Tender Fortune

by Judith E. French

  As if reading her mind, Jamie sat the tin cup of tea on a rock and pulled her into his arms. "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her hair, her eyelids. "I hurt you, and I'm sorry." Their lips met, and she hugged him as tight as she could.

  "I shouldn't have said what I did," Charity admitted. "Oh, Jamie, I love you so."

  Between kisses, he murmured, "And I you." He rocked her against his chest. "I do love you, Charity."

  Jamie spread a blanket beneath a massive beech tree, and they lay down together in the early morning mist. "You get some sleep, honey," he ordered. "You're exhausted. I'll keep watch."

  "Jamie, I..."

  "Shhh, do as I say. You need the rest." He covered her with his jacket. "Sleep now, just for a while."

  Despite her protests, Charity was asleep in minutes. Jamie held her in his arms, listening to the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Thoughtfully he reached out and fingered a stray lock of her flaxen hair. "Maybe I envy you that faith," he murmured. "The faith I'll never have."

  He woke her in midmorning and they rode on. At first Charity was so stiff and sore she thought she'd never last until noon, but after a few miles her muscles began to loosen up and she became aware of the beautiful country they were riding through.

  The land was mostly wooded, but occasionally they came upon a sunlit meadow frosted with late-blooming wild flowers. Once Charity caught sight of a fox trotting across a clearing, and the glossy fur was near enough to the color of Jamie's hair to have been cut from the same bolt of cloth.

  In early afternoon, he called a halt beside a wide, slow-flowing stream. "We'll camp here," he informed her. "There's bound to be some fish in that deep pool beyond the trees. I'll catch us a fish dinner."

  Thankful to be off the horse and sitting on solid ground, Charity watched as Jamie cut a thin branch and fastened his fishing line to the end of it. She sat on the mossy bank beneath the chestnut tree and dangled her bare feet in the water as he fished. The water was warm and felt heavenly. "Maybe this smuggler business isn't so bad after all," she teased. The water looked so inviting, she wondered if she dare ask Jamie if it was all right to take a bath.

  "I'm going to try around the bend. You can go for a swim if you like," he said.

  Unnerved by his mind reading, she flushed. "How do you do that?" she demanded. "Have you the sight?"

  He laughed. "Could be." A sudden tug on his line brought him to his feet with a cry of excitement. For the next few minutes, Jamie was completely absorbed in landing the trout. Even Charity was caught up in the tense battle between man and fish that ended only when the line snapped.

  "Damn." Jamie stared stupidly at the limp string. "Lost him. Three pounds at least. I knew I should have bought heavier line."

  "I'm glad he got away." Charity giggled. "He was probably a grandfather fish, tough as shoe leather."

  "What's this? A traitor in the camp? You were rooting for the fish all along! Admit it!"

  "I was." Charity's laughter was cut off as Jamie dropped the fishing pole and leaped on her, pinning her to the ground. Giving a fake growl, he nuzzled her neck. "Jamie, stop it," she protested.

  "You like fish so much," he said, "you can join them!" Scooping her up in his arms, he attempted to throw her into the water.

  Screaming, Charity clung to his neck. Her weight threw him off balance and they both tumbled into the stream. Splashing and gasping for air, Charity came to the surface, realizing, a little foolishly, that her feet were on the bottom.

  "Jamie! Jamie, where are you?"He caught her around the waist and pulled her under again. In a minute, they were wrestling and splashing each other like children.

  "You're insane," she taunted. "A crazy man! I've gone off into the wilderness with a crazy man!"

  "Crazy about you." Jamie captured her and pulled her close. The kiss began with laughter and deepened into something more. A weakness seized her limbs, and Charity let her weight go slack against him. Her lips opened to give access to his probing tongue; she felt his hands caressing her flesh through the thin material.

  Jamie cupped her face in his hands, kissing her eyelids, her cheeks and chin. He brushed aside the wet tendrils of hair to reach the warm places of her neck and earlobes. Pressing her against him, he turned her around so that his hands could stroke her breasts, teasing the nipples until they peaked into aching buds.

  "You have the sweetest bottom," he murmured, rubbing against it with his loins. One hand rose to slide the gown free from her shoulder.

  Quivers of excitement flowed down her body as Jamie kissed the exposed shoulder and the swelling of her breast. She could feel the growing hardness of his throbbing male sex.

  "First, I'm going to take off your clothes," he whispered in her ear. "And then..." His lips closed gently over a rosy pink nipple. His hands fumbled with the ties of her gown. "Then we'll see if you favor me or the fish."

  The dress floated away, followed by a torn undergarment. Charity clung to his neck as Jamie turned her again, lifting her, then drawing her down to encase his engorged manhood. She shuddered with delight, wrapping her legs around him, savoring the intensity of his passionate lovemaking.

  Jamie reached the peak of his desire first, and she knew the effort he made to bring her to the same pulsating joy. Her tears, hot and salt against his chest, were tears of happiness.

  He carried her out of the water and laid her on the blanket, drying her body tenderly with handfuls of grass. "I always wanted to make love to a mermaid," he teased, kissing first one pink nipple and then the other.

  Blushing, she turned her face away.

  "Look at me, Charity," he entreated. He wrapped his arms about her and buried his face in her damp hair. "Sweet Charity."

  She turned sea-green eyes, heavy-lidded with passion, up to his. "Do you love me, Jamie? Truly?"

  "Truly."

  Then why don't you ask me to marry you? The silent question caught in her throat. Why? Was it because of her birth? Or was she too poor?

  "Charity."

  "What?"

  "I'm wet."

  "And what am I supposed to do about it?"

  Jamie rolled over on his stomach, exposing lean buttocks and sinewy thighs. "Do you want me to catch a chill and die?"

  "No, but..." With a sigh, Charity picked up a handful of grass and began to rub his back.

  "Ummm, that feels good. A little lower:"

  Using both hands, she began to massage Jamie's lower back and bottom. His chuckle of pleasure and her own kindling desire left little doubt as to where this activity would lead. Charity pushed aside the inner doubts. Jamie had said he loved her, that was what counted. And if he loved her... in time he would make her his wife.

  * * *

  The journey into Pennsylvania took longer than Charity had imagined it could. How big was this country? She lost all track of direction and marveled that Jamie seemed to know where he was without map or road to guide him.

  "What are we carrying?" she had asked him finally. "Wouldn't it have been easier to take it by ship?"

  "Easier if Halifax hadn't thrown such a net around the Eastern Shore."

  "But what can you carry on two horses that could be worth so much trouble?" Jamie frowned, and she continued firmly.

  "My neck's as much at risk as yours and well you know it!" She laughed. "In for a penny, in for a pound!"

  "Samples, a trader's ware. A roll of silk, spices, silver earrings, shoe buckles, and ivory forks. The spices from Java are the most valuable. I've a ship off the Delaware coast waiting for the signal to roll her kegs ashore." He sighed. "Satisfied? Now you know enough to hang me a dozen times over."

  "I have for weeks." Charity reined her horse close enough to lay a hand on his sleeve. "You asked me to trust you, Jamie. Now I say the same to you. If there's no trust between us, there's nothing else. I'd not betray you, not if they branded me with hot irons... not if..."

  "Enough," he laughed. "You've convinced me. It's riches or gallows together. I had one woman a
s a partner, I guess I might as well have two." Her intense vow moved him more than he wanted to admit.

  "I have no wish to be your partner in any way save one," she assured him.

  He motioned her to rein in the big horse and he swung down from the saddle to tighten her cinch. "Didn't you notice it was loose?" he asked. "You could have taken a bad fall. Watch your horse's feet and your saddle. Your neck might depend on it."

  Charity fought the urge to run her hand through his soft hair as he stood beside her horse, intent on the cinch. There was a clean spicy smell about him that excited her. Her thoughts raced ahead to the night's camp and their time together by the fire. She felt the blood rise in her cheeks and she turned her face away so that he might not see. What kind of woman was she to revel in a man's lovemaking? Was it unnatural?

  Jamie grinned up at her and patted her knee. How handsome he was with his square chin and straight, well-formed nose. His mouth was perhaps a little wide, the lips full and sensual. No, she decided, his mouth was perfect. She sighed. Jamie was too good-looking! Women had thrown themselves at him all his life and would continue to do so.

  "How do you like the moccasins?" he asked.

  Charity wiggled her foot. It was encased in a soft leather shoe, almost a boot, that reached nearly to the knee. Jamie had bought them for her from a trapper and his Indian woman on the trail. Her own square-toed shoes had rubbed a blister on her foot the first day. "I think they're wonderful," she answered. "I love the flowers on the toe." Beadwork covered the top of her foot, blue and yellow petals carefully sewn onto the deerskin.

  She had been disappointed in the Indian woman—a squaw, Jamie had called her. She had looked just like anyone else in her homespun dress and shawl. She was as dark as a gypsy, but otherwise Charity could have passed her on the streets of London without a second look. She had expected feathers and paint at least.

  "You'll be able to buy yourself an armload of pretties with your share of this venture," Jamie teased as he swung back up on his horse.

  "I told you," she repeated. "I want no profit from your illegal smuggling."

  "You will," he promised, mischief twinkling in the cinnamon-brown eyes. "In time you will... it's a game, one that gets in the blood. And I fear you will be a very competent player."

  Chapter 11

  October found them traveling south from Philadelphia along the Delaware River. Charity wore the plain gray garb of a Quaker.

  "How can I be a Quaker?" she demanded of Jamie. "I don't know anything about them! What if someone asks me to pray?"

  "No one will ask you anything. You are dumb. You cannot speak a word. You have only to do as I tell you." Jamie's clothes were as sober as a judge's: black coat, gray wig, a wide-brimmed black hat, and black breeches and stockings. He walked with an affected limp and looked three stone heavier. The affliction was pretended, the extra poundage a length of crimson silk intended for the wife of a wealthy Kent County planter.

  The road they traveled was narrow and deeply rutted. Occasionally they caught sight of the broad river and sometimes a boat. For several miles the track had run through a forest. Overhead the trees were a rainbow canopy of red and orange and gold.

  "The leaves look like they've been painted by fairies." A heap of colored leaves lay in Charity's lap.

  "Be glad for the season. Mosquitoes would eat us alive in summer."

  "Have the leaves turned like this in Maryland?"

  "Aye. We have the same. There's a strip of woods on Bold Venture that runs down to the river. In autumn it looks like..." Jamie's voice grew husky, and he clicked to the team.

  "Go on," Charity urged. "What does it look like?"

  "Like a forest of gold."

  The horses had been traded for a team and wagon. Charity had gladly given up the bay gelding for the wagon seat, but she had not counted on the terrible condition of the roads.

  "Now you know why all the plantations are on water," Jamie explained. "In winter these roads are impassable."

  "If you ask me, they're impassable now!"

  Sometimes they had to get out and walk, and when Charity could ride, the wagon jolted her teeth and the team kicked up dust that covered her face and clothing.

  "I've swallowed a pound of dirt this morning," she grumbled. She wished they could have stayed in Philadelphia longer. Jamie had spent a day showing her the city. It was smaller than she had expected, but very different from London. She had even seen Indians! They were walking down the main street; one wore a bearskin twisted about his waist and his hair in a strip down the center of his skull.

  They had stayed first at an inn and later at the private home of a German merchant. Whenever they moved, Jamie had changed their names and identities, until she had become so confused she couldn't remember who she was supposed to be.

  The merchant's wife had introduced them to her neighbor. The older woman was hard of hearing and had asked Charity again what her name was.

  "Jane," Jamie answered quickly.

  "Sally," Charity had blurted out at the same time.

  The neighbor frowned, and Charity kicked Jamie's ankle under the cover of her skirt. "Sally Jane," Charity corrected "It's Sally Jane."

  "Coffin," Jamie finished. "Sally Jane Coffin."

  Charity shot daggers at him with her eyes. The last name had been bad enough—but Coffin? It gave her the shivers just thinking of it. Yet Sally Jane Coffin she had been, until he decided they must be Quakers and go to the lower counties themselves.

  Whatever she had expected, it wasn't what had actually happened. Jamie might have been a respectable businessman; the people he met and talked with seemed honest enough. No mention was ever made of contraband goods. She had not even seen the articles Jamie carried in his saddlebags.

  The man she had come to know on this journey was more complex than she had guessed he would be. Behind the handsome, laughing facade, real kindness existed, and caring, although he tried to hide them beneath a brittle, worldly exterior.

  And yet there was something within him she could not seem to reach... a bitter core. She brushed the leaves off her lap and onto the wagon floor and looked at him sideways through lowered lashes. Yes, Jamie had a fatalistic streak, a love of danger that might lead them both to a tragic end.

  The last few weeks together seemed unreal, as though they were playing some child's game. Yet it was real enough. The long arm of the King's justice was strong and swift.

  "We don't have to do this." She broke the silence softly. Jamie glanced down at her. "We could go back to Bold Venture and grow tobacco. Does it matter who owns the land if you have the use of it?"

  Jamie slapped the reins over the team. "It matters to me. A few more years and I can buy Bold Venture."

  "You may not live a few more months! Why can't you be content? You live like a lord!"

  The tanned cheeks tightened. "I live beyond my means as overseer. And there's a hell of a lot I don't know yet about tobacco growing."

  "But Elizabeth—"

  "Elizabeth started out with a great deal more money than Lord Gilbert is apt to leave me. And she still ended up as my partner. It's a fixed game, Charity. Some of these tobacco planters have been in debt for a hundred years." The brown eyes clouded. "The factor in London sells a man's tobacco for whatever he says the going rate is. By the time a farmer pays taxes, pays his factor and expenses, he's lucky to break even."

  "But tobacco's worth a fortune in England. Even I know that!"

  "Every cup, every ounce of tea, every shoe buckle, every hoe, every schoolbook and yard of cloth comes by ship from Mother England. We send her lumber, grain, flour, furs, tobacco, and God knows what else. She sets the price she'll pay for our goods and taxes dearly every scrap we receive. A man could triple his profit on a free market! If French or Dutch ships were allowed to purchase our tobacco..." He shrugged. "You can whistle down a well for that one. England wants only one thing from the Colonies. She'll squeeze the golden goose's neck until it's dead."

&nb
sp; "I know little of politics, Jamie. And I care less. It's you and me I'm concerned with. It frightens me to hear you talk so."

  "You would give King George the sweat of your brow?"

  Charity frowned, knowing full well he was taunting her with slippery words. "Talk won't change things. We're English and we owe the King his due. It's not like you were beggin' for a crust of bread. You're the Lord of Bold Venture. From what you say, your brother, Hugh Thomas, has never laid sight on it."

  Jamie reined in the horses and turned to face her. "My brother is an ass. He'll run through Lord DunCannon's fortune in ten years. But, even worse, he has a mean streak. And he hates me. I'll have nothing when he comes into his inheritance, not even the Drummond name if he can help it."

  "But he's your half brother. You've not seen him in years. He may have mellowed," she argued. "Surely your father..."

  "My father has a curious conscience." A flush crept across the tan. "When I was ten, he gave me a pony. It was a wild thing, half broken. One eye was blue, the other brown. He had bought it for Hugh Thomas, but the trainers were unable to make it safe for him to ride. The pony had a nasty habit of throwing his rider and then striking out with his front feet when you were on the ground. He bit and he kicked, and had a mouth like iron."

  "Not much of a gift for a boy, I'd say," Charity murmured.

  "Ah, but to me he was. The finest thoroughbred in Lord DunCannon's stable was nothing compared to my Merlin. Creamy gray he was, with a tail that hung to the ground and little ears like a fox. All one summer I fought him, and into the fall before he'd let me ride without first tossing me on my ear."

  "But you did tame him?"

  "More to say we tamed each other. I'd ride him from sunup to sundown, in rain and sleet and through the bitter winter days. He'd come when I called him, like a dog. I saved bits of bread to feed him as a treat, sprinkled with salt. He'd try to push his way into my mother's cottage to get at the morning baking."