Chapter 6

6

Lieutenant Ballantine lingered in the wardroom only long enough to convey the captain's orders and dismiss the men. The ten marines were shaken upon hearing the sentence of three dozen strokes; the chaplain had to sit down abruptly and seek some inner consolation before he could properly digest the horror of it all. Adrian strode into the companionway and was nearing the aft hatchway when the burly Scottish corporal, Angus MacDonald, cleared his throat and stepped apologetically into the lieutenant's path.

"Excuse me, sar. A word, if I may?"

"What is it, Corporal?" Adrian demanded gruffly. "If it is about the punishments—"

"Nay, sar. Nay. I ken ye can do nothin' about that. 'Tis another matter. I didna ken how to say it before, but—"

"Yes?"

The corporal glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. "It's about the prisoners, sar. They had guns. It were guns they used to break out."

"Guns!" Adrian's temper flared. "Dammit man, were they not searched for weapons?"

"Aye, sar! They was all searched! Right down to their willies, they was searched. And I would be willin' to swear it on ma father's soul—God rest ‘im—that nay bigger than a belt buckle went in the hold wi' them."

Adrian stared at the flushed, indignant features. "Then what are you telling me, Corporal? That the guns came into their possession after they were locked in the hold?"

"I am nay sayin' one way or other, sar. Only tellin' ye what I know."

Adrian swore under his breath and dragged a hand across his brow. How ... why would anyone smuggle guns in to the corsairs? "Have you told this to anyone else?"

"Nay, sar. The two guards what could've spoken about it are both dead. Mine are the only other eyes what seen it."

"Good. Good." Ballantine brought the anger in his voice under control and laid a hand on the corporal's shoulder. As powerfully built as Ballantine was, the Scot had him by at least six inches and several stone, and made him look a featherweight. "You did the right thing, Angus. Goddamn, I wish there was something I could do about the floggings."

"I have nay doubt ye've done ye're best already, sar. The men and I ken that." He straightened and glanced warningly past the lieutenant's shoulder. "Will ye be wantin' me to strike up a work party, sar?"

Ballantine half-turned and saw Otis Falworth and the chaplain approaching. "Give me ten minutes, Corporal, and I will join you below."

The Scot nodded and excused himself just as the chaplain reach Adrian's side.

"I am glad we caught up to you, Lieutenant," Chaplain Knobbs said, his brow pleated with concern. He was a gaunt, earnest man whose hands fluttered as he spoke.

"What is it, Mr. Knobbs?"

"The prisoners, sir. Is there nothing we can do?"

"You heard the captain. You also heard his warning. It was quite clear. I do not think it would be in the best interests of your health or mine to plead their cases any further."

"But ... three hundred strokes, Mister Ballantine. It is ... it is too dreadful to contemplate."

It was not unheard of throughout fleets of all nations to pass sentences of three hundred lashes when the gravity of the crime demanded it. And they had certainly seen more than a fair share of bloody floggings on board the Eagle since Jennings had assumed command. But such punishments were usually dealt out in lots of three dozen, four dozen at the most, and given over a period of days or weeks to ensure the recipient survived to repent. Three hundred strokes of the lash, by lot, was a sentence of death. Neither a quick one, nor a clean one.

The chaplain was still grasping for words to convey his revulsion. "Three hundred stokes is ... is ..."

"Is what the captain has ordered," Ballantine said bluntly. "The prisoners likely will not survive beyond the first fifty anyway, so save your prayers for a time when they might do some good for someone."

Reverend Knobbs flinched at the insensitivity of Ballantine's statement. Adrian was aware of it too and was disgusted by it. He murmured an apology, but it was to the back of the chaplain's head as he hurried away down the companionway.

"Damnation," Adrian muttered, half to himself, half to Falworth.

"Self-righteous fools have no place on a warship," the second lieutenant sniffed. "It is obvious he has no stomach for this life. Whatever made him choose it?"

"Why did any of us choose it?" Ballantine said, shaking his head in reply to the snuff Falworth offered him.

"I know why some of us did. Family tradition, what? All of the men in my family have served in the military in some capacity or other. Few achieved less than the rank of Admiral—British Navy, of course. My father was the only disappointment. He emigrated to the colonies and fought for independence and, for his troubles, never survived past junior captain. A mini-ball, straight through the brain. From an American gun, no less."

"My sympathies. Now, if you will excuse me—?"

"I do not imagine the Old Man thought to commend you on the way you averted a total disaster?"

Adrian sighed. He did not need this. Not now. "I really was not expecting him to."

"Nevertheless—" Falworth tested Adrian's patience further by selecting a fine pinch of tobacco, sniffing it, and holding a breath through the resultant sting in his nostrils and throat— "not many men would have walked blindly into an explosive situation of that kind—no jest intended. Certainly not our fearless leader. He was screaming for a jollyboat an instant after he heard they were in with the powder barrels. And now you have taken one on as a cabin boy? I can tell you, Jennings almost split his truss when he heard about it."

"I am flattered he bothers to take notice of what I do," Adrian said.

"Oh, he takes notice, Mr. Ballantine. In fact, he watches you like a starving vulture. He would like nothing better than to dock in Gibraltar and be able to hand the Admiralty your head, boiled and carved."

"You are not telling me anything I do not already know."

The thin mouth slicked into a pretentious smile that did not quite touch the liquid brown eyes. "Do you know he has you watched? Day and night. I imagine if you were to rattle a few of these shadows you would find a midshipman or two striving to earn extra stripes on their cuffs."

Adrian stared at Falworth, a man he neither liked nor trusted, and wondered what was behind the sudden gesture of confidence. In no mood to deliberate subtleties, he asked outright.

Falworth's smile tilted and he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Why, because I am on your side, believe it not. And because, in a way, I admire the task you have set out to do and I should hate to see you or your merry band of patriots fail this close to achieving success."

"You are speaking in riddles, Falworth. Make your point."

"My point, sir, has to do with your little witch hunt. Your game of spy-catch-spy. It would be a shame to have it compromised this late in the play, would it not ... Captain?"

Ballantine's manner betrayed nothing, but his eyes darkened at the deliberate emphasis placed on the upgraded rank.

The snuffbox closed with a snap. Falworth's smile broadened until the gleam was reflected in Adrian's eyes.

"Walk with me to my cabin, Lieutenant," Adrian said evenly. "We can talk while I change clothes."

"Delighted."

When they were safely in Ballantine's cabin, away from prying eyes and ears, Ballantine rounded on the junior lieutenant.

"You may explain your remarks now, Mr. Falworth. And the explanation had better be good."

"Shall I start with your court-martial?"

"What about it?" Adrian snapped.

Falworth strolled to the desk and fingered the ormolu facing on the humidor for a moment before he opened the lid and helped himself to a cigar. He ran it under his nose, his nostrils flaring slightly with the fragrance of Virginia-grown tobacco, and he glanced speculatively at Ballantine.

"I followed the trial with some interest. We all did, as you can well imagine. Engaging in fisticuffs with your commanding officer is decreed an act of mutiny, whether justifiable or not, and in the navy, mutiny is punishable by hanging."

"There were innocent lives at stake, and Sutcliffe was too drunk to give a damn."

"Testimony amply supported by half a dozen officers and crewmen present on deck at the time. Yes, I know."

"Then I fail to understand the problem, or the connection."

"The problem is that James Sutcliffe had never been known to take a drink on board ship before. Not even a tot of grog. On shore, yes, in spades. But then you should know that, since you were often his drinking partner during some of his more astounding bouts."

"Once again I would ask: Is there a point to all this?"

Falworth pursed his thin lips. "Several points, actually. First, as I said: the court-martial. Regardless of how valiant or eloquent or justifiable your defence was, at the very least, naval precedent should have seen you relegated to a dusty room somewhere counting gull eggs well into senility. And frankly, it looked as though that was how the ruling would go—until Commodore Edward Preble appeared and spoke to the tribunal on your behalf. Which brings us to the second point: a long, closed-door conference later and you emerge with a slapped wrist and a year's probation in which to ‘redeem yourself.' Sutcliffe subsequently and conveniently retires and—" he held a candle to the end of the cigar and watched Ballantine's face through the cloud of blue-white smoke— "our fire-breathing lieutenant is suddenly as meek and repentant as a beaten dog. A lesson learned? Possibly, but I think not. And that brings us to point three."

Adrian waited, his fists flexing where he held them behind his back.

"Coded dispatches," Falworth continued blithely, "secret orders, vital strategies have all been winding up in the wrong hands. The Tripolitans know where our ships will be before we do. They know our numbers; they know our plans. It is difficult to believe we harbor a traitor in our midst. I mean, one expects that sort of behavior from Arab-loving sand-hill bandits—it is inbred, after all—but from a fine, upstanding American naval officer? Hardly."

"How did you hear about this?" Adrian asked coldly.

"Ahh, the look of one who has been betrayed. Really, Captain, you have been in this man's navy long enough to know by now that nothing remains a secret for very long." Falworth paused and grinned cryptically. "Especially when one's cousin happens to be adjutant to one of Preble's senior captains."

Adrian made a mental note of the source. "How far has this information gone?"

"Are you asking if it has reached the Old Man's ears? If it has, he has not said anything to me—which would be strange indeed, since he considers my assistance invaluable in gathering nails for your coffin."

Ballantine forced himself to take a deep breath before he made any further attempts to untangle the net he could feel tightening around him. What the hell had gone wrong? How could such carefully made plans have been compromised by a starch-necked incompetent like Otis Falworth?

"From your silence, Captain, may I assume I have scored a bull's-eye on all counts?"

Ballantine glared at him, rankling at the deliberate usage of the rank known only to a handful of people. "From your persistence, Lieutenant, may I assume you have a definite purpose in mind for all of these revelations?"

"Let us just say I am hoping we can arrive at some mutually satisfying arrangements in exchange for my continued silence."

"Such as?

Falworth spread his hands expansively. "With Jennings out of the way who would be in line to assume command of the Eagle?"

"Jennings? What makes you think Jennings is the traitor?"

"If he is not, why the elaborate hoax? Why were you transferred to this ship? Why was Sutcliffe so agreeable to the ruse, and why, in heaven's name, would you have permitted your reputation to be savaged, even temporarily? I can only imagine the grand Virginia Ballantines have collectively turned blue at the news."

"Leave my family out of this," Adrian quietly insisted.

Falworth puffed the cigar and ignored the rebuke. "But then it would take someone on equally grand footing to catch a man like Jennings. Brother-in-law to Commodore Morris; first cousin to one of Britain's most illustrious heroes, William Bligh. Good God, you do not send a powder monkey to investigate a man with that lineage."

"No one has said Jennings is the prime suspect," Adrian reiterated, but he did not sound convincing, even to his own ears. Falworth merely smiled and tapped the ash from his cigar.

"Everything points to Jennings and everything points to you belonging to one of these new breed of clever, fearless men who work out of a department at the Admiralty known to a few as naval intelligence. As it happens, I am one of the few. And I could prove invaluable in your efforts to expose Jennings as a coward and a traitor."

Adrian fought to contain his fury. Heads were going to roll in the War Department, beginning with that of the officious adjutant to one of Preble's senior captains!

"Conversely," Falworth added, "I could rethink my alternatives. I could impart all I know to Jennings, then simply stand back and watch him unleash the dogs on you." He grinned faintly and his voice was little more than a murmur. "Or perhaps he will arrange another little ... accident? With breaching tackle perhaps?"

Adrian's chest constricted. "What do you know about that?"

"About your brother's death? Nothing beyond speculation. But it did seem a little odd at the time that he could be agile enough to survive the heat of battle, yet too clumsy to avoid tripping over a length of cable. One could speculate that he overheard something. Or saw something he should not have, perhaps. I do not know, Captain. Do you?"

Adrian's fists trembled by his sides, and his cheeks were bloodless beneath the tan. "If I ever find out you do know something, Falworth—"

Falworth held up a hand. "There is no need to go into details. I am well aware of what you can do with your hands, and your skill with both sword and pistol is legendary. As I said before, I am on your side."

"For a price," Adrian snarled.

"We all have one," the lieutenant said. "Mine just happens to be slightly more tangible than yours. Think about it, Lieutenant Ballantine, and do let me know your decision."

He walked past Adrian to the door. "Oh, and about the girl—?"

Ballantine braced himself for yet another shock as he turned to stare at Falworth. "What about her?"

"It goes without saying, she is included in our arrangements. We have already discussed it, and she seems quite amenable. After all, we would not want to see any harm come to her."

"You have discussed it? When?"

Falworth grinned. "Are you annoyed that she prefers me to you?"

Ballantine shook his head with disgust. "Frankly it does not surprise me at all. The two of you deserve one another."

"Of course, I did not fall for her little story. The poor, kidnapped daughter of a Spanish Grandee." Falworth sniffed derisively. "I knew what she was up to. I knew what she wanted from me. And I dare say, she has found out what I want from her."

Ballantine's head was spinning. Miranda Gold! Falworth was talking about Miranda Gold, not Courtney Farrow. Good God! He and Matt were worrying about the girl giving herself away and here he, Adrian Ballantine, agent for the American government, a man supposedly at the peak of his intelligence, cunning, and wit, had nearly handed her over to Falworth on a platter.

"What you do or do not do with each other is up to the two of you," Adrian said tersely. "As for any help you could offer, it could take me a month, it could take me six months to get the proof I need to uncover whoever is selling information to our enemies. Until then, I would appreciate it if you just stay out of my way. And I would be damned careful around Jennings, if I were you. He is not known for his penchant for sharing."

"And the Eagle?"

"The decision is not mine."

"But you do have influence. And I suspect there must be a paper lying around here somewhere ... a document signed by the powers-that-be giving you absolute authority on board this ship in the event of an emergency?"

"Jennings is captain of the Eagle. While we are at sea, and while he continues to fly the Stars and Stripes and not the Tripolitan flag, his authority remains absolute."

"With exceptions."

"No exceptions."

Falworth pursed his lips. "Perhaps you are not as clever as I assumed you to be. You have placed yourself in a rather awkward position, have you not? I mean, suppose he orders you flogged on a whim? Or has you shot for insubordination? As senior captain you do outrank him, do you not?"

"My rank on shore has nothing to do with the chain of command on board this ship. The commodore was very clear on that point, and I am afraid I have to agree with him."

Falworth sighed and tapped more ash onto the floor. "In that case, I should think you would want all the allies you could find. My offer still stands. And my terms. Think about it, Old Boy, and let me know."

He touched a finger to one silver streak in a mocking salute and exited the cabin without a further word.

After speaking to Falworth, Ballantine made a brief appearance in the infirmary. He saw Courtney toiling indolently over a pile of cotton strips, rolling them into bandages.

"This woman, Miranda Gold," he asked without preamble. "Who is she?"

"Are you asking out of personal interest, Yankee?" Courtney jerked her head up, briefly taken aback by the abruptness of the question.

"I am asking because she had the same look on her face when she figured out who 'Curt Brown' was as you did just now when I mentioned her name. I want to know why."

A shadow flickered in the emerald eyes. "Miranda knows I am alive?"

"Is that going to be a problem? If it is, dammit, I want to know now."

"So you can plead ignorance and offer me to the wolves first?"

"Do not tempt me. And do not avoid the question. What will she do?"

"I do not know," she replied quietly. "If it suits her purpose to keep her mouth shut, she will. If she thinks she has more to gain by selling me out, she will."

Ballantine's face darkened like a thundercloud. "Is this an example of the loyalty you boasted of among your father's people?"

"Miranda was never one of my father's people," said Courtney harshly. "She was my father's whore. Her only loyalty is to herself." She stopped and seemed to collect herself, then added in a more restrained tone, "I tried to tell you this was a bad idea from the outset. I told you to send me back to the hold. Now you do not have a choice if you want to salvage your precious Yankee hides."

Matthew Rutger, who had been standing silently to one side, looked up at Courtney's words and studied the lieutenant's face. There was no hint as to what was going on behind the iron-gray eyes, no hint as to the cause of the tension lining Adrian's face.

"You will stay where you are until I say otherwise," Ballantine said firmly. "And your only hope of getting out of this in one piece is to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open from here on out. Matt—a word with you outside for a moment."

Courtney bunched her fists around a handful of cotton strips and glared at the two men as they stepped out into the companionway. She could not hear what was being said, but she noticed a worried frown on the doctor's brow and a quick glance in her direction before he gave a last curt nod.

Ballantine did not look at her again. He departed for the brig and Courtney was left to fume ineffectually at Dr. Rutger while he busied himself over his table of surgical instruments.

"The last of our men have been tended," he said after a lengthy, glowering silence. "If you would care to stop scowling long enough, you can accompany me down to the hold, and I will see what I can do to help patch up your friends."

"Seagram?" Court cried softly and dropped the roll of bandages. It unravelled, like a slithering white snake, but neither of them paid heed. "Oh please. Please, let me see him. Let me help him. I promise not to get in the way, or ... or do anything to cause any trouble."

Matt was startled to feel his cheeks growing warm. Courtney Farrow was the most unfeminine creature he had met in a long time, and yet there she stood, appealing to him in a way that was both soft and sensual, and completely without guile.

"Doctor?"

"Of course," he stammered. "Of course you can help. I just need to gather up a few tools here."

Courtney nearly overturned the bench in her haste to assist the doctor and follow him out the door. She needed no warning glance to tell her to lower her head when they passed crewmen in the companionway, or to stay close in the doctor's shadow as they approached the armed marines posted outside the storeroom that served as a holding cell for Seagram and Nilsson. The sail locker was small and airless, barely large enough to allow for both men to sit amongst the thick rolls of spare canvas.

"Alright, step aside," Matt ordered, trying to sound impatient to complete an unwanted task. "I have been given orders by Lieutenant Ballantine to see that these men are fit to stand their punishment tomorrow. Curt—bring the lantern. Hold it high so I can see, dammit."

The wall of guards shifted grudgingly as Courtney followed the doctor's command. At first, she did not see Seagram, only Nilsson, and the sudden rush of panic caused the air to back up in her throat. But the giant corsair was there, huddled in the corner, his massive arms weighted down beneath three heavy coils of chain. His ankles were manacled together, similarly weighted with chains, and the iron links were fed through a ring embedded in the wall. His face was shiny with sweat and blood. His shirt was in tatters; his flesh showed the scores of fresh bruises bestowed by his guards.

"Seagram," she whispered and started toward the corner. Matt's warning hand on her arm stopped her.

"We will treat this one first, Curt. He seems to be the worse off."

Courtney looked down. Nilsson was lying motionless on a heap of folded canvas. His eyes were wide and fixed on the ceiling beams. His chest labored up and down to suck in badly needed air; each breath produced a rattle of bubbles from the crush of flesh and bone showing through his shirt. His hands were shaped into claws, the knuckles white and trembling through the waves of incredible agony.

"I will need water," Matt said crisply. "And plenty of cloths."

Courtney's hands were shaking badly as she ladled water from a huge barrel in the corridor into a tin pan. Some of the contents splashed onto the boots and trouser legs of the guards as she dashed back into the storage locker, earning a few muttered curses in her wake. She ignored them in her concern for Nilsson and Seagram—especially Nilsson. His wound, similar to the one that had taken her uncle's life, made it seem to her that she was reliving those last few horrible hours on the beach when she could do nothing to help Verart Farrow.

She could see the memories glazing Seagram's eyes also as he watched the doctor's futile attempts to staunch the flow of blood and somehow repair the gaping hole between Nilsson's ribs. All of them knew the task was a hopeless one and the best that could be gained would be an easing of his physical pain.

Leaving Matthew with the pan of water, the cloths, the needle and thread, Courtney inched toward Seagram as unobtrusively as possible. She knelt beside him and, conscious of the eyes boring into her back, reached trembling fingers forward to probe the bloodied shreds of his shirt sleeve. Raw, bright pink flesh lay exposed in a strip from shoulder to elbow. The edges of his shirt were charred and stiff with congealed blood; his left hand was a sickly gray and was cradled limply in his right.

"Why did you do it, Seagram?" Courtney's lips barely moved; her voice was audible only to Seagram. "Why?"

"I had to try, lass. If I am to die, I would rather die fighting."

"Then why did you back down? You had the bastards exactly where you wanted them."

The giant smiled briefly, even as he winced under Courtney's ministration. "For you, lass. Duncan and Verart would both curse me from hell and beyond if I'd spent yer life so freely."

"But it was my choice too. We had a chance to hurt them the way they hurt us."

"Aye, and if I know ye, girl, ye'll find another way. "Ye'll make another chance happen. And for that, I bought ye time."

"What makes you think the Yankee will honor the bond he made?"

"He will honor it, lass. Ye come to know a man fast and well when ye stare at him across pistol barrels. He'll honor it."

Courtney heard the wall of guards shifting suspiciously behind her and she reached quickly for several rolls of bandages. There were tears stinging the rims of her eyes and a tremor grew in her chin. A man who had always seemed to Courtney to be indestructible would be flogged to death in the morning and there was nothing she could do about it.

"We haven't much time, Court," he murmured, seeing the emotion riding high in her cheeks. "There are things ye have to know. Things ye must warn the O'Farrow about."

"Warn ...?" Courtney met the pain-filled black eyes. "Then you do not believe it either ... what the Yankees said about his being hanged."

"There is no man been born who could place a noose around Duncan Farrow's neck," he said, his whisper reinforcing her own doubts.

"If he was dead, I would have felt it," she breathed. "I know I would have."

"Aye, and that is why ye've got to live, Court. Ye've got to find him. Warn him."

"Find him? But ... how?"

"Verart told ye," Seagram hissed. "I heard him tell ye on the beach. D' ye remember it all?"

"I ... think so."

"Yer life depends on remembering, because that is where Duncan will go. That is where he will be waiting on ye. Tell no one else. Not a friend or lover, not a man or woman, not a crack in the wall. We have been betrayed. D'ye understand me? Verart knew. He was near to sniffin' out the son of a whore, and it was only a matter of time before he would have found out who was hiding behind the name."

"The name?"

"Aye. The filthy sneaking swine calls himself—" Seagram's eyes flicked suddenly past Courtney's shoulder and the bearded jaw clamped firmly shut. Courtney continued to stare at him. She was aware of Matthew Rutger's presence by her side, but she longed to scream the burning questions: What name? Who betrayed us? Why? How?

Matthew glanced from the corsair to Courtney, uneasy with the tension he could feel between them.

"I have done all I can for the other man," he murmured. "It was not very much, I am afraid, but at least he is a little more comfortable. Now let me have a look at this arm."

Neither Courtney nor Seagram moved.

"I told ye once to bugger off," Seagram snarled, breaking the visual contact with Courtney. "I'm telling ye again. I'm not wanting yer fancy medicines, and there is no point takin' a saw to it when I will not be alive to see another sundown."

"No," Matt agreed quietly. "No point, I guess. But I can bind it for you. I can stop the bleeding and maybe give it some measure of support."

The black beard parted to a slash of broken and neglected teeth, but before the rebuke could be put into words, Seagram felt the cool pressure of Courtney's hand on his.

"Let him help you," she said softly.

The curse was growled into silence, and the shaggy head leaned back against the bulkhead. His gaze remained locked to Courtney's while Rutger cut away the useless sleeve and wrapped several thicknesses of cotton tightly around the gaping wound.

"That is it, then," Matt said when he was finished. "That is all we can do here."

"Please—" Courtney turned wide, imploring eyes up to his. "Another minute ... please."

"I am sorry. We have already overstayed our visit. The guards—" he glanced over his shoulder— "have their orders from the captain. It was only because of Adrian's intervention we were allowed to come at all."

"But—"

Matt took her arm and firmly pulled her to her feet.

"Seawolf!" Seagram hissed, his hand grasping at the cloth of Courtney's trousers. "Find Seawolf!"

Courtney whirled to look back at Seagram, but Matt had already pulled her insistently to the door. The black eyes seared into hers and the name, mouthed silently on Seagram's lips, was the last thing she saw before the door was slammed and bolted behind them.

When Courtney was taken back to Ballantine's cabin at midnight, she was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to do more than sit numbly on the edge of the bed while Matthew lit the lantern and slung the hammock. She could not get the sight of Seagram's eyes out of her mind—the command in them, the warning in them, the fear in them. His order to "find Seawolf" echoed and reverberated within her brain, mingled with unshed tears, recoiling with the memories of cannon-fire and crushed bodies. She stared at the thin pillow beside her, dreading sleep and the nightmares she was certain would crowd in upon her. Yet, she was so tired ...

"There we go, that should be comfortable enough," Matt announced, straightening. The expression on his face softened when he saw that Courtney had lain down diagonally across the berth, her feet still dangling over the side, and was fast asleep. He looked at the hammock and sighed, then with a rueful smile that gentled some of his own weariness, he lifted Courtney's feet onto the berth and tucked the blanket around her shoulders. His hand lingered a moment at the nape of her neck, his fingers teased by the soft auburn curls. In sleep she looked so innocent. So damned innocent. What hellish circumstances had led her to this end?

Matt's hand dropped away and he took one last look around the cabin before dimming the lantern and departing quietly for his own quarters.

It was well past three o'clock in the morning before Ballantine had satisfied himself that the bulkheads in the brig were sufficiently reinforced to stand off an assault from a battering ram. He was filthy with sweat and grime. His shirt, once white, was blackened and torn open over the breadth of his chest. He felt completely drained, but the hard work had helped to expend some of the rage and frustration the day's events had brought. Falworth's revelations had come as a shock, no question about it. What was it about the best-laid plans ...? So much for Commodore Preble's assurances of secrecy. So much for the whole damned operation, for that matter. If one man could fit the pieces of the puzzle together, a dozen could, and since it was not yet proved certain that Jennings was the man selling information to the Arabs, it could mean a knife in the back in a shadowy companionway from any one of a dozen sources.

Compounding his troubles, there was the girl, and the prisoners' revolt. MacDonald's disclosure that someone had smuggled guns into the brig worried him more than he cared to think about. It could have been the same man he was after who was responsible, or it could be a totally unrelated incident. Some of the ordinary seamen—those who had found themselves on the receiving end of Jennings' sense of justice and godliness—might have succumbed to the lure of pirate's gold in exchange for a few guns. Discounting the wounded and those whose presence on the lower deck would have instantly roused comment, there were at least two hundred possibilities. Two hundred suspects. Two hundred more knives in shadowy corners whose owners were frightened of being discovered.

Ballantine wiped the back of his hand across his brow, angered by the film of sweat gleaming from the fine hairs on his wrist. As much as he had needed hard physical labour earlier, he needed sleep now. Sleep and a chance to sort out the tangle of thoughts spinning round and round in his mind. Sleep might help brace him for a worse morning ahead, for the floggings were scheduled for eight bells, a mere five hours away.

Ballantine stood on the threshold of his cabin and stared at the curled form sleeping blissfully unaware on his berth. Anger surged back into his cheeks and his first thought was to rip the blanket from the slim body and toss her into a broken heap in the corner. He had a hand outstretched for Courtney's shoulder and the taste of a harsh curse on his tongue when a single flicker of lamplight stopped him cold.

The sudden bath of light revealed a face twisted in the throes of torment. Her cheeks were awash with tears; the dark crescents of her lashes were squeezed tight against some dreamed horror. Her arms were clasped around a crushed pillow and her fingers dug into the thin ticking. Her whole body was rigid, wracked by convulsive shudders that accompanied the disjointed gasps and whispers.

Adrian's hand, still outstretched, inched toward the slender shoulder. The effect of the gentle contact was immediate, and Courtney's distress was shocked into silence. Like a blind man groping for security, she flayed her arms at the empty air and until she touched the solid wall of his chest. A sobbed word: "Father!" sent her upward into his embrace—an embrace that was stiff and unrelenting at first, slow to accept, reluctant to open wide so that the frantic, groping hands would have something real to grasp onto. He winced as her nails dug into his back and shoulders. He sat on the edge of the bed and felt her tears run hotly down his flesh to form a tiny puddle in the crease of his belly.

Haltingly, he smoothed his hands along the arch of her shoulder and cradled the taut muscles of her neck. The breath left his lungs on a soft curse, and he stroked the silky auburn curls. He held her close and rocked her gently until the terrible tension left her body and the last of the dark night horrors were sobbed free.

He tilted her chin and studied the pale features in the lantern glow.

She was still asleep.

His fingers lightly brushed her cheek, and he stared at the tears that clung, like diamonds, to the fingertips. Without thinking, he bent his lips to hers, covering the trembling mouth, kissing it with more tenderness than he had felt a need to express in a very long time.

The softness, the helplessness he discovered startled him. Earlier he had kissed a wilful, defiant creature who had thought to best him in a lesson on gamesmanship. Now he found himself kissing a warm, vulnerable woman who was tempting his body with exactly the kind of release it craved—a blinding, mindless release that would give him the escape he longed for. He wanted to forget and to be forgotten for as long as the darkness and the softness would allow.

He felt her lips quiver and begin to move beneath his. Hands that had grasped him for comfort moments before now clung to him with a new urgency and sent a chill rippling through his body.

What was he doing? What insanity had gripped him?

Adrian started to pull away but the softness followed him and this time his flesh met a greater temptation: the bold firmness of a breast found its way into his hand, the crown thrusting eagerly to fill his palm. He lifted his mouth from hers, his lips bathed by the salty-sweet tang of her tears. His hand cupped her flesh and even though there was a layer of cotton obstructing his way, the velvet suppleness branded its imprint onto his skin. The ache grew, robbing him of the ability to think clearly or to move. Blood pounded through his temples, drowning his common good sense, drenching it with need. He knew he had to fight the weakness in his arms and the hunger flowing into his loins. God, the hunger ...!

"No," he muttered hoarsely. "No, dammit ..."

He eased Courtney quickly back onto the berth and drew the blanket high under her chin. He backed slowly away from the bed, but his eyes continued to devour her, to want her against all reason. His hands burned; his mouth tasted salty from her tears. He edged even farther away, until he felt the hard planks of the door at his back, and then he turned and hurried out into the darkened companionway.

Courtney's eyes were startled open. She remained perfectly still, not knowing what had wakened her. Her body was tingling, her heart was beating against her ribs, her mouth tingled with a curious sense of abandonment. Propping herself upright, she took a cautious look around the cabin; nothing seemed amiss. She was alone with the shadows and the solitary flicker of the spirit lamp. Her fingertips came away from her temples damp, and she surmised it must have been the nightmare that had frightened her awake. It had been so real. So ugly. So terrifying ... until the end. And then a shadow had blocked out the horror. A cool, soothing shadow that had no name, no shape, no substance.

Her body continued to throb and for some time after she had nestled back beneath her covers, she could not dispel the ghostly image of warm hands, searching lips, and eager, straining bodies.