By Heart and Compass

By Danielle Thorne

She knows where to find a pirate's greatest treasure, but his heir is infuriating and impossible.

 

When Lacey Whitman discovers a historical diary with a clue to the final resting place of a pirate ship, it leads her back to Max Bertrand. Working with the famous buccaneer's heir to unravel a mystery could be the adventure of a lifetime although Lacey will need a little extra determination to resist his charms. It's an enormous opportunity to make her dreams come true, but will bringing the treasure of a true hero home again cost her heart?

 

A sweet romance with elements of adventure.

 

More sweet romances by Danielle Thorne
His Daughter's Prayer

A Promise For His Daughter

A Home For The Twins

The Doctor's Christmas Dilemma

Falling For The Coach

The Cottage Swap

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danielle Thorne
• Release date: May 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201185060

Danielle Thorne

Danielle Thorne writes sweet southern romance and historicals from Atlanta, Georgia. Married for thirty years to the same fellow, she's the mother of four boys, four daughters-in-law and has two grandbabies. There are also cats.Danielle graduated from BYU-Idaho after studying English and Communications. Free time is filled with books, movies, yardwork and not enough road trips or beach time. She can be found on most social media platforms and loves to connect with readers.

Book preview

DEDICATION

To my brothers and sisters:

Caleb, Jacob, Luke, Chad, Keeley, and Caitlin.

May life bring you all sorts of adventures and all of your dreams come true.

CHAPTER ONE

"Good friend better dan money dey a pocket."

LACY WHITMAN FOUND the heir to the Bertrand legacy on the beach. He was replacing o-rings on a lineup of scuba tanks when she approached him. I'm looking for Max?

So. The long-haired diver didn't bother to stand up much less look over. 

"I'm Lacey Whitman, and I'm looking for someone named Max who owns the

museum."

You call that worthless shack a museum?

Dumbfounded, Lacey couldn't think of a reply.

What do you want? He sounded suspicious.

I'm looking for Max Bertrand, she repeated with a flash of impatience. I’ve come to San Madrid because I have some papers for him.

Warrant, restraining order, or paternity test?

After a pause in which Lacy realized the beach bum was serious, she replied, I have research for the Bertrand family, and someone at the island museum told me to come here to find Max. She resisted the urge to tap her toe in the sand.

Finally, the man put down his tools and stood up. Solid and compact in build, he had turquoise eyes that glowed from a ruddy, tanned complexion. Loose strands of sun-kissed hair blew about his face in the breeze. Max doesn't need any more paperwork, he doesn't want to see your research, and he is not giving dive lessons.

I didn't ask for a dive lesson. Lacey glanced off-shore at the beautiful green-blue water surrounding the small Caribbean island she’d waited so long to visit. The diver folded thick, tattooed arms over himself. He looked her up and down until she put her hands on her hips. They stared at one another until he won.

I just want to talk to Max, she demanded.

He looked back with no expression. You just did. Now get off my beach.

Lacey's cheeks were already flushed from his blatant examination. His insult made her red all over. I'll be sure to let them know at the museum, she threatened. She turned on the heel of her flipflops and stalked off, but he called after her, Lady, I am the Bertrand Museum!

SIX MONTHS LATER, LACEY had set the wasted trip to the islands aside and concentrated on celebrating the purchase of her new home. It was a three-story Victorian house, not a pirate's lair, but she loved it all the same. She stood on the sidewalk and stared at the SOLD sign planted in the rich green lawn. Enormous hydrangeas bloomed up against the foundation in neon pink splashes. The Goss House was finally hers. 

Despite the knot in her throat, her heart soared. Her parents may not have lived long enough to see her come home, but she had returned and snapped up one of the most desirable properties in Newton, Georgia. Her father would have been thrilled because its history linked it to a notorious Caribbean pirate-turned-privateer, Captain Julius Bertrand.

The cream gingerbread trim on the house complimented dusky blue siding and wine-colored accents. The bold black door turned heads. Pleased, Lacey glanced around the neighborhood as she stretched her tired muscles. She'd made the trip from Savannah in four hours, but the moving company she'd hired had not arrived until late afternoon. A loud crash from within the truck made her wince.

Welcome home, stranger. 

Jeanine! You didn't have to come tonight. Lacey gave the woman on the sidewalk a warm hug.

I told you I'd help you get settled. That’s what besties do.

What about Rob and the munchkin?

Jeanine grinned. They can take care of themselves for one evening. I brought you purty flowers.

Lacey took the flowers with a grateful smile and looped her arm through her friend's. Do you want to come in? They've already moved the bedroom furniture upstairs. I won't have to take up your couch again.

You're welcome on the couch as long as Rob's not using it.

Lacey grinned. What could he possibly do to deserve that?

The man snores louder than a freight train. A woman needs her beauty sleep, you know.

Jeanine elbowed Lacey in the ribs as they climbed clean but aged cement stairs to a wraparound porch.

You're as slender as ever, while I'm still killing myself to get rid of these post-pregnancy pounds. They stopped, and Jeanine examined the white wicker furniture arranged around the porch. My gosh, Goober, it's beautiful.

Please don't call me that. The neighbors might hear.

If they remember who you are, they're going to call you that anyway. You can't escape high school, Lacey. It follows you around like a piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe.

The women slipped inside the open screen door and surveyed a hallway full of boxes. A winding cherry staircase climbed up to the second floor. Its polished banister gleamed against the backdrop of cream-colored walls. 

Once I get all of my things in here and some of Mom and Dad's antiques, it’ll look cozy, Lacey promised.

Imagine all of the times we drove past this old place, and now you're living in it.

And to think it once belonged to a famous old pirating family, Lacey added, at least one of his supposed descendants. She smiled at her friend. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to still have you around and own this house.

I'm not one to take off on a wild whim.

Lacey tried to hold back a laugh. I would drop everything right now if Daddy came walking through that door with his Hawaiian shirt on.

Jeanine made a face that made it very clear how she felt about Mr. Whitman's favorite traveling outfit. I always knew when he wore that bright orange thing I wouldn't be seeing you for a while. We missed you when you went off to sea to homeschool. Jeanine made quotes with her fingers. Plus, we were always one clarinet short in band.

They walked down the hall and turned into an airy forest green-colored kitchen. The tiled floor and the black granite countertops looked new.

I can't see a pirate living in this place, said Jeanine.

Daddy would have loved it. He liked being in the Caribbean, but Newton was always home port. Lacey picked up a banana off the counter. Are you hungry?

No. Jeanine walked around and examined the remodeling. Do you think you'll change anything?

Not right now. I'm still in shock that all of my research would lead me back here. I mean, Lacey added, I always planned to come home, but to find out that it was for sale became irresistible.

You owe me. Jeanine made a devilish face and swiped the banana out of Lacey's fingers. When I saw the For Sale sign I knew it would do the trick.

I do most of my research online these days.

Then you have no excuse anymore. You can be a genealogist in a little old country town just as easy as you can in the big city.

Except I’m still hundreds of miles from the islands. Lacey walked over to a stainless steel refrigerator, dodging boxes marked pots and pans to get out a bottled water she'd stocked the fridge with earlier.

Jeanine sniffed. Now you can look up dead people to your heart's content and find yourself a new hobby. 

What do you mean?

You can close the book on your pirate obsession. Jeanine shrugged. Years of research and now the home of a descendant of the pirate, Julius Bertrand. Besides moving back to his San Madrid island, this is as close as you can get. 

I don't know if I could ever stop pirating. What would Daddy say?

He'd say, Arrrr! It's time to get a life, matey!"

Lacey groaned. He'd come back and haunt me if I ever forsake the code, and what would I do with all of these? She bent down to retrieve a handful of magnets from a box and slapped the largest one on the fridge.

Jeanine grimaced. Surrender the booty?

It's a joke! Lacey swatted her hand. You need to read some of my West Indies' history books. 

I'm not sure if I’d get into all of the blood and gore.

There's so much more to it than that.

I'll take your word for it.

Lacey smiled. You're right. It's a strange hobby, but it's the one thing Daddy and I had in common. 

Did you ever get your research about the Bertrand family published? Jeanine scooted back up against the counter and leaned back. 

Lacey had a sudden flashback. She stood on a San Madrid beach while a long-haired, arrogant Neanderthal looked her up and down like she was a piece of pie. The man had been as much an insult to the island as he was to her. She shook her head to dissolve the memory. No, they have their own books and folktales. Julius Bertrand is such an icon. A pirate turned hero? It's the stuff of legends.

You'd think they'd be interested in having a genealogist put some charts together. 

They don't seem to be as interested in the descendants as they are the ancestor. Lacey thought about the beach bum again and how he'd blown her off when she'd tried to show him her work.

Too bad.

Yeah, Lacey agreed, too bad. If they’d listened to me they could have bought the home of one of Captain Bertrand's great-grandchildren.

Jeanine studied her with narrowed eyes. I thought it was a bonus, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's the only reason you bought this place.

I'm never going to find a man like Julius Bertrand. He's been dead for over two hundred years. Like you said, this is as close as I'll ever get.

Jeanine laughed and shook her head in disbelief. Lacey Whitman, you are still the biggest goober in town.

CHAPTER TWO

"Belieb half what you see, nuttin' what you hear."

LACEY GROANED IN THE blinding sunlight the next morning. She'd forgotten to cover her bedroom windows. She put her hands up over her face to block the glare and a lingering dream. It came back to her with startling clarity, and she felt herself go warm. The dream had been a memory of the events on San Madrid almost six months ago, except she hadn't stalked off, and he hadn't sat back down. The last thing she remembered before waking up, Max had tossed her papers down to the sand and let them blow away, and she couldn't even retort because he'd kissed her. 

Max Bertrand was one of the wildest, rudest, and most belligerent men she'd ever met in her life. She’d taken all of her new and exciting research to the Bertrand museum to present it to them in person, but they’d shown no interest. Worse, she discovered that the last Bertrand of the line was a player. Two minutes in his company, and she still remembered his name. She’d never forget his face.

Pathetic, she said to the sluggish ceiling fan overhead.

Lacey made an egg and tried to forget about Max Bertrand. She emptied out moving boxes in the kitchen and ignored the fact that the Historical Society wasn’t far away. They might have interesting information on the house.

Surely one little visit wouldn't hurt, something inside of her whispered. I have to unpack. I have work to do, she argued. Jeanine had called the night before about a lunch date. The Historical Society needed to wait. 

She took a dust cloth and wiped down the cherry secretary that she used as a desk. It was her mother's writing table, and before that, her grandmother's. Lacey mused on how everyday items could link a family together for generations. Like this house. According to local folklore, Captain Bertrand's blood had flowed here.

Lacy ran her finger along the inside flap of a cardboard box in exchange for a nasty paper cut. Blood seeped from the wound, and she put it in her mouth. Ick. She went upstairs to the bathroom for a bandage to stop the mess. She stared at herself in the mirror as the idea of visiting the Historical Society came back to her. Blood is thicker than water, she whispered.

Let your heart be your compass. Her father's favorite words. She looked over her makeup-free complexion and ponytail. It’s never led me wrong before, she decided.

The drive to the Historical Society took twenty minutes, and Lacey used the time to leave a voice mail canceling lunch with Jeanine. She eased her white Prius into a parking spot and grabbed her tote with its supplies: a notebook and pencils, a small digital camera, cash, stamped envelopes, and her laptop. 

Welcome, said an elderly gentleman when Lacey passed through the front door. He sported large, round glasses that made him look like a goldfish.

Hello. Lacey held out a hand. I've just moved into the Goss House. I thought I'd come by and see what kind of records you keep here.

Is that a fact? replied her host. He wore a name tag that read Dan Miller. Are you new in town?

"I just moved back. I went to school at Newton High after my parents settled here years

ago."

You don't say? The administrator walked over to a sprawling steel desk that took up half the office and pushed a guest register toward her. Who are they?

Lacey stumbled over her reply: Tom and Sherry Whitman. They've passed away.

I'm afraid I didn't know your folks.

That's okay. Lacey smiled. Is there anything you can tell me about the Goss House?

Chuckling, the man said, I could tell you a whole lot more about the museum being our first boys' academy in Newton, but I did know Molly Goss when I was a boy.

You did? 

Yes, she was the last Goss to own the house, but you don't want to get me started, I'm hard to turn off.

No, really. I'd love to hear about her.

Well, when I was a boy, Molly Goss lived at the Goss House. She was an old maid who taught elementary school before my time. When I knew her, she kept the prettiest gardens in town. 

I understand the family's all gone now. 

Nodding, Mr. Miller continued. She was the last Goss. Her parents died in that house and left it to her. Her father, and all the way back to the fellow that built the house, were Goss's. I believe they came from Charleston.

Lacey cleared her throat. Actually, it was Savannah.

You, young lady, must be a Goss.

Lacey smiled sheepishly. I'm afraid not; just a genealogist interested in the family line.

Genealogist, eh? Why, I should have known we were kindred spirits. Are you certified?

Yes, I do it for a living. You can't get me out of the closet, skeletons or not. 

Mr. Miller laughed.

Did Molly Goss ever talk about her family history? Lacey asked.

Oh, she was proud of her family, alright.

There are a lot of old families in Savannah that they tie into. One in the Caribbean, too. Lacey looked sideways at Mr. Miller to see if he'd take the bait. She expected a blank but was surprised at the mischievous grin that spread across his face.

You can't be talking about those old pirating stories, now, can you?

You know!

Despite his smile, Mr. Miller looked somewhat confused. I'm only talking about Molly Goss's fantasies. She loved to tell stories. I heard a few myself.

Did she ever talk about pirates?

"She loved those seafaring tales. They say she read Treasure Island to her class every year that she taught."

But she never talked about pirates in her own family.

Well yes, now that I think about it, she did.

There's not much to tell though, Mr. Miller laughed. My memory's not what it used to be. He screwed his lips up in a thoughtful gesture. I do remember this, he added, she always said one of her great-grandfathers way back when was a famous pirate, and then she'd take after us with a broomstick.

The image of an old spinster waving a broom around like a cutlass made Lacey laugh.  She must have been quite a character.

Mr. Miller nodded. She was. None of us ever were invited into the house. She said she didn't want us to find her treasure.

She buried treasure? It sounded like the old woman had been more than a little eccentric. 

Yep, chuckled the storyteller. 

It's a wonder no one found anything restoring the house.

I'm sure if the family had any buried pirate secrets they would have turned up by now, Mr. Miller said with a grin.

Lacey thanked him for his time and took a deep breath when he sent her back to the volunteer over records.

There were three items for the Goss House. One, a historical home listing and brochure to draw tourists into town. The second item, a binder with information that seemed a little more current. Lacey nodded in agreement with one author's comment that the home had the prettiest hydrangeas on Fourth Street. Molly Goss had had a green thumb that had made her the pride of the neighborhood.

The third volume was a collection of hand-written stories photocopied and bound in a primitive chapbook with chunky staples. The title read simply, The Goss Family of Newton.

Lacy opened to the introduction and to her delight saw that the author was none other than Molly Goss, herself. She scanned the opening pages and tried to make out the large spidery writing:

I was born with Grandmother's red hair. It only became darker as I grew older. Daddy would tell me I had a head full of doubloons and that I was lucky no pirates ever showed up to scalp me. It was our own private joke.

The thin journal of fewer than ten pages went on, discussing Molly Goss's formative years and then her teaching career. She said nothing about any beaus. Lacey wondered if she'd ever been engaged. It must have been heart-wrenching to have grown old with no one beside her. 

For a moment, Lacey considered the possibility that she was on the same path, and a knot tightened her throat. She swallowed it down to keep from tearing up. Her single status had never bothered her before. Maybe it was because the big Three-Oh lurked around the corner. She flipped back to the first few pages that mentioned Molly Goss's family:

My grandmother kept the prettiest garden in town. She used to plant her flowers in the yard and let me help, all the while telling me stories about her family. Her own grandmother from Savannah was rumored to be the daughter