Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  “I went off to hunt for that damned mare you’re so fond of. It just took a little longer than I thought.” He glanced around the room in the manner of a man who always wanted to know where all the exits were.

  She glared at him. “You’re lucky I don’t take the skin off your back again. I’m not accustomed to being manhandled by my servants.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Woman. We maun come to an understanding.” His big frame tensed and Bess realized what an effort it was for him to hold his temper. “I’ll nay be bridled or driven by a skittish mare. I’m a mon who—”

  “I’ve a name,” she admonished him, noting that his Highland burr thickened when he became angry. “I’ll not be addressed as ‘woman.’ You may call me Bess. If we’re going to travel together, it’s best we drop the formalities of my—”

  “Nay. If I take ye, I’ll nay be callin’ ye ‘mistress,’ nor waitin’ on ye hand and foot like ye were a bloody duchess.”

  “If?” She slid off the bed and came toward him. “What of our bargain? Is your word as useless as your fighting ability?”

  He shrugged, letting her insult roll off his back as lightly as a spring shower of scattered raindrops. “I did agree to go with ye,” he admitted, “but I’m having second thoughts now that I see how witless ye be. A lass has nay business in the midst of a battle. Any wench with a peck of sense would have stayed far away from the shooting.”

  “I’m not like any lass you’ve known.”

  “I see that now, and it’s, what troubles me.” He scowled fiercely at her. “Ye could get us both killed.”

  “I can shoot and ride better than most men. I can walk all day and find my direction in the deep woods without sun or stars to guide me. I was raised as a son, not a daughter.”

  “There’s little enough that is womanly about you,” he agreed, lying. Damn, but she was a stone in his shoe that rubbed and rubbed until it drove a man half out of his mind. Her shape and form was as lushly female as any he’d ever seen. The way she walked, the way she tossed that thick mane of curling red hair . . . He’d seen his share of beautiful women, but only a handful who possessed the magic that could lure a man to his death. The devil’s jest was that all that allure was wrapped around a spiteful shrew’s tongue and a mule-stubborn head. “I’ll risk my life on a chance for riches, but nay on a foolish whim,” he said. “If you’ve a treasure map, let’s see it.”

  She raised her gaze to meet his defiantly, and his throat tightened as it did in the last seconds before he went into a battle. God in heaven, but she was one of a kind. Not many men had the nerve to stand an arm’s length away and stare him down.

  “I realize that you think you did me a favor by carrying me away from the fighting,” she said softly, “but lay hands like that on me again and I’ll kill you-I swear I will.”

  “Keep talking. I’m less inclined to go on your jaunt with every minute that passes. You’re not only a fool, you’re an ungrateful one. I save your skin and ye threaten to murder me.” He sniffed. “I warn ye, English Bess, I take more killin’ than you ken.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Show me proof that there is a treasure.” ,

  She went to the fireplace and removed a brick. Reaching inside the hidden compartment, she retrieved a water-stained book and a leather bag.

  “This is my grandfather’s journal,” she said. “He sailed with Henry Morgan against the Spanish. The treasure is part of the gold they took during Morgan’s famous raid on Panama City. They could carry only part of it because they were attacked by hostile Indians in the jungle. The jour-. nal gives dates and distances and landmarks, telling exactly where the chests are buried.” She thumbed through the pages and read aloud the account of the siege of the Spanish stronghold. “Are those the words of a man who lived that day or not?” she demanded.

  “Aye,” Kincaid said. “They be.” He’d fought step by step through enough such carnage to know the truth from hearsay. Just listening to her read, he could smell the stench of fresh blood and hear the bark of pistols and the clash of steel. “Who did he serve under, this grandsire of yours?”

  “Captain Matthew Kay.”

  Kincaid nodded. “I’ve heard of the man, but not as a buccaneer. Wasn’t he a royal governor of one of the English colonies?”

  “I don’t know. My grandfather never mentioned him or anything of his own life before he came to Maryland.”

  “Hmmmp.” Kincaid grunted assent. That rang true as well. A man with sense kept quiet about his past if he’d come by his wealth with a sword. “Let me see the section on the location of the treasure.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Now you do take me for a fool. With that information, you’ve no need of me.”

  She handed him the book and he saw that a half-dozen pages had been ripped out of the journal. The last entry broke off with the words “Being in dire straits, with three of our party lost and only six mules left, I have decided to bury half of the treasure. This spot is undoubtedly the best one we will find, being only a hundred yards from the waterfall and directly—” Kincaid looked up at the woman. “Where are the missing pages?”

  “I burned them,” she said.

  A foul oath slipped from his mouth before he could mind his manners. “Ye what?” he demanded.

  “I committed them to memory and burned them,” she replied. “You need me to find the gold, because the only map of the resting place is in my head.”

  “God rot your lyin’ eyes,” he swore, and then could not contain a chuckle. “Well done,” he admitted. “As slick as I’d do meself.” He laughed aloud. “A rare lass, indeed.” He handed her back the book. “You’ve more proof than half a journal, I suppose.”

  In answer she dumped the contents of the leather bag into his hand. It was a golden cat with eyes of turquoise. He hefted the object in his hand, testing the weight, then bit it. The soft gold gave under his teeth. “Aye,” he agreed with a grin. “That’s solid gold.”

  “Proof enough?” she returned cockily.

  “Aye, proof enough for a Scotsman.” He gave her back the glittering statue. “Now, have ye money enough to pay for the journey? I can travel cheap, but it will cost to book passage and hire men to—”

  “We can sell the jaguar,” she said. “I’ve no coin, but I’ve personal jewelry and weapons belonging to my father and grandfather.”

  “I’ll want good pistols,” he warned, “and a sword.”

  “For both of us,” she said. “I find a sword too heavy, but I’m handy with a knife. Kutii taught me; he was an Incan Indian, a great friend to my grandparents.”

  “I suppose I could use a musket if you’ve got a good one, as well as powder and shot. And don’t be thinkin’ ye can carry trunks of fancies with ye. If we go, we go with what we can carry, no more.”

  “Agreed, ” she said.

  “And ye will play the part of my leman.”

  It was her turn to stiffen. “We travel together,” she said coldly. “I’ve hired you to protect me, nothing more.”

  “I said ye were to play a role. I’ve no wish to part your cold flesh, Englishwoman.” It was a lie and he knew it as he said it. He had every wish to bed her, but she was poison and the cost of such action would be far greater than he intended to pay. He’d put himself in a woman’s clutches once. He’d let himself be vulnerable, and he’d carry the result to his grave. Nay, for all her showy looks, this was one wench who would be safe from him. He’d never been a man to let his cock lead his brain, and Bess Bennett would be as safe as a holy nun beside him.

  Her face flushed deep scarlet. “I mean it, Kincaid,” she whispered. “If you lay hands on me, I’ll drive a dagger into your heart. I’m no slut, and I’ll not whore for you or any man.”

  “Leave off with your ranting, chuck. ‘Twill be safe for us both if we pretend to be a pair.”

  “I could be your sister.”

  “What man believes another travels with his sister, be she over the age of ten?”

 
“Your wife, then. Why do I have to be your light-skirts?”

  “Because I am not the marryin’ kind, and any with half a head will know it. There is a brotherhood of the blade. We ken one another. A wandering mercenary and his doxy. Few will think it odd, and fewer still will venture to try and take what belongs to me, be it pistol or wench.”

  “You think highly of yourself.”

  “I’ve good reason.”

  “I don’t hold it against you,” she said. “I think highly of myself.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  She laid the book on the table and took a sheet of paper from the drawer. “I’ve written out our agreement giving you your freedom on our return from Panama,” she said. “I’ve signed and dated it.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “Weeks ago. The day you stole my second horse.”

  “You knew I’d be back.”

  “I wrote it before you ran off.” She flashed him a cold blue stare. “I don’t trust you, Kincaid. I want you to know that. I’ll be watching you every step of the way.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll read it to you if you like,” she offered.

  “Nay.”

  “Then make your mark, here at the bottom, under mine.”

  “Think ye I canna read and write?” He scanned the simple contract quickly, then dipped a quill pen in an ink bottle and signed “Kincaid” in large, bold script above her name. “Where I come from,” he said, “a man comes first above a woman.”

  “Then it’s obvious you come from a backward part of the world,” she chided. “In the Maryland colony, women are more highly valued. Any gentleman would—”

  “But I’m no gentleman,” he told her. “And I doubt you’d find any gentleman who could—”

  “Mistress Bess! Mistress Bess!”

  Kincaid stepped toward the doorway to see an older man running up the steps. Bess pushed past him into the upstairs hall. “That’s my cook,” she said, “Deaf Donald. He can’t hear, so you must speak slowly when you talk to him. He reads your lips. What is it, Donald?” she asked as he came to a halt in front of her.

  “The high sheriff, mistress. He’s at the dock with William Myers’s son. They say they’ve come for payment of a loan. They’re coming to the house.”

  “Thank you, Donald,” she answered. “Try and delay them as long as you can. I’m going away for a while, but I’ll be back. And when I come, I’ll make everything right. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, mistress,” he said in the stiff, oddly accented tones of a man who had not heard human speech in many years.

  “You are in charge of the house until I get back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell Ned that he is responsible for getting the crop in. If he needs help, he is to ask . . .” She sighed. “Tell him to do the best he can until my father returns or I do.”

  “Your father is alive, miss? Master David is coming home?”

  “Yes. You can tell the others that, and you can tell the sheriff. My father is coming home a rich man. I’ve had a message from him. Go now,” she urged, “and try to keep the sheriff out of the house for as long as possible.”

  “Is your father really coming home?” Kincaid asked as soon as the cook had gone.

  She shrugged. “God only knows. I had to tell them something.” She ducked past him and ran to the foot of her bed and threw open a blanket chest. “There are weapons in here. Choose what you want.” She pulled two saddlebags from under her bed and began to toss personal items into it. “We have to go now. If I see the sheriff, he may—”

  “I’ve nay wish to visit wi’ the man myself,” Kincaid said. “Shall we leave by the kitchen door or the front?” he asked as he removed a pair of French pistols and a powder horn from the chest. Beneath them, rolled in oilcloth, he found an old-fashioned cutlass with a burnished blade of Damascus steel.

  “I’ve another way.” She dug frantically through a smaller chest and came up with scissors, a pack of needles, and a hank of thread.

  “We’ll have little time for fine sewing,” Kincaid said.

  She ignored him and continued to stuff the saddlebags with garments and odds and ends. The last thing he saw her tuck into her cache was a small, silver-inlaid pistol. “Hurry,” she said, grabbing a woolen cloak and a pair of boy’s breeches. “The balls are in the bottom of the chest.”

  He reached deep into the chest, sliced his finger on something sharp, and swore.

  “Oh, there’s a skean in there too. It belonged to my grandfather. Watch out, it has a—”

  “Thank you for warning me,” he said, popping his bleeding finger in his mouth. He removed the knife and slid it into his boot top. The pistols went into his belt, the powder horn over one shoulder.

  “You’re supposed to be a soldier,” she said. “Can’t you even handle a knife without cutting yourself?” She slung the bags over her shoulder and started for the door. “Come on if you’re coming,” she urged, then dashed back to the table for the bag with the golden cat in it.

  “I would have remembered that,” he said, coming after her.

  There was a loud pounding at the front door, but Bess paid no heed to the racket. She led the way down the front stairs and through a small door that opened into the cellar. “Close it behind you,” she cautioned. “Watch out, the steps are steep.” .

  “I can find me way down a flight of stairs in the dark,” he growled. Either the wench had a rabbit hole out or she’d led them into a blind alley two minutes into their journey. He hoped it was the former.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  “Aye, dinna worry.”

  She ducked into a small room, then through another doorway to a stack of barrels. “Move these,” she ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered sarcastically as he laid aside the cutlass. Behind the barrels was a narrow wooden door, and behind that, a flight of brick steps that led upward.

  “There’s an iron bar across the outside door,” she said. “Lift that, and push.”

  There seemed to be some resistance beyond the door, but it gave when he threw his shoulder into it. As the door opened, he saw it was a hedge of boxwood.

  “Let me go first,” she said. “I’ve done it before.” She handed him the cutlass. “Don’t forget this,” she reminded him.

  The spiderwebs made it obvious to Kincaid that she’d not passed this way in some time, but he moved back and let her go ahead. She squirmed her way through the bushes and into an enclosed garden with high walls of greenery.

  “It’s a boxwood maze,” she whispered, signaling to him for silence. “There’s a secret opening at the far end, near the orchard. From there we can—”

  “You get us out of the maze,” Kincaid said. “After that, I’ll give the orders. We’ll ride south into Virginia. There’s a tavern there that—”

  “I thought we’d sail down the—”

  “Hist,” he said sharply. “Ye will do as I say from now on.” He took hold of her arm and pulled her around to face him. “I mean it. There can be only one leader of this expedition. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good enough, then.” He let her go, trying not to think of the tingling that ran up his hand. Her skin had been soft and her nearness a distraction, even with the law three steps behind them. “Just so ye ken the rules,” he repeated sternly.

  “Do what I hired you to do, and you’ll have no trouble from me,” she whispered.

  He exhaled softly through clenched teeth. Aye, he thought, you’ll give no trouble. I believe that as much as I believe gold coins will fall out of the sky into our hands as soon as we set foot on Spanish territory.

  Chapter 7

  Kincaid glanced back over his shoulder at the woman riding behind him, to make certain she hadn’t fallen asleep and toppled off her horse. It was still several hours before dawn, and they’d been in the saddle since late afternoon the day before. She’d hardly spoken to h
im since they’d left Fortune’s Gift. The only time she’d urged her mare up next to his was when she wanted to point out a change in direction or when he’d gotten off the faint trail in the darkness.

  They were headed south down the peninsula. Bess had wanted to cross the bay to Annapolis or try to find passage in Chestertown, but he’d had other ideas. More importantly, he wanted to reinforce his statement to her earlier, that he would be making the decisions. He had no intention of spending the next three months arguing with her at every step of the way.

  He ducked his head to avoid a low-hanging branch. They’d not sighted a living soul since they left the boundaries of her plantation. And that suited him just fine. He doubted that the sheriff would set out in hot pursuit of them, but there was always that chance.

  Of all the schemes he’d gotten himself into in his lifetime, this was undoubtedly the most bizarre. He’d been to Panama before-at least he’d spent a few days on an island off the coast—and it wasn’t a spot he’d ever planned to visit again. The Spaniards had no love for foreigners, and the natives were less than friendly. He’d heard tales of men who were slaughtered and eaten by the Indians, and any prisoner who survived long enough to be turned over to the Spanish might wish he’d been killed quickly by a blowgun or a stone war club.

  It didn’t matter if England and Spain were formally at war or not. Any English-speaking captive could expect to be worked to death in a silver mine in the New World or sent back to Spain to languish in some dank, airless prison. There were even rumors that the Spanish castrated English sailors and sold them to the infidel Turks.

  His chances of finding the gold—if the treasure story was true—would have been better without this Englishwoman along. Her destruction of the ledger and her refusal to give him the exact location of the gold had made her a necessary annoyance.

  Not that Gillian hadn’t faced her share of hardships in the four years they’d been together. . . . Kincaid stiffened in the saddle. It had been a long time since he’d thought of Gillian. He grimaced in the darkness. Days at least, he mused.