He held out a hand to her. “Lacy ... About what I said yesterday ... I don’t want us to fight.”
She shrugged. “Nay, Jamie. All’s well. We’re partners, aren’t we?” He was so beautiful, standing there in the early-morning light with his dark hair loose around his broad shoulders. He wore only his breeches and boots; he was bare from the waist up to his square, dimpled chin. His thighs were firm and his belly flat; his legs were as well-shaped as any dancer’s. Aye, James Black was enough to stir the lust in a dead woman, and she was far from dead.
“Ah, sweetheart,” she said, moving close and putting her arms around his neck. “There’s no hard feelings between us. Truth’s truth, after all.” She brushed his throat with a feathery kiss and ran her fingers up through his hair as bubbles of excitement filled the pit of her stomach and her knees went weak.
He tilted her head back and kissed her full on her parted lips. “You’re insatiable, woman,” he murmured. “You drive me crazy.”
“You’re already mad as a March hare,” she teased, pressing tightly against his warm body and whispering lusty suggestions in his ear. The knowledge that she carried his child, and that they’d only have a short time together, gave her courage. Whatever happened, she’d have this moment to remember.
“Woman ...” he warned. “You’ll start something—” He broke off as she nibbled seductively at his earlobe. Chuckling, he let the fish fall to the sand.
Neither of them remembered the sheepshead until the hot, tropical sun stood high on the eastern horizon.
The sun stood directly overhead when Lacy made her first descent of the day from the Silkie‘s deck. The reef seemed more familiar now, and she watched eagerly for the species of fish she had seen on her earlier dives. Using the bucket and cannonball weight, she reached the Miranda’s hull in less time than ever before.
She had decided not to enter the wreck by the hatchway. Instead, she swam into the shadowy darkness through the gaping hole in the Miranda’s side. Almost immediately, she came up sharply against an overturned cannon. Masses of barnacles clung to the iron; she winced as one sliced through her hand. She knew that the cut was deep enough to bleed, and blood was something she preferred not to shed down here.
The only shark she had seen today was a small hammerhead, but she knew that blood would draw predators. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
Carefully, she made her way past the cannon and around a timber. To her disappointment, she confronted a solid wall. Time was running out. Her lungs were straining, and her heart was thudding. She was beginning to feel hemmed in. Turning, she swam back out and over the deck. As she passed the hatchway that led to the captain’s cabin, she saw what appeared to be an oddly shaped shell wedged in a crack. She paused and tugged at it. At first, the object seemed welded to the deck, but when she pulled hard it came loose in her hand.
Swimming quickly to the rope, she grabbed hold and tugged twice in the signal for James to pull her up. When she reached the surface, she still had a little air left. “Take this,” she called to him, handing over the shell. She paddled in place and took a deep breath. “I found it on the Miranda.”
James laid the barnacle-encrusted lump on the deck and helped her aboard. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Are you all right?” He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “What’s this?” He caught hold of her hand. The wound was seeping blood.
“I’m fine. That’s hardly a scratch.”
“Enough to draw sharks,” he reminded her. “If it happens again, come right up.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know if I can get inside. I tried through the hull, but the way was blocked.” She didn’t tell him about the suffocating darkness in the bowels of the wreck. Her fears were her own, and she’d not share them. “I’ll wait awhile and then try again.”
“Not today, you won’t. You’ll stay out of the water until this”—he indicated her hand—“is healed. I’ve seen a white shark cut a man in two in these waters.”
“You should try diving off Cornwall in April,” she said. “The water’s like ice. And after a storm, you can’t see your hand in front of your face. If ye believe sharks to be so dangerous, I’ll carry a knife.”
James shook his head. “You would be rash enough to try and fend off a ten-foot white with a dagger. Damn me, woman, but you should have been born a man.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You know I’m glad you’re a woman. But sometimes ... Hellfire and damnation, Lacy! Can you never act like other women?”
“I guess I wouldn’t know how. I’m me, and it’s all I know to be.” She shrugged off the blanket and turned her attention to her find. “What kind of shell is it, do ye think? Is it a conch?”
“No. It’s the wrong shape.” He picked up her prize and turned it over in his hand. It was about eight inches long and six wide, and extremely heavy. “Iron, maybe,” he mused, “but I can’t...” Squatting down on the deck, he removed a small hammer from the ship’s carpenter box and began to tap at the barnacle growth.
Lacy removed her damp shift and put on the boy’s breeches and shirt she favored when she wasn’t diving. On the fourth strike, James inhaled sharply and she moved to watch over his shoulder. As she glanced down, her eyes caught a gleam of gold. “Oh,” she gasped. “What is it?”
Sweat broke out on James’s forehead.
Three more taps and the barnacles fell away like the two halves of a coconut shell. Cradled in the palm of his hand was an incised golden cup about five inches high, narrow at the bottom and flared at the rim.
“Mother of God,” Lacy whispered.
The gold shone as brightly as if it had just been mined. Set around the outside of the lip was a pattern of turquoise stones, as blue as the sea around the Silkie.
Lacy reached out to touch the handleless cup, and her fingers trembled as she realized that everything James had told her about the treasure was true. “’Twould buy a farm in Cornwall,” she murmured. “This one piece alone.”
“And unless I miss my guess,” James said, “there’s something ...” He put down the hammer and used the blade of his knife to pry open the round wafer of beaten gold that was wedged in the mouth of the cup. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded. When she did, he poured the beaker’s contents into her palms.
A gush of salt water and sand ran through her fingers, but captured there were four solid gold figurines: a tiny llama, a man paddling a reed boat, a bird, and a jaguar. The bird and the animals had turquoise eyes, and the detail of the boat was so precise that Lacy could count the individual reeds.
“Would ye look at that, Jamie,” she cried. “Sweet Mary.” Her heart seemed to swell in her chest until she thought she’d burst with excitement. “I’ve never seen the like.”
“This cup was in the large chest in the captain’s cabin,” James said. “Someone must have snatched it up and carried it on deck when the Miranda started to sink.”
“It was caught in a crack near the hatchway,” Lacy explained. “I suppose a man could have dropped it.”
“Fallen on it, more likely,” he corrected. “If the thief was mortally injured, the weight of his body could have jammed the cup into the deck. But I still don’t see how it became completely encrusted with barnacles.”
“Does it matter?” Lacy turned the beautiful objects over in her hand. “I can’t believe they’re real—that I’m actually holding them.”
“I told you.” He grinned at her. “Wait until you see the jewelry. I’ll deck you in a queen’s ransom.”
“I’ve no need of such finery,” she said. “Sell it all. I’d rather have land.”
He laughed. “You’re a yeoman farmer at heart, aren’t you?”
“Land is the only thing that lasts,” she answered softly. “I’ll not apologize for wantin’ what’s solid and real.” She thought again of the new life growing inside her. If she had her way, that babe would know security and a legacy that no one could ever
take away. “These,” she continued as she dumped the golden treasure in his hand. “They aren’t for the likes of me to wear. They’re beautiful, but ...”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have no trouble finding a buyer for these things in Port Royal. And there are plenty of women who will want to wear what’s down there on the Miranda.”
She nodded. “That’s up to you. I’ll dive again first thing in the morning.”
“If your hand has healed.” He touched her arm. “I can’t have you shark bait.”
“Tomorrow then, but ...” She frowned. “I’m still not certain how I’ll get inside the ship. The hull rests solid enough on the bottom, but she’s suffered damage.”
James placed the animals back in the cup and held the exquisite boat up to examine the workmanship. “Men have died for this,” he said, “and men would kill us to possess it.”
“Perhaps it’s cursed.”
“If it is, then you’ll have to lift the curse.” He winked at her. “You are my resident witch, aren’t you?”
By the following day, the weather had turned foul. Rough seas and intermittent rain discouraged diving. Lacy’s hand was swollen and sore, and she was plagued by a headache. When she began to run a slight fever, James announced plans to sail for Jamaica.
“A few days in civilization will do us both good,” he said. “We’ll have a physician look at your hand, and I’ll buy supplies. Wouldn’t you like to sleep in a real bed and look at another face besides mine?”
Lacy gazed doubtfully at the gray skies.
“I can find my way to Port Royal blindfolded,” he assured her. “The wind and currents are with us. Coming back will require a little more seamanship, but I can get us here. We’re in familiar waters now.”
She nibbled at her lower lip. “And what if word has come of your escape? Jamaica is English territory. I’ve no wish to be carried back to London in chains.”
“Henry Morgan is in England, and most of those who knew me are at the bottom of the sea or rotting in Wapping’s potter’s field.” He rubbed his smooth-shaven cheeks. “I had a beard before. Unless we meet the ghost of Matthew Kay in some portside tavern, I’ll wager none will recognize me. If it will ease your mind, I’ll call myself Jim. Jim Bennett.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “What say you, fair maid? Will you away with me to Port Royal for a bit of merriment?”
Lacy nodded. “I wouldn’t mind tasting someone else’s cooking.”
“Port Royal is tame compared to what it was a few years ago, but the town is still as wicked as any I’ve seen. You’ll need to stay close to me, mind what I tell you, and hold your tongue.”
She arched an auburn brow. “Don’t I always?”
He grew serious. “This is no joking matter. You are an unmarried woman without family. White women are still scarce here, and ones as beautiful as you are as rare as this.” He indicated the golden cup. “Men will take you for my leman.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If they think that, they will be wrong. I don’t belong to ye or any man.”
“I’d not hurt your feelings, Lacy. I want you to know what to expect.”
She rubbed absently at her throbbing hand. “I suppose we could hardly be taken for brother and sister.”
“Hardly.” His features softened. “I want that cut taken care of. Such infections can be serious.”
“I don’t know why such a scratch should cause so much trouble,” she answered. “It’s never happened to me before.”
“You’ve never dived in these waters. The heat makes wounds fester.” He cupped her chin in his hand. “I care for you more than you know.”
“Aye, so ye say.” A queer pain knifed through her, and she blinked back tears. James Black would not be so easy to forget, damn his rogue heart!
She pushed the cat off her lap and stood up. Harry rubbed against her leg and began to purr loudly. Since her hand had become infected, the animal hadn’t gotten more than a few feet away from her. “Just be sure ye can find this island again. Now that I’ve found your Spanish gold, I mean to have my share of it.”
“And you think I don’t? We’ll be back in a week. Bad weather won’t last this time of the year.” He began to pull up the anchor. “But I warn you, mistress, Port Royal will have none of your breeches. A decent gown and cap for you. Appear on the streets like that and not even I could protect you from being carried off to some pirate’s den.”
“I shall be the soul of propriety, sir,” she promised lightly. “Ye have my word of honor.”
Chapter 14
Port Royal, Jamaica
December 25, 1672
James took a deep breath, then pushed open the door to the chamber he’d rented at the Goose and Hound, Port Royal’s most respectable inn. “Lacy ...” he began apologetically. “I—”
“You black-eyed son of a bitch!” She stood up from the gateleg table so suddenly that her chair fell over backward with a crash.
James stood stock-still and gazed at her, his stomach as full of flapping birds’ wings as it had been the first time he’d faced a Spaniard in hand-to-hand combat. God, but she was a rare beauty! And now, in that gauzy green wrapper with her red hair tumbling all around her face, and her cinnamon eyes glowing with an inner fire, she was enough to stop a sober man’s heart.
And he was as drunk as a lord.
Worse. As drunk as a bishop. And the sight of her made his eyes widen and his cock swell like a wet sponge. Desire welled up in him, so quick and intense that it made his head spin.
But long experience with women had taught him that right now, she was less than glad to see him. Her expression was definitely hostile.
He forced a charming grin, a boyish smile that had gotten more females onto their backs than a deck watch had fingers and toes. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he said huskily. “I know it took longer than I thought, but I’ve brought you a Christmas—”
“Don’t come staggering back here at six o’clock in the morning stinking of some whore’s perfume, wishing me a merry Christmas!” Lacy cried as she took hold of the water pitcher and dashed the entire contents into James’s face and down his powder-blue velvet waistcoat.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“To sober ye up so I can tell ye just what I think of ye!”
Laughter sounded behind him. James whirled around to see the chambermaid covering her laughing mouth and fleeing the hall. Uttering a foul curse, he stepped inside the room and slammed the door behind him. Heat burned his cheeks. “You have the manners of a fishwife,” he said to Lacy.
“Manners? Don’t talk to me of manners!” She held the flowered pitcher threateningly, as if she meant to throw that at him as well.
Beads of water trickled down his face as he wiped at the water on his clothing. “Do you know how much these things cost?” He took several steps toward her, trying to maintain a steady gait and his Stuart dignity. Disdainfully, he tossed a tiny black silk bag at her. “For the sake of the day and the love we bear each other,” he said sarcastically.
She caught the gift and heaved it unopened onto the high, curtained four-poster bed that stood on a platform near the louvered windows. “Three days ye leave me in this damned inn with never a word whether you’re dead or alive!” she accused. “Three swivin’ days!”
“Now, Lacy ...”
“Go to hell, James Black! I want none of yer Christmas gifts. I want none of you!”
“God’s blood, woman. You knew when I left here that I’d be back when I could.” He lowered his voice, certain that every servant in the house was already hearing an exaggerated version of the greeting his ladybird had given him at the chamber door. “I’ve sold what we came to sell. It’s not something that could be done at high noon in front of the governor’s residence.”
“Nay! I’m certain!” She set the pitcher on the table and picked up a linen napkin. Roughly, she drew the napkin down his cheek, then showed him a crimson stain. “Unless you’ve taken to painting yourself like an In
dian, that’s some slut’s rouge.”
James gritted his teeth. His muscles tensed and his mouth became a hard line.
“Stand there and tell me you’ve not drunk and played cards. Go ahead. You’re good with lies. Tell me you’ve not dandled loose women on your knee.”
Righteous anger seethed within him. “I’ll have none of your nagging,” he warned her. “You’ve no shackles on me.”
Damn her for being a shrew-tongued bitch! James thought. He’d gone to sell the cup as he’d promised, and that meant sailing to the far end of Jamaica with a merchant, Will Smith. Will had introduced him to a Dutch captain with a yen for such works of art. True enough, they’d shared a bottle or two of rum. They’d even played at put. He’d won twenty pounds sterling from the pompous Dutchman and six from Will on the cards. But he’d not dallied with any whore. Far from it—he’d turned down the favors of a mulatto wench the captain had offered.
It wasn’t James’s way to cheat on whatever woman he was squiring at the time. He’d always felt it showed poor taste and low breeding. And now, with Lacy, he’d become so enamored of her that he’d not cared to partake of another female’s charms, no matter how enticing she might be. He’d been true to Lacy, and here she was accusing him of being a whoremaster and a liar!
“I’m not accustomed to giving account of where and how I spend my time,” he said coldly. “Especially not to a woman.”
“Where did the perfume come from, James?” she demanded. “Or was the face paint from some passing sailor?”
“Enough!” he snapped. “I’ve given you no reason for jealousy.” He’d kissed the wench and pinched her cute little arse. No more. And he’d be damned if he’d be raked over the coals for doing less than most men would have under the circumstances.
“Liar.”
“I said enough. I’ve killed men for saying less than that to me. Hold your tongue or—”
“Or what?”
“I’ll leave until you can compose yourself.”
Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress Page 17