But he’d never been with her when something terrible happened. . . .
It had been that way all her life. He’d spend two months at home and ten months at sea. He’d remain on Fortune’s Gift for a season at most, and then he would be off to England, or the Indies, or even the coast of Africa.
She had been just a baby when her mother had taken a fall from a horse and lain four months barely conscious. Her father had been in France that spring, and her grandmother, Mama, and her grandfather, Papa James, had cared for her mother.
Mary Carter Sterling had been the prettiest heiress and the best dancer along the James River when she’d wed Bess’s father at nineteen. She could ride any horse with four legs, and she was absolutely fearless on a fox hunt. She had ridden to hounds when she was five months gone with Bess. But after that March morning, when Bess was two, Mary had never walked, or danced, or sat a sidesaddle again. She was a frail invalid when her handsome husband came sailing home to the Chesapeake.
He’d stayed by her side until Christmas, but when the call of the sea had been too strong, he’d kissed them good-bye and sailed again.
Bess’s father had been on a voyage on that terrible summer night when pirates had attacked the plantation and murdered eleven men and two women. Bess had been old enough to remember the gunfire and the bearded man who’d rushed into the kitchen and stabbed one of the servants. Her beloved dog, Cedar, had leaped at the marauder and been struck down. It was Mama Lacy, her grandmother, who had saved her from certain death, dropping the villain in his tracks with one shot from her flintlock pistol.
“You know it’s true that Father was never here when we needed him most,” Bess declared to Kutii. “Remember when the hurricane ruined our tobacco crop and drowned half of our livestock?”
“And he was gone when your grandmother’s heart gave out.” Kutii’s softly accented English echoed her sorrow.
“He was her only son, and he wasn’t here to hold her hand when she died.” Bess’s throat constricted. “He was always off chasing a dream.”
The Indian nodded, his heavy-lidded eyes shining with the love and compassion she’d always seen there. “Not only your father, but also your grandfather was a dreamer,” he said.
“Papa James might have been the dreamer, but my grandmother was the one who made the dreams come true.”
“So.” Kutii nodded again in agreement. “That too is a gift.”
The rain was falling harder now. Wind whistled around the chimney, and spatters fell on the clean-swept hearth. Bess looked around the master bedchamber that had once been her grandparents’. She had been born in the large curtained bed; her grandmother had insisted Bess’s father had been conceived and born in it, as well. Now the bedstead, the cushioned settle, the tall, inlaid case clock, and the beautiful walnut chest of drawers were hers.
Her father had not wanted this room or the furnishings. As the only living son and heir, he should have slept here, but he found his parents’ things too dark and old-fashioned for his taste. He preferred the new French styles. It had all come to Bess . . . the house, the plantation, and the responsibility.
And she loved it all fiercely.
“I do love Fortune’s Gift,” she murmured. “I love it more than I love my own life. I’ll not let it slip through my fingers. I swear I won’t.” She reached for the leather-bound book in the center of the table, flipped open the stained cover, and began to read her grandfather’s bold script by the flickering light of the candle.
If it weren’t for Kutii, she wouldn’t have known of the journal’s existence. It was Kutii who had pointed out to her the hiding place, forgotten for at least ten years behind a loose brick in the fireplace.
No wonder her grandfather had hidden the diary; there was enough evidence in his own handwriting to convict him of piracy twice over. The most fascinating account to Bess was his description of Henry Morgan’s raid on Panama City. Apparently, Papa James had been one of Captain Morgan’s infamous privateers.
Since she was a child, Bess had heard whispered stories of Spanish treasure, a fortune linked somehow with the founding of Fortune’s Gift. She’d asked her mother about the rumors, but Mother had been extremely reluctant to speak about the subject, other than to say it was nothing but servants’ gossip and Bess would be better occupied with practicing her embroidery than with eavesdropping on grown-ups.
But once, her grandmother had told her that it wasn’t Spanish gold but Incan treasure that had paid for Fortune’s Gift. Bess had run to Papa James and asked him if it was true, but he’d only laughed and told her it was more of her grandmother’s outlandish tales. “I am descended from nobility in England,” he’d said. “Our wealth comes from my family.”
It was obvious that both her mother and her grandfather had lied to her.
Here, in Papa James’s own words, was the proof that such a treasure existed. For the most part, the book had been a recording of crops and births and deaths on Fortune’s Gift. The first entry had been made on her grandparents’ wedding day. There was no pattern to the account; sometimes he would skip weeks or even months. But the story of the attack on Panama City was complete in blood-curdling detail that ran for thirty pages.
It began thusly. Twenty years ago, on this day, I signed a pact with my friend and captain, Matthew Kay, to lay siege to Panama City on the Pacific. . . .
The story ended with the sinking of Captain Kay’s vessel, the Miranda, in the Caribbean, and the loss of five chests of treasure. It was all fascinating to Bess, but what most intrigued her was five pages in the middle of the tale which told of the attempts to bring the gold of Panama City through the steaming jungle to the Atlantic. According to Papa James’s recollection, at least half of the treasure was left behind, buried when natives attacked and killed most of their pack animals. There was also mention of an Incan slave and his bravery under fire.
Bess closed the journal and went to the fireplace. Carefully, she removed the loose brick and reached inside to retrieve the absolute proof of her grandfather’s fantastic tale. Cradling the tiny gold statue in the palm of her hand, Bess returned to the candlelight and stared down at the beautiful work of art.
The miniature jaguar snarled up at her, as bright and perfect as it had been when an Incan craftsman cast it in a clay mold. The eyes were set with polished turquoise, and she could count the claws on each delicate paw.
Bess took a deep breath and closed her fingers around the statue, giving in to the other gift her grandmother Lacy had left her . . . the legacy of a witch. Instantly, the familiar bedchamber receded, and Bess became aware of a series of vivid images, one after another.
Gray mountain peaks jutting into the sky like the fingers of God! Brown, dusty roads, and strange pyramidlike structures. Black-haired men and women of dusky red hue, and a chanting unlike any she had ever heard.
Blood! Spilling red across the golden jaguar. Women’s screams and a mounted Spaniard wearing a crested steel helmet. The weight of iron chains. Musty odors of rotting vegetation. Suddenly, Kutii’s face. And then blue-green water, choking, drowning . . .
Bess gasped and sat down on her bed. She opened her hand and stared at the golden image. She swallowed hard as her stomach turned over, and her head began to pound as it always did after she’d used her sight.
She had possessed the gift since she was a child. Her grandmother, Mama, had assured her that it was a gift from a gypsy ancestor—not a curse, as ignorant people might say. Bess could take an object—usually something solid, like a coin or a piece of jewelry—in her hand and receive impressions from it. Sometimes the scenes that rose in her mind’s eye were clouded and faint. Other times, she could clearly see events and people associated with the object.
Occasionally, she could experience similar images by touching another person. These impressions told her if the subject was truthful or lying, or if the stranger could be trusted. The trick worked best with someone Bess didn’t know. Her first instincts usually proved to be co
rrect.
Mama Lacy had once asked her what she saw when she made judgments on a person’s character, and Bess had answered that it was very hard to describe. And it was. She felt rather than saw colors. Blue and gold were good colors. Gray and red were bad. A liar always felt gray and sticky; red indicated someone with a violent temper.
When she had first touched Kincaid, she’d not felt any color, only a lightning bolt of energy exploding within her. She smiled, remembering. A hint of green? Had she received an impression of green?
She shook her head. No, she couldn’t be sure of Kincaid. He was beyond the edges of her gift. Kincaid was an unknown entity.
“Do you not remember what she told you years ago?” Kutii asked.
Bess started in surprise. She had forgotten he was in the room. “Oh,” she said. “You’re still here.”
“I’ve never known you to be frightened of me.”
She frowned. “Of course I’m not afraid of you. It’s just that you creep around so quietly, like . . .”
“Like a ghost?” He chuckled. “Think, Bess. Your grandmother. What did she tell you? She said that a strong man would come when your need was great. Use him to save what you hold dearest.”
“I’d have to be mad even to consider hunting for the lost treasure.”
“You bear the blood of those who seek what lies beyond the seas. You cannot change who you are.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Bess protested. “I can’t do it.”
“You are her granddaughter.”
“I’m just a woman, Kutii. If I’d been born the son Fortune’s Gift needed . . .”
“All that Lacy was is in you.”
“How can I? I’d have to be mad to consider going to Panama.”
Kutii laughed softly. “What is madness to one is daring to another.”
“If I got there, I wouldn’t know where to go-where to dig.” She looked away, toward the empty fireplace.
“I know.”
“You’ll come with me?” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up. “Kutii?” The door to the hall stood open. He had gone as quietly as he had come.
The storm swirled around the manor house and bent the white poplar trees, sending leaves and small branches flying over the roof and across the garden. Lightning flashed so close that Bess braced herself for the accompanying thunder. The boom rattled the glass and echoed through the room, making her flinch, but when she ran to the windows, she couldn’t see any damage.
She returned to her chair and let her hand rest on the old journal. Kutii was right. If she wanted to save Fortune’s Gift, she’d have to take action . . . not sit and wait helplessly for the land to be confiscated.
Kincaid was her biggest problem. Could she trust him? Or was he the pirate and murderer the authorities believed him to be?
She had tended the bondman’s wounds and seen to it that he was given decent clothing and good food every day. She had insisted that he be guarded day and night during the past five weeks since she’d whipped him. But all that time, she’d made no further attempt to talk with him.
Now it was time.
Ignoring the hour and the heavy downpour, she dressed as quickly as she could and threw a hooded wool cloak over her shoulders. She stepped over the one-eared cat lying in the doorway and descended the wide front staircase to the entrance hall.
The house was quiet, the servants all asleep. Bess went down the hall and through a low door into a storage room. Taking a lantern, she carried it into the kitchen, lit it from the coals on the hearth, and went out the back way into the rainy night.
Kincaid heard the barn door open and the murmur of voices. He got to his feet and looked out through the bars of the box stall at the bobbing lantern. A hooded figure came toward his cell, and he smelled the strong oily scent of wet wool.
“Leave us alone.” The woman’s voice. He’d not seen her since the day she’d tended his injured back.
The stall door opened. She shrugged off the cape and came inside, closing the door behind her. “Kincaid.”
He’d forgotten how husky her voice was. Low. Sensual. He liked the way his name sounded when she said it.
“Kincaid?”
“Ye woke me. Ye must have something to say.”
She came closer, stopping just out of arm’s reach. He was still manacled and chained to the wall. She seemed to know exactly how far she could come without being in danger. “I have a proposition for you,” she said.
“I don’t do stud service.”
Her eyes widened at the insult. “Damn you,” she said softly.
He chuckled. “You’re not the first to say so.” He grinned at her. “I doubt not I’ll end up in hell, but if I do, I’ll nay be lonely.”
“I’ve no time for games.” She stiffened, and he remembered how tall she was, and how strong she’d been when they’d struggled on the road the night he’d stolen her mare.
“I did give Joan your horse,” he said. “She sold her, certain, but a mare like that shouldn’t be hard to trace.”
“I need you.”
He uttered a low sound of derision. “I already told ye, I pick my own bedmates. Ye may own my indenture. Ye dinna own me.”
“By the king’s arse, can you think of nothing but futtering?” she snapped. “If you can hold your tongue for two minutes, I’ll tell you a thing , that may make a great deal of difference about how you spend the next forty years of your life.”
“I’ll nay spend it hoeing your tobacco. I’ll tell ye that for nothin’, me fine English lady.”
“Will you listen, or shall I go and find myself a man instead of a boasting fool?”
“Talk on, mistress,” he answered sarcastically.
“I was told that you know something of the sea and ships.”
He nodded. What was the wench getting to? “A wee bit.”
“And you know something of fighting?”
“I was a mercenary for nine years. I ken a pistol from a broadsword.” He arched an eyebrow. “Have ye a bit of a war in mind?”
“No war,” she said. “Just a small expedition into Spanish territory.”
“Say on. You’ve my interest, woman.”
“I want you to take me south to recover a treasure that my grandfather stole and buried in Panama.”
He laughed. “A fine joke. Now, what did ye come here disturbing a poor prisoner’s sleep for?”
“I’m serious,” she said. “I’ve a map to a fortune and I need the right man to help me get it.”
He stopped laughing and locked his gaze with hers. “And why would I do such a crazy thing? Take a white woman into Panama under the Spaniards’ high noses?”
“For a thing only I can give you.”
“And that is?”
“Your freedom, and the gold to keep it.”
Chapter 4
Kincaid’s eyes glittered in the lantern light. “Why should I trust ye, Englishwoman?”
“Why should I trust you?”
Thunder boomed, rattling the barn walls. Even the lightning strike that followed seconds later did nothing to ease the tension that sparked between them. Bess repressed the urge to swallow, and forced herself to hold the lantern steady. She’d not give Kincaid the satisfaction of knowing how hard she was trembling inwardly.
He was a formidable opponent, this unshaved, hard-eyed convict. One blow of his fist could kill her; his scarred, muscular fingers could close around her throat and choke the life out of her before the guards could come to her aid. She’d given him every reason to do so when she’d beaten him like an animal. Shamed him. Stripped him of every ounce of human dignity.
But somehow, she knew he wouldn’t harm her. Despite the wildness in his dark eyes and the scent of danger around him, her intuition told her to trust him. “I need you, Kincaid. And if you’ll help me recover the treasure, I’ll make you a free man of substance.”
“Ye can do that? Legally?” The sarcasm was gone from his voice, and for a fleeting moment his rough-hewn
features softened.
“There are precedences. Many Marylanders were once indentured servants . . . most have a past they’d not speak of. England is far away. You could have a new start here, Kincaid.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Have you a last name, or is—”
“Just Kincaid,” he said harshly. He ran a hand through his tangled blond hair. “What proof do I have that you’ll give me my freedom if I take ye to Panama?”
She noticed that he badly needed a shave. His beard was sparse; his stubbly whiskers shone as golden as the sprinkling of fair hair on his chest and arms. A golden man to seek a golden fortune, she thought. As he pushed back his hair, a silver earring gleamed in one ear.
“You do look like a pirate, you know,” she said, surprising herself as she voiced her thoughts.
“And ye look like a wanton.”
Bess felt herself flush, not with shame, but with anger. “Perhaps we are neither of us what we seem,” she said, fighting to hold her temper. “It is your sword arm I wish to hire, nothing else.”
He grinned wolfishly. “Good. For as well formed as ye may be, I’ve no interest in any lass who fancies herself a man.”
“Are you always so crude?”
“Aye. Ye may as well get used to it, for I step aside for no man, and I take sass from no woman, highborn or low.”
Bess stiffened. “Did you do what they said you did?” she demanded. “Are you a cold-blooded murderer?”
His brown eyes narrowed. “I’ve killed men that needed killing. . . .” His voice dropped to a grating rasp. “And some that probably didn’t. A few were English soldiers.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I sleep nights.”
“You consider yourself a professional soldier.”
He shrugged. “No need to hide truth with pretty words. I fight for those who pay me, and I’m very good at what I do.”
“I’ve told you what I’ll pay.”
“Nay, ‘tis not enough. If I agree to take ye on this wild-goose hunt, and if we find this treasure—I’ ll take half.”
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