Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  “Courtney?”

  It was just a gasp. A breath snatched by the wind.

  “Courtney, is that you?”

  She whirled about, her eyes searching frantically for the source of the shocked whisper. He was there. Less than two feet away, very real, very alive.

  “Davey?” she cried softly. “Davey Dunn! What are you doing here?”

  She took a step toward the short, gruff figure but his hand shot up in a abrupt warning. “Nay lass, nay! Ye mustn't let on ye know me—for yer sake as well as mine!”

  Courtney swallowed hard and blinked in an effort to keep a very real flood of tears out of her eyes. He was standing by the shrouds, pretending to adjust the tension in a rigging line, and her mind raced through a thousand questions she was burning to ask. The best she could manage and the most inadequate, was a hoarsely whispered: “You got away?”

  “Aye, but only by the skin o’ my arse.” He grunted and his eyes darted along the deck. “I were luckier ‘n the Falconer.”

  “She is gone?”

  “Burned the bloody night an' day through. How the piss we made it as far as we did, I'll never know, but Shaw threw everythin' overboard that weren’t tied ner bolted down an' we managed to limp up the coast to Marrakech. Damn near threw me off fer dead too, along with the others, but fer a little un-corpse-like ass wind. But you, girl...I thought ye were gone! I thought whatever bleedin’ thunderclap caught me on the brain-box caught you too!”

  “Oh, Davey, I...it was all just a big blur.” How could she tell him? How could she begin to explain?

  “No mind, lass. Ye’re alive and that be all what matters. An' ye’re usin’ ye’re noggin too, doin' what yer father wanted ye to do. Good. Good! We'll catch the bastard sure!”

  “Catch the bastard? Catch who?”

  “Shaw, o’ course. Who else would I be willin’ to follow halfway to hell just for the pleasure of slittin’ his eyelids an’ stakin’ him to an anthill? Him an' his tart were the first ashore when the Falconer grounded, an' the first to offer gold to the local thieves to carry them to Gibraltar.”

  “They are here?" She glanced sharply over the rail at the crowded wharf. "Garrett and Miranda are here?”

  “Whsht! Damn an' blast, girl, ye’ll have the clappers on us yet! Aye, here is where I follered ‘em an' lost ‘em again, God rot their souls.” The red froth of beard, sadly reduced to a quarter-inch of stubble, shifted and a stream of tobacco juice spurted out over the rail with a vehement pftt. “But I know where they be bound. Where I be bound, an' now you.”

  “Norfolk?” she whispered, her thoughts reeling. It had not even occurred to her that one or both of them could have disguised themselves as she had done and fled the Mediterranean.

  “Norfolk is where they think yer father’s gold is at,” Dunn said, as if explaining something to a very thick-headed child. “I tole ye he was sniffin’ after it, an' if he thinks ye’re dead— which he does—then there ain’t nothin’ to stop him from takin’ that whore-bitch to Norfolk— which he is doin—and usin’ her to claim Duncan’s fortune—which I would wager my left ballock is what they plan to do.”

  Courtney’s face paled as she stared at Davey Dunn. Conversely, his darkened as his keen blue eyes darted past her shoulder. A curse sent him swinging around to the outside of the shrouds and he began to climb.

  Pftt! “That first mate has eyes in the back o’ his head,” he scowled. “We can't talk no more, girl. I'll have to think on a signal or the like, what we can use to arrange a meetin’. I've signed on this bucket o’ bilge for the crossin’. Used the name ‘McCutcheon’ after the nose-picking sod what fathered me. Fer now ye look good...all prim an' proper.” He straightened suddenly and grinned. “Jest don't slip up an' tell these lubbers how to set the riggin’ lines. Jaysus! It's a wonder this bucket even floats!”

  With a last scowl at the first mate, Davey climbed hand over hand to the tops, where he was lost to Courtney’s view behind a billowing sheet of canvas. She lowered the hand that had been holding her hood in place and pressed cold, trembling fingers to her lips.

  It was somewhat of a relief to know she was not totally alone. Yet the mere thought of having to face Garrett Shaw and Miranda again in Norfolk raised a tiny spray of fine hairs across the nape of her neck. Since morning she had not been able to shake a feeling of dread and now she knew why.

  A pipe shrilled and her composure was further fragmented as the gangway was hauled aboard and the rail closed and bolted into place. Men on shore let loose the mooring cables, and the dock began to slide past. The activity on the wharf ground to a standstill as the workers stopped and planted their hands on their hips, or dragged cloths across their sweating brows while they watched the Sirius glide into the harbor. The wind gusted gently, snapping her canvas sheets as they were unfurled, and within minutes the tugs peeled away, leaving the Sirius to cross the harbor under her own sails.

  Courtney’s gaze went one last time to the cutter Carolina. The decks were draped in bunting and men were hanging colored lanterns off her lines in preparation for the festivities that were slated to begin at noon the next day.

  Courtney turned away from the rail, away from the salty breeze that brought a veil of fresh tears glimmering into her eyes.

  ~~

  Courtney’s cabin was indeed tiny. The furnishings consisted of a berth, a washstand, and a small writing table that was little more than a board jutting out from the bulkhead. First Mate Lansing had escorted Courtney personally to her cabin, and had filled in details of the six other guests she could expect to meet at dinner: two American merchants returning home, a middle-aged couple who he thought had made a pilgrimage to Rome, and a young Spanish woman journeying in the care of her duenna.

  In an attempt to make conversation, and perhaps set her mind at ease, he had assured her the sea lanes were safe. Despite fierce fighting taking place along the Barbary Coast, the corsairs were trapped inside blockade lines and it was only a matter of time before they were all rounded up and hung. The most dangerous of the pirates, the Farrow brothers, had been caught weeks ago and there was not another band of chicken thieves foolish enough or powerful enough to attack Atlantic shipping.

  Chicken thieves!

  Courtney had clutched her locket in a savage grip. A ship such as the Sirius would have been frightened into chicken fodder on a single shot from the Wild Goose. The taking of her cargo and crew would have been little more than a boring exercise.

  She spent most of the afternoon in her cabin. The promised storm had arrived with heavy rains that kept the passengers below. While she dressed for dinner, her emerald eyes kept straying to the small oval mirror over the nightstand. The stranger who looked back at her was not even faintly reminiscent of the Court Farrow who had felt so confident, so secure a scant month ago. Seeing herself now, in a pale amber frock and short green bolero jacket, she could hardly believe she had run barefoot and bedraggled along the sands of Snake Island, had laughed and worked alongside burly men in the rigging of the Wild Goose, had fought with sword and musket and had been as familiar with the intricacies of breaking down and cleaning a flintlock pistol as she had been with skinning a quail and eating it raw.

  Court Farrow. Courtney de Villiers. Were they two people or were they one? Could she don a mask and take it off again at will? Could she see this masquerade through to its conclusion regardless of what she might find at the end? Was Duncan alive? Was Garrett Shaw really the traitor?

  Courtney massaged her temples and debated avoiding dinner altogether. In the distance she heard the hollow tolling of the ship’s bell advising the crew of the hour: eight bells. Her stomach rumbled to remind her she had not eaten since the previous evening, and, well, she was already rigged out in the foolish dress and slippers. She could eat and excuse herself as soon as prudently possible.

  “Right, Courtney my girl,” she muttered aloud, tugging the velvet bolero jacket into order. “You have chosen to travel like a lady; I guess you will have
to act like one.”

  A last quick clutch at her locket for luck, and she stepped out into the corridor. All five passenger compartments were located in the stern, all five doors faced a sturdy flight of wooden steps leading to the maindeck. Courtney heard a second door opening just as she finished setting her own latch. When she turned, half-expecting to see the dark-eyed Spanish girl she had briefly caught a glimpse of earlier, she was shocked into utter and complete frozen horror when she looked up into the equally startled gaze of Adrian Ballantine.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It seemed as though an eternity passed as they stood in the dimly lit corridor and stared at one another. Events of their turbulent two weeks together flashed like a kaleidoscope in front of Courtney’s eyes—seeing him tall and arrogant on the beach of Snake Island; seeing him in the surgery when he had condemned her to those long, dreadful days in the cage. She remembered the look on his face when he first discovered her to be a woman, and then the subsequent hard, blazing desire that had raged in his eyes when he had made love to her on board the Falconer. And she remembered the soft plea in his voice when he lay wounded and in pain.

  “Irish?”

  The sound of voice triggered a thousand more memories, but she pushed them ruthlessly aside and kept her manner deliberately cool.

  “Yankee. What are you doing on board the Sirius? I heard you were supposed to leave Gibraltar tomorrow, on the Carolina.”

  His eyes were like molten silver as they washed over her face, her dress, her silky cap of auburn curls. “I am not one for pomp and ceremony,” he murmured. “I thought I would avoid the crush and leave quietly. And you? If I had to guess the last place I would ever find you, it would be on a leaky old merchant ship bound for America.”

  “I have...business there.”

  “Business?” His mouth curved in faint amusement. “Not in the same profession, I trust.”

  Courtney’s cheeks were flushed a soft pink; her eyes were wide and dark, like receding mirrors. She was delighted he could joke at a time like this. She was not certain if her legs would work or her knees would hold her up, but she was pleased he could joke.

  He was dressed to fit the part of a refined gentleman, in a dark blue frock coat and black breeches. His waistcoat was pale gray brocade threaded with blue stripes, the neckcloth and collar rising high beneath his chin to boldly define the mahogany of his skin and the golden sheen of his hair. A deep scar ran from the tip of his eyebrow into his hairline, still red and fresh. There were smudges underscoring his eyes, evidence of the toll his injuries had taken; but the irises were sharp and clear, as direct and disturbing as she had ever seen them.

  “I am happy to see you have recovered from your wounds.”

  “The arm is still a bit stiff,” he murmured, “but it is improving.”

  Courtney recalled the first mate saying there were two gentlemen travelling aboard. “The doctor is with you?”

  “It would have been difficult for the two of us to sneak away. I volunteered him to stay behind to accept the wreaths and speeches on my behalf. He will sail on the Carolina tomorrow as planned.”

  “I see. And the others?”

  “The boy will be going home with Matt tomorrow; Rowntree and MacDonald both elected to stay in the Mediterranean and will be promoted a rank and be reassigned to the Constitution. Quite a feather in both their caps and well-deserved.” He paused and looked at her in a way that made her knees quiver so hard she feared they might buckle. “If you care so much, you could have stayed instead of running away by yourself, although—" his appraising gaze moved slowly over her— “you do not appear to have suffered for the absence. I must confess, I have never encountered such an inventive chameleon. From pirate to cabin boy; from nurse to lovely young woman. My compliments on this latest transformation.”

  Courtney blushed again and glanced along the companionway hoping against hope another passenger might step out of their cabin.

  “Much as I long to continue this conversation, Yankee, I am afraid we will have to postpone it to some other time.”

  “Some other time?” he mused softly, his teeth flashing in a grin. "Indeed, we will have several weeks worth of 'other' time to catch up.”

  Courtney’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Listen, Yankee—”

  “Lieutenant Yankee,” he reminded her wryly. “Rather, I should say, it is Captain Yankee, but no matter. I trust you will allow me to escort you to dinner, Miss Farrow? You are absolutely correct; we must not keep Captain Pettigrew waiting.”

  Adrian stretched out his hand to her, but she knew there was no possibility of her surviving a direct contact, not with her heart hammering so and her emotions vacillating between fury and temptation. Instead, she imperiously gathered the folds of her skirt together and swept past him, her cheeks burning and her eyes staring adamantly ahead. She could feel his laughter warming the back of her neck as he fell into step behind her. She stopped so abruptly, his lean thighs were treated to a swirl of muslin before she could recover.

  “The name is de Villiers,” she told him. "I would appreciate it if you could try to remember it?”

  “Ah. Mademoiselle de Villiers. I will concentrate on nothing else for the next six weeks,” he promised, his eyes probing hers. She was saved by a rumble of friendly laughter from behind them, and she turned quickly and hurried toward the well-lit wardroom.

  First Mate Lansing shot to his feet instantly upon seeing Courtney enter. The captain rose as well, his homely face broadening in a smile as he greeted his guests with a relaxed bow. Introductions were made around the table: Mr. and Mrs. Santini returning to Boston from a visit to Italy; Mr. Franklin Cordel, a banker; Senorita Maria del Fuega and her duenna, Doña Dolores.

  “And this gentleman here,” the captain said, turning to Adrian, “is our very own genuine hero of the Barbary wars, Captain Adrian Raefer Ballantine.”

  The captive audience was suitably awed, and Courtney was relieved to have the bulk of the attention shift to Ballantine. She hastened to the vacant seat beside First Mate Lansing and studiously avoided Adrian’s eyes throughout the pre-dinner amenities. She also avoided the lure of the deliciously sweet, strong red wine which accompanied the meal of succulent roast chicken. Somewhere between her cabin door and the ward room, her appetite had deserted her completely, and her dinner, for the most part, went untouched.

  Six weeks! Six weeks of shared meals, shared lodgings, and unavoidable encounters on a ship half the size of the Falconer! Perhaps if she pleaded illness, the plague or the flux, Captain Pettigrew would set her ashore somewhere before they reached open water.

  Six weeks! She knew that gleam in Ballantine's eyes well enough to fear it, and knew he would not be content to simply keep his distance and leave her alone.

  When the meal ended, Courtney was the first to jump to her feet with a request to be excused. Doña Delores nodded solemnly in agreement and ushered her shy charge away from the heady attractions offered by the company of attentive gentlemen. Adrian stood along with the other men to bid a casually polite “good evening” to each of the ladies in turn, but only Courtney earned an extra, faintly promisory smile from the smoky gray eyes.

  Never, she thought wildly. Never. She would never let him touch her again; never even let him close enough to threaten the fragile hold she had on her emotions.

  When she was safely inside her cabin, she locked and barred the door. For added measure, she tipped the rail-backed chair against the oak panel and wedged it firmly beneath the brass latch. She undressed swiftly and extinguished her lantern, then crawled onto the narrow berth and laid rigid and alert beneath the single layer of blanket. Her eyes remained glued to the bottom of the door, to the narrow slit of light that fanned across the floor.

  Her head whipped up sometime later when she heard the sound of boots out in the companionway. It was followed by quiet laughter as the Santinis bid goodnight to Franklin Cordel, and separated at their respective cabins. Courtney held her breat
h, waiting, but there were no further sounds of movement, and her head slowly sank back onto the thin pillow.

  Her eyelids eventually grew heavy and the pillow softer. The anxieties of the day pulled and tugged her thoughts into a kind of sluggish resignation, and she let herself drift into a troubled sleep; one dominated by a sternly handsome face and a white, wolfish smile.

  ~~

  When Courtney awoke again the cabin was slashed in half by a beam of sunlight that streaked through the tiny porthole. The chair was still in place, undisturbed, beneath the door latch. Her clothes lay in an untidy heap where she had left them, and for a moment, the resentment was as acute as the relief. She resented him for making her behave like a frightened virgin in a boy's school. He had not come tapping on her door during the night. He had not attempted to wake her. For all she knew, he had not even returned to his cabin.

  She dressed and went up on deck to take a brief stroll in the fresh air before breakfast. Ballantine had apparently decided on the same means of clearing the residue of sleep from his system, as had the Spaniard and her duenna. Adrian saw Courtney and paused in the middle of a smiling exchange with the dark-eyed beauty to bid her a pleasantly bland good morning. Senorita del Fuega did not trouble herself to tear her eyes away from the tall American officer. Courtney could only speculate that he must have been elaborating on the extent of the injuries he had sustained in battle, for the senorita had a hand resting lightly on his forearm and her pretty little face was wrapt with concern.

  Courtney muttered a suitably dry greeting and walked in the opposite direction. First Mate Lansing saw her and offered his company for the duration of her stroll, which, conscious of the eyes boring into her shoulder blades, she accepted with a charming smile. She even went so far as to fake a small stumble when they rounded the forecastle, prompting the mate to eagerly supply his arm for balance. Courtney was aware of Adrian’s frowning glances following them, and she deliberately pressed closer to Lansing, as if his description of currents and underwater rifts was the most intriguing thing she had ever heard.