“Then it is true,” she whispered. “One of Duncan’s own men betrayed him.”
“Aye, and not for the first time, I warrant. There have been too many accidents, too many close calls, too many coincidences over the past few months for my liking. Someone was selling us out, girl, at almost every turn. And he damned near succeeded in getting us all this time.”
Courtney's shoulders slumped. She had refused to believe Ballantine when he had hinted at a turncoat. She had not even wanted to believe Seagram when he warned her about the traitor in their midst. Now Garrett was insisting that she believe him, and she knew he would have been the last to credit such a thing unless it was true.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
Garrett sighed and began to unbuckle the various belts and sheaths that held his personal arsenal. "We were supposed to meet Karamanli's envoy in a small bay near Moknine. When we arrived, the beach looked safe enough, nary a sail nor sod in sight. As soon as Duncan and I went ashore, the surrounding hills were suddenly crowded with gold braid and muskets, and the mouth of the bay was blocked off by three gunboats. Duncan and I had walked straight into the trap, blind as an owl's arsehole.
"We were kept apart from the rest of the men and slated for a quick hanging as soon as the blue-bellies had finished drinking our rum and patting themselves on their backs. But somehow Davey—bless his warty hide—managed to escape into the trees with a dozen stout men. They waited until it was dark and crept back to the camp to break us out. We collected what guns we could, slit as many throats as we could find, then swam out to the ships. The A-rab sentries were drunk, but not enough to keep them from giving us a bit of a fight, and by the time we got control and the ships were underway, the cove was alive with gunfire and soldiers.
"We cut the anchors and ran for the mouth of the bay. The O'Farrow signaled he would tack to starboard while I would take the Falconer opposite and hopefully catch the three gunboats in a crossfire."
Shaw stopped and stared down to where his hands were clenched around a belt to keep them from shaking.
"Damn me if I did not order up too much sail too damned fast. A bloody downdraft took us and we lost our studding boom before we were able to take up position. Her bow swung wide and before we knew it, we were arse-end-up on a sandbar. By the time we kedged ourselves free—and by God there were some flayed backs in the offing—the Wild Goose was surrounded and under heavy fire. She was aflame from stern to snout, being hulled like a wooden decoy in a duck pond.
"We had a clear route past them," he added in a harsh whisper. "The O'Farrow had deliberately drawn them away from the entrance of the bay so that we could break free. The boom was still down and I had no steerage—" he stopped and looked at Courtney, his eyes dark with self-loathing. "I had no choice, lass. We would have lost the Falconer too if we had not made a run for it. When the sails were fully rigged, we went back, but it was over. We fished a few survivors out of the drink, picked a few more up off the beach, and managed to chase down one of the gunboats and blow it to perdition. But the other two ran with the wind in their teeth and we could not find them."
"Do you know what happened to Duncan?" Courtney asked, her voice strained.
"Duncan was not among those we found. No one remembered seeing him after the fighting started."
"Then no one actually saw him die."
Garrett frowned. "We searched the bay, we searched the wreckage that floated ashore. No one saw him alive and his was not among the bodies we buried."
"It is possible that he could have been taken on board one of the gunboats."
"Then he is dead for sure," Shaw said bluntly. "They would never take a chance on him escaping a second time. What are you trying to do, girl? Why are you tormenting yourself?"
"It is possible, is it not?"
"No. It is not. If he was recaptured, they would have strung him to the nearest yardarm before he had the chance to cough the sea water out of his lungs. He is dead, Court. You have to accept that."
She shook her head. "I would know if he was dead. I would feel it. And if I felt it, I could accept it, but it just is not so."
Garrett turned away. He snatched a dry shirt from the tumbled pile on the floor and shrugged his broad shoulders into it. "We went directly to Snake Island. A few women and children had hidden in the dunes and were able to tell us what had happened there. We stayed only long enough to salvage what little we could from the buried stores. I knew you were still alive, and I knew Duncan would never rest easy unless I came after you."
Courtney blinked back the threat of tears. Why could she not make him understand? Why could she not make anyone understand?
"Seagram felt it too," she whispered haplessly. "He told me he believed Father was still alive."
Miranda sighed loudly, the first time she had drawn attention to herself during the oh-so-touching scene. She was standing by the desk, holding her torn blouse with one hand, and Courtney noticed, with some amazement, that she had somehow, from somewhere, acquired brilliant red paint for her nails. They looked like the claws of a predator, the talons blood-dipped and sharpened for the next victim.
"You always did put too much faith in that ape," Miranda said, "though heaven only knows why. As for him knowing if Duncan was alive or dead—good God, he barely knew how to keep himself alive at the end."
"Don't you dare say a word against Seagram," Courtney warned. "He died trying to buy freedom for the rest of us."
"How?" Garrett asked, plainly startled to hear of the giant's death.
"He organized an escape from the brig," Courtney explained, her eyes still locked on Miranda with undisguised loathing. "He and Nilsson were charged with being the leaders and were sentenced to a flogging. Nilsson died after only a few minutes under the lash, and Seagram...must have thought he had nothing to lose...so he tried to break free again on deck and in the confusion, he was shot."
"He was good man," Garrett nodded. "A good fighter. He would have preferred to go that way."
"What will you do with the Eagle?"
"The Eagle, aye. Well, I had thought of keeping her to replace the Goose, but that was before Davey and his gun crews took it into their heads to crack her spine. She'll take too much time and effort to make her seaworthy again, and I plan to be basking under the Caribbean sun come Michaelmas Day. I have no doubt the Pasha will gladly take her off our hands to display as a trophy. An American warship surrendered into pirate's hands! By the saints, he would pay me a king's ransom for the pleasure...and thrice as much for possession of her noble crew."
"Then you plan to sell them into slavery?"
"I am not about to sail the bloody Mediterranean with them, that much is a certainty. And do not go twisting your face up with disapproval, wench. Where do you think you and the others would have ended up? If you were not hanged outright, you would have been indentured on some stinking Mississippi plantation bending your back by day and your knees by night. Nay, Court, they deserve it to a man to be bound in chains and forced to lick Berber feet for the next twenty years. A few we will keep apart for sport, of course." His face broke into a cold smile. "The captain, for one. Miranda has specifically requested that he be made to dance la strappado and I see no reason to deny her."
Courtney flinched inwardly. A particularly cruel death: the victim was hoisted to a yardarm by his wrists. The rope was sprung loose, allowing the body to drop to within a few feet of the deck. The jolt dislocated nearly every joint above the waist. Subsequent drops started tearing muscle and sinew, and finally the flesh itself.
"Bless old Black Henry Morgan for his inventiveness," Miranda purred delightedly. "The fat pig should provide us a good show."
"We have a number of possible dance partners for him," Shaw chuckled, seeing the look of sadistic pleasure on Miranda's face. "The pretty yellow-haired lieutenant, for one—if he survives the night."
Courtney felt an invisible fist tighten around her gut. "Ballantine?"
"Aye, that's the one.
You had dealings with him?"
Miranda laughed throatily. "She had something with him."
Shaw glanced over sharply. "Meaning?"
"Meaning...dear Courtney was the lusty stallion's personal captive for the time we were on board the Yankee ship."
Shaw stiffened, and the dark blue eyes screwed down into slits. "Personal captive? Is this true?"
Courtney felt a cold spray of gooseflesh ripple down her arms. If she said a simple yes, Garrett would immediately assume the worst and Ballantine's life would be forfeit—and in such a way as to make the strappado look merciful and kind. She had wanted to take her revenge on Ballantine, for Snake Island, for her uncle, for Seagram. She had almost killed him herself, but for that one moment of irrational weakness. The price of that weakness was rising day by day.
"It is true," she said calmly. "He took me out of the hold and disguised me as a cabin boy—him and one other, the doctor. I resented being separated from the others, but I suppose, looking back, they saved my life."
"Saved it for themselves, you mean," Miranda said scornfully.
Courtney would have flashed the raven-haired harlot a murderous glance, but she was all too aware of Garrett watching. Instead, she laughed.
"Those two peacocks? They had hotter eyes for each other than they did for me. The lieutenant could not even bring himself to piss in the pot if I was in the cabin, not without ordering me to turn my back. If they were planning anything at all, it was how to divide the reward between them when they delivered me to Gibraltar."
Miranda seethed. "I do not believe that. Not for one moment."
"I scarcely care what you believe," Courtney replied, still chuckling. "The truth is, the doctor is a cripple in more ways than the one, and the lieutenant...well...surely you must have found out his preferences yourself, dear Miranda, when he failed to come sniffing after the bait you offered every other red-blooded man on board."
Miranda's mouth sagged open. "Why you lying little bitch! I was as much a prisoner as anyone in that filthy hold. More so, considering the humiliation I was forced to endure."
"So you keep saying. And I can see all the bruising you suffered in the comfort of the captain's cabin, how many meals you missed, how many times you were beaten or flogged for refusing to spread your thighs."
Miranda sucked in a lungful of air and hissed it free. "Just because the bruises I earned are in places you will never know about, it does not mean they are any less painful. Oh, I can believe the Yankee lieutenant never touched you. I can believe he would never have dreamed of using you for anything more than a boot boy. You are foul-mouthed and cold-hearted. Your body has as much appeal as a pine knot and is as likely to tear the skin off any man fool enough to shove himself inside you."
"Enough!" Garrett growled.
Miranda whirled on him, hair flying and breasts heaving. "You would defend her? You would let her say those things to me and then take her side against mine?"
"I take no one's side in such a petty squabble. You both endured more than you should have and less than you might have, and if you do not stop your mouths here and now I will be tempted to stop them for you."
Miranda's breath spluttered free on an explosive oath, delivered in her native tongue. She turned and headed for the door, muttering still more invectives as she yanked it open and stormed out into the companionway.
"Davey has kindly offered up his quarters for your use," Shaw called after her. "I suggest you make use of them and cool down, my little Spanish hellion."
Miranda halted and glanced back. "Dunn's quarters! To smell of offal and old sweat?" The amber eyes slashed to Courtney. "And where is she staying?"
"Here, of course," he said casually. "With Duncan and Verart both gone, she is, in effect, half owner of this ship now. I can hardly have her swinging in a hammock on the poop deck, now can I?"
The taut red lips moved through a final barrage of coarse Castilian oaths, then Miranda was gone, the door slamming violently in her wake.
Courtney blew out a puff of air, colored with her own variation of what body parts Miranda could put where.
Shaw only laughed and moved closer, curling his long, muscular arms around her waist. He drew her against his chest and murmured. "Besides which, the bed is plenty big enough for two."
Courtney was startled enough to pull back and twist out of his grip. The offer, though not surprising, was full of assumptions—the same assumptions Garrett Shaw had been having since she had turned fifteen and ripened out of childhood. He had suggested several times to Duncan Farrow that a union would solidify the partnership within the camp and crew. Courtney had deflected his attentions so far, but with Duncan gone, she might well be considered fair game again.
She placed her hands flat on his chest and pushed. "Thank you, but not now. If that is the kind of arrangement you want, you had best call Miranda back. No doubt she would be eager to oblige."
His arms tightened, drawing her back against him. "There is no need to play the shy virgin with me, Court Farrow. You are your father's daughter. You know the benefit of a strong alliance. Duncan and I started with one ship between us; you and I can start again."
She took a deep breath and pushed again, this time twisting out of his grasp. She faced him squarely, hands on hips, and assumed a bold confidence she was far from feeling.
"I said I am not interested now. Even you must agree we have more urgent things to deal with at the moment than strengthening a partnership that is already as strong as iron."
Shaw pursed his lips. "You have put me off for four long years, Court, and you know I am not a patient man."
She forced a smile to ease the tension. "Nor have you been a lonely man, pining away with no wench to warm your bed at night. There have been times I have wondered if you number them to keep them straight in your mind."
Garrett chuckled. "Would you want a fumbling innocent as your mate?"
"Fumbling and innocent are not words I would ever use when thinking of you, Garrett."
"I will not stop trying, Court," he laughed, and this time his hand skimmed up her arm with gentle affection. "And I will not accept defeat so easily either. Here...what is this...?"
His hand had rubbed over the newly healed wound on her upper arm, causing Courtney to flinch involuntarily.
"It is nothing. It is almost healed."
Garrett eased her shirt sleeve higher, frowning when he saw the raw pink seam in her flesh.
"It happened in the fighting on the beach," she explained, easing the sleeve back down. "I hardly even feel it now. The Yankee doctor cleaned it properly and stitched it well. In fact he risked a great deal for me. For Nilsson and Seagram as well."
Shaw's eyes narrowed. "Do not tell me he and the fancy lieutenant paroled Nilsson and Seagram as cabin boys too?"
"They did more than that," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "They intervened during the floggings. The captain had ordered three hundred strokes apiece for Seagram and Nilsson, despite the fact they were both badly wounded. Nilsson was placed on the shrouds first and even though he died after only a few dozen lashes, the captain ordered the full count. Doctor Rutger protested and, in the end, placed himself in front of Nilsson and took the lashes himself."
"A damned fool thing to do."
"As for the lieutenant, he was arrested and confined to quarters for countermanding the captain's orders. When Seagram was shot, he had both bodies dropped overboard before the captain could insist on having the punishment resumed."
Garrett tipped his head. "It sounds as though you are asking me to spare their lives?"
"I am merely suggesting that if we act like barbarians toward them, we will be hunted down and dealt with like barbarians. The Americans are strong, Garrett. You heard Father say that as soon as they joined the fray, the war with Tripoli was over."
"You want me to set them all free?"
Courtney sensed she was treading on dangerous ground. "No! Of course not. It is not their liberty I am asking for,
only their lives. Sell them to Karamanli, by all means. They should bring enough profit to get a second ship and set us happily on our way to the Indies. Furthermore, the humiliation and degradation of being sold into slavery is a far more suitable reward for what they have done to us than a simple death, and a fate more dreaded by them than any manner of torture you could devise. Believe me when I say these Americans are not afraid to die. It is the loss of liberty and freedom they fear most. Moreover, until we can discover who among us is the Judas, it might be wise not to do anything too rash."
Garrett could see the logic in her words, but they still rankled. "We will not be sold out again, by God. That much I promise you."
"In the meantime, you say the Pasha will pay handsomely for the Eagle? I dare say the Yankee Admiralty will pay even more to ransom back one of their own, especially—" her voice took on a sly intimacy— "if one of them was related to Thomas Jefferson himself."
Shaw's eyes flared with greed. "And which one might that be?"
"Yellow hair," she said, embellishing the lie, "inbred arrogance. I read some of his correspondence when I was left alone in his cabin. Rich as Croesus, he is, with a family that would pay anything to get him back alive."
Shaw's chuckle grew into a laugh. He walked over to the sideboard and blew the dust out of two silver goblets, then filled each with red wine. "Aye, you are your father's daughter, Courtney Farrow. As cunning and devious as the fox himself." He handed her one of the goblets and clinked the edges together in a toast. "I will delay stretching the ropes on the yardarms until I have given the matter some hard thought. In the meantime—"
"In the meantime, I want the Yankee lieutenant."
"Eh?" The goblet stopped halfway to his lips. "What the devil for?"
Courtney smiled and sipped the wine. "I want to personally introduce the bastard to the joys of slavery. His conscience may have prompted him to step in where Nilsson and Seagram were concerned, but I still owe him for six days and nights worth of shining his damned boots and emptying out his damned piss-pot. I may even put him in a skirt and have him serve me as a cabin girl, if the mood comes upon me."
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