Duncan Farrow’s feats had become legendary throughout the Mediterranean in the past five years. His ships, the Wild Goose and the Falconer, had never met defeat in a battle at sea. His victims claimed they had never met a more formidable, more cunning enemy. Farrow’s men were seasoned veterans, utterly without fear; their commander was a brilliant tactician and a master at deceit. Both Farrow and his senior captain, Garrett Shaw, were singularly ruthless when it came to attacking and capturing merchant ships—and here Courtney’s vehement defence of her father’s actions categorically refuted official reports. On several occasions the crews of such vessels had been handed over to Yusef Karamanli to dispose of as he saw fit. The officers, for the most part, were ransomed; the ordinary seamen were sold into slavery, where most vanished and were never seen again. True, no American crews had met such a fate, but then no American merchantman had had the misfortune to be actively sought as a prize by the Farrows. Duncan Farrow seemed content to concentrate on the richly laden French traders and, to that end, he stalked them with an unholy fervor.
But Farrow was only one of a handful of vicious corsairs employed by the Pasha to help win the war against the only country whose president dared to refuse a demand for tribute, whose ships dared to use the Mediterranean shipping routes without paying for the privilege, and whose navy dared to send warships to defend their right of passage.
Commodore Edward Preble was the newest affront and was proving to be fervent in his intentions to bring about complete victory for the American forces. Not only had he whipped his band of young, ill-trained officers into a team of skilled and effective fighters, but he had established an intelligence network that spanned all of the major ports along the Barbary Coast: Tangiers, Oran, Algiers, Tunis, even Tripoli itself. With the help of this network, Preble was kept abreast of Karamanli’s movements, his shipments, his strategies, and thereby was able to do damage where it would be felt most.
With the help of one spy in particular, he had been able to methodically strip the Pasha of his mercenary support forces, most notable among them: Duncan Farrow.
What would the haughty Courtney Farrow’s reaction be if she knew her father’s camp boasted the highest-paid informant along the Barbary Coast? The man had not only sold out the rivalling nests of corsairs who raided the commerce of the Mediterranean, but he had arranged the trap that had ensnared Farrow and Shaw, and the attack that had destroyed the stronghold of Snake Island. The man’s identity remained a closely guarded secret. He was known only by a code name: Seawolf. It was not known if Seawolf had escaped the trap set for the Falconer and the Wild Goose, or if he had been among the defenders of Snake Island—no one knew if he had been captured, killed, or set free.
One thing was certain: As much as the idea of spies and traitors lodged in a man’s throat, without Seawolf’s greed, Commodore Preble would not have been able to affect the capture of the Farrows without paying a horrendous price in human lives.
Ballantine squinted at the falling sun until it melted into the sparkling line of water. He tapped the bowl of his pipe on the rail, watching the flakes of red ash swirl away, lost to the wash of foam creaming off the Eagle’s hull. Having completed his circuit of the ship, he nodded to the helmsman, issued a few final orders, then ducked through the hatchway to go below.
The girl’s presence on board was definitely an unwelcome turn of events. There was not a hope in hell of keeping her disguise effective for any length of time, especially if she persisted in arguing herself into confrontations. At nineteen years of age, she was not a child. She was aware of the consequences of the life she had chosen and despite his grudging admiration for her pluck and spirit, Adrian Ballantine was not about to place her safety above his own career. She would have to be put in her place and she would damn well have to keep to it or she would find herself back in the hold whether it spelled her death or not.
Neither Matthew nor the girl was in the infirmary when Adrian checked, and had not been for an hour or so. Matt was not in his cabin, or in the officers’ wardroom, or gathered with the rest of the crew on the lower gundeck to participate in the evening weevil races. Ballantine arrived at his own cabin in a mood that sent the door slamming back on its hinges. The sleeping form on the berth sat upright with a stifled gasp.
Ballantine glared for a full minute before he connected the clean, wide-eyed young woman who was hastily scrambling to her knees, with the evil-smelling, rag-bound corsair’s whelp he had left in Matthew Rutger’s care. Her skin, cleaned of the layers of sweat and grime, was shaded honey-gold from the sun and glowed like warm marble. Her hair had washed into a soft mist of auburn curls that the lantern light teased with glints of fiery red. Her throat was a slender arch, luring the eye downward to where her breasts curved the fabric of the shirt.
Ballantine narrowed his eyes and glanced briefly around the cabin. Nothing appeared to be out of place; there were no overt signs that things had been tampered with or disturbed. There was a tray of food sitting on his desk, and a tin pot of coffee keeping warm over a small iron brazier.
“How long have you been here on your own?” he demanded gruffly.
Courtney looked around the cabin, startled to see she was alone.
“I...I do not know.”
“What have you been doing?”
She flushed. “Trying to dig my way out! What does it look like I was doing?”
Ballantine scowled as he locked the door. “Where is Dr. Rutger?”
“He was sitting behind your desk the last time I saw him.”
Adrian crossed the width of the cabin, and his frown deepened when he saw the crumbs and drippings that were all that remained of his dinner.
“I presume you found your appetite again?”
Courtney stiffened. “I was hungry. If you will recall, I have not had much to eat over the past week—not that I appear to have missed much. Your Yankee food is as palatable as shoe leather.”
“I will see what I can do about getting you cake and cream,” he snorted testily. “As for your sleeping arrangements, you will find a hammock rolled under the berth. You can sling it between those two hooks—" he crooked a thumb at the wall opposite his berth. “It will do until you clean out a space in the storeroom next door, and until I think you can be trusted to be left on your own.”
Courtney bit back a retort. He had been in the cabin less than two minutes and already she was longing to gouge his eyes out. So he intended to watch her like a hawk, did he? To keep her tethered like a slave with threats and warnings? He would not be as easy to fool with promises and imploring glances as the doctor had been, but she was not discouraged. His arrogance was his weakness.
Courtney lowered her eyes and forced what she thought sounded like a docile meekness into her voice. “Forgive me if I have done something wrong again. You have been very kind to me and—”
“What?” Ballantine leaned forward to catch the whispered words, not sure he had heard what he thought he had heard. “What did you just say?”
Courtney kept her face averted. “I said...I was sorry. I did not mean to eat your food and I did not intend to fall asleep on your bed.”
Ballantine folded his arms across his broad chest. “Four hours ago you were spitting at me like a cat, now you are apologizing? What are you up to, Irish?”
“I am not up to anything,” she said irritably. “I had a hot bath and a hot meal, and I have had a chance to think and—”
“Look at me.”
She hesitated, but before she could obey, Ballantine was beside her, his hand tucked beneath her chin, tilting her face roughly upward to meet his probing gray eyes. What he saw infused his voice with scorn.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking me a stupid man, Miss Farrow.” His hand moved away. “You will only wind up learning your lesson the hard way.”
Courtney’s eyes blazed a brilliant hot green as he turned away. “I just want to find out exactly what my position is, Yankee. In spite of your honorable claims to
the contrary, you must have a price in mind for all this generosity.”
A faint, amused smile tugged at Adrian’s mouth. “And if I do?”
“If you do—" her smile was equally sardonic—“I am not about to fight you for it. I have earned enough bruises from you for one day.”
Adrian shook his head. First she had expected him to rape her; now she was offering her services like a penny whore.
“I have already seen what you have to offer, Irish, and to be honest, despite the improved smell, there is still nothing about an undernourished, ill-bred pirate urchin that rouses me. However," he paused to offer up a much put-upon sigh, "if you are determined to play the martyr, I suppose I could oblige. Begging was never much of an inspiration for me, but perhaps after a hearty meal, and with the help of a few mugs of rum...”
Courtney launched herself off the bed, her hands and nails clawing upward toward his face. Laughing, he ducked to one side to avoid the slicing talons and in an easy motion, caught at the flailing arms and twisted her wrists down behind her back. She was crushed against his chest and had to tilt her head back in order to see his face. Their eyes met and it was like the clashing of steel swords.
“Bastard!” she hissed. “Filthy, sodding, bastard. I doubt an entire cask of rum could turn you into a real man. I doubt you can even—”
Adrian silenced the tirade by the only means at his disposal. His mouth plunged down over hers, smothering the guttural oaths, muffling the shocked cry of outrage. Like a virago, she writhed and twisted within his grasp. She kicked out with her feet and brought her knees gouging up along the inside of his thighs. Adrian shifted his hold, taking both of her wrists into one hand and using the other to capture and squeeze her arching throat. His fingers dug into the tender flesh and found a nerve, the pressure and instant sear of pain causing her to gasp and cease her struggles.
Spurred on by the challenge, Adrian forced her resisting lips apart, his tongue plundering what she had contemptuously offered.
It was impossible for Courtney to breathe, to think, to reason past the aggressive intrusion. The lash of his tongue sent anger, then panic spreading throughout her body, and she became horrifyingly aware of the solid shield of muscle that comprised his chest and shoulders. His arms were like iron, crushing her; his thighs were taut and unyielding. She could not move. She felt her limbs growing weak and her senses swirling under the assault and she realized she was holding her breath. Her heart raced and blood pounded in her ears, drowning out everything but the sound of his harsh panting against her cheek.
She drew a breath to clear her senses. Her arms were pinned and his big body was crowding hers against the bulkhead; the only weapon she had at hand was the one she knew he would least expect: a full, feminine surrender. She forced her body to go limp in his arms. Her lips softened and instead of keeping them pressed tightly closed, she parted them and sucked determinedly at his tongue. She moaned as if it was the most evocative sensation on earth and even sent her tongue dancing forth to engage his. She molded her body to his, pressing forward as if overcome with lust and desire. Her hands, which had been fighting his grip on her wrists, stopped trying to twist free and implied, instead, that they longed to rise up and curl around his shoulders.
As shocked by the change as she had anticipated him to be, Ballantine released her. He stood back a full pace and stared at her with the wariness of a snake charmer whose cobra had suddenly turned on him. His eyes were locked to hers and because he was a man and his body had reacted the way she suspected it would, he could not hide the evidence of his unexpected arousal.
Her gaze fell deliberately to the bulge in his breeches and the smugness of her smile brought a soft growl into his throat.
“You are full of surprises, Irish,” he muttered. “That was almost as fine a performance as the one I was subjected to earlier this afternoon from one of your compatriots.”
Courtney wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, a little shocked herself to feel how pleasantly they were throbbing. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“No?” The flinty eyes roved casually over cheeks that were flushed a faint pink, the lips that were moist and parted slightly with breathlessness. “She has a few more weapons in her arsenal to call upon, but you have the technique fairly well honed. With a little more practice—?”
“What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
“I am talking about the captain’s newest plaything. Miranda, I believe her name is.”
Courtney glanced up sharply. She recoiled from the name as if she had been slapped. “Miranda!”
“A charming wench, as you must already know. She has half of my officers drooling around her skirts like imbeciles, and the captain...well, as I said before, he has not come out of his cabin much this past week.”
Courtney's senses took another sickening whirl, forcing her to lean against the edge of the berth for support. Miranda! Her father’s slut! Alive and well and whoring in comfort while the rest of Duncan’s people endured the filth and starvation and humiliation of a moldy prison hold. How dare this insolent Yankee bastard compare me to her!
Ballantine was studying the subtle changes on the girl’s face. The dark eyes had seemed to go out of focus for a moment, staring inward, but now they were smoldering, lancing him with the same incendiary hatred he had noted when she was first brought on board. It had caused the hairs to rise at the nape of his neck then, and it caused them to prickle now. Dangerous eyes, he thought. He could almost feel himself bend under their power.
He broke the visual bond abruptly and turned toward his desk.
“I think we should set something straight here and now,” he said brusquely. “Not that I owe you any kind of explanation or excuse...but I happen to be engaged to an extremely beautiful, extremely desirable woman whom I plan to marry as soon as this ship returns to Norfolk.” He turned and the emerald eyes were still on him. “As much as I enjoy a warm bed at night, it would take a visit from the devil himself to entice me into dishonoring the commitment I have made to my fiancée. Can you understand that, Irish? Finally and absolutely, can you understand that?”
“I understand, Yankee,” she murmured.
He held her gaze a moment. “Good. Then perhaps we can both rest easier at night.”
It was Courtney’s turn to smile faintly, hauntingly. “I do not intend to rest at all, Yankee. Not until every last one of you has paid for what you have done.”
Ballantine stared. His rejoinder was forming on his lips when the tense silence was shattered by the loud, incessant clanging of the ship’s bell. Ballantine jerked his head toward the door as an urgent knocking rattled the oak panel.
He brushed past Courtney with a hissed order to hide herself. From the shadowy corner between the wall and the opening door, she could not see the visitor, but she recognized the agitated voice as belonging to the sergeant-at-arms who had escorted her from the cage to the lieutenant’s cabin that morning. She forgot everything in the rush of excitement his news brought.
“What do you mean,” Ballantine demanded, “the prisoners have broken out of the hold?”
“Half a dozen of them, sir,” Rowntree gasped. “They tore through the bulkhead somehow, got their hands on some muskets. We stopped four of them before they could clear the guard station, but two got past our men.”
“Where are they now?”
“The aft powder magazine, sir. Them and three hundred kegs of black powder. They say they want to talk to someone in charge or they will touch a flame to the lot and blow us all sky high.”
Chapter Five
Ballantine dispatched Rowntree with a hail of orders and closed the door. The deep-set lines around his mouth became etched in granite as he unlocked a drawer in his desk and removed two deadly-looking Queen Anne cannon-barrelled flintlock pistols. He poured a measured charge of powder down each barrel and rammed a ball flush against it. The pans were primed with more powder and the flints scraped t
o ensure a good spark on contact with the steel hammers. The procedure, almost second nature to Ballantine, was completed in less than thirty seconds. He was tucking extra shot and powder into the belt at his waist when he glanced up at Courtney and saw the triumphant smile on her face.
“You knew about this?” He demanded harshly. “You knew it was going to happen?”
“I knew there was no prison or cell that could hold Seagram for very long.” Her laugh was brittle. “And if it is Seagram, you will never get close enough to use those fancy pistols, much less bargain for your miserable lives.”
“Your miserable life is at stake as well,” he reminded her coldly. “Yours and sixty other prisoners.”
“I am sure Seagram has taken that into account. You cannot stop him, Yankee.”
Ballantine was by her side in one long stride, his fingers clamped around her wounded upper arm.
“Maybe I cannot, Irish,” he agreed blackly. “But I think we both know someone who can.”
Courtney gasped against the waves of pain in her arm as he hauled her toward the door.
“He will not listen to me,” she cried. “He will not listen to anything but his own conscience. He is a very simple man, Yankee. Simple and loyal and completely without fear.”
“The most dangerous kind," Ballantine agreed. "And the kind who take the vows they make very seriously—especially vows to dead men.”
Wind and the Sea Page 9
