Wherever You Are (18 page)

The weight of true love is measured not in distance nor in time, but in deed. Look ye into this mirror and find what ye seek. Step through and discover yer heart’s desire. Stay, and live a lifetime.

Juliana had stumbled back.

The heavy glass shifted, became dull, then turned opaque. Her reflection began to swirl. The room tilted.

Behind her the old wooden steps creaked and that childhood fear of being caught made her heart thud.

“Juliana?” Mrs. Langtree’s voice echoed up the steps. “Are you up here?”

Juliana shot a nervous glance at the stairs. The age-old feeling of being trapped immobilized her for a moment. The top of Mrs. Langtree’s head appeared above the floor and Juliana took a step back but her heel hit the corner of an old trunk and she started to fall. Crying out, she windmilled her arms, sure she was going to crash into the mirror and break it.

But she didn’t.

She kept falling and the last thing she heard was Mrs. Langtree’s horrified cry.

Juliana’s eyes flew open. That’s it. That’s how she got here. She time-traveled through an antique mirror. She was suddenly dizzy, all her questions answered even as more bombarded her. Why? Why travel here? Why arrive on Morgan’s ship?

She looked at Isabelle who was crouched in front of her, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Juliana? Are you ill?”

She had to blink several times. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out, but her eyes focused again. She opened her mouth to say something but no words came out.

Zach.

Had Zach traveled to this time and place and somehow befriended Morgan and told him about the mirror? How else would Morgan know to name his ship after Zach’s sister?

It made sense and it answered all of her questions. Why Zach disappeared with no trace. Why Zach’s family insisted she give up the search and the hope that he would return. Why as children they weren’t allowed in the attic. They’d known. All along the Langtrees had known what happened to their son and that’s why they’d accepted the police’s explanation of Zach running away.

Anger broadsided her like a five-masted schooner. Morgan knew about the mirror because Morgan knew Zach, knew she loved Zach, and not once had he said anything. Not one single damn word.

Her breath came fast and furious.

“Juliana. You’re frightening me. Should I call for a doctor?”

She needed a plan. Confronting Morgan and demanding information on Zach seemed like a good idea, but probably not very prudent. Was Zach alive, here in this century? Her heart thudded with excitement. Was she really so close to finding Zach after all?

“Juliana!”

Or. Had she already found Zach?

After the flogging she’d been delirious with fever, her mind playing tricks on her, making her think she was with Zach instead of Morgan but were those really the hallucinations of a high fever?

Juliana grabbed Isabelle’s hand and leaned forward. “Tell me about Morgan. What do you know about his past?”

Isabelle rose and sat on the settee next to Juliana. There were questions in her eyes but God bless her she didn’t ask them. “There isn’t much to tell. Morgan is very quiet about his past. We met when we were young. I was fifteen, I believe he was seventeen. We were on a ship bound to London from Boston.”

Seventeen. The age Zach had been when he disappeared.

“Does he have family?”

Isabelle shook her head. “None, but he’s never said what happened to them. I’ve always imagined it was something horrific. He had that look in his eyes when I first met him. The one that says something bad happened but he would never talk about it. For the first few years after we met he had nightmares.”

Juliana leaned forward and rubbed her forehead. Oh my God. “Tell me everything you can. Did he have a London accent? English?”

Isabelle seemed to think for a moment before shaking her head. “No. ’Twas one I’d never heard before and he would say strange words occasionally. Words I’d never heard but they weren’t in a different language. They were English-sounding words.”

Juliana’s skin tingled and she turned to Isabelle. “We have to find Morgan. Can you help me?”

Morgan sat at a corner table at The Scabbard, a tankard of ale within easy reach and a willing woman on his knee.

The ale he’d come in search of, the woman was an added bonus. Or so he thought, when all he wanted was to erase images of Juliana from his mind. Now, hours later, he wanted the whore gone, but couldn’t seem to remove her from his knee. That probably had a lot to do with his very advanced inebriated state.

He took a swig of ale only to find the tankard empty and signaled the barmaid for another. The woman on his lap slipped and grabbed his neck for support. She giggled and placed a sloppy, wet kiss on his cheek. He pushed at her, but she was like a barnacle he feared his mates would need to scrape from his body.

Blearily, through a thick haze of alcohol, he noted her once-red dress had faded to a dull orange. Her breasts were falling out of the tattered garment. Dirty, brown hair hung in her face. He didn’t even want to think what crawled in it.

Disgusted, he looked away. The Scabbard was one of the most dangerous taverns on the docks. Dank and dark, a smoky haze hung over the occupants. Your feet stuck to the floorboards when you walked. More than one patron was plastered to the floor, full-bodied.

It was the type of place that those without heart and soul congregated, a sort of hell on Earth, and Morgan felt right at home. He fingered the cutlass hanging at his side as his gaze swept the room, searching for trouble. Whether to get in to or out of, he didn’t know.

Patrick entered and stopped inside the open doorway, his own gaze taking a lazy tour. He spotted Morgan, saluted with two fingers, glanced at the lady permanently attached and frowned. He made his way to the bar, disappearing into the crowd and out of Morgan’s sight.

The barmaid arrived with his tankard, slopping some on the woman when she set it in front of him with a thunk.

The woman—he wished he could remember her name—squealed and shoved her breasts in his face. “Lick it off, guv.”

He pushed at her again.

The woman hanging on him spoke to a whore the next table over. She—whoever she was—wiggled her boney butt into his groin. It did nothing for him. It had less to do with the alcohol in his bloodstream and more to do with his thoughts of Juliana.

What was he going to do with her? He couldn’t drop her off on the Parkers’ doorstep and expect them to take care of her for the rest of her life. He had an obligation to protect her. After all, it was his family and that damn mirror that brought her here in the first place.

So what should he do? Find her a widower willing to marry her? If Morgan gave her a generous-enough dowry he could surely find someone to marry her. Maybe Isabelle’s Aunt Sylvia would help her out. She loved to match-make and plan weddings.

It was a good idea. A solid idea. Juliana would be taken care of. Morgan would make sure to find her someone with money so she would never have to worry. Someone who was quiet and stable.

Someone the complete opposite of himself.

All around him, conversations faltered then died. Pulled from his thoughts, Morgan looked around. The woman on his lap stiffened and tightened her hold on his neck. He grabbed for his cutlass and tensed.

“Zachary Langtree!”

He jumped, knocking his knee on the bottom of the rickety table and causing the ale in his tankard to slosh over the sides.

Oh, shit.

The crowd of dirty men parted and Juliana appeared, striding through the men, dressed in her breeches and a shirt, her hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. Isabelle marched along beside her and Reed, looking none too happy, trailed Isabelle, his hand on a brace of pistols tucked into his breeches.

The woman on his lap mumbled something incoherent and slid off to disappear into the crowd.

Juliana watched her go before turning her furious gaze to him. She placed both hands on the table and leaned over until they were nearly nose to nose. “You son of a bitch.”

Chapter Eighteen

Juliana wrinkled her nose. Morgan gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “‘stinking drunk”. He reeked of alcohol, tobacco and sweat.

“You’re drunk.”

He shrugged. With the calculated movements of a man soused, he picked up his tankard of ale and took a long swallow, his gaze never leaving hers.

She looked at him closely, trying to find some hint of the boy she’d loved in the man before her. How many nights had she prayed to God for one more day with Zach, one more hour? Even while with Daniel she prayed Zach would return to her.

Instead, she found him.

His brown eyes were weak with drink but the pirate inside him stared back at her defiantly. There was no getting any answers out of him tonight. She pushed away from the table. It wobbled and Zach—Morgan—grabbed onto it to steady it.

She ran a hand through her hair in frustration. This was not the way she envisioned her reunion with Zach. She wanted to vent her anger, to scream her frustration, to question him relentlessly.

Morgan swayed in his chair, his beer clenched in one fist, his other hand caressing the cutlass at his side as his eyes roved the room behind her. She knew that look from the
Adam
. He was searching for trouble and if the present clientele was any indication, he would get it soon.

She turned to Reed and Isabelle and discovered Patrick had materialized from somewhere. “We need to get him out of here.”

Reed and Patrick moved to each side of Morgan, took an arm and foisted him up. The tankard of beer tilted, then fell, spilling its sticky, yellow contents all over the table, the floor and Morgan.

They reached the outside of The Scabbard without incident. The sweet smell of relatively fresh air hit them full in the face. Each of them drew in a deep breath, including Morgan.

That place gave her the creeps. The sailors on the
Adam
had been unkept and dirty, but they never made her fear for her safety the way the men in the bar did.

Morgan shook Patrick and Reed off, throwing them a dangerous scowl before falling in an ungracious heap on the cobblestone ground.

Morgan awoke to a dry mouth and a head pounding in rhythm to his heart. He rolled over and his stomach followed a moment later as he pulled the pillow over his head. The weight of the feathers felt like a brick wall pressing against him and he heaved the pillow away.

He cracked open an eye, then quickly slammed it shut. Some dumb idiot turned the sun on too bright. He ached all over, and what was that God-awful smell?

He sniffed and grimaced. He was that God-awful smell. Where in the hell had he been last night? He vaguely remembered a wobbly corner table and a woman glued to his knee. Lots of ale. But after that things got a bit foggy. He examined various body parts, trying to decide if he was in one piece.

Yup, everything there.

He gently probed his throbbing mind, trying to recall what day it was. Then it hit him. Slowly, he opened his eye again. Pain washed through him. A different kind of pain. A soul-ripping pain. Last night he’d devised a plan to marry Juliana off so she was safely tucked away. And so he could return to his life and pursue Barun.

For some reason thoughts of his revenge didn’t hold the appeal they would have a month ago. He gingerly rolled over and eased up the headboard, groaning when his aching muscles and head protested.

How had he managed to make it home in one piece?

Patrick probably. He would have to thank the little man as soon as he found him. But finding him would require getting out of bed and at the moment that task seemed Herculean.

Morgan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He tried to pick apart his plan, to find something wrong with it. It was still a good plan, even in the light of day. Sure he’d like to have Juliana at his side but that was impossible. He wasn’t worthy of someone like her. Not with his past and not with the things he’d done weighing heavily on his soul. Besides, he needed to be free to find Barun.

There would be no more lying on the bottom of a tender on his ship, staring up at the stars and discussing life. No more standing on the quarterdeck and watching her stroll the forecastle with the wind in her blonde hair. No more seeing her dressed in his pants, imagining pulling those pants off and driving deep inside her.

He couldn’t even think of making love to another woman. Not after Juliana's return.

With an impatient yank, he pulled the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees and buried his hands in his hair. God, even his hair hurt. He rubbed his face before standing. It took a moment for his equilibrium to return but when it did he felt much better, more able to take on the world.

He turned and froze.

Juliana sat in a chair in the corner of the room fingering his cutlass, looking mighty, mighty angry.

“Feeling better?”

He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. “Somewhat.”

Why was she in his bedchamber?

And then it hit him like a cannonball to the gut. Her yelling out his name at The Scabbard. Not Morgan, but Zachary. The furious look on her face, the anger and the hurt and disappointment clouding her beautiful blue eyes.

“I take it you’d like to get cleaned up before we talk?”

Oh, shit, damn, hell. She wanted to talk. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Juliana—”

“Not now. Personally I can’t stand the smell of you any longer.”

She stood, wiped shaking hands on her pants and left the room, her back straight, her shoulders tense.

Rich and full of vegetation and beautiful flowers, Morgan’s garden was an unexpected surprise. Drops of dew on the grass made it seem as if someone scattered diamonds across the ground and the sweet fragrance of roses and lavender filled the air. Juliana touched a velvety petal and for the umpteenth time since last night fought her tears, humiliation, anger and the host of other emotions threatening to pull her under.

Zach was alive. Zach was Morgan.