Chapter 4

4

Miranda dragged her fingers along the oak rail, tracing the myriad dents and scratches that marred the polished surface. She inhaled deeply of the clean salt air and looked out longingly at the shiny swells of green water. Jennings permitted her two brief strolls on deck each day in the company of one of his junior officers. Most of them were young and plainly in awe of her raw beauty, and she took some amusement in guessing how long it would take for their appreciation of her to show in their breeches. Sometimes it only required a softly spoken compliment, a knowing glance, or a smile. Other times it called for a subtle play of gestures—a finger trailed suggestively along the arch of her throat, a smoothing of nonexistent wrinkles on her blouse or skirt. They all succumbed eventually.

Her most constant watchdog was Lieutenant Otis Falworth. He was of medium height, average build, with nondescript features apart from a long, thin nose that made him look like a pincer hound. His only other notable characteristics were the two wide silver streaks of hair that grew like wings at each temple, slashing through the wiry, jet black crop and tied, finally, in a neat tail beneath the cockaded bicorne. His uniform was always starched to military precision. His fingernails were as buffed and glossy as the black kneeboots that clumped behind her the required two paces.

Falworth needed only a smile from her for beads of sweat to appear across his stiff upper lip. A crooked eyebrow had him dry in the mouth and breathing oddly. A casual brushing of arms had him all but dragging her into a shadowy corner. She had not allowed him more than an occasional breathless glance down the front of her blouse, and perhaps a peek or two at a shapely thigh when she climbed the ladderways.

It was obvious from the desultory greetings Falworth received from the men on deck that he was not well liked. He was in the captain's good graces, however, which benefited Miranda, for it told her his loyalties were founded on ambition and greed. His sole drawback thus far was the fact that he was too eager. A man whose brains were between his thighs thought of little else, and Miranda preferred men who were cool enough to be clever when the situation required it and hot-blooded enough to deserve the rewards she was capable of bestowing.

The amber eyes slanted upward and studied the officer who had been assigned to escort her on deck this time. Adrian Ballantine. Even the name caused a tingle to race along Miranda's spine. Golden-haired, broad in the shoulder, lean in the waist and hips, he had enough muscle to make a woman feel dominated, enough control to suggest he knew exactly what to do with his brains, wherever they were.

So far there had been no visible evidence of Miranda's charms at work, but it was only the second time he had been assigned the task of accompanying her and she had hardly warmed to the challenge. He had certainly noticed the way the wind moulded the thin cotton blouse to her breasts, and the cool gray eyes had shown definite interest each time her shawl slipped from her bared shoulders and nudged her neckline down another inch.

When they arrived at a secluded area of the deck, she stopped and leaned her hands on the rail.

"What land are we passing now, Lieutenant? Still Algeria?"

Adrian gazed out over the marching whitecaps to the low slash of purple hugging the horizon. "We have been in Moroccan waters since noon."

"Morocco," she murmured and took a deep breath, as if she could smell the steamy incense from the bazaars. "I was in Casablanca once ... under happier circumstances, of course. Much happier. My father was a very wealthy merchant from Madrid, and he occasionally took me with him on his travels."

Adrian said nothing; he seemed impatient to have done with the duty and get on about his own business.

The sparkle dimmed from her amber eyes, and she bowed her head slowly. "I do not blame you for not believing me. It was many years ago and I ... I have almost come to doubt it myself."

Ballantine exhaled slowly. "I have no reason to disbelieve you."

"But it is easier to think of me as a whore." Her eyes flashed up and captured his before he could avert them. "Indeed, it would be difficult to justify your captain's behavior if you had to think of me as the daughter of a Spanish Grandee!"

"A grandee?"

"I was kidnapped while on a journey from Madrid to Cadiz, to be with my betrothed. We were to be wed in Cadiz and then sail on to Mexico, where my father had provided land for my dowry." Her face assumed the guise of sadness again. "Instead, our ship was attacked. I was taken to Snake Island where I was beaten and threatened with slavery, and finally forced to serve the barbarians in the only capacity they allot to women."

"What about your father and your betrothed? Did they not search for you or try to buy back your freedom?"

"My father searched. My Manuelo searched. But they are not saints, Lieutenant. How could I possibly return to them ... soiled? I pleaded and begged with my captors, and finally did this—" she held out a tapered wrist, displaying a scar she had earned years earlier in a tavern brawl— "until Duncan Farrow agreed to send a message to my father saying I had perished in the attack. In exchange I agreed to be ... docile. And afterward, nothing mattered to me anymore."

Ballantine looked deeply into the amber eyes, drawn skilfully, painlessly into their depths. He was teased by flecks of green and brown, taunted expertly by sparks of fiery gold.

Good God, he thought. First the daughter and now the mistress—Duncan Farrow had needed to keep his wits sharp surrounded by such women.

Miranda frowned slightly, the meaning of the sudden gleam in his eyes eluding her. "Do you think it fair all of this should happen to me just because I am cursed with the body of a temptress? I have tried to make myself ugly. I have scratched my face and torn out my hair; I have starved myself until I was nothing but loose flesh and bone ... but to no avail. I am doomed, it seems, to give pleasure and receive nothing in return. When your captain tires of me—as surely he must—he will pass me on to another, just as insensitive, as brutal."

Miranda edged closer and her hand came to within an inch of Ballantine's on the rail—close enough for the fine coppery hairs on his wrist to prickle with the warmth and he was fascinated, despite himself. What had he said to the Farrow girl? That he liked his women to smell of tenderness? Miranda Gold reeked of passion—the cheap, tawdry kind that duped men like Jennings and Falworth into strutting around like peacocks. That passion did not light her eyes, not the deepest part of her eyes where her soul should have resided. Eyes like hers only lit up when they spied a coin, or when they wanted something. The only thing Ballantine could not figure out was just what it was that she wanted from him.

"I only want kindness, Lieutenant," she murmured, the answer to his unspoken question bringing a smile to his lips. Her fingertips touched his hand, traced a feather-light path to the cuff of his tunic, then back down to the strong, tanned fingers. "You are not like the others, I think. In you I can see ... compassion ... and a genuine wish to right such a grievous wrong."

Ballantine watched the luscious red lips form the words and found himself engrossed by the way she used her body to underscore her meaning. She was standing so close that the fabric of her blouse was pressed to his tunic. While it was impossible to feel anything through the heavy layer of wool, he could swear he felt the impression of her firm breasts burning their offer into his chest. In any other frame of mind, he might have succumbed to the temptation, if for no other reason than to coldly and clinically relieve himself of some of the tensions of the past months. Cuckolding Jennings would not have caused him any loss of sleep either, truth be told, but he was not prepared to stoop quite that low just yet.

"This, er ... compassion. I gather it would have something to do with my willingness to smuggle you ashore when we dock in Gibraltar? I gather I would also be handsomely rewarded with the same talents that have the captain walking like a bandy-legged schoolboy?"

Miranda felt a flush of satisfaction tint her cheeks. So much for thinking that Ballantine was different from any other hot-blooded male. Men were such fools! Such children! So easily governed and manipulated by the press of warm flesh.

"Naturally," she murmured, "I would be exceedingly grateful for any help you could offer, Lieutenant."

"Indeed, well ... unfortunately," Adrian said with a wry sigh, "I am not very adept at smuggling. And I am certainly not interested in being court-martialled for the sake of a little slap and tickle beneath a dark stairwell. I am afraid you have wasted your time, and your tale of woe on me, Miss Gold, but I would be only too happy to point out a more receptive ... er, ear."

Miranda's Castilian blood boiled instantly. Her arm drew back, her fingers shaped into a claw to scratch the laughter from his arrogant jaw. He caught her wrist with ridiculous ease and forced it down to her side.

"Nuh uh. We would not want to see me lose all this gentleness and compassion, would we?"

Miranda hissed and twisted her wrist trying to wrench it out of his grasp.

Adrian only laughed again, then turned toward the sound of boots approaching from behind. "Ahh, Falworth. We were just discussing you."

"Me?" The lieutenant halted, his limpid brown eyes sliding from Miranda's face to Ballantine's. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his right foot poised at a studied angle to display to advantage the fine tailoring of his uniform. "Me?" he said again, "I cannot imagine why."

Adrian released Miranda's wrist. "I was just telling Miss Gold it was a pity you were unavailable to escort her tonight, as I am needed at the helm and we must cut short her time on deck. In fact, I barely have time to deliver her back to the captain's cabin ... unless, of course, Falworth, you could see your way clear to return her for me?"

Falworth took a breath. "Why yes. Yes, I could."

"Excellent." Ballantine bowed curtly to Miranda, his eyes still dancing with humor. "My watch begins shortly. I trust you will accept my apologies for an abrupt departure?"

"By all means," she said, still seething, "go about your duties."

With a mildly derisive salute in Falworth's direction Ballantine turned and headed aft to the quarter-deck.

Miranda adjusted her shawl with a furious tug, pulling it tightly around her shoulders.

"The wind does seem to have picked up a chilling edge," Falworth said quickly. "I suspect rain is not far behind. Perhaps we should, indeed, go below."

Miranda was still glaring daggers into Ballantine's retreating form. Falworth took her by the arm and ushered her firmly toward the hatchway. When they descended, they were greeted by a hail of cat calls and whistles from crewmen who were sitting around and between the cannons on the gundeck, playing at dice or stones. It startled Miranda out of her pique and brought a flare of displeasure into Falworth's face.

"Just ignore them," he advised her brusquely, leading her into a shadowy companionway away from the jeers and laughter. "They have the manners and breeding of apes."

"No, no," she said, putting a tearful tremor into her voice. "I know what they think of me. I know what the lieutenant thinks of me. I know what you must think of me."

She stopped so abruptly, Falworth walked several steps ahead before realizing she was not by his side. When he looked back, he saw that her hands were covering her face and her head was bowed.

"Oh. Dear me. There, there now. You must not let them upset you so. As for Mr. Ballantine, his opinions are of no consequence. We all do ... what we must do ... to survive." As he stammered over his efforts to soothe her, his eyes were drawn down, unable to resist staring at the swelling globes of her breasts as the shawl slipped lower on her shoulders. When he forced them to lift again, he found the amber tiger-eyes waiting for him. His legs seemed to fail him and his feet felt nailed to the floorboards, unable to move.

Miranda moistened her lush, full lips and pressed up against him.

"I am glad he had other things to do," she whispered. "I am glad he left us alone. But the captain is writing in his logbook and will not appreciate the disturbance if I return too soon."

Falworth swallowed hard. A quick glance told him they were, indeed, alone. The companionway was deserted, the door to an empty storage locker only a few paces away. He gasped as he felt her fingers slide around his wrists, guiding his hands up along warmed cotton until they were cupping her breasts. He dared not move or breathe. He could feel her nipples budding against his palms, growing hard as little beads in the overflow of surrounding flesh. Conscious of the laughter still drifting down the ladderway, he took a bold step and urged Miranda into the deeper gloom of the storage locker. She was quick to drop the shawl and pull the thong that was holding her bodice together; he was even quicker to shove the cotton aside and fumble her glorious breasts free.

His groan was muffled against the soft pillows of flesh as he licked and suckled. The sweet, exotic musk of her skin sent the blood racing through his body; his heart pounded desperately to keep pace with the flow and felt as if it would burst through the wall of his chest. Her fingers worked nimbly on the bottom button of his tunic, then on the waist of his breeches.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"You wish me to stop?"

His body tensed and his brow beaded instantly with sweat. "Someone could walk by."

"Then you must be quiet, my lieutenant," she purred huskily and slowly dropped to her knees before him.

Falworth's eyes squeezed shut and his teeth ground together in a shudder. He swayed drunkenly for a moment, but then there was nothing to do but lean against the bulkhead, curl his fingers into the silky raven tresses, and hope the explosions he heard and felt were only in his mind.

Ballantine was relieved at his watch at precisely four minutes before eight o'clock. He took a final stroll around the deck, pausing to exchange a word and enjoy a pipe with members of the crew. Overhead, the Eagle's sails were bathed in the fading russet glow of sunset, the enormous sheets of canvas tinted pink and bronze against the sky. The tackle creaked and the rigging hummed. The sound of the bow carving into each successive wave was as comforting as a low pulsing heartbeat.

He had spent the last twelve years of his life at sea, the last six months on board the Eagle. He had served under three captains in all, in various capacities, working his way up from ordinary seaman to first lieutenant in less than ten years. He had not taken the easy route of buying a commission with his family name and money; rather, he had learned the way of ship and sea through hard work and skill.

In all that time he had been content to call the sea his home, the ship his mistress. For certain, the latter had as many moods as a woman. She had her tantrums, her rages, her moments of hostile beauty. There were nights of holding down a solitary ghost watch when he could imagine nothing more peaceful, nothing more sensually perfect than riding his ship under moonlit sail, her canvas wings teased and lulled by the gentle hands of the wind.

The attraction had begun to sour lately. The ugliness of war, the deceit and intrigue were beginning to take their toll. His temper was shorter, his moods blacker. He even found himself being deliberately rude to men he had long considered to be friends. He knew the Eagle was not to blame for his changing attitudes, but the appeal of his high-spirited mistress had altered drastically in recent months—the past six, to be more precise, starting from the moment he had stepped aboard the Eagle and saluted Captain Willard Leach Jennings.

His previous captain, James Sutcliffe, had been retired from service in disgrace. He had been blind drunk on a day when their ship had crossed paths with an Algerian merchantman; drunk and prepared to hull the unarmed vessel for the sake of adding an easy kill to his record. Ballantine had interceded to prevent the slaughter; and, by doing so, had won himself charges of misconduct and striking a senior officer. For a lesser man, the charges alone might have been enough to destroy both his resolve and his ambition, but Adrian had stood his ground. He had defended his actions to the Admiralty by substantiating counter charges of drunkenness and incompetence.

As a result, Sutcliffe had been quietly retired to a hog farm in Pennsylvania. In a private hearing before a naval tribunal, Ballantine had been declared innocent of the grave charges of assault and insubordination; but he had been branded a hothead and placed on a year's probation for his breach of discipline. He had been transferred to the Eagle for the duration, and for the past six months, subjected to the supreme test of his willpower in serving under Jennings.

Whereas he had occasionally been able to tolerate Sutcliffe's excesses, and had even shared them at times, he could barely conceal his loathing and contempt for Jennings. There were moments when the injustices and cruelties enjoyed by his new commanding officer stoked Adrian to such a rage that he was tempted to sacrifice what was left of his career for the pleasure of feeling his hands close around Jennings' throat. Only Matthew Rutger, his friend and shipmate for half of his life at sea, kept him sane. The sight of Matt's face beaming from the deck of the Eagle upon his arrival had been the only glimmer of light on a dark day. The darkness had deepened when Jennings had made it clear that he disagreed with the findings of the tribunal and considered it his personal duty to correct the gross error in judgment.

Perhaps that was why Adrian's thoughts drifted with alarming regularity to the sprawling plantations owned by the Ballantines of Virginia—to the rich tobacco fields, snow white acres of cotton, and all the comforts and luxuries afforded by the accumulated wealth of generations. His father, Samuel Ballantine, and Adrian's brother Rory controlled the empire, but there was room for Adrian in the fold. He could mend the rift with his family that he had caused through his demand for independence; he could settle down and marry a suitably well-bred, well-versed woman and raise a brood of well-bred, well-behaved children who would no more consider running away to sea than they would lie down in the path of stampeding wild horses.

Samuel had been ailing on Adrian's last visit home. He had looked like an old man for the first time in his sixty-three years of hard living. He had exacted a promise from Adrian to consider—consider—leaving the navy, a promise that did not seem so onerous now. The recent victory over Snake Island would assure a hero's welcome for the Eagle's crew and her officers. It might even remove the cloud of disgrace that still hung over his head from the court-martial. And with the capture and execution of Duncan Farrow, the war along the Barbary Coast would almost certainly draw to a swift conclusion.

Commodore Edward Preble had been in the Mediterranean less than a year and had accomplished more in eleven months to hasten the defeat of the Pasha, Yusef Karamanli, than his two predecessors had in the three previous years. Where the other commodores had been content with a token blockade and an occasional scowl at the Tripolitans, Preble had openly attacked the Pasha's weak spots. He had intercepted grain shipments and merchant vessels carrying much-needed supplies and weaponry to Tripoli. He had also gone after the Pasha's mercenary support forces. Snake Island had been the last major offensive, and its destruction would clear the way for an assault on Tripoli itself. Without mercenaries and Barbary corsairs to assist him, Karamanli's power would be reduced to curses and fist-waving.

Duncan Farrow's feats had become legendary throughout the Mediterranean in the past five years. His ships, the Wild Goose and the Falconer, had never met defeat in a battle at sea. His victims claimed they had never met a more formidable, more cunning enemy. Farrow's men were seasoned veterans, utterly without fear; their commander was a brilliant tactician and a master at deceit. Both Farrow and his senior captain, Garrett Shaw, were singularly ruthless when it came to attacking and capturing merchant ships—and here Courtney's vehement defence of her father's actions categorically refuted official reports. On several occasions the crews of such vessels had been handed over to Yusef Karamanli to dispose of as he saw fit. The officers, for the most part, were ransomed; the ordinary seamen were sold into slavery, where most vanished and were never seen again. True, no American crews had met such a fate, but then no American merchantman had had the misfortune to be actively sought as a prize by the Farrows. Duncan Farrow seemed content to concentrate on the richly laden French traders and, to that end, he stalked them with an unholy fervor.

But Farrow was only one of a handful of vicious corsairs employed by the Pasha to help win the war against the only country whose president dared to refuse a demand for tribute, whose ships dared to use the Mediterranean shipping routes without paying for the privilege, and whose navy dared to send warships to defend their right of passage.

Commodore Edward Preble was the newest affront and was proving to be fervent in his intentions to bring about complete victory for the American forces. Not only had he whipped his band of young, ill-trained officers into a team of skilled and effective fighters, but he had established an intelligence network that spanned all of the major ports along the Barbary Coast: Tangiers, Oran, Algiers, Tunis, even Tripoli itself. With the help of this network, Preble was kept abreast of Karamanli's movements, his shipments, his strategies, and thereby was able to do damage where it would be felt most.

With the help of one spy in particular, he had been able to methodically strip the Pasha of his mercenary support forces, most notable among them: Duncan Farrow.

What would the haughty Courtney Farrow's reaction be if she knew her father's camp boasted the highest-paid informant along the Barbary Coast? The man had not only sold out the rivalling nests of corsairs who raided the commerce of the Mediterranean, but he had arranged the trap that had ensnared Farrow and Shaw, and the attack that had destroyed the stronghold of Snake Island. The man's identity remained a closely guarded secret. He was known only by a code name: Seawolf. It was not known if Seawolf had escaped the trap set for the Falconer and the Wild Goose, or if he had been among the defenders of Snake Island—no one knew if he had been captured, killed, or set free.

One thing was certain: As much as the idea of spies and traitors lodged in a man's throat, without Seawolf's greed, Commodore Preble would not have been able to affect the capture of the Farrows without paying a horrendous price in human lives.

Ballantine squinted at the falling sun until it melted into the sparkling line of water. He tapped the bowl of his pipe on the rail, watching the flakes of red ash swirl away, lost to the wash of foam creaming off the Eagle's hull. Having completed his circuit of the ship, he nodded to the helmsman, issued a few final orders, then ducked through the hatchway to go below.

The girl's presence on board was definitely an unwelcome turn of events. There was not a hope in hell of keeping her disguise effective for any length of time, especially if she persisted in arguing herself into confrontations. At nineteen years of age, she was not a child. She was aware of the consequences of the life she had chosen and despite his grudging admiration for her pluck and spirit, Adrian Ballantine was not about to place her safety above his own career. She would have to be put in her place and she would damn well have to keep to it or she would find herself back in the hold whether it spelled her death or not.

Neither Matthew nor the girl was in the infirmary when Adrian checked, and had not been for an hour or so. Matt was not in his cabin, or in the officers' wardroom, or gathered with the rest of the crew on the lower gundeck to participate in the evening weevil races. Ballantine arrived at his own cabin in a mood that sent the door slamming back on its hinges. The sleeping form on the berth sat upright with a stifled gasp.

Ballantine glared for a full minute before he connected the clean, wide-eyed young woman who was hastily scrambling to her knees, with the evil-smelling, rag-bound corsair's whelp he had left in Matthew Rutger's care. Her skin, cleaned of the layers of sweat and grime, was shaded honey-gold from the sun and glowed like warm marble. Her hair had washed into a soft mist of auburn curls that the lantern light teased with glints of fiery red. Her throat was a slender arch, luring the eye downward to where her breasts curved the fabric of the shirt.

Ballantine narrowed his eyes and glanced briefly around the cabin. Nothing appeared to be out of place; there were no overt signs that things had been tampered with or disturbed. There was a tray of food sitting on his desk, and a tin pot of coffee keeping warm over a small iron brazier.

"How long have you been here on your own?" he demanded gruffly.

Courtney looked around the cabin, startled to see she was alone.

"I ... I do not know."

"What have you been doing?"

She flushed. "Trying to dig my way out! What does it look like I was doing?"

Ballantine scowled as he locked the door. "Where is Dr. Rutger?"

"He was sitting behind your desk the last time I saw him."

Adrian crossed the width of the cabin, and his frown deepened when he saw the crumbs and drippings that were all that remained of his dinner.

"I presume you found your appetite again?"

Courtney stiffened. "I was hungry. If you will recall, I have not had much to eat over the past week—not that I appear to have missed much. Your food is as palatable as shoe leather."

"I will see what I can do about getting you cake and cream," he snorted testily. "As for your sleeping arrangements, you will find a hammock rolled under the berth. You can sling it between those two hooks—" he crooked a thumb at the wall opposite his berth. "It will do until you clean out a space in the storeroom next door, and until I think you can be trusted to be left on your own."

Courtney bit back a retort. He had been in the cabin less than two minutes and already she was longing to gouge his eyes out. So he intended to watch her like a hawk, did he? To keep her tethered like a slave with threats and warnings? He would not be as easy to fool with promises and imploring glances as the doctor had been, but she was not discouraged. His arrogance was his weakness.

Courtney lowered her eyes and forced what she thought sounded like a docile meekness into her voice. "Forgive me if I have done something wrong again. You have been very kind to me and—"

"What?" Ballantine leaned forward to catch the whispered words, not sure he had heard what he thought he had heard. "What did you just say?"

Courtney kept her face averted. "I said ... I was sorry. I did not mean to eat your food and I did not intend to fall asleep on your bed."

Ballantine folded his arms across his broad chest. "Four hours ago, you were spitting at me like a cat, now you are apologizing? What are you up to, Irish?"

"I am not up to anything," she said irritably. "I had a hot bath and a hot meal, and I have had a chance to think and—"

"Look at me."

She hesitated, but before she could obey, Ballantine was beside her, his hand tucked beneath her chin, tilting her face roughly upward to meet his probing gray eyes. What he saw infused his voice with scorn.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking me a stupid man, Miss Farrow." His hand moved away. "You will only wind up learning your lesson the hard way."

Courtney's eyes blazed a brilliant hot green as he turned away. "I just want to find out exactly what my position is. In spite of your honorable claims to the contrary, you must have a price in mind for all this generosity."

A faint, amused smile tugged at Adrian's mouth. "And if I do?"

"If you do—" her smile was equally sardonic— "I am not about to fight you for it. I have earned enough bruises from you for one day."

Adrian shook his head. First, she had expected him to rape her; now she was offering her services like a penny whore.

"I have already seen what you have to offer, Irish, and to be honest, despite the improved smell, there is still nothing about an undernourished, ill-bred pirate urchin that rouses me. However," he paused to offer up a much put-upon sigh, "if you are determined to play the martyr, I suppose I could oblige. Begging was never much of an inspiration for me, but perhaps after a hearty meal, and with the help of a few mugs of rum ..."

Courtney launched herself off the bed, her hands and nails clawing upward toward his face. Laughing, he ducked to one side to avoid the slicing talons and in an easy motion, caught at the flailing arms and twisted her wrists down behind her back. She was crushed against his chest and had to tilt her head back in order to see his face. Their eyes met and it was like the clashing of steel swords.

"Bastard!" she hissed. "Filthy, sodding, bastard. I doubt an entire cask of rum could turn you into a real man. I doubt you can even—"

Adrian silenced the tirade by the only means at his disposal. His mouth plunged down over hers, smothering the guttural oaths, muffling the shocked cry of outrage. Like a virago, she writhed and twisted within his grasp. She kicked out with her feet and brought her knees gouging up along the inside of his thighs. Adrian shifted his hold, taking both of her wrists into one hand and using the other to capture and squeeze her arching throat. His fingers dug into the tender flesh and found a nerve, the pressure and instant sear of pain causing her to gasp and cease her struggles.

Spurred on by the challenge, Adrian forced her resisting lips apart, his tongue plundering what she had contemptuously offered.

It was impossible for Courtney to breathe, to think, to reason past the aggressive intrusion. The lash of his tongue sent anger, then panic spreading throughout her body, and she became horrifyingly aware of the solid shield of muscle that comprised his chest and shoulders. His arms were like iron, crushing her; his thighs were taut and unyielding. She could not move. She felt her limbs growing weak and her senses swirling under the assault and she realized she was holding her breath. Her heart raced and blood pounded in her ears, drowning out everything but the sound of his harsh panting against her cheek.

She drew a breath to clear her senses. Her arms were pinned and his big body was crowding hers against the bulkhead; the only weapon she had at hand was the one she knew he would least expect: a full, feminine surrender. She forced her body to go limp in his arms. Her lips softened and instead of keeping them pressed tightly closed, she parted them and sucked determinedly at his tongue. She moaned as if it was the most evocative sensation on earth and even sent her tongue dancing forth to engage his. She molded her body to his, pressing forward as if overcome with lust and desire. Her hands, which had been fighting his grip on her wrists, stopped trying to twist free and implied, instead, that they longed to rise up and curl around his shoulders.

As shocked by the change as she had anticipated him to be, Ballantine released her. He stood back a full pace and stared at her with the wariness of a snake charmer whose cobra had suddenly turned on him. His eyes were locked to hers and because he was a man and his body had reacted the way she suspected it would, he could not hide the evidence of his unexpected arousal.

Her gaze fell deliberately to the bulge in his breeches and the smugness of her smile brought a soft growl into his throat.

"You are full of surprises, Irish," he muttered. "That was almost as fine a performance as the one I was subjected to earlier this afternoon from one of your compatriots."

Courtney wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, a little shocked herself to feel how pleasantly they were throbbing. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"No?" The flinty eyes roved casually over cheeks that were flushed a faint pink, the lips that were moist and parted slightly with breathlessness. "She has a few more weapons in her arsenal to call upon, but you have the technique fairly well honed. With a little more practice—?"

"What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?"

"I am talking about the captain's newest plaything. Miranda, I believe her name is."

Courtney glanced up sharply. She recoiled from the name as if she had been slapped. "Miranda!"

"A charming wench, as you must already know. She has half of my officers drooling around her skirts like imbeciles, and the captain ... well, as I said before, he has not come out of his cabin much this past week."

Courtney's senses took another sickening whirl, forcing her to lean against the edge of the berth for support. Miranda! Her father's slut! Alive and well and whoring in comfort while the rest of Duncan's people endured the filth and starvation and humiliation of a mouldy prison hold. How dare this insolent bastard compare me to her!

Ballantine was studying the subtle changes on the girl's face. The dark eyes had seemed to go out of focus for a moment, staring inward, but now they were smoldering, lancing him with the same incendiary hatred he had noted when she was first brought on board. It had caused the hairs to rise at the nape of his neck then, and it caused them to prickle now. Dangerous eyes, he thought. He could almost feel himself bend under their power.

He broke the visual bond abruptly and turned toward his desk.

"I think we should set something straight here and now," he said brusquely. "Not that I owe you any kind of explanation or excuse ... but I happen to be engaged to an extremely beautiful, extremely desirable woman whom I plan to marry as soon as this ship returns to Norfolk." He turned and the emerald eyes were still on him. "As much as I enjoy a warm bed at night, it would take a visit from the devil himself to entice me into dishonoring the commitment I have made to my fiancée. Can you understand that, Irish? Finally, and absolutely, can you understand that?"

"I understand," she murmured.

He held her gaze a moment. "Good. Then perhaps we can both rest easier at night."

It was Courtney's turn to smile faintly, hauntingly. "I do not intend to rest at all, Yankee. Not until every last one of you has paid for what you have done."

Ballantine stared. His rejoinder was forming on his lips when the tense silence was shattered by the loud, incessant clanging of the ship's bell. Ballantine jerked his head toward the door as an urgent knocking rattled the oak panel.

He brushed past Courtney with a hissed order to hide herself. From the shadowy corner between the wall and the opening door, she could not see the visitor, but she recognized the agitated voice as belonging to the sergeant-at-arms who had escorted her from the cage to the lieutenant's cabin that morning. She forgot everything in the rush of excitement his news brought.

"What do you mean," Ballantine demanded, "the prisoners have broken out of the hold?"

"Half a dozen of them, sir," Rowntree gasped. "They tore through the bulkhead somehow, got their hands on some muskets. We stopped four of them before they could clear the guard station, but two got past our men."

"Where are they now?"

"The aft powder magazine, sir. Them and three hundred kegs of black powder. They say they want to talk to someone in charge or they will touch a flame to the lot and blow us all sky high."