Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress (8 page)

He scanned the cuddy and his eyes focused on the flintlock pistol. She was between him and the bunk. “Don’t ever point a gun at me again unless you mean to shoot.” She replied with an unladylike curse. “I mean it, woman!” he said. “I’m captain of this boat and you’ll do what I say, when I say. Understand?”

“I’ll not be bullied by a man on my own father’s boat. We’re partners.” She tilted her head and flashed him a mischievous grin that made his heartbeat quicken. “Ye said so yourself—and ye made a blood pact wi’ me.”

He pointed a stern finger at her. “You nearly killed both of us when you loosed the tiller. Are you out of your mind? We came within a hair’s breadth of capsizing.”

She pulled her breeches-clad knees up tight against her chest and chuckled ... a small, merry laugh that filled the cabin with sudden warmth. “Maybe I wanted to see what kind of saltwater sailor you were,” she quipped.

“And if I failed? You’d have gone down with the
Silkie.”

“Aye. But what sense to try and sail five thousand miles with a man who can’t manage a slamming boom vang?” She spread her hands, palm up. “If ye didn’t know your stuff, we’d drown soon enough anyway.”

He shook his head, exhaling slowly between clenched teeth. “Damn me, woman, but you are mad as a Bedlam wench.” She was out of her head—she made no sense at all, yet with some twisted female logic she was perfectly right.

“Nay, I’d not have let the
Silkie
go down in such a niddling squall. I was just lettin’ ye see that ye needed another set of hands. What are ye whinin’ about?” She smiled at him again, and he couldn’t help noticing the beauty of her even white teeth. “Ye did it, didn’t ye?” she insisted. “Ye weren’t washed overboard, and ye did trim the sails and bring the
Silkie
back on course.”

“What are you doing in that ridiculous attire?” He crouched back on his heels, leaning against the ladder. He’d been chilled to his marrow when he’d come below, but now he felt overwarm. “Surely you didn’t think to fool me.” He pulled his wet shirt off over his head and looked for a place to put it.

“Toss it over here,” she said. Carelessly, she hung the wet garment over the rail along the bunk.

Her nearness was tantalizing. Her blue knit cap had fallen off in the tussle, and her auburn hair was a tangle around the pale oval of her face. She’d turned away so that half of her face was in shadow, but the spitting oil lamp illuminated the outline of her straight, well-shaped nose and stubborn chin. Her full lips were moist and parted, as pink as a Caribbean sunrise.

He felt a familiar tightness in his groin, and a flush of hot blood that ran up from his toes to scald the roots of his hair. “And ...” His tongue grew thick and awkward—he who’d never been at a loss for silver words with which to woo a comely woman. His mouth went dry. “Your dress ...” he mumbled. “It’s indecent.”

She glanced down at the buff homespun shirt and blue wool breeches, then shrugged. “Try doin’ what ye just did—trimmin’ the sails in a blow—in skirt and stays and petticoats.”

“Still, it’s not seemly. It’s the natural—”

“Poppycock!” she scoffed. “Have ye ever seen a girl babe born into this world in petticoats? In China, I hear tell all women wear breeches and consider themselves modest as nuns.”

“Well enough if you were a China girl, but you’re English. Civilized women—”

“Ah, Jamie,” she scoffed. “Look around ye. This be not a London drawing room. There’s only ye and me and miles of ocean. We must make our own rules or we’ll not live to share the treasure.”

“I don’t like it. It’s unnatural,” he protested, unable to keep his gaze off the way the homespun shirt clung to her full, high breasts. They looked rounded ... he could imagine how soft they would be to touch. Soft . . . and clean ... and white. He wondered if her nipples were rose-pink or coral-brown. The last redhead he’d tumbled had had dugs as tough and brown as leather. But she’d been old and used up, her face lined with years and her eyes as dead as glass. Lacy would be as fresh as dew. She broke into his reverie with another insult.

“Dunderhead! Think ye we’d sail to the Canaries without passing another ship? If I wore my own skirts, I might be a danger to you.”

You’re a danger now, he thought, as the woman scent of her filled his nostrils and made his loins swell with wanting. “Ah, Lacy,” he said hoarsely, “I thought we were partners. If we can’t trust each other—”

“I’ll trust ye. I just wasn’t about to let ye steal the
Silkie
and maroon me in that fishing village.”

“You’d not think it so amusing if it was you I’d locked in that grubby hold.”

She tilted her head toward him, and her brown eyes grew serious. “I never meant to shoot you,” she said, “but I was afraid when you ran after me so. If I’d meant ye harm, I could have shot ye while ye were asleep.” She waved her hand toward the piles of crocks and bundles.

He realized for the first time since he’d come into the cuddy that the canvas was down and most of the brandy casks were gone.

She stood up and came toward him hesitantly. “I got the supplies we needed, and I got a change of clothes for ye. They’re on the bunk there. You’re soaked through. No need to catch your death of ague.”

“There’s something I need more than dry clothes.”

“Aye, I remember. The backstaff. It’s here. ’Twas down here in the cuddy all along. Maps and such beneath the bunk. I didn’t lie to ye about having the instrument or the charts.”

“No, it’s not navigation instruments I need now, Lacy.” He held out his hand to her, palm up, in what he hoped was a tender entreaty. “I was in Newgate a long time, and before that, I came from Jamaica chained in the hold of a ship. It’s been forever since I’ve had a woman’s company.”

She raised her stubborn chin a notch. “And it will be longer still, Jamie, before your itch is scratched,” she said softly. “We made a pact. I promised nothin’ about warmin’ your bed.” She lifted the right hem of her shirt to reveal his missing knife tucked into her belt. “And don’t be thinkin’ of tryin’ to force the issue. I can use this if I have to. Try anything rough with me and you’ll reach the Caribbean with a voice like a choirboy.”

He stiffened. “Damn it, woman. Why shouldn’t we take pleasure in each other? It’s not like you have anything to lose.”

Her face paled. “Because of what I was before? Because I was a whore?”

“That’s too harsh a word for anyone as lovely as you. Ladybird, perhaps ... or greensleeves.”

She sniffed. “Save your honey speeches. A whore I might have been in England, but now ... Now, I mean to be an honest privateer. I confessed to a priest in Cheswold Town and repented of my wicked ways.” She bowed her head in a fake show of piety. “I mean to put the past behind me and live a spotless life.”

“In men’s breeches?” he declared. “Locked up with me on this little boat for the next four months?” He scoffed. “A saint couldn’t do it.”

“Nevertheless, I mean to try.” She took a deep breath. “And I am heartily sorry for offending you by not trusting you and locking you in the hold.”

“You should be.”

Bright spots of color appeared on her cheekbones. “We’d best go on deck. The tiller—”

“The tiller has held these past minutes. It will hold a few more. If we are to be friends again, let us have a kiss of peace between us.”

She drew back from him and shook her head. “Nay, ye must think me a stupid jade to fall for such an old chestnut.”

“I mean you no harm,” he promised. “All I’m asking for is a kiss.” His gaze held hers. “A simple kiss between friends. Is it so much to ask?”

B
utterfly wings fluttered in the pit of Lacy’s stomach, and she felt the strangest tingling in her breasts. She looked up into the chiseled planes of his handsome face, and her knees went weak. She lifted a hand to touch his stubbled cheek with two fingers, lightly drawing them down over the patches of black growth. “I ... I brought a razor and a bit of mirror. ’Tis only a small piece and cracked, but it was all the innkeeper’s wife would part with. Mayhap ye can do a better job of scraping your face than I did.”

“A kiss,” he persisted. “Nothing more unless you desire it.”

His husky voice seeped through her skin... as intoxicating as the strongest Scottish
uisge beatha.
Her fingers trembled and she drew them slowly back, the tips tingling from the soft-scratchy sensations of his beard.

He waited, black eyes catching the light of the oil lamp ... reflecting the yellow, dancing flame. So must look the pits of hell, she thought breathlessly.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “One kiss, then,” she dared. Closing her eyes, she raised herself on tiptoe and waited.

And waited ... Seconds passed and she opened her eyes to see him studying her with provocative composure. “Well, do ye mean to kiss me or not?” she demanded.

“Why are you closing your eyes? I like a woman to look at me when I kiss her.” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “How do I know you’re not thinking of another man when your eyes are shut?”

“Well, I’m not. If you’re going to do it, do it and get it over with.”

He took her face between his hands and raised her head. He stared into her eyes, gazing so intently that her insides seemed to turn to jelly.

A foolish woman could lose herself in the depths of those dark eyes, she thought. But not me ... never me.

Then his lips touched hers. His mouth was firm and tender ... his lips not threatening but gentle. Like ocean foam washing over warm sand. Exploring ... seeking ... She caught a whiff of brandywine, then tasted the bite of it on his lips, not unpleasant, strangely stirring.

Unconsciously, she gave a tiny sigh of contentment as their mouths joined, fitting together as easily as though they had done this a thousand times before. The sensation of his lips on hers brought a rush of pleasure, so intense that it shocked her.

Eagerly, she leaned forward and clasped her arms around his neck, wanting him closer as his lingering kiss touched some remote place in the depths of her soul.

He released her face and embraced her, pulling her hard against him, intensifying the sweet aching that coursed through her veins.

Her lips parted and she savored the hint of brandy and the sweet, clean man taste of him. Their tongues touched, a brief, gentle exploration of curve and texture.

Her bones turned to water as desire flared within her.

She’d had her share of kisses ... but none like this. This was a bolt of lightning on a hot, still summer afternoon. It ripped through her senses and made the surface of her skin sizzle.

She wanted more.

Wanton or not, broad daylight or not, she didn’t want this moment—this exquisite caress—to end.

“Ah, woman,” he murmured when they finally broke apart.

Her heart was racing. The sound of James’s voice made her giddy with wanting him to go on kissing her. She knew she should run ... knew she should stop this madness while she was still in control. Instead, she smiled up at him provocatively. “Very nice,” she dared. “For a pirate’s kiss of peace.”

He laughed and his hands drew her tighter still. His next kiss was deep and demanding. Possessive. It seared her mind with a white-hot burning. It caught her with the stunning force of an ocean undertow, jerking her off her feet and sending her tumbling through the unknown.

And instinctively, she knew how to answer his kiss ... how to give as good as she got.

James’s hard hands were moving over her now, stroking ... touching her in forbidden places. She could feel the pent-up power in those hands, but he didn’t frighten her. Trembling with pleasure, she ran her fingers up over his face and laced them through his ebony-dark hair.

She’d never let a man do such intimate things to her, and no man had ever made her feel this way. She slid her fingers through his hair and down his neck to trace the lean, hard muscles of his shoulder. His massive chest was covered with a thatch of curling black hair. It felt springy under her exploring fingertips.

Shamelessly, she lay her cheek against his bare chest and breathed in the male scent of him. He smelled of wet wool and rope and sea. And something else ... something she couldn’t quite identify. Far from repelling her, the blend of familiar odors with the unfamiliar thrilled her with a curious, hot excitement.

He groaned and ran his hands down her back, molding her against him possessively.

Through the thin wool of her breeches she felt the rise of his male passion and recognized it for what it was. An inner voice cried warning.
Become his whore and you’ll never be a partner. You’ll be no better than the women whose lives you scorned—the sluts who lived with your father and brothers.

But the voice of reason was drowned by James’s sweet whispers.

His hands were under her shirt now, and her eyes widened at the intensity of the sensations he was arousing. It was hard for her to breathe. She felt as though everything in her life, everything before this moment, had been a dream. Yet all she could think of was touching him, being touched, and wanting to kiss him again and again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, trailing a path of scalding kisses down the corner of her mouth to the hollow of her throat while his thumb teased her nipple to a hard nub. “Lacy ... Lacy.” He groaned. “You know how to drive a man wild with wanting you.” His hand slipped lower to stroke the inside of her thigh. His fingers burned like fiery brands though the thin wool of her breeches, and she strained against him.

Freeing her breast from the shirt, he brushed the nipple with his hot, wet tongue. Then he drew it gently into his mouth and suckled. Lacy moaned. The throbbing in her loins intensified until it became almost a pain. And suddenly, she felt herself go wet with yearning. She opened her eyes wide in surprise, realizing exactly what it was that she desired.

Breathing hard, he lifted his head and kissed her mouth again, filling her with his thrusting tongue ... driving her wild with his roving hands. “Treasure or no treasure,” he panted, as he pushed her down to the floor, “you’ll make your fortune in the fancy houses of Jamaica.”

His words were like ice water, washing away her passion and leaving her cold and shaking. Raw nausea rose in her throat, and the beautiful encounter turned to something crude and dirty. “No! I’ll not do this,” she said, scrambling away from him.

For a moment he stared at her in stunned confusion. “What’s wrong? I—”He moved to follow her and brought a knee down on Harry’s tail. The cat yowled and flew at James, who grappled with the shrieking creature.

“Stop that!” Lacy cried. “Stop hurting Harry!” She grabbed a sack of beans and hurled it at James. The sack split, and dried beans sprayed over the cabin.

James toppled backward as the hissing cat shot over his head and vanished in the pile of supplies. “What the hell?” James roared. His hand bore two long bloody scratches from the cat’s claws. “What game do you think you’re playing with me?”

Lacy was halfway up the ladder to the deck. “I’m sorry,” she said. “’Twas my fault. I let ye think that ye could have your way with me. It was a mistake.”

“Mistake?” He swore loudly. “There’s a name for women like you.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“The hell you didn’t. Don’t play the innocent with me.” Shaking with anger, he glanced down at his injured hand. “Look at this. I’m going to wring that swiving cat’s neck.”

“You knelt on his tail! What do you expect, you jackanapes? Harry’s naught but a poor dumb animal, and you’ll not take it out on him because I changed my mind.”

“I hate cats.”

“Hate them or not, you’ll treat Harry with respect. If anything—” She pointed a threatening finger at him. “If anything at all happens to that cat ... well ...” Her hand went to the bone handle of his knife. “You’d best not sleep is all I can say.” With that final warning, she was up the ladder and out on deck.

She was breathing hard. For a moment, she leaned against the mainmast, clutching the wet wood with trembling fingers. Her mind was a jumble of confused emotion. She knew she had to get control of herself again—had to think rationally.

If a spell came over her now ... Before, when James had taken the pistol from her, she’d suffered a brief trance. Even now, she could remember flashes of images. Green trees like none she’d ever seen before. White surf. A flurry of brightly colored birds. And the tattooed man. He’d stared at her and held out his hand. She shut her yes, seeing again his strange almond-shaped eyes and heathen features. Skin like burnished copper ...

She opened her eyes, refusing to be caught up in the memory of the vision. She couldn’t afford to have another one now. She didn’t know how long that one had lasted, but she thought it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. She always lost track of time during a spell. To her, it made no difference if she was unconscious for a minute or an hour. This one must have been short because James hadn’t seemed to notice.

No! She’d not allow another spell to take possession of her mind and body. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

James.

She moistened her lips, remembering his kisses. Remembering the touch of his hands on her body ... the brush of his lips against—

What’s wrong with you?
her inner voice cried.
Are ye a puling virgin that a man’s touch unnerves ye
so?

Lacy held fast to the mast, but her shoulders straightened and her fear of another trance receded.

The rain was a fine mist on her cheeks. She closed her eyes and let the cooling moisture spatter her eyelids and calm her mind. Gradually, she began to breathe normally again.

Shame washed over her. What had she done? Tears threatened and she held them back by sheer will. She’d given up crying years ago. Her caustic sense of humor surfaced and she grimaced. Zooterkins! What hadn’t she done?

“Gypsy blood will out, they say,” she murmured, and turned her back to the wind.

Damn James Black for a bold rogue! She’d nearly fallen for his sweet words and sweeter kisses. Even now, her lips tingled from the pressure of his lips.

Damn him! Damn him to bloody hell! She shivered in the damp air as she released the mast and went to the tiller. She untied the rope and adjusted the course slightly.

She’d always considered herself a woman of good common sense, and she’d not survived so long in a man’s world by giving in to pleasures of the flesh. She and James were partners. Give him what he wanted just once, and she’d be nothing but a slut in his eyes. She’d spend the entire voyage on her back.

No, what had happened in the cabin wasn’t James’s fault. She’d thrown herself into his arms. She’d let him make free with her.

She stared off over the whitecaps toward the gray horizon. Truth was truth. It was her fault he believed her to be a whore. She’d told the lie to explain the W branded on her forehead.

Unconsciously, her fingers went to the ugly scar. There was no chance that it would fade. It would mark her until the day she died.

Witch!

Far worse to be a witch than a whore.

What sailor would allow a witch aboard his vessel for an hour—let alone on a dangerous voyage that would last months? If James knew the truth, he’d throw her overboard the first time she turned her back.

The truth could well cost her her life.

No, she mused. She’d told the lie; she’d have to stick by it. No matter what it cost her.

She became increasingly aware of the damp chill and wished she’d thought to bring up an oiled cloak, but she’d not go back down to the cuddy for it now. It was best she keep a distance between her and James Black, at least until her gypsy lust and his anger cooled.

He was mad enough to choke her. And, in all honesty, he had good reason. She’d not lived among rough men all her life for nothing. She knew their desires.

And she knew how quickly promises men made to women were forgotten. No. If she and James were to survive this voyage and find the treasure, she would have to do more than wear a man’s breeches. She’d have to play the role of a man.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, James’s head and broad shoulders filled the hatchway. His forehead was creased in a frown, but the black fury had faded. “Lacy. Can’t we talk about this?”

“No.” She shook her head, deliberately making her voice hard. “There’s nothing more to say. If you’ve need of a whore, I hear tell there are plenty in the Canaries.”

“That’s more than fifteen hundred miles away.”

“So they tell me.” She fixed him with a steely gaze. “You’ve not played swiving games with any of your other shipmates, have you?”

His retort scorched her ears.

“No, I thought not.” Salt stung her eyes and she blinked away what she knew must be sea water. “Then, I suppose ye must do what you’ve always done.” She searched for something crude that a dockside tart would say. “Dream sweet dreams, or grind your own corn. I am your partner, not your whore. And we shall stay better friends on this voyage if we leave it that way.”

“You’re a hard woman, Lacy Bennett.”

“Aye, so I’ve been told before. But I’ll need to be, won’t I, if I’m to see this through until we’ve found your Spanish gold and we’re both rich as lords.”

 

Lacy kept her distance from James in the weeks that followed. They took turns standing twelve-hour watches on deck, one sleeping in the cuddy while the other was at the helm. Whoever wasn’t steering the boat prepared the meals. They spoke to each other, but guardedly, as one would speak to a distant acquaintance. They didn’t touch at all.