Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress (5 page)

“Lacy.” Ben gripped her shoulder and shook her. “Wake up, girl. Lacy.” He stood at the foot of the ladder with a lantern in one hand.

“Wh ... at? What is it?” She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on what her brother was saying. Her mind didn’t want to hear him; her mind wanted to go on seeing the blue water ... remembering the bronze man.

“Are ye at
that
again?” he snapped. Ben held up the light and looked around the small, cramped cabin. He was an inch shorter than Lacy and had no problem standing upright in the cuddy.

“No. No,” she lied. “I was napping. What’s wrong?”

James blinked, coming awake. “What’s wrong?” He tensed. “Is it the watch?”

“Naw,” Ben replied. “I saw something jump down the hatchway.” He poked at the canvas that covered the brandy casks. “Something small and furry. A rat maybe.”

“A rat?” James echoed.

“I doubt there’s any rats aboard the
Silkie,”
Lacy said, remembering the tomcat she’d named Harry.

“We’re hauling Dutch cheese as well,” her brother continued. “In case we’re stopped. “There’s six rounds stacked back ’ere on the rack. Rats like cheese. Ruin it, they will.”

Lacy felt the canvas move behind her back. A small lump about the size of a cat’s head butted her elbow. “I haven’t seen any rat. When it gets light, I’ll look around.”

“Hmmph.” Ben shook his head. “Certain I seed one. Big devil, he was, too.” Ben held his hands apart to show the size of the rat.

“You’re jumpy, Ben,” Lacy chided. “Remember the time you saw the mermaid off Dead Man’s Point? The one that turned out to be a seal?”

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.” Ben blew out the light. “Things can change to look like seals. Certain things.”

James’s voice barely concealed his amusement as he changed the subject. “How long will it take us to get off the river and into the North Sea?”

“No longer than it takes,” Ben replied. “Twelve hour, fourteen maybe. We should be shut of ’er by noon tomorry, iffen we don’t run into trouble.”

“Noon,” James mused.

“Aye, like as not.” Ben turned and started up the ladder.

“The sooner the better,” James said. “I’ve a powerful urge to get this collar off my neck.”

“No more than me.” She settled back down in the darkness, hoping that Harry would stay below and not take any more strolls on the deck.

James returned to his spot, managing to jerk her neck twice before he found a comfortable position. “Good night, puss,” he said.

“Good night,” she answered. She closed her eyes and immediately forgot him as the memory of her vision came rushing back.

Gold, she thought. I saw gold at the bottom of the sea, but God alone knows where that wreck is. The image of the tattooed man rose behind her eyelids. He called me daughter, she remembered. And the strangest thing was that he hadn’t seemed strange at all ... He’d seemed like someone she’d known all her life.

 

“Be ye a pirate, why was ye to hang at Tyburn?” Ben demanded suddenly of James as the little vessel skimmed along an open stretch of water. It was mid-morning the day after the escape, and the
Silkie
was nearing the mouth of the Thames. The tide had turned, but the wind was with them and the boat was still making fair time. Since there were no other ships nearby, Lacy and James had come on deck.

“Aye.” Alfred scowled. “Pirates be all hung to Execution Dock.”

“At Wapping,” Ben agreed. “’Tis custom.”

“Hold still,” Lacy ordered James. He’d straightened a fish hook for her, and she’s spent the last hour trying to pick the lock on his collar with the barb. “Pirate he be, right enough,” she assured her brothers. “I heard the warder read his name off the list.” She was fully dressed for the first time since she’d been bound to James, and she felt more at ease, even though putting her clothes on had been an ordeal because of the shackles and his close proximity. “I think ... I think I’ve—”

“Execution Dock at Wapping,” Ben repeated. “I seen pirates hang there wi’ these two eyes.” He brushed a lock of carrot-red hair out of his eyes.

“I’m not sure why they took me to Tyburn,” James answered mildly. “My shipmates went to Execution Dock months ago. It could be something to do with the judge who sentenced me.”

Ben leaned forward, hands on his hips, one bushy eyebrow raised, waiting for further explanation.

James shrugged. “He insulted my mother.”

“And?” Ben leaned closer.

“I leaped out of the box and broke his jaw.”

Alfred pursed his lips. “That might do it,” he said. “A capital crime to assault an officer of the court.”

Lacy caught her breath. “Stop wiggling, I say. I’ve almost got the damned thing.”

“You’ve been saying that for an hour,” James reminded her.

She frowned. “Do ye think ye can do better?”

“A blacksmith could have that off in the time it takes to down a pint,” Ben said. “We remembered the clothes ye asked fer, sister, but we didn’t have room for no smithy.” Ben grinned at his own joke. “Right size too, ain’t they?”

“Close,” Lacy replied. The laced bodice was so tight that she showed more bosom than she cared to, but the gown was of good blue kersey, hardly worn at all, and the linen petticoat was clean. She glanced down at the matching blue stockings that showed between the hem of the gown and her shoes. The former owner of the clothing had been shorter than she was, but that was to be expected. She was half a head taller than most women. “I’m not complaining. And ye did bring my own shoes from home.”

“Aye, ’twas Alfred thought of that,” Ben said. “I got the gown and such off a fence behind a bake shop. Wasn’t none of them saddle things what wenches wear around their hips.”

Lacy laughed. “Why, Ben, I’m surprised ye’d lay hands on a woman’s petticoat, an old bachelor like you. There!” James’s iron collar parted, and he yanked it off and dropped it to the deck. The rusted iron left a ring of raw flesh around his neck. “There, that’s the first one,” she declared. “Getting my own unlocked will be harder, since I can’t see what I’m doing.”

Ben ignored her. “If pirate ye be,” he persisted, glaring at James, “ye should be a rich man. Them Spaniards is said to carry a king’s ransom in gold. Heathen treasure.”

James rubbed his neck and winced. “There was treasure enough in Panama City.”

“Ah, ye followed Henry Morgan, then,” Alfred said.

“May he rot in hell,” James muttered.

“Not him.” Ben laughed. “A hero is Cap’n Morgan. ’Tis said he’ll make a royal governor afore he’s done.”

James stood up and stretched. He glanced toward the riverbank, which was no more than ten yards off the starboard side of the
Silkie.
“Can ye swim, Ben?” he asked.

“Like a fish. Me and Alfred can outswim—” As Lacy watched, mouth open in astonishment, the pirate seized her brother Ben by the midsection and heaved him over the side of the
Silkie
into the river. It happened so fast, she didn’t even have time to scream.

Ben hit the water with a splash, went under, and bobbed up, cursing for all he was worth. Lacy came upright, fury rising in her breast. “Son of a bitch!” She swung the end of the chain at James, but he was already lunging at Alfred. “Watch out!” she yelled. Ben headed toward the boat with powerful overhand strokes, but the wind was carrying the boat downstream faster than he could swim.

Alfred grabbed a spike from the deck and swung it at the pirate’s head. James ducked and caught the collar at the end of Lacy’s chain. He gave it a sharp jerk and tossed the neck iron overboard, and the force threw Lacy to her knees. Alfred jabbed at James with the spike, but James sidestepped and drove a meaty fist into Alfred’s jaw. Twisting the spike out of Alfred’s hands, the pirate jammed his shoulder into Alfred’s chest and knocked him off balance. Lacy screamed her brother’s name as Alfred went backward off the stern into the Thames.

Still on her knees, Lacy pulled the end of the chain back into the boat. James whirled on her and their eyes met. “You rotten son of a bitch,” she whispered. “I save your swivin’ neck and this is what ye do to us.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. Alfred was shaking a fist and shouting something incomprehensible. “Ben told the truth,” James said. “He can swim well enough.” The pirate wrapped a rope around the tiller to hold it in place, then turned on her. “And you, m’lady, can you swim?”

Lacy was trembling from head to toe, not in fear but in anger. She wanted to throw herself at this bastard’s throat and choke the life out of him, but harsh reality made her cautious. In hand-to-hand combat, she’d have no chance against him. If she didn’t think of something fast, she’d join Ben and Alfred in the river, and this thieving dogsface would be away with the
Silkie
and her cargo.

“Well?” James advanced on her, his hands open and ready to grab her. The expression on his bearded face was almost amused, as if he were laughing at her.

“No . . . no,” she stammered. “I ... I can’t swim.” Her insides twisted as she mouthed the lie. Damn if begging him wasn’t worse than trying to swim with twenty-five pounds of iron tied to her neck. Her mouth tasted of bad shellfish, but she forced herself to speak with a quaver. “Please, don’t throw me over. I’ll ... I’ll drown for certain.”

His dark eyes narrowed and a muscle throbbed along one massive forearm. He looked back again at her brothers. They’d given up the chase and had turned toward the muddy riverbank.

“Ye can let me off on a mudflat,” she said, “or in the shallows ahead a piece. This chain will take me straight to the bottom.”

He grinned. “You should have learned to swim, puss. It’s a valuable skill.”

“Damn you to a burning hell,” she managed between clenched teeth. “Have ye no honor at all? I saved you from the noose.”

“Because you had to, Mistress Bennett. Not from any goodness of your heart.”

“It matters not,” she argued. “I did save you, and ye owe me. ’Twould be a great injustice to drown me out of hand.” He was still undecided. She could read it in his eyes. “I can help ye with the
Silkie
until ye get where ye’re going. One can sail her alone, but she handles better with two.”

“So you can sail? A lass who cannot swim?”

“My father was strict. He didn’t think a woman needed to indulge in such sport. But I know a halyard from a tiller, and I can get ye across the channel to France. Come fog or rough weather, you’ll never manage alone.”

“Who said I wanted to go to France?”

“Where else would ye go? Put in between here and Plymouth and you’ll not last a day. They’ll put a reward on your head.” She was still shaking, and she hoped he’d believe it was out of fear and not anger. She wanted to kill him with her bare hands.

“And yours too, I suppose,” he answered. “Though you’ve not told me your crime, Lacy Bennett. What was it? What does that mark on your forehead stand for?”

“I’ll tell ye if ye promise not to drown me,” she dared reply. Saucily, she flashed him a smile.

He laughed. “No, not today I won’t.” He came close and brushed aside the fringe of bright au-bum hair that hung over her forehead. “Just how dangerous are you, chit?”

She took a breath and stared wide-eyed into his face. “Why, sir,” she declared with a grin, “I thought ye’d guess. ’Tis a W. W for whore.”

L
acy heard the dull click as the lock opened and her collar fell away. A moment later, with a sigh of relief, she dropped the rusty chain and both collars into the sea and watched them sink out of sight. “Good riddance,” she muttered. She’d take no chances that the pirate would shackle her again.

James had been at the tiller for the past two hours, seemingly ignoring her, although she knew better. He’d said not a dozen words to her since she’d told him the lie about being a whore. “They don’t hang bawds,” he’d replied tersely, “or England would be short of ladies.”

She’d answered him with another bald-faced yarn. “A gentleman was displeased wi’ my services,” she’d told him. “He accused me of stealing two gold sovereigns.” She’d flashed James a coy look. “I’m innocent, of course. All I did was take what was coming to me.”

He hadn’t replied to that, and she wasn’t certain if he’d believed her or not. And the long minutes of silence had become hours.

She sighed again, loudly, and rolled her head from side to side, grateful to be free of the cruel iron collar. She threw James a pointed look. Let him try to dump her overboard now! She’d give him more than he bargained for.

When he still didn’t respond, she hid her animosity and forced herself to smile at him. After all, she reasoned, the best way to overpower him and win the
Silkie
back would be to first get him to trust her.

“Are ye hungry?” she asked him. “There’s provisions below.”

“Stay where I can see you.”

One of his eyes was still swollen from the beating the jailers had given him, and the cut above his eyebrow was raised and angry, but he still managed to look hale and hearty. He had a new bruise on his lip. That one he’d gotten in the tussle with Ben. James must be as tough as iron, she thought, despite his fancy ways. She was certain some of his ribs had been broken when they’d brought him out of the prison.

“I’m hungry, I can tell ye,” she complained. “And I’m thirsty.” It was true enough. They’d had nothing but a shared bottle of cider and some cheese and biscuit before they’d come topside that morning. There were supplies aplenty in the cuddy, but most importantly, there was the knife, and unless Alfred had gotten careless, he’d have a pistol hidden somewhere below.

The
Silkie
was a two-masted boat, thirty-four feet from her high pinked stern to her sharp-pointed bowsprit. Her beam was nine and a half feet, and her hull was full-bodied, bluff forward with a sweet, clean run aft so that she cut through the water like a fish. A pink by definition, the
Silkie
was a stout, simple craft built to take rough weather. She could ride heavy seas and slip into hidden coves as well as any small boat built by a master ship builder, and she was fitted out for smuggling runs that might take three days or three months.

The boat was only two years old. Lacy’s father had spent three years’ profit to have the
Silkie
custom built, and he’d not take lightly to having it lost to a scruffy-arsed pirate. She shivered. God in heaven! Red Tom would have the hide off Ben and Alfred’s backs if they went home without the pink—not to mention the cargo. French brandy, she knew of. Doubtless there were other kegs in the forward hold, sealed tight with pitch against the sea water and containing anything from China tea to ivory and bolts of precious silk.

Lacy owed it to her family to settle the score with James Black. And if she got a chance to dump him over the side, she’d do it in the blink of an eye. A pox on his arrogant manner. She’d see how well he could swim, now that England was a thin line of trees off the starboard side.

She sighed and looked up at the fleecy white clouds overhead. The sun was bright, and a merry breeze filled the sails. Curse this pirate for ruining what would have been a perfect day. Tyburn and the threat of hanging were behind her. She wanted to laugh and shout. She wanted to dive overboard and let the clean ocean water wash away the stench of prison.

But she’d told him she couldn’t swim. That had been the first lie. Second, she’d said the brand on her face stood for whore. Living with the reputation of not being able to swim a stroke would be easier than keeping him off her now that she’d declared herself a trug-moldie.

She suppressed a shiver. Better whore than witch. What man would fear a doxy? If he knew the truth, he’d toss her over the side in less time than it took to say “God’s wounds.” But now that she’d named herself whore, she’d have to watch lest he try to sample the wares.

“If you’ve a mind to have meat, there’s charcoal below, and a tray of sand to build a fire on. Alfred carries a full larder; he likes his dinner, does brother Alfred.”

James raised his eyes to meet hers. “There’s food and water aboard, then?”

“Aye, always. At least there should be. I didn’t come to London wi’ Ben and Alfred, as ye noticed. But Alfred is a cautious man. He’s been known to wait two weeks in some deserted cove until he thinks the coast is clear before making a run for home.”

“I could eat, although a man almost gets out of practice in Newgate. Barring this morning, ’tis been a long time since I’ve had a meal that didn’t wiggle.” He tied the tiller in place with a length of rope. “I’ll go below with you, though, in case there’s any more of these.” He lifted the hem of his shirt to show the knife tucked into his waist. “We’d not want any accidents aboard, would we?” He grinned boyishly.

Lacy swore under her breath. How had he taken the knife in the cuddy without her seeing him? He was a tricky bastard, he was. James Black would take some watching!

“On second thought, I’ll go below and you can take the helm,” he said, undoing the rope and taking it with him. “We’ll see if you are as knowledgeable about sailing as you profess, my fine ladybird.” Frowning, she took hold of the tiller. “Keep her on course. I’ll know it if you try anything,” he warned. As an afterthought, he added, “I don’t suppose there’s a mirror below, is there?”

“Nay,” she snapped, “nor any milk cow either.”

“Too bad. I’ve a fancy for a mug of fresh milk.”

Seething, she held the course while James rattled around in the cuddy. When he came back, he tossed her another chunk of cheese and the remainder of a bottle of wine. He’d stripped to breeches and bare feet, and she could see terrible black and purple bruises on his chest and ribs. He turned around and she stared aghast; his back was a web of old crisscrossed scars. “A reminder of Newgate, lest I forget,” he said, when he saw her reaction. “It’s healed though. That was months ago.”

“Ye need a bath,” she answered.

“My feelings exactly.” He’d brought a wooden bucket on deck. He tied the tiller rope to the handle and proceeded to haul up bucket after bucket of seawater and dump it over his head. Using his shirt for a cloth, he scrubbed every inch of exposed skin, washing away layers of dirt and sweat. He rinsed his mouth and brushed his teeth with a peeled green willow twig he took from a pouch in his breeches. Undoing his hair, he ran his fingers through it to take out the worst of the snarls, then rinsed with another bucket of salt water.

“If ye mean to strip completely, give me warning,” Lacy said, “so that I can look away.”

“How refreshing. A lady of your occupation who is modest. Who would have thought it?”

Remembering that she was supposed to win his trust, she suppressed the sailor’s oath that came to mind and answered as mildly as she could manage. “Because I’m a whore doesn’t mean I’m without morals.”

“Then, by all means, shut your eyes. For I intend to get as much Newgate off me as possible.” He reached for the ties at the back of his breeches, and Lacy whirled away and stared out at the whitecaps.

In a few minutes, he came to stand inches in front of her. “What is it now?” she demanded.

“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?”