if forced, be assured I will. Is—that—clear!" A thin frost hung on the edge of his words, and less nodded mutely, fear stinging down her spine. He seemed to always be angry at her, but never like this. Black hair tumbled low on his forehead like a raven's wing, his expression dark, chiseled in amber, and those eyes belonged to a panther, the pupils mere slits of black. God, it was awesome.

  He straightened abruptly, glowered down at her for a second, then turned away. She lay there frozen until her fear swiftly burst into indignation, and she leapt from the bed, racing after him. He was already clos­ing the door, and she caught a sardonic smile as he shut it in her face. Her eyes widened when she heard the click of the lock. Tess paled with anger, so furious she could hardly speak. Not that it
would do her any good to yell; she could already hear his boots thump­ing down the hall.

  "Chauvinistic, sexist pig!" she muttered to the room. "He may as well have bashed me over the head with a club and dragged me down here by the hair!"

  Tess tried the door anyway, then sighed back against it. Let them have their fun. She'd make that man's life a living hell until she got off this tub.

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  CHAPTER TEN

  The sun and moon battled for supremacy for a breathless moment, the silver crescent claiming the victory high in the sky, waiting for the vanquished to slink in retreat. And like a gypsy's red coin slipping into an indigo silk bag, the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. Darkness quickly fell, blackening the sea, pearly moonlight streaming across the eerie calm like the gleam on polished onyx.

  The Sea Witch plunged across the waters, allowing its pursuer to give chase for several miles, letting them believe she thought herself outmatched and wished to escape the conflict. As the captain anticipated, the brig lowered more sail and shifted ballast to increase her speed.

  Dane's smile was thin. I'll give the bastard every advantage, he decided, refusing to fire the first shot. He spoke softly to the second mate.

  "Trim a might off the fore, main, and mizzen sails, Mr. Finch. Discreetly. Let us give the lady something to be cocksure about."

  Aaron smiled, and without benefit of whistle com-

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  mand, he quietly relayed the order, knowing this would slow them down a little, giving the brig a chance to keep them in her sights. The frigate's crew were well-sailed, and her captain knew how to get the best speed out of her. When the time was right.

  The hour seemed to stretch in endless agony while the crew nervously waited, hearts pounding and can­nons loaded for the attack. Not one man aboard doubted it would ensue. Three had come before her, and thrice they'd sent the vessels to haunt with Davy Jones. When the brig was close enough, the com­mand came to extinguish all lanterns, and as if by the graceful stroke of an artist's brush, the Sea Witch melted into the night.

  The brig was easily seen in the meager light, for she bore a white stripe above her water line, a foggy splash on the canvas of black. In the ordered silence, the men aboard the frigate heard confused voices car­rying across the ocean. So close. Eyes shifted between the brig and their captain, each mate anticipating his signal. It was nearly relief when it finally came.

  Rope creaked against wood as men strained to tack mizzen yard, position fore and aft booms. Black sails unfurled, whipping and cracking as they billowed, catching the wind and harnessing its invisible power. Swift and sharp the Sea Witch came about. The pow­erful frigate dipped windward, whispering across the inky velvet like a rapier through humid air. The brig had long since lost sight of her in the darkness and never realized she'd turned back and was now adja­cent, sailing behind the dual-masted craft. Then the pitch black frigate maneuvered into fighting distance with all the noise of hungry shark.

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  Sprawled across the bed reading Common Sense, by Thomas Paine, Tess-had already discarded her slip­pers, stockings, and the first three under petticoats because of the heat in the cabin. For the moment she'd given up the need to see Blackwell squirm with some sadistic revenge. Wasted energy, she decided, worrying over something she could not change, and gave up the attempt to understand the political theo­rist's writings. She closed the book and picked up an­other. Gulliver's Travels. Blackwell certainly had a wide variety: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Defoe. Some books were even written in French and Latin. Bet he can't read them, she thought maliciously, flopping over on her back and wishing she had a copy of S.E. Baker's latest spy thriller to lose herself in.

  Thirsty, she rolled to the edge of the bed and reached for the pitcher. Suddenly the ship listed to one side, and the ceramic urn crashed to the floor. Tess caught the edge of the mattress, straining not to fall on the broken pottery until the vessel righted it­self. She scooted to the center of the fluffy down, watching loose items roll off the desk.

  "What in God's name are you up to now, Black-well?" she muttered at the ceiling. When she deemed it safe, she climbed off the bed, cleaned up the porce­lain shards, then moved to the desk, bending to pick up the charts and ledgers. A loud crack burst into the silence, and her yelp of surprise was immediately drowned by a thundering boom. Stunned, she dropped the ledgers. The frigate pitched furiously, and her arms waved in a useless attempt to grasp

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  something stable. An instant later she found herself dumped on her rear. She stayed there for a second, cursing the handsome lunatic, working herself into a state of madness, then struggled in the limp skirts to stand.

  She could hear rapid footsteps above her. Shouts from all directions but starboard. She whipped around toward the window, and her eyes widened. Bright flashes of light reflected off the ocean with every vibrating crash. Water sprayed in towering fountains as Tess groped her way to the velvet bench. She swallowed convulsively, plopping onto the seat, shocked beyond any further movement. She couldn't see much, but Lord, could she hear it. Screams of pain, of sheer agony echoed down to her, making her skin crawl up her neck. It was all so realistic! Then the frigate shuddered as it repaid cannon fire three times over. She heard water splash, wood crack, metal scrape against metal, and sails rip. Please don't let it be ours, she thought, not sure this ship could stand such an authentic reenactment. The odor of gunpow­der drifted to her, and she watched in horror as a cannonball plopped into the ocean only a few yards from the open window, close enough to send water spraying in her face.

  That's it, she thought, swiping at the dampness and latching the window. Tess left her seat and ran to the door, slapping the wood, desperate to get top side. She heard the thump of footsteps in a dead run out­side and yelled to be let out. The steps slowed, paused, then raced away, their owner ignoring her call. This was insane! What if this tub actually sank? Frantically she jiggled the latch, but it wouldn't

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  budge. Then she smiled, stepped back and lifted her skirts above her thighs. She concentrated and took aim, kicking the wood just before the latch. It gave the tiniest bit and with the sounds from above drown­ing any noise she made, Tess continued to kick with the ball of her foot until she heard the wood crack. She jerked and pulled at the latch, straining until it burst open, and for the second time she went flying across the room. No time to muster dignity, she thought, barely catching the table ledge, then racing out the door.

  The passageway was clear, and she headed down the corridor. Yanking up her skirts in one hand, she paused before the hatch, bracing herself for what she might find. She could hear Blackwell shouting com­mands and curses. The roll of cannons moving back to be reloaded rumbled beneath her feet; then the ship lurched with another boom and she was thrown viciously against the door. It burst open at the im­pact, and she sailed out, sprawling onto the wet deck. Quickly Tess rolled into a sitting position, spellbound at what filled her vision.

  Two sweaty men dueled with swords scarcely a yard from her, and she quickly scooted back out of their way. She heard one call the other a "scurvy rat" and saw him raise his sword. Light flickered off the steel as a man she recognized brought the blade down. The other man screamed horribly, and Tess gaped as a hand thunked to the deck before her knees, the quiv­ering fingers still curled around the hilt of his own cutlass.

  Her stomach lurched, her gaze snapping to the in­jured man in time to see his opponent send the blade

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  into his chest. He howled before it poked out the other side, then crumpled to the deck in a twisted heap, blood still gushing from his stump. She scram­bled to her feet and ran to the rail, vomiting over the side until she had nothing left. Tearing off a piece of her petticoat, she wiped her mouth, then tossed the scrap into the sea. When she turned back, the oppo­nent and sword were gone, his kill bleeding on the wet planks. It isn't real, she reminded herself, trying to control her rapid breathing, forcing herse
lf to move toward the man.

  It's fake! Studio special effects.

  She knelt, her arm shaking violently as it reached out, then jerked back before meeting the man's flesh. He's alive, she silently prayed and reached again. Her fingers trembled as she touched the warm skin at his throat. Tess searched for a pulse. Nothing. Her gaze shifted to the dark stain spreading across his chest. She touched it, rubbing the sticky wetness between her fingertips, then inhaling the coppery scent. Oh, God! OH, GOD! Tess laid a hand on his chest. Noth­ing. She hardly noticed when someone bumped into her as she made a last-ditch effort and placed her fin­gers beneath his nose. A strangled cry escaped her as she abruptly stood, backing away, a shaking hand covering her mouth. Dead. She could smell it; burn­ing gunpowder, flesh, and wood melting together, as­saulting her nostrils. Her head whipped back and forth, a fiercely gruesome battle playing out around her as if she were a ghost. This can't be happening!

  She choked back a shriek when another man fell at her feet, his eyes glassy, his arm reaching up to her for a split second, then dropping as blood gurgled out

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  between still lips, pooling on the deck. Dead eyes stared up at her. Panicked, Tess lunged for the com-panionway hatch. The" ship heeled, and she lost her footing, tripping over the threshold and slamming into the far wall; she bit her lip to hold in the scream of pain. Swaying dizzily, and not waiting for the sting to subside, she grasped the wall rails and staggered back to the cabin. She leaned heavily against the doorframe for an instant, then rolled inside and shut the door. Her legs crumbled, and she slithered to the floor in a pink pile.

  It was real, she thought, swallowing repeatedly. She stared at nothing, then squeezed her burning eyes shut and dropped her head back against the wood. Dear God in heaven, it wasn't a game! They were ac­tually killing each other up there! Her stomach re­belled at the memory of that hand, still alive, ready to keep on killing. Oh, what did she do now? How could she stop this? She couldn't, she realized, wiping her bloody hands on her skirts. They won't give in, and she couldn't begin to fathom a logical reason for a real battle. The crack of splintering wood penetrated her chaotic thoughts with a jolt, and one image flashed in her mind.