Beloved Captive (29 page)

“It appears I am to keep watch over you.”
 

Her snort was neither ladylike nor appreciative. Her defiance he grudgingly appreciated. Emilie Gayarre might be many things, but fearful was not one of them. He’d seen this at sea and now, it appeared, would get a fresh taste of it on land.

Caleb reached for his grandfather’s pocket watch, a gift from his mother upon departing for Washington as a freshly appointed lieutenant, and noted the time. “Perhaps you will allow me to see you home as I’ve other pressing business.”

“Thank you, no.” She spared him neither a glance nor the courtesy of her attention as she focused on a point somewhere behind him.
 

No?

He paused to consider the benefits of allowing Emilie Gayarre her wish. Walking away seemed the best choice, yet the wrecker had asked a favor. His word was his bond. “Then perhaps I might offer the use of my office while I am away.”

“No.” Again her word was a dismissal. She obviously deemed him unworthy of her attention.

Irritation flared anew, and he bit back a sharp retort.
 

“Despite your promise to my brother-in-law, I bid you leave me, sir.”

Irritation flamed to anger, reminding him of the mark she left on his flesh and the threat she had become to his heart and his career. “You appear to need no further coddling, Miss Gayarre.” He tipped his hat. “Thus I shall take my leave and make my apologies to your brother-in-law at a later date.”

“Coddling?” Her shoulders straightened, and pink stains climbed into her cheeks. “I believe you know quite well from your life as a pirate—excuse me, as a privateer—that I can take care of myself. It is my regret that I shot you, and for that I beg your forgiveness.”

Her tone had caught the attention of a few bystanders, who now stared openly. Caleb forced a smile and reached to grasp Emilie by the elbow. She made to shake him off, then found she could not. For a moment, her eyes widened; then, as if realizing she was caught but standing among friends, they narrowed.

With care, he leaned toward her. “This conversation will not be held in such a public forum. After you, Miss Gayarre,” he said.

“Interesting,” she said. “Previously you referred to me as Miss Crusoe.”

His grip tightened slightly as he led the schoolteacher toward the edge of the crowd. Along the way, he smiled at anyone who stared and made sure, as much as possible, to keep his feelings about Emilie Gayarre’s statement off his face.

The far end of the dock looked empty, so he half-led and half-dragged her to that spot. “Madam, I am to be the judge of this district and the highest authority of the law outside of the admiralty court in Key West. Are you certain you would like to make that accusation?”

“Sir,” she said as Caleb allowed her to remove herself from his grasp, “you could be President Jackson himself, and I’d make that accusation given the same circumstances.”
 

He felt it prudent not to mention that President Jackson would likely not have the patience Caleb did. At least he’d heard stories to that effect in Washington circles.

“True, you’ve made a trip to the barber since I saw you last.” She pointed to his left shoulder. “But I say that beneath that very proper and official navy uniform is the scar from a bullet wound that obviously did not pierce your heart, though I nearly drove myself to distraction believing it had.”

“To distraction?” The question slipped out, surprise being its source. Caleb decided to make light of it. “Why would a woman of such character fret over a pirate?” He paused. “Excuse me, a privateer.”

She looked down her nose at him, much as that was possible despite his superior height. “Prove me wrong.”

He shook his head and attempted indignation. “Madam, would you honestly have me strip to the waist here in this public place so that you might view my chest? Is that the sort of decorum a schoolteacher should exhibit?” Caleb paused. “I think not.”

“You know the reason for it,” she said. “And I’ll broach no further questions as to my character from one who hides his own.”

Ouch. She has a point
.

The Gayarre woman turned and fled his company without so much as a backward glance. Caleb touched the spot on his shoulder where the bullet had entered and wondered how many more conversations like today’s would happen before he gave his past away.

“Getting to know the locals?”
 

Caleb turned to see Judge Campbell heading his direction. “Hardly,” he said. “What’s the status on the wrecker?”

The judge shrugged. “Good news. Just a nasty bump on the head and a broken arm that will likely heal straight and strong in time. It’s the strangest thing, though. All that fire, and not a burn on him. His clothes were singed, but not a mark otherwise.”

“Interesting. Sort of puts one in mind of Daniel in the Old Testament, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed,” Judge Campbell said. “He’s going to be fine, but that ship of his is a total loss.”

“That’s too bad,” Caleb said. “Though I understand the fellow was master on two wrecks in two days. Likely he’ll manage to find a way to purchase a new boat with some of that.”

“Likely,” the judge echoed, “but for now our concern is processing what they’ve brought in.” He slapped Caleb on the back and grinned. “We were still working on last night’s intake, and now we’ve got another. Looks like it’s going to be a long night for you, Judge Spencer.”

“For me?” Caleb shook his head. “You’re not leaving all this to me, are you? I’ve not been trained to—”

Judge Campbell stopped short. “You’re not qualified?”

Caught, he could only shrug. “Of course,” he said. “I will do whatever work needs to be done.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said with a laugh. “The wife planned a big dinner to celebrate my retirement, and I’d like to be home for it.” He turned to leave.

“And if I have questions?”

“Ask Mrs. O’Mara,” he called over his shoulder. “She’s just returned from the mainland at my request. I’m certain you’ll find her expertise invaluable.”

“Mrs. O’Mara?” Caleb could only watch the old man disappear into the crowd. “Who in the world is Mrs. O’Mara?”

* * *

Emilie opened her cottage gate, exhaustion tugging at the corners of her mind. It had been a long day, and from where the sun stood, an even longer time would pass before she could seek the solace of her bed. She walked around to the back and deposited her bonnet on the hook beside the back door. Her shoes came next as she kicked them off along with the sand she’d tracked from the docks.
 

Finally, she opened the door and stepped inside. The first thing she noticed was the bouquet of flowers on the table. Next to it sat a bowl filled with freshly picked mangoes. Completing the picture was a plate covered with a dish towel.

Her stomach complained as she lifted the dish towel and found two of Mrs. Campbell’s biscuits, a serving of smoked ham, and a slice of pie. Then she spied the flashes of color through the window. Someone, likely Ruby O’Shea, had done the washing. In a neat line were all three of her nightgowns as well as the dress she’d lent Ruby.

What a dear woman.

By now, she and the girls should be comfortably settled in the boardinghouse. “I’ll have to thank her when I see her next.”

Perhaps she would make a stop there later on her way to visit Micah. At the thought of the wrecker, she sent a prayer of thanks for the miracle that kept her friend from certain death in the fiery inferno of the wreck.

Then her thoughts turned to Lieutenant Spencer.

How could a man move from a pirate vessel to a judgeship, from dead to alive? There had to be a reasonable explanation.
 

She went over every moment of that last horrible morning aboard the
Cormorant
, from awakening to a man in her room to aiming the pistol at him the moment he turned his back, then shooting.

Realization struck, and had she been standing, she probably would have crumpled. “I shot him when he turned his back. He wasn’t coming after me at all.”

Chapter 30

August 15, 1836

Caleb looked up from the packet of mail to the one who had delivered it. “So you’re Mrs. O’Mara.”
 

The older woman, a veritable bundle of energy in what was otherwise a drab and dull office, paused in the middle of singing some obscure hymn whose melody sounded familiar. “I am,” she said.
 

“And what exactly is it that you do?”

“Up until last September when the big storm came through, I was in charge of caring for the prisoners,” she said. “If there was no one in the jail, then I took in washing and did a little sewing on the side. That storm sent me heading to the mainland, but I missed this island something awful. Judge Campbell offered me the job of postmistress.”

“I see. And to what do I owe the honor today?”

She seemed reluctant to answer, then finally stopped her humming and nodded. “The judge asked me to see to your training, actually.”

He shook his head. “Let me get this straight. I’m to be trained by a seamstress?”

She shrugged. “You could do worse. I have worked in this building longer than you,” she said. “Though I’m sure you’re good at whatever it is you do.”

At whatever it is he did? Caleb bit back a stinging retort. What he had done the past two days was to see to the cataloguing of every item taken off the two ships that had wrecked since his arrival. He’d practically begun to count in his sleep, such was the tedious nature of the work.

The postmistress made her excuses and left, the same obscure verse following her until the door shut. Caleb cradled his head in his hands, then jerked upright to swat at one of the ever-present island mosquitoes.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he muttered under his breath as he broke the seal on the mail packet. “No wonder Griffin was so happy to send me off to this judgeship.”

Caleb dumped the stack of papers onto his already cluttered desk and began to sort through them. The pile from insurance companies quickly filled one corner of the available space. Each would have to be dealt with, and likely all expected a quick reply. Then came correspondence from the Admiralty Court. That stack was smaller but, to his mind, infinitely more important. A third stack contained three thick letters from his mother and one slender bit of correspondence from Fletcher.

He tossed the packet aside and, to his surprise, a letter fell to the floor. Retrieving it, Caleb checked the front to see where in his rudimentary filing system it might fit. He could find no name for the sender, so he turned it over and broke the seal.

“I know who you are, Benning, and who you are pretending to be.”

Dropping the page as if it had burned his fingers, he stared at the handwriting. It gave no clue as to the document’s origin, which served to further infuriate him. Kicking at it with his boot only caused the page to slide a few inches, and reading the words made his blood boil. As he studied the flourishes and loops of the fancy handwriting, an idea occurred. This looked more like the work of a woman than a man. A man would be less vague, he decided, and certainly would not resort to this kind of trickery should he have any pride in himself.

No, blackmail was a woman’s game. And he knew only one woman who could both write and hold something over his head. Quickly, lest prying eyes return, Caleb picked up the letter.
 

“So you wish to blackmail me?” He rose, jammed his hat on his head, and reached for his coat, the blood thrumming in his temples. “Well, Miss Gayarre, perhaps you have not yet realized that one cannot blackmail a judge. Perhaps Mrs. O’Mara will find work in her former job as jailer before the day is done.”

He got all the way down the sidewalk before he realized he had no idea where to find the woman who likely would never stop plaguing him. To ask for directions would be quite impossible, for he would rather wander about town than have his destination known.

And then he realized that the first place to look for a schoolteacher was at the school.

It was warm, even by August standards, and the dampness that seemed to seep into his pores was nearly visible as he climbed the path to the schoolhouse. Caleb drifted toward the edge of the summit where all of Fairweather Key lay before him, the town to his left and behind him, and the ocean as far as he could see in a complete circle.

He’d discovered on his first week in Fairweather Key that the view from here was nothing short of breathtaking. Pale green water faded to blue as it moved away from the shore. Beyond the patch of blue was a near-perfect line of gray that poured over the horizon and melted into clouds of the same color. Indeed, one had to stare to determine where the water stopped and the clouds began.

God had spent extra time in this place, of that Caleb was certain.

“Judge Spencer, I would advise not remaining in the sun for an extended amount of time.” Caleb turned to see Miss Gayarre standing in the shade of the schoolhouse doorway. “It is a known fact that too much sun can wither a brain and cause delusions.”

So he’d been correct in his assumption. “Good afternoon, Miss Gayarre. I would have a word with you on a legal matter.”

She looked at him as if this had already happened, though, to her credit, she did not say so. Rather, she disappeared inside, obviously assuming he would follow her lead.

He did, and when his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he found her seated at a desk in the front of what was obviously the classroom. Neat rows of tables were lined by twos, each with benches corresponding to the height of the tables. Toward the front, the tables were lower as if made for small children, while in the back were desks Caleb could have found serviceable if not comfortable.

Someone had tacked up a spelling chart with the alphabet in the center of the wall beside Miss Gayarre’s desk. Around this were what looked like folded papers. Upon closer inspection, he noted the papers resembled animals and other objects.

“Origami,” she said with what sounded like cool disdain. “It is an ancient Oriental art form.”