Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  She moved with the horse, not demanding more than he wanted to give, letting her body blend with his, absorbing the animal’s fear and giving back love. “Good boy,” she cried. “Good Dandy.” The words didn’t matter. What was important was that the gelding feel her kinship with him and the steady pressure of confident hands on the reins.

  When she sensed the horse’s fear being replaced with the pure joy of running, Bess dared to think of her opponent. She glanced briefly over the gelding’s head at the cloud of dust ahead of them and tried to figure the distance between the two horses. The race hadn’t been her idea, and she was furious with Kincaid for getting her into the contest, but now that she was here, she meant to do her best.

  “Go! Go!” she urged the black. A barking dog dashed out at them, but the little horse didn’t hesitate. Without missing a step, he soared over the confused dog and continued after the sorrel. Bess looked up again at Ridgeway, and to her surprise, somehow the distance was much less than it had been. She looked again, certain that her imagination was getting the better of her, but it was true. They were gaining ground fast.

  “Good boy!” she cried, and the last of her doubts drained away as the black’s hooves flew over the rough ground. His gait was hard—this was no blooded ladies’ horse—but he had the gallant heart of a lion and even more speed than she’d suspected.

  As they rounded a curve, the black thrust his neck forward and laid back his ears. He seemed suddenly to realize this was a race and there was another horse in front of him. Bess laughed aloud as he leaped over a mud puddle, found solid ground with a bound, and took the bit in his teeth. There was no stopping him now. He’d accepted her as a rider, then ignored her as if she didn’t exist.

  The track cut through a grove of oak trees and Bess saw Ridgeway veer his mare around a low-hanging branch. Bess didn’t even try to rein the black aside. Instead, she kicked one stirrup free, threw herself to one side of the saddle, and clung like a burr to his mane. Leaves brushed her head and shoulders, tearing her single braid loose so that her hair fanned out behind her.

  Just ahead of Ridgeway, a covey of startled quail flew up nearly under the mare’s feet. Bess tensed her muscles for the black’s panic, but he paid no more heed to the flapping birds than he did to the flying dust. He just ran faster.

  The course led downhill through softer ground and narrowed as it crossed a marshy stream. There was a shallow wagon crossing through the water, and beside it, a log footbridge without rails. Knowing that the path through the water would lose precious time, Bess reined the little gelding onto the footbridge. The animal didn’t hesitate. His hard hooves slammed against the wooden bridge, jarring Bess’s teeth, but he never lost his footing.

  Then the gelding slackened his pace a little as they climbed a slight rise. When the stretch of road leveled out and widened again, Bess dug her heels into his side and urged him to pick up his stride. To her delight, Dandy leaped forward, thundering down the hard-packed road.

  The horse dealer had mapped out a course twice around the fairgrounds, and Bess was shocked to find that they’d come once around already. When she galloped past the starting point, Ridgeway was still in the lead, but the black gelding was two lengths behind and gaining fast. For an instant as they flashed by, Bess caught sight of Kincaid’s towering figure and shock of golden hair gleaming in the sun. He was leaping up and down, waving his warms, and shouting.

  Bess’s excitement rose to fever pitch as they dashed into the final lap. Dandy was still running flat out. His strong legs seemed tireless.

  As Bess and the gelding shortened the gap between the horses to a single length, Ridgeway glanced over his shoulder at them. He’d lost his fine wool planter’s hat, and his face was purple with exertion. He had a leather quirt in his right hand, and he brought it down again and again on the sorrel’s sweat-darkened rump.

  Bess squinted against the dust and sand. She was eating the mare’s dirt now as they galloped over a particularly rough spot of road. “Go!” she cried to the black. “Go!” She held the reins in her right hand, and her left was tangled in the gelding’s mane. The smell of dust and horse sweat filled her head, and she could hardly see the track ahead of them.

  Suddenly she realized that Ridgeway’s mare was close enough for her to touch. Foam flew from the animal’s mouth, and Bess could hear the rasp of her labored breathing. The strain of the race was showing on the big red animal, while the outlaw black was still running for the sheer joy of it.

  When they reached the tree-lined spot, Bess guided the black to the left, away from the overhanging branches, and it was Ridgeway who had to duck to avoid losing his head. He looked at her again. For an instant their eyes met, and she read sheer desperation in his gaze.

  She looked up at the road ahead and saw they were closing fast on the log bridge. They galloped on, side by side, neither horse able to gain an advantage. Gradually, Ridgeway began to edge the mare over, crowding the black. Bess realized that if they reached the narrow crossing together, one animal would be forced off the road into the water. Closing her eyes, she willed the black to give every last reserve of strength and speed.

  Flattening herself against the flying mane, she dug her heels into the gelding’s side and let out one of Kutii’s Incan war cries. The little black didn’t let her down. He shot ahead of the mare, taking the bridge in two bounds, charged up the hill, and raced onto the level stretch. By the time they crossed the finish line, they were three full lengths ahead of Ridgeway and his long-legged sorrel.

  It took Bess another quarter turn of the road to slow the gelding to a hard trot. He was still all fire and steel when she reined him back to where Kincaid waited for her.

  “Ye did it!” he shouted. “Damn if ye didn’t!” He seized her around the waist and lifted her down as Will Gist stepped up to take hold of the black’s bridle.

  Everyone was shouting, and people were slapping her on the back. Kincaid pulled her hard against him and kissed her. When she caught her breath, Ridgeway was beside them, sitting on his badly winded mare.

  “You beat me fair,” he said stiffly. “It’s plain the black is a fine racing animal.” He dismounted and looked at his own mare with distaste. “She’s in foal to John Tyler’s stud, Shanghai. I’ll trade the sorrel and twenty pounds for the gelding.”

  Kincaid shook his head. “The black’s not mine to sell or trade. Talk to Will Gist here.”

  Gist snatched off his hat. “The animal’s mine, Mr. Ridgeway. And I’d be glad to trade with ye.”

  “You’ll give Gist a bill of sale, won’t you?” Bess asked. “Just so there’ll be no confusion later.”

  “The mare’s mine. I can do what I want with her,” Ridgeway said.

  Bess nodded. “Then you won’t mind stepping into the tavern over there and writing out the bill of sale. I’m sure the innkeep can find paper and ink.” She patted the black’s neck and hugged him. “I wish I could buy you myself,” she whispered into the animal’s ragged hair.

  “The horse will be well cared for, you can be certain of that,” Ridgeway said. “My father’s stables are the finest in Charles Town.”

  “I’m sure,” Bess murmured. “I’ll just walk him out for you while you gentlemen settle the deal.” Strangely sad, she led the animal across the field to cool him off. They’d won the bet, so why did she have such a feeling of loss? And why was she fighting back tears? It made no sense. Gist would have put the black to pulling a plow. Now Dandy would be the pampered darling of a rich man’s son, and Gist would go home to his family with silver in his pockets and the beginning of a stable of blooded horses. Everyone, it seemed, had won. So why did she feel so bad?

  Kincaid was grinning when he caught up with her. “Ye can’t have them all,” he said. “ ‘Twas never your horse, ye know. You were just borrowing him.”

  “He’s special . . . like my mare Ginger.” She scowled at Kincaid. “You promised me you’d get her back. Then when I found her, I lost her again.”
r />   “Aye, but I know where she’s at,” he said.

  “So you say. I’ll believe it when she’s back safe and sound at Fortune’s Gift.”

  Kincaid took the black’s reins from her. “Time to turn him over to his new master. And there’s no need for ye to look so glum. We won a hatful of money.”

  “How?”

  “I bet against Ridgeway, then I found a dozen or so farmers who couldn’t wait to give me their money.” He chuckled. “To celebrate, I’ll get you a room at the tavern tonight. Once we get on the water again, there’s no tellin’ when you’ll sleep in a bed again. But tonight, my lady, ye’ll live like a queen. Good wine, clean sheets, and a hot supper.”

  “You wouldn’t let me stay at the last inn,” she reminded him.

  “Aye, ’tis true, but this one is run by a woman. Will Gist tells me she’s clean and she serves good food. And best of all, there are no rumors of her doing in her guests.”

  Bess looked down at her arms and bare ankles. Her skirt and bodice were streaked with dirt and her hands were filthy. She could imagine what her face must look like. “Could I have a bath? A real one with hot water and soap?”

  He nodded and wiped a smudge off her chin. “For you, sweet Bess, I’d even carry up the water myself.”

  As Kincaid made the rounds of farmers and the horse dealer to collect his winnings, he wondered what had let him risk their remaining silver on the black gelding. Common sense should have told him that Ridgeway’s blooded sorrel would leave the smaller horse in the dust. Bess had said that the animal could run, but that was only a woman’s fancy, and it had been a long time since he’d paid much attention to what a woman wanted. He’d always been a man who heeded no instincts but his own, and it was those survival instincts that had kept him alive when men all around him had died.

  What was it that had suddenly changed everything and made him go against reason? Why was he experiencing emotions he’d long thought burned away?

  There was only one answer—this red-haired woman. Bess Bennett had hooked her claws into him deep. He watched her by day and dreamed of her by night. He hadn’t had a full night’s rest since Will Gist had picked them up in his wagon three days ago.

  The trouble was, as much as he hated to admit it, Bess had ruined him for other women. This past time with Joan Pollott, before the raid on Fortune’s Gift, had been something of a disappointment. Joan had used all her ample wiles on him and his flesh had responded, but something vital was missing. For the first time in many years—since he’d learned that his wife didn’t love him—the physical act of sex wasn’t enough.

  He wanted Bess. He wanted her hot and ready for him. He wanted her willing. And not having her was about to drive him mad.

  She was right about their having no chance of making a permanent bond. She was a genuine English lady, and he was a soldier’s by-blow. He couldn’t even say that for certain, and there was no way he’d ever know who he really was or what name he should have borne. He’d killed too many men in too many battles to ever think he could wash his soul clean and start life over with someone like Bess.

  But he still wanted her.

  And if they took pleasure in each other on this journey, who would be the wiser? So long as he didn’t get her with child, what difference would it make? Any honorable man who offered for her hand in marriage wouldn’t expect a virgin bride, not from a woman who’d traveled thousands of miles with a criminal.

  Bess Bennett was a rare woman. Watching her come down the finish on that little black horse had made him near burst out of his breeches with pride.

  He wanted Bess, and she wanted him. The problem was how to make her see things his way.

  The first stars were twinkling in the black velvet sky when Bess sank into her bath of hot water. Nothing had ever felt this good in her life. Well, almost nothing, she thought with a chuckle as delicious memories of being in Kincaid’s arms on a lonely beach danced in the shadowy corners of her mind.

  Bess moaned with pure delight. The bathwater was hot and clean, and from somewhere the innkeeper had produced a tin of soft French soap. She hummed as she scrubbed her knees and feet, then sank deeper into the tin tub.

  She was alone in a neat upstairs bedchamber of the inn, and although it was summer, the serving girl had laid a small fire on the hearth to keep off the chill as Bess bathed. A few feet away stood an oversized bed with a high carved headboard of heavy, dark wood and faded blue velvet hangings. The style was so old-fashioned that Bess decided someone had dismantled the bed and carried it by ship to Carolina in her grandmother’s time. The sheets and pillow coverings had been washed and pressed so many times that the fabric had worn thin, but the linen smelled of sunshine and fresh clover. A clean cotton shift was laid out on the bed for Bess to put on after her bath.

  She had assured her privacy by sliding the latch on the door before undressing and climbing into the tub. The serving wench had carried away her other clothes, the ones she’d saved in her saddlebags. The maid had insisted she could wash, dry, and press the things by morning.

  Bess sighed. Bathing in a freshwater pond was nothing like this. Carefully, she put a dab of soap into her hair and worked it into a lather. She leaned forward and was beginning to pour clean water from a wooden bucket over her head when hard male fingers closed over hers.

  “I’ll do that for ye, lass,” Kincaid said.

  Bess was so startled she nearly leaped out of the water. Her eyes flew open, then shut as soap ran into them. “What are you doing here?” she sputtered. She grabbed frantically for a towel, and he put it into her hands. She rubbed at her stinging eyes.

  “I said, I could do that for ye,” he repeated. “I meant to help, not to drown ye in your own tub.”

  A mischievous nuance in his voice told her that he’d been drinking again. And in spite of her indignation at his invasion of her bath, she couldn’t completely hide a hint of a smile as she hastily covered her exposed bosom with a towel. “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

  “The open window.”

  “But that window is twenty feet from the ground. I know—I looked when I opened the shutters.”

  He grinned. “Aye, ’tis, but I came over the roof.”

  “Why in God’s name did you do that?”

  “I had to,” he replied, resting his hands on his narrow hips. “Ye locked the door.”

  “Did it occur to you that I bolted the door because I wanted privacy?”

  “Aye, but I didna think ye meant to lock me out.” He wiped a dot of soapsuds off her nose. “Your hair’s all soap, hinney. Ye look a fright.”

  “You’ve no business coming here like this,” she said sharply. “I didn’t ask you to.”

  His tanned features creased in another crooked grin. “I’m sorry ye feel that way.”

  She pulled the towel higher around her neck and tried to be firm. “Just go right back out that window.”

  “Ye want me to jump twenty feet? Suppose I break a leg?”

  She couldn’t believe she was sitting in a tub without a stitch on, having this conversation with him. “Go away,” she repeated with more conviction than she felt.

  “Ye really don’t want me here.”

  He looked so wounded that she relented a little. “So long as you are here, you might as well help me rinse the soap out of my hair.”

  Kincaid was no more than a hired servant, she told herself glibly. Respectable ladies in London allowed footmen into their bedchambers every day. “This bucket.” She pointed to the container holding the warm water. A tin dipper stood upright in the bucket. Beyond that stood another bucket of cold water. “But you must promise to be a gentleman,” she insisted. “On your honor.”

  “Aye,” he agreed meekly.

  “You’re not to lay a finger on me,” she said.

  “Ye ha’ my solemn word as a gentleman.”

  Bess closed her eyes as Kincaid poured the first dipper of water over her hair. The water was cooling, but it seemed t
o her as though the room was growing warmer by the moment. “That feels good,” she murmured as he repeated the action. She shook her head and ran her fingers through her thick tresses as he continued to stream water over her. “That’s enough,” she said finally, beginning to twist her clean, rinsed hair.

  His lips brushed her bare shoulder and she shivered. “Don’t do that,” she protested.

  “Ye dinna wish me to kiss ye?”

  “No. Of course not,” she lied.

  “Then do ye want another towel?” He picked up a thick one from a stool by the fireplace and folded it over his arm.

  “No, I don’t want another towel. I won’t need it until I get out of the tub, and I’m not getting out so long as you’re in this room.”

  “Ah, Bess, you’re a heartless lass. Ye cut me deep. Have I ever given ye cause to mistrust me yet?”

  “You certainly have.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. He shouldn’t be here. She knew she was playing with fire, but the temptation to see how close she could get without being burned was irresistible.

  “When did I ever give ye reason to doubt me?” he demanded, returning to stand behind her.

  “When you stole my horse. Twice.”

  “That was before,” he said. “I mean since we left the Tidewater. Haven’t I been a perfect gentleman?” His burr was thick and lazy. It was difficult for her to remember that Kincaid was a convicted murderer and a dangerous man.

  A hard hand rested on her shoulder where his lips had caressed her earlier. “I’ll just rub the knots from your neck, then,” he said. “I’m an expert at it.”

  “No. I don’t want you to . . .” Her voice trailed off as his strong fingers kneaded her tense muscles. The feeling was wonderful. Against her will, delicious relaxation flowed through her. “You really do know what you’re doing,” she murmured.