Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair
his doctorate degree for more than a few years, which placed his intelligence on a genius level. Yet here he sat, downing pancakes and tossing around veiled remarks like a high school adolescent.
Geek.
Reagan cleared her throat. “Uncle Gavin didn’t tell me much.” That wasn’t entirely true. Her uncle had rambled on about the Twelfth Sun, but she hadn’t paid attention. She’d simply agreed to drive to Connecticut and retrieve the logbook from Eric Sothern. She’d been more concerned with completing the task, so she could return to the roster of customers she’d put on hold. “I don’t know much about the ship other than it was a frigate.”
“A schooner. A frigate was a warship. And when you’re referring to a vessel, you should use the gender-specific ‘she.’ Sailors and seamen are particular about that mode of address.”
Reagan pressed her lips together but didn’t reply. She had the feeling he enjoyed correcting her.
Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, he craned his neck to glance at her plate. Half of the fruit she’d ordered remained untouched. “Are you going to eat that?”
“Yes.” Deliberately, Reagan speared a chunk of pineapple and popped it into her mouth.
“Nice.” Elijah mimicked a salute. “Next time try to do it without the fire-breathing dragon stare.”
“Dr. Cross.”
“Getting back to the Twelfth Sun,” he continued as if her interruption were of no consequence. “She was built in the 1790’s when Baltimore led the nation in shipbuilding, and came out of Fells Point like most clippers.”
“I thought you said she was a schooner?”
“Pretty much an interchangeable term. The Twelfth Sun was owned by the Wheeler Shipping Company and captained under Samuel Storm. During the war of 1812 she turned privateer and was responsible for single-handedly sinking or capturing ten British vessels. When the war ended, she floundered. The clipper era was on the wane. Changing maritime conditions and economic trends combined to make it almost obsolete.”
Reagan tilted her head. She vaguely recalled her uncle saying something along the same lines. She’d always viewed old sailing ships as poetic, romantic images, but had never taken the time to learn their history.
“Wheeler Shipping fell on hard times and sold to a pair of brothers out of Massachusetts,” Elijah continued. “The Rooks were wealthy, but inexperienced. Samuel Storm stayed on as captain of the Twelfth Sun and continued making cargo runs. In 1836, Chester Rook sent his younger brother Jeremiah along as the shipping company’s onboard representative.”
“The Twelfth Sun sank in 1836.” That much she did know.
Elijah nodded. He eyed her fruit again. “Are you really going to eat that?”
Exasperated, she pushed the plate across the table to him. He grinned broadly and attacked the pieces of cantaloupe, honeydew and pineapple with relish. Munching contentedly, he continued his tale.
“The voyage was doomed from the start. Chester Rook ordered the ship to launch on a Friday in direct opposition to Samuel Storm’s wishes.”
Reagan waited, expecting to learn there’d been a horrible gale or unstable weather conditions.
Elijah simply let the sentence hang.
“So?” she prompted, annoyed by the lapse.
“Friday, Reagan. Anyone familiar with sailing lore knows you never begin a voyage on a Friday. It’s bad luck.”
She bristled. “Ms. Cassidy, please.”
“A little too proper for first names?”
“Just tell me what happened.”
He finished the last of the fruit and drained his coffee. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his arms over his chest and stared at her across the table. The thick black line of his lashes made his eyes intensely blue, as vibrant as cut glass caught in the sun. Dark brown hair curled in long, riotous waves against his collar.
For one unsettling minute, Reagan had the insane desire to lace her fingers through it. Disturbed, she sat straighter and lowered her eyes. She’d always had a weakness for men with tousled, unkempt hair, but so what? Elijah Cross might be good-looking, but he was also a royal pain in the posterior.
She pretended interest in her tea. “I know the Twelfth Sun sank when it struck the wreck of a submerged frigate off Horsehead Island. I also know the only one to survive was Jeremiah Rook, who escaped in a lifeboat.”
“With a personal journal.” Seeing the waitress across the room, Elijah waved her to the table. “Could we have the check, please?” Once she had gathered their plates and left, he turned back to Reagan.
“Samuel Storm’s log was never found, so there’s no account leading up to the wreck. It’s not the captain’s logbook we’re after, but Rook’s journal. He survived at sea for forty-five days before he was picked up by a cutter out of Gloucester. Rumors–credited rumors,” he corrected, “indicate Rook had a personal journal with a detailed account of the Twelfth Sun’s voyage. For over a century there’s been no knowledge of its whereabouts.”
“And now Eric Sothern claims to have it?”
“Exactly. Why Sothern would offer it to your uncle isn’t exactly clear. I’m guessing his reputation as a collector of maritime artifacts is what prompted Sothern to make contact.”
Reagan spared another glance at her watch. They had a fairly lengthy drive ahead of them to reach Eric Sothern’s estate, located on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The solicitation to purchase Jeremiah Rook’s log had come with an attached invitation to lodge at Sothern’s expansive, and reputedly sumptuous, seaside estate for the weekend. Reagan still had to check out of the North Shore and guessed Elijah did as well.
“Should I meet you at Sothern’s home, or follow in my car?” She was all business again, crisp and efficient. His gaze had grown too friendly and inviting. “I still have to check out of the North Shore.”
“Room No. 1.”
She refused to rise to the bait. Fishing through her purse, she removed a handful of bills and placed them on the table. “That should cover my part of the tab. Wait for the check if you want, but I’m going to the inn. I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.” This time she did look at him.
He grinned slyly. “A morning rendezvous. I like the sound of that.”
He was an impossible man, vain and self-centered. “Get over yourself,” she snapped.
Elijah laughed. “If only I could.”
She turned and strode briskly from the restaurant. Seething, she stepped outside and ducked beneath her umbrella. Every hour she’d be forced to spend in Elijah Cross’s company was an hour too many. Her uncle was going to owe her more than his standard I’m in your debt, lass, for this particular favor. Fortunately, once Elijah verified the authenticity of Jeremiah Rook’s log, she could bid the egoistical marine archeologist a permanent goodbye.
That moment couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 2
Two and a half hours later she parked directly behind Elijah’s dark blue Jeep on the inner curve of a horseshoe-shaped driveway. Eric Sothern’s home was located on a private stretch of rocky beach sixty miles north of Shipwright Landing. Reagan sat a moment, studying the mammoth structure through her rain-misted windshield. The house jutted from the horizon, banked by sand, rock and sea. White siding and gray stone fused with a vast expanse of windows for a blend of traditional and contemporary styling. Upper level sundecks and widow-walks were positioned at the rear and south of the property, overlooking the blue-gray waters of the Atlantic.
Lost in her inspection, she jumped when someone rapped on