The Last Treasure by Erika Marks Read Free Book Online Page A

to move them on to a new question.
    But Liv wasn’t finished.
    â€œThen what about the Nags Head portrait hanging in the Lewis Walpole Library?” she called out.
    Warner turned back to her, his smirk fading. “What about it?”
    â€œMany believe it’s a portrait of Theodosia—specifically one she brought with her on the ship to give to her father as a gift. If it
is
the same one, wouldn’t it prove that the
Patriot
—and possibly Theodosia—had made it to shore?”
    â€œThere’s no proof that the portrait is Theodosia, let alone that it came from the ship.”
    â€œThat’s not true,” Liv said, on a roll now and thoroughly uncaring that the chatter and murmuring had grown around her. “Frank Burdick claimed, just before his death in 1848,that he’d seen a portrait of Theodosia in the
Patriot’
s cabin after his shipmates had captured the schooner.”
    Warner squinted up at her. “Deathbed confessions don’t make reliable testimony. Especially when they come from pirates who sailed with Jean Lafitte.”
    Liv knew she should have let the mistake go, that she’d already pressed her luck asking so many questions when there were other hands raised and waiting, but she couldn’t resist.
    â€œActually, Dr. Warner, I think you mean Dominique You. Burdick didn’t sail with Lafitte.”
    The whispers quieted. Warner’s tight smile slipped briefly, then resurrected itself. He cleared his throat and glowered at the moderator. “Next question.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    T en minutes and a round of applause later, Dr. Harold Warner exited the stage with an attentive blond woman young enough to be his daughter—though Liv suspected she wasn’t—and the audience rose to leave.
    Liv gathered her bag and slipped into her raincoat.
    â€œThat was some volley.” She looked up and a flash of heat stained her forehead. Sam stood in front of her, his windbreaker hanging open, revealing a faded University of Chicago T-shirt. “Let me guess,” he said. “You did your dissertation on the
Patriot
, right?”
    â€œOh God, hardly.” Pleasure coiled in her stomach at his suggestion. “I’m an English major. Shipwrecks are a hobby of mine. I just like to come to these things and pretend I know what I’m talking about.”
    But his warm brown eyes continued to radiate admiration. “You might want to consider changing your major.” He extended his hand. “Sam Felder.”
    â€œLiv Connelly.” She gave him hers, trying to ignore that the skin under the collar of her sweater was ripening to scarlet. She gestured to the emptying seats to rescue herself. “I would have thought there’d be a bigger crowd for him.”
    â€œMaybe the rain kept people away.”
    In the back row, the latecomer climbed to his feet. He had to be well over six feet. He wore a white collared shirt, most of it untucked. Despite his looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed, Liv had to admit he was handsome in a rugged kind of way.
    â€œThere’s a party across campus,” Sam said, pointing to his friends coming up the aisle. “Maybe you want to join us?”
    Liv couldn’t think of anything she might like more.
    The clock above the stage read seven fifteen—possibility pounded in her chest. Even if she stayed a half hour, she’d have plenty of time to get home and cook dinner. The pork chops were already defrosted, the potatoes already boiled. And there was always that box of frozen lasagna she kept in case of emergencies.
    Which, she thought as she met Sam Felder’s expectant eyes, this most certainly was.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    W hen she emerged from the auditorium, the heavy rain had thinned to a fine drizzle, leaving the air thick with the smell of warm, wet concrete. Sam stood byhimself at the bottom of the steps,