“You said it wouldn’t be safe to try and sell the jaguar in Carolina. Why here?”
“Floyd says—”
“Floyd again!” Bess pulled away from Kincaid. “Why must it always be Floyd? I don’t trust him. There’s something—”
“Floyd says that he knows a man to see on this island if ye have fine goods to sell. And I’ve heard enough about him to—”
“Floyd is not to be trusted, I tell you,” she said. “And who will he guide you to? Some crusty old pirate?”
“A businessman, Bess. A shrewd merchant who trades in rum and slaves, and in anything that brings a profit. He uses the name Falconer, but keeps his real identity a secret. Some say the Caribbean is Falconer’s own duck pond. I know for a fact that he deals with the Portuguese down in Brazil, and he’s reputed to have Spanish—”
“I’ve listened to my father talk ships and shipping all my life. I’ve never heard of this Falconer.”
“He’s not the sort of man your respectable family would know. This Falconer is too canny to allow his connections to be bandied about indiscriminately through the colonies.”
“But you say you know of him.”
“Aye.” Kincaid grinned. “But then, I’ve never been accused of being respectable, have I? I keep rough company, Bess. It’s natural that I’d hear things a tobacco planter wouldn’t.”
“If Falconer breaks the law, why hasn’t he been arrested?” she demanded.
“He’s an extremely private man, almost a hermit. They say he lives like a king and keeps his own private army—he’s supposed to be wealthy beyond belief. I’m certain he has ties to government officials. There’s even a rumor that Falconer might be the royal governor himself.”
“You say he deals in the slave trade?”
“Aye. ’Tis a dirty business, I’ll give ye that. Ye can smell most slave ships half a league away on the open sea. They pack men and women into cramped, dark holds like kegs of salt pork. But not on Falconer’s ships. He pampers his blackamoors, they say. He deals in only the healthiest slaves and he provides fresh water, good food, and exercise on deck every day regardless of the weather. His vessels transport only half the number other merchants do, but most of those they bring back survive, and he takes the cost of his losses from his masters’ pay.”
A shiver ran down Bess’s spine. “Only an animal would profit from the misery of other humans,” she said. “I hate slavery, and I hate slavers.”
“If there were more like ye in the world, sweet Bess, and less like Falconer . . .” Kincaid shook his head. “Well, we must deal with him if we’re to have what we need.”
“Why? Why must we?”
“You’re an innocent, Bess. When you’re in strange waters, ye deal with the biggest shark in the harbor. If we find the treasure, ye can salve your conscience by buying a few more slaves and setting them free.”
“You think I’m a fool,” she said softly.
“Nay, lass, I never said that. But ye canna change a way of life single-handedly. There has been slavery from China to Africa since the time of our Lord. Ye canna change men’s greed.”
“Is it right that good men like Rudy should be beasts of burden, whipped like—”
“I was a slave,” Kincaid cut in. “I was whipped, and we both ken who wielded the lash.”
“Not because you were a bond servant,” she flung back angrily. “I whipped you for stealing my horse . . . and to keep you from being hanged.”
“Aye,” he said bitterly. “I’ll keep that in mind when my back aches on a cold winter morn.” He held out his hand. “I’ll have the gold, mistress, if ye please.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Kincaid . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Fierce brown eyes met hers. “But ye’d do it again.”
She was shocked at the intensity of his bitterness. “Not—not now,” she stammered. “Not—”
“Under the same circumstances,” he insisted. “If ye had it to do again, ye would, wouldn’t ye?”
Bess’s mouth went dry. “Yes.”
“Then ye’ve no right to question me when I do what needs doing.”
With trembling hands she untied the cord at her neck and handed over the bag containing the golden jaguar and the rest of her money and jewelry. “Kincaid . . .” His features were hard; the brown eyes that gazed back at her seemed those of a stranger, not of the man she’d made love to in this cabin only a few hours ago.
“Wait for me here,” he commanded. “I’ll come back for ye when I’ve finished my business with Falconer.”
“Kincaid, I didn’t mean to—”
“We’ll talk later,” he said gruffly.
“Can’t I come with you?”
“Why? Do ye still think I’ll cheat ye out of what’s yours?”
“You know better than that,” she said.
He threw her an angry glare. “We are like flint and steel, woman. We canna be together for long without making sparks. ’Tis nay your fault, nor mine.” He grimaced. “If we’d met five years ago, perhaps things might have worked out differently, but I am too old to change my ways—and I suspect ye are the same.”
She stared after him as he left the cabin, wondering why they had argued. For weeks they had not exchanged a cross word, and now Kincaid had gone off like a Chinese rocket. “Men,” she muttered. “They are the most perverse animals God ever created.”
Three hours later, the man known as Falconer balanced Bess’s golden jaguar in the palm of his soft white hand. “Exquisite,” he murmured, turning the piece carefully. “As fine as I’ve seen.” He smiled at Kincaid disarmingly. “Where did you say you came by this?”
“I didn’t,” Kincaid replied.
The older man lifted a magnifying glass to his eye and inspected the detail of the figure. “Perhaps you will enlighten me as to how you came to be aboard the Scarlet Tanager. It is my understanding that Captain Kennedy has had some difficulty in Charles Town.”
“Ye might say that.” Falconer’s intelligence was good, Kincaid thought; better than good, it was uncanny. When he’d left Charles Town, Kennedy and his crew were counting the hours until their hanging. The Scarlet Tanager had never carried her own name on her hull. Kennedy had wisely used dozens of ships’ names, painting one overtop the other in bold gold lettering. When Kincaid had seized the Tanager, the name on her side had been Charlotte and he’d had the men paint over that, leaving the boat nameless. Only a man familiar with Kennedy and his practices would have recognized the schooner.
Falconer reluctantly added the jaguar to the other objects on top of a wooden barrel and gave Kincaid his full attention. “A pity about Kennedy,” he said. “Damned luck to go aground as he did.”
“Aye,” Kincaid agreed. He wondered if Falconer’s interest in Kennedy and the Tanager was more than curiosity.
“The jaguar is Peruvian. Did you know that?” Falconer asked. “Quite possibly came across Panama on a Spanish mule train. Incan grave goods, I should imagine. But the piece is beautifully preserved.”
“And the other jewelry?”
“Genuine, all of it.” He mentioned a figure much higher than Kincaid had expected, an amount that would more than cover their immediate expenses.
Kincaid shook his head. “I see I’ve come to the wrong man,” he said softly. He reached for the goods.
Falconer lifted a hand, palm up. “You can’t expect London prices, you know,” he said. “There are risks involved.”
“I thought ye were serious,” Kincaid said. “I have a buyer in Barbados who will—”
“John Nicholls?” Falconer scoffed. “He’ll pay half what I offered and then turn you in to the authorities for pirating. Take my silver, Scot. I’m not an amateur. And if you come into possession of anything similar, we can always do business again.”
“It’s a long way to Barbados.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Give me a better reason to sell to you and not . . .” Kincaid met Falcone
r’s eyes and smiled. “Not someone else,” he finished.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” Falconer said quietly. “My offer stands. I’m not a horse trader. If you wish to sell your merchandise for a fair profit, you will accept my proposition. If not, we have nothing more to say to each other, today or . . .” He opened a silver snuff box and put a pinch in each nostril, then covered his nose with an Irish lace handkerchief and gave a genteel sneeze. “Or ever.”
Kincaid nodded. “I believe we have a deal.”
Falconer smiled condescendingly. “I thought we might.” The elegantly attired gentleman extended his beringed hand to shake on the deal; Kincaid clasped the warm fingers and was surprised at how much strength the older man possessed. “You need not fear for your safety in Jamaica,” Falconer assured him. “I keep my bargains, and I never wrong my friends.”
“An admirable policy,” Kincaid agreed as Falconer counted out the silver coins that completed their business.
“Will you be staying with us long?”
“Nay.”
Falconer wiped a drop of perspiration from the corner of his mouth. “Wise. There are others here who will know the Scarlet Tanager, friends of Kennedy,” he said pointedly. “And they may not realize that you came by her honestly.”
Kincaid left the boarded-up tavern as he had come in, by a back way, through an alley and then a baker’s shop. It was the flour-dusted baker’s wife who had arranged the meeting with Falconer. Floyd had suggested that he take Kincaid to him, but Kincaid had made certain Floyd remained on the Tanager. He’d given explicit orders to Evan Davis that no one leave the ship in his absence.
Kincaid had been certain he could find Falconer himself, and he’d been right. He’d gone into a wharfside inn and asked the wench pouring ale. She’d sent a lad to ask someone for permission to answer Kincaid’s question. In half an hour, a grizzled seaman had come in and seated himself at Kincaid’s table, asking the Scot to buy him a mug of rum. After they’d shared a few drinks and mentioned a few mutual acquaintances, the old salt had advised Kincaid to go to the bakery and ask the baker’s wife for a mincemeat pie. The goodwife had provided the time and location of the rendezvous with Falconer.
On his way back to the ship, Kincaid noted that the baker’s wife was of a size and shape of Bess. He asked her if she had a decent lightweight gown and petticoats that she would be willing to sell. His sister, he explained with a sly wink, had nothing suitable to wear. The baker’s wife nodded and in ten minutes’ time, he was out of the shop with a bundle of women’s garments and she was pocketing a silver English crown.
Kincaid regretted the hard words he’d thrown at Bess, and since apologies never came easy to him, he hoped the blue linen dress would help to ease the sting. He was hardly conscious of the amused glances passersby were giving him as he walked down to the dock.
He’d promised Bess and the crew time ashore, but he’d feel better once they were out of Kingston Harbor and on the open sea. Falconer’s promises of friendship rang false, and despite his arguments to the contrary, Bess’s doubts about Floyd were beginning to make an impression.
Deep in thought, Kincaid almost missed the black man in green livery who was trailing him at a discreet distance. Deliberately, Kincaid stopped to look idly into a shop window, and saw in the reflection of the glass that the suspicious servant had stopped as well. Falconer, Kincaid thought, and his lips tightened into a thin line. Certain that it was the merchant and not the authorities who had ordered him to be watched, Kincaid continued toward the end of the dock. He put his forefinger in his mouth and lifted it, gauging the wind, and wondered just how peeved Bess would be when he ordered Davis to weigh anchor and sail out of Kingston immediately. Not half as upset as Falconer would be, he guessed. He smiled. Then again, he mused, when a man came between a woman and her shopping. . . His smile widened. Bess might be even more angry than Falconer.
Falconer struck Floyd Hartly a blow that sent him staggering back against the wall. “You knew Elizabeth Bennett was aboard the Scarlet Tanager and you didn’t tell me in time to keep them from sailing?” He whirled on a burly mulatto standing stiffly with a musket in his hands, yanked a pistol from the guard’s waist, and aimed it at Floyd’s head. “You maggot-ridden bastard. I ought to blow your brains all over that wall,” he threatened.
Floyd’s face was ashen except for the rising red imprint of Falconer’s ring. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot!” he cried. “My brother didn’t know it was her for sure. He just thought it might be the woman you was lookin’ for, her travelin’ with a Scot and speakin’ all fancy-like.”
“They sailed out of the harbor an hour ago,” Falconer said, advancing on Floyd with the flintlock pistol. He cocked the weapon. “You sailed with him from Carolina to tell me they were in my waters and then you let them get away?”
Annemie watched from the doorway, certain that this excitement would be too much for Peregrine. She had known there would be trouble from the moment he’d come home with that golden cat. He’d put it on the table and sent her to fetch the box containing his most valuable possessions.
The jaguar stood there now, along with three other similar golden figures: a beautiful bird, a glittering llama, and a tiny Indian paddling a reed boat. Each piece was a work of art, precise to the smallest detail. The boat was so perfect that Annemie could count the individual bundles of reeds and make out the tattooing design on the paddler’s face. The golden cat had turquoise eyes, and the llama and the bird were made in the same manner. A blind woman could have touched them and realized they were created by the same artist.
Gooseflesh stood up on the back of Annemie’s neck, and she felt a sense of impending doom. She was afraid—not for herself, but for Peregrine Kay.
Her employer had long since given up hiding his Falconer activities from her, so she knew she was in no danger when she entered the parlor. “Sir,” she soothed. “You don’t want to shoot him. Not here, at least. You might spoil the floors.”
“You invade my private home,” Kay accused Floyd. “You come here when I have given orders that no business will be done from my house. You come here and tell me you’ve been waiting on the deck of the Tanager while I was—” He broke off, too furious to continue.
“I couldn’t get off the ship,” Floyd protested. “The Scot was suspicious of me. He left orders with the captain that anyone leaving without permission would be shot. He calls himself Robert Munro, but the woman calls him Kincaid.” He stood up slowly and backed up until he felt the wall behind him. “My brother heard that you wanted the woman, and he thought this might be her.” He glanced up at the painting on the wall. “That’s her fer certain, sir. She’s on the boat. I swear it.”
Annemie laid a hand on Kay’s arm. “Whatever the problem is, sir,” she said, “I’m sure you’ll find a way to remedy it. This gentleman meant no harm. After all, he did come from the mainland to bring you news.”
Peregrine Kay lowered the pistol and thrust it into Annemie’s hands. Then he advanced on Floyd and seized him by the front of his shirt. “You say the woman in the painting is on the Tanager?”
“On my soul, sir,” the cook gasped.
Annemie’s chest tightened and the hairs on her arms prickled. Lord, save us from the witch’s spell, she prayed silently. “It can’t be so, sir,” she murmured. “She’s long dead, sir. Long dead and in her grave.”
“No,” Floyd insisted. “She’s as alive as you are. I seed her not two hours ago. It’s her, all right. Not many ladies with red hair and blue eyes.”
“Blue eyes?” Kay said. “Blue?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You see, sir,” Annemie said, “it can’t be her.” She pointed at the woman in the painting. “Her eyes are brown. They can’t be the same person.” She chuckled. “If that one—” She glanced at the painting again. “If that one was alive, she’d have to be close to eighty. Her hair would be snow-white.”
“Do you take me for a madman?” Pereg
rine Kay asked, turning on Annemie. “I know Lacy Bennett is dead. This is her granddaughter, Elizabeth.”
“Yes, sir,” Floyd insisted. “That’s her. I heard Kincaid calling her Bess.”
“Where are they bound for?” Peregrine asked.
Floyd cleared his throat. “Panama, sir.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Nobody does but Kincaid, and maybe the woman.”
“If they’re here in the Caribbean, they won’t get away,” Annemie said. “You’ll have them, sir. You know you will.”
“Yes.” Peregrine smiled a cold smile. “Yes. At last. I will have her.” He motioned to the mulatto. “Take Hartly to the kitchen and see that he’s given supper.”
“I’m not hungry,” Floyd said. “But I should have something for my time. I came all this way.”
“Of course you did. And we’ve treated you badly.” He released Floyd’s shirt and waved his hand toward the table. “Take those in payment. They’re solid gold.”
Floyd hesitated.
“Go on, man,” Peregrine said. “They’re yours.”
Floyd rushed toward the table and Peregrine nodded to the mulatto. The guard crossed the room in one fluid motion and drove a knife into the cook’s back. Annemie covered her face and turned away as Floyd screamed once and struggled weakly before sinking onto the table, hands outstretched toward the golden figurines.
Peregrine motioned to the mulatto to remove Floyd’s still twitching body. “Hurry, before he bleeds on the rug,” he ordered.
Annemie felt sick. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, trying to find some excuse for her employer’s behavior.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Peregrine said, picking up the jaguar and holding it up to the candlelight. “Regrettable. But he did come to my home. We can’t have anyone linking Falconer to the son of a royal governor, can we? Very untidy. Whoever sent him to the house will have to be disposed of as well.”
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