Fortune's Bride

Caroline stood on the deck of the Dutch merchant vessel and watched with growing fury as armed British sailors shackled the two young Americans. The mother of one boy—a lad hardly out of his teens—wept and clung to her son. “Don’t take him,” she pleaded. “For the love of God, don’t take my only child.”

“Cease your wailing, woman,” the lieutenant said. “His Majesty has need of able-bodied seamen.”

The hysterical mother, Abbie McGreggor by name, grabbed hold of the British officer’s coat. “Not my Will, please. Not my Will. I’ve lost two boys. He’s all I’ve got left.”

The lieutenant shoved her roughly aside and watched as a handful of brutish men in English naval uniforms forced the Americans down the swaying Jacob’s ladder. The white-faced Will McGreggor was the first prisoner to reach the longboat. Caroline stared helplessly as the boy looked up at his distraught mother, then over at the British man-of-war anchored a few hundred yards away.

“Will!” Abbie McGreggor screamed. Frantically, she flung herself at the rail. “Will!”

Before anyone could stop him, the boy raised his chained hands and dived over the side of the small boat. Caroline ran to the railing. Will began to thrash wildly as the weight of the manacles pulled him down.

The lieutenant shouted an order, someone swore, and a seaman in the longboat grabbed the rudder. A sailor cut loose the mooring rope that held the smaller boat to the merchant vessel and others began to row toward the floundering boy.

“Shark!” cried a passenger.

A rifle fired. Then Caroline froze as she saw a dark shadow slice through the clear, blue-green water. Will McGreggor rose partially out of the sea and gave a single inhuman shriek, and Caroline covered her eyes with her hands. When she looked again, the water swirled with black and there was no sign of the boy.

For a moment, there was stunned silence, then Abbie McGreggor began to sob brokenly.

The lieutenant swore again and turned his attention to the struggling black man being dragged from the fo’c’sle by three British seamen. Caroline’s mouth went dry as she saw that the prisoner was Noah. Blood trickled down his face from a cut on his temple; and his mouth was bruised and swollen. Sailors clung to each arm, while the third man battered him from behind with a belaying pin.

Noah twisted and broke loose. He seized the wooden club from his tormentor and whirled it around him. The sailors scattered, and Noah backed up until he felt the solid bulk of a mast behind him.

Still swearing, the lieutenant motioned to a seaman carrying a Brown Bess musket. “What are you waiting for, you fool. Shoot him.”

“No!” Caroline lunged across the deck, placing herself between the musket barrel and Noah. “How dare you seek to impress my servant?”

The officer growled an order and the seaman lowered his musket. “Step aside, woman,” the lieutenant said.

“What’s your name?” she demanded. “Do you know who I am?”

“I only know that you’re obstructing my duty.”

Caroline glanced back at Noah. “Drop that ridiculous weapon,” she said. “This is all a misunderstanding.” She looked toward the Kaatje’s master, Captain Vander Voort. “Sir, please tell this officer who I am.”

“Again, Lieutenant, I must protest,” Captain Vander Voort said angrily. “The Kaatje sails under the Dutch flag. You have no right to board my vessel, and no right to—”

“Naturally, you must take that up with the proper authorities, Captain,” the British officer replied. “I have my orders.”

“And your next orders shall send you to Botany Bay if you touch my property. I am Mistress Caroline Faulkner. My husband is first cousin to Lord Cornwallis.”

The lieutenant’s brow furrowed, and Caroline noticed for the first time that he was barely older than the deceased boy, Will McGreggor. “Naturally, any property will be paid for,” he said. “You have but to make a claim in writing to—”

“A claim? A claim?” Caroline laughed sarcastically. “You cannot be serious. “I am to be deprived of my slave while I wait for months—perhaps years—to be reimbursed. I think not.” She waved a gloved hand airily. ”Go about your business, young sir. I am a good English citizen and I would not dream of interfering in your duties. But doubtless your superior never intended to insult relatives of Lord Cornwallis. Or”—she tried to look heartily offended—“or did he?” She brushed an imaginary bit of lint off her sleeve. “Surely, this is not a personal attack on Lord Cornwallis. Did you board this ship intending to—”

“No, ma’am,” the officer said, clearly in retreat. “We have a warrant for a pirate known as Osprey. The search we made of the Kaatje was for that purpose. Impressing British citizens for service in His Majesty’s navy is only a routine matter. There was no intent to interfere with your—”

“Interfere?” She laughed in what she hoped was a scornful manner. “I should think it is more than that. Deliver my regards to your commander. Return and ask him if routine matters meant seizing the property of Lord Cornwallis’s family. Doubtless you would enjoy the climate at Botany Bay. I understand it is quite . . . unusual.”

“Yes, ma’am, I mean . . . no, ma’am. This has been a misunderstanding.” The lieutenant removed his hat and gave a quick bow. “Your servant, Mistress Faulkner. Sir.” He nodded to Captain Vander Voort. “My men assure me that the criminal Osprey is not on board. I bid you a good day.” Signaling to his men, he crossed the deck and descended the ladder.

Caroline went to Noah. “Are you all right?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Where is Garrett?”

“I’ll be fine,” the black man said. “Thank you.”

She shook her head. “That’s not necessary. You did more for me on the Gillian. Where’s Garrett?”

“Hidin’ in a better place than me, apparently.”

“But why would he hide? Surely he has nothing to fear from the British. It’s not as if they’d impress a well-born man like him.” She touched the wound on his head. “You’d better let me treat that—”

Noah shook his head. “I’ll see to it. I’ve had worse.” He nodded toward Abbie McGreggor. “Best you see if you can do anything for her.”

“All right,” Caroline answered. “But if you reach Garrett before I do, please tell him that I want to talk to him.”

Later, when she’d seen Abbie safely in the care of another woman, Caroline returned to the deck of the Kaatje. The British man-of-war had already pulled anchor and was sailing north toward the American coast. Captain Vander Voort had gone below, and the first mate was ordering sailors aloft into the rigging.

There had been no sign of Garrett yet, and Caroline was worried and increasingly annoyed. Coward. The word rose in her mind, and she immediately banished it. That was ridiculous. Her husband was no coward. No man who’d fought as he had against the wreckers off the Carolina coast could be lacking in courage. So why then had he hidden from the British boarding party?

And what twist of fate had placed her on a ship suspected of carrying Osprey? And why would the English put out a warrant on him after he had betrayed the American cause and gone over to the British side?

“I wish Osprey was aboard,” she whispered, running her hand along the smooth wood railing. “I’d love to have the chance to come face to face with him. I’d send him to hell faster than the British.”

“You are bitter.”

Caroline’s head snapped up and she stared wide-eyed at the vague outline beside her. Swirling colors formed the transparent image of a man, then dissolved until all that remained were two dusty clay-colored feet in a pair of twisted rope sandals. Scarred ankles rose almost to the knee; then there was nothing.

“Kutii,” she said sharply. “Don’t do that. Either appear or disappear. You know I hate it when you do that.”

A flash of copper became a muscular arm without a hand or a shoulder. “I am an old man. You expect too much of me.” She was not sure if the sound was coming from the spot beside her, or from inside her head.

“Kutii, where have you been?” In truth, his absence had disturbed her greatly. More than once, she’d wondered if he’d remained at Fortune’s Gift, if she was leading Garrett, Amanda, and the others on a wild goose chase to Arawak Island. “Do you know how long it’s been?”

“Your time means nothing to me, granddaughter.”

“You promised you would help me find the treasure.”

“This one made such a promise?”

His soft laughter seemed to surround her, and she shivered. Was he really there? Or was she simply as mad as May butter?

“Kutii told his granddaughter of the gold that the Star Woman brought from the bottom of the sea. This is true.”

“You said only part of the treasure was ever recovered. You told me you saw the rest in a cave on the island.”

The worn rope sandals rose into the air, ankles folded, and the rest of the Incan began to appear, faint but whole. Caroline blinked twice and saw him clearly, sitting cross-legged on the gunnel. In his hair was a bone comb. He was combing out his waist-length black hair and rubbing it with fragrant oil from a small pottery container. The strange pattern of tattoos on his bronze chest were bright blue, as vivid as if they had been painted only minutes ago. Caroline reached out to touch them, and her fingers found only warm air.

He laughed. “The barriers between us are not so easily crossed, child of my heart.” He looked into her face with sloe eyes as black as pitch.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

He looked offended. “This warrior cannot look upon the chosen one without harsh words? Are you with child yet? Your husband has a mighty spear. I thought—”

“No. I am not with child yet.” Caroline felt her cheeks grow hot. She and Garrett found little chance to be alone on this ship, but when they did find privacy . . . Her eyes widened. “You’ve been spying on me,” she accused.

Kutii shook his head. “He is a better man than the first, this new husband of yours. I think you should make a child with him. The sooner the better.”

“I don’t want children,” she lied. “At least not now, I don’t. And my marriage is my own affair. What was wrong with Wesley?”

Kutii put the lid back on his bowl and tucked the container and the comb into a woven pouch slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a red-cotton wrap around his waist, a gold armband, and a silver nose ring. Now he carefully threaded silver hoops into his ears. Dangling from each earring was a curved jaguar tooth. “He was not worthy of you,” he said.

“Wesley died a hero. How can you say that about him?” she protested.

The bosun came toward her hesitantly. “Are ye all right, missus?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him. Damn! Anyone watching her would believe she was out of her mind. She glanced sideways at Kutii.

He was watching her with an amused expression. “Do you care what these people think of you?”

She took a deep breath. “How can you expect me not to care? For the love of God. A few years ago, I would have been burned at the stake for being in league with Satan. Am I a witch? A madwoman?”

“You are who you are,” Kutii answered in his low, lilting voice. “You carry the blood of your ancestor the Star Woman. And you have her powers.”

I didn’t ask for this, she thought desperately.

“This one senses a great unease within you, child,” Kutii said. “You are descended from a great warrior people. It is right and good that you fight for freedom, but I feel in you a destructive hate for one man.”

“Osprey,” she whispered. Even his name on her lips was enough to make her tense with seething anger. “I will see him in hell.” She owed that much to Wesley . . . to Reed.

The bosun was giving her odd looks again, and she forced herself to think rather than speak to Kutii. What news of my brother? Is he all right? Have you seen him?

The Indian shook his head. “My energy is weak so far from you and from the earth where the Star Woman lies. You must seek out Reed yourself. Why do you hesitate? Use what the Creator has given you.”

“But I . . .” Her protest died on her lips as she watched the swirl of colors. One instant she was looking at an Incan nobleman, and the next—air and sparkling sea. Do not stay away so long next time, old friend, she said silently. I miss you. Her lips curved into the hint of a smile. I love you.

“Grandfather,” he admonished with gentle amusement. “Have I taught you nothing, child of my heart. Call me Grandfather.”

I love you, Grandfather.

Overhead, a black and white frigate bird wheeled and dived toward the ship against a backdrop of sky so blue that it seemed unreal. Fish jumped and seagulls skimmed the surface of the water. It all seemed too beautiful to Caroline to hide the sudden death she had seen with her own eyes.

What was real and what was not? What if Reed was already dead of prison fever? What if he had been executed? She would not know it. To her, he would still be alive. She could hear his teasing laughter, see the way his rusty-brown curls fell back from his high brow and receding hairline. If Reed Talbot was already lying in his grave in New York but alive in her mind, what was the truth? Was he dead or alive?

Not New York.

The words came so clearly that Caroline glanced around to see who had spoken. She was alone on the deck. But the voice had not been Kutii’s, had not been any man’s; unmistakably, the voice had been a woman’s.

“Who are you?” Caroline asked. The only sounds she heard were the swish of water, the creak of rope and canvas, the groan of the ship, and the faint whistling of a seaman high above the deck in the crow’s nest.

She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on Reed’s face. Instead, her brother’s plain features were obscured by those of Garrett Faulkner, and that same question returned to plague her. What was real?

All her life, she had been governed by reason, a trait she’d taken from her Grandfather Kincaid, according to her mother. She had married Wesley because they were friends, and she was comfortable with him. She had accepted his proposal because it was the sensible thing to do—the decision most likely to ensure the well-being of Fortune’s Gift.

She had never been a flighty female prone to hasty decisions. She had used her intelligence rather than her passions to make important choices. She was a sensible person. And she had been happy in her union with Wesley. Or had she?

This marriage had been completely different from the first moment she laid eyes on Garrett Faulkner in her bedchamber. They shared nothing more than a wild sense of humor and a healthy lusting after each other’s bodies. This was a marriage of convenience—nothing more.

She did not . . . could not love Garrett.

But her reality was that she did.

“Noah told me what you did to save him.”

Caroline started. Garrett was standing right behind her. “How did you . . . Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you—”

“You were deep in thought, Mistress Faulkner. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He flashed her a devilish grin. “That took a lot of courage—facing down that British lieutenant.”

“And where were you?”

He chuckled. “I’ll never tell.”

“But why would you hide?” she demanded. “You were in no danger of being impressed as a seaman.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be too sure of that. I was a naval officer once. It wouldn’t take much imagination on that lieutenant’s part to see me in uniform again.”

“So you hid and left your friend to face them alone?” She was relieved that he was safe but also annoyed with him.

“Apparently, Noah wasn’t alone. He had you to fight for him.” Garrett grinned again and touched his cocked hat in a salute. “Wesley was right. He always said you could take on the whole British navy and come out ahead.” His mood grew serious. “None of us thought they would take blacks. They never touched Eli.”

“Eli is half the size of Noah,” she said. “I suppose they were looking for strong slaves.” A horrible thought surfaced in the shadows of her mind. “That lieutenant said they were looking for Osprey,” she continued. “Why would they look for him aboard the Kaatje?” Her eyes searched his face for any hint of what he was thinking.

Garrett met her gaze levelly. He pursed his lips. “No, I don’t know why they would. But if they’ve put out a warrant for the man, they’re checking every ship. It’s common procedure.”

A cold chill crept up from the pit of her stomach. “How did you know there was a warrant for his arrest?”

“Noah told me. Why? Do you know him, Caroline?”

“Know him? No, I don’t know Osprey . . . but I intend to.” Her voice took on a thread of steel as she pushed away her foolish thought that Garrett might be the traitor. Surely, if he’d been guilty, it would have shown on his face, she reasoned. He wasn’t that good an actor.

“If you’re going to be my husband,” she said, deciding to trust him a little, “you might as well be warned. Wesley died because of that bastard Osprey. Wesley died and Reed’s in prison. And I’m going to make it my duty to find this Osprey. When I do, I’ll turn him over to the British or the Americans, or anyone who promises me that they’ll hang him—the sooner the better.”

Matthew “Red Hands” Kay held the small cask over his head and drained the last of the fiery island rum into his mouth. “Empty, by God!” he roared, heaving the wooden container against the wall. He staggered back against the bed and slapped the mulatto wench on her bare bottom. “More rum!” he demanded. “More rum!”

Yee giggled drunkenly and collapsed facedown on the stained sheets. Her twin sister, Yaa, slid off the far side of the bed and weaved unsteadily, pendulous breasts swaying, toward the doorway of the large bedchamber.

“And be quick about it!” Matthew ordered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slid into a gilt Italian armchair, and surveyed his father’s room with bloodshot eyes.

The marble-topped table was cracked down the center and littered with spilled food and drink. A delicate carved chair had suffered the loss of one leg; a cutlass was buried in the teakwood mantel, and blood and chicken feathers covered the Oriental rug beside the bed. The rooster—or what remained of it—dangled from one bedpost beside a rusty pair of leg irons. Worst of all, his grandfather’s precious portrait of a redheaded woman had been used as a target. A neat hole from a pistol ball pierced the lower corner of the picture, nearly taking off the jade’s foot.

“You should see your room now, Papa,” he said. His words struck him as exceedingly funny, and he laughed long and loud. “You always were a sanctimonious pig. Not pig.” He belched. “Prig. Peregrine Kay was a sanctimonious prig.” His snicker became a snort and then a series of choking coughs that brought a foul taste into his mouth. “Damn you, Yaa. Get back here with that rum. My mouth tastes like bilgewater.”

He sniffed. The smell of chicken blood and feces was disgusting. “What the hell did we use that rooster for anyway, Yee?”

The woman on the bed continued to snore loudly.

Matthew snickered again and scratched the hair around his ballocks. He was as naked as the twins. Leaning back as far as he could, he sucked in his gut and admired his thick, red cod. It might be limp now, but by the king’s royal arse, it was a mighty weapon when he was primed.

He kicked at the riding crop on the floor with his bad foot. Three toes he’d given to a lemon shark off the coast of Panama when a Spaniard had blown away their mainmast and set the ship aflame. He limped a little since, but pull on a boot with a little leather to stuff the toe, and he was the equal of any man on a dance floor.

“Yaa!” he bellowed. What the hell time was it, anyway? A louse nipped him sharply under the armpit, and he caught the vermin and cracked it between dirty, broken fingernails. He stood up and walked stiffly to the nearest window, then threw open the louvered shutters and let the hot light flow into the room.

Matthew blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to decide what day it was. If it was Sunday, he’d sure as hell missed Mass. And if he’d missed church again, Mama would be furious with him.

Scratching his head, he went to the prie-dieu in an alcove in the far corner of the room, turned the Holy Mother’s face from the wall, knelt, and mumbled a hasty prayer. Now at least he could tell Mama that he had done his rosary this morning—if she asked.

“Red Hands! Where are you, my bull? My ram?” Yaa’s husky voice echoed through the room. “The lady been calling for you.”

Matthew murmured “Amen,” rose, and went back into the main room. “What did you tell her?”

Yaa had put a wrap around her loins, but her huge breasts still hung free for his touch. He caught one and weighed it in his hand, pinched the large dark nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She giggled and grabbed for his crotch.

“No time for that now,” he said, snatching the crockery bottle from her hand. He took two long swigs and sighed. “Damn but that takes the tar off a man’s hull.” His head ached from the back all the way around to his eye sockets. “What day is this, Yaa?”

“Sunday.”

“Oh, shit, I was afraid of that.” He exhaled softly. “Has the lady been to church?”

“Where else she be this day?”

He grunted and shoved the bottle back into her hands. “Where’s my clothes? Got to have my clothes.” He looked around the room and realized that what he’d been wearing two days ago was no longer wearable—or even identifiable as waistcoat and breeches. “Where’s that damned Juan? Tell him I need—”

“He on his way. Yaa know you need’m.” She grinned, flashing a silver-capped tooth.

Matthew scratched at his groin again. “Braid my hair,” he ordered. He prided himself on his thick, curling mane, as dark as the twins’ hair with the aide of a little lampblack. All of his wigs were black. He’d never favored powdered hair on a man. It made him look too womanly.

By the time the girl had tamed the unruly mass into a single braided club down his back, his manservant had come in with shirt, breeches, and waistcoat. “The lady be in a terrible mad,” Juan said, helping Matthew into the white lawn shirt.

“Clean this mess up,” Matthew said as he left the room. “And get her out of here.” He motioned toward the sleeping Yee. “I never could stand a coarse woman.”

Servants stepped back out of reach of Matthew’s fist as he hurried through the sprawling house. Damn! he thought. He’d told those girls he had to make Mass on Sunday. He’d have the hides off them if Mama was truly fierce with him. Was it too much to ask, that a man be able to relax on the few nights he spent at home?

He stopped outside a double set of huge paneled teakwood doors. “Mama,” he said. His stomach felt nauseous. He hoped she wasn’t going to yell at him. He hated it when she yelled. “Mama?” With a rising knot in his throat, he pushed open the door.