“You know how I hate this sort of thing,” she said. It was as strong a criticism as she permitted herself to make of Peregrine’s business affairs.
“You have my deepest apologies, Annemie. It will never happen again, I assure you.” He smiled at her. “The jaguar belongs with the others, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir, it does.”
“It belongs to me . . . just like Elizabeth Bennett.” He turned and gazed at the painting. “And I’ll have what’s mine,” he swore softly, “if I have to storm the gates of Hell to take her.”
Chapter 17
On the third day out of Kingston Harbor, Kincaid spotted the square sails of a brigantine on the horizon, and shortly after, he saw that another ship, a single-masted sloop, followed closely in her wake. As he ran up the ladder to the quarterdeck, he noted that Evan Davis was watching the two ships through his spyglass.
“Company, I see,” Kincaid said.
Evan grinned. “Nothing to worry about. Likely they’re merchant ships.”
Kincaid held out his hand for the glass. The two ships were too far away to be identified, but he decided that they were probably English because of the lines and the way they were rigged.
The Scarlet Tanager was a schooner; her fore-and-aft sails and narrow hull gave her the advantage of speed and maneuverability that larger craft lacked. She could navigate in less than six feet of water, an attribute that Kincaid knew would come in handy when he tried to land in some nameless waterway along the Panama coast.
The brigantine and the sloop were obviously traveling together, perhaps for protection against pirates. Otherwise, the much faster sloop would have left the heavier two-masted ship behind.
“The Spanish are the ones we need to keep a sharp eye for, Mr. Munro,” Evan said as Bess joined them on the quarterdeck.
“May I see?” she asked. Kincaid, alias Robert Munro to Evan and the crew of the Tanager, passed the spyglass to her and she gazed through it.
“A brigantine and a sloop,” Kincaid said. “Traveling together for some reason, and following the same course we are.”
“Not necessarily,” Evan said. “This is a crossroads for shipping. Lots of—”
“I count three masts,” Bess said.
“You’re wrong, miss,” Evan told her. “The lead ship is a brigantine. Two masts.”
Bess handed the glass back to Kincaid. “I may not know the sea, Captain,” she said, “but I can count.”
Kincaid looked and swore softly. “Aye, I see it too,” he said. “Not two ships, but three. The sloop, the brigantine, and a larger vessel.” He turned a steel-edged gaze on the Welshman. “Lift her skirts, Evan. I’d leave this company behind.”
Evan shrugged. “Whatever you say, but I’m certain they’re just harmless—”
“Full sail. We’ve enough wind for ten knots,” Kincaid said, “and I want to see it.” He handed the glass back to Bess and turned toward the ladder. “I want the men at their stations and cannon and swivel guns ready to be fired.”
Bess hurried after him, then remembered Evan’s glass. “Oh,” she said. “Here is your—” As she gave him the instrument, their fingers brushed. Bess froze.
“Come along, woman,” Kincaid said, glancing back at her. She was wearing the baker’s wife’s blue linen gown this morning. The dress was worn, the material thin in spots, but the blue matched Bess’s eyes and the modest scooped neckline gave him a pretty view of the top of her rosy breasts.
Annoyed with himself for letting his thoughts wander to Bess and her obvious attractions, he spoke again, sharply. “Bess.”
She murmured something and followed him down the ladder. When they were amidships, she caught his arm. “Kincaid.” Her voice was huskier than normal, and her eyes showed concern.
“There’s no need for ye to become alarmed yet,” he said. “I’ll take no chances that—”
“Kincaid, I’ve got to talk to you,” she said. “Now.”
“It can wait.” His thoughts were already racing ahead to gauge which of his men would be useful in a fight. Floyd Hartly’s desertion in Jamaica had disappointed him badly. Bess had said Floyd couldn’t be trusted, and he hated to admit she had been right. By the time he’d gotten back to the Tanager, Floyd was gone. Evan Davis had said that the cook must have slipped over the side of the ship and swum to shore. Lots of sailors deserted their ships, but very few did so just before getting paid. Why Floyd had done so still troubled Kincaid’s sleep.
“No,” Bess insisted. “It can’t wait.”
“What is it?” he asked impatiently.
“Not here,” she said. “Below, in our cabin.”
Reluctantly, he followed her belowdecks to the captain’s quarters, which they shared. Bess looked around the empty cabin, then motioned him to close the door. “It’s Evan,” she said. “We can’t trust him.”
Kincaid felt a headache coming on. “We’ve no time for woman’s fancies, Bess. Aye, ye were right about Floyd, I’ll give ye that, but Evan. . .” He shook his head. “Evan’s loyal.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
“You’re the one who’s been singing his praises all the way from Charles Town. What’s changed your mind this morning?”
“He touched me.”
A red wave of anger rose in Kincaid’s brain. “Touched ye? How? When? I’ll throttle him with my bare—”
“No, it’s not like that,” she said, her words tumbling over one another in a rush. “I’m a witch. I read people’s hearts by touch. Evan’s planning on killing you. I know it.”
He stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses. “Ye be a witch? Likely ye fly about the ship at night on your broom.”
“Damn you!” she cried. “You’ve got to believe me. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. It’s why I ran off with you. I knew Floyd would betray us, and now I know Evan wants you dead. I saw red when he touched me. Don’t you see? Red for blood—your blood!”
At that instant knuckles pounded against the cabin door. “Mr. Munro, Master Davis wants you on the quarterdeck at once.” Kincaid recognized the voice as belonging to a sailor named Albright, a close friend of Floyd Hartly. Motioning Bess to a spot between the door and the bunk, he swung open the cabin door.
“Captain wants ye—” Albright began.
He raised his right hand and Kincaid caught the gleam of a pistol barrel in the sailor’s hand. Directly behind the sailor was a bearded man in a striped shirt. Kincaid lunged sideways and delivered a bone-breaking blow to Albright’s knee. As the mutineer cried out in pain and fell forward, Kincaid drove the knife edge of his hand against the side of Albright’s neck. ,
The second sailor swung a cutlass at the spot where Kincaid had been standing only a heartbeat before. He charged into the cabin and stumbled over Albright’s body. Kincaid hit the man with all his weight and the two of them slammed against the doorjamb. Kincaid’s right hand closed over the hilt of the cutlass as the base of his left hand struck his assassin’s nose, smashing it and killing him instantly. As Kincaid leaped up, cutlass poised to defend against another attacker, he found that he and Bess were the only ones still breathing in the cabin.
Bess’s face was the color of whey, but she held Albright’s pistol in her hand. “I would have shot him for you if you’d waited a moment,” she said. Her hand was steady on the weapon, but her voice was trembling.
“We’ll be all right, lass,” he said with more conviction than he thought. The killing fever was passing easier than it usually did, but he didn’t trust himself to lay hands on her yet.
“How many are against us?” she asked.
He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the shadowy passageway. “You’re the witch, not-me.”
“Yes, I am. But I don’t know what to do now.”
He glanced back at her. She lowered the flintlock, but kept her finger on the trigger. Kincaid could see that her bosom was heaving, her breath . coming in ragged gasps as though she’d been running. She looked smal
l and frightened.
“I’ll keep ye safe, Bess,” he promised thickly.
She glanced down at the sprawled bodies. “You killed them with your bare hands,” she whispered.
“Aye.” He could feel his blood cooling, the battle frenzy draining away, leaving him with an intense desire to protect this woman at any cost.
“If we had Evan, could we force the others to do what we want?”
“Maybe.” Kincaid shook his head to clear away the last of the single-mindedness that took over his brain when he was faced with imminent violence. “Can ye play a part, Bess? Evan sent them down to kill me, but he doesn’t know yet if they succeeded. Go to the passageway ladder and scream for him. If he comes, we’ll take him.”
Bess nodded. She waited, not speaking as he dragged Albright and the second sailor out of sight of the door; then she wiped up the few drops of blood with a blanket. “So he doesn’t see it,” she said, handing him the pistol.
“Ready?” he asked. He stood behind the partially closed door as she went to the bottom of the steps and let out a terrified scream. “Evan! Evan!” she cried. “Oh, my God, Evan! Help me!”
The first man down the ladder was the bosun. Kincaid barely had time to hit him over the head with the barrel of the pistol and move him out of the way before Evan came running.
“What is it?” he called to Bess. “What’s happened?”
“They’ve killed him!” she shrieked hysterically. “They’ve killed him!” She pointed at the open cabin door. Evan Davis ran in, and Kincaid grabbed him from behind and put a knife at his throat. Bess stepped into the cabin and closed the door and locked it.
“What is this?” Evan said.
Kincaid put just enough pressure on the knife to strain the captain’s skin without breaking it. “Who do ye work for, Evan?” he demanded softly. “If ye answer wrong, I’ll show ye less pity than I did them.” He glanced down at the two dead men at Evan’s feet.
The third man, the one Kincaid had only knocked out, was stirring groggily. Bess knelt by his side and held the cutlass over him. “I’d lie there, if I were you,” she warned. He moaned and sank back to the floor, eyes wide with fear.
“Myself,” Evan said. “I work for myself.”
“Wrong answer,” Kincaid replied, digging the blade in a little deeper. A single drop of blood ran down Evan’s neck.
“Falconer wants the lady,” Evan croaked. Kincaid eased the pressure and the captain went on. “He’s put out a reward for her, dead or alive.”
“Why?” Bess demanded. “I don’t know him. Why would he want me?”
“I don’t know,” Evan said. “I swear I don’t. He’s offered silver in every port from the Bahamas to Boston.”
“And you were going to oblige him,” Kincaid said softly.
“I was going to have you killed,” Evan said, “but I was going to turn her over to Falconer. ”
“Those ships following us?” Kincaid prompted.
“Falconer’s. The brigantine is the Charlotte Rose. I don’t know the names of the other two, but they’re his.”
“Can we outrun them?” Bess asked.
“With me at the wheel, you can,” Evan dared to reply.
Kincaid pulled his head back farther. “Give me another reason why I shouldn’t cut your throat here and now,” he said.
“Because . . .” Evan swallowed hard. “Because I’m the only one who can get you to Panama.”
“Why should we trust you?” Bess asked.
“Evan is a practical man, aren’t ye?” Kincaid said. “This wasn’t personal, it was business, wasn’t it?” Evan’s frightened face whitened to the color of tallow. “What did ye want, Evan? Not just money. Ye wanted the Tanager, didn’t ye?”
“Yes.”
“Ye can have it if ye lose Falconer’s ships and take us to Panama and home to Maryland,” Kincaid said. “That, and a share of the Spanish treasure we’re going to dig up.”
“What?” Bess cried. “You’re not giving him a share of my—”
“Aye.” Kincaid said. “Him and every hand on this ship. There’s enough gold to make every man a king.” He looked down at the man Bess was holding prisoner. “Silver and precious jewels,” he continued. “A fortune . . . gold rings and nose plates, necklaces, crowns, and strings of pearls.”
“Pearls?” Bess said. “There’s no—”
“No end to the riches,” Kincaid said. “We’re going for Henry Morgan’s treasure that he stole from Panama City and buried in the jungle. Bess has a map, left to her by her grandfather who served under Morgan. We know where the gold’s hidden. With the right crew, we’ll be in and out before the Spanish know we’ve set foot on the coast.”
“God’s truth?” Evan said. “You have such a map?”
“Why else would a man like Falconer go to such lengths to capture a lady he’s never laid eyes on?” Kincaid lied smoothly. “Falconer knows about the treasure, but he doesn’t know where it is.” He released the captain. “Well, Evan, do ye still want to turn Bess over to Falconer?”
“I’m not sharing the gold with him and his crew of pirates,” Bess protested hotly.
“I’m your man,” the Welshman said. “Let me return to the wheel and we’ll leave Falconer’s ships behind so fast that they’ll think we vanished.”
“No,” Bess said. “You’re both out of your minds. I’m not going to—”
“Woman, cease your clatter,” Kincaid said roughly. “Pay no attention to her, Evan. She’ll do as I tell her.”
Bess’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “Oh, I will, will I, you bloated bag of haggis!”
Bess was still protesting weeks later when the Scarlet Tanager anchored in the shelter of the San Blas Islands off the mainland of Panama. “Was it necessary to promise a share of the treasure to every living soul south of Charles Town?” she demanded of Kincaid as they sat in a longboat being rowed toward shore.
“Aye, and I’ll promise part to the devil if need be,” he replied.
Evan Davis was in the boat with them, along, with eight members of the crew. Kincaid had left Rudy in charge of the Scarlet Tanager, because he was the only man they could trust in their absence.
It had rained earlier that morning; now the air was thick with a heavy, hot mist. Bess felt as though she was standing in the heat of the washhouse at home with steam rising off the boiling kettles of soapy water. It was so warm that the perspiration on her face and arms didn’t evaporate; it just gathered into trickles and rolled down her body, soaking her thin linen shirt and breeches as thoroughly as if she had put them on still wet from laundering.
Her attention was riveted on the swaying coconut palms and the thick wall of trees, shrubs, and interlaced vines that ran down to the island shore. The air was so filled with the earthy scents of decaying plants and wood that it was difficult for her to breathe.
For months Bess had thought of nothing but this journey into the jungle, and now that she was here, it still seemed a dream. Nothing she had ever known had prepared her for the multicolored birds calling and flitting through the hundred shades of green. This tropical forest reverberated with unfamiliar cries, snaps, rustles, and howls. Monkeys peered from the treetops and soared from branch to branch, chattering and squawking. Insects buzzed around her head and swarmed over every inch of bare skin, crawling and biting; and somewhere in the dripping verdant mass she could hear the loud, piercing de-dede-de of a cicada.
Kincaid pointed to the nearest bank where a huge moss-backed turtle reared his ancient head to stare at them. “Keep your hands away from the water,” he warned.
Bess didn’t need to be told. Not five feet from the longboat, the snout and glassy eyes of a bumpy-backed alligator bobbed just above the surface of the dark green water. As she watched, an unfamiliar diving bird plunged into the river and came up with a fish. Before the creature could rise with its prey, the alligator’s hideous jaws gaped open, closed around the bird, and dragged it under.
The crewmen mut
tered among themselves and one man crossed himself. “You needn’t be afraid,” Evan said. “When we go into the jungle, we’ll take Cuna guides. They know this country like you know the pimples on your own backside.”
Bess glanced back at the young captain. He’d given them no reason to doubt him since the day the Tanager had been followed by Falconer’s three ships. Once Kincaid had allowed him to take control of the vessel again, Evan had directed the men to raise every sail, and they had lost sight of the trailing ships within an hour.
Now Evan had brought them to a village of Cuna Indians, people whom he knew and had had experience dealing with. “The Cuna have good reason to hate the Spanish,” he’d said. “They murder the men, feed their infants to their hounds, and rape and enslave their women and children. But the brotherhood has always had a working relationship with these people. I once spent a month in this village during the dry season.”
This, Evan had explained, was the rainy season. They could expect downpours daily. Their clothes, shoes, and supplies would rot; their pistols and muskets would rust within days. They could travel inland by boat, something that was impossible in the dry season, but the constant rain made survival difficult. “Without the Cuna, we wouldn’t last a week in the jungle. There are trees that give off deadly poison to the touch, snakes and scorpions and blood-sucking bats, crocodiles and jaguars, and colonies of flesh-eating ants. Swamps and thorny thickets bar the way, some so thick and impenetrable that the jungle floor is as dark as night. The slightest scratch can fester into a mortal wound, and a white man can go for days without finding anything to eat. I’ve seen strong men lose their wits and devour human flesh.”
Bess hoped the Cuna Indians were as peaceful as Evan said. Two dugout canoes sliced through the water ahead of the longboat. Naked but for odd cones of bark and leaves covering their genitals, the husky, dark-skinned warriors with waist-length, flowing black hair manned the paddles of the native crafts.
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