Fortune's Flame

by French, Judith E.

  “Do we have a bargain, woman?”

  She sighed. “We have a bargain,” she said, but behind her back, she crossed her fingers. Unless you ask something of me that I can’t do, she thought, or unless I find out for certain that you can’t be trusted.

  “Good enough,” he said. “Let’s saddle up and ride. I’ve no wish to linger here. That Indian may be gone, or he may decide to come back. And if he does, I’d as soon put distance between us and this spot. I like it not. It raises the hairs on my flesh.”

  “Afraid of shadows, Kincaid?” she taunted.

  “A man who doesn’t fear what he can’t see doesn’t live to make old bones.”

  “Some would say talk like that makes you a coward.”

  “Some might, but they’d nay speak it twice.”

  “Bold talk, Scot, but I’ve yet to see you do more than bully a woman half your size.”

  “Saddle your horse, and save your venom for what lies ahead. Ye’ll find better targets than me for that shrew’s temper. If you’ve nay forgot, ’twas you hired me. I’m on your side.”

  Just so you keep that in mind, Kincaid, she thought, then vowed, Because the first you time you don’t remember, you’ll reap the harvest of your own deceit.

  Chapter 8

  Bess and Kincaid rode until early morning, then spent most of the day sleeping in an abandoned barn. Before dusk, Kincaid left Bess alone for an hour and returned with nine hen’s eggs and a golden-brown pie he’d snatched off a goodwife’s windowsill. When Bess protested the thievery, he told her that he’d left two pennies to pay for the crockery dish.

  “I’ve never eaten stolen food,” she argued. “I’m not about to start now. Why didn’t you just ask to buy something to eat?”

  “Would ye nay feed any guest who walked through your door?”

  “Of course I would. But this is—”

  “The fewer people who see my face, the better. I was only takin’ what was mine by right of the laws of hospitality. And I saved the lady the trouble of stoppin’ her chores to see to my pleasure.” Grinning boyishly, he sliced the cherry pie into quarters and devoured two of them without spilling a drop of juice. “Excellent,” he pronounced, offering her the dish. “Sure ye won’t have any?”

  Bess looked at the flaky crust and her mouth watered. The cherries were fat and red; the pie smelled heavenly. “I’m not a thief.”

  “Too bad.” In less time than she would have believed, he finished the entire pie and reined in his horse to balance the empty crockery on a stump beside the road. “Someone’s sure to find it.”

  “But not necessarily the owner,” she said. Now that the pastry was gone, she began to have doubts about being so noble. She was starving, and if that wasn’t bad enough, judging from the sound of thunder over the bay, they were about to get very wet.

  “Care for an egg?” Kincaid balanced one brown egg between his thumb and forefinger, knocked off a top section of shell with his knife, and proceeded to swallow the contents raw.

  Bess shuddered. “How can you do that?” Uggh.” She liked her eggs well cooked. How anyone could eat a raw one was beyond her comprehension.

  “You’ll eat worse before we’re done, my fine lady,” he teased.

  Bess looked away as he began on the second egg. “You’re disgusting.”

  “I’m hungry, and so are ye.”

  “Can’t we stop and catch some fish or shoot a duck?” Thoughts of juicy roast duck danced in her head. Even fried fish would taste delicious now.

  “No fire. Unless ye’d care to eat the fish raw? I’ve done that when I had to. Ye just—”

  “Never mind.”

  “Certain ye won’t have an egg?”

  “I’d have to be starving.”

  “Aye. Ye probably would, but that just goes to prove that the English have no sense a’tall.” He chuckled as he cracked the top off his fourth egg.

  “I’m used to paying for what I get in life, but then, I suppose you wouldn’t understand that.”

  “Aye, but I do, lass.” He winked at her. “It’s been my experience that we all pay for every action, good or bad, and none I’ve kenned has ever escaped the final judgment.”

  Suspicious of Kincaid’s jovial mood, she reined her mount close to his and sniffed the air. “You’ve been drinking!” she accused him. “Did you steal spirits as well?”

  “In the Highlands, none would ride on without a nip. ‘Tis only friendly,” he answered, lifting a blue-and-white pint-sized jug that dangled by a leather thong from the far side of his saddle.

  “You did. What’s in there? Rum?”

  “Nay. Only a bit of barley-bree.” He grinned. “And while I’ve drunk better, I maun say in truth, I’ve been known to drink a far sight worse.”

  “I warn you, I won’t tolerate a drunken sot in my employ. If you get tipsy and fall off your horse into a ditch, I swear I’ll let you lie there and drown.”

  Kincaid laughed long and heartily. “You’ll nay see the day I drink enough to fall down drunk, hinney,” he boasted. “There isna that much usquebaugh in all the colonies.”

  She scowled at him in disbelief.

  Ignoring her disapproval, he began to hum to himself and then to sing softly in Gaelic. Thunder rumbled again, and the horses picked up their pace. Kincaid’s voice was deep and rich, and Bess found her mood growing lighter as the miles fell away beneath their mounts’ feet.

  Bess knew the peninsula that lay between the Atlantic Ocean and the Chesapeake Bay was growing narrower as they rode south. Sometime the night before, they had crossed the invisible line between the Maryland Colony and Virginia, and they were riding close to the shore of the bay. She could smell a hint of salt water on the breeze, and to their right, cattails and marsh grass framed a lush pasture. Wildflowers spread across the grass in multicolored waves, and the deepening twilight was sweet with birdsong and the sad, soft cry of the mourning dove.

  To the left, just beyond the game trail the horses were following, was forest, much of it old-growth oak that had been mature trees when the first Englishman set foot on Virginia soil.

  “This is fine land for planting,” Kincaid said, rising in his stirrups and looking around. “Nary a rock in sight.” The damp wind ruffled his yellow hair and he brushed a stray lock carelessly off his high forehead. “In the Highlands, you’re lucky if the topsoil goes deep enough to grow a decent pasture, let alone raise a crop on it.”

  Bess glanced at him in surprise. The shadows of coming darkness softened the sharp planes of Kincaid’s rugged face and made him seem younger. She’d watched him down a stiff measure of homemade lightning, yet the effects of the strong drink had brought a startling change for the better in his personality.

  “I’ve never been anywhere else, so I’m a poor judge,” she answered. “All I know is that I love it here. I was born here and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. The earth is deep and fertile; the rivers and the bay teem with fish, and crabs, and clams. The woods are thick with game, and in autumn the skies blacken with ducks and geese. Most years we get enough rain and plenty of sunshine to make a good crop. Mother England is far enough away so as not to trouble us overmuch with laws and taxes, but close enough to protect us from the French and Spanish.” She smiled up at him. “Some call this the Eastern Shore of heaven, and I’d be inclined to agree with them.”

  “ ‘Tis nay Scotland,” he said. “Not by a long sight. There are no mountains, and only a few risings that might be called hills. I’ve seen no heather, and few women as lovely as our Scottish lasses—present company excepted.” He grinned at her. “And I’ve set my teeth into nary a haggis or a decent cup of whiskey since I’ve been here. But this is a fair land, I’ll grant ye that, my fine English hinney.” He sighed. “A man could do worse than set his dreams on this place.” She laughed. “I suppose he could. But this is Virginia. Heaven starts back there.” She pointed back the way they had come. “I’m Maryland-bred, and it’s hard for me to see how anyone would choose
to be a Virginian, given a chance.”

  “And what’s the difference, I ask ye? A few more pine trees here, maybe the ground’s a wee bit flatter.”

  “It’s the Virginia air,” she said.

  “The air?” He sniffed. “I can smell no difference.”

  “You’re a foreigner,” she replied solemnly. “You can’t be expected to understand.”

  “Try me, said the captain,” he quipped, then grinned wider at his own humor and tried to take a sip from the already empty jug. “Mother save us,” he swore. “ ‘Tis empty as last month’s pay pouch.”

  “I’ll put it this way, Kincaid. Are you a Highlander or a Lowlander?”

  “Ye cut me to the heart, sweeting. How can ye ask a man such a question?”

  Kincaid’s burr had thickened to the consistency of old porridge, and she could barely understand him. “I take it you’re a Highlander?” she said.

  “Aye, and aye again.” He lifted the jug. “I’ll drink to that, fair lassie. Or I would, if I could.” He laughed again and began to sing. “Her eyes were as blue as the loch of Mc—”

  “If you were born here, instead of Scotland,” Bess cut in, “then you would certainly be a Marylander.”

  “Her ankle was neat,” Kincaid continued to sing, picking up the ditty without losing a note. “And her knees, they were—”

  “A Lowlander would be a Virginian,” Bess said triumphantly.

  “Lowlanders are fine fellows,”‘ Kincaid said, “but they have no sense of politics. They follow all the wrong leaders, and they can’t hold their liquor.”

  “Exactly.” She grinned back at him. “You’ve described a Virginian to a T. It’s the air. It makes them all a little mad.”

  A long growl of thunder rolled across the sky, and Bess could see lightning strikes to the west. The temperature began to drop, and the wind whipped sections of the horses’ manes off their necks. “We’re going to get wet,” she said.

  “Maybe.” Kincaid peered through the failing light. “There.” He pointed toward a rotten oak stump at least six feet wide. “Not far ahead the trail splits. There’s a tavern—”

  “The only tavern near here is called the Cock’s Comb,” she said. “I’ve never set foot in the place, but I’ve heard it’s a den for ruffians and—”

  “And what are we? Holy pilgrims?” He smacked his horse’s rump, and the mare broke into a canter. Bess followed, close behind.

  The first sprinkling of rain was falling on their faces when Kincaid turned onto a dirt lane, rode a few hundred yards, then followed a wider rut right through marshy ground to a wooded knoll. The lightning was closer now, and the echo of thunder vibrated through the trees.

  Voices and the crash of wood against wood sounded in Bess’s ears even before she could see the light from the tavern windows. They urged their mounts into a stiff trot and reached the shelter of a ramshackle barn just as the first sheet of driving rain hit.

  The icy needles soaked through Bess’s clothes and hair in seconds. Kincaid dismounted and flung open a sagging stable door. “Inside,” he yelled. His voice was nearly drowned by the wind and water, but she needed no urging. Ducking her head to avoid the beam over the door, Bess rode her mare into the shadowy building.

  There were no individual stalls, but there was room along one wall where other horses were tied. Quickly, they removed their saddles and used their blankets to rub down their mounts. Bess stumbled over a water bucket in the darkness. She plunged her hand into it, smelled the contents, then carried the container over to water her mare. Another animal nickered and stamped its feet. Bess paused and looked around.

  “Come on,” Kincaid said. “Let’s make a dash for the tavern.”

  “But I thought I heard—” she began.

  “This is no village kirk, lass. You’ll come with me and stay by my side.” He caught her arm. “I’d nay leave ye here alone.”

  She caught a faint whiff of the whiskey he’d been drinking amid the stronger smells of wet wool and horseflesh, but the scent was not unpleasant. “Our saddlebags?” she asked.

  “We’ll leave them with the saddles for now. Unless I miss my guess, the guests are all inside.” He took her hand, and together they made a dash for the tavern. When Bess would have entered first, he grunted a negative and leaned close to her ear. “Remember the plan, lass. I’m a rough soldier of fortune, and ye are my light-skirts. I warn ye, I’m a jealous man, so unless ye’d see heads broken, mind your manners.”

  Bess bit back the stinging retort that rose on her tongue and followed him meekly into the Cock’s Comb. He stopped just inside the doorway and surveyed the public room, blocking her way with his solid bulk. Then he stepped aside and motioned her in out of the pouring rain. On the far side of the chamber was a brick fireplace with a kettle steaming on the hearth. Bess was drawn by the welcoming heat, and she ignored the murmurs and stares of the men as she hurried over and held out her hands to the flames.

  The main room of the Cock’s Comb was low-ceilinged and poorly lit; overhead, the beams were blackened by smoke. The floor was made up of wide pine boards that looked as though they hadn’t been scrubbed since the tavern was built. She counted eight—no, nine—hard-faced men sitting around three trestle tables. There were no women in sight. The place smelled of stale liquor and unwashed bodies.

  She concentrated on the crackling fire, and tried not to think of the watching eyes that made her feel like spiders were walking up her back.

  “Mite wet, ain’t ye, gal?” a bearded stranger called. “I’d be glad to . . .” His voice trailed off as Kincaid closed the distance between them and seized the loudmouth by the collar.

  “If ye’ve something to say, say it to me,” Kincaid said as he dragged the man off the bench and lifted him into the air with one muscular arm.

  “Sonofabitch!” Struggling, Redbeard drew back a fist and gasped. “I’ll show you a—”

  Kincaid slammed him back against the scarred trestle table twice and threw him to the floor. Before he could stagger up, the Scot gave him a brutal kick to his midsection and whirled around to grab Redbeard’s companion, who’d smashed a bottle on the bench and rushed Kincaid’s back, wielding the jagged glass neck.

  Kincaid’s sinewy left fist closed around the hand holding the bottle as his right one slammed into his assailant’s jaw. Before Bess could blink, the second man had toppled, senseless, onto his friend’s groaning body. Kincaid raised his head and surveyed the now silent room. “Anyone else care to speak to my woman?” he asked mildly. Bess noted that he hadn’t even worked up a sweat during the violent confrontation.

  Six pairs of eyes turned to the drinks on the tables in front of them. A stout gray-haired man, standing by the stairway, wiped his hands on his apron and cleared his throat. “Ed, Lester,” he said, “get that trash out of here.” He looked at Kincaid and smiled nervously. “Nasty night out, ain’t it? What can I get you? Rum? Nice venison steak?”

  Kincaid righted the overturned bench as Ed and Lester dragged the two fallen strangers out into the rain. With one sweep of his arm, the Scot knocked away two tankards and a dirty plate. He glanced at Bess and nodded. The innkeeper hurried over to wipe the table clean as Bess, heart thudding, crossed the room and took a seat on the bench beside Kincaid.

  “We’ll have whatever you’ve cooked that’s fit to eat,” Kincaid said brusquely, “and plenty of it. I’ll have whiskey if you’ve got it, rum if ye don’t. The lady will have ale.”

  “The Cock’s Comb serves only the best, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .” The host looked at Kincaid expectantly.

  “Robert Munro,” Kincaid supplied.

  Liar, Bess thought. She moved a little away from him, still shaken by his attack on the two men. The bearded man had been rude, but rough talk was no reason to beat him unconscious.

  “Mr. Munro. I’m Ira Jackson. I own the Cock’s Comb. But you look familiar. Didn’t you come through here a few weeks back? It seems to me as if I remember a card game—”

&
nbsp; “Nay,” Kincaid growled. “Not me.” He gazed at the gray-haired man with eyes as hard and lifeless as quartz pebbles.

  “My mistake,” Jackson apologized. “Sally!” he shouted toward an open doorway that led into the interior of the tavern. “Two suppers, and make it quick.” He hurried away and returned with a brimming tankard of ale and a jug of whiskey. He wiped the rim of a pewter cup and set it in front of Kincaid.

  “Leave the jug,” Kincaid said.

  “Will you be wantin’ a bed? I kin give you a bed just for the two of you.” He tugged at a greasy apron string. “Three pence for the bed, supper included. The whiskey comes dear, though. I can leave the jug if you want, but—”

  Kincaid flipped a silver shilling in the air and the innkeeper caught it. “I said, leave the jug.”

  “Thank ye, sir. That will do, sir. Yes, it will.”

  “We’ll sleep in the barn, but I’ll want some blankets. No bugs in them.” Kincaid poured a cup of the amber whiskey. “I hate bugs,” he said. “If I find bugs, I’ll make you eat them, bedding and all.”

  “My girl just did the boiling of the wash today. You’ll find no bugs in my blankets. I run a clean house, I do.”

  “Aye, and your father was a saint.”

  Jackson forced a laugh. “He was that, old Pap, a regular saint. Anyone can tell you that.”

  The serving wench came from the kitchen carrying two heaped plates of food. Bess hoped she had an appetite left. She was wet and, tired, and she knew she looked like something the tide had left on the beach, but worst of all, she had the feeling that she’d joined forces with a man as wild and ornery as a deep woods’ bison.

  Gamely, she picked up her spoon and took a bite of the Indian pudding. Whatever and whoever Kincaid was, she’d made a bargain with him, and if that bargain was broken by someone, as God was her witness, it wouldn’t be she.

  “Why did you pick that fight with those men?” Bess demanded when they had finished eating and were alone in the barn loft. “You could have gotten us both killed.”