After refilling her goblet, Courtney crouched beside the sea chest and hesitantly reached for the shiny metal clasp. She lifted it and raised the lid slowly, as if whatever was waiting on the inside might leap out and devour her. Nothing leaped, however. And the only devouring done was by her eyes as they widened to take in the profusion of silk and lace that burst from the tightly packed chest. There were three dresses and an assortment silk chemises, richly embroidered overdresses and mysterious garments the like of which she had never seen. She found a small ivory box containing exotic perfumes and cosmetics, a dozen pair of stockings so sheer she could see her hand through the weave.
She sat back on her heels, her hands reverently cradling a sheer white muslin dress. It looked so fragile and delicate with its tiny bodice and short-capped sleeves, so softly feminine that she feared the roughness of her hands might damage it. She stroked the cloth against her cheek and buried her nose in the crushed folds, breathing deeply of the sweet sandalwood scent.
Courtney bit down on her lower lip and found herself staring at her reflection in the hand mirror she found inside the chest.
...you dress like a man and you cut your hair like a man....an undernourished, ill-bred pirate urchin...
She reached for her goblet of wine and drained it hastily. The mirror continued to hold her eye, and she moved the cup away from her lips slowly, while leaning closer to the trunk to inspect her image. A hand crept up to her nape and pulled the bit of twine she had used to bind her hair into a stubby queue. The auburn curls sprang forward immediately to join the wisps that had already escaped, and Courtney could not contain the sigh that escaped her lips. For one ever-so-brief moment she wished she had a waist-long cascade of hair, thick and glossy, spread around her shoulders in all its abundant glory. Like Miranda’s hair. It always managed to look immodestly dishevelled, as if she had just tumbled from bed and was eager to tumble back.
Courtney scowled and raked her fingers through the tousled curls.
...nineteen? You look ten years younger...
Grimly determined to somehow improve her appearance, Courtney snatched up a silver-handled brush from the trunk and began stroking it furiously through her hair. She experimented with the assortment of combs and fillets she found in the cosmetics box; and, in the end, was able to clear most of the curls up from the nape of her neck and push them into a frothy crown on top. The results were pleasing enough, and she leaned back to admire the change, turning her head this way and that to marvel at the graceful arch of her throat and the tiny, perfect lobes of her ears.
“Ill-bred and undernourished, indeed,” she muttered and reached for the wine decanter.
Duly fortified for the next step, she sorted through the shimmering assortment of undergarments. She found silk garters to hold the stockings in place, the bands embroidered with tiny pink flowers. She held up a long, sheer breath of ecru silk that had two thin shoulder straps of cream-coloured ribbons and, after a fruitless search for anything resembling a corset or corset-cover, realized the shimmy was all that would be between the dress and her skin.
She discarded her shirt and breeches and drew on the first stocking, tying the garter around the top of her thigh and rolling it over several times to hold the silk in place and stretch out the wrinkles. The ecru shimmy was next and she slipped it on, tying the tiny ribbons down the front and adjusting the ones over her shoulders.
The dress itself had a high waistline and an alarmingly low neckline. In fact, there was no more than two or three inches of fabric rising above the green satin band that divided the skirt from the bodice. She wriggled and tugged at the muslin but there was simply no way to raise it to cover more of the exposed flesh.
Her lower lip was savaged again before she dared peek into the mirror to judge the finished product. Her first reaction was to raise her hands to cover her cleavage. Her second was to lower her hands slowly, to lift her eyes from the stunning decolletage and meet the bold emerald sparkle staring back at her.
It was the face in the locket. The face of a beautiful young woman. And she was not thin or gawky or boyish-looking; she was slender and fine-boned and perfectly suited to the cut and style of the gown. A slight adjustment—she lowered the capped sleeves to cover the wound on her upper arm—and the creamy slope of her shoulders was bared even more.
"Urchin, indeed," she muttered aloud. She turned and twirled, letting the sheer folds of the skirt flare then settle softly around her legs again. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she did not attempt to staunch the outpouring of memories. Strains of a long-forgotten minuet echoed distantly in her mind, and she closed her eyes, the better to see the swirling, dizzying couples that bowed and pranced to the music. She was somewhere above them, staring through the rails of a balcony, her child’s eyes wide and bedazzled by the rainbow of colors, the sparkle of a thousand candles reflected in the prisms of the crystal chandeliers. She could hear the tinkle of laughter and she could see her mother, so beautiful, so elegant, looking up, and smiling at her spying daughter. Courtney had smiled back and watched with envy, thinking: One day. One day you will know all of this too. You will laugh and dance and...
Courtney's eyes sprang open. Her gaze flicked to the upper corner of the mirror, to the face that had appeared over her shoulder, to the pair of smoky-gray eyes that were locked on hers with equal astonishment.
She whirled around and came face to face with Adrian Ballantine. Neither of them moved, neither spoke. Only his eyes conveyed the depth of his surprise as they took in the full sweep of her dress, her hair, the prominent half-moons of flesh that swelled against the bodice.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she finally managed to gasp. “How did you get past the guards?”
“I was brought here,” he said softly. “I was escorted at the end of a musket.”
Courtney glanced past his broad shoulder and noticed one of Garrett's men, Harry Pitt, standing in the open doorway. He was a short, balding man with skin like parchment and a smile that brought to mind a bleached skull. His eyes were popped almost out of their folds of crow’s feet as he raked them up and down, taking in Courtney’s altered appearance.
“Why have you brought the prisoner here?” she asked hotly.
“Eh? Ye ordered it, din’t ye?”
“I certainly did not.”
Pitt’s eyes strayed to the dusky cleft between her breasts. “Well, I were told ye wanted to have this here dog brung to the cabin to see after yer chores. If ye’ve nay chores, I'll take ‘im back to the kennel with the others.”
Courtney glanced at Ballantine. Her instincts told her to send him away. She had deliberately not called for him all day, specifically to avoid the jumble of emotions that were already beginning to affect the way the blood flowed through her veins. But if he was a weakness, and if he was going to continue to exert this strange power over her, she had to know. She had to somehow overcome it. She had to overcome him.
“Thank you, Pitt,” she said coolly. “In truth, I do have need of the Yankee’s skill with a holystone and bucket. You can leave him here.”
“Ye want I should stay an' see he does the work proper?”
Courtney crossed to the desk and with drew a long snouted pistol from the top drawer.
“I think I am quite capable of seeing he does the job well. You can go about your business and return for him near the dinner hour.”
Pitt shrugged. "As ye like."
“Oh, and Pitt?”
The rheumy eyes flicked up from her bosom. “Aye?”
She cocked the pistol and aimed it casually in his direction. “In future, you will knock on my door before you enter.”
The implied threat was delivered so calmly, Pitt’s cadaverous smile took a moment to fade. He looked down the barrel of the gun, then up into her dark, inscrutable stare.
“No call to take on airs,” he muttered. “Yer father would nay approve.”
“My father is not here, which is precisely why the
gun is. You might want to pass that information along in case anyone else thinks they can come and go as they please.”
Pitt scowled and muttered something unintelligible before he hunched out into the gloomy companionway.
Courtney strode to the door in a swirl of white muslin, slammed it shut and slid the bolt across.
Ballantine had not moved. His eyes had followed her across the cabin, but as soon as she turned to face him, they were studiously averted.
“Having trouble with your own men?” he mused.
“Nothing I cannot handle.”
The impression of a smile was on his lips, although his expression had not changed. Courtney’s anger was pricked, and she raised the heavy gun, aiming it at the centre of his chest.
“I am not afraid to use this, Yankee.”
The gray eyes met hers, the smile became distinctly mocking.
“I happen to be a very good shot.”
“I have no reason to doubt it.”
“But am I going to have to prove it? If I am, if you are planning to try anything foolish, I would as soon shoot you now and be done with it.”
“What could I be planning?" he asked with a slight shrug. "You have the gun. You also have the ability to bring a dozen armed men crashing through the door if you shout. And, even assuming I could get my hands around your lovely throat, where could I go afterwards?”
Courtney felt her cheeks grow warm. She was unable to form a retort, and so she simply stared at him, the gun steady and unwavering in her hand. His wounds appeared to be mending as well as his wit. He had replaced his torn shirt with another: a coarse garment that was too small for his frame and exaggerated the bands of muscle in his arms and across his chest. The wound on his temple had scabbed over, though only partially visible beneath the unfettered locks of tawny gold hair. The long hours of exposure to the sun had not done him any harm either; the pasty grayness was gone and the color had returned to his face. His eyes were as cool and insolent as when he had been the one in command. She could almost see a glint of amusement in them—amusement, no doubt, over a pirate wench who was playing at being a lady!
She took a deep breath in an effort to cool her blood, and instantly regretted it. The bodice of her dress did not expand with her chest; it merely thrust the tops of her breasts into greater prominence, an effect that did not go unnoticed by Ballantine.
“Move over beside the brazier,” she ordered brusquely, jerking the snout of the pistol to indicate the direction. “The air is becoming damp. You can light a fire while I finish dressing for dinner.”
His smile took on a wry twist. “I certainly hope there is more to that dress somewhere.”
“The brazier,” she said from between clenched teeth.
When Ballantine reached the small iron stove in the corner of the cabin, he bent down on one knee and rattled coal from a tin bucket into the stove’s black belly.
Courtney’s wrist ached from the weight of the gun; she lowered it, careful to keep her finger in proximity to the trigger. Her mouth was terribly dry, her palms were cool and moist, and she could not keep from staring at the sinuous muscles rippling across his back and shoulders as he built the fire in the stove. How was it possible for him to look so healthy and roguish after two days in the hell she had banished him to on deck? He was with his men, yes, and his precious doctor friend, but most of the wounded had succumbed to fevers and dysentery, and that, in combination with the stifling heat, the flies, the smell, and the suffering...he should at least have had the decency to look pale and haggard.
Ballantine straightened, startling Courtney alert again.
“Anything else, Miss Farrow?” he inquired with an exaggerated air of servitude.
A second wash of color rose in her cheeks. “You may refill my wine,” she commanded, pointing to the decanter and the empty goblet. “And you may stop staring at me.”
“Was I staring? Forgive me, it must be that the heat has affected my manners. But then, any woman who chooses to wear a gown like that should expect the odd glance to come her way.”
“You were hardly glancing.”
“You are hardly what I expected to see,” he countered evenly.
“An ill-bred pirate urchin?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Did I call you that?”
“On several occasions.”
His eyes travelled soberly down her body. “In that case, I would have to say you are very good at disguises.”
Courtney’s flush deepened. Why was he doing this? Where was his bitterness, his defiance? She could respond to those emotions easily. What she could not handle was compliance, or worse: flattery.
She moved away from the door and went behind the enormous desk. Placing the gun pointedly within reach, she sat in the deeply padded leather wing chair and tapped her fingers with impatience.
“My wine?”
Adrian had to step around the piles of discarded clothing that had been tossed from the sea chest. He picked up the decanter and filled her goblet to the brim with blood-red claret.
“Set it on the desk,” she snapped. “Then you can...you can put all those things back into the chest.”
Adrian placed the goblet on the desk and glanced at the jumble of frilly trappings scattered at his feet. With undisguised bemusement, he held up a sheer wisp of silk that was much like the garment she wore beneath the muslin dress. Horrified, Courtney jumped up and snatched it out of his hands.
“Never mind. I will do it myself.”
“I would be only too pleased—”
“I said, never mind!”
He shrugged and watched her drop back in the chair. She raised the goblet and sipped from it, but the dryness in her throat persisted and she ended up draining the cup. She set it down with a slightly unsteady hand and glared up at Ballantine as she saw his mouth flicker again.
“A good claret should be savored, not gulped,” he said when she demanded he refill her goblet.
“You are hardly the one to give me advice on drinking."
"Indeed,” he murmured and eyed the tray of silver goblets. “Still, a young lady should never drink alone.”
Courtney gasped at his audacity as he poured himself a goblet of wine before he refilled hers. Her fingers danced on the stock of the pistol and her eyes blazed.
“Have you ever wondered, Yankee, what would have happened had we both been fighting on the same side? Suppose my father had been fighting against the Pasha, instead of for him, and suppose we had met as allies. Would you be quite so unwilling to take me seriously?”
“I take you very seriously, Irish.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, you do not. You only treat me seriously when you think you have something to gain by doing so. On board your ship, for instance, when you knew I was the only thing standing between Seagram and being blown to eternity. Or yesterday, when you thought you could play on my sympathies. It was a convincing fainting spell. You deserved applause.”
A spark flared in his eyes, and she felt a rush of satisfaction.
“Ahh. And perhaps you were even thinking I would help you escape? Is that it? Do you honestly think one night in your bed, one drunken rape would leave me so besotted?”
Ballantine’s voice was level. “Believe me, Irish, I regret what happened that night as much as you do. Possibly even more."
She regarded him slyly over the rim of her goblet. "I am not so sure of that, Yankee. I know you enjoyed my body, even though you say you do not remember. Perhaps you enjoyed it too much? Does your Deborah not please you the same way?”
A muscle twitched in Adrian’s jaw. “My fianceé has nothing to do with this.”
“What was it you said, again?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, ignoring the hard light in his eyes. “Ahhh, yes I believe you said it would take an enticement from the devil himself to make you dishonor your commitment to your sweet Deborah. Is that the excuse you will give her? That you were enticed by demons?”
“Demon rum, most cer
tainly,” said Adrian. “And I do not recall ever mentioning Deborah’s name to you.”
The wine was singing in her blood, bolstering her courage; she leaned back in the chair with a husky laugh. “You also claim not to recall tearing my clothes off, or forcing me into your bed. Or will your story be that I raped you?”
Adrian felt the blood hammering in his temples. His gaze was lured involuntarily to the strain she placed on the muslin as she stretched her arm forward for the decanter. More than a hint of roseate flesh peeped into view and remained there, though she was blissfully unaware of the slippage. The memory of that soft, warm flesh had left an impression in his mind’s eye that no amount of rum could have dulled. He remembered the feel of her flesh, supple and honey-smooth one moment, peaked and straining eagerly beneath his lips the next...despite what she accused him of. Despite what she wanted him to believe?
He forced himself to concentrate on her hands, on watching her pour out the wine. God, how long did it take to fill a damned goblet?
Courtney leaned back, carrying her brimming goblet with her. “You have not tasted your wine, Yankee. Go ahead, drink up. Unless you have reason to fear for your honor again?”
Adrian raised the goblet to his lips. Courtney did likewise, and their eyes locked together over the silver rims. He was, she mused, decidedly no longer a threat to her sensibilities. He had no mysterious powers. If anyone was feeling threatened, it was him, and how sweet a victory it would be to have him acknowledge that threat!
“A second stumble from the mighty pedestal of virtue,” she murmured speculatively. “Now that would be difficult to explain, would it not? Even the urge to stumble would be extremely discomfiting to a man of your staunch convictions.”
Adrian tensed visibly as she stood and walked slowly around to the front of the desk. She stopped within an arm’s length of him and let her gaze rake insolently up and down his rigid body. Much as he wanted to, he could not take his eyes off her face; he could not stop his senses from responding to the sharp clean fragrance of her skin. Soap and hot water seemed like sinful pleasures from some distant life to him, and her apparent recent enjoyment of both sent shivers racing through his flesh.
Wind and the Sea Page 27
