“It does look kissed,” Adrian agreed in a murmur. “Unfortunately, I have not been able to shave for the past two days.”
Courtney’s gaze lingered on the stubble-burned skin of her cheeks and throat. After a further thought, she searched through the sea chest and found the small ivory cosmetics box. A light covering of white dusting powder took away the angry red, and she snapped the lid of the box closed and faced Ballantine again.
“Better,” he nodded, then frowned. “But there still seems to be something missing.”
“My locket,” she gasped, and a hand fluttered to her bare throat. It had come off in the frenzy of their lovemaking. A moment later and she had found it, as well as a length of green ribbon to replace the worn leather thong. She started to tie it in place around her neck, but Adrian’s fingers assumed the task, his eyes fastened to hers in the mirror.
The knot tied, he could not resist laying his hands on the smooth, bare shoulders. Nor could he resist bending forward and pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. He felt her tremble and saw the flush darken in her cheeks as her eyes closed with the pleasurable sensation.
“You had better unbolt the door before your friend comes back,” he murmured. “He looks like the type who would kick it in rather than trouble himself to knock, regardless of your orders.”
She did as she was told, and none too soon. She was barely away from the door when they heard bootsteps out in the corridor, followed by a coarse belch and a thump that could have been interpreted as a knock.
The door was shoved open without waiting for an invitation to do so.
“Well, lass?” Harry Pitt belched a greeting and picked a morsel of food from between his teeth. “He do all yer chores with no squawkin’?”
“Well enough,” she said coolly.
“Capt'n Shaw's waitin’ supper on ye. I told him he had a right-fine surprise in store. Right fine.” The squinty, watery eyes slid up and down the muslin dress, and Courtney was silently grateful to Ballantine for insisting she wear it.
“You can take the prisoner back to the others now,” she said.
“Will ye be wantin' him tomorrow again?”
Pitt’s choice of phrases sent a flood of warmth into her cheeks, and her discomfort was compounded by glancing at Adrian. He had also read a double meaning into the words, and a gleam danced in the smoky gray eyes.
“I will send for him if I do,” she stammered and, with as much dignity as she could muster, she swept out of the cabin and hurried up on deck.
Chapter Fifteen
In a repeat of the previous evening, Courtney was rowed across to the Eagle with the stiff-backed Davey Dunn seated opposite her in the jolly boat. His eyes had squinted down to slits when he had seen her come up on deck, a reaction shared by most of the crew who were not accustomed to seeing her in anything but shirt and breeches. Dunn was silent, and for that Courtney was thankful. The look in his eyes was anything but comforting, however, and she was certain he knew exactly why her heart was beating so quickly and why her legs felt weak and loose in the joints.
They were barely through the gangway when one of the carpenters approached and Davey Dunn was called away to solve a problem with the rudder. Courtney descended to the captain's cabin on her own, relieved to be free of Dunn's unblinking stare. Thankfully the cabin, when she entered, already had the galley windows covered for the night. A single four-pronged candlestick was flickering on the dining table, mellowing the light enough to further conceal any lingering redness on her skin.
Garrett Shaw stood at the far side of the room. He looked even more elegant than he had the previous evening. He was wearing a black velvet cutaway coat, black breeches, and a striped maroon and white brocade waistcoat. His hair was loose and shiny, and fell in thick, shaggy waves over his collar. He looked as if he should be hosting a night at the opera, not dinner on the lower deck of a captured warship.
He had his back to the door when she entered, pouring wine into a goblet.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting long,” she said.
“Another ten minutes,” he retorted crossly, “And I would have come looking for you."
He turned, and the blue-black eyes found her in the shadows. To his credit he did not sputter into the goblet when he saw her standing there, but that was only because he had not yet taken a mouthful. Courtney recognized the same look of astonishment in his eyes as had been in Ballantine’s, and she experienced a fleeting, fervent wish that she had never ventured near the damned sea chest.
“I see I am not the only late arrival,” she said casually, glancing around the empty room. “But then one can always rely on Miranda to make a grand entrance.” She stared directly into Garrett’s eyes and smiled. “Are you not going to offer me some wine?”
Shaw averted his eyes grudgingly, but only for as long as it took to splash some wine into another goblet. When he looked up again the fingers of light from the candles beckoned his gaze to the creamy curve of her neck, luring it along her bared shoulders, over the gentle, soft swell of her breasts.
He slowly crossed the room, and with the charm and flourish of a cavalier, bowed low and took her hand in his, pressing his lips to the back of her cool fingers.
“By God, Court Farrow, you have your father’s gift for surprises. And damn my eyes if I have ever seen such a rare, exquisite beauty as yours.”
Courtney reclaimed her hand and took the goblet of wine he offered. “All this fuss. Surely you have seen me in skirts before, Garrett.”
He grinned. “Aye, I have seen you in skirts before...out of them as well. It does not change what I am seeing now though.”
She had the distinct impression the blue eyes were slowly stripping away each layer of her clothing and envisioning what lay beneath. She took a tiny sip of wine to mask her discomfort but when he continued to stare, her discomfort turned to impatience.
“Garrett, if you do not stop looking at me like that, I am not going to have any clothes left on at all.”
“Now there is a pleasant thought,” he murmured and moved closer.
Courtney deftly sidestepped the advance and presented her back to him as she crossed to the opposite end of the table.
“How are the repairs coming along?” she asked, looking around the cabin.
Garrett shrugged. "We can get the Eagle seaworthy, but beyond that, one good squall and she will be finished. Even if we have to tow her, however, I want to be away from this accursed cove before the sun climbs high tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Aye, I have been told that within a fortnight the approaches to Tripoli will be alive with Yankee gunboats.”
“How do you know that?”
Shaw grinned easily. “The fat captain was quite talkative when he had a hot iron kissing his private parts. I am surprised you did not hear him squealing like a guinea hen.”
“I thought you said you were keeping Jennings for the Pasha.”
He shrugged and toyed with the cuff of his frockcoat. “I read through his log—Christ on a cross, the man made note of every time he emptied his bowels—and saw mention there of the trap at Moknine. I was hoping he knew something more, but considering how eager he was to answer all my questions, I would say he knew nothing about how the Yankees came by their information or who the spy among us might be.”
“Was?” she noted quietly. “Is he dead?”
Shaw shrugged again. “No stamina. No loss either, I warrant. And what of it? Are you telling me you had a soft spot in your heart for him as well?”
"Of course not. Why would I?"
“Davey tells me you have been plaguing him for two days now, demanding this and that for your pet Yankees.”
“Only for the wounded. It seems inhuman to stand by and watch them suffer unnecessarily. Especially since our men know all too well how that feels. Regardless what we think of them, they fought hard and they fought well. Forcing them to accept defeat should be enough of a degradation.”
“T
o my mind it is not nearly enough.
“You would like to torture them all, I suppose?”
“Davey Dunn surely would,” he agreed, laughing. “He is in a black enough mood to string the lot of them up by their toenails. I would keep my notions of charity work to myself if I were you, or you might find yourself pressed into one of Dunn’s work gangs.”
"I wish he would,” she said. “He will not let me help with the repairs, he will not let me help clean the guns or even take stock of the powder and shot."
“Davey is only following my orders. You have been held prisoner for over a week, and before that you fought in a hellish battle. You bear the wounds to prove it! You deserve a rest.”
"We all deserve a rest but until we can all afford to take one, I see no reason why I should get any special treatment.”
“You are the O’Farrow’s daughter. That is reason enough.”
“I am Duncan’s daughter, yes, but I am as good as any man you have on deck, Garrett Shaw. I can patch a sail and splice a cable. I can saw and hammer and damn well ream out a cannon as well as I can aim and fire one! What I cannot do, what I will not do, is languish in a cabin all day long eating figs and demanding to be waited on hand and foot as if I was queen of the Nile!”
The reference to Miranda’s daytime activities broadened Garrett’s grin and Courtney held up a hand to stem any attempt he might make to excuse her behaviour. “I know, I know. She is not one of us. And you have no idea how relieved I am every time I am reminded of that. But it does not mean she should be able to snap her fingers and have a dozen men at her beck and call. Do you know what she demanded this afternoon?”
Garrett set his wine glass on the table and folded his arms across his chest. “No,” he mused wryly, “but I have a feeling I am about to find out.”
“A sailmaker. She ordered Stitch to her cabin to alter one of her gowns! Where does she think she is? Who does she think she is? And don’t you dare tell me I am jealous, Garrett, or so help me...”
She stopped because he was laughing. And she stopped because he had leaned forward and was pressing his lips into the curve of her shoulder.
“Garrett, please—this is serious!” She stumbled back, but he simply hesitated a moment then followed. A hand reached out, lean and bronzed, and plucked the dangerously tilting wine glass out of her hand.
“And I am trying to tell you,” he murmured, “that you have absolutely no reason to be jealous.”
“Garrett—” Her back came up abruptly against the wall. The candlelight was behind him, and she could barely distinguish more than the dark slash of his brows as he bent his mouth to her temple, brushing through the curly wisps of hair. Courtney’s hands were wedged against his chest but there was no way she could push herself free, or stop his mouth from wandering lazily down her cheek, down past her earlobe to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat.
“Garrett,” she gasped, “Stop!”
“I told you I am a patient man, Court," his mouth sought to capture hers but only tasted a corner before she was able to twist away, “but I never claimed to be a monk.”
His body shifted, and one of his hands moulded itself to the shape of her rounded bottom, pulling her forward, introducing her to the hardness of his thighs. His other hand slid up her back and cupped around her neck, the pressure restricting her movements so she could not wrench away again.
“Why are you fighting it, girl?” he asked in a husky whisper. “You know you want this as much as I do.”
“No,” she insisted, and shivered as she felt his lips move hungrily down to the straining swells of her breasts. "No, I do not!"
“It is not healthy for a woman to deny what her body craves.” His laugh was a hot breath that seared through the muslin directly over her breast. “Nor is it healthy to tease a man the way you have teased me.”
“When have I teased you?” she gasped. "I have done nothing of the kind!"
"Are you telling me you came dressed like this tonight to suck a mutton leg and share a pipe?"
Courtney's mouth dropped. "You were the one who sent me the damned dresses, and I thought...after last night..." His mouth was becoming bolder and she pushed harder on his chest. “Please stop, Garret...please!”
“By all means, Garrett, do stop!” Miranda’s icy voice shot out of the gloom of the companionway like a bolt of lightning. “Unless of course you have planned a little show for our dinner entertainment?”
Garrett’s arms dropped as he turned to face Miranda. Courtney sagged against the wall, the relief flooding through her limbs like ice water.
“Ahh, Miranda. What a pleasant surprise.”
Miranda glared at Garrett’s mocking greeting. “I can see what a surprise it is. Forgive the intrusion, did I disturb a pre-dinner tryst?"
Garrett laughed and drew one of Courtney’s hands forward so that she had no choice but to step into the brighter circle of light.
The amber eyes glittered scornfully. “The heat,” she declared quietly, “must be affecting my vision.”
“The heat of your blood, perhaps,” he said. “Well, what do you think of our Courtney?”
“Our Courtney?”
“Surely some of the credit belongs to you, Miranda, for the change in her appearance. You did decide which clothes to send her.”
“Yes, but I did not think—” Miranda bit off the rest of her words when she saw Garrett’s grin. He was enjoying himself: a cock between two hens. She had selected the clothes to send to the little bitch’s cabin—on his orders. And she had deliberately chosen a sheer, delicate gown she knew the girl would refuse to wear. She never dreamed the chit would defy her so boldly, or be so obvious about her designs on Garrett Shaw.
Courtney pulled her wrist out of Garrett’s grasp, her eyes flaring at Miranda as the woman approached the dining table. She was dressed in pale blue silk, the gown styled much along the same lines as Courtney’s, with a high empire waist and a shockingly low décolletage, the view unhindered by any modest froth of lace. There was no layer or underskirt beneath it and when she moved, the silk molded to her legs like water.
Courtney snatched her wine glass off the table and quenched the dryness in her throat with the blood-red Madeira. Her stockings were stifling her legs, the dainty green satin slippers were pinching her feet. What had felt beautiful and seductive for one man felt cheap and tawdry for the other, especially since it made it seem as if she was competing with Miranda for attention.
As if reading Courtney’s mind, Miranda laughed huskily and ran her hand along the shimmering folds of blue silk.
“You should have stayed with your guns and sabers, dearest one,” she murmured in tones too low for Garrett to overhear. “I warrant you understand their usage far better than you understand the weapons nature provided you with, such as they are.” In a louder voice she added cheerily, “I trust your hairy little friend, Davey Dunn, will not keep us waiting too much longer. I am positively famished.”
“From a hard day’s work, no doubt,” Courtney scoffed.
“Unfortunately Davey will not be joining us,” Garrett said, handing a glass of wine to Miranda. “There seems to be a problem rigging new cables to the Eagle’s rudder.”
Miranda crooked a finger at the fourth table setting. “Then who—?”
Garrett smiled. “Someone you both know, one of you quite well, as I understand it. The other will, perhaps, find his presence more of an amusement than an annoyance.”
“Now you do have me intrigued,” Miranda said. “I cannot think of a single amusing soul on board this ship.”
“Whereas I have found several who intrigue me.”
“Surely you are not saying you have invited a Yankee to dine with us.”
“To dine, aye. And to satisfy my curiosity on a few matters.”
Courtney looked up from her glass and found the dark blue eyes upon her.
“I find myself curious about a great many things that went on aboard the Yankee frigate,” He cont
inued mildly. “Curious then, even more curious now.”
Courtney’s heart fluttered in her throat, like a sparrow caught in the talons of a hawk. Not then, not now... Was he referring to the way she pushed away from his kiss moments ago? Or was there an even crueler game of cat and mouse in store? She saw Garrett glance toward the door, and her own gaze followed in a rising panic. Standing in the entrance, grinning broadly, was Harry Pitt.
“Ye want the lieutenant now?”
“Now indeed, Mr. Pitt,” Garrett nodded.
“The lieutenant?” Miranda breathed, barely able to contain her excitement. There was only one Yankee Garrett was curious about, only one matter that scratched at his suspicions like a thorn. And judging by Courtney’s reaction, his curiosity might well be warranted.
“This should be a highly entertaining evening, indeed, Garrett,” she mused. She strolled over to the table and claimed the seat to Garrett’s right without waiting for direction.
For Courtney's part, she stood frozen to the spot. If Ballantine came through that door, she would not be able to breathe. Garrett would know. They both would know. For the first time she felt a tiny trickle of sweat gather between her shoulders and shiver down her spine.
“Court?”
Garrett’s hand was on her arm, leading her to her seat at the table. She was conscious more than ever of his formidable size and strength, and of the danger she anticipated with each quick, guilt-ridden heartbeat.
A cackle and shuffle of feet sent two pairs of eyes to the doorway. Only Miranda hesitated a moment before swivelling her head in the direction of the door, for she was far more intrigued by Courtney’s sudden discomfort.
Garrett lowered his long frame into his chair and raised his wine glass in greeting. “Good evening, Lieutenant. I trust you have found your new accommodations to your liking?”
“The cabin is comfortable enough, although the stench of the orlop deck is not exactly what I would call inspiring.”
It was Miranda's turn to freeze. Lieutenant Otis Falworth stood in the entryway, looking surprisingly refreshed and belligerent for someone held prisoner for the past two days. He wore clean black breeches and a crisp white shirt beneath a dove gray coat. His hair was brushed into a tail at his neck, captured by a black velvet bow.
Wind and the Sea Page 29
