by Shawnee Moon
She pulled off her gloves and dropped them on the hall table. The walnut finish gleamed, free of dust and small fingerprints. Cailin smiled. Hannah had been very busy in her absence. “Where’s Master Sterling? And the children?”
Sally shrugged and blinked. “Don’t know, miss’us.”
Cailin glanced at Hannah.
“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow, miss. Master Jasper is across the river at New Westover. He spent the night with Lady Kentington’s grandsons.”
Cailin removed her wide-brimmed hat and handed it to Sally. “Kelsie’s nay in the house either?”
“No, miss’us,” Sally replied.
“Surely Nurse and the twins are—”
“No, Miss Cailin,” Hannah said. “Nurse Alice’s father took a bad turn last week, and she had to go ’cross the bay to tend to him.”
“Who’s been looking after the bairns? Becky?”
“Becky and Jane done most of the runnin’ after the big’uns,” Hannah said, “but Becky can’t do nothing with the twins when they get in one of them moods. The master has been takin’ charge.”
“Of the twins?” Cailin asked. “Sterling?” She couldn’t stifle a giggle. “Wasn’t he supposed to be meeting Baron Lee in Annapolis this week about the new tobacco shipments?”
“He said the baron would have to wait till you got home, miss,” Hannah said. Her own amusement was obvious. “He said that without Nurse Alice here, he wouldn’t set a foot offen this place until you got back.”
Cailin walked into the dining room. The table was set for the evening meal; an arrangement of fresh flowers adorned the Irish hunt board. The odor of baking bread drifted from the kitchen wing. The room was immaculate, the fireplace brass shone, and new candles stood in the silver candlesticks. A yellow tabby cat dozed in a woven basket on the hearth. Not a single child’s boot or discarded toy marred the chamber’s perfection.
“Have my children all been kidnapped by pirates?” Cailin declared. Order was a nice change, but the house was too perfect—too quiet. “Are they all well, Hannah? No one’s sick?” A pang of guilt tugged at her conscience. The twins were only fifteen months old; she’d never left them for more than a single night before. She’d only gone without the children because one of Cami’s daughters had had the chicken pox, and Jasper had been so sick with the pox two years before, she hadn’t wanted the littlest ones to be exposed yet.
“No, miss.” Hannah beamed. “They’re as full of spit and ginger as ever. Miss Kelsie put molasses in Master Cameron’s riding boots, and he glued her new hat to the nursery table. Baby Leah ate half a moth yesterday morn, and the other twin—”
“Enough, Hannah!” Cailin cried in exasperation. “Not a thing happens on Scot’s Haven that ye dinna know. Where is my husband? And where are my bairns?”
“I did hear some whooping coming from the far end of the orchard,” Hannah admitted. “But that was a while ago.”
“We’ll see,” Cailin replied. She went back into the hall and hurried through the house and out the back garden entrance. Down the steps she went, then followed the path past the boxwood maze and the statue walk, and through the opening in the hedge to the lane that led to the peach orchard.
Seth, the head gardener, raised his hat as she passed. “Welcome home, mistress,” he called.
“Have you seen my husband?” she asked.
His plain Welsh face split in a grin, and he pointed toward the river. “I’d be careful if I was you, ma’am,” he warned. “Sounds like some mighty fierce Injuns down there.”
As she started through the peach trees, two black and white half-grown pups and their mother, Flo, came running up to wag their tails and demand her affection. Cailin crouched down and rubbed heads all around. “Someone’s glad to see me at least,” she murmured.
Overhead, a mockingbird trilled its cheery song. She looked up to catch a glimpse of it through the new leaves. Peach blossoms were drifting down around her, landing on her head and dress and filling the air with a heavenly aroma. Several black-faced sheep grazed at the base of the trees. None seemed concerned enough about the dogs to look up from their steady munching.
“I’m getting close,” Cailin said. “Wherever the dogs are, my bairns aren’t far away.” She quickened her pace, eager for Sterling’s embrace and the sweet, sticky hugs and kisses of her babes. “Sterling!” she called. “Kelsie? Where are ye?”
Another pup, yipping with excitement, scrambled out of the trees to join the pack trailing after Cailin. The smallest of the last litter, this one was pure black with a white spot on his nose. He was Kelsie’s favorite. She’d named him Midnight, Silky, Lucky, and Lancelot in turn. Cailin wondered if the pup had gotten another new name in her absence.
At the far end of the orchard was a gentle slope and another hedge. Beyond that, ancient oak and beech trees grew down to the river. The trees were so big that the branches formed an intertwined canopy overhead, leaving the moss-covered forest floor clear of underbrush, and creating a natural park.
As Cailin stepped through the arch of hedge, she looked around for her family. To her disappointment, the place seemed empty. “Sterling?” she called again.
Silence. Then, she heard one childish giggle.
A Shawnee war whoop screeched in her ear as a feathered and painted Sterling leaped out from behind the hedge and grabbed her. Immediately, Kelsie and Cameron popped out from behind trees and threw themselves at their mother.
“Where are my babies?” she demanded, amid the hugs and shouts. “What have you done with—”
A sheepish-looking maid backed out from behind a beech tree with a squirming toddler under each arm. Cailin took one look at Becky’s war-painted face and chicken-feather headdress and burst out laughing.
“Weren’t my idea, Miss Cailin,” Becky protested. “Miss Kelsie—”
“Come to Mama!” Cailin cried, holding out her arms for the twins. Johnnie spied his mother and began to giggle. Little Leah squealed with delight. Becky thrust both of them into Cailin’s embrace. The added weight was enough to throw the lot of them off balance, and Sterling, Cailin, and the children fell down on the thick moss carpet in a flurry of arms and legs.
As usual, confusion reigned at first, but eventually the squirming mass came to rest. Cailin lay back in the circle of Sterling’s arms and rested her head against his chest. Babies and bairns surrounded them, all, Cailin noticed, streaked with yellow and blue paint and wearing various items of Shawnee apparel. The twins had circles of paint around each eye and beads woven into their dark hair. Kelsie’s mass of unruly red hair was confined with a beaded headband, and she was weighed down by one of Sterling’s ceremonial hunting shirts.
“Ye didna miss me at all, did ye?” Cailin teased.
“What did you bring us, Mama?” Kelsie demanded.
“Daddy said you weren’t coming until tomorrow,” Cameron added, pulling Johnnie onto his lap. Leah yanked at Cailin’s earring, and her twin began to chew on a chicken feather. Somehow, a pup squirmed into the center of the pile and began to lick Kelsie’s cheek.
“I’m here today, and I brought presents,” Cailin said. “Shall I go away and come back tomorrow?”
“No!” the two oldest shouted in unison.
“Nay!” Johnnie crowed.
“Aye,” little Leah cried.
“Since you’re here, woman, I suppose we’ll keep you,” Sterling teased. He tilted Cailin’s chin and kissed her lips tenderly. “We’ve been lost without you,” he added huskily. “You are the heart and soul of this family.”
She sighed, savoring the joy of having her loved ones close around her. She was sorry that Jasper wasn’t home as well, but he’d be back later, and his visit to Moonfeather’s would make it easier to keep his birthday pony a secret until tomorrow. He wasn’t the only one who would be surprised, she thought, unconsciously touching her already thickening waist. She had something wonderful to tell Sterling as well ... but that could wait until they were alone
in bed tonight.
“I love ye all,” she said happily. “I think I love ye all more each time I come home.”
Sterling kissed her again.
“Daddy,” Cameron admonished, “Mama brought us presents. Can’t we—”
“All things in good time,” Sterling answered. “Right now is time for hugging.” He put both arms tightly around Cailin and clasped her tightly against him.
You’re the light of my life, he thought passionately. You always were, from the first moment I laid eyes on you in my vision years ago. You’re my strength and my guardian angel, and I’d never want to live a day without you. He lowered his head and whispered in her ear. “Any chance we can get away from the children for an hour?”
She laughed. “Not a chance,” she answered.
“Later,” he promised her, “I have something for you.”
“And I have something for you,” she said. Cameron tugged anxiously at his hand. “Daddy, come on. I want to see what—”
Kelsie pulled at her mother. “We want to see what Mama brought us.”
Cailin winked at him mischievously. “Later,” she murmured.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said.
Still laughing merrily, she rose and lifted Johnnie in her arms. Sterling scooped up baby Leah and followed Cailin and the other children back up the rise into the peach orchard and into the full light of another day.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Judith E. French’s
FORTUNE’S MISTRESS
Book One in the Fortune Trilogy
Coming soon from eKensington
Great families of yesterday we show,
And lords whose parents were the Lord knows who.
—DANIEL DEFOE
Chapter 1
London, England
Autumn 1672
Lacy Bennett stepped from the dank shadows of Newgate Prison into the bright September morning. She blinked; then drew in a deep breath of fresh air and smiled saucily at the sullen warder. “I never thought t’ see the day London sewers smelled like rosewater,” she quipped.
“Right leg!” The sour-faced prison official pointed to a bloodstained block of oak beside the waiting ox cart.
Lacy placed her dirty, bare foot on the wood. Instantly, a trustee clamped a rusty leg iron and chain around her ankle. Pain shot up her leg as the heavy shackle bit deep into her flesh, but she forced her smile even wider. “Thank ye for the bauble,” she said. “I was hoping ye’d have one just my size.”
“I’ve somethin’ more I’d like t’ give ’ee,” the leering trustee replied as he ran a groping hand up her leg.
“No talking to the prisoners,” the warder barked. “Into the cart with ’ee, witch. And thank whatever fiend ye pray to that it’s Tyburn gallows and not the stake ye’re bound fer.” He ran a hairy finger down the list of names. “Next! James Black, pirate. Bring out the pirate.”
Lacy dodged the trustee’s sweaty grasp as she scrambled up into the back of the cart. Two prisoners had come before her from Waterman’s Hall, the women felons’ section: Alice Abbott, coin clipper, and Annie the Acorn, poisoner. They clung to the sides of the cart sobbing and crying for mercy.
“Hold there.” The warder cleared his throat loudly and glared at the trustee. “According to these records, the pirate James Black has made two escape attempts this month. Get the witch back here.” He indicated Lacy with a thrust of his unshaven chin. “Collar and chain them together.”
Lacy’s heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. Oh, shit! she thought, trying to keep the distress from showing on her face. I’d not planned on being yoked like an ox to some scruffy-arsed buccaneer. Ben and Alfred will be pissed.
The warder hawked up a gob of green mucus and spat on the block. “To Tyburn gallows Black is sentenced and to Tyburn he’ll go. I’ll lose no condemned felons on my watch.”
Lacy twisted around to stare as three burly guards wrestled a swearing prisoner through the gate. Despite the heavy manacles, the big pirate was trading blow for blow with his captors. A wild black beard nearly covered the captive’s face, but for an instant Lacy caught sight of fierce dark eyes beneath the matted hair.
Heart’s wounds! She gasped. Waterman’s Hall, where she had been held, had been bad enough, but she could smell the stench of Condemned Hold that emanated from his filthy body. Mother save ye, ye poor wretch, she thought with genuine compassion. ’Tis a better place ye go to than where ye’ve been, and that’s God’s truth. She shuddered as she remembered the rumors that circulated through Newgate about the conditions in the Hold. Black as hell, they said the pit was, with foul air and water a pig wouldn’t drink.
“Out wi’ ye!” The trustee yanked Lacy’s leg iron. “Ye heard the warder, slut. Out of the cart.”
She gritted her teeth and forced a grin as she started to climb back down to the ground. “I’ll remember ye in paradise, deary,” she murmured. He gave another sharp tug and she lost her balance.
She would have fallen facedown off the back of the cart if the pirate hadn’t suddenly lunged forward and grabbed her. In the split second before the guards clubbed him back and dragged her out of his muscular arms, her gaze met his, and a spark of kindred lightning leaped between them.
Lacy caught her breath and smiled up at him in astonishment. An unfamiliar tingling raced down her spine and raised the hair on the back of her neck. Her stomach turned over and she felt the same dizziness that often came just before one of her spells. Her body seemed numb, so much so that she hardly felt the trustee’s fist as he backhanded her. She went down in a tangle of iron chain and men’s legs, but her gaze stayed on the pirate as the guards beat him near to unconsciousness.
“God rot your bleedin’ bowels,” she swore as the warder drove his wooden staff into the small of the prisoner’s back. “I’ll save you a warm spot in hell.”
The warder grimaced with fear and threw up three fingers to fend off the evil eye. “Collar them,” he ordered, backing away from her. “And get them into the cart.” His rusty voice turned shrill. “We ain’t got all day.” Almost as an afterthought, he rapped the oak baton hard enough against Lacy’s head that she saw stars.
Dazed, she made no resistance when rough hands dragged her to her knees and snapped an iron collar around her throat. Four feet of thick chain linked her to a similar collar being fastened around the pirate’s neck. She staggered as the trustee shoved her into the cart, and her forehead scraped against the inner wall.
Pain shot down her face and set her eye to throbbing. She caught hold of the rail and pulled herself up on her knees, unwilling to let the jailers see how much they’d hurt her. Damn them to a moldy grave! Damn them all! If she were the witch they’d named her, she’d curse every mother’s son of them with running pox.
A trickle of warm liquid ran down her cheek; sweat or blood, she couldn’t tell. She glanced at her partner and remembered his unexpected act of kindness. “Straighten your spine,” she whispered. “We’ll have a crowd lining the streets, and if ye look whipped, they’ll be on us like gulls on new-hatched turtles.” He groaned and she took his arm. “On your feet, freebooter! Have ye sand or milk in your craw?”
He coughed and spat blood.
“Damn ye for a yellow-backed clapperdudgeon! On your feet, I say!” She tucked her shoulder under his and shoved. He swore through cracked lips and forced himself up. He swayed but spread his legs and remained upright.
“Aye,” she whispered loudly. “There’s a stout mate. You’ll do, pirate, you’ll do.”
“Silence!” The warder slammed his staff on the side of the cart. “No touching!”
Two more prisoners climbed into the cart, both men. The deputy-keeper of Newgate stalked through the archway, hat askew, mounted his gray horse with some difficulty, and took his position ahead of the oxen. One of the women prisoners standing in front of Lacy began to keen softly, and the cart creaked as the oxen threw their weight against the yoke. The d
river cracked a long whip over the horns of the massive beasts and guided them up Old Bailey and west onto Holborn Street. Two more carts full of condemned prisoners followed close behind.
Lacy glanced sideways at the corsair. His dark brown eyes were wide open and focused on the back of the deputy-keeper’s velvet cloak. Since he wasn’t looking at her, Lacy felt free to satisfy her curiosity.
It had been her experience that most seamen ran to runts, but this buccaneer was far from stunted. He topped her by a head, and she was tall for a woman. His broad shoulders strained the material of what had once been an expensive coat, and his muscular arms looked powerful enough to lift this cart. They’d not felt bad either—in the brief moment she’d had to gauge his strength.
The beating he’d taken would have been enough to kill a lesser man. She’d known he was hurt bad, but what she’d said to him was bare truth. Please the mob, and ride to gallows hill in glory. Earn their contempt, and rocks would be the least they could expect. At least one man had been ripped from the Tyburn cart and torn apart by the good citizens of London this year.
Given the choice, she’d rather have the onlookers offer her a mug of ale than throw hot oil in her face—that was certain. She gripped the rough lip of the cart side and breathed deep. This old section of London smelled of charred wood and too many unwashed humans packed inside narrow streets, but the scents were perfume compared to the bowels of Newgate Prison.
Three apprentices ran beside the cart and she grinned at them and waved. “Come take a ride,” she called. “Ye can have my place. The view’s great from here, I promise.”
“Tyburn fodder!” a pock-faced youth shouted.
“Gallows bait,” his companion cried.
The third boy ran forward and swung on the top rail of the cart. “Give us a kiss,” he dared. “Them lips is too sweet t’ be wasted in a grave.”