A GOLDEN MAN TO SEEK A GOLDEN FORTUNE
“You do look like a pirate, you know,” Bess said.
“And you look like a wanton.”
Bess felt herself flush with anger. “Perhaps we are neither of us what we seem. It is your sword arm I wish to hire, nothing else.”
He grinned wolfishly. “Good. For as well formed as ye may be, I’ve no interest in any lass who fancies herself a man.”
“Are you always so crude?”
“Aye. Ye may as well get used to it, for I step aside for no man, and I take sass from no woman.”
Books by
Judith E. French
MOONFEATHER
HIGHLAND MOON
MOON DANCER
SHAWNEE MOON
FORTUNE’S MISTRESS
FORTUNE’S FLAME
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
FORTUNE’S FLAME
JUDITH E. FRENCH
eKensington
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
A GOLDEN MAN TO SEEK A GOLDEN FORTUNE
Books by
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
For our beloved daughter, Debbie,
who taught me so much about determination, courage,
and a mother’s love.
Your father and I are so proud of you.
There is nothing more painful than the insult to human dignity, nothing more humiliating than servitude.
Human dignity and freedom are our birthright. Let us defend them or die with dignity.
CICERO
Prologue
Maryland’s Eastern Shore
December 1724
“If that murderer crosses my path, I’ll see him in hell or Virginia—whichever’s closest!”
Bold words, and worthy of the mistress of Fortune’s Gift, she thought. But it was one thing to utter them in the warmth of a friend’s cabin, and quite another to consider her bravado as she rode home alone. Here, on this dark trail, her rash boast rang hollow.
Bess, Lady Elizabeth Lacy Bennett, shivered in the raw wind and hunched low over her mare’s neck, shielding her eyes against the needles of driving sleet. The flintlock pistol tucked inside her coat was cold and hard—a constant reminder of the threat that caused her to carry a lethal weapon on her own land.
The mare flattened her ears against her head and quickened her pace on the icy dirt lane. Bess patted the horse’s neck and spoke soothingly to her. “Easy, Ginger. You’re as anxious to be out of this weather as I am, aren’t you?”
The animal snorted and shied sideways at a tumbling branch. Bess’s heart rose in her throat, but she moved instinctively with the horse, keeping her balance despite her fright. Chuckling at her own foolishness, she hugged the mare. “Now I’m starting at shadows,” she murmured. “Like as not, that escaped convict is across the bay and moving west as fast as his feet will take him.”
Nevertheless, she wished that she’d waited for her overseer, Tom, to return before she’d set out to help with the delivery of Sally Walker’s baby. Since Mabel had died of old age, there was no midwife within thirty miles. Sally was past thirty and had nothing to show for fifteen years of marriage but three stillborn infants. The Walkers were good neighbors, and it would have taken a crueler heart than hers to deny Sally a woman’s aid.
Bess smiled as she remembered the lusty cry of young Moses Walker. Whatever had taken the lives of Sally’s earlier babes, this boy-child was fat and strong. He weighed as much as Alice Horsey’s twin girls put together.
“This one will live to cause you gray hairs,” Bess had promised Sally. Her friend’s joyous expression as she looked down into the round face of a living son had made Bess’s journey worthwhile.
Sally’s husband, Big Moses, had offered to escort her home. “It’s not safe fer a lady to be out at night,” he’d said. “Not wit dat wild man on the loose.”
She’d not wished Sally to be left alone so soon after childbirth, so she’d refused his company. “I’ll be fine,” she’d assured him. “These two need your attention more than I do.”
Big Moses’ brown face would have been a comfort to her now, she thought as she summoned up the image of his muscular shoulders and huge hands that could drive a broadax through oak logs for ten hours at a stretch. Not even an escaped convict would dare to accost her with Big Moses at her side.
The wind shrieked through the trees, and Bess’s teeth began to chatter. It was unlike her to be so fearful; she’d ridden the plantation alone since she was a child, both day and night and in all kinds of weather. But tonight . . . She shivered and wiped melting ice off her face with the back of a gloved hand. Tonight she couldn’t shake a premonition of impending danger.
“Shades of my grandmother,” she murmured to herself. Patting Ginger’s neck again, she raised her voice and spoke bravely to the horse. “Not far now, girl. Once we’re through this stretch of woods—”
An unholy war cry rent the night.
Ginger reared up on her hind legs and before Bess could react, a heavy weight struck her and knocked her out of the saddle onto the frozen ground. Her chin slammed against the road, and for an instant, she lay there stunned. The weight rolled off her, and a shadow lunged toward the shying horse.
“Whoa!”
Bess’s mind cleared. Someone was trying to steal her horse! She reached for her pistol and realized that she’d lost it in the fall. “Take your thieving hands off my mare!” she yelled as she scrambled to her feet and launched herself at the bandit’s back.
“What the—” The outlaw’s protests were cut off as Bess locked her hands around his neck. She tried to encircle his waist with her legs, but the bulk of her riding skirt made it impossible. He slammed an elbow into her middle, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped and tumbled backward.
The man caught one dangling rein. Ginger reared up again, then whirled and kicked at him. Bess recovered and dove at the backs of his knees. He went down and she hit him as hard as she could with her fists.
He was still holding the mare’s rein. Bess jerked the leather from his hand and ran toward her horse. She’d got one foot in the stirrup when he seized her shoulder and yanked her around. He drew back a fist to strike her, then stopped and let out a yelp of laughter.
“A lass, by God!” He locked one arm around her waist and dragged her, kicking and punching, away from the horse.
“Let go of me!” she screamed. He loomed over her, taller by a head than she was, and as strong as an ox. Hitting him was as useless as striking a barn door. She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but a mass of fair, tangled hair hung loose to his shoulders, giving him a savage appearance.
“Aye, lass, I’ll let go o’ ye, as soon as ye quit knockin’ hell out o’ me.”
His heavy Scots burr penetrated her anger, and Bess’s heart sunk to her boots. There was no doubt in her mind that this
was the escaped convict whom half the Tidewater had been hunting. A yellow-haired Scotsman, they’d said, standing six feet tall.
She drew in a shuddering breath and stopped struggling.
“That’s better,” he said. “I mean ye no harm, woman, but I have grave need of your horse.”
“You’ll hang for this. Do you know who I am?”
“I care not. You’re English, and that’s all that matters,” he said harshly.
He loosened his grip on her waist, and she broke free and backed away from him. She’d bitten her lip when she’d fallen from the horse, and she tasted the salt of blood in her mouth. She was so frightened she could hardly get her breath, but the thought of this brute stealing Ginger made her forget her fear. “She’s mine, and I won’t let you have her,” she retorted. “I raised her from a foal.”
“It’s my neck or your mare.” He shrugged and spread his hands palms up.
Bess swallowed hard and she noticed an iron manacle fastened around one sinewy wrist. She took another step backward and the heel of her boot struck something hard on the trail. Her pistol? Her long riding habit covered the object; tentatively, she nudged it.
“You’ll nay hold it against me if I choose my own life,” he continued. His deep voice rumbled up from a broad chest as arrogantly as though he owned the ground he stood on and she was the intruder.
She faced him squarely. “Surrender yourself, sir. If you come peaceably with me, I’ll see you have a fair trial.”
He laughed. “Before my hanging?”
“Who are you?” She stalled, playing for time. Perhaps Big Moses had followed her . . . or maybe Tom would ride back this way. She listened, hoping against hope that she would hear hoofbeats on the frozen road.
But the only thing she heard was the mocking cry of the winter wind, rattling through the branches overhead.
“I’ve nay time for games, lass. Ye ken well enough who I be.”
“Kincaid.”
“Aye.”
She nodded. “Your reputation goes before you, sir. Since it’s you, then I suppose I must—” She dropped to one knee and grabbed the pistol. Raising the weapon, she took aim at the center of his chest and squeezed the trigger. The recoil of the flintlock slammed her backward. Before she could recover, Kincaid’s fist smashed into her wrist, knocking the pistol from her hand.
She gasped as pain shot up her arm. Her first thought was that he’d broken her hand; her second was that she had missed and now he would kill her.
“Ye shot me,” he said.
She realized that he was clutching his shoulder. “I didn’t shoot straight enough,” she dared.
He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on her face. “I choked the life from the last man who took a shot at me,” he said.
She was inches from the bullet wound. She could smell the sickly-sweet scent of his blood as it seeped down the front of his filthy shirt. The realization that he wasn’t wearing a coat on this bitter night flashed across her numbed mind, and i for the barest instant, she felt pity for him.
“‘Tis said that Englishwomen are as hardhearted as their men,” he whispered. “Mayhap ’tis true.” He pulled her head back. “I gave my word not to harm ye,” he rasped, “but I’ll take a toll for the gift you’ve give me. A kiss, so that ye won’t forget our meeting.” He leaned down and covered her mouth with his.
She braced herself for a crude assault, but to her surprise, his kiss was as tender as it was provocative. Her eyes widened in shock as his fingers loosened their grip on her hair to caress the back of her neck. She felt a flush of heat wash up to the roots of her scalp, then rush down through her chest and midsection to curl her toes. A dizzy sensation unlike anything she’d ever experienced made the earth tilt beneath her.
Instinctively, she grabbed hold of him to keep herself from falling. He was still kissing her, and she knew that she should be fighting him . . . should resist his unwanted attack. But the warm pressure on her lips was as heady as the smell of new-plowed fields in March. And to her horror, she found that she was no longer a passive participant in his embrace—she was kissing him back.
“Perhaps they were wrong,” he said. His low chuckle as he pushed her away brought her crashing back to the reality of what she’d done. “Perhaps not all English lasses are cold-natured. A pity I’ve not the time to stay and prove them wrong.”
Bess wiped her tingling lips with a trembling hand. “Don’t take my horse,” she warned him. “I’ll hunt you down if you do. I swear I will.”
He bent and retrieved her pistol and tucked it into his waist. “Tell your menfolk to keep a better watch over ye. Every escaped felon may nay be as forgivin’ as I am.” He seized Ginger’s reins and swung up onto her back.
“Don’t do it, Kincaid!” Bess cried. “I’ll have the hide from your back, so help me God!”
He yanked the mare’s head around and drove his heels into her sides. She leaped forward, and Kincaid’s laughter floated back to Bess on the wind.
Chapter 1
Fortune’s Gift
Maryland’s Eastern Shore
April 1725
“God save us, mistress,” Tom Purse said as Bess took the coiled cattle whip from his hands. “Ye can’t mean to deliver the punishment yerself.”
Bess slid the braided black leather between her gloved fingers and swallowed the rising lump in her throat. “I gave the sentence. If I truly mean to be mistress of this plantation, then I must be woman enough to administer the beating.”
The two were standing near the back door of the brick manor house in the early hours of a bright spring dawn. A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney of the summer kitchen, and Bess could smell the cook’s freshly baked beaten biscuits cooling on a windowsill. From the barnyard, a cow lowed. The answering bawl of her hungry calf was nearly drowned out by the raucous crowing of a rooster.
“Aaah,” the overseer muttered, seemingly oblivious of the morning sounds and smells of the awakening plantation. “ ‘Tis bad business, this. If yer father was here . . .”
Bess’s blue eyes met the older man’s faded gray ones with stubborn determination. “But Papa’s not here, Tom, and that’s the problem. It’s been three years since he sailed for the China Seas. We have to face the fact that he might not be coming back. And if I can’t live up to my responsibilities, he may not have a plantation to come back to. I could well lose Fortune’s Gift and everything my family put into this land.”
Tom scowled and scuffed his feet on the ground as he rolled the brim of his worn cocked hat between callused hands. “It still ain’t fittin’, Miss Bess.”
She sniffed. “Was it fittin’ for this convict to attack me on my own property? To steal Ginger—the best horse we ever foaled here?”
Tom shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t,” Bess said sharply. “And now this . . . Kincaid will pay for his crimes.”
“Better ye’d let the high sheriff take him to Annapolis and hang him.”
“I can’t stand waste,” she replied. “You know that, Tom. He was sentenced to transportation for forty years. Hang him and he doesn’t serve another day’s labor.” Her lips firmed. “I mean to see Kincaid doesn’t get off so easy.”
Tom jammed his hat back on his head. “I’d as soon buy a rogue bull as bring a Scot rebel on Fortune’s Gift,” he protested. “Murderin’ savages, the lot of them. Indentured servants is all bad luck. Blacks is the thing. Slaves do what they’re told, when they’re told. White bondmen are nothin’ but trouble.”
It was an effort for Bess to keep her voice from revealing her exasperation. “We’ve gone over this a hundred times,” she said. “So long as I’m mistress here, we’ll have no slaves on this plantation.” Unconsciously, she gripped the whip tighter in her hands. “Free men work harder, regardless of the color of their skin.”
“Your father didn’t think so.”
“My father and I don’t alway
s agree on everything. And he’s not here. I am.” She exhaled softly through clenched teeth. Why this morning? she agonized. Why must they have the same argument over and over?
Well, she thought, it would have to be said. No matter what the consequences, she’d have to make her position plain to Tom. “If you’d remain on Fortune’s Gift as my overseer,” she said flatly, “you’d best remember that you’re not dealing with David Bennett, you’re dealing with me.”
“Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t,” he replied. “I ain’t too old to find another place. Willem Steele, over to Chestertown, he’s made me offers.” Tom’s small eyes narrowed to slits in his seamed face. “Ye had no right to free them slaves once yer father’s back was turned.”
“I had the right.” Bess’s stomach turned over. She’d known Tom disapproved of her, but he’d never been so disrespectful before. “My father gave me the right when he put Fortune’s Gift in my name.”
“More fool him. He spoiled ye because he had no son. There’ll be hell to pay if he does come home. Half the troubles on this plantation come from your flighty female ideas.”
For a moment, she almost backed down. Losing Tom as her overseer would be a terrible blow to the plantation. He was an honest man and he’d served her father well. A few words of apology would placate him, but when she opened her mouth to say them, they stuck in her throat. “Since you feel that way, Tom,” she said with more resolution than she felt, “maybe you’d better consider Mr. Steele’s position. There’s no better overseer on the Eastern Shore, but I’ll not be gainsaid by my own help.”
“Ye mean to go through with this? To whip Kincaid yerself?”
She stiffened. “I do.”
“Then I wash my hands of ye and Fortune’s Gift. I’ll pack my gear and be off the place by Sunday noon.”
“If that’s your decision. I’ll have your wages ready.”
“Hard silver.”
Fortune's Flame Page 1
