Chapter 30

30

Adrian lit a cigar and stood at the open window. He had an overview of the tantalizing shimmer of the harbor from the hotel room. He gazed at the ships riding at anchor, wishing he had never come to Norfolk, wishing he and Courtney had sailed on past, letting the wind take them to somewhere they could make a fresh start.

Where was she? What was she doing? Had she found a decent place to spend the night? Was she alone? Frightened? As brave and resourceful as she was, he knew she had her limits. To be thrust out on her own, in a strange city, with strange people, customs, styles, and little or no money ... believing the man she had trusted with her heart and her soul had betrayed her ... even the strongest of women would have cause to fear every shadow.

He had sent a messenger to the docks late the previous night to inquire if anyone had claimed her luggage. If no one had, the orders were to remain until someone did, to follow that someone and learn the final destination of the cases. He was not underestimating Courtney's intelligence. She would anticipate just such a move on his part and would arrange for the bags to take a twisted, complicated route to wherever she was staying. A thousand-dollar bonus would ensure Adrian's man kept a sharp eye. If someone claimed those cases, he wanted to know where they were taken.

If someone claimed the cases. She could always choose to abandon the contents and revert to breeches and a shirt—cheap and easy to purchase anywhere. She was wearing her locket, the only possession she seemed to treasure.

Adrian cursed and exhaled a cloud of smoke. He rubbed the scar on his forearm absently, kneading the muscles and flexing his hand into a fist over and over again. He had regained almost full use of the hand and arm, thanks to Matt's expertise and Courtney's insistence that he exercise it to the point of agony. The same was true of the wound on his thigh. She had kept him to a strict regimen of exercise to rebuild the damaged muscles, without which it might have taken months for the recovery. She knew a great deal about fighting, about survival. He shuddered to think where those instincts might lead her.

Adrian's eyes were on the sunrise, his thoughts on Courtney, and he did not hear the faint rustle of silk behind him until he caught the flash of a pale-yellow gown out of the corner of his eye. Deborah had spent as restless a night as he and Rory; they had heard sounds of her pacing until the small hours of the morning. She looked no worse for wear in the strengthening sunlight; her eyes were like two clear chips of the sky. Her hair, brushed free from its combs and pins, cascaded down her back in a silvery-soft waterfall.

She was beautiful. She would have made a beautiful wife and mother, and had those not been his only prerequisites a year ago? A home, a family, a wife ... anything to keep the peace and placate the family. But that was before Courtney had swept into his life. He had not meant to fall in love with her—good God, who would have expected it of the stolid, arrogant Adrian Raefer Ballantine? In love he was, however, and he would go to any lengths to win her back. Any lengths.

"Did you sleep at all?" Deborah asked quietly, glancing at the empty bottles on the sideboard.

"Some," he lied. "You?"

"Not much."

"You are worried about Matt?"

Deborah's startled blue eyes looked up at him. "You knew?"

"I have had a little time to think things through. I confess, though, I did not remember until a while ago that he had a sister named Lori. A twin. She died when they were eleven or twelve?"

"Eleven. He said he always felt as if a part of himself was missing afterwards."

"Maybe you can give it back to him."

Deborah bowed her lovely head. "He has not even tried to see me. The Carolina has been in port almost two weeks and he did not even call to pay his respects. Or to question the marriage. Or to demand an explanation. I expected—prayed for at least that much. Oh Lord, look at me: I am crying again. I did not think I had any tears left."

Adrian smiled gently and slipped an arm around her shoulders. She went willingly into the comfort of his embrace and laid her wet cheek against his shirt. "What will we do, Adrian?"

He stared at the smoking ash at the tip of his cigar and took a deep breath. "Firstly, I am going to find my wife. Then I am going to find Matt and drag them both here by the scruff of the neck if need be. After we straighten them out on exactly who loves whom, we will take them—or drag them again, if need be—to a church to tell the whole blasted world who belongs to whom. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

Deborah swallowed hard and looked up at him, suddenly breathless. "What about your father? And mine?"

"We will invite them to the weddings, and leave it to them if they choose to come or not."

"Our marriage—"

"Will be annulled without any difficulty at all. The scandal it causes may be another matter, however."

"Matt's home is in Pennsylvania," she said, her face lighting up with a soft, hopeful smile. "I can make new friends there."

"And your family?"

"I owe them no loyalty. They gave me none when I needed them the most."

"Then all we have to do is find the barrister who provided the documents supporting our ‘elopement.' Do you happen to remember his name? I know Edward Harris deals with most of our family's business matters."

"No." She frowned. "It definitely was not a name I was familiar with. Polder? Pruder?"

"Prendergast!"

"No. No, nothing quite so—" She stopped and tipped her head. "Why are you looking at me like that? Have I said something funny?"

Adrian was grinning. "Not funny, just damned timely. I have been wracking my memory all night trying to think of Prendergast's name."

"The barrister Courtney will try to contact?" Deborah blushed and raised a hand to her lips. "I am sorry. I did not eavesdrop on purpose. I was wide awake and I could hear you and Rory plainly through the door."

Adrian brushed aside the apology. "No matter. In fact, I am glad you know. The important thing now is, you made me think of the name."

"Penderton."

"What?"

"Penderton. The name of the barrister who 'married' us."

Adrian's grin broadened. "I shall be only too happy to pay both illustrious gentlemen a visit today."

"No," came a yawned growl from the settee. "You take Prendergast, I will cope with Penderton. If we separate we can get twice as much ground covered, and I do believe haste is of the utmost importance in both cases."

Adrian turned to watch as the much rumpled and dishevelled form of his brother propped himself on the edge of the couch. His dark hair stood up in spikes, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy from no sleep and too much whiskey.

He glared belligerently at the sunlight and squinted. "What time is it?"

"Six o'clock. Thereabouts."

"Good God. Helen will be bristling like a porcupine. Six o'clock? Did you get any sleep at all?"

Adrian glanced at Deborah. "Some."

Rory scratched both hands through his hair, ruffling it even more. "Are you planning to speak to Father today?"

"If he crosses my path, no doubt I will think of a word or two to spare on the bastard. Other than that, no. I have more important things on my mind."

"Will you tell him about Alan?"

"There is nothing to tell. Not yet anyway."

"You have no idea who murdered him?"

"Theories, yes. None that I can prove. And since Jennings is already dead, I am not even certain what good it would do. It is difficult to charge a dead man with murder ... or to hang him."

Rory pursed his lips and nodded, but further conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door.

The three exchanged a glance in silence.

"Who do you suppose it could be this early in the morning?" Deborah whispered.

"One way to find out," Rory said and pushed to his feet. "Perhaps it is a kitchen maid who has read my mind. My belly is so empty it is rubbing on my backbone."

He had a hand on the brass latch and was twisting it when something heavy shoved against the door, causing it to smash inward and send Rory stumbling back off his feet. Deborah screamed and Adrian started to lunge for his sabre as a body crashed through the doorway. The bloody hand that had been grasping the jamb for support lost its grip and left a crimson smear all the way down the wall to the floor.

Courtney opened her eyes slowly. At first, she thought it was the middle of the night, it was so dark around her; but then, as her senses began to prick awake, she realized the blackness was caused by a thick blindfold. Her ankles were bound. Her hands were lashed together at the wrists and tied to the cane slats on the back of the chair she was sitting in. From somewhere she heard the sound of dripping water. The air was chilly and damp, and smelled of mildew and earthy rot. There was another odor she could not identify other than to determine it was extremely harsh and unpleasant. Her mouth, surprisingly, was not gagged. She noted it with a cool detachment, realizing that no gag meant whoever had brought her here had no fear of a scream bringing about discovery.

There were few distinguishable sounds other than a steady, hollow drip, drip, drip, of water coming from somewhere nearby. The dampness in the air, the smell, the dripping water all led her to think of a cave, or a crypt. Something near water, for she could hear the faint rushing sound of a river.

She did not remember being brought here or tied into the chair, or ... stripped! That explained the cold. She was no longer wearing the layers of muslin and linen. She wore something loose, a shirt or smock perhaps. Whoever brought her here had obviously searched her thoroughly for any hidden weapons and now wanted to keep her feeling completely defenceless.

She did not make any overt moves. Because she could not hear anyone else in the vicinity did not mean she was alone. In fact, she sensed she was not alone. Someone else was nearby—watching her? Waiting for her to show signs of wakening?

Slowly, with as little motion as she could manage, she began an assessment of her condition. No horrendous pains in her arms or legs meant nothing was broken. There were bruises, to be sure, and scratches on her flesh from the struggle she had put up before the explosion in her skull had darkened her world. She had been sitting on the bed with Matthew—

Matthew! Dickie! No. No! You can't think of them just yet.

Clear everything out of your mind! Think! Remember! You were sitting on the bed. There was a knock on the door. Dickie went to answer it. Then someone was bursting through the doorway, a gun out. Pointed. Shoved against Matthew's temple with the trigger cocked.

"Move and he is dead," the familiar voice had hissed. "Anybody moves and he is dead."

Dear God, it was Garrett, and he had looked like a wild man! He had not shaved for weeks, and his eyes had seemed strangely sunken, with dark bluish semicircles beneath them, carved deeply into his skin. One of his hands was missing! The grossly misshapen stump had swung up like a club to knock the dirk out of her grasp before she could use it. As well, one of his ears and the skin down one side of his neck was gnarled and shiny, melted in the same fires that had consumed the Falconer. The sight had startled Courtney as much as the laugh that had drawn her gaze back to the open doorway.

"Well, well," Miranda had spat. "If it is not the little princess. All dressed up in her finery. All sweet and cozy with another one of her Yankee lovers. Straight out of the arms of one into the bed of another. No wonder she had no time for you, Garrett."

"She will have it now," he grunted and hooked his stump under her arm to drag her to her feet. "I made her a promise back on the Falconer, and by God, I intend to see it through."

Dickie had moved then. He had picked himself up off the floor and hurled himself at Garrett Shaw like a slender, frail fury. Shaw felt the sting of teeth and nails and roared out a curse as he turned to fling the boy aside. The distraction had given Courtney an opening for a split second, long enough for her to reach for the barrel of the pistol and try to shove it aside. She thrust a finger behind the trigger to lock it, and she clawed for Garrett's eyes with her free hand. A second roared curse brought the horrible, grotesque stump up to strike her fully on the side of the neck. The world had spun dizzily for a moment but she had not released her grip on the gun. She held it and fought for control and Garrett had struck her again and again, bringing his knee up and slamming into her belly.

Miranda had been laughing, goading him on. Matthew had been struggling to his hands and knees on the floor, swaying, crawling drunkenly toward Dickie's unmoving body. Garrett had struck again, and Courtney's fingers had opened, finally releasing the gun. She had doubled over in agony, waves of agony that had robbed her of any ability to move, or to scream.

Remembering it all, Courtney swallowed past the rage and pain, but it remained like a lump of fire at the back of her throat. She forgot her resolve not to move, and her hands jerked at the ropes that bound her wrists to the chair. She stiffened as she heard a satisfied chuckle several feet away.

"So, you are awake. I thought as much." She heard a faint scraping of a chair leg and then footsteps on the stone. Her mind was still in a whirl of confusion. Anger, hatred, resentment, fear for Matthew and Dickie all crowded in on her ability to think and remain calm. The voice ... it was vaguely familiar, yet she could not place it. It was not Garrett's, but it was a man's voice and it rang with arrogance and authority.

"I have been watching you for some time, Miss Farrow, waiting for you to waken. Captain Shaw was unnecessarily brutal, I must say. Such lovely skin, to be so bruised."

Courtney flinched as a hand brushed against her cheek. There was a moment of hesitation, and the hand stroked her throat, then roughly cupped her chin and held it.

"You are hardly in any position to resist me, my dear."

"Get your filthy, sodding hands off me," she hissed.

"Why? Are you afraid I might touch something that belongs to your valiant Captain Ballantine?" The mention of Adrian's name lodged a greater horror in Courtney's mind, and she felt the hot, rasping breath of her tormentor on her cheek as he leaned his face closer to hers. "I plan to do more than simply touch you, my dear. Much more. How could I pass up such a singular opportunity to take my pleasure from the daughter of Duncan Farrow?"

Courtney ground her teeth together to keep from hurling a stream of oaths at the disembodied voice. The voice. The voice! Concentrate on the voice! She knew she had heard it before, but where?

Do not think of what he is saying! He wants you frightened. He wants you terrified. He wants you making mistakes. Show your fear and you are lost: Duncan's words. Duncan's warning. And she was Duncan Farrow's daughter, by God. She was Marguerite de Villiers' daughter. She was Adrian Ballantine's wife!

"Who are you?" she asked coldly. "Why have you brought me here?"

She felt the warmth move away from her cheek as he straightened. "Who I am is of little consequence at the moment; you will find out in due time. As to the whys and wherefores, it is a simple matter of compensation."

"Davey was right," she whispered. "Garrett only wanted Duncan's money."

"Fortune, my dear, fortune. Are you truly so na?ve as to doubt that there are millions involved here? And can you really blame us for being slightly distressed to get all this way only to find out Duncan Farrow is alive and well and waiting for his daughter to appear?"

"Duncan?" she gasped. "He is alive?"

"Ingratiatingly so. What is more, he is not the most generous of men. He would not even consider offering us half for all our trouble, although I suspect he may change his mind now."

"Because of me?" she said scornfully.

"Because of me, my dear, and my foresight in having the dock watched. I have had quite a time convincing Miranda of your usefulness, however. She was all for removing you permanently. I gather she is tired of seeing you resurrected from the dead. But the ways she suggested of removing you ... tsk tsk. Such disturbing appetites in a woman of such amazing charm. Although, in all honesty, I cannot find fault with her basic reasoning. Pain tends to loosen the tongue as readily as money."

He moved again and she heard his footsteps pace slowly around behind the chair.

"It would simplify matters if we knew where Duncan's lair was. He seems to have gone to ground, as they say, and taken that wretch Prendergast with him. You would not by any chance happen to know where they might have gone?"

"Go to hell," she spat.

"Mmm. The anticipated answer. Garrett warned me you would be difficult. But you see, my dear, I would as soon watch you writhe in agony as see you writhe in ecstasy. The choice is completely up to you, if you prefer to live or die, and in what condition. Frankly, if your stubbornness stems from loyalty, I am afraid the gesture is a wasted one. Your search for Seawolf should be proof of that."

Courtney stiffened. Seawolf? How did he know about Seawolf?

"I see you are familiar with name? Garrett tells me your search for the man who betrayed your people is almost an obsession."

"Betrayed—?" The whisper escaped before she could catch it.

"Seawolf has become a popular chap in the Admiralty offices. As you can imagine, he has saved our illustrious Commodore Preble a considerable amount of effort and lives, not to mention time. The information he has sold has led to the removal of half a dozen pirate dens along the Barbary Coast—or did you think it was just your little band of thieves that he betrayed?"

Courtney's mind was reeling. What was he saying? What was he talking about! Seawolf was the traitor? No. No! Impossible! Adrian had told her the code name: Swordfish. Not Seawolf! Not Duncan! Duncan Farrow would never sell out his own men. It was a lie! A ploy to throw her off guard.

"What? Did you say something, my dear?"

"You must be the one Garrett calls ‘the Englishman'."

"Astute as well as lovely."

"Then you should know all about betrayal," she ground out through her teeth.

The voice chuckled again. "Indeed, I do. I know about deception and guile. I know about greed. I know about vengeance."

"Then you know Ballantine will kill you when he finds you."

The voice moved lower so that it hissed in her ear again. "If the valiant Captain Ballantine had to choose between killing me and saving you, which do you suppose he would do? And your father—do you think he will pay more to arrange your freedom or to have a chance to settle accounts with Garrett Shaw? So many choices, so many fascinating combinations. I have not even mentioned Garrett! Your lover cost him his ship, his hand, his dreams of collecting a fortune. He is eagerly looking forward to killing Ballantine. And you, my dear. Who would you save if you could barter for the freedom of one life: Your father? Or your lover? They have both played games with your life; they have both used you. My God!" The voice was almost orgasmic. "I could not have planned a more intriguing denouement myself, regardless who lives or dies when the dust settles!"

Adrian knelt beside the bleeding body and grabbed the man by the shoulders and chest to turn him on his back. Davey Dunn cursed his pointed lack of gentleness with as strong an oath as Adrian emitted on recognition.

"Do you Yankees never piss?" Dunn gasped. "I been waitin' near two hours in the closet down the hall. Scair't the wind out o' two nigra maids an' a bootboy fer me troubles."

"Where the hell have you come from? What happened to your shoulder? Rory, for Christ's sake, help me drag him inside before we have half the hotel up in arms."

With Rory's assistance, Adrian lifted the stocky corsair to his feet and steered him into a nearby chair. Deborah, her hands still clapped over her mouth and her eyes still rounded with shock, scrambled well clear of the three men as she ran to the door to close it.

"Oh dear, dear, dear," Davey droned as his gaze settled on the empty whiskey bottle on the table beside him. "Have ye nay more where that come from?"

Adrian glared at him. "After you answer a few questions."

"On a dry throat? Ye're a rare cruel man. Not the kind o' man Duncan'd expect his daughter to marry."

Adrian clenched his jaw and nodded to Rory to fetch another full bottle from the sideboard. The younger Ballantine, clearly astonished by the corsair's audacity, brought the bottle and three glasses, filling them all to the brim.

"Well?" Adrian demanded when the first glassful had been drained to the vapours.

"Well, I got news fer ye, Yankee. None good."

"I am listening."

"So is half the bloody town," Dunn spat, drilling his gaze first into Rory, then Deborah.

"They both know everything that has happened over the past few months. I would prefer they hear what you have to say. Unless—?" He glanced askance at Deborah but she shook her head and remained steadfast by the door.

The small, squinty eyes peered up at Adrian through the fuzz of red lashes and brows. "Ain't healthy, Yankee, but it is yer choice. They got her. Her an' the doc an' the kid."

Adrian's face froze. "Courtney?"

"Aye, Court. I seen them on the dock yesterday when the Sirius dropped anchor. Waited to see who it were they was interested in afore I showed myself. Figured it might you, since ye burned his ship."

"Garrett Shaw?"

Dunn nodded. "Aye, Shaw an' his whore. Bold as brass, they was, jest standin' there back o' the crowd. Looked pissed as newts when Court walked off the ship beside ye. The whore turned purple an' I thought she was goin' to bust wide open. Shaw had to hold her back. Anyhow, when they seen her run out of there, damme if they didn't near trip on their chins followin' her. Natur'ly, I followed them. Went up and down and along a few twisty bits till I reckon Court run out o' wind, but whup! Turns out we wasn't the only ones who followed her. Dickie Little caught up to her first."

Adrian said nothing. Not a muscle quivered or an eyelash blinked, not even when Deborah moved slowly away from the door and sat in a nearby chair.

Davey took another deep swallow of whiskey and resumed his tale. "Dickie led her off down the street to a tavern. Shaw an' his whore stood there long enough to figure they weren't comin' out again an' finally he leaves and she stays to keep watch. Nother twenty minutes or so an' he comes back with a wagon. It din't look too good, so I give ‘em five minutes inside, then I went in after them. That is when I got this damned pinprick." He pointed disgustedly to his shoulder. It sloped at an odd angle from the thick stump of his neck; the bullet had obviously smashed through bone. The sleeve of his shirt and the front of his leather vest were soaked with blood, most of it dried and caked brown.

"I heard shoutin' and kicked through the door an' the first thing I seen was Court an' Shaw grapplin' over a gun. The other two, the doc an' the boy, were on the floor. I didn't know if they were dead or alive. I couldn't see whore a-tall." He stopped and shook his head. "Stupid. Stupid. I weren't thinkin'. I were in too much of a hurry. She steps out from behind the door, an' blam! Down I went."

Adrian's features were becoming tauter, whiter, colder as Dunn's story progressed, but he did not interrupt.

"She were all fer killin' me then an' there—guess she figured she'd seen enough ghosts fer one day—but Shaw stopped her. Said as how I would come in useful fer deliverin' messages."

"Messages?"

"Aye. One fer Duncan, invitin' him to a parlay tonight. Midnight. A warehouse near the edge o' town. He's to bring gold an' lots of it."

"Farrow is alive? He is in Norfolk?"

"Court never doubted it, Yankee. Neither did I." There was a strange flicker behind the pale blue eyes as he studied Adrian closely. "But it must have shook up their plans some, hearin' about Duncan."

"Plans?"

Dunn grimaced. "You an' Court must have done some talkin' in that cabin every night. Plans! Duncan's money! The whore fancied herself up an' hoofed into the lawyer's office tryin' to tell him she were Court. Spoke the right words, give the right names, but when she din't have the locket to show him, he told her the act weren't worth a goose fart an' if she knew what were good for her, she'd get the fuck on out o' there. A week ago that were, so they must've been broodin' on it since. Now they got Court an' they must figure she'll do better than any locket. Damn, but I ain't jawed so much in ten year. Throat is about burned dry."

He held out his empty glass to Rory, who filled it without a second thought.

"Have you seen Farrow?"

Dunn screwed up his face. "Ye think I would come to you first without seein' the captain?"

Deborah had kept her silence long enough. "Matthew ... please, is he alright?"

"Eh?" Dunn squinted up at her. "Aye, far as I could see. Leastwise, he were movin'. Boy had a busted leg though, and Court were unconscious when Shaw carried her out."

A nerve shivered in Adrian's cheek. "You said you had two messages."

"Aye. One fer Duncan, one fer you. Seems there is someone wants you invited ter the party as well. Calls his'self ‘the Englishman'."

Adrian's hands tightened into fists.

"Regular masquerade ball, ain't it?" Dunn raised the glass of whiskey to his lips with a sly grin, and Adrian turned away. He paced to the window and stared into the bright glitter of the water in the bay.

"How much do they want from Farrow? Does he have enough to cover their demands?"

"Considerin' they asked for ‘everythin' I dunno. Ye offerin' to throw in yer fancy saber an' gold braid?"

Adrian looked around slowly, his eyes cold and deadly, but Dunn continued.

"I'm thinkin' it ain't just Duncan's gold they're after."

Ballantine nodded grimly. They would want to know that no one was left behind to hunt them.

"Duncan reckons he might have an edge. Somethin' ter bargain with."

"What kind of an edge?" Adrian asked.

"Ign'runce, boy," Dunn clucked derisively. "Pure ign'runce to wed a girl without knowin' nothin' about her, nothin' about her grandpappy."

"De Villiers? What in God's name does her grandfather have to do with this?"

"Plenty, considerin' who he was."

Deborah and Rory both looked at Adrian, who could only elaborate on what he knew. "He was a French aristocrat who died on the guillotine."

Dunn snorted. "He were also Louis' personal banker. King Louis, that be, an' by personal, I mean real personal."

"Go on," Adrian insisted quietly.

Again, Dunn hesitated and eyed Deborah and Rory.

"I am not a man who likes to repeat himself too often," Adrian grated harshly. "And I am rapidly running out of patience."

Dunn stared at him a moment then shrugged. "What the hell, we'll all prob'ly be dead by mornin' anyway. It started with the troubles back in Paris in ‘89. Louis panicked when the Bastille was overrun, an' he gave the royal jewels to de Villiers for safekeepin'. Bloody September come around, an' the king were locked up, mobs were bangin' on everyone's doors wavin' torches an' buildin' guillotines. Ol' Gaston, he know'd his daughter were the only one of ‘em had any chance of sneakin' away, so he give her the two big chests an' ordered her to hide them real good, fer the sake of king ‘n country. She hid them damn things fer four years, an' when she met up with Duncan, she gave 'em to him, thinkin' he would know best what to do with 'em. When Duncan opened 'em he seen diamonds the size of yer thumb, rubies like fists, gold chains and crowns and rings enough ter string ‘round yer waist like a belt! I can tell ye, he damn near popped his eyeballs out."

Adrian was stunned. "I had heard stories of a vast treasure that went missing during the early days of the Reign of Terror, but I assumed it was just that: stories."

"After his wife were caught, Duncan weren't about ter come forward an' hand the treasure back. But he knew he couldn't keep the chests on the Goose, ner on the Island neither, so he shipped ‘em here, hopin' one day to give it all to Court to make up fer them bad years."

"And you say Shaw knows nothing about it? How can you be so certain?"

"Ain't but two people ever seen what was in them chests, aside from Duncan's wife an' her father. Me an' Duncan are the only two others left alive now what even knows about 'em."

Adrian patted his pocket absently in search of a cigar. Something here did not make sense. Why would Duncan Farrow be sitting on a fortune in unclaimed gems; a second fortune in gold from his raiding ventures over the years, yet sell out his ship and mates for a few measly thousands of dollars and incredible risks?

"How many people knew about Seawolf?" he asked gruffly.

"Eh? Seawolf? How in blazes—?"

"That was the name Farrow used to communicate with his wife, was it not?"

"Aye, but—"

"It is also the name someone has been using to sell Farrow out to the Americans."

Davey's chest swelled as he realized what Adrian was implying. "It weren't Duncan. He'd no sooner sell out a single one of his men than he'd stand in front of a cannon an' take a ball in his chest. Why would he?"

Adrian shook his head. "Exactly. I can see no reason why he would. But if the traitor is Shaw, which you and Courtney seemed convinced it is, and which I am now coming to believe, then she and Matt and the boy are dead regardless of whether Duncan meets his demands or not."

"Ye're a cheery bastard, ain't ye?"

Adrian ignored the sarcasm. "Farrow and I have to have a long talk before this goes any farther. How do I get in touch with him?"

Dunn narrowed his eyes. "Ye walk to the door, Yankee. He's out in the hallway waitin' on my decision whether we should trust ye ... or kill ye."

The dripping was constant, incessant. Courtney had even begun to imagine what it looked like. A crack in the ceiling. A slow, swollen bubble of water stretching, stretching, then breaking free like a weighted sphere to cause a small explosion on the surface of the tiny pool formed beneath it. Pools. Drops. Water. She was thirsty and cold. She did not know how many hours she had been sitting alone, or whether it was day or night. The chill had gone clean through her flesh to her bones, and she shivered almost constantly. There was absolute silence beyond the drips. There was only the rush of her own breath and the steady throb of her heartbeat to intrude on the tomblike silence.

The Voice had gone away and not returned. He had said his piece and planted both the doubts and fears firmly in her mind, then left her to brood upon them. Of course she did not believe a word of his lies; not about Seawolf. Someone was obviously using the name hoping, cleverly, to throw suspicion on Duncan.

But who? No one knew the name. No one knew the intimate details of her flight from France. Only Verart Farrow, Seagram, Davey Dunn, and Duncan. And only they would have known about Seawolf. Verart and Seagram were dead ...

Seagram!

He had told her to find Seawolf. He had commanded her to find Seawolf with his last gasp of breath.

Find Seawolf! Had it been a command or a warning? No, not a warning! He had said Duncan had been betrayed, not Duncan had betrayed. What else had he said? What exactly had he said? Think, think, think!

Drip ... drip ... .drip ...

Find him. Warn him. Verart knew. Only a matter of time to put a face to the name ... calls himself ...

... drip ... drip ... drip ...

Calls himself! Calls himself Seawolf! Find the man who calls himself Seawolf!

Courtney gasped aloud, and her entire body clenched through a wave of pain. She had been twisting her hands back and forth, working her wrists to try to loosen the knots in the ropes and the twine had burned through the upper layers of skin. She did not care. Duncan was the real Seawolf, and that Seawolf was brave and strong and cunning. He would know about Garrett's treachery. He would know about The Voice. He was probably looking for her now, tearing the city apart to find her. Seawolf and Adrian ...

Adrian had lied about the code name, but had he lied to protect her? Was that the cause of the shadow she had seen in his eyes? The lie, the hesitation, was it because he had known about Seawolf ... about the name Seawolf! O God, she wished she could see him, talk to him! If Adrian thought Duncan was the traitor, and if he thought Duncan would go to any lengths to protect his identity, even killing his own men, even killing his own daughter ... there would be a fight to the death for sure!

How long had she been locked in this blasted room? Hours? Days? She was so thirsty it might well have been weeks! Was it morning or night? Could anybody hear her if she screamed?

"Calm down," she ordered herself. She ignored the agony in her wrists and resumed the steady, twisting, sawing motion against the ropes. The pain sharpened her senses, helped her think. People who acted without thinking made mistakes. Frightened people made mistakes.

... drip ... drip ... drip ...