Ransom by Lee Rowan Page B

letter.”
    The masked captain smiled. “No, I think not. Mere idle curiosity.” He rose and went to the sideboard to pour a glass of brandy for himself—odd, that he had no one waiting table—and David hastily rolled a piece of chicken into his napkin and tucked it into his pocket, unbuttoning the jacket to make his prize less visible. Unless they searched his clothes, Will would get a share of this bounty. And if they did catch him, it was unlikely even Adrian could consider poultry a dangerous weapon.
    “Would you care for some brandy, Mr. Archer?” Adrian asked politely. “Claret? Port?”
    Archer weighed the possibility of alcohol dulling his wits against the tightly-wound state of his nerves. “A little port, thank you.” How strange to be carrying on such a bland drawing-room conversation with a pirate. A biscuit slid neatly into the other pocket as Adrian turned back to the sideboard.
    The port was poured, the bottle returned to the bracket that secured it against the ship’s rolling. Adrian brought the glasses back and raised his own. “A toast?”
    “My Captain’s good health,” Archer suggested. “And a speedy conclusion to our visit.”
    “And a profitable one,” Adrian added. “Mr. Archer, I believe your presence with your captain, while unexpected, will prove fortuitous.”
    “How so?” Another trifle of information to store away. As Smith had surmised, he had been the target.
    “I had expected only the Captain, or perhaps your first lieutenant, Mr. Drinkwater. His family would no doubt have come well up to the mark as regards ransom. But Mr. Drinkwater, however worthy and well-funded, is rather stout. I do not believe that excess weight is becoming to an officer, do you?”
    “Mr. Drinkwater is a fine officer,” Archer said, puzzled by the irrelevancy. “He is competent, intelligent, and has excellent rapport with the men. I have learned much from him.”
    “And a loyal, well-spoken lad you are,” Adrian responded smoothly. “As well as a most attractive young man.”
    If Archer had been a dog, his hackles would have stood on end. He reached for his glass, took a sip of the port, and said nothing. It could be simple, clumsy flattery, but Adrian hardly seemed the clumsy type.
    “As I was saying, your presence here promises to make my evenings more interesting. Haven’t you served as a cabin boy, Mr. Archer? My instinct for such matters is unerring.”
    The way he asked the question set off alarms. “I joined His Majesty’s Navy as a midshipman,” Archer said carefully. He stared into the wineglass, wishing he were back with Marshall in the dark, cramped safety of the cell.
    “Lad, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about; there is no point in being so deliberately obtuse. I refer, of course, to a function that would require you be at least partly out of uniform.”
    Archer wondered wildly if there were some sort of target painted on his back, but he forced his voice to coldness. “I take your meaning, sir. I also take offense.”
    Adrian laughed. “And next I suppose you’ll ask for satisfaction. Well, laddie, that’s all I want, myself... but I expect to get it from your pretty little arse.”
    Archer’s fingers spasmed, snapping the crystal cup from its delicate stem. Tawny port soaked into the crisp linen cloth. “If you are soliciting my cooperation, the answer is no.”
    He laughed again. “I don’t require your cooperation, Mr. Archer. But I would prefer it. It’s so tedious when a poor fellow’s all trussed up, it dulls the enjoyment.”
    An odd sense of detachment numbed Archer’s mind, as though this were some weirdly civilized dream that split appearance from reality. The tone of Adrian’s words was calm, even cheerful; the content was a threat. His heart was thumping; he wanted to run. But there was nowhere to run. Even if he made it through the door, at least three guards waited outside. Archer could not guess what this bastard would do to Will or