When Bess had climbed down the ladder from the Tanager to the longboat, the Indians had stared at her with round black eyes, and she had stared back, unable to contain her curiosity. Every Cuna male, young and old, seemed cut from the same bolt of cloth: their sleek bodies were oiled and their wide, thin lips were nearly covered by silver, saucer-sized plates that dangled from their identical, rounded noses.
The Cuna had not seemed hostile. They laughed and called to Evan as though he was an old friend, but Bess didn’t miss the razor-sharp steel machetes they carried, or the short bows and bundles of arrows resting in the bottoms of the dugouts.
The river narrowed and turned to the left. Ahead, in a clearing, Bess saw dozens of Indian women and children standing on the bank, waving and chattering in their native tongue. The females were as striking as the males—round-faced, pleasant-featured, and completely innocent of their near-naked condition. The small boys and girls wore nothing but flashing smiles; mature women had only a twist of leafy vine across their loins. Babies bounced in woven slings around their mothers’ necks, and toddlers clung to their bare ankles.
Other dugouts were drawn up on the shore, and beyond that, on a small rise, stood the village. Most of the huts seemed like leaf-covered porches without walls to Bess. But she could see one huge building stretching windowless nearly the length of the town, taller and broader than any other, with sides of stout poles and woven vines. Smoke came from a hole in the roof of the longhouse, as it did from most of the other dwellings, and through the doorway she saw woven hammocks hanging from the framework.
A piglike animal nearly as big as a heifer sizzled on a spit over glowing coals under one roofed area. An old woman with a monkey on her shoulder turned the roasting meat and kept a pack of skinny dogs at bay with a palm frond. As the first canoe grated against the shore, the curs abandoned the pursuit of dinner and rushed down in a frenzy of barking to greet the men.
As the second boat touched, the crowd parted to make way for a tall, dignified man of obvious importance. His thinning gray hair framed a lined, round face adorned with a glittering gold nose plate. His broad chest boasted an ivory cross, and beneath that, his codpiece was a thin, beaten cone of silver suspended from his waist by a length of silver chain.
“That’s Pablo, the village chief,” Evan whispered. “He’s very influential, related by blood to all the other major Cuna tribes.”
“Pablo?” Bess questioned. “But that’s Spanish. I thought you said the Cuna hated the Spaniards.”
The captain shrugged. “They do, but all the important men in the villages have taken Spanish names. Actually, it’s rare for anyone to tell you their native name. They’re very superstitious. They think if you know their name, it gives you power over them.”
“How will you talk to them?” she asked. “Do you speak Cuna?”
“No,” Evan answered. “But Pablo knows enough English and Dutch for us to get by. He’s been trading with buccaneers for years.”
“That’s why we brought cane knives and trade goods from Charles Town,” Kincaid said. “We’ll smoke a few cigars, hand out gifts all around, and see if we can’t convince some of the Cuna to guide us to the treasure site.”
“And what about the Spanish?” Bess asked. “I know we’re not far from Porto Bello.”
“If they find us, they’ll shoot us on sight,” Evan said. “But the Cuna know something about avoiding the Spanish. With their help, we should be all right.”
“Stay close to me,” Kincaid cautioned Bess. “Don’t speak until you’re spoken to, and eat anything they offer ye—snake, alligator, bugs, or dog. If you insult their hospitality; they’ll turn their backs on us.”
“The women are subservient to the men,” Evan added. “They won’t expect you to do anything but smile and do what Munro tells you.”
“Wonderful,” Bess said.
Kincaid grinned at her. “ ‘Tis a practice we could well adopt in the Maryland Colony. The women there have forgotten their place.”
Bess shot him a withering glance.
Then the bow of the longboat struck solid ground, and Kincaid stepped out into ankle-deep water. Evan followed close behind, open hands outstretched so that the Cuna chief could see they came in peace. Bess climbed over the side and waded ashore as women and children surrounded her, picking at her hair and clothes and chattering like birds in their soft, lisping speech. They rubbed her arms and face, crying excitedly to each other and making obvious jokes about her appearance.
A stout woman thrust a coconut into Bess’s hands and motioned for her to drink. Tentatively, she raised it to her lips and sipped the sweet liquid, then smiled and nodded her thanks. That action brought a round of approving twitters, and the women began touching and patting her all over again.
Kincaid paused in greeting the chief and glanced back at her. “Come here, Bess,” he said. The Cuna women scattered like leaves, leaving a pathway open. Gratefully, Bess hurried to his side.
Without smiling, Kincaid motioned to a place behind him and she didn’t argue. She stood there woodenly, trying to look harmless as dozens more Cuna men filed silently out of the forest carrying bows and machetes.
After many exchanged compliments and elaborate greetings, Kincaid nodded to Evan, and he ordered the sailors to bring the bundles of gifts from the longboat. Kincaid stood proudly as rolls of red and blue linen were spread out, and the knives, machetes, needles, scissors, tobacco, hand mirrors, and hawkbells were arranged on top.
“These poor things I give to you and your people, Pablo,” Kincaid said.
Bess noticed the gleam of anticipation in the dark Cuna eyes, but no one made a run for the presents. Each man waited his turn until an elder called him forward to choose something from the gifts. The chief took nothing for himself. When the last length of cloth had been handed out, Kincaid turned to Pablo and removed the gold earring from his own ear and gave it to the Indian.
A slow smile spread across the older man’s face, and he clasped Kincaid by the shoulders and embraced him, rubbing his nose against the Scot’s cheek vigorously. “You give Pablo honor,” he rasped.
“No,” Kincaid said. “It is the great Cuna chief, Pablo, who honors me.”
A general cheer went up and the old woman at the spit began to slice off hunks of the roast meat. The men, including Kincaid, Evan, and the sailors, squatted down in a large circle. Kincaid’s warning glance told Bess not to attempt to join them, so she retreated to the shelter of the porch where the pig had been cooked.
The Cuna women and girls ran to fetch baskets of smoked fish, coconut, bananalike fruit, nuts, berries, pineapples, avocados, and squash to pass out to the men. They served the meat on palm leaves woven into crude plates. One woman carried a huge wooden bowl full of gray liquid on her shoulder. She lowered the drink to the damp earth and offered the chief a clamshell brimming over. He waved to Kincaid, and the woman giggled and extended the offering to him. Kincaid motioned back to the chief, bringing another round of pleased murmurs from the gathered warriors.
Pablo took the shell this time and drank with loud sips. Next Kincaid and then Evan were served, before the woman took refreshment to every man in the circle.
Suddenly, it began to rain again. With much confusion and shouting, the men rose and dashed toward the longhouse. When Bess rose to follow, a woman stepped in front of her and took hold of her arm. She said something that sounded like “Noh-noh.” She pointed toward the ground. When Bess sat down again, the woman smiled and handed her a plate heaped high with fruit and meat. To Bess’s great relief, none of the women seemed to be drinking the gray liquid. However, all of them were entranced by the strange white woman. They gathered around her again, urging the children to touch her, pointing at Bess’s hair and laughing behind their hands.
Hours passed. Laughter and talk floated through the arrow slits and smoke hole of the longhouse. Night fell, and hearth fires glowed in the sudden darkness. The mosquitoes made Bess miserable until a young
woman shyly appeared at her shoulder and offered her a handful of paste. When Bess raised it to her lips, the woman giggled and shook her head, making motions to rub the stuff on her skin instead of eating it. Bess did as she was told and found immediate relief from the biting insects.
Finally, one by one, the women and children drifted away. The sleepy whines of children and the wail of babies faded, and the eerie jungle sounds reigned once more. Deep coughs, screeches, and an occasional roar made the hairs on Bess’s neck rise, but she remained where she was and waited for Kincaid.
She had nearly drifted off to sleep when someone tugged at her hand. Her eyes flew open, but she couldn’t make out the woman’s face in the shadows.
“You come,” the voice in heavily accented English insisted. “You come.”
Obediently, Bess stood up and let the woman lead her through the village to a hut on the forest’s edge. A smoky fire had been lit, and there was a stack of wood beside it.
“No fire go out,” the Indian woman said. “Fire good.” She pointed to the looming jungle. “Fire good. ” A single hammock swung from the corner posts. Bess could see no other furnishings or implements in the hut. The woman pointed to the hammock. “You,” she said. “You.”
“You want me to sleep here,” Bess said. The woman smiled and hurried away without another word. With a sigh, Bess climbed into the swaying hammock and closed her eyes.
If I’m going to be eaten, at least I don’t have to see what’s eating me, she thought as she tried to find a comfortable position in the strange bed. Something with wings brushed against her face and she batted at it. She opened her eyes and nearly screamed.
A man’s figure loomed over her.
Before she could gather her wits, he leaned down and kissed her. “Kincaid,” she gasped when he came up for air.
“Aye, and who did ye think it might be?” he teased in his husky burr. “The Prince of Wales?” He touched her cheek with his rough hand and she went all quivery inside.
“You scared me half to death,” she whispered.
“I said I’d keep ye safe.”
“Yes, but—” He cut off her protest with another kiss, and before she knew what he was doing, he was in the hammock with her.
“Kincaid!”
“Aye, lass.”
“What are you doing?” He didn’t smell like rum, but she knew by his amorous tone that he’d been drinking again. His shirt was open, so that his bare chest was pressed against her thin linen shirt, and his long legs were tangled in hers.
“What do ye think?” he murmured.
His hand cupped her breast, and her knees turned to water. “We can’t, not here,” she said.
“Why can’t we, Bess? Pablo offered me his youngest wife for the night, but I told him I’d brought my own.” He trailed warm kisses down her neck. “The Cuna say hammocks are . . .” Kincaid whispered into her ear and she felt her face grow hot.
“Kincaid!”
“Shall I tell the chief I’ve changed my mind about his youngest wife?”
“Just try it,” she taunted him. “Just you try it.”
Chapter 18
The heat of the throbbing tropical night enveloped them like a velvet cloak. Kincaid’s sensuous kisses grew more and more demanding as Bess’s own passion flared. Suddenly, she couldn’t get enough of him . . .
Ribbons of flickering light from the fire illuminated his face and upper body. A sheen of glistening perspiration covered his chest and arms as Bess ran exploring hands over the tightly coiled muscles in his shoulders and nipped lightly at his bare skin.
Kincaid groaned and wrapped his fingers in her hair, arching her neck back to kiss her throat and breasts. Her linen shirt was damp; it clung to her like a second skin, and under it she wore only a cutoff cotton shift. She wore no stays and no skirts or petticoats, only breeches and stockings below the shirt.
Now even those few garments were too much. She could feel her breasts swelling to his touch, her acutely sensitive nipples straining against the thin cotton shift. She wanted him to take off her shirt and shift. She wanted his mouth on her flesh—she wanted him to lick and suck her throbbing breasts. She wanted him inside her, hard and full . . . She wanted to feel the hot rush of his seed filling her.
A silken ribbon of fear floated across her consciousness, but she closed her eyes tightly and - willed it away. All her doubts about Kincaid were nothing compared with the feel of his arms around her and the heady scent of his aroused male body.
The threat of danger surrounded them. She knew that neither of them might live to see the sunrise, but this wild moment was theirs alone and no one could take it from them. She opened her eyes and stared into his face, then deliberately cast away a lifetime of reason and caution to follow her heart’s whim.
“Love me, Kincaid,” she whispered. “Love me tonight . . .”
“Aye, darlin’ Bess, I will . . .”
His demanding mouth scalded her. His fierce embrace was as overpowering as the jungle around them. She savored the feel of his tongue against hers, and her heartbeat quickened as she dared to think of what it would feel like if he kissed her all over.
“Bess, Bess, let me take off your shirt,” he murmured. “I want to suck your beautiful breasts. I want to lick them and suck them until you’re wet and ready for me.”
Inhaling deep gasps of the thick, damp air, Bess let him do what he asked without protest. His big hands were gentle on her taut body and his mouth drove her wild with wanting him. She uttered little cries of intense pleasure as he laved each areola with his wet, hot tongue and then drew her aching nipples between his lips to tug and tease until she writhed with desire.
In turn, she tasted his nipples, nipping at them with her teeth, and tonguing them until they formed tight nubs.
“Woman,” he moaned. “What are ye doin’ to me?”
She laughed softly and wiggled down, nestling her face against his belly and feeling with her lips the whirled line of hair that ran down to the spring of short curls below. Still laughing, she eased his breeches down over his hips, set his tumescent shaft free, and dared to stroke the throbbing length with light, teasing fingertips.
Kincaid groaned deep in his chest, and she felt tremors of pleasure shake his body. His fingers tightened in her hair and his breath quickened. “Bess, Bess,” he whispered hoarsely. Tentatively, she touched the smooth surface with the tip of her tongue, marveling at the sleek texture and the hint of salt.
“Dinna stop,” he begged her. Brazenly, she ran her tongue around the head of his shaft and took him into her mouth, sucking gently. He groaned again, then pulled her back up to kiss his mouth. “Now me,” he said. “Now it’s my turn to pleasure you.” His mouth found her breast again and she sighed with delight.
And when he slid searching fingers down beneath the waistband of her boy’s breeches, she felt no shame, only a yearning to have him thrust his long fingers through her damp triangle of curls and then deeper still into the source of her flaring hunger. She squirmed against his touch, whimpering at the carnal bliss of his intimacy . . . shamelessly giving herself body and soul to the enchantment of his lovemaking.
“Bess . . .” he murmured.
The deep chords of his whispered endearments sent chills of delight from her head to the soles of her feet. She buried her face in his chest and sighed with joy.
“Do ye like that?” he asked huskily.
“Yes, oh, yes,” she answered. Her own hands were not still; they slid over his heavily muscled arms and down his waist to stroke and rub the hard curve of his thigh. She cupped his heavy stones in her hand and clasped his tightly muscled buttocks.
The hammock swayed precariously as they pulled away the remainder of each other’s clothing and lay, limbs entwined, thudding heart against thudding heart, as naked as they were born.
From the forest, Bess heard the blood-chilling cough of a puma and the screams of fleeing monkeys. Strange birds shrieked, and heavy, swollen drops began str
iking the leaf canopy over her head. She heard all those things, and she smelled the earthy, pungent scent of rain on damp grass, but she sensed all those things vaguely, as though from a great distance or as a faded memory.
All that mattered was the man she held in her arms, the man who rolled her on top of him in the gently swinging hammock. “Ride me,” he ordered. “Ride me, Bess, as hard and fast as ye rode that black horse.”
Provocatively, she moved over his turgid manhood, reveling in the sweet sensations that flowed through her . . . enjoying the novel power of being in control.
Groaning, he caught her by the hips and lifted . her onto him. She settled onto his hard, prodding shaft, opening to him, and sliding down until his enormous erection was buried deep inside. Then he bucked against her and she felt a bolt of lightning explode within her.
“Kincaid,” she whispered.
The rain became a torrent, pounding against the leaf roof, drowning out the world, deafening Bess to every voice but that of her own desire.
Kincaid arched his back and she met his thrust with blazing ardor, loosing her own primitive flame, letting the incandescent heat of the jungle night sweep over them, adding to the unforgettable feeling of joyous rapture.
This time Kincaid didn’t withdraw at the moment of ultimate release, and she felt the warm flood of his passion fill her just before she soared to her own earth-shattering climax. He murmured her name and crushed her tightly against him, and they tumbled from the high place into infinity together.
His voice was deep and burred as he whispered to her in the black velvet night. “I wish it was true, Bess,” he confided. “I told the chief ye were my wife. I wish it was so.” He cradled her in his arms and gave her a lingering kiss of such tenderness that tears welled up in her eyes.
“I wish it was true too,” she said.
“Nay, ye dinna. Ye do not know the things I’ve done in my life—the man I am.”
“I know enough to never want another,” she said softly. “Enough to know that a man like you comes into a woman’s life only once.”
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