He had known that I would ask that, I could see it in his smile. ‘Yes. A Life Before the Wind. Poetic bastard, for a pirate. I’ve already looked it up, but I could only find two copies referenced, both of those in library collections in the States. There may be more, though. Give me time to do some hunting.’
He’d impressed me. ‘And when was it actually published?’
‘1739.’ He didn’t hesitate. ‘Printed for some bookseller in London, in the Strand.’
I’d have to look it up myself. I felt a faint sense of surprise that, of the brothers, Jack had been the one to leave behind a journal. From the little I had seen of him, he hadn’t struck me as the writing type.
But then again, I’d learnt in life that people could surprise me.
Mark, for instance, as we walked together up The Hill a short while afterwards, didn’t tease me once about my afternoon with Oliver.
I sent a sideways glance in his direction. ‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine. Just thinking.’
There’d be no use asking what about, I knew. Mark rarely shared his thoughts. Instead I asked him, ‘Did you know there was a cave below the Cripplehorn?’
He gave a nod. ‘I used to play at pirates down there as a boy.’
‘You never took me.’
‘You weren’t old enough. It’s not an easy scramble down. And when you did get big enough, I’d grown too old myself to play at pirates.’
‘Did you take Katrina?’
‘Once. She didn’t really care for it. Too dark and damp. She liked the light.’
We walked a bit in silence with our thoughts. Which was as well because we’d reached the steep part of The Hill where speaking started taking up more air than I could spare. But still, I found enough to ask him, ‘Will you take me now?’
Mark was more fit than I was, and his words came without effort. ‘What, today?’
‘God, no.’ I took a gulp of air to fuel the burning muscles of my thighs. ‘I just meant sometime.’
‘Sure. There’s not much there to see, though, and the climb back up is worse than this.’
‘No climb,’ I said, ‘is worse than this.’
He grinned. ‘Suit yourself. We’ll go tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Wednesday. Then Felicity can come along.’
Mark seemed to find that odd. ‘Why would she want to?’
‘You’re an idiot.’
‘I’m what?’ He turned. ‘Why am I an idiot?’
I linked my arm through his and told him fondly, ‘You just are.’
And that was all the breath that I had left for talking till we’d finished with The Hill.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I dreamt of him that night; I dreamt of Daniel Butler lying in the bed beside me, only lying there asleep and nothing more. I heard his even breathing and I felt his warmth, the shifting of his weight against the mattress as he turned. His face in sleep was not so hardened as it looked by day. The lines were there, but smoother, and the slanting shadows of his lashes crossed his tanned skin peacefully.
It seemed to me we were not at Trelowarth any more. The room felt warmer, and the night air carried strange exotic scents I didn’t recognise. But I paid no real attention to the room or to the bed, I was so focused on the man who shared it with me at that moment.
Then as I watched his face, his eyes came slowly open and he saw me too, and smiled …
The curtains at my window stirred in answer to the cooler breezes blowing inland from the sea along the Cornish coast, and half-wakeful and half-dreaming still, I turned my own head hopefully. But nobody was there.
And in the darkness of the room it seemed the walls breathed out a sigh and I’d have sworn I heard a voice, not from the next room but from this one, and not talking now to Fergal but to me. I heard him.
‘Eva.’
Not quite sure if I was sleeping or awake, I said, ‘I’m here.’
No answer came except the wind, and in the silence following I found a sleep that was too deep for dreams.
Next morning I was up and dressed before the sun had touched the hills. Downstairs, the dogs rose from their resting places like a wagging entourage and, since both Mark and Susan were still sleeping and my mind was full of restless thoughts that wanted clearing out, I went with all the dogs still bouncing round my heels and took a walk.
I’d had some time now to adjust to the idea that I’d fallen half in love with Daniel Butler, but I still had no idea what to do about it. Any way I tackled it, the thought was still impossible. We lived in different centuries. For all I knew, we’d never meet again. And even if we did, who was to say that he would ever feel the same for me?
He couldn’t, I decided, as I led the dogs up past the greenhouse by the path the tourists would be using when they came, an older path that wound along the high stone walls of all the older gardens where the birds were warbling joyously, unseen. He couldn’t love me, I was nothing like the women of his time. I was a novelty, but that would soon wear off and in the end, when people chose someone to love, they chose their own kind. That was common wisdom, wasn’t it?
So why, I wondered, had I chosen him?
I climbed the winding path in silence while the dogs ran round me, madly sniffing everywhere and tagging one another in the way that dogs will do. I nearly tripped on Samson twice, and still I didn’t know the answer. They were strange to me and new, these feelings, yet I’d never been more certain in my life of how I felt, and that alone was something I found troublesome.