Chapter Eight #2
The story of a scorned woman and the pirate she’d cursed had faded to rumor and myth.
Nonetheless, from time to time, some power-seeker would learn the details and send henchmen or come in person to find the doll.
Such people could be dangerous. Someone had set the fire that murdered Grace’s parents.
The crime had never been solved. He believed, they had died because of him and that curse.
The same had been tried with Grace less than two days past. Now a man was sent to search the house and grounds.
What would such a man do if Grace learned of his snooping and tried to stop him?
Luc vowed to keep a more careful watch.
The men left, and Grace had gone into the house to work.
With nothing to do, he couldn’t resist setting the fence posts for her.
Spectral strength and speed had made the work easy and quick.
He’d known she’d be perplexed, but he’d eventually confess.
When he was certain she trusted him enough to believe he was cursed.
Meanwhile, Luc had no intention of avoiding Sweet Dreams or its owner.
She was too intriguing. An intelligent, uniquely attractive woman, with the grit and determination to live on her own while restoring a decaying plantation despite debilitating emotions.
Even her persistent but repressed fear and anger roused his interest. How many other women like her had he known in his nine plus decades on earth?
One, two perhaps, and none with those underlying emotions.
He made a bit of a clatter when his feet hit the dock.
Grace grabbed the lantern, leapt up and whirled, all in one move. She held the light like a weapon, right hand fingers wrapped around the metal grip, her left hand on the bottom rim. She was poised to throw.
Having a lantern tossed at my head might be interesting. Luc had no idea if he’d burn or not. Still, he might not care for the result. Where is her rifle?
She’d never come out at night without it.
“You again. Go away, if you know what’s good for you.” Grace threw him a glare, but somehow it didn’t mar her pretty face.
He stopped and raised his palms. “You didn’t bring your rifle. The Bayou is full of dangers, better to protect yourself.”
“I can take care of myself.”
When Luc made no move, she lowered the lantern to her side. The wary surprise he’d sensed from her at his noisy approach faded like a bayou mist, though an undercurrent of alarm remained.
“What brings you to disturb my solitude again, Mr. Flynn?” Her tone implied she’d prefer to welcome a viper. She spat his name like an insult. Grace held her face carefully blank, attempting to hide her rage and panic.
For some reason, he wanted to smile but not while she was so afraid of him. He wished she wasn’t.
Most people would find her an enigma, but decades of honing his ephemeral perceptions allowed him to sense what others could not.
She still grieved her aunt’s loss. Fear and anger mixed with that natural sorrow.
The dark emotions kept her from feeling anything else.
Why, he could not fathom—not yet. Whatever it was caused her great mental anguish.
Grace looked away, toward the bayou, and her countenance relaxed.
A wistful smile formed. The expression softened her features, making her almost beautiful.
The pain he’d sensed remained, but less sharply as she focused her energy outward.
“Sarah spoke of her niece often, with great pride. You must be Grace.”
The softness fled, and her green eyes narrowed. “It’s well after ten at night, Mr. Flynn, as it was at our previous encounter. This is a rather odd hour to pay a call.”
“True. However, I…I work past sunset frequently. The only time I have to visit with friends is late at night.” He sensed a spark of curiosity before she spoke.
“What kind of work do you do that forces you to labor at such hours? Are you a vampire?”
Luc gave a genuine chuckle. She’d caught him off guard, and he liked it. “No, I’m no vampire, but there are similarities.”
“Fascinating, what do you do?”
“My work is, ah, confidential and requires near constant attention.” Now was not the time to confess he was a century old, cursed privateer. “I apologize for not being able to say more.”
“Oh, you work for the government.” Grace waved a dismissive hand. “To my knowledge, my aunt hadn’t returned to Sweet Dreams in decades. How did the two of you meet?”
“We met quite by accident,” he hedged, letting her think he meant Boston.
“We were so surprised to discover another back bayou Louisianan that we spent an entire afternoon together. Later,” many years later than their first meeting, “she invited me to dinner, where I met her husband, Henry. Your aunt and I found we had a great deal in common, beginning with a love of travel.”
As he spoke, Grace nodded, and cocked her head to one side, as if she was really interested and listening.
Good, she was relaxing as he distracted her from the emotional trauma that seethed below the surface of her curiosity.
His comments about her aunt were mostly true.
“Aunt Sarah did have itchy feet.” Grace’s narrowed gaze opened, and she stared out at the bayou. “I beg your pardon?”
“Itchy feet. You know, the need to be somewhere else, somewhere new.” She sounded almost absent, and she was smiling again.
“Ah, wanderlust. I’d never heard it put that way before.”
Grace looked down; her brows furrowed. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. It’s not a common phrase.” She met his gaze, still smiling.
That smile dazzled. How long had it been since he’d seen that treasured smile looking back at him?
Nine decades, and more. The last time Luc had seen such an expression had been just before he was cursed.
He fisted his hands to keep from clutching at his chest to ease the pain memory roused.
The woman who’d smiled like that was long dead and lost to history.
No one, save himself remembered her. He wished he didn’t.
Grace’s voice snagged him from his agony.
“Aunt Sarah and I used ‘itchy feet’ because it fit how we felt if we stayed too long in one place. Uncle Henry understood.”
“He was a good man, your uncle.” Much better to think about more recent people and events.
“Gone much too soon,” she said, her tone thicker than before.
“Yes, Sarah was heartbroken when he died in that omnibus accident.” Hopefully Grace would trust him more easily if he revealed what he knew of her aunt.
Why do I want Grace to trust me?
Because she was in danger and needed help—whether she knew it or not.
That had to be the only reason. “Aunt Sarah did not let it keep her down. She began a fight for regulation of omnibuses in Boston.” Grace straightened.
Her face shone with pride for her aunt’s quest. “I remember. She wrote me when she won. Said the streets of Boston would be safer,” he confided. “They are now, mostly.”
“Good to know.”
Grace glanced left then right then back at him. “This is awkward, Mr. Flynn.”
“Luc, please, Miss Thibodeaux.”
She did not invite him to call her Grace.
Somehow it made him sad but proud of her at the same time.
“Perhaps it is time for you to leave,” she said.
“As you wish.”
“I do.”
He left the dock and receded from her view. There would be another time to learn more about Grace and the painful secrets she kept. Luc could empathize. He was a master of keeping painful secrets.