He held out his empty glass to Rory, who filled it without a second thought.
“Have you seen Farrow?”
Dunn screwed up his face. “Ye think I would come to you first without seein’ the captain?”
Deborah had kept her silence long enough. “Matthew...please, is he all right?”
“Eh?” Dunn squinted up at her. “Aye, far as I could see. Leastwise, he were movin’. Boy had a busted leg though, and Court were unconscious when Shaw carried her out.”
A nerve shivered in Adrian’s cheek. “You said you had two messages.”
“Aye. One fer Duncan, one fer you. Seems there is someone wants you invited ter the party as well. Calls his’self ‘the Englishman’.”
Adrian’s hands tightened into fists.
“Regular masquerade ball, ain’t it?" Dunn raised the glass of whiskey to his lips with a sly grin, and Adrian turned away. He paced to the window and stared into the bright glitter of the water in the bay.
“How much do they want from Farrow? Does he have enough to cover their demands?”
“Considerin’ they asked for ‘everythin’ I dunno. Ye offerin’ to throw in yer fancy saber an’ gold braid?”
Adrian looked around slowly, his eyes cold and deadly, but Dunn continued.
“I'm thinkin’ it ain’t just Duncan's gold they're after."
Ballantine nodded grimly. They would want to know that no one was left behind to hunt them.
"Duncan reckons he might have an edge. Somethin' ter bargain with.”
“What kind of an edge?” Adrian asked.
“Ign’runce, boy,” Dunn clucked derisively. “Pure ign’runce to wed a girl without knowin’ nothin’ about her, nothin’ about her grandpappy.”
“De Villiers? What in God's name does her grandfather have to do with this?”
“Plenty, considerin’ who he was.”
Deborah and Rory both looked at Adrian, who could only elaborate on what he knew. "He was a French aristocrat who died on the guillotine."
Dunn snorted. “He were also Louis’ personal banker. King Louis, that be, an' by personal, I mean real personal.”
“Go on,” Adrian insisted quietly.
Again Dunn hesitated and eyed Deborah and Rory.
“I am not a man who likes to repeat himself too often,” Adrian grated harshly. “And I am rapidly running out of patience.”
Dunn stared at him a moment then shrugged. “What the hell, we'll all prob'ly be dead by mornin’ anyway. It started with the troubles back in Paris in ‘89. Louis panicked when the Bastille was overrun, an' he gave the royal jewels to de Villiers for safekeepin’. Bloody September come around, an' the king were locked up, mobs were bangin’ on everyone’s doors wavin’ torches an' buildin' guillotines. Ol’ Gaston, he know’d his daughter were the only one of ‘em had any chance of sneakin’ away, so he give her the two big chests an' ordered her to hide them real good, fer the sake of king ‘n country. She hid them damn things fer four years, an' when she met up with Duncan, she gave 'em to him, thinkin' he would know best what to do with 'em. When Duncan opened 'em he seen diamonds the size of yer thumb, rubies like fists, gold chains and crowns and rings enough ter string ‘round yer waist like a belt! I can tell ye, he damn near popped his eyeballs out.”
Adrian was stunned. “I had heard stories of a vast treasure that went missing during the early days of the Reign of Terror, but I assumed it was just that: stories.”
“After his wife were caught, Duncan weren’t about ter come forward an' hand the treasure back. But he knew he couldn't keep the chests on the Goose, ner on the Island neither, so he shipped ‘em here, hopin’ one day to give it all to Court to make up fer them bad years.”
“And you say Shaw knows nothing about it? How can you be so certain?”
“Ain’t but two people ever seen what was in them chests, aside from Duncan’s wife an' her father. Me an' Duncan are the only two others left alive now what even knows about 'em."
Adrian patted his pocket absently in search of a cigar. Something here did not make sense. Why would Duncan Farrow be sitting on a fortune in unclaimed gems; a second fortune in gold from his raiding ventures over the years, yet sell out his ship and mates for a few measly thousands of dollars and incredible risks?
“How many people knew about Seawolf?” he asked gruffly.
“Eh? Seawolf? How in blazes—?”
“That was the name Farrow used to communicate with his wife, was it not?”
“Aye, but—”
“It is also the name someone has been using to sell Farrow out to the Americans."
Davey's chest swelled as he realized what Adrian was implying. "Well it wasn't Duncan. He'd no sooner sell out a single one of his men than he'd stand in front of a cannon an' take a ball in his chest. Why would he?"
Adrian shook his head. "Exactly. I can see no reason why he would. But if the traitor is Shaw, which you and Courtney seemed convinced it is, and which I am now coming to believe, then she and Matt and the boy are dead regardless of whether Duncan meets his demands or not.”
“Ye’re a cheery bastard, ain’t ye?”
Adrian ignored the sarcasm. “Farrow and I have to have a long talk before this goes any farther. How do I get in touch with him?”
Dunn narrowed his eyes. “Ye walk to the door, Yankee. He's out in the hallway waitin’ on my decision whether we should trust ye...or kill ye.”
~~
The dripping was constant, incessant. Courtney had even begun to imagine what it looked like. A crack in the ceiling. A slow, swollen bubble of water stretching, stretching, then breaking free like a weighted sphere to cause a small explosion on the surface of the tiny pool formed beneath it. Pools. Drops. Water. She was thirsty and cold. She did not know how many hours she had been sitting alone, or whether it was day or night. The chill had gone clean through her flesh to her bones, and she shivered almost constantly. There was absolute silence beyond the drips. There was only the rush of her own breath and the steady throb of her heartbeat to intrude on the tomblike silence.
The Voice had gone away and not returned. He had said his piece and planted both the doubts and fears firmly in her mind, then left her to brood upon them. Of course she did not believe a word of his lies; not about Seawolf. Someone was obviously using the name hoping, cleverly, to throw suspicion on Duncan.
But who? No one knew the name. No one knew the intimate details of her flight from France. Only Verart Farrow, Seagram, Davey Dunn, and Duncan. And only they would have known about Seawolf. Verart and Seagram were dead...
Seagram!
He had told her to find Seawolf. He had commanded her to find Seawolf with his last gasp of breath.
Find Seawolf! Had it been a command or a warning? No, not a warning! He had said Duncan had been betrayed, not Duncan had betrayed. What else had he said? What exactly had he said? Think think think.
Drip...drip....drip......
Find him. Warn him. Verart knew. Only a matter of time to put a face to the name...calls himself...
...drip...drip...drip.....
Calls himself! Calls himself Seawolf! Find the man who calls himself Seawolf!
Courtney gasped aloud, and her entire body clenched through a wave of pain. She had been twisting her hands back and forth, working her wrists to try to loosen the knots in the ropes and the twine had burned through the upper layers of skin. She did not care. Duncan was the real Seawolf, and that Seawolf was brave and strong and cunning. He would know about Garrett’s treachery. He would know about The Voice. He was probably looking for her now, tearing the city apart to find her. Seawolf and Adrian.....
Adrian had lied about the code name, but had he lied to protect her? Was that the cause of the shadow she had seen in his eyes? The lie, the hesitation, was it because he had known about Seawolf...about the name Seawolf! O God, she wished she could see him, talk to him! If Adrian thought Duncan was the traitor, and if he thought Duncan would go to any lengths to protect h
is identity, even killing his own men, even killing his own daughter...there would be a fight to the death for sure!
How long had she been locked in this blasted room? Hours? Days? She was so thirsty it might well have been weeks! Was it morning or night? Could anybody hear her if she screamed?
“Calm down,” she ordered herself. She ignored the agony in her wrists and resumed the steady, twisting, sawing motion against the ropes. The pain sharpened her senses, helped her think. People who acted without thinking made mistakes. Frightened people made mistakes.
...drip...drip...drip....
Chapter Thirty-One
Duncan Farrow did not possess Adrian’s height or Garrett Shaw’s breadth of chest, but he was none the less a formidable man. Each of his moves was calculated and wary. His walk was fluid, like that of a panther; soundless, controlled, the energy conserved for the kill. His eyes were emerald green, his hair was a dark shade of auburn, shot through at the temples with silver. The clothes he wore could not disguise the air of restrained deadliness. The high white collar did not conceal the scar that sliced down his neck from his hairline. The conservative gray broadcloth coat was immaculately tailored but did not soften the impact of the weathered mahogany complexion. His hands, although held easily by his sides, were large-boned and powerful enough to evoke thoughts of swords and cutlasses and smoking cannon. The face was the face of a handsome man who had lived forty-three years to the fullest.
He stood in the rain-slicked shadows, his frame just out of range of the yellowish halo of light from the solitary street lantern. His eyes were the only thing that moved. They searched the recesses and darkened windows for any signs of an unwanted presence. There would be watchers in the darkness, he knew. The invitation had been for midnight, and it was five minutes before. He had been crouched in the shadows for more than two hours.
Garrett had chosen the location well. The warehouse was the last one before the hard-packed road turned abruptly to rutted earth. Docks were behind the building; two rickety sheds and an abandoned mill were the only other structures on the lonely stretch of road. There were no taverns, no rooming houses close by, no reason for curious pedestrians to be in the area at this hour of the night.
Duncan had further reason to smile grimly at Garrett’s audacity. The sign over the door read ‘Wm. Longford, Import Export.’
It was Duncan’s own warehouse.
The sky had clouded over in the late afternoon and it had rained lightly since then. Everything was damp. The air smelled of wet wood, dead fish, and salt brine. It was deadly quiet.
Duncan stood up from the crouch and flexed the muscles in his arms and legs. The concealed sheaths holding his knives were secure; he could feel the solid presence of the pistol he wore strapped at the small of his back. He knew the first search would locate the weapons but if he came wearing none at all, Garrett would be doubly suspicious.
His eyes went a last time to the copse of trees on his left, and he nodded even though he knew he could not be seen. Dunn was in place, his broken shoulder doubtless causing more agony than he should have been able to bear, but he had been insistent about coming and Duncan knew better than to argue.
Farrow walked slowly across the rain-swept road and paused before the wooden door of the warehouse. There were no lights inside. He had expected none. He pushed the creaking door wide and stepped through, pausing to let his senses probe the surroundings.
Nothing. Not the slightest movement. Not a single unguarded breath.
Garrett was confident Duncan would come alone, as he had been instructed. They had worked too many years together and respected each other’s skill and courage; there would be no hired gunmen ready to shoot him in the back, no burly guards for insurance. Life or death would be decided between the two of them. Garrett's own arrogance would insist upon that.
The only unknown factor was the Englishman. He was a coward and a spy, driven by greed and treachery, not opposed to double-crossing anyone if the price was tempting enough. But Duncan was not worried about the Englishman. He was Ballantine’s concern.
He smiled again as he thought of his new son-in-law. He could see why the golden-haired Yankee had won Courtney’s heart. He was arrogant and ruthless, cunning and clever, willing to do whatever it took to find the truth, then defend it with his sword and his honor. He was hot enough to want revenge, yet cool enough to know they could not just rush forward blindly. The Yankee reminded him so much of himself he suspected they would come to like each other immensely—if they both survived.
The warehouse appeared to be two storeys high, but there was a third beneath the main floor, accessible from the rear of the building where the land sloped sharply down to the water. The top floor went only half the length of the building and housed the office and storage rooms. The main floor was large and cavernous, stocked top to bottom, row upon row, with bales of fresh-picked cotton. There was a huge square hole near the rear of the main floor, where winches were used to lower bales and crates to the dock below.
If Courtney was here, they would be holding her on the lower level, where the walls were carved out of the earth and stone, and where a boat could be waiting at the jetty for a quick escape.
The stairwell access was on the far side of the room, and Duncan moved with stealth. The descent was a steep one, the steps changing from wood to stone halfway down. As he crept near the bottom he could see a halo of pale light, and he slowed his pace, not wanting to lose his night sight too quickly, not wanting to be hampered however temporarily by the change to lamplight.
He finished the slow count to fifty that he had begun at the street door and continued down to the lower landing. There were more bales of cotton stacked on either side of the exit, as well as barrels of tar, oil, and pitch.
A foot scraped, and Duncan’s eyes moved slowly to the ring of light. A lantern was on a rickety table in the centre of a small clearing formed by the walls of cotton; candles were placed at either end. The table had three chairs, one of which was occupied by Garrett Shaw. Behind him, a man and a boy were tied back to back in a corner. Their mouths were tightly gagged; their immobility was assured by the lengths of rope that circled their chests. The boy’s head lolled forward and he appeared to be in a state of semi-consciousness. One of his legs was bound in a makeshift splint and was stretched straight out in front of him, identifying him as Dickie Little; the man he was bound to must be the doctor, Matthew Rutger. The latter had dried blood smeared down the side of his face, but seemed otherwise unharmed.
As if sensing a new disturbance in the room, Rutger raised his head briefly and twisted it to work out a cramp. He twisted it back sharply a second time, his eyes widening when he saw Duncan standing in the shadows on the stairs. He blinked twice, then flicked his eyes again, this time to the table, where Shaw was picking absently at a scab on the stump of his arm.
Was he trying to convey a message to Duncan Farrow...or a warning?
Duncan’s line of sight was blocked by a tall stack of bales and he had to edge forward to see around it. He followed Matt's insistent flicking to where a fourth chair was positioned half in the shadows. Courtney was there, seated on a straight-back chair, her arms bound behind her. Her eyes were covered by a blindfold and she was dressed in a loose-fitting smock. She looked pale and vulnerable, but otherwise unhurt.
Duncan stepped out from behind the crates, scraping his heel deliberately on the stone floor.
Garrett was caught off guard and scrambled to his feet, snatching up his pistol and aiming it at Duncan's chest.
Farrow merely glared. “Well, well, my old friend Garrett Shaw. Taken to kidnapping girls and young deaf boys now?"
Courtney's head turned toward the sound and her lips parted with the faintest of whispers. "Father? Oh, Father, is it really you?"
“Aye, Court,” he said, "it is me."
A faint rustle of silk skirts brought Miranda Gold stepping out from the shadows. "Duncan. How lovely of you to join us. What an unexpected s
urprise to see you looking so well. So...alive."
Duncan ignored her and addressed Shaw. "Take the blindfold off Court. It serves no purpose.”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed briefly and he smirked as he crooked a finger in Miranda’s direction. "Go ahead, take it off her. She should be able to gave a good look at the man who sold her out. Sold us all out."
The dark-haired beauty looked less than pleased by the order, but she moved to Courtney's side and tugged roughly at the black silk kerchief, yanking it down so it hung around her neck.
Courtney’s whole body tensed as she blinked at the brighter light. Her pulse was racing, her heart was clamoring in her chest and ears. She had been kept in total darkness since the kidnapping. She had heard shuffling and voices when Dickie and Matt were dragged in and bound to the post, but although she called out to them in whispers, she got only grunted acknowledgements in return, leaving her to surmise, correctly, that they were both gagged.
The three of them had heard loud arguing from the floor above an hour or so ago, and none of them had known what to expect. Not until the bickering between Garrett and Miranda had moved down into the lower level did Courtney realize Duncan would be coming.
The instant the scarf was tugged away from her eyes, she searched for her father, needing that extra visual confirmation. When she saw him standing at the foot of the stairs, her eyes flooded with a combination of relief and apprehension.
“Are you all right, daughter?”
“Yes," she managed to whisper. "Yes, I am fine.”
“Did they hurt you in any way?”
Could she count the hunger and the thirst, the cold and the isolation, the uncertainty and the thousands of unanswered questions? “No, they have not hurt me.”
Wind and the Sea Page 49
