He tensed. “That again.”
“And again. I do love you, you thickheaded Scot, and I know you love me. Can’t you admit it?”
“Admitting that I love ye isn’t hard to do, sweeting. ‘Tis what I know you’ll ask next of me that’s difficult.”
“To be my husband?” She twisted in his arms to face him. “You’re not a poor mercenary any longer. That gold you brought up from the pool today makes you a rich man.”
It was true that his share would buy a lot of dreams, but they were still a long way from home free. “Provided we live long enough to spend it.”
She touched his bare chest, running her hand lightly over his skin, rubbing and massaging until he sighed with pleasure. “It wasn’t all bad,” she murmured, “being a soldier’s woman.”
“Nay,” he answered, remembering the days and nights they’d spent together. There was no chance for them together. He knew it, and if she were thinking straight, she’d know it too. Bess deserved better.
He ground his teeth together as she rubbed lazy circles on his chest. Where would he find a woman to match her? Nowhere. She was one of a kind. And he knew he’d miss the feel of her hair through his fingers, and the sound of her husky laughter, so long as he drew breath. “Ah, Bess,” he murmured. He lowered his head and kissed her tenderly, and the taste of her lips was as sweet as new-milled cider.
For a few seconds he allowed himself to think of what life would be like for him as her husband, living on Fortune’s Gift. Clearing virgin forest land and planting crops . . . Watching the turn of the seasons with Bess at his side . . . Raising children together. Seeing her with his child at her breast . . .
“Nay, Bess,” he repeated, more for himself than for her. “It’s too late for us. I’ll take ye home to your grand plantation, and after a time you’ll forget about me and meet a gentleman who’s worthy of ye.”
“Don’t tell me that,” she said. “It’s not that you’re not good enough for me, and you’re lying to yourself if you say so.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you’re afraid of letting yourself love me. You loved your first wife and she betrayed you. Now it’s easier to make excuses than take the chance of being hurt again.”
He let go of her and sat up. “Ye know nothin’ of it, Bess. Leave it be.”
“I’m not Gillian, Kincaid. I’m Bess. You can trust me.”
“I got over Gillian a long time ago.”
“Did you?”
Resentment flared. Biting back the angry words he wanted to say, he rose, snatched up his pistol, and walked out into the rain.
“How far can you run?” Bess called after him. “You know that what I’m saying is the truth.”
He kept walking until the rush of water over the falls drowned out her words and the pool was a black void at his feet. Rain beat down on his face and soaked his breeches, but he paid it no heed. He knew he was being stupid, laying himself open for a Carib arrow or a jaguar’s attack, but he had to get far enough away from Bess to think.
His bare foot struck something hard, and he stooped and picked up a thin, beaten-gold, footed vessel with a hawk’s head. It was too dark to see more than a faint glow of reflected light, but as he ran his fingers over it, there was no mistaking the winged handle or the proud, curved beak on the spout.
He held a fortune between his hands—the price of an earl’s ransom. For once in his life, a wild dream had come true. Idly, he stroked the line of embossed feathers that made up the beautiful design.
Once, long ago, when he was no more than sixteen, he’d run from a lost battle. It was a stormy night; he was in unfamiliar territory with the enemy in hot pursuit. All around him, he could hear the clash of steel, the boom of muskets, and the screams of dying men. He’d run a long way. He had a sword slice along his arm and he was losing blood fast. In the darkness he couldn’t see much of anything, except when the cannon fire lit up the sky. Suddenly, just ahead of him, the path split. One way would lead him back to his own troops, the other to the opposing army’s territory. Trouble was, he didn’t know which trail to take.
Kincaid ran a hand through his wet hair. He felt like that tonight. Despite all he had said, he knew if he left Bess he’d never buy land or carve his own farm out of the wilderness. He’d find another war, and then another and another. He’d spend his share of the gold on strong rum and loose women. And when his luck ran out, there’d be no one to mourn his death or even to carve his name on a grave marker.
Calling him a coward was a killing offense, but Bess had done it. And, sweet Jesus, she was right. He was as scared as he’d ever been in his life. He wanted to believe her when she said she loved him. He wanted to trust her, but he didn’t know how.
All she had to do was look at him with those sea-blue eyes and he hardened like a steel pike. Brushing her hand with his, seeing the curve of her neck when she bent down to pick something up, watching the proud way she walked—all those things tore his guts apart . . . and made him feel ten feet tall. Bess was the most sensual woman he’d ever known. He thought about her every waking hour, and she danced through his dreams at night. She infuriated him, tested him at every step, and made him want to take her in his arms and keep her safe forever.
Want Bess Bennett as his wife? Hell, yes, he wanted her. But it was the keeping her that worried him. If he took her for his own and she ever left him for another man . . . He wasn’t sure what he’d do. God knew he’d never want a repeat of what had happened with Gillian. But the emotions Bess caused him were so much stronger than those he’d felt for his first wife that he was at a loss for direction. If he took Bess, will she nill she, he’d hold her fast, no matter the cost.
Intuition prickled the skin at the back of his neck and he whirled around to see a pair of green eyes staring at him from the jungle. “Go on, get out of here!” he yelled. “Ha!” He clapped his hands together, and the glowing orbs vanished.
“I might as well be a married man,” he muttered. “I’ve lost all reason if I’m standing in the rain arguing with a jaguar.” He turned back to the fire and Bess.
He found her there, huddled by the flickering light. “Can ye forgive a fool?” he asked.
A smile more radiant than the sun spread over her face as she threw herself into his arms. “Kincaid?”
He hugged her against him, thinking how warm she was, how much dearer to him than all the gold that the Spanish had ever stolen from the Indians. He tilted her chin up and kissed her long and passionately. “Damned if I know what they’ll call ye,” he said gruffly when they parted long enough to take a breath. “I don’t even know if Kincaid’s my first name or my last.”
“I thought of that,” she said. “And Robert will serve very well. Mistress Robert Kincaid, if you please.”
“You’ve figured it all out, have ye, ye bold wench?” He kissed her throat, and traced the hollow between her swelling breasts with his lips.
She laughed softly and tightened her arms around his neck. “I’ve waited long enough for a proper proposal.”
“Who said that’s what it was? I was only askin’ what a man would call ye if I did ask.”
“You’re not weaseling out of this, Robert Kincaid,” she teased between kisses. “I take your words as a declaration that you intend to make an honest woman of me, and I accept.”
“Ye do, do ye?” He groaned, trying to maintain his dignity when his heart was turning cartwheels in his chest and he felt like a drowning man who’d just been pulled from the sea.
“I love you,” she said softly. “Love you more than I love Fortune’s Gift.”
He nibbled her bottom lip provocatively. “That’s reassuring.”
“But you’re still an unrepentant horse thief, and I’ll not wed you or forgive you until you bring back my Ginger.”
“So the knight is set a noble task to win the hand of the fair maiden?”
She laughed. “You hardly qualify as a knight and I’m no maiden. But, yes,
bringing home my horse is a noble task, and there’ll be no marriage lines until my mare’s safe in her own pasture.”
“And if the beast is crab bait?”
“She’d better not be.”
“You’d reject my suit for the sake of a dead horse?”
“If you know what’s good for you, Scot, you’d best pray for Ginger’s safety. I raised her from a foal.”
“You’re a hard woman, Bess.”
“Am I?” She took his hand and brought it to her breast. “I love you very much, Kincaid.”
“So you’ve said,” he murmured, savoring the soft feel of her breast. He swallowed at the thickening in his throat as he slid his free hand down over her hip and cupped her sweet, rounded bottom. She raised her face for his kiss and parted her lips so that he had access to her silken mouth.
The weariness fell away as his blood grew hot and his loins tightened. He and Bess dropped to their knees together, and he pushed up her shirt and tasted the perfect buds of her ripe breasts. “Little Bess,” he whispered. “I want ye so bad.”
Her hands were all over him, touching, caressing, making him rock-hard and aching for her. He groaned with pleasure as she arched her hips against him and uttered little cries of yearning. He wanted to fill her with his love, to claim her once and for all as his, to feel her one with him.
She wriggled free and pulled the shirt over her head. His breath caught in his throat as he surveyed her beautiful naked breasts, the proud arch of her throat, and the long, slow look she gave him. Intense desire burned in that steaming gaze—desire to match his own hunger and an inborn sensuality that glowed white-hot beneath her rosy skin.
He reached out slowly and untied the ribbon at the back of her head, letting her wild auburn hair fall loose in curling waves around her bare shoulders. She smiled at him and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
His erection strained against the thin cloth of his breeches. Breathless, wanting her now, yet not wanting this moment to end, he stripped away his single garment. “Come here, woman,” he said to her.
She didn’t move, and when he grabbed for her, she laughed and ducked back to snatch up a wild plum from the remains of their supper. Deliberately, she sank her white teeth into the ripe fruit, and the juice ran over her lips and down her chin. Her eyes dared him as she offered him a bite of the plum.
“I’d rather have it from your lips,” he said, seizing her and pulling her hard against him. He knew that the jaguar paced not far from the firelight, but the lure of Bess’s tempting body beckoned more urgently than the voice of reason. Laughing, he kissed her mouth and ran his tongue over the trail of sweet purple juice.
“That was nice.” She sighed and squeezed the fruit, letting the dripping juice spatter over her throat and upthrust breasts.
“Aye,” he agreed. His swollen cock pressed hot and throbbing against her leg. He kissed one breast and then the other, tasting her skin and licking the sticky plum juice away. Her nearness and the feel of her warm body were driving him mad; he knew he was nearing the point of no return. “You are a witch,” he whispered as she caressed the length of his tumescence with her teasing fingers. “You’ve cast an enchantment over me, and there’s only one way to deal with you.”
“Ummm,” she murmured, tightening her grip. “And just what is that?”
“Some things are better shown than told.” The force of his need was gathering like a flood behind a dam. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The pulse of his blood drummed in his veins. It took every drop of willpower that he possessed to keep from throwing her back against the heaped palm branches and driving his aching manhood deep inside her sweet, wet folds.
“I want you to love me,” she whispered. “I want you so bad.” She moistened the tips of her fingers and brushed them over his swollen skin.
“You’ve no need for these,” he said, making short work of her breeches. She was breathing as hard as he was now, and he could tell by the tenseness of her muscles that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. But he was unwilling to let this pleasant game end just yet, no matter how exquisite the torture was for both of them.
The plum fell from her fingers and he caught it. “Not yet,” he rasped. Slowly, he drew the remains of the fruit down across her flat belly to the soft curls below. She moaned softly as he continued on, kissing each drop away, letting his tongue linger on her damp, quivering skin until he brushed the entrance to her secret garden.
With a cry, her fingers dug into his arms and she crushed him to her. “Now!” she urged. “Now. Love me now.”
Tears clouded his eyes as he granted her wish and his. He crouched over her and drove deep and hard into her loving embrace. She rose to meet him thrust for thrust, until their shared flood of passion broke over the dam with a wild rush of thunderous joy, and he was carried beyond the bounds of physical pleasure to the warm, pure state of utter contentment.
Twice more that night she came into his arms. And it was as if they were drawn together by a power they could not resist, using the act of love and a growing flame of trust to sear away everything in the past that had hurt them, leaving only the shimmering promise of a shared tomorrow.
Dawn came slowly, filtering through the lacy green boughs overhead, slowly silencing the night cries of the jungle, replacing them with the ever-present bark of the monkeys and the chirp of the cicadas.
Kincaid sat up and rubbed his eyes, looking around. Bess was curled up next to him, still sleeping, one arm thrown over her head. The fire had gone out, and ants were marching over the heaped saddlebags. Kincaid stood up and stretched, retrieved his pistol and reloaded it with what he hoped was dry powder, dressed, and walked outside the hut.
The golden treasure still lay strewn beside the pool. As he neared the bank, he drew in his breath sharply. On the muddy rim of the tarn were the clear tracks of a big cat. Sometime in the night, while he and Bess had made love, the jaguar had come to drink.
“Damn,” he muttered. The thought that he’d put her in danger by his carelessness grated on his nerves. He washed his face and hands, cleaned his teeth, and drank deeply. It was beginning to rain again as he returned to the shelter.
“Will ye sleep all day, woman?” he called to Bess. She stirred, and he glanced at her face. Was her skin more flushed than normal? “Bess,” he said. “Wake up, lass.” He bent and touched her arm.
A chill ran down his spine as he felt the unnatural heat of her skin. “Bess?”
Her eyelids fluttered. “Kincaid? ” She moistened her lips. “I’m thirsty,” she said. “So thirsty.”
Pain lanced through his gut as she opened her eyes and he met her feverish gaze. “Bess, are ye all right?” he asked, knowing the answer, but asking all the same.
“I don’t feel so good,” she said weakly. “My head hurts, and I . . . I don’t feel so good.”
Chapter 21
Jamaica, October 1725
Bess fought to open her eyes, but the struggle was almost too much of an effort. From far away she heard the soothing voice of a woman that had brought her back from the black void again and again. A window casement creaked and a light breeze kissed Bess’s hair. Then the bright island sun spilled like hot syrup across her face.
“Missy. Missy, you must eat.”
Obediently, Bess parted her lips and allowed the shadowy figure to spoon rich, salty broth into her mouth. A drop escaped and rolled down her bottom lip. Before she could lick it away, a soft cloth brushed her skin, catching the errant liquid.
“Your color is much better today, Missy Bennett. The fever leaves you, I think. I have made you hot tea, a private blend from Java. Would you like some?”
Bess sighed and turned her head away. The plump down pillows beneath her head and the clean smell of fresh sheets gave her a feeling of security. She didn’t want to open her eyes and let in the light. So long as she wrapped herself in the mantle of sleep, she didn’t have to face reality.
A cool sponge massaged her forehead. “
The fever plays with you, Missy,” the rich, throaty voice coaxed. “You must fight it. Open your eyes for Annemie. Do.”
Stubbornly, Bess refused to listen. She let go of consciousness and fell backward, slipping down and down, until her head was filled with the chirp of cicadas and the harsh shriek of jungle parrots . . . until the roar of howler monkeys drowned out the tinkle of wind chimes and the muted swoosh of surf lapping against a sandy Caribbean shore.
Kincaid’s strong face materialized from the wet green curtain. His nutmeg-brown eyes burned into her soul. She could feel his arms around her and hear his urgent pleading. “Don’t die, Bess. Live. Live for both of us.”
Images rose and faded, some clear, others hazy and indistinct. The pounding in her head reverberated like the tramp of marching soldiers; her skin burned like fire. She blinked, her eyes blinded by the shimmering radiance of a golden mask flashing in the blood-red glory of a setting sun. Green leaves arched overhead and the overwhelming scent of rotting vegetation submerged the smells of immaculate linen and steaming tea.
Blue waves ebbed and flowed through her mind . . . azure swells tipped with white . . . a sapphire sky over a tropical sea. She tasted the sting of salt against her tongue . . . felt the ocean wind in her tangled hair.
Bess moaned softly as she summoned Kincaid’s memory from the depths of her heart. Kincaid’s deep laughter . . . His muscles rippling beneath the bronzed skin of his broad back as he leaned into the oars of a small, open boat.
Suddenly, Bess’s body jerked violently as she heard again the thunder of a cannon’s roar. She screamed and sat bolt upright, reliving the terror of the cannonball striking the water close beside the longboat. “Kincaid!”
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth, what’s all this?”
A man’s arms tightened around Bess and her eyes flew open at the stranger’s touch. She stared at the elegantly dressed gentleman who pressed her back against the pillows, and she tried to make sense of where she was and what was happening to her.
“Lie back. Lie back and rest.” He stroked her forehead and cupped her chin gently in his hand. “Shhh,” he soothed. “Your fever’s rising again.”
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