Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

“You’ll have it.” ,

  Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off toward his quarters.

  Oh, God, what have I done now? Bess thought with a sinking heart. How could she possibly manage Fortune’s Gift without Tom? Just paying him his wages would empty her coin box. Why couldn’t she have held her tongue and let him scold her without forcing a confrontation?

  If she called him back . . .

  She sighed deeply. If she called him back now, he’d be the authority here, not her. And as much as she needed Tom, she couldn’t let that happen.

  Trust yourself, her grandmother Lacy had always told her. You’ve a mind as good as any man, and better than most.

  “If only you were here, Mama. You or Papa James,” she murmured under her breath. But her beloved grandparents were buried in the walled family graveyard, beside her mother and an uncle who had died at birth.

  She blinked back the moisture that threatened to weaken her resolve. Her father had left Fortune’s Gift in her hands because he’d believed she was capable of running the plantation. And truth be told, if he were here, he wouldn’t be much help. Her father was an adventurer and a seaman, not a planter. Whatever practical farming knowledge she possessed had come from her paternal grandmother. And it didn’t take much consideration to know what she would do about this Scot.

  She had delivered the sentence—she must carry it out, no matter how much it hurt the both of them.

  The feeling of being watched came over her, and she glanced over her shoulder at the house. On the second floor a curtain stirred in the nursery window. In the early morning light, it was difficult for Bess to make out the shadowy figure standing there, but she knew instinctively who it was.

  “I’m going,” she said, and raised a hand in acknowledgment. “I’m going.” Turning back to her unpleasant task, she walked briskly toward the dock and the assembled men who awaited her.

  Kincaid knotted his fists and strained against the iron manacles that bound him to the oak crossbeam. He dug his heels into the soft earth and threw his weight forward until the sinews on his back stood out like ropes, but he was held fast between two posts.

  He fixed his gaze on the sparkling river and tried to control his anger and frustration. It was futile to fight now and he knew it, but all his life he’d waged a losing battle against his hot Gaelic temper. It was easier to struggle against hemp, and wood, and iron, than to stand meekly by and wait to be beaten like a stray dog.

  It had taken four stout men to get him this far, and they would well remember the taking. His right eye was swollen, and his jaw ached, but he knew he’d given better than he’d received.

  Damn the luck that had made his wound sicken, and damn the worse luck that had forced him to take shelter with a doxy that couldn’t be trusted. But then, he thought wryly, when had a woman ever brought him good fortune?

  “Kincaid?”

  The voice was low and husky, definitely female. Kincaid twisted his head around, but he couldn’t see who it was who had called his name.

  The onlookers fell silent.

  The woman stepped around the left post and stood in front of him, a bold piece in a Lincoln green riding habit and boots. She was tall, lacking only half a head of his own height, and shapely. He could see that her curves were ample, even though she was wearing a coat and waistcoat. Her uncovered hair was a mane of rich dark auburn, and she wore it loose down her back, as brazen as any dockside tavern slut.

  “Kincaid?”

  Her eyes were large and wide-spaced, framed by thick, dark lashes that fair took a man’s breath away. Her brows were feathery arches, her forehead high and flawless. Her nose was straight and well formed, her sensuous mouth too full for modesty. She was comely enough, this haughty English wench, but her eyes were what drew him. They were as clear blue as the waters of Loch Lomond and as fierce as an Atlantic squall.

  And the glare she directed at him was enough to scorch the skin from a lesser man.

  “Kincaid,” she repeated in a voice that made him think of soft feather beds and softer flesh pressed against his own. “Do you know who I am?”

  Aye, he knew well enough. No wonder those full lips tantalized him. He’d kissed them once, and he’d held this armful close on a cold night last December . . . the night he’d lifted the bay mare with one white foot.

  “You stole my horse,” she reminded him.

  “Borrowed,” he corrected. He grinned at her, as cocksure as a peddler in the parlor of a minister’s daughter. Her riding habit was lined with silver braid; her buttons were sterling. She was rich, and doubtless some man’s darling. Whatever game she meant to play, he’d follow.

  A tint of color rose to settle along her high cheekbones. This time her tone bore a trace of uncertainty. “You are a horse thief, a pirate, a convicted murderer, and a runaway bond servant,” she proclaimed.

  “He’s that,” a male voice chimed in.

  “Aye,” cried another.

  “Should ’ave hanged him.”

  “Two years ago you deserted your rightful master at River Run Plantation on the James in the colony of Virginia,” the woman continued.

  Had she told him her name when he’d kissed her? Kincaid tried to remember. He’d kissed many a sweet lass, and one name was much like another.

  “You were one of the pirates aboard the Nancy Jane who boarded the York Lady and robbed her of her cargo last October. Do you deny the charge?” she demanded haughtily.

  He kept silent, as he had before the judge. By English law, a man could not be made to testify against himself. He was no pirate, by God! At least, no murdering pirate. And the only cargo they’d had from the York Lady was a gross of ladies’ shoes and twelve pewter chamber pots. Hardly a haul to send a man to the gallows.

  “And do you deny that you fled the jail at St. Mary’s Courthouse?” Her whole face was flushed now. “And do you deny you assaulted the Widow Horsey on her farm west of Chestertown in late November?”

  He smiled at her again. “I do,” he answered. “I do deny it. I’ve never raped a lass. Nay . . .” He deliberately let his voice trail off suggestively. “Never had to.”

  She shifted her feet nervously, and he noticed that she was wearing black boots of the finest Spanish leather beneath her Lincoln green riding skirt. Aye, Kincaid decided, she was some old man’s darling, like as not. No young man would allow her such leeway—to stand before men and speak out so.

  He also noticed that she was holding a leather whip in her hands. A bloodthirsty chit, for all her ladylike airs. Some women, he knew, were excited by the sight of blood—someone else’s. The thought that the lass in Lincoln green might be such a common jade disappointed him. She’d piqued his interest, and he’d rated her above such unnatural lusts.

  “Then you also deny intruding on the property of Joan Pollott of Onancock. Holding her against her will and taking liberties with her person?”

  He scoffed. Joan was a trollop. She made her living providing entertainment for the local males. She’d welcomed him into her cabin in return for the bay mare. She’d given him a place to hide out and she’d dug the bullet out of his shoulder. But when the money ran out, she’d given him over to the authorities for the reward on his head.

  “Do you deny assaulting Joan Pollott?”

  “I took no more from Mistress Pollott than she sells for a silver penny on a weekday and threepence on Saturdays.”

  The men guffawed at his reply, but she ignored him and went on. “Where is my horse?”

  “I presented it to Mistress Pollott as a gift.”

  “Joan Pollott denies knowledge of the mare.”

  He shrugged, inasmuch as he was able, due to the awkward position of his arms and shoulders. “When I last saw the horse in question, she was headed south, led by Joan Pollott.”

  “Nevertheless, you stand guilty of the theft. You have been found guilty of enough crimes to hang you four times over, Kincaid. But as your rightful master—”

  �
��You’re nay my master,” he interrupted. “I’ve seen Roger Lee’s wife, and she’ll never see fifty again. Unless she’s died and Roger married again—”

  “I am Lady Elizabeth Bennett,” she said. “I swore to you that if you took my mare, I’d track you down, and I always keep my promises. I am the lawful owner of your indenture. I purchased it in Annapolis in February of this year from Roger Lee. And as your owner, I have the power to pass judgment on you. Once again, I ask you—where is my bay mare?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Twenty lashes.” Her eyes darkened to the blue of deep ocean water. “Where is my mare?”

  “Ask Joan Pollott.”

  “Twenty-five lashes,” she said softly.

  “God help the man ye find to deliver them,” he threatened.

  The color drained from her face until the freckles stood out on her fair skin like spatters of paint. “I saved you from the gallows,” she said, “but you have earned every stroke of your punishment.”

  Chapter 2

  The first blow struck Kincaid’s back before he was fully prepared for the pain. He sucked in his breath hard and closed his eyes. Damn, but a cattle whip could cut a man’s skin to ribbons!

  He’d been beaten before, in Edinburgh, during an interrogation by English soldiers. They’d whipped him near to death, but he’d not given a single name. He’d thought it was an experience a man never forgot.

  He was wrong.

  He hadn’t remembered how much it hurt, and how much effort it took to keep from screaming. He braced himself mentally for the second blow. The leather curled up from his waist and sliced a furrow of fire across his back to his left shoulder. The crack of the whip echoed in his ears. He swallowed back the cry of agony.

  Son of a bitch, he cursed silently. It was enough to ruin a man’s day.

  “Three.”

  That was the woman’s voice. And as the third lash fell on his naked back, he realized that the bitch was wielding the whip.

  “Four,” she called.

  He shuddered as the stroke cut across raw flesh opened by the earlier lashes and clenched his fists as a red tide of fury washed across his consciousness. She’ll pay for this, he vowed. She’ll pay dearly for every stripe, if it’s the last thing I do. . . .

  “Eight,” Bess said. The leather of the cattle whip was slick with Kincaid’s blood and his broad back was crisscrossed with ugly swollen welts. Bile rose in her throat and she forced it down as she drew back the lash for another blow.

  What kind of woman had she become that she could mutilate a human being in the name of justice? What had happened to the child who’d wept when a kitten was trampled under a horse’s hoofs? To the girl who had tended a hawk with a broken wing?

  The sentence had been twenty stripes. Twenty was fair punishment for a horse thief and a runaway bond servant. Her grandmother would have given him twenty lashes, herself without blinking an eye.

  But Bess had let her cursed temper get the better of her. She’d argued with Kincaid in front of her servants—in front of the neighbors. In her pride, she’d added an extra five stripes to his ordeal. She’d done it because he hadn’t bowed his head and submitted to her authority.

  “Fifteen.” Her shoulder ached; her muscles cried out from the exertion. Damn her for a proud fool! Twenty-five lashes could ruin a man for life. And she didn’t want to hurt him . . . not like that.

  He had behaved better than she had for his arrogance, she thought. Her eyes clouded with tears and she blinked them away. Why had she let him goad her into increasing the penalty?

  Finish what ye start, her grandmother had always said. And never bite off more than ye can chew.

  “Twenty-one.” I’m sorry, she thought. I’m so sorry. She was so weary she could hardly lift the whip, but she shook her head when one of her bondmen offered to finish the job. “It’s my duty,” she declared.

  Disbelief showed on the men’s faces. Disbelief and fear. She knew what they would say of her later. She takes after the old missus—the witch. And maybe it was true.

  On number twenty-four, Kincaid slumped forward in a dead faint. She gave a token stroke for the last blow, then threw the bloody whip to the dirt. “Take him to the barn,” she ordered. “I want two guards watching him day and night.” She fixed the nearest bond servant with a scowl. “I’ll have the hide off any man of mine who lets him escape.”

  “He’ll not get away, mistress. Ye can count on that.”

  There had never been a need for a jail on Fortune’s Gift, so she’d instructed her servants to clean out one of the stallion boxes in the big barn. The sides of the stall were solid oak, and the door was secured on the outside with an iron latch. She’d instructed them to cover the floor with fresh straw and make a pallet for Kincaid to lie on.

  “Give him water when he comes to,” she said. “I’ll send someone from the house to tend to his wounds.” She watched as they cut him down, and his moans made sweat break out on her forehead. “Let it be a lesson to any man on the Tidewater,” she reminded them. “Horse thieves will receive swift justice on Fortune’s Gift.”

  She held back the tears until she reached the privacy of her bedchamber, and then she broke down and sobbed. She’d not cried since the day she’d buried her grandmother, but she cried now.

  The household maids hurried about their chores and whispered to each other. “What’s wrong with Miss Bess?” And the cook, Deaf Donald, shook his spoon at them and went on with his work in silence.

  In time, Bess rose from her bed and rubbed her tearstained eyes. She splashed water on her face from a rose-patterned pitcher and patted her cheeks dry.

  It must be near her monthly flow, she thought, to make such a fuss about an unpleasant proceeding. She had done no less than her father would have done. Let one horse thief go unpunished, and no plantation stock would be safe. Not cows, nor swine, nor geese would be spared. Too many men thought Fortune’s Gift an easy mark without a master in residence.

  Taking her father’s place had not been easy. She’d been cheated on the price of tobacco seed and overcharged by the shipowners who would carry her cured tobacco to England. Neighbors and bondmen alike had laughed at her when she had freed all the slaves on the plantation. And they had blamed her when one of her freemen had been killed robbing a lonely farmhouse.

  In truth, her father had been a worse business manager than she was. He’d known he had no head for such matters, and he’d not interfered when her grandmother had hired the best tutor on the Eastern Shore to teach her mathematics, philosophy, and other subjects more suitable for men than for women. In the years since her grandmother had passed away, her father had gradually allowed her more and more leeway in making the decisions concerning Fortune’s Gift.

  There were a thousand decisions to be made: what forests should be cleared for new fields, what crops should be grown, which horses should be bred and which sold. Ships brought supplies from England once or twice a year, and a shopping list must cover the needs of over a hundred people on the plantation for eight to ten months at a time. If she failed to order enough cloth, or shoes, or plowshares, a year could come and go before the error could be set right.

  She loved her father dearly, but his decision to risk the family fortune in a voyage to the China Sea was one she hadn’t agreed with and had begged him to reconsider. Fortune’s Gift was rich land, but every planter lived on the brink of ruin. Storms and drought plagued farmers, and political upheavals made shipping products home to the motherland difficult. Every year taxes became higher, and her father had been determined that his manor house would rival any home on the Eastern Shore. He had added on to the original house twice, and he had built a horse barn so beautiful that people came from miles around just to admire it.

  Whatever would he say when he came home and found out that she’d sold most of the furniture he’d had custom-built in France? She hadn’t been able to think of a way to strip the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper from the grand entran
ce hall, but it hadn’t been for lack of trying. Sir Robert Miller of Chestertown had offered her a pretty penny for the paper if she could get it down without destroying it. She had sold off a complete set of porcelain and a chest of silver plate.

  No, she thought as she hurried down the main staircase, Father had ever been realistic when it came to money. He’d expected to live like a king, and he’d wanted her to play the part of the princess.

  Deaf Donald nodded when Bess entered the winter kitchen, which was attached to the house. He’d been taking spices from the locked cupboard to use in the noon meal. Now that the weather had turned warm, all cooking for the manor would be done in the summer kitchen, a brick structure set away from the main dwelling. Fire was an ever-present threat, and keeping the kitchen separate reduced the risk of having the big house destroyed.

  Bess greeted the gray-haired man with the respect due his position of head cook and gathered up her medicinal supplies. Since she’d caused the injury to Kincaid’s back, she felt it only fair to tend him herself. It wouldn’t make up for the pain she’d caused him, but it would ease some of her guilt.

  She’d never intended to seriously harm the outlaw. Ever since word of his exploits had filtered in to Fortune’s Gift, she’d toyed with an outrageous idea. It was too early to speak of her plan yet, but if anything was to come of it, Kincaid might supply a vital ingredient.

  Kincaid’s indenture had come high. Even though the man had escaped, Roger Lee had been reluctant to part with the Scot’s contract. He’d protested that Kincaid was a valuable worker, a man who knew how to grow tobacco and who was at home on ships and the water. Most bondmen had a seven-year servitude—Kincaid’s was forty years. He had cost Bess twenty gold sovereigns, a silver cup that had been in her family since her grandfather had stolen it from the Spanish, and a prize bull.

  Her father had imported the bull from Devon when the animal was a calf. The beast—named Rupert—had sired fourteen prime milk cows for Fortune’s Gift, and he produced hard cash when other farmers brought their cows to be bred. Bess had a son of Rupert’s, but it would be another year before he would be old enough to stand at stud. And what if the bull calf proved sterile or fathered only average calves?