Chapter 12
In desperation, Bess glanced back to Kutii for help. He was gone. I knew it, she cried inwardly. I knew you’d leave me to face him alone. For an instant, she closed her eyes and summoned up all her courage. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, willing herself to appear composed as she gave her attention to the angry bondman once more.
“The fault was mine,” she said, ignoring Kincaid’s question about talking to herself. “What I did was inexcusable. I can only say in my own defense that nearly drowning must have made me temporarily out of my mind. I’m sorry, Kincaid. I know how you must feel, but—”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “Ye dinna ken how I feel. There is a word for women who lead a man to the brink and then run.” His expression of disgust made her twist with shame.
“I am no harlot,” she said brokenly. “I’ve never done such a—”
“ ‘Tis plain ye are no virgin,” he scoffed.
Bess felt as though she’d been dashed with icy water. “How did you know?” she asked.
He shrugged. “How could I not?” He eyed her suspiciously. Either the wench was the best actress he’d ever seen, or she really didn’t know that he’d found proof of her previous experience with his own fingers. Bess’s face flushed a deep crimson, and he thought she was about to burst into tears. Her obvious distress touched a protective chord within him. “We will say no more of it,” he replied. “But if ye ever tempt me again . . .”
She stared into his eyes with all the vulnerability of an abandoned pup. “I am truly sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“I said we’d speak nay more of it,” he answered gruffly. “My own control was less than I’d like.” It was true. He hadn’t been himself. Bess Bennett was not a woman for the likes of him, and if he’d been thinking clearly, he’d not have kissed her in the first place. She’d been half drowned, for the love of Christ! Perhaps he had taken advantage of her when she was too confused and frightened to ken gratitude from desire.
“You’re right,” she murmured. “I am no maid, but I swear to you that the losing of my virginity was not of my own choosing.” A single tear rolled down her cheek. “I . . . I was raped by a man I trusted.”
“There’s no need for ye to spill your guts to me,” he began.
“Yes, but there is a need,” she said quickly. Another tear followed the first. “I was only sixteen and foolish. I let myself be put into a situation where he could take advantage of me.” Her stubborn jaw firmed. “It won’t happen again.”
“Then ye have never made love to a man.”
She shook her head. “What happened between you and me . . .” Her taut features drained of blood until her freckles stood out stark against her pale skin. “I would be lying to you if I said I didn’t enjoy it.”
He nodded. The proud British wench was speaking truth. She had nerve—he’d give her that. “Why, then, did ye run away? What use to lock the barn door after the—”
“I am a woman alone with the responsibility of a great plantation,” she said, regaining some of her composure. “I refuse to trade my independence to become a husband’s play toy. Marriage to a rich woman is a good arrangement for the bridegroom and a poor one for the bride. Once I sign a marriage contract, all that I have I place under my husband’s control. He can sell off my land, dismiss my faithful servants, gamble away my money, beat me—even separate me from my children, should I produce any. At his whim, I may be locked in a madhouse, or sent across the ocean to rot.”
“It is unnatural for a woman to remain unmarried.”
“No. It would be unnatural for me to give up all that I have been educated for and taught to love, for the physical pleasures of the marriage bed.”
“Then ye dinna deny that ye have the same wants as any normal woman?”
She nibbled at her lower lip.
“Do ye not?” he demanded.
“I have them,” she said breathily.
Her low, husky tone cut through him like a knife, sending his stomach plummeting. “You were meant to be loved,” he said, feeling his own growing tightness in his loins. “I’ve never held a woman with more joy in her.”
Abruptly, her mood shifted, and he felt the softness draining away from her spirit.
“I shall never marry,” she said. “Never. If my father wants more heirs, he can have them himself.”
“If he lives, he can.”
“He’s alive. I know he is.”
“Knowing and wishin’ are two different things, lass.”
“My father is alive,” she said, “and he will be coming home.”
“He may be, but we won’t if we don’t do something about finding fresh water and food.” He looked toward the west, where dark thunderheads were building again. “And unless I miss my guess, we may be having more rain soon.”
Bess nodded. “I’m so thirsty I could drink pickle juice.” She glanced back toward the beach. “I don’t suppose anything was salvaged from the sloop.”
“Aye. I found the keg with your saddlebags.”
She smiled. “And I still have this.” She turned away from him and reached down inside her bodice to assure herself that the gold and coin were still inside her stays where she’d sewn them. “No wonder I had so much trouble swimming.”
“This island’s barren. I can tell by the stunted trees that we’ll find no freshwater ponds here.” He pointed. “But if we cross that narrow gut, there’s another bit of land.”
“An island or the mainland?”
He shrugged. “I dinna know, but the trees look taller over there. We should be able to rig some shelter from the rain.”
Bess looked dubious. “More swimming?”
“I can’t say how deep the water is, but ye can use the wooden keg to keep yourself afloat.” He allowed himself a hint of a smile. “I’ll nay let ye drown in such a quiet stretch of water.”
“I’ll wager I can swim better than you can,” she retorted. “It was the gold that weighed me down.”
He chuckled. “ ‘Tis no insult I meant ye. You survived a storm that drowned two men and a lad.”
Bess looked stricken. “Are they all dead, do you suppose?”
“Likely, unless they made another beach. It’s been my experience that few sailors know how to swim. They put their trust in boats and God. Sometimes, both fail a man.”
“My grandfather taught me to swim. H said it was something every girl needed to know. He used to throw me in the river fully dressed. Once, he did it in November. I always managed to save myself, but if I hadn’t, I know he’d have pulled me out.”
“A wise man,” Kincaid conceded. “I taught myself when I was but a wee scrap of a lad. A cart I was riding in overturned at a crossing in the Hebrides. ‘Twas sink or swim.”
She gave him a pensive look. “I’d say you’ve always been a man with a talent for survival.”
“So far,” he answered. “I’ll fetch the keg, and we’ll see about getting safe to the other side.” He left her standing there and walked away down the beach. Part of him was still angry with her for promising something she wouldn’t give, but to give the devil his due, he’d asked her yea or nay at a time when any man with a lick of sense in his head would have pressed his suit. And if the wench had spoken the truth—if she had been raped when she was little more than a lassie-then he could see why she’d be skittish.
He scanned the water’s edge as he strode south, looking for anything else that might have washed up from the wreck. They were lucky to have the keg with a pistol and powder and shot, not to mention the flint and steel for making a fire. He didn’t want to think what the chances had been that they’d recover the supplies. Bess Bennett was one lucky woman, that was certain. And maybe, just maybe, some of her luck would rub off on him. It was past time he had some in his life.
They reached the western shore without incident, and after a few hours’ search, Kincaid came upon a low spot. An hour’s digging produced fresh water, a little sandy, but neither of them was complaining.
By dusk, Bess had a fire going and she’d dug a few dozen clams in the shallows to steam for dinner. It was too early in the year for beach plums or berries to be ripe, so theirs was a one-course meal. Kincaid had busied himself making a rough hut with the sloop’s sail for a covering. By the time the first drops of rain hit the canvas, he and Bess were snug inside, toasting themselves at the fire and stuffing themselves with clams.
The hut was just big enough for the two of them to stretch out and not high enough to stand in. Bess was nervous in such close quarters; she took care not to brush against him. It was almost laughable in a way, considering what she’d let him do to her that morning.
“Ye needn’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ll not bite ye.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” she answered.
“Nay? Ye give a good imitation of it.”
She ducked her head and concentrated on passing a hot clam from hand to hand and blowing on it. “No, I’m not. I just think it’s better, under the circumstances, if we don’t get too familiar.”
He laughed. “Is that what ye call it?”
“Don’t think I’ll roll over for you,” she snapped. “What happened was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s a long journey to Panama. There’ll be a lot of nights like this, with just you and me and—”
“I said, it won’t happen again. I’ll never let a man take advantage of me—”
“Is that what ye think I was doin’ ?” he asked softly.
“No. I know better than that. Your behavior was more honorable than mine.”
“So ye admit that I’m not always a monster.” He reached for her hand. It was cold and trembling, but she didn’t pull away from him. “Bess, I’m nay your enemy,” he said. “For better or worse, we’re in this together.” He turned her palm over and looked at it in the firelight. To his surprise, her skin wasn’t soft and white like that of most gentlewomen, but hard and lined like a man’s. “You’ve spent many hours on horseback,” he said. “And I’ll wager you’ve done your share of planting.”
“And harvesting,” she said. She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I like the way you make me feel, but there can be nothing between us.”
“Nothing permanent,” he agreed. “I’ve been married once, and I don’t care to try it again. A man doesn’t always get the best of a bargain either.”
“Where is your wife now?” she asked.
“In Hell, I hope.”
“She’s dead?”
“She’d better be. I buried her.” He shook his head, trying to rid himself of Gillian’s memory. “I’d nay speak of it. She betrayed me with my best friend, and I killed him for it.”
“Did you kill her?”
“I wanted to.” He toyed with Bess’s hand, rubbing his thumb in lazy circles around the center of her palm. “Because a man and woman have no intention of marrying doesn’t mean they canna give each other comfort,” he suggested. Bess’s dark auburn hair was spread out around her shoulders invitingly, and the firelight played off her face in a way that made his chest tight. The woman scent of her was strong in his nostrils. He’d not take her against her will; that went against his grain. But, as God was his witness, he still wanted her, and he would use all his wiles to turn her to his way of thinking.
The pressure of Kincaid’s fingers on her palm made shivers run up and down her back. How easy it would be to respond to him, to forget everything but the nearness of this virile rogue. Bess had wanted him to make love to her—she still wanted it. But if she gave in, it would mean falling into Kutii’s trap.
Deny it all he would, Bess was certain that Kutii had done something to cloud her reason on the beach. For all she knew, the wily Indian had put Kincaid under an enchantment as well. Kutii wanted them matched, and he would stop at nothing to have his way. He was stubborn for a ghost, and when he set his mind on a goal, it was impossible to change him.
Almost impossible . . . She had defied him when she’d let Richard court her, and she had ignored his advice when she’d gone with her grandmother to tend the sick during an outbreak of smallpox. That was the last time she’d seen Kutii in full-dress regalia. He’d been so angry with her that he hadn’t appeared again for six months.
She hoped he didn’t intend to repeat that disappearing act, not when she needed him to show her where to go in Panama and where to dig for the treasure.
Kincaid leaned close and brushed her lips with his own. What was he saying?
“. . . are ways to prevent a lass from conceiving a child. I’d protect ye, Bess. Trust me.”
His lips were warm and sweet against hers. The food and the fire made her drowsy. She wanted to curl up in those powerful arms and let him go on kissing her.
Instead, she pulled back and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not now, not tonight, and maybe never. It’s not an act I’d make lightly. I’m tired, and I want to sleep, and if you’re the man I hope you are, you’ll let me.”
“You’re a hard woman, Bess Bennett,” he said with genuine regret. “Whatever memories that blackguard left ye with . . . I could wipe them away with better ones.”
She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “perhaps someday I’ll let you try. But it will be on my terms, not on yours, and . . .” She stared into the darkness meaningfully. “And not on anyone else’s.”
“As ye wish, woman.” He leaned down and threw another piece of driftwood on the fire. The sparks flared up in an array of blue and orange and green. “But I warn ye that you’ll live to regret it.”
I regret it now, she mused as she lay down and curled up on her side and listened to the raindrops thudding against the canvas roof. And I fear I’ll regret it more when I’m very old and very respectable. The thought made her smile. Every woman should have a scoundrel like Kincaid to remember in her dotage, she decided. And with that in mind, she drifted off to sleep as soundly as if she were in her own feather tick at home.
The smell of broiling rabbit woke her. The sun was already up when she opened her eyes. Every bone in her body ached, but she was starving. She stretched and got up, brushing the sand off her clothes and skin and shaking it out of her hair.
Kincaid had extinguished the fire at the front of their shelter and built a new one a few yards away. He was crouched beside a spit of green branches, turning a fat, well-browned rabbit. He glanced up at her. “About time ye rose, my lady. There are duck eggs and rabbit for breakfast, unless you’d rather have fish. I caught one of those too.”
“Cook it,” she said. “The way you eat, I’ll be lucky if I get two bites.”
“Snappy in the morning, aren’t you?”
His hair was wet and slicked back, tied into a club at the back of his neck. His breeches were dry, so Bess knew he’d been swimming naked.
“Did you catch the fish with your teeth?” she asked.
“Aye, and the rabbit as well,” he answered solemnly.
She didn’t miss the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “If you’ll give me time to—”
“Use those bushes over there,” he said. “If ye wish to bathe—”
“I had enough swimming yesterday, thank you.”
“Well, you’ll soon have more. This is an island too. The mainland is west of here. I think I can rig up the sail and a few branches to get our stuff to shore. Then we’ll walk south until we come to a farm. If ye still mean to go to Panama, that is.”
“I do, and I will,” she replied.
“It’s a long piece, lass. What we’ve been through is just a promise of what’s ahead. There are pirates and Indians who would as soon cut off your head as look at ye. And the Spanish—”
“Lost your nerve, Kincaid?”
“Nay. Just wonderin’ about yours.”
She turned away, toward the privacy of the bushes. She’d gotten up glad to be alive, and she’d be damned if she’d let him ruin her morning.
The horror of the shipwreck and the crew’s drowning had left her shaken and subdued, but today in the bright sunshine she was ready to turn ahead to the future. Fortune’s Gift and all her people waited, and if she was successful in finding her grandfather’s buried treasure, she could still snatch victory from defeat.
Kincaid would be an ongoing problem. She could see that now. He’d not be as easy to manage as she’d thought when she first broached the idea to him at the plantation.
On the positive side, she was now certain that her instincts were right. Under that rough exterior beat the heart of, if not a gentleman, an honorable savage. He had saved her life on the boat at the risk of his own, and he’d not taken advantage of her last night when she was at his mercy.
To the negative was the bold fact that they were both young and healthy, with all the normal appetites a man and a woman might have for each other. If Kincaid were not who he was—a criminal with a life of brutal killing and thievery behind him—and if she hadn’t pledged her life to remaining single and independent, then they might have formed a partnership that would extend into marriage. But they were too different.
She was the daughter of a gentleman and the granddaughter of nobility. She had devoted all her life to the responsibilities of her station. She loved the soil and watching things grow. She had been taught to put the needs and wants of her land and dependents ahead of her own.
Kincaid was a marauder, a man who made his living by the sword both honestly and dishonestly. He was without morals—with the exception of sexual matters—and he was bound to end his life at the end of a rope.
What if his shoulders were as brawny as a blacksmith’s and his arms were coiled bands of sinew under skin as bronzed and weathered as an Indian’s? What if his buttocks were taut and comely and his belly was flat and hard? What if he did have eyes of cinnamon brown that seemed to stare into the depths of her soul when he looked at her? And what if he had hands that created marvelous sensations when he touched her?
Bess finished her private needs and went to the water’s edge to wash her hands and face. Her tangled hair fell forward and she pushed it impatiently away from her face. Kincaid was attractive—there was no doubt about it—but that kind of thinking would get her in deep water fast. What she had to hold foremost in her mind was that Kincaid was an arrogant bastard who must be kept in his place. She’d have to keep her wits about her and him at arm’s length if she was to stay out of serious trouble.
She arranged her torn clothes with as much propriety as possible and tried to comb the knots out of her hair with her fingers. Whole sections were hopelessly snarled, and it was all sticky from the salt water. She gave up after a few moments, tore a strip off her tattered shift, and tied her hair at the back of her neck.
“Are ye comin’ to breakfast or not?” Kincaid called.
“Coming,” she answered. She rejoined him in a dignified manner and accepted the pieces of rabbit he’d heaped on a clam shell.
“The duck eggs aren’t bad if ye sprinkle a little salt water on them,” he said. “We’ll move on as soon as we’ve eaten. No tellin’ how far we’ll have to walk to find civilization. And this can be bad country. Lots of folks make their living by robbing travelers.”
The harried look he’d worn yesterday was gone. Bess could tell that the night’s rest had done him as much good as it had her.
“You should know all about that,” she said.
“Aye.” He grinned. “I ken a wee bit about gentlemen of the road.”
“At home it would be considered stupid to set a fox to guard the henhouse,” she parried.
“Only if ye consider yourself a hen.”
She threw a rabbit bone at him and he laughed. She was tempted to throw the clam shell as well, but she was still hungry, and the fish smelled good. It was best to save her energy for a real fight, she decided as she reached for a second piece of rabbit. As Kincaid had said, it would be a long journey to the jungles of Panama.
They reached the mainland without incident and picked up a wagon rut running south between marsh and woodland. They camped beside a pond that night and Bess was able to bathe and change into clean clothes from her saddlebags. Her hair still refused to cooperate even after being washed, so in a fit of temper, she took her grandfather’s knife and cut six inches off the length, so that the remainder fell just below her shoulders.
“Aye, makes the most sense of anything you’ve done,” Kincaid said when he saw the result. “The farther south we go, the hotter it will get.”
And when he shaved, he began to hack off sections of his own yellow hair.
“Don’t,” Bess said. “You’ll make a mess of it. Let me.”
He shrugged and handed over the knife. “Just leave the ears,” he warned. “I’ve gotten fond of them.”
Carefully, she used the razor-sharp skean to cut around Kincaid’s ears and then lower around the back, so that his hair came just above the line of his shoulders. Freed of the weight, the wheat-gold locks curled slightly around his tanned face, making Bess’s heartbeat quicken.
“Well?” he asked.
“Just a little more off this side,” she said. Touching him made her feel giddy. She didn’t sense any of the colors associated with her witchy powers, but her face and throat grew warm and she had to force her hands to hold steady.
He reached up and closed his hand over her wrist. “Best leave well enough alone,” he said huskily, “afore ye put out an eye.”
She nodded, waiting for him to release her hand, feeling the heat of his hard fingers against her skin. “Let me go,” she said, more frightened of herself than of him.
He smiled, a lazy grin that reached to his eyes. “Aye, lass, I will that,” he said. “I’m beholden to ye for the hair trim, and I’d not take more than I’m offered.”
She pulled free and put the fire between them.
“No need to shy,” he said in that same deep tone. “I’ll nay steal a kiss unless ye ask for it. Ye have my word.”
“And what is that worth?” she asked softly.
“As much as ye wish it to be.”
And then Bess heard the rumble of wagon wheels on the trail, and Kincaid tensed and went for the remaining pistol and tucked it into his waist. “Sit yonder,” he ordered, indicating a spot in the shadows. “And keep your mouth shut. No matter what I say or do, you go along with it. Do ye ken, woman?”
She started to protest, but the look he threw her was enough to make her nod agreement. It was clear, she thought as she took her seat on a fallen log and stared down the road, that their truce was over.