Chapter 2

2

Miranda Gold yawned and stretched, arching her golden body into the stream of sunlight that filtered through the open gallery door. From habit, she slid her hand along her thigh and inspected the single bruise she had earned during the fight for Snake Island. It was low on her hip, and she hadn't the faintest recollection of how she had come by it—probably in the hut with Drudge. At any rate, it had faded nicely over the past six days, changing from an angry, mottled purple to a sickly yellow.

She was alone in the captain's wide berth, cloaked behind the sheer netting that was draped from ceiling to floor in an effort to deter the intrusion of night bugs and mosquitoes. Filmy enough to let her feel the gentle morning breezes against her body, the net was thick enough to give her the impression she could see without being seen. Jennings was seated behind his desk. She could clearly make out the shiny top of his bald head, the brow pleated in concentration, the fat, spatulate fingers scratching a quill across the pages of his log book. The man was obsessed with recording the hours and minutes of his life, as if they were of importance in the grand scheme of things. As if in years to come the volumes would be exhumed from some dusty vault and held aloft for all to see and praise.

As Miranda sighed and rolled onto her side, her gaze followed the slash of light from the gallery window. The greatcabin was not as large as that on either the Wild Goose or the Falconer, but what was lost in size was made up for in comfort. No spartan, military basics for Captain Willard Jennings. His desk was carved oak with brass inlays; his chairs were upholstered in thick rich velvet. The carpet underfoot was Persian, the pile deep enough for one to lose sight of toes and heels. A china washbasin and pitcher sat atop a priceless gilded nightstand that housed a solid gold thunderpot in the lower cupboard. There were two enormous ebony sea chests, oriental in design, with a pair of rearing dragons inlaid in ivory on the lids. A wire-fronted cabinet was stocked with silver goblets and china dinnerware. The candles on his desk were seated in gold bases, and even the lantern that hung from the ceiling beam was brass, not pewter or tin.

Yes indeed, she mused, Jennings was a man consumed by self-interest and creature comforts, a pompous man accustomed to wealth and power. It had taken less than two minutes for Miranda to assess his character and to determine he was the type of man who could be cruel and vicious when the mood was upon him, or as malleable as a hungry puppy when the events of the day agreed with him. A conceited fool, a blow-hard; the kind of man she normally associated with French uniforms and tastes that ran to young boys.

Her amber eyes clouded a moment as they stared through the film of netting. She had assumed, with the entry of Duncan Farrow into her life, that the need for such games would be over. Sold to a Spanish marquis at the age of nine, traded to a Dutchman by the time she was twelve, won on a duelling field at fourteen, then kidnapped by a Frenchman and forced to work in a bordello, she had developed early-on the instincts of a survivor. A multilingual survivor, she reflected wryly. And that talent, more than anything else, had earned her the notice of Duncan Farrow.

She had been sixteen and serving aboard a French merchantman in the capacity of captain's plaything, when the ship, Triomphe, had been attacked and destroyed by the Wild Goose. The corsair, Duncan Farrow, had shown little interest in Miranda's more obvious charms, and even though she had targeted him to be her protector, it was not until she had off-handedly cursed him in four languages that she had earned a second glance. His own talents, although impressive, were confined to a brilliance in naval tactics and a wild fearlessness in the face of adversity. He had sheaves of captured documents he could not translate; a treasure trove of shipping schedules and manifests he had no means of interpreting—until Miranda had come along. "Golden Miranda," he had laughingly dubbed her, after the first documents she deciphered led to a prize cargo of ten chests of gold coin.

She spent hours poring over ledgers and manifests, and hours studying the tall, enigmatic Irishman whose smile was a quick as his temper. He was the first man—the only man—Miranda had encountered who appeared to be completely immune to her powers of seduction. Rum did not affect him, regardless of the quantity, nor did provocative clothing—or the lack of it. Subtle invitations were refused; not so subtle attempts to arouse him won black moods and even blacker threats of violence. Yet she had heard of his prowess between the sheets from a dozen sources. There were no apparent grounds to question his manhood, yet he seemed loathe to touch her even by accident.

After weeks of mounting frustration, the reason for his bizarre behaviour was introduced to Miranda on the shores of Snake Island: Courtney Farrow.

Duncan's daughter, his protégée, his conscience.

She and Miranda had been the same age: sixteen. They had been the same height and had a similar fine-boned structure, but they shared little else beyond an ability to convey entire worlds of emotion in their sparkling eyes. At the sixteen years, Miranda possessed a face and body that turned heads in awe, whereas Courtney was all legs and eyes. The dress she consented to wear on special occasions hung from her shoulders like a sack. Her hair was a lustrous auburn when clean, but it had been cropped boyishly short by the hand of a butcher. Miranda saw nothing soft or pretty about her, nothing promising in the gawky, suspicious way she shunned everything feminine.

Miranda had been told the blood of the French aristocracy flowed in Courtney's veins, but it was obviously in short supply—a supply that flowed daily from cuts and scrapes, from scuffles with the young boys on the island, from rope burns and splinters when she worked on the rigging of her father's ship. It flowed most stubbornly during the lessons she sought with sword and dirk and pistol.

The two hated one another on sight. Where Miranda was sensual and voluptuous, with flowing black hair and proud, jutting breasts, Courtney was slim and firm with muscle. While Miranda could seduce a man with a single glance, thereby promising him pleasures beyond his wildest imaginings with a simple pout of her gloriously red mouth, Courtney could wield a sword and shoot a pistol with enough accuracy to make most men keep a wide and wise berth around her. And where Courtney was considered just another member of the crew, Miranda Gold was the seductive beauty who haunted every man's dreams.

Every man except Duncan Farrow.

Accepting the challenge, Miranda had become like a panther stalking its prey. She concentrated on Duncan with a single-mindedness that doomed him from the outset, despite the strength of his own resolve. She attacked him through Courtney, his weakest link, by assuming the role of motherly advisor. She suggested to Duncan that he persuade his daughter to learn at least the rudiments of femininity, and then she proceeded to show the chit how to dress, how to arrange what little hair she boasted into an attractive style, how to wear a corset, and how to pad the meagre allotment nature had provided in order to fill out the bodice of a dress.

Courtney had rebelled, as Miranda had known she would. Humiliated, she had hurled accusations at both her father and his supposed mistress, compounding Duncan's frustration by declaring an abhorrence for everything soft and feminine. Duncan had been startled into realizing what everyone else had seen from the outset, that Miranda and Courtney were as different as the wind and the sea. He had retreated in frustrated silence to the solitude of the Wild Goose—straight into Miranda's open arms.

Miranda inhaled deeply and smiled at the memory of her lean Irishman standing rock-like and immobile as she slowly pulled away the layers of his clothing. And such discoveries she had made! Her reluctant lover was sculpted from mahogany, honed to athletic perfection with not an inch of excess flesh anywhere on his impressive frame. His arms were like iron and rivalled Seagram's in strength; his legs were sinew and bulging muscles. His flesh bore a hundred scars, some from his youth in Ireland, many from his days as a mercenary in Europe, most from the years he spent plundering the shipping routes of the Mediterranean. Savage and demanding in his lovemaking, he was able to render her breathless and trembling and utterly depleted.

Yet, while he had admitted Miranda to his bed, he was as cool and indifferent to her as if she were only a vent for his physical needs. Ten minutes prior to leading her to bed and ten minutes after leaving it, he was a stranger—a dangerous stranger with black moods and an impenetrable wall around his innermost emotions that only Courtney could access.

It had been maddening and demeaning, and more than once Miranda had thought to punish him by going elsewhere for the attention she craved. But Duncan Farrow was not a forgiving man, nor one likely to look on cuckolding with much favor. She remained loyal to his bed while it suited her, but it gave her a small degree of satisfaction to know that she could leave him any time she chose.

Unfortunately, there were no such alternatives now. Duncan was dead, and she, Miranda, had changed hands again. If she tried very hard, she might be able to coax forth a tear or two for her lover's fate—he had been a man who deserved better than a dog's hanging—but tears were not a part of her character. She shed them often, certainly, and always to good effect; but she could not recall the last honest emotion that had drawn them forth. She was a survivor. Moreover, she knew how to survive with a minimum of discomfort. It was another glaring difference between the Mirandas and the Courtney Farrows of the world: some were born to languish on silks and satins, others were fated to prove their merit in a fetid prison cell.

The image amused her and Miranda snuggled deeper into the cool, slippery sheets. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she thought of Courtney Farrow battered and bleeding, dazed to insensibility and broken in spirit as she was dragged out of the dank hold night after night and passed around amongst the leering, lustful members of the Eagle's crew. It would be the end of her. Miranda only wished she could have been present to witness it. Surely after a week of captivity the little bitch had been raped to death.

Lieutenant Adrian Ballantine studied the toe of his polished leather boot and frowned over a salt stain one of the cabin boys had missed. He was freshly bathed and shaved. His damp hair trapped the soft rays from the lantern overhead and gleamed the color of burnished brass.

He was dressed in a loose-fitting shirt and breeches, having decided it was too early in the afternoon and too hot in his cabin to bother with the heavy woolen tunic and formal collar. His snowy white shirt was open at the throat and contrasted vividly with the wealth of smooth dark hair on his chest. His feet were crossed at the ankles and propped carelessly on the corner of his desk; his long, tapered fingers were steepled beneath his lower lip. His brow, furrowed in concentration, creased to deeper folds as he noted a subtle change in the ship's motion.

A summer storm had kept them anchored in the shelter of a friendly bay for the past forty-eight hours, giving them extra time to lick their wounds and affect minor repairs to sails and rigging. They had sailed around Cap Blanc with the early-morning breezes, and if the weather held they would be anchored at Gibraltar within three days.

Ballantine blinked and raised his head at the sound of a knock on his cabin door.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Rowntree, sir."

Ballantine was about to object to the interruption, then recalled that the sergeant-at-arms was present by his request. He sighed and lowered his feet from the desk.

"Come in, Mr. Rowntree."

The cabin, located amidships, was windowless and ten paces square. Comfortable enough for a man of simple tastes, it contained a narrow sleeping berth, a desk and chair, a bookcase, and a single much-battered sea chest.

As soon as the sergeant ushered the sorry-looking bundle of rags through the doorway, the lieutenant's gray eyes widened and his nose wrinkled in protest at the indescribably foul odor that accompanied the prisoner into his cabin.

"Good God. Could you not have thrown a bucket of water over him before bringing him here?"

"I did, sir," Rowntree assured him, his own nose twisted in distaste. "But it comes with the accommodations. Sort of grows on them, if you know what I mean."

Ballantine stared at the boy and debated the wisdom of his impulse.

"See if you can locate Dr. Rutger for me. The boy has some stitches that may require attention."

"Aye, sir. Anything else?"

The lieutenant hesitated, wondering if it was his memory playing tricks on him, or if the boy had actually shrunk inside the folds of filthy clothing. His face was gray from lack of fresh air; the downcast eyes seemed sunken in hollows the color of old bruises.

"When was the last time the prisoner ate?"

"Damned if I know, sir. According to MacDonald, he throws most of what he is given right back in their faces."

"He does, does he?" Adrian lowered his hands to the desktop and drummed his fingers lightly on the wood. "Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all for now."

"Aye, sir."

When the door was shut again, Ballantine sorted through a sheaf of papers on his desk and stacked them neatly in the corner. He could feel the wary eyes of the prisoner on him, following his every move, and Ballantine had to resist the urge to smile.

Courtney only noted the grimness of his expression and the power that rippled through the muscles of his shoulders and arms as he moved. She was bewildered by the unexpected summons, uncertain of what this arrogant, self-righteous officer might want of her. Forced to the back of her mind was the terror of her confinement in the small iron cage, and the very real dread of being sent back down to it again.

She had always loathed tight, confined spaces, and the cage had been one of the toughest tests of her will and endurance. She had repeatedly fought the urge to scream, to weep hysterically, to tear at the planks and bars and beg her captors to give her a single dry blanket, a single small light, a single deep breath of fresh salt air. But she had done none of those things. She had spent the time crouched in silence and darkness; and while her cheeks had often been damp at times, she had no recollection of feeling any emotion other than hatred.

She felt it now, stifling her ability to hear and think clearly. Her eyes burned from the brightness in the cabin; her muscles were cramping from the sudden ability to stand straight. Her skin was clogged with dirt and sweat and drying salt water, and bore welts and raw patches from the manacles and the rigid bars. She had lost the blue bandana, and her hair hung about her shoulders in a greasy snarl; her clothes were black with mildew and stank of dampness.

"Well, boy, what have you learned over the course of the past six days and nights besides how to waste good food and stink up my cabin?"

Courtney stared at him. Hard. Six days! She had lost all track of time in the airless semi-darkness.

"How to reply smartly to a direct question, I see," the lieutenant mused. "Perhaps you need another week in solitude to loosen your tongue."

To Courtney's chagrin, a gasp escaped her lips. "No. No, I—"

She bit down on the inside of her lip, but the smug smile was already curving his mouth.

"You what?"

"I do not give a damn what you do, Yankee," she spat defiantly. "But to answer your question: The food was crawling with maggots and if I stink, you have only your own hospitality to thank for it."

Ballantine leaned back in the chair. "You are accustomed to better living conditions, are you?"

"I am accustomed to living like a human being, not caged like an animal."

"You sound semi-literate, boy," the lieutenant observed after a lengthy pause. "Does that mean you were not always in the company of pirates?"

"I fail to see why my choice of company should interest you."

"It does not," he said crisply. "I merely find the notion entertaining that Duncan Farrow might have intended his son for better things."

The emerald eyes narrowed. "A pity your father did not have similar ambitions."

Ballantine regarded her with mild amusement. A week in the cage would have demoralized a man twice the age of this urchin, not fired his spirit.

He smiled briefly. "You seem bent on testing my patience, boy. Have you that much contempt for the value of your life?"

Courtney did not answer. Her hands curled into fists around the heavy link of the iron chain, and she glared at him with as much loathing as she could muster. It did not have the effect she intended, for he merely looked into the snapping fury of her eyes and his smile developed into quiet laughter.

" alright, boy, you have proven how fierce you can be. I am duly impressed. And against my better judgment, I am even prepared to offer you a way to help yourself."

"Help myself?" she asked suspiciously, still bristling from his laughter.

He laid his hands flat on the desk. "A hot meal, a long hot bath, and perhaps even a chance to earn a parole in the galley."

"In exchange for what?"

"A little information."

Courtney stiffened. "Go to hell."

"Your father was attempting to run through the blockade line outside of Tripoli, was he not?"

Courtney tightened her grip on the chain and said nothing.

"How did he know where and when to cut through the line?"

She looked away disdainfully.

"What was his cargo? Was he planning to return directly to Snake Island?" Again, the long fingers drummed noiselessly on the desktop. "I have the duty watch in two hours, boy. I would like the answers before then."

"You will get nothing from me, Yankee," she snarled.

Ballantine drew a deep, patient breath. "You and your uncle were not taken along on this raid. Why was that?"

"You are the smart one. You tell me."

"I would rather you tell me," he said silkily, and Courtney found herself staring into the wintry gray eyes.

"Verart had a wound in his leg," she said shortly. "It had not healed properly."

"Ships sail with wounded men."

She barely missed a beat. "They also sail with peacocks at the helm."

"And you?" Ballantine asked easily. "Why were you left behind? A man like Farrow—" he paused and shrugged— "one would think he would be proud to have his son fighting by his side."

Courtney felt the blood rush warmly to her cheeks. The deliberate insinuation that Duncan Farrow did not think his son worthy to fight at his side begged for a retort, but Courtney refused to rise to the bait. Son or daughter, she could fight as well as any man, could wield a cutlass or a musket with as much confidence and skill. Years of living among the hardened corsairs had taught her much—including unquestioning acceptance of orders as they were given by her father. He had ordered her and Verart to remain on Snake Island, for reasons the Yankee would never learn from her.

Ballantine stood and walked over to the nightstand. Courtney tensed as she heard the soft trickle of water being poured from a pitcher into a tin mug.

"Are you thirsty?" He asked, half-turning. "Or hungry?"

She watched the icy clear water tip out of the jug and she ran her tongue across her parched, cracked lips. "No."

He smiled and extended the cup. "Here, boy. Drink it. You are not breaking any rules by doing so."

The cabin swayed giddily beneath her feet for a moment and to Courtney's mortification she began to tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut against the temptation, but when she opened them again, it was still there. The lieutenant had moved closer. He had detected a weakness and would use it to soften her, to befriend her and then ply her with questions.

"I want nothing from you," she rasped, her mouth so dry, her tongue seemed to scratch against its roof as she spoke. "I only want to be treated like the other prisoners."

"But you are not like any of the other prisoners," he said pointedly. "You are the son of Duncan Farrow and you would be quite a feather in the captain's cap were he to discover you were on board."

"Then why have you not told him?" she whispered, trying not to imagine the taste or feel of the water he still held out to her.

"I have not told him because he would be just as apt to hang you from the nearest yardarm as deliver you to the authorities for trial."

"And that idea troubles you?" she snorted, mockingly.

"Not in the least." He smiled and sat on the corner of the desk. "Certainly not as much as it would trouble you."

"I would look on it simply as another demonstration of Yankee justice."

The bitterness in her voice scraped a nerve along Ballantine's spine. "Your people have earned whatever form of justice they get. Piracy, extortion, white slavery, murder—those are hardly acts deserving leniency."

"My father is not a murderer," was the taut response. "Nor does he deal in slavery. As to the charge of extortion, he has never once demanded a ransom for any of your captured countrymen."

"What about the French and the Spanish?"

She scowled. "He treats them as they treat us. A lesson I can only hope you learn in the near future."

Ballantine took a long sip of water then set the tin mug on the desk, noting as he did so that the boy nearly swayed forward as he followed the motion. "I notice you have not denied the charge of piracy—of attacking shipping lanes and taking vessels by force. Or perhaps you have a means of justifying that as well?"

"You Yankees have already found a means," she said with a slight smirk. "I believe you call it privateering."

"You have your definitions a little twisted, boy."

"Do I? Your merchantmen are armed. They open fire on French and Spanish ships, do they not? They waylay cargoes of spices and sugar from the West Indies, and they transport shiploads of Africans to sell as slaves to work on your fat cotton plantations. Tell me, Yankee, how do you define those honorable practices if not as piracy and slavery?"

She had the satisfaction of seeing a warm flush spread upward into the lieutenant's face.

"You have your father's nerve, boy," he murmured, "I will say that much for you. And frankly, I have about reached the end of my good humor. I want answers and I want them now, or so help me Christ, you will come to think of the cage as a holiday."

"You do not frighten me," she spat, squaring her shoulders. "And you are wasting your breath if you think a few threats will make me cower before you."

Ballantine's eyes were cold and hard as he crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "We already know quite a lot about your father's ... business. We know Duncan Farrow was in the employ of Yusef Karamanli, the Pasha of Tripoli. We also know he had dealings with Rais Mahomet Rout, the Dey of Algiers—an odd combination of associates when you consider the two despots are sworn enemies."

"Are they?" Courtney asked mildly. "I would not know."

"And I suppose you would not know what your father was bringing through the blockade that was important enough to deserve the cooperation of both Arabs?"

"My father's business is his own."

"I am making it mine."

"Then I wish you luck," she countered evenly. "You will have a great need for it."

Adrian contemplated the hard set to the boy's jaw, the deadly earnest green eyes, as well as the unspoken challenge. Always challenge, never defeat.

"Duncan Farrow's ships are destroyed, boy. His stronghold is in ruins, his life forfeit. The games are over. There is nothing left but your own fate to bargain for, and nothing standing between you and survival but your own foolish notions of sacrifice. As I recall, your uncle's last instructions to you were to live, at any cost. I imagine Duncan Farrow's last wish would have been the same. If you will not do it to help yourself, you should at least consider doing it for them."

It was a cruel blow, given with cold dispassion, and Ballantine disliked himself for having to resort to such methods. But the boy had to accept the fact that he was alone now, that he would find no sympathy anywhere else on this ship. In somewhat less than three days, he would be set ashore in Gibraltar bound either for a hanging, or for a long prison sentence—unless he did something to help himself.

"Well?"

"My father is not dead," Courtney whispered hoarsely. "I refuse to believe it."

Ballantine was transfixed by the glowing eyes. The centers had expanded until only a thin rim of green remained.

"Your father and Garrett Shaw are both dead," he repeated, his voice like ice.

"No!"

"The Wild Goose has been destroyed, so has the Falconer. Karamanli sold them both out. Someone did, because the word was leaked through to our patrol ships telling them where and when to intercept."

Courtney shook her head. "No. You are lying."

"Am I? Then how did we know about Snake Island? How did we know the strength of your uncle's defences? The number of men he would have by his side to protect it? Your father was sold to us, boy; and if not by Karamanli, then it had to be one of his own men."

Courtney reacted with instincts of a trapped animal. A blurred movement of her hand beneath the waist of her shirt produced the gleaming knife she had taken from the surgery the first day. She thrust it out in front of her, gripped tightly in bruised and swollen fingers.

Ballantine's astonishment was genuine, and it slowed his reactions. He saw the glitter of steel slashing toward him and twisted to one side a fraction of a second before the blade hissed by his throat. With one hand he grabbed for the outstretched arm and with the other shoved against Courtney's chest and spun her off balance and back against the wall. She recovered swiftly, pivoted around, and lashed out with her nails. Adrian felt flesh and hair torn in thin runnels from his scalp. He slammed a brutal punch into her midsection, one that drove the air from her lungs and left Courtney doubled over in agony.

Ballantine kicked savagely at the knife and sent it spinning safely out of reach before he grabbed a fistful of her hair and used it to brace her as he cracked the flat of his hand in a series of stinging slaps across her cheeks.

She continued to fight him, to flail at his chest and face with her fists, scarcely able to see past the wall of pain. He lost his grip on her hair and sought a firmer one on her shirtfront, but the cloth tore away in shreds as she struggled to break free. The sudden release sent her sprawling backward, and as she raised her hands to protect her face from an impact with the wall, the heavy chain whipped up and grazed her temple.

Ballantine was by her side in two strides. He reached for the remnants of her shirt and held her braced against the wall. The blow from the chain had dazed her, and she could no longer summon the strength to resist as he drew his fist back for the final blow. Something at the last possible moment made him look down—down to where the binding cloth had been wrestled awry.

His fist froze by his shoulder. He stared first at the torn garment in his hand, then at the soft mounds of her breasts where they had sprung free and the two firm pink nipples that pointed accusingly at him. Courtney's head lolled weakly to one side, and he felt the splash of a hot tear on the back of his hand.

He lowered his fist slowly. Then, as if he had discovered he was holding a red-hot coal, he jerked his hands free from all contact.

He opened and closed his mouth. Then he simply gaped at her speechlessly.

Courtney turned her face away and fumbled to cover herself. Her motions were clumsy, slowed by pain and numbness from the hard slaps. She was still doubled over from the effects of the punch to her belly. Ballantine reached out a hand, but drew it back again when he heard a half-sobbed curse and saw her fold her knees up so that they were tucked protectively against her chest. A thin trickle of blood seeped from a split on her lip, and he saw, to his further horror, red welts rising on her cheeks from the imprints of his hand and fist.

The initial shock that had drained Ballantine's complexion now darkened it painfully. He was stunned by the knowledge that Duncan Farrow's son was a girl—a girl that he had slapped and punched into submission.

"Good God," he muttered. "Why the devil didn't you say something when you were brought on board?"

"Why?" she demanded bitterly. "So you could have sent me with the other women to be put to better use? I know what has been done to them every day and night since they were brought on board. I have heard the screams." A sob caught in her throat. "At least I have cheated you out of six days and nights, Yankee."

The lieutenant took a deep breath to reply, but the denial had to be swallowed unheard. Since the ship's captain had a healthy interest in female captives, the crew saw no reason not to follow his example and the women had been used hard every night.

The sight of the girl cringing against the wall was fraying Ballantine's nerves. He took a step toward her, but stopped when he saw her flinch even further back. The torn edges of her shirt were bunched to one side, and he marked the gleam of a gold locket where it hung around her neck on a leather thong. That and the sharp contrast between the soft unmarked flesh of her breasts and the harsh black iron chains caused him to curse aloud. He strode over to his desk and yanked the center drawer open, snatching up a ring of keys before he went back to where Courtney was crouched.

"Hold out your hands." he commanded.

When she did not budge, he cursed again and dragged one resisting arm forward.

"I am not going to hurt you," he said impatiently. "Now hold still or by God—"

"You will do what? Hit me again?"

Ballantine swore and Courtney winced under the pressure of his fingers as he twisted the manacles up to receive the key; but her eyes did not leave his face, not even when the two-inch-thick banks of iron were unbolted.

"Who in blazes dreamed up the idea for you to pose as a boy? And do not try any of your cat-and-mouse ploys with me—believe me, I am in no mood for it."

"Verart," she muttered sullenly. "He thought I would be safer this way."

"Safer? In a prison hold?"

"Seagram is there. He would have looked after me."

"Seagram? Allow me to guess: the giant?"

She nodded and gingerly massaged the chafed flesh on her wrists.

Adrian Ballantine looked down at her, still unwilling to believe what his eyes were plainly telling him. She spoke like a young ruffian, she dressed like one, and she certainly acted like one. If it were not for the obvious physical contradiction ...

Courtney dragged a hand under her nose, smearing the dirt on her cheeks in the process. She peered up at the imposing form of the naval lieutenant; he had not moved for a full minute. She felt a growing discomfort when she saw where his eyes continued to wander, and she struggled to clutch the tattered folds of her shirt more closely around her body.

The gesture at modesty brought a vein throbbing to life in Adrian's temple.

"How old are you?"

"Old enough," she murmured.

"How ... old!"

"Nineteen!" she countered rashly.

Ballantine scowled and the pale eyes narrowed. "I will ask once more—"

"I was born January third, 1785!" she hissed, through clenched teeth. "If you can count, Yankee, it comes to nineteen years, six months, and ... and some days."

His mouth curved down sceptically. "Well, you look ten years younger. Do you have a name?"

"Farrow," she spat.

"A first name," he said coolly, prickled by her murderous stare.

"Court." And after another stubborn pause, "For Courtney."

She saw the doubt in his face, and she balled her fists.

"My mother was French, if you must know. From the court of Louis XVI."

Ballantine was unmoved. "She must have found life with an Irish exile-turned-pirate a humbling experience."

Courtney's slender shoulders stiffened. "She was not given the opportunity, Yankee. She found herself humbled by Madame Guillotine first. And now, if your curiosity has been satisfied—?"

"How long have you been with your father on Snake Island?"

"A thousand years," she said tonelessly. "What difference does it make?"

The Reign of Terror had swept through France eleven years earlier, the blades of hundreds of guillotines slashing off the heads of the ruling aristocracy with bloody vengeance. If the girl had somehow been smuggled out of the country and had kept company with corsairs since then, it would go a long way in explaining her anger, her mistrust.

It did nothing to ease Ballantine's discomfort or his guilt, and as he paced slowly to the far side of the cabin, his brows crushed together in a frown. What the devil was he supposed to do with her now? He certainly could not hand her over to the captain, nor could he, in all conscience, send her to join the rest of the women. Not that he gave a hang one way or the other if she was raped by half the crew. Hell and damnation, it might be exactly what she needed to bring reality crushing down around her ears once and for all.

But he did not believe that either.

He cursed again, softly, and raked his fingers through his hair. "What the devil am I supposed to do with you now?" he asked aloud.

"Send me back to the hold. Let me be with my father's men."

"Your father—he approved of this way of life for you?"

"He approves of me. And as far as I am concerned, that is all that matters."

"But the bloodshed, the violence ..."

"I was weaned on bloodshed and violence, Yankee. The guillotine granted no favors to anyone waving a lace handkerchief or swooning from fright." She paused and used the wall for support as she struggled to regain her feet. "I do not frighten easily. And you can beat me until your knuckles bleed, but you will not see me cry again."

Ballantine almost believed it.

"You will not last ten days if I send you back to that pestilent hold," he murmured.

She kept her glowing eyes locked to his. "Gibraltar is less than a week away; I heard one of the guards talking about it."

"Norfolk is six times that. And a rough ocean crossing in between."

"Norfolk?"

"The jails have stronger bars, I am told."

"A noose is a noose wherever it is strung," she shot back.

"You will not live to see either a jail or a scaffold if you are beaten to death over a few scraps of food."

"I told you, Seagram will watch out for me, and—"

"And he cannot watch out for you twenty-four hours a day. Nor can he guard you against an informer."

"An informer?" She scoffed at the notion. "There are no informers among my father's men. They would follow him to hell if he asked it of them. And so would I."

"Hell is quite possibly where you will end up if you persist in this stubbornness. The naval courts in Norfolk are not known for their tolerance of pirates—or daughters of pirates."

"Tolerance? You have kept me chained and locked in an iron cage for six days with only rats and maggots for company. You have threatened me and beat me, and now you think to warn me the naval courts will not be tolerant? Your compassion is overwhelming, Yankee. Dare I ask if you have any more sage advice?"

Ballantine was momentarily distracted by the edges of her shirt falling open. Her breasts, firm and ripely formed, made the surrounding bruised and chafed flesh uglier. This time she did not scramble to cover herself. She endured his stare with calm resignation and contempt.

"Is that what you want, Yankee? Or do your fists need to prove themselves further?"

Ballantine met her gaze unwaveringly. She expected rape. Damn her, she was defying him to do it, if only to prove her low opinion of him.

"My dear girl, I can think of several infinitely more pleasurable ways to take the pox, if I was so inclined. Happily, I am not. What I will demand of you, however, is to make liberal use of soap and water you will find over there on the table."

He strode to the door and paused with his hand on the latch. "I will be back shortly. I will not guarantee the condition of your hide if I return to find anything amiss. And that is not a threat, girl, it is a promise."

Courtney continued to stare at the oak door long after the key had twisted in the lock and the sound of his footsteps had faded from the companionway. She shuddered violently and hugged her arms close to her sides. Her stomach muscles were bound in a tight knot; her legs were shaky from the painful effects of the confrontation. Where was he going? Had she pushed him too far? Had her tongue angered him enough that he would consider going to the captain?

Of course he would go to the captain, she thought derisively. He was the Yankee victor, he was a naval officer, and he was a bastard. Obedience came with the fancy uniform and the stiff upper lip.

Courtney shuddered again as a wave of nausea swept over her. She stumbled to the desk and her hands were trembling so badly she needed both of them to steady the tin mug as she raised it to her lips. Even so, half of the water spilled down her chin and splashed icily onto her breasts. But it tasted good—so good she eagerly refilled the cup and drained it without taking a breath.

She cried out softly when the open sores on her wrists came in contact with the cold water in the basin, but she ignored the pain and used a scrap of towelling to bathe her arms, her throat, her face, to scrub some of the slimy memories of the cage from her skin while she had the opportunity. The lieutenant was not the type to waste his time or his sympathy. And if he had gone to fetch the captain, she would be ready for whatever came next.

She gasped and leaned over the basin as the nausea persisted. She had not eaten more than a weevil-filled biscuit over the past few days and the hasty mouthfuls of water were stirring false hopes in her stomach. Not knowing how much time she had alone, she forced herself to scrub her face with the strong soap, and then to remove the useless strip of cotton from her breasts and carefully wash her bruises and scrapes. There was not much remaining of the front of her shirt, but she was able to overlap the ragged halves and tie them in place at her waist.

By the time she had finished, the wound in her upper arm was throbbing with a dizzying vengeance. The wound made her think of the doctor; thinking of the doctor made her drop to her knees and search below the desk for the knife she had lost in the tussle with Ballantine.

She had just located it in the shadows and had stretched out a hand to grasp it when she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She whirled and gaped at the open door where the lieutenant stood, his face as ominous as a thundercloud. The flinty eyes snapped once to the knife, then returned to her face.

"You can always try," he said quietly. "And frankly, you will save me a great deal of trouble if you do decide to take that way out. But I will not make another stupid mistake. Touch that knife and I will break you in half."

Courtney was held by his icy gaze for several long moments, then her fingers slowly curled away from the temptation.

Ballantine banged the door shut behind him. The vein in his temple was pulsing furiously, and the muscles in his jaw had flexed into a hard ridge. As she stood and faced him, his attention was drawn to the cinched waist, to the very definite feminine curves of hip and thigh, and to the noticeable strain of her breasts against the tight fabric.

He remembered the bundle he carried under one arm.

"Here," he grunted, tossing it to her. "Strip out of those rags and put these on."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to," he said evenly. He went to his desk and retrieved the knife from the floor. Courtney glanced around the tiny cabin but there was no place that offered protection from the probing gray eyes.

"Before my duty watch," he reminded her with a scowl.

She muttered a ripe curse under her breath, which earned a narrow glance from the lieutenant. She squared her shoulders and set the bundle of clothing on the berth, then, keeping her back to the Yankee officer, she pulled her shirttails free and shrugged the garment from her shoulders. She unfastened her trousers and let them fall around her ankles, giving Ballantine a fleeting glimpse of slender legs and tight little buttocks before the clean breeches were hurriedly drawn on. He also had time to frown over the multitude of purpling bruises that dotted her skin before the new shirt was shaken out and pulled over her head.

The breeches were knee length and baggy, the shirt a stout homespun and shapeless enough to camouflage her figure. Most of it. There was no mistaking the shape or fullness of her breasts, or the way the coarse fabric worried the nipples into prominence. Another moment of study sent Adrian to his own wardrobe to find a long, wide, linen neckcloth.

"You will have to flatten yourself again," he said matter-of-factly, and handed her the cloth.

She bristled a moment under his glare, then snatched the cloth and grudgingly bound her breasts flat again. The time when she faced him, the inspection resulted in a nod and a faint smile of satisfaction.

"Come along," he said gruffly, and scooped up the discarded chains and manacles.

Courtney shied back against the wall and held her breath until she realized he was walking past her and had no intention of replacing the iron bracelets around her wrists.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, haltingly.

"To see if you can pass a test, Irish. After that, it will be up to you."