“I suppose you are right,” Rowntree said and then frowned. “Why do you think they took Lieutenant Falworth across?”
The Scot took a deep breath, swelling his barrel chest. He winced from a sharp pain in his damaged ribs, but it did not stop the fine Gaelic curse that he bestowed on Falworth’s soul.
“That swine is a right shifty one,” Angus spat. “Nay above sellin’ his soul, ye ask me, if he thought it would buy him a clean pair o’ britches an' a hot meal."
Andrew dismissed the bitterness with a wave of his hand. He knew MacDonald and Falworth had locked horns often in the past—that was why such an excellent soldier as Mac was normally assigned to guard duty in the stinking brig.
“The problem, as I see it,” Rowntree muttered, “is that any method we use to attract the attention of our men on the Falconer will also be seen by their guards. That rules out lights, shouts, even hand signals or flags.”
“Hand signals,” the Scot grunted softly. “Normal hand signals, aye, but what about the kind the doc uses to talk wi’ wee Dickie Little?”
Andrew Rowntree’s eyes widened, and his head turned slowly to stare at Angus, who grinned through the charred remnants of his moustache.
“Dickie Little,” Rowntree murmured. “Why the blazes did I not think of that? Is he here? Is he with this shift of workers?”
“Aye, he is here, in yon corner.”
Andrew stood and searched anxiously in the shadows for the small, huddled form of Dickie Little. He was where Angus had said, crouched in the corner of the storeroom, his eyes closed, his thin arms wrapped around his knees, hugging them close for comfort. His face was blackened by layers of soot; his hair was singed to the scalp on one side of his head.
Andrew hunkered down beside the boy, momentarily at a loss. With his eyes closed, Dickie had effectively escaped into his own private world. None of the other boys had ever had much to do with him; they preferred to tease and taunt him, to ape his deafness rather than to try to understand it. The older tars on board the Eagle had not been much better. They cuffed him if he got in the way, twisted an ear or boxed them if he mistook an order. Only Matthew Rutger had spared time for the boy.
Andrew reached out and gently touched Dickie’s arm.
Enormous brown eyes flew open at once, bright with the kind of fear no one else on board would comprehend. Andrew immediately held up a grimy hand to assure the boy there was no need to be frightened. Dickie did not move, did not react other than to hug his arms and legs tighter against his chest.
“We need your help, lad,” Andrew said, conscious of the desperation in his voice. “Please, Dickie, how can I make you understand?”
“Let me try,” said Angus, bending down beside the sergeant. Despite his gruffness, he had a warm smile when the urge was upon him to use it, and he used it now to accompany the gesture of crossing his freckled hands over his chest. Dickie’s eyes widened, and he looked from Angus to Rowntree and back.
“I seen him an' the doc use this sign many a time,” MacDonald murmured. “I ken it means ‘friend’.”
Andrew smiled hopefully and did likewise, crossing his hands across his chest. Dickie continued to stare for several moments before he slowly, hesitantly, relinquished his grip on his bent knees and returned the gesture.
“Thank Christ,” Andrew muttered. “What now? How do we tell him what we want him to do? Even if we manage to send a message to the Falconer, how in hell will we know what they send back?”
“Worry on that when it happens, laddie,” Angus said, his eyes still focused on the young boy. Despite the fact the boy could not hear what he was saying, he whispered, “Ye can trust me, lad. I give ye an oath on me mether’s grave.”
He stood and held out one of his hands. The other he used to point to the other side of the storeroom, to the small square of light.
“Come along, wee Dickie,” he whispered. “We have a man’s job for ye fair an’ proper, an’ ye’re the only one of us what can do it.”
Dickie’s hand moved a fraction, as if a nerve had suddenly twitched. Angus saw it, and his smile became even more encouraging, the palm of his hand more welcoming.
“Good laddie!” He cried fiercely when he felt the small, cold fingers slip into his. “Good!"
Angus helped the boy to his feet and led the way through the silent, weary men, few of whom even looked up as they passed. When they arrived at the crack in the hull, Angus dragged an empty crate over for the boy to stand on so he could see out the hole. The haunted brown eyes studied the narrow view—the rim of trees, the calm waters of the cove, the anchored silhouette of the Falconer—then turned to look at Angus blankly.
“What would the sign for ‘doctor’ be?” Andrew wondered aloud.
Angus appealed to some of the men nearby. “Do any of ye blatherin’ fools ken the sign for ‘doctor’?”
A few shook their heads in response; others simply stared.
“What would be logical?” Andrew asked, with a shrug.
Angus started to spread his hands, then stopped mid-gesture. He brought them together again and mimed a needle and thread stitching into his wounded shoulder, then he pointed out the hole.
The sadness in the boy’s face deepened, and he lowered his head, nodding slowly.
“He probably only thinks we are telling him the doctor is on the other ship.”
“Aye, but at least he kens.” Angus leaned forward and grasped Dickie’s slender shoulders. He touched the quivering, bloodless lips with his finger, then touched his own...then pointed out the broken slats. He repeated the sequence, adding some haphazard hand movements to try to communicate the idea of conversation to the boy. And again, patiently: the needle and thread, the finger to his lips, the gestures out the gaping hole in the shattered planks. His smile of encouragement became a grin, then a beam of triumph when Dickie suddenly grasped the meaning and grabbed Angus MacDonald’s huge hands in his own.
“By God, he understands,” Andrew gasped.
“Was there ever a doubt?” The Scot demanded, feigning a pained expression.
“Now we just have to figure out a way of attracting the doctor’s attention...if he is still alive, and if he is still topside with the wounded.”
“He'll be with the wounded,” Angus declared confidently.
Andrew peered anxiously through the hole even as Angus pried carefully and quietly at the loose splinters and chunks of wood to widen the gap.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty.
There was little sign of movement on the quarter-deck of the Falconer where the prisoners were being held. A slight commotion caused Andrew to clutch the corporal’s arm in excitement, but nothing came of it. It was a further two hours of frustrating vigilance before a head popped into view and was lowered behind the barrier of crates and boards again.
Andrew’s fingers dug into MacDonald’s arm. “Look! I cannot be certain, but I think I just saw Lieutenant Ballantine!”
Angus thrust his face into the gap and peered. “Aye, an' the doctor! Now laddie,” Angus touched the boy’s arm, beckoning him forward.
Dickie needed no further prompting. His eyes were shining, his mouth quivered into a smile. His hands moved in furious patterns to the chest, the mouth, making circles and sweeps, his fingers fluttering in a path that took them always back to the heart.
~~
“Good God, it is Dickie!” Matthew whispered in disbelief.
“Can you make out what he is saying?” Adrian asked urgently, mindful of any guards who may have seen the boy’s face appear between the broken planks of the hull.
“He is telling me he is happy to see me,” Matt said. “That he was afraid I was dead—that all of us were dead.”
“Who is with him?”
Matt’s hands moved in short, brusque motions, and after a pause the answer came flashing across.
“They have been split into three work parties of about fifty each. Rowntree is with him, and MacDonald.”
“By God, we may
have a chance after all,” Adrian murmured. “Is there someone over there who understands the boy?’
“He says they are trying.” Matt smiled proudly and added, “He says he will make them understand if he has to teach them every sign we know.”
“Good. We need to keep it simple. You say three shifts of fifty? When do they change, where do they go, how closely are they watched. Have they any kind of weapons at all?”
Matthew relayed the questions. The responses came after a delay of almost fifteen minutes.
“A crowbar and two knives,” Matt said, flatly disgusted. "A hell of a beginning for an armed revolt, if that is what you hope to achieve.”
“Nevertheless, it is a beginning,” Adrian insisted. “And with God's help, the beginning of the end for Shaw and his pirates!”
~~
At the precise moment Adrian Ballantine was envisioning Garrett Shaw’s downfall, the captain was sprawled on the former captain's bed in the Eagle’s great cabin. His teeth were bared, his face was bathed in sweat, the veins in his neck were strained into cords and each breath he managed to hold was a victory of will and determination. His naked body glistened with a feverish urgency—an urgency that was conveyed to Miranda Gold through each of the ten fingers he had curled into her raven hair.
She had been rowed across to the Eagle an hour before, using the excuse of a “personal matter of grave importance” to argue her way past the guards. Once in the great cabin, she had stood at the foot of the bed and stared down at Garrett Shaw, who was splayed out like a starfish on the thick feather mattress. Miranda had studied his sleeping form for several minutes, admiring the splendor of his muscular chest, the trim waist, the buttocks and thighs that seemed carved out of marble.
Soundlessly she had stripped out of her blouse and skirt and crept onto the bed beside him. The game had been decided by a teasing breath over his groin, followed by light dancing strokes from her fingertips that had caused his flesh to rise in a hard, solid spear.
Miranda was not exactly certain at what stage he had come fully awake, only that he responded to her hands and lips with an awe-inspiring virility. She had not waited for an invitation to straddle the beckoning hips, nor had she attempted to stifle the eager whimper as she thrust herself down over his rigidly thick flesh. Within moments he was grasping her hips and she was bucking and plunging with a wildness that made her realize it had been a long time since she had sought pleasure for herself. Even longer since she’d had a man capable of giving it to her. Jennings’ efforts had been laughable, and Falworth had been too greedy to worry about anything but his own satisfaction.
It was her turn to be greedy now. She growled as she felt the animal come alive within her, felt it stretch and squeeze and tighten around Shaw's flesh until he was grunting and shaking beneath her, trying to control her movements, trying to keep from exploding like an untried youth. She threw her head back and let her body govern her moves, moaning and shivering deliciously as the tension mounted higher and higher. Her hands grasped his waist; her knees tightened on his thighs to guide her, grind her closer. She cried out at each searing thrust of his flesh, and she strove to heighten her ecstasy, to manipulate the spasms of pleasure until she had created continuous, rhythmical waves.
He shuddered twice within her but showed no sign of weakening or hastening her to an end. The dark blue eyes were open and locked on her face. His body shone from his exertions, and his hands alternately clenched and relaxed with the motion of her hips.
Miranda’s hair tumbled over her breasts like a black cloud. Garrett pushed it aside, and pinched the taut peaks, making her scream. His torso strained upward, and his mouth replaced his fingers, biting and suckling the pebble-hard nubs until the pleasure flooded out of her again and again. She plunged and writhed uncontrollably, relinquishing all but the feeblest ability to retain her composure as Garrett rolled her beneath him and drove into her. The bed rocked and the mattress jumped as they savaged one another, climaxing together in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs and breathless cries.
When the rush passed for the final time, Miranda groaned and let her arms and legs slide limply down. Her hair lay like a damp black web across the lover half of her face. Her mouth felt parched, and she moistened her lips enough to keep them from cracking as her smile bubbled into a husky laugh.
“My God,” she said between panted breaths. “I had almost forgotten what that felt like! No wonder you leave a trail of wenches hobbling behind you like poled cats.”
“None of them hiss and scratch half so fine as you,” Shaw grinned.
“Me?” She laughed again. “Then why is it you have never invited me into your bed before?”
“I was under the impression you liked it where you were. And besides, I have never wanted any woman badly enough to try my sword against Duncan Farrow.”
“Ahh, so it was Duncan’s wrath you feared.”
Garrett propped himself on his elbows and looked down at her. “Let us just say I had a healthy respect for his temper. I can be a patient man, however. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to me.”
As patient as a circling vulture, Miranda thought and felt her body begin to tingle under his gaze. And just as humble. He had made no secret of the fact that he had wanted her, almost from the moment Duncan had led her ashore on Snake Island. But then, everything that belonged to Duncan, Garrett coveted. His ships, his island, his men, his reputation...his daughter.
His daughter! The thought brought a flush of annoyance to Miranda’s cheeks.
“Yesterday, in your cabin, I had the distinct impression it was not me you were waiting patiently for, but someone else.”
“Courtney?”
“Yes, Courtney,” she retorted acidly. “Poor little Courtney. Sweet little Courtney. Brave little Courtney. And since you left the cabin shortly after I did, may I assume it is still virginal little Courtney?”
The black brows crushed together and a grin appeared. “My, my, such tender concern for your lover’s daughter.”
“My dead lover’s daughter,” she corrected him archly. “And I warn you now, Garrett Shaw, I have no intentions of sharing anyone with her again.”
“Meaning me?” The grin broadened.
“If you think she has something so special between her thighs, by all means rape the chit and be done with it. But if you want to keep me in your bed—" her hands slid lower on his body— “you will have your fun and be done with her.”
He laughed softly, and his hand skimmed up her thigh to lightly fondle a breast. “I want more than just fun, Miranda love. I not only intend to bed her, I intend to take her as my wife.”
“Your wife!” Miranda’s mouth sagged open. She could not believe what she was hearing. “You plan to marry her? After we...after I...?”
“After you honored me with such a pleasant tumble? My pet, the one act has nothing to do with the other. You want me, you can have me; whenever, wherever.”
Miranda’s anger exploded with a curse as she flung his hand away from her breast. She scrambled for the edge of the bed with the intentions of gathering her clothes and storming out of the cabin. A firm hand on her arm stopped her. A rougher tousle and a curse-laden struggle landed her on her back again with Shaw’s weight pinning her flat.
“Let go of me!”
“No.”
She gasped in outrage. “Let go of me now!”
Garrett shifted his weight and with a laugh, stifled her protests beneath his mouth. He dragged her arms above her head and held both wrists trapped in one of his hands while his other moved down her writhing body.
“You should at least hear me out before you take it upon yourself to throw our future happiness away.”
“Future happiness!” she cried. “As what? Your mistress? Your alternative on nights when sweet little Courtney clamps her thighs shut and pouts! No thank you, Garrett Shaw. No thank you indeed.”
“Ahhh, Miranda...”
“Stop that!” She shrieked
and squirmed violently to dislodge the hand that was stroking the slickness between her thighs. He only laughed and pressed his mouth into the curve of her throat.
“I can give you what you need,” he murmured, “what you want.”
“Bastard! My only needs are to get away from this ship. To get away from this pestilent country, these stinking people, this rotten life.”
“Then we both want the same thing. And you should not be so quick to throw away what I am offering.”
“You have not offered anything yet,” she spat.
He kept his eyes locked to hers as he planted a large, wet kiss on the crest of each heaving breast. “Shall I start with several hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold? Or would you prefer land as far as the eye can see? Jewels? Furs?”
She stopped struggling.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What gold? What jewels?”
“I am talking about a fortune, my Spanish beauty. An empire. Wealth beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“Oh Lord,” she sighed derisively. “You believe that old story about the chests of gold and gems that were smuggled out of France with Courtney?”
“I said empire, not fairytale. Although I would not be too hasty to discount the stories entirely. There were chests taken on board with the girl, and her grandfather was the financial advisor to Louis XVI. It is possible that the rumors of what they contained are true. Very possible.”
Miranda’s arms were still pinned even though she had ceased her efforts to squirm free. She craned her head forward, the better to see his face.
“Garrett?”
“Mmm?”
“If it was not the treasure you were talking about...?” She laid her head back down and took a deep breath. His fingers were creating distracting shivers of pleasure where they stroked and rubbed and probed. “What fortune, what empire were you talking about?”
“The one in America.”
“America?”
“Aye, my beauty. A fortune sitting there patiently, waiting to be claimed.”
Wind and the Sea Page 25