Dark Pirate

  DARK PIRATE

  Angela Devine

  When all is not what it seems...

  Rose had come to Cornwall full of hope and excitement and instead had found herself confronted with the greatest dilemma of her life! his name was Greg Trelawney. She thought he was a simple fisherman---in fact he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. She thought he was only helping her--but did he have an agenda of his own?

  CHAPTER ONE

  ROSE had never seen a man who looked quite so dangerous as the fisherman lounging at the table opposite her. At least, she presumed he was a fisherman because the snatches of conversation that drifted to her above the hubbub of the bar were all concerned with fishing. Yet he might just as well have been a Cornish smuggler right out of the past with that thick, glossy black hair, chocolate-brown eyes and brooding features. He must have been in his mid-thirties and he had the tough, lawless look of a smuggler. In this village where time stood still it was easy to imagine a man like that striding ashore by the fitful light of the moon with a brandy barrel slung carelessly over one powerful shoulder. Or leading a lusty brawl against the Excise men, striking out with his clenched fists and revelling in the danger and the excitement. It was also easy to imagine him in a darkened doorway, hauling a village girl into a fierce embrace and kissing her until she was dizzy with longing. There was something about the feral glint in his eyes and the lurking sensuality about the corners of his mouth that told Rose he knew a lot about women. Even his old clothes could not diminish his air of power and sensuality. He wore faded blue jeans and a red checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms covered in coarse, dark hair. Not designer elegance by any stretch of the imagination, yet the aura of confidence and vibrant animal magnetism that radiated out from him was almost indecent in its intensity.

  I wonder if he's married, thought Rose. Suddenly she became aware that his chocolate-brown eyes were fixed on her and that the sardonic smile on his lips was growing a little wider. Horrified at being caught staring so rudely, Rose dropped her gaze, but she could not restrain the tide of colour that flushed hotly into her cheeks. There was the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back, light, prowling footsteps approached and then he was standing beside her. So close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body in waves, smell the clean, masculine scent of him, compounded of salt air and a soap that reminded her of leather, could see the thrust of his hard, muscular thighs against the fabric of his jeans.

  'Can I get you a drink, my love?' he murmured and the voice was as devastating as the rest of him—a deep, soft, Cornish burr with that alarming intimacy that all Cornish speech seemed to hold, a slow, confiding cadence

  that made her feel as if even total strangers were welcoming her as their closest friend. 'I'm just getting another beer for Charlie and me, so it'll be no trouble if you'd like something.'

  Was it an attempt to pick her up or merely a sociable gesture, natural in such a small village? Rose darted a swift glance of alarm at him, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. Close up, he was even more disturbing with his even white teeth and those tiny pale lines around his eyes contrasting with his tan. She had seen men like that in Australia, men who spent long hours outdoors, screwing up their eyes in bright sunlight and gazing keenly through immense distances. He looked down at her with a mocking, unhurried manner as if he could read every thought in her head and was vastly amused by them. Then he transferred the second beer mug into his left hand and held out his other hand for her glass. Rose, who had been staring at him in a frozen way, suddenly came to life and clapped both her hands protectively over it.

  'No! Really. It's all right. Thank you very much, it's awfully kind of you, but I must be going soon. I'll just finish this and then...' Her voice trailed away.

  'Just as you like,' he agreed amiably and turned away towards the bar.

  Rose gazed after his broad back with the feeling that she had just made an appalling fool of herself. A small, unsteady sigh escaped her and she poured the last inch or so of sparkling apple cider into her glass and sipped it slowly in an attempt to calm her nerves. What was wrong with her? After all, she was twenty-seven years old, not some giggling teenager. And with several years' experience as a highly paid and respected computer programmer, she was used to dealing with tough male executives, men who didn't respect any woman unless she proved she could hold her own. And Rose could. Not only was she good at her job, but she had also learnt all the social skills that went with it: the cool, poised manner, the power dressing, the hairstyles that confined her long, unruly chestnut curls in a neat chignon or a smooth braid.

  Above all, she had learnt to feel as if she was in control of her life.

  So how could this flamboyant Cornish fisherman simply offer to buy her a drink and give her palpitations as if she were a silly schoolgirl? It must be because she was still upset about Martin's betrayal and therefore acting

  totally out of character. Or perhaps it was just the atmosphere of Polperro itself—so quaint, so serene, so olde-worlde that it woke an impulsive, romantic part of her nature that had lain buried most of her life. After all, how else could she explain her decision only this morning to buy a wildly expensive cream knitted sweater hand-embroidered with tiny flowers and a swirling muslin skirt to match? A fairly amazing departure from her usual tailored suits like the one she was wearing now! But somehow the outfit had felt exactly right when she had tried it on. The pale blue forget-me-nots had matched the colour of her eyes and, moved by an odd instinct, she had undipped the gold slide which had pinned her hair severely at the nape of her neck and let it spring free in wavy brown profusion around her shoulders.

  The unfamiliar image of herself as soft, wistful, feminine had been irresistible. She had put down a small deposit and asked the shopkeeper to hold the clothes until she could go to the bank and cash some traveller's cheques to pay for them... That thought gave her a jolt. Oh, help! What time did the banks close? Rose forgot all about Cornish fishermen and glanced down at her watch in alarm. She would have to hurry!

  Unzipping her bag, she reached into the compartment where she kept her red vinyl pocketbook containing her traveller's cheques. Her fingers groped in vain. The first uneasy stirring began inside her and she glanced sharply down. There was no sign of her pocketbook, but it must be here, it must!

  Everything of importance was in it— her passport, her traveller's cheques, her return airline ticket to Australia. Frantically she began to unzip the other navy leather compartments. A map of Cornwall, a roll of Polo mints, a neatly pressed white handkerchief, a pocket diary and pen, a comb, lipstick, the keys to Aunt Em's cottage. But no pocketbook. Rose felt a sudden chill lurch of panic and dismay in the pit of her stomach as if she had stepped off the edge of a cliff. Her normally pink cheeks were suddenly drained of colour and she let out an involuntary gasp. The fisherman was looming beside her in an instant.

  'What's the matter, my dear? You've gone quite pale. Are you ill?'

  'N-no,' stammered Rose. 'But I've lost my pocketbook. It's got everything in it. My passport, my traveller's cheques, my airline ticket... Oh, what am I going to do? I've lost everything except my little money purse and that's only got fifty pence in it!'

  'Now don't take on,' said the man mildly. 'Polperro's a small village and folks here are very honest, unless one of those tourists has got their hands on it. Still, like as not, what's happened is this: you've taken it out of your bag somewhere to pay for something and not fastened the bag properly, then it's fallen out. It's happened to me before today. Now you just try and think, my dear. When did you have it last?'

  Rose tried to control the churning sensation in her stomach long enough to allow her to concentrate. She had arrived by bus
from Looe at about eleven o'clock, then she had taken a horse-drawn carriage from the head of the gorge to the centre of the village. After that she had spent a couple of hours exploring all the quaint little alleyways with their tea-shops and art galleries and souvenirs. And there had been a small clothing shop near the harbour...

  It was there that she had fallen hopelessly in love with the sweater and skirt and paid a deposit on them. The woman at the shop had not wanted to take traveller's cheques, but had directed her to a bank where she could cash them. Not wanting too many parcels to carry, Rose had decided to postpone her visit to the bank until the afternoon. Several hours had been spent happily ambling around the old cottages and shops, some with whorls in their glass windows, others with patterns of shells set into their limewashed walls, spending most of her cash on postcards and souvenirs. She had also taken a walk up the cliff path and she seemed to remember seeing the red vinyl cover of the pocketbook poking up in her bag when she had put a handkerchief away...'On the cliff-top, I think,' she said, frowning thoughtfully. 'But I've walked all over the place since then. It could be anywhere.'

  She explained haltingly about the clothes at the shop by the harbour, her intended visit to the bank, the way she had wandered about. Impatiently her companion cut her off.

  'Well, let's begin by seeing if you've dropped it here,' he suggested practically. 'Come on, I'll help you.'

  Rose was too preoccupied to disagree, but she did find it rather surprising that the stranger had taken charge with such firmness and efficiency, even if his manner was a trifle curt. Why was he doing this? Was it simple kindness

  or some other motive? Oh, what did it matter? The important thing was to find her pocketbook.

  They both fell to their knees and searched the floor under the table, but it was quite clear that there was nothing there. As she got to her feet Rose felt a humiliating rush of tears sting her eyes. After all the trauma of resigning from her job, leaving Martin, her mother's sudden need for a hysterectomy as they were due to leave Australia and then the gruelling flight to England, this was the last thing that she needed! Swallowing hard, she made a blind movement as if to turn away.

  'Thank you for looking,' she said unsteadily. 'I suppose I'll just have to report it to the police as missing and phone American Express. Oh, I wish this hadn't happened!' Her voice broke on the last words and the stranger gave an exasperated sigh, put his warm, muscular hands on her shoulders and steered her into a chair. The kindness of the action surprised her. He didn't look like a man who would be kind. There was something too ruthless about the set of his chin, the narrowed eyes, the tough mouth. Yet here he was, calming her down, with only the slightest hint of impatience in his manner— a faint curl of his lips that made her feel she was making far too much fuss about a very trivial event...

  'Now, don't you worry,' he ordered sternly. 'We'll soon have this sorted out.

  Sit down there and I'll get you another drink, and then we'll decide what we're going to do. What would you like?'

  'I haven't got any money--' began Rose, but found herself silenced by three strong brown fingers placed over her lips.

  'I don't suppose I'll go broke on the price of one drink,' the man said sardonically. 'Now, what will you have?'

  Rose made a small, choking sound that was closer to a giggle than a sob, then blew her nose and straightened her shoulders.

  'A non-alcoholic cider, please,' she said.

  Her eyes followed him as he moved away to the bar. There was a negligent, animal grace about his movements that made him look totally appropriate in this setting. A wild, lawless Cornishman if ever there was one! And how different from Martin, whose aggression so often dwindled to mere bluster...

  Yet somehow there was a savage aura of controlled power about this Cornishman that made Martin seem boastful and florid in comparison. He must draw women to him as relentlessly as moths to a naked flame. Well, she wasn't fool enough to be burnt a second time. All the same, an uneasy tingle of excitement sparked through Rose's body as she watched the stranger striding back from the bar with her drink. He set it down in front of her and then stretched out his hand.

  'I'm Greg Trelawney,' he announced. 'One of the locals. And who are you?'

  'I'm Rose. Rose Ashley,' she replied, feeling slightly unnerved by the warm, firm clasp of those fingers. It was as if a powerful electric current had surged through her at his touch. 'I'm from Australia.'

  'Welcome to Polperro,' he said, raising his glass. 'Although I'm sorry your welcome has been such a poor one. Well, we'll see what we can do to sort that out in a minute. Now have a drink and catch your breath. Cheers!'

  'Cheers!' agreed Rose.

  The sweet, sparkling cider with its strong taste of apples did help to revive Rose, but, even more than that, the presence of the man opposite her had the effect of distracting her from her immediate problems. How could she concentrate on a lost pocketbook when Greg Trelawney was gazing at her with that intent, brooding expression?

  'Now, tell me about this pocketbook of yours,' he urged when at last she had emptied her glass. 'You say you had it last on the cliff-top?'

  'Yes,' agreed Rose.

  He pushed away his empty glass and rose to his feet.

  'Well, we'd better go up on the cliffs and look for it,' he announced briskly.

  'Chances are you've dropped it somewhere and it'll soon be found. Folks here are very honest, you know. I reckon we'll turn it up in the next hour or so.'

  'Oh, but you don't have to help me,' protested Rose. 'I can't possibly take up so much of your time.'

  He gave a low growl of laughter at that. A laugh that reverberated in his chest and made his dark eyes glint.

  'I'm not busy. I've finished for the day and I'd be better off helping you than wasting my time and money in a pub. Eh, Jimmy?'

  'That's right, Greg.' agreed the barman. 'You give the lass a hand and don't you worry, my dear. If so be as you don't find 'un and we'll sort something out.'

  Rose darted a stricken look from one man to the other. Of course she wanted to find the pocketbook and the sooner the better. But she wasn't at all sure that she wanted to tramp around cliff paths with a man who made her feel like a lovelorn teenager. Still, what else could she do?

  'Thank you,' she said at last in a strained voice. 'I'll do that.'

  The Smuggler's Rest was only a few steps away from the precipitous path which led up over the rocks to the cliff-top. Greg bounded up the steep slope like a mountain goat, so that Rose had to hurry to keep him in sight. It was a stiff climb, with jagged brown rocks jutting out into the path and pink erigeron daisies spilling out from cottage gardens. As they neared the top of the path, the dry-stone walls which marked the boundaries of neatly tended gardens gave way to a wild landscape of breathtaking beauty. Only the distant line of the horizon marked out the division between the vivid dark blue of the sea and the paler blue of the sky. Overhead the sun shone with an almost Mediterranean heat, gilding the wings of an occasional gliding seagull and warming the rocks that flanked the path. Down below waves smashed noisily against the cliff face and fell back in a seething white turbulence of foam.

  Shading her eyes against the brilliance of the sun, Rose gazed down at the Net Loft—a dry-stone building on the cliff at the west side of the harbour entrance, its walls fashioned from mellow grey stone smudged with yellow-green lichen. For a moment she stood still, hot and breathless from the climb and momentarily distracted from her worries by the beauty of the scene.

  Seagulls wheeled and shrieked overhead and the air was charged with enticing scents—brown earth as rich as chocolate fudge and with the same sweet, heavy smell, gorse bushes in full flower and the bracing salt tang of the sea. What an amazing place this was! But Greg seemed oblivious to the setting and was clearly impatient of her delay.

  'Right, where did you go when you were up here?' he demanded.

  'I sat on the bench over there for a while,' she said, wrinkling her forehead thought
fully. 'And then I went for a walk further up the cliff.'

  A search of the tussocky green grass beaded with raindrops in the area around the bench revealed nothing, so Greg set off further up the cliff path.

  Here the manicured cottage gardens gave way to Wire netting tangled with blackberries, ivy, dock and thick stands of stinging nettles. As they reached the gorse bushes on the headland a cloud of orange and brown butterflies rose at their approach, but there was no sign of a pocketbook on the ground where Rose had stood earlier to admire the view. Greg searched thoroughly, but at last came back to her, shaking his head.

  'Well, that's it, then,' she said heavily. 'I don't suppose I'll ever see it again.'

  In spite of her good intentions she could not keep a faint tremor out of her voice. What was wrong with her? After all, she wasn't dead or injured. The events of the last two months must have been more of a strain than she realised. To her surprise, Greg suddenly caught one of her tendrils of long brown hair that was fluttering in the breeze and wound it round the end of his finger. Rose stiffened at his touch, although it was undoubtedly friendly rather than threatening. All the same, she darted him a swift, nervous glance as he tidied the errant strand back over her shoulder.

  'Well, it's not the end of the world,' he said with a touch of his earlier impatience. 'Just come back to the pub with me and we'll report it missing.

  After that we can see about getting you back to your hotel.'

  'Hotel!' wailed Rose, as the realisation of a fresh disaster suddenly struck her. 'What's the time?'

  'Four thirty-five.'

  'Oh, no! I've missed the bus!'

  'Bus?' queried Greg. 'Where were you going to?'

  'Pisky Bay,' replied Rose.

  'Pisky Bay?' he demanded, his brows meeting in a thoughtful frown. 'Are you sure? There's nothing there but three or four cottages.'

  'I know,' agreed Rose. 'Actually, I'm the new owner of one of them. My great-aunt Em died recently and left it to me.'