Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  And the familiar pain was right there waiting to stab through him with exquisite, twisting torture. Pretty, fair-haired Gillian, with her delicate features and fey sea-green eyes. She was a lithe fairy of a thing, weighing barely six stone, but she was all woman, and as sweetly shaped as any soldier’s dream of paradise. Soft-spoken and demure, she wasn’t the type to argue with a man, and she was always ready and willing for a lusty roll beneath the blankets or under a sheltering hedgerow.

  Fool that he’d been, he’d fallen head over heels for her the first moment he’d laid eyes on her selling butter at a village fair, and he’d risked life and limb to court her against her family’s will. He’d been determined to have her at any cost, and Gillian’s price was a ring on her middle finger and marriage lines in a parson’s black book.

  He’d believed her an angel, yet they’d not been wed three weeks when she miscarried of another man’s babe.

  He’d cursed and threatened to leave her, and she’d wept and pleaded rape. She’d sworn to him in Saint Andrew’s kirkyard that she’d never imagined she was with child from her brutal assailant’s attack. He’d accepted her story because he wanted to . . . because he couldn’t look into those misty green eyes and believe her guilty of deceit. He’d put his faith and hope in her because Gillian was the first decent thing he’d ever had that was his . . . the first woman who had ever made him feel like he belonged to someone and something.

  Suddenly, he’d been the head of a family, not just a woods’ colt without father, or mother, or kin. And for the first time, he began to dream of a future that consisted of something more than selling his sword to the highest bidder.

  For four years he’d been blind to the rumors about his pretty little wife; he’d fought duels and put two brave men in early graves for sullying her honor. Then one night when the Highland moon rose as fat and round as a newly minted silver penny, he’d found his best friend, Robbie Munro, in Gillian’s bed. And she’d taunted him with the news that the child she was swelling with belonged to another man. . . .

  Sweet Mother of God. Kincaid shut his eyes and tried to will away the image of Gillian’s blood-streaked face. She was as dead as Robbie Munro had been after he’d driven a broadsword through Robbie’s chest, but her screams haunted his dreams on nights when the moon glowed full and shimmering-white.

  An owl hooted from a tree nearby and Kincaid’s mare tensed and quick-stepped sideways. “Hist, now, hinney,” he soothed. He twisted in the saddle to look back at Bess. Her horse lunged forward, eyes white-rimmed, ears back, and muscles tightly bunched. “Whoa,” he said. “Be ye all right?” he asked Bess.

  She tightened her reins to keep the mare from spooking. “I was asleep,” she admitted. Her heartbeat quickened. She knew how close she’d come to losing her seat when her mount had shied. Her face grew hot. “I’m fine,” she said brusquely.

  “We can stop and rest a bit if ye want.”

  “I said, I’m fine.”

  “I thought to ride all night and sleep in daylight .”

  “What else?”

  “What did ye say?”

  “Nothing.” She settled herself firmly into the saddle, ignoring the mosquito that buzzed around her head. It had been a dry summer, so the mosquitoes hadn’t been much of a nuisance this year. She had a suspicion all that would change when they got to Panama.

  The insects drive us to distraction, her grandfather’s journal had read. All manner of biting, boring, stinging creatures abound in this godforsaken jungle, making sleeping, eating, and sometimes even breathing impossible. Men claw at their flesh until they bleed, and one of our mules was tormented to the point of dashing headlong into a river where it was devoured alive by crocodiles.

  Bess shuddered at the thought and hoped Papa James had exaggerated about the appetite of the insects:

  “It is true,” Kutii said, appearing without warning beside her.

  “I thought maybe you’d deserted me,” she whispered.

  “What?” Kincaid asked.

  The Indian matched her mare’s pace, striding easily along beside Bess. She noticed he had slung a short, oddly shaped bow and a quiver of feathered arrows over one shoulder. “I will never leave you,” he said. “I promised your grandmother, the Star Woman. You are the hope of my ancestors.”

  Bess nodded. “Umm-hum. Well, right now the hope of your ancestors would give an acre of prime tobacco land for eight hours’ sleep.”

  “The journey is long. You will toughen to it.”

  The mosquito lit in the center of Bess’s forehead and bit. She smacked it. Her mare pricked up her ears, reacting to Kutii’s presence. Tossing her head nervously, she arched her neck and danced sideways. Bess could smell the fear radiating from her glossy hide. “Don’t scare my horse,” she cautioned the Indian. “She nearly dumped me on my bottom back—”

  “Who the hell are ye talkin’ to?” Kincaid demanded.

  “Kutii.”

  The Scotsman reined his horse up short. “Who the hell is Kutii?” He pulled a pistol from his belt and cocked it. The snap of the steel rang loud in the quiet of the forest.

  “Just a ghost,” she answered mildly.

  “Now I know ye’ve been too long without sleep,” he grumbled. He stared around suspiciously, then dug his heels into his mount again. “Try and contain your jests until we are well away from that sheriff, if ye please. Ye stand to lose a few hundred acres of your precious plantation, but I could lose my neck.”

  “No sense of humor,” Bess whispered to Kutii.

  The Indian made no reply, and she sensed his disapproval. Kutii could be doggedly stubborn when he wanted to. He liked the Scot, and he thought she didn’t trust Kincaid enough.

  Bess sniffed. Kutii was right. She didn’t trust the convict, but then Kincaid didn’t trust her either. And if he knew that she was relying on a ghost to show her where the treasure was buried, he’d probably drown her in the first sinkhole they came to.

  The story she’d told the Scot about burning the pages containing the location of the treasure was a gilded lie. Her grandfather hadn’t written down the directions. She supposed he always intended to tell someone where it was, but his death had been quick and clean. Papa James had passed away in his sleep without having had a chance to relay the vital information. Now the only one who knew where the gold was was Kutii, an Indian who had been dead for years.

  As if reading her thoughts, Kutii spoke again. “I will not fail you, little Bess. You are bound to me and mine by a bond stronger than blood and older than time. Would I forget the pain of seeing my wife and daughter cut down by the Spanish soldiers? Could a slight thing like death keep me from remembering the wailing of the women and the weight of the chains that sent me to my knees in shame? I, Pacha Kutii, hereditary guardian to the treasure of the Incas and protector of the royal line of women, did not die a warrior’s death as a soldier should. Instead, I lived. I was made a slave and forced to carry the treasure I once guarded out of our hidden valley and over the mountains to a Spanish ship.”

  Bess listened with her heart as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Some of this she had heard as a child, but she had always believed it was a fairy tale, like Kutii’s legend of the Incan soldier and the woman from the stars who could swim with the dolphins. Kutii had always been so much a part of her life that she was nearly ten before she realized that most people didn’t see or talk to ghosts, and that speaking about him to adults was dangerous.

  “We sailed north on the salt sea your people call the Pacific,” Kutii continued, “but I did not see the green water or the blue heavens. I was bound hand and foot in the stinking bowels of the ship, with rats and crawling creatures for companions, and the memory of my dead loved ones to keep me from sleep. My tongue swelled to fill my mouth, but I did not drink the foul bilge water. Others did, and died. When we reached the harbor at Panama City, I alone was still alive.”

  A tear rolled down Bess’s cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her ha
nd.

  “Living was crueler than dying, but I knew I carried the burden of my family’s souls on my shoulder. My mother was of the royal Incan line, as were my wife and my daughter. The men in our family were never considered royal; we were protectors of the bloodline. We were supposed to keep our women safe from all harm. And now my daughter, the last of that ancient line, was dead. According to our beliefs, my ancestors will have eternal life only as long as they are remembered and only so long as they have descendants. And if the chain were broken, the souls of my precious daughter, my beloved wife, and my mother would blow away like dried chaff. Unworthy as I was, little Bess, I was the only hope of their immortality.”

  She gazed at Kutii, so solid-looking that it seemed she could reach out and touch him, but she never could. Was he real, or was she truly a madwoman?

  “Love is the only thing real and lasting,” Kutii said. “And I have loved you since you first drew life. You are all that I have left in your world and the hope—”

  “I know, I know,” she supplied, “the hope of your ancestors.”

  “Our ancestors,” he corrected her. “When I adopted your grandmother as my daughter, you became my grandchild when you were born.”

  “Great-grandchild,” she said.

  “Sweet Mary,” Kincaid said, reining in his mare again. “Will nothing still your chatter? Do ye ken how far a voice carries in this woods?” He swung down from the saddle, and Kutii vanished in a shimmering swirl. As Bess halted her horse, Kincaid reached up and lifted her from the saddle.

  “I can dismount my—”

  She broke off, suddenly shaken by the sensation of his hands on her waist.

  “Ye shy like an unbroken horse,” he said. “I mean ye no harm. Why did ye agree to go with me if you’re afraid—”

  “I’m not afraid of you.” He set her down lightly on the ground and stepped back. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. “I’m not,” she repeated, sounding for all the world like a boastful child. She moved back until she felt the mare’s bulk behind her, turned, and began to fumble with her saddlebag.

  “I’ll keep watch so ye can sleep.”

  “And who will keep watch on you?” The words were out of her mouth before she realized how they must sound. As though he was interested in her . . . as though she needed to guard her virtue from him. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was ill put. I’ve ever had a sharp tongue.” She shook her head and turned back toward him. He was a darker shadow against the dark trees. “I’ve been so long without sleep that I’m half drunk. I didn’t mean that at all.”

  “Nay?” He made a sound of derision, mocking her.

  She could still feel the touch of him. A hint of green tinged her mind’s eye. It was unnerving.

  A woman alone in charge of a great plantation had to guard her reputation. A witchling who received sensations from every touch of a human hand had to be doubly careful. When she was a child, her gift had been nearly overwhelming. Her grandmother had taught her how to hide her power and to control it, turning it off and on so that she read another’s thoughts and character only when she willed it. As she matured and grew older, her ability to judge others had grown both stronger and more infrequent. Sometimes the power worked, and sometimes it didn’t.

  With this cursed Scot, she felt out of control. She couldn’t read what he was thinking, and she couldn’t turn the power off. Every time he touched her, she became acutely aware of smells, and sounds, and tastes. And him.

  Even now, she could taste the bite of cedar on her tongue, and her head spun with the scents of crushed leaves, oiled leather, black powder, wild grapevine, and honeysuckle. The musty smell of the horses mingled with a faint odor of rum and tobacco. She could hear the rustle of small animals in the brush, and the jingle of the bridles and the breathing of the horses sounded overloud. She could even hear the flutter of a night bird’s wings.

  “Have you been drinking rum?” she asked.

  “Nay, not since last night. They broached a keg on the pirate vessel. You’ve a good nose. I might need a bath, but I hardly think I smell of spirits.”

  . She unsaddled her horse. The ease of having the saddle off would rest her mount, and she could use the blanket to keep from lying on the bare ground.

  “I’ll hobble the horses,” he said. “They need to eat what they can. There’s no water near, but they had their fill at the last stream.”

  Bess spread the blanket and put the saddle at one end. Her knees felt wobbly as she lowered herself onto the blanket and curled into a ball with the saddlebags in her arms. Her eyelids were so heavy that it was impossible for her to keep them open, but she fumbled for and found the pistol in her bag. Her fingers closed around it.

  She could hear him running his hands over the horses, whispering to them, and she wondered if they saw colors when he touched them.

  “Sleep, woman. I’ll keep watch,” he murmured. His sleepy burr was hard to understand.

  “Kutii,” she whispered. There was no answer. She wanted to open her eyes and look for him, but the night breeze through the trees beguiled, her. Without realizing it, she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep. ,

  And was awakened minutes later by Kincaid’s weight bearing down upon her, and his hard hand pressing against her mouth.

  Instinctively, Bess struck out at him and struggled to break free. Her cry of rage was muffled by his fingers clamping around her nose, cutting off her breath. Grappling with him was as futile as throwing herself against a wall of solid hickory posts; he paid as little attention to her formidable blows as a horse did to greenhead flies. ,

  “Be still!” he hissed in her ear. “Quiet, or I’ll knock ye senseless.”

  She choked back her protest and nodded her head. Immediately, he removed his hand, and she sucked air into her lungs. Every muscle in her body was throbbing, and once again she was struck by the size and strength of the man and her own vulnerability.

  “Shhh,” he warned. “There’s someone out there.” He motioned toward the heavy growth of cedars to the left. “Don’t move.”

  Moonlight gleamed off a steel blade clasped in Kincaid’s right hand. Her stomach lurched and for a terrible instant she thought he meant to plunge it into her heart. But then he released her, rose with the silence of a deepening shadow, and melted into the woods.

  She inhaled sharply, breathing deep to clear the fog from her brain. Rolling onto her belly, she fumbled in her saddlebag for her pistol, and when she cocked the hammer, the click echoed like cannon shot. ,

  The stillness of a snowfall draped over the small clearing. Not a nighthawk called or a mouse rustled in the leaves. No owl’s hunting cry broke the spell of utter silence. Even the horses froze to ghostly statues.

  Suddenly, a wildcat’s snarl ripped through the trees. One of the horses whinnied in fright, and Bess scrambled up and ran to catch hold of the animals’ halters.

  “For the love of Christ, woman, can ye not obey a simple order?” Kincaid asked as he appeared without warning at her side.

  Bess let go of the horses and whirled around, leveling the cocked pistol at his gut. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t send you to your well-deserved reward, you cow-hearted bastard.”

  “Leave off,” he replied gruffly. “And put that down before ye shoot your foot off. Mother save me from a lass who thinks she’s a lad. Your father did ye no favor when he first put a pistol in your hand.”

  “It was my grandsire, not my father,” she flung back. Carefully aiming the flintlock toward the ground, she eased down the hammer.

  “I told ye not to move.”

  “Another minute and the horses would have spooked. We’d have been afoot. How far do you think we’d have gotten then?”

  “There was an Indian spying on us. I got a good look at him, but he lost me in the woods.”

  “An Indian?”

  “Aye. Ye heard me,” he said. “Ye have seen Indians, have ye not? Armed with bows and arrows?”

 
“You scared me out of my wits because you saw an Indian?”

  “Painted for war, he was, and naked to the waist. I saw the slash marks plainly on his face. Have ye been so sheltered that ye’ve nay heard of hostile savages?”

  Shaken, Bess turned away to hide her face. Was it possible? she wondered. Could Kincaid have seen Kutii? Since her grandmother had died, no one had ever verified Kutii’s presence. At times, she’d suspected the Incan was a fabrication of her own imagination.

  For a fleeting moment she covered her face with her hands as she remembered the terror she’d felt when she awoke beneath Kincaid’s coiled weight. “What manner of man are you,” she asked, “that you have no respect for a lady?”

  “I have respect enough for your life.” Kincaid laid a sinewy hand on her shoulder. “I told ye I’d nay hurt ye, Bess. I couldn’t take a chance that ye’d panic. I’m sorry if I frightened ye, but you’ll take more than one fright if we go through with this treasure hunt. Ye must trust me.”

  “Trust you?” Sooner trust the devil’s hounds, she thought.

  “Aye. Or find another to be your—”

  “It’s late for that, isn’t it?” She twisted away from his grip and glared at him in the stark moonlight, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to smack his face. She didn’t want him to touch her. His nearness confused her and filled her mind with reckless thoughts.

  “Aye. Past late, I’d say.”

  Remembering Fortune’s Gift and what she stood to lose, Bess forced her voice to a tone of flat civility. “Then we’re stuck with each other.” Her flesh tingled where his hand had lain. She could feel the heat of him even now. Please, she prayed silently, don’t let this be a mistake. Don’t make me regret I ever started on this journey with this man.

  “Only if ye realize that ye must obey when I give an order,” he continued harshly. “This is no game we play. Your willfulness could cost us both our lives, and I for one value mine.”

  She nodded. She knew common sense when she heard it. It was just that she was used to command, and it was bitter medicine to take orders from a man like Kincaid.