Hours to Cherish Page 10

  And yet it would be years before he would remember the action of the sea. It would be years before he would remember anything. His first memory would be that of opening his eyes, of seeing a strange Bahamian with a mouthful of gold teeth smiling down at him with concern. “Hey, mon, you all right? You been floating out there on that plank for a long time, mon. What’s your name? You an American?”

  “I don’t know. …” Clay had said.

  And so his rescuers had adopted him. They were a carefree crew, singing calypso late into the night, teaching him to play their rattrap guitars. They sang and ate and swam and fished—and carried illegal contraband between the Caribbean and the States. Clay didn’t know a damned thing about himself (not even what he looked like until he saw himself in the mirror in the galley), but he did seem to remember bits and pieces of history and geography. And he didn’t condemn the men with whom he sailed. The islands were famous for breeding poverty; these men had families they hoped to feed and they trafficked in nothing deadly.

  But that was not the opinion of the officials who had picked them up in certain hostile waters. They had interrogated the crew, showing a special interest in Clay.

  “Qué es su nombre? What is your name?” an officer bellowed at him.

  “I don’t know my name. Yo no sé … I don’t know. …”

  They asked him for hours and hours, lights blinding his eyes. If he started to fall, they prodded him up and continued hammering at him. “What is your name? Who are you … who are you … who are you. …”

  Then he started to break, laughing until he cried. “I don’t know, if I could tell you, I’d be just ecstatic. …”

  They weren’t sadistic monsters; they were merely officers in a country where rules were stringent, liberty meaningless, and duty all. Clay suffered no broken limbs, no beatings. To their credit, they tried very hard to discover his identity. They took his fingerprints, but apparently they never went to the right agencies. And so Clay worked the endless fields of sugarcane. Day after day after day, growing closer and closer to his Bahamian rescuers, who kept singing away their imprisonment.

  The nights were the worst. He suffered a dream. He would be lying there and she would come to him, sleek as satin, her movements as fluid as turquoise seas. She was tall, her naked flesh a whisper of silk, her hair, a luxurious tangle of deepest mahogany, cascading over her shoulders, fanning over her breasts, touching him.

  Her eyes were emerald, secretive, promising, beguiling. Her smile was as seductive as Circe’s song. She would come near, he would reach out to touch her, to entwine his fingers into the night velvet of her hair, to bring her down to him, feel the length of her hair against his chest, bury himself in its richness.

  And then he would waken shaking, sweating. She was so close, so real. Every time he dreamed of her he was sure he would remember. … But the memory didn’t come. He knew he was haunted by an enchantress … by a witch. …

  The days became months, the months, years. His body grew hard and strong from constant labor while his mind was honed by all that was around him. He learned that men could be bought, and that escape was possible.

  On a moonless night he and his Bahamian rescuers left their prison behind them; their means, a rowboat and the cunning of desperation.

  But Clay could not escape his dreams. They haunted his new life as he returned to the sea, following instincts that were also dreams.

  And then there was Ariel. Ariel who loved him, but also knew he loved someone else. Ariel who knew she would give him up the day he returned with his memory intact.

  It was the sea that had taken his past.

  It had been only natural that in the sea he found his past returning. …

  Cat entered the library that night as calmly and coolly as if theirs were a prearranged business meeting between casual associates.

  “I do trust that whatever I have to say will be kept entirely confidential,” Cat queried flatly as she sailed regally into the room to take a position matter-of-factly behind her father’s old maritime desk.

  Clay, comfortably seated in a well-padded recliner with his legs dangling casually over the side, arched a brow, not attempting to conceal his amusement. “Of course,” he murmured sardonically. “I certainly don’t intend to hand the treasure over to someone else.” He snapped shut the book he had been reading and rose to seat himself upon the desk, leaning his torso toward his wife. “Let’s cut the Queen of Sheba act, okay, Cat?”

  “Do you want the theory or not?” she asked icily.

  “Oh, please!” he murmured, “by all means let’s hear it.”

  “Why in the hell are we bothering wi—”

  “Okay, okay, wait!” Clay said, interrupting her with a hand lightly clamped over her mouth. “I’m sorry. But we can’t work like this. Let’s start over. I have to know where we’re going, of course. And it’s hardly likely that I’m forcing you on a trip I want to hand over to someone else.”

  Cat watched him suspiciously until he removed his hand from her mouth. Then she sighed, lowering her eyes. “Okay—common knowledge. The Santa Anita left Cartagena with her full flotilla in the spring of 1585. She carried not only the customary silver and gold from Nombre de Dios but a special cargo of precious inlaid gems—the Aztec crown jewels, gifts from the governors to King Philip II. The flotilla was hit by a hurricane just south of Cuba and at least twenty ships in the flotilla went down, among them, supposedly, the galleon Santa Anita.” Cat really couldn’t help herself, her voice was growing excited. She knew she was right, and Clay was listening.

  “Key word,” he murmured, “is supposedly. What do you think really happened—and why?”

  Cat pulled out the middle drawer of the desk and triumphantly produced a document in strange English. It was a mimeograph of something else, and the old language was difficult to decipher. He strained his eyes as Cat began to talk again. “My dad bought the original from an old woman in London years ago. Oh, Clay, I know it’s authentic! I had the parchment carbon dated and it was written in the early sixteen hundreds!”

  Clay chuckled softly at her instant change to enthusiasm, but frowned perplexedly. “I believe you, Cat, but I don’t get it! As far as I can make out, this was written by a mate from one of Drake’s ships—”

  “Precisely!” Cat exclaimed.

  “Cat—Drake was English. Pirating for his queen.”

  “Right! Just listen for a minute. Drake left England in 1585 with glorious plans. He was attacking Hispaniola, Cartagena, and Panama. But everything went wrong. The cities didn’t have the ransoms he demanded for pay, his plundering was poor all the way round. Before he could even reach Panama, rumors hit that the Spaniards were flooding the area. Drake left, sailing for home. He was supposed to stop by the Roanoke colony—”

  “Cat—”

  Exuberance brought her to her feet, reaching out to grab Clay by the shoulders, determined to shut him up so that he would listen. “According to this letter a boat from Drake’s fleet broke away, sailing into the Bahamas while Drake went northward up the Florida coast. Anyway, this mate from the Golden Hind writes about meeting a galleon upon a reef so terrible her corals were already strewn with wrecks. They meant to seize the galleon and plunder her treasure, but they fired too hastily and the galleon went down upon the reef. It has to be the Santa Anita, Clay. The crew of the Golden Hind never reported their meeting with her, because their carelessness cost them the treasure! And the reef can only be the Mira Por Vos in the western sector of Crooked Island Passage!”

  Cat suddenly realized that she had slipped her arms around his neck, that she was laughing, staring into his eyes and feeling heady with the response of his interest.

  “You mean,” he said, “that no one has ever been able to find the Santa Anita because they’ve all been looking in the wrong place—south of Cuba?”

  “Yes! Oh, Clay, I know I’m right! I just have this feeling. …”

  “I believe you!” Clay laughed. “First thing
in the morning we head for Crooked Island Passage and Mira Por Vos.”

  That simple, Cat thought. She said something, and it was that simple. He believed her, he was ready to go.

  A silence sprang between them suddenly. The first thrill of excitement ebbed from her, and Cat suddenly felt trapped. She became aware of the fabric of Clay’s shirt beneath her fingers, aware that their breaths were mingling, aware again of that beguiling scent of his aftershave, of his sizzling jet eyes. Aware of the heat of his body, emanating to hers.

  She withdrew her arms quickly and turned away, walking across the room, her heels clicking against the wood flooring. She had almost forgotten that he had walked out on her and had returned only to make a mess of her life, had manipulated her just this morning, had brought her down and proved himself the stronger.

  “I’ve a good chart of the passage within this bookshelf,” she said crisply, tensing as she suddenly felt Clay behind her. A shiver raced up her spine. He was so different, she really didn’t know him at all anymore. And yet he was right. She did know him, would always know him. Adventurers, they were two of a kind.

  She clenched her eyes tightly closed. No, not again, she prayed, please not again.

  “Forget the map, we’ll get it in the morning. Let’s get some sleep now. I want to be under way by six.”

  Cat nodded stiffly and replaced a book she had pulled out in a random movement. “Swen will have to be in charge if Sam is coming with us,” she murmured, more for something businesslike to say than to inform Clay of anything. He wasn’t touching her, but she was afraid to turn around. “Well,” she said, sliding past him, “I guess I’ll go on down—”

  Clay caught her around the waist. “We’ll go on down.”

  His autocratic tone had the exact effect she needed to regain her senses. “Oh, no, we won’t—”

  “Cat!” His fingers tightened around her midriff, his voice was harsh with exasperation. “I told you we started living together as of tonight! When we go out tomorrow it’s for a pleasure cruise as far as anyone else knows. Mr. and Mrs. Miller reunited at last. Do you want a pack of scavengers following us all the way?”

  “I’d rather have scavengers than a vulture in my—”

  “Not your anything, remember? Share and share alike—what a lovely couple we are! I’m too damned tired to argue anymore tonight.”

  “Oh! And I’m supposed to be sorry you’re tired when you spent the night destroying my life?”

  “Oh, shut up. Right now, Mrs. Miller, I’m planning on sleeping on the floor. But if you keep me awake any longer, I just may get a second wind and decide your claws are worth the rewards!”

  Cat clenched her teeth and stared at him, wishing fervently she had kept her judo instructor around a few months longer, long enough to teach her how to handle Clay. She jerked out of his grasp. “All right,” she said hoarsely. “Sleep on my damned floor. Just keep your hands off me.” She turned, threw open the library door, and started for the stairway.

  He was right behind her. “My hands?” he whispered, the sound tickling her ear. “Those were your hands thrown around my neck earlier. Poor Cat, you never could decide whether to seduce me or not!”

  “If you don’t stop, you’ll be sleeping in the bathtub.”

  “Sounds erotic.”

  “Clay,” Cat snapped. They started down the wing and Cat pushed her door open, sailing in and ignoring Clay as she rummaged for a heavy gown and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. She heard him moving about the room as she brushed her teeth, then drowned out all sounds with the furious jet of the shower.

  What have I let myself in for? she wondered like a broken record. The water seemed to numb her. She didn’t know what she was feeling. She couldn’t force herself to any more anger. She couldn’t think of Jules, although she should. Just this morning, she had been waiting for him. And now her biggest worry was coming too close to this man she had sworn to herself she would hate for eternity. Her husband. A man she didn’t know; a man she did know. …

  Well wrapped in her heavy gown, she left the bathroom. The bedroom was dark. Before turning off the bathroom light, Cat scanned the room.

  Clay was curled in a blanket at the foot of her bed. She glanced at the bedside chair where his clothing was draped. Then she flicked off the bathroom light as she felt a flush rising to her face. Certain things hadn’t changed. Clay always slept with a cover but he always slept nude.

  Cat walked quickly across the room in the dark and dived into her bed, pulling her covers to her chin, She didn’t like to think of him at the foot of her bed … unclad. Visions from this morning of his towel kept filling her head as she tried unsuccessfully to forget him and sleep. Why did he always have to be so perfect, she wondered resentfully … so perfect that she couldn’t forget him. Broad, broad, bronze shoulders, taut, curly-haired chest, narrow hips. … “Cat?”

  She waited tensely for a minute, wondering if she should feign sleep.

  He knew she wasn’t sleeping.

  “Didn’t you forget to ask me something?”

  A thousand little shivers seemed to take hold of her body. What was he talking about?

  “Ask you what?” she finally said hoarsely.

  “Where I’ve been.”

  “Oh!” She fell silent. Did she want to ask him? Yes, she did, but she didn’t know if she really wanted the answer.

  “Okay, Clay, where’ve you been for all these years?”

  “Prison,” he said bluntly.

  Cat lay in shock for a long, long time, unable to question him further, her blood turning to ice.

  “All that time?” she rasped.

  He hesitated. “No.”

  It was the only answer she received. She heard him adjust himself, turning his body away from her in the darkness.

  Prison. Dear God, what had he done? Why hadn’t she been informed, why hadn’t he written, why hadn’t—something? And she was back in circles again. Where had he been since?

  “That’s all I’ll tell you for now, Cat,” she heard him say softly. “The next step is going to have to be yours.”

  Step? She couldn’t take any steps. No, oh, please, Clay, she thought silently, punching her pillow; please, Clay, don’t do this to me. …

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS A WORLD that fascinated and compelled, eerie, soundless except for the effervescence of escaping air. Rainbow colors created beauty beyond the imagination, bright yellow tangs spurted about like a million tiny drops of sunlight, purple sea fans waved a welcome, anemones in all shades held a drifting sentinel.

  Mira Por Vos.

  In some spots the reef stretched less than ten feet beneath the surface. Then she dipped low, opening the way to depths that plunged far into the sea.

  But for all her beauty, she was deadly. She hosted an eerie graveyard within the sea, having taken her toll upon unwary sailors for centuries. Her beautiful yellow tangs lived among the crevices of bows and hulls long since claimed by salt and water. Sea creatures of all kinds had taken over planking and steel; they disdainfully eroded things that had meant lives: silver table-settings, once-coveted llama wool taken from the strange creatures of the Spanish Main, fragile china, the ladies’ silks and satins.

  It was a haunting experience to seek the treasures tenaciously held by Mira Por Vos. As Cat floated, her flippers seeming to actually allow her to fly in this weightless world, she couldn’t help but wonder about those who belonged to the shells and frames and bits and pieces of wrecks remaining upon the corals. Not much was left upon the easily accessible sections of the reef; treasure seekers had been plundering the corals for ages. And while she was sure that the Santa Anita did lie somewhere within the coral prisons of the reef, she was beginning to feel the enormity of their task. She was searching for a needle in a haystack so vast that it was incomprehensible.

  Cat was startled as she felt a touch upon her shoulder. Twisting, she saw Clay smiling around the mouthpiece of his regulator. He s
ignaled that they should rise, tapping his diver’s watch. Cat nodded dispiritedly. Another dive was up, and they had found nothing, nothing but pathetic shells of the past.

  They didn’t need to stop for decompression time, they had only been in fifty feet of water and had been down only an hour. Clay believed that a number of short dives per day were more productive than elongated trips. Rested, one was more alert, more attuned to the messages the sea gave the senses.

  Cat rose slowly and smoothly to the surface, lifting her mask and puffing out the mouthpiece to her regulator as she broke the water line. The Sea Witch II was about forty feet away, but Cat waited in position for Sam to bring the boat around. Clay worked by strict rules that always remained the same. The boat would move to pick up the divers.

  As the hum of the Sea Witch II sounded, Cat felt Clay rise behind her, but she didn’t turn or speak. She had been so sure, was still so sure, but they had been looking for two weeks now, diving steadily, and they hadn’t seen a single clue to validate her theory.

  Cat slipped off her flippers and tossed them over the side of the boat before accepting Sam’s help out of the water. At the question in his eyes she shook her head. “Nothing, Sam,” she murmured as he helped her off with her tanks. “Not a damned thing.”

  The slap of Clay’s flippers hitting the deck preceded his growl of irritation. “Now I know why I always left you at home, Mrs. Miller. What were you expecting? The Santa Anita isn’t going to bubble to the surface to meet you!”

  Cat glared at Clay and dropped her weight belt, spinning on her heel to march into the cruiser’s cabin. She might not be so impatient, she thought irritably, if the two weeks they had spent looking hadn’t felt like twenty. Unless they were beneath the sea, she and Clay were constantly at one another’s throats. And a cruiser—no matter how nice, and the Sea Witch II was nice—was not an easy place to avoid another human being. The quest so far had been as platonic as Clay had promised. During rest periods Cat read inside the cabin if Clay was busy outside. If Clay was inside, Cat would decide to improve her tan outside. Meals were awkward. Poor Sam! He was left to carry on conversations with both Clay and Cat, neither of whom addressed a remark to the other.