Chapter 5

5

Ballantine dispatched Rowntree with a hail of orders and closed the door. The deep-set lines around his mouth became etched in granite as he unlocked a drawer in his desk and removed two deadly-looking Queen Anne cannon-barrelled flintlock pistols. He poured a measured charge of powder down each barrel and rammed a ball flush against it. The pans were primed with more powder and the flints scraped to ensure a good spark on contact with the steel hammers. The procedure, almost second nature to Ballantine, was completed in less than thirty seconds. He was tucking extra shot and powder into the belt at his waist when he glanced up at Courtney and saw the triumphant smile on her face.

"You knew about this?" He demanded harshly. "You knew it was going to happen?"

"I knew there was no prison or cell that could hold Seagram for very long." Her laugh was brittle. "And if it is Seagram, you will never get close enough to use those fancy pistols, much less bargain for your miserable lives."

"Your miserable life is at stake as well," he reminded her coldly. "Yours and sixty other prisoners."

"I am sure Seagram has taken that into account. You cannot stop him, Yankee."

Ballantine was by her side in one long stride, his fingers clamped around her wounded upper arm.

"Maybe I cannot, Irish," he agreed blackly. "But I think we both know someone who can."

Courtney gasped against the waves of pain in her arm as he hauled her toward the door.

"He will not listen to me," she cried. "He will not listen to anything but his own conscience. He is a very simple man, Yankee. Simple and loyal and completely without fear."

"The most dangerous kind," Ballantine agreed. "And the kind who take the vows they make very seriously—especially vows to dead men."

On the beach of Snake Island, he had overheard Verart Farrow issue his final command to Seagram—to protect Courtney at all costs, even at the cost of his life.

"No," she snarled. "Seagram will never pass up the opportunity to destroy this ship. Not even for me."

Ballantine's grip tightened; his fingers laced into her flesh until she feared the bone would snap.

"We will see about that, Irish."

He shoved her ahead of him out the door. The companionway was deserted. Shouts and sounds of confusion rumbled down from the main deck as men scrambled topside. The corridors were dark, the lower gun deck littered with debris from the hasty evacuation. Ballantine ran into the stern, bypassing the first hatchway in favor of the ladder that descended directly to the storage holds. It was steep and the rungs seemed to sag under the slightest weight, but Courtney followed the lieutenant resolutely into the blackness, his hand fast around her ankle, yanking it to each rung below.

There were fewer lights on the lower deck, and Courtney had difficulty distinguishing the huge coils of cable and spare rigging from the crouched marines who were guarding the approach to the powder magazine. Smoke was thick in the air, as was the smell of cordite and black powder.

"Anything?" Ballantine demanded in a whisper.

"Nay so much as a blessed sound, sar," came a hoarse rasp.

"What in blazes happened down here?"

The burly Scot stepped forward and saluted smartly. "They took the lads by surprise. Eight o' them went trompin' through the boards afore there were even a musket to hand. Never had a chance to leave go a warnin' shot. We was fair damned lucky the sergeant were takin' our lads a cup o' brew to see ‘em through the watch. We managed to cut six o' the bastards down—dead as cobbler's nobs they are—but two o' the biggest an' meanest sons o' bitches went chargin' fair through the line o' fire like it were no more'n bee stingers. We ken one o' them is hurt fair bad, but the other—" Angus MacDonald shuddered. "He is nay human, that one. Nay human, I tell ye."

Courtney's eyesight began to adjust to the gloom, and she saw evidence of the swath Seagram had cut from one end of the hold to the other—overturned barrels, smashed planks, spilled coils of rope. Two half-starved, supposedly defeated men had managed to bring a mighty Yankee warship to a complete standstill and gave every indication of keeping it that way.

Ballantine sensed her excitement, and the iron grip tightened around her arm.

"Try anything," he hissed, "anything at all, and my first shot goes directly between those big green eyes."

He steered her against the bulkhead and signalled to MacDonald.

"Keep a sharp eye on the boy. When I tell you to, bring up a lantern and shine it on his face. And if anything goes wrong, kill him."

MacDonald acknowledged the order with a curt nod and took firm hold of Courtney's arm as the lieutenant stepped in front of the smashed door to the magazine.

There was absolute darkness inside. The faint light from the companionway made the back of Ballantine's white shirt glow eerily and set him off as a perfectly silhouetted target for the men inside.

"I am coming in," he said clearly.

"Hold up, Yankee," a voice growled. "Or the next step you take is into eternity."

"You asked to speak to someone in charge."

"Ye ain't the captain."

"No. I am not. But I am the best you are going to get."

There was a pause. "Ye wouldn't be the yellow-haired bastard, now would ye?"

"I believe we met briefly on the beach."

"Aye," Seagram chuckled dryly. "That we did. And before that, methinks. Gun to gun. It was you at the helm during the fighting, was it not?"

"It was."

"Then come away, Yankee," Seagram growled. "I would never refuse a brave man the chance to die in my company. Just remember, I have a bit o' powder here and a pistol primed and ready. The banter ends when ye step through that door."

"Fair enough."

Ballantine's shoulders disappeared into the cavernous gloom. Courtney's heart had begun to pound even harder at the sound of Seagram's voice. Her brow was moist, her palms clammy from the tension. She glanced sidelong at the Scottish jailer, but he was watching her as warily as he would a coiled serpent. She had to find a way to reach Seagram! She had to get inside the powder magazine and make him blow up the ship!

Ten feet away, Ballantine was searching the blackness with every sense tuned for a sign of movement. A shuffle, a scrape of wood or cloth, a heavy breath would give him some idea of where the danger lay. Until he could pinpoint both men, he was at their mercy. Felt-encased cartridges for the cannon were stacked floor to ceiling all around him, the powder inside so volatile that a single spark would bring a swift, explosive end to all discussions.

"You sent for me with a specific reason in mind, I presume?"

"Aye, Yankee. To send you and yer ship to hell."

"You would be sending yourself and your men along with us," Adrian pointed out calmly.

The remark was met with a snort of contempt. "We're halfway there now, ye bastard. We would just be making quicker work of it."

"Then why the delay? Half my crew have already abandoned ship."

Seagram's chuckle drifted as he moved a step to the side. The corsair was directly ahead, Ballantine decided. Probably shielded by casks—powder casks. He also detected a hint of sulphurous smoke in the vicinity, smoke from the type of slow wick kept alight during battle.

"Ye're a cool one, Yankee, I'll hand ye that. But I've a trade in mind."

"A trade for what"

"Yer ship. In exchange for a day's sail to land. I want the chains struck and my lads sent ashore. Then ye can have yer lives and yer ship and sail to perdition for all I care."

"And if I do not consider the trade a reasonable one?"

There was another heavy pause. "Then we have nothing to discuss. My men are dying from weakness and fever. If they live, they live to see a hangman's noose for their trouble. We have nothing to lose. I have their heartiest wishes with me—and you have the length of a short fuse to decide."

Ballantine flinched involuntarily as a spark and hiss crackled out of the shadows directly beside him. He had not sensed that the other man was so close, nor would he have believed anyone to be insane enough to hold a burning fuse in the midst of a mountain of black powder.

"I cannot make the decision myself," Adrian said quickly. "I would have to consult with the captain."

"Ye barely have time to consult with the Devil," Seagram growled. "Nilsson's waving a two-minute wick there and his eyesight is so poor, it will take him that long just to find the bucket to douse it in."

"In that case, I have a counteroffer."

"Nilsson!"

Ballantine raised his voice. "I have a friend of yours standing in the companionway now. A friend whom I am sure you would be eager to see."

"A friend? What trickery is this, Yankee?"

"No trickery. There were three of you together on the beach. Farrow died, you are here, and so is the boy."

A minute passed before Ballantine heard the corsair rasp an order to his companion. The wick spluttered into silence as it was plunged into a bucket of water. Adrian felt a sudden cool shiver of relief wash over him; instantly, it was lost to fiery rage when he heard a brief commotion in the outer corridor. A blurred shadow hurled through the doorway leaving a scream of Scottish oaths in its wake.

An instant's worth of hesitation on Courtney's part as she plunged into the darkness allowed Adrian to snake an arm around her waist and spin her off course before she could join Seagram.

"Damn you, let me go!" She writhed against his arm and kicked out sharply with her heels. "Seagram! Seagram! Blow the damned ship! Blow it clear out of the water!"

Adrian ignored the flaying arms and feet and backed up toward the door so that the pistol he held against Courtney's temple was revealed by the light. When he cocked it, the sound was loud enough in her ear to make her struggles cease for as long as it took her to catch her breath.

"Seagram," she gasped weakly.

"Court? Court, is that you?"

"Oh God ... Seagram! Blow the damned ship!"

The cold snout of the pistol nudged more forcefully into the underside of her jaw and choked her into silence. Seagram had risen from behind a low wall of powder kegs, and Ballantine could faintly distinguish the giant's frame against the surrounding casks and shells. A stray beam of light centred on the glittering black eyes and made them glow out of the darkness like two hellish embers.

"Now that I have your attention," Ballantine murmured. "I believe we can settle this situation quickly."

"Do not listen to him, Seagram!" Courtney cried hoarsely. "Do not do anything he says! Do not believe anything he says! Do what you were going to do. Blow them up!"

Seagram stared at the silhouette of the gun held to Courtney's throat. One of his massive paws came up, and Adrian saw a gleam of metal hover over an unstoppered bunghole of a powder cask.

"Do it," Ballantine said evenly, "and have the pleasure of seeing the top of her head explode before your finger finishes pulling the trigger."

"No, Seagram! No! We will never have another chance like this. Think of Verart! Think of Duncan and Garrett!"

"Think of the promise you made to Verart on the beach," Adrian countered harshly. "The vow you made to protect her."

"You will be protecting me, Seagram," she cried desperately. "We will never be free again—not with the chains and puppet trials and gallows they have waiting for us. I do not want to die that way, Seagram. I do not want to die that way!"

The air rumbled in Seagram's chest, and the pistol moved fractionally closer to the open spout.

"And I will swear to you here and now that nothing will happen to the girl," Ballantine countered smoothly. "She will travel to Gibraltar under my protection, and she will have a fair trial at the end."

"That is no kind of guarantee, Yankee. Especially from the bastard who ordered her locked in an iron box for a week."

Adrian's jaw tensed. "I had no idea who she was. Neither does anyone else, and I will see to it things stay that way."

"Not good enough. When we reach Gibraltar, ye'll set her free," Seagram snarled. "Ye'll set her free, without threat of trial, with no further threat of arrest hanging over her head. Ye'll guarantee this, Yankee, an' seal it with yer word, or we have nothing more to say."

Ballantine was losing grip on his patience. The sweat was forming runnels from his hairline to his neck, and his hand was slippery on the brass stock of the pistol. He could feel Courtney poised to take advantage of the slightest mistake he might make, and he already knew the second corsair had maneuvered to within arm's reach, waiting.

"I will see that she is set free when we land," he agreed through clenched teeth. "What happens to her after that will be up to her. It is the best offer I can make—the only offer I can make."

The black eyes wavered from the lieutenant's face to Courtney's.

"I gave my word to Verart," he said slowly. "As long as I was alive, no harm would come to her. I want the same from you, Yankee. Yer word on it. Yer word as an officer and a man. As long as ye're alive, no harm will come to her."

"No Seagram," Courtney gasped in disbelief. "Oh no, Seagram no ..."

"Give me that, ye bastard, and a promise of decent treatment for the rest of the men, and ye can have yer ship back."

Ballantine stood rigid, the urge toward violence pulsing through his veins like liquid fire. If he refused, it was certain death; he had no doubt the corsair would carry through on his threat to blow up the Eagle. If he agreed, he had no idea how in God's name he would be able to honor his word, but honor it he would.

"You have my word," Adrian said and removed the muzzle of the gun from Courtney's throat.

Seagram's great shoulders appeared to slump as he placed his gun carefully on the lid of the cask. Courtney wrenched out of Ballantine's arms and stumbled forward, fighting tears of anger and frustration. They had the Yankees by the throat! They had their revenge for Verart, for Duncan, and for Snake Island within their grasp! She could not allow it to slip away on the wings of a foolish promise!

Courtney ran with her arm outstretched, her hand clawing for the gun Seagram had set aside. But this time it was the solid sinew of the corsair's arm that stopped her. She felt it come between her and the gun, and the next thing she knew, she was sobbing against Seagram's chest. It was only when she heard the stifled groan and felt the tremendous body shudder that an even greater horror became clear.

Seagram was hurt. She felt a slippery warmth on her hands, and the shock of it froze her tears on her lashes as she gaped up at him.

"S'nothin', lass," he said quietly. "A pinprick from a toy solider. He paid dearly for the insult." The black eyes found Ballantine's over the top of Courtney's head. "Almost as dearly as the fancy lieutenant here."

Adrian's jaw flexed as he acknowledged the man's cunning. The wound had to be fatal and Seagram knew it. And so he had bought safe passage for Courtney Farrow, fulfilling the vow he had made to her uncle.

Ballantine barked a crisp order to the marines out in the companionway. He placed a hand on Courtney's shoulder to pull her from the corsair, but she savagely pushed it away.

"No! I will not go with you! I will not play your stupid games any longer. I release you from your promise, do you hear me? The oath you gave Seagram means nothing—nothing!"

Several burly, heavily armed marines crowded the entrance to the powder magazine. Ballantine looked coldly at Seagram, who nodded and pried Courtney's arms away from his waist.

"Court, ye've got to go with him," he urged in a low voice. "It's yer only chance to walk away from this."

"But you, Seagram ... what about you?" When there was no response, she turned to Ballantine, her eyes burning with tears. "What will happen to Seagram? He will be punished for this, won't he? He will be punished and he will die and it will all have been for nothing!"

"Not for nothing," Seagram said. "I couldn't have lived with Verart dead, lass, ye know that."

Courtney's eyes shimmered in the lantern light that spilled through the doorway. Nilsson was outlined in the yellow light. A short, brawny man, he stood braced against the large water barrel in the corner. The front of his shirt was soaked through with blood, but the soldiers paid little heed to his wounds as he was hauled upright and prodded toward the door.

Seagram grunted in pain as two marines locked his arms behind his back and jabbed a musket against his ribs. Courtney started toward him again, but Adrian held her firm as did Seagram's dark, commanding eyes. They flicked up to lock on the lieutenant for a long moment.

"Yer word had best be good, Yankee," he murmured ominously. "If not, I'll be back for ye. One way or another, I'll be back for ye."

Ballantine returned the penetrating stare before he nodded to the guards. Courtney's final, futile cry was stifled by a hand that was longing more to wrap itself around her throat than her mouth. When the congestion of soldiers had dispersed in the outer room, Ballantine dragged Courtney along beside him. He did not trust himself to speak, did not trust his anger to be satisfied with words.

Matthew Rutger looked up, startled, as the slender figure was propelled violently through the doorway to the surgery. Two of his assistants and Dickie Little were present so there was not much he could say beyond a lame, "What on earth has been going on? I have got seven dead men on my hands, and three more who look like they will be dead shortly."

"How many?" asked Adrian.

"Wounded? Enough to make you think we were attacked by a small army."

"Have them on their feet and outside the captain's cabin in five minutes. He will be calling for blood and frankly, I would willingly hand the entire incompetent lot over to him."

Adrian strode back to the door but paused long enough to shoot a withering glance at Courtney. "Keep our friend here with you until the excitement dies down. And if he dares to open his mouth or disobey a direct order, you have my heartiest encouragement to thrash his hide raw."

Matt was silenced by the degree of venom in the lieutenant's voice. Not so Courtney, who took her life in her hands by reaching out to clutch at Adrian's arm.

"Please," she cried softly. "What will happen now? What will happen to Seagram?"

Ballantine's mouth pressed into a thin line, and he glared at her hand until she removed it from his arm.

"If he is smart, he will find a way to end it himself before morning. If not, the captain will be only too happy to oblige."

Ballantine checked the conditions in the brig and ensured there were sufficient guards posted to discourage any further troubles. Ten wounded marines were assembled at ramrod attention in the wardroom and dared not meet his eyes as he and Sergeant Rowntree entered. Also present were the second lieutenant, Otis Falworth, and the ship's chaplain, John Knobbs. The latter looked plainly ill at ease as he acknowledged Adrian's arrival.

"He is in a terrible mood, Mr. Ballantine. The alarm apparently roused him out of a warm bed and interrupted some rather ... er, amorous endeavors."

"Thank you for the warning, Chaplain," Adrian said dryly. He rapped lightly on the captain's door.

"Come!"

Ballantine drew a deep breath and turned the latch. Captain Jennings was standing in front of his desk, his back to the door, his hands behind him clasping and unclasping in irritation. His bulbous figure had been clad in haste. The buttons down his shirtfront were mismatched to their loops, his breeches sagged without benefit of braces, his ankles showed bare over the tops of his buckled shoes.

The cabin was a shambles. Anticipating the need to abandon ship, desk drawers had been opened and their contents dumped into one of the large sea chests. Clothes were scattered across the floor; the cabinets had been emptied of their expensive gold plate. The sole incongruity in the storm of confusion was the olive skinned, raven-haired beauty who sat draped across a wing chair looking as unruffled as if she had just attended a Sunday picnic.

Miranda was wrapped—barely—in one of the bedsheets. Her hair was scattered around her shoulders and lured the eye to the breathtaking expanse of flesh swelling above the line of sheeting. As Adrian watched, she raised one bare leg and hooked it lazily over the arm of the chair, an action which caused the bedsheet to ride farther up on her thigh. Her sultry amber eyes made a contemptuously slow inspection of the lieutenant from boot to hairline. She sighed and looked pointedly away, her hand tracing suggestive patterns on her lap.

Adrian looked at the captain.

"You took your time reporting to me, Lieutenant," Jennings scowled.

"I wanted to ensure all stations were back to normal."

"And? Are they?"

"I have placed extra guards in the hold and ordered a work party to repair the damages immediately."

"Which you will personally supervise?"

"I will, yes."

Jennings' hands unclasped, then clasped together with an angry slap. "Can you tell me what in hell went wrong? I have a ship in chaos, sir. There are bodies to dispose of, wounded men whining outside my door, and officers running about like headless chickens screaming commands to abandon ship. I want explanations, Mr. Ballantine. Explanations!"

"As far as I have been able to determine, a section of planking gave way in the bulkhead dividing the brig from a storeroom. By the time the guards were alerted, several of the prisoners had escaped."

"And?"

"And they have all been accounted for."

"By accounted for, I assume you mean they are dead?"

"Six of them, sir, aye."

"And is that the lot of them?"

"Two additional prisoners were badly wounded, but recaptured. They are being held apart from the others."

"They surrendered?" Jennings' porcine eyes squinted over the glow of the desk lamp as he half turned to question Adrian. "Without making any demands? I was told they had us by the crotch."

"They were more concerned with bargaining for better conditions than they were with blowing themselves to hell," Adrian answered carefully. "And, as I said, they were both gravely wounded."

"Better conditions?" Jennings scoffed. "Where do they think they are? Who do they think they are?"

"Eight of their number have died in the past week from fevers and corruption in their wounds. They only ask for clean air and a chance to wash down the hold once in a while. The ration of a cup of water and two mouldy biscuits daily is not enough to keep a healthy man alive, much less a wounded man."

"What would you have me do?" Jennings arched a brow. "Feed them rack of lamb and pease pudding?"

"No." Ballantine tensed under the sarcasm, aware of the irony of having said much the same thing to Courtney. "But perhaps we could give them enough nourishment to keep them alive through the ordeal. Even slavers know the benefit of a live cargo."

"Slavers, Mr. Ballantine, transport for profit. I am carrying these miscreants to a meeting with the gallows. Should some of them die along the way, it only eases the hangman's burden."

Ballantine's jaw clenched. "Commodore Preble was quite specific in his orders that prisoners were to be treated humanely."

"Your remarks border on impertinence, Mr. Ballantine. These men and women are pirates. Thieves, whoremongers, murderers, outcasts ... they deserve precisely what we give them: Nothing. Perhaps your sympathies are beginning to cloud your sense of duty. I have even heard a disturbing rumor that you now want to parole one of their whelps as your own personal steward. Is this true?"

Ballantine was not ready to defend his actions so soon. How had Jennings found out?

"Youth does not seem to affect their sensibilities, or their penchant for slitting throats," Jennings said as he threw himself into a nearby chair. He laced his fingers together over his mountainous belly and pursed his fat lips. "These creatures only understand authority, Mr. Ballantine, not weakness. They respect disciplinarians, not milksops. Moreover, I am surprised you feel inclined to offer a position of some trust to one of them, rather than to one of our own lads."

"The boy is young," Adrian said, thinking fast. "Barely nine years old. He was not even involved in the fighting, but he bears a wound that makes his arm almost useless."

Jennings grunted. "Then what good is he to you?"

"He can do light duties; polish boots, keep the lamps filled. The doctor has agreed to put him under Dickie's charge while I am about my duties."

"Another bleeding heart," Jennings snorted. He glanced at the length of bare leg Miranda was showing and winked at her before frowning back up at Adrian. "How long has it been now since the death of your former steward?"

"Three months," said Adrian guardedly.

"Your brother was a fine sailor. He showed promise. It is truly unfortunate that he was cut down so young. You must have grieved deeply for him."

"Alan's death was an accident. I have accepted it."

"An accident," Jennings mused. "Stoically said, Mister Ballantine, and indeed I envy your ability to stand back at times and regard the world as if you were not a part of it. As if you were here to judge and not be judged. In some men, such righteousness eats away at the gut until they simply explode one day from the incredible burden of constant perfection. Is that what happed to you, Lieutenant? Is that what will happen again?"

"With regards to what, sir?"

Jennings leaned forward and his face blossomed a mottled red. "With regards to what, sir? To your past, present, and future attitude on board this ship, sir. For your ingratiating contempt for anyone's authority other than your own. My authority, for example. I have long felt that you hold my position on this ship in contempt. Is that not so?"

The question was a leading one and Adrian remained tautly silent.

"There are times when I plainly detect a burning need within you to speed me on my way to Glorious Judgement." Jennings leaned back and smiled malevolently. "I have often wondered if Captain Sutcliffe, my unfortunate predecessor, was so forewarned?"

Adrian barely managed to keep his voice even. "The incident with Captain Sutcliffe was an extreme case."

"Nevertheless, you did strike a superior officer. One would imagine, with the ice broken so to speak, the second plunge would not require half as much provocation."

"On the contrary, sir. The lesson was a harsh one and well-learned."

"A wise attitude to assume, Mr. Ballantine, since you know full well you face a tribunal eager to see you cast out of the navy in disgrace should you give anyone in authority the least cause to lay further charges. You have earned the wrath of several high-ranking officers by daring to expose Sutcliffe as a drunkard and an incompetent—myself among them. But then—" Jennings spread his hands wide and smiled, savouring the flush of anger on his first officer's cheeks— "you are already well aware of that. You are also aware that your fate rests squarely in my hands. Your good name, and that of your family, hinges on whether or not I decide you have redeemed yourself.

"Redemption is not won by displays of arrogance or incompetence," he said, scratching at a roll of fat under his chin. "With that in mind, understand that I hold you personally to blame for the lax security which allowed the fiasco this evening to take place. Further, I shall hold you responsible for any such occurrences in the future, petty or otherwise.

"As to the business at hand, you may inform Sergeant Rowntree that it will be my pleasure to witness the punishment of the prisoners responsible for holding my ship to ransom, tomorrow at eight bells. Three hundred strokes apiece to the pair who dared to instigate the riot, three dozen strokes to each guard who failed to contain it. The rest of the prisoners are to be put on half rations forthwith."

Ballantine stood in rigid silence for a long moment. "Sir, might I respectfully remind you the two prisoners were gravely wounded. Neither will survive three hundred strokes."

"Then let that be a warning to any others on board who may harbor similar fantasies of escape ... or mutiny. And any further whining entreaties for clemency—" he raised his voice for the benefit of those gathered in the wardroom— "will earn the petitioner a place of honor on the shrouds beside the condemned men. Do we understand one another, Lieutenant?"

Ballantine's lips were drawn into a bloodless line. He looked from the captain to the girl, who was now casually swinging her leg back and forth as if the conversation was boring her.

"I asked you, Lieutenant," Jennings repeated slowly, "if your orders were understood?"

"Three hundred strokes," said Ballantine tersely. "Will there be anything else?"

"Yes," Jennings said, watching the lieutenant's face closely. "This lad you feel so charitable toward—does he have a name?"

"Curt," Adrian said slowly. "Curt ... Brown."

"Well?" Jennings turned to Miranda. "Do you know the lad? Is he apt to be repentant for his crimes, or is he likely to stab my officers in the back while they sleep?"

"Curt?" The tiger eyes narrowed and Miranda's leg swung a little slower. A frown creased her brow as she searched her memory—not very hard, truth be told, for she had no use for men until they had at least reached puberty. "Curt Brown?"

"It was the name he gave," said Adrian evenly.

Miranda shrugged and would have dismissed the whole conversation with a wave of her hand, but something made her repeat the name in her head ... repeat it and alter it slightly. Curt? Court? Courtney? No! It was not possible!

She stiffened as the boredom cleared from her eyes and she became instantly alert. It was not possible the little bitch had survived! Nothing had survived the devastation on the beach and Courtney Farrow had been in the thick of it. On the other hand, if she had survived, it was entirely possible for the girl to pass herself off as a boy; she had no breasts, no hair, not a seductive bone in her dry little body. And if this Curt was truly Duncan Farrow's daughter, the only light tasks she would be doing voluntarily would be sinking a knife between the arrogant lieutenant's ribs.

Miranda glanced at the blond officer. It only took her a moment to ascertain that he knew. His face was tense and the vein at his temple was throbbing like a snake. What game was he playing? Was he hoping to keep the girl hidden until they reached Gibraltar, then collect on the reward for himself?

What would it be worth to him if she kept his tawdry little secret?

She smiled and swung her leg again. "Why, yes," she murmured, conscious of the watchful gray eyes. "Yes, I know Curt. He is an extremely stubborn lad when it comes to following orders, however, and I would not trust my back to him at all."

Jennings stared at Miranda, then his gaze flicked to Ballantine. He laughed suddenly, the rolls of fat around his girth jiggling obscenely. He reached out a hand, still laughing, and signaled her to move over beside his chair. When she complied, a pudgy hand slid up beneath the dragged sheets and began to roam enthusiastically between her thighs.

"By all means then, Mr. Ballantine, keep the boy with you. Share him with that other paragon of virtue, Rutger. Just keep him out of my way and out of my sight."

And Miranda smiled, the message in her eyes as clear as a spoken promise: Enjoy your little masquerade, Lieutenant. Until it pleases me to end it.