Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress

by Judith E. French

  “There’s no mirror.”

  “Of course there’s no mirror. This is a smuggling pink, not a lady’s drawing room.”

  “I’d have you shave me.”

  She glared at him, noting that he was clad not only in his breeches, but also in the wet shirt. “I may shave you closer than you want.”

  “Let’s hope not.” He handed her the knife he’d taken from the cabin. “I’ve no intention of letting you cut my throat, and if you try, it’s a long swim to shore.” They changed places. He sat on the wooden bench and took the tiller; she stood in front of him.

  “I should, ye know,” she said. “I should cut your throat. You’re naught but vermin. My brothers and I save your worthless life, and ye repay us by stealing our boat and trying to drown them.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t kill them, did I? And I had the knife. I could have, you know. I could have done away with the three of you and left no witnesses.” He laid a hand on her arm. “If the shoe was on the other foot, what then? Would Ben and Alfred have tried to take my boat?”

  Her skin tingled where he touched her and she jerked away. Her insides turned over, and she felt as though she’d been running up a steep hill.

  “Well, woman? You know damned well they would have cut my throat without a second thought.”

  Her cheeks grew hot. She knew the truth of what he was saying, but was unwilling to admit it. “It’s not the same thing,” she argued. “I’m sayin’ what happened, and you’re supposin’ what might have happened.”

  “Stop talking and get on with it,” he said.

  Her hand trembled as she brought the knife blade close to his face. Fear or something akin to it made her knees weak. Damn but this pirate infuriated her! He was like a flame that drew her near, then threatened to burn her if she came too close.

  His face was suddenly enigmatic. Pinpoints of light danced behind his eyes ... devil eyes so seal-brown that they appeared black. She forced herself to stand firm and took hold of his beard with her left hand. Her heart was thudding so wildly that she was afraid he’d hear it.

  “Lacy.”

  Something indescribable passed between them as he said her name. She’d felt that pent-up energy in the air just before a thunderstorm. “This ... this will hurt,” she warned. To her surprise, his pitch-black beard wasn’t coarse as she had supposed it would be, but soft ... almost silky.

  “Careful,” he said brusquely. “If you draw blood, puss, you’ll regret it.”

  She lowered the knife, let go of him, and backed away. “To the devil with ye, then. Shave your own face.”

  He shook his head. “You told me you could be of use if I didn’t throw you over the side. Now’s your chance to prove it.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  “Scared?”

  “Of you? Not likely.”

  “It’s me who should be shaking in my boots.”

  Setting her mouth in a tight line, she took hold of his beard again and began to saw it away close to the skin. To her surprise, as the concealing bush fell away, a much younger man appeared, a man with a firm jaw and a shapely, sensual mouth.

  Touching him so intimately was an unnerving experience. She’d shaved her father, Red Tom, many times before, but she’d never felt such giddy sensations racing through her body when she’d done it.

  “You’re not half bad to look at, under this,” she declared softly, “even if they did try to make sawdust of your face.”

  “So my mother always said.”

  Aye, the women would follow this one like flies to a pudding, Lacy thought as she concentrated on scraping his square chin clean of whiskers. His skin had a natural olive complexion which hadn’t taken on the pasty hue of so many prisoners. Instead, he had the look of a man who’d spent many years on the sea. There were squint lines at the corners of his large, expressive dark eyes; a small bump on the bridge of his nose that told her it had been broken at least once; and a thin scar that ran from an inch below his right earlobe to halfway down his chin.

  “I’m not the first to wish to cut your throat,” she murmured. She ran an exploring finger down the length of the old injury. “Too bad for Ben and Alfred that he wasn’t successful.”

  James laughed indulgently and pushed aside his shirt. Three inches lower, a wider scar slashed across his throat. “Crocodile,” he said, then, pulling the shirt up from the bottom, he displayed a huge claw mark that ran from his navel through the dark hairs on his belly to the indentation of his left hip. “Panther.” He grinned, and once more reached for the ties on his breeches. “And lower down, I—”

  “Enough o’ that,” Lacy said sharply, giving him a shove. “Mind your manners, sailor, or I’ll cut more than chin whiskers.” She rested her hands on her hips and backed away from him. It was easier to keep her head about her when she wasn’t touching him. “Ye must think I was raised in a barrel,” she declared, “to fall for such claptrap.” She shook her head. “Next you’ll be showing me your sea serpent.”

  He shrugged and grinned again, and she noticed how white and even his teeth were. S’blood, but this gentleman jack-tar had a smile to tug at a girl’s heart. She made a moue and surveyed her work.

  The shaving was nothing to boast of; she’d left patches of whiskers on the underside of his chin and around his lips. Twice she’d nicked him, and there was a trickle of blood running down one cheek. Still, he was a lot prettier than when she’d started, and without soap, she was reluctant to try any correction. “That’s the best I can do with salt water and a dull knife,” she said. “I can trim your hair if ye like.”

  He held out his hand for the weapon, and she gave it to him, blade first. For an answer, he grabbed handfuls of his hair and sawed it off at shoulder length.

  “Ragged as if a goat chewed it,” she said.

  He stuck the knife back into his waistband and tied his hair with a leather thong. “It’ll do for where I’m heading.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “I’ve not decided if I’m going to tell you or not,” he answered seriously. “I’ve not made up my mind about you yet.”

  Her pulse quickened as he gazed at her with sharp appraisal. Unconsciously, she raised a hand to brush back a stray lock of windblown hair. “Ye don’t mean to head for France, then, do ye?”

  His brow furrowed. “You are the hardest-headed woman. You don’t listen to a word I say.”

  “I listen,” she replied sharply “but I’m not your servant. I’ve a mind of my own.” A shiver passed down her spine. Whatever he was doing to make her feel so strange was unnatural, and the sooner she got away from him the better. “I’m not used to taking orders from a man.”

  “So it seems.”

  “While you’re thinking—and a hard task it must be—might I have your leave to wash my own hair?” He nodded, and she took the bucket and drew up sea water. Leaning over the low rail, she poured the salt water over her head, scrubbing as best she could without soap. When she was done, she sat down and leaned against the mainmast and ran her fingers through the tangled strands, letting the clean wind dry her hair. All the while she watched him, without letting him know she was doing so, and tried to think how to take back the Silkie without killing him.

  James glanced over at the faint shoreline to be certain he was holding his course, then went back to watching Lacy. She was an enigma. Of all the women he’d known—and he’d been acquainted with his share—he’d never met any like her.

  She was smart and tough with a ready tongue. What’s more, all that sassy personality was tied up in a face and body as sweet as any he’d ever yearned after. The crazy thought crossed his mind that such a pretty bird might not make a bad shipmate, but then he mentally pushed it away.

  He’d fought his way across a green hell for a prize that still eluded him. Memories of that rich treasure had been all that had kept him alive when he’d seen his companions taken out and hanged. Nothing—least of all a woman—would stand in his way now.

 
; He’d sailed from Port Royal, Jamaica, following the captain of his ship, Matthew Kay, and the leader of the expedition, Henry Morgan, to take revenge on the Spanish, who’d been at war with England for years, and to seize a city full of gold. Now, all those who’d sailed with him on the Miranda were dead. He was the only one left with a claim to the treasure, and he meant to have it. If he lived and gave up the quest, it would be as if they’d all died in vain.

  No, by God and all that was holy! He meant to take this little vessel and sail her back to the Caribbean. He meant to have the gold or lose his life in trying. And if anyone, Henry Morgan included, tried to keep him from what was rightfully his, he’d see them in hell.

  It was where he was bound for anyway ... James inhaled deeply of the salt air. One night in Condemned Hold, when his sanity had been stretched so tight that he thought he’d lose his mind, he’d been burning up with fever. Fever so hot that he began to hallucinate. And during that madness, he’d seen the devil and made a pact with him. Give me the treasure, and twenty years to spend it, and you can have my soul for all it’s worth to you.

  He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin and stared back at the frothy blue water. Arawak Island was halfway around the world, close to five thousand miles from London. A man would have to be a lunatic to try and reach it on a boat like this ... and even crazier to think of sailing there with a whore he’d known for only two days.

  “Did you really sail with Henry Morgan?” Lacy asked. “Or is that another empty boast?”

  His eyes widened. “Are you a witch that you can read my thoughts?” She paled as though he’d slapped her, and he softened his tone. “No need to panic. There’s none here to drag you to the stake. I did but jest.”

  “Witchcraft is no joking matter.”

  “I’m not a superstitious man, I no more believe in witches than I do in ghosts.”

  “So say you, but I saw a woman burned once for witchcraft. Besides, I’ve never met a sailor who wasn’t full of fancies.”

  He shrugged. “You’ve met one now. And yes, to answer your question, I did fight under Captain Morgan.” Fool that he was, he’d done it. But then, it wasn’t really Morgan he’d followed, but Matthew Kay, captain of the Miranda and the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. It was Matt who’d taught him how to maneuver a brigantine through a gap in a coral reef in a hurricane, and Matt who’d kept him alive long enough to call himself privateer.

  Matthew had gone down with the Miranda off Arawak, and James had mourned the captain as much as the loss of his own freedom. Taking back the treasure would help avenge Matt’s death.

  Some of Lacy’s color returned. “I was just wondering,” she said. “Were ye with Morgan when he attacked Porto Bello or when he raided Panama City?”

  James swallowed. Too many nights he’d thought of Panama. It wasn’t a memory that a man cherished. “Panama City,” he said. His friend Corbin had died of snakebite on the way. He’d taken the strike above his boot, and his leg had swelled until it didn’t look human. They’d buried him in a water-filled grave and pushed on toward the Spaniards and glory.

  “We heard Henry Morgan burned the town and took a king’s ransom in gold.”

  “For a whore, you’re well-informed on what happened an ocean away.”

  “My family lives by the sea. Toby—he was a gunner before he took consumption—he told us. He works for my father. Toby’s been to the American Colonies and as far south as Barbados. He fought the Spanish once, said that the men on his ship battled like tigers because the Spaniards would burn Englishmen alive if they captured them. Is that so?”

  He nodded. “Yes. They hold us all to be heretics.”

  “Zooterkins.” Her mood darkened. “I can think of better ways to die than being roasted alive.”

  “So can I.” He stood up, suddenly eager to make a decision about her. “You claim to know ships,” he said, tossing her the length of rope. “Tie a catspaw.”

  She erupted into merry laughter. “Why should I?”

  “Prove it. Tie the damned knot, woman.”

  Her fingers flew. In seconds, she held up the knot he’d asked for.

  “Sheepshank,” he prodded. She complied. “Timber hitch.”

  “Give me your arm, Jamie.” Woodenly, he held it out and she encircled it with the rope, twisting the hemp into the knot he’d demanded. “I can tie a half-hitch around your neck, if you’d like,” she said saucily. Her chin went up and she stared at him boldly. “Shall I furl the sails? Or take a sounding?” Her cinnamon-brown eyes dared him to give her a task she couldn’t perform.

  He took a deep breath, trying to think straight—trying to ignore how magnificent she looked with the sunlight reflecting off her bright hair ... and her mouth ... her mouth so damned full and provocative.

  He’d put in to shore and let her off. It was the only sensible thing to do. He started to tell her so.

  “I’m going to the Caribbean,” he said instead. “I’m going on this boat.”

  “Why in God’s name would ye want to do that?”

  “I know where there’s a Spanish treasure, a treasure to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. Come with me. Help me sail this damned boat there, and I’ll give you a share.”

  “A share of a madman’s dream,” she mocked.

  “The treasure’s real enough.”

  “Why me?”

  “You said it yourself. It takes two to sail this pink properly. I’ve got a better chance if you come along.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Sail across the ocean with you? In the Silkie?”

  “What’s waiting for you in England, Lacy?”

  She sat down on the deck as though her legs had collapsed under her. “You’re serious.”

  “I am.” Suddenly, he wanted her to come. Wanted her so badly that he ached with it.

  “Ye want a woman to cook your food and spread her legs whenever you say.”

  “No. I’m not saying that I don’t find you desirable, but right now I want a shipmate.”

  “A partner,” she suggested.

  “I said I’ll give you a fair portion.”

  “Share and share alike.”

  His face grew hot. “Now, wait a minute. The treasure’s mine. I’m cutting you in—”

  “Half or nothing,” she insisted. “And no sex unless I agree to it.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, woman.”

  “Swear,” she ordered. “On your mother’s soul.”

  “I swear.”

  She held out her hand. “Give me the knife.” He did as she asked, and she nicked her left thumb with the point, then held out her hand expectantly. He gave her his hand and she cut his right thumb in the same manner. Then, solemnly, she pressed the two together, letting their blood mingle. “Shipmates,” she said. “Share and share alike.”

  “Agreed,” he said, and wondered what in the hell he’d let himself in for. And then, to his wonder, she threw back her head and let out a shout of utter joy.

  “To hell with Newgate! To hell with England!” she cried. “We’re off to find a bloody treasure. You, me, and Harry!”

  Chapter 5

  “Who the hell is Harry?” James demanded when Lacy had finally ceased her prancing, dropped down on the deck, and drew her knees up under her skirts in a distinctly unladylike pose.

  “Why ...” She stared at him as though he were slow-witted. “Harry’s the ship’s cat, of course.”

  “Cat, hell! I hate cats. We’ll have no cats on this voyage.”

  “If Harry doesn’t go, I don’t go.” She folded her arms across her breasts and regarded James with an imperious air. “A cat for luck. And God knows this venture will need all the luck it can get.”

  He glared back at her. “I’ll toss it overboard first chance I get.”

  “Try it. Touch a hair on Harry’s head, and you’ll find yourself swimming back to land with a cracked skull.”

  “You’d mutiny—murder a man—over a swiving cat?”


  “Try me.”

  A heavy silence hung over the deck of the Silkie for long minutes, then James grudgingly relented. “Have your cat then,” he muttered, “but keep it away from me. And ...” His eyes narrowed. “You’ll feed the thing from your rations, not mine. We’ll see how long you stay sentimental if our biscuit runs low in the Sargasso Sea.”

  “Don’t say such things!” Lacy threw up her hands and made the sign against evil. “You’ll jinx our voyage before we begin,” she warned him. Every deep-water sailor was full of tales about the Sargasso, a haunted place that stretched for hundreds of miles in the center of the Atlantic—a stretch of water covered with stinking brown weed. “They say the winds die there,” she said, “and that nothing lives in the sea, no fish ... nothing at all.”

  “I’ve crossed it before, I can cross it again.”

  “So ye say.” Sailors’ tales were always more rum than fact, but there were dangers enough on the open water without tempting fate. “You’ve sailed the route we’re going to take?” she asked.

  “Four times. We’ve lain there with slack sails for days, but we always caught a wind and made it through.”

  She nodded. “I suppose.”

  “Did you think you could get to the New World and a fortune without danger?”

  “I’m no coward, James Black,” she answered sharply. “I can face anything you can. But ... but I see no sense in borrowing trouble.”

  “A woman’s trepidation.”

  She pursed her lips. “Trepi ... trepi what?”

  “Trepidation.” He smiled condescendingly. “It means fears.”

  She flushed. “Throw all the big words ye like, but there’s times when fear can keep ye alive.” Straightening her shoulders, she turned away from him, then paused and glanced back. “I only hope you’ve steel for a backbone, sir. For if you’re all talk and yellow under the bluster, we’ll know soon enough.” Without waiting to hear his reply, she went down into the cabin.

  James’s earlier mention of rations had reminded her that she was hungry, and after her temper cooled she began to gather something to eat. All the while, a rational voice in her head was telling her that she’d made a really stupid decision.