Chapter 13

13

Matthew Rutger dragged a trembling hand across his forehead and sat back numbly on his heels. The man stretched out in front of him was dead. He had made no sound, had not moved or wakened out of the coma that had set in after the transfer from the Eagle to the Falconer. The name was Peerce, and he and his shattered limbs would become one more pile of cleanly picked bones on the bottom of the bay.

Matt had been awake all night, doing what he could for the wounded members of the Eagle's crew. He had no medicines, no bandages other than what he could tear from clothing, no food, and only the rainwater they were able to trap in canvas pockets for drinking. He wanted to lay down and die himself. He was tired and discouraged. His back had progressed through every stage of agony imaginable and beyond to some that were not. He had managed to clothe himself with the pickings from men who no longer needed earthly comforts, and while his own lacerations no longer bled, there were stains from a dozen torn limbs soiling his sleeves and breeches. His face was pale, the skin drawn taut over his cheekbones. His eyes shared and reflected the pain of every man around him.

Matt sighed and covered Peerce's face with a scrap of sail. The rain had stopped and the sun was struggling to break free of the clouds, but the air was so dense with humidity and mosquitoes, it seemed they were only trading one hell for another.

"You!"

Matt looked up and blinked uncertainly. The corsairs had erected a barrier of crates and broken timbers around the prisoners, penning them up like animals.

"You with the striped back! Pay a mind here!"

Matt followed the direction of the shout and recognized the wiry corsair who had led Adrian to the shrouds. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him when he saw the tall figure standing behind Dunn, but then he found his voice and staggered clumsily to his feet.

"Adrian!"

"I'm told ye been caterwaulin' for help, Yankee," Dunn spat. "Well, here ye are."

Matthew picked his way over the bodies of groaning men to stand at the edge of the pen while Ballantine was pushed through.

"These men need shelter," he said to Dunn. "And food. For the love of God, can you not see they are dying? A cup of broth, some unguent for the burns ...?"

Pftt. A gob of yellow spittle hit the deck at Rutger's feet.

"Stow yer whinin', Yankee," Dunn growled. "Or I'll be doctorin' ye gut to gizzard for fishbait."

He shoved Adrian forward and spat once more onto the deck before he closed the gap in the barricade and strode away. Matt's shoulders sagged as if every muscle had been drained of substance.

"Are these all the wounded?" Ballantine whispered, trying to take in the horror of the pen.

"Twenty-three," Matt said grimly. "Six died through the night; Peerce went a few moments ago. Or it could have been an hour ago ... two ... " He brushed a hand across his forehead. "I do not know anymore."

Adrian looked at his friend. Matt was obviously nearing the limits of his endurance. They both were, but neither could afford the luxury of collapsing.

"We can sit over there," Matt said and led the way to an overturned crate. "Anything damaged besides your head?"

"Apart from the muscles in my shoulders that feel as though they have been torn out of the sockets—" Adrian held up his hands, which were still bound, showing wrists that were chafed raw. "Can you help me get these off?"

Matt thumbed the thick cords with fingers that had little strength to budge the tight knots. "It should only take me an hour or so to chew through them," he muttered disgustedly.

"Check the slit pocket in my breeches. I put my razor there yesterday, before all hell broke loose. As far as I know it is still there."

"It is still here," Matt cried and produced the slim, folded blade. He glanced around quickly, to see if they were being observed by any of the guards, then began to saw at the ropes. While he did, he peered curiously at the neat row of stitching on Adrian's head.

"The girl," Adrian explained. "She sewed me up."

"Courtney? She is alive?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Ahh—" The bindings parted, and Ballantine was able to rub gingerly at the torn flesh on his wrists. "She might not have been if I could have wrapped my hands around her throat."

"This was not any of her doing."

"She wished for it hard enough. How many men do they have guarding this pen?

"Four or five, why?"

"Armed, naturally."

"Head to toe."

"And the Eagle. Any word from the rest of the crew?"

"None. Did you really expect there to be?"

"I hardly expect them to be bowing their heads and shuffling around like beaten dogs!"

"What do you expect them to do? Get themselves killed? They are beaten down, unarmed and locked in the hold. Give them a day, at least, to start thinking straight again."

"They intend to sail us into Tripoli, Matt. They plan to tow the Eagle there and hand her over to Karamanli. Do you know what that will do to Commodore Preble's plans for a swift end to the war?"

"I am still at a loss as to what you think we can do about it," Matt said quietly, glancing around at the wounded men. "You and I are pretty much the only ones on board here that can still stand up to piss."

"Then it is up to you and I to think of something," Adrian said grimly. His gaze strayed to the battered hulk of the Eagle. It was moored less than fifty yards from the Falconer, and he could clearly see signs of activity both above and below decks. "If only we had some way of communicating with the rest of the men."

The Eagle's marine sergeant-at-arms, Andrew Rowntree, stared out across the narrow gap of water that divided the two ships and stifled the urge to simply lean his face up to the shattered planks and shout across the distance. At twenty years of age, he was bristling at the indignity of being taken captive by a scurrilous crew of pirates. He had long since decided that he could give his life in no better service than for his country, thus his own personal safety was not a factor in deciding what to do next. What dampened his spirits somewhat was the knowledge that not all of his crewmates felt the same way.

They were closely guarded, beaten at the first sign of insubordination. They had so far been denied food or water so that they could not regain any of the strength they had lost over the past twenty-four hours. The fact that the wounded were hostages on board the corsair's ship to ensure the Americans' cooperation was a major deterrent as was the deliberate isolation of the Eagle's senior officers. Lieutenant Ballantine was on board the Falconer, as was Jennings as far as they could determine. Second Lieutenant Falworth had been removed at dawn and escorted across, which left two junior midshipmen—one of whom was crouched in a corner, mumbling and weeping—Angus MacDonald, and himself holding the only rank above private.

Without leadership and purpose, the men would lapse into lethargy. There were one hundred and forty-six healthy survivors from one of the best damned warships afloat, and as long as they lived and breathed, Rowntree was not going throw his hands up in surrender. If he could only find a way of communicating with the men on the Falconer. He had seen Lieutenant Ballantine cut down from the rigging earlier, and while he had looked in terrible condition, the fact that he was still alive offered some hope.

Andrew felt a firm hand on his arm and looked up to see the Scot, Angus MacDonald, beside him. Rowntree was leaning against the bulkhead, his face bathed in the light that filtered through a hole in the outer skin of the hull. The rest of the storeroom was in darkness save for a single greasy oil lantern that cast more smoke than light. The air was pungent with the smell of crowded bodies. The brimming slop barrel had not been emptied since their incarceration, and it added its own cloying rankness to the shadows.

"Ye should give yersel' a chance at some sleep, laddie," MacDonald scolded gently. "Ye were awake all night, twitchin' an' turnin' like the Devil himsel' was at yer heels."

"I dare not sleep, Angus. God knows, I have tried, but every time I close my eyes ..."

"Aye, Laddie. Aye, I ken how ye feel. I have seen the same man die in mine eyes a hundred times."

Andrew sighed. Angus had earned a burned forearm in the shelling of Snake Island, bruised ribs and a nasty cut on the side of his head from the beach fighting, a grazed shoulder during the attempted breakout on the Eagle, and a crisscross of raw pink weals on his back from the flogging. He had added a complement of bruises and scrapes during the sea battle with the Falconer; and as a final insult, had had his pride and glory—the full bushy moustache—singed from his upper lip while dousing a fire on deck.

"Angus, why are you not flat on your back?" Rowntree asked in awe.

"Ach! It would take more'n a few wee stings to put a MacDonald under. Come along now, the swine brought us food. It is nay much by the smell o' it, but ye'd best eat it anyway, to keep up yer strength."

"Strength for what, Angus?" Rowntree sighed wearily. "Strength to rebuild our ship so these blackhearts can sail her into Tripoli as a prize? The Pasha will paint her with yellow and green frescoes and have paper lanterns hanging from her masts. If only ..." He turned and gazed out the damaged hull again. "If only there was some way to get in touch with the others. Lieutenant Ballantine, for instance. If we could just speak to him, get to him somehow."

"Wi' these black necks peerin' down our gullets every two turns? Ye'd have a better chance at postin' a letter an' seein' it delivered by packet."

"I suppose you are right," Rowntree said and then frowned. "Why do you think they took Lieutenant Falworth across?"

The Scot took a deep breath, swelling his barrel chest. He winced from a sharp pain in his damaged ribs, but it did not stop the fine Gaelic curse that he bestowed on Falworth's soul.

"That swine is a right shifty one," Angus spat. "Nay above sellin' his soul, ye ask me, if he thought it would buy him a clean pair o' britches an' a hot meal."

Andrew dismissed the bitterness with a wave of his hand. He knew MacDonald and Falworth had locked horns often in the past—that was why such an excellent soldier as Mac was normally assigned to guard duty in the stinking brig.

"The problem, as I see it," Rowntree muttered, "is that any method we use to attract the attention of our men on the Falconer will also be seen by their guards. That rules out lights, shouts, even hand signals or flags."

"Hand signals," the Scot grunted softly. "Normal hand signals, aye, but what about the kind the doc uses to talk wi' wee Dickie Little?"

Andrew Rowntree's eyes widened, and his head turned slowly to stare at Angus, who grinned through the charred remnants of his moustache.

"Dickie Little," Rowntree murmured. "Why the blazes did I not think of that? Is he here? Is he with this shift of workers?"

"Aye, he is here, in yon corner."

Andrew stood and searched anxiously in the shadows for the small, huddled form of Dickie Little. He was where Angus had said, crouched in the corner of the storeroom, his eyes closed, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, hugging them close for comfort. His face was blackened by layers of soot; his hair was singed to the scalp on one side of his head.

Andrew hunkered down beside the boy, momentarily at a loss. With his eyes closed, Dickie had effectively escaped into his own private world. None of the other boys had ever had much to do with him; they preferred to tease and taunt him, to ape his deafness rather than to try to understand it. The older tars on board the Eagle had not been much better. They cuffed him if he got in the way, twisted an ear or boxed them if he mistook an order. Only Matthew Rutger had spared time for the boy.

Andrew reached out and gently touched Dickie's arm.

Enormous brown eyes flew open at once, bright with the kind of fear no one else on board would comprehend. Andrew immediately held up a grimy hand to assure the boy there was no need to be frightened. Dickie did not move, did not react other than to hug his arms and legs tighter against his chest.

"We need your help, lad," Andrew said, conscious of the desperation in his voice. "Please, Dickie, how can I make you understand?"

"Let me try," said Angus, bending down beside the sergeant. Despite his gruffness, he had a warm smile when the urge was upon him to use it, and he used it now to accompany the gesture of crossing his freckled hands over his chest. Dickie's eyes widened, and he looked from Angus to Rowntree and back.

"I seen him an' the doc use this sign many a time," MacDonald murmured. "I ken it means ‘friend'."

Andrew smiled hopefully and did likewise, crossing his hands across his chest. Dickie continued to stare for several moments before he slowly, hesitantly, relinquished his grip on his bent knees and returned the gesture.

"Thank Christ," Andrew muttered. "What now? How do we tell him what we want him to do? Even if we manage to send a message to the Falconer, how in hell will we know what they send back?"

"Worry on that when it happens, laddie," Angus said, his eyes still focused on the young boy. Despite the fact the boy could not hear what he was saying, he whispered, "Ye can trust me, lad. I give ye an oath on me mether's grave."

He stood and held out one of his hands. The other he used to point to the other side of the storeroom, to the small square of light.

"Come along, wee Dickie," he whispered. "We have a man's job for ye fair an' proper, an' ye're the only one of us what can do it."

Dickie's hand moved a fraction, as if a nerve had suddenly twitched. Angus saw it, and his smile became even more encouraging, the palm of his hand more welcoming.

"Good laddie!" He cried fiercely when he felt the small, cold fingers slip into his. "Good!"

Angus helped the boy to his feet and led the way through the silent, weary men, few of whom even looked up as they passed. When they arrived at the crack in the hull, Angus dragged an empty crate over for the boy to stand on so he could see out the hole. The haunted brown eyes studied the narrow view—the rim of trees, the calm waters of the cove, the anchored silhouette of the Falconer—then turned to look at Angus blankly.

"What would the sign for ‘doctor' be?" Andrew wondered aloud.

Angus appealed to some of the men nearby. "Do any of ye blatherin' fools ken the sign for ‘doctor'?"

A few shook their heads in response; others simply stared.

"What would be logical?" Andrew asked, with a shrug.

Angus started to spread his hands, then stopped mid-gesture. He brought them together again and mimed a needle and thread stitching into his wounded shoulder, then he pointed out the hole.

The sadness in the boy's face deepened, and he lowered his head, nodding slowly.

"He probably only thinks we are telling him the doctor is on the other ship."

"Aye, but at least he kens." Angus leaned forward and grasped Dickie's slender shoulders. He touched the quivering, bloodless lips with his finger, then touched his own ... then pointed out the broken slats. He repeated the sequence, adding some haphazard hand movements to try to communicate the idea of conversation to the boy. And again, patiently: the needle and thread, the finger to his lips, the gestures out the gaping hole in the shattered planks. His smile of encouragement became a grin, then a beam of triumph when Dickie suddenly grasped the meaning and grabbed Angus MacDonald's huge hands in his own.

"By God, he understands," Andrew gasped.

"Was there ever a doubt?" The Scot demanded, feigning a pained expression.

"Now we just have to figure out a way of attracting the doctor's attention ... if he is still alive, and if he is still topside with the wounded."

"He'll be with the wounded," Angus declared confidently.

Andrew peered anxiously through the hole even as Angus pried carefully and quietly at the loose splinters and chunks of wood to widen the gap.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

There was little sign of movement on the quarter-deck of the Falconer where the prisoners were being held. A slight commotion caused Andrew to clutch the corporal's arm in excitement, but nothing came of it. It was a further two hours of frustrating vigilance before a head popped into view and was lowered behind the barrier of crates and boards again.

Andrew's fingers dug into MacDonald's arm. "Look! I cannot be certain, but I think I just saw Lieutenant Ballantine!"

Angus thrust his face into the gap and peered. "Aye, an' the doctor! Now laddie," Angus touched the boy's arm, beckoning him forward.

Dickie needed no further prompting. His eyes were shining, his mouth quivered into a smile. His hands moved in furious patterns to the chest, the mouth, making circles and sweeps, his fingers fluttering in a path that took them always back to the heart.

"Good God, it is Dickie!" Matthew whispered in disbelief.

"Can you make out what he is saying?" Adrian asked urgently, mindful of any guards who may have seen the boy's face appear between the broken planks of the hull.

"He is telling me he is happy to see me," Matt said. "That he was afraid I was dead—that all of us were dead."

"Who is with him?"

Matt's hands moved in short, brusque motions, and after a pause the answer came flashing across.

"They have been split into three work parties of about fifty each. Rowntree is with him, and MacDonald."

"By God, we may have a chance after all," Adrian murmured. "Is there someone over there who understands the boy?'

"He says they are trying." Matt smiled proudly and added, "He says he will make them understand if he has to teach them every sign we know."

"Good. We need to keep it simple. You say three shifts of fifty? When do they change, where do they go, how closely are they watched. Have they any kind of weapons at all?"

Matthew relayed the questions. The responses came after a delay of almost fifteen minutes.

"A crowbar and two knives," Matt said, flatly disgusted. "A hell of a beginning for an armed revolt, if that is what you hope to achieve."

"Nevertheless, it is a beginning," Adrian insisted. "And with God's help, the beginning of the end for Shaw and his pirates!"

At the precise moment Adrian Ballantine was envisioning Garrett Shaw's downfall, the captain was sprawled on the former captain's bed in the Eagle's great cabin. His teeth were bared, his face was bathed in sweat, the veins in his neck were strained into cords and each breath he managed to hold was a victory of will and determination. His naked body glistened with a feverish urgency—an urgency that was conveyed to Miranda Gold through each of the ten fingers he had curled into her raven hair.

She had been rowed across to the Eagle an hour before, using the excuse of a "personal matter of grave importance" to argue her way past the guards. Once in the great cabin, she had stood at the foot of the bed and stared down at Garrett Shaw, who was splayed out like a starfish on the thick feather mattress. Miranda had studied his sleeping form for several minutes, admiring the splendor of his muscular chest, the trim waist, the buttocks and thighs that seemed carved out of marble.

Soundlessly she had stripped out of her blouse and skirt and crept onto the bed beside him. The game had been decided by a teasing breath over his groin, followed by light dancing strokes from her fingertips that had caused his flesh to rise in a hard, solid spear.

Miranda was not exactly certain at what stage he had come fully awake, only that he responded to her hands and lips with an awe-inspiring virility. She had not waited for an invitation to straddle the beckoning hips, nor had she attempted to stifle the eager whimper as she thrust herself down over his rigidly thick flesh. Within moments he was grasping her hips and she was bucking and plunging with a wildness that made her realize it had been a long time since she had sought pleasure for herself. Even longer since she'd had a man capable of giving it to her. Jennings' efforts had been laughable, and Falworth had been too greedy to worry about anything but his own satisfaction.

It was her turn to be greedy now. She growled as she felt the animal come alive within her, felt it stretch and squeeze and tighten around Shaw's flesh until he was grunting and shaking beneath her, trying to control her movements, trying to keep from exploding like an untried youth. She threw her head back and let her body govern her moves, moaning and shivering deliciously as the tension mounted higher and higher. Her hands grasped his waist; her knees tightened on his thighs to guide her, grind her closer. She cried out at each searing thrust of his flesh, and she strove to heighten her ecstasy, to manipulate the spasms of pleasure until she had created continuous, rhythmical waves.

He shuddered twice within her but showed no sign of weakening or hastening her to an end. The dark blue eyes were open and locked on her face. His body shone from his exertions, and his hands alternately clenched and relaxed with the motion of her hips.

Miranda's hair tumbled over her breasts like a black cloud. Garrett pushed it aside, and pinched the taut peaks, making her scream. His torso strained upward, and his mouth replaced his fingers, biting and suckling the pebble-hard nubs until the pleasure flooded out of her again and again. She plunged and writhed uncontrollably, relinquishing all but the feeblest ability to retain her composure as Garrett rolled her beneath him and drove into her. The bed rocked and the mattress jumped as they savaged one another, climaxing together in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs and breathless cries.

When the rush passed for the final time, Miranda groaned and let her arms and legs slide limply down. Her hair lay like a damp black web across the lover half of her face. Her mouth felt parched, and she moistened her lips enough to keep them from cracking as her smile bubbled into a husky laugh.

"My God," she said between panted breaths. "I had almost forgotten what that felt like! No wonder you leave a trail of wenches hobbling behind you like poled cats."

"None of them hiss and scratch half so fine as you," Shaw grinned.

"Me?" She laughed again. "Then why is it you have never invited me into your bed before?"

"I was under the impression you liked it where you were. And besides, I have never wanted any woman badly enough to try my sword against Duncan Farrow."

"Ahh, so it was Duncan's wrath you feared."

Garrett propped himself on his elbows and looked down at her. "Let us just say I had a healthy respect for his temper. I can be a patient man, however. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to me."

As patient as a circling vulture, Miranda thought and felt her body begin to tingle under his gaze. And just as humble. He had made no secret of the fact that he had wanted her, almost from the moment Duncan had led her ashore on Snake Island. But then, everything that belonged to Duncan, Garrett coveted. His ships, his island, his men, his reputation ... his daughter.

His daughter! The thought brought a flush of annoyance to Miranda's cheeks.

"Yesterday, in your cabin, I had the distinct impression it was not me you were waiting patiently for, but someone else."

"Courtney?"

"Yes, Courtney," she retorted acidly. "Poor little Courtney. Sweet little Courtney. Brave little Courtney. And since you left the cabin shortly after I did, may I assume it is still virginal little Courtney?"

The black brows crushed together and a grin appeared. "My, my, such tender concern for your lover's daughter."

"My dead lover's daughter," she corrected him archly. "And I warn you now, Garrett Shaw, I have no intentions of sharing anyone with her again."

"Meaning me?" The grin broadened.

"If you think she has something so special between her thighs, by all means rape the chit and be done with it. But if you want to keep me in your bed—" her hands slid lower on his body— "you will have your fun and be done with her."

He laughed softly, and his hand skimmed up her thigh to lightly fondle a breast. "I want more than just fun, Miranda love. I not only intend to bed her, I intend to take her as my wife."

"Your wife!" Miranda's mouth sagged open. She could not believe what she was hearing. "You plan to marry her? After we ... after I ...?"

"After you honored me with such a pleasant tumble? My pet, the one act has nothing to do with the other. You want me, you can have me; whenever, wherever."

Miranda's anger exploded with a curse as she flung his hand away from her breast. She scrambled for the edge of the bed with the intentions of gathering her clothes and storming out of the cabin. A firm hand on her arm stopped her. A rougher tousle and a curse-laden struggle landed her on her back again with Shaw's weight pinning her flat.

"Let go of me!"

"No."

She gasped in outrage. "Let go of me now!"

Garrett shifted his weight and with a laugh, stifled her protests beneath his mouth. He dragged her arms above her head and held both wrists trapped in one of his hands while his other moved down her writhing body.

"You should at least hear me out before you take it upon yourself to throw our future happiness away."

"Future happiness!" she cried. "As what? Your mistress? Your alternative on nights when sweet little Courtney clamps her thighs shut and pouts! No thank you, Garrett Shaw. No thank you indeed."

"Ahhh, Miranda ..."

"Stop that!" She shrieked and squirmed violently to dislodge the hand that was stroking the slickness between her thighs. He only laughed and pressed his mouth into the curve of her throat.

"I can give you what you need," he murmured, "what you want."

"Bastard! My only needs are to get away from this ship. To get away from this pestilent country, these stinking people, this rotten life."

"Then we both want the same thing. And you should not be so quick to throw away what I am offering."

"You have not offered anything yet," she spat.

He kept his eyes locked to hers as he planted a large, wet kiss on the crest of each heaving breast. "Shall I start with several hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold? Or would you prefer land as far as the eye can see? Jewels? Furs?"

She stopped struggling.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "What gold? What jewels?"

"I am talking about a fortune, my Spanish beauty. An empire. Wealth beyond your wildest imaginings."

"Oh Lord," she sighed derisively. "You believe that old story about the chests of gold and gems that were smuggled out of France with Courtney?"

"I said empire, not fairy-tale. Although I would not be too hasty to discount the stories entirely. There were chests taken on board with the girl, and her grandfather was the financial advisor to Louis XVI. It is possible that the rumors of what they contained are true. Very possible."

Miranda's arms were still pinned even though she had ceased her efforts to squirm free. She craned her head forward, the better to see his face.

"Garrett?"

"Mmm?"

"If it was not the treasure you were talking about ...?" She laid her head back down and took a deep breath. His fingers were creating distracting shivers of pleasure where they stroked and rubbed and probed. "What fortune, what empire were you talking about?"

"The one in America."

"America?"

"Aye, my beauty. A fortune sitting there patiently, waiting to be claimed."

"Claimed? How? By whom?"

"By Courtney. It is her money, now that Duncan's gone. Her inheritance, you might call it."

"Inheritance?" The amber eyes narrowed. "What inheritance? Will you stop doing that. I cannot think straight!"

Garrett chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I gather you did not know that Duncan was planning to turn respectable? He has been hoarding all of his profits from his raiding ventures. He has had it shipped to America for the past ten years or so, ever since he discovered the existence of a daughter. He has bought land, built a mansion, planted cotton fields. Why, he has founded a small dynasty and all under another name."

"What name?" she breathed, intrigued despite herself.

"Ah, well ... that I do not know. Not yet, at any rate. Farrow and his blasted codes and passwords and ciphers. He has a fortune stowed away in America, and as far as I have been able to determine, Court is the only one who has the key." He tapped the side of his head. "In here. Raping her would hardly put her in the mood to hand it over to me, now would it?"

"You mean she is the only one who knows?"

"Duncan is dead. Verart is dead. Who is the sole surviving member of the family?"

"What about me? Did he not make any provisions for me?"

"Apparently not," Garrett mused, watching yellow sparks of rage flare into her eyes. "Nor did his plans include me. This was to have been his final run through the blockades. That was why he insisted that Courtney and Verart stay behind on Snake Island. He wanted to be sure they were safe. Ironic, would you not agree?"

"Did she know?"

"About his plans? I doubt it very much." Garrett's handsome face darkened. "He did not even deign to tell me until we were approaching the rendezvous at Moknine. That was when he generously offered me full ownership of the Wild Goose and its crew."

"You have wanted it long enough."

"True. But Duncan was always the one who knew how to negotiate with the Arabs; I do not even speak the bloody wog language."

"You have always shared equally in the spoils, have you not? Surely you must have acquired just as much gold over the years."

"Acquired, aye. Several small fortunes that would have kept a prudent man happy for years to come. However—" the white teeth flashed in a smile— "prudence was never one of my virtues. I enjoy life's pleasures too much to take frugality seriously."

"You squandered everything?"

"Not everything. But if Duncan's share is there for the taking ...?" He shrugged and smiled crookedly.

Miranda's brow was pleated in an angry frown. Her long fingers were tapping on the rumpled bedding.

"He was definitely frugal," she spat. "He tossed the odd coin my way if I was lucky. The odd paltry trinket, a dress or two."

"Ahh, yes, well—" Shaw traced a fingertip along her jaw and across the plump, lush pout of her mouth— "that was another way in which we differed. I have always had a soft spot in my heart for a pretty wench. Jewels and gold and silk always seemed to make them that much prettier."

He rolled off the bed and walked over to the desk. He took something out of a small velvet pouch and approached the bed again, then extended one of his tattooed arms. The snakes writhed with the movement of his muscles as he upturned his hand and uncurled the thick calloused fingers. Nestled in the palm was a ring, a huge square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds, each large enough to have made an impressive ring on their own. The fire and brilliance of the gems took Miranda's breath away, and she rose slowly to her knees, gaping first at the ring, then at Garrett's watchful face.

"It is exquisite," she murmured.

"It is yours, if you want it."

"Mine?" she gasped. She reached out trembling fingers for it, but before she could touch the ring, Garrett's fist curled shut over it again.

"Regrettably, however, it is the only trinket I have in my possession at the moment and I may need it a while longer to convince Court of my sincerity."

"Sincerity?" If she could believe him, he was offering her all the wealth and comfort she had ever dreamed of. If he was lying, if he was toying with her or stalling for time, then she was no better off than she was as Duncan's whore. "Why do you have to convince her of anything? Why can you not simply pull out her fingernails one at a time until she tells you what you want to know?"

Garrett laughed. "My, what a cold-hearted vixen you can be."

"Perhaps, but do not try to tell me the thought has not occurred to you already."

He grinned, "Aye, it has occurred to me. It has also occurred to me that I would have as much success 'pulling' the information I need out of her as I would had I tried to pull it out of Duncan."

"So much for loyalty," she said crossly. "But then we both know how loyal you have been over the years, do we not?"

Garrett's expression assumed a slightly ominous coolness. "Perhaps you would care to tell me what you mean?"

"I mean," she reached down and took hold of his fist, easing the fingers open until she could prise the ring free, "you have been cheating him for years, taking the choicest prizes for yourself before he even knew the tally. I know you have gone on raids when he thought you had gone for supplies, and I know you had contacts with the slave market in Algiers where you have sold the prisoners you were supposedly setting free. Now, now, do not go swelling up on me with your anger. What does it matter now?" She slipped the ring onto her finger, then pressed her hand flat on his chest, admiring the size and sparkle. When she saw that his frown had not eased, she wriggled closer to the edge of the bed, close enough to slide her hands up over the iron-hard surface of his chest and lace her fingers together behind his neck. "Duncan is dead. Everything belongs to you, now, regardless of what you did to get it."

The dark blue eyes glittered strangely. "Are you implying it was me who sold Duncan to the Americans?"

"Did you?"

She felt a sudden tension in his body, and she saw a shadow pass briefly through his eyes. She knew Duncan had never completely trusted Garrett, and she knew enough not to trust him herself, but greed alone did not make traitors out of friends.

"No," she murmured with a pensive shake of her head. "No, you would not have been that foolhardy. Not if you left Davey Dunn alive. But one still has to wonder about the studding boom that broke so conveniently and prevented you from running to Duncan's rescue in time to save the Goose?"

Garrett snarled and twisted his fingers roughly around the skeins of raven hair. "The boom did break. My ship was crippled."

"And I do believe you," she said evenly, her eyes glowing. "But there are others who might not. Courtney has been asking questions all over the ship. She may start men thinking. She may start Dunn thinking. Can you afford to let that happen?"

Garrett eased his grip, but his hands remained wrapped around the shiny black hair. "I can handle Davey Dunn if need be."

"And Courtney?"

His eyes moved to the supple red lips, then to the equally intoxicating lushness of warm, silky flesh that pressed invitingly against his.

"You can carve her into little strips and roast her over an open flame for all I care ... after she tells me what I need to know."