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Ghost Memories: Prequel to the Bone Island Trilogy
Heather Graham
In the early nineteenth century, pirates and privateers still wreaked havoc in the Caribbean. Bartholomew Miller had been one of them. After years of plying the seas for England as a privateer, he finally found a home and love on Bone Island off the Florida coast.But Bartholomew also made enemies in his time–enemies that would take everything Bartholomew loved and create a curse to haunt Bone Island for centuries….


Ghost Memories
Heather Graham


www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham presents the prequel the Bone Island Trilogy….
In the early nineteenth century, pirates and privateers still wreaked havoc in the Caribbean. Bartholomew Miller had been one of them. After years of plying the seas for England as a privateer, he finally found a home and love on Bone Island off the Florida coast.
But Bartholomew also made enemies in his time—enemies that would take everything Bartholomew loved and create a curse to haunt Bone Island for centuries….

Contents
Part I: Life (#u79e3cafc-9178-5b72-815e-5b19d48d96e5)
Part II: Death (#litres_trial_promo)

Part I
Life
“Surrender, y’ scurvy bastard!” Bartholomew Miller cried harshly.
There was no hope for the wounded Hellion, a ship captained by Pie-Eyed Wallace, one of the pirates who had been plaguing ships bound for Key West, Florida. Bartholomew, captain of the eight-gun sloop Bessie Blue, was working per request of Craig Beckett, one of the most respected civilians in Key West who had cast his lot with David Porter, commander of the Mosquito Squadron, a naval assignment group sworn to rid the south Florida waters of the dreaded scourge of piracy.
Bartholomew knew the waters, the depths and shallows and reefs, as few men did. He had chased the Hellion to a reef, and there pounded her with his guns. The Hellion was sinking. Half her crew floated dead in the water, and others moaned on a deck that was flooding with the sea.
Just as he knew the reefs, Bartholomew knew sea battles, and he knew pirates. He had never been a pirate, he had been a privateer. He had taken ships by license of the Crown, until he had become a citizen of the United States. Then, he had fought the Crown of England, as he would fight anyone now who brought death, danger and mayhem to his new country.
“No surrender!” Pie-Eyed Wallace called, looking him in the eye across the expanse of water that separated them. Bartholomew had carefully maintained his shallow-drafted sloop in the deeper waters off the reef. His men would prepare the longboats to collect survivors—those who wished to be taken to town for trial—when the inevitable happened and the Hellion went down to her watery grave.
“There’s a chance for life!” Bartholomew shouted. “What of your men?”
“Me men will swing from the hanging tree ’neath the merciless order of the tyrant Porter. Trial! ’Tis a travesty—there is no hope for justice. We will die at sea! Ye’ll grant me that!” Wallace cried.
“Nay, Cap’n, there’s hope!” one of his men shouted from the deck. “We could find mercy!”
Wallace turned to eye the wounded man on deck. He pulled one of several pistols from the long holster across his chest—and shot him.
“There, there is the only mercy to be found!” Wallace said.
Wallace was right; David Porter was merciless when it came to pirates—despite all the good he had done, it was true that the man was a tyrant, keeping Key West under stringent military rule.
Those who were esteemed in Key West lived well and nicely. And in certain fine homes, hastily furnished by trade or through salvage, one could pretend to be in one of the finest drawing rooms in Richmond, New York or even New Orleans.
Those who broke the law discovered that Porter’s justice was harsh.
Wallace stared at Bartholomew. “Will you have mercy, sir?” he asked as he drew out another gun that was long enough to cover the many yards of distance between them. He took aim at Bartholomew.
No choice. Bartholomew quickly drew his own rifle, Bess, and fired in return. The sound of the bullets from both of their guns was explosive; the air filled with black powder again where it had just begun to settle.
Wallace’s bullet crashed into the mast; Bartholomew’s aim was true, and the pirate Pie-Eyed Wallace dropped dead where he stood.
Mercy.
A pirate’s mercy. A quick bullet, rather than the slow death of the hangman’s noose and a slow strangulation with the body flailing, kicking and writhing—and finally, failing.
Bartholomew turned away and spoke to his first mate, Jim Torn. “We must collect the survivors and bring them to the law.”
He was weary as he gave the order and returned to his cabin, anxious to return to port.
He had seen many a hanging, and he had to wonder if they should leave the men to drown. But he had discovered that he admired Craig Beckett, the man who had befriended him in New Orleans and who had encouraged him to bring his ship to Key West. The Island was raw and young, but it was a place where a young man, once a Brit, once a privateer, once a rover of the world, might find a future. He would still find his fortune at sea, but as a merchant. He would be able to build himself a fine house soon enough and lead the life of a gentleman.
He had but one dream. And a fine house would be part of that dream.
They returned to port where Jim Torn and his men saw to the three half-dead prisoners they had taken from the sea. One, Scurvy Pete, had a horror of drowning; he would take the noose. Two others had simply not managed to die.
Mariah’s Bar, a popular place for seamen, stood near the deep water docks, and Bartholomew headed in for a pint. He was especially weary though, and after the pint, he left, intending to seek a long night’s rest in his rental rooms. But, as he left the bar, he saw her.
His dream.
He saw that she had come to the docks to collect a purchase, and it appeared that the purchase was heavy or awkward as she seemed to have some trouble gathering the long package.
“Mistress, I implore you, do allow me to help you with that!” Bartholomew said, hurrying to her where she stood by the merchant’s carts.
Victoria Wyeth looked up at him with blue eyes—no, violet eyes, like huge pools of wonder. They were set in a face of absolute and stunning perfection, perfectly sculpted cheekbones, a fine chin, small nose and a high forehead. Her hair was like the proverbial raven’s wing, sleek and coifed. A large straw hat shadowed her features to save her porcelain skin from the merciless heat of the sun; her day gown was sewn from the most delicately fashioned cotton, cool despite its cumbersome skirts and form-hugging bodice.
In the midst of the rough town that was Key West, she was a breath of freshness, cool air and society, all that was right and structured and noble in the world. When she moved, it was with grace, and when she spoke it was a fluid melody.
They had met briefly upon many an occasion, though he had not been invited into her home—nor was such an event likely to come about.
Not until he had proven himself a good and responsible citizen, worthy of such a prize. Not until he had managed a real income at trade, and had built a fine house. Not until he had earned the respect of her father, who wanted far more for her than an ex-privateer, a man without family—or prospects of any great inheritance.
“Captain Miller!” she said. And the melody of her voice touched him as the seductive hand of many another had never done. In his time he had known many a tavern wench, and many a whore. He’d slept with fine ladies as well—divorced or widowed and, because the poor woman had been so mistreated by her husband that it had seemed a mercy to show her tender love, one who was married. He had felt desire, and he had known amusement and laughter, but in his life he had not known this feeling, this deep ache inside, to have and to hold and protect against all odds.
She smiled, and he, who had survived many a sea battle, fought the Spanish and the British on land and sea, felt as if all strength deserted him, as if knees became the very substance of salt water.
He helped her with the parcel she had acquired from the ship that had just docked, the Langley, out of Norfolk, Virginia. The well-wrapped package read “Timmons of London,” and he knew that it must contain some of the finest crafted fabric to be had. She never appeared to be overly interested in clothing or decoration; she just had the ability to make simple elegant. Despite her high role in the social strata of a country where “every man was born equal,” she was kind and gentle, never affected. He had seen her handing out coins to the little children of Caribbean fishermen, and tossing a ball to them in play.
“My deepest thanks,” she said, flushing.
He gathered the parcel. Her fine house was down on Duval Street—named after the territorial governor—almost a mile from his own lodgings, closer to the water. He found that he was suddenly wide awake, that he could walk on air.
“Sir, I saw men arrested,” she said. “Were you responsible?”
“Pie-Eyed Wallace’s ship was racing south, and we came upon him,” Bartholomew explained. “Craig Beckett, though a civilian, helps attend to matters for David Porter, and he ordered that Pie-Eyed Wallace be taken if seen, and I follow his lead in all things.”
“You’re very brave,” she told him.
He shrugged, aware that a blush was forming on his cheeks. Brave? No, just hardened, and aware from his penniless youth on the streets of Liverpool that he must find his own place in the world. He’d been a hungry child, not just for food, but for knowledge, and he had used every opportunity to learn, being like a sponge around well-educated men.
“Not so brave, Mistress Wyeth. I’m just a man doing as he must. Captain Beckett is someone I admire greatly, and he is my friend, helping me to gain a solid foothold that I might become a man of means about this town.”
“And that’s important to you?”
He looked at her, and the words slipped from his mouth. “You are important to me, Miss Wyeth.”
She sucked in her breath, staring at him.
“I beg your pardon. I most heartily beg your pardon!” he said hastily.
“But you have not offended me,” she told him. “You need beg no pardon.”
He was horrified to find himself speechless.
He was customarily the one who teased and flirted. He had confidence and ease, and he loved to make the young girls giggle and speculate.
Bartholomew Miller cut a fine figure. His shoes were buckled and bore heels, his hose didn’t display a single knot, and his breeches were impeccable. He wore a ruffled shirt, red vest and black jacket. His hair was jet-black and neatly queued beneath his tricornered hat. His eyes were light and bright and bore a sparkle of mischief that women usually found to be as captivating as his grin and his dimples. Women had always liked him, and he was grateful that he’d always managed to keep the friendship of his fellows, as well. He enjoyed life, and was fascinated by events and people.
He’d been lucky in living a life that had brought him around the globe, and he was grateful for the hard training he’d received at the hands of the British Navy. It had prepared him to captain a ship, and though he had been born and bred in Liverpool—admittedly in an area that was the cesspool of the city, he’d discovered a passion for a wild new country in the western hemisphere—the United States of America.
But this feeling was new to him. This pining, this sense of wonder just to be near a woman.
“Oh,” he managed at last.
She laughed softly, and again, just the sound of it was like music.
“My good fellow, this is America!” she said.
“Meaning every man might have his chance?” Bartholomew asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“I don’t think your father would agree,” he said.
“I’m not a child,” she told him, a flash of indignity in her eyes.
He was touched and amazed that she had so noticed him, that she might be attracted to him, as well.
But he had been around the world.
And he knew many a man like her father.
“Let me walk you home with this parcel,” he said.
They walked, and she asked him questions about sailing, about the exotic ports he had known, and the men with whom he had fought. When they reached the house—a huge clapboard with a grand porch and beautiful veranda—she laughed and insisted that he come in. He was uneasy, but her enthusiasm was such that he agreed, and he carried in the parcel, depositing it in the foyer where she directed, and then following her into the parlor. She rang a little bell, a maid came, and she ordered tea service.
The maid brought their repast, and they sat together on the sofa, still talking. She and her father had come down from New York City, where her father had been a successful banker, allowing him the freedom to come south to fulfill his dream of creating a vast shipping empire. Bartholomew was familiar with New York, but not as she knew it, and she talked about life south and north of Wall Street, and the sadness in the Five Points area, where immigrants fought and starved, and gangs often ruled the street.
Their fingers touched, their voices were quick and hurried, and they were close, so close he knew that he wanted her more than ever, and he said, in the midst of a sentence about London, “I will do anything. I have loved you so from afar, I can no longer imagine life without you. I cannot believe that you would even consider a man so humble in station as I.”
She held his hand between her own. “I believe in the dream of our country,” she said. She smiled. “I have met many of my father’s business friends and acquaintances, and most are snobbish fops. But you, Bartholomew, are not taken with your own grandeur, you don’t talk of choice and honor, you have lived in search of it. You are the man with whom I can find what I seek in life—dreams of our own creation, a world in which we make our lives what we wish them to be and are heedless of a friend’s position or his money.”
She smiled, and turned away, and pointed to a small framed likeness on the mantel. “My mother,” she said. The woman in the painting was lovely, and her daughter was in her image. “I lost her five years ago. She believed in dreams. She believed that an Irish washerwoman could earn her way and make a life. She did so. She had her own business, tailoring with several seamstresses, when she met my father. She was strong and wonderful. I loved her so much.”
“I’m sorry she is gone,” Bartholomew said. He didn’t remember his own mother. He had never known his father. His surname had come from the man in Liverpool who had taken him in, and taught him the sea, out of kindness. He had died the first year that Bartholomew had been with the British Navy.
Before either could say more, the front door opened and closed. Victor Wyeth, Victoria’s father, had come home.
“Victoria!” he called.
“In here, Father! Captain Miller and I are having tea,” Victoria returned.
Victor Wyeth, a large, robust man, strode into the room. His gaze instantly fell upon Bartholomew. That gaze created a chill that raced along his spine.
But Wyeth was polite. “Why, Captain, what a surprise,” he said, shaking hands as Bartholomew stood to greet him.
“I was struggling with a large parcel and Captain Miller came to my rescue,” Victoria said.
“That was most kind,” Wyeth said. “Whatever charge you might like to make upon me will be most gratefully paid.”
“Sir, it was a pleasure to help,” Bartholomew said.
“Father! He does not wish to be paid. He is a friend, and friends help friends,” she said.
“Of course,” Wyeth said. He looked at his watch. “But tea time is over, and I have pressing business with which I will need your assistance, Victoria.”
“Father, honestly—” Victoria began.
Bartholomew did not take his seat again. “I must be going,” he told Victoria. He smiled, telling her he understood.
And in his eyes, and in his touch as he delicately kissed her fingers in farewell, he was certain that she knew he would wait for her, a lifetime, if need be.
“I shall see you out,” Wyeth told him.
“Thank you, sir,” Bartholomew said.
The pretense ended when Victor Wyeth led Bartholomew outside. “Sir, you will not come near my daughter again, do you understand? She is a lady, and far above the reach of a pirate such as yourself.”
“I am not a pirate, Mr. Wyeth,” Bartholomew said.
Wyeth waved a hand in the air. “I know your past. You will stay away from my daughter.”
Bartholomew meant to do all the right things, but he couldn’t accept such a statement. “What if your daughter is not of the same mind?” he demanded.
“My daughter will do as I say. And I am best of friends with Commodore Porter—I can see to it that you regret any trouble you cause me,” Wyeth said.
Bartholomew stared at him. “I don’t bow down to threats, Mr. Wyeth. If Victoria tells me to stay away, then that is what I will do. Good day, sir.”
He turned and left before they could get into a screaming match, or, God forbid, a brawl. He walked down the street with his head high, his stride long and strong.

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