The Prize

Tyrell de Warenne, heir to the earldom of Adare and Devlin’s stepbrother, strode down the path to meet him. Like his father, Ty was tall and swarthy with midnight-black hair and extremely dark blue eyes. The two men, as different as night and day, embraced.

“This is a very pleasant surprise,” Devlin said, pleased to see his stepbrother. It made the homecoming to which he was so indifferent suddenly inviting.

“Sean told me you were on your way home, and as I have had some affairs to see to in town, I decided to stop by the mansion to see if you were here yet. My timing is impeccable, I see.” Tyrell grinned. He was darkly, dangerously handsome and had had many love affairs to prove it.

“For once,” Devlin retorted as they strolled up to the terrace. “How is my mother? The earl?”

“They are fine, as usual, and wondering when you will come home,” Tyrell said with a pointed glance.

Devlin pushed open French doors and entered a huge and elegantly appointed salon, choosing to ignore that particular subject. “I have just accepted a tour of duty in the North Atlantic,” he said. “It is unofficial, of course, as I have yet to receive my orders.”

Tyrell gripped his shoulder and Devlin had to face him. “Admiral Farnham is in a rage over the Lady Anne, Dev. Everywhere I go, I am hearing about it. In fact, even Father has heard that Farnham plots against you. I thought this was your last tour.” His gaze was dark and frankly accusing.

Devlin moved to a bell pull, but his butler had already materialized, smiling as if pleased to see him. Devlin knew the Englishman detested having an Irishman as his overlord; it amused him, enough so that he had kept Eastleigh’s staff when he had bought the mansion. “Benson, my good man, do bring us some refreshments and a fine bottle of red wine.”

Then Devlin turned back to his stepbrother. Like the rest of his family, Tyrell thought he spent far too much time at sea and there was a general effort being made to convince him to resign his commission. “I am being offered a knighthood, Ty.”

Briefly Tyrell stared in surprise; then he was smiling, smacking Devlin’s back. “That is fine news,” he said. “Damned fine!”

“Materialist that I am, I could not refuse the opportunity.”

Tyrell studied him for a moment. “A storm gathers behind your back. You need to take care, Dev. I don’t think Eastleigh has forgiven you for your purchase of this house. Tom Hughes has been lobbying around the Admiralty for a general court-martial,” he said. “And he spreads nasty rumors about you.”

Devlin raised a brow. “I really don’t care what he says.”

“I have heard it said that he has accused you of using vast discretion with French privateers—that is, allowing some to slip through your net for a hefty sum. That kind of gossip could hurt your career—and you, personally,” Tyrell warned.

“If I’m not worried, why should you be?” Devlin asked calmly, but he thought of Thomas Hughes, who had never even been to sea, except on a fancy flagship where he and the admiral and other officers lived in state. Nonetheless, Hughes held the very same rank as Devlin, though Devlin knew the man could not sail a toy boat on a park lake. In fact, Lord Captain Hughes spent all of his time fawning over and playing up to the various admirals with whom he served. Devlin was well aware of the fact that Tom despised him, and it amused him to no end. He did wish he had wounded him that one time when they had dueled over the whore. “I am not afraid of Tom Hughes,” he said dryly.

Tyrell sighed as Benson returned with two manservants, each bearing a silver tray with refreshments. Both men were quiet as a small table overlooking the grounds and the river was quickly set. Benson bowed. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

“No, thank you,” Devlin said. When the servants had left, he handed his stepbrother a glass of wine and walked over to the windows overlooking the terrace. He stared out the window, not particularly enjoying the view.

It was impossible not to think about Askeaton.

Tyrell followed him to the picture window. As if reading Devlin’s mind, he said, “You haven’t been home in six years.”

Devlin knew the last time he had been home, he knew it to the day and hour, but he smiled and feigned surprise. “Has it been that long?”

“Why? Why do you avoid your own home, Dev? Damn it, everyone misses you. And while Sean does a fine job of managing Askeaton, we both know you would do even better.”

“I am hardly at liberty to cruise up to Ireland whenever the urge overtakes me,” Devlin murmured. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but he was avoiding the question and they both knew it. The truth was he could sail up the Irish coast almost any time he chose.

“You are a strange man,” Tyrell said sharply. “And I am not the only one who worries about you.”

“Tell Mother I am more than fine. I captured an American merchantman carrying gold to a Barbary prince, a ransom for their hostages,” Devlin said smoothly. “With my share of the booty, I could ransom a hostage or two myself.”

“You should tell her yourself,” Tyrell said flatly.

Devlin turned away. He missed Askeaton terribly, but he had learned in the past years that his home was a place to be avoided at all costs. For there, the memories were too volatile; there, they threatened to consume him; there, the boy still lived.

A FEW HOURS LATER, pleasantly relaxed from an abundance of wine, Devlin started upstairs, Tyrell having gone to the Adare town home in Mayfair. His private rooms took up an entire wing of the second floor; upon possession of the house, he had gutted the master suite completely, as if gutting the Earl of Eastleigh himself. He strolled through one pretty parlor after another, past vases and artwork others had chosen, past a piano that was never played, aware that not one item in the house—other than his books—gave him pleasure. But he hadn’t bought the house for pleasure. He had bought it for a single purpose—revenge.

A maid met him on the threshold of his bedroom. She was flushed and perspiring, a pretty thing with brown hair and pale skin, and briefly Devlin thought of inviting her into his bed. But she turned a brighter shade of crimson upon espying him and then fled past him and down the hall with a gasp.

Devlin glanced after her, amused and wondering what had caused such a swift retreat. Had his intentions been that obvious? He was horny, certainly, but not aroused.

And then he entered the master bedroom and understood.

A blond Venus arose from the midst of his massive bed, a sheer undergarment caressing and revealing full, billowy breasts with large dusky nipples, round, lush hips, plump thighs and a dark ruby-red delta between.

Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes smiled at him. “I received your message and came as soon as I could.”

His loins filled as he looked at her. She belonged to his mortal enemy, a man he was slowly but surely wreaking his vengeance upon, and she aroused him as no other woman could.

Elizabeth was very pretty, and now her green eyes moved directly to his swollen groin. “You are in need of attention, Captain,” she murmured.

He moved forward, red-hot blood filling his brain, removing his shirt as he did so. With the raging blood came raging lust—blood lust—savage and uncontrolled. The beast always chose this moment to walk the earth. Devlin mounted her as he mounted the bed, pushing her down, unfastening his britches, thrusting his massive hardness inside.

Elizabeth cried out in pleasure, already hot and wet. He moved as hard and fast as he could, images of Eastleigh filling his mind, gray of hair, fatter and fifty now, and then fourteen years ago, slimmer, younger, crueler. His hatred knew no bounds. It mingled with the lust. His mouth found hers and he thrust there deeply, hurtfully, grinding against her, until he had become the beast itself. Elizabeth never knew. She gripped his sweat-slickened back, keening wildly in her ecstasy.

He wanted to release himself, too, but the hatred, the pleasure and the lust were so great and so satisfying that he refused, pounding deeper, harder, but ugly memories rode him now as he rode her…ugly, bloody glimpses of a dark and terrible past, rising fast and furious—a small boy, a headless man, a severed head, sightless eyes, a pool of blood.

He forgot the woman he rode as the wave preceding his climax, a wave of intense, growing pleasure, turned into one of anger and pain, and he was swept forward, against all will, a wave that now unfurled like a topsail, hard and fast. Behind that wave the memories chased him. His father’s furious, sightless eyes accused him now. You let me die, you let me die. Devlin sought now only to escape, and when he climaxed, he did just that.

There was no moment of peace, no moment of relief. Instantly he was conscious, aware of the woman he lay upon, aware of the man he was cuckolding—aware of the gruesome memories that he now must bury, at all cost. Devlin flipped over, away from the countess, breathing harshly. In that instant a painfully familiar emptiness emanated from deep within him and consumed him entirely. It was so huge, so hollow, so vast.

Devlin leapt to his feet.

“Good Lord, one would think you’d been without for an entire year,” Elizabeth murmured with a satisfied sigh. Then she eyed him with a small, pleased smile, her gaze lingering on his narrow hips and muscled thighs.

Naked, Devlin hurried across the bedroom, hardly aware of her words, quickly pouring a glass of wine. He downed it in a gulp, shaken, as always, by the memories he had vowed never to forget. He drained the glass and fought the beast until it finally returned to its lair.

“Nothing ever changes, does it, Devlin?” the countess asked, sitting up.

He poured another glass of wine and approached her, aware of his manhood stirring. Her gaze moved to his groin and she smiled. “You are becoming terribly predictable, Devlin.”

“I could change that easily enough,” he remarked casually, handing her the wine. As he did, he paused to admire her breasts. “You haven’t changed,” he added.

“And you remain a gentleman, in spite of your reputation,” she said, but she was smiling and pleased. “I’m a year older, a bit fatter and lustier than ever.”

“You haven’t changed,” he said firmly, but now he noticed the slight wrinkles at her eyes and the equally slight thickening of her waist. Elizabeth was several years his senior, although he wasn’t really certain of her age—he had never cared enough to learn what it might be. She had two adolescent daughters, and he thought, but wasn’t sure, that the eldest was fourteen or fifteen. Neither daughter belonged to Eastleigh.

“Darling, would it ever be possible for you to lie quietly by my side?” she asked, setting her glass down and stroking his inner thigh.

He hardened like a shot. “I have never pretended to be anything but what I am with you. I am not a quiet man.”

“No, you are His Majesty’s Pirate, for that is what I hear you called from time to time, when your exploits become dinner conversation.” Her hand drifted upward, its back brushing his phallus as she toyed with his thigh.

“How boring those dinners must be.” He couldn’t care less what he was called, but he didn’t bother to say so. The countess loved to chat idly after their various bouts of lovemaking. She had been the source of much of his information about Eastleigh for the past six years, so he usually encouraged her chatter.

Now she murmured, “I have missed you, Dev.”

There was simply nothing to be said; he took her hand and placed it firmly on his swollen shaft. “Show me,” he said.

“Spoken like a true commander,” she said hoarsely, lowering her head.

He hadn’t meant to give an order, but it was his nature now. He didn’t move, waiting patiently for her to nibble and lick him, watching her dispassionately as she did so. One day Eastleigh would learn of their affair—he had only to decide which moment to choose.

Suddenly she lifted her head and smiled up at him. “Will you ever tell me that you have missed me, too?”

Devlin tensed. “Elizabeth, there is a better time for discussion.”

“Is there? The only time we are together is in moments like these. I wonder what beats beneath your chest? Sometimes, Dev, I do think your heart is cast of stone.”

His erection had been complete for some time, and talking was actually painful. But he said, “Have I ever made you any promises, Elizabeth?”

“No, you have not.” She sat up, facing him. “But it’s been six years, and oddly, I have become quite fond of you.”

He did not respond. He did not know what to say, for once in his life at a loss.

“I may be in love with you, Dev,” she said, her gaze riveted to his.

Devlin stared at her attractive face, a face as enticing as her body. He carefully considered his words. He felt nothing for her, not even friendship; she was a means to an end. But he didn’t dislike her—it was her husband whom he hated, not Elizabeth Hughes. He preferred for things to remain exactly as they were—he did not wish for her to be hurt, and not out of compassion. He was not a compassionate man. The world was a battlefield, and in battle, compassion was a prelude to death. He did not want to hurt Elizabeth only because she remained so useful to him; he wanted her at his disposal, on his terms, not hurt and angry and spiteful.

“That would not be wise,” he finally said.

“Can’t you just pretend?” she asked wistfully. “Lie to me, just once?”

He didn’t hesitate. He rubbed his thumb over her lips, ignoring the tear he had just glimpsed forming in her eye, and then he rubbed it lower, over her throat, her chest and, finally, a swelling nipple. His mouth followed in the path of his finger. Several moments later, they were once again entwined in frenzy, with Devlin pounding deeply and forcefully inside her.

Several hours later, Devlin tested the water in his hip bath and found it warm enough. Elizabeth was dressing; he climbed into the claw-footed tub and sank down into the tepid water. After months at sea, the temperature was very pleasant. He’d had enough climaxes so that now, finally, his mind remained a blessed blank and there were no monsters to defeat.

“Darling?”

Devlin jerked—he had dozed off in his bath. Elizabeth smiled at him, elegantly dressed in a sapphire-blue gown with black velvet trim. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have awoken you!” she exclaimed. “Devlin, you look so enticing in that bath, I could jump right in with you.”

He raised a brow. “Isn’t Eastleigh expecting you?”

She frowned. “We have supper plans, so yes, he is. I just wanted to tell you that I will be in town for another two weeks.”

He understood. She wished to see him again before he shipped out, but that was perfectly fine with him. “I haven’t received my official orders yet,” he said carefully, “so I do not know when my next tour begins.”

Her eyes brightened. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon?”

He smiled a little at her. “That would be fine, Elizabeth. Will Eastleigh also remain in town?” he asked. The question would seem innocent enough to her. After all, any lover would ask such a question.

“Fortunately, the answer to that is no, so perhaps we could even spend the night together.”

He chose not to respond to that. He had never allowed any woman to spend a night in his bed and he never would.

Her expression changed; she appeared annoyed. “I have been ordered to remain in London for a fortnight! It’s a miracle that you are here, too, so I should not be so put out, really.”

“Why?” he asked mildly.

“Eastleigh’s American niece is on her way to London. She is aboard the Americana and we expect her in the next ten days.”

He was mildly surprised. He hadn’t even known that there was a niece, much less an American one. He was very thoughtful. “You have never mentioned a distant relation before,” he said calmly.

Elizabeth shrugged. “I suppose there was no reason to do so, but now she is an orphan and she is coming here. Eastleigh intended for her to remain in a ladies’ school over there, but I imagine she thinks to latch on to our coattails. Oh, this is just what I do not need! Some uncouth colonial! And what if she is beautiful? She is eighteen, and Lydia is only sixteen! I have no interest in having an American orphan compete with my daughter for a husband, and by all rights, the colonial is the one who should be married off first!”

Well, now he knew how old Elizabeth’s eldest daughter was. He smiled slightly, wry. “I doubt she will outshine your daughters, Elizabeth, not if they are as beautiful as you.” His reply was an automatic one, as he was thinking now, hard and fast.

Eastleigh’s niece was on her way to Britain aboard an American ship. He was about to be given very specific orders to sail west to interfere with American trade there but not to harm any American ships. The niece was clearly unwanted and just as clearly she would soon be in his path.

Could he use this bit of information? Could he use her?

“Well, thank you for that!” Elizabeth said. “I am just annoyed at having to take her in. You know how pinched we’ve become these past few years. It has been one thing after another. We cannot afford to bring her out properly, Dev, and that is that!”

Devlin nodded. There was no guilt. He remained very thoughtful and it became obvious what he must do.

Eastleigh might not want the girl, but he wanted scandal even less. Oh, how he would enjoy pricking the fat earl one more time! He would seize the ship and take the girl and force Eastleigh to pay a ransom he could ill afford for a young woman he did not even want.

Devlin began to smile. His heart raced with excitement. This was a stroke of fortune too good to be true—and too good to be ignored.

CHAPTER THREE

Late May, 1812

The High Seas

THEY WERE BEING ATTACKED!

Virginia knelt upon her berth, her gaze glued to the cabin’s only porthole, gripping a strap for balance as the ship bucked wildly in response to the boom of more cannons than she could count. She was in shock.

It had all begun several hours ago. Virginia had been told that they were but a day away from the British coastline, and that, at any time, she might soon see a gull wheeling in the cloudy blue skies overhead. Soon afterward, a ship had appeared upon the horizon, just a dark, inauspicious speck.

That speck had grown larger. She was racing the wind—the Americana was tacking slowly across it—and it appeared that the two ships would soon cross paths.

Virginia had been taking sun on the ship’s single deck and had quickly become aware of a new tension in the American crew. The ship’s commander, an older man once a naval captain, had trained his binoculars upon the approaching vessel. It hadn’t taken Virginia long to realize they were worried about the identity of the approaching ship.

“Send up the blue-and-white signal flags,” Captain Horatio had said tersely.

“Sir? She’s flying the Stars and Stripes,” the young first officer had said.

“Good,” the captain had muttered. “She’s one of ours, then.”

But she wasn’t. The frigate had sailed within fifty yards of them, maneuvering herself to the leeward side so she rode below the Americana, when the red, white and blue American flag had disappeared, replaced by nothing at all. Virginia had been ordered below. The crew had scrambled to the ship’s ten guns. But Virginia hadn’t even made it to the ladder when a cannon had boomed once, loudly but harmlessly, the ball falling off to the side of the stern.

“Americana,” a voice boomed over the foghorn. “Close your gun ports and prepare to be boarded. This is the Defiance speaking.”

Virginia froze, clinging to the dark hatch that would take her below, glancing back at the other ship, a huge, dark, multimasted affair. Her gaze instantly found the treacherous captain. He stood on a higher, smaller deck, holding the horn, his hair blindingly bright, as gold as the sun, a tall, strong figure clad in white britches, Hessian boots and a loose white shirt. She stared at him, briefly mesmerized, unable to tear her gaze away, and for one moment she had a very peculiar feeling, indeed.

It was indescribable.

As if nothing would ever be sane or right again.

Time was suspended. She stared at the captain, a creature of the high seas, and then she blinked and there was only her wildly racing heart, filled with panic and fear.

“Hold your fire,” Captain Horatio cried. “Do not close the gun ports!”

“Captain!” the first officer cried with panic. “That’s O’Neill, the scourge of the seas. We can’t fight him!”

“I intend to try,” Horatio snapped.

Virginia realized there would be no surrender. She needed a gun.

She glanced wildly around as the captain of the Defiance repeated his demands that they surrender to be boarded. An interminable moment followed as the crew of the Americana hastily prepared to fire. And suddenly the sea changed. A huge blast of too many cannons to count sounded, the Defiance firing upon them. The placid seas swelled violently as the ship bucked and heaved, hit once or many times—Virginia could not know—and as someone screamed, she heard a terrible groaning above her.

She turned and glanced upward and cried out.

Horatio was yelling, “Fire!” but Virginia watched one of the Americana’s three masts and all its rigging toppling slowly over before crashing down on several gunners. Several cannons now fired again from the Defiance, but not in unison. Virginia didn’t hesitate. Lifting her skirts, she raced to the fallen men. Three were crushed and alive, one was apparently dead. She tried to heave the mast, but it was useless. She grabbed a pistol from the murdered sailor and ran back to the hatch that led below.

She could not breathe. She scrambled down and into the tiny cabin that she shared with the merchantman’s only passengers, a middle-aged couple. In the small, cramped and dark space below, Mrs. Davis was clutching her Bible, muttering soundlessly, her face stark with terror. Virginia had glimpsed Mr. Davis on deck, trying to help the wounded.

Virginia gripped her arm. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

The woman gazed at her with wild terror, clearly unable to hear her or respond.

More cannons boomed and Virginia heard wood being ripped apart as they were clearly hit again. Virginia leapt onto her narrow berth, grabbing a hanging strap for balance, and stared at the attacking ship through the porthole. The Americana lurched wildly, and she was almost tossed from the bunk.

How could this be happening? she wondered wildly, aghast. Who would attack an innocent, barely armed and neutral ship?

Mrs. Davis began to sob. Virginia listened to familiar prayers and wished the woman had remained silent.

What would happen next? What did that terrible captain want? Did he intend to sink the ship? But that would not make sense!

Her gaze moved instinctively back to the quarterdeck where he stood so motionlessly that he could have been a statue. He was staring, she knew, at the Americana, as intent as a hawk. What kind of man could be so merciless, so ruthless? Virginia shivered. Officer Grier had referred to him as the scourge of the seas.

Then she stiffened with real fear. The Defiance’s decks, a moment ago, had been frenzied with activity. Now the gunners at the cannons and the men in the masts were still. The only activity was a number of sailors climbing down into two rowboats that were tied to the frigate’s hull. Her gaze flew back to the captain with real horror; he was sending a boarding party.

Now the Americana had become eerily quiet. Virginia already thought that Captain Horatio would not surrender, and nor would she, if she were in command. She checked the pistol to find it primed and loaded.

“Dear Father who art in Heaven,” Mrs. Davis suddenly cried. “Have mercy on us all!”

Virginia could not stand it. She turned and seized the other woman’s arm savagely, shaking her hard. “God isn’t here today,” she cried. “And he sure as hell isn’t going to help us! We’re being boarded. They must be pirates. We are losing this battle, Mrs. Davis, and we had better hide.”