Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress (14 page)

“I want you to come back with me—to England. I’ll buy your pardon, Lacy, as I’ll buy my own. We can be together. I’ll give you everything you’ll ever want ... pretty clothes, a house, servants. You’ll never—”

She stiffened. “If we find this treasure you’ve bragged about, I’ll need no one to buy me what I want.”

“Now, don’t go all hiss and nails on me, girl,” he soothed. “I’ve been honest with you from the first. I’ll marry a woman of my own station—but that doesn’t mean I’ll put her above you. I—”

She scrambled free of his embrace and rose to her knees, her cheeks hot with shame. “Damn ye for a blackhearted villain! Put me first, will ye?” She grabbed the nearest garment she could find—his cambric shirt—and pulled it over her head. The hem fell to mid-calf and covered enough flesh for her to consider herself decent. Thus armed, she turned on him with renewed fury. “I’m good enough for a mistress, aye, but never for a wife! No milksop blue-blood will ever give ye what I can. Best ye remember that.”

His eyes filled with pain. “You’re no fool, Lacy. You know what I am, and what you are.”

“Aye.” She came to her feet, eyes flashing sparks of cold fire. Her chin went up as she deliberately pushed aside the lock of auburn hair that covered her scar. “A
lady
could hardly pass in society with this, could she?” she mocked. “Witch or whore—it makes little difference, does it. Either one sends me from the hall and into the street.” She threw him a look of utter loathing. “Who are ye to condemn me, James Black? You’re naught but a pirate and no doubt a bastard to boot. Red Tom Bennett may not have been much, but at least I know who my father is.”

“And I know mine.”

“So you say.” Defiantly, she rested her hands on her hips and made a grimace of distaste. “Did ye ever think that perhaps it would be me who would keep you as my fancy boy, rather than me be your mistress? Ye didn’t seduce me, Jamie. I seduced you. Mayhap I won’t think you good enough for me, once we take this treasure.”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” he threatened. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m Red Tom’s daughter. Whose son are you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Enough.”

“Whose son, Jamie?”

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “The king’s son.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “More lies.”

“Charles’s son.” His features grew taut. “I am James Fitzroy, and my father is Charles Stuart, the rightful king of England.”

Lacy turned away, holding back the taunting gibe that rose in her throat. He was lying again. He must be. Her mouth tasted suddenly of copper. Jamie’s devil-black looks and stature could come from the Stuarts. The king’s conquests were legendary. He had dozens of bastards—nay, scores—according to gossip. She glanced back at him, still trying to make sense of what he’d said. “You’re too old to be Charles’s get. He would have had to sire ye when he was—”

“A few weeks lacking his sixteenth birthday,” James finished.

“No. ’Tis easy enough claimed. But your mother is of gentle birth. If you speak truth, why wouldn’t he have—”

“Acknowledged me?” James stood up and faced her. His dark eyes hardened. Pride radiated from every pore of his body. “My mother’s husband was his friend. Charles needed his support. He still does. At least, he needs that more than he needs another bastard claiming to be a prince.”

She shrugged. “Ye have his look, certain. But if he will not—”

James’s right fist knotted. “Wealth, Lacy. Wealth will open the right doors for me. If Charles is ever to name me his son, I’ll have to have more power than my stepfather.” His mouth tightened and he looked away from her, speaking more for his own ears than hers. “This treasure will buy me what my mother’s word couldn’t. I’ll have it all—titles, position ...”

“Ye think to buy the king’s favor?”

He arched a black eyebrow. “Charles is always short of money. If I cross his palm with enough gold, he’ll grant me anything I ask.”

“And what would it mean—if you had to buy his name?”

James shook his head in disbelief. “God save us, but you are a fool. Are your ears still clogged with water? I could be a prince of England.”

“No true prince,” she declared, scowling back at him. “If what ye say is true, ye still be born on the wrong side of the blanket. You’re still naught but a woods colt.”

“A king’s acknowledged by-blow can reach as high as his ambition takes him.”

She sniffed scornfully. “Doubtless you’ve hopes of the throne for yourself.”

“I never said that,” he corrected. His voice thickened with frost. “I’ve no wish to be a king—just to live like one.”

“Without a common wench to hold ye back.”

“Damn it, Lacy, use sense!” He seized his breeches from the deck and began to step into them. “Just because we can never marry doesn’t mean we—”

“Marry? Who the hell said anything about marrying? I’d sooner wed a jackass than be your wife!” She whirled about and started toward the cabin, then paused and flung back, “I’ll never marry. Not ye. Not any man born of woman.” With a final toss of her head, she disappeared down the cuddy ladder.

“A pox on all women,” he muttered after her. Was she mad? No woman of her station could expect to wed a gentleman. There was no shame in being a courtesan.

Still mumbling under his breath, James pulled the anchor and steered the
Silkie
toward the island beach where he intended to set up camp.

He cared for Lacy, cared for her more than for any woman he’d ever known. Hell, he thought more of her than of his own mother. But marriage? He shook his head in disbelief. He’d been a weak fool to tell her of his birth. He’d thought that when she knew who he was, she’d realize how things had to be between them. Instead, she’d carried on like a fishwife who’d gotten a lead shilling in trade.

Carefully, James leaned against the tiller, steering the
Silkie
into quiet water. Lacy hadn’t come back on deck, but the air was just as charged as it had been when they’d stood toe to toe trading hostilities.

He exhaled slowly, going over and over their argument in his mind. He’d never lied to her ... never promised marriage. From the beginning, she’d known that theirs was a business arrangement. They needed each other to recover the treasure. And when they had it, he’d give her a fair share. Then she could either come with him under his terms or go her own way.

A puff of wind struck his face, and he straightened and ran a hand through his damp hair. Lacy would come around in time. She’d have to. For if she didn’t, he wasn’t sure how he could go on without her.

I
n the hushed silence before dawn, Lacy crept from the camp she and James had made near the island beach and went down to the water’s edge. Only a faint purple shadow in the east gave promise of the coming day. The moon was gone; a few lingering stars twinkled overhead, ice-white against a velvet-black sky. The ebb and flow of the sea surrounded her as she waded into the warm foam and breathed deeply of the salt air.

She pulled the soft shift off over her head, tossed it back onto the fine, white sand, and plunged into the water. With easy strokes, she swam out beyond the breakers, then rolled on her back and gazed at the wooded shoreline. Parrots squawked from the treetops, and white-chested frigate-birds clacked fierce warnings as they swooped over the beach, searching for food. Already, the sooty terns were beginning their morning patrols, darting among the rowdy seagulls like graceful dancers.

Lacy lay back in the water, letting her hair drift loose with the current, letting her mind soar far above the water’s surface. Her heart still ached from James’s harsh statements. And even though she’d known how he felt from the beginning, it hurt to hear him say the words.

Was he truly the king’s son? She closed her eyes and kicked slowly to keep from drifting out toward the reef. Was it possible? she wondered. Could he be of royal blood? She sighed and rolled over, swimming lazily along the shoreline toward the spot where the
Miranda
lay on the ocean floor. Prince or pirate ... it didn’t matter. He believed he was highborn. And even if his father was a palace groom instead of a king, his mother was a titled lady.

“Better ye had been a tavern wench’s bastard,” she murmured. “Then I’d have a better chance.”

Truth was truth. A blooded stallion wasn’t bred to a pit pony, or a fine hound to a rat-catcher’s terrier bitch. And only in fairy tales did the handsome prince make a humble goosegirl his bride.

She had done what she’d vowed never to do. She’d let James Black capture her heart. She’d believed she could share bed pleasures with him and not be snared like a herring in a net, but she’d underestimated his charms.

Aye, he’d promised to look after her—to give her whatever she needed. But without marriage such promises were worthless. A wedding ring on a wife’s finger might put her in her husband’s power, but it also gave her rights that a mistress could never claim. If she went with James as his ladybird, she would live each day in fear of being discarded for a younger, prettier woman.

It was not only herself she had to consider. Any babe that she and James conceived out of love would stand second to his legitimate children born from a legal wife. A trueborn child inherited from the father; a bastard got only castoffs. Not only would her children be condemned by church and state, but they would be in danger of being sold as bondservants if they ever lost their father’s favor.

For a fleeting second, she covered her belly with her hand. Yesterday, she and James had made a child between them—she knew it with absolute certainty. Whatever future that baby had, she would have to assure it. She would stay with James and love him as long as she could, but when her pregnancy began to show, she would leave him to seek her own fortune. She’d have no pity for him. No pity, and no promises made for the sake of what nestled in her womb. She was young and strong and quick of wit. She’d make her own way for herself and the child here in the islands, or north in the American Colonies.

If the treasure lay in the hold of the
Miranda
as James said, then she’d see that she took away a fair share of it. She’d not be cheated of an ounce of gold or a bar of silver. And James did mean to try to cheat her—she was canny enough to know that. He felt that the riches were his alone. Oh, he’d give her something for her time, but not what he meant to carry back to England. James had big ambitions, he did. But Red Tom’s daughter knew a few tricks herself. And the first trick concerned that underwater limestone cave she meant to explore this morning.

An hour later, she waded out of the water, reclaimed her shift, and returned to camp just as James was starting a campfire.

“Where have you been?” he asked gruffly. “I don’t want you wandering around the island alone. There are wild cattle and pigs that—”

“I went for a swim.”

“Not to mention the reef and the threat of sharks,” he continued. “I don’t want—”

“Hmmph.” She sniffed and tossed him a silver flapping fish she’d caught feeding on the rocks under water. “We can have this for breakfast with some bananas. I’m tired of salt pork. I’m not sure what kind of fish it is, but it looks eatable.”

“It is,” he answered grudgingly. “It’s a sheepshead. The meat’s white and sweet.” He scowled at her. “I mean what I say about you swimming alone. It’s not safe.”

She caught a mass of her hair and wrung the water out of it. “If I get into trouble on the wreck, I’ll have to get myself out of it, won’t I?”

He held out a hand to her. “Lacy ... About what I said yesterday ... I don’t want us to fight.”

She shrugged. “Nay, Jamie. All’s well. We’re partners, aren’t we?” He was so beautiful, standing there in the early-morning light with his dark hair loose around his broad shoulders. He wore only his breeches and boots; he was bare from the waist up to his square, dimpled chin. His thighs were firm and his belly flat; his legs were as well-shaped as any dancer’s. Aye, James Black was enough to stir the lust in a dead woman, and she was far from dead.

“Ah, sweetheart,” she said, moving close and putting her arms around his neck. “There’s no hard feelings between us. Truth’s truth, after all.” She brushed his throat with a feathery kiss and ran her fingers up through his hair as bubbles of excitement filled the pit of her stomach and her knees went weak.

He tilted her head back and kissed her full on her parted lips. “You’re insatiable, woman,” he murmured. “You drive me crazy.”

“You’re already mad as a March hare,” she teased, pressing tightly against his warm body and whispering lusty suggestions in his ear. The knowledge that she carried his child, and that they’d only have a short time together, gave her courage. Whatever happened, she’d have this moment to remember.

“Woman ...” he warned. “You’ll start something—” He broke off as she nibbled seductively at his earlobe. Chuckling, he let the fish fall to the sand.

Neither of them remembered the sheepshead until the hot, tropical sun stood high on the eastern horizon.

 

The sun stood directly overhead when Lacy made her first descent of the day from the
Silkie‘
s deck. The reef seemed more familiar now, and she watched eagerly for the species of fish she had seen on her earlier dives. Using the bucket and cannonball weight, she reached the
Miranda’
s hull in less time than ever before.

She had decided not to enter the wreck by the hatchway. Instead, she swam into the shadowy darkness through the gaping hole in the
Miranda’
s side. Almost immediately, she came up sharply against an overturned cannon. Masses of barnacles clung to the iron; she winced as one sliced through her hand. She knew that the cut was deep enough to bleed, and blood was something she preferred not to shed down here.

The only shark she had seen today was a small hammerhead, but she knew that blood would draw predators. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

Carefully, she made her way past the cannon and around a timber. To her disappointment, she confronted a solid wall. Time was running out. Her lungs were straining, and her heart was thudding. She was beginning to feel hemmed in. Turning, she swam back out and over the deck. As she passed the hatchway that led to the captain’s cabin, she saw what appeared to be an oddly shaped shell wedged in a crack. She paused and tugged at it. At first, the object seemed welded to the deck, but when she pulled hard it came loose in her hand.

Swimming quickly to the rope, she grabbed hold and tugged twice in the signal for James to pull her up. When she reached the surface, she still had a little air left. “Take this,” she called to him, handing over the shell. She paddled in place and took a deep breath. “I found it on the
Miranda.”

James laid the barnacle-encrusted lump on the deck and helped her aboard. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Are you all right?” He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “What’s this?” He caught hold of her hand. The wound was seeping blood.

“I’m fine. That’s hardly a scratch.”

“Enough to draw sharks,” he reminded her. “If it happens again, come right up.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know if I can get inside. I tried through the hull, but the way was blocked.” She didn’t tell him about the suffocating darkness in the bowels of the wreck. Her fears were her own, and she’d not share them. “I’ll wait awhile and then try again.”

“Not today, you won’t. You’ll stay out of the water until this”—he indicated her hand—“is healed. I’ve seen a white shark cut a man in two in these waters.”

“You should try diving off Cornwall in April,” she said. “The water’s like ice. And after a storm, you can’t see your hand in front of your face. If ye believe sharks to be so dangerous, I’ll carry a knife.”

James shook his head. “You would be rash enough to try and fend off a ten-foot white with a dagger. Damn me, woman, but you should have been born a man.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. You know I’m glad you’re a woman. But sometimes ... Hellfire and damnation, Lacy! Can you never act like other women?”

“I guess I wouldn’t know how. I’m me, and it’s all I know to be.” She shrugged off the blanket and turned her attention to her find. “What kind of shell is it, do ye think? Is it a conch?”

“No. It’s the wrong shape.” He picked up her prize and turned it over in his hand. It was about eight inches long and six wide, and extremely heavy. “Iron, maybe,” he mused, “but I can’t...” Squatting down on the deck, he removed a small hammer from the ship’s carpenter box and began to tap at the barnacle growth.

Lacy removed her damp shift and put on the boy’s breeches and shirt she favored when she wasn’t diving. On the fourth strike, James inhaled sharply and she moved to watch over his shoulder. As she glanced down, her eyes caught a gleam of gold. “Oh,” she gasped. “What is it?”

Sweat broke out on James’s forehead.

Three more taps and the barnacles fell away like the two halves of a coconut shell. Cradled in the palm of his hand was an incised golden cup about five inches high, narrow at the bottom and flared at the rim.

“Mother of God,” Lacy whispered.

The gold shone as brightly as if it had just been mined. Set around the outside of the lip was a pattern of turquoise stones, as blue as the sea around the
Silkie.

Lacy reached out to touch the handleless cup, and her fingers trembled as she realized that everything James had told her about the treasure was true. “’Twould buy a farm in Cornwall,” she murmured. “This one piece alone.”

“And unless I miss my guess,” James said, “there’s something ...” He put down the hammer and used the blade of his knife to pry open the round wafer of beaten gold that was wedged in the mouth of the cup. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded. When she did, he poured the beaker’s contents into her palms.

A gush of salt water and sand ran through her fingers, but captured there were four solid gold figurines: a tiny llama, a man paddling a reed boat, a bird, and a jaguar. The bird and the animals had turquoise eyes, and the detail of the boat was so precise that Lacy could count the individual reeds.

“Would ye look at that, Jamie,” she cried. “Sweet Mary.” Her heart seemed to swell in her chest until she thought she’d burst with excitement. “I’ve never seen the like.”

“This cup was in the large chest in the captain’s cabin,” James said. “Someone must have snatched it up and carried it on deck when the
Miranda
started to sink.”

“It was caught in a crack near the hatchway,” Lacy explained. “I suppose a man could have dropped it.”

“Fallen on it, more likely,” he corrected. “If the thief was mortally injured, the weight of his body could have jammed the cup into the deck. But I still don’t see how it became completely encrusted with barnacles.”

“Does it matter?” Lacy turned the beautiful objects over in her hand. “I can’t believe they’re real—that I’m actually holding them.”

“I told you.” He grinned at her. “Wait until you see the jewelry. I’ll deck you in a queen’s ransom.”

“I’ve no need of such finery,” she said. “Sell it all. I’d rather have land.”

He laughed. “You’re a yeoman farmer at heart, aren’t you?”

“Land is the only thing that lasts,” she answered softly. “I’ll not apologize for wantin’ what’s solid and real.” She thought again of the new life growing inside her. If she had her way, that babe would know security and a legacy that no one could ever take away. “These,” she continued as she dumped the golden treasure in his hand. “They aren’t for the likes of me to wear. They’re beautiful, but ...”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have no trouble finding a buyer for these things in Port Royal. And there are plenty of women who will want to wear what’s down there on the
Miranda.”

She nodded. “That’s up to you. I’ll dive again first thing in the morning.”

“If your hand has healed.” He touched her arm. “I can’t have you shark bait.”

“Tomorrow then, but ...” She frowned. “I’m still not certain how I’ll get inside the ship. The hull rests solid enough on the bottom, but she’s suffered damage.”

James placed the animals back in the cup and held the exquisite boat up to examine the workmanship. “Men have died for this,” he said, “and men would kill us to possess it.”

“Perhaps it’s cursed.”

“If it is, then you’ll have to lift the curse.” He winked at her. “You are my resident witch, aren’t you?”