Chapter 29

29

Courtney ran until her legs threatened to tumble her into a dusty ditch. Her lungs burned; her eyes were stinging although there were no tears to show for her foolishness. There was no reason to cry, nothing to be gained by admitting how deeply this new betrayal had stunned her.

Several passers-by on the street cursed as she pushed through them, but she barely noticed. She was numb, hurt, humiliated. She had allowed her heart to rule her head and now she was paying the price. She had loved him, truly and honestly loved him, and she had thought he loved her. She had believed it, had even let him convince her there were selfish reasons for admitting it.

"Marry me," Adrian had said. "We belong together, you and I. Marry me and let me keep you safe ... loved ... happy."

Safe? He must have seen how the word had lodged in her mind like an iron spike even though her first instinct had been to refuse.

"I cannot marry you."

"Why?"

"Do you have to hear me say it?" Her temper had come to her defence, but he had been expecting it. "You know what my life has been like these past ten years. You know what I was, what I have done."

"You have the scars to prove it," he murmured. "And you wear them proudly, like medals. Believe it or not, I am proud of them too. Proud of you for doing what you had to do in order to survive. I would not have you any other way."

"I have been a thief! A pirate!"

"Indeed, and you have stolen my heart and plundered my soul," he chided softly.

"These hands—" she thrust them out. "Do you know what they have done?"

Adrian caught them and held them to his lips. "They have wielded cutlasses and guns and knives like no other hands I have seen. The mere thought of what they are capable of will keep me honest and faithful to my dying day, of that you can be sure."

Tears flooded her eyes. "But my father—"

"If he is alive, we will find him together. And if he helps me, I will do all I can to help him."

"Help you, how?"

"I want this 'Englishman' just as much as you do, remember?"

Was that it? Was that what the big charade was all about? Capturing Duncan Farrow and through him, uncovering the spy in Gibraltar? Was the entire act of wooing her and marrying her a sham; and had he known it was just that, an act? If he was already married to Deborah—and how could he plead ignorance to that when there was a child to show for it—then the farce they had walked through on board the Sirius was just that, a farce. As invalid as his promises to love and protect and keep her safe. He had planned to keep her safe, alright. Safe by his side to prevent her from going off on her own to find her father and escape with him to somewhere they would never be found.

How could she have been so foolish not to see that he was using her? She obviously had not seen it because she thought, she believed she loved him and that he was capable of loving her despite their differences. Her heart as well as her body had betrayed her, and both would carry the scars forever.

What would he do now that his well-laid plans had gone awry?

Clever, she thought, her brow streaming, her legs weakening, her lungs heaving for air. Clever, cunning bastard. All those questions he had asked and she had so blithely answered. Had he really, truly ever answered any of hers? She'd had a feeling from the outset that he had been holding something back. Was that something the fact that Captain Adrian Ballantine was as devious and manipulative as Garrett Shaw?

She had to get off the streets! She had to work quickly to find her father and leave Virginia as soon as possible. She would have to locate the barrister, Horace J. Prendergast, and she would have to use him to alert her father to the trap closing in around him. Together they would hunt down Garrett Shaw and confront him with what they knew. Davey Dunn was in Norfolk as well. He had witnessed her marriage to Adrian Ballantine from up on a yardarm, and there had been nothing but cold contempt in his eyes. He had known. He had known all along the Yankee could not be trusted.

Courtney reeled dizzily around a corner and knew she could not run much longer. There were cramps in her legs, in her chest, and steady throbbing pain in her abdomen. Invisible hands were tightening around her belly and squeezing, each steely finger digging for buried nerves. Her clothing stuck to her in soaked patches; her hair clung wetly to her neck and she had lost her bonnet somewhere in the panic to push through the crowds on the wharf. She ran along the boardwalk, looking for a tavern or an inn, somewhere she could stop and rest and collect her scrambled thoughts.

A short distance along the street she saw a sign for The Seafarers Inn. It looked as though it catered to the nondescript clientele of Norfolk, the ones who were neither rich nor poor. It would do.

Courtney stumbled across the narrow street and paused by the double oak doors while she tried to regain her breath. She could not use the name "Farrow" or "de Villiers." Ballantine's influence in Norfolk would be considerable and far-reaching; she dared not risk using either name.

McCutcheon! It was a name Davey had mentioned, and if he had seen her run from the dock, he might try to look for her.

Courtney closed her eyes and stifled a sob.

Davey would not look for her. He would avoid her like the pox. But there was someone else who might well be hunting for her: Garrett Shaw. If he was in Norfolk and if he had heard of the hero's arrival home, he might have gone to the dock to watch who disembarked from the Sirius. If so, he would have seen her standing so proud and gullible and foolish by Ballantine's side. He would also have seen her run off into the crowd ...

Courtney glanced behind her, searching the shadows for any sign of furtive movement ... a head ducking quickly out of sight, a figure turning away to hide his purpose. Her mad dash along the streets had earned a few curious glances, but no one seemed to be paying more than casual attention.

No one except the small, dark-haired figure who came running out of the alleyway she had just exited. He looked both ways along the street, panicking in case he had lost sight of her, and when he saw her standing outside the Inn, he waved a hand to catch her attention then ran straight across the street toward her.

By the time Adrian Ballantine was able to finally close the door to his suite in the very expensive, very fashionable Carleton Hotel, he was barely able to see through the build-up of pressure behind his eyes.

"Is there anything to drink around here?"

"There is whiskey," Deborah said haltingly. "Or claret. I will fix it for you if you like."

"Whiskey. No water. Rory?"

"Nothing, thanks. Look, you two probably want to be alone—"

"On the contrary," Adrian insisted silkily. "The last thing I want at the moment is to be alone, especially since I appear to be the only one ignorant of whatever grand conspiracy is going on here."

"There is no conspiracy," said Rory as he reached for his hat.

"No? Let me make myself clearer then. Take one more step toward that door and I will break both your legs."

Rory glanced up, startled. Adrian's eyes were as cold as his voice, and both nailed the younger Ballantine to the spot as if his feet had been skewered by arrows.

Deborah's slender hands shook visibly as she poured out the strong spirits. Adrian took the drink in silence, finished it in silence, then shattered the tension with a harsh inquiry.

"I want somebody in this room to tell me what the hell is going on, and I want the truth, dammit, starting with that child in the next room. Who is the father?"

Rory's mouth dropped open at the bluntness of the question, and despite the warning he started to sidle for the door. "Adrian, for God's sake, this is a private matter, I should not be here."

"I told you to stay put! As for it being private ... I could have denounced the child back on the dock during that touching welcome home scene, but I refrained. I chose to wait—at what cost I can only guess, and for that bit of decency, by God, I want the truth."

Deborah lifted a trembling hand and smoothed a wisp of hair off her cheek. "It is alright, Rory. It is only as much as he deserves. I am grateful for what Adrian did, and he is perfectly justified in being angry. The child is not his. We never ... I mean ..." Her voice failed and she lowered her eyes.

"We never eloped," Adrian provided, "And we never shared a bed."

"No," she whispered. "Never."

Some of the coldness melted from Adrian's eyes. Rory let out a long sigh and muttered, "I think I will have that drink after all."

"Do I get an explanation?" Adrian asked, moving closer to Deborah.

"There is not much to explain. After you left Norfolk, I discovered I was with child. I had to tell someone, so I ... I told Mother. The next thing I knew it was after midnight and there was a carriage pulling up to the house and ..." she looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, "and it was your father. He assumed the child was yours and I ... I needed time to think. I know it was wrong of me and cowardly of me, but ... we were betrothed. They were all so angry and I was so frightened. I did not know what else to do."

Adrian watched the flow of tears and tried to keep Courtney's face from intruding on his thoughts. He could hardly blame Deborah for taking what she thought was the only safe way out of a disastrous predicament. She would have been ostracized by family and friends if she had borne a child out of wedlock.

"What about the real father? Where was he during this?"

"He ... was away also. He had left Norfolk and I had no way of letting him know what was happening, no way of even knowing where he was until he wrote to me. But that took almost four months and by then ..."

"By then you were ‘married'?" he asked, finishing the sentence for her.

Deborah nodded. "It was your father's idea. He said it was best for everyone concerned. The only way. He said he could arrange it; he could buy the legal documents to support my claim of an elopement. The child would be born a Ballantine, with your name and wealth to protect her. And ... and forgive me, but ... he said you were such a hothead, there was every likelihood you would be killed in the Mediterranean anyway."

Adrian felt his blood boil hotter.

"I refused to go through with it at first," she whispered fiercely. ‘I told them I would not do it, could not do it. I told them I lied, that you were not the father, that you had only proposed to me because you were under the same pressure to ask as I was to accept. I told them you did not love me and I did not love you ... not in the way that counts. I mean ... I do love you—" she twisted her hands together, desperate to find the words to ease the bleakness in the gray eyes. "I have loved you ever since I was a little girl, but with a little girl's kind of love, not a woman's love. You were my handsome prince. You were going to rescue me from the dreaded castle. Can you understand what I am trying to say?"

Adrian raked both hands through his hair, his anger tempered by frustration. "I think so. If it helps any, I have loved you the same way. Enough to have gone through with the marriage, but not in a way that would have been fair to either one of us."

Deborah's chin quivered, and her eyes filled again. "They forced me to do it. Both of them; your father and mine. They told me if I refused, they would have the baby taken from me when it was born. They told me I would never see her, never know what happened to her—if she was healthy or sick, well cared for or left to starve."

Rory shook his head in disbelief. "I never knew. I never knew any of this."

"I had some money," Deborah said, weeping softly, "but not enough. I simply did not know what to do. Oh Adrian, I am so sorry. I am such a coward to have ruined everybody's life: mine, yours, Lori's.

"Lori?"

"Yes, I ... I named her Lori. Florence, really." The brief wistfulness in her voice turned bitter at another recollection. "Your father tried to insist I name her Jessica, after your mother, but I refused. I had to give her something of her father's."

"Did you write to him? Does he know?"

Deborah shook her head and whispered. "It was too late, I was too ashamed. There was nothing he could have done. He was counting on the time away to think, to find a way around obstacles that had been in his mind only! I told him it did not matter that he had no money, no position, no fancy pedigree. He was the one I wanted to elope with. I told him nothing mattered as long as he loved me as much as I loved him. And he did. I know he did. It was just his damned pride that kept getting in the way. Why do men have to be so blind? So pig-headed?"

Her lips continued to tremble, but there were no more words.

Adrian's hand tightened on her shoulders, and he drew her into his arms, his fingers stroking her hair while she sobbed quietly into his shoulder.

"I knew he wanted to tie you down," Rory said of their father. "But I had no idea to what lengths he was prepared to go. God know what he will do when he finds out you are already married."

Deborah stiffened and raised a tear-stained face.

"Married? Oh Adrian ... no! Oh no, what have I done?"

Her complexion turned ashen, and the strength in her knees gave out. Adrian caught her before she crumpled completely and guided her to a seat on the settee.

"The girl," she gasped. "The one on the dock ... she is your wife?"

Adrian nodded. "Her name is Courtney. We were married on the Sirius, just after we left Boston."

"But ... where is she? Where did she go?"

"I wish I knew."

"Oh, Adrian! How you must hate me!"

"Why would I hate you? None of this was your doing. You had no choice."

"I did. I did!" she cried hysterically and began to twist out of his grip. "I could have said no and run away."

"Run where?" he asked gently, holding her hands very tightly. "Do you honestly think they would have let you go? If I know nothing else about Sam Ballantine, I know he is a bastard who keeps his promises—and his threats."

"Lori," Deborah sighed miserably. "My Lori! What will happen to her now?"

"Absolutely nothing will happen to Lori ... or to you. You have my word on that," Adrian said firmly. "We will find a way out of this. I am not sure just how, yet, but we will."

"I ... I want to believe you, Adrian, but—"

"Then go and wash those tears away. If I am not mistaken, that sounds like a baby crying."

"Lori," she gasped and glanced at the door to the adjoining room. "Oh dear, I have forgotten all about her. I was so worried about everything else. She is probably starving."

"Then you had better go to her," Adrian said and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. "And stop worrying. Rory may be a bit of a mule, but he has a good brain on his shoulders and together we should be able to think of some way to untangle this mess."

She gave each of them a tremulous smile before wiping her cheeks and walking to the door at the far side of the room. The sound of wailing came briefly louder, then faded again as the door closed.

Adrian turned and stared out the window, and after a moment, slammed his hand into the wall. "Who the hell does he think he is, playing God with people's lives?"

Rory refilled both their glasses and offered a derisive toast. "To Samuel Ballantine. To wishing I had the backbone to tell him precisely what I think of him at this minute. And, alas, to recognizing that look in your eye even after a year's absence. I am sorry to see it. It would have been good to have you stay around for a while."

"Good for who? And for God's sake, stay sober. I was not joking when I said I needed your brains."

Rory looked down into his glass and after a moment, nodded and set it aside. "Deborah had a good question. Where would Courtney have gone? Does she know anyone in Norfolk?"

"It would curl your hair to know who she knows. But if I had to guess, the first thing she will do is try to find a barrister."

Rory arched an eyebrow. "So quickly?"

Adrian shook his head. "A particular barrister, and not for the reason you think. But she has to find him before she does anything else—what the devil was his name—and if she does find him, her hope is that he will lead her to her father."

"Her father is in Norfolk?"

"She believes he is. I believe he is dead. I also believe, at the very least, she will run straight into a trap, and at the worst, she will end up dead."

"Dead? Adrian, you are not making any sense."

"It is a long story. And there are just too many pieces missing for my liking."

Rory's expression turned grim. "Imagine how I feel, having none of the pieces at all."

Adrian sighed. "I had her convinced we could see this thing through together, that I would help her all I could, that she could trust me and rely on me. And now this ... with Deborah. If only she had just stayed with me and waited until I could explain ... until I had an explanation myself! God only knows which direction her mind has taken her. She will be hurt and angry—no, not angry ... furious! She will think back on all the questions I asked and she will assign all the wrong reasons for my asking them. She will suspect I was just using her to get to Duncan Farrow."

"Duncan Farrow? The infamous Barbary pirate?"

"Duncan Farrow. Her father."

Rory pursed his lips and whistled softly. "I begin to see. Actually, no I do not, but for the sake of argument, we shall say I do. In any case, think logically. How far could she get in a strange city all alone?"

Adrian snorted. "Suffice it to say, if Courtney Farrow was alone in a roomful of the worst criminals Norfolk could offer, I would feel sorry for the criminals."

Rory's eyes narrowed. "Your taste in women always was intriguing. Nevertheless, you cannot go running off half-cocked without even any idea of where to begin looking!"

"I can start with the barrister."

"Whose name you cannot remember?"

"I will find him if I have to tear apart every office in the city."

"On Sunday? The shops and offices are all closed, remember. No matter how urgent your business is, you will have to wait until tomorrow, and so will she. Look, it is already growing dark outside. No one is going hunting for anyone tonight. Not you, not her."

"Well, I am not going to bloody well sit here and do nothing," Adrian snarled.

"No, you are not. You are going to start at the beginning and tell me everything, starting with that absurd court-martial no one seems to know anything about, and no one—including S.B. himself, despite the thickness of the billfold he waved around—could get anyone to talk about."

Adrian stared out over the growing dusk.

Courtney, dammit, where are you?

When no answer was forthcoming, he turned and started talking.

Dickie Little had been the last person Courtney had expected to see on the streets of Norfolk. He had run straight into her arms and hugged her so tightly she saw stars cartwheeling across her eyes. He talked so fast, so breathlessly, that she had to make him repeat what he was saying twice, but in the end, she had followed him down several more twisting, narrow streets and into a tavern that could, at best, be called squalid. Once there, he led her up the rickety wooden staircase to a back room, where he ushered her quickly inside then closed the door behind them.

Matthew Rutger lay sprawled on the bed, his arms askew, his head lolled to one side, his mouth gaping and dribbling spittle into a darkly wet spot on the bed linens. At first she thought he was horribly ill, but as she moved closer, she caught the odor of sweat and cheap whiskey and other things that made her wrinkle up her nose in distaste.

"Good God, what happened?" she asked, gagging on the smells as she crossed to the window to throw the shutters wide.

"He has been like this near ten days now, Miss. Won't stop. Won't talk. Won't get out of bed, not even to piss."

"I can see that, but why?"

"Dunno, Miss. He only talks to me when he wants more whiskey."

"Yes, well, that stops here and now," Courtney said firmly and unfastened her cloak. Her nose wrinkled again as she approached the bed and saw the chamber pot full almost to overflowing. Her mouth went suddenly dry and her stomach threatened to rush up into her throat. "Dickie—"

"Aye, Miss," he said quickly and scampered to pick up the disgusting container. He carried it gingerly to the door and glanced back at the sound of his name.

"Coffee," she managed to gasp over the dizzying wave of nausea. "Strong and hot. And order a bath, if they have such a thing here."

"Aye, Miss." He looked at the doctor. "Will he be alright?"

"If we can survive this, he damned well can," she declared, kicking at the pile of soiled linens at her feet. She stood over Matthew long enough to assure herself he was, indeed, still breathing; then she set about removing his stained shirt, breeches, and stockings. By the time Dickie had returned she had found a reasonably clean blanket to cover him with and had rolled his clothes into a bundle.

"See if the hotel has a washer-woman. If not, throw these things away, and we will buy him new ones. Is the bath coming?"

"Aye, Miss." Dickie's dark eyes were as round as saucers. "Clerk said it would cost a whole five cents!"

"Well worth it. Now help me sit him up so we can get some coffee into him. Did you ask for it strong?"

"Smells strong," he said, grimacing as he poured a cup of black liquid sediment into a cup.

"Doctor Rutger? Doctor Rutger? Matthew, can you hear me?"

"Eh?" Matt's head wobbled as he tried to straighten it, his neck seeming to lack enough strength to hold it upright. "Doan blame you. Never blamed you."

Courtney bit her lip and frowned as Matt's head swung in a drunken semicircle across his chest. He kept babbling under his breath, strings of drool glistening off his lower lip.

"Matthew? It is me, Courtney. Will you drink this for me? It is coffee. It will make you feel better."

"Doan wanna feel bedder. Doan wanna feel nuthin'."

He started to roll backward, to slide out of Dickie's grasp, and Courtney leaned across to catch him. His head was brought sharply up against her bosom, jarring the bleary hazel eyes open.

"Nice," he muttered into her left breast.

"Doctor Rutger!" she cried impatiently. "It is me, Courtney. Court! Can you hear me?"

"Doan need to shout," he grumbled, and the red-veined eyeballs rolled upward. "Court? Court is that you?"

"Yes, Matthew, it is me. What in God's name have you done to yourself?"

"Been drinkin'," he confessed thickly.

"I guessed that much, but why? Why have you been drinking?"

"Courtney?" His hand swam up and groped around her arm. "Why did she do it? Why did she marry him? She doan love him. She loves me. I know she loves me."

Courtney shook her head helplessly. "I am sorry, Matthew. I am sorry if she did not wait for you."

"I doan blame him. She is beautiful ... beautiful. Like my sister, Lori. She was beautiful too. She died when she was jus' a li'l girl. Li'l Lori ..." His head sagged to a more comfortable resting place on her breast. "I jus' wanna drink, tha's all. Jus' drink an' sleep. Jus' want my Deborah back."

"Deborah?" Courtney straightened slightly, causing his head to tilt forward more as she tried to look at his face.

"Beautiful," he sighed. "Beautiful. Shoulda known she din't mean it. Shoulda known she only used me to make him jealous."

"Make who jealous, Matthew?" she asked carefully.

"Who?" He looked up and there were tears in his eyes. "My fren'. My best fren'. The only man I could never say anything to, an' now it is too late."

"Adrian?" Courtney asked in a whisper. "You are in love with Adrian's Deborah?"

"She was my Deborah first," he said angrily, leaning back and smacking himself in the chest with a fist. "Mine. An' we were gonna tell him ... we were gonna tell al-l-l-l of 'em, but ..."

Courtney saw his mouth move soundlessly. Anguish filled his eyes and his body trembled with the same sense of hopelessness she had felt while running away from the dock. What a dreadful, cruel thing love was. How it twisted people's lives and destroyed them!

"Stay with me," he pleaded and his arms went around her wait. "Doan leave me ... doan ... please."

"I will not leave you," she whispered and combed her fingers through the tangled brown hair as he pressed his face into her bosom. Her thoughts were abruptly diverted by a faint knock on the door, and she met Dickie's eyes with a nod. "That will be the bath. Have them set it near the fire, so he stays warm."

Dickie went to the door and opened it a cautious crack. The impact of a fist slamming the door back sent the small boy spinning across the floor. Courtney's arms were hindered by Matthew's deadweight, and she could not move fast enough to free the dirk strapped to her thigh. By the time she shoved him aside, and her hands were in motion, the intruder was already looming over her, his gun cocked and levelled at Matthew's head.