She could not touch him, of course; she knew that her hands would go right through his image as easily as her fist had gone through the hideous pirate specter. But Kutii didn’t frighten her. Instead, she found his presence calming.
“You were wrong about Garrett,” she said. “He’s not what you thought. He’s nothing but a fortune-hunter.”
The Incan smiled with his eyes. “What have you come to this place for, child?”
She sighed. “To hunt a fortune.” She felt foolish. “Kutii, why can’t you tell me where the gold it?”
He shook his head. “It is hard to break old habits. For time out of time, the warriors of my blood have stood guard over the treasure of the royal family. Even for you, this man cannot forget his duty.”
“But you said I could have it,” she reminded him. “You said I had the right—”
He nodded. “Prove that you carry her power. Take the gold and it is yours.” He tilted his hand and the tiny, shimmering object dropped into her palm.
Caroline gasped at the weight of the gold. “It’s real.” She touched it. “It’s—” Her fingers were empty. “Don’t play games with me, Kutii,” she said. “I thought for a moment that—”
“The llama is real,” he replied. “It is just not in this room.”
“Is it on the island?”
“Quickly,” he said. “Find the treasure of my people quickly. Danger comes.”
“I saw a man with a cutlass. Is he—” She broke off as a white, swirling mist enveloped Kutii and he disappeared as suddenly as the gold figurine. “Kutii?” Caroline gritted her teeth in exasperation. “Men! You’re all alike,” she said. “Completely undependable!”
The sun rested on the waters of the sparkling blue-green sea, then sank slowly beneath the western horizon, leaving a molten caldron of orange and red and violet bubbling across the ever-darkening sky. Amanda and Noah stopped walking and stared, transfixed by the beauty of the sunset.
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” Noah said.
Amanda smiled shyly at him. “Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.” They laughed softly together.
Noah shaded his eyes and gazed far out to sea. Beyond the island reef, the Caribbean was as flat and calm as a mirror. The only movement was the ever-constant wheeling and diving of the seabirds, the only sounds, the gentle lap of waves against the shore and the shrill calls of seagulls. “’Tis a queer place,” he said. “Nothing like home, but it seems familiar.”
Amanda sat down on an outcropping of limestone and drew her knees up under her skirt. Her simple rose-colored servant’s gown had no side hoops, and she was enjoying the freedom of movement it gave her. She and Noah had spent the whole day talking, and the morning that had begun with Eli’s assault had become a pleasure. It had seemed only natural to accept Noah’s invitation to stroll with him along the shoreline as evening approached. Jeremy was safe with Angus’s wife. The good woman had assured her that she’d feed the toddler his supper, give him a bath, and tuck him into bed.
“Do you suppose some ancestor of yours lived beside the warm sea under a coconut palm tree?” Amanda asked Noah.
He laughed. “Where do you get these notions, woman? You are the beatin’est for comin’ up with fancy thoughts.”
She felt her cheeks go warm and she ducked her head. “It was you who said you were at home here.” She cupped her hands and scooped a double handful of air to wash her face with. “Have you ever felt such softness? Or smelled such flowers? I’m drunk on the scent of them. This island is a paradise.”
Noah shook his head. “Women.”
“Do you miss the cold at home? It’s raw yet and the nights can be bitter.”
“No,” he admitted, taking out his pipe and puffing on it. “I was never overfond of winter.”
“Why hasn’t a nice man like you found a wife and raised a family?” she asked him boldly.
“Maybe ’cause I’ve not met a wench like you before.”
Amanda felt a shiver of regret ripple down her spine. “I told you, Noah,” she began. “I like you but—”
“But there’s someone else.”
“Yes.” Someone she had loved as long as she could remember—someone forbidden to her, both by the rules of society and by family ties. How many nights had she lain awake wondering if Reed was alive or dead? Wondering if he was sick or hungry? Wondering if there was any place on earth where the two of them could find happiness together?
Noah turned his pipe upside down and tapped the last of the tobacco out on the sand, then ground out the embers with his foot. “I’m lonely, Amanda.”
“I know.” Why was her heart beating so fast? Why was it suddenly hard to breathe?
“I think you’re as lonely as I am.”
She shook her head, knowing the truth of what he was saying, but refusing to admit that she wanted . . . wanted . . . What did she want of this big man? Friendship, or something more? “I have my son,” she lied. “I have Jeremy and—”
“A child can’t fill a woman’s needs in the dark of night.”
“I’ve promised—”
“Promised yourself to this man?” Noah shrugged. “Where is he, Amanda? You’re lonely and so am I. Would there be any harm in takin’ a little human comfort—”
She got to her feet and started walking away from him. “What you’re suggesting is sinful,” she said. “I’m not that kind of woman.”
He went after her and took hold of her arm. “Amanda.”
Tears filled her eyes as she looked up into his face. He lifted her chin and kissed her, a gentle kiss of longing, and she slumped against his chest. His arms closed around her, and for the first time in many years she felt safe.
“Not so great a sin,” he said. “Not for two lonely people.”
She’d never wanted a man’s touch—never trusted any man but Reed or her father. But Noah’s embrace felt right, and his lips were warm on hers. Excitement churned in her belly as he kissed her again and again.
“Let me love you,” he said huskily in her ear.
“No.” She shook her head and pulled away, staring into his eyes. “Not this way. Never again without the blessing of the church. I’ve had bad things happen to me, but I’m a good person. And I won’t willingly give myself to a man who is not my lawful husband.”
“And if I did ask you to be my wife?”
“I’d think on it.”
“You do beat all.”
She smiled up at him. “Is that an honorable proposal of marriage?”
“It is.”
She smiled as he pulled her against him and cradled her head against his chest.
Garrett returned to his bedchamber and read until the candle guttered in its silver stand. Except for the pages which had been torn from the journal, it was intact and clearly written. Near the end of the book, the handwriting changed from an elegantly masculine script to a woman’s flowing lines.
For any who come after me who would doubt the truth of James Bennett’s account, let me state that in the year 1725 my husband, Robert Kincaid, and I traveled to the jungle of Panama and recovered part of the treasure hidden there by my Grandfather James. So great was this store that we were unable to carry out all of the gold and silver, and were forced to leave a goodly portion in its watery resting place.
Elizabeth Lacy Bennett Kincaid
Fortune’s Gift, Maryland
December 1, 1740
The last few pages, Garrett read standing on the balcony by the light of the moon. And when he’d finished, there was no doubt in his mind of the truth of most of what James Bennett had written. What concerned Garrett now was not what was recorded, but what hadn’t been.
James said nothing of any of the gold being hidden on Arawak Island, only that Lacy Bennett had dived to the ocean floor to recover the treasure from the sunken Miranda. The diary proved Caroline’s story, and yet proved nothing.
What was it she had said? If the story about Morgan and the Miranda is true, th
e rest has to be true.
But did it? All legends had some basis in fact. Who was to say that the original source of the family’s wealth didn’t provide the seeds for a fanciful tale of buried riches? Still, he couldn’t help wondering. And wishing . . .
James Bennett was a man Garrett could understand. A man he’d like to have served with, and one who would have understood the importance of the Colonies’ bid for freedom. No wonder Caroline was the woman she was, Garrett thought. She came from daring stock.
Was it possible that he’d misjudged her? That Caroline was telling the truth when she said she supported the American side? Was it possible she could be trusted to understand why he had to leave her?
He brushed a hand over his eyes, then started as he heard a slight rustle behind him. He tensed as an odd pricking feeling raised the hairs on his arms, but when he spun around prepared to face some sort of unknown danger, all he saw was the black cat stretched out on the balcony railing.
“Are you back?” he said to the tomcat. He didn’t bother to chase the animal. As long as he stayed out of Garrett’s bedroom, he could prowl around and catch all the lizards he wanted.
Absently, Garrett rubbed the worn cover of the journal between his thumb and forefinger. James Bennett had never said anything about his childhood or where he was raised. It was obvious the man was educated. His script and choice of words made that evident. He began the account by saying he had left his home to make his career on the sea.
As Garrett had. At nineteen, when Garrett was fresh from the College of William and Mary in Virginia, the Eastern Shore and his father’s tobacco plantation had seemed too small for him. There had been two other sons, Alfred and Charles, to take up farming, and ever since Garrett was twelve, he’d had his heart set on a commission in the Royal Navy.
His father had sold off two hundred acres of prime land earlier to pay for that commission, and had petitioned the Cornwallis branch of the family for assistance. Garrett had gone directly into His Majesty’s service aboard a Royal Navy snow.
And realized within six months that he’d made a terrible mistake.
He’d never led a sheltered life. When he was four, his brothers had overturned a boat in the river. He hadn’t known how to swim, but he’d learned. He’d come up under the boat and had hung on for what seemed like hours before he’d gotten up enough nerve to let go and swim out. At eight, he’d broken an arm riding a wild horse, and when he was nine, he and Alfred had cornered a pig-killing bear in the swamp. At thirteen, he’d shot his first man—a renegade who came into the plantation kitchen and threatened his mother.
But nothing had prepared him for the brutality of life aboard one of His Majesty’s ships. Month after month, he’d witnessed men flogged, even hanged for minor offenses. He’d seen mutilations and brandings, and the seizure of American colonists for service aboard naval ships.
By the time he was twenty-five, he’d had a bellyful of English justice, and had resigned his commission and returned to his father’s plantation. Within a year, he’d begun meeting with other Marylanders and Virginians who thought the Colonies would be better off if they declared their independence from England.
For eleven years he’d been involved in the struggle for freedom. And not once in all those years had he felt as useless as he did now. One way or another, he had to find a ship and return to the action.
With a sigh, Garrett went back inside and placed the journal on a table next to the bed. The house was quiet, and he realized he’d not heard any sounds from below in some time. He wondered where Caroline was. He hadn’t expected her to join him in their bedroom tonight. He would miss her head on his shoulder . . . her warm body curled next to his.
A movement on the balcony caught his eye and he tensed, ready to spring. For the space of a heartbeat, he saw the profile of a native standing just outside the door. The Indian had a jutting hawk nose and waist-length hair that blew in the wind.
Except that there was no wind.
Garrett’s mouth went dry, and the hair on his arms stood up. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears.
The Indian turned his head and stared directly at him. Guard her well.
Garrett tried to move, but his feet seemed frozen to the floor; his body seemed carved of solid wood. His breath caught in his throat. “For the love of God,” he began. “Who—”
But the voice in Garrett’s head would not be stilled. Danger comes. Guard her well, chosen warrior. The moonlight was on the Indian’s back, yet his eyes glowed like twin coals.
“Who are you?” Garrett repeated. A curious prickling sensation ran down his spine.
The Indian shook his head. Guard her well.
Garrett charged the shadowy figure, but when he plunged through the open doorway, the porch was empty.
“What the hell—” Garrett cried. He scanned the lawn below for any sign of a man. Nothing.
Then he realized how quiet the surrounding jungle had become. No night birds called out; no parrots screeched. No small rodents rustled in the underbrush. Garrett heard absolutely nothing but the rasp of his own breathing.
The feeling that his skin was too tight for his body had left him . . .
“I saw a swiving ghost.” He shook his head. That was crazy talk; he must have been dreaming. That or some native had been sneaking around trying to see what he could steal. Garrett ran his fingers over his scalp. Dreaming . . . that’s what he’d been doing.
He was a man who’d survived by his wits. He’d been afraid for his life many times, but he’d never known a feeling quite like the one he’d just experienced.
“Just a nightmare,” he muttered to himself. It made sense, he reasoned. This island, this old house, the journal—it was enough to give a man nightmares. This was 1778. Only fools and children believed in ghosts nowadays.
He leaned out over the porch railing and looked up. It was possible that the Indian had climbed up a rope to the roof, or maybe up into a tree instead of jumping to the ground. But Garrett knew better. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the intruder long enough for him to jump or climb anywhere. He’d simply vanished.
Which meant that Garrett had been dreaming . . . or perhaps still was . . . The Indian’s voice hadn’t been normal. His speech had been perfectly clear, yet it had come from inside Garrett’s head.
A dream . . . or too much rum. He went inside and latched the doors behind him. He glanced back at the journal. It was lying open. And from somewhere far off, Garrett heard the sound of gentle laughter.
Chapter 18
Annemie’s sedan chair arrived at the Kingston dock almost before the sailors had secured the anchor on Matthew’s ship. Her two huge, turbaned bearers barely broke a sweat in the hot morning sun as they lowered the covered conveyance to the street, folded their arms over their wide black chests, and stood erect and motionless between their carrying poles. An equally colorful running-footman pushed back the heavy satin drapery, and the old woman peered out.
“Bring him to me,” she ordered. Rings flashed on her withered hand as she waved toward the longboat being lowered over the side of the brigantine Reprisal. The blackamoor bowed deeply and hurried to the end of the dock, dodging conch shells, fruit and vegetable vendors, barking dogs, and two laborers rolling an enormous cask toward a waiting boat.
Matthew saw his mother’s chair and swore a French oath so foul that the nearest seaman throwing his weight into the longboat’s oars winced. Matthew knew why Annemie was here—she’d come to accuse him in front of his crew. He started to make the sign of the cross over his chest, then stopped, balled his right fist into a knot, and drove it into the palm of his left hand.
Jesu! How to tell Mama what had happened . . . A storm. He glanced back at the battered rigging, the shattered yards on his flagship, the Reprisal. How to tell her that they’d sailed from Kingston on a calm sea under perfect conditions for a swift journey to Arawak Island—smack into a black maelstrom of rolling clouds, high winds,
lightning strikes, and short, choppy waves that rose to twenty feet and more.
Matthew shut his eyes as chills ran through him. Forty years at sea and he’d seen nothing like the violent bolts of white light that had seared an impassable wall of fire in front of them or . . . His stomach churned and sour bile rose in his throat. Or the green fluorescence that had leaped from masthead to masthead like the unholy flames of hell, until his men had panicked and begged him to turn back.
He’d refused, shooting John Dagget through the head at point-blank range and splitting Long Tom’s skull with a belaying pin for daring to contest his orders.
Until he’d seen the ghastly phantom of an Indian brave holding a severed head in one hand and glowing with a terrible blue-white radiance, standing on the bowsprit of the brigantine.
Matthew’s mouth had gone as dry as coconut husk. His muscles had turned to water. He had soiled himself as disgracefully as any coward put to the sword. And he had turned back . . . because of a ghost.
He swallowed the bitterness in his throat and tried to concoct a lie that would satisfy his mother. But when he climbed out of the longboat and up the ladder to the dock, her knowing eyes bored into him and he felt overwhelming shame.
“Where are they?” she demanded. “One woman and one man. Surely that shouldn’t be so difficult for the scourge of the Caribbean—for Red Hands Kay.”
“The weather—” he began mildly.
“Do not give me excuses, Matthew,” she said. “Give me Garrett Faulkner and the girl.”
“I’ll bring you his severed head in a vinegar jar,” Matthew promised.
Annemie frowned. “Alive. I warned you, they must be alive. Your wife-to-be cannot be harmed, and Falconer would speak with this Garrett before you part his head from his body.”
“I will sail on the next tide,” he said. “On the Reiver. The brigantine needs too many repairs.”
She shook her head. “You disappoint me, my son. Again.”
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