Once Upon a Remembrance: Book 1 Women of Strength time travel trilogy: Photographer Isabeau Remington travels to 1894 Virgina and falls in love with a man she must ultimately leave behind when she returns to her own time…but things are not always as they seem.

Modern day photographer Isabeau is pulled from the present time and thrust back into the year 1894 in Virginia. She must help save Hawk Morgan, a man threatened by a killer, a man endangered by his own erased memories. Hawk must survive in 1894 so his present day ancestor Pierce Morgan, will be alive in Isabeau’s future.

Isabeau begins to fall in love with Hawk Morgan but with both their future’s uncertain and a killer on the loose, neither one of them may have a tomorrow to look forward to.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

ONCE UPON A REMEMBRANCE

by Grace Brannigan

Author Website: http://www.GraceBrannigan.com

Facebook: Grace Brannigan Author

Twitter: @GBranniganWritr

All characters, places and events are fictitious and are not associated or inspired by any person, living or dead. The author was not striving for historical accuracy as all places and events are purely fictional and not intended to be historically accurate.

License Notes

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Prologue

Hawks Den Plantation, Virginia

In the half-light before dawn, Pierce Morgan drove toward Hawk’s Den. He had driven all night to get here, hardly understanding the urgency that gripped him. Pierce stopped his truck and stared at the once-majestic plantation house, Hawk’s Den. Forlornly, the old home he grew up in sat before him, paint faded and worn. The house was shuttered and still as light began to break, the wrap-around veranda partially concealed by a tangle of brilliant azaleas.

He strode across the stone-lined path to the house, taking the shallow porch steps three at a time. The ornate entry door lay at a drunken angle, and he shoved it aside as if it weighed little. Stepping inside, he paused as the stench of stale air bore down upon him.

Arrows of light peered through the closed shutters, but Pierce knew where to find the staircase to the second floor. Quickly, he climbed the stairs, his flashlight beam bouncing across the walls.

On the second floor, numerous doors lined a wide, oak-beamed hallway. He walked to the last doorway and entered the chamber. Water-stained wainscoting and pieces of tin ceiling littered the floor. Furniture had been stacked willy-nilly in a corner, once prized oak and cherry pieces now stained by weather and neglect.

Shoved against the far wall was an enormous oak bed. Pierce walked through strewn mattress feathers, then knelt beside a small bedside table. His fingertips tingled as he turned the table upside down. Immediately, he saw the book lodged in the drawer track. Feeling almost lightheaded, he pried it loose and slowly sank down against the wall.

The book’s leather cover was frayed and worn, held together by a gold mesh strap and clasp. Pierce undid the clasp and very carefully opened the journal.

He flipped the pages to the first handwritten entry, the tightness in his chest almost unbearable.  1878, April 2, I fear I shall never live to see land again . . ..

Sweat beaded on his forehead. The journal confirmed that three months lost had not been a wild dream. He had loved a woman back in time, 1894, and somehow he had to find her again.

Isabeau.

Chapter One

Hawks Den Plantation, Five Years Later

Isabeau Remington stared in awe at the tall oak trees lining either side of the narrow dirt road to Hawk’s Den as she drove under their extended branches. The dark skies had followed her all the way from New York, the heavens erupting from time to time with thunder and incredible flashes of lightning.

She shifted restlessly in her small compact car, her legs feeling cramped after the long drive. The serpentine drive took one last curve, and finally a house came into view just as raindrops began to fall. Her friend and boss Leif Ericsson pulled up in his van beside her as she parked. Fascinated, she stared at the beautiful, two-story house. She had read about some of the restored plantations near the James River, but she had never imagined the reality would be so breathtaking. The house had been painted a soft gray, and the wrap-around verandah made her think of lazy summer nights spent drinking tea and eating pecan pie, the scent of azaleas a delicious extra to any evening. Even from inside her car, Isabeau swore she could smell their scent.

A tap at her window made her jump. Leif’s blue eyes peered in at her. Rain was already starting to drip through his long blond hair and onto his gray T-shirt. Quickly, she let the window down a crack and immediately the rain spattered inside.

“I’m going in,” he said. “Hurry up.”

“I’m coming. The house is just gorgeous, isn’t it?”

Isabeau closed the window and exited her car, quickly opening the hatchback to retrieve her pull-along case. She hurried across the stone walk to the house. The rain pelted them in earnest. She had a brief glimpse of wisteria climbing along one side of the house, further adding to the old-world charm. White balconies on the second floor graced tall, multi-paned windows with indigo blue shutters fastened on either side.

Flower gardens ran alongside the house, sculpted hedges and rows of tulips now bowing under the pressure of the rain. Time seemed suspended here, giving rise to Isabeau’s fanciful notion she’d stepped into an earlier time.

She felt almost breathless with anticipation. The house seemed at once unknown and yet somehow, dearly familiar — how intriguing!

Leif lifted the polished brass knocker on the massive, ornately carved door, the sound echoing as they huddled together under the small overhang. He shivered in his lightweight T-shirt, pulling her a bit closer as he tried to shelter her from the rain.

The door opened almost immediately. A woman somewhere in her sixties greeted them with a pleasant smile and urged them in with a sweep of her arm. She wore a knee-length pale linen dress, and her graying blonde hair was short and fashionably styled. Isabeau noticed her eyes, so dark they appeared almost black.

“Hello,” Leif said, “you must be Mrs. Cummins. Leif Ericsson. We spoke on the phone last week. This is my assistant Isabeau Remington.”

The woman nodded and smiled, quickly closing the door behind them. “Yes, hello, Mr. Ericsson — Ms. Remington. How lovely to meet both of you. My, what a miserable day you’ve arrived on.” Mrs. Cummins stepped back further as they entered the cool, marble-floored foyer. “My husband John will see to your bags, so please leave them here in the hall.”

Isabeau shook the damp hair out of her face and positioned her case behind her. “Thank you.”

Together, they moved into the entryway. Isabeau looked around the hallway’s high decorative ceilings and deeply embossed wallpaper. A beautifully refinished grandfather clock chimed out the hour three times. “The house is beautiful. The restoration must have taken some time.”

“Almost three years, miss, and it’s nearly the same as it was a century ago. Pierce is very proud of it. He did most of it himself.”

“We appreciate him allowing us to photograph the house and grounds,” Leif said. “I know it’s a wonderful honor that he’s chosen our company.”

“Yes, and we’re anxious to meet him,” Isabeau said. “The renovation of this house has fascinated both of us,” she added. “I saw the before pictures.”

Mrs. Cummins closed the door and turned toward them with a smile. “Yes, this is the first time he’s allowed anyone to photograph it. Now if you’ll come with me, I can show you to your rooms.” From the large entryway with its decoratively carved and fixed columns, Mrs. Cummins led the way up a curved staircase with a gleaming wood rail to the second floor and down a wide, carpeted hallway. “Mr. Pierce said you were to have free rein of the house while you’re here.”

Although Isabeau knew she included both of them in the invitation, the older woman’s gaze rested on her.

“Great.” Leif looked well-satisfied. “When he sees the article we’re doing on him, he won’t be sorry.”

Isabeau again experienced a surprising familiarity with her surroundings. “Déjà vu.”

Mrs. Cummins gave her a curious glance.

“Don’t mind me,” Isabeau said, “I’m feeling a bit silly and tired from the drive. We appreciate the extra work involved in having guests, so we’ll be as unobtrusive as possible.”

Mrs. Cummins laughed softly, kindly. “No trouble at all. We always have rooms ready for guests. Pierce enjoys entertaining,” she added, pushing open a tall wooden door to their right. “And he set aside some wonderful historic memorabilia for you to reference and work with if you choose. They’re in the library in the roll-top desk.”

“Really?” Leif inquired. “I’m intrigued.”

“Yes, he’s put out some family albums and historical papers in the library for you also to peruse at your leisure. I expect you’ll also find the old shipping records and there are various shipping paraphernalia stored in the sheds out back. I expect him back sometime tonight or tomorrow.”

Mrs. Cummins stood back from the doorway. “Isabeau, Pierce said this was to be your room.”

Isabeau stepped into the room, her feet sinking into the plush pale grey carpet. Her gaze roamed curiously over rich wood floors, antique furnishings and the bedroom’s subtle blending of blue, rose and vintage white. Lightly varnished wainscoting ran halfway up the walls, and a faint swirling pattern of cream-colored flowers ran rampant on the walls to the ceiling. “It takes my breath away — it’s very beautiful.”

And familiar, but she didn’t say that. They were going to think she was off her rocker if she told them everything looked like memories from an old dream. She was even starting to creep herself out a bit.

The bed was huge; old and upraised on a matching oak dais, a centerpiece for the entire room.

“If you’d like to get out of those damp clothes and take a hot bath, the bathroom with small dressing room is through that door.” Mrs. Cummins indicated a second door. “There is a warming rack and a thermostat control on the wall, and you will find towels, soaps and toiletries in the closet. Pierce had a nice selection of vegan soaps brought in, specifically lemongrass and lavender.”

Isabeau didn’t hide her astonishment. “I — I love lemongrass.”

“Yes, miss –” Mrs. Cummins smiled.

“But how would he know?” She laughed and shook her head. “Silly question, he must do that for each of his guests. I’m sure there is a selection for any taste.”

“Of course.”

Nevertheless, Isabeau was touched by Pierce’s thoughtful gesture. She found the room an absolute delight.

The older woman turned. “Mr. Ericsson –”

“Please call me Leif.” His easy grin encompassed the older woman and Isabeau.

Mrs. Cummins nodded. “Leif, your room is down the hall.”

Leif gave Isabeau a quick nod. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

The shutters outside Isabeau’s window banged as a fresh gust of wind hit the house. The storm outside seemed to be whipping into a real fury.

As Leif went with Mrs. Cummins, Isabeau closed the door and moved across the room to the one large window that looked out over the yard below. Getting her bearings, she knew it must face the renowned back gardens that in turn led to the river. However, with the lash of the rain across the glass, it was impossible to see much outside.

She turned back to the room, lifting her arms to push the hair off her forehead. Heaving a contented sigh, she explored the room which was assigned to her for the next week or so. Someone had taken great care in creating a comfortable haven. Cherished antiques were polished to a high gloss, and the bric-a-brac figure of a man and a woman on the oak bureau also spoke of an earlier time.

Fresh cut purple irises were arranged in a blue stenciled vase, residing on a small table with a rocking chair on one side and a low chaise on the other. Delicately embroidered pillows filled the seats, their colors in blue and gold.

On the wall above the bed she admired a beautifully done painting of a flowering garden with the river beyond. She could only wonder if it was Hawk’s Den’s gardens. She moved closer to the painting and could see the initials PM had been signed in the corner. Could it be that Pierce Morgan had painted the lovely scene? Was he a talented artist as well as a much sought after attorney?

#

When Isabeau and Leif entered the library following dinner at Mrs. Cummins’ suggestion, they gravitated toward the fireplace which crackled with a welcoming heat.

Leif drew Isabeau’s attention upwards. “Did you look at the scrolled, white plastered ceiling?”

“I know. It’s a wonder in artistry. I can’t wait to start photographing this place.”

She marveled at the charming collection of richly upholstered chairs and couches strategically placed around the room.

“This assignment could really put us on the map,” he mused.

Isabeau laughed. “Come on, you’re already on the map. How else do you think we got this assignment?”

“There’s lots of good photographers out there, but I’m not questioning it,” he said with a laugh.

Carved wood-paneled walls held a multitude of bookshelves. Despite the dark wood, the room had a warm, comfortable feeling. The pale yellow and orange Victorian lamps with their deep fringe emitted a mellow glow.

“I could almost think we’ve stepped back in time,” Isabeau mused.

“Yeah,” Leif agreed, “it does look picture perfect, doesn’t it? Some of this furniture is irreplaceable. I’m really excited to get started, to tell you the truth. If it wasn’t so late –”

Isabeau laughed. “Tomorrow. We start tomorrow.” She ran a hand lightly over the indigo blue upholstered loveseat with its gold embossed threads. “I wonder if Pierce spends a lot of time in this room?” she mused. “It has a well lived-in air.” A large desk stood against one wall to the right of the fireplace. Several comfortable chairs, a couch, and a matching love seat had been placed to form a cozy half-circle in the center of the room. The massive fireplace had a deep, cherry wood mantle. The love seat was piled with pillows and looked very inviting, as if someone had just moved from its newly reupholstered seat. With a sigh, she settled herself among the cushions.

“What a great place to entertain.”

Leif, an open book in his hand, moved to sit on the loveseat across from her.

Isabeau yawned, then gave a short laugh. “Sorry. That long drive is catching up with me.”

“You’re due for a break,” Leif said. “You’ve been going non-stop since Christmas. When we get back, I’m giving you some time off.”

She laughed. “Maybe you should do all the pre-shoot work for this job yourself and I’ll just go sightsee,” she joked. “Really, you know me; I love to work.” She leaned toward him. “What’s that book you’re looking at?”

“One of the family albums Pierce left out. There’s a bunch of them over there on the table. Isn’t this him — Pierce? — though I’d say it was a while ago?”

Isabeau leaned forward to grasp the heavy, cloth-covered album. Several pictures had been placed under protective plastic. The one that caught her attention showed a young man, perhaps in his late teens, astride a dark horse. He had swathe of unruly dark brown hair almost covering his left eye, a thin straight nose and dark, serious eyes. Dark blue eyes.

“Hmm, very handsome.” She frowned, running her finger over the picture.  His mouth appeared compressed, the lips in a straight line.”Though he kind of looks angry.”

Isabeau turned several pages but that seemed to be the only picture of the young man, although there were numerous shots of a woman who bore a resemblance to the young man. Perhaps his mother? She turned the pages, but the rest of the pictures appeared to be much older.

“No doubt the ancestors,” she murmured. “It almost feels like we’re snooping.” She snapped the album shut.

“No, they were left out for us, and there’s some others with old newspaper clippings inside.”

The library door opened. Isabeau lost her grip on the heavy album and it landed on the floor with a thud. Mrs. Cummins entered the room with a tray and Leif moved forward to take it from her, placing it on the coffee table next to the love seat.

Isabeau felt embarrassed by her clumsiness, and placed the heavy album on the end table. Several pieces of paper slipped from the book and fluttered to the floor.

She reached for them and saw they were newspaper clippings. Curious, she picked up the largest yellowed paper. Once again the young man looked out at her, expression serious, eyes dark and somehow vulnerable. Isabeau cleared her throat and turned the paper to Mrs. Cummins. She had to know. “Is this Pierce when he was younger?”

Mrs. Cummins gathered up the remainder of the clippings and slipped them back in the album. “Yes, that’s Pierce. He was in his late teens then.” The housekeeper sighed. “A troubling time with his father dying and the missus, Pierce’s mother, remarrying.” The older woman lowered her voice. “For a time it was touch and go. The missus was worried about that one. So wild, so angry, but he straightened himself out.”

“So I guess you’ve known the family some time?”

“I’ve been with Mrs. Morgan since she was young, then I took care of her two boys.”

“Well, everything must have come out fine,” Leif said. “He went on to achieve all this. Pierce Morgan is a self-made man, from everything I’ve heard.”

“Pierce has a one-track mind when he sets it to something.” The housekeeper paused by the door. “It’s done him well to get him where he is today.” She looked at Leif. “He called a little while ago to remind me there are also some antique cameras in the roll top desk. Pierce thought you might find them of interest.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cummins,” Leif exclaimed happily. “It’s like a treasure trove here.”

The older woman smiled.”Well, Pierce thought you might like to use some of these items in your photographs. If you need anything else, just let me know.”

“Thank you,” Isabeau said. “You’ve really done enough, and dinner was wonderful.”

“No trouble, Isabeau.”

The housekeeper left. Isabeau looked once more at the paper clipping, then almost reluctantly slid it back in the album.

“Look at this.” Leif reached over the tray to pick up another large volume, but managed to sideswipe a coffee cup, tipping it. The dark liquid streamed across the tray, splattering the book.

“Leif!” He quickly pulled his hand back and she grabbed several napkins from the tray, carefully blotting the leather cover. “Did you get burned?” she asked.

“No. Just clumsy.” He grimaced.

“I think it should be okay,” she ran her fingers along its worn, gilt-edged binding. “It looks pretty old.” Unable to resist, she opened the heavy tome.

“I’m intrigued by what’s in the desk,” Leif confessed. The large roll top desk sat at an angle from them.

Isabeau stared at the book she held. The name “Morgan” was boldly inscribed in raised letters on the first page. The pages crackled as she carefully brushed her fingertips across the yellowed surface, her eyes scanning the crisp paper.

“It’s the Morgan family Bible.” The ink had faded to a dark brown. “This is really old,” she said reverently. The storm seemed to escalate outside. With a shiver, Isabeau took the book and settled once more into the loveseat pillows.

Leif busied himself looking through the items in the desk. “Look at this.”

Isabeau glanced up to see him holding two gleaming silver objects which were decoratively engraved with vines and leaves.

He laughed, turning the pieces over. “I’m not quite sure what they are. Almost looks like a mini dust pan. I’ll have to find out from Mrs. Cummins.”

“It’s an antique crumber and blade,” she said absently, staring at the items. “It’s for cleaning up the crumbs on the table between dinner courses.” At his incredulous look, she laughed. “You know my mom is obsessed with collecting antiques. We have a gold-plated one.”

He laughed. “I knew there was a good reason I hired you.” He held up a black box, carefully opening it to reveal the camera inside. “This is turn-of-the-century.”

“The original point and shoot camera.” She looked back at the book in her lap. “This family Bible is intriguing.” She traced down the names with a fingertip. “Marriages, 1858. Catharine Hawk to Brendon Morgan. Issue of Marriage, Hawk Morgan, born 1863. Who would name their child Hawk?”

Isabeau experienced a sharp jag of pain in her arm, then an unaccustomed weakness gripped her right hand. She shook her hand vigorously, trying to dispel the odd feeling. She turned another page, moving her finger down the parchment. “Deaths. Hawk Morgan, May 19, 1894.”

Thunder boomed outside, making her jump. Isabeau looked up at Leif as he joined her.

“That storm is getting closer.” He leaned in to read over her shoulder. Rain pelted the windows fiercely. Suddenly, a loud knocking erupted from the front entrance. “Sounds like somebody’s out in the storm.” Leif stood. The knocking continued.

“I wonder where Mrs. Cummins is?” He walked toward the library door. “I’ll be right back.”

Isabeau nodded absently, her focus on the book’s entries. “Hawk Morgan.” She felt lightheaded, almost nauseous. Standing, she put the book down, then leaned against the side of the seat as weakness pervaded her body. Not feeling well at all, she grabbed the edge of the loveseat.

“Leif.”

A crystal paperweight carved in the shape of a ship winked with light on the small side table at her elbow, wavering in and out of her focus. Vaguely, Isabeau heard footsteps.

Rushing winds echoed around and around her head. It hurt her ears. She put her hands over her ears but it didn’t stop. The volume of cascading rain became deafening as she swayed.

Isabeau felt frozen, dizzy, filled with the sensation of floating . . . a cushioned embryo in the womb. She was in a nothingness, yet strangely there was no fear. Vaguely she was aware of chanting, one voice and then more, soft and then louder.

“Power from light, power from heaven, power from thine own self, power of thine own worth. Bring the one who will cast chaos aside. Bring the one who will stay the turmoil. It is done. It is done, it is done.”

Something guided her through the rushing of air all around her and moved her into a deep, calming light.

Chapter Two

Isabeau groaned, the point of her left hip burning with pain. She lay curled in a fetal position, her head cushioned by her arms and a hard surface beneath her. She moved as the stench beneath her nose made her gag.

Jerking upright, she gasped in fresh air. With a groan, she massaged the muscles of her thighs, then the area on either side of her hips. She felt like a pulsing mass of cramped muscle.

Dark enveloped her. Was she blind? Memory was frighteningly fuzzy. She felt out of place. Groping with her hands, Isabeau felt a hard, uneven surface beneath her, then some type of coil. A rope? She drew her hands back hurriedly from a greasy surface.

Disoriented, she knelt and then rose unsteadily to her feet, the pain in her temple settling to a dull throb. The air around her hung heavy and humid. Squinting, she could see a glimmer just ahead, a flickering light. She moved toward it.

The floor seemed to tilt, then righted itself, an altogether unnerving sensation.

Isabeau stared at the light, an antique lantern hung on a wooden peg, the metal cracked and tarnished black. She sat down and rubbed her fists across her eyes. Belatedly, she recalled the greasiness on her hands, which she could now feel on her face. She tried to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, but her lids still felt sticky.

A creaking moan caught her off guard and the floor shifted again beneath her feet. Frantically, Isabeau moved her palm along the wood floor beneath her, then pulled her hand back as something bit her. Not a bite. A splinter embedded in her flesh.

Holding her palm up to the meager light, she pried it out and felt the warm trickle of blood. As it began to throb, she pressed it to her jean clad leg.

She tried to remember something, anything, but all she could come up with was the sensation of floating. She had been at Hawk’s Den for a photo assignment, but then nothing after that.

The heavy air carried unusual odors as a brisk breeze swirled around her. Her brain churned sluggishly, unable to identify what her senses were picking up. It almost sounded like a ship on water.

Where was she? Minutes passed, foreign sounds continued to invade her senses. Isabeau put out her hands to steady herself as everything swayed. Saliva gathered at the back of her throat. With dread, she feared she would be sick. She remained perfectly still.

The floor continued to vibrate and then there came the sound of footsteps and men’s voices. A heavy clunk, something rolled… a muttered curse.

Isabeau backed up until she felt a hard surface at her back. As the lantern light swayed, she realized in front of her were a pile of crates. She began to see shadowy silhouettes as daylight played at the edge of the horizon.

She sat down, thumping the back of her head against a crate. The crate tipped and landed with a soft thud beside her.

“Uh.” Panic made her heart rate faster and her hands tremble as she attempted to absorb what she had seen. She was on a ship. A big ship with sails. Had she been kidnapped?

Quietly, she moved to the edge of the crates. Men moved cargo boxes below her, hauling on ropes, climbing up into the sails. If she hadn’t been feeling the bite of terror, she’d have been fascinated. She felt as if she’d been dropped into a period piece. The men she could see wore short coats of dull browns, gray, and black, brown and black shoes or high boots, and long, loose pants.

She pulled back into the shadows as footsteps drew near.

“Thought I heard something,” a surly voice muttered from the other side of the crates.

“Right, mate,” a second voice jeered. “Get back to work. We’ll be in port soon.” The voices receded.

Huddling against the wall, Isabeau’s confusion deepened. What was going on?

“Move your lazy arse,” a voice growled. “Malry’ll string you up in the jib nettin’ if he catches you diddling about again.”

Vigilant to every sound, Isabeau watched the sun rise fully into the sky. The ship activity increased. Now she could count at least twelve crew members. It wouldn’t be long before someone discovered her. Her thinking still felt muddled. Who had put her here? Could she trust these men or was she in danger?

Cautiously, she peeked up over her hiding space, edging forward so she could see more. Almost instantly, she felt another presence. Mumbling a hasty prayer, Isabeau stared, mesmerized, as booted feet and black trouser legs blocked her view. She shrank back into her hiding space, but there was nowhere to go. Looking up, she saw a black, jersey-clad barrel of a chest.

“What have we here?” A voice boomed, and she jumped from the man’s sheer volume.

A big, hairy hand reached down and latched onto the front of her shirt, yanking her upright in one powerful sweep.

“Ouch.”

Dangling with her toes just touching the deck, Isabeau’s cramped muscles came to immediate, screaming life. Mercilessly, pins and needles thrust barbed points into her skin.

A grizzled giant held her aloft by one meaty fist, dangling her as if she weighed little or nothing.

“Here now, boy, stowing away, eh?” the giant bellowed. “I’ll dump you in the ship’s belly and clap ye in chains.” Throwing back his shaggy black head, the man roared, “Nate!”

“Let me go, you pirate!”

The man had a knife and pistols tucked into a wide leather belt at his waist.

His expression grew even fiercer. “Insolent pup. I’m no plundering thief.” He let out an incredulous laugh and then another. “And you’re no boy.” She stared transfixed at the long puckered scar running from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He sported a bright gold earring in one ear and his baggy pants and black jersey were none too clean. Struggling to get free, Isabeau gasped in air as she was lowered to the floor.

“Come, lass, you have explaining to do.”Without giving her time to draw a full breath of air, she was pulled forward by the giant and out into the open.

Isabeau tried to resist, setting her feet. Wildly, she looked for an escape. Sailors who had stopped to watch were returning to business and seemed less than interested in her. At best, they appeared a scruffy looking bunch. “Let me go. I demand you call the police!”

Her captor ignored her and pulled her behind him. The man was huge and not altogether clean. She wrinkled her nose, her sense of smell too acute for comfort. He smelled of day-old fish.

He turned and caught her grimace. “You might well turn up that pretty nose, me lady. It be you what stinks.” Isabeau opened her mouth, then looked down at herself, following the sweep his eyes had taken.

Her mouth snapped shut. She was a filthy mess. Black pitch covered her hands and probably part of her face. The knees of her jeans were likewise filthy.

“One as scrawny as you is unlikely to be of help on board,” her captor muttered. “‘Tis a good thing we’re about to dock.” He cocked a dark brow at her. “How the devil did you stay out of sight so long, that’s what I’m wondering?” His hand tightened on her wrist. “We’ll take care of you soon enough.”

Even in her continued confusion she understood the threat in his voice. With fear clogging her throat, Isabeau thrashed away from him, and managed a glancing blow on his whiskered cheek. The shock of impact jolted her arm from wrist to shoulder. His bellow sounded blood curdling to her. She pulled when she saw his clenched fist.

With a mutter, the man grabbed her close and in the next instant he quickly wound a cord around her wrists.

“Let me go –”

“A warning.” The seaman’s voice dropped menacingly. “Never do that again. You may be puny, but the sharks won’t be minding a snack of you.”

“Malry!” a voice barked. “What goes on there?”

Isabeau’s captor gripped her wrist and half-turned his body away from her. “A stowaway, Cap’n, that’s what I got, stowed in yonder hole behind the cargo.” The man holding her jerked his head to indicate the revealed hiding space and pulled her in front of him. “It’s a woman,” he answered. “A girl.” He released her.

“A girl?”

Isabeau stiffened in fear. The Captain’s voice put her in mind of the rasp of steel against stone. As Malry stepped aside, Isabeau could now see the man he’d addressed as Cap’n.

As the newcomer approached, she managed only to draw a shallow breath as she was consumed by visions of outlaws and pirates. His hair just swept his shoulders, the breeze sweeping it back from a wide forehead.

My God! she thought, those eyes! Dark, deep-set blue. Her palms grew damp and a wave of coldness swept over her. As the blood surged, her heart began to beat harder. Did she know him? Her brain still felt foggy. Was he to be a tormenter like the giant who’d pulled her from hiding?

The man stood with his back braced against the ship’s rail, long legs encased in dark pants that hinted at muscled legs and flowed into knee-high boots. The wind played through his partially unfastened grey shirt, revealing a strong, tanned neck and a hint of a chest liberally covered with hair. His shoulders were wide and he stood easily six feet and then some. He had a deep, strong jaw and a short cropped beard as dark as the hair on his head.

“Oh, my God. Pierce.” The name came to her lips. She had seen his picture. It was the eyes. She’d never forget them, so intense and full of life, so…knowing? She could feel the life force radiating off him. He looked so — so elemental, as if he fit perfectly with his surroundings; the ship, the rough sailors, the sea.

She took a step toward him. Dark, thick brows met almost furiously over a strong, straight nose. His eyes narrowed, then indicated a growing impatience. “You are mistaken, my lady.”

“Here now, show some respect for the Cap’n,” Malry warned, tightening his grip.

Isabeau’s confusion deepened. “What is going on? Why are you calling him Captain? You look like Pierce Morgan. Older, but definitely –”

Her captor jerked her arm.

“Where are we?” she tried to twist free of the thong binding her wrists. “Free me right now!”

“Calm yourself.” The Captain approached them, staring at her hard, as if trying to see past the dirt and grease. She sensed a certain puzzlement in him.

She attempted to swim up through her panic. “Nothing is making sense.”

“Dammit to hell, how do mothers turn out their young girls to fend for themselves?” His head dipped in disgust. “How old are you?” he demanded.

She stiffened her shoulders. Was he a threat to her? “None of your business. Let me go this second.”

He sighed. “You don’t look like you’d last long on the streets, but that’s where you’ll end up when we dock.”

“Wait a second. I’ve never lived on the street in my life. I’m a well respected –”

“Hey, Cap’n,” Malry growled, watching her closely. “Maybe we should bring her with us and put her to work. It’s better than the factories.”

She stared at him. “You’re not taking me anywhere.”

“Malry has a sound idea.” The Captain’s voice gentled, showing none of the earlier impatience. “What’s your name? Do you have anywhere to go?”

Thrown by his sudden concern, Isabeau blurted, “This is a mess. I was at Hawk’s Den earlier today — ” Both men wore a look of amazement.

She pressed on. “I’m telling you, I was there earlier. There was a terrible storm and — ”

“Ahem, Cap’n — ” Malry loudly cleared his throat.

Isabeau shifted her feet uneasily as they stared at her, clearly thinking she was out of her head. Nervously, she kneaded the flesh of her palms, well aware of a look passing between the two men.

“I need to get back to where I was,” she said. “This joke or whatever it is has gone on long enough. If you take me back now, I’ll let this whole thing go.”

“What’ll we do with her, Cap’n?” Malry acted as if she hadn’t spoken. He looked at her. “You’re acting a mite familiar, talking about Hawk’s Den and all.” He turned to the Captain. “And I think she’s off her head. God knows we haven’t seen land for near a week.”

Frustration rose in her. “Don’t you understand anything I’ve said? I was at Hawk’s Den, and somehow I was kidnapped and brought here.”

The Captain flipped open a sheath fastened to the belt at his waist. With precise movements he pulled out a small bone-handle blade and stepped closer. “Your hands, please?”

Quickly, she lifted her bound hands, watched numbly as he efficiently cut the cord binding her.

She rubbed her wrists automatically, tossing a killing glare at Malry. Surprisingly, the man cracked a semblance of a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

“Malry, find out what you can,” the Captain stated.

“Aye, Cap’n, I’ll look into this — and the girl?” Malry jerked a thumb at her. “What about her?”

Isabeau opened her mouth to retort that it wasn’t up to any of them, but Malry spoke again. “Maybe she’s a spy.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m the one who needs the help.” Isabeau’s frustration grew.

Shrugging, the Captain said, “The world is full of spies.” His blue eyes once more bore into Isabeau. Before she could voice another protest, he turned away. “Come along with Malry. Truth to tell, I can’t leave you to fend for yourself; there are enough homeless waifs about. We’ll sort this out when we get to Hawk’s Den.”

For the first time since waking, Isabeau felt optimistic. “Great. Hawk’s Den. Then everything will get straightened out.”

The Captain looked at her with surprise. “Well, if you’ve resigned yourself to coming with us, then can I trust you not to get into trouble until we dock?”

She glared at him. “You can trust me.”

“That’s yet to be seen,” Malry growled, jabbing her on the arm.

Now that the moment of imminent danger seemed to have passed, Isabeau watched the Captain. He exuded confidence, a man secure in his world…the sea, the ship. He walked the deck as if he had been born on it. She knew he was a lawyer. There was no doubt he was the type of man who ran his own business and called his own hours, but what kind of game were they playing with her? When they got back to Hawk’s Den, first thing she planned was to pack and get the hell out of there. She could take a joke as well as the next person, but this was really beyond the limit.

The Captain looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. She pondered Malry’s obvious respect. She had heard it in his voice, seen it in his manner. A man like Malry didn’t offer such regard, she reasoned, unless it had been earned. He struck her as someone who had seen a lot of life and couldn’t be bothered with most of it.

Isabeau wished she knew how she had arrived on this ship. That was the really frightening part. It was almost as if she had materialized out of thin air. On that thought, into her mind rushed her own mother’s story of living in another time. She bit her lip with uncertainty, then discarded that crazy idea.

She rubbed her forehead, frowning, and scrutinized her surroundings. Above her head, enormous sails flapped; half of them were pulled in. Barefooted men scurried in the rigging, as surefooted as if they were on the ground. She heard them call out to one another, each intent on their duties.

The large vessel rode the water smoothly, and she was glad she didn’t feel sick as she had earlier. Open water lay at their back, the harbor ahead of them. As they entered the harbor fully, she saw numerous piers lined with large, masted ships. Isabeau realized that even if she had tried to run, short of jumping into the water, escape would have been impossible.

As the ship maneuvered into a wide berth Isabeau was reminded of the tall ship celebration she had attended only last summer in New York City.

When they docked and the ropes were tied, Isabeau moved to the side rail to watch the Captain walk down a narrow plank to the dock below.

 Continued….

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