Siren's Song: A Time Travel Romance

Siren's Song

By Emma Daniels

Copyright 2011 Emma Daniels

Smashwords Edition

PROLOGUE

In all his years at sea Captain O’Hara had never seen waves like these. They towered over his ship like giant green cliff faces, threatening him and his crew with certain extinction.

No! I won’t have it, he snarled. "You! Jack. I want those sails reefed in now!"

Aye capt’n, the first mate called back, but he still didn’t move fast enough for the captain’s liking. He clung to the wheel, muscles straining to keep the ship steady as she rode another wave the size of a mountain top. Be dammed if I let a cursed storm take what I worked so hard for, he vowed vehemently.

The wind tore at the sails, making them flap like useless wings, It whipped Captain O’Hara’s hair about his face, and the sheeting rain soaked through his clothes, chilling him to the core. Great forks of lightening stabbed the thrashing waves, and deafening cracks of thunder shuddered through the timber beneath his feet.

The vessel keeled dangerously to starboard, allowing an incoming wave to sweep clear her lower deck. Anything and anyone that wasn’t tied down, or clinging to ropes and railings for dear life, was swept into oblivion.

Through the sting of salty sea-spray, the captain saw two valued crew members disappear over the side. So loud was the roar of the ocean, he didn’t even hear them scream. But it filled him with sadness. He had never lost a man before, not through death or desertion.

The captain soon realized that trying to steer a vessel through such a tempest was futile. He tied back the wheel, and fought his way through the driving rain down onto the main deck. Several times he stumbled, but he managed to stay upright by holding fast to whatever part of the ship he could grab hold of.

Get yourselves below, he yelled, the wind ripping his voice to shreds. He tried again, cupping both hands to the side of his mouth. We’re battening down.

This was his mistake. What felt like a giant hand shoved him from behind, sending him sprawling across the soaking deck. Something thudded painfully against his middle. Winded and in pain, he felt himself flying, swept from the ship within the confines of a tunnel of water.

Suddenly he could no longer see. He was somewhere inside a wave, the pressure of the water sucking the life out of him.

So this is how I am to die, he thought for a fearful moment that felt like an eternity. A most fitting end for one such as I.

CHAPTER ONE

Jessica knew it wasn’t healthy to spend to much time on her own, but she wasn’t ready to face the rest of the world just yet. She’d taken the past few weeks off work to take care of her dying father. Watching him wither away, his once strong body wracked with pain, even the strong doses of morphine couldn’t ease, had torn her soul apart. Seeing the torment fade from his lined and weary face had been a relief of sorts. His suffering was finally at an end, but Jessica missed him terribly.

The tears streamed in torrents down her cheeks as she sorted through the drawers of his old-fashioned, roll-top desk. Her father had never been a tidy person, not having a filing system to speak of. Photos, letters and other memorabilia passed through her fingers, reminding her of all she had lost.

Legs cramped from sitting too long, Jessica dragged herself from her father’s leather office chair. Dashing the last of the tears away, she went to her room where she tugged a loose, light-weight jumper over her head, and headed outside.

A sunny spring day greeted her; a day designed to inspire rather than depress. Perhaps some exercise will help, she thought, as she locked the front door behind her, and set off down the path towards the beach.

As she began to jog along the shore, Jessica realized how much she’d neglected her own health at the expense of her father’s. All too soon her lungs burned and her legs trembled from exertion. But she pushed herself on, the thumping of her heart replacing the roar of the ocean in her ears. Her surroundings blurred as her sneakers stamped a steady rhythm into the wet sand.

So intent on wearing herself out, Jessica stumbled over a large, soft object washed up on the beach. She fell sprawling, and lay panting for a moment on the damp sand, suddenly relieved to have stopped moving.

When she caught her breath, Jessica climbed to her feet and started brushing herself down. Blinking, she turned around, realizing she hadn’t tripped over beach junk at all.

A man lay face down on the sand in front of her.

Oh God, she groaned, wondering for a gut-wrenching moment if he was dead. Matted dark hair obscured most of his face. His long-sleeved white shirt was torn and stained, and seaweed had tangled around dark trousers that molded damply to long lean legs. The only things that didn’t appear beyond redemption were his knee-high black boots. The turned over cuffs made them look suspiciously like something a buccaneer from the past would have worn.

Jessica didn’t think she could face the grisly prospect of a dead man on the beach, not after all she’d just been through with her father. But then his hand moved against the sand. She could have cried with relief that he was still alive.

Slowly he lifted his head to peer at her through the tangled curtain of his hair. Where’m I? he mumbled, trying to lever himself off the sand.

Feebly, he flopped over onto his back, and dragged a grimy sleeve over his face to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, and Jessica saw that his shirt was undone almost to the navel, revealing a broad muscular chest and rather impressive six-pack.

If you’re too out of it to know, then I’m not about to tell you, Jessica asserted, suddenly overcome with irritation. She didn’t need the complication of a costume-party leftover sleeping off last night’s revelry.

What’d yer say? He lowered his arm, revealing a pair of sapphire blue eyes squinting up at her from beneath dark, winged eyebrows. They didn’t look like the eyes of a drunk or someone stoned out of their skull, more like eyes a girl could drown in if she looked long enough. A dark smear of dirt streaked his left cheek, and sand caked the rest of his face.

Speak English lad! he barked at her in a perfect British accent.

Lad! He thinks I’m a boy! Jessica planted indignant fists on her hips. I don’t look my best right now either, but that’s just downright rude, she thought crossly. She knew she didn’t make the most of her appearance, wearing her honey blonde hair cropped boyishly short. It framed a heart-shaped face that rarely saw make-up. Jessica was tall and slim, and at thirty-one still wore an A-cup.

Lowering her arms, she tugged at her baggy sloppy-joe. Having him think her a boy could be of an advantage, she decided. This was a deserted beach after all. It made her wonder how he’d managed to stagger all the way here in the first place.

"I am speaking English," she growled back at him.

The man finally managed to sit up after a bit of grunting and groaning. My ship! he gasped, as though suddenly remembering something. Where the devil is my ship? He shielded his eyes to peer out across the waves.

Surely you don’t expect me to believe you fell overboard? Jessica asked in disbelief. She supposed it was possible, but he had to be a damn good swimmer, as ships never ventured near this beach due to all the submerged rocks in the area.

He returned those intense gemstone eyes back to her. Where on earth am I? he asked.

Jessica couldn’t help finding his deep, British voice attractive. And those eyes! What girl wouldn’t fall headlong into his arms just looking into them?

But Jessica wasn’t feeling like a normal woman right now. She hadn’t had a single romantic notion in months, her last relationship ending more than two years ago. She’d been too preoccupied with her mother’s disappearance and her father’s illness to even look at a handsome man, let alone consider going out with one in all that time. Not that there had been any offers. When one had a boyish figure and buried oneself in work and family commitments, prospective boyfriends didn’t tend to jump out of the woodwork at you.

So why was she having such thoughts now, simply by looking at a muscle-bound man peering up at her with bedroom eyes? A man who’d called her a lad, at that.

Oh get a grip, and answer his question, she ordered herself. Then get the Hell out of here. Ten miles off Port Macquarie, she told him finally.

What country? he demanded, and when she failed to answer right away, he continued, What country am I in? By the sound of your voice I would have thought I was back in England. But I know for a fact I was somewhere to the north of the new world... New Holland.

Oh no - a delusional. That’s all I need, Jessica thought, suddenly afraid. She turned to flee.

"Wait!" he called after her.

Not bloody likely, she thought, as she began running back along the beach.

Jessica pounded up the stairs of the cottage, suddenly wishing her neighbors were within hollering distance. She almost tripped over Gizmo, sunning herself on the top step.

Oh, there you are, you naughty moggy, she muttered, fishing her keys out of her pocket to unlock the door. The Burmese dashed inside as soon as it was open. Jessica didn’t feel safe until she had barricaded herself and the meowing feline inside,

Once she had gathered her wits together, Jessica fed the cat. When Gizmo had eaten her fill, she whined to be let out again.

You’re in a strange mood today, Jessica admonished, but opened the door for her anyway. Gizmo darted down the stairs and out of sight. With a sigh Jessica locked the door again and went to have a shower.

Once she was standing under the warm spray, guilt crept over her at having left a distraught and perhaps injured man alone on the beach. Jessica normally wasn’t so callous, and decided she would call the police and ask them to check on him. That was if she’d met anyone at all. Now that she was safely behind locked doors, she thought she might have overreacted a bit. But then anyone who'd recently buried their father wouldn’t be thinking too clearly right now.

Jessica stepped out of the cubicle and toweled herself dry. Then she put on another pair of baggy track pants and a matching sloppy-joe.

Stopping in front of the living room window, she surveyed the ocean. A white sail dotted the horizon. Is that your ship, sailor boy? she mused absently.

Remembering how stuffy the cottage could get during the day, she slid the window open. When she looked across at the Hollywood swing on the veranda, Jessica gulped back a shocked breath.

The man from the beach was sprawled on it, tall black boots up against the armrest, sand-encrusted hair spread across Gizmo’s favorite cushion. The feline in question was curled up in a round ball against his hip.

Hey! she cried, her voice quivering from shock and indignation. What do you think you’re doing?

The stranger jerked awake with a start, sending the cat tumbling to the floor with an indignant hiss as his knees came up. Gizmo arched her tail and marched off. Jessica returned her attention to her unwanted visitor.

Her unwanted visitor groaned. So tired, he muttered, slumping back down again. And hungry.

Well, there’s a road house on the highway about two kilometers that way. Jessica nodded in that general direction, hoping she’d instilled enough authority into her voice to get him to leave. Why hadn’t she rung the police the moment she got back? Because you thought him a figment of your imagination, she answered herself cynically. Now she had to deal with him all over again.

He placed a hand against his middle, shaking his head slowly from side to side. At least he’d put his shirt back into some semblance of order, so she wasn’t confronted with another eyeful of his sexy but sandy body. I do not know of what you speak, lad, but I believe I injured myself when I fell from my deck. If only I could impose a few hours more, to rest and regain my strength, ‘Twas a long walk upon the shore.

Jessica crossed her arms, and adopted an authoritative stance. You’re trespassing. I’ll call the police if you don’t leave.

You’re a bossy little soul. Did no one teach you respect for your elders?

Elders? she gasped in astonishment. I reckon I’m… She decided not to finish her sentence. Admitting she was probably older than him meant admitting she was female. Right now she felt safer having him think she was a boy.

I’m a ship’s captain. I have men twice your age calling me sir. Now call your parents. I shall discuss the matter with them, he asserted in that authoritative British voice of his.

My parents are dead, she snapped, emotion welling in her throat yet again, but at least it shut him up, for a full two milliseconds.

Then who pray tell is in charge here? he asked at last.

I am. This is my place now. And what am I going to do with it? she asked herself. Probably sell it, since she worked and lived in Sydney, several hundred kilometers away. But she sure was going to miss the old place.

You have an interesting accent, boy.

Stop calling me boy!

He quirked a dark winged eyebrow. What should I call you then?

Jessica was reluctant to introduce herself to this arrogant young man, but then she didn’t want to antagonize him too much either, just get him to leave, so she could return to sorting out her father’s affairs.

Jess, she said eventually.

Jess. He frowned. What kind of a name is that for a lad?

And what should I call you? Your Royal bloody Highness?

He grinned. It changed his austere appearance completely. White teeth flashed in his dirty face, making him look even more attractive. Captain O’Hara.

Don’t you have a first name?

Of course I do, but no one calls me that.

She leant her elbows on the windowsill. Maybe if she ridiculed him, he might stalk off without her having to ask him to go. Why? Is it something puncy like Percy, ridiculous like Randell or a mouthful like Marmeduke?

I’ll have you know I was named after Ireland’s patron saint, he said rather indignantly.

You sound like an Englishman to me, a stuck up, toffee-nosed one who seems to have forgotten that the sun set on the British empire long ago.

I grew up in England, but my grandfather was Irish.

You don’t look Irish either, she remarked, thinking him too grimy to determine any kind of nationality.

He signed. My mother was Indian.... If I tell you my name, might I stay and rest a few hours more?

I’ll think about it. Think about what, you twit? she asked herself, wondering why she was being so weak all of a sudden. Get rid of him for goodness sake! You don’t need anyone else’s problems right now. You have enough of your own. And what did she care what his name was anyway?

My name is Patrick. Patrick O’Hara, he admitted in a tone sounding almost as thought it was embarrassing like Percy, Randell or Marmeduke.

Jessica had to concur she liked the sound of it. It was a solid old fashioned name. He looked anything but in his soiled shirt, long tangled hair, and sand caked features.

Patrick grimaced as he tried to get up, and she realized that he really was injured. He slumped back down. The state he was in, he probably wouldn’t be rampaging and pillaging, or whatever he did pretending to be a pirate captain, she thought.

All right, she relented. You can stay where you are. I might even rustle up some lunch. Not that she had any appetite. It had fled the moment she’d fallen over him.

I’ll be thanking you, lad.

I’ll be thanking you. He was even using archaic speech inflections, Jessica realized. In fact, his entire manner was that of someone much older, almost from another era.

She turned abruptly away from the window, and hurried to the kitchen, hoping with all her might that when she was finished preparing the food, he'd be gone, vanishing into thin air as though he had never even existed.

Captain Patrick O’Hara rested his weary and aching head against the back of the soft swinging seat, grateful for the impish lad’s reluctant hospitality. He could tell Jess had wanted to give him his marching orders. What did he have to offer the boy anyway?

His ship seemed to have disappeared over the horizon, and he carried nothing of value. He never thought he’d feel this vulnerable again, the last time he could recall anyone using his first name, and even then it had only been in anger. It felt strange to say it again after all these years. Sailors had a nickname for everyone and had dubbed him Paddy the Pirate long ago.

Not until he had command of his own ship had he truly felt that was all behind him. To have something to call his own had been a long time coming, and now it had been torn from him by one violent and unforgiving storm.

He’d thought himself a dead man. Surely no one could survive a tempest like that and live to tell the tale. But somehow Patrick had thwarted death’s call, to be brought here, wherever here was.

Before he had time to ponder the matter further, Jess stepped out onto the veranda carrying a tray. Such a pretty, feminine lad, Patrick thought. The boy had fair unblemished skin, and long, thick lashes any woman would be proud of. They fringed large, sea green eyes that seemed far too wise for his years.

Patrick thought only heathens populated the southern lands, but here lived a youth in what looked like a comfortable enough cottage, and who spoke English, albeit with a strange accent.

Jess placed the tray on the side table beside the swing. Patrick gaped at the wide array of fresh food. He had savored many exotic fruits on his travels, and recognized most of them. His mouth watered in anticipation.

You must have a very fine garden, he remarked as Jess sat down on the chair on the other side of the table.

I don’t grow my own food. This all comes from the grocer in town.

So there is a town nearby?

Jess motioned for Patrick to help himself. He started filling his plate with salad. About ten kilometers away.

How many miles would that be?

Jess raised blonde brows at him, then shrugged and said; Six miles or so.

Not a journey you would undertake every day, he remarked, picking up a soft buttered bun. He bit into it. Mmm. This certainly beats the stale crust we’ve been rationing on these past few weeks.

Silence fell between them as they ate. Finally Patrick said; If it’s any comfort to you, my parents are also deceased.

Thanks, Jessica murmured, not sure how to take the strange man’s offer of commiseration.

How long have you been alone? he asked.

How long have my folks been dead, you mean?

Aye.

Even though it hurt to think about her parents, Jessica knew it helped with the grieving process. Her only regret was that her first opportunity to open up would be to such an odd stranger. She considered telling him to mind his own business, but the sympathetic look in his deep blue eyes spurred her on.

She also thought now that she’d offered him some food, engaging in conversation would make him seem more real, and therefore not as threatening. Oh, he still looked dark and dangerous with his big powerful body and sharp angular face, but his eyes were at odds with his appearance. Jessica firmly believed in the adage of eyes being the window to the soul, and his were more expressive than most.

My mother died two years ago. She was swept from the deck of our yacht during a terrible storm. Dad never forgave himself for not being able to save her. Her body was never found... She trailed off, remembering that fateful day as though it had happened only yesterday.

Steve Hart had sailed into Port Macquarie Harbor alone, his entire body stooped with despair. Apart from the inquest, he never spoke of the tragedy again. If he had, he might have been able to cope better with his cancer, maybe even lived a few more years, but nothing Jessica said or did made any difference. He remained stoic in his isolated silence.

My father was already ill at the time, not long diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. Instead of fighting the disease, he let it take him. He passed away just ten days ago, she concluded, staring dismally down at her folded hands.

So recent, Patrick breathed. I am truly sorry.

Jessica glanced back at him, warmed by his deep and gentle voice. His old-fashioned accent was really quite charming, and those gorgeous eyes showed his concern. He wasn’t just saying it for the sake of it. He really did understand what she was going through.

So am I, but at least his pain is over. Perhaps he’s found her at last. It’s just me now, she thought sadly, left to live the rest of my life without them.

I’m sure he has. Has he bequeathed you an inheritance?

Suspicion rose, making her wonder what on earth had given her the impression she could confide in him. She really was losing the plot if she thought she could sit here discussing her grief with a virtual stranger, and such a strange one at that. Of course. Why do you ask that? she retorted.

"My father left me destitute. My older brother inherited everything. Oh, I doubt he did it deliberately. My father did not think too