Until an hour ago the odds seemed to be heavily weighted in favor of Ballantine. Falworth had even volunteered to help nail the other bastard, for God’s sake! Jennings was a prig, a blowhard who belonged to a dying breed of naval officers—those who purchased their power rather than earned it. It was only a matter of time before the Prebles of the world would take over—the Prebles and the Ballantines and the whole merry band of marching patriots who had scrabbled to the top on blood and sweat and skill. Falworth would give anything to belong to the elite club. He wanted his name to be remembered along with the Decaturs and the Lawrences, the Porters and the Stewarts, known collectively as Preble’s Boys.
Ballantine’s little mission on board the Eagle had opened a realm of possibilities. Catch the spy, become an instant hero. The rewards would be limitless. Captain Falworth, Commodore Falworth, Rear Admiral Falworth...why, even the President would hear of his exploits. And would that not set the family patriarchs back on their smug haunches! The years of snide abuse he had suffered would be over, once and for all. There would be an end to the railing comments: Otis had the poorest grades in school; Otis was not worth the expense of sending him to college or abroad; Otis had been sent into the navy in the hopes it could shape him into a man; Otis would never be more than a third-rate mariner
Well, he would prove them all wrong. Thanks to cousin Charles in Gibraltar, he had been alerted to the true nature of Ballantine’s assignment on board the Eagle. A few drinks, a few earnest avowals of patriotism, and Charles had spilled the entire story of the mock court-martial with Sutcliffe—in strictest confidence, naturally.
A normally shy, mousey lad, Charles became quite boastful of his position and his responsibilities when under the influence of alcohol—even more so, Otis discovered, when he was in the company of other shy young men.
Finding ways to amuse himself with the information Charles passed to him had been easy, for the British were always curious about the Americans, regardless if they had united to become allies against the Barbary pirates or not. He had managed to pay off a few gaming debts with what he earned trading secrets about who was sleeping with whom in the bedrooms of the admiralty, and what sex was preferred. Learning that Adrian Ballantine had been dispatched specifically to chase an infamous spy to ground had all but taken his breath away. He had not considered himself to be infamous, nor had he thought his leaked bedroom secrets to be worthy of a manhunt, so it was with no small measure of relief that he realized he was not the primary object of Ballantine's hunt.
Charles had again proved to be helpful in revealing that they were more concerned over the information about armaments, naval codes, and plans that were being sold to the enemy, which Falworth knew nothing about. It did, however, provide him with the perfect opportunity to ingratiate himself with Ballantine, who had needed little coaxing to turn his suspicions on Jennings, who, in turn, could not spy his way out of a bog hole!
It was a pity the two had not killed each other on deck this morning. Falworth could have assumed his rightful place at the helm of the Eagle immediately, and there would have been no need to share the credit with Ballantine for unearthing the 'spy'. Falworth could have had it all in one sweep: the accolades, the hero’s welcome, the Eagle...Miranda.
The thought of Miranda made him sigh aloud. The very notion of possessing her openly made his heart palpitate. It sent blood rushing into his extremities, prickling into his fingers and toes, sliding deliciously into his groin. Twice now he had managed time alone with the slut—furtive and hurried to be sure, but Lord, the things that woman could do with her hands and mouth! The tricks she knew! The idea of having hours, days, undisturbed weeks to spend with her produced such an ache in his body that he groaned.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
“Wh-what?” Falworth spun around and saw an armed marine standing behind him.
“Didn't mean to startle you, sir, but you sounded as if you were in some kind of pain.”
Falworth tugged his uniform jacket self-consciously. “I am perfectly well, Corporal. You may go about your business. Why are you on the main deck? Is this your normal posting?”
“No, sir. I was just on my way to the captain’s cabin to, er, escort the captain's...er...lady on a promenade while he works on his logs.”
Falworth glanced at the hatchway. The noon meal was being served to the crew. Half the bloody officers were confined to their quarters. Jennings’ fetish for scribbling could keep him occupied for the better part of an hour at least. It was indeed a day for miracles!
Falworth moistened his lips. “See here, Corporal...?”
“Spencer, sir.”
“Yes, well, Spencer, since I am bound that way myself, I shall see to it. You may return to your regular duties.”
The marine hesitated, but in the end, saw no reason to question the lieutenant's order. “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Falworth dismissed the marine with a nod. "Most welcome," he murmured under his breath. “Most welcome indeed.”
~~
Adrian communicated the instruction as best he could to Dickie Little to send for him if Matthew needed him for any reason. The doctor had consumed most of the jug of rum and had slipped into welcome oblivion. Adrian returned to his own cabin, scowling at the guard who accompanied him along the companionway and who then took up a position, apologetically, outside the lieutenant’s door.
Adrian’s body ached as if he had shared the lash with Matthew—or perhaps because he had not. Either way, his first act, after locking the cabin door, was to go directly to the wire-fronted cabinet and remove a full bottle of rum. He filled a cup and drank it down, refilling it before the first fireball had reached his stomach.
His tunic was flung aside. The neckcloth and collar followed. Several of the small pearl buttons on his waistcoat were violently parted from the fabric and scattered across the floor, followed instantly by the garment itself. The latter skidded across the floorboards and landed at Courtney's feet, startling her into raising her head. She was crouched in a corner, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them.
Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her lashes blinked fiercely to contain the pain evident in the emerald pools.
A muscle in Ballantine’s cheek quivered and he handed the cup down to her. “Go ahead. You look as if you need it.”
He sat behind his desk and tipped the bottle to his lips, pulling greedily at large swallows of the rum, hoping the liquor would burn the sound of Willard Jennings’ gloating from his mind. He drank until his eyes watered and he had to stop for gulps of air.
“Lieutenant?”
He leaned against the headrest and stared for a full minute at a spider working dexterously to spin a web from the ceiling beam to the swaying lantern. He raised the bottle and drank again before acknowledging the tentative whisper.
“You do not want to talk to me right now,” he said. “No one should talk to me right now.”
“But I have to know ifif Seagram?”
Ballantine inhaled sharply and closed his eyes as the rush of alcohol filled a belly that had not seen food in two days. The effects surged into his blood. His vision swam briefly before he was able to shake it clear and focus on Courtney. All he could see were dark, wet eyes in a pale, frightened face.
Dangerous eyes, he thought. Condemning, disdainful, hurting eyes that seemed to see right through to his soul...and found it sorely lacking.
“Seagram is dead," he said gruffly. "His body was—" the words were enunciated carefully around his thickening tongue— “not violated any further, much to the captain's displeasure. Are you going to drink that?”
Courtney saw that his finger pointed to the crockery cup of rum she was holding. Her throat was parched from crying; her stomach was tied in a gigantic knot and she took a sip simply to ease the strain.
“He said something to you at the end. What was it?”
She stared at him as if she could genuinely not remem
ber.
“Well?"
She shook her head, the gesture so genuinely helpless that he raised the bottle again.
Courtney took another sip from the cup. The rum was sweet and cool, and the after-bite of it boiled into her stomach like a loaded fist. Ballantine barely flinched after each swallow, but she noted the fine sheen of sweat beading on his forehead and she could see that the steely gray eyes were wandering here and there as if they were having trouble focusing on one thing too long.
“Are you planning on getting drunk, Yankee?” she asked quietly.
“Indeed I am, Irish. You can join me if you like, or you can—" he waved a hand absently in the air— “not.”
She was silent for a long moment. “How is the doctor?”
“Quite a bit drunker.”
“I mean,” she repeated patiently, “how is his back?”
“Blistered and hurting like hell, I should imagine.”
“Why did he do it?”
“Why?” Ballantine arched a brow and smiled crookedly. “Because he is not one for heroics. That was what he said, at any rate. Not one for heroics. Not like the rest of us.”
Ballantine reached forward, missed the humidor on his desk by several inches, and frowned as he tried again. The lid refused to open under his clumsy fingers.
Courtney sighed. She stood and took the tin from his hands. Under his frowning stare, she took out a cigar and lit it from the lamp on his desk.
When she handed it to him, he smirked. “You smoke cigars, too, eh? I guess it should not surprise me. Hell, you fight like a man, you drink rum and swear louder—and better—than I do. You dress like a man and cut your hair like a man...is there anything you do not do like a man?”
"I find it difficult to stand and piss into the wind," she said evenly, then returned to her corner. She leaned against the wall and kept her face turned away from the mocking gray eyes, appalled to feel more slow, fat tears welling over her lashes.
You can beat me until your knuckles bleed, Yankee, and you will not see me cry again...
“What do you know about me, Yankee? What can you possibly know about me that would allow you to pass judgment so easily?”
“I know what I see,” he said around a thickening tongue. “And what I hear.”
Courtney glanced down at the baggy trousers and cotton shirt.
“My father tried to keep me dressed in silks and satins,” she whispered. “And my hair...used to be long and shiny." Courtney looked into the cup, swirling memories around with the rum. “But I knew that as long as he kept thinking of me as his little princess, I would never completely share in his life. So I learned how to use a sword and a musket, how to throw a knife as good as any boy my age, how to splice rope and shimmy up a bowline, and—" she paused through a rueful smile— “and then I cut off my hair and tore up the silks and satins. I told him I did not want to be his princess anymore; I just wanted to be his flesh and blood. At first he laughed and patted my head and told me it was a grand gesture, but I should not have wasted my hair or his time. Then I took a sword and slashed off every single button on his doublet and breeches before he could make a move to defend himself.”
Courtney laughed through her tears, recalling the startled look on the legendary Duncan Farrow’s face as he grabbed for a sword with one hand and tried to maintain a hold on his dignity with the other.
“He took me out on the Wild Goose, and I proved to him I was as capable as any son he might have had. As loyal. As determined. After that he never called me his princess again, and if I had to do it all over, if I had to make the choice between being soft and feminine and pampered, or being the daughter of Duncan Farrow, I would not change a thing."
She looked over her shoulder, expecting some form of sarcastic response, but Ballantine's blond head was lying cradled in the crook of his arm. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was slack. The empty bottle of rum was tilted at a precarious angle.
“Yankee?”
She reached over and prodded his arm tentatively with a forefinger.
“Yankee, are you awake?”
She pried the bottle out of his fingers and set it aside. Walking slowly around the side of the desk, she stood behind him, studying his sleeping form with a curious detachment. She could see the hard outline of muscle beneath the linen shirt, the well-defined contours of his arms and shoulders. An elongated oval of dampness was making the cloth stick to his skin at the small of his back, and the warm, musky scent of masculine sweat sent a queer tingle through her veins. His mouth was not nearly as foreboding or austere when his guard was down, nor were the lines around his eyes and across his brow quite so prominent. His hair looked soft and thick enough to tempt her fingers closer, but she halted just shy of touching it.
“What were you before you became a bastard, Lieutenant?” she mused, reaching for the knife that was hidden in the waist of her trousers. She let the handle warm in the palm of her hand, and she angled the blade this way and that to reflect the glow from the lantern.
“I swore I would kill you, Yankee. I swore it for my uncle, for every man who died on Snake Islandand now...for Seagram.”
Courtney gripped the knife with both hands. Her gaze marked the vulnerable indent just below his ear, just below the inflexible ridge of his jaw. Her fingers tightened around the hilt and the tip of her tongue slid across her lips.
“No one asked you to help me. No one asked you to hide me or to take on the responsibility of seeing me reach Gibraltar alive. I never asked Seagram to exact any promise from youin fact, I released you from your bond. I release you againnow.”
Her hands began to shake, and she tore her eyes away from his throat to stare at the quivering blade. One quick plunge would end it. One slash would fulfill her obligation to Verart.
But her hands refused to obey. She knew she might never have a chance again, that it had to be now oror
Her breath escaped on a sob. She felt the pressure dragging her arms down to her sides. Last night she could have killed him. This morning she could have killed him without a qualm—but now, in this moment of shared pain, she could not do it.
Her fingers opened, and the knife clattered loudly onto the floor. The noise startled Ballantine out of his stupor; the gray eyes snapped open, and his head jerked up off his arm.
“What the devil—?”
Looking around quickly, he saw Courtney shrink back against the wall. He saw the knife, and he misread the sudden fear in her eyes. He scraped the chair away from the desk and lurched to his feet.
“So that is it, eh, Irish? Talk to me sweetly and as soon as my back is turned—?" He glanced pointedly at the knife.
“N-no,” she gasped. “No, I—"
“You what?” he demanded, advancing a step. “You were not planning to use that on me? You simply stole it and walked around with it hidden in your clothes so you could throw it on the floor? Dammit, I warned you what would happen the next time you tried something.”
His arm shot out, but Courtney anticipated the blow and was able to avoid it. Ballantine’s reflexes were dulled considerably by the alcohol he had consumed, and by the time his anger had redirected his fist, she was darting past him, hoping to place the width of the desk between them. But his fingers managed to curl into the folds of her shirt as she fled past, and the sudden snatch not only threw her off balance, but it tore her shirt open as she spun, laying her bare from collarbone to waist.
Ballantine held fast to the cloth and used it to pin her to the wall. The ice-gray eyes blazed down at her with such fury that Courtney was too shocked to make an attempt to break free. She braced herself to feel his hand stinging across her face, and when it did not come, she peered up through the burning hot liquid in her eyes and saw that his gaze had moved lower, had fastened on the exposed breadth of her chest.
“My God,” he murmured hoarsely, and the hand that was not bunched around her shirt advanced hesitantly until the soft white flesh was cupped roughly in his p
alm. His eyes lifted to hers, to the emerald drowning pools that had widened to the limit her lashes would allow.
Courtney could not move, could not think, could not breathe. She felt her flesh constrict beneath his hand, and she did not know how to fight the unexpected and unwanted shivers that rippled outward from his palm.
“Damn you,” he whispered. “Damn you...”
His mouth crushed down over hers, smothering her cry before it was fully formed. She was jarred into action, but it was too late; his hands were as determined as his body to hold her in place. His fingers twined into her hair; his thighs and chest crowded her against the wall. His tongue lashed hungrily into the recesses of her mouth; his breath came hot and insistent against her cheek. Courtney’s fists hammered repeatedly at his shoulders, at his back, but her efforts to push him away failed. Her senses began to reel, and the walls of the cabin seemed to shrink closer around them.
She felt him shift to gain access to the rope holding her trousers. She squirmed and struggled to block the intrusion but failed. Her limbs were bared to his greedy hands, her pleas and curses were reduced to moans, then to tiny, choked gasps as he feverishly caressed the smoothness of her inner thighs. He found and stroked a spark of unexpected desire to life. The spark flared, and a buttery weakness spiraled through her body. She tried to remember that she hated him, that she had come close to killing him only minutes ago, but although her mind was screaming and pushing him away, her body was demanding, craving, needing the same manner of urgent release as his.
She encouraged his searching hands with hushed, ragged cries. Her response pulled a moan from his throat and he pushed the torn halves of her shirt aside, cupping her breasts in his hands, bowing his mouth to the nipples with the desperation of a starving man. He took each peak hostage beneath his lips, suckling them until Courtney's knees could no longer hold her upright on their own. Her fingers clawed into his shoulders, then raked up into the thick mane of golden hair, holding onto him for dear life, her mouth gaping open, her eyes squeezed tightly shut against her own shame.
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