He glimpsed a slender figure darting across the deck below. "Mr. Cambridge!"
Michael skidded to a halt and looked up. "Aye, Captain?"
"Captain Ashton-Smythe has just left the deck. See if you can find him and ask him if he can spare me another moment of his time before he leaves the Chimera. I have a small favor to ask of him."
"Aye, sir. Has it to do with the Caledonia?"
Morgan frowned. "No, Mr. Cambridge, it does not. If it was your business to know—which it isn't—I might tell you it has to do with making an honest woman out of your sister."
Michael's grin was huge. "Aye, sir!"
He darted away but halted again and looked back. "Does this mean I can expect a promotion, sir? To midshipman, perhaps? I mean, I will be your brother-in-law after all."
Morgan's eyes screwed into slits. "By God—"
"Yes, sir! On my way sir!" Michael beamed and scampered off.
Summer tried very hard not to laugh, but it was hopeless.
"You find his brass amusing, do you?" Wade demanded.
"I think he will fit in quite well with the company he is keeping now, yes. As for you making an honest woman out of me, I don't recall being asked. I would call it extremely brassy for one to assume I would want to leap into another marriage when I have just managed my freedom from the first. In fact, I rather like the idea of retaining some independence."
"You do, do you?" Morgan's arm tightened around her, lifting her inches off the deck. His mouth came down over hers, the kiss so long and deep and ravaging that some of the crew stopped what they were doing to cheer and hoot and wave their caps. Many more copied the startled the look on Ashton-Smythe's face as he and Michael approached the bridge.
Summer was flushed and breathless when he finally released her. Her heart was pounding in her breast and her legs were wobbly as he settled her back down onto her feet.
"Now then," he mused. "What was that about keeping your independence?"
"Nothing," she whispered. "Nothing at all."
THE END
An Excerpt from THE WIND AND THE SEA an award-winning, swashbuckling adventure now available in ebook format.
Courtney's eyes sprang open. Her gaze flicked to the upper corner of the mirror, to the face that had appeared over her shoulder, to the pair of smoky-gray eyes that were locked on hers with equal astonishment.
She whirled around and came face to face with Adrian Ballantine. Neither of them moved, neither spoke. Only his eyes conveyed the depth of his surprise as they took in the full sweep of her dress, her hair, the prominent half-moons of flesh that swelled against the bodice.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she finally managed to gasp. “How did you get past the guards?”
“I was brought here,” he said softly. “I was escorted at the end of a musket.”
Courtney glanced past his broad shoulder and noticed one of Garrett's men, Harry Pitt, standing in the open doorway. He was a short, balding man with skin like parchment and a smile that brought to mind a bleached skull. His eyes were popped almost out of their folds of crow’s feet as he raked them up and down, taking in Courtney’s altered appearance.
“Why have you brought the prisoner here?” she asked hotly.
“Eh? Ye ordered it, din’t ye?”
“I certainly did not.”
Pitt’s eyes strayed to the dusky cleft between her breasts. “Well, I were told ye wanted to have this here dog brung to the cabin to see after yer chores. If ye’ve nay chores, I'll take ‘im back to the kennel with the others.”
Courtney glanced at Ballantine. Her instincts told her to send him away. She had deliberately not called for him all day, specifically to avoid the jumble of emotions that were already beginning to affect the way the blood flowed through her veins. But if he was a weakness, and if he was going to continue to exert this strange power over her, she had to know. She had to somehow overcome it. She had to overcome him.
“Thank you, Pitt,” she said coolly. “In truth, I do have need of the Yankee’s skill with a holystone and bucket. You can leave him here.”
“Ye want I should stay an' see he does the work proper?”
Courtney crossed to the desk and with drew a long snouted pistol from the top drawer.
“I think I am quite capable of seeing he does the job well. You can go about your business and return for him near the dinner hour.”
Pitt shrugged. "As ye like."
“Oh, and Pitt?”
The rheumy eyes flicked up from her bosom. “Aye?”
She cocked the pistol and aimed it casually in his direction. “In future, you will knock on my door before you enter.”
The implied threat was delivered so calmly, Pitt’s cadaverous smile took a moment to fade. He looked down the barrel of the gun, then up into her dark, inscrutable stare.
“No call to take on airs,” he muttered. “Yer father would nay approve.”
“My father is not here, which is precisely why the gun is. You might want to pass that information along in case anyone else thinks they can come and go as they please.”
Pitt scowled and muttered something unintelligible before he hunched out into the gloomy companionway.
Courtney strode to the door in a swirl of white muslin, slammed it shut and slid the bolt across.
Ballantine had not moved. His eyes had followed her across the cabin, but as soon as she turned to face him, they were studiously averted.
“Having trouble with your own men?” he mused.
“Nothing I cannot handle.”
The impression of a smile was on his lips, although his expression had not changed. Courtney’s anger was pricked, and she raised the heavy gun, aiming it at the centre of his chest.
“I am not afraid to use this, Yankee.”
The gray eyes met hers, the smile became distinctly mocking.
“I happen to be a very good shot.”
“I have no reason to doubt it.”
“But am I going to have to prove it? If I am, if you are planning to try anything foolish, I would as soon shoot you now and be done with it.”
“What could I be planning?" he asked with a slight shrug. "You have the gun. You also have the ability to bring a dozen armed men crashing through the door if you shout. And, even assuming I could get my hands around your lovely throat, where could I go afterwards?”
Courtney felt her cheeks grow warm. She was unable to form a retort, and so she simply stared at him, the gun steady and unwavering in her hand. His wounds appeared to be mending as well as his wit. He had replaced his torn shirt with another: a coarse garment that was too small for his frame and exaggerated the bands of muscle in his arms and across his chest. The wound on his temple had scabbed over, though only partially visible beneath the unfettered locks of tawny gold hair. The long hours of exposure to the sun had not done him any harm either; the pasty grayness was gone and the color had returned to his face. His eyes were as cool and insolent as when he had been the one in command. She could almost see a glint of amusement in them—amusement, no doubt, over a pirate wench who was playing at being a lady!
She took a deep breath in an effort to cool her blood, and instantly regretted it. The bodice of her dress did not expand with her chest; it merely thrust the tops of her breasts into greater prominence, an effect that did not go unnoticed by Ballantine.
“Move over beside the brazier,” she ordered brusquely, jerking the snout of the pistol to indicate the direction. “The air is becoming damp. You can light a fire while I finish dressing for dinner.”
His smile took on a wry twist. “I certainly hope there is more to that dress somewhere.”
“The brazier,” she said from between clenched teeth.
When Ballantine reached the small iron stove in the corner of the cabin, he bent down on one knee and rattled coal from a tin bucket into the stove’s black belly.
Courtney’s wrist ached from the weight of the gun; she lowered it, careful to keep her finger in pr
oximity to the trigger. Her mouth was terribly dry, her palms were cool and moist, and she could not keep from staring at the sinuous muscles rippling across his back and shoulders as he built the fire in the stove. How was it possible for him to look so healthy and roguish after two days in the hell she had banished him to on deck? He was with his men, yes, and his precious doctor friend, but most of the wounded had succumbed to fevers and dysentery, and that, in combination with the stifling heat, the flies, the smell, and the suffering...he should at least have had the decency to look pale and haggard.
Ballantine straightened, startling Courtney alert again.
“Anything else, Miss Farrow?” he inquired with an exaggerated air of servitude.
A second wash of color rose in her cheeks. “You may refill my wine,” she commanded, pointing to the decanter and the empty goblet. “And you may stop staring at me.”
“Was I staring? Forgive me, it must be that the heat has affected my manners. But then, any woman who chooses to wear a gown like that should expect the odd glance to come her way.”
“You were hardly glancing.”
“You are hardly what I expected to see,” he countered evenly.
“An ill-bred pirate urchin?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Did I call you that?”
“On several occasions.”
His eyes travelled soberly down her body. “In that case, I would have to say you are very good at disguises.”
Courtney’s flush deepened. Why was he doing this? Where was his bitterness, his defiance? She could respond to those emotions easily. What she could not handle was compliance, or worse: flattery.
She moved away from the door and went behind the enormous desk. Placing the gun pointedly within reach, she sat in the deeply padded leather wing chair and tapped her fingers with impatience.
“My wine?”
Adrian had to step around the piles of discarded clothing that had been tossed from the sea chest. He picked up the decanter and filled her goblet to the brim with blood-red claret.
“Set it on the desk,” she snapped. “Then you can...you can put all those things back into the chest.”
Adrian placed the goblet on the desk and glanced at the jumble of frilly trappings scattered at his feet. With undisguised bemusement, he held up a sheer wisp of silk that was much like the garment she wore beneath the muslin dress. Horrified, Courtney jumped up and snatched it out of his hands.
“Never mind. I will do it myself.”
“I would be only too pleased—”
“I said, never mind!”
He shrugged and watched her drop back in the chair. She raised the goblet and sipped from it, but the dryness in her throat persisted and she ended up draining the cup. She set it down with a slightly unsteady hand and glared up at Ballantine as she saw his mouth flicker again.
“A good claret should be savored, not gulped,” he said when she demanded he refill her goblet.
“You are hardly the one to give me advice on drinking."
"Indeed,” he murmured and eyed the tray of silver goblets. “Still, a young lady should never drink alone.”
Courtney gasped at his audacity as he poured himself a goblet of wine before he refilled hers. Her fingers danced on the stock of the pistol and her eyes blazed.
“Have you ever wondered, Yankee, what would have happened had we both been fighting on the same side? Suppose my father had been fighting against the Pasha, instead of for him, and suppose we had met as allies. Would you be quite so unwilling to take me seriously?”
“I take you very seriously, Irish.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, you do not. You only treat me seriously when you think you have something to gain by doing so. On board your ship, for instance, when you knew I was the only thing standing between Seagram and being blown to eternity. Or yesterday, when you thought you could play on my sympathies. It was a convincing fainting spell. You deserved applause.”
A spark flared in his eyes, and she felt a rush of satisfaction.
“Ahh. And perhaps you were even thinking I would help you escape? Is that it? Do you honestly think one night in your bed, one drunken rape would leave me so besotted?”
Ballantine’s voice was level. “Believe me, Irish, I regret what happened that night as much as you do. Possibly even more."
She regarded him slyly over the rim of her goblet. "I am not so sure of that, Yankee. I know you enjoyed my body, even though you say you do not remember. Perhaps you enjoyed it too much? Does your Deborah not please you the same way?”
A muscle twitched in Adrian’s jaw. “My fianceé has nothing to do with this.”
“What was it you said, again?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, ignoring the hard light in his eyes. “Ahhh, yes I believe you said it would take an enticement from the devil himself to make you dishonor your commitment to your sweet Deborah. Is that the excuse you will give her? That you were enticed by demons?”
“Demon rum, most certainly,” said Adrian. “And I do not recall ever mentioning Deborah’s name to you.”
The wine was singing in her blood, bolstering her courage; she leaned back in the chair with a husky laugh. “You also claim not to recall tearing my clothes off, or forcing me into your bed. Or will your story be that I raped you?”
Adrian felt the blood hammering in his temples. His gaze was lured involuntarily to the strain she placed on the muslin as she stretched her arm forward for the decanter. More than a hint of roseate flesh peeped into view and remained there, though she was blissfully unaware of the slippage. The memory of that soft, warm flesh had left an impression in his mind’s eye that no amount of rum could have dulled. He remembered the feel of her flesh, supple and honey-smooth one moment, peaked and straining eagerly beneath his lips the next...despite what she accused him of. Despite what she wanted him to believe?
He forced himself to concentrate on her hands, on watching her pour out the wine. God, how long did it take to fill a damned goblet?
Courtney leaned back, carrying her brimming goblet with her. “You have not tasted your wine, Yankee. Go ahead, drink up. Unless you have reason to fear for your honor again?”
Adrian raised the goblet to his lips. Courtney did likewise, and their eyes locked together over the silver rims. He was, she mused, decidedly no longer a threat to her sensibilities. He had no mysterious powers. If anyone was feeling threatened, it was him, and how sweet a victory it would be to have him acknowledge that threat!
“A second stumble from the mighty pedestal of virtue,” she murmured speculatively. “Now that would be difficult to explain, would it not? Even the urge to stumble would be extremely discomfiting to a man of your staunch convictions.”
Adrian tensed visibly as she stood and walked slowly around to the front of the desk. She stopped within an arm’s length of him and let her gaze rake insolently up and down his rigid body. Much as he wanted to, he could not take his eyes off her face; he could not stop his senses from responding to the sharp clean fragrance of her skin. Soap and hot water seemed like sinful pleasures from some distant life to him, and her apparent recent enjoyment of both sent shivers racing through his flesh.
More than that, there was something new and disturbing in her eyes. Adrian wished he could scratch viciously at the wound on his temple, for the pain would help clear his thinking and sharpen his wits. Her eyes were playing with his body, teasing him, swallowing him into a bright green whirlpool and throwing his instincts off balance. His fingertips were tingling and he could feel the blood throbbing into his groin.
Ignore her eyes! Strike out! Lash out! Reach for the gun, hold it to her temple, use her as a hostage to free the men on deck. It could work. It could...!
Courtney set the goblet on the desk, lured onto more dangerous ground by the richness of the claret coursing through her veins. Her skin prickled from the heat of his eyes staring down at her, her heart pounded within her breast, and she sensed that he was daring her, challenging her...mockin
g her.
She raised her hands and laid them with deliberate tenderness on his chest. The shock of contact sent a chill along her spine, and she held her breath, wondering if she was imagining the same fleeting tremors beneath her fingers. The front vee of his shirt did not quite fit together and she slid her fingers higher, teasing the coppery mat of hair that peeped through. She slid her hands lower, tracing them over the hard-surfaced flesh, over the bands of solid muscle that were almost hot to the touch. Her fingertips brushed across his nipples and despite the barrier of coarse cloth, she could feel them already tightened into hard little peaks.
Her explorations ventured upward again, climbing slowly toward the strong pillar of his neck. Her fingers lingered on the carved hollow at the top of his breastbone before they followed the curve of the brawny shoulders and she could not help but remember how she had clawed into them and held on as her body arched and writhed beneath his.
Her gaze rose to the squared set of his jaw, and her heart skipped erratically over several beats. His mouth had compressed to a grim line. A nerve leaped convulsively in his cheek, drawing her eyes higher, and even if his hands had not chosen that moment to bite into her shoulders, she would have gasped aloud at the naked fury blazing from his eyes. Like shards of light glittering off the blade of a sword, they slashed into her, pierced her, impaled her so that she could not have moved even if her limbs had the ability or the will to do so.
Before she could draw a breath, her wrists had been captured, twisted down behind her back, and she was being crushed ruthlessly against the wall of his chest.
“Is this what you want?” he snarled, and his head bent toward her.
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