“No,” came a yawned growl from the settee. “You take Prendergast, I will cope with Penderton. If we separate we can get twice as much ground covered, and I do believe haste is of the utmost importance in both cases.”
Adrian turned to watch as the much rumpled and dishevelled form of his brother propped himself on the edge of the couch. His dark hair stood up in spikes, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy from no sleep and too much whiskey.
He glared belligerently at the sunlight and squinted. “What time is it?”
“Six o’clock. Thereabouts.”
“Good God. Helen will be bristling like a porcupine. Six o’clock? Did you get any sleep at all?”
Adrian glanced at Deborah. “Some.”
Rory scratched both hands through his hair, ruffling it even more. “Are you planning to speak to Father today?”
“If he crosses my path, no doubt I will think of a word or two to spare on the bastard. Other than that, no. I have more important things on my mind."
“Will you tell him about Alan?”
“There is nothing to tell. Not yet anyway.”
“You have no idea who murdered him?”
“Theories, yes. None that I can prove. And since Jennings is already dead, I am not even certain what good it would do. It is difficult to charge a dead man with murder...or to hang him.”
Rory pursed his lips and nodded, but further conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.
The three exchanged a glance in silence.
“Who do you suppose it could be this early in the morning?” Deborah whispered.
“One way to find out,” Rory said and pushed to his feet. “Perhaps it is a kitchen maid who has read my mind. My belly is so empty it is rubbing on my backbone.”
He had a hand on the brass latch and was twisting it when something heavy shoved against the door, causing it to smash inward and send Rory stumbling back off his feet. Deborah screamed and Adrian started to lunge for his sabre as a body crashed through the doorway. The bloody hand that had been grasping the jamb for support lost its grip and left a crimson smear all the way down the wall to the floor.
~~
Courtney opened her eyes slowly. At first she thought it was the middle of the night, it was so dark around her; but then, as her senses began to prick awake, she realized the blackness was caused by a thick blindfold. Her ankles were bound. Her hands were lashed together at the wrists and tied to the cane slats on the back of the chair she was sitting in. From somewhere she heard the sound of dripping water. The air was chilly and damp, and smelled of mildew and earthy rot. There was another odor she could not identify other than to determine it was extremely harsh and unpleasant. Her mouth, surprisingly, was not gagged. She noted it with a cool detachment, realizing that no gag meant whoever had brought her here had no fear of a scream bringing about discovery.
There were few distinguishable sounds other than a steady, hollow drip, drip, drip, of water coming from somewhere nearby. The dampness in the air, the smell, the dripping water all led her to think of a cave, or a crypt. Something near water, for she could hear the faint rushing sound of a river.
She did not remember being brought here or tied into the chair, or...stripped! That explained the cold. She was no longer wearing the layers of muslin and linen. She wore something loose, a shirt or smock perhaps. Whoever brought her here had obviously searched her thoroughly for any hidden weapons and now wanted to keep her feeling completely defenceless.
She did not make any overt moves. Because she could not hear anyone else in the vicinity did not mean she was alone. In fact, she sensed she was not alone. Someone else was nearby—watching her? Waiting for her to show signs of wakening?
Slowly, with as little motion as she could manage, she began an assessment of her condition. No horrendous pains in her arms or legs meant nothing was broken. There were bruises, to be sure, and scratches on her flesh from the struggle she had put up before the explosion in her skull had darkened her world. She had been sitting on the bed with Matthew—
Matthew! Dickie! No. No! You can’t think of them just yet.
Clear everything out of your mind! Think! Remember! You were sitting on the bed. There was a knock on the door. Dickie went to answer it. Then someone was bursting through the doorway, a gun out. Pointed. Shoved against Matthew's temple with the trigger cocked.
“Move and he is dead,” the familiar voice had hissed. “Anybody moves and he is dead.”
Dear God, it was Garrett, and he had looked like a wild man! He had not shaved for weeks, and his eyes had seemed strangely sunken, with dark bluish semicircles beneath them, carved deeply into his skin. One of his hands was missing! The grossly misshapen stump had swung up like a club to knock the dirk out of her grasp before she could use it. As well, one of his ears and the skin down one side of his neck was gnarled and shiny, melted in the same fires that had consumed the Falconer. The sight had startled Courtney as much as the laugh that had drawn her gaze back to the open doorway.
“Well, well,” Miranda had spat. “If it is not the little princess. All dressed up in her finery. All sweet and cozy with another one of her Yankee lovers. Straight out of the arms of one into the bed of another. No wonder she had no time for you, Garrett.”
“She will have it now,” he grunted and hooked his stump under her arm to drag her to her feet. “I made her a promise back on the Falconer, and by God, I intend to see it through.”
Dickie had moved then. He had picked himself up off the floor and hurled himself at Garrett Shaw like a slender, frail fury. Shaw felt the sting of teeth and nails and roared out a curse as he turned to fling the boy aside. The distraction had given Courtney an opening for a split second, long enough for her to reach for the barrel of the pistol and try to shove it aside. She thrust a finger behind the trigger to lock it, and she clawed for Garrett’s eyes with her free hand. A second roared curse brought the horrible, grotesque stump up to strike her fully on the side of the neck. The world had spun dizzily for a moment but she had not released her grip on the gun. She held it and fought for control and Garrett had struck her again and again, bringing his knee up and slamming into her belly.
Miranda had been laughing, goading him on. Matthew had been struggling to his hands and knees on the floor, swaying, crawling drunkenly toward Dickie’s unmoving body. Garrett had struck again, and Courtney’s fingers had opened, finally releasing the gun. She had doubled over in agony, waves of agony that had robbed her of any ability to move, or to scream.
Remembering it all, Courtney swallowed past the rage and pain, but it remained like a lump of fire at the back of her throat. She forgot her resolve not to move, and her hands jerked at the ropes that bound her wrists to the chair. She stiffened as she heard a satisfied chuckle several feet away.
“So, you are awake. I thought as much.” She heard a faint scraping of a chair leg and then footsteps on the stone. Her mind was still in a whirl of confusion. Anger, hatred, resentment, fear for Matthew and Dickie all crowded in on her ability to think and remain calm. The voice...it was vaguely familiar, yet she could not place it. It was not Garrett’s, but it was a man’s voice and it rang with arrogance and authority.
“I have been watching you for some time, Miss Farrow, waiting for you to waken. Captain Shaw was unnecessarily brutal, I must say. Such lovely skin, to be so bruised.”
Courtney flinched as a hand brushed against her cheek. There was a moment of hesitation, and the hand stroked her throat, then roughly cupped her chin and held it.
“You are hardly in any position to resist me, my dear.”
“Get your filthy, sodding hands off me,” she hissed.
“Why? Are you afraid I might touch something that belongs to your valiant Captain Ballantine?” The mention of Adrian’s name lodged a greater horror in Courtney’s mind, and she felt the hot, rasping breath of her tormentor on her cheek as he leaned his face closer to hers. “I plan to do more than simply touch you, my dear. Much more.
How could I pass up such a singular opportunity to take my pleasure from the daughter of Duncan Farrow?”
Courtney ground her teeth together to keep from hurling a stream of oaths at the disembodied voice. The voice. The voice! Concentrate on the voice! She knew she had heard it before, but where?
Do not think of what he is saying! He wants you frightened. He wants you terrified. He wants you making mistakes. Show your fear and you are lost: Duncan’s words. Duncan’s warning. And she was Duncan Farrow’s daughter, by God. She was Marguerite de Villiers’ daughter. She was Adrian Ballantine’s wife!
“Who are you?” she asked coldly. “Why have you brought me here?”
She felt the warmth move away from her cheek as he straightened. “Who I am is of little consequence at the moment; you will find out in due time. As to the whys and wherefores, it is a simple matter of compensation.”
“Davey was right," she whispered. "Garrett only wanted Duncan’s money.”
“Fortune, my dear, fortune. Are you truly so naïve as to doubt that there are millions involved here? And can you really blame us for being slightly distressed to get all this way only to find out Duncan Farrow is alive and well and waiting for his daughter to appear?”
“Duncan?” she gasped. “He is alive?”
“Ingratiatingly so. And unfortunately he is not the most generous of men. He would not even consider offering us half for all our trouble, although I suspect he may change his mind now."
“Because of me?” she said scornfully.
"Because of me, my dear, and my foresight in having the dock watched. I have had quite a time convincing Miranda of your usefulness, however. She was all for removing you permanently. I gather she is tired of seeing you resurrected from the dead. But the ways she suggested of removing you...tsk tsk. Such disturbing appetites in a woman of such amazing charm. Although, in all honesty, I cannot find fault with her basic reasoning. Pain tends to loosen the tongue as readily as money.”
He moved again and she heard his footsteps pace slowly around behind the chair.
“Of course it would simplify matters if we knew where Duncan’s lair was. He seems to have gone to ground, as they say, and taken that wretch Prendergast with him. You would not by any chance happen to know where they might have gone?”
“Go to hell,” she spat.
“Mmm. The anticipated answer. Garrett warned me you would be difficult. But you see, my dear, I would as soon watch you writhe in agony as see you writhe in ecstasy. The choice is completely up to you, if you prefer to live or die, and in what condition. Frankly, if your stubbornness stems from loyalty, I am afraid the gesture is a wasted one. Your search for Seawolf should be proof of that.”
Courtney stiffened. Seawolf? How did he know about Seawolf?
“I see you are familiar with name? Garrett tells me your search for the man who betrayed your people is almost an obsession.”
“Betrayed—?” The whisper escaped before she could catch it.
“Seawolf has become a popular chap in the Admiralty offices. As you can imagine, he has saved our illustrious Commodore Preble a considerable amount of effort and lives, not to mention time. The information he has sold has led to the removal of half a dozen pirate dens along the Barbary Coast—or did you think it was just your little band of thieves that he betrayed?”
Courtney’s mind was reeling. What was he saying? What was he talking about! Seawolf was the traitor? No. No! Impossible! Adrian had told her the code name: Swordfish. Not Seawolf! Not Duncan! Duncan Farrow would never sell out his own men. It was a lie! A ploy to throw her off guard.
“What? Did you say something, my dear?”
“You must be the one Garrett calls ‘the Englishman’.”
“Astute as well as lovely.”
“Then you should know all about betrayal,” she ground out through her teeth.
The voice chuckled again. “Indeed I do. I know about deception and guile. I know about greed. I know about vengeance.”
“Then you know Ballantine will kill you when he finds you.”
The voice moved lower so that it hissed in her ear again. “If the valiant Captain Ballantine had to choose between killing me and saving you, which do you suppose he would do? And your father—do you think he will pay more to arrange your freedom or to have a chance to settle accounts with Garrett Shaw? So many choices, so many fascinating combinations. I have not even mentioned Garrett! Your lover cost him his ship, his hand, his dreams of collecting a fortune. He is eagerly looking forward to killing Ballantine. And you, my dear. Who would you save if you could barter for the freedom of one life: Your father? Or your lover? They have both played games with your life; they have both used you. My God!" The voice was almost orgasmic. “I could not have planned a more intriguing denouement myself, regardless who lives or dies when the dust settles!”
~~
Adrian knelt beside the bleeding body and grabbed the man by the shoulders and chest to turn him on his back. Davey Dunn cursed his pointed lack of gentleness with as strong an oath as Adrian emitted on recognition.
“Do you Yankees never piss?” Dunn gasped. “I been waitin’ near two hours in the closet down the hall. Scair’t the wind out o’ two nigra maids an’ a bootboy fer me troubles.”
“Where the hell have you come from? What happened to your shoulder? Rory, for Christ’s sake, help me drag him inside before we have half the hotel up in arms.”
With Rory’s assistance, Adrian lifted the stocky corsair to his feet and steered him into a nearby chair. Deborah, her hands still clapped over her mouth and her eyes still rounded with shock, scrambled well clear of the three men as she ran to the door to close it.
“Oh dear, dear, dear,” Davey droned as his gaze settled on the empty whiskey bottle on the table beside him. “Have ye nay more where that come from?”
Adrian glared at him. “After you answer a few questions.”
“On a dry throat? Ye’re a rare cruel man. Not the kind o' man Duncan’d expect his daughter to marry.”
Adrian clenched his jaw and nodded to Rory to fetch another full bottle from the sideboard. The younger Ballantine, clearly astonished by the corsair’s audacity, brought the bottle and three glasses, filling them all to the brim.
“Well?” Adrian demanded when the first glassful had been drained to the vapours.
“Well, I got news fer ye, Yankee. None good.”
“I am listening.”
“So is half the bloody town,” Dunn spat, drilling his gaze first into Rory, then Deborah.
“They both know everything that has happened over the past few months. I would prefer they hear what you have to say. Unless—?” He glanced askance at Deborah but she shook her head and remained steadfast by the door.
The small, squinty eyes peered up at Adrian through the fuzz of red lashes and brows. “Ain’t healthy, Yankee, but it is yer choice. They got her. Her an’ the doc an’ the kid.”
Adrian’s face froze. “Courtney?”
“Aye, Court. I seen them on the dock yesterday when the Sirius dropped anchor. Waited to see who it were they was interest’d in afore I showed myself. Figured it might you, since ye burned his ship.”
“Garrett Shaw?”
Dunn nodded. “Aye, Shaw an’ his whore. Bold as brass, they was, jest standin’ there back o' the crowd. Looked pissed as newts when Court walked off the ship beside ye. The whore turned purple an' I thought she was goin' to bust wide open. Shaw had to hold her back. Anyhow, when they seen her run out of there, damme if they didn’t near trip on their chins followin’ her. Natur’ly, I followed them. Went up and down and along a few twisty bits till I reckon Court run out o’ wind, but whup! Turns out we wasn't the only ones who followed her. Dickie Little caught up to her first."
Adrian said nothing. Not a muscle quivered or an eyelash blinked, not even when Deborah moved slowly away from the door and sat in a nearby chair.
Davey took another deep swallow of whiskey and resumed his tale. "Di
ckie led her off down the street to a tavern. Shaw an' his whore stood there long enough to figure they weren't comin' out again an' finally he leaves and she stays to keep watch. Nother twenty minutes or so an’ he comes back with a wagon. It din't look too good, so I give ‘em five minutes inside, then I went in after them. That is when I got this damned pinprick.” He pointed disgustedly to his shoulder. It sloped at an odd angle from the thick stump of his neck; the bullet had obviously smashed through bone. The sleeve of his shirt and the front of his leather vest were soaked with blood, most of it dried and caked brown.
“I heard shoutin' and kicked through the door an' the first thing I seen was Court an’ Shaw grapplin’ over a gun. The other two, the doc an’ the boy, were on the floor. I didn't know if they were dead or alive. I couldn't see whore a-tall.” He stopped and shook his head. “Stupid. Stupid. I weren’t thinkin’. I were in too much of a hurry. She steps out from behind the door, an’ blam! Down I went.”
Adrian’s features were becoming tauter, whiter, colder as Dunn’s story progressed, but he did not interrupt.
“She were all fer killin’ me then an' there—guess she figured she'd seen enough ghosts fer one day—but Shaw stopped her. Said as how I would come in useful fer deliverin’ messages.”
“Messages?”
“Aye. One fer Duncan, invitin’ him to a party tonight. Midnight. A warehouse near the edge o’ town. He's to bring gold an' lots of it.”
“Farrow is alive? He is in Norfolk?”
“Court never doubted it, Yankee. Neither did I.” There was a strange flicker behind the pale blue eyes as he studied Adrian closely. “But it must have shook up their plans some, hearin’ about Duncan.”
“Plans?”
Dunn grimaced. “You an’ Court must have done some talkin’ in that cabin every night. Plans! Duncan’s money! The whore fancied herself up an’ hoofed into the lawyer’s office tryin’ to tell him she were Court. Spoke the right words, give the right names, but when she din't have the locket to show him, he told her the act weren’t worth a goose fart an’ if she knew what were good for her, she’d get the fuck on out o' there. A week ago that were, so they must've been broodin’ on it since. Now they got Court an' they must figure she'll do better than any locket. Damn, but I ain’t jawed so much in ten year. Throat is about burned dry.”
Wind and the Sea Page 48
