CHAPTER NINETEEN

Marcel anxiously worked his way toward the cottage, needing to touch his wife, to see her beautiful face. He was thrilled when he saw her sitting on the porch, just as anxiously waiting for him.

"You're home!" she laughed, standing to run toward him. He beat her to the porch, lifting her in his arms, kissing her face, then her neck, and finally devouring her luscious lips.

"Oh, how I've missed you," he whispered in her ear.

"You've only been gone a day," she laughed. "But I missed you as well. Was the trip a success?"

"I'm not sure that success is the right word, but we did find some things. The others will be researching much of it as it requires abilities beyond my own."

"Spencer came by earlier and offered computer lessons for you," she smiled. "He thinks it's ‘cool' that you were once a ghost and wants to help you to understand the world as it is now."

"And how will young Spencer do this for me?" he smirked. "I fear it will test the limits of the young lad's patience."

"He says that he has a way to download information from the last two centuries into your brain, allowing you to learn everything relative about the world today."

"Everything? That seems impossible, and it makes me very nervous. I'm not in favor of being a guinea pig, nor am I in favor of being electrocuted," he mumbled against her neck. Amy giggled, shaking her head.

"Marcel, you know that being pregnant makes me very, very horny, right?"

"Horny?" he frowned.

"I desire sex. A lot." She stared at him, and he looked as though he wanted to speak but didn't. "Marcel? I desire sex a lot, like right now."

"That I understood," he said, lifting her in his arms.

Marcel made sweet love to her still-taut body, enjoying her luscious curves and ability to take him fully. He knew that in time, her belly would swell with their children, and he would need to be more careful, but today, he could love her as he desired.

Initially surprised, now happy that Amy was able to accommodate the length and girth of his thick cock, her moans and cries only bringing him further and further into ecstasy. Never had he experienced such a woman.

As they dressed for dinner, stealing flirtatious glances and grins, continuing the affection with one another, Amy's phone buzzed on the table.

"It's Prometheus," she frowned.

"Do not answer if you don't wish to," he said. She shook her head.

"I don't want to speak with them now. Maybe later when the others can listen as well," she said, taking his hand.

By the time they reached the cafeteria, the phone had rung five more times, leaving messages each time. Marcel called for Code and the others to circle their table in order to listen to the voicemails.

"Amy, this is Mr. Sheffield. Amy, we'd like to speak with you about returning to Prometheus. Please call me as soon as possible."

"Amy, this is Mr. Sheffield again. I believe some friends of yours were here and collected the painting of Marcel Robicheaux. Someone is asking about the painting and would like to buy it."

"Buy it?" frowned Marcel. "Who would wish to buy a painting of me?"

"Amy, I'm asking you to please call me. This is urgent. We must find that painting."

They listened to two more messages with the same urgency regarding the painting. Sheffield sounded concerned and slightly out of breath, perhaps even under duress. But one thing was painfully clear. He didn't want Amy back at Prometheus. He wanted the painting.

"Where is the painting?" asked Trak.

"In our cottage," said Amy. Trak held out his hand for the key, then disappeared and came back a few moments later with the huge oil painting.

"It's just as it always was," said Marcel, shrugging his shoulders. "I never liked that he made me appear like a pirate, opening the top of my shirt in such a way. I wasn't a pirate. I was an entrepreneur, perhaps what all of you might call a Robin Hood."

"I think you look handsome," smiled Amy. The men just chuckled, shaking their heads.

"Turn it around," said Ro, standing beside Jean. "The painting. Turn it around, please." Trak turned the painting to reveal a back cover that appeared to be made of fine burlap. It was taut against the back of the frame, showing little, if any, signs of wear.

"What are you looking for?" asked Jean.

"I need a knife," said Ro.

A dozen knives glimmered in the light of the cafeteria, and Amy giggled at the manly display. Ro smirked at the men, taking Trak's from him, then deciding he should do this.

"Just one. Very carefully cut as close to the edge of the frame as you can without damaging the frame or the painting."

He nodded, moving the knife with the skill of a surgeon. As the burlap was peeled away, they noticed a brown piece of heavy butcher paper beneath. She nodded at Trak, who did the same thing, peeling the paper away.

"That's what we're looking for," said Ro, gently pulling the envelope from its nest in the back of the painting.

"Perhaps it's a message from my mother," said Marcel, holding the envelope.

"It's yours to open," said Gaspar. "We can leave you alone if you like."

"No. No, you're family," he said, shaking his head. "The handwriting is familiar, but I don't believe it's my mother's." Sliding a butter knife beneath the red wax seal, he opened the page.

"Who is it from?" asked Amy.

"Your ancestor. It's from Arturo Babin."

I know that one day you will read this. I know it because evil sunk our ship and killed you, my friend. If that evil exists, then I must believe that there is good that exists to allow you to live again. We were sunk intentionally. You were murdered intentionally. And I moved the gold, silver, and as much of our cargo as I could to a safe location.

"What's he mean? Evil exists?" asked Tailor.

"I'm not sure. I mean, we always knew that Jacques Couvillion was not a good man and was pirating vessels."

"Maybe he was doing more than that. I mean, his ancestor of the same name was damn sure picking up where he left off. I wonder if he wasn't doing something big that involved your murder. To kill you it would have meant something more than just stealing tobacco," said Nine. "I know you said that you were rammed returning from Barbados with tobacco and a number of things, but what were those things?"

"Oh," he said, clearing his throat, "well, obviously gold."

"Yes, he mentioned that in the letter," said Nine. "What else does he say?" Marcel squirmed a bit, eyeing the men around him. It was two hundred years ago. Would anyone judge him for doing what he thought was best?

"I didn't know that I was carrying it. Not at first."

"Marcel, you're about as difficult to get information out of as my mother," said Gaspar. "What else were you carrying?"

"Spanish coins. The most desired and sought-after currency of the day. It was widely accepted by everyone in every country, including those here in the new colonies. To have such a load would have meant great wealth for anyone finding it."

"How much were you carrying?" asked Angel.

"Well, coins were worth 2-reale, about 1 shilling and 1 pence. I was carrying approximately four hundred thousand coins…"

"At about four dollars and fifty-seven cents per ounce if melted, which would be a crime, they'd be worth almost two million dollars," said Angel.

"Uh, well, yes. But I didn't finish. I was carrying four hundred thousand coins per crate, and I had nine crates."

"Shit," muttered Angel. "We're looking at sixteen and a half million, give or take, and that was their value then. Today, they'd be worth much more. I was only calculating worth based on the price of silver if they were melted down."

"And the other cargo?" asked Nine.

"Jewels, tobacco, cotton, rum, that's about it."

"Jewels?" asked Ro. "What jewels?" Marcel cleared his throat, staring at his friends.

"Those would be the crown jewels of Spain. As I said, I didn't know I was carrying those. They'd been stolen from Spain, placed in a small crate, and labeled as tea."

"Oh, shit," muttered Gaspar. "What else does the letter say?"

"Let me see," said Marcel, scanning the lines.

Jacques Couvillion is a snake. He rammed your ship, drowned you after you helped me to escape the hold below, and then he tried to take the cargo. I am sorry, my old friend. I wish that I could have saved you. But I did as you asked. I started your philanthropic foundation, and we've helped hundreds of people. Your wealth was vast, far greater than you believed. You always were terrible with math.

"That's true," smirked Marcel.

I followed your instructions, and the foundation will live on forever. The remainder of the treasure I've buried on a small island off the coast of your family's property. I believe your mother called it ?le du Diable. She has assured me that no one sets foot on that island, so we buried it in an unusual way.

"I'll be damned. Devil's Island," muttered Gaspar. "Pops must have known. He started working on that island, and he must have known."

"What do we do now?" asked Marcel.

"We go dig up that damn treasure and send the Spanish crown jewels back to where they belong. The rest we'll figure out."

"But why did that painting matter to Mr. Sheffield?" asked Amy. Marcel stared at his beautiful wife.

"I don't think it does matter to him. I think Jacques Couvillion is alive and well, seeking his fortune still."