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 prickling 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 could 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.
And she struggled with her own doubts and fears.
What had happened between them in this room had been inevitable—she didn’t regret a moment of it. No matter what happened, she would always cherish the joy of their coming together. In one night, Kincaid had wiped away the unpleasant memories of lovemaking Richard had given her and left only good ones in their place.
After Richard had raped her, she’d spent weeks terrified that she carried his child. This time, she found to her amazement, it didn’t matter to her. Becoming pregnant would be awkward at best with Panama looming ahead of them, but the thought of having Kincaid’s child didn’t frighten her.
If she returned to the Tidewater in the family way, she would simply invent a husband who’d met an untimely death. Neighbors would whisper behind her back—but who could say for certain that she wasn’t an honest widow? And if she returned with her grandfather’s treasure, she would be wealthy enough to laugh at their gossip. And the child, male or female, would be the heir that Fortune’s Gift needed from her body.
She was too wise in the way of the world to expect any more from Kincaid than a brief interlude of passion. There could be no future for them once the treasure was found and Kincaid had his freedom. He didn’t belong in her world, and she’d not descend into his. He was what he was—a brutal soldier.
Bess smiled. No . . . not brutal. Kincaid definitely had a tender side. Still, he was hardly a man she would choose as a husband. He was too unpredictable . . . too dangerous. Such a man would never be managed by a wife. Besides, she thought, the last thing in the world she wanted was a husband. No, she’d have this time together with Kincaid and savor it. And when she returned to Fortune’s Gift, she’d take up her own life again, a life dedicated to her land and her people.
The night passed, hour by hour. She slept off and on, and the waiting was heavy on her mind. What if Kincaid had run off and left her? What if he’d been arrested? What if he’d gotten into a fight and been killed? In the bright light of day such worries seemed foolish—but in the humid darkness of a Carolina night they plagued her like an onset of fleas.
The second day was worse than the first. She wanted to follow Kincaid to Charles Town, but she was afraid she’d miss him on the road. The innkeeper demanded payment and stared at her with hostile eyes. The threat didn’t need to be spoken aloud. “This is a decent establishment. We’ll have no abandoned sluts here.”
“My husband will be back for me when he finishes his business in Charles Town,” Bess said, trying to keep her gentlewoman’s speech from betraying her.
“Husband? Hmmph!” the proprietor scowled. “I saw ye ridin’ that black horse with your skirts up and your legs bare as an egg. Don’t put on airs with me, girl.”
Bess spent the afternoon in her room again. At dusk, she could no longer take the heat and the lazy drone of flies. She went down to the yard and walked across the road to the place where the fair had been held.
She had been walking for the sake of stretching her legs when she saw a black man on horseback riding down the road, leading a mule behind him. She waved, and to her surprise, he reined his mount in her direction.
“Bess?” he called. “Be that you?”
She stared and began to run toward him. “Rudy? Rudy? Is that you?” Her heart began to hammer against her chest. “Rudy? God’s breath, man! I thought you’d drowned!” She knew that the black seaman had been on the sloop’s bow when it struck the sandbar. “You’re alive!” she said.
“I am.” For the first time since she’d known him, he smiled. “I swum a far piece and got picked up by a snow headed for Charles Town. Got there ahead of you, I reckon.” His dark brown eyes glowed with a deep sadness. “Reckon Ants Taylor has bought it, along with the boy. Ants was a good man. I served with him nigh on to ten year. You won’t see many knows the sea like Ants, or many can treat a man like me the way he did.”
“Ian?”
“The Irishman?” Rudy shrugged. “Drowned, I guess. But he wasn’t much. Ain’t seen an Irishman yet could find his way in the dark.”
“I’m glad you’re alive, Rudy.” She waited. He seemed to have exhausted his supply of talk for the day. “Where are you going?” she asked him finally.
“Come for you.”
“For me?”
“Kincaid sent me.”
“You found Kincaid?”
“Best fetch your stuff, if you got any. We got a piece to ride afore dark.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“You wouldn’t know iffen I tole you.” His wide mouth firmed. “You ’fraid to go with a blackamoor?”
“No, Rudy. I’m not afraid of you.”
He nodded. “Best get your stuff, then.”
In ten minutes, Bess had retrieved her saddlebags, slipped the serving wench a silver penny in thanks for her kindness, and was riding the mule bareback down the road toward Charles Town with Rudy. They left the main track after a few miles and set off on a narrow path through the woods.
Bess endured silence for an hour, then spoke. “When do we meet Kincaid? Has he found a boat?”
“After dark.”
“Did he find us a boat?”
“Reckon so.”
Another hour passed. Her arms ached from balancing the saddlebags over the mule’s neck, and the animal’s back was as hard and sharp as a fence rail. Mosquitoes and horseflies buzzed around their heads and bit any inch of exposed flesh. The mule plodded on, seemingly impervious to the annoying insects.
As they neared the coast, the hardwoods gave way to scrub pines and they crossed one stream after another. They passed no farms or signs of human habitation until they came to a lonely cabin just before dark. Smoke puffed from the mud-and-stick chimney, and a few chickens scratched in the yard.
“We leave the animals here,” Rudy said. They dismounted and he turned them into a log enclosure.
Bess thought she heard a baby crying, but no one came out of the house. “Could we buy something to eat?” she asked Rudy. “I’m hungry.”
He motioned for her to stay where she was and went to the door. Someone opened it and Rudy went inside. In a short time, he was back with two wooden bowls of spicy fish stew and a round of corn bread. Bess took it eagerly.
“I can pay,” she said.
He shook his head. “Sara don’t like no truck with white folks. I paid her for use of the horse and mule. She says eat and welcome to it. She don’t take money for feeding travelers.”
“Please give her my thanks, and tell her that I meant no disrespect,” Bess said. “I’m grateful.”
Rudy smiled. “I tole her what Kincaid say. You got no slaves on your plantation. You freed your slaves. Sara says that’s the only reason she willin’ to feed you. Sara don’t care for white folks. She’s a real Africa woman. She’s Mandingo.”
Bess looked around at the poor cabin with the small, neat garden. “You tell Sara that her fish stew is the best I’ve ever eaten and I’m much obliged.”
When they had finished, Rudy returned the bowls to the cabin, came back and slung Bess’s saddlebags over his shoulder, and headed into the woods. Bess glanced back at the house, then followed him down an overgrown path. A short distance from the dwelling, they came to a river. A log dugout canoe was pulled up on the bank. A half-grown black boy stood beside it, leaning on a long pole.
“Get in,” Rudy said. Bess obeyed. He and the boy pushed the boat off the shore and stepped into the wide canoe. Using a pole to maneuver along the shallows, the silent boy guided the heavy craft along a narrow waterway. Trees and vines hung over the river on both sides and grew so close together overhead that it was like traveling through a dark tunnel.
More mosquitoes circled Bess’s head as she stared into the gloom of the gathering night. They passed islands and glided from one channel into another until she had lost all sense of direction. Then the moon began to rise, and she saw that they had entered a broader stretch of water. Not long after that, Bess saw the flicker of lantern light.
Kincaid’s voice echoed over the still water. “Rudy?”
“It’s us.”
Bess’s sigh of relief was audible. As they grew closer, she made out the shape of a longboat with at least six men in it. “Kincaid?” she called.
“Aye, ’tis me. And who did ye think it was? Louis of France?”
The dugout nudged the side of the longboat and Kincaid’s strong hand reached out to clasp hers. Her pulse quickened as he assisted her into the boat and pointed out a seat. Rudy handed her saddlebags over and Bess settled them across her lap. He stepped into the longboat, and the boy pushed away with his pole and vanished into the darkness.
“What are we—” Bess started to ask.
Kincaid cut her off. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He looked past her to the men at the oars. “Well, what are ye waiting for? Put your backs into it!”
The moon rose higher as the sailors rowed the longboat around a point of land. As soon as they - cleared the marshy tip, Bess saw a two-masted schooner lying at anchor only a few hundred yards away. She looked around. There were no lights on the ship or on the land. There were no sounds but the wind and the rhythmic creak of oars and the splash of water.
Kincaid leaned close to her. “There she is, Bess. There’s the ship that will take us where we want to go and back again.”
“How? Why?” They had money for passage certainly, but not enough to buy a boat. Who would take them to Panama and back? “I don’t understand,” she said.
“She’s mine,” he said.
“Yours? But you don’t own a ship.”
One of the sailors behind her laughed.
“Mind your own affairs,” Kincaid snapped. “And remember what I’ve told you. Lay a finger on my woman—speak to her unless you’re obeying a direct order from me—and I’ll hang ye by your balls from the yardarm, and feed what’s left of ye to the sharks.”
“Kincaid, where did you get a ship?” she insisted. “Did you steal it?” God in heaven! What had she gotten herself into? Stealing a ship was worse than horse thieving.
“After a fashion,” he answered. She caught a whiff of rum on his breath. He wasn’t drunk, but he had been drinking. She knew it by his cocky humor.
“Captain Bartholomew Kennedy had the bad luck to run aground on a sandbar last week with a Royal Navy snow breathing down his neck. He and his crew—what’s left of them—have been sentenced to hang in Charles Town tomorrow morning. And since he had little use for his schooner anymore, I hired my own crew and lifted it out from under the Navy’s high noses.” His amused burr was so thick she could have cut it with a knife.
“You stole a ship from the Royal Navy?” she cried.
“Kennedy’s own Scarlet Tanager, complete with six cannon, four swivel guns, and a hold full of fresh water and supplies.”
It went beyond all belief. Bess shook her head, certain this must be Kincaid’s idea of a bad joke. “A pirate ship?”
Figures appeared at the rail of the schooner. Someone tossed a rope ladder over the side.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said to Kincaid. “You’ve actually stolen a ship?”
“Aye, woman, if ye care to look at it that way. But as I said before, Captain Kennedy will have no use for the Tanager in Hell, and ye did hire me to take ye to Panama.”