Chapter 17
On the third day out of Kingston Harbor, Kincaid spotted the square sails of a brigantine on the horizon, and shortly after, he saw that another ship, a single-masted sloop, followed closely in her wake. As he ran up the ladder to the quarterdeck, he noted that Evan Davis was watching the two ships through his spyglass.
“Company, I see,” Kincaid said.
Evan grinned. “Nothing to worry about. Likely they’re merchant ships.”
Kincaid held out his hand for the glass. The two ships were too far away to be identified, but he decided that they were probably English because of the lines and the way they were rigged.
The Scarlet Tanager was a schooner; her fore-and-aft sails and narrow hull gave her the advantage of speed and maneuverability that larger craft lacked. She could navigate in less than six feet of water, an attribute that Kincaid knew would come in handy when he tried to land in some nameless waterway along the Panama coast.
The brigantine and the sloop were obviously traveling together, perhaps for protection against pirates. Otherwise, the much faster sloop would have left the heavier two-masted ship behind.
“The Spanish are the ones we need to keep a sharp eye for, Mr. Munro,” Evan said as Bess joined them on the quarterdeck.
“May I see?” she asked. Kincaid, alias Robert Munro to Evan and the crew of the Tanager, passed the spyglass to her and she gazed through it.
“A brigantine and a sloop,” Kincaid said. “Traveling together for some reason, and following the same course we are.”
“Not necessarily,” Evan said. “This is a crossroads for shipping. Lots of—”
“I count three masts,” Bess said.
“You’re wrong, miss,” Evan told her. “The lead ship is a brigantine. Two masts.”
Bess handed the glass back to Kincaid. “I may not know the sea, Captain,” she said, “but I can count.”
Kincaid looked and swore softly. “Aye, I see it too,” he said. “Not two ships, but three. The sloop, the brigantine, and a larger vessel.” He turned a steel-edged gaze on the Welshman. “Lift her skirts, Evan. I’d leave this company behind.”
Evan shrugged. “Whatever you say, but I’m certain they’re just harmless—”
“Full sail. We’ve enough wind for ten knots,” Kincaid said, “and I want to see it.” He handed the glass back to Bess and turned toward the ladder. “I want the men at their stations and cannon and swivel guns ready to be fired.”
Bess hurried after him, then remembered Evan’s glass. “Oh,” she said. “Here is your—” As she gave him the instrument, their fingers brushed. Bess froze.
“Come along, woman,” Kincaid said, glancing back at her. She was wearing the baker’s wife’s blue linen gown this morning. The dress was worn, the material thin in spots, but the blue matched Bess’s eyes and the modest scooped neckline gave him a pretty view of the top of her rosy breasts.
Annoyed with himself for letting his thoughts wander to Bess and her obvious attractions, he spoke again, sharply. “Bess.”
She murmured something and followed him down the ladder. When they were amidships, she caught his arm. “Kincaid.” Her voice was huskier than normal, and her eyes showed concern.
“There’s no need for ye to become alarmed yet,” he said. “I’ll take no chances that—”
“Kincaid, I’ve got to talk to you,” she said. “Now.”
“It can wait.” His thoughts were already racing ahead to gauge which of his men would be useful in a fight. Floyd Hartly’s desertion in Jamaica had disappointed him badly. Bess had said Floyd couldn’t be trusted, and he hated to admit she had been right. By the time he’d gotten back to the Tanager, Floyd was gone. Evan Davis had said that the cook must have slipped over the side of the ship and swum to shore. Lots of sailors deserted their ships, but very few did so just before getting paid. Why Floyd had done so still troubled Kincaid’s sleep.
“No,” Bess insisted. “It can’t wait.”
“What is it?” he asked impatiently.
“Not here,” she said. “Below, in our cabin.”
Reluctantly, he followed her belowdecks to the captain’s quarters, which they shared. Bess looked around the empty cabin, then motioned him to close the door. “It’s Evan,” she said. “We can’t trust him.”
Kincaid felt a headache coming on. “We’ve no time for woman’s fancies, Bess. Aye, ye were right about Floyd, I’ll give ye that, but Evan. . .” He shook his head. “Evan’s loyal.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
“You’re the one who’s been singing his praises all the way from Charles Town. What’s changed your mind this morning?”
“He touched me.”
A red wave of anger rose in Kincaid’s brain. “Touched ye? How? When? I’ll throttle him with my bare—”
“No, it’s not like that,” she said, her words tumbling over one another in a rush. “I’m a witch. I read people’s hearts by touch. Evan’s planning on killing you. I know it.”
He stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses. “Ye be a witch? Likely ye fly about the ship at night on your broom.”
“Damn you!” she cried. “You’ve got to believe me. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. It’s why I ran off with you. I knew Floyd would betray us, and now I know Evan wants you dead. I saw red when he touched me. Don’t you see? Red for blood—your blood!”
At that instant knuckles pounded against the cabin door. “Mr. Munro, Master Davis wants you on the quarterdeck at once.” Kincaid recognized the voice as belonging to a sailor named Albright, a close friend of Floyd Hartly. Motioning Bess to a spot between the door and the bunk, he swung open the cabin door.
“Captain wants ye—” Albright began.
He raised his right hand and Kincaid caught the gleam of a pistol barrel in the sailor’s hand. Directly behind the sailor was a bearded man in a striped shirt. Kincaid lunged sideways and delivered a bone-breaking blow to Albright’s knee. As the mutineer cried out in pain and fell forward, Kincaid drove the knife edge of his hand against the side of Albright’s neck. ,
The second sailor swung a cutlass at the spot where Kincaid had been standing only a heartbeat before. He charged into the cabin and stumbled over Albright’s body. Kincaid hit the man with all his weight and the two of them slammed against the doorjamb. Kincaid’s right hand closed over the hilt of the cutlass as the base of his left hand struck his assassin’s nose, smashing it and killing him instantly. As Kincaid leaped up, cutlass poised to defend against another attacker, he found that he and Bess were the only ones still breathing in the cabin.
Bess’s face was the color of whey, but she held Albright’s pistol in her hand. “I would have shot him for you if you’d waited a moment,” she said. Her hand was steady on the weapon, but her voice was trembling.
“We’ll be all right, lass,” he said with more conviction than he thought. The killing fever was passing easier than it usually did, but he didn’t trust himself to lay hands on her yet.
“How many are against us?” she asked.
He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the shadowy passageway. “You’re the witch, not-me.”
“Yes, I am. But I don’t know what to do now.”
He glanced back at her. She lowered the flintlock, but kept her finger on the trigger. Kincaid could see that her bosom was heaving, her breath . coming in ragged gasps as though she’d been running. She looked small and frightened.
“I’ll keep ye safe, Bess,” he promised thickly.
She glanced down at the sprawled bodies. “You killed them with your bare hands,” she whispered.
“Aye.” He could feel his blood cooling, the battle frenzy draining away, leaving him with an intense desire to protect this woman at any cost.
“If we had Evan, could we force the others to do what we want?”
“Maybe.” Kincaid shook his head to clear away the last of the single-mindedness that took over his brain when he was faced with imminent violence. “Can ye play a part, Bess? Evan sent them down to kill me, but he doesn’t know yet if they succeeded. Go to the passageway ladder and scream for him. If he comes, we’ll take him.”
Bess nodded. She waited, not speaking as he dragged Albright and the second sailor out of sight of the door; then she wiped up the few drops of blood with a blanket. “So he doesn’t see it,” she said, handing him the pistol.
“Ready?” he asked. He stood behind the partially closed door as she went to the bottom of the steps and let out a terrified scream. “Evan! Evan!” she cried. “Oh, my God, Evan! Help me!”
The first man down the ladder was the bosun. Kincaid barely had time to hit him over the head with the barrel of the pistol and move him out of the way before Evan came running.
“What is it?” he called to Bess. “What’s happened?”
“They’ve killed him!” she shrieked hysterically. “They’ve killed him!” She pointed at the open cabin door. Evan Davis ran in, and Kincaid grabbed him from behind and put a knife at his throat. Bess stepped into the cabin and closed the door and locked it.
“What is this?” Evan said.
Kincaid put just enough pressure on the knife to strain the captain’s skin without breaking it. “Who do ye work for, Evan?” he demanded softly. “If ye answer wrong, I’ll show ye less pity than I did them.” He glanced down at the two dead men at Evan’s feet.
The third man, the one Kincaid had only knocked out, was stirring groggily. Bess knelt by his side and held the cutlass over him. “I’d lie there, if I were you,” she warned. He moaned and sank back to the floor, eyes wide with fear.
“Myself,” Evan said. “I work for myself.”
“Wrong answer,” Kincaid replied, digging the blade in a little deeper. A single drop of blood ran down Evan’s neck.
“Falconer wants the lady,” Evan croaked. Kincaid eased the pressure and the captain went on. “He’s put out a reward for her, dead or alive.”
“Why?” Bess demanded. “I don’t know him. Why would he want me?”
“I don’t know,” Evan said. “I swear I don’t. He’s offered silver in every port from the Bahamas to Boston.”
“And you were going to oblige him,” Kincaid said softly.
“I was going to have you killed,” Evan said, “but I was going to turn her over to Falconer. ”
“Those ships following us?” Kincaid prompted.
“Falconer’s. The brigantine is the Charlotte Rose. I don’t know the names of the other two, but they’re his.”
“Can we outrun them?” Bess asked.
“With me at the wheel, you can,” Evan dared to reply.
Kincaid pulled his head back farther. “Give me another reason why I shouldn’t cut your throat here and now,” he said.
“Because . . .” Evan swallowed hard. “Because I’m the only one who can get you to Panama.”
“Why should we trust you?” Bess asked.
“Evan is a practical man, aren’t ye?” Kincaid said. “This wasn’t personal, it was business, wasn’t it?” Evan’s frightened face whitened to the color of tallow. “What did ye want, Evan? Not just money. Ye wanted the Tanager, didn’t ye?”
“Yes.”
“Ye can have it if ye lose Falconer’s ships and take us to Panama and home to Maryland,” Kincaid said. “That, and a share of the Spanish treasure we’re going to dig up.”
“What?” Bess cried. “You’re not giving him a share of my—”
“Aye.” Kincaid said. “Him and every hand on this ship. There’s enough gold to make every man a king.” He looked down at the man Bess was holding prisoner. “Silver and precious jewels,” he continued. “A fortune . . . gold rings and nose plates, necklaces, crowns, and strings of pearls.”
“Pearls?” Bess said. “There’s no—”
“No end to the riches,” Kincaid said. “We’re going for Henry Morgan’s treasure that he stole from Panama City and buried in the jungle. Bess has a map, left to her by her grandfather who served under Morgan. We know where the gold’s hidden. With the right crew, we’ll be in and out before the Spanish know we’ve set foot on the coast.”
“God’s truth?” Evan said. “You have such a map?”
“Why else would a man like Falconer go to such lengths to capture a lady he’s never laid eyes on?” Kincaid lied smoothly. “Falconer knows about the treasure, but he doesn’t know where it is.” He released the captain. “Well, Evan, do ye still want to turn Bess over to Falconer?”
“I’m not sharing the gold with him and his crew of pirates,” Bess protested hotly.
“I’m your man,” the Welshman said. “Let me return to the wheel and we’ll leave Falconer’s ships behind so fast that they’ll think we vanished.”
“No,” Bess said. “You’re both out of your minds. I’m not going to—”
“Woman, cease your clatter,” Kincaid said roughly. “Pay no attention to her, Evan. She’ll do as I tell her.”
Bess’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “Oh, I will, will I, you bloated bag of haggis!”
Bess was still protesting weeks later when the Scarlet Tanager anchored in the shelter of the San Blas Islands off the mainland of Panama. “Was it necessary to promise a share of the treasure to every living soul south of Charles Town?” she demanded of Kincaid as they sat in a longboat being rowed toward shore.
“Aye, and I’ll promise part to the devil if need be,” he replied.
Evan Davis was in the boat with them, along, with eight members of the crew. Kincaid had left Rudy in charge of the Scarlet Tanager, because he was the only man they could trust in their absence.
It had rained earlier that morning; now the air was thick with a heavy, hot mist. Bess felt as though she was standing in the heat of the washhouse at home with steam rising off the boiling kettles of soapy water. It was so warm that the perspiration on her face and arms didn’t evaporate; it just gathered into trickles and rolled down her body, soaking her thin linen shirt and breeches as thoroughly as if she had put them on still wet from laundering.
Her attention was riveted on the swaying coconut palms and the thick wall of trees, shrubs, and interlaced vines that ran down to the island shore. The air was so filled with the earthy scents of decaying plants and wood that it was difficult for her to breathe.
For months Bess had thought of nothing but this journey into the jungle, and now that she was here, it still seemed a dream. Nothing she had ever known had prepared her for the multicolored birds calling and flitting through the hundred shades of green. This tropical forest reverberated with unfamiliar cries, snaps, rustles, and howls. Monkeys peered from the treetops and soared from branch to branch, chattering and squawking. Insects buzzed around her head and swarmed over every inch of bare skin, crawling and biting; and somewhere in the dripping verdant mass she could hear the loud, piercing de-dede-de of a cicada.
Kincaid pointed to the nearest bank where a huge moss-backed turtle reared his ancient head to stare at them. “Keep your hands away from the water,” he warned.
Bess didn’t need to be told. Not five feet from the longboat, the snout and glassy eyes of a bumpy-backed alligator bobbed just above the surface of the dark green water. As she watched, an unfamiliar diving bird plunged into the river and came up with a fish. Before the creature could rise with its prey, the alligator’s hideous jaws gaped open, closed around the bird, and dragged it under.
The crewmen muttered among themselves and one man crossed himself. “You needn’t be afraid,” Evan said. “When we go into the jungle, we’ll take Cuna guides. They know this country like you know the pimples on your own backside.”
Bess glanced back at the young captain. He’d given them no reason to doubt him since the day the Tanager had been followed by Falconer’s three ships. Once Kincaid had allowed him to take control of the vessel again, Evan had directed the men to raise every sail, and they had lost sight of the trailing ships within an hour.
Now Evan had brought them to a village of Cuna Indians, people whom he knew and had had experience dealing with. “The Cuna have good reason to hate the Spanish,” he’d said. “They murder the men, feed their infants to their hounds, and rape and enslave their women and children. But the brotherhood has always had a working relationship with these people. I once spent a month in this village during the dry season.”
This, Evan had explained, was the rainy season. They could expect downpours daily. Their clothes, shoes, and supplies would rot; their pistols and muskets would rust within days. They could travel inland by boat, something that was impossible in the dry season, but the constant rain made survival difficult. “Without the Cuna, we wouldn’t last a week in the jungle. There are trees that give off deadly poison to the touch, snakes and scorpions and blood-sucking bats, crocodiles and jaguars, and colonies of flesh-eating ants. Swamps and thorny thickets bar the way, some so thick and impenetrable that the jungle floor is as dark as night. The slightest scratch can fester into a mortal wound, and a white man can go for days without finding anything to eat. I’ve seen strong men lose their wits and devour human flesh.”
Bess hoped the Cuna Indians were as peaceful as Evan said. Two dugout canoes sliced through the water ahead of the longboat. Naked but for odd cones of bark and leaves covering their genitals, the husky, dark-skinned warriors with waist-length, flowing black hair manned the paddles of the native crafts.
When Bess had climbed down the ladder from the Tanager to the longboat, the Indians had stared at her with round black eyes, and she had stared back, unable to contain her curiosity. Every Cuna male, young and old, seemed cut from the same bolt of cloth: their sleek bodies were oiled and their wide, thin lips were nearly covered by silver, saucer-sized plates that dangled from their identical, rounded noses.
The Cuna had not seemed hostile. They laughed and called to Evan as though he was an old friend, but Bess didn’t miss the razor-sharp steel machetes they carried, or the short bows and bundles of arrows resting in the bottoms of the dugouts.
The river narrowed and turned to the left. Ahead, in a clearing, Bess saw dozens of Indian women and children standing on the bank, waving and chattering in their native tongue. The females were as striking as the males—round-faced, pleasant-featured, and completely innocent of their near-naked condition. The small boys and girls wore nothing but flashing smiles; mature women had only a twist of leafy vine across their loins. Babies bounced in woven slings around their mothers’ necks, and toddlers clung to their bare ankles.
Other dugouts were drawn up on the shore, and beyond that, on a small rise, stood the village. Most of the huts seemed like leaf-covered porches without walls to Bess. But she could see one huge building stretching windowless nearly the length of the town, taller and broader than any other, with sides of stout poles and woven vines. Smoke came from a hole in the roof of the longhouse, as it did from most of the other dwellings, and through the doorway she saw woven hammocks hanging from the framework.
A piglike animal nearly as big as a heifer sizzled on a spit over glowing coals under one roofed area. An old woman with a monkey on her shoulder turned the roasting meat and kept a pack of skinny dogs at bay with a palm frond. As the first canoe grated against the shore, the curs abandoned the pursuit of dinner and rushed down in a frenzy of barking to greet the men.
As the second boat touched, the crowd parted to make way for a tall, dignified man of obvious importance. His thinning gray hair framed a lined, round face adorned with a glittering gold nose plate. His broad chest boasted an ivory cross, and beneath that, his codpiece was a thin, beaten cone of silver suspended from his waist by a length of silver chain.
“That’s Pablo, the village chief,” Evan whispered. “He’s very influential, related by blood to all the other major Cuna tribes.”
“Pablo?” Bess questioned. “But that’s Spanish. I thought you said the Cuna hated the Spaniards.”
The captain shrugged. “They do, but all the important men in the villages have taken Spanish names. Actually, it’s rare for anyone to tell you their native name. They’re very superstitious. They think if you know their name, it gives you power over them.”
“How will you talk to them?” she asked. “Do you speak Cuna?”
“No,” Evan answered. “But Pablo knows enough English and Dutch for us to get by. He’s been trading with buccaneers for years.”
“That’s why we brought cane knives and trade goods from Charles Town,” Kincaid said. “We’ll smoke a few cigars, hand out gifts all around, and see if we can’t convince some of the Cuna to guide us to the treasure site.”
“And what about the Spanish?” Bess asked. “I know we’re not far from Porto Bello.”
“If they find us, they’ll shoot us on sight,” Evan said. “But the Cuna know something about avoiding the Spanish. With their help, we should be all right.”
“Stay close to me,” Kincaid cautioned Bess. “Don’t speak until you’re spoken to, and eat anything they offer ye—snake, alligator, bugs, or dog. If you insult their hospitality; they’ll turn their backs on us.”
“The women are subservient to the men,” Evan added. “They won’t expect you to do anything but smile and do what Munro tells you.”
“Wonderful,” Bess said.
Kincaid grinned at her. “ ‘Tis a practice we could well adopt in the Maryland Colony. The women there have forgotten their place.”
Bess shot him a withering glance.
Then the bow of the longboat struck solid ground, and Kincaid stepped out into ankle-deep water. Evan followed close behind, open hands outstretched so that the Cuna chief could see they came in peace. Bess climbed over the side and waded ashore as women and children surrounded her, picking at her hair and clothes and chattering like birds in their soft, lisping speech. They rubbed her arms and face, crying excitedly to each other and making obvious jokes about her appearance.
A stout woman thrust a coconut into Bess’s hands and motioned for her to drink. Tentatively, she raised it to her lips and sipped the sweet liquid, then smiled and nodded her thanks. That action brought a round of approving twitters, and the women began touching and patting her all over again.
Kincaid paused in greeting the chief and glanced back at her. “Come here, Bess,” he said. The Cuna women scattered like leaves, leaving a pathway open. Gratefully, Bess hurried to his side.
Without smiling, Kincaid motioned to a place behind him and she didn’t argue. She stood there woodenly, trying to look harmless as dozens more Cuna men filed silently out of the forest carrying bows and machetes.
After many exchanged compliments and elaborate greetings, Kincaid nodded to Evan, and he ordered the sailors to bring the bundles of gifts from the longboat. Kincaid stood proudly as rolls of red and blue linen were spread out, and the knives, machetes, needles, scissors, tobacco, hand mirrors, and hawkbells were arranged on top.
“These poor things I give to you and your people, Pablo,” Kincaid said.
Bess noticed the gleam of anticipation in the dark Cuna eyes, but no one made a run for the presents. Each man waited his turn until an elder called him forward to choose something from the gifts. The chief took nothing for himself. When the last length of cloth had been handed out, Kincaid turned to Pablo and removed the gold earring from his own ear and gave it to the Indian.
A slow smile spread across the older man’s face, and he clasped Kincaid by the shoulders and embraced him, rubbing his nose against the Scot’s cheek vigorously. “You give Pablo honor,” he rasped.
“No,” Kincaid said. “It is the great Cuna chief, Pablo, who honors me.”
A general cheer went up and the old woman at the spit began to slice off hunks of the roast meat. The men, including Kincaid, Evan, and the sailors, squatted down in a large circle. Kincaid’s warning glance told Bess not to attempt to join them, so she retreated to the shelter of the porch where the pig had been cooked.
The Cuna women and girls ran to fetch baskets of smoked fish, coconut, bananalike fruit, nuts, berries, pineapples, avocados, and squash to pass out to the men. They served the meat on palm leaves woven into crude plates. One woman carried a huge wooden bowl full of gray liquid on her shoulder. She lowered the drink to the damp earth and offered the chief a clamshell brimming over. He waved to Kincaid, and the woman giggled and extended the offering to him. Kincaid motioned back to the chief, bringing another round of pleased murmurs from the gathered warriors.
Pablo took the shell this time and drank with loud sips. Next Kincaid and then Evan were served, before the woman took refreshment to every man in the circle.
Suddenly, it began to rain again. With much confusion and shouting, the men rose and dashed toward the longhouse. When Bess rose to follow, a woman stepped in front of her and took hold of her arm. She said something that sounded like “Noh-noh.” She pointed toward the ground. When Bess sat down again, the woman smiled and handed her a plate heaped high with fruit and meat. To Bess’s great relief, none of the women seemed to be drinking the gray liquid. However, all of them were entranced by the strange white woman. They gathered around her again, urging the children to touch her, pointing at Bess’s hair and laughing behind their hands.
Hours passed. Laughter and talk floated through the arrow slits and smoke hole of the longhouse. Night fell, and hearth fires glowed in the sudden darkness. The mosquitoes made Bess miserable until a young woman shyly appeared at her shoulder and offered her a handful of paste. When Bess raised it to her lips, the woman giggled and shook her head, making motions to rub the stuff on her skin instead of eating it. Bess did as she was told and found immediate relief from the biting insects.
Finally, one by one, the women and children drifted away. The sleepy whines of children and the wail of babies faded, and the eerie jungle sounds reigned once more. Deep coughs, screeches, and an occasional roar made the hairs on Bess’s neck rise, but she remained where she was and waited for Kincaid.
She had nearly drifted off to sleep when someone tugged at her hand. Her eyes flew open, but she couldn’t make out the woman’s face in the shadows.
“You come,” the voice in heavily accented English insisted. “You come.”
Obediently, Bess stood up and let the woman lead her through the village to a hut on the forest’s edge. A smoky fire had been lit, and there was a stack of wood beside it.
“No fire go out,” the Indian woman said. “Fire good.” She pointed to the looming jungle. “Fire good. ” A single hammock swung from the corner posts. Bess could see no other furnishings or implements in the hut. The woman pointed to the hammock. “You,” she said. “You.”
“You want me to sleep here,” Bess said. The woman smiled and hurried away without another word. With a sigh, Bess climbed into the swaying hammock and closed her eyes.
If I’m going to be eaten, at least I don’t have to see what’s eating me, she thought as she tried to find a comfortable position in the strange bed. Something with wings brushed against her face and she batted at it. She opened her eyes and nearly screamed.
A man’s figure loomed over her.
Before she could gather her wits, he leaned down and kissed her. “Kincaid,” she gasped when he came up for air.
“Aye, and who did ye think it might be?” he teased in his husky burr. “The Prince of Wales?” He touched her cheek with his rough hand and she went all quivery inside.
“You scared me half to death,” she whispered.
“I said I’d keep ye safe.”
“Yes, but—” He cut off her protest with another kiss, and before she knew what he was doing, he was in the hammock with her.
“Kincaid!”
“Aye, lass.”
“What are you doing?” He didn’t smell like rum, but she knew by his amorous tone that he’d been drinking again. His shirt was open, so that his bare chest was pressed against her thin linen shirt, and his long legs were tangled in hers.
“What do ye think?” he murmured.
His hand cupped her breast, and her knees turned to water. “We can’t, not here,” she said.
“Why can’t we, Bess? Pablo offered me his youngest wife for the night, but I told him I’d brought my own.” He trailed warm kisses down her neck. “The Cuna say hammocks are . . .” Kincaid whispered into her ear and she felt her face grow hot.
“Kincaid!”
“Shall I tell the chief I’ve changed my mind about his youngest wife?”
“Just try it,” she taunted him. “Just you try it.”