Chapter 15

15

In a repeat of the previous evening, Courtney was rowed across to the Eagle with the stiff-backed Davey Dunn seated opposite her in the jolly boat. His eyes had squinted down to slits when he had seen her come up on deck, a reaction shared by most of the crew who were not accustomed to seeing her in anything but shirt and breeches. Dunn was silent, and for that Courtney was thankful. The look in his eyes was anything but comforting, however, and she was certain he knew exactly why her heart was beating so quickly and why her legs felt weak and loose in the joints.

They were barely through the gangway when one of the carpenters approached and Davey Dunn was called away to solve a problem with the rudder. Courtney descended to the captain's cabin on her own, relieved to be free of Dunn's unblinking stare. Thankfully the cabin, when she entered, already had the galley windows covered for the night. A single four-pronged candlestick was flickering on the dining table, mellowing the light enough to further conceal any lingering redness on her skin.

Garrett Shaw stood at the far side of the room. He looked even more elegant than he had the previous evening. He was wearing a black velvet cutaway coat, black breeches, and a striped maroon and white brocade waistcoat. His hair was loose and shiny, and fell in thick, shaggy waves over his collar. He looked as if he should be hosting a night at the opera, not dinner on the lower deck of a captured warship.

He had his back to the door when she entered, pouring wine into a goblet.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting long," she said.

"Another ten minutes," he retorted crossly, "And I would have come looking for you."

He turned, and the blue-black eyes found her in the shadows. To his credit he did not sputter into the goblet when he saw her standing there, but that was only because he had not yet taken a mouthful. Courtney recognized the same look of astonishment in his eyes as had been in Ballantine's, and she experienced a fleeting, fervent wish that she had never ventured near the damned sea chest.

"I see I am not the only late arrival," she said casually, glancing around the empty room. "But then one can always rely on Miranda to make a grand entrance." She stared directly into Garrett's eyes and smiled. "Are you not going to offer me some wine?"

Shaw averted his eyes grudgingly, but only for as long as it took to splash some wine into another goblet. When he looked up again the fingers of light from the candles beckoned his gaze to the creamy curve of her neck, luring it along her bared shoulders, over the gentle, soft swell of her breasts.

He slowly crossed the room, and with the charm and flourish of a cavalier, bowed low and took her hand in his, pressing his lips to the back of her cool fingers.

"By God, Court Farrow, you have your father's gift for surprises. And damn my eyes if I have ever seen such a rare, exquisite beauty as yours."

Courtney reclaimed her hand and took the goblet of wine he offered. "All this fuss. Surely you have seen me in skirts before, Garrett."

He grinned. "Aye, I have seen you in skirts before ... out of them as well. It does not change what I am seeing now though."

She had the distinct impression the blue eyes were slowly stripping away each layer of her clothing and envisioning what lay beneath. She took a tiny sip of wine to mask her discomfort but when he continued to stare, her discomfort turned to impatience.

"Garrett, if you do not stop looking at me like that, I am not going to have any clothes left on at all."

"Now there is a pleasant thought," he murmured and moved closer.

Courtney deftly sidestepped the advance and presented her back to him as she crossed to the opposite end of the table.

"How are the repairs coming along?" she asked, looking around the cabin.

Garrett shrugged. "We can get the Eagle seaworthy, but beyond that, one good squall and she will be finished. Even if we have to tow her, however, I want to be away from this accursed cove before the sun climbs high tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Aye, I have been told that within a fortnight the approaches to Tripoli will be alive with Yankee gunboats."

"How do you know that?"

Shaw grinned easily. "The fat captain was quite talkative when he had a hot iron kissing his private parts. I am surprised you did not hear him squealing like a guinea hen."

"I thought you said you were keeping Jennings for the Pasha."

He shrugged and toyed with the cuff of his frockcoat. "I read through his log—Christ on a cross, the man-made note of every time he emptied his bowels—and saw mention there of the trap at Moknine. I was hoping he knew something more, but considering how eager he was to answer all my questions, I would say he knew nothing about how the Yankees came by their information or who the spy among us might be."

"Was?" she noted quietly. "Is he dead?"

Shaw shrugged again. "No stamina. No loss either, I warrant. And what of it? Are you telling me you had a soft spot in your heart for him as well?"

"Of course not. Why would I?"

"Davey tells me you have been plaguing him for two days now, demanding this and that for your pet Yankees."

"Only for the wounded. It seems inhuman to stand by and watch them suffer unnecessarily. Especially since our men know all too well how that feels. Regardless what we think of them, they fought hard and they fought well. Forcing them to accept defeat should be enough of a degradation."

"To my mind it is not nearly enough.

"You would like to torture them all, I suppose?"

"Davey Dunn surely would," he agreed, laughing. "He is in a black enough mood to string the lot of them up by their toenails. I would keep my notions of charity work to myself if I were you, or you might find yourself pressed into one of Dunn's work gangs."

"I wish he would," she said. "He will not let me help with the repairs, he will not let me help clean the guns or even take stock of the powder and shot."

"Davey is only following my orders. You have been held prisoner for over a week, and before that you fought in a hellish battle. You bear the wounds to prove it! You deserve a rest."

"We all deserve a rest but until we can all afford to take one, I see no reason why I should get any special treatment."

"You are the O'Farrow's daughter. That is reason enough."

"I am Duncan's daughter, yes, but I am as good as any man you have on deck, Garrett Shaw. I can patch a sail and splice a cable. I can saw and hammer and damn well ream out a cannon as well as I can aim and fire one! What I cannot do, what I will not do, is languish in a cabin all day long eating figs and demanding to be waited on hand and foot as if I was queen of the Nile!"

The reference to Miranda's daytime activities broadened Garrett's grin and Courtney held up a hand to stem any attempt he might make to excuse her behaviour. "I know, I know. She is not one of us. And you have no idea how relieved I am every time I am reminded of that. But it does not mean she should be able to snap her fingers and have a dozen men at her beck and call. Do you know what she demanded this afternoon?"

Garrett set his wine glass on the table and folded his arms across his chest. "No," he mused wryly, "but I have a feeling I am about to find out."

"A sailmaker. She ordered Stitch to her cabin to alter one of her gowns! Where does she think she is? Who does she think she is? And don't you dare tell me I am jealous, Garrett, or so help me ..."

She stopped because he was laughing. And she stopped because he had leaned forward and was pressing his lips into the curve of her shoulder.

"Garrett, please—this is serious!" She stumbled back, but he simply hesitated a moment then followed. A hand reached out, lean and bronzed, and plucked the dangerously tilting wine glass out of her hand.

"And I am trying to tell you," he murmured, "that you have absolutely no reason to be jealous."

"Garrett—" Her back came up abruptly against the wall. The candlelight was behind him, and she could barely distinguish more than the dark slash of his brows as he bent his mouth to her temple, brushing through the curly wisps of hair. Courtney's hands were wedged against his chest but there was no way she could push herself free, or stop his mouth from wandering lazily down her cheek, down past her earlobe to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat.

"Garrett," she gasped, "Stop!"

"I told you I am a patient man, Court," his mouth sought to capture hers but only tasted a corner before she was able to twist away, "but I never claimed to be a monk."

His body shifted, and one of his hands moulded itself to the shape of her rounded bottom, pulling her forward, introducing her to the hardness of his thighs. His other hand slid up her back and cupped around her neck, the pressure restricting her movements so she could not wrench away again.

"Why are you fighting it, girl?" he asked in a husky whisper. "You know you want this as much as I do."

"No," she insisted, and shivered as she felt his lips move hungrily down to the straining swells of her breasts. "No, I do not!"

"It is not healthy for a woman to deny what her body craves." His laugh was a hot breath that seared through the muslin directly over her breast. "Nor is it healthy to tease a man the way you have teased me."

"When have I teased you?" she gasped. "I have done nothing of the kind!"

"Are you telling me you came dressed like this tonight to suck a mutton leg and share a pipe?"

Courtney's mouth dropped. "You were the one who sent me the damned dresses, and I thought ... after last night ... " His mouth was becoming bolder and she pushed harder on his chest. "Please stop, Garret ... please!"

"By all means, Garrett, do stop!" Miranda's icy voice shot out of the gloom of the companionway like a bolt of lightning. "Unless of course you have planned a little show for our dinner entertainment?"

Garrett's arms dropped as he turned to face Miranda. Courtney sagged against the wall, the relief flooding through her limbs like ice water.

"Ahh, Miranda. What a pleasant surprise."

Miranda glared at Garrett's mocking greeting. "I can see what a surprise it is. Forgive the intrusion, did I disturb a pre-dinner tryst?"

Garrett laughed and drew one of Courtney's hands forward so that she had no choice but to step into the brighter circle of light.

The amber eyes glittered scornfully. "The heat," she declared quietly, "must be affecting my vision."

"The heat of your blood, perhaps," he said. "Well, what do you think of our Courtney?"

"Our Courtney?"

"Surely some of the credit belongs to you, Miranda, for the change in her appearance. You did decide which clothes to send her."

"Yes, but I did not think—" Miranda bit off the rest of her words when she saw Garrett's grin. He was enjoying himself: a cock between two hens. She had selected the clothes to send to the little bitch's cabin—on his orders. And she had deliberately chosen a sheer, delicate gown she knew the girl would refuse to wear. She never dreamed the chit would defy her so boldly, or be so obvious about her designs on Garrett Shaw.

Courtney pulled her wrist out of Garrett's grasp, her eyes flaring at Miranda as the woman approached the dining table. She was dressed in pale blue silk, the gown styled much along the same lines as Courtney's, with a high empire waist and a shockingly low décolletage, the view unhindered by any modest froth of lace. There was no layer or underskirt beneath it and when she moved, the silk molded to her legs like water.

Courtney snatched her wine glass off the table and quenched the dryness in her throat with the blood-red Madeira. Her stockings were stifling her legs, the dainty green satin slippers were pinching her feet. What had felt beautiful and seductive for one man felt cheap and tawdry for the other, especially since it made it seem as if she was competing with Miranda for attention.

As if reading Courtney's mind, Miranda laughed huskily and ran her hand along the shimmering folds of blue silk.

"You should have stayed with your guns and sabers, dearest one," she murmured in tones too low for Garrett to overhear. "I warrant you understand their usage far better than you understand the weapons nature provided you with, such as they are." In a louder voice she added cheerily, "I trust your hairy little friend, Davey Dunn, will not keep us waiting too much longer. I am positively famished."

"From a hard day's work, no doubt," Courtney scoffed.

"Unfortunately, Davey will not be joining us," Garrett said, handing a glass of wine to Miranda. "There seems to be a problem rigging new cables to the Eagle's rudder."

Miranda crooked a finger at the fourth table setting. "Then who—?"

Garrett smiled. "Someone you both know, one of you quite well, as I understand it. The other will, perhaps, find his presence more of an amusement than an annoyance."

"Now you do have me intrigued," Miranda said. "I cannot think of a single amusing soul on board this ship."

"Whereas I have found several who intrigue me."

"Surely you are not saying you have invited a Yankee to dine with us."

"To dine, aye. And to satisfy my curiosity on a few matters."

Courtney looked up from her glass and found the dark blue eyes upon her.

"I find myself curious about a great many things that went on aboard the Yankee frigate," He continued mildly. "Curious then, even more curious now."

Courtney's heart fluttered in her throat, like a sparrow caught in the talons of a hawk. Not then, not now ... Was he referring to the way she pushed away from his kiss moments ago? Or was there an even crueler game of cat and mouse in store? She saw Garrett glance toward the door, and her own gaze followed in a rising panic. Standing in the entrance, grinning broadly, was Harry Pitt.

"Ye want the lieutenant now?"

"Now indeed, Mr. Pitt," Garrett nodded.

"The lieutenant?" Miranda breathed, barely able to contain her excitement. There was only one Yankee Garrett was curious about, only one matter that scratched at his suspicions like a thorn. And judging by Courtney's reaction, his curiosity might well be warranted.

"This should be a highly entertaining evening, indeed, Garrett," she mused. She strolled over to the table and claimed the seat to Garrett's right without waiting for direction.

For Courtney's part, she stood frozen to the spot. If Ballantine came through that door, she would not be able to breathe. Garrett would know. They both would know. For the first time she felt a tiny trickle of sweat gather between her shoulders and shiver down her spine.

"Court?"

Garrett's hand was on her arm, leading her to her seat at the table. She was conscious more than ever of his formidable size and strength, and of the danger she anticipated with each quick, guilt-ridden heartbeat.

A cackle and shuffle of feet sent two pairs of eyes to the doorway. Only Miranda hesitated a moment before swivelling her head in the direction of the door, for she was far more intrigued by Courtney's sudden discomfort.

Garrett lowered his long frame into his chair and raised his wine glass in greeting. "Good evening, Lieutenant. I trust you have found your new accommodations to your liking?"

"The cabin is comfortable enough, although the stench of the orlop deck is not exactly what I would call inspiring."

It was Miranda's turn to freeze. Lieutenant Otis Falworth stood in the entryway, looking surprisingly refreshed and belligerent for someone held prisoner for the past two days. He wore clean black breeches and a crisp white shirt beneath a dove gray coat. His hair was brushed into a tail at his neck, captured by a black velvet bow.

"I thank you again, Captain, for your kind invitation to join you this evening. And for the opportunity to bathe and change into more civilized clothes. Lice and sweat were never my adornments of choice."

Garrett Shaw grinned and pointed to the decanter of wine. "Help yourself, Lieutenant. Then join us in a hearty toast to our mutual interests: liberty and prosperity."

Falworth tipped the Madeira into a goblet and smiled at Miranda. "You are looking ravishing, as usual, Miss Gold."

Miranda glanced at Garrett. "What is he doing here? What on earth are you playing at, Garrett?"

"I could hardly refuse his request," Shaw said easily.

"His request?"

"And a small enough one at that, considering who he is and what he has done for us in the past."

"I do not understand," Miranda snapped irritably.

"I think I do," Courtney said slowly. Inwardly she wondered if he was the American spy who had been selling them the sea codes, the shipping schedules, the blockade routes.

Falworth's gaze shifted to Courtney and an eyebrow arched upward. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure," he murmured, returning her stare.

"Courtney Farrow," Garrett said, clearly amused. "Duncan Farrow's daughter."

Falworth glanced sharply at Miranda before reverting his gaze to Courtney. "Duncan's daughter? Ah yes, I have heard a great deal about you." He stopped just as he was about to bow over her hand. Something in her eyes, the unusual color of green, halted him and he gaped. "Good God." He stood back and snapped his fingers. "You were the cabin boy Ballantine took under his wing?"

"Difficult to believe anyone could mistake her for a lad, is it not?" Garrett said with a chuckle and sipped his wine.

Falworth's gaze inched boldly over Courtney's bare neck and shoulders, the shape of her breasts, the pout of her mouth. "Difficult, indeed. But then the stalwart First Lieutenant Adrian Ballantine, may he enjoy his stay in hell, was known for paying more attention to spars and sails than he did a pretty face."

Courtney smiled crookedly. "Was?"

Falworth's head tipped. "As it happens ... I saw him die. By Captain Shaw's own sword."

"I may have forgotten to mention," Garrett said dryly, "he is with the wounded, on board the Falconer."

"He is not dead?" Falworth was visibly shaken.

"Apparently he is a hard man to kill."

Falworth's thoughts were spinning. "How badly wounded?"

"Other than his pride, not too terribly. Is that going to be a problem?"

"It certainly could be. Ballantine is a dangerous man to keep alive. It may come as an unpleasant surprise to you to learn he is not exactly what he appears to be."

"Seems to be a rather common occurrence these days," Garrett mused.

The irony was not lost on Falworth. "Indeed, but in this case, his continued good health could bring trouble to both of us."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he was only temporarily posted as the Eagle's first lieutenant. In reality he is a senior captain on Commodore Preble's personal staff. He was assigned to the Eagle with express orders to find the leak in our naval security and seal it. Permanently." Falworth paused and his grip on the wine goblet tightened. "Fortunately, I was warned of his mission in advance and was able to send him sniffing in another direction. Even so, his presence on board the Eagle made it necessary for me to exercise extreme caution."

"Is that why we were given no advance warning of the trap waiting for Duncan and myself at Moknine?" Garrett asked silkily.

Falworth felt tiny beads of sweat start to gather between his shoulder blades.

"My dear fellow, I did not know of it myself until Jennings held a private meeting in his quarters to reveal his orders after we were under full sail." Falworth smiled tightly. "Believe me, if I could have warned you, I would have. I imagine Duncan Farrow's gratitude would have kept me living in comfort for many years."

"And you have no idea who the Americans have as a contact within our camp?"

Falworth pursed his lips. "Only one man might know that: Adrian Ballantine. And you have about as much chance of prying the information out of him as you have of squeezing water from a stone."

"I have drunk from many a stone in my time," Shaw said easily.

"Not from this one, you won't. If he knows you want something from him, and if telling you meant he was committing treason or being disloyal to any of his compatriots—" Falworth shook his head— "he would watch you flay his grandmother alive before he would talk. Good heavens, he stood by and watched his best —and only—friend flogged bloody and did not step in to halt it."

"Are you referring to the doctor?"

"Rutger, yes. Another rather simple-minded, but equally patriotic lout."

"And yet I am told it was Ballantine who halted the flogging of Nilsson and Seagram. That hardly sounds like the act of a man without a conscience."

"His interference was for purely pretentious reasons. He and Jennings shared a mutual contempt for each other. That was why it was relatively easy to point the lieutenant's suspicions in that direction."

"And Court? Why would he help her?"

Falworth turned slowly to meet the emerald green eyes. "He obviously wanted something."

She met his gaze steadily, aware of Garrett's eyes boring into her also. "You obviously want something as well, Lieutenant," she said calmly. "Dare we guess what?"

"Oddly enough, I want nothing that should put undue strain on either you or your coffers. I should like to be taken to Tripoli, as planned, and handed over to Karamanli to be ransomed back to the American navy—again, as planned—but with the stipulation, naturally, that I am to be treated as a trusted friend. I have no taste for the fugitive life, you see. I prefer the pomp and ceremony accorded a hero on his return home. Heroes are so much in demand these days, you know. I could resign my commission with full honors, or, should they place a higher value on my expertise, accept a promotion to an important position within the Admiralty."

"Then why reveal yourself at all?" Shaw asked for clarity. "Why risk the chance of your own men discovering your collaboration?"

"You know yourself there are no guarantees which way the desert winds will blow. Karamanli may choose to ransom the Eagle's crew, or he may choose to put them in irons and have them hammer rocks for the rest of their days. And there is always the third option, that he may just hang them all in the public marketplace. Given those three possibilities, a guarantee for safe passage and a ransom home far outweighs the risk of discovery. And really—" he brushed a speck of dust off his sleeve— "who would even suspect me of being so duplicitous?"

"Ballantine?"

The flicking stopped and Falworth looked up. "As I said. A man far too dangerous to let live."

Shaw steepled his fingers beneath his chin while he considered the sweaty sheen on Falworth's brow. "I presume you have something to offer in return? I mean, what is to stop me from selling you to the Americans myself as the traitor? No doubt they would pay handsomely for the privilege of stretching a mere lieutenant's neck, rather than that of a trusted captain."

"They would indeed. But then you would have no intermediary to see you safely through the Straits of Gibraltar. You would have no guarantee that Preble would not send half the fleet to hunt you down, and certainly no one willing to swear that you and your ship were blasted out of the water by the treacherous, double-crossing Yusef Karamanli. Unless, of course, the life of a perennial fugitive appeals to you? Or to Miss Farrow? Or to Miss Gold? If you think the Americans are persistent now, wait and see their reaction when they discover the fate of the Eagle. The first American warship lost to a Barbary Coast pirate? There would not be an island far enough away for you to hide on."

Shaw did not react outwardly; it was Miranda who leaned forward with interest.

"You could guarantee us safe passage out of the Mediterranean? You could convince your navy that the Falconer was destroyed and her captain killed?"

"No doubt you could provide wreckage and bodies, if they desired proof, but that would be an extreme measure. A simple change of name buys you anonymity, and once you are past the blockade line at the Straits you would be free to sail anywhere in the world without fear of hunters in your wake."

Shaw's fingers parted. "Gibraltar is blockaded? As of when?"

"As of the middle of June, when the Eagle left port en route to Snake Island. The French, the Spanish, even the Portuguese have joined the effort and nothing, not even a fishing boat gets through the line without the proper codes for safe conduct. Commodore Preble has ordered every vessel coming and going stopped and searched topgallants to timbers. He is an ambitious man, determined to win this war and cleanse the earth of all undesirables along the Barbary Coast—no offence intended. The Falconer would never break through to open water, assuming you mean to escape by sea. If by land, well, the journey is a long and perilous one through desert and hostile territory. And since anything other than desert rats and camels tend to attract a great deal of attention in the sand dunes, my guess is, you would be received by military arms wherever you tried to emerge.

"The third alternative, of course, is to remain in Tripoli under Karamanli's protection. But long before he actually loses the war, which can only be weeks away at most, you can be sure he will offer up as many sacrifices as he thinks will buy him time."

"Garrett?" Miranda looked to Shaw for some sign that Falworth was exaggerating the gravity of the situation.

Shaw's hand warned her to silence. "What guarantee do we have that you can get us this safe passage? Or that you will even keep your word and not do the exact opposite of what you say and send the entire fleet down my throat to add fuel to your blaze of glory?"

Falworth smiled wanly. "Were I to do that, how would I collect the fifty thousand gold double-eagles you intend to pay me for my services?"

"Fifty thousand?" Shaw regarded him through hooded eyes before his even, white teeth flashed in a grin. "By Christ, I do admire your nerve. So much so, I will even give your offer consideration."

Falworth inclined his head slightly. "I should not dally too long in making a decision. Ballantine knows the fate you have planned for his ship and crew, and he will not swallow it peaceably, I can promise you."

"I should fear a single, unarmed man?" Shaw snorted derisively.

"You should not underestimate him. Even unarmed and shackled to a wall, I would not turn my back on him."

"The obvious question here would be to ask why you have not removed him long before now? An accident at sea, a misfired musket during battle? Either would have been simple enough to arrange."

"In truth, until two days ago I believed he could actually be of more use to me alive. As I said, he was all but convinced Jennings was the traitor, never more so than when I suggested the captain was to blame for his younger brother's death."

"Were you responsible for that too?" Courtney asked quietly.

"Ironically, no. It was a genuine accident, by all accounts. The boy slipped and fell and cracked open his skull on a block and tackle. But it served my purpose to let the lieutenant think it was no accident, to foster the belief that the boy overheard something he should not have whilst standing outside the captain's cabin." He turned back to Shaw with a frown of annoyance. "I repeat, it would be a fatal error on your part if you were to underestimate Ballantine, as Jennings did."

The pads of Shaw's fingertips traced a pattern around the rim of the crystal goblet, and he settled his glance on Courtney.

"You look as though you disagree with the lieutenant."

Courtney shrugged as casually as possible. "He wants Ballantine dead in order to ensure the safety of his own neck. As for his offer, he has betrayed his own country, his own men. What makes you think he would not betray us? His word? His demand for fifty thousand in gold?" She scoffed. "He would earn twice that much selling us out to the Americans."

"My dear Miss Farrow," Falworth countered, "you are sadly misinformed if you think my government is generous with its purse strings. Karamanli's demand for the far lesser sum of thirty thousand in tribute was the spark that ignited this entire war. Granted, you would be a valuable prize for them to capture, but to actually pay for the acquisition would be another matter entirely."

Courtney pushed to her feet with a loud scraping of the chair legs on the floor. "I have no use for traitors—on either side. When you come to your senses, Garrett, I would be delighted to share a meal with you again. Until then I think I shall take my meals with my crew."

"Now, Court—"

"Good night, Captain Shaw," she said frostily. A derisive glance toward Miranda and a scathing look at Falworth carried her to the door. She heard Garrett call out her name again but she ignored it and hastened along the narrow companionway. When she was on deck and waiting at the gangway for the boat that would row her back to the Falconer, she was finally able to breathe again without feeling like her heart was going to pound its way out of her chest.

Would any of this have happened if, at the outset, she had simply been locked in the hold of the Eagle with Seagram and the other prisoners from Snake Island? Would she be torn apart now if she had never laid eyes on Ballantine, or spoken to him, or touched him? Would she have been able to sit and listen to Falworth's proposition with a cool, clear mind? Duncan would have. He would have heard the Yankee out, as Garrett was doing. He would have weighed the advantages and disadvantages carefully and unemotionally, and would have expected her to do the same.

Damn Adrian Ballantine for putting her in this position! She should have shot him when she'd had the chance.