The Captain's Cornish Christmas Read online

  Table of Contents

  Books by Catherine Curzon and Eleanor Harkstead

  Title Page

  Legal Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademark Acknowledegements

  Chapter One

  More from these authors

  More exciting books!

  About the Authors

  Pride Publishing books by Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead

  Single titles

  An Actor’s Guide to Romance

  Captivating Captains

  The Captain and The Cavalry Trooper

  The Captain and The Cricketer

  Pride Publishing books by Catherine Curzon

  Anthology

  I Need a Hero: The Angel on the Northern Line

  Captivating Captains

  THE CAPTAIN’S CORNISH CHRISTMAS

  CATHERINE CURZON &

  ELEANOR HARKSTEAD

  The Captain’s Cornish Christmas

  ISBN #978-1-78651-694-7

  ©Copyright Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead 2018

  Cover Art by Cherith Vaughan ©Copyright December 2018

  Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz

  Pride Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2018 by Pride Publishing, United Kingdom.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.

  Pride Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.

  THE CAPTAIN’S CORNISH CHRISTMAS

  For a lonely Cornish lifeboatman and an author who’s more used to crime scenes than love scenes, this Christmas is going to be very merry indeed!

  When Jago Treherne agrees to man the Polneath lifeboats one snowy Christmas, he knows he can forget turkey and all the trimmings.

  Yet when he boards a seemingly empty yacht and stumbles upon sexy Sam Coryton enjoying an energetic afternoon below decks, Jago soon realizes that he might be unwrapping a very different sort of Christmas gift this year!

  Dedication

  CC: For my good friends on the farm.

  EH: For my Dad, whose love of lifeboats and rugged coasts is infectious.

  Trademark Acknowledegements

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Maserati: Maserati S.p.A.

  BBC: The British Broadcasting Corporation

  The Great Gatsby: F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Volkswagon: Volkswagen AG Corporation

  The Daily Mail: DMG Media

  Coastguard: Maritime and Coastguard Agency

  Little Donkey: Eric Boswell

  Millennium Falcon: Lucasfilm Ltd.

  Star Wars: Lucasfilm Ltd.

  A Streetcar Named Desire: Warner Bros.

  Chapter One

  Jago frowned as he heard the weather warning come in over the radio. It was the last thing he needed on Christmas Eve.

  He barely noticed the cold sting of the sea spray striking his face as he powered the rescue boat over the waves. There hadn’t been an SOS, but he had left Polneath harbor anyway. Sam Coryton and his yacht, Morveren, hadn’t returned to the marina, and with bad weather moving in and little daylight left, Jago knew he would have to go out to find him.

  No response on the radio. No distress flares sighted.

  Jago kept his grip firm on the wheel, his jaw set with determination.

  He rounded the rocky headland, so beautiful and yet, he knew only too well, so dangerous—and he saw it. The white hull and sails of the Morveren. And it appeared to be in distress. The yacht rocked from side to side in the water, the depths already boiling in anticipation of the oncoming storm. In the windows of the vessel bright Christmas lights twinkled merrily, but there was no other sign of life, no indication that Polneath’s favorite son was anywhere on board.

  A chill ran through Jago’s blood as he steered closer to the yacht, and it wasn’t just at the thought of what this oceangoing Maserati must have cost. No man with an ounce of sense in his head would be so stupid as to still be out here now in the dying hours of the Christmas Eve daylight, with the maelstrom somewhere on the horizon. He remembered from summer Sam’s bad habit of swimming alone from the deck of his yacht, but surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it in the depths of winter?

  Even Sam Coryton wouldn’t be so idiotic as that.

  Jago pulled up alongside the yacht and let the engine idle. He called over the sound of the waves and the seabirds, “Sam! Sam Coryton—it’s Captain Treherne. Are you there, Sam? Can you hear me?”

  He paused, but heard no reply. There was no sign of anyone in the water, and Jago wondered if Sam had been taken ill, alone in a cabin on the yacht. “I’m coming aboard!”

  Jago lashed the rescue boat to the Morveren, then heaved himself onto the deck. His boots squeaked as he crept along the deserted craft.

  “Where the bloody hell is he?” Jago muttered to himself as he lifted the hatch on the companionway and stared down into the vessel. The Christmas lights were the only illumination in the stairwell, but from beneath he could hear the gentle strains of light classical music and smell fresh coffee, suggesting that someone was or, in the worst-case scenario had been, aboard until recently.

  Jago called Sam’s name again, carefully descending the stairs into the yacht’s living quarters. He had seen some impressive vessels in his day and this was certainly high among them, a sleek craft from the outside and a comfortable home within. The hallway that stretched ahead of him was brightly lit, the walls decorated with enormous canvases showing cheery riots of color, but that made the scene feel somehow even more uneasy. There was something in the air, an indefinable tension that fired Jago’s instincts as he looked in on the rooms and found nothing out of the ordinary, but no sign of the man who had sailed this vessel from the safety of the harbor.

  Where was Sam Coryton, successful crime author? Surely this wasn’t one of Sam’s thrillers come to life? Would Jago pull open a door and find—no, he couldn’t bear to think of that. Not on his watch, not Polneath’s famous boy.

  “Sam? Can you hear me?”

  He shouldn’t have thought of Sam’s thrillers. Now Jago was thinking of the bright Cornish villages with their casts of colorful locals and the violence just beneath the surface, of murder and—this was just the sort of plot Sam Coryton would come up with—Christmas lig
hts on a floating yacht with a gory surprise lurking somewhere within.

  Only one set of double doors remained in the living quarters now and they stood, as they would in a murder mystery, right at the end of the hallway ahead of Jago. He hadn’t seen a master bedroom so this must be it. Despite himself the lifeboat captain, sturdy, brave, fearless, paused with his hands on the door handles. He drew in a deep breath, told himself he had seen worse than a dead author and pushed the doors open.

  Jago had only time to see a brief impression—a figure, sprawled across a bed. A naked body. Was this the work of some depraved psychopath? “Bloody hell, no—Sam!”

  “Jesus bloody Christ!” Sam’s hand—the hand that hadn’t been busy elsewhere—flashed out and seized the pristine white sheet. He pulled it over his naked, sweat-sheened body at the same time as he tried to jump from the bed. Instead he succeeded in catching his feet in the crisp linen, ending up in a tumbled heap on the floor, bare bottom uppermost.

  “Everything’s fine,” award-winning author Sam Coryton, whose latest book was to be dramatized as the BBC’s big Boxing Day drama, exclaimed. “I was just— I was— I fell asleep!”

  Jago stared at the sprawled figure. He stared at the perfect, firm buttocks.

  And looked away.

  “I…just…there’s a storm coming! I was trying to get hold of you on the radio and got no reply, and I thought you were in trouble and—bloody hell, Sam, you were in your cabin all along, having—” Jago swallowed with difficulty, his throat constricted with rising fury for his wasted journey and his pointless fear. “—a swift one off the wrist!”

  “A wank. Yes, Jago, I was having a wank in my bedroom on my yacht, in private prior to sailing for the harbor. Is that illegal nowadays?” Sam managed to scramble to his feet, the annoyingly stylish look of his impromptu toga rather spoiled by the bruise that was already blooming around his right eye. “Bashed my bloody head thanks to you!”

  Jago realized his gaze had settled on the toga. He forced himself to look Sam in the eyes. His sparkling dark eyes. “I’m bloody well sick and tired of dealing with people like you who go out on the sea without knowing how to sail properly. You’re supposed to keep an ear out for any emergency information over the radio. And what were you doing? Having a—” A wank. “Having a rest in your cabin! Naked!”

  Sam didn’t seem to be listening, however. Instead he stalked across the room to a full-length mirror and put his face close to the surface, turning his head slightly this way and that. “I’m going to have a black eye for Christmas. Cheers, mate!”

  Jago wagged his finger, using the tone he reserved for young scamps who got blown out to sea on inflatable dinghies on windy days. “Or you could’ve had your yacht smashed to matchsticks on the rocks, and you along with it. I came out here to see if you were all right, to make sure you were safe. But don’t worry, Sam—don’t mention it!”

  “I came—bad choice of words—I sailed out to work on the next book for a couple of hours, had a glass of vino and considered a swim,” Sam explained. “Only then I thought, can’t risk a swim on my own in December, not fair on Jago and the boys. So, had a bit of a workout, took a shower, decided to have a wank. Would have been safely back in port in about twenty minutes, only my yacht got boarded, my wank got interrupted and I’ve got a black eye.”

  He turned away from the mirror to look at Jago, one hand resting on his hip. Yet Sam wasn’t annoyed—Jago could see that in the impish smile on his handsome face.

  “So, Captain Treherne, permission to put my trousers on and sail for home?”

  Jago folded his hands neatly behind his back. Thank God Sam had some sense left and hadn’t gone swimming. But—wanking on a yacht? What is the world coming to? “Yes, Sam, you may. But—look, I’m a trained first-aider, would you like me to look at that bruise?”

  “Do you mind? Bit of a whack, and all that!” He smiled bashfully, adding in his plummy tones, “Sorry about the other, old thing, didn’t expect guests!”

  “Take a pew, Sam.” Jago glanced about the well-appointed cabin, awkward now with Sam so close to him in nothing but a sheet. “I—perhaps I should’ve knocked before I burst in. You must understand, I was only motivated by concern. If I’d known you were—ahem—bashing the bishop, I’d have given you a wide berth.”

  “Probably lost track of time, if I’m honest.” Sam sat on the edge of the bed. He looked up at Jago from beneath his luxuriant eyelashes. “What’s the verdict, doc? Will I make it?”

  Jago gently took Sam’s chin and tipped his patient’s head back so he could better examine the bruise. “No cuts, as far as I can see. Any aversion to bright light? Dizziness—well, of course you’re dizzy, you always were. Any soreness or pain? Nausea? Any shivers or tingling?”

  Sam’s breath was warm against his skin, and Jago tried to ignore the full, soft lips that were dangerously close to his own. This was a potential casualty he was dealing with. And not just anyone—celebrated thriller author Sam Coryton, no less, the most infuriating man in Cornwall. Who, once upon time, had got the same bus to school as Jago.

  “None of the above, boss,” Sam replied good-naturedly. He blinked, but when his hazel eyes opened again they were just as full of mischief as they had been on that bus and in the classroom, not to mention in the magazine spreads. “Tell me this isn’t how you’re spending your Christmas, Jago? They must give you the big day off at least!”

  “I’m on call until midnight tomorrow. It’s not so bad—it’s usually quiet over Christmas. Although I don’t much like this storm that’s on its way.” Jago released Sam’s chin and stood straight. “And you? Are you up to anything nice?”

  Sam gave a theatrical shudder and replied, “Big gathering at the mothership! All the Corytons are to be clasped to the family bosom to celebrate the birth of my rather sweet little niece—the first grandchild, so Ma and Pa want everyone under one roof for some forced cheer. Swap you? I’ll man the lifeboats, you navigate a Coryton family Christmas?”

  Jago laughed. No wonder Sam had wanted some time alone. And here he was, Captain Treherne in his size twelve wellies, wrecking the poor man’s peace. “Think I’ll stick to my lifeboats. I’ve got a microwaveable roast chicken dinner in my fridge and a cat waiting for me on my sofa. That’ll do me!”

  “And that gorgeous little cottage of yours!” Sam sighed wistfully. “Cottage, cat, quiet. Sounds perfect. Not so sure about the dinner but I’d whip something tasty up, bit of a hobby of mine! Give me two minutes to chuck some togs on and I’ll follow you back to shore, cap’n.”

  Jago tried to imagine Sam in his cottage. And couldn’t. Not the man who was surely quaffing champagne with celebrities on a weekly basis. He’d look out of place in the simple living room with its wood-burning stove and the crocheted blanket thrown over the sofa.

  “I can’t tow you back!” Jago laughed again. He hadn’t laughed this much in an age. But there hadn’t been much to amuse him for a while. “I’ll—erm—leave you to it. As long as you’re not concussed. Don’t want you passing out on the floor in nothing but your scanties.”

  “Have you had a bump on the head too?” Sam frowned, confusion writ on his face. “Who said a bean about towing me? Follow, Jago, as in—well, as in follow. I’ll follow you back to shore, so you know I’m safely on dry land. I don’t need to be towed, I know how to captain a yacht.”

  “I’m sure you do, Sam.” Feeling mischievous, as Jago turned to leave he asked, “Do the sails actually do anything or are they just there for decoration?”

  “I tear them down and wear them when someone catches me knocking one out on deck,” Sam deadpanned, touching a hand to what was already turning into quite a shiner. “You can have sails and an engine these days, you know, it’s the wonder of technology.”

  Outwitted, Jago could only nod. “Well, you’ll need some ice for that bruise of yours. If you haven’t any on board, I could fetch some for you from the Admiral Benbow once we’re back on land.”

  “
Let me at least buy you a drink to say sorry for getting you out on Christmas Eve?” Sam was busy now, still clad in his toga as he gathered up his clothes. “What time suits you?”A drink? Jago twisted the door handle up and down. With Sam Coryton? “That’s ever so kind of you. I’m—well, I’m on call, but let’s say…seven, at the Benbow? But only if you’re sure. I mean, you’re Sam Coryton, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do on Christmas Eve than hang about with lifeboat captains. Unless you want to pump me for your next book!” Jago grinned. “Does it feature a lifeboat captain who walks in on a celebrated author mid you-know-what?”

  “It might!” Sam let the toga fall and stepped nimbly into a pair of crisp red boxer shorts. “And I’m not Sam Coryton, I’m only Sam Coryton, still the annoying lad who sat next to you on the bus for a term, the one in the back of double maths who couldn’t add up and always fooled around—nothing special about me then, nothing special about me now.”

  Nothing special about the man who was worth heaven knows how much, who lived in the Big House that overlooked the bay, and— Actually, he’s right about two things, he never could add up and always did fool around!

  “So, seven it is.” Sam was clad in jeans now and his head and arms were disappearing into a chunky, cozy cricket sweater. “You, me, my black eye. Will the cat come too?”

  “Peregrine follows me everywhere—he even tries to get in the lifeboat—so yes, he’ll come along too. He likes going down the pub.”

  “Aye, aye, cap’n!” Sam saluted neatly. “And sorry again, I had no idea how late it had gotten.”

  “See you later, then. I’d offer to shake hands, but given the circumstances…” Jago saluted back and headed off, to leave Sam in peace. If only he could remove from his mind the image of those red boxer shorts. Very festive, Jago told himself. That was all, and nothing more. His job here was done and, with Sam’s farewell called after him, he headed back to his boat.