Riptide

'You know that, and I know that. But now they've got something to blame it on. Malin, they're planning some kind of protest.'

Hatch looked at her.

'I don't know the details. But I've never seen Woody so charged up, not since we were first married. It's all come together over the last day or two. He's gotten the fishermen and lobster-men together, and they're planning something big.'

'Can you find out more?'

Claire fell silent, looking at the ground. 'I've told you this much,' she said after a moment. 'Don't ask me to spy on my husband.'

'I'm sorry,' Hatch said. 'I didn't mean that. You know that's the last thing I'd want.'

Suddenly, Claire hid her face in her hands. 'You don't under- understand,' she cried. 'Oh, Malin, if only I could. . .' Her shoulders sagged as she began to sob.

Gently, Malin pulled her head to his shoulder. 'I'm sorry,' she murmured. 'I'm acting like such a child.'

'Shhh,' Malin whispered quietly, patting her shoulders. As her sobs died away, he smelled the fresh apple scent of her hair, felt the moistness of her breath through his shirt. Her cheek was smooth against his and as she mumbled something indistinct he felt the hot trickle of a tear touch his lips. His tongue came forward to it. As she turned toward him he pulled his head back just enough to let his lips graze hers. He kissed her lightly, feeling the smooth line of her lips, sensing the looseness in her jaw. He kissed her again, tentatively, then a little harder. And then, suddenly, their mouths were locked together and her hands were tangled in his hair. The strange noise of the surf, the warmth of the glade, seemed to recede into nothingness. The world was instantly bounded by themselves. His heart raced as he slid his tongue into her mouth and she sucked on it. Her hands were clutching his shoulder blades now, digging into his shirt. Dimly, he was aware that, as kids, they had never kissed with this kind of abandon. Or was it just that we didn't know how? He leaned toward her hungrily, one hand gently teasing the fine hairs of her neck while the other slid almost involuntarily down the curve of her blouse, to her waist, to her loosening knees. A moan escaped her lips as her legs parted. He felt the narrow line of sweat that creased the inside of her knee. The apple-heavy air became tinged with a scent of musk.

Suddenly she pulled away from him. 'No, Malin,' she said huskily, clambering to her feet and brushing at her dress.

'Claire—' he began, reaching out one hand. But she had already turned away.

He watched her stumble back up the path, disappearing almost immediately into the green fastness of the glen. His heart was pounding, and an uncomfortable mixture of lust, guilt, and adrenaline coursed through his veins. An affair with the minister's wife: Stormhaven would never tolerate it. He'd just done one of the stupidest things he had ever managed to do in his life. It was a mistake, a foolish lapse of judgment—yet as he rose to his feet and moved slowly down a different path, he found his hot imagination turning to what would have happened if she had not pulled herself away.

Chapter 35

Early the next morning, Hatch jogged up the short path toward Base Camp and opened the door to St. John's office. To his surprise, the historian was already there, his aged typewriter pushed to one side, a half dozen books open before him.

'I didn't think I'd find you here so early,' Hatch said. 'I was planning to leave you a note asking you to stop by the medical hut.'

The Englishman sat back, rubbing weary eyes with plump fingers. 'Actually, I wanted a word with you anyway. I've made an interesting discovery.'

'So have I.' Wordlessly, Hatch held out a large sheaf of yellowed pages, stuffed into several folders. Making space on his cluttered desk, St. John spread the folders in front of him. Gradually, the tired look on his face fell away. In the act of picking up an old sheet of parchment, he looked up.

'Where did you get these?' he asked.

'They were hidden in an old armoire in my attic. They're records from my grandfather's own research. I recognize his handwriting on some of the sheets. He became obsessed with the treasure, you know, and it ruined him. My father burned most of the records after my grandfather's death, but I guess he missed these.'

St. John turned back to the parchment. 'Extraordinary,' he murmured. 'Some of these even escaped our researchers at the Archivos de los Indios in Seville.'

'My Spanish is a little rusty, so I wasn't able to translate everything. But this was the thing I found most interesting.' Hatch pointed to a folder marked Archivos de la. Ciudad de Cadiz. Inside was a dark, blurry photograph of an original manuscript, much soiled by handling.

'Let's see,' St. John began. 'Records from the Court of Cadiz, 1661 to 1700. Octavo 16. Hmm. Throughout the reign of the Holy Roman Emperor Carolus II—in other words Charles II—we were sorely troubled by pirates. In 1690 alone, the Royal Plate Fleet—or the silver fleet, although the Flota de Plata also carried a great deal of gold ...'

'Go on.'

'... Was seized and plundered by the heathen pirate, Edward Ockham, at a cost to the crown of ninety million reales. He became our greatest plague, a pestilence sent by the very devil himself. At length, upon much debate, privy counselors allowed us to wield St. Michael's Sword, our greatest, most secret, and most terrible treasure. In nomine patre, may God have mercy on our souls for doing so.'

St. John put the folder down, his brow furrowed in interest. 'What does this mean, our greatest, most secret, and most terrible treasure?'

'No idea. Maybe they thought the sword had magical properties. That it would scare away Ockham. Some kind of Spanish Excalibur.'

'Unlikely. The world was poised at the Age of Enlightenment, remember, and Spain was one of the most civilized countries in Europe. Surely the emperor's privy counselors would not have believed a medieval superstition, let alone hung a matter of state on it.'