Chapter 9

9

Courtney opened her eyes slowly. The high narrow slit in the wall that provided ventilation allowed just enough light to filter into the cabin for her to see where her clothing and Ballantine's littered the floor, the desktop, the overturned chair. The smell of extinguished whale oil and energetic bodies clung heavily to the stale air, and she wished desperately for somewhere to hide, some way to avoid the confrontation she knew must come. Would he remember? Would he blame it on the amount of rum he had consumed? Would he blame what happened on her?

She was lying on her side. One of Ballantine's arms was draped with familiarity around her waist; the other was beneath her head and served as a pillow. She could feel the feathering of his breath at the back of her neck and the accompanying rise and fall of his chest where the coppery fur brushed against her back.

Carefully, moving fractions of inches at a time so as not to disturb him, Courtney extricated herself from his arms and slipped out of the berth. The cramps and stiffness she half expected did not come about, and she straightened, slowly flexing her arms and legs to loosen the slight, lingering tightness. Her slender body had borne the weight of a man roughly double her size—it was a wonder she should be able to stand at all, let alone feel lighter, less edgy for the experience. The juncture of her thighs ached with newfound sensitivity. Her breasts had been kissed and nuzzled and fondled so much she imagined them to be black and blue. And her mouth! It was impossible to believe anything of its original shape and color remained.

Afraid of what she might see, she crept over to stand in front of the square mirror he used for shaving. Expecting to see the reflection of a puffed, distorted face, she was mildly astonished to see a dewy-eyed, radiant young woman she scarcely recognized. Her eyes were luminous, the green centers as clear and sparkling as gemstones; her skin seemed to glow warm and rosy without a hint of strain or sleeplessness. Her gaze dropped lower, searching out the source of the intriguing tingle in her chest, and she saw that her breasts were not swollen or bruised or grossly misshapen. Rather, they were round and firm, the nipples flushed a soft pink.

Bewildered, she touched her fingertips to her lips, wondering why they too felt different. More sensitive—as if they could never again be used to form a harsh word. She could almost feel them pressed to his, parted and eager, hungering for unknown pleasures.

Courtney stared past the shoulder of her reflection to the sprawled, sleeping form of Adrian Ballantine. The cover was askew, and his body was boldly displayed. She had seen naked men before, dozens of them, accidentally and intentionally, yet none had made her blush. None had slowed the blood in her veins, or brought her heart to a sluggish standstill. Certainly none had caused her to stare long and hard at that part of him which lay limp and flaccid now, yet which, when roused, could wreak such havoc on her confidence ... and her body.

As she watched, an arm shifted, a hand skimmed absently over the chest to scratch diffidently in the cloud of copper hair. A yawn was begun but ended on a sharp, strangled groan as the sudden movement startled the drums awake in his head.

Courtney did not wait for the bleary eyes to open and seek her out. She collected her breeches and belt from the floor and hastily pulled them on. She held up the torn halves of her shirt and studied them with some dismay before she turned her attention to the sounds emanating from the bunk.

"Good God," Adrian bit off a further curse as he struggled to sit upright. "How much did I drink? How long have I been asleep?"

"What is wrong, Yankee? Do they not teach you golden-haired bastards how to hold your rum?"

"Irish, I—" He ground his teeth together and squeezed his fingers against his temples. His head was being crushed by giant hammers, and his stomach was sending threatening messages up into his throat. The coating felt an inch thick on his tongue and tasted as sour as cheap wine; his eyes itched as if they contained the sands of the Sahara. "I am not in the mood for verbal jousting. If you will kindly hand me my—"

He stopped and took two shallow breaths. Then his eyes widened, and he seemed to notice for the first time that he was naked, that the cabin looked as if it had housed a small tornado, and that Courtney was staring at him with her breasts bare and her eyes full of scorn.

"I am afraid I shall need a new shirt," she announced calmly. "You were in such a hurry yesterday to rid me of this one that I doubt it can be repaired."

Ballantine noted the remnants of the shirt, then his own nakedness, and his eyes seemed to drift momentarily out of focus.

"Of course, I am assuming you have finished with me. After last night, I cannot imagine you wanting for more, but ...?" She shrugged and left the sentence dangling.

"Dear God," he muttered in horror, cradling his head in his hands. "Did I—?"

"Yes you did. Repeatedly. And with enough enthusiasm for me to pity your betrothed if she has a frail constitution."

Ballantine's complexion deepened to a ruddy scarlet hue. The muscles in his jaw worked furiously, searching for some way to deny the obvious. He remembered leaving Matthew's cabin, he remembered the bottle of rum, and he remembered listening to the girl's voice as if it was coming through a long tunnel, but he could recall nothing after that.

He looked up and saw the slim, delicate waist, the plump breasts and the rosy tips that his tongue seemed to recall intimately.

"In the sea chest," he croaked, "there are spare shirts. Find one, for God's sake, and put it on."

Courtney arched a brow. "A pity you do not keep spare maidenheads there too, for situations like this."

Ballantine's head jerked up at her words, and the blood drained from his face in a dizzying rush. What the devil was she saying now? What was she accusing him of doing?

His hand bunched around the folds of the blanket, and he involuntarily followed her gaze to the smear of dried blood on the mattress cover.

"You did it with such finesse," she said quietly. "I can hardly wait for the next animal to rape me."

The wracking pain within his skull spread down to engulf the rest of Adrian's body. "I was drunk," he began lamely.

"You were blind, stinking drunk," she countered evenly. "And you took it out on me, just as I said you would when you first suggested this arrangement."

Ballantine swallowed the sarcasm with a pointed lack of grace. He glared at her through a fog of self-disgust, followed her every move as she rummaged for a clean shirt, shook the folds out, and drew it over her head. It was several sizes too large and made her look younger and even more the hapless victim.

Ballantine groaned and stumbled from the berth to the washstand. He slopped water from the pitcher into the basin then took a deep breath and plunged his face into the icy contents. When he came up, dripping and gasping from the shock, he saw Courtney perched on the side of the berth, casually studying his bare flanks.

"Look out in the corridor," he said, snatching at his breeches. "Tell me if the guard is still there."

Courtney sighed, but she did as she was told. She opened the door a crack and peered out into the darkened companionway, and when she turned back to Ballantine, he was in his breeches and bending over the sea chest for a shirt.

"There is a guard, but he is near the stairwell."

Adrian avoided meeting her embarrassingly direct gaze and shrugged into the cambric shirt. He glanced in the mirror and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. A quick glance at the angle of the light streaming through the ventilation shaft told him it was well past dawn.

Still avoiding Courtney's mocking eyes, he fumbled with his keys and unlocked the cupboard that held his shaving gear.

"Always the proper officer," she mused sardonically. "How unfortunate your behavior as a gentleman is somewhat lacking."

Adrian's hand shook visibly as he unfolded the blade from its sheath. He knew what she was doing and why she was doing it, but for the life of him he could not think of a retort to stop her. If he had truly done what she said he had done—and at this point, he had no reason to doubt her—then he deserved every bitter word she spat at him.

He held his head through a particularly savage bout of throbbing before he bent over the washstand again. He picked up the straight razor but his hand was shaking so badly, it nearly fell out of his grip.

"Would you like me to do that for you?"

He glared at her reflection. "I am not in the habit of offering my throat for sacrifice, thank you."

"It is not your throat that would give me the greatest pleasure to take a razor to," she said, moving away from the door.

Ballantine located the emerald eyes in the mirror and glowered ineffectually. She only scoffed and plucked the razor out of his hand.

"Sit down before you fall down. If I was going to offer a sacrifice, believe me, I would have done so last night or this morning while you were asleep."

He hesitated, watching her through narrowed eyes. The fingers of one hand closed around her wrist while the others extricated the sharp blade from her grasp. "All the same, we shall pass on this little display of domestic fealty, if you do not mind. You seem to be just a tad too eager to be of help."

Courtney shrugged but made no move to pull her hand away. Ballantine continued to stare at her, frowning as if there was some subtle point he was missing, something he should see. But whatever it was eluded him, and he released her wrist and turned back to the mirror. Several nicks and a badly scraped chin later, he rinsed his face and toweled it dry.

"You had better finish dressing," he said. "I want to look in on Matt before I do anything else."

"What else is there to do? You are under arrest, are you not?"

When there was no immediate comment or denial, Courtney volunteered her own deductions.

"Why else would there be a guard out in the passage? Why the rum yesterday, and why the rambling self-pity?" She paused and watched him fold the blade of the razor shut. When he noted her interest in it, he tucked it into the waistband of his breeches rather than trust it to the cupboard again. She merely smiled. "You do not look too concerned. About the arrest, I mean."

"I hide my emotions well," he said wryly.

"Not a difficult thing to do when you have so few to begin with."

Adrian sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, instead of the capitulation she hoped to see, Courtney found herself meeting a slate-gray threat.

"I will accept full responsibility for what happened last night," he said evenly. "I will even go so far as to say: You win. You were right. I behaved like a knuckle-dragging bastard, just like you said I would. But that is it. That is as far as it goes. Any more of your charming wit and sarcasm and I might start to reconsider. I might start to think: Hell, the damage is done, why stop now? She must have enjoyed it or she would not be egging me on for more."

Courtney's cheeks flooded warmly, and she stumbled back, nearly tipping over the sea chest in her haste to retreat.

"I gather this means we understand one another?" Adrian asked. He waited for her grudging nod, then snatched up the linen neckcloth and tossed it to her. "Bind yourself," he ordered crisply. "And cover your hair so it does not look so—" he waved a hand, unable to bring himself to say any of the words that came readily to mind: pretty, attractive, sensual. The soft curls were shiny and tousled and stirred yet another memory of the night past; one of drenching oblivion, of burying his lips in the silky fragrance and feeling the lithe body arch eagerly beneath him.

The image shocked him, and for a moment he stared into the dark emerald eyes. She had called it rape, and he had no cause to doubt her yet the images persisted. Eagerness. Intense, recoiling pleasure. Was the memory real or was it simply his guilt struggling desperately for a means to justify his actions?

It was Courtney who moved first. She lowered her head and concentrated on wrapping the hated linen around her breasts. When she was finished, she had regained a measure of composure.

"Your captain looks like the type who thrives on court-martials."

"He thrives on fear and intimidation."

She raised her head. "And does he intimidate you?"

"What he represents intimidates me, yes. Cruelty, injustice, demagoguery."

"Dema—?"

Adrian smiled faintly. "Power through fear. The British navy mastered the art of using tactics like floggings and starvation to win obedience from its crews. I had hopes of improving our lot, by example if nothing else."

"My father was taken on board a British ship once by a press gang," Courtney murmured. "It took him three years to escape, and he will carry the scars for the rest of his life." Her voice toughened and she added, "In truth, he does not think any more highly of the American navy or the way they treat their crews or prisoners. And when he sees what you have done to Snake Island … well, you had better warn your look-outs to keep a sharp eye toward the following sea."

"For ghosts?" he asked coldly.

"For whatever it takes to repay you, Yankee."

Adrian felt his temper rising and saw no benefit in continuing. If she wanted to believe her father was still alive, so be it. If she wanted to cling to the ludicrous notion that a band of renegade pirates could be any match for a warship like the Eagle, he was not about to dignify her delusions with endless arguments.

He cast a final, cursory glance around the cabin interior, then strode to the door. Courtney followed him out into the companionway and kept her head lowered as he barked out his intended destination with enough wrath, the marine dared not challenge his right to go below.

As they passed the galley they were assailed by the strong scents of hot coffee and boiling pork fat. Courtney's stomach grumbled audibly, and she was reminded that she had not eaten since breakfast of the previous day. Her mouth flooded as she caught a whiff of the morning burgoo—the sludgy porridge the Yankees downed with such enthusiasm to start the day. She could understand Ballantine's reluctance to think of food at the moment, but there was no reason why she should be forced to starve along with him.

She was about to broach the subject when they arrived at Matthew Rutger's door. A second guard was posted outside the cabin, and Ballantine brushed past him with as much ceremony as he had dismissed the first.

The air inside the windowless cabin was rancid from the smoking lantern and the turpentine-based unguent that had been spread on Matthew's back. Adrian's throat worked frantically for a few hard swallows before he could acknowledge the nervous smile from Dickie Little. The boy had obviously remained at the doctor's bedside all night. His skin was pale, his hair spiked into cowlicks, his eyes heavy-lidded and underscored by dark shadows.

"Did he waken at all last night?" Adrian asked, cursing himself for forgetting the boy's handicap. He knew the lad was frightened of him to begin with, frightened of anyone tall and imposing who could only frown and snarl at his inadequacies.

Courtney stepped in front of Ballantine and reached out a hand to gently touch Dickie's arm. She smiled and asked in a series of rudimentary gestures if the doctor had been asleep since the lieutenant's departure.

Dickie nodded and returned her smile, and pointed to the empty jug of rum.

She threw a glance in Adrian's direction, but his only rejoinder was to scowl and drag a chair over to the side of the bed.

"Another talent you have keep hidden from me?" he asked through a snort, addressing her ability to speak to Dickie with her hands.

"Half of the Wild Goose's crew is deaf from repeatedly working the guns," she said with a small shrug. "Simple signs are useful in battle."

Ballantine squinted but said nothing, not wanting to pursue the sudden image he had of Courtney standing on the deck of a ship directing broadsides.

Matt's back was swollen and shiny with a latticework of red welts. Some looked painfully raw, and gleamed pink under the slick coating of unguent. He was lying on his stomach, a hand and arm draped limply over the side of the cot.

His eyes opened a slit at the sound of the chair scraping close by; they were glassy from the pain and from a hangover that was no less devastating than Ballantine's.

"How do you feel?" was the lieutenant's first inadequate question.

"About as bad as you look" Matthew murmured. "How many jugs did you pour down my throat?"

"I lost count," Adrian grinned. He signaled for Dickie to tend to the lamp and to fetch clean water for the basin. "And it was not your head I was inquiring after."

"You mean there is something else I should be able to feel?" Matt groaned and rolled his eyes. "My head and my belly—which, by the way has already deserted me half a dozen times—are all I am aware of at the moment."

"A fine pair we make. Naples all over again? As I recall you spent three days leaning over the rails like a landlubber."

"You hardly fared much better." The doctor smiled at the recollection. The officers from the Revenge, the ship Ballantine and Rutger had been serving on at the time, had forwarded a challenge to the officers of the Cerberus to pit Yankee holding-power against British. "As victors, you and Sutcliffe claimed the right to try to bed every wench within a league's radius. I may have spent three days at the rail, but at least I could stand."

Matthew noted the dull red flush that crept slowly up beneath Adrian's tan, and his eyes flicked past the broad shoulders to where Courtney was standing in the shadows.

"Of course, ah, that was in your earlier years. We were both, ah, young and foolish." His fumbling made no impression on either of his visitors, and Matt frowned, changing the subject with a harsh clearing of his throat. "Have you seen him yet?"

"Jennings? No. Should I have?"

"Then you have no idea what the excitement is all about?"

"What excitement?"

"I have a very thin wall beside me. For the past hour or so, I have been hearing a lot of noise. Voices. I gather from the conversations that the morning watch has discovered another ship out there."

"Another ship?"

"It must be friendly. I have not heard any alerts. At any rate, if Jennings has not sent for you then he must think Falworth can handle it."

"Now that worries me." Adrian willed away the fog that persisted in dulling his thinking. They were still more than a full day's sail out of Gibraltar, by his reckoning. There were bound to be a number of vessels in the area—French and Spanish merchants filled the Strait with traffic going to and from the Atlantic. It could also be an American escort sent to meet the Eagle. Or a patrolling scout guarding the approach to the Moroccan coast. Any or all were possibilities. And yet one by one the hairs across the nape of his neck were prickling to attention.

A tentative knock on the open door interrupted what Adrian was about to say, and both men craned around to see one of the junior officers, Loftus, standing in the entrance. He looked plainly ill-at-ease and kept glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to see trouble loom up behind him.

"Sorry to disturb you, sirs, but you were not in your cabin, Mr. Ballantine, and well, I mean, some of the men thought you should know—"

"What is it, man? Spit it out, although if it is something to do with the ship, I am afraid you will have to take your complaint to Mr. Falworth."

"It is about the ship, sir, but not the Eagle. There is another set of sails on the horizon, sir, and closing fast. There is a squall approaching from the same direction, so she might just be trying to outrun it."

"Is she flying her colors?"

The midshipman shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Well, that is the problem, sir. She is not showing any identification, even though we have signaled her to do so."

"Who has the helm?"

"Mr. Falworth, sir. But he does not seem to be the least bit concerned that our signals are being ignored."

"And you are?"

Again, the midshipman shifted, foot to foot. "According to our orders, any ship not immediately replying to a demand for identification is to be treated as hostile."

"Has anyone pointed this out to Mr. Falworth?" Adrian said dryly. "I would have thought he would be eager to play with the guns."

"Sir—" another shift, another worried glance over his shoulder— "the crew has not even been called to alert."

"What?" Adrian was on his feet in an instant.

"No, sir. He and Captain Jennings are just standing there watching the other ship come up on us and discussing the weather as if nothing is wrong."

Adrian hissed a breath out through his teeth. Now, at least, he knew why the alarms were jangling at the back of his head.

"Very well, Mr. Loftus. I will go topside and have a look. Not that I will likely be able to do much either way."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He looked greatly relieved and said so. "The men trust you, sir. You have taken us in and out of a few bad spots and we would feel better knowing you were there."

Adrian started for the door but halted when he saw Matthew making a feeble effort to push himself up with his elbows.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" he demanded, returning to lend a steadying hand.

"Getting on my feet," Matt grunted. "What does it look like? If there is going to be trouble, I would as soon hear the news on my feet as on my—" he glanced at Courtney and checked himself— "belly. Curt, hand me a clean towel, will you? I need to have this muck wiped off my back or I will ruin a perfectly good shirt."

"You will do nothing of the kind," Adrian said to Courtney. To Matt, he added, "And you are going to stay right where you are. You can hardly sit up straight, let alone stand."

"I can stand," Matthew gasped. "I can stand."

"And I can fly. Irish, I am giving you a direct order. If the doctor attempts to get up out of this bed, you have my permission to knock him flat down again. And take my word for it—" he said to Matt, conscious of the midshipman's startled expression— "the lad is in the mood for a good fight this morning. Do not tempt him."

Ballantine left with the midshipman, and Dickie Little closed the door behind them. No sooner had their footsteps faded away than the doctor signaled Dickie closer and was straining unsuccessfully to use the boy as a lever to sit upright.

"What are you doing?" Courtney asked. "Did you not hear what he said?"

"I heard him," Matt grimaced. "And if you have any ideas about taking advantage of Adrian's generous suggestion, think again. Damnation—!" His hand brushed across his forehead to remove the sweat. The motion of his arm brought a fresh shiver of pain from the lacerations on his back, and he groaned.

"He is right, you know," Courtney said quietly. "You are in no condition to be getting up."

"I will be the judge of that. Now, are you two going to help me sit up at least, or do I have to disgrace myself here on the bedding?"

With Dickie on the one side and Courtney on the other, they were able to swing Rutger to an upright position. He wavered with the initial wave of agony—both from his head and from his back—and had to clench his teeth hard to keep them from chattering.

Dickie's hands moved in a frantic blur of concern, but the doctor only smiled and shook his head. Courtney watched a further exchange, surprising herself by almost understanding the gist of what passed between them. She was loath to admit it, but she liked Matthew Rutger. He was honest and genuine in his dedication to his profession, unlike most ship's doctors. Many were butchers who preferred to saw off arms and legs rather than waste the time repairing them.

Matthew was not as broad in the shoulder as Adrian Ballantine, nor as athletically built. Nevertheless, there was no extra flesh on his frame. His belly was flat, his chest sculpted with lean muscle; his thighs were solid, and there was more power in the wiry arms than his deceptively soft appearance suggested. He was clad only in thin cotton drawers, and Courtney's inspection came to an abrupt halt at the scarred knee and calf of his left leg. A shiny ridge of hard, misshapen scar tissue chewed its way from just above the kneecap to several inches below, forming an ugly twist of crippling flesh.

"Not very pretty, is it?" he murmured, noting her inspection.

"Not many scars are," she replied calmly. "How did it happen?"

"The perils of being a ship's surgeon," he explained, seeing her eyes move over the other evidence of past injuries. "A canister shell exploded beside me while I was tending a man on deck. Luckily enough, I was already flat on my back from a previous shell or I would have lost the whole leg. As it was, they wanted to take a saw to me. Adrian stepped in just in time. Saved the leg, saved me" Matt paused and his eyes clouded. "Then he lost his brother the very next night, when the fighting was over.

"Alan Ballantine," Matt mused. "He had barely turned ten when he stowed away on board the Eagle. He kept himself hidden until we were too far out in the Atlantic to do anything about it. Naturally Adrian was furious. You would have to know a little about his family circumstances to appreciate the situation, but—"

"Tell me."

Matt glanced over, somewhat surprised at her interest.

"He is very set in his ways, is he not?"

"You mean stubborn? Arrogant? Opinionated and nearly impossible to reason with?" He grinned. "Yes, he is. But a better or more loyal friend than Adrian Ballantine, a man could never have. He comes from very wealthy, very socially upright stock, so he cannot be entirely held to blame if some of the blue blood leaks through now and then, even though he goes out of his way to staunch it. He joined the navy as an ordinary seaman and worked his way up the ranks with sweat and blood instead of simply paying for a commission. He did not knuckle under either when the Ballantines put pressure on him to give up the adventurous life and assume his preordained position in the family business. He and his father had a bad falling out as a result of his independent streak, and they did not speak to one another for almost five years.

"Then Adrian's mother died. He did not hear about it until six months after the funeral, and when he finally did manage a furlough home, he was met with every gun the family could bring to bear. His father claimed illness despite the fact that Samuel Ballantine has never been sick a day in his life. He also claimed Adrian's brother, Rory, had squandered most of his personal fortune and his incompetence was starting to erode the Ballantine company profits. His two sisters had supposedly both married dandies whose primary concerns were gambling and drinking. In other words, they tried every form of pressure they could invent, hoping he would relinquish his commission and rejoin the family business."

Matt stopped and snorted. "Their plan might have worked if the war along the Barbary Coast had not begun in earnest. Adrian left to resume his duties in the Mediterranean, but not before his father had won a promise out of him to seriously consider serving out his term and going home to Virginia permanently. Somewhere along the line he also managed to get himself engaged to Samuel's business partner's daughter. Adrian was not particularly pleased with either commitment, so you can imagine his frame of mind when he woke up one morning and saw young Alan's grinning face by the side of his berth."

Rutger winced as he tested the tightness and pain in his shoulder muscles. "It was about the same time he walked headlong into the trouble with Sutcliffe."

"Sutcliffe?"

"Captain of the Revenge, and Adrian's commanding officer."

"And?" she prompted.

"And—" He frowned as if realizing he had said far too much already. "And if you add everything together: duty, guilt, honor…?"

"A fiancée," she supplied dryly.

"Yes. That too. Perhaps that most of all." Matt shook his head slowly, his expression altering slightly, becoming almost wistful. "Deborah Longworth Edgecombe is rich; she is beautiful. She has an elegance and grace that take your breath away."

Courtney bristled. "They sound like the perfect couple."

"If you saw them together, you would think they were. And in time he might be able to convince himself the sedentary life is what he wants."

"You sound as if you have doubts."

"I doubt he can be sedentary in anything he does. Look where he is now, despite being ordered to stay in his cabin. What he definitely does not need is another court-martial."

Courtney's curiosity raged. "Another court-martial?"

Matt grimaced again and his frown deepened. He waited for a particularly loud scramble of footsteps on the deck overhead to pass before he muttered, "You have me spouting off like a fishmonger's wife at market. If you want to know anything else about Adrian, you are going to have to ask him. I happen to value my neck."

More running footsteps pounded on the deck, and both Matthew and Courtney tilted their heads up.

"Right," he said. "That hangs it. Help me stand up, I think I can make it this time."

"But you are not—"

"Either you help me, or you get out of my way!"

Courtney swore mildly and grasped him under an arm, wrestling with the limited space beside the berth to help him to his feet. Dickie Little raced to assist but Matthew gestured instead to the sea chest.

"A shirt," he gasped and mimed with his hands. "And my breeches."

"You will not make it as far as the door," Courtney warned.

Her prediction proved to be accurate, but for very different reasons. Matt had not taken a single step away from the rumpled cot before the ship lurched suddenly. A loud crunching roar burst into the space surrounding them, and the four walls seemed to implode inward, hurling all three occupants of the cabin to the floor in a shower of splinters.