Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  “Who in blazes dreamed up the idea for you to pose as a boy? And do not try any of your cat-and-mouse ploys with me—believe me, I am in no mood for it.”

  “Verart,” she muttered sullenly. “He thought I would be safer this way.”

  “Safer? In a prison hold?”

  “Seagram is there. He would have looked after me.”

  “Seagram? Allow me to guess: the giant?”

  She nodded and gingerly massaged the chafed flesh on her wrists.

  Adrian Ballantine looked down at her, still unwilling to believe what his eyes were plainly telling him. She spoke like a young ruffian, she dressed like one, and she certainly acted like one. If it were not for the obvious physical contradiction...

  Courtney dragged a hand under her nose, smearing the dirt on her cheeks in the process. She peered up at the imposing form of the naval lieutenant; he had not moved for a full minute. She felt a growing discomfort when she saw where his eyes continued to wander, and she struggled to clutch the tattered folds of her shirt more closely around her body.

  The gesture at modesty brought a vein throbbing to life in Adrian’s temple.

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough," she murmured.

  “How...old!”

  “Nine...teen!” she countered rashly.

  Ballantine scowled and the pale eyes narrowed. “I will ask once more—”

  “I was born January third, 1785!” she hissed, through clenched teeth. “If you can count, Yankee, it comes to nineteen years, six months, and...and some days.”

  His mouth curved down skeptically. “Well you look ten years younger. Do you have a name?”

  “Farrow,” she spat.

  “A first name,” he said coolly, prickled by her murderous stare.

  “Court.” And after another stubborn pause, “For Courtney.”

  She saw the doubt in his face, and she balled her fists.

  “My mother was French, if you must know. From the court of Louis XVI.”

  Ballantine was unmoved. “She must have found life with an Irish exile-turned-pirate a humbling experience.”

  Courtney’s slender shoulders stiffened. “She was not given the opportunity, Yankee. She found herself humbled by Madame Guillotine first. And now, if your curiosity has been satisfied—?”

  “How long have you been with your father on Snake Island?”

  “A thousand years,” she said tonelessly. “What difference does it make?”

  The Reign of Terror had swept through France eleven years earlier, the blades of hundreds of guillotines slashing off the heads of the ruling aristocracy with bloody vengeance. If the girl had somehow been smuggled out of the country and had kept company with corsairs since then, it would go a long way in explaining her anger, her mistrust.

  It did nothing to ease Ballantine’s discomfort or his guilt, and as he paced slowly to the far side of the cabin, his brows crushed together in a frown. What the devil was he supposed to do with her now? He certainly could not hand her over to the captain, nor could he, in all conscience, send her to join the rest of the women. Not that he gave a hang one way or the other if she was raped by half the crew. Hell and damnation, it might be exactly what she needed to bring reality crushing down around her ears once and for all.

  But he did not believe that either.

  He cursed again, softly, and raked his fingers through his hair. “What the devil am I supposed to do with you now?” he asked aloud.

  “Send me back to the hold. Let me be with my father’s men.”

  “Your father—he approved of this way of life for you?”

  “He approves of me. And as far as I am concerned, that is all that matters.”

  “But the bloodshed, the violence...”

  “I was weaned on bloodshed and violence, Yankee. The guillotine granted no favors to anyone waving a lace handkerchief or swooning from fright.” She paused and used the wall for support as she struggled to regain her feet. “I do not frighten easily. And you can beat me until your knuckles bleed, but you will not see me cry again.”

  Ballantine almost believed it.

  “You will not last ten days if I send you back to that pestilent hold,” he murmured.

  She kept her glowing eyes locked to his. “Gibraltar is less than a week away; I heard one of the guards talking about it.”

  “Norfolk is six times that. And a rough ocean crossing in between.”

  “Norfolk?”

  “The jails have stronger bars, I am told.”

  “A noose is a noose wherever it is strung,” she shot back.

  “You will not live to see either a jail or a scaffold if you are beaten to death over a few scraps of food.”

  “I told you, Seagram will watch out for me, and—”

  “And he cannot watch out for you twenty-four hours a day. Nor can he guard you against an informer.”

  “An informer?” She scoffed at the notion. “There are no informers among my father’s men. They would follow him to hell if he asked it of them. And so would I.”

  “Hell is quite possibly where you will end up if you persist in this stubbornness. The naval courts in Norfolk are not known for their tolerance of pirates—or daughters of pirates.”

  “Tolerance? You have kept me chained and locked in an iron cage for six days with only rats and maggots for company. You have threatened me and beat me, and now you think to warn me the naval courts will not be tolerant? Your compassion is overwhelming, Yankee. Dare I ask if you have any more sage advice?”

  Ballantine was momentarily distracted by the edges of her shirt falling open. Her breasts, firm and ripely formed, made the surrounding bruised and chafed flesh all the more ugly. This time she did not scramble to cover herself. She endured his stare with calm resignation and contempt.

  “Is that what you want, Yankee? Or do your fists need to prove themselves further?”

  Ballantine met her gaze unwaveringly. She expected rape. Damn her, she was defying him to do it, if only to prove her low opinion of him.

  “My dear girl, I can think of several infinitely more pleasurable ways to take the pox, if I was so inclined. Happily, I am not. What I will demand of you, however, is to make liberal use of soap and water you will find over there on the table.”

  He strode to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. “I will be back shortly. I will not guarantee the condition of your hide if I return to find anything amiss. And that is not a threat, girl, it is a promise.”

  Courtney continued to stare at the oak door long after the key had twisted in the lock and the sound of his footsteps had faded from the companionway. She shuddered violently and hugged her arms close to her sides. Her stomach muscles were bound in a tight knot; her legs were shaky from the painful effects of the confrontation. Where was he going? Had she pushed him too far? Had her tongue angered him enough that he would consider going to the captain?

  Of course he would go to the captain, she thought derisively. He was the Yankee victor, he was a naval officer, and he was a bastard. Obedience came with the fancy uniform and the stiff upper lip.

  Courtney shuddered again as a wave of nausea swept over her. She stumbled to the desk and her hands were trembling so badly she needed both of them to steady the tin mug as she raised it to her lips. Even so, half of the water spilled down her chin and splashed icily onto her breasts. But it tasted good—so good she eagerly refilled the cup and drained it without taking a breath.

  She cried out softly when the open sores on her wrists came in contact with the cold water in the basin, but she ignored the pain and used a scrap of towelling to bathe her arms, her throat, her face, to scrub some of the slimy memories of the cage from her skin while she had the opportunity. The lieutenant was not the type to waste his time or his sympathy. And if he had gone to fetch the captain, she would be ready for whatever came next.

  She gasped and leaned over the basin as the nausea persisted. She had not eaten more than a weevil-filled biscu
it over the past few days and the hasty mouthfuls of water were stirring false hopes in her stomach. Not knowing how much time she had alone, she forced herself to scrub her face with the strong soap, and then to remove the useless strip of cotton from her breasts and carefully wash her bruises and scrapes. There was not much remaining of the front of her shirt, but she was able to overlap the ragged halves and tie them in place at her waist.

  By the time she had finished, the wound in her upper arm was throbbing with a dizzying vengeance. The wound made her think of the doctor; thinking of the doctor made her drop to her knees and search below the desk for the knife she had lost in the tussle with Ballantine.

  She had just located it in the shadows and had stretched out a hand to grasp it when she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She whirled and gaped at the open door where the lieutenant stood, his face as ominous as a thundercloud. The flinty eyes snapped once to the knife, then returned to her face.

  “You can always try,” he said quietly. “And frankly, you will save me a great deal of trouble if you do decide to take that way out. But I will not make another stupid mistake. Touch that knife and I will break you in half.”

  Courtney was held by his icy gaze for several long moments, then her fingers slowly curled away from the temptation.

  Ballantine banged the door shut behind him. The vein in his temple was pulsing furiously, and the muscles in his jaw had flexed into a hard ridge. As she stood and faced him, his attention was drawn to the cinched waist, to the very definite feminine curves of hip and thigh, and to the noticeable strain of her breasts against the tight fabric.

  He remembered the bundle he carried under one arm.

  “Here,” he grunted, tossing it to her. “Strip out of those rags and put these on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I told you to,” he said evenly. He went to his desk and retrieved the knife from the floor. Courtney glanced around the tiny cabin but there was no place that offered protection from the probing gray eyes.

  “Before my duty watch,” he reminded her with a scowl.

  She muttered a ripe curse under her breath, which earned a narrow glance from the lieutenant. She squared her shoulders and set the bundle of clothing on the berth, then, keeping her back to the Yankee officer, she pulled her shirttails free and shrugged the garment from her shoulders. She unfastened her trousers and let them fall around her ankles, giving Ballantine a fleeting glimpse of slender legs and tight little buttocks before the clean breeches were hurriedly drawn on. He also had time to frown over the multitude of purpling bruises that dotted her skin before the new shirt was shaken out and pulled over her head.

  The breeches were knee length and baggy, the shirt a stout homespun and shapeless enough to camouflage her figure. Most of it. There was no mistaking the shape or fullness of her breasts, or the way the coarse fabric worried the nipples into prominence. Another moment of study sent Adrian to his own wardrobe to find a long, wide, linen neckcloth.

  “You will have to flatten yourself again,” he said matter-of-factly, and handed her the cloth.

  She bristled a moment under his glare, then snatched the cloth and grudgingly bound her breasts flat again. The time when she faced him, the inspection resulted in a nod and a faint smile of satisfaction.

  “Come along,” he said gruffly, and scooped up the discarded chains and manacles.

  Courtney shied back against the wall and held her breath until she realized he was walking past her and had no intention of replacing the iron bracelets around her wrists.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, haltingly.

  “To see if you can pass a test, Irish. After that, it will be up to you.”

  Chapter Three

  Matthew Rutger washed his hands fastidiously, his thoughts divided between the festering wound he had just lanced and drained for the third time, and the problems of listing the provisions he would need when the Eagle stopped at Gibraltar. Many of the powders and unguents he used were in short supply and would need replenishing.

  He splashed water on his face and dried it vigorously hoping to erase some of the fatigue that had been plaguing him for the past week. Most of the ship’s normal routines had been restored, but the sick bay was still crammed to capacity with lingering casualties. He had lost five patients in the past three days—not a poor showing considering the ferocity of the fighting that had taken place on the beaches. Still, it troubled him.

  With seven years of naval service behind him, Matthew found himself yearning more and more for the common-place ills of gout and dry throat. He had had enough of shattered, bloody limbs beyond salvage. He had seen enough healthy young men brought below on litters, their eyes blinded by powder flashes, their bodies burned and horribly mutilated by enemy cannonades.

  The sedentary, gentlemanly practice he had shunned half a lifetime ago was looking better and better to him. His father had been a doctor, as had his grandfather and great-grandfather. If he, Matthew Rutger, wished to carry on the tradition, he would need a wife and son and a far less dangerous situation than a naval warship.

  He reached down and absently massaged the welt of scar tissue distorting his left knee. There were more reminders of his brutal way of life—scars on his back and his ribs, shiny patches of skin where he had suffered burns while attending the men on the battle decks. He was getting too old for all the violence, too sickened by it all—too human, as Adrian put it.

  The doctor sighed and began to rinse the instruments he had used. He made a mental note to ask the chief sailmaker for more thread, and the carpenter to fashion a new handle for the bone saw. The last time he used it, he had driven a splinter deep into the palm of his hand. It was still there and it was beginning to burn like the fires of Hades.

  A physician’s worst patient, Matthew mused, will always be himself.

  Selecting a needle from the table, the doctor perched on the corner of the bench and angled his hand toward the lantern light. The splinter was embedded in his right palm, the shaft completely enclosed in swollen flesh. He was berating himself for his clumsiness with a less dextrous left hand when he heard a laugh from the doorway.

  “You look like you could use a little help.”

  Matthew glanced over. “Adrian. Sorry about the delay but I had to see to a couple of our men. Nasty business, powder burns. Sometimes they heal right away, sometimes there is more damage than you realize at first and—” He stopped when he saw the slender form standing behind the lieutenant. He noted the clean clothes and the absence of manacles, and offered a friendly smile.

  “Hello, Curt. How is the arm feeling?”

  Courtney said nothing, and shifted so that she was deeper in the shadows.

  “Had a change of heart, have you, Adrian?” Rutger asked.

  Ballantine leaned casually against the wall. “Let us just say I am considering the options.”

  “Well, it is a start anyway,” the doctor grinned. “All right, Curt. Come over here into the light and let me have a look at your arm. Any burning sensation? Any fever or bleeding?”

  Courtney shook her head, heeding Ballantine’s crisp warning to keep her answers brief and her eyes lowered. She moved reluctantly out of the shadows and rolled the sleeve high over the soiled bandage on her arm. The doctor indicated the corner of the bench he had just vacated and proceeded to unwind the cotton strips.

  “Taking the threads out is not nearly as bad as putting them in,” he said. “And—" he leaned over and startled her by sniffing the cleanly healed wound—“since there does not appear to be any sign of corruption, there may not even be much of a scar.”

  His smile was not returned. The thick sweep of lashes hid the boy’s eyes, but Matthew sensed the tension keeping the full lower lip curled between the even line of teeth. He glanced up at Adrian, but there was no hint of what was going on behind the cool gray eyes.

  Rutger frowned and began working at the crusted stitches with a small knife and a pair of pincers. The bla
ckened threads came out easily enough, their exits marked by tiny beads of bright red blood. The scar itself was a jagged pink welt on the pale flesh, and in examining it he noticed what he had missed before—the lack of thickly developed muscle that should have been there, even in a boy of twelve or thirteen.

  “Ow!” Courtney jerked her arm out of range of the distracted doctor’s knife.

  “Sorry,” Matthew murmured. “My hand slipped. Still hating the world, are you?”

  “Only certain parts of it,” she replied evenly.

  He smiled and resumed snipping and plucking. “You could do worse, you know. A lot worse than having Lieutenant Ballantine watching out for you. He usually only kicks where it does not show.”

  The emphasis was placed gently on the word “usually” as the doctor’s gaze moved pointedly to the fresh cut on Courtney’s lip and the swelling on the side of her cheek. There were other indications that Adrian’s authority had been challenged—fresh red grip marks on the lad’s forearms and the decidedly cautious way he had taken a seat on the bench.

  Matthew had served with Adrian Ballantine for six years. He knew the deceptively cool manner masked a will of iron and a razor-edged temper. Those who were not attuned to the subtle warning signals could find themselves talking to an amiable, relaxed man one moment, and be the recipients of a verbal lashing that could flay to the bone the next. The crew respected and admired Adrian as a leader, and followed his command without hesitation.

  “There,” Matthew said, the pincers pulling the last stitch free. “You will have to be careful with the arm for a few days. Keep the wound clean and out of the air—damn!” The knife handle had slipped and pushed the sliver deeper into his palm. “Adrian, can I trouble you for a steady hand? There is half a yardarm wedged under my skin and I cannot seem to get the blasted thing out.”

  Ballantine’s gaze flicked lazily to Courtney. “Let Curt try. His hand is steady enough.”

  Matt’s expression altered noticeably at the suggestion, and Adrian laughed, a deep throaty sound that was seldom heard within the walls of the sickbay.