Once Upon a Remembrance Page 2

  "Thank you, Mrs. Cummins," Leif exclaimed happily. "It's like a treasure trove here."

  The older woman smiled."Well, Pierce thought you might like to use some of these items in your photographs. If you need anything else, just let me know."

  "Thank you," Isabeau said. "You've really done enough, and dinner was wonderful."

  "No trouble, Isabeau."

  The housekeeper left. Isabeau looked once more at the paper clipping, then almost reluctantly slid it back in the album.

  "Look at this." Leif reached over the tray to pick up another large volume, but managed to sideswipe a coffee cup, tipping it. The dark liquid streamed across the tray, splattering the book.

  "Leif!" He quickly pulled his hand back and she grabbed several napkins from the tray, carefully blotting the leather cover. "Did you get burned?" she asked.

  "No. Just clumsy." He grimaced.

  "I think it should be okay," she ran her fingers along its worn, gilt-edged binding. "It looks pretty old." Unable to resist, she opened the heavy tome.

  "I'm intrigued by what's in the desk," Leif confessed. The large roll top desk sat at an angle from them.

  Isabeau stared at the book she held. The name "Morgan" was boldly inscribed in raised letters on the first page. The pages crackled as she carefully brushed her fingertips across the yellowed surface, her eyes scanning the crisp paper.

  "It’s the Morgan family Bible." The ink had faded to a dark brown. "This is really old," she said reverently. The storm seemed to escalate outside. With a shiver, Isabeau took the book and settled once more into the loveseat pillows.

  Leif busied himself looking through the items in the desk. "Look at this."

  Isabeau glanced up to see him holding two gleaming silver objects which were decoratively engraved with vines and leaves.

  He laughed, turning the pieces over. "I'm not quite sure what they are. Almost looks like a mini dust pan. I'll have to find out from Mrs. Cummins."

  "It's an antique crumber and blade," she said absently, staring at the items. "It's for cleaning up the crumbs on the table between dinner courses." At his incredulous look, she laughed. "You know my mom is obsessed with collecting antiques. We have a gold-plated one."

  He laughed. "I knew there was a good reason I hired you." He held up a black box, carefully opening it to reveal the camera inside. "This is turn-of-the-century."

  "The original point and shoot camera." She looked back at the book in her lap. "This family Bible is intriguing." She traced down the names with a fingertip. "Marriages, 1858. Catharine Hawk to Brendon Morgan. Issue of Marriage, Hawk Morgan, born 1863. Who would name their child Hawk?"

  Isabeau experienced a sharp jag of pain in her arm, then an unaccustomed weakness gripped her right hand. She shook her hand vigorously, trying to dispel the odd feeling. She turned another page, moving her finger down the parchment. "Deaths. Hawk Morgan, May 19, 1894."

  Thunder boomed outside, making her jump. Isabeau looked up at Leif as he joined her.

  "That storm is getting closer." He leaned in to read over her shoulder. Rain pelted the windows fiercely. Suddenly, a loud knocking erupted from the front entrance. "Sounds like somebody's out in the storm." Leif stood. The knocking continued.

  "I wonder where Mrs. Cummins is?" He walked toward the library door. "I’ll be right back."

  Isabeau nodded absently, her focus on the book’s entries. "Hawk Morgan." She felt lightheaded, almost nauseous. Standing, she put the book down, then leaned against the side of the seat as weakness pervaded her body. Not feeling well at all, she grabbed the edge of the loveseat.

  "Leif."

  A crystal paperweight carved in the shape of a ship winked with light on the small side table at her elbow, wavering in and out of her focus. Vaguely, Isabeau heard footsteps.

  Rushing winds echoed around and around her head. It hurt her ears. She put her hands over her ears but it didn’t stop. The volume of cascading rain became deafening as she swayed.

  Isabeau felt frozen, dizzy, filled with the sensation of floating . . . a cushioned embryo in the womb. She was in a nothingness, yet strangely there was no fear. Vaguely she was aware of chanting, one voice and then more, soft and then louder.

  "Power from light, power from heaven, power from thine own self, power of thine own worth. Bring the one who will cast chaos aside. Bring the one who will stay the turmoil. It is done. It is done, it is done."

  Something guided her through the rushing of air all around her and moved her into a deep, calming light.

  Chapter Two

  Isabeau groaned, the point of her left hip burning with pain. She lay curled in a fetal position, her head cushioned by her arms and a hard surface beneath her. She moved as the stench beneath her nose made her gag.

  Jerking upright, she gasped in fresh air. With a groan, she massaged the muscles of her thighs, then the area on either side of her hips. She felt like a pulsing mass of cramped muscle.

  Dark enveloped her. Was she blind? Memory was frighteningly fuzzy. She felt out of place. Groping with her hands, Isabeau felt a hard, uneven surface beneath her, then some type of coil. A rope? She drew her hands back hurriedly from a greasy surface.

  Disoriented, she knelt and then rose unsteadily to her feet, the pain in her temple settling to a dull throb. The air around her hung heavy and humid. Squinting, she could see a glimmer just ahead, a flickering light. She moved toward it.

  The floor seemed to tilt, then righted itself, an altogether unnerving sensation.

  Isabeau stared at the light, an antique lantern hung on a wooden peg, the metal cracked and tarnished black. She sat down and rubbed her fists across her eyes. Belatedly, she recalled the greasiness on her hands, which she could now feel on her face. She tried to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, but her lids still felt sticky.

  A creaking moan caught her off guard and the floor shifted again beneath her feet. Frantically, Isabeau moved her palm along the wood floor beneath her, then pulled her hand back as something bit her. Not a bite. A splinter embedded in her flesh.

  Holding her palm up to the meager light, she pried it out and felt the warm trickle of blood. As it began to throb, she pressed it to her jean clad leg.

  She tried to remember something, anything, but all she could come up with was the sensation of floating. She had been at Hawk's Den for a photo assignment, but then nothing after that.

  The heavy air carried unusual odors as a brisk breeze swirled around her. Her brain churned sluggishly, unable to identify what her senses were picking up. It almost sounded like a ship on water.

  Where was she? Minutes passed, foreign sounds continued to invade her senses. Isabeau put out her hands to steady herself as everything swayed. Saliva gathered at the back of her throat. With dread, she feared she would be sick. She remained perfectly still.

  The floor continued to vibrate and then there came the sound of footsteps and men's voices. A heavy clunk, something rolled… a muttered curse.

  Isabeau backed up until she felt a hard surface at her back. As the lantern light swayed, she realized in front of her were a pile of crates. She began to see shadowy silhouettes as daylight played at the edge of the horizon.

  She sat down, thumping the back of her head against a crate. The crate tipped and landed with a soft thud beside her.

  "Uh." Panic made her heart rate faster and her hands tremble as she attempted to absorb what she had seen. She was on a ship. A big ship with sails. Had she been kidnapped?

  Quietly, she moved to the edge of the crates. Men moved cargo boxes below her, hauling on ropes, climbing up into the sails. If she hadn’t been feeling the bite of terror, she'd have been fascinated. She felt as if she'd been dropped into a period piece. The men she could see wore short coats of dull browns, gray, and black, brown and black shoes or high boots, and long, loose pants.

  She pulled back into the shadows as footsteps drew near.

  "Thought I heard something," a surly voice muttered from the other
side of the crates.

  "Right, mate," a second voice jeered. "Get back to work. We'll be in port soon." The voices receded.

  Huddling against the wall, Isabeau's confusion deepened. What was going on?

  "Move your lazy arse," a voice growled. "Malry'll string you up in the jib nettin' if he catches you diddling about again."

  Vigilant to every sound, Isabeau watched the sun rise fully into the sky. The ship activity increased. Now she could count at least twelve crew members. It wouldn’t be long before someone discovered her. Her thinking still felt muddled. Who had put her here? Could she trust these men or was she in danger?

  Cautiously, she peeked up over her hiding space, edging forward so she could see more. Almost instantly, she felt another presence. Mumbling a hasty prayer, Isabeau stared, mesmerized, as booted feet and black trouser legs blocked her view. She shrank back into her hiding space, but there was nowhere to go. Looking up, she saw a black, jersey-clad barrel of a chest.

  "What have we here?" A voice boomed, and she jumped from the man’s sheer volume.

  A big, hairy hand reached down and latched onto the front of her shirt, yanking her upright in one powerful sweep.

  "Ouch."

  Dangling with her toes just touching the deck, Isabeau's cramped muscles came to immediate, screaming life. Mercilessly, pins and needles thrust barbed points into her skin.

  A grizzled giant held her aloft by one meaty fist, dangling her as if she weighed little or nothing.

  "Here now, boy, stowing away, eh?" the giant bellowed. "I'll dump you in the ship's belly and clap ye in chains." Throwing back his shaggy black head, the man roared, "Nate!"

  "Let me go, you pirate!"

  The man had a knife and pistols tucked into a wide leather belt at his waist.

  His expression grew even fiercer. "Insolent pup. I’m no plundering thief." He let out an incredulous laugh and then another. "And you’re no boy." She stared transfixed at the long puckered scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He sported a bright gold earring in one ear and his baggy pants and black jersey were none too clean. Struggling to get free, Isabeau gasped in air as she was lowered to the floor.

  "Come, lass, you have explaining to do." Without giving her time to draw a full breath of air, she was pulled forward by the giant and out into the open.

  Isabeau tried to resist, setting her feet. Wildly, she looked for an escape. Sailors who had stopped to watch were returning to business and seemed less than interested in her. At best, they appeared a scruffy looking bunch. "Let me go. I demand you call the police!"

  Her captor ignored her and pulled her behind him. The man was huge and not altogether clean. She wrinkled her nose, her sense of smell too acute for comfort. He smelled of day-old fish.

  He turned and caught her grimace. "You might well turn up that pretty nose, me lady. It be you what stinks." Isabeau opened her mouth, then looked down at herself, following the sweep his eyes had taken.

  Her mouth snapped shut. She was a filthy mess. Black pitch covered her hands and probably part of her face. The knees of her jeans were likewise filthy.

  "One as scrawny as you is unlikely to be of help on board," her captor muttered. "'Tis a good thing we're about to dock." He cocked a dark brow at her. "How the devil did you stay out of sight so long, that's what I'm wondering?" His hand tightened on her wrist. "We’ll take care of you soon enough."

  Even in her continued confusion she understood the threat in his voice. With fear clogging her throat, Isabeau thrashed away from him, and managed a glancing blow on his whiskered cheek. The shock of impact jolted her arm from wrist to shoulder. His bellow sounded blood curdling to her. She pulled back when she saw his clenched fist.

  With a mutter, the man grabbed her close and in the next instant he quickly wound a cord around her wrists.

  "Let me go --"

  "A warning." The seaman's voice dropped menacingly. "Never do that again. You may be puny, but the sharks won't be minding a snack of you."

  "Malry!" a voice barked. "What goes on there?"

  Isabeau's captor gripped her wrist and half-turned his body away from her. "A stowaway, Cap'n, that's what I got, stowed in yonder hole behind the cargo." The man holding her jerked his head to indicate the revealed hiding space and pulled her in front of him. "It’s a woman," he answered. "A girl." He released her.

  "A girl?"

  Isabeau stiffened in fear. The Captain’s voice put her in mind of the rasp of steel against stone. As Malry stepped aside, Isabeau could now see the man he'd addressed as Cap'n.

  As the newcomer approached, she managed only to draw a shallow breath as she was consumed by visions of outlaws and pirates. His hair just swept his shoulders, the breeze sweeping it back from a wide forehead.

  My God! she thought, those eyes! Dark, deep-set blue. Her palms grew damp and a wave of coldness swept over her. As the blood surged, her heart began to beat harder. Did she know him? Her brain still felt foggy. Was he to be a tormenter like the giant who’d pulled her from hiding?

  The man stood with his back braced against the ship's rail, long legs encased in dark pants that hinted at muscled legs and flowed into knee-high boots. The wind played through his partially unfastened grey shirt, revealing a strong, tanned neck and a hint of a chest liberally covered with hair. His shoulders were wide and he stood easily six feet and then some. He had a deep, strong jaw and a short cropped beard as dark as the hair on his head.

  "Oh, my God. Pierce." The name came to her lips. She had seen his picture. It was the eyes. She’d never forget them, so intense and full of life, so…knowing? She could feel the life force radiating off him. He looked so -- so elemental, as if he fit perfectly with his surroundings; the ship, the rough sailors, the sea.

  She took a step toward him. Dark, thick brows met almost furiously over a strong, straight nose. His eyes narrowed, then indicated a growing impatience. "You are mistaken, my lady."

  "Here now, show some respect for the Cap’n," Malry warned, tightening his grip.

  Isabeau’s confusion deepened. "What is going on? Why are you calling him Captain? You look like Pierce Morgan. Older, but definitely --"

  Her captor jerked her arm.

  "Where are we?" she tried to twist free of the thong binding her wrists. "Free me right now!"

  "Calm yourself." The Captain approached them, staring at her hard, as if trying to see past the dirt and grease. She sensed a certain puzzlement in him.

  She attempted to swim up through her panic. "Nothing is making sense."

  "Dammit to hell, how do mothers turn out their young girls to fend for themselves?" His head dipped in disgust. "How old are you?" he demanded.

  She stiffened her shoulders. Was he a threat to her? "None of your business. Let me go this second."

  He sighed. "You don’t look like you’d last long on the streets, but that’s where you’ll end up when we dock."

  "Wait a second. I’ve never lived on the street in my life. I'm a well respected --"

  "Hey, Cap’n," Malry growled, watching her closely. "Maybe we should bring her with us and put her to work. It’s better than the factories."

  She stared at him. "You’re not taking me anywhere."

  "Malry has a sound idea." The Captain's voice gentled, showing none of the earlier impatience. "What’s your name? Do you have anywhere to go?"

  Thrown by his sudden concern, Isabeau blurted, "This is a mess. I was at Hawk’s Den earlier today -- " Both men wore a look of amazement.

  She pressed on. "I’m telling you, I was there earlier. There was a terrible storm and --"

  "Ahem, Cap'n -- " Malry loudly cleared his throat.

  Isabeau shifted her feet uneasily as they stared at her, clearly thinking she was out of her head. Nervously, she kneaded the flesh of her palms, well aware of a look passing between the two men.

  "I need to get back to where I was," she said. "This joke or whatever it is has gone on long enough. If you take me back now, I'
ll let this whole thing go."

  "What'll we do with her, Cap'n?" Malry acted as if she hadn’t spoken. He looked at her. "You’re acting a mite familiar, talking about Hawk’s Den and all." He turned to the Captain. "And I think she’s off her head. God knows we haven’t seen land for near a week."

  Frustration rose in her. "Don’t you understand anything I’ve said? I was at Hawk’s Den, and somehow I was kidnapped and brought here."

  The Captain flipped open a sheath fastened to the belt at his waist. With precise movements he pulled out a small bone-handle blade and stepped closer. "Your hands, please?"

  Quickly, she lifted her bound hands, watched numbly as he efficiently cut the cord binding her.

  She rubbed her wrists automatically, tossing a killing glare at Malry. Surprisingly, the man cracked a semblance of a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Malry, find out what you can," the Captain stated.

  "Aye, Cap'n, I'll look into this -- and the girl?" Malry jerked a thumb at her. "What about her?"

  Isabeau opened her mouth to retort that it wasn't up to any of them, but Malry spoke again. "Maybe she’s a spy."

  "That’s ridiculous. I’m the one who needs the help." Isabeau’s frustration grew.

  Shrugging, the Captain said, "The world is full of spies." His blue eyes once more bore into Isabeau. Before she could voice another protest, he turned away. "Come along with Malry. Truth to tell, I can't leave you to fend for yourself; there are enough homeless waifs about. We’ll sort this out when we get to Hawk’s Den."

  For the first time since waking, Isabeau felt optimistic. "Great. Hawk’s Den. Then everything will get straightened out."

  The Captain looked at her with surprise. "Well, if you’ve resigned yourself to coming with us, then can I trust you not to get into trouble until we dock?"

  She glared at him. "You can trust me."

  "That’s yet to be seen," Malry growled, jabbing her on the arm.

  Now that the moment of imminent danger seemed to have passed, Isabeau watched the Captain. He exuded confidence, a man secure in his world…the sea, the ship. He walked the deck as if he had been born on it. She knew he was a lawyer. There was no doubt he was the type of man who ran his own business and called his own hours, but what kind of game were they playing with her? When they got back to Hawk’s Den, first thing she planned was to pack and get the hell out of there. She could take a joke as well as the next person, but this was really beyond the limit.