“Sword-fighting, is it?” His arms tightened and he lifted her onto the berth. His hand smoothed its way down to her belly, down to the fine thatch of red-gold curls. She gasped as she accused him of foul play, but his fingers were already engaged too deeply in the counterattack to pay any notice...and in the next breath, she did not want him to.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In the end, it took the Sirius nearly seven weeks to reach Boston. Spates of poor weather, including a devil of a storm, extended the journey into the first week of October; and Courtney’s first glimpse of America was of a land painted in the bright crimsons, ambers, and golds of autumn. Captain Pettigrew, aware that most of his passengers had spent their time on board the Sirius in various stages of illness, announced he would be remaining in the sheltered harbor for a week in order to allow the weary passengers to recoup their stamina. All but two elected to remain on solid land, choosing to finish their journey by coach.
For Courtney, who had suffered nothing more than a minor queasiness in the last few mornings aboard the Sirius, the delay meant a week of exploring the shops and taverns, of eavesdropping on the broad nasal twang of the Bostonians, of being introduced to the elegance of fine restaurants, something which required tutelage ahead of time as Adrian explained the need and purpose of ten spoons and ten forks. It also meant spending long, languorous hours with Adrian in front of the blazing warmth of a fire. It was a welcome change from their enforced restraint on board the Sirius. Aside from the occasional stroll on deck and the polite ritual of sharing the mealtimes, they had maintained a discreet civility in front of their fellow passengers. Only when the ship’s company was asleep did a discreet tap on Courtney’s door signal an end to the formalities. Even then, the nights seemed disproportionately shorter than the days, and since most of their conversations were undertaken in whispers, their time together seemed furtive as well as brief.
Once ashore, all pretence was suspended. Adrian took a suite in a large, expensive hotel and spent the first full day ensconced in an enormous feather bed with an uncommonly receptive pirate wench. The following days were spent exploring in the city, where he introduced her to new tastes in food. He took her to an opera one night and spent the entire evening watching the expression on her face as distant memories struggled to resurface. He bought her new clothes, in the colors and styles that suited her. He marvelled at her curiosity over things he had taken for granted, like eating a beef steak for the first time, or tasting a pumpkin pie.
And gradually, she let herself laugh again. As he had suspected, it was a husky, deep-throated sound that turned heads, and would have warmed the coldest of hearts.
It melted his completely.
As slowly as the laughter had come, the distrust and wariness that had become so much a part of her life began to fade from the emerald eyes. It had been there almost constantly the first few weeks of their turbulent relationship, surging and receding like the tides of the sea. She still argued with him, still found ways to challenge his mettle; and he still feared what lay ahead for her in Norfolk. But he was as honest with her as he could be. The lie about the traitor's codename was his one small concession to winning her trust and confidence, and perhaps it was a mistake to keep it from her, but he knew he would lose her before he had a chance to win her if she knew he was convinced her father was the Judas.
Another topic never broached was that of Deborah Longworth Edgecombe. Ballantine knew the Carolina would likely have passed the Sirius somewhere in the Atlantic and, without the need to stop over in Boston, the frigate would sail into Norfolk a full two weeks ahead of them. Adrian’s family—and Deborah—would be alerted to his arrival, as would a public clamouring to welcome a hero home.
“Maybe I should just send a courier on ahead and tell them I have decided to go north, to Canada,” he suggested wryly on their last night in Boston.
“Coward,” she declared. She was seated cross-legged on the floor and wearing a loose-fitting cambric nightgown. She had a box of bonbons open on her lap and her fingers were sticky with chocolate; her eyes were as sparkling and mischievous as those of a child. She had only recently emerged from a hot bath. The firelight was behind her and made her damp hair glitter in a coppery-red nimbus around her cheeks and throat.
Adrian was also seated on the floor, his long legs stretched toward the warmth of the fire, his upper torso gleaming nakedly in the russet light. He watched her select a bonbon and scrape the sweet coating away with her teeth to uncover the treat in the centre.
Courtney glanced over and scowled. “Something wrong with the way I eat, Yankee?”
He smiled and sipped at his brandy. “Not if you are four years old and have never seen a chocolate before.”
She stuck out her tongue and proceeded to lick each chocolaty finger. The smile in his eyes lingered as they dropped to the balloon glass he held cradled in his palm. The firelight flickered blood-red in the brandy; the heat of his hand warmed it so that when it touched his lips it glided, like honey, down his throat.
He sensed Courtney’s eyes upon him and he lowered his left arm, still self-conscious about the ugliness of the scars.
“I was not staring at that, you vain rogue,” Courtney chided softly. “And even if I was, those are your real medals; you should wear them proudly.”
She leaned forward and brushed her lips lightly against his, escaping before his hand could capture the nape of her neck. Instead, she caught his hand and held it while her fingertips, then her lips traced a tender path of caresses along the pink, shiny welts that distorted his forearm.
Adrian felt an immediate and powerful response in his body. In eight weeks his hunger for her had not diminished in the slightest. If anything it had grown proportionately the nearer they came to Virginia. Was it fear of losing her? He did not know. It was as if she had seeped into his blood and altered its chemistry so that he would never feel whole without her. He could only wonder what the rest of the Ballantine family would think of her. He was under no illusions as to the kind of woman his father, Samuel Ballantine, considered acceptable to welcome into the family. And yet Adrian would no more think of trying to change Courtney into a demure, vapid southern belle as he would...well, as he would try to fit himself into his brother’s shoes. Rory loved the land and the security he found there. The last thing Adrian wanted out of life was a sprawling, sleeping plantation house with nothing more stormy in his existence than the weather.
A life with Courtney Farrow would be nothing but storms. In the way she loved and the way she hated, there was only instinct and passion to guide her. By contrast, Deborah was gentle, obliging, calming almost to the degree that she melded with the background. He had known Deborah Edgecombe all of his life, and they had both known the plans for their betrothal before they had left the nursery. When she reached the appointed age, Adrian had dutifully offered and she had accepted, but they had merely been going through the motions. He loved her as a friend, but there was no fire, no passion, no breathless anticipation of what her next word or look might hold. Deborah was warmth where Courtney was flame. And if he had learned nothing else over the past weeks, it was that he enjoyed being burned over and over and over again.
He brushed his fingers against her ombre-gilded silhouette and waited for the emerald eyes to rise to his. He set the brandy glass aside, his gaze locked to hers while he unfastened the delicate row of satin ribbons that descended from her neck down the front of her gown. The cambric tumbled away from the soft round flesh and he twined his hands around hers to pull her closer. She came willingly, her mouth tasting sugary sweet as he possessed it.
“You must be the Devil, Irish,” he murmured against her lips. “You must be, for you are in my blood and I am damned if I know how to get you out.”
“Do you want to get me out, Yankee?” She asked, her hands at his shoulders tracing the bronzed, rippling muscles. The cambric was open almost to her waist, and with a casual flick of his wrists, he had both breasts bared to his
searching fingertips.
“I fear it is too late for that, madam. Far too late.” He pulled her down onto the thick carpet and fused his mouth to hers. If she needed a further answer, it was in the heat of his flesh as it filled her. With soft cries she welcomed him and moved with him, loving him as she always did: as if each time was their first and might be their last.
~~
They left the frosty chill of Boston behind and sailed south to Virginia where the wind still carried an autumnal bite but the sun seemed determined to keep the trees and grass green. The harbor at Norfolk was crowded with vessels of all shapes and sizes: from single-masted sloops to three-masted frigates. Adrian’s keen eyes singled out the Carolina, and his expression turned grim. Fishing boats had scurried on ahead to announce their arrival and the docks were teeming with people; the waterfront stores flew colorful, patriotic displays of flags.
Adrian had donned his uniform for the first time since leaving Gibraltar. The stiff blue tunic with its gold braid and high standing collar made him look exactly the part of a returning hero, and Courtney’s heart swelled with a combination of pride and nervousness.
“I think I should wait below until you have left the ship,” she said quietly, eyeing the mass of humanity waiting on the dock.
“You will do no such thing. If I am forced to endure this, I will damn well endure it with you by my side.”
“But all those people—”
“By my side,” he insisted. “And no more arguments or I will ask Captain Pettigrew for a pair of manacles to keep you bound to me by force.”
“It would be a fitting way for me to enter Norfolk,” she muttered, scratching behind her ear and adjusting her bonnet for the tenth time.
Adrian sensed her nervousness and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You have nothing to worry about. We Southerners are most hospitable to pretty young exiles from foreign lands. Especially ones with dirks strapped to their upper thighs.”
Courtney looked up, startled, but he only laughed and kissed her soundly.
She glanced surreptitiously into the Sirius’ rigging and saw the familiar froth of red beard, grown again on the Atlantic crossing. She had only spoken to Davey Dunn twice in the long weeks they had been on board the ship, both times on her initiative since he had apparently decided to shun her. She knew Adrian had talked to him—she had seen bruises on both men as proof. But whatever agreement they had reached, she was not privy to, having only received a grunted assurance from Adrian that there would be no trouble. Knowing Davey, he would vanish within seconds of stepping ashore anyway and not rest until he had located Duncan Farrow.
If Duncan was here.
In spite of the confidence she showed Adrian, she harbored more doubts than she cared to acknowledge, even to herself. Doubts about her father, doubts about the wisdom of crossing the Atlantic to search for him and, worst of all, doubts about what would happen if Adrian did, indeed, help her in her search. As an officer of the American navy, he would be duty-bound to take Duncan to the authorities. Notwithstanding everything that had happened between them, the promises made, the vows exchanged...would he be able to turn his back and let Duncan walk away?
Adrian had said that she was in his blood, but a man could be cut and blood would drain away. He had changed her life: there was no question about that. He had shown her gentleness and tenderness and he had encouraged a rebirth of all the emotions and feelings she had fought so hard over the years to forget.
He was home now, back in a land of gentle breezes and green grass and tall stately plantation homes. He had met Courtney on the sea, emerging from the flames and hell of battle. He had saved her life and she had saved his; and while he claimed his feelings for her ran deep to the core, those feelings had been born in the pain and desperation of battle. Would they survive afternoon tea on a shady veranda where Courtney would likely spill her tea and drop the china cup?
She found herself thinking more and more about how well she would compare to a woman who had probably never held a sword in her hand much less used one to slash through an enemy's throat. Matthew Rutger had said Deborah was beautiful and elegant, refined and gracious— everything Courtney was not. Would she be in the crowd on the dock waiting to greet Adrian? Of course she would, unless she was a complete fool. And why was Courtney more afraid of meeting this woman than she ever had been of meeting the meanest, ugliest pirate along the Barbary Coast?
The ship glided toward the main wharf, and the activity in the rigging took on a frenzied note. The steering sails were hauled in, the mooring cables were snaked from their capstans, while First Mate Lansing shouted a steady stream of orders into his hailing trumpet. The captain, standing on the forecastle bridge, waved to someone ashore, and his homely face split into a wide grin. He removed his cap and held it aloft, as did several of the laughing crewmen. They were home. Their wives and sweethearts were on shore waiting, smiling, eager to hear the news from abroad.
The cables were released, and a dozen helping hands on shore grabbed for them and looped them over the thick wooden pylons. The Sirius came to a sliding halt, jerking slightly as she nudged up against the dock. First Mate Lansing’s trumpet relayed the order to clear the gangway hatch and lower away. The captain descended from the bridge and collected his log and manifests from a cabin boy, then walked across the deck toward Adrian and Courtney.
“Captain Ballantine, Miz Courtney: a pleasure to have had y’all aboard.
“Thank you, Captain Pettigrew,” Adrian said, returning the friendly salute before he extended his hand for a warm shake. “The pleasure was ours.”
“The vultures appear to have sniffed y’all out.” The Captain grinned and indicated the milling confusion on shore. “Best not keep them waitin’ too long or y’all are apt to start a riot. Again, ma’am, mah absolute pleasure.”
Courtney smiled, the best she could manage with her tongue fastened to the roof of her mouth. Her thoughts were all for the crowd, for the flags and the bunting and the cheers.
“Come along, my brave Irish hellion,” Adrian murmured in her ear. “Our fate awaits us.”
There was no mockery in his eyes, only gentle understanding. She let him steer her toward the gangway, holding her close to his side, and she wondered, briefly, if it was as much to bolster his own courage as hers.
Immediately, when he set foot on the gangway the air clanged and crashed with the sounds of a military band welcoming them ashore. A cheer went up in the crowd and hats were torn from heads and waved gleefully. Courtney felt very small, very insignificant in the wave of admiration for the tall, smiling officer by her side. He assisted her from the gangway ramp onto the dock then turned to acknowledge the salute of a young naval lieutenant who murmured a greeting and pointed to the formal reception committee waiting a dozen paces away.
The gathering of brass buttons included two commodores and a rear-admiral, who stood before a starched and stiff-necked row of captains and junior officers, businessmen and wealthy merchants, all of whom vied for a word, clapped Adrian on the back, offered handshakes and salutes, and proffered so many cards, he could barely hold them all. Somewhere in the tangle, Courtney was left several steps behind, a position she accepted with some relief, for it allowed her to search the sea of faces surreptitiously, half hoping she might find one that was familiar.
If Duncan was here, in Norfolk, he would want to see the man credited with sinking his ships and destroying his stronghold.
~~
Clearly uncomfortable with all the hand-shaking and shoulder-clapping, Adrian’s attention kept flicking down the reception line to the small group of civilians standing off to one side. Courtney followed his gaze and had no difficulty identifying the man who could only have been the patriarch of the Ballantine family.
Samuel Ballantine was as tall as Adrian and equally broad across the shoulders. He wore a towering black beaver hat over a shock of wavy silver hair. His face was stern and craggy; every crease seemed to represent
years of unquestioned authority, every line led upward to the domineering presence of his eyes. A darker blue-gray than Adrian’s, they were flat and cold. They radiated power, but no compassion; impatience and very little tolerance.
Beside him stood a younger, leaner version, impeccably dressed in dark broadcloth. Adrian’s brother, Rory Ballantine, could have been just as cold, just as formidable a presence as his father but for the smile—no, the grin—that had not left his face since Adrian had stepped off the ship.
When the two brothers were a scant few paces apart, Rory's patience expired and he came striding across the end of the wharf to clap his arms around Adrian’s shoulders. "By God, it is good to have you back! We should have known you would return with bells ringing and flags flying. I refuse to believe half the stories they are telling about you, however, until I hear them from your own lips, and then only when you are too drunk to know how to lie.”
Adrian laughed and turned to look for Courtney, but she was still a few paces behind.
“For heaven’s sakes, Rory Ballantine, do you intend to keep him all to yourself!”
Adrian glanced toward the source of the chiding female voice, and a smile creased his handsome face. A petite, pink-faced, and very obviously pregnant woman detached herself from Samuel Ballantine’s arm and held out both hands to welcome Adrian.
“Helen!" Adrian hugged her gently then held her out to arm's length. "What the devil has my little brother been up to, or need I ask!”
She blushed darkly and raised a gloved hand to contain her giggles. “It is so good to have you home again, Adrian. We are all so proud of you! All day long, the boys talk of nothing else but their famous uncle.”
Adrian leaned to one side as he caught a glimpse of two peeping heads huddled in the shadow of his sister-in-law’s skirts. The twins, Neil and David, had been babes-in-arms the last time Adrian had seen them.
“Has it only been a year?” he murmured, after coaxing a handshake out of the shy pair before they scurried behind their mother’s skirt again. “It seems more like ten.”
Wind and the Sea Page 45
