Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  “I am sure it would. But then I would never convince you to help me.”

  “Help you? How can I possibly help you?”

  “Did you really mean it when you said you could get someone past the blockade to America?”

  “Yourself, for example?”

  Miranda narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “You said all ships were being stopped and searched. I presume that means anyone suspicious had best have papers, documents...something to prove they are who they say they are?”

  “It would be wise, yes.”

  “You neglected to mention that to Garrett.”

  “I neglected to mention several things. But as you say, so long as I keep providing him with information...” He smiled and crooked a forefinger in a mock salute.

  “Can you provide papers for safe conduct?”

  “I can provide a multitude of useful things—assuming I am sufficiently motivated to do so.”

  “And what, precisely, would motivate you, Lieutenant?”

  His gaze dipped to the swell of her breasts. “What, precisely are you prepared to offer?”

  “The most obvious answer would be: me. Whenever, however you want me, and for as long as you want me.”

  Falworth felt an exquisite little thrill ripple through his loins. He found it difficult, suddenly, to concentrate on anything more complicated than drawing the next breath.

  “You still have not told me why,” he managed to say.

  “Because I want to get off this ship. I want to get away from these animals. I want to get away from Garrett Shaw and I cannot do that without someone’s help. Your help.”

  “Again I would ask: why?”

  “It is quite simple, Lieutenant. I have trusted my instincts most of my life, and as you can see, they have kept me alive and reasonably healthy up to now.”

  Falworth took exaggerated stock of her body, her very healthy body. “Granted.”

  “Those instincts are telling me to get away from here. Quickly. Garrett has promised to take me to America with him, but I do not trust him.”

  Falworth glanced at Courtney’s empty seat. “Would it have something to do with the Farrow girl?”

  “It has everything to do with her. He is planning to woo her off her feet—in fact it would not surprise me if her feet were in the air now and they were rutting like boars—then he plans to wed the little bitch and take her to America to claim her father’s fortune.”

  “Duncan Farrow left his daughter a fortune?”

  “As I understand it, a veritable empire. Founded years ago, built with the profits from his raiding ventures. He and Verart invested in land, cotton, slaves, ships. The girl is an heiress like no other heiress you are likely ever to come across again. At least...she will be, if she can get to America to lodge her claim.”

  Falworth’s eyes narrowed sharply. “If?”

  Miranda leaned forward and slid her empty glass toward him. “If Garrett has his facts correct, and I have no reason to disbelieve him, all someone has to do to collect the inheritance is to contact a certain barrister, who in turn introduces her to a banker, who then releases twenty extremely profitable years worth of accumulated wealth.”

  “You said someone. I take it you mean the girl has never actually been to America, never actually met this barrister or this banker?”

  “Never,” Miranda said with a sly smile. “He would have no idea if the daughter of Duncan Farrow had one nose or two; if she had red hair...or black. Garrett knows about Duncan’s fortune. Unfortunately he does not know the name of the barrister, or the name Farrow used to set up the trust. That is why he thinks he needs to woo the bitch and loosen her tongue.”

  Falworth filled the goblet and slid it back, his fingers coming into contact with Miranda’s. “Are you implying you might have that information?”

  “Duncan was a clever, closed-mouthed bastard, but he was a man. Like most men, he considered women to be nothing but ornaments, barely worth of notice. It could be that I overheard some names, saw some papers I was not supposed to see.”

  “And with the right incentive, you might be able to recall those names and notations?”

  Miranda smiled, and her long, slender fingers caressed his suggestively.

  “Why not tell Garrett? Why not collaborate with him to collect the fortune?"

  She pursed her luscious lips and sighed. "Garrett has shown no loyalty to me, why should I reward that? I trust his promises no further than I can spit a cannonball. Furthermore, he made his choice. If he wants Courtney, then I say: let him have her. I want more than just the scraps and leavings this time. There is a fortune to be had, Otis, one large enough for the two of us to share, providing we can reach Norfolk unscathed.”

  Falworth turned his hand so that the teasingly cool fingers were caught within his. “What makes you think you can trust me? A man who has—as your charming friend so graciously point out—already sold out his country and betrayed his men for profit?”

  “I can trust you, Lieutenant, because we understand each other. We would be entering into this agreement each knowing what the other wants without any foolish encumbrances of emotion.” She drew his hand closer, letting the backs of his fingers rest against the warm curve of her breast. “And because we would be good for each other. You do enjoy my company, do you not?”

  He stared at her lips as she moistened them.

  “Indeed,” he murmured. “I do enjoy you, Miranda. More than I should. More, possibly, than it could be healthy or wise to do.”

  “As unhealthy and as unwise as it could be for me to trust you, Lieutenant," she laughed softly. "But if you still have some lingering doubts, you are certainly free to trust Garrett to keep to his word."

  Falworth captured her wrist before she could pull away. “No, Miranda, I want what you want. God knows, I have wanted you since the first moment I laid eyes on you. But if, as you say, Shaw intends to kill me, how am I supposed to help you get away from this ship when I may not even be alive to see Tripoli?”

  "Leave that to me. I will see that you stay alive. Can you swim?"

  "Not well enough to cross the Atlantic," he said dryly.

  She did not acknowledge the humor. “Enough to take you ashore once we have anchored in Tripoli? If we are quick enough and generous enough, we could arrange for a small fishing boat to sail us out of port before any alarm is sounded. From there it would be a simple matter to be found by one of your compatriots patrolling the coastline. Garrett himself said they were as thick as flies on honey.”

  “It might work,” Falworth conceded.

  “It will work, my lieutenant. I will keep you alive until we reach Tripoli. From there it will be up to you to take us safely and speedily to America. Can you do it?”

  “For you and the wealth you promise,” his eyes glittered with greed, “I would do almost anything.”

  “Even kill, if necessary?"

  “Kill? You want me to kill Garrett Shaw?” he asked, his resolve wavering for the first time.

  “Good heavens, no. You would never come within a prayer of killing a man like him. No, Lieutenant, it is the other one who must be silenced: Courtney Farrow.”

  “Why? What harm could she do to us if she is caught in the same trap as Shaw?”

  “What harm?” Miranda leaned back, leaving his hand to grope empty air. “Should she somehow survive—and believe me, she is like a cat with nine bloody lives—and should she appear one day in Norfolk and begin asking questions...?”

  “I see your point,” he nodded grimly.

  She laughed derisively. “How is it a man can cold-bloodedly arrange the deaths of a hundred of his own crewmen, the betrayal of a hundred more, yet balk at the thought of killing a single worthless female?"

  Falworth looked up and for a moment he thought she might have seen through the lie. That she might have realized he was not the spy, not the traitor. He had used the information so conveniently provided by his dear cousin Charles to convince Garrett Shaw that he had
been their secret ally all along, that he might still be of great value in helping them escape the American stranglehold around the Mediterranean. The question about Moknine had been a little tricky to sidestep, but there again, Jennings had proved to be the perfect scapegoat.

  "It will have to look like an accident."

  "I have every confidence you can arrange one."

  Falworth nodded, his confidence restored. "I will have to find a way to—"

  “Hush!” Miranda shot up a warning finger and glanced toward the door. Garrett Shaw’s voice was bellowing out in the companionway.

  Falworth double-checked to make certain his clothes were not askew and blotted the last few droplets of sweat from his temples just as Garrett came striding into the cabin. He stood in the entryway and glowered at the pair of them for a moment before crossing to the sideboard, snatching up a bottle of rum and pouring out a full measure.

  "Out," he snarled. "Get out the pair of you."

  ~~

  Miranda halted out in the companionway and turned to stare back at the door as it slammed shut behind them.

  “Well, well,” she murmured. “She must have turned him out again. He will be perturbed at that!”

  She adjusted the bodice of her gown downward, plumping her breasts, and raked her fingertips through her hair.

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?” Falworth demanded.

  “Back to the cabin to take advantage of his acute frustrations, naturally,” she said with a deep-throated chuckle. “How better to convince him of my loyalty and compliance?”

  “You are going to him now? After you and I just...just..."

  Miranda regarded his flushed features with some amusement. “I am going to—what is it the blacksmiths say—strike while the iron is hot? The good captain will be hot indeed, and extremely vulnerable. You would not want me to let such a golden opportunity pass by, would you?”

  He grabbed her arm and drew her hard against his chest.

  “And if I said I needed you as much, if not more, at the moment?”

  “I would tell you that you have to be patient,” she said. “And I would tell you the rewards for your patience would be inestimable.”

  The luscious red lips parted as she rose on tip-toe and pressed herself into his embrace. Her tongue displayed no shyness nor any lack of expertise as it darted into the well of his mouth. Falworth groaned, and his arms started to circle around her, but she twirled adeptly away and danced to the door in a shimmer of watery silk. The amber eyes were smoldering with promises as she glanced back at him.

  “Soon, my lieutenant. Soon I will be yours and yours alone. And soon we will have hours, days, weeks filled with pleasures—pleasures you will not have imagined in your wildest dreams.”

  “Miranda!”

  Falworth’s mouth clamped shut. She was gone. She was going to him. The surge of unbridled jealousy left Lieutenant Otis Claymore Falworth trembling like an impotent schoolboy.

  ~~

  Miranda paused with her hand on the latch, her thoughts divided equally between Garrett Shaw and Otis Falworth. The former was a hard, lean animal with primitive instincts and totally self-centred goals. The latter was equally dangerous in his ambitions but not nearly so difficult to manipulate.

  Falworth was a bold opportunist revealing himself to be the American spy, but she suspected the only thing he would have been capable of selling to Duncan Farrow was the latest style in fashion. Nevertheless, her choices were limited, and his help might prove invaluable, if only to get her away from Shaw and this blasted ship. He was nowhere near as appealing in appearance or performance as either Farrow or Shaw, but one had to make certain allowances, at least until his usefulness was at an end. Virginia was rife with gallant, virile men. One of them would surely be willing to help rid her of a grasping, pinched-nosed nuisance.

  Miranda tossed her raven hair back from her shoulders and bit her lips to make them redder. She knew what Garrett appreciated. She knew what any man appreciated when his masculinity had been threatened or questioned.

  She turned the latch quietly and tilted her head, peeking inside while a finger pushed gingerly on the wooden panel to open it further. Garrett’s shirt, coat, and maroon-striped vest lay in a heap where they had been thrown. The captain stood naked to the waist, his back to the door, his feet braced wide apart. One arm was raised, holding the cup of rum to his lips; the other held the stoneware jug in readiness for a refill.

  He was a magnificent specimen, she admitted. The slabs of muscle across his shoulders and back were hard as oak. The tight black breeches molded to his lean hips and thighs, emphasizing every carved and sculpted sinew. Even the sight of the tattooed snakes writhing on his forearms sent tingles up Miranda’s spine. Why did he have to be such a complete boor? Why could he not see that she, Miranda Gold, could offer him far more than Courtney Farrow ever could. Ever would!

  “Garrett?”

  “I told you to leave,” he grunted, keeping his back to the door. "I am in no mood for company tonight."

  She closed the door and leaned against it, her hands behind her back. “Did you and the chit have a lover’s spat? Was she not as eager to part her legs for you as you hoped she would?”

  Garrett glared blackly over his shoulder.

  “Well, what did you expect?” she asked. “After spending a week in the Yankee’s bed, she probably thinks she is too good for the likes of you.”

  The cup rose to his lips.

  “Surely,” she continued in a murmur, “you did not believe the nonsense she fed you about the Yankee lieutenant’s carnal preferences? He is as much an arse-bandit as you are, Garrett Shaw. In fact, from what Falworth has been telling me, Ballantine has enough of a reputation with the ladies to throw yours into shadow.”

  Garrett slammed the cup down on the rickety wooden shelf and rounded on Miranda. “What are you trying to tell me? Are you saying she lied about what went on while she was his prisoner?”

  “I am telling you nothing you should not be able to see for yourself. If you would care to look closely at your virginal bride-to-be, you will see she has a certain new lightness in her step, as if she no longer feels the need to walk with her thighs clamped together. And unless my eyes have gone blind in the past two days, the skin on her neck was not red from the sun.”

  Garrett’s jaw clenched.

  “If you have become so blinded by lust that you cannot see that she is making a complete and utter fool out of you—”

  He was across the tiny cabin in two strides, his hands gouging into her shoulders. “Shut up! Shut up, do you hear me?”

  Her eyes came alive with tiger-gold flecks and she laughed. “Did you honestly think she would take you to her bed? Did you truly think that the daughter of an Irish Wolf and a French noblewoman would soil herself with a lowly, bastard-born freebooter?"

  Garrett had no answer. His rage thundered through his veins, boiling his blood to a murderous degree. Miranda disregarded the pain where his fingers were all but crushing through to the bone and with a husky laugh, she pressed forward. Her breasts rubbed the smooth surface of his chest. Her hands slid along the rock-hard thighs and converged on the front of his breeches.

  An involuntary gasp of pain and a quick flinch backward gave her a starting insight into the cause of his foul temper. Her eyes skimmed down his body, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her surprised giggle.

  “My God, she did not! She did not actually stop you by—?”

  Shaw shoved her roughly into the wall, but it was no use. Not even the pain of several hard head-thumping shakes silenced her. She laughed until the tears filled her eyes.

  He released her with a final thrust that sent her ebony hair flying across her face. He strode back for the rum and drank the fiery liquid straight from the jug until the sound of laughter and the bruised ache in his groin subsided.

  He felt her presence behind him and braced himself as the feathery touch of her fingers traced their way a
cross his back.

  "Let Miranda help you," she purred. "I can put everything right again."

  He muttered an oath but did nothing to deter her hands as they slid around his waist and splayed wide over the smooth steel of his belly. Nimbly, the fingers worked to unfasten the black breeches. Teasingly they peeled the dark nankeen aside and with caresses as light and fleeting as the brush of a feather, they massaged and nursed some warmth into his flesh.

  “There now,” she breathed soothingly, her lips pressing into the rigid muscles of his back. “We will have everything working well and proper in no time. Miranda can fix anything, did you not know that?”

  Garrett ground his teeth together and inhaled slowly, deeply. The lids squeezed shut over his indigo blue eyes as Miranda slipped down onto her knees before him. Her hands skimmed up his thighs and cupped his flesh gently, flattering him with fingertips and tongue, using her mouth with such expertise that he forgot where he was, who he was. He opened his eyes and looked down at the top of her languidly moving head. He blinked once. Twice. And it was Courtney he was seeing in his mind's eye kneeling before him. Courtney’s hands he felt curling around him; her lips and bold, greedy mouth seeking to pleasure him.

  A groan sent his fingers twisting into the raven tresses. His hips augmented her rhythm until the threatening surge began to mock the ability of his legs to hold him upright. The threat shuddered into reality, and he gasped, his hands unable, unwilling to drag the persistent mouth free. His teeth clenched. The veins in his neck stood out like blue snakes. The dark eyes rolled skyward.

  Miranda refrained from venting her triumphant laughter, or even smiling with satisfaction, as she brought the mighty pirate king quavering to his knees. Instead she doubled her efforts, knowing each mindless groan was helping to seal the fate of Courtney Farrow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The night air raised goose bumps along Courtney’s arms and legs as she crouched in the darkness beneath the stern bridge. Her breathing was shallow, but controlled. Her ears were tuned to the rush of the outlying surf, the eerie cries of the night creatures, the stealthy footsteps of patrolling guards.