Chapter 14

14

Tentacles of mist rose from the dense green vegetation, shrouding the two anchored ships in fog. Fine, clinging droplets of dew gathered on the lines and turned the rails and boards damp. A chorus of wails and howls and shrieks from four legged creatures echoed around the bay as the second night of darkness descended upon them.

The crews of both ships had worked continuously throughout the daylight hours, through periods of muggy heat and baking sun. They patched and mended torn sails, cut new spars from the stands of trees that lined the shore, and rebuilt the rails and planking as best they could with the supplies at hand. Shaw's original estimate of four days' work looked to be fitting into three, which pleased him immensely. The cove was well sheltered, almost invisible from the sea, nonetheless, when dusk fell, he restricted the use of lanterns and cabin lights. He wanted to take no unnecessary chances of having a passing ship glimpse a stray light where no light should be. By day, the masts and rigging blended in with the tall trees, but by night, the coastline was a sheet of black velvet. Even the glow from an unguarded pipe could betray their presence.

Thus, the huge brass deck lanterns were to remain cold and dark. There were to be no signal lamps in the rigging, no cracks of light splitting through the heavy canvas curtains tacked across the portholes and hatches.

Courtney stood between the heavy sheeting and the broken gallery windows to breathe in fresh air. She had carefully cleared away the shards of broken glass and smoothed the wooden sill so that she could rest her elbows on the ledge and watch the last sliver of pink light melt out of the sky. The water in the cove was three fathoms or more—twenty feet deep—darkened during the day by the weeds that spiralled up from the sandy floor. At dusk it became a rippling sheet of silver; now it was inky black. So calm. So soothing. Two effects greatly needed if she had to endure what would surely be a repetition of the previous night's fiasco.

Garrett Shaw, Miranda Gold, Davey Dunn, and she had shared the evening meal together on board the Eagle, and it had been a disaster.

Davey Dunn had glowered and bristled at her throughout the meal. He did not agree, it seemed, with Shaw's decision to allow her equal say in the treatment of the Yankee prisoners. She had insisted on a tarpaulin to shield the wounded from the broiling sun—Dunn thought they should stew in their own misery. She had ordered bandages and surgical instruments to be made available for the Yankee doctor's use—Dunn declared she had gone soft in the head. She had ordered meat broth and fresh fruit to be taken to them, and water buckets for drinking and washing—Dunn spat in the buckets and kicked over the first soup pail in disgust. He had flatly refused the first invitation from Shaw to join the dinner group, and it had taken a direct order, followed by a veiled threat for him to appear.

Garrett Shaw had dressed with care in a dark blue brocade jacket and eel-skin breeches. His collar and cuffs were ruffled with rich Spanish lace. He had shaved his beard and clubbed his hair, the change in his appearance so startling that both Miranda and Courtney had both caught themselves staring.

She had forgotten how Shaw liked to play the pirate king after a victory. In truth, it was not that she had forgotten, exactly, it was more that she had not considered it practical under the circumstances. But regally he had greeted them, and with an obvious measure of annoyance he had taken in her plain shirt and simple breeches. Even Dunn had managed a clean vest and shirt, and, she suspected, put a bar of soap to good use on his face and hands.

Her mood had not improved when Miranda swept through the doorway dressed in a cloud of silvery-yellow satin. Her long raven hair had been piled into a crown of shiny curls that caught and reflected the candlelight in soft shimmers. The gown had no bodice to speak of, and what little support there was, was moulded so tightly to the curves of her breasts there was danger each time she laughed or leaned forward that either the fabric would split, or her flesh would spill out on the dinner table. The suspense was palpable as the men watched, eyes wide and unblinking, to see whether or not the fabric could maintain its fragile placement. They hung off her every word, gave her the choicest cuts of meat and gladly refilled her wine goblet when a delicate hand held it out. Like child's play, the boldly seductive amber eyes were able to draw Garrett's attention and hold it despite his efforts to draw Courtney into the conversation.

Courtney saw the game for what it was and could not decide whether she was angry or simply disgusted.

"Now, Court," Shaw had said, catching her for a moment alone after the meal was cleared away, "you cannot hold her nature against her. She is not like you or me."

"Thank all the lucky stars she is not," Courtney muttered. "She sees to her own comforts first, Garrett, she always has, and never spares a thought for anyone else."

"Now that is not entirely fair."

"Not fair? You did not see her on the beach. You did not see the way she deliberately flaunted herself to earn the Yankee captain's attention. I should drop dead now with a stopped heart if she even once begged a crust of bread for the men in exchange for whatever she did to keep Jennings' legs bowed and his eyes glazed."

Shaw laughed. "How do you know for certain she had no intention of helping her fellow prisoners? How do you know what she did and did not do?"

"I know Miranda."

"Aye, you know her like a father's daughter knows his mistress. And I warrant you have more jealousy over the wench in your little finger than a dozen hungry men would be having."

"Jealousy!"

"Aye, jealousy." The grin had broadened and the blue eyes had raked casually over the shapeless shirt. "You resented every minute she spent with your father, and you envy her every hot-blooded stare she wins from a man. And never try to tell me otherwise, Court Farrow, or I will bend you over my knee on the spot."

Courtney's cheeks had flamed; her anger had swelled her throat shut against the words of rebuttal. She had resented Miranda's every moment with Duncan Farrow, but not out of jealousy—she had fought too long to overcome the disadvantages of her own femininity to covet someone else's. What she did resent, however, was that Duncan could be blinded so easily to Miranda's duplicity. A loose blouse, a fluttered eyelash, a seductive pout, and normally hard, cynical men like Duncan Farrow or Garrett Shaw were unable to see that she was just as hard, just as cynical, and far more cold-blooded in her manipulations than any lusting male could be.

Miranda had wanted Duncan solely for the prestige of being his mistress. She had gone to Jennings because it kept her out of the hold and well fed. It was just as obvious that she had her sights set on Garrett Shaw now, and equally obvious from the suggestive glances they exchanged all through the meal, that she had already achieved success.

Taking a final, deep lungful of the evening air, Courtney fixed the canvas sheet back in place over the windows before she lit the desk lantern.

The unopened trunk of women's clothing Garrett had sent down earlier caught the glow of the candle and seemed to beckon to Courtney as slyly as the smile on a hangman's face. She fought hard to ignore the memories that crowded in upon her. Memories of a softer time, a prettier time when dresses and laces and delicate ribbons and satins were the most important things in a little girl's life. Those memories belonged to Courtney de Villiers Farrow, and she had no place for them now. And yet Garrett, by insisting she dress more cordially for tonight's meal, was forcing her to face the pain of those recollection.

The few occasions she had donned a dress over recent years had been solely for the purpose of pleasing her father, lifting his mood from some unknown dark place where it retreated now and then. He had often told her she was the image of her mother, and when she appeared in a dress, he smiled through to the depths of his soul, welcoming the memories of Marguerite de Villiers.

There was no reason now to want or need to feel feminine. And more reasons than she could list to want to erase the more recent memories of how Adrian Ballantine had made her feel every inch the woman. She did not want to think about that night or about how he had briefly turned her world upside down. There was no denying he had changed something inside her, and she was not thinking only of her virginity. Because of him she felt vulnerable where she had felt strong and secure before. Because of him she felt softer, more exposed to her own emotions. She was angry one minute, sad the next, and constantly filled with an aching tension that had no definable source, no relief.

Perhaps she should take her place by Garrett's side. Perhaps she should not refuse his offer of a deeper partnership. He was handsome, he was virile; she could think of worse ways to spend a lonely night. She had found pleasure in the Yankee's arms; surely she could find it with Garrett. It was only a matter of flesh and blood, fitting this into that and rubbing a little.

Sighing, she poured herself a goblet of red wine and stood before the cracked half-length mirror attached to the wall above the washstand. There was nothing overtly coarse or ill-bred about her face. Her lashes were long and upswept, her cheekbones delicately sculpted, her eyes almond-shaped and quite capable (she was sure) of executing a flirtation. Her nose was ordinary, but straight and unobtrusive. It led to a mouth she had always considered unremarkable but, when she looked closely, there was a definite fullness to the lips, a suppleness that became more pronounced when she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. It was the same mouth that had held the Yankee lieutenant's attention far longer than she had thought possible. And she distinctly recalled the pleasurable sensations of his tongue probing for hers, twining and thrusting, and finally winning her surrender.

She felt her cheeks grow warmer as her eyes slipped lower, to where the shape of her breasts was shadowed against the fabric of her shirt. They were not nearly as full or voluptuous as Miranda's, but there, too, Ballantine's attention had lingered. He had traced and retraced the distended crowns, plundering them with hands and lips and tongue until she had almost begged him to end the torment. And then, when his thighs had come between hers, and the heat of his body was inside her ...

Courtney turned abruptly away from the mirror and drained the wine from her goblet in three deep swallows.

It was ludicrous to keep thinking of Ballantine in that way. Ludicrous and unhealthy. Garrett had humored her request to keep him alive, and he tolerated her interference with the wounded prisoners on deck. But he was not a stupid man, nor a man without jealousies of his own. If by word or deed he became suspicious in any way of her motives for wanting Ballantine spared, or if he thought for a single moment that the Yankee had already taken what Garrett had so steadfastly sought these past years ... the strappado would seem a merciful death indeed.

After refilling her goblet, Courtney crouched beside the sea chest and hesitantly reached for the shiny metal clasp. She lifted it and raised the lid slowly, as if whatever was waiting on the inside might leap out and devour her. Nothing leaped, however. And the only devouring done was by her eyes as they widened to take in the profusion of silk and lace that burst from the tightly packed chest. There were three dresses and an assortment silk chemises, richly embroidered overdresses and mysterious garments the like of which she had never seen. She found a small ivory box containing exotic perfumes and cosmetics, a dozen pair of stockings so sheer she could see her hand through the weave.

She sat back on her heels, her hands reverently cradling a sheer white muslin dress. It looked so fragile and delicate with its tiny bodice and short-capped sleeves, so softly feminine that she feared the roughness of her hands might damage it. She stroked the cloth against her cheek and buried her nose in the crushed folds, breathing deeply of the sweet sandalwood scent.

Courtney bit down on her lower lip and found herself staring at her reflection in the hand mirror she found inside the chest.

... you dress like a man and you cut your hair like a man ... .an undernourished, ill-bred pirate urchin ...

She reached for her goblet of wine and drained it hastily. The mirror continued to hold her eye, and she moved the cup away from her lips slowly, while leaning closer to the trunk to inspect her image. A hand crept up to her nape and pulled the bit of twine she had used to bind her hair into a stubby queue. The auburn curls sprang forward immediately to join the wisps that had already escaped, and Courtney could not contain the sigh that escaped her lips. For one ever-so-brief moment she wished she had a waist-long cascade of hair, thick and glossy, spread around her shoulders in all its abundant glory. Like Miranda's hair. It always managed to look immodestly dishevelled, as if she had just tumbled from bed and was eager to tumble back.

Courtney scowled and raked her fingers through the tousled curls.

... nineteen? You look ten years younger ...

Grimly determined to somehow improve her appearance, Courtney snatched up a silver-handled brush from the trunk and began stroking it furiously through her hair. She experimented with the assortment of combs and fillets she found in the cosmetics box; and, in the end, was able to clear most of the curls up from the nape of her neck and push them into a frothy crown on top. The results were pleasing enough, and she leaned back to admire the change, turning her head this way and that to marvel at the graceful arch of her throat and the tiny, perfect lobes of her ears.

"Ill-bred and undernourished, indeed," she muttered and reached for the wine decanter.

Duly fortified for the next step, she sorted through the shimmering assortment of undergarments. She found silk garters to hold the stockings in place, the bands embroidered with tiny pink flowers. She held up a long, sheer breath of ecru silk that had two thin shoulder straps of cream-colored ribbons and, after a fruitless search for anything resembling a corset or corset-cover, realized the shimmy was all that would be between the dress and her skin.

She discarded her shirt and breeches and drew on the first stocking, tying the garter around the top of her thigh and rolling it over several times to hold the silk in place and stretch out the wrinkles. The ecru shimmy was next and she slipped it on, tying the tiny ribbons down the front and adjusting the ones over her shoulders.

The dress itself had a high waistline and an alarmingly low neckline. In fact, there was no more than two or three inches of fabric rising above the green satin band that divided the skirt from the bodice. She wriggled and tugged at the muslin but there was simply no way to raise it to cover more of the exposed flesh.

Her lower lip was savaged again before she dared peek into the mirror to judge the finished product. Her first reaction was to raise her hands to cover her cleavage. Her second was to lower her hands slowly, to lift her eyes from the stunning décolletage and meet the bold emerald sparkle staring back at her.

It was the face in the locket. The face of a beautiful young woman. And she was not thin or gawky or boyish-looking; she was slender and fine-boned and perfectly suited to the cut and style of the gown. A slight adjustment—she lowered the capped sleeves to cover the wound on her upper arm—and the creamy slope of her shoulders was bared even more.

"Urchin, indeed," she muttered aloud. She turned and twirled, letting the sheer folds of the skirt flare then settle softly around her legs again. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she did not attempt to staunch the outpouring of memories. Strains of a long-forgotten minuet echoed distantly in her mind, and she closed her eyes, the better to see the swirling, dizzying couples that bowed and pranced to the music. She was somewhere above them, staring through the rails of a balcony, her child's eyes wide and bedazzled by the rainbow of colors, the sparkle of a thousand candles reflected in the prisms of the crystal chandeliers. She could hear the tinkle of laughter and she could see her mother, so beautiful, so elegant, looking up, and smiling at her spying daughter. Courtney had smiled back and watched with envy, thinking: One day. One day you will know all of this too. You will laugh and dance and ...

Courtney's eyes sprang open. Her gaze flicked to the upper corner of the mirror, to the face that had appeared over her shoulder, to the pair of smoky-gray eyes that were locked on hers with equal astonishment.

She whirled around and came face to face with Adrian Ballantine. Neither of them moved, neither spoke. Only his eyes conveyed the depth of his surprise as they took in the full sweep of her dress, her hair, the prominent half-moons of flesh that swelled against the bodice.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" she finally managed to gasp. "How did you get past the guards?"

"I was brought here," he said softly. "I was escorted at the end of a musket."

Courtney glanced past his broad shoulder and noticed one of Garrett's men, Harry Pitt, standing in the open doorway. He was a short, balding man with skin like parchment and a smile that brought to mind a bleached skull. His eyes were popped almost out of their folds of crow's feet as he raked them up and down, taking in Courtney's altered appearance.

"Why have you brought the prisoner here?" she asked hotly.

"Eh? Ye ordered it, din't ye?"

"I certainly did not."

Pitt's eyes strayed to the dusky cleft between her breasts. "Well, I were told ye wanted to have this here dog brung to the cabin to see after yer chores. If ye've nay chores, I'll take ‘im back to the kennel with the others."

Courtney glanced at Ballantine. Her instincts told her to send him away. She had deliberately not called for him all day, specifically to avoid the jumble of emotions that were already beginning to affect the way the blood flowed through her veins. But if he was a weakness, and if he was going to continue to exert this strange power over her, she had to know. She had to somehow overcome it. She had to overcome him.

"Thank you, Pitt," she said coolly. "In truth, I do have need of the Yankee's skill with a holystone and bucket. You can leave him here."

"Ye want I should stay an' see he does the work proper?"

Courtney crossed to the desk and with drew a long snouted pistol from the top drawer.

"I think I am quite capable of seeing he does the job well. You can go about your business and return for him near the dinner hour."

Pitt shrugged. "As ye like."

"Oh, and Pitt?"

The rheumy eyes flicked up from her bosom. "Aye?"

She cocked the pistol and aimed it casually in his direction. "In future, you will knock on my door before you enter."

The implied threat was delivered so calmly, Pitt's cadaverous smile took a moment to fade. He looked down the barrel of the gun, then up into her dark, inscrutable stare.

"No call to take on airs," he muttered. "Yer father would nay approve."

"My father is not here, which is precisely why the gun is. You might want to pass that information along in case anyone else thinks they can come and go as they please."

Pitt scowled and muttered something unintelligible before he hunched out into the gloomy companionway.

Courtney strode to the door in a swirl of white muslin, slammed it shut and slid the bolt across.

Ballantine had not moved. His eyes had followed her across the cabin, but as soon as she turned to face him, they were studiously averted.

"Having trouble with your own men?" he mused.

"Nothing I cannot handle."

The impression of a smile was on his lips, although his expression had not changed. Courtney's anger was pricked, and she raised the heavy gun, aiming it at the centre of his chest.

"I am not afraid to use this, Yankee."

The gray eyes met hers, the smile became distinctly mocking.

"I happen to be a very good shot."

"I have no reason to doubt it."

"But am I going to have to prove it? If I am, if you are planning to try anything foolish, I would as soon shoot you now and be done with it."

"What could I be planning?" he asked with a slight shrug. "You have the gun. You also have the ability to bring a dozen armed men crashing through the door if you shout. And, even assuming I could get my hands around your lovely throat, where could I go afterwards?"

Courtney felt her cheeks grow warm. She was unable to form a retort, and so she simply stared at him, the gun steady and unwavering in her hand. His wounds appeared to be mending as well as his wit. He had replaced his torn shirt with another: a coarse garment that was too small for his frame and exaggerated the bands of muscle in his arms and across his chest. The wound on his temple had scabbed over, though only partially visible beneath the unfettered locks of tawny gold hair. The long hours of exposure to the sun had not done him any harm either; the pasty gray was gone and the color had returned to his face. His eyes were as cool and insolent as when he had been the one in command. She could almost see a glint of amusement in them—amusement, no doubt, over a pirate wench who was playing at being a lady!

She took a deep breath in an effort to cool her blood, and instantly regretted it. The bodice of her dress did not expand with her chest; it merely thrust the tops of her breasts into greater prominence, an effect that did not go unnoticed by Ballantine.

"Move over beside the brazier," she ordered brusquely, jerking the snout of the pistol to indicate the direction. "The air is becoming damp. You can light a fire while I finish dressing for dinner."

His smile took on a wry twist. "I certainly hope there is more to that dress somewhere."

"The brazier," she said from between clenched teeth.

When Ballantine reached the small iron stove in the corner of the cabin, he bent down on one knee and rattled coal from a tin bucket into the stove's black belly.

Courtney's wrist ached from the weight of the gun; she lowered it, careful to keep her finger in proximity to the trigger. Her mouth was terribly dry, her palms were cool and moist, and she could not keep from staring at the sinuous muscles rippling across his back and shoulders as he built the fire in the stove. How was it possible for him to look so healthy and roguish after two days in the hell she had banished him to on deck? He was with his men, yes, and his precious doctor friend, but most of the wounded had succumbed to fevers and dysentery, and that, in combination with the stifling heat, the flies, the smell, and the suffering ... he should at least have had the decency to look pale and haggard.

Ballantine straightened, startling Courtney alert again.

"Anything else, Miss Farrow?" he inquired with an exaggerated air of servitude.

A second wash of color rose in her cheeks. "You may refill my wine," she commanded, pointing to the decanter and the empty goblet. "And you may stop staring at me."

"Was I staring? Forgive me, it must be that the heat has affected my manners. But then, any woman who chooses to wear a gown like that should expect the odd glance to come her way."

"You were hardly glancing."

"You are hardly what I expected to see," he countered evenly.

"An ill-bred pirate urchin?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Did I call you that?"

"On several occasions."

His eyes travelled soberly down her body. "In that case, I would have to say you are very good at disguises."

Courtney's flush deepened. Why was he doing this? Where was his bitterness, his defiance? She could respond to those emotions easily. What she could not handle was compliance, or worse: flattery.

She moved away from the door and went behind the enormous desk. Placing the gun pointedly within reach, she sat in the deeply padded leather wing chair and tapped her fingers with impatience.

"My wine?"

Adrian had to step around the piles of discarded clothing that had been tossed from the sea chest. He picked up the decanter and filled her goblet to the brim with blood-red claret.

"Set it on the desk," she snapped. "Then you can ... you can put all those things back into the chest."

Adrian placed the goblet on the desk and glanced at the jumble of frilly trappings scattered at his feet. With undisguised bemusement, he held up a sheer wisp of silk that was much like the garment she wore beneath the muslin dress. Horrified, Courtney jumped up and snatched it out of his hands.

"Never mind. I will do it myself."

"I would be only too pleased—"

"I said, never mind!"

He shrugged and watched her drop back in the chair. She raised the goblet and sipped from it, but the dryness in her throat persisted and she ended up draining the cup. She set it down with a slightly unsteady hand and glared up at Ballantine as she saw his mouth flicker again.

"A good claret should be savored, not gulped," he said when she demanded he refill her goblet.

"You are hardly the one to give me advice on drinking."

"Indeed," he murmured and eyed the tray of silver goblets. "Still, a young lady should never drink alone."

Courtney gasped at his audacity as he poured himself a goblet of wine before he refilled hers. Her fingers danced on the stock of the pistol and her eyes blazed.

"Have you ever wondered, Yankee, what would have happened had we both been fighting on the same side? Suppose my father had been fighting against the Pasha, instead of for him, and suppose we had met as allies. Would you be quite so unwilling to take me seriously?"

"I take you very seriously, Irish."

"No." She shook her head. "No, you do not. You only treat me seriously when you think you have something to gain by doing so. On board your ship, for instance, when you knew I was the only thing standing between Seagram and being blown to eternity. Or yesterday, when you thought you could play on my sympathies. It was a convincing fainting spell. You deserved applause."

A spark flared in his eyes, and she felt a rush of satisfaction.

"Ahh. And perhaps you were even thinking I would help you escape? Is that it? Do you honestly think one night in your bed, one drunken rape would leave me so besotted?"

Ballantine's voice was level. "Believe me, Irish, I regret what happened that night as much as you do. Possibly even more."

She regarded him slyly over the rim of her goblet. "I am not so sure of that, Yankee. I know you enjoyed my body, even though you say you do not remember. Perhaps you enjoyed it too much? Does your Deborah not please you the same way?"

A muscle twitched in Adrian's jaw. "My fiancée has nothing to do with this."

"What was it you said, again?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully, ignoring the hard light in his eyes. "Ahhh, yes I believe you said it would take an enticement from the devil himself to make you dishonor your commitment to your sweet Deborah. Is that the excuse you will give her? That you were enticed by demons?"

"Demon rum, most certainly," said Adrian. "And I do not recall ever mentioning Deborah's name to you."

The wine was singing in her blood, bolstering her courage; she leaned back in the chair with a husky laugh. "You also claim not to recall tearing my clothes off, or forcing me into your bed. Or will your story be that I raped you?"

Adrian felt the blood hammering in his temples. His gaze was lured involuntarily to the strain she placed on the muslin as she stretched her arm forward for the decanter. More than a hint of roseate flesh peeped into view and remained there, though she was blissfully unaware of the slippage. The memory of that soft, warm flesh had left an impression in his mind's eye that no amount of rum could have dulled. He remembered the feel of her flesh, supple and honey-smooth one moment, peaked and straining eagerly beneath his lips the next ... despite what she accused him of. Despite what she wanted him to believe?

He forced himself to concentrate on her hands, on watching her pour out the wine. God, how long did it take to fill a damned goblet?

Courtney leaned back, carrying her brimming goblet with her. "You have not tasted your wine, Yankee. Go ahead, drink up. Unless you have reason to fear for your honor again?"

Adrian raised the goblet to his lips. Courtney did likewise, and their eyes locked together over the silver rims. He was, she mused, decidedly no longer a threat to her sensibilities. He had no mysterious powers. If anyone was feeling threatened, it was him, and how sweet a victory it would be to have him acknowledge that threat!

"A second stumble from the mighty pedestal of virtue," she murmured speculatively. "Now that would be difficult to explain, would it not? Even the urge to stumble would be extremely discomfiting to a man of your staunch convictions."

Adrian tensed visibly as she stood and walked slowly around to the front of the desk. She stopped within an arm's length of him and let her gaze rake insolently up and down his rigid body. Much as he wanted to, he could not take his eyes off her face; he could not stop his senses from responding to the sharp clean fragrance of her skin. Soap and hot water seemed like sinful pleasures from some distant life to him, and her apparent recent enjoyment of both sent shivers racing through his flesh.

More than that, there was something new and disturbing in her eyes. Adrian wished he could scratch viciously at the wound on his temple, for the pain would help clear his thinking and sharpen his wits. Her eyes were playing with his body, teasing him, swallowing him into a bright green whirlpool and throwing his instincts off balance. His fingertips were tingling and he could feel the blood throbbing into his groin.

Ignore her eyes! Strike out! Lash out! Reach for the gun, hold it to her temple, use her as a hostage to free the men on deck. It could work. It could ...!

Courtney set the goblet on the desk, lured onto more dangerous ground by the richness of the claret coursing through her veins. Her skin prickled from the heat of his eyes staring down at her, her heart pounded within her breast, and she sensed that he was daring her, challenging her ... mocking her.

She raised her hands and laid them with deliberate tenderness on his chest. The shock of contact sent a chill along her spine, and she held her breath, wondering if she was imagining the same fleeting tremors beneath her fingers. The front vee of his shirt did not quite fit together and she slid her fingers higher, teasing the coppery mat of hair that peeped through. She slid her hands lower, tracing them over the hard-surfaced flesh, over the bands of solid muscle that were almost hot to the touch. Her fingertips brushed across his nipples and despite the barrier of coarse cloth, she could feel them already tightened into hard little peaks.

Her explorations ventured upward again, climbing slowly toward the strong pillar of his neck. Her fingers lingered on the carved hollow at the top of his breastbone before they followed the curve of the brawny shoulders and she could not help but remember how she had clawed into them and held on as her body arched and writhed beneath his.

Her gaze rose to the squared set of his jaw, and her heart skipped erratically over several beats. His mouth had compressed to a grim line. A nerve leaped convulsively in his cheek, drawing her eyes higher, and even if his hands had not chosen that moment to bite into her shoulders, she would have gasped aloud at the naked fury blazing from his eyes. Like shards of light glittering off the blade of a sword, they slashed into her, pierced her, impaled her so that she could not have moved even if her limbs had the ability or the will to do so.

Before she could draw a breath, her wrists had been captured, twisted down behind her back, and she was being crushed ruthlessly against the wall of his chest.

"Is this what you want?" he snarled, and his head bent toward her.

Courtney tried to twist back and away but his arms were like iron bands. His mouth plunged down over hers, the kiss brutal and ravaging, and she tried to turn her head to be free of it but he would not permit it. His tongue forced her resisting lips apart, taking what she refused to give willingly. It was a coarse, searing kiss, one that made her limbs weak and her blood run hot. Somewhere, somehow, she had lost control of the situation and the panic started to spread through her chest, through her belly. Her senses reeled under the assault, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she was able to wriggle an arm free, to swing it hard and catch the side of his head with a balled fist. He barely hesitated long enough to hiss a curse against her lips before he caught the flailing wrist again and twisted to the small of her back, angling it up with such cruel force, she gasped and cried out his name.

Adrian froze. His mouth was poised to crush down over hers again, to teach her a lesson she would never forget, but something stopped him. Whether it was the fact she used his actual name for the first time, or the enormous, condemning green of her eyes, he could not have said. But he watched those eyes brim and the tears etch a glistening path down each cheek. He was still pinning her close against his body and he could feel her breasts heaving against his chest. He could feel the quaking in her arms and legs and as much as he tried desperately not to yield to it, he could feel the burning response in his own body, too powerful to deny.

The anger drained from his expression as quickly as it had risen, and he cursed again, softly this time. Who was this woman, this pirate's daughter, this emerald-eyed beauty who could rouse him to a killing temper one minute, then touch a flame to his desires the next? And yes, by God, she was a beauty, lithe where he had thought her skinny; the boyish clothes hiding delicate curves and slender indents. Her legs were long and coltish, her breasts small but perfectly shaped to fit the palm of his hand. Her hair was fine as silk and trapped the threads of candlelight, giving depth and richness to the auburn color.

His hands slid up her arms to cradle her neck. His thumbs brushed across her cheeks to capture the diamond-like sparkle of tears she had vowed never to show him again. He bowed his mouth to the shiny rivulets, then moved lower, smothering the gasp that tried ineffectually to halt him, then gently claimed and held the stunned, quivering lips beneath his.

Courtney's despairing whimper was lost to a kiss that was tender and sensual and evocative; all of the things she had never experienced before. She pressed her body deeper into his, furrowing into his embrace, pressing her breasts against his chest to wage a war—softness against hardness, passion against pride. She felt the tension in his body, the power in his arms as they tightened around her. Her fingers clawed into the flexing muscles of his shoulders, her lips parted beneath his and her tongue met his in a wild dance of thrust and counterthrust. The coarse rasp of his unshaven chin scored her flesh, causing shudders to quake throughout her body. There was violence drumming in his chest, violence that she could feel and taste, and it sent her emotions whirling and clashing within her.

Adrian's fingers raked into her hair, dislodging the combs, and scattering them across the floor. He forced her head back, arching her neck at a painful angle while his mouth blazed a scorching trail of caresses down along the curve of her throat. Her bodice, barely clinging to her breasts, forfeited its hold and released the dusky pink nipples to greedy fingers and a demanding mouth. His tongue flicked repeatedly over and around the painfully swollen crowns; his lips skirted the creamy white softness and returned again and again to the stinging peaks, swirling and suckling until there were fresh tears streaking into her temples. Courtney's knees buckled, but he did not attempt to support her or to stop her from slipping to the floor. Instead, he sank down to his knees beside her, his mouth still fastened hungrily to her flesh, still feasting on the ripe bounty like a man possessed.

Her ragged cries sent his hands on a fiery mission and in a few brief strokes, the muslin gown and silk shimmy were tossed into the shadows like wind-blown clouds. The rough growth of stubble drifted lower, onto the smooth plain of her belly. She was dizzyingly aware of the hot, swirling patterns his tongue was leaving in its wake, and she writhed in breathless anticipation as she felt the searching, stroking fingers slide between her thighs. The combined assault flooded her senses with a physical yearning so intense, so mindlessly urgent it frightened her.

Adrian felt it; he spread her limbs, bracing her as his lips descended inch by aggressive inch. Courtney gasped as she realized where his course would eventually take him, and she tried to twist away, to bar his passage. But Adrian's hands were firm on her thighs, and the first shocking incursion of his tongue was met with a groan—one that came from somewhere beyond her darkest fantasies. She began to thrash as the warm, wet insistence probed and plundered unmercifully. The waves of pleasure came hotter and faster; became searing jolts of ecstasy that stole the breath from her lungs and all thought of modesty from her mind. Her lips fell slack and her eyes turned luminous. Her brow dampened and her nails scored the bronzed shoulders with dozens of tiny scratches.

Adrian's mouth lifted from her body, and her harsh groan of disappointment sent him kneeling above her. His chest was shiny with sweat, his muscles corded sensuously as his hands skimmed up to the satiny smoothness of her breasts, then down again, to the soft thatch at the junction of her thighs. The dark green eyes locked on his, and her lower lip curled between her teeth. She could feel his anger and his passion; she could see the agony of desire that burned in his eyes. Her hands clenched into fists and rode lightly on his shoulders, her fingers flexed spasmodically as she acknowledged his skillful manipulations. Cries trembled into her throat, and she knew she had to choke them back ... but how ... how?

Through a blur of numbing pleasure, she watched him strip away his clothes. She saw her own hands tearing frantically at the barriers that kept them apart, and when he rose above her again, she stared at his body: a gleaming statue in the candlelight, magnificently bold in its readiness.

She closed her eyes as the forest of coppery hairs brushed against her breasts, setting her body on fire, sending her mouth on a desperate search for his.

"No," he hissed, and his hands were twining in her hair again, forcing her head back, forcing her eyes to meet his. "Not until I hear you say it."

"S-say it?" She gasped, bewildered. "I do not underst—"

His fists tightened, cutting the protest short. "I did not rape you that night, did I? You took what I had to offer as selfishly, as willingly as I took what I needed from you. I want to hear you say it, Irish. Say you wanted me then and you want me now."

"N-no. No ..."

"Yes," he whispered savagely, and his body thrust into hers without warning, the fierce joy of it driving her arms up and around his broad shoulders. His mouth descended to attack her pride, his tongue ravishing her, demanding more than she imagined it was possible to give. And below, the stretching, thrusting power of him drove deeper, faster; his passion grew and spread and stroked into her with a determined ferocity. There was no way to deny the hunger in his body, or the helpless, shameless way she welcomed each violent surge of pleasure.

"Say it," he commanded on a gasp. His hands plunged beneath her buttocks, yet they delayed in lifting her against him, delayed until the ache within her was whipped to a feverish crescendo.

"Yes," she cried softly. "Yes ... please!"

"Say it!"

"Y-you did not rape me!"

It was enough. He expelled his breath and lifted her hips. Their mouths locked together; his hands guided her as the frenzied motion of their bodies peaked and crested and soared simultaneously into a raging eruption of ecstasy. Courtney twined her long legs around him, crying out as he filled her. Not a single nerve ending escaped the wildfire of sweeping passion. She was totally inundated, hopelessly shattered and fragmented by the awesome reality that it was not merely flesh and blood she was responding to, but the man himself. He proved it over and over, bringing her to orgasm again and again until she had nothing left to give. Nothing but tears and whimpers and soft, breathless pleas.

They collapsed in a breathless tumble of arms and legs, their skin slippery with each other's sweat, their pulses racing, their bodies still clenched and clinging as if neither wanted to be the first to let go. Courtney felt as if they must have become fused together in the heat of their consummation. She held him tightly; she ran her hands along the sleek muscles of his back, savouring the languid motion of his body as he coaxed the last of the tiny spasms free, knowing he was as reluctant to leave the soft, wet haven as she was to release him.

Adrian pressed a final, tender kiss into the damp nest of curls below her ear and gently, reluctantly eased himself from between her thighs. He rolled beside her and without a word, gathered her determinedly close in his arms. She went without protest, her body feeling as though every bone and muscle had melted.

The realization of what he had done struck Adrian like a physical blow. His men were suffering, dying in the worst misery imaginable; they were facing an uncertain future of chains and slavery. He should have followed his first impulse and wrapped his hands around the slender throat—to squeeze it, not caress it. He should have wrested the gun from her and used it the way Seagram had used a match and powder keg to bargain for freedom. But he had done neither. Instead of fighting her, he had capitulated to the one mouth, the one body that defied him to go against his sense of duty, of honor, against all obligations to home, to family, to country. Instead of bargaining for his men, he had forced Courtney Farrow into making an admission that made him ache inside.

And the rewards for such a victory? None but a few moments of splendid oblivion. What had he changed by having her admit she wanted him? What had he accomplished by surrendering to her surrender? Nothing. Nothing the cold voice of reason could not erase in a moment.

Courtney's head was cradled in the curve of his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest as if it had always belonged there. She could hear his heart thundering within the chamber of muscle and sinew; she could almost hear his mind churning with thoughts that surely had to be an echo of her own. She was alternately cold, then very warm. She blushed furiously one moment, blanched the next, felt a need to speak volumes at one turn of thought, fell helplessly shy of courage the next. What could she say? That she felt like a woman for the first time in her life? That she wanted to feel like a woman, with a woman's weaknesses, a woman's need to feel the strength and comfort of a man's arms around her?

How could she, when she knew what he was thinking. What he must be thinking of a woman who had enticed him into an act which he had tried so desperately to avoid? Whores did that. Women like Miranda Gold did that to men like Garrett Shaw and did not think twice of their perfidy. Yet, despite the animal passion he released in her, Courtney did not feel like a whore. She felt warm and soft in Ballantine's arms. Comfortable in her vulnerability. Safe.

She pushed herself slowly up out of his arms, staring around the cabin in absolute horror. Muslin and silk, breeches, stockings, combs and pins were scattered across the floor as if a storm had blown through the cabin.

With a shiver of panic, she snatched up the silk shimmy and clutched it over her nakedness while she collected the rest of her clothes. Suddenly foolish and frivolous, the clothes seemed to be mocking her even more than the cool gray eyes that followed her every move.

"You had best get dressed, Yankee," she murmured, keeping her face averted. "The guard will be returning at any moment."

"Courtney ..."

"Did you hear what I said?" She whirled on him angrily. "Do you have any idea what would happen—to both of us—if we were found like this?"

Adrian reached out a hand to her, but she jumped up and began stuffing the gown and underpinnings into the sea chest with careless haste. She pulled her shirt over her head and was reaching for her breeches when she saw Ballantine's frown.

"He has probably spread the word throughout the ship that you were dressed for dinner," Adrian said quietly.

"What?"

"The guard," he reminded her. "He was nearly as shocked as I was when he saw you. Shaw is no doubt expecting a refined beauty to dine with him this evening."

"A pox on what he expects," she declared with false bravado.

"Nevertheless, if Shaw is the kind of man I think he is—" Adrian stood and finished fastening his breeches— "you will only be giving him reason to speculate on what changed your mind."

Courtney glanced at the locked door, and her skin paled noticeably. She looked back at the open sea chest, at the brimming hillock of silk and muslin. A single tear spiked on her lashes as she raised huge, dark eyes to Ballantine.

"I don't think I can," she whispered.

"Of course, you can," he said gently, and had to fight the urge to take her in his arms again. His voice toughened and he bent over the trunk. "I will even help you, although I am damned if I know why I should. If I was unable to keep my hands off you, neither will he."

Courtney looked up, startled, but Adrian steadfastly ignored the fear in her eyes as he lifted her arms and pulled the shirt up and over her head again. He dropped the silken shimmy in its place quickly, trying not to notice how his stubble had left her breasts mottled and pink.

"Courtney—"

"That is the second time you have called me that," she said, interrupting him.

"It is your name, is it not?"

"Yes, but perhaps you should not use it so freely."

He sighed and placed his hands on her shoulders. "We have just spent the better part of an hour doing things usually reserved for people who are on a first-name basis. How much freer does it have to be?"

"I ..." Her strength failed her and she lowered her chin in dismay. "I just think ..." Her voice faltered and she tried again. "What happened was wrong. You know that yourself. It was ... wrong."

"Right or wrong, it happened."

"But it does not change anything. It cannot possibly change anything."

Adrian took a deep breath before he tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his.

"No," he whispered. "It does not change anything."

It just changes everything, he thought to himself.

A bit of color dawned in her cheeks, and she looked into his eyes without commenting, without moving. Adrian smiled gently and brushed the backs of his fingers down her neck. "Now finish getting dressed while I pick up the rest of these things. And be sure you put this where it belongs."

'This' was a length of frothy, delicate lace that he had plucked up from a pile of linens on the floor.

"What is it?" she asked, mystified.

"I believe they call it a tucking piece, my charming innocent. It goes ... there—" his eyes dipped to the swell of her bosom— "to keep certain things from falling out at the dinner table."

Courtney blushed furiously and turned abruptly to the mirror. The tucking piece did indeed make a difference. She did not feel quite so naked, or quite so apt to spill out of the muslin bodice if she leaned forward. When she was fully dressed, she took the brush to her hair again and attempted to repeat her earlier efforts with the combs and fillets. Once again, her hands faltered, and she leaned toward the reflection, her fingertips lightly tracing the shape of her mouth.

"It does look kissed," Adrian agreed in a murmur. "Unfortunately, I have not been able to shave for the past two days."

Courtney's gaze lingered on the stubble-burned skin of her cheeks and throat. After a further thought, she searched through the sea chest and found the small ivory cosmetics box. A light covering of white dusting powder took away the angry red, and she snapped the lid of the box closed and faced Ballantine again.

"Better," he nodded, then frowned. "But there still seems to be something missing."

"My locket," she gasped, and a hand fluttered to her bare throat. It had come off in the frenzy of their lovemaking. A moment later and she had found it, as well as a length of green ribbon to replace the worn leather thong. She started to tie it in place around her neck, but Adrian's fingers assumed the task, his eyes fastened to hers in the mirror.

The knot tied, he could not resist laying his hands on the smooth, bare shoulders. Nor could he resist bending forward and pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. He felt her tremble and saw the flush darken in her cheeks as her eyes closed with the pleasurable sensation.

"You had better unbolt the door before your friend comes back," he murmured. "He seems the type who would kick it in rather than trouble himself to knock, regardless of your orders."

She did as she was told, and none too soon. She was barely away from the door when they heard bootsteps out in the corridor, followed by a coarse belch and a thump that could have been interpreted as a knock.

The door was shoved open without waiting for an invitation to do so.

"Well, lass?" Harry Pitt belched a greeting and picked a morsel of food from between his teeth. "He do all yer chores with no squawkin'?"

"Well enough," she said coolly.

"Capt'n Shaw's waitin' supper on ye. I told him he had a right-fine surprise in store. Right fine." The squinty, watery eyes slid up and down the muslin dress, and Courtney was silently grateful to Ballantine for insisting she wear it.

"You can take the prisoner back to the others now," she said.

"Will ye be wantin' him tomorrow again?"

Pitt's choice of phrases sent a flood of warmth into her cheeks, and her discomfort was compounded by glancing at Adrian. He had also read a double meaning into the words, and a gleam danced in the smoky gray eyes.

"I will send for him if I do," she stammered and, with as much dignity as she could muster, she swept out of the cabin and hurried up on deck.