Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  “No.” Noah shook his head. “He didn’t do those things. He didn’t take British gold to drown his crew, and he didn’t lead them to their deaths. I carried him off that burning deck myself. Whatever happened there—it wasn’t the captain’s fault. And that ship took part of him to the bottom with it.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Certain enough that I stood before Washington’s court and said so.” His brow furrowed. “But they didn’t pay heed to me. Virginia men, they were. ‘A black man’s testimony is inadmissible in this court.’ That’s what they said. Like I was nothin’.” The skin grew taut along Noah’s heavy jawline and she read the lingering sorrow in his dark eyes. “But I’m a man as much as any of them. I know what I know, and there’s no changin’ the truth. Osprey did nothin’ to shame hisself or the cause.”

  “You’re his friend. Maybe that was why—”

  “They would have listened if I was a rich white planter . . . or maybe just white.”

  “They must have believed you or they would have hanged you both.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they did . . . a little. But the words stung—they still do.”

  “Are you going back to the war, if you get a ship?”

  “Garrett is. The war don’t seem so important to me now.”

  “But I heard the British burned your boatyard.”

  “They did that, all right. Turned ten years of work into ashes in one rught.”

  “Don’t you hate them?”

  “Nope. I’m not sure I hate anybody anymore. Life’s short to waste time hatin’. You should know that.”

  “I do,” she admitted. “I do.” She smoothed her hair. “Would you like some lemonade, Noah? Pilar said she had some in the kitchen.”

  “That would be nice, Miss Amanda, real nice.”

  “Just Amanda.” She smiled at him. “Just call me Amanda.”

  He’d lied to her. Garrett poured himself two fingers of rum, brought the glass to his lips, and sat it on the library table untasted. By the nails that pierced Christ’s hands! He had become as much a liar and a cheat as any pirate.

  He rose and went to the bookcase, then ran his fingers over the moldy leather spines of books that had not been disturbed in fifty years. Doubtless they would crumble under his touch if he tried to take them from their resting places. He’d come to the library this evening in the hope of finding some clue to whether Lacy’s tale was true or simply a story for children.

  He’d not seen her since their argument early that morning, but neither had he ceased to conjure her face every time he shut his eyes. Her accusing words cut him over and over as deeply as the lash of a cattle whip.

  . . . Traitor . . . killed my husband and left my brother to die . . .”

  How many times had he replayed that night in his mind? How many times had he heard the agonized screams of dying crewmen and smelled the charred wood and human flesh? And how often had he wondered if Noah had done him a favor when he’d carried him on his back from the cabin and kept him afloat until they’d reached the deserted Delaware beach?

  Images of his dead men rose to twist his gut. Billy Carter . . . Joe Commegys . . . Daniel Carney . . . Jack Emmerson . . . They’d believed in him, trusted him, and he’d lived to see them all at the bottom of the Delaware Bay along with the ship he’d loved as some men love a woman.

  His ship Osprey had led a charmed life until then. She’d taken a few cannon balls through her rigging, and once a British snow had nearly rammed their bow. But for the most part, the Osprey had played ring-a-rosy through the English blockade. They’d left a trail of sunken enemy ships behind them, and even managed to take a few pirate vessels in the process.

  Then he’d been wounded in a fiery exchange off the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. A fragment of lead had lodged in his shoulder, and infection had set in. For nearly a week, he’d been delirious with fever. Wesley, second in command aboard the Osprey, had insisted on getting a surgeon. They’d slipped into the Delaware Bay and up the St. Jones to Dover, where a physician had operated on the wound and removed the lead.

  Dover was unsafe, so they’d sailed out of the river and south down the bay to the town of Lewes. There, Wesley had gone ashore and met with Eli, who provided him with information about an English vessel, supposedly off the Coast of New Jersey, bound for Philadelphia. Spies claimed the Perserverance was a fat merchant ship, weighed down with loot, unescorted, and fair prey for the Osprey.

  He’d been suspicious from the moment Wesley had related the news. Able Collins, a free black farmer, had always been their contact in Lewes. But Able had gone north to Washington’s army with supplies, and Able’s wife had directed Eli to another source, a miller by the name of Johnson. Garrett didn’t know Johnson, and he’d been unwilling to trust him, despite Wesley’s enthusiasm for the endeavor. He’d ordered Caroline’s husband to take the Osprey south to the Chesapeake.

  Wesley hadn’t listened. He’d been so certain that he could take the Perserverance that he’d convinced the other officers, including Reed, to stalk and attack the merchant ship despite the bad weather.

  Garrett had been flat on his back and as helpless as a spring lamb when the first British cannon opened fire. A simple story to confirm—if more of his crew had survived. Perhaps impossible now . . .

  The decision to take the Perserverance hadn’t been his, and he shouldn’t have felt guilty, but he did. All his life, pride had been his greatest fault. It was hard for a man to keep a sense of honor when even children sullied his name in their games. He’d heard little girls singing as they jumped rope . . .

  “Captain Osprey was a mighty man,

  Drove English ships upon the sand,

  Chased the redcoats off the sea,

  Made Maryland safe for you and me.”

  “Captain Osprey was a mighty man,

  Drove English ships upon the sand,

  Until the night our captain bold,

  Sold his ship for British gold.”

  “Captain Osprey was a mighty man,

  Drove English ships upon the sand,

  Watched his crew drown one by one,

  Put his. country to the gun.”

  Eli had taken revenge on the false miller. He’d cut the man’s throat from ear to ear, but that hadn’t brought back the crew or the ship, and it hadn’t erased the stain on Garret’s soul. The only way he could do that was to find another fighting ship and take enough British ships to help drive the king’s men out of America.

  If there wasn’t any gold on Arawak Island, he and Noah would have to steal a ship somewhere. And even then, they couldn’t sail it alone, or fight the British. He needed a seasoned crew, cannon, ammunition, supplies. He needed money to pay his sailors.

  He was far worse off here than he’d been on the Eastern Shore. But he’d been taken in by the curve of a woman’s stern and the cut of her jib. He’d done what he’d always sworn he’d never do in wartime—marry. And he’d cut out his heart and offered it to her on a pewter platter.

  Garrett picked up the glass again and swallowed the rum. It burned a channel down his throat and warmed his insides. Two days, he’d given her. If she didn’t produce evidence in that time, he and Noah would set sail for—

  “Do you think to find a fortune in the bottom of a rum bottle?” Caroline’s sarcastic remark made him stiffen. He turned to see her standing in the doorway.

  “I thought to see if there was anything here about your family legend.”

  “Nothing in the rum but headaches,” she replied, coming toward him. Her eyes were suspiciously red, but her demeanor was as haughty and self-possessed as ever.

  Garrett started to pour himself another drink.

  “Don’t,” she said. “You’ve probably had enough.”

  “Enough?” He scowled at her. What right did she have to comment on his drinking? “How do you know how much I’ve had? I’ve just started.” In reality, he rarely drank and never alone, but no newly acquired wife was going to tell hi
m when and where he could have a glass of rum.

  “I’ve come to offer you a—”

  “No more bargains, Mistress Caroline,” he said. “I’ve had enough of your agreements.” He’d not be swayed by the threat of a woman’s tears. “I’ve played the fool, but that’s over.”

  Her lower lip quivered, and he had the damnedest urge to take her in his arms and kiss the hurt away.

  “You were right to think there was evidence in a book,” she said. “This is what you’re looking for.” She held out a water-stained journal. “This is my great-great-grandfather’s. It tells in his own hand of the siege of Panama City, and of the sinking of the Miranda off Arawak Island. He also tells how my great-great-grandmother dived down to the sea floor and retrieved part of the gold before the ship it was in fell into a crevice and was lost forever.”

  “Let me see this,” Garrett said, holding out his hand. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was here, in the library. I came straight back to the house this morning and asked Angus if James Bennett’s journal was still here. I’ve read through it twice. Some of the pages are torn out, and the ink is faded, but you can still make out the words.” She handed him the old, leather-bound diary. “Don’t you see? If the story about Morgan and the Miranda is true, the rest has to be true. I know part of the gold is still here. Angus believes it too. He said he spent years looking for—” She stopped, as if realizing what she’d said.

  “So Angus has looked for it for years, and you expect us to find it in two days.”

  “Maybe not in two days,” she answered, “but I’ll find it, I know I will.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  She swallowed. “I have help.”

  He made a sound of derision. “Wait, let me guess. If you’re a witch, you must have a familiar.”

  “Garrett, please . . .”

  “The black cat. What did you call him? Harry?” His tone took on a caustic sting. “Your cat will help you find the treasure.”

  “Save your sarcasm,” she said. “You’re here now. You need a ship. What can it hurt to give me a few weeks to—”

  He swore a foul French oath. “Are you deaf as well as obstinate? I told you two days, and two days you shall have. After that, our arrangement is at an end.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And if I have a child from our arrangement?”

  “Do you have reason to think you might be—”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not yet, but we—”

  “If I’ve fathered a child on you, I’ll take responsibility.” For the briefest space of time, he allowed himself to imagine Caroline swelling with his seed. A son? No, he decided. He wanted no sons to die on the decks of ships as he’d seen other fathers’ sons die. A daughter, then . . . a babe with red-gold curls and eyes like—

  “I thought you loved me,” she said.

  “Love and lust are often mistaken for each other.” He wanted the barb to cut deep and it did. She took a step back from him, her face as pale as if he had slapped her.

  “So I have been told,” she answered.

  Damn but she had nerve, he thought. He gave her no time to recover but followed up with a coup de grace. “It wasn’t you I wanted,” he lied. “It was the money. If you remember, this marriage was your idea. You knew what I was from the beginning. I never lied to you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  But I did, he thought. I’m lying to you now.

  She raised her eyes to meet his, and he nearly lowered his colors and surrendered his sword. But then a stern voice in his head reminded him that parting was the best thing for them both. She’s lost one husband. She doesn’t need to weep over another.

  “If I was in need of a wife,” he admitted, “you’d be my first choice.” My only choice, he cried inwardly. But he’d do her no favors by telling her how he really felt. His first commitment was the solemn oath he’d sworn to fight for the Colonies’ freedom, and a privateer’s life was worth less than nothing. If he went into battle thinking of Caroline, he’d be too cautious. He’d end up killing himself and maybe another crew.

  “Will you read the journal?”

  “What?” He looked into her unwavering gaze.

  “Will you read this journal?” she asked.

  “I’ll read the damned journal.”

  She picked up his glass and drank the rum herself. Her cheeks flushed as she sipped the potent liquid.

  “Rum is hardly a lady’s choice.”

  “But I’m no lady, according to you,” she flung back. “A liar and a cheat, I believe you called me.”

  “Aye, I said it. And I’ve heard nothing to change my mind.” A frisson of heat washed down his backbone. The air between them seemed charged with energy. He could almost smell the sulphur and brimstone of a lightning strike.

  He loved her. Plain and simple. Honest woman or liar, rebel or Tory, he loved her. And there was no chance for them at all . . . Not when she found out that he’d lied to her about being Osprey . . .

  “Damn you to a coward’s hell, Garrett Faulkner,” she whispered. “You love me and you’re afraid to admit it.”

  He shrugged. “Not likely.”

  Her stubborn chin firmed. “What will you say if I do find the treasure in two days?”

  “I’ll say I was wrong.”

  “Will you stay with me?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “It comes to the same thing.”

  “No.” Diamonds sparked in her eyes, then one single tear trickled down her left cheek. “No, it’s not the same,” she argued.

  “Our alliance was doomed from the start, Caroline. We’re nothing alike, you and I.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “It’s not that we’re so different—it’s that we’re so much alike.” She took a step toward him and extended her hand. “Please . . .”

  “Is this what you want?” he demanded, seizing her and crushing her against him. He bent his head to hers and their lips met, as the glass fell unnoticed from her fingers and smashed against the floor.

  He branded her mouth with a scalding kiss of possession as he pressed her back against the library table. His hands moved over her, and his breath came in deep shudders. She arched against him, meeting his fevered embrace with a white-hot ardor, fanning the flames of his rising desire.

  The smell of her, the feel of her body under him, drove him nearly mad with wanting her. Her skin was like silk; her breasts—

  If he didn’t release her now, there’d be no going back. Summoning every ounce of willpower, he let go of her and stepped away.

  Trembling, she stared at him with eyes as large and liquid as a wounded doe’s. “Why, Garrett?”

  Her husky voice slid through him like a blade of polished steel. “Find your treasure,” he said with hard, cold precision. “Find the treasure, and then we’ll see if there’s anything left between us besides lust.” After picking up the rum bottle and the journal, he strode from the room, leaving her staring after him in stunned disbelief.

  “Damn you,” she called after him. “Damn you to everlasting hell.”

  He had no doubt that her wish would be granted.

  Chapter 17

  Caroline sank to the floor and covered her face with her hands. No physical blow could have stung her as deeply as this assault on her pride. She was mortified—but a part of her still wanted to be in Garrett’s strong arms. Her mouth still tingled from the pressure of his lips; her blood still pulsed fiercely with his name. “What have I done?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Her only answer was the lazy droning of a bee in the warm, still air.

  I’ve let myself be deceived by hard thighs and a devil’s smile, she thought bitterly. I’ve given myself—heart and body—to a man who only married me for my fortune.

  She shut her eyes and rubbed at the dull ache in her temple, then gave a cry and jerked back—the picture of Reed’s fresh grav
e imprinted on her mind’s eye. “Reed?” She glanced quickly around, then forced herself to concentrate, to close her eyes, and to try to summon up her gift of prophecy. The awful thought that her brother was already dead threatened her sanity, but she would not consider that option. Reed had to be alive. And if he was alive, there was still time to do something to save him.

  She let go, sinking down and down into the trance state until the shadowy outlines of the cemetery took shape. She could see the raw earth—the newly carved marker with Reed’s name spelled across it. And again, the sight was too bitter to hold.

  She fled the waking dream, with heart pounding . . . opening her eyes to see the cruel face of a leering, black-bearded brute standing over her with an upraised cutlass. Instinctively, she threw up her arm to protect her head from the impending death blow. A shriek of absolute terror formed in her throat, but when she tried to scream, she had been struck mute.

  Fear worse than anything she had ever known washed over her. She was frozen in the blink of time between realization and finality.

  No! Denial rose from the depths of her soul. No! She would not go as a lamb to slaughter. Fury lent her strength, and she drove her fist into the monster’s crotch. And through it . . .

  She gasped as the sweaty image faded to shadow, then vanished. “I’m going mad,” she murmured through dry lips.

  “No, child. You are not.” Kutii’s friendly face loomed over her. He held out a bronzed hand. Cupped in his lean palm was a miniature gold llama. “The treasure waits for you,” he said. “It rests where your great-great-grandmother placed it for a time of need.”

  “I need it now,” she said, getting to her feet. “Reed is in danger.”

  Kutii nodded. He was dressed simply in a purple loincloth and silver armbands. A bow and a quiver of arrows were slung over one shoulder. Feather earrings dangled from his earlobes, and his long hair was wound on top of his head and fastened with a silver pin. He seemed years older than when she had last seen him; his black hair was streaked with gray, and his face lined. Old scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders, and marred his sinewy wrists.