Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress (24 page)

Nothing came to her. After a few minutes she dried her eyes with her coat sleeves and wiped her nose. “He’s too mean to die,” she said aloud. “Rascals born to hang don’t die like that.”

She exhaled slowly. Meet him in the Maryland Colony, he’d said. A place called St. Mary’s on the Chesapeake. Why not? she thought. It was as good a port as any. I’ll go there and wait, she decided. And after six months—if he doesn’t come—then I’ll mourn him.

“Take the treasure below, Kutii,” she called. “We don’t want to lose it after all the trouble we’ve taken to get it back.” The wind caught her cocked hat and blew it across the deck, and she took a firmer grip on the tiller. “We’re going north to the Maryland Colony,” she said to her friend. “We’ll wait for James there, and maybe ... just maybe, we’ll take a look at the soil and see what kind of farmland it would make.”

Kutii came toward her. “He is not dead,” he said.

“No, I don’t think he is,” Lacy agreed.

“I, Kutii, tell you this. Jamesblack is not dead.” He drew in a ragged breath, and Lacy noticed the dark streak on the right side of his chest.

“Oh!” she cried. “You’ve been hit.”

“Kutii no die,” he answered. But as she watched in horror, he too crumpled over and fell to the deck.

 

For the first week after they escaped from the island, Lacy thought Kutii would die. He refused to go below, saying that only the sun and sea air could heal him. So he lay on a blanket on the deck, exposed to the elements. He was weak from loss of blood and had difficulty breathing.

Lacy had removed the musket ball, digging it out with a knife point and her fingers, and she had seared the torn flesh with fire. Kutii refused even to taste the rum she’d brought with her, so she used it to bathe the wound.

He was too ill to eat, and what water she got down him she had to dribble between his cracked lips, one spoonful at a time. In the daytime, he suffered from the heat, and at night, he was wracked by chills. She could see the flesh falling away from him, almost by the hour.

But it was Kutii’s cough that most worried her. He slept only in brief snatches, awakened again and again by a terrible rattling cough that brought up blood and foul matter.

They used up all the fresh water and would have died of thirst if a sudden squall hadn’t dumped a heavy rainfall on them. Lacy used a sail to catch the precious liquid and stored it in their only water keg.

Sharks followed the
Silkie,
their ominous dorsal fins cutting the water in silent threat, until Lacy feared to allow Harry access to the deck. Sharks had never frightened her, not even after Kutii had fought with that big one at the dive site. But these were what James called great whites, larger than any she had ever seen, and more predatory. Hour after hour they stalked the small boat, occasionally nudging the hull and coming to the surface to stare at Lacy with round, cold eyes.

Kutii said that they weren’t sharks at all, but the spirits of Carib Indians who had eaten the flesh of their fellow men and were condemned to live out eternity as carnivorous souls.

Not knowing which islands were claimed by the English and which by the Spanish, Lacy was afraid to go ashore, even when she did sight land. Her knowledge of the Greater Antilles was sketchy at best, but she was aware that the Bahamas lay to the north, and north and west of them was North America.

The maps that were aboard the
Silkie
had been ruined by water. Only a faint line remained to show where parts of the American coast lay. James’s precious backstaff had been lost, but she wouldn’t have known how to use it if she had it. She did have the compass and a vague idea of the location of the great shellfish bay the natives called the Chesapeake.

A far piece, she mused, but not as far as Com-wall. This time, she didn’t have James to help her navigate. She was alone and pregnant. Getting to the Maryland Colony—surviving the ocean journey—was up to her. Kutii was too ill to do anything, and even if he’d been well, he knew less about North America than she did.

By the second week, Lacy was forced to anchor off an island at night and swim ashore to find food and fresh water. The sharks were gone; they had vanished as mysteriously as they’d come, and she was glad to see the last of them.

Under cover of darkness, she gathered fruit and shellfish, and filled her water keg. She smelled smoke and suspected there might be a settlement nearby, but she was afraid to approach to try and buy supplies. A woman without weapons and an injured man were at the mercy of anyone who wished to harm them, and if she tried to sell any of the treasure, Lacy knew she would be signing her own death warrant.

On the tenth day, she sighted a Spanish galleon. If the larger vessel saw the
Silkie
and came down on them, she and Kutii would have no chance to escape. But the Spaniard never deviated a degree from her course, and by mid-afternoon her tall masts had vanished over the horizon.

Once, they passed a single-masted fishing boat. The fishermen waved but continued casting their nets, and the
Silkie
sailed on unhindered.

Kutii’s illness gave Lacy something to think about other than James’s possible death. Each day was so filled with physical activity that she was exhausted by nightfall and slept soundly. And when she did think of James, she thought about his child who would be born in the autumn, and the need to find a safe haven before she became too large and unwieldy to provide for herself.

At last, Kutii began to mend. His cough didn’t go away entirely, but each day he was able to do a little more. He stopped losing weight and was able to fish and to help her with the tiller.

The terrible injury had left its mark; Kutii was not the man he had been before he took the musket ball. His magnificent head of hair had thinned and become streaked with gray. His hawklike nose seemed sharper and his lips were mere slashes of copper. His hands were overlarge for arms that showed bone and sinew, and Lacy could count his ribs.

But the loss of Kutii’s physical strength had not diminished his spirit. His strange heathen eyes still glowed with an inner power, and his deep voice offered wisdom and comfort. With each day that passed, he became dearer to Lacy. He told her stories about his boyhood and his people, and regaled her with legends of the treasure and the history of the Incas. They laughed together in the hot afternoon sun and lay awake staring at the stars in the warm March nights.

“I was so afraid ye would die and leave me alone,” Lacy said on one such night. They rarely touched, but there was no need for touch. Their thoughts and moods blended and complemented each other until they could almost communicate without words.

“Kutii never leave you,” he assured her. “Kutii protect child of star woman.” He gave a secret smile. “Child of that child. Never leave. Spirit of Kutii follow blood of star woman.”

“Your spirit? Ye mean ... like a ghost?”

“So. Kutii not know ghost.” It sounded to Lacy as though he’d said
oo’ss
. “Kutii know spirit.” He thumped the left side of his chest. “Kutii guard. Never leave.”

“I’d rather have ye alive with a knife in your hand if I run into trouble, thank ye,” she said. “I’ve seen ghosts—spirits—of the dead. The first one I saw was the ghost of my grandmother’s dog. I was very small, too little to draw water from the well or be allowed to cut my food with a knife. I saw a large black and white dog on the stairs. When I reached out to touch it, it disappeared.” She watched him intensely to see if he was repelled by her admission. “I told my grandmother, and she was frightened. My grandsire said that the dog had been dead for forty years. He said my mother had seen the ghost dog too. They called her a witch. I guess ...” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I guess that makes me a witch too.”

“Witch.” Kutii laughed and repeated the word several times. “Some people have such power among the Inca. We tell if it is evil power or good by what they do. But you not witch. You woman of star. Not evil. Good.” He tapped his chest again. “Kutii know. Not witch. Star woman.”

“They thought I was a witch in England,” she replied. “They did this to me.” She lifted her hair to show him the scar.

“Among Inca, ritual scars be marks of honor.” He touched the tattoos that adorned his skin. “You have mark of honor. No have shame. Have proud. Prove courage.”

“Ye have a strange way of looking at things, Kutii.”

“Kutii right. English wrong. Kutii Inca.”

“Maybe I should have been born Indian instead of English.”

“Not born to Inca. But Kutii fix. Kutii make you daughter. Star woman Inca now. Carry noble bloodline. Have treasure.”

“Yes ...” She swallowed the lump in her throat and gazed up at the stars that seemed to hang directly over the
Silkie’s
mast. “I wanted the treasure so bad, and now I have it.” She sighed. “Will it bring me happiness?” she murmured. And then, silently, in the depths of her heart, she asked, Will it bring me James?

 

J
ames jumped off the deck of the sloop
Emma
and waded ashore. Lester Forrest, the captain of the small smuggling craft, waved and turned the tiller to bring the
Emma
smoothly about. It was a sultry August night with no moon, and in minutes the boat slipped away, leaving no trace that she had ever landed a passenger on Maryland’s western shore.

A mosquito buzzed around James’s head, and he slapped at it, taking care not to drop his boots. They were split and nearly worn through on the left sole. Not fit for a servant in his mother’s house to wear, he thought, but they were the only boots he had.

“God, but I must look a sight,” he muttered. He was unshaven; his breeches were patched, and his shirt was torn in three places. His sword was gone ... His pistol ... God alone knew where his pistol was. The only weapon he carried was a cheap knife tucked into the lining of his right boot.

The mosquito landed on his neck and drew blood. He cursed and squashed it. Another two mosquitoes came to mourn the first, and as he was taking measures to eliminate them, the soil gave way beneath him and he sunk to his waist in water. By the time he reached the bank, he was as wet as if he’d taken a bath fully dressed, he’d lost one stocking in the mud, and both boots had received another soaking.

At the top of the ridge, he startled a grazing doe yearling. The deer made a leap straight in the air, came down on all fours, and stared curiously at the human intruder.

“His royal highness, Prince James, at your service,” he said, then laughed when the animal threw up its white tail like a flag and took flight across a grassy meadow.

James sat down on a fallen log. He examined the single stocking he had left; the toe and part of the heel were missing. Still chuckling, he tossed the stocking aside and pulled on his wet boots. Lester Forrest had told him that St. Mary’s lay less than two miles north of here. This was as close as Forrest intended to go to the settlement, considering his cargo of untaxed brandy and silk thread. The rest of the distance, James knew, he would have to cover on foot.

“Keep the bay on your right side and ye can’t get lost,” Forrest had advised. “They got more than one public house, but the only one that will serve ye is the Dancing Goat. Ye’ll have no trouble findin’ it. ’Tis spittin’ distance from the dock.”

James looked up at the sky and guessed it to be about two o’clock. He could easily walk to town in an hour, but if he arrived before dawn, someone was likely to set the watch on him. He decided to sleep for a few hours, then finish the trip. After six months, what was a little more waiting? He found a dry spot on a thick bed of moss, sat down, and leaned back against a tree trunk. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

Despite his weariness and the quiet of the meadow, sleep didn’t come. He sighed and yawned and squirmed, but he was still as wide awake as ever.

With devilish pleasure, the voice in his head began the familiar argument.
She won’t be there. You’re a fool if you expect her to be waiting for you.

“Lacy will be there.”

“She gave her word.”

“If you’d been the one who got
away
with the gold, would you have kept the rendezvous?

James leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. S’heart! He grimaced. Damned if he didn’t smell like a bilge, despite his accidental ducking. When was the last time he’d had a decent bath with soap and hot water?

He rubbed the scar above his left ear thoughtfully. If it wasn’t for the bullet wound, Matthew would have killed him. The lead ball that had plowed a furrow along his head and dropped him facedown on the quarterdeck of the
Adventure
had done him a big favor.

He’d lain unconscious for twenty-four hours. By the time he’d come to, most of Matt’s anger had been spent on the crewmen who’d let Lacy get away with part of his treasure.

Matthew had ranted and raved about double-crossing partners, then taunted James with the fact that Lacy had abandoned him and stolen his share of the gold. When he was well enough to walk, Matthew had contented himself with marooning James on a sandbar off the coast of Hispaniola.

The journey north hadn’t been an easy one. Every league had cost him. He’d been shot at by Spaniards, nearly eaten by a tribe of cannibals, and almost forced into service on an English frigate. He’d hidden from pirates in the Bahamas and taken fever in Bermuda.

He wasn’t certain how much treasure Lacy had been able to carry off; the large golden bowl had been left on the deck of the
Adventure
along with the cups and a necklace. Whatever was left, he damned well meant to have a captain’s share of, or Lacy would know the measure of his wrath.

He hadn’t spent much time worrying over whether she had survived the trip from the Caribbean to the Chesapeake. Not more than twenty hours a day, by his reckoning. Of course, she haunted his dreams with her damned cocky manner and the color of her hair when the morning sun struck it just so. He couldn’t think of Lacy dead or hurt. She was the most thoroughly alive person he’d ever known.

And he meant to take her with him back to England. No matter what she said ... no matter how she protested against becoming his mistress. He’d find her, by God, and he’d not let her out of his sight again. Not ever.

 

James was waiting outside when the innkeeper’s thin-lipped wife pushed open the double Dutch door that led to the public room of the Dancing Goat. She caught sight of him and frowned. “No beggars here,” she warned. “This is a respectable tavern for them what can pay.”

James bowed elegantly. “Madame. A good morning to you. Is your father about? I’d speak with him.”

“My father’s ten year in his grave in Bristol. What do ye want wi’ my husband?”

He didn’t miss the color that tinted her cheekbones. Mistress innkeeper would never see forty again, but she was still vain enough to warm to a compliment. “My apologies, madame,” he soothed. “A natural mistake, I’m sure. I was told to expect a much more mature lady. Your mother-in-law, perhaps?”

“Ain’t no woman here but me and Nancy. She’s sixteen, but she don’t talk since the cow kicked her. If it’s inn business, ye can deal wi’ me. My Walter, he don’t bestir his self till nigh on noon.”

“Then let me make myself known to you, dear lady. My name is James Bennett,” he lied. “I am a gentleman of some means who has had the misfortune to be robbed by pirates.” He warmed to the tale as the goodwife leaned forward, hands on ample hips and eyes wide. “My good servant was slain, my clothing and silver stolen, and my horses taken.”

“Pirates, ye say? And what was pirates doin’ ashore?”

“That I cannot answer. I only know that we were ambushed four days south of here. I killed one of the sea dogs. Shot him through the head. These are his rags I’m wearing.”

“Four days, huh? Was it in Virginny or Maryland that this happened?”

James shrugged. “I wouldn’t know that either, madame. There were no signposts in the forest.” He struck a pose that he hoped showed off his well-turned leg. “I’ve come to meet my dear wife here at St. Mary’s. We were to meet on the fifteenth of August.”

“What’s her name, this supposed wife of yourn?”

“Lady Elizabeth Lacy Bennett. Have you seen her, by chance? She has red hair, and she was traveling with several servants. Her maid, of course, and several footmen. Oh,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “One of her servants is a native ... an Indian.”

“Ain’t seen no lady traveling without her husband or kinfolk. But maybe she ain’t come yet. This be only the thirteenth of the month. My Walter, he’s real particular about knowin’ what day it is. Keeps track, he does.” She frowned suspiciously. “I’m sorry about your misfortune, but the Dancing Goat gives no credit.” She hesitated, eyeing him up and down. “I s’pose we could find ye a place to sleep in the loft, if you’re willin’ to chop wood and carry water. Not too highfalutin fer such work, are ye, Master Bennett?”

James laughed. “A fine joke, madame. I’ll remember that next time I play cards with Lord Harfield. In the loft, you say?” He grinned at her and waited.

“Fifteenth of August?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, ye do talk like a gentleman, I’ll say that for ye. Come inside and have some breakfast. I don’t suppose it will ruin Walter to advance credit to a gentleman for two days. But I warn ye, fancy talk or no, if she don’t come, I’ll have the sheriff on ye.”

“Don’t worry, Mistress ... Mistress ...?”

“Cooper. Agnes Cooper.”

“Mistress Cooper. Lady Bennett will be here on the fifteenth. Have no fear of that.”

Walter Cooper, when he finally arose, was not so pleasant about the matter. “I’ll wager I’ve seen more gentlemen than you have, Agnes,” he complained to his wife, “and that rascal—” He pointed at James with a blunt finger. “That rascal looks more like a poacher’s son than a squire’s.”

“Mind your tongue,” his wife snapped. “Master Bennett’s had a bad turn, he has. But he’ll pay with hard silver, soon as his lady comes.”

Wednesday came and Thursday and then Friday, but to James’s dismay, there was no sign of Lacy, or of Kutii, or of his treasure. James began to walk the streets of St. Mary’s, asking every person he met if they had seen or heard of Mistress Bennett and her Indian servant.

A week passed, and Walter Cooper’s threats to have James put in the stocks for nonpayment of debt were coming close to realization. It was at the noon meal that a passing horse trader by the name of Will Comegys gave James the answer he’d been seeking.

“Aye, I seed ‘em,” the red-faced yeoman said. “Not that many would take ’er for a lady—no offense meant, sir.” Will settled himself on a bench and stretched his long legs under the trencher table.

James had talked Mistress Cooper into the loan of a decent shirt and breeches, and one of Walter’s good wool coats. Thus attired, James no longer looked like a common laborer, and the horse trader treated him accordingly. “None taken, I’m sure,” James said. “You’ve seen her. She’s all right, then?”

“Seed her an’ the Injun up to Kent Island. Let me see ...” He lifted his leather jack of ale and took a deep drink. “Fine ale, Mistress Cooper,” he complimented the innkeeper’s wife.

“I told Walter it was a good batch,” Agnes replied, beaming. “Good body and good head.”

“My wife,” James reminded the horse trader.

“Up to Kent Island. Yep, I’m sure of it. Oncet I meets a pretty woman, I never forget her. I was swappin’ Jackie Goldsborough two dun mules for a gray mare.” Will took another sip of his ale. “In June, it were. Early part of June. ’Twas then for certain, ‘cause it was a full moon, and me and some of the boys were fox huntin’ by night.”

“You saw her in June?” James asked. “You’re certain?” His relief at hearing that Lacy was safe was immediately overcome by the suspicion that she was here in Maryland and hadn’t kept the bargain to meet him on the fifteenth.

“Aye, I am that.” Will wiped the foam off his mouth. “She was askin’ Jackie about buyin’ land on the Eastern Shore.” He lifted a thick eyebrow. “It’s not somethin’ ye forget—seeing a white woman travelin’ alone with an Injun.”

 

That night, James took the innkeeper’s sloop and sailed across the Chesapeake Bay to that part of the colony known as the Eastern Shore. It took him just three weeks of questioning planters and fishermen, and searching the beautiful wooded shoreline, to find Lacy Bennett’s hiding place on a river called the Choptank.

He knew he’d been successful when he came across the
Silkie
anchored in a secluded cove. James was securing the stolen sloop when Kutii hailed him from the rise. It was just breaking dawn over the treetops, and threads of iridescent purple and gold streaked the heavens.

“Jamesblack!” the Indian called. “We wait for you.” A pair of green-headed mallards rose squawking from the river as Kutii scrambled down the bank.

“I’ll just bet you have,” James replied, resting his right hand on his pistol. He’d lifted the flintlock from the Dancing Goat when he’d taken the sloop. The gun was tucked in his leather belt, loaded, primed, and ready to shoot if need be.

“Come,” Kutii said. He led James through a grove of beech trees and up onto higher ground. The Indian’s step was slow and deliberate, and he paused from time to time to cough.

James noticed how gray the man’s hair had become. He was much thinner than he’d been in the Caribbean, and his face had taken on many more age lines.

“Here,” Kutii said, pointing. In a small clearing stood a crude lean-to built of logs. “Star woman here.”

Cautiously, James followed the Indian into the dimly lit hut. It smelled of pine and sassafras and mint. Dried meat and several woven baskets hung from the ceiling rafters. There was a fire pit in the center of the room with a hole above to let out the smoke. The hard-packed floor was dirt.

From the shadows, James heard the angry hiss of a cat. One-eared Harry appeared, fur and tail fluffed out belligerently. Teeth bared, the tomcat darted between James’s legs and out the doorway.

The Incan coughed and cleared his throat. “He is here,” he said.

A woman pushed herself up from a pallet in the far corner. “James!” she cried. “Is that you?”

He braced himself against the almost overpowering urge to take her in his arms and crush her against him. His mouth ached to kiss her, and his fingers burned to feel the silken texture of her auburn hair. Instead, he forced his voice to censure. “You’re late, Lacy. The fifteenth of August, remember? You missed our rendezvous in St. Mary’s.”