Chapter 11

11

Matthew Rutger forcibly blocked out the pain of his lacerated shoulders and groped his way back to consciousness. He was huddled with other wounded members of the crew—at first glance they appeared to number in the scores—lying on the Eagle's quarter-deck, exposed to the teeming rain. The storm had struck in its full fury, drenching the fires and creating huge rolling clouds of acrid steam. The oak planking ran with rivulets of pink, men were groaning in agony, and the few who were able to move wept for their own inadequacies as they tried to help others less fortunate.

Matthew commanded his bruised limbs to function and began crawling between the rows of wounded men. Some were already dead, having bled out their lives in quiet desperation. Some were unconscious, their heads cradled by others who were not much better off. Most were nursing burns and shrapnel wounds, cuts and punctures, saber slashes, and bleeding welts dealt out by eagerly wielded truncheons. There was no sign of Captain Jennings, and Matt had not seen Adrian since their brief conversation in the cabin. He did not know how he, himself, had come to be on the deck in the pouring rain; his last memory was of being slammed into something hard and of hearing the girl scream.

Matthew straightened on his knees a moment and searched the sea of battered, anguished faces. He saw two of the younger powder boys, wounded and crouched together for warmth and comfort, but there was no sign of Courtney Farrow or Dickie Little. Matt's chest constricted with fear and he broadened his search. He dragged himself upright and shook the rain out of his eyes, squinting to see through the haze and swirling mists to where men were crowded beneath anything that afforded protection from the elements.

Surely these were not the only survivors of the battle! Surely there had to be more men than this pitiable lot!

"Dear God! he exclaimed and scrabbled forward, ignoring the moans of men nearby. He recognized a figure in white shirt and black breeches lying face down on a sheet of canvas and he moved the body gently, easing it over to lift the face out of the pool of filthy rainwater and sodden ashes. "Adrian? Adrian, can you hear me?"

He tore a scrap from his shirt and cleared the blood and grime away from Ballantine's eyes and around his mouth.

"Adrian?"

This time he was rewarded by a stifled groan.

"Thank God," Matthew muttered. The doctoring instincts took over, and he inspected the cut over Adrian's brow, then probed gently for any sign of broken bones or internal injuries. By the time had had finished, a bleary, blood-shot gray eye had opened a slit. It focused on Matt's face with effort, then slowly panned around the deck.

"Wh-what happened?" came the croaked whisper.

"I can only guess, but I would say from the looks of it, you tried to take on the entire enemy crew single-handedly. Wait. Do not sit up yet, give your head a chance to clear."

Adrian pushed aside the restraining hand and struggled up onto his elbows. He looked around at the drenched, suffering casualties, and his skin blanched beneath the grime.

"Good God ... the ship," he gasped. "Is she ...?"

"I do not know," said Matt. "She feels as if she is holding her own. We do not appear to be listing too badly, or not so as I can see at any rate, and they have made no move to transfer the wounded."

Adrian craned his neck painfully. The Eagle was still bound to the enemy ship by dozens of hooks and grappling lines. Steady streams of corsairs were swarming back and forth across planks laid out between the two ships, laden with crates and casks and supplies from the Eagle's holds.

"They appear to have their priorities well in hand," Matt grumbled under his breath.

"Jennings?

Matt shook his head. "I have not seen him. As far as I can tell, they have grouped the wounded apart from the others. At least I am hoping there are others. This cannot be all the crew." His voice faltered, and it took a moment to bring it back under control. "Beddoes is gone, Millar, Coop, Spence, Danby ... those are just the few I have been told about."

"The chaplain is dead," Adrian murmured. "Falworth was wounded, but not too badly. Jennings was alive and spouting at the mouth the last I saw."

"Who were we fighting? And why?"

The question was echoed on the faces of some of the men lying within hearing distance, but Ballantine did not answer. His gaze had strayed to the rubble that was once the forecastle and had locked on the figure standing in its midst. The man, like the ship he had commanded, had emerged from the battle remarkably unscathed. Six feet of lean, black-haired pirate stared down at the progress of his crew with eyes that burned as viciously as the fires that had raged around him earlier. He was naked from the waist up, save for the double leather straps crossed over his chest, which held three muskets apiece. A wide belt around his waist carried an assortment of dirks and a pair of long steel cutlasses. There was no question he was the leader. His shouts were met with immediate replies. A constant stream of messengers were sent to him from all points of the ship to report progress and wait for orders.

"Garrett Shaw," Adrian murmured, half in awe, half in disbelief.

"Who?"

"Garrett Shaw. Duncan Farrow's partner and commander of the Falconer."

"But ... was he not supposed to have been captured and hung with Farrow?" Matt turned and stared at the pirate, who was obviously in excellent health. "How can you be sure it is him?"

"The tattoos," Adrian said, directing Matt's eye to the corsair's muscular forearms. From elbow to wrist he wore coiled, hissing snakes that looked so realistic, they seemed to be writhing. "Verart Farrow had the boar; Duncan had a brace of crossed swords; and Garrett Shaw has snakes. He is known affectionately in some circles as "the Cobra" because of them."

"Dear God. How did he find us?"

"Sheer killer instinct, I would not doubt," Adrian grunted. Matt looked up in time to see the lieutenant straining to haul himself to his feet.

"What do you think you are doing? Where are you going?"

"I want to talk to the bastard," Adrian replied.

Adrian shrugged off the doctor's hands and stood swaying against a broken section of rail, his chest laboring to keep the air flowing into his lungs and blackness from enveloping him again. The movement was detected almost instantly, and the glittering blue eyes that Adrian had last viewed over the blur of a slashing cutlass drilled into him, nailing him where he stood.

Garrett Shaw grinned and barked out a curt order. A moment later, two burly pirates had Adrian's arms locked painfully behind his back as they propelled him forward.

Shaw's chest rumbled with amusement. "So you lived, eh, Yankee? Your skull must be damned near as hard as mine not to have split apart twelve ways to Sunday." The bulging arms crossed over his chest. "You have the look and smell of an officer about you."

"First Lieutenant Adrian Ballantine," Adrian rasped. "Of the United States warship Eagle."

The corsair studied him for a moment. "Ballantine, eh? I have heard about you. And your ship. I was warned we could not afford to give you any advantage, and certainly not the courtesy of a polite challenge. Still," he paused and a flash of white teeth slowly appeared. "I hardly expected you to spread your legs like a virgin on her wedding night."

He was referring to the disastrous course change that had backed the Eagle flush against the land, and more humiliating, their complete lack of battle readiness. Adrian bore the man's justified mockery in silence.

"My ship—?" he began.

"A fine vessel. A pity we had to put so many holes in her. You should have hove to when we suggested it the first time."

Adrian tipped his head up and blinked through the sheeting rain, peering at the tall mainmast and the pennant bearing the charging red lion. "You fly Duncan Farrows pennant," he noted.

"Aye, we fly his colors." Garrett Shaw's voice took on a gravel-sharp edge. "And we will continue to fly them until the lives of our brethren are avenged."

"Farrow?" Ballantine lowered his gaze again, bracing himself as a wave of dizziness rippled gently through him.

"Taken in a trap that reeked of Yankee treachery—the depths of which we could scarcely believe until we set foot ashore our island."

As if on cue, Shaw shifted his focus to a point past Adrian's shoulder where the line of former captives from Snake Island were being led up through a damaged hatchway of the Eagle into the rain. Despite the battering they had suffered while trapped below during the battle, the men all wore grins on their gaunt faces. They laughed and howled greetings to their fellow corsairs, who greeted them on deck with full pannikins of rum and chunks of fresh meat and cheese.

"I had a hard time convincing my gunners not to hull your toy warship to kindling," Shaw said tonelessly. "I told them it would be far more satisfying to see her towed like a dog into an Arab port and sold to Pasha Karamanli to be painted pink and green and displayed as a trophy. You and your men will look good in chains and loincloths, First Lieutenant Bloody Ballantine."

"We will not be slaves to any man," Adrian snarled. "Of that you may be sure."

"I am sure of nothing in this world," Shaw laughed, "except the mortality of others."

"We have wounded."

"Your wounded will be transferred aboard the Falconer. We have a barber who does a fair turn with a saw, and when he is finished with our lads—and if he stays sober long enough—he might be persuaded to have a look at yours."

Ballantine was having difficulty catching a breath. A loud hum in his ears muffled the voices around him. "The rest of the crew ... how many? Where are they?"

"You have a hundred and a half or so still able to haul a rope without spilling their guts all over the deck. We will be putting their backs to good use in keeping this hulk afloat until we can tow her to port."

A hundred and fifty men! Adrian's shoulders sagged and his stomach gave a queasy lurch. Add to that an estimated thirty seriously wounded, it amounted to one hundred and eighty men out of two hundred and seventy!

"The captain?" he gasped. "Where is Captain Jennings? I demand to be taken to him."

"You are not in a position to demand anything, Lieutenant Bloody Ballantine."

Adrian swallowed hard. The rain felt suddenly icy cold on his face. He shuddered and felt the hands grasp his arms tighter.

The corsair took a deep breath and bellowed into the air, "Davey!"

"Aye!" Came the return shout from somewhere aft. "Comin'!"

Moments later, one of Shaw's fellow corsairs vaulted over a pile of rubbish and ambled to a halt beside the captain. He was short, broad, and villainous in appearance; his wiry chestnut beard was separated from a frizz of reddish hair by the brilliance of two deep-set blue eyes. He was shy of six feet tall by eleven inches, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in muscle-packed belligerence.

"No need to shout. I were right behind ye."

Shaw ignored the grumble. "Are the tow lines rigged, Davey?"

"Aye. Rigged and ready as she'll ever be. We moved extry pumps aboard, but the bitch is swallowin' water almost faster'n we can turn it out. I dunno if she'll wear the trip."

"She will wear it. The lieutenant here has kindly offered the efforts of his crew to ensure that she does."

"The lieutenant," Ballantine spat, "Has offered no such thing."

"But he will," Shaw said with a cruel smile. He signaled an order to Davey Dunn, who grinned and leaped onto the lower deck. He walked to the first American prisoner he saw and hauled the wounded man to his feet as if he were a sack of fodder. A shove between the shoulder blades sent the man stumbling forward to the ladder. Shaw, standing at the top, did not take his eyes from Ballantine's face as he calmly unsheathed one of his pistols, took careless aim, and fired.

Adrian was in motion the instant he realized the corsair's intent, but it was too late. The crewman staggered back with the impact of the shot, staring in horror and disbelief as a broad crimson stain spread on his shirt front. The few seconds of life remaining to him were spent in raising bewildered eyes to the lieutenant. Adrian was halted mid-stride by a hammer-like blow to his midsection from one of the guards behind him.

Shaw replaced the pistol in its sheath and coolly regarded Ballantine's struggle to remain on his feet.

"Davey, have the wounded prisoners moved onto the Falconer. Put them in full view of the healthy bucks we leave behind and, at the first show of stubbornness, have the weakest tossed over the side. Each order these dogs choose to disobey, toss another one over."

"Bastard." Adrian whispered fiercely, his hands folded across his belly, trying to contain the agony. "You are enjoying this immensely, aren't you?"

"Having the crew and officers of an American warship crawling at my feet? It would take a far better man than me not to celebrate."

"What I want to know," Adrian gasped and straightened awkwardly, "is how the hell you managed to escape when Farrow was caught."

Both Shaw and Davey Dunn stared at Adrian but it was Shaw who drew a fresh, loaded pistol and stepped close enough to Ballantine to thrust the muzzle against his forehead.

"Your men seem to admire you" Shaw said slowly. "Most of your crew were only on their feet because they saw the foolhardy charge you made. Shall we see if they work as hard for you now?"

The nausea grew overpowering in Ballantine's stomach; the taste of it was in his throat. He longed for the stamina for just one lunge at the corsair—just one chance to tear out the pirate's black heart with his bare hands.

Shaw read the desire in the lieutenant's eyes and bent his head back and laughed. He lowered the pistol and jammed it back into his belt.

"God's blood, Davey, get this bastard out of my sight before I am tempted to finish the job here and now. Fit him with a comely pair of bracelets and see that he has a prime location on the shrouds."

Davey Dunn nodded to the two men holding Ballantine. They dragged him roughly toward one of the boarding planks that bridged the gap between the Falconer and the Eagle. Out of the corner of his eye, Adrian saw Matthew grope his way past the wall of wounded who had gathered silently to watch the proceedings. When he shouted his outrage at Captain Shaw, two heavy-handed pirates clubbed the doctor back and sent him reeling onto the planks.

Adrian snarled and jerked his arms free from his guards. He pivoted on his heel and smashed his fist into one man's face, feeling the gratifying crunch of teeth and flesh beneath his knuckles. The second guard reached for Adrian's shoulders, but his hands slipped on the wet shirt and he was pushed off balance, crashing head first into the choppy swirl of water between the two ships.

Adrian's surge of energy carried him around to meet Davey Dunn. A threat was there, but although the wry-faced buccaneer rose no taller than Ballantine's armpit, the flared-nosed blunderbuss he held against one of the wounded men's temples gave him immeasurable stature.

"His life ain't worth a pinch of fly dung if ye try it, Yankee," he said evenly. "But ye're welcome to learn the hard way."

Adrian's blazing eyes surveyed the possibilities. There was no way out. Dunn was more than four paces away; Adrian knew the man's head would be blown off before he took a step.

The wiry chestnut beard shifted as the corner of Dunn's mouth slanted down in disappointment. He sucked in a mouthful of air and clicked it out between his teeth.

"Fer my part, I'd as soon carve yus all into shark bait and be done with it. Now move. And if I see ye so much as twitch a finger wrong, ye'll piss blood fer a month."

Adrian stumbled across the plank. Three more corsairs seized him up and pinioned him when he reached the deck of the Falconer. The wound over his eye had begun pouring blood; it mingled with the rain to tint his soaked shirt pink. Cold iron manacles were clamped to his wrists, and he was shoved against the rat lines while each arm was forced high and fettered by the chains to the cables.

His position on the shrouds gave him an unobstructed view of the length of the Eagle. His horror at seeing the full extent of her damages was compounded by the sight of the ragged survivors huddled opposite him in the stern. Adrian scanned the grimy, defeated faces and saw that Sergeant Rowntree was among them. He shot to his feet when he saw the lieutenant being dragged to the rigging lines. One side of the young marine's face was blackened beneath a bruise. His blue jacket and white cross-straps were torn and bloodied but he did not appear to be otherwise injured.

Otis Falworth was there too, standing by the deck rail, his face pale with shock. He looked neither right nor left; each blink seemed calculated to conserve energy. Angus MacDonald, the stalwart marine corporal, was beside Sergeant Rowntree, his expression equally grim, but his hands wisely restraining the younger man from taking any foolish action.

Loftus, Crook, Prescott ... three midshipmen out of twenty that Adrian could see at a hasty glance. There was no sign of the captain.

The chains on Adrian's wrists were yanked tight and he concentrated on choking back the cry of pain as he was bound on the shrouds. His ankles were shackled to the cables, and he could hear the corsairs laughing and spitting their contempt on him before they abandoned him to the raw wind and rain. The hum grew louder in his ears, drowning out the shouts that buzzed and whistled aboard both ships. He closed his eyes to the sight of his men being issued the ultimatum to work; he ground his teeth against the urge to shout out in fury and pain.

From the deck of the Eagle. Garrett Shaw stared thoughtfully at the spread-eagled figure of the lieutenant. He recognized him as a worthy adversary, even now, when he was weakened from the fighting and the shock of defeat. The icy promise of revenge had glittered wildly in the slate-gray eyes. Ballantine was smart and not afraid to die. It was a dangerous combination and one Shaw had learned to respect over the years.

Shaw watched Davey Dunn return across the planks to the Eagle. Dunn was Duncan Farrow's man, his first mate, his chief gunner. Stricken over the loss of Farrow and the Wild Goose, Dunn could be counted on to see that the American frigate was made seaworthy and that her crew cooperated fully. He would also consider it a finer reward than any portion of the loot scavenged from the Eagle to be given the golden-haired lieutenant as a personal vent for his rage and frustration.

Shaw turned his attention to the progress of the wounded Yankees as they were kicked and prodded to their feet. The strongest among them supported the weak and limbless, helping them across to the Falconer. The badly wounded would likely be dead within a day or two, for Shaw had no medicine or sympathy to spare. The others would only survive if they had the strength or will to do so.

Shaw issued some last-minute instructions and returned to the Falconer himself, remaining on deck long enough to ensure that his own repairs were well underway. There was no time to waste replacing sails and jury-rigging the damaged spars and yards. They were too close to the Gibraltar sea lanes for his liking. Much too close. The squall was showing signs of building again and that was the best cover he could have hoped for. With luck they would be underway within a few hours, and by nightfall, tucked away in a safe cove where they could undertake the lengthier repairs.

A shame, he thought as he descended the aft hatchway, to have decided so late in the battle to try to salvage the Yankee ship. A few dozen less holes and she could have brought a better price from the Pasha. Who would have thought the Yankees would have been so ill-prepared? From what he had heard of Lieutenant Bloody Ballantine, the man was as cunning and deadly in battle as ... as Shaw was himself, by God!

Shaw chuckled as he opened the door to his greatcabin. It was smaller than its counterpart on the Eagle, more compact; furnished from the plunder of rich merchant trade ships. Since neither Garrett Shaw nor Duncan Farrow was in the habit of clearing the cabin during a battle, as the British sea captains did, the contents were frequently destroyed and the furnishings replaced.

Garrett looked about the shambles of his cabin with a scowl. Oak, mahogany, and teak splinters were scattered among the gleaming gold tableware and jewelled goblets. A Yankee shell had burst against the hull, shattering one of the gallery windows and reducing the ornately carved sideboard to kindling.

He barely had time to splutter an exasperated curse before he spied movement in one of the shadowed corners. He caught a flash of crimson, a glimpse of olive-warm thighs and shoulders, and in the next instant found himself smothered under the caresses of a sobbing, deliriously thankful Miranda Gold.

"Oh, Garrett," she gasped. "Garrett, it was so dreadful! You cannot know the hell we have been through!"

Shaw's dark blue eyes glinted speculatively a moment before the rakish smile reappeared. Not one to miss an opportunity, he tucked a hand beneath Miranda's chin, another beneath the ripe swell of her buttocks, and pulled her close, his mouth demanding a more expressive show of gratitude.

Miranda tensed, but only for a second. With a stifled sob, she flung her arms up and around his shoulders, ignoring the bite of the leather belts and weapons in her eagerness to show just how thankful she was.

When the kiss ended, Shaw released her with a hearty laugh.

"Ah, Miranda. Golden Miranda. You, alone, were the one I had no doubt would survive."

Miranda's breasts heaved upward against the low swoop of her neckline before her breath exploded on a curse.

"Damn your soul, Garrett Shaw. Is that any way to greet someone who has endured unspeakable acts of degradation and humiliation at the hands of a sow-bellied, mush-lipped peacock for over a week?"

Garrett threw his shaggy head back and laughed harder. "If there was ever a man you could not bring to his knees with that mouth or that sweet cunny, I would exalt the bastard to sainthood myself. Come here, you lusty wench, and I will give you such a fine abusing you will not walk upright for a week!"

Miranda squealed in mock horror as Shaw's calloused hands tore away the thin layer of cotton to free her breasts. The token resistance ended on a gasp as he lowered his head with a growl and buried his mouth between them. Her hands went around his powerful shoulders; her pelvis ground against his, and his response was so immediate, so intense, she scarcely paid heed to the slim figure who moved from the gallery balcony to stand in the doorway of the cabin. The half-closed amber eyes met the dark emerald ones, and Miranda could not resist a smile. The tip of her tongue appeared and played across the full lower lip, which went slack again on a delicious shudder as Garrett's hands began searching beneath the crimson skirt.

It was Miranda's turn to laugh as she pushed against Garrett's chest. "I see we are not alone."

His head came up and he frowned. "Eh?"

She smiled and pointed to the figure in the doorway, and the gun pointed unwaveringly at the flushed pair.

"Courtney!" Garrett exclaimed. "I thought you had gone below!"

"Obviously you thought wrong," she said evenly.

Shaw forced a smile. "Why the gun? We are all friends here."

"I thought it might be needed to catch your attention."

"And so it has." The dark blue eyes flicked along the gleaming iron barrel to the grip of white knuckles. He walked forward slowly, halting only when the cold metal was pressing against his chest. His hand rose and he slipped a finger between the wheel-lock and the firing pin to prevent an accidental discharge as he pried the gun gently from Courtney's grasp.

"You have my undivided attention," he said quietly.

Courtney's eyes lost none of their hardness. "I want to know about my father. I need to know what happened."

Garrett's smile faded, and he looked down at the gun in his hand.

"He was my friend, Court. We lived and sailed together, almost like brothers. The three of us: Verart, Duncan, and me. Their loss cuts me as deeply as it does you."

"Tell me."

"We were sold out," he said bluntly and raised his head. "For a promise of gold, we were betrayed along with the Wild Goose and the Falconer."

"Betrayed? By whom?"

"Ahh, when I find that out, girl—" his eyes took on an unholy glow— "there will be no easy death for the bastard. The O'Farrow was a good man. A good leader. He treated one and all fairly. I'll not rest until I have found out which of his men was a Judas."

"Then it is true," she whispered. "One of Duncan's own men betrayed him."

"Aye, and not for the first time, I warrant. There have been too many accidents, too many close calls, too many coincidences over the past few months for my liking. Someone was selling us out, girl, at almost every turn. And he damned near succeeded in getting us all this time."

Courtney's shoulders slumped. She had refused to believe Ballantine when he had hinted at a turncoat. She had not even wanted to believe Seagram when he warned her about the traitor in their midst. Now Garrett was insisting that she believe him, and she knew he would have been the last to credit such a thing unless it was true.

"What happened?" she asked softly.

Garrett sighed and began to unbuckle the various belts and sheaths that held his personal arsenal. "We were supposed to meet Karamanli's envoy in a small bay near Moknine. When we arrived, the beach looked safe enough, nary a sail nor sod in sight. As soon as Duncan and I went ashore, the surrounding hills were suddenly crowded with gold braid and muskets, and the mouth of the bay was blocked off by three gunboats. Duncan and I had walked straight into the trap, blind as an owl's arsehole.

"We were kept apart from the rest of the men and slated for a quick hanging as soon as the blue-bellies had finished drinking our rum and patting themselves on their backs. But somehow Davey—bless his warty hide—managed to escape into the trees with a dozen stout men. They waited until it was dark and crept back to the camp to break us out. We collected what guns we could, slit as many throats as we could find, then swam out to the ships. The A-rab sentries were drunk, but not enough to keep them from giving us a bit of a fight, and by the time we got control and the ships were underway, the cove was alive with gunfire and soldiers.

"We cut the anchors and ran for the mouth of the bay. The O'Farrow signaled he would tack to starboard while I would take the Falconer opposite and hopefully catch the three gunboats in a crossfire."

Shaw stopped and stared down to where his hands were clenched around a belt to keep them from shaking.

"Damn me if I did not order up too much sail too damned fast. A bloody downdraft took us and we lost our studding boom before we were able to take up position. Her bow swung wide and before we knew it, we were arse-end-up on a sandbar. By the time we kedged ourselves free—and by God there were some flayed backs in the offing—the Wild Goose was surrounded and under heavy fire. She was aflame from stern to snout, being hulled like a wooden decoy in a duck pond.

"We had a clear route past them," he added in a harsh whisper. "The O'Farrow had deliberately drawn them away from the entrance of the bay so that we could break free. The boom was still down and I had no steerage—" he stopped and looked at Courtney, his eyes dark with self-loathing. "I had no choice, lass. We would have lost the Falconer too if we had not made a run for it. When the sails were fully rigged, we went back, but it was over. We fished a few survivors out of the drink, picked a few more up off the beach, and managed to chase down one of the gunboats and blow it to perdition. But the other two ran with the wind in their teeth and we could not find them."

"Do you know what happened to Duncan?" Courtney asked, her voice strained.

"Duncan was not among those we found. No one remembered seeing him after the fighting started."

"Then no one actually saw him die."

Garrett frowned. "We searched the bay, we searched the wreckage that floated ashore. No one saw him alive and his was not among the bodies we buried."

"It is possible that he could have been taken on board one of the gunboats."

"Then he is dead for sure," Shaw said bluntly. "They would never take a chance on him escaping a second time. What are you trying to do, girl? Why are you tormenting yourself?"

"It is possible, is it not?"

"No. It is not. If he was recaptured, they would have strung him to the nearest yardarm before he had the chance to cough the sea water out of his lungs. He is dead, Court. You have to accept that."

She shook her head. "I would know if he was dead. I would feel it. And if I felt it, I could accept it, but it just is not so."

Garrett turned away. He snatched a dry shirt from the tumbled pile on the floor and shrugged his broad shoulders into it. "We went directly to Snake Island. A few women and children had hidden in the dunes and were able to tell us what had happened there. We stayed only long enough to salvage what little we could from the buried stores. I knew you were still alive, and I knew Duncan would never rest easy unless I came after you."

Courtney blinked back the threat of tears. Why could she not make him understand? Why could she not make anyone understand?

"Seagram felt it too," she whispered haplessly. "He told me he believed Father was still alive."

Miranda sighed loudly, the first time she had drawn attention to herself during the oh-so-touching scene. She was standing by the desk, holding her torn blouse with one hand, and Courtney noticed, with some amazement, that she had somehow, from somewhere, acquired brilliant red paint for her nails. They looked like the claws of a predator, the talons blood-dipped and sharpened for the next victim.

"You always did put too much faith in that ape," Miranda said, "though heaven only knows why. As for him knowing if Duncan was alive or dead—good God, he barely knew how to keep himself alive at the end."

"Don't you dare say a word against Seagram," Courtney warned. "He died trying to buy freedom for the rest of us."

"How?" Garrett asked, plainly startled to hear of the giant's death.

"He organized an escape from the brig," Courtney explained, her eyes still locked on Miranda with undisguised loathing. "He and Nilsson were charged with being the leaders and were sentenced to a flogging. Nilsson died after only a few minutes under the lash, and Seagram ... must have thought he had nothing to lose ... so he tried to break free again on deck and in the confusion, he was shot."

"He was good man," Garrett nodded. "A good fighter. He would have preferred to go that way."

"What will you do with the Eagle?"

"The Eagle, aye. Well, I had thought of keeping her to replace the Goose, but that was before Davey and his gun crews took it into their heads to crack her spine. She'll take too much time and effort to make her seaworthy again, and I plan to be basking under the Caribbean sun come Michaelmas Day. I have no doubt the Pasha will gladly take her off our hands to display as a trophy. An American warship surrendered into pirate's hands! By the saints, he would pay me a king's ransom for the pleasure ... and thrice as much for possession of her noble crew."

"Then you plan to sell them into slavery?"

"I am not about to sail the bloody Mediterranean with them, that much is a certainty. And do not go twisting your face up with disapproval, wench. Where do you think you and the others would have ended up? If you were not hanged outright, you would have been indentured on some stinking Mississippi plantation bending your back by day and your knees by night. Nay, Court, they deserve it to a man to be bound in chains and forced to lick Berber feet for the next twenty years. A few we will keep apart for sport, of course." His face broke into a cold smile. "The captain, for one. Miranda has specifically requested that he be made to dance la strappado and I see no reason to deny her."

Courtney flinched inwardly. A particularly cruel death: the victim was hoisted to a yardarm by his wrists. The rope was sprung loose, allowing the body to drop to within a few feet of the deck. The jolt dislocated nearly every joint above the waist. Subsequent drops started tearing muscle and sinew, and finally the flesh itself.

"Bless old Black Henry Morgan for his inventiveness," Miranda purred delightedly. "The fat pig should provide us a good show."

"We have a number of possible dance partners for him," Shaw chuckled, seeing the look of sadistic pleasure on Miranda's face. "The pretty yellow-haired lieutenant, for one—if he survives the night."

Courtney felt an invisible fist tighten around her gut. "Ballantine?"

"Aye, that's the one. You had dealings with him?"

Miranda laughed throatily. "She had something with him."

Shaw glanced over sharply. "Meaning?"

"Meaning ... dear Courtney was the lusty stallion's personal captive for the time we were on board the Yankee ship."

Shaw stiffened, and the dark blue eyes screwed down into slits. "Personal captive? Is this true?"

Courtney felt a cold spray of gooseflesh ripple down her arms. If she said a simple yes, Garrett would immediately assume the worst and Ballantine's life would be forfeit—and in such a way as to make the strappado look merciful and kind. She had wanted to take her revenge on Ballantine, for Snake Island, for her uncle, for Seagram. She had almost killed him herself, but for that one moment of irrational weakness. The price of that weakness was rising day by day.

"It is true," she said calmly. "He took me out of the hold and disguised me as a cabin boy—him and one other, the doctor. I resented being separated from the others, but I suppose, looking back, they saved my life."

"Saved it for themselves, you mean," Miranda said scornfully.

Courtney would have flashed the raven-haired harlot a murderous glance, but she was all too aware of Garrett watching. Instead, she laughed.

"Those two peacocks? They had hotter eyes for each other than they did for me. The lieutenant could not even bring himself to piss in the pot if I was in the cabin, not without ordering me to turn my back. If they were planning anything at all, it was how to divide the reward between them when they delivered me to Gibraltar."

Miranda seethed. "I do not believe that. Not for one moment."

"I scarcely care what you believe," Courtney replied, still chuckling. "The truth is, the doctor is a cripple in more ways than the one, and the lieutenant ... well ... surely you must have found out his preferences yourself, dear Miranda, when he failed to come sniffing after the bait you offered every other red-blooded man on board."

Miranda's mouth sagged open. "Why you lying little bitch! I was as much a prisoner as anyone in that filthy hold. More so, considering the humiliation I was forced to endure."

"So you keep saying. And I can see all the bruising you suffered in the comfort of the captain's cabin, how many meals you missed, how many times you were beaten or flogged for refusing to spread your thighs."

Miranda sucked in a lungful of air and hissed it free. "Just because the bruises I earned are in places you will never know about; it does not mean they are any less painful. Oh, I can believe the Yankee lieutenant never touched you. I can believe he would never have dreamed of using you for anything more than a boot boy. You are foul-mouthed and cold-hearted. Your body has as much appeal as a pine knot and is as likely to tear the skin off any man fool enough to shove himself inside you."

"Enough!" Garrett growled.

Miranda whirled on him, hair flying and breasts heaving. "You would defend her? You would let her say those things to me and then take her side against mine?"

"I take no one's side in such a petty squabble. You both endured more than you should have and less than you might have, and if you do not stop your mouths here and now, I will be tempted to stop them for you."

Miranda's breath spluttered free on an explosive oath, delivered in her native tongue. She turned and headed for the door, muttering still more invectives as she yanked it open and stormed out into the companionway.

"Davey has kindly offered up his quarters for your use," Shaw called after her. "I suggest you make use of them and cool down, my little Spanish hellion."

Miranda halted and glanced back. "Dunn's quarters! To smell of offal and old sweat?" The amber eyes slashed to Courtney. "And where is she staying?"

"Here, of course," he said casually. "With Duncan and Verart both gone, she is, in effect, half owner of this ship now. I can hardly have her swinging in a hammock on the poop deck, now can I?"

The taut red lips moved through a final barrage of coarse Castilian oaths, then Miranda was gone, the door slamming violently in her wake.

Courtney blew out a puff of air, colored with her own variation of what body parts Miranda could put where.

Shaw only laughed and moved closer, curling his long, muscular arms around her waist. He drew her against his chest and murmured. "Besides which, the bed is plenty big enough for two."

Courtney was startled enough to pull back and twist out of his grip. The offer, though not surprising, was full of assumptions—the same assumptions Garrett Shaw had been having since she had turned fifteen and ripened out of childhood. He had suggested several times to Duncan Farrow that a union would solidify the partnership within the camp and crew. Courtney had deflected his attentions so far, but with Duncan gone, she might well be considered fair game again.

She placed her hands flat on his chest and pushed. "Thank you, but not now. If that is the kind of arrangement you want, you had best call Miranda back. No doubt she would be eager to oblige."

His arms tightened, drawing her back against him. "There is no need to play the shy virgin with me, Court Farrow. You are your father's daughter. You know the benefit of a strong alliance. Duncan and I started with one ship between us; you and I can start again."

She took a deep breath and pushed again, this time twisting out of his grasp. She faced him squarely, hands on hips, and assumed a bold confidence she was far from feeling.

"I said I am not interested now. Even you must agree we have more urgent things to deal with at the moment than strengthening a partnership that is already as strong as iron."

Shaw pursed his lips. "You have put me off for four long years, Court, and you know I am not a patient man."

She forced a smile to ease the tension. "Nor have you been a lonely man, pining away with no wench to warm your bed at night. There have been times I have wondered if you number them to keep them straight in your mind."

Garrett chuckled. "Would you want a fumbling innocent as your mate?"

"Fumbling and innocent are not words I would ever use when thinking of you, Garrett."

"I will not stop trying, Court," he laughed, and this time his hand skimmed up her arm with gentle affection. "And I will not accept defeat so easily either. Here ... what is this ...?"

His hand had rubbed over the newly healed wound on her upper arm, causing Courtney to flinch involuntarily.

"It is nothing. It is almost healed."

Garrett eased her shirt sleeve higher, frowning when he saw the raw pink seam in her flesh.

"It happened in the fighting on the beach," she explained, easing the sleeve back down. "I hardly even feel it now. The Yankee doctor cleaned it properly and stitched it well. In fact, he risked a great deal for me. For Nilsson and Seagram as well."

Shaw's eyes narrowed. "Do not tell me he and the fancy lieutenant paroled Nilsson and Seagram as cabin boys too?"

"They did more than that," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "They intervened during the floggings. The captain had ordered three hundred strokes apiece for Seagram and Nilsson, despite the fact they were both badly wounded. Nilsson was placed on the shrouds first and even though he died after only a few dozen lashes, the captain ordered the full count. Doctor Rutger protested and, in the end, placed himself in front of Nilsson and took the lashes himself."

"A damned fool thing to do."

"As for the lieutenant, he was arrested and confined to quarters for countermanding the captain's orders. When Seagram was shot, he had both bodies dropped overboard before the captain could insist on having the punishment resumed."

Garrett tipped his head. "It sounds as though you are asking me to spare their lives?"

"I am merely suggesting that if we act like barbarians toward them, we will be hunted down and dealt with like barbarians. The Americans are strong, Garrett. You heard Father say that as soon as they joined the fray, the war with Tripoli was over."

"You want me to set them all free?"

Courtney sensed she was treading on dangerous ground. "No! Of course not. It is not their liberty I am asking for, only their lives. Sell them to Karamanli, by all means. They should bring enough profit to get a second ship and set us happily on our way to the Indies. Furthermore, the humiliation and degradation of being sold into slavery is a far more suitable reward for what they have done to us than a simple death, and a fate more dreaded by them than any manner of torture you could devise. Believe me when I say these Americans are not afraid to die. It is the loss of liberty and freedom they fear most. Moreover, until we can discover who among us is the Judas, it might be wise not to do anything too rash."

Garrett could see the logic in her words, but they still rankled. "We will not be sold out again, by God. That much I promise you."

"In the meantime, you say the Pasha will pay handsomely for the Eagle? I dare say the Yankee Admiralty will pay even more to ransom back one of their own, especially—" her voice took on a sly intimacy— "if one of them was related to Thomas Jefferson himself."

Shaw's eyes flared with greed. "And which one might that be?"

"Yellow hair," she said, embellishing the lie, "inbred arrogance. I read some of his correspondence when I was left alone in his cabin. Rich as Croesus, he is, with a family that would pay anything to get him back alive."

Shaw's chuckle grew into a laugh. He walked over to the sideboard and blew the dust out of two silver goblets, then filled each with red wine. "Aye, you are your father's daughter, Courtney Farrow. As cunning and devious as the fox himself." He handed her one of the goblets and clinked the edges together in a toast. "I will delay stretching the ropes on the yardarms until I have given the matter some hard thought. In the meantime—"

"In the meantime, I want the Yankee lieutenant."

"Eh?" The goblet stopped halfway to his lips. "What the devil for?"

Courtney smiled and sipped the wine. "I want to personally introduce the bastard to the joys of slavery. His conscience may have prompted him to step in where Nilsson and Seagram were concerned, but I still owe him for six days and nights worth of shining his damned boots and emptying out his damned piss-pot. I may even put him in a skirt and have him serve me as a cabin girl, if the mood comes upon me."

Garrett's frown dissolved under another hearty chuckle. "He is yours. The doctor too if you have a mind to train two whimpering curs. Moreover, when we arrive in Tripoli, you will get a full captain's share of whatever profit they bring. You deserve as much for the trouble and pain you have gone through." He raised his goblet again. "To victory, Court. And revenge. 'Tis sweet as nectar when properly won, and by Christ, today's was sweet."

"To revenge," she murmured. "Best served up cold with a very sharp blade."