He was the mildest manner’d man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.
LORD BYRON, DON JUAN: CANTO III
Standing at the window, Kate slid a finger along her temple to wipe away the beads of perspiration that even the air conditioning couldn’t keep from forming. She’d lived in St. Augustine her entire life. She’d spent twenty-six summers in the heat and stifling humidity, but it seemed more oppressive today.
Outside, the gray sky rolled and pitched, like smoke billowing out of a burning building. The almost steady thunder shook the hardwood floor beneath her feet, and lightning crackled as it slashed through the late afternoon clouds.
It seemed a fitting day for her desolate mood.
For two long hours she’d made phone calls, trying to learn more about the dead man, hoping to alleviate her fears. But no one at the police station had wanted to talk, until she’d gotten in touch with Nikki.
“Good God, Kate! You don’t know the guy, do you?” Nikki had asked over the phone.
“I don’t know,” Kate had said almost frantically. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. All I know is, he’s tall, with long dark hair.”
And then Nikki had laughed. “Where’d you hear that?”
“From Evalena. From TV. Damn it, Nikki, tell me if the guy had a scar on his face.”
“Big? Little? What?”
“Forget the one on his face. Did he have scars all over his back?”
“No, Kate. He didn’t have long dark hair, either. It was short and red. Damn reporters.”
She’d almost cried, but there hadn’t been time. The kids were making her life hell, and in the brief moments of calm, like now, she thought of Morgan, wondering if he was somewhere out there in the storm. Or if he’d made it home—to the year 1702.…
To a place where she could never go.
To a place where she’d never see him again.
Oh, hell! He wasn’t dead. Nothing else mattered.
But the fear lingered. What if he hadn’t made it back? What if something awful had happened to him somewhere between the present and the past?
She would never know.
And she’d always wonder and worry.
Behind her she heard the triplets giggling almost identically, the crash of toy trucks into toy trains, the topple of building blocks, and Sara singing something from The Little Mermaid to the big floppy doll that rarely left her side. It was free-for-all time, one hour of controlled mayhem that Kate lived through every afternoon from 3 o’clock until 4, even today, when her head felt as if cannons were exploding inside.
At 4 they’d have quiet time, she’d read to them, and by 5:30 they’d all be gone. Then she’d curl up somewhere cool, someplace where the breeze would flit across her cheeks, and go to sleep.
And dream pleasant dreams—if she could.
Chubby fingers clasped her leg, inching their way up to the hem of her shorts. Without even looking, she knew it was Bubba, begging to be held. In a movement that seemed second nature to her, she swept the toddler up into her arms and cradled him on her hip. At eighteen months he still preferred crawling to walking, he weighed nearly as much as the three-year-old triplets, and if she could have another child, she’d want one exactly like him.
Pressing a kiss to his pudgy pink cheek, she raised her eyes and caught the flash of anger on Casey’s face. “She’ll get over the jealousy,” the doctor had told her. “Give her time. She’s lost her father, she’s not used to sharing you with other children, and don’t forget, Kate, she has the same temperament you had as a child. She’ll grow out of it. Trust me on this.”
When she was Casey’s age her own mother and father gave her up to the county because they had too many other mouths to feed, and because they couldn’t put up with her tantrums. She’d never seen them again after they’d stuck her, kicking and screaming, into the social worker’s arms. She hadn’t cared—at least, that’s what she’d proclaimed. But she had cared, and she’d hurt—until Evalena and Joe had come into her life.
It had taken her twelve long hours to fall in love with Evalena, but it had taken less than a minute to fall in love with Joe. He’d knocked on Evalena’s door about two minutes after the baseball had burst through the plate glass window, apologized profusely, looked down at her, the scrubby little girl who’d just moved in with Evalena the day before, and asked her if she wanted to play ball with the rest of the kids on the street.
She’d been hooked. He was twelve, she was eight, and from that day forth, she’d followed him everywhere, whether he wanted her to or not. Her jealousy had flared every time she’d seen Joe with another girl, just as Casey’s flared now, when she was with the other children. But Joe had rightfully deserved, and needed, someone closer to his own age at the time, just as she’d needed to care for these children now. It was her job. It was the only thing she really knew how to do, and it was the only thing she’d wanted to do for a living.
She only hoped that someday Casey would understand.
But now—she didn’t. She’d come out of hiding nearly an hour ago, and had sat glumly on the stairs ever since, tossing a small rubber ball from one hand to the other. Kate had hoped Casey’s frustration with her would melt away after spending most of the day in the dark closet beneath the staircase, but it hadn’t.
Now probably wasn’t the time to talk to her, but she couldn’t stand to spend the entire evening looking at a pouting face. The doctor told her to ignore the tantrums, but she herself had been ignored far too much before Evalena had come into the picture. No, she wouldn’t ignore the daughter who meant more to her than anything else in the entire world.
She walked across the room, with Bubba still in her arms, and sat beside her daughter, scooting her bottom as close as possible to Casey’s. “Something troubling you?” she asked nonchalantly, even though she already knew the answers she’d receive.
“Yeah. You.”
“I see. Does this have anything to do with Mr. Farrell?”
“You made him leave, didn’t you?”
“He went of his own free will, Case. He had to go home, and I don’t think I could have kept him from leaving even if I’d wanted to.”
“But you told him to drop dead. Now he probably has.”
“He’s not dead. He’s just gone.”
“Then he has to come back,” Casey said, her eyes reddening as tears threatened to spill. “He has to. I want a daddy like everyone else.”
Bubba began to wail, and Kate hugged him against her, rocking him back and forth, wishing Casey was little again so she could carry her around on her hip and hug her this way, calming her fears, her anxiety, with nothing more than a tender squeeze.
She stroked away a tear from Casey’s cheek. “You have a daddy, Case. A daddy who loved you very much.”
“He’s dead!” she yelled, running down the stairs, stopping only when she reached the circle where the other four children were playing. “They have daddies,” she said, pointing to the triplets. “Sara has a daddy, and so does he,” she said, throwing the ball toward Bubba.
In one swift move, Kate reached up and caught the ball, her heart aching for her daughter, wishing there were something she could do or say to make Casey understand that she had to hold onto Joe’s memory, because he was the only father she’d ever have.
“It’s not fair that everyone else has a daddy when my daddy’s dead.” Tears poured down her cheeks, and her lips trembled as Kate stood with Bubba pressing his little head to her neck. “And it’s not fair that you’re kissing and holding him.”
Bubba wailed louder, Sara began to sob, and so did the triplets, as Kate rushed down the stairs and through the chaos and tried to reach Casey, who was running for the door.
She tromped on a tiny metal car, and nearly lost her balance when Casey threw open the front door, and ran smack into a pair of black leather boots.
“It sounds as if you have a mutiny on your hands, madam.”
Morgan scooped Casey up into the strongest, most needed pair of arms Kate had ever seen. He ran a soothing palm over Casey’s cheek and through her mop of curly hair, all the while looking at Kate with warm blue eyes that sparked with a mixture of humor and concern.
“I thought you were gone—maybe dead,” she said, wishing she’d muttered something nice like, “I’m glad you’re back,” or, “I’ve missed you.” But the words she’d wanted to say were trapped inside, eating away at her heart, churning in her stomach.
“I only look dead,” he said, drawing her attention to his rumpled and stained clothing, the dull black boots, that had looked neat and well cared for yesterday morning. “A few obstacles got in the way of my returning home, like a hole in my ship. It might be awhile before I leave again.”
Casey pushed back in his arms, alarm in her frowning eyes. “You can’t go. Ever.”
“Ah, Casey,” he said, drying her tears with the pad of his thumb. “’Tis not a decision I make lightly. My home is far from here, and I long to return. ’Tis the same as you would feel if you were to be separated from your mother for too long a time.”
When Casey twisted in Morgan’s arms, Kate could see the first trace of a smile, and she knew everything would be okay—until he left again.
“I guess this means you’ll want to stay with us a little longer?” Kate asked.
“Aye.”
Morgan slid Casey gently from his arms, and for the first time she noticed the black and white bag he held in his hand.
“Have you been shopping?”
“A change of clothes. I have noticed, madam, that I do not fit in with St. Augustine society.” Holding the bag out to Casey, he slipped it into her outstretched hand. “Would you take this upstairs for me? I have something to give your mother.”
Casey skipped across the room and dashed up the stairs, running past the triplets, who sat wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the middle of a scatter of toys, staring up at Morgan. During the commotion, Sara had dropped her doll and now cowered behind Kate’s legs, peeking out every now and then to look at the pirate in their midst. And Bubba, sweet, precious Bubba, ceased his crying and sucked his thumb.
“I have no need of these at the moment,” Morgan said, drawing his pistol from under his belt.
Sara screamed, loud and piercing, and another cannon went off in Kate’s aching head. On instinct, Kate shifted Bubba back to her hip and in an easy, fluid motion, she lifted two-year-old Sara to her other hip.
“Hush, now,” she whispered, carrying both children across the room, rocking them gently as she walked, humming softly to calm Sara’s fears.
Over Sara’s head, she watched Morgan remove his weapons and hide them away, high atop a china-filled buffet. Slowly he came toward her, mesmerizing her with the warmth of azure eyes she suddenly realized she’d been afraid she’d never see again.
With the same tenderness he’d shown Casey, he caressed away a damp strand of pale brown hair from Sara’s face, sweeping his fingers lightly over her cheek and chin, before cupping her tiny face in a hand as gentle as a whisper.
“May I hold her?” he asked, directing his question to Kate, although his gaze never left Sara’s spellbound eyes.
“If she’ll go to you.” Kate loosened her hold as Sara squirmed from her arms and snuggled comfortably against Morgan’s chest, her little hand finding its way into his hair, twisting it about her fingers.
“I had a sister once,” he said softly to the child as he carried her to the window. “When she was not much older than you, storms like this one frightened her in much the same way my pistol—and my presence—frightened you. When she was scared like that, I’d take her in my arms and sing the song my dear mother sang to me when I was a wee one. Would you like to hear it?”
Sara nodded, and Morgan looked out at the blackened sky. In the glass Kate could see the reflection of his face and his smile when he began to sing, his voice the purest of tenors, telling, in song, the story of a butterfly spreading its wings for the very first time, and even though it was frightened, how it flew away from its cocoon.
Casey had crept down the stairs, and she wrapped her arms around Morgan’s waist, her head tilted upward as she listened to his words. Bubba no longer squirmed. Instead, his eyes closed peacefully in sleep, and the triplets never moved a muscle. They just watched and listened. How could they do anything else when Morgan had hypnotized them—and her—with his voice?
Slipping from playtime to quiet time had never happened so easily, and by the time Morgan finished his song, Kate’s headache had gone, and only sore, tense muscles remained.
He turned slowly, looking at ease with Sara in his arms, and in his wonderful English accent, he whispered, “What would you have me do now, madam?”
“Do you tell stories as well as you sing?”
“Aye. And I know many.”
Smiling came easily. Liking him was even easier, but knowing he was going to leave again cast a whole new light on her feelings. She couldn’t allow herself to fall in love with him. She’d hurt far too much when he’d left last night. She didn’t want to hurt even more the next time.
“Should he sit in the storyteller’s chair, Mommy?” Casey asked, interrupting her thoughts as she dragged Morgan across the room.
Kate nodded, and Casey looked at the man who towered high above her. “You have to sit in this chair, and the rest of us sit around you.”
“And what of your mother?”
“That’s easy. She sits in my usual spot.”
Oh, no. Kate didn’t like the sound of that at all, but Casey took her hand and tugged her across the room, between the triplets, who’d already taken their place facing the storyteller’s chair that Morgan had eased himself into.
“Sit there,” Casey ordered, pointing to the empty space on the floor between Morgan’s widespread boots.
“But where will you sit?” Kate asked.
“In Morgan’s lap, of course.”
Casey urged Kate down to the floor, then scrambled onto Morgan’s empty thigh. “Okay, we’re ready whenever you are.”
Embarrassed, Kate pulled a still sleeping Bubba close, and refused to look up at the storyteller. Instead, she concentrated on the toes of his scuffed black boots, which inched ever closer to her bare knees as she sat cross-legged on a braided carpet.
“’Twas a foul and blustering night when my story begins,” he said, his voice low, hushed, the way Joe’s had always been when he began one of his favorite pirate tales. “Lightning shot through the sky, and the thunder sounded like a thousand banshees beating their drums. A lone horseman rode through the stormy night, frightened by the trees that hovered over him like giant skeletons. He needed a place to rest, he needed to find someone who would give him food and shelter, because he was tired, scared, and very much alone. But instead of friendly faces, he saw anger, and snarls of fear, and doors were slammed and bolted in his face.
“When he had barely the strength to hold onto his horse’s reins, a shooting star fell through a hole in the blackened clouds and burst into flame on the ground before him, brightening the earth with a golden light. At first he was frightened, but the warmth of the fire wrapped around him like a fine velvet cloak, and out of the blaze stepped an angel with emerald eyes and hair the color of honey.”
The triplets were on their stomachs now, their heads propped on their arms, their wide eyes transfixed by the storyteller’s words. Kate, too, was drawn in, anxious for him to go on every time he paused.
Closing her eyes, she rolled her aching neck as she listened intently to Morgan’s tale of fairies and trolls, of a handsome prince and the guardian angel who made him see good in a world that to him had been filled with nothing but evil.
She’d expected to hear a dastardly yarn about pirates of old, of buried treasure, murder and greed, but he appeared more at ease telling a fairy tale that seemed more real than fiction, a story she found easy to believe.
“Did the prince marry the angel?” Casey asked, and just like the triplets, whose eyes widened, Kate waited eagerly to hear his answer.
“’Twould not be fair to spoil the story, Casey. You must listen, and wait, for the greatest of treasures appear when you least expect them.”
Kate doubted that Casey or the other children understood those words any more than she did, but Morgan made falling under his spell so very easy, and Kate had the feeling that once you were hypnotized, he could say anything and you’d believe it.
Bubba yawned, nestling his cheek against her breast. She could sense Casey and Sara stirring in Morgan’s lap, and he continued his story as rain pounded against the windows and wind howled through the trees.
Kate jumped when warm fingers touched her neck, and for the first time since he’d begun his story, she twisted around to look at him. Casey was wedged between the chair and Morgan’s side, and Sara was cuddled in her lap, both with their eyes closed. Morgan smiled, drew one hand from Kate’s shoulder, and put a silencing finger to his lips. Without skipping a beat in his story, he swirled one thumb lightly around the curve of her neck, then the other thumb joined in.
She lowered her head, letting it fall lazily forward, as his fingers worked the same magic on her aching muscles that his story worked on her mind. Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes, and lulled by his soft English accent, the warmth of his voice, the comfort of his hands, she dozed, in and out of a dream world where she’d never been, a world inhabited by honey-haired angels, and a tall, dark, and handsome prince, with a scar racing down the side of his face.
The doorbell rang, loud and obtrusive, and Morgan’s knee banged into her side as he abruptly pushed up from the chair, thrusting Sara into her lap, and Casey to the floor.
Kate scrambled up, groggy from her dream-filled nap, and the doorbell rang again.
“It must be Sara’s father,” she said in a rush of words, knowing how impatient the man was, how he was always in a hurry to drop Sara off in the morning and to leave at night.
Morgan’s face bore a heavy frown, and worry filled his eyes. Again he put a finger to his lips. Without a word, he rushed up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and disappeared from sight.
The magic of the fairy tale had come to a sudden and much too abrupt end, and a new fear pulsed through Kate. Morgan Farrell had reason to hide when he was in the eighteenth century. But what reason did he have for hiding now?