Captured For The Captain's Pleasure
The man proceeded to lift one end of the spar and to drag it clear.
‘Perkin told me to get him below deck,’ she said, going to Richard’s feet. ‘You must help me.’
The man looked blank. ‘Can’t, miss. Speak to the captain.’ He rushed off.
She glanced around for someone else. Within the few short minutes she’d been busy with Richard, the privateers, twenty or more of them and all as rough as Perkin, had taken command of her father’s ship and were clearing the deck of torn sails, broken spars and damaged rigging. An acrid smell lingered in the air, the smell of gunpowder from the shots they had fired.
Oh Lord, what a disaster. And they could have been killed. An enormous lump rose up from her chest and stuck firm in her throat. She swallowed the rush of panic. Richard needed help. But who would give it?
A blond Viking of a man was striding aft issuing orders as he went. This must be the captain. She started towards him. He paused to speak to the traitorous Perkin, who appeared to have grown a foot since the privateers came on board. She marched across the deck and planted herself in front of both men. ‘My brother needs help.’
The blond man recoiled. ‘Good God. A woman? What’s she doing on deck?’
A shade taller than his captain and as dark as the other man was fair, Perkin muttered into the blond giant’s ear.
‘You, Perkin,’ she said. ‘Tell your captain this is an honest merchant ship carrying civilian passengers.’
The blond giant raised a brow at his accomplice. ‘Michael?’
‘You know what to do,’ Perkin said and strode away.
‘Simpson,’ the captain shouted. ‘Get your sorry self over here.’
The grey-bearded man who had freed Richard ran over.
‘He wants her on the Gryphon,’ the captain said.
Her?
Simpson’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ‘Aye, aye, sir. This way, miss.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Alice said. ‘My brother is injured.’ She dodged around the portly fellow and dashed back to her pale and still brother.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked around to find a rough-looking sailor with a drooping moustache and a tarry pigtail staring at her from mud-coloured eyes. He grinned.
She tried not to notice the blackened stumps of his teeth. ‘Take him below.’
The sailor’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll be happy to take ye below, missy.’
‘Get away from her, Kale.’
Perkin again, with a pistol in his hand and his eyes blazing fury.
Her insides did a strange kind of somersault. The kind that shouldn’t be happening for any man, let alone a pirate even if he had defended her.
‘Back to your duties, Kale,’ Perkin ordered.
Kale seemed to shrivel. He gave a half-hearted salute. ‘Aye, sir.’ He shambled off.
A rather red-looking Simpson appeared at Perkin’s side. Perkin gave him a frown. ‘Damnation, Simpson, get her on board the Gryphon before she causes any more trouble.’ He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to Simpson and muttered something in his ear.
The crewman’s eyes widened, then he touched his forelock with a wink. ‘Aye, aye.’
‘No,’ Alice said, ‘not without Richard’, but Perkin strode off as if she hadn’t said a word.
‘Orders is orders, miss,’ Simpson said, his black eyes twinkling.
He grabbed her around the waist and tossed her effortlessly over his shoulder. She landed hard on the bony point. It knocked the breath from her lungs. ‘Ouch, you brute! Put me down.’ She thumped him on the back. Kicked at his stomach. ‘I’m not going anywhere without my brother.’
The man’s only response was a laboured grunt. He strode across the deck and dropped her into a canvas bucket hanging off the side of the ship. The scoundrels had rigged up ropes and a pulley between the ships, no doubt intending to steal everything of value.
Oh, God. The cargo. They were ruined.
She tried to scramble out again. ‘I can’t leave my brother.’ Or Selina. She’d be terrified witless. Who knew what a dreadful man like Kale would do? ‘My friend is below deck. You have to bring her too.’
Simpson hopped in next to her and grasped her arm. ‘Be still, miss. I ain’t wanting to hurt ye. Haul away,’ he yelled at a sailor on the other ship handling the ropes.
She clung to the edge of the bucket, her stomach pitching like a rowboat in a storm, staring back at the Conchita, trying to see what was happening. Was someone bending over Richard? She raised up on tiptoes. Dash it. She couldn’t see.
Simpson must have seen her dismay, because his expression turned almost fatherly. ‘Don’t ye be worrying about yer friends. The captain will see to ’em.’
See to them? Why didn’t that make her feel any better? Indeed, her stomach churned worse than before and her throat dried as if she’d swallowed an ocean of seawater. ‘You have to go back for them.’
The bucket bumped against the side of the brig and Simpson hopped out. He made a grab for her. She backed away. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared. ‘Now then, miss, do as I say, or you and your friends will have more trouble than you bargained for.’
She stilled. She had no wish to bring harm to Richard and Selina.
An elderly seaman with a cherry-red nose traced with blue veins hurried up to them. Strands of greying hair clung to his scalp, his bloodshot-grey eyes looked anxious. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked Alice’s gaoler.
‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘My brother. He’s received a blow to the head.’
The man, the doctor she assumed, blinked. ‘Hmm. What’s she doing here?’
‘Captain’s orders.’
‘Women. Nothing but bad luck.’ He climbed into the bucket. ‘Haul away, man,’ he said to the other sailor.
Alice clutched at Simpson’s shirt. ‘He will look at my brother, won’t he?’
‘That will be up to the captain.’ He must have seen the protest forming on her lips because he hurried to say, ‘If you do exactly what I says, I’ll make sure he does.’ He pushed her towards the stern, towards the ornately carved walls of the strange-looking poop-deck. It reminded her of pictures of ancient Spanish galleons, only smaller.
Biting her lip, she let him hurry her along.
Simpson opened a brass-fitted mahogany door and ushered her into a chamber lit by the floor-to-ceiling square-paned window angled back over the stern. Surprisingly, the cabin’s furnishings were sumptuous. A Turkish carpet covered the floor, a mahogany desk and a throne-like gilt chair occupied the centre of the room.
Beneath a skylight, an enormous bed covered in fine white sheets filled an alcove. A black gryphon, wings spread wide, curved beak open, and lion claws raking, sprang from the headboard.
The stuff of nightmares.
This must be their captain’s stateroom. Why bring her here? Her heart thumped a warning. She turned to leave and found her way blocked by a sympathetic-looking Simpson.
‘Make yourself comfortable, miss.’
He backed out of the door. She heard the key turn in the lock.
Make herself comfortable? Wasn’t that like telling someone falling off a cliff to enjoy the journey?
Beyond the window, the azure sky and sparkling sea mocked her predicament.
Chapter Two
Eyes closed, Michael relished the cold sting of the salt-water pump as he washed away the filth of days beneath the merchantman’s decks.
Luck had landed on his shoulder these past few days. He touched the talisman hanging on the chain around his neck in silent thanks. Fulton playing into his hands was one thing. Finding both Fulton heirs on board was like throwing a main.
Fulton’s children at his mercy. He could kill them out of hand. Or he could make them suffer the torment of the damned he and Jaimie had suffered. The beys were always looking for infidel slaves. Or the boy could be pressed into the Navy. And the girl? She’d make a fine mistress, for a week or two.
Something dark unfurled deep within his chest as he imagined Fulton’s despair at the loss of his children. Dark and triumphant and ugly.
And that wouldn’t be the worst of what lay in store.
He rinsed the soap from his hair and gestured for Jacko to cease his efforts with the pump. The monkeyfaced lad flashed a salute and tossed him a towel. Michael let the water cascade from his body then dried off.
‘What happened to your arm?’ David Wishart asked from where he leaned against the rail awaiting orders.
Michael glanced down at the puckered red line with its spidery black stitches. ‘Courtesy of the Conchita’s cook. He argued about giving up his berth.’
‘Did you make him stitch you up?’
‘No.’ She’d done that. Alice Fulton. Needle in hand, she’d paled beneath the freckles dusting her cheeks, but to his surprise she’d done better than many a surgeon.
He owed her for that. He hated being beholden to anyone, but a debt to a Fulton tasted bitter.
A female Fulton to boot.
And a bossy one. Even in his lowly position as cook, it hadn’t taken him long to realise she ruled the roost on the Conchita. She’d be his key to learning about her father, not the boy. He was too much the mooncalf to be of any use. Which was why he’d had Simpson take her to his cabin for questioning.
She was certainly no beauty, Miss Fulton, with her serious eyes and plain round face. Nothing like her pretty friend. Yet beneath that mousy exterior lay unquiet currents. A maelstrom.
He’d felt it beneath his hands.
His blood ran hot, as it had when he’d had her pressed tight against his side and a pistol at her temple. As unexpected as it was unwanted.
Hell. She was Fulton’s daughter. In his cabin. At his non-existent mercy. Except he did owe her a debt.
Dammit.
Jacko produced a mirror and a razor. ‘Will you shave today, Cap’n?’
He’d planned to shave on this last leg of the journey to England in an attempt to make himself look more respectable, but the arrival of the prisoners on his ship required he chart a new course. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘Scissors, if you please.’
He pulled a clean shirt over his head, drew on his breeches and peered into the glass Jacko held up.
‘Report if you would, Mr Wishart.’ He snipped at the untidy black hair on his jaw.
His second-in-command’s fair brow furrowed. ‘I don’t like this, Michael.’
Michael didn’t blame him. They’d never ventured this close to Britain’s waters nor ventured into the rocky shoal of prisoners before, but Fulton, the bastard, had wandered into Michael’s net. Only a fool would ignore that kind of fortune.
Idiot he was not and besides it was time he enjoyed fortune’s favour. Long past time.
He dragged a comb through his hair and tied it with the black ribbon Jacko had draped over his arm. ‘Report please, David.’
David took a deep breath. ‘The Fulton youth and the female we found below deck are in the hold under guard, along with another male civilian, who has a broken arm. Bones is with them. Hopefully, he has something for hysterics.’
Michael glanced at his friend’s pained expression and winced. ‘That bad?’
David’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘The civilian is doing his best to keep her calm.’ His first officer’s face resumed its troubled expression. ‘Michael, we shouldn’t keep them on board. Send them to Lisbon with the Conchita. Prisoners are a complication we don’t need.’
David Wishart had sailed alongside Michael in one of his Majesty’s stinking frigates for five years. Since then he’d spent another three as Michael’s first officer. This was the first time he’d questioned an order. And blast it, he was right. Michael should send the Conchita’s passengers to port with the prize ship. And yet an uneasy feeling swirled in his gut as he opened his mouth to agree, a sense of something about to go wrong. A knowledge that the Fates would not appreciate him letting their gift slip so easily from his grasp.
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I assume you found the falsified documents, as well as the log that proves she’s operating under another nation’s flag?’
David sighed. ‘We did. Fulton doesn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Good. Name off a crew and send the Conchita back to Lisbon. Let the admiralty decide.’ He shrugged into his waistcoat.
‘Aye, aye,’ David said. ‘But I still don’t like it. We aren’t much better than Fulton, flying an American flag. Those letters of marque you bought won’t stand up under close scrutiny and could land us in trouble if anyone takes the trouble to look.’
‘They won’t. You worry too much.’ Michael clapped his first officer and closest friend on the shoulder.
‘I wish you worried more. I’ll get a crew together.’ David stomped off.
At the sound of the tumbling lock, Alice ceased her pacing and retreated to the window. Her heart drummed. Her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth, stifling the words she’d practised in her head.
The door swung back.
Perkin, huge in the doorway, searched her out with narrowed eyes. Freshly washed and groomed, he looked magnificent. A wild and untamed restless force not unlike the ocean. How could she ever have mistaken him for a simple cook?
The air in the cabin seemed to evaporate, leaving her nothing to breathe. The thunder of her heart intensified as if her chest had shrunk to half its normal size. She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. ‘What do you want? Where is your captain?’
His eyes widened a fraction, then white teeth flashed in his bearded face. He looked positively handsome. Her stomach gave an odd kind of lurch. Was she mad? Or just fearful?
It had to be the latter.
He closed the door behind him.
Instinctively she backed up a step, the roar of pumping blood in her ears. Fear. And it was making her knees weak and her mind an empty vessel. All she seemed able to do was stare. At his face. At the width of his shoulders. At the lithe movement of his hips as he stepped closer.
‘Apparently an introduction is required.’ He bowed with old-fashioned grace, almost as if flourishing a handkerchief or a cocked hat. ‘Lionhawk at your service. Captain of the Gryphon.’
He was their captain? Her stomach sank. ‘No wonder you can’t cook.’
A smile lifted his lips, his eyes twinkled. ‘I am sorry for my culinary disasters.’
She wanted to hit him—he looked so pleased with himself. ‘So am I.’
He cocked a dark arrogant eyebrow.
Why couldn’t the captain have been the Viking-looking fellow? Somehow, he’d seemed far less intimidating than this wickedly smiling man. ‘So, Captain Pirate. What is it you want?’
The smile faded. ‘Privateer.’
‘Personally, I can’t tell the difference. It is still stealing.’
‘A privateer operates within the law,’ he said with a scowl. ‘Unlike your father. Sailing a British ship under another country’s flag is illegal.’
She winced. It was so annoying that he should be in the right. Especially when it was her fault they’d flown a false flag in the first place. One of the merchants in Lisbon had suggested the ruse when they couldn’t pay the inflated insurance and she’d persuaded Anderson to give it a try. In hindsight, not a wise choice. Too late to do anything about it now except bluff.
‘My father is carrying on a legitimate business. He is not harming anyone.’
An eerie stillness filled the room. Although he looked relaxed, she sensed a hidden tension in his body and an underlying emotion she could not begin to fathom.
‘No harm?’ he uttered softly.
The chill in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. The fear she’d been holding at bay expanded in her chest. It rose up her throat. She swallowed what felt like broken glass. ‘Where are my brother and Lady Selina?’
‘My other prisoners are in the hold.’
Prisoners. A bone-deep tremble shook her frame. Hearing the words spoken so casually brought home the evils of their position. The nearby chair invited her collapse. She locked her knees, refusing to let him see any weakness. ‘Then I demand to join them.’ Infuriatingly, her words came out a low croak. She swallowed again, vainly seeking moisture and calm.
‘Demand?’ He prowled toward the desk. All the while he’d remained like a sentinel at the door, the force of his presence had seemed contained. Now it flooded the room, filling the corners, circling around her, no longer charming, but dark and forbidding. And if he intended his cool raking gaze to intimidate her, he was succeeding admirably.
Clearly issuing orders wasn’t the most sensible thing she’d ever done, but calm good sense seemed to have gone the way of her courage. She edged closer to the window, widening the distance between them. The open window provided a measure of air and dropped straight to the sea.
‘I—I am sure you are a busy man.’ She gestured at his desk. ‘You must have courses to plot. Orders to give. I will be in the way.’
He tilted his head on one side. ‘True.’
Thank heaven. He might be a pirate—no, a privateer, no point in insulting him again—but he seemed reasonably intelligent. ‘I am glad we agree. Would you care to direct me?’ She headed for the door, passing within inches of his broad-shouldered frame. Close enough for a quick glance to take in the long dark lashes framing his vivid eyes and trickles of water from his bath coursing from his hairline into his beard.
Up close, he seemed impossibly large. And very male. And far too handsome. With a wince at her wayward thoughts, she turned the door handle and pulled it open. It jerked out of her hand and slammed shut with a bang.
Above her head one large hand lay flat on the panel. Damn. She whirled around, back to the door. His chest, encased in an embroidered cream waistcoat over a pristine white shirt, hemmed her in.
‘No,’ he said, his expression implacable.
‘No?’
‘No. I do not care to escort you. Not yet, anyway.’
‘My brother is injured. You must take me to him.’ Hating the shake in her voice, she locked her gaze with his, and instantly regretted it. The eyes fixed on hers blazed hot.
And then he smiled. It didn’t make him look friendly, just wolfish, as if he’d scented something tasty. ‘More orders, Miss Fulton?’
Her heart gave an uncomfortable thump. ‘A request.’
‘A barely civil request. You could try being a little more polite.’ His deep voice ran over her skin like liquid honey. His chest rose and fell inches from her cotton bodice. Warmth permeated her skin. She inhaled the scent of ocean and soap. Clean and very male. Intoxicating.
Best not to notice his scent. Or how close he stood. Or the rapid beat of her pulse.
He placed his other hand flat on the door, framing her head within white linen shirtsleeves beneath which lay the bone and muscle she’d admired earlier in the day.
Her stomach gave a slow lazy roll. Her heart stuttered as if seeking a new rhythm. ‘How is your arm?’
Lord, what made her say that? She didn’t care about his arm. Would he think it an appeal for gratitude?
‘Almost as good as new.’ He flashed a smug grin. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘I wish I had chopped it off when I had the chance.’ Her stomach clenched at her rudeness, but she forced herself to meet his gaze without a blink.
He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze raking her face as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard aright. He ducked his head, pressed his mouth to hers.
Retribution. Punishment. Anger. All these things his mouth relayed through her lips. And something else. Something reckless and wild that made her insides tighten. Hunger.
She whipped her head aside. He caught her nape, held her fast, his mouth softening, teasing, wooing.
Her heart pounded. Her breathing became shallow. Her insides liquefied. She was melting from the inside out. She lifted her hands to push him away. They hovered above his chest, trembling, fingers curling with longing to touch and knowing it would be fatal.
The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Her eyelids drooped as wonderful warmth rolled over her skin.
Wickedness. Her body glowed with it. Her pulse fluttered with a longing she shouldn’t even be aware of. Her lips parted to his teasing.
His tongue tangled with hers. A thrill exploded low in her abdomen. A small moan rose up in her throat.
He pulled away and gazed at her with gleaming eyes, his chest rising and falling with rapid intakes of breath. A sensual smile curved his lips.
Easy virtue. That was what his smile said. Wanton. As if he knew. He couldn’t. Not from just a kiss. ‘Get away from me,’ she snapped, only too aware of her own humiliating shortness of breath.
He let his arms fall to his sides and straightened, looking a little surprised. ‘Perhaps you’ll have more care with your words in future. Then I won’t feel the need to stem the tide.’
She didn’t want to talk to him at all. She dodged beneath his arm, and scuttled ignominiously across the room, jerking around to face him when she reached the far side. To her relief, he made no move to follow. ‘I wish to go to my brother.’
He cocked a brow.
Her heartbeat slowed and she felt more like herself. ‘If you please,’ she said regally.
He leaned against the doorpost, folding his arms over that broad expanse of very male chest and observed her with narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t please. Sit down, Miss Fulton. We need to have a conversation.’
‘What can you and I possibly have to discuss?’
‘Your future and that of your companions.’ His voice was flat and hard and full of confident power.
Her stomach dipped, but she kept her expression calm. ‘Very well.’ She marched to the only other chair in the room apart from the one behind the desk. She perched on its edge, folding her hands in her lap, praying he wouldn’t see how she shook inside and pinned an afternoon-tea-with-strangers smile on her lips. ‘What are your plans?’
‘It depends on you.’
‘How?’
He pursed his mobile mouth as if deciding how to deliver bad news.
Looking into his eyes was like watching the ever-changing ocean. If eyes were the windows to the soul, his had turned the colour of storms at sea, the cold grey-green of the Atlantic in winter.
The cold crept into her blood.
He pushed off from the doorway and stalked to his desk. He perched one lean hip on the corner. Once more he was far too close for comfort. She squashed the urge to flee.
‘We might as well be civil,’ he said. ‘May I offer you some refreshment after your ordeal?’
Now he would play the gentleman? And would she submit meekly? Play the polite lady? ‘No, thank you.’
‘You won’t mind if I do?’ He reached down, clearly not caring if she minded or not, and opened a drawer. He pulled out a bottle and glass, poured a measure into the goblet and returned the bottle to the drawer. Every movement was elegant, unhurried, yet rife with leashed power.
It was all she could do to simply draw breath and sit unmoving beneath his cool stare.
‘To the Fultons.’ He grimaced and swallowed a long draught as if to remove the taste of her name from his tongue.
One booted foot swung as he observed her over the rim of his goblet. She’d never seen such long, muscular legs displayed to such heart-stopping effect. Oh, no! How could she be impressed by this an awful man? The problem was, he was too dreadfully handsome and his kisses were like a drug to her senses.
She pressed her lips together. Let him speak what was on his mind. It worked in business. It would work with him too.
‘Why were you on board?’ he finally asked. ‘You and your brother?’
If it wasn’t too strange to contemplate, she might have thought the note in his voice was gloating. ‘I was visiting a friend in Lisbon. My brother loves the sea. It was a treat for him, before he goes to school.’
‘A spree? With a war on?’ He shook his head. ‘Your father must care very little for your safety.’
‘If it wasn’t for men like you, our safety wouldn’t be an issue.’