Twelve
As Samantha stood at a window in her room at Carriage Hill—the same room as last night—she could see bright red-and-orange leaves, touches of yellow, and the deep green of pines and spruces in the endless woods that led to the shores of the vast Quabbin Reservoir. The temperature had dropped. It would be a chillier night tonight—one for wrapping up in her soft wool throw and watching the stars, if her throw hadn’t been wrecked in the fire.
She turned away from the window. If Benjamin Farraday had buried his treasure in the drowned valley, it had either been found long ago or was now lost forever. No one would find it under the reservoir waters or in their protected watershed. Not without a treasure map, anyway. In all her studies of pirates, she had never come across a real treasure map.
Or real buried treasure, for that matter, she thought, heading downstairs to the kitchen.
Maggie’s two young sons had arrived with their father, Brandon Sloan. Given his resemblance to the three brothers she’d already met, Samantha didn’t need anyone to tell her he was a Sloan. Dylan was there, too, getting a casserole out of the freezer and setting it on the butcher-block island. Brandon introduced the boys—Tyler, seven, and Aidan, five—who said a quick hello and then charged out through the mudroom, their father right behind them.
Dylan nodded to Samantha. “Come on out with us. Brandon and I are just talking about adventure travel. You strike me as the sort who likes to travel. Am I right?”
“I’ve done some traveling,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve liked all of it.”
“What’s your favorite place?”
“So far? I don’t know that I have a favorite.”
Dylan smiled. “That probably means you’ve been to lots of places.” He grabbed a pitcher of iced tea and placed it on a tray with several glasses. “Make yourself at home.”
Samantha thanked him but hesitated as he went out. She could hear Maggie and Olivia in the dining room, where they were putting together wedding favors. They had handmade, hand-wrapped chocolates, cookies and goat’s milk soap heaped on the table. Maggie was lecturing her friend. “Promise me you’re not going to worry about a single thing on Saturday. Jess is your sister, and you’re her maid of honor. That’s all you need to think about. I’ll do the rest. I have an excellent team—except for Brandon.” Maggie gave a long-suffering sigh. “He likes to help. I indulge him.”
Olivia laughed. “Brandon’s a huge help and you know it.”
“We’ll see. After Saturday, you might change your mind and decide to move your own wedding to San Diego.”
Samantha smiled and left them to their work. She headed out to the terrace. The air was decidedly cooler, but she would be warm enough in her sweater, especially if she followed Buster’s lead and stayed in the sun. She sat on a bench, Buster sprawled at her feet. The Sloan boys were racing on the mulched paths among the herbs and flowers. Brandon and Dylan, neither of whom looked cold, were seated at the table across the terrace.
Dylan offered her iced tea, but she shook her head. “I’m happy to sit here and enjoy the day,” she said.
They were, in fact, discussing adventure travel. Samantha remembered Duncan mentioning adventure travel as one of his interests. He’d wanted to spin off some of his treasure-hunting projects and plan trips—get his son involved.
That son was Dylan, she thought. A real, flesh-and-blood man not five yards from her.
She regretted succumbing to Olivia and Maggie and was ready to bolt with her new tent and sleeping bag when Justin appeared on the other side of the old stone wall along the field at the back of the house. He climbed over the wall, jumped over a wild-looking herb and hopped up onto the terrace. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, either, his canvas shirt open over a T-shirt. As he approached her, Samantha noted his strong build and flat abdomen and again considered slipping off into the woods with her tent.
After she confronted him about her journal.
She dreaded the idea, and she had no intention of bringing it up in front of Dylan.
Justin nodded to her, not a hint of awkwardness about him. “Afternoon, Samantha.”
“Knocking off early today?”
“Waiting for a plywood delivery. I’ll head back up in a few minutes. I see you’ve met Brandon and my nephews.”
“I have, yes. I didn’t expect to be back here, but I ran into Maggie and Olivia in town.”
“So I heard.”
Of course he’d heard. Samantha realized that her pulse had quickened, but she hoped it didn’t show. As much as she was accustomed to being around men—hardheaded men—it was always on her own turf, or at least Bennett turf. Here, she thought, she was a stranger. An outsider. She tried to think of something to say besides, “I want my journal back.” She’d never been good at small talk. Her mother was the expert. Justin showed no sign of letting her off the hook and going over to chat with his brother and Dylan. Time to channel Francesca Bennett.
Samantha took a breath. “It looks as if you’re making good progress on the house and barn you’re building up the road.”
“We are, but we have a lot to do before cold weather sets in.” Justin flicked a large spider off a white mum in a stone pot beside her bench. The spider landed in the grass and scurried out of sight. “There was a house on the site that had to be demolished first.”
Before Samantha could respond, Dylan got to his feet and walked over with his iced tea. “It was owned by a woman who turned out to be my father’s birth mother. In a way she’s the reason I ended up in Knights Bridge. It’s quite a story.”
“Her name’s Grace Webster,” Justin added.
Samantha felt her mouth go dry. “She’s still alive, then?”
Dylan nodded. “She moved into an assisted living facility here in town. My father ended up buying her old house. For various reasons, he never told me. He died two years ago this past June. I didn’t know I’d inherited the property until earlier this year.”
Samantha leaned over and rubbed Buster on his stomach. He gave a contented sigh, and she looked up at the three men, all of them, including Brandon, watching her, as if gauging her reaction to the story about Grace Webster. Given Dylan’s background, a certain level of scrutiny of people wandering into town made sense. It didn’t mean they’d figured out who she was.
It didn’t mean they hadn’t, either.
She didn’t want to lie and she didn’t want to explain. So she got up, stepped over Buster, mumbled something neutral and innocuous and stepped off the terrace into the gardens. The Sloan boys were enthralled with another spider—or maybe the same spider—on a rock. Samantha continued down a mulched path and paused in front of the stone wall, looking out across the field toward Carriage Hill.
“There are trails up Carriage Hill,” Justin said, easing in next to her.
“The views must be spectacular this time of year. Any time of year, I imagine.”
“You can snowshoe and cross-country ski in winter.”
She wished she didn’t feel so self-conscious. “Sounds like fun, although not on a frigid day.”
“What’s frigid to you?” he asked.
“Under ten degrees. The temperature has to be in double digits for me to strap on skis.”
Justin placed one foot on a boulder, probably collected by farmers clearing the fields around the time the house was built in 1803. She noticed nicks and scars on his boot, bits of mud at the frayed hem of his jeans, the hard curve of his thigh—then of his jaw, his mouth. His eyes narrowed and then met hers with no detectable change in his expression, but she suspected he knew she was taking in all the sexy details about him. Then again, maybe he was just picturing her snowshoeing up Carriage Hill.
“I didn’t find my journal,” she said, deciding to give him the chance to come clean. “I retraced my steps from yesterday but no sign of it.”
He glanced away from her. “Would it be much of a loss if you don’t find it?”
“It contains research notes.”
“I see.” His gaze narrowed on her, but he didn’t take the bait. “My delivery should be there by now. See you around, Sam.”
“Right. Sure. Maybe, anyway.”
She didn’t know if he heard her. He hopped over the stone wall, landing in tall grass and late-blooming wildflowers, and started up along the edge of the field back toward his construction site and plywood delivery.
His nephews called to their father to come look at a “gigantic” spiderweb they’d found. Brandon responded and followed Buster off the terrace. Dylan went back inside, the screen door shutting behind him. Samantha thought she heard a crow off in the distance, toward Carriage Hill.
There was a chill in the breeze, but it did little to cool the heat building inside her.
“Would it be much of a loss if you don’t find it?”
A carefully worded question, wasn’t it?
She wasn’t paranoid. She was right.
Justin Sloan had her journal.
“Damn.”
With a burst of energy, she bounded over the stone wall and followed a well-worn trail through the grass and wildflowers, ignoring all the cautionary voices in her head that warned her to think first. She was alone in this little town, among strangers—she didn’t even have a car. It wasn’t the time to be impulsive.
But she knew Justin had her journal.
She caught up with him and grabbed his arm. It was like grabbing a tree trunk. He stopped only because he decided to stop. She was breathing hard, more from emotion than from exertion. “You found my journal, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “Last night after the fire.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Thought I’d see what was what with you first.”
She lowered her hand from his arm. “Did you read it?”
“The title page. That’s it.” He didn’t sound at all guilty. “I’m not the kind of guy who reads women’s journals.”
“You let me twist in the wind.”
“That wasn’t the purpose of my not saying anything.” He didn’t explain further. “You’re here about a pirate?”
“I thought you said—”
“I read the title page. Notes on Benjamin Farraday, Pirate and Privateer.”
“Farraday is a little-known privateer who turned to piracy and appears to have escaped capture by fleeing west.”
“To Knights Bridge?”
“It wasn’t Knights Bridge then. It’s possible he ended up in this general area.”
“With pirate’s treasure?”
Samantha ignored the sarcastic note in his voice. “Why would you think that?”
“Why else would anyone be interested enough in a little-known pirate to hike out here by herself? Is that why you chose to follow Cider Brook—something to do with your Captain Farraday?”
“I didn’t say I was here because of him.”
“Right,” he said, skeptical.
She took in a breath. “I just want my journal back. Unread.”
“I’ll drop it off in the morning—”
“Now. Tonight. I’ll come get it myself. Just tell me where it is.”
“It’s at my place.”
His words were challenging and sexually charged, and he knew it—knew exactly what he was doing. He was deliberate, calculating and enjoying himself, and she couldn’t pretend otherwise.
Which didn’t mean she had to play his game.
“After work will be fine,” she said. “Since I don’t have a car, I’d appreciate it if you dropped it off.”
Just the slightest smile. “Sure thing.”
“You don’t feel guilty, do you?’
“Nope.” He pointed up the field. “I have to get back to work.”
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.” She stood straight. “I just want to say...” She paused, forced herself to think first. “Anyone conducting research into pirates learns to be circumspect. It’s not meant to be secretive, disingenuous or rude.”
“Disingenuous. Good word.” He leaned in close to her and winked. “I’ll be back here with your journal in an hour.”
* * *
Dinner was vegetable lasagna, garlic bread and salad. Maggie, Brandon and their sons stayed, but Samantha fled to her room with a tray. She didn’t know if Justin had told Dylan, Olivia, Maggie, Brandon, his cop brother, his firefighter brother—everyone in Knights Bridge—about her journal and Benjamin Farraday. She wished she’d asked Justin who else knew but couldn’t bring herself to tell her hosts. She was too raw, and too caught up in her reaction to him. She needed to get her bearings. Think for a change.
She was so convinced that either Justin wouldn’t return with her journal at all or would leave it in the kitchen for her that when she heard a heavy footfall outside her door, it didn’t occur to her it was him.
But it was. He knocked. “Here’s your journal.”
She opened the door, aware she was barefoot, holding a glass of red wine and wearing the plush, too-big white bathrobe she’d found in the closet. He was exactly as she’d left him. Canvas shirt, black T-shirt, worn jeans, scuffed boots, deep blue eyes, short-cropped dark hair and far too sexy for a man with her private journal in his hand.
“Thank you,” she said, trying not to snatch it from him.
He placed it in her outstretched palm. “Wore yourself out today?”
“A lot of walking between yesterday and today, but it’s been great. I’m just relaxing this evening.” She motioned with her wine. “Dinner was perfect.”
“Good to know. Olivia offered me leftovers. I see you decided on wine instead of dipping into your Scotch. Or is Scotch just for when you’re hunting for pirate treasure?”
“Actually, my uncle thinks I should take rum—which isn’t to say I’m confirming your suspicion that I’m here hunting pirate treasure. Most historians agree that stories of buried pirate treasure are apocryphal.”
“Meaning they’re bullshit.”
Samantha sighed. “Thank you for not reading my journal. It’s mostly just ramblings.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re being sincere, aren’t you? You really didn’t read it.”
“Life’s easier if you don’t lie. Less to remember.” With one hand, he adjusted the collar of her robe, then pointed to the belt. “This thing’s about to come undone.”
“It’s a little big for me.”
“I noticed.”
Of course he noticed. Of course he’d tell her he noticed. With a wineglass in one hand, her journal in another and the tie to her robe about to come loose, she didn’t dare move. “You might want to get back downstairs while the lasagna’s still warm.”
“Yeah.” He gave her a knowing grin. “I might.”
“Would you—um—mind shutting the door? My hands are full.”
“Not a problem.”
He kept his gaze on her as he pulled the door closed.
Nothing more deadly, Samantha thought, than a man who knew he was sexy.
Once she heard the door latch, she spun around, set her wine on a small table and tossed her journal onto the bed—and tripped on the hem of her robe. She pulled it off and slipped into her flannel pajamas. Probably should have stuck with them and skipped the robe altogether. There was nothing provocative, sexy or alluring about navy flannel pajamas.
She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up her wine, sipping it as she replayed her two days in Knights Bridge in her mind.
“They know.”
With a shaking hand, she set her wineglass back on the table, next to a vase of fresh-cut yellow mums.
“They know who I am.”
Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her throat tight as she stood, stiff and hardly breathing.
“Justin is the carpenter who told Duncan about me, and they all know.”
She paced in her flannel pajamas. It was dark out now. Cold.
“Hell’s bells. Now what?”
She was in the middle of nowhere. On a dead-end road, with people who had every reason to think she’d deliberately misled them and was up to no good in their little town.
The thunderstorm and fire explained some of her predicament, but not all. It was also the haunting painting of the cider mill, the handwritten, fanciful pages about Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth and the memory of Harry Bennett and Duncan McCaffrey, two men she’d loved and admired and who’d died within months of each other.
Her own family didn’t understand her reasons for being here. How could she expect Dylan, Olivia, Justin and all of the other Sloans to understand?
Sometimes she wasn’t sure she understood herself. Duncan was dead. How could she redeem herself with him? What difference did it make if she proved her theory about a three-hundred-year-old pirate?
Why had an amateur painting and story buried in her grandfather’s office closet intrigued her to the point she’d had to be rescued in a fire?
“Things can get out of control fast,” her grandfather had said when he’d told her about some of the close calls he’d had over his long, adventurous life. “You can’t anticipate everything. Sometimes you just have to play the cards you’re dealt and do your best.”
Samantha finally sat back on her bed and picked up her wine.
Harry Bennett had survived the harsh conditions of Antarctica, the coldest, iciest continent on earth.
She could damn well survive Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.
But if she could find a way to do it without being noticed, she would go out the window on her bedsheets.