Nightbred(59)

Jamys paid close attention to the details Gifford offered about specific ships and captains, but at no time during the next hour did he mention Hollander or the Golden Horde.

“Today we apply the label of piracy to any number of crimes: copyright infringement, illegal audio and video transmission, even unsavory corporate acquisitions,” the professor said in his summation. “We hear news stories about drug runners who hijack and kill fishermen for their powerful boats, or lawless Somalians who attack cargo ships and ransom their captains.”

“Or have our Facebook pages hacked,” someone among the audience muttered, causing a ripple of laughter.

Gifford nodded. “While the savage nature of any sort of piracy appalls us, it is in reality a seafaring tradition that has existed for thousands of years.” He curled his big hands around the edges of the podium. “Pirates are alive and well, ladies and gentlemen, and they aren’t going anywhere. Not as long as there are ships in the sea, treasures to be coveted, and men willing to kill for them. Thank you.”

As the audience applauded, Jamys noted the bashful reddening of Gifford’s blunt features, and the speed with which he left the podium. While the museum’s director took his place to invite the audience to help themselves to refreshments, the professor shook a few hands and then disappeared into an adjoining exhibit room.

“Seems like he’s better with history than people,” Christian said as she rose from the folding chair next to his. “Time to put my sad little jumper in action.”

“It is not sad.” He guided her around the exodus of people heading for the buffet tables. “It is modest.”

“So is a chastity belt.” She sighed. “But I think I look geeky enough to pass, while you”—her eyes shifted to the tattered blue jeans she’d asked him to wear—“are making me and every other female under this roof very hot and bothered.”

Jamys bent his head. “I should like to bother you again,” he whispered against her ear, and enjoyed the shiver he felt hum down her back. “Until you drench me.”

“Journal first.” She tightened her fingers. “Wet and wild later.”

They made their way into the exhibit room where Gifford had gone, and found the professor standing in the middle of a treasure display and adjusting some lighting.

“Barry,” he said as they approached. “These bulbs are too bright. Have we got any forty-watt back in the maintenance closet?”

“I can go check for you, Professor,” Christian said, “but my name’s not Barry.”

“Huh?” The historian glanced over his shoulder before climbing out of the display case. “Sorry, kids. This exhibit won’t be opening until the weekend.” He gestured at the door. “There’s punch and cookies out there.”

Christian gave Jamys a wry look. “We’ve already had our cookies, Professor. We were wondering if we could ask you a couple of questions about Father Bartley’s journals.”

A shuttered look came over the historian’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for that. I wrote some articles about the journals. You can read them on my Web site.”

“We will, thank you.” Jamys reached out, and as soon as Gifford began to shake his hand, he nodded to Christian and sent his thoughts into the other man’s mind. You want to answer our questions completely and honestly.

Gifford’s tight expression smoothed out. “What would you like to know about the journals?”

Christian quietly closed and locked the door before rejoining them. “Professor, are the journals authentic?”

“Yes, they are. I bought them from a private collector who let them go for a song.” He grinned like a boy. “Would you like to see them? They’re right over here.”

“We would,” Jamys said.

Gifford led them over to another display where a small collection of leather-bound books had been arranged inside a glass case. “The priest wrote everything in Latin, so it’s difficult to read, but I can translate it. I went to Catholic school and I almost became a priest.”

Christian made a face. “What changed your mind?”

“Sex. I discovered I liked it too much to spend my life as a celibate.” Gifford unlocked the case. “Father Bartley was much more devoted to the church. He came to Port Royal in the late sixteen hundreds, but on the day he arrived, he decided to move his mission to the north side of the island.”

“Why?” Jamys asked.

“The governor of Jamaica at the time was Sir Thomas Modyford,” Gifford said. “Sir Thomas didn’t care that England was no longer at war with Spain; he hated the Spaniards, and by extension loved the pirates who attacked their ships. He protected them from prosecution, allowed them to use the port as safe haven, and was rumored to have personally funded a few raids.”