Wind and the Sea

by Canham, Marsha

  “Claimed? How? By whom?”

  “By Courtney. It is her money, now that Duncan’s gone. Her inheritance, you might call it.”

  “Inheritance?” The amber eyes narrowed. “What inheritance? Will you stop doing that. I cannot think straight!”

  Garrett chuckled and withdrew his hand. “I gather you did not know that Duncan was planning to turn respectable? He has been hoarding all of his profits from his raiding ventures. He has had it shipped to America for the past ten years or so, ever since he discovered the existence of a daughter. He has bought land, built a mansion, planted cotton fields. Why, he has founded a small dynasty and all under another name."

  "What name?" she breathed, intrigued despite herself.

  "Ah, well...that I do not know. Not yet, at any rate. Farrow and his blasted codes and passwords and ciphers. He has a fortune stowed away in America, and as far as I have been able to determine, Court is the only one who has the key." He tapped the side of his head. "In here. Raping her would hardly put her in the mood to hand it over to me, now would it?”

  “You mean she is the only one who knows?”

  “Duncan is dead. Verart is dead. Who is the sole surviving member of the family?”

  “What about me? Did he not make any provisions for me?”

  “Apparently not,” Garrett mused, watching yellow sparks of rage flare into her eyes. “Nor did his plans include me. This was to have been his final run through the blockades. That was why he insisted that Courtney and Verart stay behind on Snake Island. He wanted to be sure they were safe. Ironic, would you not agree?”

  “Did she know?”

  “About his plans? I doubt it very much.” Garrett’s handsome face darkened. “He did not even deign to tell me until we were approaching the rendezvous at Moknine. That was when he generously offered me full ownership of the Wild Goose and its crew."

  “You have wanted it long enough."

  "True. But Duncan was always the one who knew how to negotiate with the Arabs; I do not even speak the bloody wog language."

  "You have always shared equally in the spoils, have you not? Surely you must have acquired just as much gold over the years."

  “Acquired, aye. Several small fortunes that would have kept a prudent man happy for years to come. However—" the white teeth flashed in a smile— “prudence was never one of my virtues. I enjoy life’s pleasures too much to take frugality seriously."

  "You squandered everything?"

  "Not everything. But if Duncan's share is there for the taking...?" He shrugged and smiled crookedly.

  Miranda's brow was pleated in an angry frown. Her long fingers were tapping on the rumpled bedding.

  “He was definitely frugal,” she spat. “He tossed the odd coin my way if I was lucky. The odd paltry trinket, a dress or two.”

  “Ahh, yes, well—" Shaw traced a fingertip along her jaw and across the plump, lush pout of her mouth— “that was another way in which we differed. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for a pretty wench. Jewels and gold and silk always seemed to make them that much prettier."

  He rolled off the bed and walked over to the desk. He took something out of a small velvet pouch and approached the bed again, then extended one of his tattooed arms. The snakes writhed with the movement of his muscles as he upturned his hand and uncurled the thick calloused fingers. Nestled in the palm was a ring, a huge square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds, each large enough to have made an impressive ring on their own. The fire and brilliance of the gems took Miranda’s breath away, and she rose slowly to her knees, gaping first at the ring, then at Garrett’s watchful face.

  “It is exquisite,” she murmured.

  “It is yours, if you want it.”

  “Mine?” she gasped. She reached out trembling fingers for it, but before she could touch the ring, Garrett’s fist curled shut over it again.

  “Regrettably, however, it is the only trinket I have in my possession at the moment and I may need it a while longer to convince Court of my sincerity.”

  “Sincerity?” If she could believe him he was offering her all the wealth and comfort she had ever dreamed of. If he was lying, if he was toying with her or stalling for time, then she was no better off than she was as Duncan's whore. “Why do you have to convince her of anything? Why can you not simply pull out her fingernails one at a time until she tells you what you want to know?”

  Garrett laughed. “My, what a cold-hearted vixen you can be.”

  “Perhaps, but do not try to tell me the thought has not occurred to you already.”

  He grinned, “Aye, it has occurred to me. It has also occurred to me that I would have as much success 'pulling’ the information I need out of her as I would had I tried to pull it out of Duncan.”

  “So much for loyalty,” she said crossly. “But then we both know how loyal you have been over the years, do we not?”

  Garrett’s expression assumed a slightly ominous coolness. “Perhaps you would care to tell me what you mean?”

  “I mean," she reached down and took hold of his fist, easing the fingers open until she could prise the ring free, "you have been cheating him for years, taking the choicest prizes for yourself before he even knew the tally. I know you have gone on raids when he thought you had gone for supplies, and I know you had contacts with the slave market in Algiers where you have sold the prisoners you were supposedly setting free. Now, now, do not go swelling up on me with your anger. What does it matter now?” She slipped the ring onto her finger, then pressed her hand flat on his chest, admiring the size and sparkle. When she saw that his frown had not eased, she wriggled closer to the edge of the bed, close enough to slide her hands up over the iron-hard surface of his chest and lace her fingers together behind his neck. “Duncan is dead. Everything belongs to you, now, regardless of what you did to get it.”

  The dark blue eyes glittered strangely. “Are you implying it was me who sold Duncan to the Americans?”

  “Did you?”

  She felt a sudden tension in his body, and she saw a shadow pass briefly through his eyes. She knew Duncan had never completely trusted Garrett, and she knew enough not to trust him herself, but greed alone did not make traitors out of friends.

  “No,” she murmured with a pensive shake of her head. “No, you would not have been that foolhardy. Not if you left Davey Dunn alive. But one still has to wonder about the studding boom that broke so conveniently and prevented you from running to Duncan’s rescue in time to save the Goose?”

  Garrett snarled and twisted his fingers roughly around the skeins of raven hair. “The boom did break. My ship was crippled.”

  "And I do believe you,” she said evenly, her eyes glowing. “But there are others who might not. Courtney has been asking questions all over the ship. She may start men thinking. She may start Dunn thinking. Can you afford to let that happen?”

  Garrett eased his grip, but his hands remained wrapped around the shiny black hair. “I can handle Davey Dunn if need be.”

  “And Courtney?”

  His eyes moved to the supple red lips, then to the equally intoxicating lushness of warm, silky flesh that pressed invitingly against his.

  "You can carve her into little strips and roast her over an open flame for all I care...after she tells me what I need to know."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tentacles of mist rose from the dense green vegetation, shrouding the two anchored ships in fog. Fine, clinging droplets of dew gathered on the lines and turned the rails and boards damp. A chorus of wails and howls and shrieks from four legged creatures echoed around the bay as the second night of darkness descended upon them.

  The crews of both ships had worked continuously throughout the daylight hours, through periods of muggy heat and baking sun. They patched and mended torn sails, cut new spars from the stands of trees that lined the shore, and rebuilt the rails and planking as best they could with the supplies at hand. Shaw’s original estimate of four days’ work looked to
be fitting into three, which pleased him immensely. The cove was well sheltered, almost invisible from the sea, nonetheless, when dusk fell, he restricted the use of lanterns and cabin lights. He wanted to take no unnecessary chances of having a passing ship glimpse a stray light where no light should be. By day, the masts and rigging blended in with the tall trees, but by night, the coastline was a sheet of black velvet. Even the glow from an unguarded pipe could betray their presence.

  Thus, the huge brass deck lanterns were to remain cold and dark. There were to be no signal lamps in the rigging, no cracks of light splitting through the heavy canvas curtains tacked across the portholes and hatches.

  Courtney stood between the heavy sheeting and the broken gallery windows to breathe in fresh air. She had carefully cleared away the shards of broken glass and smoothed the wooden sill so that she could rest her elbows on the ledge and watch the last sliver of pink light melt out of the sky. The water in the cove was three fathoms or more—twenty feet deep—darkened during the day by the weeds that spiralled up from the sandy floor. At dusk it became a rippling sheet of silver; now it was inky black. So calm. So soothing. Two effects greatly needed if she had to endure what would surely be a repetition of the previous night’s fiasco.

  Garrett Shaw, Miranda Gold, Davey Dunn, and she had shared the evening meal together on board the Eagle, and it had been a disaster.

  Davey Dunn had glowered and bristled at her throughout the meal. He did not agree, it seemed, with Shaw’s decision to allow her equal say in the treatment of the Yankee prisoners. She had insisted on a tarpaulin to shield the wounded from the broiling sun—Dunn thought they should stew in their own misery. She had ordered bandages and surgical instruments to be made available for the Yankee doctor’s use—Dunn declared she had gone soft in the head. She had ordered meat broth and fresh fruit to be taken to them, and water buckets for drinking and washing—Dunn spat in the buckets and kicked over the first soup pail in disgust. He had flatly refused the first invitation from Shaw to join the dinner group, and it had taken a direct order, followed by a veiled threat for him to appear.

  Garrett Shaw had dressed with care in a dark blue brocade jacket and eelskin breeches. His collar and cuffs were ruffled with rich Spanish lace. He had shaved his beard and clubbed his hair, the change in his appearance so startling that both Miranda and Courtney had both caught themselves staring.

  She had forgotten how Shaw liked to play the pirate king after a victory. In truth, it was not that she had forgotten, exactly, it was more that she had not considered it practical under the circumstances. But regally he had greeted them, and with an obvious measure of annoyance he had taken in her plain shirt and simple breeches. Even Dunn had managed a clean vest and shirt, and, she suspected, put a bar of soap to good use on his face and hands.

  Her mood had not improved when Miranda swept through the doorway dressed in a cloud of silvery-yellow satin. Her long raven hair had been piled into a crown of shiny curls that caught and reflected the candlelight in soft shimmers. The gown had no bodice to speak of, and what little support there was, was moulded so tightly to the curves of her breasts there was danger each time she laughed or leaned forward that either the fabric would split, or her flesh would spill out on the dinner table. The suspense was palpable as the men watched, eyes wide and unblinking, to see whether or not the fabric could maintain its fragile placement. They hung off her every word, gave her the choicest cuts of meat and gladly refilled her wine goblet when a delicate hand held it out. Like child's play, the boldly seductive amber eyes were able to draw Garrett’s attention and hold it despite his efforts to draw Courtney into the conversation.

  Courtney saw the game for what it was and could not decide whether she was angry or simply disgusted.

  “Now, Court," Shaw had said, catching her for a moment alone after the meal was cleared away, "you cannot hold her nature against her. She is not like you or me."

  "Thank all the lucky stars she is not," Courtney muttered. "She sees to her own comforts first, Garrett, she always has, and never spares a thought for anyone else."

  "Now that is not entirely fair."

  “Not fair? You did not see her on the beach. You did not see the way she deliberately flaunted herself to earn the Yankee captain’s attention. I should drop dead now with a stopped heart if she even once begged a crust of bread for the men in exchange for whatever she did to keep Jennings' legs bowed and his eyes glazed.”

  Shaw laughed. “How do you know for certain she had no intention of helping her fellow prisoners? How do you know what she did and did not do?”

  “I know Miranda.”

  “Aye, you know her like a father’s daughter knows his mistress. And I warrant you have more jealousy over the wench in your little finger than a dozen hungry men would be having.”

  “Jealousy!”

  “Aye, jealousy.” The grin had broadened and the blue eyes had raked casually over the shapeless shirt. “You resented every minute she spent with your father, and you envy her every hot-blooded stare she wins from a man. And never try to tell me otherwise, Court Farrow, or I will bend you over my knee on the spot.”

  Courtney’s cheeks had flamed; her anger had swelled her throat shut against the words of rebuttal. She had resented Miranda’s every moment with Duncan Farrow, but not out of jealousy—she had fought too long to overcome the disadvantages of her own femininity to covet someone else’s. What she did resent, however, was that Duncan could be blinded so easily to Miranda’s duplicity. A loose blouse, a fluttered eyelash, a seductive pout, and normally hard, cynical men like Duncan Farrow or Garrett Shaw were unable to see that she was just as hard, just as cynical, and far more cold-blooded in her manipulations than any lusting male could be.

  Miranda had wanted Duncan solely for the prestige of being his mistress. She had gone to Jennings because it kept her out of the hold and well fed. It was just as obvious that she had her sights set on Garrett Shaw now, and equally obvious from the suggestive glances they exchanged all through the meal, that she had already achieved success.

  Taking a final, deep lungful of the evening air, Courtney fixed the canvas sheet back in place over the windows before she lit the desk lantern.

  The unopened trunk of women's clothing Garrett had sent down earlier caught the glow of the candle and seemed to beckon to Courtney as slyly as the smile on a hangman’s face. She fought hard to ignore the memories that crowded in upon her. Memories of a softer time, a prettier time when dresses and laces and delicate ribbons and satins were the most important things in a little girl’s life. Those memories belonged to Courtney de Villiers Farrow, and she had no place for them now. And yet Garrett, by insisting she dress more cordially for tonight's meal, was forcing her to face the pain of those recollection.

  The few occasions she had donned a dress over recent years had been solely for the purpose of pleasing her father, lifting his mood from some unknown dark place where it retreated now and then. He had often told her she was the image of her mother, and when she appeared in a dress, he smiled through to the depths of his soul, welcoming the memories of Marguerite de Villiers.

  There was no reason now to want or need to feel feminine. And more reasons than she could list to want to erase the more recent memories of how Adrian Ballantine had made her feel every inch the woman. She did not want to think about that night or about how he had briefly turned her world upside down. There was no denying he had changed something inside her, and she was not thinking only of her virginity. Because of him she felt vulnerable where she had felt strong and secure before. Because of him she felt softer, more exposed to her own emotions. She was angry one minute, sad the next, and constantly filled with an aching tension that had no definable source, no relief.

  Perhaps she should take her place by Garrett's side. Perhaps she should not refuse his offer of a deeper partnership. He was handsome, he was virile; she could think of worse ways to spend a lonely night. She had found pleasure in the Yankee’s arms
; surely she could find it with Garrett. It was only a matter of flesh and blood, fitting this into that and rubbing a little.

  Sighing, she poured herself a goblet of red wine and stood before the cracked half-length mirror attached to the wall above the washstand. There was nothing overtly coarse or ill-bred about her face. Her lashes were long and upswept, her cheekbones delicately sculpted, her eyes almond-shaped and quite capable (she was sure) of executing a flirtation. Her nose was ordinary, but straight and unobtrusive. It led to a mouth she had always considered unremarkable but, when she looked closely, there was a definite fullness to the lips, a suppleness that became more pronounced when she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. It was the same mouth that had held the Yankee lieutenant’s attention far longer than she had thought possible. And she distinctly recalled the pleasurable sensations of his tongue probing for hers, twining and thrusting, and finally winning her surrender.

  She felt her cheeks grow warmer as her eyes slipped lower, to where the shape of her breasts were shadowed against the fabric of her shirt. They were not nearly as full or voluptuous as Miranda’s, but there, too, Ballantine’s attention had lingered. He had traced and retraced the distended crowns, plundering them with hands and lips and tongue until she had almost begged him to end the torment. And then, when his thighs had come between hers, and the heat of his body was inside her...

  Courtney turned abruptly away from the mirror and drained the wine from her goblet in three deep swallows.

  It was ludicrous to keep thinking of Ballantine in that way. Ludicrous and unhealthy. Garrett had humored her request to keep him alive, and he tolerated her interference with the wounded prisoners on deck. But he was not a stupid man, nor a man without jealousies of his own. If by word or deed he became suspicious in any way of her motives for wanting Ballantine spared, or if he thought for a single moment that the Yankee had already taken what Garrett had so steadfastly sought these past years...the strappado would seem a merciful death indeed.