The Pleasure Chest. Jule Mcbride

could see even at this distance. Suddenly Basil released a war whoop and charged, coming at a dead run. If the ball didn’t kill Stede, the bayonet mounted to the musket barrel surely would.

      “Bloody bastard!” Stede gasped, pivoting and darting toward the woods. He’d conceded by shooting skyward, but Basil was going to kill him, anyway! And there was no time for Stede to reload. He’d brought no witnesses. “Lout!” Stede shouted as Basil closed the distance.

      He whirled in time to see Basil aim at his heart, then hit the dirt as Basil fired. Boom! Air whooshed overhead as a bullet passed, then another blast sounded, but from where? Basil hadn’t had time to reload, either. Now he shrieked and dropped his pistol. He was hit! Someone had fired at Basil from the trees. Who?

      Stede scanned the woods, then looked at Basil. He was staggering backward, clutching his chest, blood spilling through his splayed fingers. “Sweet Betsy Ross,” Stede cursed. Basil was a horse’s behind, but he didn’t deserve to die. His knees were buckling, though, and he fell backward. As he rolled onto his belly, Stede holstered his pistol and approached at a crouching run. Kneeling, he took Basil’s pulse.

      “Dead.” There was still no sound from the woods. He shouted, “Who’s there?”

      A heartbeat passed, then Lucinda Barrington ran into the clearing. With the color drained from her face and clad in a white cloak, she looked like a ghost, the vision marred only by the mud splattered around the dress’s hem, and the fact that her slender shaking hands held a flintlock pistol much like Stede’s; it probably belonged to her father.

      Before he could say anything, another male voice sounded from the woods. “Lucinda!”

      Ignoring the cry, she raced toward Stede, her hair flying behind her. “Hurry,” she urged as he registered her pursuer’s footsteps in the underbrush, then the thunder of horses’ hooves.

      LUCINDA STARED at Basil, stricken. “I meant to scare him,” she whispered shakily. “But I didn’t mean to…” Tears sprang into her blue eyes. “I hit him, didn’t I? I really hit him! He was going to kill you, though. And since he didn’t, now my father will. Oh, Stede! Everyone thinks you and I…”

      Are lovers, he finished mentally.

      “You’ve got to get out of here!” She tossed a wild glance toward the trees. Men were approaching, probably with her father. He wouldn’t be the first to think his daughter’s virgin heart had been captured by a swarthy privateer, either.

      “Basil hired that witch, Missus Llassa, too,” Lucinda raced on, her startled eyes still fixed on Basil. “He paid her to put a hex on you, Stede, just in case you killed Basil, instead of the other way around.”

      His heart missed a beat. “Missus Llassa put a hex on me?”

      “You know you don’t believe in hexes,” said Lucinda.

      Stede knew no such thing. Besides, many claimed Missus Llassa’s evil magic could kill a man from a hundred miles away. There was no time to argue the point, though, because Jonathan Wilson, a local furniture maker, emerged from the fog wearing a top-hat and black cape, looking as if he, too, were materializing from an old-fashioned ghost tale. His face turned chalk-white when he saw Basil, then he ran forward, just as Stede had, kneeled and took the man’s pulse once more.

      “Holy sons of liberty,” he whispered simply, his eyes widening as he took in the blood pooling beneath Basil’s chest. He stared at Lucinda. “You killed him, darling.”

      Darling? So, Lucinda’s secret lover was Jonathan Wilson! Well, good for her, Stede thought. It had been months since Basil and General Barrington had announced Lucinda’s engagement to Basil without even consulting her. But all along, the smart girl had other plans—to marry Jonathan, at least judging by the glance they were exchanging. Too bad Basil was what General Barrington had wanted for his daughter’s future, Stede suddenly fumed. While Jonathan Wilson was a Presbyterian, Basil Drake had remained an Episcopalian, and like every other scoundrel from the Church of England, he’d always been a closet loyalist, too. Not that Stede, himself, had a religion of preference. The way he figured it, if he went inside any kind of church, the roof would cave in.

      “Basil’s really dead,” Lucinda said in a stunned whisper, bringing Stede back to his senses.

      He cursed softly, thinking of the war booty he’d buried a stone’s throw away, then of the cold fury on General Barrington’s face if he ever realized his daughter had killed her own fiancé to save the life of a privateer, especially one known as a n’er-do-well. Missus Llassa’s hex didn’t give much comfort, either. Stede imagined her lounging in her smoky den of iniquity, clad in a turban and kaftan, smoking opium and chewing snuff by candlelight while surrounded by cards, crystals, pouches of ground bones, herbs and chemical-laced jars that held unspeakably creepy things.

      Yes, by now she’d probably made a doll into the spitting image of Stede and was busy pushing pins into it. Or maybe she was in his room above McMulligan’s, combing hairs from his straight razor while fixing to boil them in the cauldron she kept out back, behind her shack. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he recalled the story of one poor fellow whose spurned lover had hired Missus Llassa, to teach him a lesson. Rumor had it, his cock never crowed again, so to speak.

      Cutting off the horrifying thought, Stede looked at Lucinda and Jonathan. They were star-crossed lovers, all right. And while Stede was within his rights for killing Basil, since Basil had challenged him to the duel, Lucinda could hang for this. And regarding her, Basil’s only crime was that he’d threatened to marry her. Hers, of course, was that she’d been born a woman at a time when fathers could tell the gentler sex who to marry.

      Once more, Stede sighed, muttering, “Sweet Betsy Ross.” Then he slipped his hand over Lucinda’s. It was still shaking and her skin was ice-cold. As he took the pistol, his eyes met the other man’s. “Get her out of here,” he said.

      Horses were still approaching through the trees. “General Barrington and some men from town,” Jonathan explained. “They were on my tail.”

      “How many?”

      “Ten. Maybe more.”

      “Take Lucinda and go,” Stede repeated. But Jonathan seemed to know the sacrifice Stede was making, and he wavered, questions playing in his eyes. Stede wasn’t about to let Lucinda ruin her life, however, not when she’d saved his. Besides, Lucinda was the only one who’d ever encouraged his passion for painting. “Go on,” he urged.

      Nodding abruptly, Jonathan slipped his arm around Lucinda’s shoulders and glanced toward the woods. “If we can, we’ll head them off. Unless you want to stay and claim responsibility for…”

      Lucinda gasped. “Basil’s family might retaliate!”

      People would assume Stede had killed Basil, fair and square, and Stede didn’t want Lucinda and Jonathan vouching for him, since that would destroy Lucinda’s reputation. But she was right. Basil’s family might wind up crying foul play to redeem Basil’s honor. Even if no one retaliated by killing Stede, the influential family could make Stede’s life miserable.

      Lucinda broke from Jonathan’s grasp and flung herself into Stede’s arms. His arms circled her waist instinctively as she kissed his cheek. “I can’t let you take the blame for this.”

      He placed a finger on her lips, silencing her. “You saved my life.”

      Her gaze darted to Basil’s body once more, then she glanced a final time at Stede and turned, whispering one last word as she grasped Jonathan’s hand. “Godspeed!”

      And then Stede found himself alone in the woods with the body of the man who’d tried to kill him in cold blood. Still holding Lucinda’s smoking gun, he hoped Basil hadn’t really hired Missus Llassa, the most highly esteemed witch in America.

      “If I’ve got a hex on me,” he muttered, “I’d sure like to know what kind.” One thing was certain. There would be no asking Basil. And if Stede stuck around much