Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress (16 page)

“Can I just keep following this road?”

He shrugged. “Can do, follow deese road, missy. Me t’ink you feets hurt much. Better ride. Deese good mare, her. You want her feets do da work?”

“You’d let me hire your horse?” Lacy asked. Something didn’t fit. The blackamoor’s clothes were poor, more patches than cloth, and his splayed feet were bare. But the horse was one a squire wouldn’t hesitate to ride back home in England. “It is your horse?” she added. “If I did take her, I’d not want to be arrested for a horse thief.”

He laughed. “Banana Jeem no thief, him. Horse belong Masta John.”

“And this master of yours doesn’t care if you lend his mare to strangers?

“Masta John, him no care. Him food for crab. Masta John, him go feesh in boat, him no come back, two maybe three year now.” He laughed again. “Masta John, him no care. Horse no care. You got dem hard money for Banana Jeem, you got dem horse for day.” He pointed up at the sun. “Night come, you get off dem horse, let her go home. No do, Banana Jeem, he send dem bad ghosty t’ings after you.”

“Just let the mare go at nightfall?”

The old man flashed a toothless grin. “One road, where else you go? Where dem horse go? You pay, you ride. Just let go come dem nighttime, be certain you.”

Not one to let opportunity pass her by, Lacy produced two copper pennies she’d taken from James’s money pouch and took possession of the horse and saddle. When she last saw Banana Jeem, he was walking slowly down the track toward Port Royal, leading the mule.

The forest track on either side of the road was as foreign as China to Lacy. Massive trees and ferns and flowering vines closed around her, affording only glimpses of the blue mountains rising into the rainclouds. She recognized cedar and bamboo, but most of the rampant foliage was new and fascinating. The air was heavy with the scents of orchids and lilies, and citrus hung in gleaming orange globes beside the path.

Birds were everywhere; strutting down the road, flitting overhead, and pecking at insects and fruit. From the jungle, she could hear buzzing and whirring, and an occasional snapping of underbrush, but Lacy wasn’t afraid. With a good horse under her, she knew she could outrun any animal that threatened her. As for the animal that walked on two feet, she had yet to see the man born of woman that she was scared of.

To her surprise, thoughts of James didn’t trouble her. With each mile she put between herself and Port Royal, her spirits lifted. Vague questions about the plantation crops here on Jamaica rose in her mind, but they were only idle musings. Truth to tell, she didn’t know where she was going or why. But following this road felt right. And, when she reached her destination, she’d know it.

Her inner excitement grew as the day passed. Bananas and tangerines grew thickly on either side of the path, but she wasn’t hungry. She paused only once to dismount and drink at a stream, then got back on the mare and hurried on, still uncertain about her goal.

She nearly missed the turnoff. She had urged the horse into a trot, and it wasn’t until they’d passed the break in the trees that she grew uneasy and reined in. For a moment, Lacy sat there, eyes closed, listening. Then an unspoken inner voice urged her to turn back the way she had come. And when she saw the rutted lane twisting away uphill, she knew she was back on the right path.

 

Arndt Dieterich stood up, dusted the dirt off his stockings, and adjusted his breeches. The wench lay facedown on the heap of cut cane and sobbed. Her single cotton garment was wadded about her waist and blood stained her coffee-colored inner thighs. “Hush your caterwauling,” he snapped. “It was either me or one of these cane rats. Your tits are swellin’ and you been shakin’ your tight little arse at everything in pants. You oughta be grateful you was broke in by a white man.”

The black girl, hardly more than a child, continued to weep softly. She curled up into a ball and covered her ears with her hands.

“Stupid bitch,” Dieterich muttered. He scratched at a louse under his armpit and turned back toward the sugar house to see if the crew had continued working on the harvest. Christmas Day was usually a holiday on the plantation, but this year he’d ordered the hands to work through regular sixteen-hour shifts. “Damn, but it’s hot,” he complained to himself in his native tongue. “Too hot for December. A bad year.”

Smoke was still billowing up from the fires beneath the boiling kettles. Dieterich hurried around the shed to the courtyard where the juice from the crushed cane was being cooked down. The juice required close attention or it would burn and spoil an entire lot.

“You there!” he shouted, catching sight of Big Martha standing idle by the well. “Stir that kettle. If you ruin a batch, I’ll have you skinned like a tangerine.”

Sweating profusely, the woman moved to obey the overseer’s order. Two men, stripped to the waist and barefoot, crossed the yard with armfuls of fresh cut cane for the mill. An old blackamoor knelt by the mouth of the mill, patiently feeding cane between the stones. Dieterich nodded with satisfaction, then frowned as the mill action faltered and then stopped.

“Vat in hell do you—” The German broke into a trot, reaching automatically for the whip he usually carried on his belt and coming up with an empty hand. “Vat you do?” he demanded of the Indian.

Kutii stood stock-still, as though he was waiting for something. He tilted his head to one side, listening.

“Schweinhund!”
Dieterich bellowed. Balling up a fist, he drove it into the Indian’s kidneys. The blindfolded Incan staggered but didn’t utter a sound. “Vat is this?” the German continued. “Who tells you to stop?”

“Boss! Boss!” a slave woman called from the courtyard.

Dieterich heard a horse whinny. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said to Kutii. Quickly, he hurried out of the mill house to see what was happening.

Lacy reined in the mare at the edge of the open courtyard. All around the enclosure, dark eyes were staring at her. She ignored them completely, sliding down off the mare and letting the reins fall to the ground.

This was the place she’d seen in her vision. She was certain of it. Her chest felt tight, and her breath was coming in short gasps. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would break through her cotton bodice.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

Lacy let her gaze linger on the stocky yellow-haired man for only a few seconds. He was not the one she sought. He meant nothing to her.

“I am Herr Dieterich, overseer here. What business do you have here, woman?”

Lacy’s glance moved past him to rest on the frightened child to his left. The black girl’s face was swollen from crying and she was clinging to an older woman fearfully. Bits of leaves were tangled in her close-cropped ebony hair. For a moment, Lacy’s eyes made contact with the slave girl’s before the child covered her anguished face with her hands.

Something bad has happened to that girl, Lacy thought. A tingling sensation started at the back of her hairline and ran down her spine. She felt slightly dizzy, as though she was about to slide into a trance, but she knew that wasn’t what was happening.

She had felt this way when the child had drowned in her village in Cornwall—when a
seeing
actually happened.

“Where do you think you are going?” the German demanded.

Lacy paid him no heed. She walked around him, straight into the shed. And there, standing not ten feet away, was the tattooed man of her dreams. His midnight hair was streaked with gray, a tangled curtain of black silk hanging to the jut of his bony hip. Flies fed at the fresh welts cut into his chest, and his scarred back was thick with sweat and dust.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the red man said in his oddly accented voice. Pride held him erect, despite the bonds at his wrists, and pride kept his raw shoulders from slumping.

Without hesitation, Lacy went to him and began to untie the blindfold over his eyes.

“What do you do?” Dieterich roared. “Get away from that slave!”

Lacy gave a sharp tug, and the filthy cloth came loose. It dropped to the floor, and she stared into the black almond-shaped eyes of the man she had come halfway around the world to find.

K
utii blinked against the brilliant sunlight. The intensity of the glare was an agony after so many months in darkness. The German had always had him bound and blindfolded before the slaves led him to the mill. For nearly a year, Dieterich had ordered Kutii’s eyes covered in daylight because the overseer couldn’t stand the arrogant way Kutii stared at him.

Now, the light was overwhelming. Kutii closed his eyes to stop the pain, and a shock went through him as he felt the healing touch of the star woman’s hand on his face. It was the first feminine caress he’d known since the Spaniards had murdered his wife and daughter. He opened his eyes again and gazed at the one for whom he had waited and of whom he had dreamed.

The hot Caribbean sun was a glowing ball directly behind her; it seared a fiery crown for her glorious mass of red-gold hair. The rays of dazzling light bathed her fair skin and illuminated her body until it glowed. Her features were a blur of shadow and smile, but her warm, compassionate eyes met his, and his heart leaped in his breast at the love shining there. Tears welled up in his burning eyes, soothing the ache and setting free the emotion that had remained trapped within him for so long.

“Nein!”
the German roared. “Do not—”

But the star woman paid him no heed. She bent and pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to her ankle. The blade flashed in the sunlight. Dieterich stopped in his tracks, and she brought the steel down to slice through Kutii’s leather bonds.

The overseer’s mouth gaped open in surprise. His blue pig-eyes bulged from his blotched face. Suddenly recovering, he lunged toward the star woman, but she moved with the speed of a plunging hawk. She dodged his charge and slashed the blade across his arm. Blood flew and the German howled with pain.

“Come with me,” she said. “Quickly.”

A tall black man ran toward them from the back of the sugar mill. Kutii spun and caught him by the arm. Kutii’s body remembered the years of wrestling training that every noble Incan boy must endure. Almost without effort, he threw the young slave head over heels and, whirling around, followed the star woman out into the courtyard.

Dieterich was hot on their heels, bellowing like a wounded bull. “Stop them! Stop them!” he shouted. “I’ll have your hides if you let them get away.”

Two burly slaves rushed at them. “Give me the knife,” Kutii ordered. She turned back and tossed it to him without hesitation.

The blacks halted their attack. It was obvious to Kutii from the expressions on their faces that they feared the German, but his threats were only threats. An eight-inch knife in the hands of an Incan warrior was more than they cared to challenge.

The star woman ran to a horse and threw herself up on the animal’s back. “Haaa!” With a shout, she dug her heels into the mare’s sides, and the beast leaped forward. The star woman held out her hand to him. “Come!” she urged. “Behind me!”

“Kill them!” Dieterich cried.

Kutii eyed the horse with distaste. The animal’s eyes were white-rimmed and terrible, its bared teeth long and yellow. He had always hated the devil-creatures brought to his land by the Spanish, and he’d never sat upon the back of one.

“Get up here!” the star woman repeated impatiently.

Kutii took a deep breath and vaulted onto the animal’s haunches. The horse’s front feet left the ground, and it rose in the air. Instinctively, he tightened his legs around the beast’s belly and whispered a prayer in the Incan language. The star woman yanked on the leathers and kicked the horse again, and suddenly they were out of the courtyard and flying over the ground faster than a man could run.

Behind them, the German’s howls of rage had risen to a shriek. Another white man came running from the stables carrying a musket. A slave woman screamed, and the fire-stick roared. Men carrying machetes spilled from the outbuildings. There was another gunshot and then the thunder of the horse’s hooves drowned out the angry voices. The road twisted to the left, and the sugar mill vanished in the trees.

“Hold on tight,” the star woman urged.

If he had not heard the thump of the animal’s feet against the dirt, he would not have believed that its hooves were hitting the ground. Trees sped by, and an occasional branch scraped across his head and back.

“My name is Lacy,” the star woman said. “Who are you, and what the hell were you doing in my head?”

 

After he stormed out of their room at the inn, James intended to find another tavern and have a stiff drink. But he didn’t; instead, he walked until his head cleared and he could think more rationally.

Yes, Lacy had falsely accused him of being with another woman—a foul and erroneous conclusion. But now that his temper had cooled he had to admit that if the tables had been turned, and she’d stayed away so long and come back drunk, he’d not have believed anything she said.

It was Christmas Day, after all, and any woman could be forgiven for throwing a tantrum when she thought she’d been forgotten. He had handled her badly, he decided, and he’d probably deserved the pitcher of water in his face.

When he was cold sober, he bought an armful of orchids from a street vendor and carried them back to the inn to give to Lacy. To his shock, he found the door locked from the inside and the room empty.

The kitchen boy went around the outside of the tavern, climbed in the open window, and let him in. “Missy ain’t here,” the lad declared when James entered the room. “Done gone. Jubie seen yo’ lady walk down dey road. One hour, maybe two. Jubie say she no come back.”

James let the flowers drop from his hands onto the floor. “What road? Which way did she go?”

The boy grinned and held out a grimy palm. James dropped a silver penny into his hand, and the boy nodded his thanks. “Jungle road, massa. Only one road go out of Port Royal. Down dey road, her go, and her no come back.”

It took James only minutes to locate a stable. Mounted on a hired horse, and armed with sword and pistols, he galloped out of town cursing Lacy with all the skill of a deep-water sailor. He was no longer angry with her; now he was furious. But whatever fool notions she’d gotten in her head, he knew that she was in real danger and he had to find her.

Port Royal had been called the wickedest town in the New World, and mischief didn’t cease at the jungle’s edge. If he didn’t find her before dark, she could well be swallowed up by Jamaica’s warm embrace. More than one white woman had vanished here without a trace, and Lacy Bennett was beautiful enough for men to kill each other over.

With each mile he covered, James’s concern for Lacy’s safety grew. Two-legged beasts were not the only animals she had to fear. Although there were no poisonous snakes on the island, there were vicious wild pigs and rogue cattle that would run down and gore a man or woman on foot out of pure meanness.

If she’d left the road to pick fruit or flowers, she could have become lost in minutes. And searching for her in the jungle would require an army.

About an hour from town he met an old black man leading a mule. “Yes, suh, Ah seed yo’ missus,” the elderly native replied to James’s question. “Dey missy, her hire dey horse. Go dat way.” He pointed down the track away from Port Royal. “Banana Jeem, he say let horse go come sundown.”

James exhaled softly through clenched teeth. He’d been certain he could catch up with her because she was on foot and he was mounted. God only knew how far ahead of him she was on horseback.

“Come dark, missy let horse go. No ride dat horse in dey dark. Dat horse crazy come dark. ‘Fraid dem ghosties.”

James set his heels into his own horse’s side, and as he rode off, he heard Banana Jeem laugh and call after him.

“Sundown, massa. Sundown, dat horse be crazy.”

If I don’t find her by sundown, James thought,
I’ll
be crazy. He urged his gelding into a canter. Damn Lacy Bennett for a worrisome jade! Her thorny tongue was enough to give a man gray hair, but he didn’t want to think of waking up some morning without her beside him.

His throat tightened. If any man had laid a hand on her, he’d die for it. It didn’t matter what Lacy was or where she’d come from. She belonged to him, and he’d never let her go.

His plan to take a noblewoman to wife didn’t mean that he thought any less of Lacy. No sensible man looked for love in marriage. He wanted to take care of Lacy, to give her whatever she needed. She’d have everything but his name, and he’d have enough wealth to ensure her protection as long as he lived and after. It was more than a girl born in Lacy’s situation could hope for.

“I do love her,” he murmured only half-aloud. “And God help the creature who’s done her harm.”

As the afternoon sun grew hotter, James was forced to slow the frothing horse to a trot. He’d not passed another soul on the road, and he’d not seen anyplace where Lacy could have turned off.

He’d reined in so that the animal could drink from a stream when he heard the faint echo of gunshots in the distance. Instantly, he swung up into the saddle and spurred the gelding down the dirt track toward the sound. Minutes later, James heard a horse coming hard. Without slackening his pace, he drew a pistol and cocked it.

There were more gunshots, closer now, and the thud of hoofbeats came loud in the still tropical afternoon. A parrot shrieked and flew over the road, and then a horse carrying double appeared around a bend. James yanked hard on his mount’s reins and the gelding slid to a halt. The two riders galloped onward, and as they drew nearer, James saw that one of them was Lacy.

“James!” she shouted. “Run!”

As she thundered past, he realized that the man riding behind her was an Indian. “Keep going!” James yelled back, guiding his horse to the center of the path. As he watched, Lacy’s horse stumbled, barely regaining its balance in time to keep from falling. The Indian released his hold, leaped down, and vanished into the trees.

Lacy shouted after the Indian, then twisted in the saddle and yelled. “James! Come on!”

He motioned to her to keep riding. When she reined the mare back toward him, he stood in the stirrup and shook his fist at her. “Do as I say, woman! Get the hell out of here!”

Reluctantly, she spun the tired animal around and urged it down the road until a twist in the trail hid her from James’s sight. Seconds later, four angry white men on horseback came from the opposite direction in hot pursuit.

“Hold!” James shouted, blocking the way. “What’s amiss?” When the oncoming party showed no sign of slowing their horses, he drew both pistols and leveled them at the best-dressed man in the group riding a showy bay stud.

The man swore foully in German and jerked up his mount. “Out of the road!” he ordered, “or we’ll blow you to hell.” He raised his own pistol and aimed it at James’s head as the bay stallion stamped the dirt and blew foam from its open mouth. “Are you mad?” he demanded. “We’re chasing an escaped slave and a criminal. If you cause us to lose them, you’ll face the full penalty of the law!”

Two of the hard-faced men carried muskets, and the last man, unshaven and wearing a coarse black wig, carried an ancient Spanish blunderbuss across his lap. Black wig tried to maneuver his roan around the edge of the road, but James shook his head. “Best you hold unless you’d care to see your master’s brains splattered over you,” he warned. “Now, let’s start over again,
mein Herr.”
James’s dark eyes narrowed. “And show some respect. I’m not accustomed to being accosted by ruffians on the highway. You have the honor to be addressing Sir Martin Thrustbury, first cousin to the royal governor.”

“I don’t care if you are cousin to the King,” the German replied, “get out of our way or suffer the consequences.”

James noticed that the German had a blood-soaked cloth wound around his arm. “You’ve been hurt,” he said. “For that reason, I will forgive your impertinence. I came down this road just minutes ago, and I saw no escaped slaves, only a red-haired wench.”

“That’s them,” the German spat. “The bitch stabbed me and ran off with my Indian slave.”

James tried to look astonished. “Stabbed you, you say?” he repeated in his most precise English. “That woman? She actually attacked you? Upon my word! That’s outrageous!”

The German’s face took on a purple hue. “What have I been trying to tell you? Now, get the hell out of our way!”

“There’s no need to be surly, my good fellow,” James said, lowering his pistols. “I don’t believe I’ve caught your name.”

“Sodomite,” Dieterich flung at James as he urged his bay stallion on past him. “If we don’t catch them, I’ll bring charges against you.” The other three men followed close behind.

“I hope you catch your Indian,” James called after them. “Sorry to have caused any inconvenience for you.” As soon as they were out of sight, he started off in the same direction at a steady canter.

He hoped that Lacy had had the good sense to keep going while he provided a diversion. Her mare had looked worn out. Hell and damnation! Keeping Lacy out of trouble was proving more trouble than taking gold from the Spaniards.

James hadn’t gone more than a quarter of a mile when Lacy stepped out of the trees into the road ahead of him so abruptly that he nearly ran her down. He pulled hard on the reins, and his gelding reared. Lacy ducked free of the thrashing forefeet, dashed around to the side, and offered James her hand. He seized her and helped her up behind his saddle.

His heart leaped in his chest when she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. Her warm body against his was the best thing he’d ever felt.

“It took ye long enough to get here,” she chided. “They almost had us.”

“What have you done?” He covered his relief with a brusque tone. “What’s this about an escaped Indian slave?”

Lacy laid her cheek against his back and squeezed him again. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured, “but you don’t have to worry. I let the mare loose. She’s on her way home, and I think she’s far enough ahead of them so they won’t know that I’m not still in the saddle.”