Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  She drove the barrel of the gun deeper into Courtney’s neck for emphasis, and the involuntary gasp of pain it produced spurred movement from both Duncan and Garrett.

  “I said get back!” Miranda screamed. “Get back or I will pull this trigger and you can both watch her die in front of your eyes! Peacocks! Preening, self-righteous peacocks! Well, I proved I was every bit as clever as either one of you. You think she is so brave and cunning because she dresses like a man and fights like a boar? You never noticed how brave and cunning I was to slowly clean out every rival band of thieves along the Coast. A word in the right ear, a cryptic message in the right hands, and the Yankees did the rest. I gave you power! I gave you control of the seas! But did you treat me any differently? No! You gave more of everything to your precious Courtney—more love, more attention, more respect. Well, now I want more. I want it all. I want those papers signed over to me! And I want them now, or you will be scraping her brains off your boots!”

  Duncan tore the packet open and laid the papers flat on the table. He took a small vial of ink and a sharpened stub of a quill from his pocket and hastily scratched his signature on the five documents. He straightened and caught his breath as he saw the gun gouged even deeper into Courtney’s throat.

  “I am not stupid, Duncan,” Miranda hissed. “Use your seal. The wax from the candle will do.”

  His jaw clenched, Duncan leaned over the documents again, touching each with the melted end of the candle and imprinting the wax with the head of his ring. When he straightened this time, it was not to stare at the smile of triumph on Miranda’s face, rather it was to see the shadowy figure of a man step out from behind the bales of cotton.

  The newcomer carried a trumpet-nosed blunderbuss and held it level with Miranda’s.

  “Well done, my dear. Collect the papers, I will watch the girl.”

  Courtney could not hold back a second gasp as she recognized the corpulent figure. Matthew Rutger, bound and tightly gagged in the corner, jerked so hard against his binding, young Dickie’s body went rigid with the pain. It was The Voice. It was the man Garrett called the 'Englishman', and although his uniform had been replaced by poorly fitting civilian clothes, there was no mistaking the pompous, porcine features of William Leach Jennings.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Right, Yank. Duncan said give ‘im a count o' two hundred, we gave ‘im a count o' two hundred. Ye’d best get movin’.” Dunn adjusted the crude sling that was cradling his arm and rearranged the two guns sheathed at his waist.

  “Watch the front door,” Adrian commanded. “Do not let anyone in or out.”

  “I know my job, Fancy Britches,” the corsair growled. “Ye just make damn sure ye know yers or I’ll be down yer throat like a bad case o’ rot.”

  Adrian grinned and slapped the corsair on his good shoulder for luck before he crouched and ran along the side of the warehouse to the rear jetty. The slope down to the dock was steep, and Adrian had to use brush and weeds and jagged rocks for handholds. When he slithered out onto flat rock at the bottom, his breeches and shirt were smeared with mud.

  The huge loading doors at the rear of the building were closed but not latched. A small ketch was moored to the dock, and Adrian ducked quickly back around the corner of the building when he saw the dark shape huddled in the bow. No surprise that Shaw had placed a guard on the dock. Probably armed. Probably ready to give off a signal at the first sign of trouble.

  Adrian took a deep breath and crouched again, falling soundlessly forward so that his body hugged the cold stone. He drew his knife out of the sheath at his waist and clamped it between his teeth, then began inching forward. According to Duncan Farrow, the water was deep in the inlet. The jetty was build on a lip of stone, and from there the bottom dropped away. Adrian slid along the rock until he reached the edge of the water, then silently rolled himself into the inky depths.

  Moving hand over hand, keeping just his head above the water, he followed the dock around to where the boat was moored. He paused several yards away to steady his breathing, then took a deep lungful of air and sank beneath the surface.

  The guard heard and saw nothing until it was too late. A single splash of water, a flick of wetness on his cheek, and there was an iron-hard forearm around his throat. He was pulled off balance and tipping over the side of the boat, unable to sound an alarm as the knife sliced cleanly across his throat.

  Adrian let the corpse drift free and hauled himself dripping onto the dock, his knife once again clamped between his teeth. He darted to the bay doors and carefully eased one open a crack. He slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, taking only a moment to assess his surroundings and compare them to what Duncan had said he would find. He was closed in on all sides by walls of baled cotton and tobacco. A gaping rectangle of blackness directly overhead was the opening in the main floor, and he could make out the outline of chains, cables, and hooks suspended there.

  A light was glowing in the rear of the room, and it was from there Adrian could hear faint snatches of voices. He started working his way around the columns of cotton bales, and the closer he came to the light, the less the conversation was muffled. He was in position beside the last row in time to hear the final shouted accusations, but not close enough to prevent Miranda from thrusting the gun into Courtney's neck.

  He dared not move in case he startled a shot from the pistol. He was starting to manoeuvre around behind them when he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of the unmistakably familiar cackle of laughter.

  ~~

  “You look surprised, my dear,” Jennings said to Courtney. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “I was told you died on the Falconer,” she said through her teeth, her neck held in a painful arch.

  “Indeed, a necessary ruse. And one that came with a steep price in gold, I might add." Jennings paused and frowned. “Miranda? The papers. You were so desperate for them a moment ago, by all means go and collect them.”

  Miranda had eased the pressure from Courtney’s neck, but she was slower to remove the muzzle of the gun. “I am tired of taking orders from everyone, even you.”

  “Really? Well let me phrase it as a request then. Please get the documents, and please deposit them in my hand.”

  “Why should I?”

  Jennings curled his finger around the trigger of the blunderbuss. "Because I could care less if this young lady dies by your hand or mine. You, however, should care very much, because if she dies you lose your leverage and these gentlemen will tear you apart limb from limb. And besides, the party is about to become infinitely more exciting, and I know how excitement affects your luscious young body. Captain Ballantine? Do come out from wherever you are and join us.”

  After a moment’s silence, Jennings laughed again. “God spare me from having to do anything so mundane as to count to three and blow your lover’s ear off. At this point, it hardly becomes any of us to indulge in such childish antics.”

  Courtney’s eyes darted to the far end of the clearing, to the figure who moved out from behind the stacked bales into the open. He was dressed all in black, his shirt and breeches soaked, the tarnished gold of his hair stuck wetly to his brow and temples.

  Adrian!

  “Good heavens, you do look a sight, Captain. Shall we assume by your appearance that the man we left on guard is no longer with us?”

  The cold gray eyes moved up from Courtney’s face and locked wordlessly onto Jennings.

  “And I thought never to live long enough to see you speechless,” Jennings mused dryly. “Come, come. Closer to the light. Join us, by all means. I believe you know everyone here. In that respect I appear to be the only surprise guest."

  "The word surprise hardly covers it," Adrian said quietly.

  Jennings blinked slowly, his smile fixed in place. "No doubt. And yet, a brilliant coup nonetheless."

  “You knew it was the Falconer,” Adrian said quietly. "That was why you insisted we surrender the Eagle
. You knew you could buy your way to freedom."

  “I guessed it was the Falconer."

  “And Falworth? Where did he fit in?”

  “A pawn, nothing more. An insignificant player in a drama that was far too complex for his greedy mind to grasp. He was useful, however, and played his role well enough until he became rather more of an inconvenience. I understand we have you to thank for his timely disposal?"

  “Was Alan an inconvenience too?”

  “He saw something he should not have seen.” Jennings shrugged. “It was unfortunate, but necessary. As was this unholy alliance,” he said, gesturing with his free hand to Garrett and Miranda. "In truth, however, I had no idea I was bedding the notorious Seawolf. Such delicious irony to discover we have been partners in this odyssey from the outset.”

  “Partners?” Miranda laughed. “Until tonight I had been enjoying the thought that you had died in unbearable agony on board the Eagle. I had been wishing Garrett had let me watch him torture you."

  "Such charming bloodlust, my dear." Jennings moved up beside her and rested the wide snout of the blunderbuss against the back of Courtney's head. "Now...the papers, if you please? Unless, of course, you prefer to take your chances here, with your friends?”

  Miranda glanced at Duncan, then Garrett. There was no possibility she would survive five minutes alone with either one of them.

  She lowered the pistol and squared her shoulders. She started to move out from behind the chair when Courtney’s hands sprang free of the twine. The jolt was so sudden and so unexpected, she had no time to think as she brought her arms up and grabbed for the blunderbuss. She had hold of the barrel, had it pushed away from her head when she saw Duncan lunge forward into its path.

  Courtney screamed a warning just as the heavy musket exploded in her hands. The blast caught Duncan mid-stride and lifted him off his feet, sending him sprawling back against the wall. Miranda saw Garret leaping toward her and fired her pistol point blank into his belly. Adrian, in motion before the echo from the first blast had faded, dove across the width of the room, his hands outstretched and clawing for Jennings’ throat.

  Courtney ran forward to catch her father as he staggered under the impact of the shot. Miranda, as shocked by the force of the recoil as she was by the sight of the bloody cavity in Garrett’s belly, stumbled back and watched in horror as he kept walking toward her, his eyes burning into hers, the stump raised and prepared to strike. He roared and managed to catch her arm as she tried to dart past, but he was already dying and staggered onto his knees. His grip failed and she twisted free, stumbling hard against the table. The oil lamp was knocked off and splashed it's contents on a bale of cotton. Flames from the wick leapfrogged from one splash to the next, spilling down the side and spreading across a drum half filled with oil. The surface caught, and the flames shot up against a second column of bales, and in moments the smoke was spreading like thick black tentacles into the air.

  Courtney glanced up from helping her father long enough to see Adrian and Jennings fighting their way toward the cargo doors. A second blur of color, a flash of blue silk disappeared up the blackness of the stairwell.

  “Get her, Court,” Duncan gasped, clutching at the wound in his arm. “I will be all right. Go. Get her.”

  Her emerald eyes went to the darkened stairwell again, then to the pair of knives Miranda had removed from Duncan in the search. She sprang to her feet and delayed only long enough to slice through the ropes binding Matthew and Dickie to the post.

  “Fire!” He croaked the instant his mouth was freed. “The cotton is on fire. It will go up like dry tinder.”

  “Get my father out of here!” Courtney shouted and raced for the stairwell.

  “Courtney!”

  She ignored Matthew's shout and plunged into the darkness, stumbling awkwardly up the steep flight of stairs until she reached the top. She stood there a long moment, her mouth open to swallow air into her pumping lungs. She could hear a noise ahead somewhere...running footsteps, followed by the sound of a curse as a knee or shoulder found the harsh edge of a crate. She forced herself to concentrate on locating the sound, on finding Miranda before the bitch had a chance to escape.

  ~~

  Adrian was surprised by the strength beneath Jennings' flab. His own arms were in agony, for Jennings had swung the barrel of the blunderbuss and caught Adrian squarely on his injured forearm. The pain had blinded him for a costly few seconds, and by the time he had shaken his vision clear, Jennings had run between the columns of cotton and was making a dash for the bay doors. Adrian sprinted after him, his powerful legs enabling him to catch the bulbous figure before Jennings had gone three rows. A tackle had them both skidding across the cold stone floor, whereupon a barrage of well-aimed, well-delivered punches across the multi-chinned jaw had the fleshy lips bleeding and squealing for mercy.

  “Mercy?” Adrian spat. “I plan to show you as much mercy as you showed the men who were flogged to death on your ships; as much as you showed the men who died on the Eagle because of your treachery! As much as you showed my brother!"

  Adrian grabbed two fistfuls of shirt and flesh and dragged Jennings to his feet. Rage and fury gave his arms the strength needed to haul the protesting body along the floor to where he had seen the weight scales, the cables and hooks.

  “Wh-what are you going to do?” Jennings screamed.

  Adrian pulled on a length of cable until he had a loop freed. He placed the loop around Jennings' neck and yanked it to tighten the slack.

  “You cannot take the law into your own hands! This is murder! Murder! Aughhhhhhh!”

  Adrian put his weight on the cables and Jennings danced up onto his tiptoes, his arms flailing the air, his eyes bulging in fear, his mouth gaping and foamed with blood and spittle.

  “You are forgetting,” Adrian said calmly. “You are already dead. You died a hero’s death on board the Eagle.”

  Adrian leaned more of his weight into the ropes and felt the ratchet wheel click into place high above. His face poured sweat, but he pulled and pulled, and when he could pull no more, he tied the ends of the cable around the bar protruding from the wall. Jennings was twitching. His arms, his legs, his jiggling belly twitched and flopped until the last gasps of life were choked away.

  “For you, Alan,” Adrian said and stared at the grossly distorted features.

  The flickering light behind him tore his attention away from the swinging body. The fire was spreading quickly. The air was choked with fumes and smoke; flames were roaring so loudly Adrian could not hear his own voice shouted into the inferno. He saw Matthew stumbling out with Dickie Little hobbling on one side and Duncan Farrow staggering on the other. He searched the flame and smoke for Courtney, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  ~~

  Miranda stopped halfway across the cavernous room and whirled lightly on the balls of her feet. Someone was behind her. Someone had followed her up the stairs to the main floor of the warehouse.

  She reached beneath her skirt for the knife strapped to her thigh. She stuffed the papers she had grabbed from the table into the bodice of her blouse and melted into the shadows, keeping her back against the wall and moving soundlessly, alert to the slightest creak of wood.

  Across the room, Courtney stopped and held her breath. She could taste the smoke at the back of her throat. Clouds of it had followed her up the stairs with stunning swiftness, filling the warehouse like a thick fog. There was a dull red glow mushrooming up from the rectangular hole over the loading bay, and she knew the flames would soon be lapping at the floor. The boards under her bare feet were already warm, and it felt as if every breath she exhaled was being sucked below for fuel.

  She crouched low to stay beneath the thickest layer of smoke. If she was starting to see shapes and shadows in the blooming red glow, Miranda would be able to see as well and Courtney was not about to underestimate her cunningness again.

  ~~

  Miranda cursed softly as she stumbled into ye
t another wooden crate. She waved a hand to disperse the smoke, but there was too much of it now. Her pulse was racing with the knowledge that the heat and flames had already blocked any exit to the river. If she could reach the door in the front of the warehouse then block it from the outside, the green-eyed bitch would be trapped. Garrett was dead. Duncan was dead or dying. Courtney was the last obstacle between the past and a rich, brilliant future.

  Damnation, where was the door? The thick black smoke was confusing her; the rows of cotton seemed to never end.

  There! A swirl of clean air! The door was open!

  She pushed away from the wall and ran the remaining twenty feet across the open floor. Someone was there. Someone was standing in the doorway, obviously concerned about the fire and torn between going inside or staying at his post.

  Miranda hesitated only long enough to conceal her knife in the folds of blue taffeta before she ran toward him, her eyes wide and filled with terror.

  “Davey! Davey! You have to help! Come quickly! It’s Garrett! He has gone mad! He has shot Duncan and he has shot Courtney and he is chasing after me!”

  “After...what? Eh?” Dunn shoved her out of the way and raised his pistol toward the sound of a second pair of running footsteps that were approaching the door. The pain in his shattered arm and the confusion of the smoke distracted him, and he made the fatal mistake of turning his back on Miranda Gold. He did not need to hear Courtney’s voice shouting a warning to him to realize he was dead.

  Miranda held the knife in both hands and brought it plunging down between the muscular shoulders, sinking the blade with enough force to shatter through his spine kill him before his body had struck the floor. She dove for the latch of the door and pulled for all she was worth, but Dunn’s feet lay across the threshold. She tried to kick them aside, but a movement out of the corner of her eye made her spin around and press her back against the wall.