Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress Page 10

  Lacy would have given anything to walk on dry land and get a better look at the black volcanic mountains. She wanted to wash her hair and clothing in fresh water instead of salt, but she was afraid to leave the Silkie. If she did, James might decide to sail without her, or he might put Harry ashore.

  Instead, she remained on the boat, below deck and out of sight, while James went ashore to trade a few kegs of French brandy for vegetables and fruit, dried beef, and extra water barrels. For the remainder of the voyage, most of the ballast in the hull of the Silkie would be fresh drinking water. The pink was light, and without heavy weight in the bottom they’d be in danger of capsizing in the first Atlantic blow. Later, when James and Lacy had used up the fresh water, they’d have to fill the barrels with salt water to maintain the boat’s balance.

  Reluctantly, she’d watched James’s tall form disappear amid the throng crowding the busy waterfront. Ships and boats of every shape and size rode at anchor in the Santa Cruz harbor. Because the Silkie was so small, they were able to get close to shore. Still, James had to beg a lift in a passing longboat to avoid having to swim to the nearest dock.

  The sun seemed a hundred times hotter here than in England, and the cuddy was stifling. Lacy was tempted to go up on deck, but she didn’t dare. Her male attire was a sufficient disguise if viewed from a hundred yards, but she knew she couldn’t pass as a boy if anyone saw her close up.

  Harry, on the other hand, saw no reason to share her captivity and remain hidden. He brazenly cat-walked to the tip of the bowsprit and dangled upside down. He climbed to the top of the mainsail and yowled a defiant challenge to an obviously inferior landbound tomcat strolling on the dock. He stalked seagulls that dared to land on the deck of the Silkie. Then when he tired of that sport, he simply lay in the hot sun and groomed his tattered black fur.

  “Traitor,” Lacy accused. Sweat ran down her face and made her shirt stick to her back and chest. She wrinkled her nose, deciding she definitely needed a bath. Since she’d been a child, she’d had an unnatural obsession about cleanliness, a trait she hadn’t believed she’d shared with any living soul until she’d met James.

  Damned if he wasn’t the washingest man she’d ever laid eyes on! Not only did he shave and soap himself from crown to toe every single day, but he scrubbed his teeth several times a day as well. He washed out his clothing and folded it as neatly as any laundry maid, and raised a king’s royal tantrum if he found a single cat hair on his shirt or breeches.

  James made free with her brush, spending more time fussing with his hair than she did her own. Once, annoyed to find black hairs in her brush, she’d called him a dandified fop. In return, he’d retorted that she was a common shrew.

  The shrew she hadn’t minded, but she was hardly common. After all, how many witches were willing to follow a fool on a treasure hunt across the entire Atlantic Ocean in a thirty-four-foot boat?

  James was clearly impossible. He was arrogant and priggish. The man cut his bacon with a knife and fork for God’s sake! Who did he think he was? Crown prince of England?

  He was a pirate, and a poor one at that. He had nothing more than the clothes on his back—garments she’d traded for with her father’s brandy. James Black had no reason to play the lord with her. Grass would be green on his grave if it wasn’t for her.

  And what had he given her in return? Insults. Orders. A wild dream of Spanish treasure that didn’t have a chance in hell of ever materializing. All he wanted from her was a strong back and hands to furl the sails and hold the tiller.

  Lacy dropped her chin on her hands. She was standing on the second rung of the cuddy ladder with her head and shoulders above deck so that she could catch a breath of air. Harbor noises rang in her ears: ships’ bells, the creak of rigging, the splash of oars, and the shouts of men in a dozen languages. Seagulls dived and wheeled through the sky, plunging down to the water’s surface to snatch scraps of food, all the while keeping up a din of raucous cries. Deep in her reverie, Lacy ignored the familiar sounds. She couldn’t stop thinking about James.

  Day and night he plagued her. She’d suffered no more trances, but James had invaded her dreams, making her restless and irritable. And the dreams were ones no decent woman should have ...

  She swallowed and moistened her lips. Her cheeks grew warm as she remembered last night’s dream. She and James were lying naked in each other’s arms on a white sand beach, beneath the strange trees she’d seen in her trance. She was touching him, running her hands over the curves of his hard hips and buttocks. Her head was against his chest and her breasts were—

  No! She shook her head to rid herself of the lustful images. She’d told him that they could not share a bed and she meant it. They’d not so much as brushed fingertips in the last weeks.

  So why did she long for his touch all the more? And why did she watch when he stripped naked every morning to bathe? And why did her heartbeat quicken at the sight of his bare bum?

  She sighed. The man had a body to make an old woman’s loins young again. His legs were long and lean with hard, corded muscles at the calf and thigh. His belly was flat above the thatch of black curls, and his chest ... Oh, his chest! Lacy exhaled slowed through her closed teeth. If ever a man had flesh to tempt a maid, it was his tanned, brawny chest and husky shoulders. His arms were well-muscled and powerful, capable of pulling the anchor in half the time she could, or hefting a hundred-pound water keg on his shoulder as though it were empty.

  She was mad for him.

  I’ve spun a fine web for myself, she thought. I pretend to be a whore, yet I can’t even enjoy for free what every harlot gets paid for.

  James Black was a deceitful scoundrel. If she allowed herself to care for him, he’d break her heart. He fancied himself a high and mighty gentleman, and if he found his fortune, he’d find a blue-blooded lady to spend it on. He’d want no part of Lacy Bennett, wrecker’s daughter. Witch and gallows bait she was, and as such she would go to her grave. A man could shake off a past, but not a woman—and certainly not a woman whose forehead bore the proof of her sin.

  All these things she knew, yet she wanted him still. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers ... wanted to experience that burning ache that only a man’s virility could fill. And not just any man. It had to be this cursed pirate ... the one she’d sent running to some Canary Island whore’s bed.

  He’d warned her that that was where he was going. “I’ll seek from some other wench what I can’t find here,” he’d said as he made ready to leave the Silkie.

  “Be certain she’s clean,” Lacy had thrown back at him. “I’ll not have you bringing lice into our cabin.”

  Even now, he was probably in her arms. Kissing her. Stroking her flesh until it quivered with yearning. Spending his passion between her slack thighs ...

  “Damn me to hell for being such a fool!” she exclaimed. “’Tis not like I have anything to lose.”

  She’d given her maidenhead to a village boy when she was fifteen. Just once. The hasty encounter had been awkward and embarrassing. She’d felt nothing but rough groping, a coltish thrust or two, and a wet and sticky belly. It had been such a letdown that she’d never seen reason to repeat the act. Kisses, yes, and a little wrestling with the right man. But she’d never done it again. Never really wanted to. Until now.

  Now, she could think of nothing else.

  Harry strolled over to the hatch and rubbed against Lacy’s chin. Idly, she scratched the knob where his left ear should have been, and he purred contentedly. “I told him I was a whore to keep him from knowing I was a witch,” she ex plained to the cat. “Ye can see how I had to do that. But what kind of a ladybird would sleep in a cold bed with that much man so close by? I’m ruinin’ my own tale.” She rubbed Harry under the chin, and his yellow eyes became mere slits of gold as he quivered all over with pleasure. “What am I savin’ it for? A husband? I’ll take none, thank ye, sir. A husband is good for givin’ black eyes and bloody noses.”

  Harry rolle
d onto his back and nibbled at the end of his tail. He opened one eye and regarded her solemnly. Merowl. It was a deep, rasping sound that conveyed a large measure of cat wisdom. Lacy interpreted the noise as a question for which Harry already had his own answer.

  “Then you agree with me? A woman can change her mind about certain things.”

  Harry closed his eye and began to purr again.

  “You’re right. James can’t hurt me as long as I don’t let myself love him. I can satisfy my itch and his, and make the rest of the journey go faster if I act the role I’ve cast for myself.”

  The cat got to his feet and butted his knotty head against her hand. She stroked his back carefully, running her hand from his head to the tip of his curling black tail. There was a definite crook about two inches from the end, evidence of an earlier break. “Poor old kitty,” she soothed. “You’ve had a rough life, haven’t ye.” She chuckled aloud. “You would have to be a black cat, wouldn’t ye? We make a fine pair, the witch of Cornwall and her familiar. Ah well, as the crow said, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ ”

  And as she went back down the ladder into the cabin, her thoughts were still of James and how she would turn the coolness between them into something hot.

  Chapter 8

  James returned to the Silkie after nearly twenty-four hours ashore. He came back to the boat sober, but to Lacy he looked as though he’d had a rough night. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a bruise under his left eye. His lower lip was split, and his clothing was rumpled and dirty.

  Lacy was angry enough to blacken his other eye. She’d waited up for him until midnight, and when morning came without word, she’d begun to be afraid that he’d been kidnapped as a seaman for one ship or another. Press gangs roamed the waterfront of every town, searching for able-bodied seamen to replace missing crew. And if something happened to James, what would she do, marooned here in the Canaries, thousands of miles from home or the New World?

  Seething, she remained below, watching through a crack in the hatchway as James unloaded a green leather gentleman’s traveling chest, a few wrapped bundles, and the water and food rations—including a live chicken and a bunch of bananas taller than she was—from a fishing shallop onto the Silkie’s deck. She watched as James paid the boatman with shiny French deniers, then waited until the small craft moved away.

  “Where the hell have ye been?” she demanded, coming up out of the cabin. “And where did ye get the coin to pay him?” She waved in the direction of the shallop. “Did ye satisfy whatever slut ye slept with so much that she paid you instead of asking money for her night’s pleasure?”

  James fixed her with a black scowl. “Get below. Let some of this waterfront scum catch sight of you and I’ll have to fight off a boarding party. We’re close to the African coast. Have you any idea what a red-haired woman would fetch in the slave markets of Guinea?”

  Bristling, she held her ground. “I’m wearing a hat.”

  His features hardened. “Aye. A wool hat, in this heat. So that any who set eyes on you will stare. Get below, woman; I’m in no mood to indulge your fantasies.” He crossed the deck, took rough hold of her shoulders, and spun her around. “Below, I say, before I—”

  At that instant, the speckled hen sighted Harry. Squawking loudly, the chicken began to thrash about, beating its wings against the deck and kicking. Harry sprang at the bird just as the ties around its feet came undone.

  “Harry, no!” Lacy cried.

  The chicken fled along the deck with the black cat in hot pursuit. Harry pounced and feathers flew The terrified hen half-ran, half-flew to the tip of the bowsprit with the cat right behind it. It rose flapping into the air. Harry plunged straight off into the water.

  “My cat!” Lacy ducked under James’s arm and ran to the bow.

  Harry’s head bobbed up in the dirty water, his paws frantically digging, his yellow eyes wide and pleading. His pitiful merowl revealed the depth of his panic.

  “Harry!” Lacy leaned over the water and stretched out a hand. “Here, Harry! Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” Her gesture was as futile as her call. Six feet of water separated them.

  The cat went under and came up again, this time paddling away from the Silkie. The escaped fowl landed in the yards of a Dutch merchant vessel, much to the delight of the crew. Two sailors immediately started up the rigging after the chicken, cheered on by the enthusiastic shouts of their comrades.

  Lacy took a deep breath and prepared to jump in to rescue the drowning cat. As she tensed her muscles, James pushed past her and dived into the harbor. Lacy’s mouth dropped open in astonishment as he swam toward the tomcat with powerful overhand strokes.

  “Be careful,” she shouted. “He’ll scratch!”

  James thrust out a hand and grabbed the cat by the back of the neck, then swam back to the pink, carefully holding Harry’s head above water. When he got close enough to the Silkie, he tossed the cat into the air. Harry landed with his front claws firmly dug into the gunnel and his back feet digging for safety. He shot up over the side and across the deck, vanishing through the cabin hatchway.

  Lacy tossed James a rope and he pulled himself up with somewhat more dignity. She stared at him, suddenly speechless. “Why ... Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Don’t mention it.” The laughter from the deck of the Dutch ship drew his attention, and he motioned to the open hatch. “I told you to go below,” he said brusquely.

  She looked at him for a long moment. His clothes were dripping wet, forming puddles at his feet on the deck. A single chicken feather stuck to the lock of hair that hung over his forehead. “You’re something else, James Black,” she murmured.

  “Are you deaf?” His dark eyes narrowed in unspoken threat.

  “Yes, James,” she said meekly, and followed the cat below deck.

  Harry was crouched along the far wall, his patchy fur plastered to his sides, revealing a multitude of old scars. “He’s some man, and you’re some cat,” Lacy said, taking an old shirt and rubbing Harry’s fur briskly. “I don’t think I’d want to make this voyage without either of you.”

  James remained in his wet clothes, staying on deck until the tide turned and he was able to raise anchor and sail out of Santa Cruz. He waited until they were several hours away before calling Lacy up to help him with the provisions.

  When she came topside, she brought him some biscuits and cheese, and a bottle of wine.

  “I thought you were saving the wine,” he said. He pulled the cork and drank deeply. The sun and wind had dried his hair and garments, but the chicken feather was still stuck in place.

  She reached up and plucked the feather. “You saved Harry’s life. That makes it an occasion.” She looked away, suddenly shy. It made no sense at all to her. She’d lived within arm’s reach of him for weeks. She’d watched him bathe every day, and she’d slept in the same bunk he did, although not at the same time. While one stood at the tiller, the other slept. Furthermore, she’d decided to allow him the ultimate intimacy. Why now could he make her blush with a mere look?

  “Damned cat. I hate cats. I was hung over and not thinking straight. If my head didn’t feel twice its size, I’d have let him drown.”

  “Well, ye didn’t ... and I’m glad.”

  “Hmmph.” He shut his eyes, tilted back his head, and took another drink. “Just keep him away from me. If I see him, I may be tempted to use him for fish bait.”

  A week passed and then another. Relentlessly, James steered the Silkie south, seeking the northeast tradewinds that would carry them across the vast stretches of the Atlantic to the West Indies. He barely spoke to Lacy, and he stayed at the tiller day and night, unwilling to let her take her turn as he had done before. His only rest came when he dozed for short periods sitting upright. He would give her no reason why, and he refused to tell her what he had done for the twenty-four hours he’d been missing in the Canaries.

  Since she couldn’t occupy her hours at the tiller, Lacy set to arrangin
g and dividing the food supplies. James’s acquisitions in Santa Cruz consisted of a large fish, four flitches of bacon, a bag of rice, some wilted turnips, a half-dozen oranges, and the bananas.

  Lacy had eaten an orange every day for three days, leaving the rest for James. She’d also devoured the bananas, the first she’d ever seen; but after a week, she was getting sick of the sight and scent of them. Dozens of the long yellow fruit still lay on the deck, getting riper and riper with each passing hour. Finally, out of boredom, she began peeling and slicing them, and spreading them on a length of cloth to dry in the sun and wind. After a few abortive tries, she got the procedure right and had rows and rows of hard, round, yellow-brown disks to add to her larder.

  Finally, in mid-morning of the sixteenth day, James altered the course and steered the Silkie southwest. “We crossed the Tropic of Cancer sometime in the night,” he informed her in a weary but triumphant voice. He pointed toward the billowing sails. “We’re in the trades. Watch the compass and hold firm on these marks.” He pressed the compass into her hand, and she saw the fatigue in his eyes and in the lines of his drawn features. “I’m going below for some sleep. Call me if you sight a sail.”

  With those words, James bathed in sea water, shaved, and washed his hair, and changed into a fine cambric shirt with ruffled cuffs and gentleman’s cotton breeches he took from the green trunk. He brushed out his hair with her brush, braided it into a single plait, and tied it with a black silk ribbon. Then looking as though he might don a coat and attend some lordly affair, he bade her good night, went to the cabin, and stretched out on the narrow bunk.

  Past being puzzled by James’s behavior, Lacy didn’t even ask him why a man would bathe and dress before he went to sleep. Shrugging off his oddness as more of his noble pretensions, she remained on deck throughout the day and into the night, tying off the tiller for an hour at a time to get something to eat, relieve herself, and catnap. The sunset that evening was a glory of bloodred and imperial purple, fading at last to the softest rose.