Almost impossible . . . She had defied him when she’d let Richard court her, and she had ignored his advice when she’d gone with her grandmother to tend the sick during an outbreak of smallpox. That was the last time she’d seen Kutii in full-dress regalia. He’d been so angry with her that he hadn’t appeared again for six months.
She hoped he didn’t intend to repeat that disappearing act, not when she needed him to show her where to go in Panama and where to dig for the treasure.
Kincaid leaned close and brushed her lips with his own. What was he saying?
“. . . are ways to prevent a lass from conceiving a child. I’d protect ye, Bess. Trust me.”
His lips were warm and sweet against hers. The food and the fire made her drowsy. She wanted to curl up in those powerful arms and let him go on kissing her.
Instead, she pulled back and shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not now, not tonight, and maybe never. It’s not an act I’d make lightly. I’m tired, and I want to sleep, and if you’re the man I hope you are, you’ll let me.”
“You’re a hard woman, Bess Bennett,” he said with genuine regret. “Whatever memories that blackguard left ye with . . . I could wipe them away with better ones.”
She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “perhaps someday I’ll let you try. But it will be on my terms, not on yours, and . . .” She stared into the darkness meaningfully. “And not on anyone else’s.”
“As ye wish, woman.” He leaned down and threw another piece of driftwood on the fire. The sparks flared up in an array of blue and orange and green. “But I warn ye that you’ll live to regret it.”
I regret it now, she mused as she lay down and curled up on her side and listened to the raindrops thudding against the canvas roof. And I fear I’ll regret it more when I’m very old and very respectable. The thought made her smile. Every woman should have a scoundrel like Kincaid to remember in her dotage, she decided. And with that in mind, she drifted off to sleep as soundly as if she were in her own feather tick at home.
The smell of broiling rabbit woke her. The sun was already up when she opened her eyes. Every bone in her body ached, but she was starving. She stretched and got up, brushing the sand off her clothes and skin and shaking it out of her hair.
Kincaid had extinguished the fire at the front of their shelter and built a new one a few yards away. He was crouched beside a spit of green branches, turning a fat, well-browned rabbit. He glanced up at her. “About time ye rose, my lady. There are duck eggs and rabbit for breakfast, unless you’d rather have fish. I caught one of those too.”
“Cook it,” she said. “The way you eat, I’ll be lucky if I get two bites.”
“Snappy in the morning, aren’t you?”
His hair was wet and slicked back, tied into a club at the back of his neck. His breeches were dry, so Bess knew he’d been swimming naked.
“Did you catch the fish with your teeth?” she asked.
“Aye, and the rabbit as well,” he answered solemnly.
She didn’t miss the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “If you’ll give me time to—”
“Use those bushes over there,” he said. “If ye wish to bathe—”
“I had enough swimming yesterday, thank you.”
“Well, you’ll soon have more. This is an island too. The mainland is west of here. I think I can rig up the sail and a few branches to get our stuff to shore. Then we’ll walk south until we come to a farm. If ye still mean to go to Panama, that is.”
“I do, and I will,” she replied.
“It’s a long piece, lass. What we’ve been through is just a promise of what’s ahead. There are pirates and Indians who would as soon cut off your head as look at ye. And the Spanish—”
“Lost your nerve, Kincaid?”
“Nay. Just wonderin’ about yours.”
She turned away, toward the privacy of the bushes. She’d gotten up glad to be alive, and she’d be damned if she’d let him ruin her morning.
The horror of the shipwreck and the crew’s drowning had left her shaken and subdued, but today in the bright sunshine she was ready to turn ahead to the future. Fortune’s Gift and all her people waited, and if she was successful in finding her grandfather’s buried treasure, she could still snatch victory from defeat.
Kincaid would be an ongoing problem. She could see that now. He’d not be as easy to manage as she’d thought when she first broached the idea to him at the plantation.
On the positive side, she was now certain that her instincts were right. Under that rough exterior beat the heart of, if not a gentleman, an honorable savage. He had saved her life on the boat at the risk of his own, and he’d not taken advantage of her last night when she was at his mercy.
To the negative was the bold fact that they were both young and healthy, with all the normal appetites a man and a woman might have for each other. If Kincaid were not who he was—a criminal with a life of brutal killing and thievery behind him—and if she hadn’t pledged her life to remaining single and independent, then they might have formed a partnership that would extend into marriage. But they were too different.
She was the daughter of a gentleman and the granddaughter of nobility. She had devoted all her life to the responsibilities of her station. She loved the soil and watching things grow. She had been taught to put the needs and wants of her land and dependents ahead of her own.
Kincaid was a marauder, a man who made his living by the sword both honestly and dishonestly. He was without morals—with the exception of sexual matters—and he was bound to end his life at the end of a rope.
What if his shoulders were as brawny as a blacksmith’s and his arms were coiled bands of sinew under skin as bronzed and weathered as an Indian’s? What if his buttocks were taut and comely and his belly was flat and hard? What if he did have eyes of cinnamon brown that seemed to stare into the depths of her soul when he looked at her? And what if he had hands that created marvelous sensations when he touched her?
Bess finished her private needs and went to the water’s edge to wash her hands and face. Her tangled hair fell forward and she pushed it impatiently away from her face. Kincaid was attractive—there was no doubt about it—but that kind of thinking would get her in deep water fast. What she had to hold foremost in her mind was that Kincaid was an arrogant bastard who must be kept in his place. She’d have to keep her wits about her and him at arm’s length if she was to stay out of serious trouble.
She arranged her torn clothes with as much propriety as possible and tried to comb the knots out of her hair with her fingers. Whole sections were hopelessly snarled, and it was all sticky from the salt water. She gave up after a few moments, tore a strip off her tattered shift, and tied her hair at the back of her neck.
“Are ye comin’ to breakfast or not?” Kincaid called.
“Coming,” she answered. She rejoined him in a dignified manner and accepted the pieces of rabbit he’d heaped on a clam shell.
“The duck eggs aren’t bad if ye sprinkle a little salt water on them,” he said. “We’ll move on as soon as we’ve eaten. No tellin’ how far we’ll have to walk to find civilization. And this can be bad country. Lots of folks make their living by robbing travelers.”
The harried look he’d worn yesterday was gone. Bess could tell that the night’s rest had done him as much good as it had her.
“You should know all about that,” she said.
“Aye.” He grinned. “I ken a wee bit about gentlemen of the road.”
“At home it would be considered stupid to set a fox to guard the henhouse,” she parried.
“Only if ye consider yourself a hen.”
She threw a rabbit bone at him and he laughed. She was tempted to throw the clam shell as well, but she was still hungry, and the fish smelled good. It was best to save her energy for a real fight, she decided as she reached for a second piece of rabbit. As Kincaid had said, it would be a long journey to the jungles
of Panama.
They reached the mainland without incident and picked up a wagon rut running south between marsh and woodland. They camped beside a pond that night and Bess was able to bathe and change into clean clothes from her saddlebags. Her hair still refused to cooperate even after being washed, so in a fit of temper, she took her grandfather’s knife and cut six inches off the length, so that the remainder fell just below her shoulders.
“Aye, makes the most sense of anything you’ve done,” Kincaid said when he saw the result. “The farther south we go, the hotter it will get.”
And when he shaved, he began to hack off sections of his own yellow hair.
“Don’t,” Bess said. “You’ll make a mess of it. Let me.”
He shrugged and handed over the knife. “Just leave the ears,” he warned. “I’ve gotten fond of them.”
Carefully, she used the razor-sharp skean to cut around Kincaid’s ears and then lower around the back, so that his hair came just above the line of his shoulders. Freed of the weight, the wheat-gold locks curled slightly around his tanned face, making Bess’s heartbeat quicken.
“Well?” he asked.
“Just a little more off this side,” she said. Touching him made her feel giddy. She didn’t sense any of the colors associated with her witchy powers, but her face and throat grew warm and she had to force her hands to hold steady.
He reached up and closed his hand over her wrist. “Best leave well enough alone,” he said huskily, “afore ye put out an eye.”
She nodded, waiting for him to release her hand, feeling the heat of his hard fingers against her skin. “Let me go,” she said, more frightened of herself than of him.
He smiled, a lazy grin that reached to his eyes. “Aye, lass, I will that,” he said. “I’m beholden to ye for the hair trim, and I’d not take more than I’m offered.”
She pulled free and put the fire between them.
“No need to shy,” he said in that same deep tone. “I’ll nay steal a kiss unless ye ask for it. Ye have my word.”
“And what is that worth?” she asked softly.
“As much as ye wish it to be.”
And then Bess heard the rumble of wagon wheels on the trail, and Kincaid tensed and went for the remaining pistol and tucked it into his waist. “Sit yonder,” he ordered, indicating a spot in the shadows. “And keep your mouth shut. No matter what I say or do, you go along with it. Do ye ken, woman?”
She started to protest, but the look he threw her was enough to make her nod agreement. It was clear, she thought as she took her seat on a fallen log and stared down the road, that their truce was over.
Chapter 13
Kingston, Jamaica
June 1725
Peregrine Kay ignored the rising wind outside and concentrated on the charcoal sketch, attempting once more to capture the elusive expression of the red-haired woman in the portrait that dominated one wall of the parlor. A pile of crumpled papers littered the floor beside the table.
Peregrine’s wig was slightly askew and his forehead bore a light sheen of perspiration. Annemie knew when she entered the room and saw his taut mouth and rumpled clothing that her master was in danger of another bout of falling sickness.
“Sir?” She kept her voice soft and serene. “Sir,” she repeated. “Your supper.”
He didn’t look up, but she noted a smear of charcoal on his upper lip. His hand over the drawing paper was unsteady.
Annemie set her tray down gently on the table and went to close the tall louvered shutters. “The light is gone,” she said. “The hurricane will miss us, I think, but the wind will be very bad and we will have heavy rain.”
The sound of her voice seemed to calm him, and his features lost some of their tormented look. Annemie knew that she had been blessed with a gift for calming the afflicted. Her speech was pure liquid, bubbling and throaty, as free of her father’s Dutch accent as she could make it. Other than her fair, freckled skin and light brown, straight hair, it was her best feature.
Annemie had never been a beautiful woman, not even in the full bloom of her youth. She was too tall and sturdy, her mouth too wide, her forehead too high, and her nose too long. And now, at two score and one, tiny lines were beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth. But she had always prided herself on her intelligence and her loyalty to her employer. . . .
She smiled, knowing that her teeth were still white and even, a reward for avoiding sugarcane and other sweet confections for her entire life. “Sir, you must eat something. You’ve been at this since midmorning, and Sisi tells me you refused to eat anything at noon.”
“I have a headache,” he said. “You know I never eat when I have a headache.”
“Ah.” Genuine sympathy for Peregrine Kay rose in her breast. “You work too hard,” she murmured. “All the more reason to take nourishment.” She stopped just short of laying a hand on his shoulder.
He glanced up at her, and she felt a rush of the old familiar longing.
Peregrine was no longer young either. He’d had a full head of dark hair when she’d come to work for him years ago. His long English face had not been so weathered by the hot island sun, and his waistline had definitely been less . . . round, she thought delicately.
But if his middle years sat heavy on his broad shoulders, Peregrine was still a striking man. His eyes missed nothing, and his intellect was barely short of genius.
He was far too hard on himself, she mused, looking over his shoulder at the unfinished sketches scattered across the teakwood table. If he had not been born a rich gentleman and the only son of a royal governor, he could have made his living as an itinerant artist, painting the portraits of the wealthy.
As it was, her master’s art was only a hobby, or . . . She wrinkled her nose slightly. Or an obsession. Because he limited his talent to one subject—a woman long dead whom his father had painted from memory many years ago.
Annemie had never liked the painting. It was the likeness of a flame-haired woman standing on a cliff, looking out over the sea. She was obviously not a lady of quality or style, despite her puffed-sleeved, blue silk gown. The haunting expression on her strong-willed face made Annemie feel as though someone had walked over her grave. A witch. A witch whose enchantment had not only flawed a great man’s life, but had leaped into the next generation to shadow his son’s.
The old master, Governor Kay, was already dead when Annemie had come into Peregrine’s household, but the other servants whispered tales of his madness. He had died raving, and they said he still walked the island on moonlit nights, calling, “La-cee.”
“Sir, you must have a little of the conch soup,” she coaxed. “I had Sisi prepare it especially for you.”
“I can’t get it right,” Peregrine said. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I can’t get the . . . the . . .”
“Tomorrow, sir. Tomorrow it will come.” She gathered up the discarded attempts and whisked away his charcoal.
He covered his face with his hands and leaned forward on the table. “She destroyed my father, you know. Deceived him with a common pirate and stole a treasure from him.”
“Long ago, sir,” Annemie murmured. “A long time ago.” With graceful precision, she lifted the covered porcelain bowl and set it down on the gold-washed plate. She held a silver soup spoon up to the light and inspected it critically, then placed it to the right of the plate. “I’ve a special treat for you, sir,” she said. “A lime sherbet. I made it myself, just minutes ago.”
She sighed, wondering at the cost of the small dish. Ice was a precious commodity in Jamaica, and even Peregrine with his fleets of ships and vast network of connections along the North American coast couldn’t always satisfy his taste for the shaved ice confections he loved.
“It drove him mad in his last years,” he continued. “After a brilliant career. My father was one of the finest governors Jamaica ever saw. But he never really recovered from the blow she dealt him.”
Annemie removed
the blue-and-white cover from the soup bowl. “Lots of pepper,” she said. “Hot enough to make your eyes water.”
“Father never did find them, you know, but he said I must consider it a duty to locate the family and take our revenge. She wasn’t punished, you see. She was his betrothed and she broke his heart.”
“The soup, sir.”
Obediently, Peregrine lifted the spoon to his mouth and sipped.
He wasn’t normally like this. Weeks could go by, sometimes even months, without this obsession surfacing. And when it did, he usually sank into depression and, after that, suffered an attack of his illness.
The rest of the time Peregrine was tireless in directing his many shipping operations. He was invaluable to the English Crown in his dealings with the Portuguese and even the Spanish. It was said that his information network in the New World was better than that of the French. Peregrine Kay was a powerful figure of almost legendary wealth; he owned vast lands in the islands as well as merchant vessels and investment houses. Using the name Falconer to protect his own name, he was active in the slave trade, and in other business concerns that some would consider outside the law.
Annemie didn’t care. She wouldn’t have cared if he were a penniless fisherman. She loved him with a deep, abiding passion, an unrequited affection that could never be resolved because of her black Yoruba grandmother, brought from Africa in chains. Annemie was the daughter of a white Dutch merchant and his mulatto slave mistress. Although Annemie had been freed at birth and educated beyond her class, she was still and forever marked as a woman of color.
“I have her now,” Peregrine said, pausing in the middle of his frugal meal. “I’ve located the family, and I’ve set certain events into motion. Father will be revenged.”
“Of course,” she said gently.
“He didn’t think I could do it.” He shook his head and tugged at his lace stock. “Father was always disappointed in me. I wasn’t born afflicted, you know. It was a fall from a horse when I was eight. I was unconscious for days. After that, the spells came. Not often, but often enough. Father should have had other sons.”
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