Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress Page 11

  One by one the stars blinked on, filling the velvet night sky with glowing diamonds, each pinpoint growing larger and larger until it seemed that she could reach up and pick a sparkling handful. And when the moon came up over the water, it was large and full, as golden-orange as one of her grandmother’s prize pie pumpkins.

  Memories of following her grandmother’s stout figure to the garden to pick one of those pumpkins flooded over her, and Lacy found her eyes clouding with happy tears. She blinked them away and smiled. “I tried to carry that pumpkin,” she murmured to Harry, “but it was too heavy for me. I stumbled and the pumpkin went rolling. It broke in three places, but Gram didn’t mind. She said it saved her the trouble of cutting and cleaning it in the house.”

  Goosebumps rose on her arms and she hugged herself. If only she’d stayed on the farm with her grandparents ... If only Red Tom hadn’t come to take her home.

  She shook her head. The old folks had lost their precious farm in the end. They’d been too poor to die in the house they loved so dearly.

  “It won’t happen to me,” she whispered fiercely to the cat. “I’ll find this cursed treasure, or I’ll make my fortune in whatever way I have to. I’ll buy land that no man can take from me. And I’ll be buried in my own soil, where none can say me nay.”

  Her fingers gripped the cat’s fur tightly. Her old dream hadn’t died. It clung to her still. Somehow, some way she’d make it come true. Red Tom hadn’t killed her dream. The white-hot irons of Newgate Prison couldn’t destroy it. “Land is what lasts,” she said softly. “Land lasts when love dies and men’s promises turn cold. And silver is what buys land ...”

  There was plenty of land in America, so she heard tell ... rich land that went cheap. She’d have some of it, by God, or she’d die trying!

  Gradually, her mood changed as the rhythms of wave and wind wove a net of complacency around Lacy, a feeling of safety and contentment that didn’t desert her when three huge whales surfaced around the Silkie sometime before dawn.

  Lacy gasped in wonder. One moment the sea had been empty, and the next the air was filled with a strange musty smell—a scent of seaweed and decaying matter, and something more ... something that she’d never experienced. Wide-eyed, she stared at the whales, wanting to call James to see them and afraid that if she did, the sound of her voice would frighten them away.

  The giant creatures of the deep seemed to float like black ghosts on the surface of the waves. Moonlight glistened on their shiny, wet skins and reflected off their obsidian eyes. The whoosh of air and water through their blowholes came loud in the soft night.

  She’d seen whales before, off the coast of Cornwall, and she’d seen dead ones washed up on the beach, but she’d never been so close to a live one. The slight ripples of fear she experienced were overwhelmed by the awe she felt in the whales’ presence. “Ye be truly God’s creatures,” she whispered.

  Harry’s reaction was less favorable. After a brief show of bravado, he retreated down the cabin hatch. Seconds later, Lacy heard a sleepy curse and next, the now-familiar thud of James standing up and hitting his head on the cuddy ceiling.

  “James,” she called softly. “Come up. Quietly. Come and see our visitors.”

  “What the—” He broke off as he caught sight of the first whale, only an oar’s length from where Lacy sat at the tiller. Barefooted and hair awry from sleep, he climbed slowly on deck and came to her side.

  “Sweet wounds of God!” He exhaled and looked around him. The three whales had been joined by another and another, until there were whales as far as they could see into the darkness. The air reverberated with the sound of their heavy breathing and the hiss of spouts.

  Lacy caught James’s hand and squeezed it. One flip of a tail and she knew the Silkie could shatter, her brave masts crumbling. She and James and Harry would go down into the endless deep, never to rise again.

  From somewhere far off, a haunting cry pierced the air, followed by another and another. The whales’ song touched a chord in Lacy’s heart and made her eyes fill with tears. Never had she heard anything so lonely, so bittersweet.

  James looked down into her face. Moonlight illuminated her features, dusting the awful scar with the magic of a tropic night and making her eyes twin stars. His heartbeat quickened, and he felt a sudden rush of emotion.

  What was it about this damnable woman that made him want to protect her? Made him want to take her in his arms and hold her close forever?

  She stood up and smiled, then quickly fastened the tiller in place with the rope and turned back to him. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she murmured.

  His voice stuck in his throat. “You’re beautiful,” he said thickly. He took a lock of her hair and raised it to his lips, running it though his fingers. It smelled as clean as an herb garden.

  The memory of the Santa Cruz whore came bright in his mind’s eye. She’d been lovely in her own dark gypsy way. Her breasts were like ripe melons, and her olive skin was flawless beneath the dirt. But she had smelled of other men’s sweat and sour beer. She had been willing and eager. He had paid her fee with good French brandy. But one look at her stained pallet and one touch of her unwashed hair had turned his desire cold. His swelling passion had receded and he’d turned away, her jeers burning his ears.

  He’d thought of Lacy then. And how he wanted her. How he wanted to stroke her firm belly and feel the eager dampness between her thighs. How he wanted to taste the clean, salty flavor of her skin and tease her nipples to ripe buds.

  He’d known that there were other whores to be found in Santa Cruz. He could have found a cleaner one, or paid a wench to wash, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d drunk, and fought, and gambled the night away. He’d joined a game of piquet with empty pockets, and walked away weighed down with other men’s coin. He’d kept walking along the black beaches until dawn ... but he hadn’t walked far enough to stop thinking about this woman here before him.

  Lacy slipped her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe. Her lips brushed his, and joy flooded through him. He claimed her mouth, ruthlessly plundering the sweet, fresh taste of her, tilting her head back and letting loose the yearning he’d felt for so long.

  She made a small sound of surprise in her throat, but she didn’t try to pull away. In fact, she met his ardor with a surge of fiery intensity.

  His fingers tangled in her hair as his other hand crushed her against him. His loins tightened and flared with lust as the heat of her body permeated his clothing and scorched his skin. His tongue delved deep into her mouth, filling her with his need. He caressed the curves of her rounded buttocks and traced the hollow of her spine.

  He felt her breasts swell and grow taut, and he bent his head to taste the sweetness of her hard nipple. She moaned softly, and the sound sent a stab of burning desire through him.

  Breathless, he broke away, not letting her go, just lifting his head to meet her gaze. “I’ll not be denied this time,” he warned her. “You’ll not taunt me until I’m rock-hard, then bid me stop.”

  Her breathing was as rapid as his. She trembled beneath his hands. Her lips were swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion. “No, I’ll not deny you this time,” she vowed.

  “I make you no promises, Lacy Bennett,” he said. “What we do here, we do for the flesh.”

  She leaned close and parted his shirt, running the tip of her warm, wet tongue across his skin. Her fingers found his bare chest beneath the cambric shirt and stroked a tantalizing pathway upward to tease his nipple.

  “Do you understand, Lacy?” he repeated hoarsely. “I want no lies between us.” He cupped a rounded breast, marveling again at the silken texture of her skin. He wanted her, here and now, with every fiber of his body. But it was important that she not be caught up in any woman’s fancy. She had to know that he would never marry her—that his future would be in places she could never go. “I care for you, Lacy,” he said. “You know I do. But we are not from the same class.”

 
; She laughed softly, a merry sound like water running over rocks, and gently nipped his skin. “Ah, Jamie,” she whispered. “You are a man and I am a woman. Will ye stop talkin’ and do what you’ve been wantin’ to do for the past two thousand miles?”

  A roaring filled his ears. His blood ran hot with the urge to make her completely his, to taste every inch of her skin ... to throw her down and thrust into her again and again until he cooled this fever she had fired in him.

  The throbbing in his groin was almost an agony. His manhood pulsed with turgid arousal as he removed her shirt and moonlight kissed her perfectly formed breasts. He dropped to his knees and laid his cheek against her flat, pale belly, running his fingers over the curves of her hips and waist, fumbling with the ties at the back of her seductive boy’s breeches and pulling them over her long, shapely legs.

  She slid down his chest, kicking free her breeches and fitting her body to his own. He groaned and found her mouth with his, kissing her while his hands continued to explore the creamy expanse of her trembling body. His fingers found the warm place between her thighs, and she whimpered and arched against him. The damp feel of her drove him mad with wanting, and he pushed her back against the deck.

  He stripped away his breeches, and his stiff cock sprang free. She glanced down at it and gasped.

  “Sweet Mary!” she cried. “Are ye man or stallion?”

  “Enough man to satisfy you.” He knew he was big, many women had told him so; but Lacy was an experienced woman and no mite of a thing.

  Eagerly he kissed her mouth and throat, and tasted the damp hollow between her breasts. He caught her hand and guided it to clasp his throbbing rod. Her small fingers burned hot against his flesh, sending waves of pleasure more intense than any he’d ever experienced surging through him.

  He took her nipple between his lips and sucked it until she whimpered with ecstasy.

  “Please ...” she murmured.

  He kissed her belly and the soft curls that sprang below. “Lacy ... Lacy ...”

  Her breathing came in short, quick gasps.

  He could smell her woman’s heat. He wanted to taste her, to bury his face in her moist folds. But another few seconds, and he’d spill his seed like a green lad. He pushed himself up and gazed into her face and saw her looking full at him with wide eyes. “Ah, Lacy, girl,” he murmured. “I cannot wait.” Her arms tightened around his neck and he thrust into her with a powerful stroke, driving deep into her sweet darkness.

  To his surprise, he met resistance.

  Lacy cried out beneath him, then pulled him down to her. He thrust again and the thin tissue parted. Her gasp of pain was replaced by a moan of desire, and he was overwhelmingly caught up in the tide of his primitive need. He knew that something wasn’t right—that he’d been deceived again—but the heady woman scent of her filled his brain and her willing softness urged him to keep driving deep until he found the release he was seeking.

  Afterward, he lay still, not speaking, cradling her in his arms. She nestled against his chest, but her ragged breathing and the tautness of her muscles told him that he’d not given her the pleasure she’d given him.

  “James ...” she began.

  He laid a finger over her lips. “Hush,” he said. “Don’t spoil the moment with words.”

  “But I need to tell you—”

  “I said hush. ’Tis not often a man holds a genuine miracle in his arms.” He sat up and glared down at her. “Surely, it is a miracle, when a whore repents of her sins and has her maidenhead restored.”

  “I tried to—”

  “No. Be still. Don’t move.” He got to his feet and looked around. The sea was empty, the whales gone. Feeling hollow and confused, he went below and opened the green leather chest. Beneath the folded men’s clothing was a soft linen shift with lace around the hem. He brought it back, along with a cloth and a clean towel.

  On deck, he lowered a bucket over the side and filled it with water. He brought the water and other things to Lacy. “Unless I miss my guess, there’s some blood to clean up,” he said.

  Embarrassed, she turned away from him.

  He sat down on the deck beside her and took her in his arms. Not trusting himself to speak, he hugged her against him, then took the cloth and dipped it in the water, carefully cleansing her thighs. She reached for the cloth, but he shook his head. “No. I caused the pain. I’ll do what I can to take it away.” She shut her eyes tight as he finished washing her, rinsed out the cloth, then rubbed the cloth over himself and pulled on his breeches.

  He handed her the linen shift. “I bought it for you in Santa Cruz,” he said. She dropped the delicate garment over her head, then covered her face with her hands.

  “Why did you tell me you were a whore?” he demanded. “I’ve shared embraces with many women, but I’ve never taken a maid before. You lied to me.”

  She drew her hands away and walked to the mainmast. Taking hold of it, she looked away at the dark sea for several minutes. Finally, she took a deep breath and turned back to him. “I didn’t know I was a virgin,” she admitted.

  “You’ve been with a man?”

  “Once. I was fifteen. I didn’t like it much, though.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Not ... With you, it was different.”

  “Well, whatever you did then, it wasn’t what we just did here.” He bent to wipe a stain of blood off the deck. “And you sure as hell knew you were no whore. Why did you tell me you were?”

  “I had to.”

  “Why would any woman call herself a slut when she’s not? What perverse reason could you have—other than to make me feel like a dumb ass?”

  “I couldn’t tell you the truth.”

  “Which is?”

  Lacy straightened her shoulders and took a step toward him. Putting a hand to her forehead, she brushed away the lock of hair that covered her scar. “This W,” she said. “It doesn’t stand for whore.”

  “I’ve figured that out.” His brow furrowed with impatience. “What does it stand for?”

  “W for witch,” she declared firmly. “I’m a witch.”

  Chapter 9

  James scoffed in disbelief. “A witch.”

  “Aye.” Lacy’s throat constricted. Moonlight shone on the angled planes of James’s handsome face. With a thudding heart she stared at him. His features were immobile, revealing none of the disgust and fear she knew he must feel at her revelation. “It’s true,” she said. “I am a witch.”

  He raised a big hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see you fly, then.”

  Her mouth went dry. “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t fly? What kind of witch are you that can’t fly?” He folded his arms over his bare chest and glanced down at the cat who was curling around Lacy’s ankles. “Turn him into a toad.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that either.”

  “Not much of a witch, are you? Can you cast spells? Sour milk by staring at it? Sicken cattle by singing to them?” He let his arms fall loosely at his sides and took two steps toward her. “Can you take off warts?”

  She nodded. “I can do that, but it’s not witchcraft. My granny taught me. You take a turnip, cut it in half and—”

  He covered the distance between them in a single stride and pulled her into his arms. “You’re no witch, you foolish wench.”

  The heat of his callused palms warmed her blood, and she leaned against him. “But I am,” she protested weakly. “I am. I go into trances. And when I do, I have dreams—true dreams of things that have yet to happen.”

  “God help us, but you are a superstitious peasant,” he exclaimed. He lowered his head and kissed her.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as his caress erased her fears, and sweet desire kindled in her loins. “You’re ... you’re not afraid of me,” she stammered, when they broke apart.

  A deep chuckle rumbled up from the pit of his belly. “A witch.” He laughed louder, all the while holding her safe and warm against him. “A witch.
” His lips brushed hers, and he trailed a line of soft, teasing kisses down her cheek to the hollow of her throat. “Maybe you are, after all,” he murmured provocatively. “You’ve bewitched me.”

  His hands were doing wonderful things to her as he nibbled her neck and whispered lewd suggestions into her ear. Her cheeks grew warm as she caught his hand and brought it to her breast.

  “I want to love you again,” he murmured. “This time, it will be different ... I promise. No more pain ... only pleasure.”

  His thumb rubbed her nipple, filling her with a heavy-limbed languidness. Sighing, she twisted to meet his mouth with hers. The texture of his tongue, the taste and smell of him, filled her with growing excitement.

  What did it matter if they could have only a short time together? Being here in James’s arms felt right and good. Tomorrow might never come. This enchanted night was filled with magic ... and she would live every moment of it.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I want you too.”

  He bent and caught her in his arms. She locked her hands behind his head and leaned back, staring up into his eyes and into the star-strewn heavens beyond. “This time I’ll make it good for you,” he said.

  “You don’t care,” she answered raggedly. “You really don’t care that I’m a witch.”

  His laughter echoed across the deck. “I don’t care, sweet, if you think you’re the devil’s wife. I mean to give you reason to remember this night.”

  He kissed her again with a slow, teasing tenderness ... a kiss that brought curling sensations up from the soles of her bare feet ... a kiss that made her dizzy with wanting him.

  “Sweet witch,” he murmured between kisses. His tongue traced the outline of her top lip. “Sweet, sweet, Lacy.” His warm lips caressed the scar on her forehead, bringing tears to her eyes.

  She laid a hand on his cheek, feeling the contours of his face, willing herself to remember every second of this velvet night ... every detail of their loving.

  She strained against him, lifting her swollen breasts for him to kiss and lick and suckle. “Don’t stop,” she whispered hoarsely. “That feels so ...” Her words were lost in the wonder of cascading sensations. She let her head fall back against his arm and closed her eyes.