Tender Fortune Read online

  Tender Fortune

  The Triumphant Hearts Series

  Book Two

  by

  Judith E. French

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-895-8

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1986/2016 by Judith E. French All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Meet the Author

  Dedication

  For Mom and Dad, who opened the window to the past and taught me the meaning of love. Thank you for believing.

  Prologue

  London 1740

  Torrents of rain beat against the thick glass windowpanes as the late afternoon storm darkened the interior of the tavern to a shadowy cave. Shivering from the dampness, a girl knelt on the crumbling bricks before an ancient fireplace, blowing sparks of life into the dying coals. The street door slammed open and a gust of wind scattered the ashes. A cry of pain escaped the girl's lips as she rubbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  The spit dog cowed against her legs as a man's heavy tread crossed the slanting oak floor. A hand closed over her arm, pulling her to her feet.

  "Are ye all alone then, sweet?"

  She tried to pull free, but he held her fast. "My mam's in the back," she lied.

  "Is she now? You must be mistaken, sweet. For I saw her in the square not a quarter hour ago."

  A foul-smelling hand caught her chin and turned her face up to meet his brutal kiss. A wet mouth covered hers and a thick tongue sought entrance. The smell of rum filled her brain and she struck at his face with her fists.

  A blow rocked her head and she would have fallen backward if he hadn't caught her. From far away came the sound of drunken laughter. "All alone and wantin' to play," he taunted huskily. "I'll teach ye a game, Miss High 'n' Mighty!"

  Rough hands tore at the front of her dress and she gasped as the fabric ripped away, exposing her full white breasts. "Damn you!" she screamed. "Get out of here!" She lashed out with her foot and caught him in the knee. He hit her again and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth.

  "You love it, you slut! Yer jest like all the others. Ye like to be swived by a real man. I seen ye watchin' me." He lifted her from the floor and covered her mouth with his callused hand. "We'll jest go back into the kitchen where we'll be alone."

  The terrier nipped at his ankle and he kicked the little dog aside as he pushed open the low door to the back room. The girl tried desperately to get a grip on his hand with her teeth, and he closed his fingers over her nose, cutting off her breathing. His mouth closed hungrily over one nipple and he moaned with pleasure as he pushed her back against a flour-covered table.

  Her knee struck his crotch and he loosened his grip long enough for her to roll free. She fell backward to the floor, hitting her head against the fireplace. She caught her breath and screamed as he lunged for her, pinning her to the floor with his hard muscular body. His fingers twisted in her hair to hold her as he fumbled with the tie string on his breeches.

  Desperately she reached out with one hand and her fingers closed around the cold iron of a poker...

  Chapter 1

  Maryland 1741

  The three-masted sailing ship moved silently through the dark waters of the Chesapeake as the vessel made her way toward the port town of Annapolis on the western shore of the bay. A light breeze filled the canvas and lulled the deck watch at his station. No one saw the slight form move toward the railing on the starboard amidship.

  Trembling with fear, the girl dropped her shapeless woolen gown to the splintered deck. She had only precious seconds to make her escape; she must not falter. She scrambled up and stood naked in the pale moonlight, her bare feet clinging to the gunnel, her long flaxen tresses blowing about her. Her lips moved in silent prayer, but her mind seemed numb and emotionless.

  Ever since the ship had entered the mouth of the Chesapeake, she had planned for this moment. By dawn they would sight their destination, and it would be too late. There the cargo of convicted felons would be auctioned off as bondslaves to the highest bidder.

  Charity's dimpled chin quivered with resolution. Her stubborn spirit refused to accept the finality of King George's stern justice. No man would sell Charity Brown as an indentured slave!

  A sailor's shout stiffened her resolution and she dove into the dark waters of the bay. The cool waves closed over her head. There was no going back now. If they caught her, she'd be whipped or worse. She swam away from the vessel with the strong, steady strokes of one who had learned to swim in the treacherous currents of the Thames.

  The cry of alarm spread. Charity took a breath and dove again. They must believe her drowned. Land was a thin blade of trees along the eastern horizon. She must reach it. When she did, she would decide what to do, how to change her identity. For now, she must only swim.

  Her naked body slipped through the water like a mermaid's. It had been an act of desperation to strip. The prison gown would have pulled her down and would make recapture certain. For what real lady would wear such bug-ridden rags? And she was a lady. She had dreamed, and planned, and set her mind to the task. When she dove from the gunnel of the ship and entered the water, she had transformed herself from a convicted prisoner to a person of quality.

  Shore was farther than she had believed. She began to swim more slowly, letting the current carry her. As long as she reached land safely, what matter if it took a little longer? She seemed alone on the surface of the water; she tried not to think of what might be beneath her. Were there whales? Sea monsters? She had seen a map of the New World once. A captain had brought it into her stepfather's tavern. She'd seen the sea monsters drawn around the edges of America. Not that she could read it. He
pointed them out; he left a good tip, too. But who could believe the word of a seafaring man, or any man for that matter? The fish were probably as afraid of her as she was of them.

  Tiring, Charity rolled onto her back and floated for a while. She was beginning to feel cold; she kicked harder. The moon moved behind rolling clouds. She was no longer certain of her direction. Annapolis lay on the west shore of the bay. A sailor had told her so. Safety then must be east. There had been no lights on the outline of land she'd seen from the ship's rail. Yet the sailor had said there were scattered plantations, and even a town... somewhere. America was very big. There were Indians and wild animals. Charity shuddered. Why did every thought come back to being eaten alive? She was cold and tired. Her shoulders ached and she was swallowing water every time a wave hit her in the face.

  The trickle of fear along her backbone grew. Bastards! she screamed silently. When the judge had pronounced her guilty of murder, she'd stared the old vulture right in the eye and taken it without flinching. No weeping and wailing for Charity Brown! But now she was scared. She wasn't sure how long she could swim. It felt as if she'd been in the water for hours. "Bastards! Bastards!" She choked and shook her head, spitting out the water and gasping for air. If she let herself panic, it would be all over. She had to stay calm.

  Maybe the water wasn't too deep. She took a big breath and let her body slide down and down into the depths. It was too far! Fear lent strength to her weary muscles and she forced them to work, pulling her up until her face broke water and she gulped the sweet, tangy air.

  Sailors said drowning was an easy way to die. She didn't believe it. Not for her it wouldn't be. Drowning would be letting the water win... giving up. She'd always been a fighter. "Fight or lick boots," her mam had always said.

  Life had been rough on the streets before Mam had married Tom Brown. She'd made her living the best way a pretty girl could, and Charity had never blamed her. Mam had done her best to keep her girl-child reasonably well-fed, no easy thing when you lived by your wits and slept in doorways.

  Stop it! she told herself. She must keep her mind on swimming and not on what was past. Mam couldn't help her now. No one could help, maybe not even God. She shuddered at the blasphemy. If God wanted her dead, he'd had plenty of opportunity before this. Swim. Shore couldn't be far away! It felt like she'd swum across the whole damned ocean.

  Arm over arm, that was the way. No need to push herself. No sense trying to fight the tide... just swim with it. Take deep breaths and swim with it, let the water hold her up.

  Life at the tavern had been soft compared to the streets where there were stray dogs and other street urchins to contend with. Cobblestones were cold, worse for a girl than a boy. It took a sharp eye and ready wit just to stay alive. More than one girl she knew had been snatched and never seen again, dead or alive. Quick hands and a cocky smile had served her well. She'd learned to run errands and dodge drunks by the time she was knee-high to the fishmonger's stall. She could run like a wharf rat and fight like a one-eared tomcat. Meanest brat on the docks, Mam had called her, but she'd laughed when she said it.

  Her mother's image wavered before her salt-stung eyes.

  Her mind was wandering. Charity forced herself to stare through the darkness. Where was land? It had to be out there someplace. Her throat burned from the salt water; she was past cold, she was freezing. A few more strokes... just a few more strokes. Soon her feet would hit solid ground. Another stroke... another.

  A dark shape loomed ahead. She strained to see what it was. The clouds parted briefly, revealing the outline of a sail. "Help!" she cried. "Help me! Please!"

  For a long time it seemed as though they wouldn't hear, that they'd leave her to die in the black, black water. Charity bit her lip and whispered a silent prayer. Then, easily, daintily, the little sloop altered course and circled toward her.

  "Here!" she shouted. "I'm here!"

  Strong arms reached out to pull her from the waves. "By all that's holy!" Tenderly a blanket was wrapped about her shaking body. "Where are yer clothes, girl?" The voice was very Irish and very masculine. "No! By the saints, don't tell me! The less I know of this, the better."

  "Please... don't take me to Annapolis," she murmured. Her voice sounded hoarse and queer to her ears. "I... I must go east," she insisted.

  "No fear o' that, me girl. I'm fer the Eastern Shore, meself."

  Exhausted, she allowed him to lead her below to the tiny cabin. Instinct told her there was nothing to fear from this tender, amused voice. She curled into a ball, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. He lifted her onto a bunk and left her to sleep.

  "It's what ye need now, darlin', sleep. There'll be time an' time for talk in the mornin'. Sleep now. Yer safe, little girl." He dropped another blanket over her and went back on deck. "An' a fine story I'm sure it'll be," he said, chuckling to himself. "A fine story... an' a fine night's catch."

  * * *

  The gentle rocking of the boat brought Charity back to consciousness slowly. She stretched and rubbed her eyes. Light streamed through the open hatch; it was full day. She rubbed her aching muscles and snuggled deeper into her nest, then forced herself awake. Where was she? Who was her rescuer? Could he be trusted? What would she say to him? Wrapping the smaller blanket around herself with as much dignity as she could muster, Charity climbed topside.

  Her green eyes widened in surprise. The sloop was anchored in a cove surrounded on all sides by thick trees. There was no sign of a dock or any human habitation.

  "Good mornin', Venus."

  Charity whirled. "My name's Charity! Not..." Struck dumb, she stared. A blush started at the tips of her bare toes and crept steadily upward through her body. She found her voice, what there was of it. "Holy Mary!" Aghast, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Her savior was a priest!

  He stood on the bow of the sloop, feet planted solidly, arms akimbo. His blotchy, red-freckled face split in a wide grin.

  "'Tis clearly a case of mistaken identity on both parts," he gasped. "I'm Father Brady."

  Tears came to Charity's eyes. She was mortified. First the holy father had seen her naked as the day she was hatched, and now he was poking fun at her. If he weren't a priest, she'd black both his eyes and throw him into the drink, old man or no!

  "Now, now, child." His laughter vanished as he saw her pain. "I didna' mean to make light of yer problems. 'Twas just the double shock of seein' yer lovely face in the daylight, and of hearin' you call me..." His voice trailed off, and his lips twitched in an effort to keep from smiling. "Holy Mary."

  Charity looked away as he came toward her. On this little boat, there was nowhere to run. She was conscious of her nude body beneath the scratchy wool of the blanket; she pulled it tighter about her. "Father... Father Brady, I..."

  "Ye look better this mornin', ye surely do. Like a drowned kitten ye were last night. Let me fix you a drop of tea. Tea always makes a body feel better. I've some fine tea, fresh off a ship... from the governor's own special stock. 'Twill make ye feel like a new woman, I can promise."

  Charity eyed him suspiciously. "Where are we? What place is this? How did you get the boat in here? I never knew no priest to sail a boat like a fisherman."

  He raised a hand soothingly and leaned against the cabin. "Peace, child, I mean ye no harm. There 's a passageway through the trees over there. I often anchor here to wait for my... for my flock." He removed his small silver spectacles and polished them on a shabby pants leg, then arranged them on his freckled nose. "Others have been fishermen before me," he chastised softly. "Remember Peter? He left his nets to follow the Lord."

  "I'm sorry, Father," Charity mumbled. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "It's just that I..."

  "You've had a bad time, of course, of course." The deep voice grew serious. "But shouldn't I be the one to be askin' the questions?"

  "Yes, Father." She sobbed and wiped at her eyes like a child. "Oh, Father... Father, I need your help." She began to weep again and he took
her in his arms and let her cry against his shoulder.

  "There, there, child," he soothed.

  His touch was comforting; she felt safe for the first time in months. Slowly the tears stopped falling and she stood back and stammered an apology.

  "No need, no need," he said. "If I can give aid to a lost lamb—"

  "But I'm no lamb!" she protested. "Father, you don't know... Father, it's been more than a year since my last confession. Will you hear it now?"

  "Me? Now?" Father Brady backed away, shaking his head. "I don't know. It's highly irregular. There's no screen! That's it. No screen. You need to make your confession in private. In the church. I'm sure whatever little sins you've committed since ye last—"

  "How private do you need it to be? You must hear my confession! Father, I've killed a man!"

  "Murder?"

  "No! Not murder! You'd make this easier if you'd just hear my confession." Her green eyes narrowed. "What kind of a priest are you who won't hear a sinner's confessions?" Her chin went up and she glared at him.

  "An old one. One who isn't used to fishing beautiful girls from the sea. One who hasn't had his tea this mornin'." He limped up toward the bow and Charity noticed a small fire built in a box of sand. He balanced a copper kettle over the coals and turned back to her. "We'll have our tea and you can tell me yer tale. Go below first and put on some clothes. You'll find a dress in that chest under the bunk."

  "But..."

  "No buts. We'll talk like civilized people, and yer story will be as sacred to me as if it were given in the confessional." He nodded firmly. "Ye have me solemn word on it."