Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  A deluge of cold well water hit her. She leaped up, gasping, and landed right in Kincaid’s embrace. “You devil!” she accused him, just before he kissed her.

  His mouth tasted of wild mint and rum, and his touch scalded her bare, wet skin. Of their own volition, her arms went around his neck and she found herself kissing him back.

  The heat from Kincaid’s fingers could not compare with the scorching brand of his mouth. His kiss deepened, fanning the glowing embers in her loins to flames of desire. His hands slid down her naked back to the curve of her bottom, and she molded against him like bark to a tree. Water streamed down them and pooled in puddles on the floor at their feet, but neither of them cared. All that mattered was that the kiss go on and on.

  The bed was only a few feet away, but they never made it that far. He was touching her and kissing her, and she was whimpering and tearing at his clothes. Then he went down on one knee, taking her with him. His hot, wet mouth was on her breast, and he was stripping off his clothes faster than a blue crab shedding its old shell.

  “Bess, Bess,” he groaned against her breast. He tongued her nipple, then drew it into his mouth and sucked it until her knees went weak. “Ah, my sweet lass,” he murmured. “My wild, sweet lass.”

  The sound of his rich, deep voice made her giddy with longing and added fuel to the inferno raging within her. His lips and tongue teased her nipple to aching torment as his fingers slid over her belly and found the source of her pleasure below her damp triangle of curls.

  Her breathing quickened and she squirmed closer, running her hands over him, touching and stroking him, not wanting the warm, rippling tremors to stop. She was beyond reason, beyond doubt, as he probed her soft folds with his long, scarred fingers. He found first one breast and then the other, lingering at each nipple, kissing, and suckling until she could take no more. . . . Over and over he brought her to the brink of release, then pulled back at the last second to begin the exquisite torture all over again with consummate expertise.

  This time Bess felt no hesitation and no doubts. Nothing mattered but the heat of Kincaid’s fevered body entwined with hers and the fulfillment of this inevitable act of uninhibited passion.

  With a groan, he rolled her onto her back and lowered his head between her legs. She closed her eyes and arched against the hot, sweet excitement of his probing tongue.

  She tangled her fingers in his hair and moaned, letting the conflagration sweep her up in its fury, shutting out everything but the here and now and the fire that threatened to engulf them both.

  “Please . . . ” she whispered hoarsely. She wanted something more. “Kincaid . . . please,” she said, not certain what it was she was asking for. He stroked the inside of her thigh and she cried out with pleasure as he trailed damp kisses to her knee.

  He crouched over her and parted her legs. His turgid manhood stood out full and erect, so huge that it frightened and excited her at the same time. She gasped as his member nudged against her throbbing folds, but she strained toward him, eager for his love.

  “Bess, hinney,” he whispered. “Dinna worry, I’ll take care of ye.”

  With a deep, powerful thrust, he entered her, filling her with a sense of wonder. Her eyes opened wide as she received him, marveling at the sense of fullness. This is what poets allude to, she thought in an instant of clarity. It took a few seconds for her to adjust to Kincaid’s size, but there was no pain, only a satisfying knowledge that all lovemaking wasn’t the foolish act Richard had shown her.

  He kissed her again, and the urgency came rushing back, flowing over her like a river of fire. He withdrew, then plunged into her again. “Oh,” she gasped. The feeling was like nothing she had ever imagined. She raised her hips eagerly, thrusting to meet his straining ardor. Was this how it was supposed to be?

  Laughter mingled with tears of joy as she clung to him, digging her nails into his back. Again and again he plunged into her, and then, when she was certain she would burn to a cinder in the incandescent heat of their blazing union, another wonder occurred. Without warning, a fiery crescendo exploded within her and she tumbled from the brink of the precipice, down and down through a swirling mist of clouds, falling through a timeless void until she came to rest in Kincaid’s arms.

  “Bess, my wee Bess,” he murmured hoarsely. “Hold me tight, woman, while I ease my own hunger.” Slowly, he withdrew and thrust deeply. He groaned and crushed her against him. “Ahhh.” He sighed deeply. He plunged into her one more time, then withdrew and pulled her hard against him.

  Satiated by this intense experience, Bess buried her face in his shoulder. She felt the hot surge of liquid across her belly, but was beyond questioning him. “Is it always like that?” she whispered.

  “By all the saints, I hope so,” he answered. He tipped up her chin and covered her mouth with his own in a tender, caring kiss. “Ye are more woman than I have ever known,” he said.

  She snuggled against him. “This floor is hard,” she said.

  “Then we must go to the bed.” Laughing, he got to his knees and pulled her after him.

  “Aren’t you supposed to carry me to the bed?” she teased.

  “After a bout with ye, lass, you’re lucky ye dinna have to carry me.” He caught her around the waist and lifted her onto the high feather bed, then threw himself on top of her and rained kisses on her face. “And how do ye like that?” he asked.

  “I liked it fine,” she replied. “Can we do it again?”

  He groaned loudly in mock agony. “Again? Give me a week or two to recover. Perhaps a month . . .”

  She laughed, and he cupped her breast in his hand and kissed a rosy nipple. “Kincaid,” she whispered, wanting to say his name. “You promised me you would be a gentleman. On your word of honor, you said.”

  “I lied.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed of breaking your word?”

  “Mmmm.” He kissed her other breast and brushed the nipple with his tongue. “Nice,” he said. “Maybe in an hour we could try.”

  She giggled and took his face between her hands. “You are insatiable.”

  “Not me, woman, you. Ye are the one askin’ for more when the sweat’s not dry on my body and my breath’s still comin’ in ragged gulps.”

  “I didn’t mean now,” she said softly. “I meant, could we ever do it again? I . . .” Her cheeks grew warm. “I didn’t know if I did it right.”

  “Hmmm.” He rolled over and rested on one elbow. Bess ran her fingers lightly over the bulging muscles of his upper arm, then drew imaginary circles on his broad, sinewy chest. He pretended to ignore her as he considered her last statement. “Nay,” he said finally. “I dinna think ye did get it right. ‘Twas not bad for a first effort, but ’tis clear to me that ye must have practice.”

  “And I suppose you will offer yourself as my teacher?”

  He grinned. “Who better?”

  “I may be a slow learner,” she teased provocatively as her fingertips found the hard nub of his male nipple.

  He laughed. “I think, lass, that it will be a more interesting journey to Panama than I expected.”

  Chapter 15

  A shifting of shadows in the far corner of the inn chamber brought Kincaid out of bed stark naked, knife in hand, charging at the intruder. Awakened from a deep sleep, Bess sat up and stared dumbly at the Scot as he stopped short, facing a solid paneled wall. “What are you doing?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  For seconds, Kincaid stood motionless and tried to make sense of what he knew he’d seen. Something . . . no, someone had been in the room with them only a minute before. He shook his head, still unable to speak, considering and discarding possibilities. He’d had plenty to drink the night before, but he’d never drunk enough to suffer delusions. And he sure as hell wasn’t drunk this morning.

  His mouth was as dry as it had been the time he’d lain wounded on a battlefield, pinned under a horse for six hours. The hairs on his neck were pric
kling and every survival instinct he’d developed in thirty-some years of living was raging.

  Blood pounded in his temples. How did a man turn to a woman he’d spent half the night making love to and tell her he was seeing ghosts?

  “Kincaid?” Concern edged her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  He straightened from a knife fighter’s crouch, deliberately grinned, and went back to the bed. “Rat,” he lied. “Big enough to throw a saddle on and ride.” he shrugged. “Guess I wasn’t quick enough. He outsmarted me.”

  Bess gave a small sigh of relief and pulled the sheet modestly up around her neck. “I thought this inn was too clean for rats.”

  He climbed in beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “The stables are close. As much food as they prepare here every day, I guess it’s hard to keep the inn free of vermin.” He kissed her mouth tenderly. “A good day to ye, lass. Sorry I am to disturb your ladyship’s sleep with mundane matters.”

  She chuckled and laid her head on his bare shoulder. She felt warm and alive next to him. Memories of what they’d done brought a genuine smile to her face.

  “This complicates things, doesn’t it?” she said.

  “What? A rat?” The incident troubled him and he wondered if his brain was playing tricks on him. He’d lived all his life by his wits. If they deserted him, he might as well go down to the marsh and drown himself, because his days were numbered.

  “You know what I mean.” She stared up into his eyes, and he noted the flecks of gold that sparkled amid the sea of brilliant blue. “Us.”

  “Aye, lass, it does complicate things.” He drew a callused finger along her cheek to the corner of her mouth. She touched his finger with the tip of her damp tongue and a shiver went through him.

  She’s only a woman, he reminded himself. She’s curled up like a kitten in your bed now, all soft and purring, but she’s the same English bitch who took a cattle whip to your bare back.

  Her red-gold hair was spread out all around her on the pillow, and he could see the sweet curves of her breasts beneath the sheets. He wanted her as much this morning as he had last night.

  “Kincaid?”

  “Aye?” He wanted to kiss the hollow of her throat and feel her long legs wrapped around him again. His chest grew tight as he remembered her eager cries of pleasure and the heat of her mouth against him.

  “I didn’t know it could be like that . . . between a man and a woman. When Richard . . .” A pink flush spread over her cheeks. “When he forced me, I felt nothing but discomfort and . . .” She left the rest unspoken.

  “The shame was his,” he finished for her, wondering at the rush of possessiveness that came over him. If Richard were in this room, he’d kill him with his bare hands. “ ‘Twas not your fault.”

  “It was stupid of me to be alone with him.”

  “Perhaps, but that does not take away his guilt.” He stroked her hair. “Shall I find him and kill him for you?” He made the offer lightly, as if in jest.

  “He’s already dead.”

  Kincaid smiled. “Good.”

  Her thick lashes fluttered, then her blue eyes opened wide. “I wish you had been the first,” she said, her expression serious.

  “Ye did not take pleasure in what he did to ye.”

  “No.” She moistened her lips. “I felt foolish.”

  “Ye said before that ye were a young lass when it happened. You’re a woman now, and ye wanted what we shared. This was your first time. And . . .” He grinned. “It wasn’t the first for me, Bess, but it was . . .” He chuckled, realizing that there were no words for what he’d felt making love to her. “If you get any better at this, woman, you’ll kill me.”

  She laughed softly. “Then you don’t mean to give me any more lessons?”

  “Maybe ye should give them to me.” He laid a hand on her breast. She sighed and closed her eyes, raising her head to be kissed. He didn’t disappoint her. And the heat of their fierce embrace silenced his inner voice as they gave themselves over to another act of joyous union.

  Much later, when the inn floors creaked with the footsteps of guests and serving maids, Kincaid kissed her gently, got up, and began to dress. She watched him, sleepy contentment on her rosy face, as he lifted a heavy money pouch, fastened it to a leather thong, and dropped it out of sight beneath his shirt.

  The sun was well up. He knew he should have been out of bed long ago. He could hear the clatter of pans in the tavern kitchen and the whinny of horses outside in the yard. It was past time he was on the road to Charles Town. “We have much bitterness between us, ye and me,” he said to Bess, “and now it seems we have much sweetness as well.”

  She sat up in bed, covering her nakedness. “This doesn’t change anything between us,” she said. “We are both adults. Neither of us has made any promises to—”

  A lump rose in his throat. “Promises? We’ve made promises aplenty, I’d say.” He hesitated, then blurted it out. “I’d send ye home, woman, where you’ll be safe.”

  “Send me home?” Her voice tightened. “I’m not your wife, Kincaid. You can’t give me orders.”

  “Nay, not my wife and not like to be.”

  “Well, we’re agreed on something, then.” Bess drew her knees up under her. “And what of the treasure?”

  “Draw me a map. If it can be found, I’ll find it, and I’ll bring it back to Fortune’s Gift.”

  “Riding on a unicorn,” she scoffed. Her blue eyes narrowed. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think that just because I let you bed me, I’d let you go after the gold without me? I’d never see you or an ounce of that treasure again.”

  “Ye think I’d cheat ye of your share?”

  “I do.”

  Anger welled up in him. “Ye know me little, then,” he said through clenched teeth. He picked up the pistol and shoved it into his belt. “Wait for me here at the inn. I’m going to find us passage south.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’m going to Charles Town, to the docks. It’s no place for a woman.” He yanked the money bag over his neck and threw it to her. “This should prove to ye that I’m coming back for you.”

  She caught the sack of coins. “Will this be enough, do you think?”

  “Let me worry about that. You stay here and out of trouble.”

  He was still seething as he went down the narrow inn stairs. Damn, but she infuriated him! If he’d wanted to abandon her, he’d had a hundred chances.

  As he entered the public room, he saw that it was empty except for a family eating breakfast and the horse dealer sitting alone at a table near the door. He was about to take a seat at an empty table when the horse dealer noticed him and waved him over.

  “Good day to you,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “I’m Giles Hartly.”

  “Hartly,” Kincaid acknowledged. He was surprised that the horse dealer was in such a jovial mood this morning, considering how much money he’d lost on Bess’s race yesterday.

  “Join me,” Hartly said, motioning to a chair. “You’re a stranger to these parts, ain’t you? Don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Robert Munro,” Kincaid answered, taking a seat. “Ye wouldn’t be headin’ back toward Charles Town this mornin’, would ye?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m doin’ just that,” Hartly said.

  “I’ve business there,” Kincaid said. “I’d be obliged if ye’d let me ride along. I can pay for the—”

  “Keep your money, son. I’ve bought a string of horses and I can use the help.” He motioned to a serving wench. “May! Ham and eggs for Munro.” He grinned at Kincaid. “They make a decent breakfast here. Traveling up and down the coast like I do, I appreciate good food. What did you say your business was?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  Hartly laughed heartily. “Damn, but you didn’t. My brother says I always ask too many questions. I like to talk to folks and that’s a fact. A man who deals in horses has to like people. Maybe I cou
ld interest you in two good mounts. I always say . . .” Hartly rattled on as the wench brought a huge plate of ham, eggs, grits, and biscuits to the table.

  Kincaid nodded as she set it down in front of him, and he began to eat. Hartly was not a man he normally would have wanted to socialize with, but a horse dealer usually knew everything that was going on in the area. When the time was right, he’d ask Hartly a few careful questions of his own.

  His immediate problem was finding a ship to take the two of them south to the Caribbean. Jamaica, maybe, or the Bahamas. After that . . . After that, he’d have to buy or steal a boat. Panama was enemy territory, and they could hardly buy passage to Porto Bello.

  What had happened between him and Bess had changed things, no matter what she said. He wished he’d never agreed to come on this treasure hunt. Worrying about keeping her alive could make him lose the edge that a fighting man had to have to survive. Bess had touched his soul in a way that no woman—not even Gillian—had ever done. And he felt as though she was drawing him deeper and deeper into a game of chance in which he had no hope of winning . . . even if he drew all the right cards.

  The day passed slowly for Bess alone in the bedchamber. In midmorning, Davie, the serving girl, brought back the remainder of Bess’s clothing. Examining what belongings she had left, folding and packing them into her saddlebags, took nearly half an hour. At noon, Bess went down and shared rabbit stew and fry bread with a single guest, an elderly peddler.

  She spent another hour looking through the peddler’s goods and purchasing a pair of sturdy boy’s shoes, darned stockings, breeches, and a white lawn man’s shirt with full sleeves and lace at the cuffs. The only women’s garments he had were whalebone stays, and Bess couldn’t see the need for an additional set of stays where she was bound for.

  Afterward, she returned to her chamber and waited impatiently until the heat of the day passed and the sun became an orange globe on the western horizon. She paced the floor and lingered at the diamond-paned casement window, watching the road for some sign of Kincaid.