Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  If she’d traded a superior bull for a dead man, she’d be the laughingstock of Maryland. She sighed. It wouldn’t do to let the big Scot die of his injuries, and it wouldn’t do at all to let him slip through her fingers. She’d had to post a bond with the sheriff, promising to be responsible for any harm he caused. And because she had no cash left, she’d promised payment from last fall’s tobacco crop—a crop that could well be at the bottom of the Atlantic.

  The ship that had carried her tobacco and the hope of Fortune’s Gift had sailed with the fleet for London in early November. Now she must wait as the other colonial tobacco planters waited. Three months there, if the weather was with the fleet and no pirates caught them. Another month or two, or even three, before the captains could set sail again for the Chesapeake. No way to tell if the price for tobacco was high or low, or if any of her precious crop was damaged by water on the journey.

  Bess paused in the open doorway and pursed her lips. Looking toward the river was wasted energy. It would be weeks yet before she would know if the best crop Fortune’s Gift had ever produced had snatched her from the jaws of poverty, or . . . she shook her head. She wouldn’t think or. Brow furrowed in thought, she walked on, out of the kitchen.

  She owed the merchants for the tobacco seed, and the ship’s owners for the cost of passage. Without the profit from her tobacco, the bond she’d given the sheriff for the convict would be worthless. Without hard cash and the supplies that money would buy, how could she keep her plantation workers and their families for another whole year? Where would she get seed for next year’s crop? How would she buy harness, and axes, and wool for winter coats?

  A prickly feeling at the nape of her neck caused Bess to glance back toward the open doorway. A ragged black tomcat sat there in a patch of sun, grooming his glossy fur. His eyes were squinted shut, and she could see the nub where his left ear should have been. The light was so bright that Bess blinked, and when she looked again, the cat had vanished.

  “So you’re back, are you, you old rascal,” she murmured. He looked good, considering his age. She hoped he wouldn’t cause too much concern among the maids. “Try and stay out of trouble, Harry,” she admonished the empty doorway.

  Continuing on toward the barn, her mood lightened. Maybe Kincaid had told the truth, she thought. She’d ask the sheriff to inquire with Joan Pollott about her mare Ginger. If they could locate her, Bess would demand her return. After all, a person shouldn’t have to buy back her own stolen property—should she?

  A lad leading a red-and-white ox passed her. The boy ducked his head and tugged at his shaggy forelock. “Mornin’, Miss Bess,” he said shyly.

  “Good morning, Vernon,” she answered. Vernon was the youngest son of her blacksmith, a steady youth—even if he had no head for letters. One of her ideas that her overseer had objected to had been to open a plantation school for her workers’ children.

  Vernon had been like most of them. He far preferred running errands for his father or working in the forge to book learning. Of the original twenty-three children she’d assembled for daily lessons, only five had continued with their studies. Now Bess held school two afternoons a week in the library of the manor house. Those who did come were rewarded by a special noon meal topped off with a sweet baked especially for the little ones by Deaf Donald. If the children came because of the treats and learned to read in the process, Bess would be satisfied.

  A woman shooing a flock of geese and a man carrying wood greeted her as she neared the barn. This was the busiest time of day, and most of her people were in the fields. Tobacco required daily cultivation to keep out the weeds. It was hard, dirty work when the plants were young, but it was a task that must be adhered to or they’d lose the crop before it matured. The best time to pull weeds was early in the morning, before the sun made the fields too hot to work.

  Tobacco was her main cash crop, but not the only one. She grew corn and wheat and hay on Fortune’s Gift, as well as vegetables, and flax for weaving into cloth. She kept a full timber crew and an army of carpenters, herdsmen, and hunters. Also, she owned several small fishing boats. They caught fish and crabs and eels to add to the daily diet of her employees. Extra fish were dried and salted by women and packed in barrels for shipment to England. There was a dairy, a sheepfold, a weaving shed, and a brick kiln. Fortune’s Gift was as self-sufficient a plantation as Bess could make it. But no matter how hard she tried, there were always things that must be purchased from London at high prices.

  Such was a planter’s life, she thought, and smiled. It was all she knew, and all she wanted to know. Not for her was her father’s life of sailing to strange lands. She was happiest here, her hands covered with good tidewater dirt and her eyes resting on the ripening crops. The land was her legacy, one she meant to pass down to future generations.

  “If I can only hang on to it,” she said softly as she put her hand on the barn-door latch.

  The nearest guard looked up as she entered the shadowy building. He was armed with a flintlock musket and a hunting knife. “We’re keepin’ a good eye on him, Miss Bess. He ain’t moved an inch since we laid him down.”

  She nodded her approval. “Don’t relax your vigilance, Ben. In England, they say Kincaid killed three soldiers.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He colored. “I mean, no, ma’am, I won’t. If he tries anything with me, he’ll be sorry.”

  She walked past Ben toward the far corner of the barn. Despite her uneasiness at the confrontation ahead, Bess felt the spell of the barn slip over her and she breathed deep of the familiar odors of grain and animals. The air was heady with the scent of sweet clover hay the workers had forked into the loft the week before. She could smell the fresh-raked earth beneath her feet and the bite of vinegar that the grooms had added to the horses’ water barrels.

  Only one horse remained inside the barn this morning, a roan mare Bess had been treating for a split hoof. As she passed the horse’s stall, the animal nickered to her. Bess paused long enough to grab a handful of wheat from a feed bin and offer it to her. The mare took the grain daintily, licking Bess’s fingers with a raspy tongue. “Good girl,” Bess soothed. “Good Jeanie.” She bent and kissed the mare’s velvety nose and ran a hand along her fine neck. “We’ll have you fit as a fiddle in no time.”

  Bess had always loved the smell of a clean stable. Horses had always been a passion with her. Her grandfather had taught her to ride when she was three, and after that he always knew where to find her. If she wasn’t on horseback, she would be in the stable following the grooms around and begging them to saddle a mount for her. And sometimes, she just sat quietly in the corner of a stall and talked to the horses and other animals.

  She patted Jeanie a last time and went down the passageway to the secure box stall where Kincaid lay. She waved aside the second bondman’s protest and went inside. “Close the door,” she ordered. “I’ll call you if I need you, Ned. And don’t bring that gun in here around Kincaid.”

  The Scot lay facedown on a clean blanket atop a pallet, seemingly unconscious. He wore only his breeches and boots. If he’d possessed a shirt, there was no sign of it now.

  Bess winced when she saw his back. It looked worse now than it had immediately after the lashing. Black streaks of blood had dried on the lacerated wounds, and the waist of his breeches was stained with dark spots. One place, the whip had cut through his flesh nearly to the bone.

  God help me, she thought. I did this.

  “Be careful, Miss Bess,” Ned called.

  His words reminded her of her duty. “Bring me water and clean cloths,” she instructed him. “I want salt in the water. You can use horse salt, so long as it’s clean. And I’ll need some of that salve I used on Jeanie’s split hoof.”

  Kincaid opened his eyes and turned his head to glare at her. “What do ye here?” he rasped. “Come to finish me off?” Again she heard the deep burr of the Highlands in his voice, and again she felt that strange flutter in the pit of her belly.


  “No,” she answered sternly. “I’ve come to make sure your wounds don’t fester. You’re of no use to me if you die or become a cripple.”

  He made a move to sit up, then gasped and fell back on his pallet. His tanned face paled to tallow gray, and she saw the muscles flex along his jaw.

  “Are you in much pain?” she asked, then realized how foolish her question must sound.

  “I’ve been better.”

  She walked toward him cautiously. His right hand was fastened to the wall by a chain, but his left was free. She took care not to come within his reach. “I’m going to wash your back,” she said. “If you lie perfectly still, it will be easier on you.”

  “Easy for ye to say,” he taunted her.

  Her chest felt tight, and it was hard for her to breathe. What was it about this convict that disturbed her so? She had tended men and animals since she was a child; her grandmother had said she had the hands for it.

  “Where’s your husband?” he demanded. “If ye were my wife, ye’d not—”

  “ ‘Tis none of your business,” she snapped. “And I’d not be wife to the likes of you, so there’s naught but nonsense in your talk.”

  “Only an Englishman would be such a fool as to allow his woman—”

  “I have no husband,” she declared. “Nor am I like to choose one.”

  He scoffed, twisting his head so that he could stare at her boldly with nutmeg-brown eyes. “I should have guessed. Not even an Englishman would take such a harridan to wife. Now that I look at ye, I see that ye are long in the tooth-past the age of wedding.”

  Heat flamed in her face. “Hold your tongue,” she said, “or I’ll fill your mouth with soap. My age is none of your business.” She was but four and twenty. Many a maid didn’t wed until later than that. Still, his remark stung and she felt anger coil in her chest. “I’ve come to give you aid, not listen to your insults.”

  The stall door opened and Ned entered, carrying a bucket of water and the rags she had asked for. “I kin do thet, Miss Bess,” he said in his slow way. “It ain’t fittin’—”

  “I’ll say what’s fitting on Fortune’s Gift,” she reminded him. He nodded respectfully and handed her the can of salve. “That will be all,” she said.

  Ned tapped the knife at his waist. “Keep them hands to yourself, pirate,” he warned Kincaid. “You lay a hand on the mistress, and I’ll cut you—”

  “That will be all, Ned,” she repeated. “Close and lock the door behind you.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Do ye always take such chances with wild animals?” Kincaid asked sarcastically.

  “Animals have more sense. They know when someone is trying to help them.” She wet a cloth in the salt water. “This will sting,” she said.

  “Aye,” he said, “I thought it might.”

  “Turn over and lie still.”

  “Aye, mistress.”

  It was easier to approach him when he looked away. She knew that, even badly injured, he could be dangerous. He was a big man, and powerful; his sinewy shoulders were wider even than her father’s. His waist was narrow, his belly flat. His muscular thighs . . . She shook her head. What had come over her, that she was having lustful thoughts about a servant’s body?

  She nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. Could this be the man whose coming her grandmother had foretold?

  A man of war will come in a time of great need, Mama had said so many years ago. A strong man with fair hair and dark eyes. And when he comes, you’ll know him, Bess. You’ll know him.

  Bess brushed aside Kincaid’s hair. It was dirty and matted with mud, but strands of it caught the light. It’s the color of ripe wheat, she thought. When she pushed it away, it sprang back and curled around the back of his neck.

  . . . a fair-haired man . . .

  For an instant, her fingers touched his skin, and it seemed to Bess as though she’d been jolted by lightning. She drew back her hand in shock as the tingling ran up her arm and made gooseflesh rise.

  He’s only a man, she thought. Just a runaway bondman . . . an outlaw. But her heart beat faster and her mouth went dry. Could he be the one?

  “Get on with it, woman,” Kincaid growled.

  “Be still!” With trembling hands, she took the wet cloth and wiped gently at the bloody welts. She heard his sharp intake of breath and jumped back.

  “Dammit, woman,” he said, “do it and be done with.”

  “Remember your place, convict,” she admonished.

  “I’ll remember,” he promised. “And I’ll remember who laid the stripes in my flesh.”

  She rinsed the cloth and the water turned pink. “The salt will keep the wounds from turning bad,” she explained to him. His grunt was noncommittal. She repeated the process again, and when she was satisfied that the torn flesh was clean, she stitched the bad spot, rubbed the wounds with an Indian remedy she’d brought from the house, and, finally, coated his entire back with the horse salve.

  “You must stay on your stomach,” she ordered. “It will heal faster if I don’t cover it with cloth.” She cleaned her hands as best she could. “Are you hungry?”

  As she was turning away, his left hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She stifled a scream of fear.

  “Aye, I’m hungry.” He pulled her close to his face. “Will ye prepare a meal for me with your own hands, Englishwoman? And if ye do, will it be poison?”

  Bess grabbed the small wooden bucket and raised it over his head. “Let me go,” she warned, “or I’ll brain you. So help me God, I will.”

  He laughed and released her.

  Shaken, she backed away. Her wrist throbbed and she looked down at it, half expecting the skin to show some sign of bruising. “Take no liberties with me, Scotsman,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll tolerate none from the likes of you.”

  “Won’t you? I wonder what kind of woman takes pleasure in lifting the skin from a man’s back with her own hands?”

  “I took no pleasure in it,” she replied. “But I guard my own. I warned you when you stole my mare. I’ll not be bullied by any man.”

  “Why did ye do it?”

  “I just told you. I—”

  “Nay! Not that. Why did you buy my contract? What woman’s fancy would make ye risk so much money when none knew if I’d ever be captured?”

  “ ‘Tis my affair,” she answered. “And not for you to know. At least . . .” She hesitated. “At least not yet.”

  “Aye, so ye say,” he retorted. “But this much I will tell ye. I will not forget the pleasure we shared, and the day will come when—”

  “Enough!” she cried. “Hold your tongue, lest I call my blacksmith and have it cut out. You are my bondman, my property. You will do as I say, when I say. And if you ever have a hope of walking free again, you’d best remember that.”

  Without giving him time to reply, she whirled around and called loudly for Ned. He threw open the door immediately. “Keep close watch on him,” she warned. “For I’ll have the neck of any man who lets him escape.”

  Still trembling inside, she hurried back toward the house. This Kincaid couldn’t be the man her grandmother had seen in her vision. He could never be trusted. He was dangerous. If she had the sense of a hound pup, she’d sell him across the bay as soon as his wounds healed.

  “I will,” she declared. “I’ll not add Kincaid to my troubles.” But even as she mouthed the words, the image of his craggy face and square chin rose in her mind’s eye, and she knew that she wouldn’t let go of him so easily.

  “Lucifer he may be,” she murmured. “But if I attempt what I’ve dreamed of, it may be that a devil is exactly what I need.”

  Chapter 3

  May 1725

  Bess sat at a table in her bedchamber as a late-night thunderstorm rolled over the Eastern Shore. Lightning flashed to the west, and the first patters of rain were beginning to tap against her windows. She wore nothing but a silk dressing gown. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and her
feet were bare. A letter lay on the polished wood before her, and beside it was a small leather-bound journal.

  She picked up the letter and read it through one last time, then crumpled it and threw it into the cold fireplace. She didn’t need to see the words to remember the message. . . . We regret to inform you of the loss of our vessel Cecilia Rose with all hands and cargo off the coast of . . .

  Bess clasped her hands together and tried to conquer her panic. Her tobacco crop was gone. All the sweat and days of toil had come to nothing. William Myers and Son was demanding payment for the shipping, and she had just learned that her father had taken out a loan with them to assist in outfitting his own trading expedition to China. He had secured the loan with the title to a large section of Fortune’s Gift.

  “How could you do it, Father?” she whispered huskily. “How could you gamble our land on a voyage to the ends of the earth?”

  The candle flame flickered, and a breath of cool air stirred the room. Bess raised her eyes from the table to gaze at the figure standing in the far corner of the room. “Ah.” She exhaled softly. “Kutii.”

  The Indian didn’t speak, but somehow, his presence was comforting. Bess moistened her lips and waited.

  Thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain beat harder against the glass. Words Bess had never wanted to speak spilled out in the shadowy bedchamber. “Why isn’t Father ever here when I need him?”

  She loved him dearly. No girl could have a more loving, indulgent parent. He had carried her on his shoulders when she was little, laughed and played with her, and listened to her childish secrets. He’d taken her on his ship to Philadelphia, to Boston, and even to Williamsburg. He’d showered her with gifts, and he’d never forgotten to bring her something special when he returned from a voyage. Never once had he blamed her for not being the male heir Fortune’s Gift needed. And he had encouraged her to use her mind and her talents to do anything a boy could.