Wind and the Sea

by Canham, Marsha

  In the cabin, he kept his back to her as he stripped off his shirt and flung it with the rest of his soiled linens on the floor of his wardrobe. He leaned over the washstand and scrubbed his face, leaving a thick lather of soap across his jaw. A small ivory-handled straight razor was taken from a locked compartment beneath the table, and he began scraping the stubble from his chin.

  His gray eyes adamantly ignored the green ones that studied him so closely.

  His chest, she noted, was armored in hard muscle; his waist was trim, his belly flat. The pelt of coppery fur began high on the curve of his breastbone and narrowed to a hand’s width where it snaked into the waistband of his breeches. A finer version darkened his forearms and—she guessed—his long, powerful legs. Courtney calmly studied the breadth of his back and shoulders, envisioning the fine work she could have done had the razor found its way into her hands first.

  The chipped mirror seemed to fill with the blue-gray of his eyes, and she felt them probing for her in the shadows.

  “It is the ship’s policy for all hands to witness punishments,” he said matter-of-factly. “I had hoped to be able to spare you, but unfortunately the captain has heard about ‘Curt Brown’ and will be expecting to see him on deck.”

  “Curt Brown?”

  “It was the best I could come up with on short notice,” he said dryly. He straightened and rubbed the flecks of lather from his jaw with a rough towel, then took a brush to his tawny hair and smoothed it into a clubbed tail at the nape of his neck. His eyes found hers again as he tied and bowed the black silk ribbon.

  “While we are discussing procedures, you might note that I like my coffee black and waiting for me when I waken. I like my biscuits to arrive hot and my porridge without a scum on top. The cabin will want a thorough scrubbing once a week, as will my laundry. From here on out, you will rise a half-hour before me. I hope you had a good night’s sleep because if I ever catch you in my berth again, I will blister your ass raw. Is all of that understood?”

  Courtney reined in her temper. “Understood.”

  “That should take care of your mornings and keep you out of trouble. The afternoons you will spend with Dr. Rutger in the surgery. Your lack of squeamishness should come in handy there. Dinners you will take in here, alone. Any pilfering or hoarding or fighting with the other boys will be dealt with harshly. Any lying, cheating, or stealing will earn the lash. Is all of that understood?”

  “I understand,” she said smoothly, “that you can go straight to hell.”

  The gray eyes flicked to hers as he half-turned. “There will also be an end to the profanity. Use it again in my presence and you risk feeling the flat of my sword across your fanny.”

  Courtney narrowed her eyes and braced her hands on her hips. “Sometimes the profanity is needed to express just the right sentiment, you damned Yankee bastard.”

  Ballantine took a deep breath. He had spent a sleepless night in the open air, mentally listing every excuse he could think of for sending the girl back down into the hold and cursing aloud every reason why he could not. His patience was at a low ebb.

  “I will warn you one last time—"

  Courtney’s eyes issued a blatant challenge as a stream of her father's finest Irish curses found their way from her memory to her lips. Ballantine did not wait to hear them through. His scabbard hung from a peg on the inside of the wardrobe door; he was within reach of it in two strides and had the blade hissing free of the sheath and carving the air before Courtney’s heart had taken an extra beat. The flat of steel caught the tender flesh of her upper thigh with a loud slap, causing her to yelp inelegantly as she scrambled in retreat.

  “You bastard! You self-righteous, yellow-bellied—" She gasped as a second, equally biting strike found its mark. The air exploded from her lungs, and she rubbed her stinging flesh with a frantic palm.

  Ballantine’s expression showed nothing beyond a grim promise in the set of his jaw. Still stripped to the waist, his mahogany skin glowing in rich contrast with his soiled white breeches, he resembled a raging warlord, sword poised, eyes blazing.

  “You bloody bastard,” she cried. “You damned, contemptible, Yankee bas—"

  The sword flashed brilliantly two more times, and twice her flesh jumped. The agony centered on her left thigh, and she looked in vain for a path to safety. He had backed her into the corner; there was nowhere to dodge, nowhere to hide from the cold determination in his eyes. She was close to tears, but she willed away the lump at the back of her throat. Tears were a woman’s weapon and she refused to use them.

  “Does this make you feel big and powerful, Yankee?” she cried softly. “First your fists, now your sword. Does it make you feel good to beat a defenseless woman?”

  "I strongly doubt that Duncan Farrow would consider this a fitting display of his daughter’s intelligence,” he said, unmoved by the accusation.

  A spark flared in the depths of the sea green eyes. “You are not fit to mention his name, Yankee!”

  “You will address me as Lieutenant Ballantine,” he said, raising the blade threateningly.

  Her chin quivered and a tear crowded the corner of her eye. “Tell me something, Lieutenant Yankee: At the end of a long, hard day beating women and flogging wounded men, do you sleep well?”

  The saber shimmered. His face was still a mask of anger, his stare cold and unrelenting, but a shadow moved behind his eyes—a shadow hidden from Courtney by her film of tears.

  “Does nothing affect you?” she asked in a disbelieving whisper. “Does your conscience never trouble you?”

  “It troubles me as much as yours does you.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I have never ordered a mortally wounded man to die under the lash—a brave man whose only crime was wanting to die with dignity and honor. Tell me, Yankee, would you have been content to lie like a dog in your own filth and do nothing to try to free yourself and your men? Are you content now to hide behind your fancy gold braid and your arrogance and pass judgment on everyone else's behavior but your own?”

  “The incident sickens me,” he said, quietly. “A great many incidents on board this ship sicken me.”

  “And yet you do nothing? How brave of you, Lieutenant.”

  The saber dropped to his side. Adrian’s face flushed. “This is a warship, Miss Farrow, and we are at war. There are rules and regulations that must be obeyed whether I agree with them or not. The captain’s power is absolute at sea; surely you, of all people, know that. Sometimes it rankles and sometimes it sickens, but were any one of us to challenge the chain of command, our own chaos would defeat us. The navy is no place for individual vanities. Not a one of us can survive without the support of a hundred others.”

  “Seagram will not survive at all,” she said bleakly, and her slender shoulders sagged.

  “The fighting is over for Seagram. He knew it the moment he decided to break out of the brig. It is over for your father and your uncle, for Garrett Shawfor all of your people. When will you understand that?”

  “When there is no one left to fight,” she replied quietly. “When there is no one to hate and nowhere to run. When will you understand that, Yankee?”

  Ballantine stared at her for a long minute, then shook his head and walked back to the wardrobe He sheathed the saber and drew a clean shirt from a neatly folded stack. He did not know if she believed what she said. He hoped not. If all she lived for was hate and vengeance, there would be no future for her, no hope, no happiness.

  “When we go on deck," he said shortly, “You will take your place with the other boys, and since both Matthew and myself will be busy elsewhere, I would advise you to stay close to Dickie and do exactly as he does.”

  “Advise? Do you not mean command?”

  Ballantine glared at her. “Irish, if you want to kill yourself, or be killed, that is entirely up to you. If you want to share the lash alongside Seagram and his friend, or if you have an insatiable desire to spend time in the company of Captain J
ennings—that too is your prerogative. And if your identity is discovered, that is exactly what will happen. Jennings will rape you raw then sit back and enjoy watching the rest of the crew take their turn. As for me? I might get a harsh reprimand, but in all honesty, it might be a greater relief to be rid of you. So by all means, do me that favor. If my company and my requirements are too much for you to bear, expose yourself and let the captain take you off my hands.”

  Adrian quickly stripped out of the soiled breeches and stepped into a clean pair. Tall white stockings were snapped in place with garters, and his feet were stamped into high polished black boots. He thrust his arms into a white linen waistcoat and impatiently dealt with each of its ten small pearl buttons. His double-breasted tunic was dark blue and had a standing collar and cuffs trimmed liberally with gold embroidery. His belt was strapped on and his saber slung about his lean waist. He took his bicorne down from the shelf of the wardrobe, locked the compartment that held his shaving gear, then paused long enough at his desk to separate a leather journal and a chart from the clutter.

  When he walked to the door, his eyes were hard and uncompromising again. He passed her without a word and stepped out into the narrow companionway. He did not glance back to see if she had followed, but he did make note of the sound of his cabin door being shut behind them.

  ~~

  Lieutenant Adrian Ballantine stood on the bridge of the Eagle, slightly ahead of and to the left of Second Lieutenant Otis Falworth. Sergeant Rowntree and Third Lieutenant Les Loftus completed the front row of officers; behind them were a double rank of midshipmen, eyes straight ahead, shoulders ramrod stiff, mouths set and grim. They were all in dress uniform, their swords burnished and gleaming, their crisp collars and gold trim flashing smartly in the bright sunlight. Below them, flanking either side of the main deck, were the columns of marines in blue and white, the able seamen in striped jerseys, pea coats, and black leather round hats, the landsmen in clean shirts and canvas trousers. All stood in the heat and silence with nothing to alleviate the tension apart from the gentle creaking of yards and tackle overhead.

  The Eagle’s sails were loosely reefed, and she rocked effortlessly in the water. High on the mizzenmast, the Stars and Stripes wavered in the breeze, while on the mainmast the long trailing pennant of Captain Willard Leach Jennings fought to remain untangled from the slack rigging.

  Courtney tipped her chin up so she could see out from beneath the brim of the woolen cap she had pulled low over her forehead. Jennings’ colors were red and black—ironically enough, the same as her father’s, although Duncan Farrow’s red lion on a black field was far more impressive than Jennings’ narrow black stripe on a red background. As for the Stars and Stripes, the flag conjured only disdain in Courtney’s mind, unlike the bold Irish green and white that accompanied the Farrow pennant.

  She had never been to Ireland, but her father’s stories had brought to life his glorious fighting ancestors, the beauty of the mists rising off the river Shannon, and the musky scent of peat fires crackling on the hearth. Duncan Farrow may have been exiled from the land he loved, but he had made it real for Courtney and, like the wild geese of Irish legend, he was convinced that even though he might die on a foreign battlefield, his heart would return to haunt the skies of his beloved homeland.

  Dreams, Courtney thought, and her gaze descended from the mast to the bridge, to settle on the tall blond officer whose presence seemed to dwarf the others who stood alongside him. She felt a tingle course along her spine, and a small part of her had to grudgingly acknowledge the fact that he was strikingly handsome. With the vibrant blue of the sky behind him and the stiff white collar supporting the stern, sun-bronzed jaw, he looked more like the commander of a warship than the short, pudgy Jennings. Unbidden images of oak-hard muscles and tautly leashed power sent a flush creeping into Courtney’s cheeks, a flush that drained and paled in the next instant as she remembered why he stood so imposingly over the bridge. They were waiting to witness the execution of Seagram and Nilsson. Ballantine was indirectly responsible, and for that he should deserve only her contempt.

  The boatswain’s pipe shrilled, and all eyes looked toward the stern. Captain Jennings strutted into view, tipping his cockaded bicorne belligerently to the ranks of saluting officers.

  Courtney Farrow had to rise surreptitiously onto her toes to catch a glimpse of the man as he moved toward the forecastle. Her memory of his face had not dulled in the week since the battle for Snake Island; her hatred, if anything, had increased twofold. Her father’s men were being slowly starved into submission; many were fevered, their wounds left to fester. Courtney’s eyes grew inky with loathing as she watched the captain’s progress to the bridge.

  She saw the mottled, split-veined face cast an imperious glance around the deck of the ship, and she thought of a finely honed cutlass cleaving the bloated trunk in two. She watched the fleshy lips move as he exchanged a curt salutation with his officers, and she conjured a crimson fountain of blood in place of the words.

  Dickie Little, a head shorter than Courtney and as slim as a reed, looked up at her, his dark eyes wide with alarm. He tugged furtively on her sleeve to catch her attention, then with more vigor when it seemed that she had not felt the warning.

  Courtney glanced beside her, frowning in annoyance. The mute boy made a eloquent plea with his eyes. The other eight boys in their group were standing tense and silent, heads bowed, eyes lowered, not daring to call attention to themselves from any quarter. Landsmen and sailors alike were also prudently keeping their eyes averted, and she realized she was expected to do the same. With a reluctant nod to Dickie, she lowered her head in compliance—too quickly to notice another pair of gloweringly expressive eyes staring at her from across the width of the deck.

  ~~

  Miranda Gold stood in the shadow of the stern bulkhead, her amber eyes blinking in disbelief. It was true. It was her! Courtney Farrow, was alive, disguised as a cabin boy! What few curves the wench boasted were concealed beneath the baggy trousers and loose shirt. The short-cropped auburn hair was covered by a woolen cap, one that shadowed her features and kept her as anonymous and nondescript as the other ragged boys. Had Miranda not been forewarned of Courtney’s presence on the Eagle, she might well have stood within ten feet of the hated form and not recognized her.

  Courtney Farrow, alive! Good God, could nothing kill the bitch? She had been brought on board bloody and in chains, had spent a week in a rat-infested hold. How had she managed to survive? How had she escaped the indignities and degradation she deserved? And how, by all the saints, had she managed to worm her way into the protection of the arrogant and despicable lieutenant? Did he know who she was? Did he know he was harboring Duncan Farrow’s daughter or just some girl he had taken pity on and rescued from the hold?

  Miranda’s amber eyes narrowed speculatively. No. Courtney would never have admitted to anyone who she was. She probably won him over with

  With what? Miranda scoffed. The chit would not know what to do with a man if one was placed between her thighs.

  As for Ballantine, the more Miranda studied him, the more she despised him. She knew the type; aloof and guarded, filled with scorn for anyone who failed to meet his strict, upright standards. Undoubtedly rich, a man who had never had to struggle or compromise himself for anything. Heaven forbid he should admit to a weakness or a desire he could not control!

  Now, there was a picture worth savoring for the sheer absurdity of it: Courtney Farrow, thighs clamped and mouth screaming obscenities; Adrian Ballantine, his proud weapon shriveled beyond all possibility of bringing her to womanhood.

  Miranda almost laughed aloud.

  ~~

  “Is the entire ship’s company present, Mister Beddoes?” the captain asked in a loud voice.

  The quartermaster stepped out of line and saluted. “All present, sir, or accounted for.”

  Jennings nodded pompously. “Very well. Have the prisoners brought forward to hear the charg
es and the declaration of punishment.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  A drummer commenced rapping out a steady, staccato as the ten marine guards— including the burly Corporal Angus MacDonald—were led through a narrow channel in the ranks of men toward the main deck. All were dressed in breeches and plain white cotton shirts; all were bareheaded, barefooted, and held their hands clasped into fists by their sides. McDonald, the tallest by far, and the beefiest, was the only one to glance up at the forecastle bridge.

  “For dereliction of duty,” the quartermaster announced in a tight vice. “Three dozen lashes apiece.”

  The drummer struck up another tattoo, and all eyes turned to watch the two corsairs as they were brought forward through the mass of angry men. Seagram seemed to stoop under the weight of filth and crusted blood. His arms were bound with spirals of heavy, rusted chain; his leg irons restricted his movement to small, scraping footsteps. His shirt and doublet hung in tatters from the brawny shoulders, and Courtney could plainly see the wide bands of blood-soaked cotton that held his arm rigid.

  Nilsson was barely alive. He was half-carried, half-dragged by the escort of guards. From the blankness in his eyes and the gray, wet sheen of his complexion, he did not appear to be aware of the proceedings. His head lolled on his chest, and a thread of pink-tinged spittle hung from the corner of his mouth.

  Bringing up the rear, dressed in a long flowing robe, was Chaplain Knobbs. His head was bowed, his lips moved in feverish prayer over his open missal. Matthew Rutger walked by the chaplain’s side, his plain black frock coat and fawn breeches looking somehow out of place amid the sea of uniforms and striped jerseys. His face seemed to have aged overnight. It was no longer boyish, but wan and haggard in the harsh sunlight, and his eyes were clouded with apprehension.

  “Attempted escape,” Beddoes droned. “Inciting to riot, perpetrating a hostile act against a vessel of the United States Navy. Captured in the act, they have been found guilty. Three hundred lashes apiece.”