Her most constant watchdog was Lieutenant Otis Falworth. He was of medium height, average build, with nondescript features apart from a long, thin nose that made him look like a pincer hound. His only other notable characteristics were the two wide silver streaks of hair that grew like wings at each temple, slashing through the wiry, jet black crop and tied, finally, in a neat tail beneath the cockaded bicorne. His uniform was always starched to military precision. His fingernails were as buffed and glossy as the black kneeboots that clumped behind her the required two paces.
Falworth needed only a smile from her for beads of sweat to appear across his stiff upper lip. A crooked eyebrow had him dry in the mouth and breathing oddly. A casual brushing of arms had him all but dragging her into a shadowy corner. She had not allowed him more than an occasional breathless glance down the front of her blouse, and perhaps a peek or two at a shapely thigh when she climbed the ladderways.
It was obvious from the desultory greetings Falworth received from the men on deck that he was not well liked. He was in the captain’s good graces, however, which benefited Miranda, for it told her his loyalties were founded on ambition and greed. His sole drawback thus far was the fact that he was too eager. A man whose brains were between his thighs thought of little else, and Miranda preferred men who were cool enough to be clever when the situation required it and hot-blooded enough to deserve the rewards she was capable of bestowing.
The amber eyes slanted upward and studied the officer who had been assigned to escort her on deck this time. Adrian Ballantine. Even the name caused a tingle to race along Miranda’s spine. Golden-haired, broad in the shoulder, lean in the waist and hips, he had enough muscle to make a women feel dominated, enough control to suggest he knew exactly what to do with his brains, wherever they were.
So far there had been no visible evidence of Miranda’s charms at work, but it was only the second time he had been assigned the task of accompanying her and she had hardly warmed to the challenge. He had certainly noticed the way the wind moulded the thin cotton blouse to her breasts, and the cool gray eyes had shown definite interest each time her shawl slipped from her bared shoulders and nudged her neckline down another inch.
When they arrived at a secluded area of the deck, she stopped and leaned her hands on the rail.
“What land are we passing now, Lieutenant? Still Algeria?”
Adrian gazed out over the marching whitecaps to the low slash of purple hugging the horizon. “We have been in Moroccan waters since noon.”
“Morocco,” she murmured and took a deep breath, as if she could smell the steamy incense from the bazaars. “I was in Casablanca once...under happier circumstances, of course. Much happier. My father was a very wealthy merchant from Madrid, and he occasionally took me with him on his travels.”
Adrian said nothing; he seemed impatient to have done with the duty and get on about his own business.
The sparkle dimmed from her amber eyes, and she bowed her head slowly. “I do not blame you for not believing me. It was many years ago and I...I have almost come to doubt it myself.”
Ballantine exhaled slowly. “I have no reason to disbelieve you.”
“But it is easier to think of me as a whore.” Her eyes flashed up and captured his before he could avert them. “Indeed, it would be difficult to justify your captain’s behavior if you had to think of me as the daughter of a Spanish Grandee!”
“A grandee?”
“I was kidnapped while on a journey from Madrid to Cadiz, to be with my betrothed. We were to be wed in Cadiz and then sail on to Mexico, where my father had provided land for my dowry.” Her face assumed the guise of sadness again. “Instead, our ship was attacked. I was taken to Snake Island where I was beaten and threatened with slavery, and finally forced to serve the barbarians in the only capacity they allot to women.”
“What about your father and your betrothed? Did they not search for you or try to buy back your freedom?”
“My father searched. My Manuelo searched. But they are not saints, Lieutenant. How could I possibly return to them...soiled? I pleaded and begged with my captors, and finally did this—” she held out a tapered wrist, displaying a scar she had earned years earlier in a tavern brawl— "until Duncan Farrow agreed to send a message to my father saying I had perished in the attack. In exchange I agreed to be...docile. And afterward, nothing mattered to me anymore.”
Ballantine looked deeply into the amber eyes, drawn skilfully, painlessly into their depths. He was teased by flecks of green and brown, taunted expertly by sparks of fiery gold.
Good God, he thought. First the daughter and now the mistress—Duncan Farrow had needed to keep his wits sharp surrounded by such women.
Miranda frowned slightly, the meaning of the sudden gleam in his eyes eluding her. “Do you think it fair all of this should happen to me just because I am cursed with the body of a temptress? I have tried to make myself ugly. I have scratched my face and torn out my hair; I have starved myself until I was nothing but loose flesh and bone...but to no avail. I am doomed, it seems, to give pleasure and receive nothing in return. When your captain tires of me—as surely he must—he will pass me on to another, just as insensitive, as brutal.”
Miranda edged closer and her hand came to within an inch of Ballantine’s on the rail—close enough for the fine coppery hairs on his wrist to prickle with the warmth and he was fascinated, despite himself. What had he said to the Farrow girl? That he liked his women to smell of tenderness? Miranda Gold reeked of passion—the cheap, tawdry kind that duped men like Jennings and Falworth into strutting around like peacocks. That passion did not light her eyes, not the deepest part of her eyes where her soul should have resided. Eyes like hers only lit up when they spied a coin, or when they wanted something. The only thing Ballantine could not figure out was just what it was that she wanted from him.
“I only want kindness, Lieutenant,” she murmured, the answer to his unspoken question bringing a smile to his lips. Her fingertips touched his hand, traced a feather-light path to the cuff of his tunic, then back down to the strong, tanned fingers. “You are not like the others, I think. In you I can see...compassion...and a genuine wish to right such a grievous wrong.”
Ballantine watched the luscious red lips form the words and found himself engrossed by the way she used her body to underscore her meaning. She was standing so close that the fabric of her blouse was pressed to his tunic. While it was impossible to feel anything through the heavy layer of wool, he could swear he felt the impression of her firm breasts burning their offer into his chest. In any other frame of mind, he might have succumbed to the temptation, if for no other reason than to coldly and clinically relieve himself of some of the tensions of the past months. Cuckolding Jennings would not have caused him any loss of sleep either, truth be told, but he was not prepared to stoop quite that low just yet.
“This, er...compassion. I gather it would have something to do with my willingness to smuggle you ashore when we dock in Gibraltar? I gather I would also be handsomely rewarded with the same talents that have the captain walking like a bandy-legged schoolboy?”
Miranda felt a flush of satisfaction tint her cheeks. So much for thinking that Ballantine was different from any other hot-blooded male. Men were such fools! Such children! So easily governed and manipulated by the press of warm flesh.
"Naturally," she murmured, "I would be exceedingly grateful for any help you could offer, Lieutenant."
“Indeed, well...unfortunately,” Adrian said with a wry sigh, “I am not very adept at smuggling. And I am certainly not interested in being court-martialled for the sake of a little slap and tickle beneath a dark stairwell. I am afraid you have wasted your time, and your tale of woe on me, Miss Gold, but I would be only too happy to point out a more receptive...er, ear.”
Miranda’s Castilian blood boiled instantly. Her arm drew back, her fingers shaped into a claw to scratch the laughter from his arrogant jaw. He caught her wrist with ridiculous
ease and forced it down to her side.
“Nuh uh. We would not want to see me lose all this gentleness and compassion, would we?”
Miranda hissed and twisted her wrist trying to wrench it out of his grasp.
Adrian only laughed again, then turned toward the sound of boots approaching from behind. “Ahh, Falworth. We were just discussing you.”
“Me?” The lieutenant halted, his limpid brown eyes sliding from Miranda’s face to Ballantine's. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his right foot poised at a studied angle to display to advantage the fine tailoring of his uniform. “Me?” he said again, “I cannot imagine why.”
Adrian released Miranda’s wrist. “Indeed we were. I was just telling Miss Gold it was a pity you were unavailable to escort her tonight, as I am needed at the helm and we must cut short her time on deck. In fact, I barely have time to deliver her back to the captain's cabin...unless, of course, Falworth, you could see your way clear to return her for me?"
Falworth took a breath. “Why yes. Yes, I could.”
“Excellent." Ballantine bowed curtly to Miranda, his eyes still dancing with humor. “My watch begins shortly. I trust you will accept my apologies for an abrupt departure?”
“By all means,” she said, still seething, “go about your duties.”
With a mildly derisive salute in Falworth’s direction Ballantine turned and headed aft to the quarter-deck.
Miranda adjusted her shawl with a furious tug, pulling it tightly around her shoulders.
“The wind does seem to have picked up a chilling edge,” Falworth said quickly. “I suspect rain is not far behind. Perhaps we should, indeed, go below.”
Miranda was still glaring daggers into Ballantine’s retreating form. Falworth took her by the arm and ushered her firmly toward the hatchway. When they descended, they were greeted by a hail of cat calls and whistles from crewmen who were sitting around and between the cannons on the gundeck, playing at dice or stones. It startled Miranda out of her pique and brought a flare of displeasure into Falworth’s face.
“Just ignore them,” he advised her brusquely, leading her into a shadowy companionway away from the jeers and laughter. “They have the manners and breeding of apes.”
"No, no," she said, putting a tearful tremor into her voice. "I know what they think of me. I know what the lieutenant thinks of me. I know what you must think of me."
She stopped so abruptly, Falworth walked several steps ahead before realizing she was not by his side. When he looked back, he saw that her hands were covering her face and her head was bowed.
“Oh. Dear me. There, there now. You must not let them upset you so. As for Mr. Ballantine, his opinions are of no consequence. We all do...what we must do...to survive.” As he stammered over his efforts to soothe her, his eyes were drawn down, unable to resist staring at the swelling globes of her breasts as the shawl slipped lower on her shoulders. When he forced them to lift again, he found the amber tiger-eyes waiting for him. His legs seemed to fail him and his feet felt nailed to the floorboards, unable to move.
Miranda moistened her lush, full lips and pressed up against him.
“I am glad he had other things to do,” she whispered. “I am glad he left us alone. But the captain is writing in his logbook and will not appreciate the disturbance if I return too soon.”
Falworth swallowed hard. A quick glance told him they were, indeed, alone. The companionway was deserted, the door to an empty storage locker only a few paces away. He gasped as he felt her fingers slide around his wrists, guiding his hands up along warmed cotton until they were cupping her breasts. He dared not move or breathe. He could feel her nipples budding against his palms, growing hard as little beads in the overflow of surrounding flesh. Conscious of the laughter still drifting down the ladderway, he took a bold step and urged Miranda into the deeper gloom of the storage locker. She was quick to drop the shawl and pull the thong that was holding her bodice together; he was even quicker to shove the cotton aside and fumble her glorious breasts free.
His groan was muffled against the soft pillows of flesh as he licked and suckled. The sweet, exotic musk of her skin sent the blood racing through his body; his heart pounded desperately to keep pace with the flow and felt as if it would burst through the wall of his chest. Her fingers worked nimbly on the bottom button of his tunic, then on the waist of his breeches.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“You wish me to stop?”
His body tensed and his brow beaded instantly with sweat. “Someone could walk by.”
“Then you must be quiet, my lieutenant,” she purred huskily and slowly dropped to her knees before him.
Falworth’s eyes squeezed shut and his teeth ground together in a shudder. He swayed drunkenly for a moment, but then there was nothing to do but lean against the bulkhead, curl his fingers into the silky raven tresses, and hope the explosions he heard and felt were only in his mind.
~~
Lieutenant Ballantine was relieved at his watch at precisely four minutes before eight o’clock. He took a final stroll around the deck, pausing to exchange a word and enjoy a pipe with members of the crew. Overhead, the Eagle's sails were bathed in the fading russet glow of sunset, the enormous sheets of canvas tinted pink and bronze against the sky. The tackle creaked and the rigging hummed. The sound of the bow carving into each successive wave was as comforting as a low pulsing heartbeat.
He had spent the last twelve years of his life at sea, the last six months on board the Eagle. He had served under three captains in all, in various capacities, working his way up from ordinary seaman to first lieutenant in less than ten years. He had not taken the easy route of buying a commission with his family name and money; rather, he had learned the way of ship and sea through hard work and skill.
In all that time he had been content to call the sea his home, the ship his mistress. For certain, the latter had as many moods as a woman. She had her tantrums, her rages, her moments of hostile beauty. There were nights of holding down a solitary ghost watch when he could imagine nothing more peaceful, nothing more sensually perfect than riding his ship under moonlit sail, her canvas wings teased and lulled by the gentle hands of the wind.
The attraction had begun to sour lately. The ugliness of war, the deceit and intrigue were beginning to take their toll. His temper was shorter, his moods blacker. He even found himself being deliberately rude to men he had long considered to be friends. He knew the Eagle was not to blame for his changing attitudes, but the appeal of his high-spirited mistress had altered drastically in recent months—the past six, to be more precise, starting from the moment he had stepped aboard the Eagle and saluted Captain Willard Leach Jennings.
His previous captain, James Sutcliffe, had been retired from service in disgrace. He had been blind drunk on a day when their ship had crossed paths with an Algerian merchantman; drunk and prepared to hull the unarmed vessel for the sake of adding an easy kill to his record. Ballantine had interceded to prevent the slaughter; and, by doing so, had won himself charges of misconduct and striking a senior officer. For a lesser man, the charges alone might have been enough to destroy both his resolve and his ambition, but Adrian had stood his ground. He had defended his actions to the Admiralty by substantiating counter charges of drunkenness and incompetence.
As a result, Sutcliffe had been quietly retired to a hog farm in Pennsylvania. In a private hearing before a naval tribunal, Ballantine had been declared innocent of the grave charges of assault and insubordination; but he had been branded a hothead and placed on a year’s probation for his breach of discipline. He had been transferred to the Eagle for the duration, and for the past six months, subjected to the supreme test of his willpower in serving under Jennings.
Whereas he had occasionally been able to tolerate Sutcliffe’s excesses, and had even shared them at times, he could barely conceal his loathing and contempt for Jennings. There were moments when the injustices and cruelties enjoyed by his ne
w commanding officer stoked Adrian to such a rage that he was tempted to sacrifice what was left of his career for the pleasure of feeling his hands close around Jennings' throat. Only Matthew Rutger, his friend and shipmate for half of his life at sea, kept him sane. The sight of Matt’s face beaming from the deck of the Eagle upon his arrival had been the only glimmer of light on a dark day. The darkness had deepened when Jennings had made it clear that he disagreed with the findings of the tribunal and considered it his personal duty to correct the gross error in judgment.
Perhaps that was why Adrian’s thoughts drifted with alarming regularity to the sprawling plantations owned by the Ballantines of Virginia—to the rich tobacco fields, snow white acres of cotton, and all the comforts and luxuries afforded by the accumulated wealth of generations. His father, Samuel Ballantine, and Adrian’s brother Rory controlled the empire, but there was room for Adrian in the fold. He could mend the rift with his family that he had caused through his demand for independence; he could settle down and marry a suitably well-bred, well-versed woman and raise a brood of well-bred, well-behaved children who would no more consider running away to sea than they would lie down in the path of stampeding wild horses.
Samuel had been ailing on Adrian’s last visit home. He had looked like an old man for the first time in his sixty-three years of hard living. He had exacted a promise from Adrian to consider—consider—leaving the navy, a promise that did not seem so onerous now. The recent victory over Snake Island would assure a hero’s welcome for the Eagle’s crew and her officers. It might even remove the cloud of disgrace that still hung over his head from the court-martial. And with the capture and execution of Duncan Farrow, the war along the Barbary Coast would almost certainly draw to a swift conclusion.
Commodore Edward Preble had been in the Mediterranean less than a year and had accomplished more in eleven months to hasten the defeat of the Pasha, Yusef Karamanli, than his two predecessors had in the three previous years. Where the other commodores had been content with a token blockade and an occasional scowl at the Tripolitans, Preble had openly attacked the Pasha’s weak spots. He had intercepted grain shipments and merchant vessels carrying much-needed supplies and weaponry to Tripoli. He had also gone after the Pasha’s mercenary support forces. Snake Island had been the last major offensive, and its destruction would clear the way for an assault on Tripoli itself. Without mercenaries and Barbary corsairs to assist him, Karamanli’s power would be reduced to curses and fist-waving.
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