The Prize

Virginia grimaced, terribly uneasy. She hated being in his quarters, surrounded by his personal effects. Worse, it bothered her to no end that the appointments were far more elegant than those of her own home. She walked over to the bed, ignoring it, but helplessly wondering where she was going to sleep. There were some folded garments on one shelf—she saw what she thought were drawers and stockings. There was a mirror, a razor, a thick shaving brush, a toothbrush and a gold-engraved porcelain bowl. There were also several candles in sterling-silver holders.

Dismay somehow joined the unease.

On the higher shelf were dictionaries: French-English, Spanish-English, German-English, Italian-English, Portuguese-English and Russian-English. And then there were two small, tattered books, one on common phrases in the Arabic language, the other Chinese.

Was her captor educated? He’d had a heavy Irish brogue, but he’d also had the airs of an aristocrat. In fact, he hadn’t appeared at all the way she would expect a pirate to appear—he hadn’t been toothless, smelly and dirty—except for the blood. It crossed her mind that he had been clean-shaven, too.

She couldn’t stand it. The cabin, filled with his presence, now threatened to suffocate her. She rushed to the door and tried it, expecting to find it locked. To her shock, it opened instantly.

She wasn’t locked in.

The door ajar, she peered out and saw that the preparations on the Americana were almost complete. A new mainsail was being unfurled, which meant only one thing—the ship would soon begin to sail. If only she could manage to get back on board, she thought.

She stepped out of the cabin. It was growing later in the afternoon now and a swift breeze had picked up, chilling her more thoroughly. She shivered, shading her eyes with one hand and gazing out at the Americana. No dinghy remained tied to its side, so even if she could have thought of a way to get back over to the other ship, it was too late; the ships were casting off.

Cautiously, Virginia glanced around. Men were climbing the masts, unfurling some sails, reefing others, and other men were hoisting a huge anchor. No one seemed to be aware of her presence.

She hesitated, then saw him on the quarterdeck. Virginia stilled. He was obviously giving orders. The strong wind was now blowing strands of his hair wildly about, even though he wore it tied back, and it was also causing his billowing and still-bloody shirt to collapse against his torso, defining ridge after ridge and plane after plane of muscle. His presence was commanding. Far too commanding for him to be some farmer-turned-pirate. The man was an aristocrat, she decided instantly, an aristocrat gone bad.

He saw her and across a vast distance, he stared.

Virginia found it hard to breathe.

A moment later he put his back to her. The Defiance suddenly bolted as if it were a horse let out of a starting gate. Virginia was thrown back against the outside wall of the cabin.

Gus appeared. “Captain asks that you stay below, Miss Hughes,” he said, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“Then why doesn’t he lock the door?” she asked tartly.

“Please go inside, Miss Hughes. Captain’s orders,” he insisted, crimson-cheeked once again.

“Gus!” she snapped, gripping his wrist. “I don’t care what he’s ordered, as he is not my captain!”

Gus blinked and, for one moment, regarded her with disbelief.

She felt a tiny surge of triumph. “Please look at me when you address me. I am not a door or a post.”

He flushed and looked away. “Captain’s orders, miss.”

“Damn your murdering captain! Damn him to hell—which is where I have no doubt he will one day end up, far sooner than later!” Virginia cried.

Gus dared to glance at her again. “Wind’s changed. Storm’s coming. Please go inside or I am ordered to take you in.”

Virginia made a distinctly unladylike sound, very much a snort, and she stormed into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind her. She waited to hear a padlock being put in place, but she heard nothing at all. But they were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and there was, quite simply, nowhere for her to go.

She would escape in Portsmouth.

Virginia sat down hard on one of the dining room chairs, filled with sudden excitement. They were but a day away, if she understood correctly. Surely she could keep the lecherous captain at bay for an entire day—and surely, in the next twenty-four hours, she could come up with a plan.

And Portsmouth was in Britain. Somehow she would find a way to get from Portsmouth to London, where she was certain her uncle was expecting her.

Hope filled her. So did relief.

Virginia finally faced the fact that she had nothing to do other than plot and plan. She was freezing, though, and she eyed her valise. She was afraid to change. She was afraid of being caught in a state of undress by the captain. Rubbing her hands together, she decided to focus on planning her escape.

Within minutes, her mind slowed and dimmed and her eyes became heavy, refusing to stay open. Finally, her head fell onto her arms and she was asleep.

“SIR. SHE’S GONE BELOW,” Gus said.

Devlin allowed his first mate to handle the ship’s helm but he stood beside him, studying the racing clouds, the graying light, acutely aware of the sudden drop in temperature. A gale was blowing in and his every instinct, honed by eleven years at sea, told him it would be a nasty one.

There was still time, however, before he needed to reef in the topsails. Now he hoped to outrun the storm, although doing so was pushing them off course.

And the girl was in his cabin. A pair of huge violet eyes, angry and outraged, assailed his mind’s eye. They were set in a small, finely formed face. Dismissing the unwanted images, he glanced at Gus, who was blushing. “Give you a hard time, did she?” He could not help but find Gus’s discomfort amusing.

Gus hesitated. “She’s very brave for such a small lady, sir.”

He turned away with a grunt. Brave? That was an understatement. Her huge violet eyes had been disturbing him ever since he had had the misfortune to finally meet the Earl of Eastleigh’s American niece. He didn’t know whether to be truly amused by her antics, or genuinely furious with her lack of respect and subordination. The girl was as small as a child of thirteen, but he was a fine judge of character and she had the courage of ten grown men. Not that he cared. She was a hostage and a means to an end.

He had been expecting a refined lady with equally refined airs, a fully grown and experienced woman like Elizabeth, a woman he might consider bedding just to sweeten the pot. He had not anticipated a pint-size hellion who would try to murder him with a sniper shot and then had dared attack him again, this time with the butt of a pistol.

It was not amusing. Devlin stalked to the side of the quarterdeck, raising spyglasses to his eyes. A heavy feeling simmered in the pit of his loins, dangerous and hot, and it was the seed of a huge, terrible lust.

His mouth twisted mirthlessly as he gazed through the binoculars. Fucking Eastleigh’s niece was a terrible temptation. The savage blood lust smoldering in him felt far greater than any lust he’d ever experienced before, perhaps because the girl was just that, more child than woman, making the act even more vicious and brutal. He knew it would add to the triumph of his revenge. But he hadn’t lied when he had said he did not rape and neither did his men. It was not allowed. He was a man, not a monster. He had, in fact, been raised by both his mother, his father and his stepfather to be a gentleman. And he supposed that when he infrequently attended a ball or affair of state, it was assumed that he was just that. But he was not. No gentleman could ever triumph on the high seas, not in war and not in peace. No gentleman could amass a real fortune by seizing prize after prize. His crew would never obey a gentleman. Still, ruining an eighteen-year-old virgin was simply not an option, even if he was intrigued enough to be thinking about it.

He set the binoculars down. Her reputation would be tattered enough when he finally delivered her to Eastleigh. He didn’t care. Why should he? She meant nothing to him. And if he learned that Eastleigh was fond of her, then he would be even more pleased to present her with a shredded reputation. As for his own reputation, it was very simple—he didn’t give a damn and he never had.

He had been talked about behind his back for most of his life. As a small boy, before his father’s murder, their neighbors used to whisper with a mixture of pity and respect that he should have been The O’Neill one day, like his ancestors before him. Then they would whisper about his family’s current state of destitution—or about his father’s love affairs. Gerald had been a good husband, but like many men, he had not been entirely faithful. And the whispers had not stopped after Gerald’s murder. There were more whispers then, more stares, mostly unkind and accusatory. They whispered about his family’s conversion to Protestantism, they whispered about his mother’s love for her new husband, and then they dared to whisper about his real paternity. With stiff shoulders, his cheeks aflame, Devlin had ignored them all.

Now the rumors were spread in society by the English lords and ladies there. They bowed to him with the utmost deference, but their whispers were hardly different. They called him a hero to his face, and a rogue, a scoundrel and a pirate behind his back, even as they foisted their pretty, unwed, wealthy daughters upon him at the balls they invited him to.

And he wasn’t worried about his naval career, either. It was a career that had served him well but it was also one that he was ambivalent about. His life was the wind and the sea, his ship and his crew—of that, there was no doubt. Should his naval career end prematurely, he would still sail the high seas, just differently. He felt no loyalty and no love for his British masters, but he was a patriot—he would do anything for his country, Ireland.

Devlin was very aware that he had failed to follow his orders once again. In fact, he had done more than fail to follow them, he had actually flagrantly violated them. But the Admiralty needed him more than they wanted his head; besides, he would see that this new game with Eastleigh was conducted fashionably, discreetly and with the semblance of honor. Eastleigh had no wish for scandal, and Devlin knew he would keep the abduction and ransom of his niece a very private affair. He intended to conclude it as swiftly as possible—after he toyed with Eastleigh just a bit.

And Devlin smiled at the darkening sky.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW MUCH time had passed or how long he’d stood there in the growing dusk, staring at her as she slept. But suddenly Virginia was awake, and as she lifted her head, he was the first thing that she saw.

She gasped, sitting upright, riveted by an odd glitter in his eyes. Devlin didn’t move. He stood in front of the closed door as if he had just entered the cabin.

Virginia leapt to her feet. Her clothes remained damp and wet and that told her she’d slept for just a short time. “How long were you standing there?” she demanded.

His gaze slipped from her eyes to her breasts. Quickly, they returned to her eyes, and then he moved across the cabin, past her. “Not long.” His reply was cool and indifferent.

Virginia hugged herself, flushing. Had that man just ogled her bosom? She had no bosom, and the cabin was too small for the two of them. “I thought this was my cabin now.”

He was opening the closet door. He turned toward her, his expression mild and inscrutable. “It is.”

“Then you should leave.”

Now he fully faced her. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the tongue of a shrew?”

“And you are rude. This cabin is too small for the both of us and…” She faltered, finally looking at his wet, bloody shirt. It clung to interesting angles and planes. “You smell.”

“For your edification, Miss Hughes, this is my cabin and you are in it as my guest. You did not change your clothes. Why?”

She blinked, his sudden change of topic taking her by surprise. “I don’t wish to change my clothes,” she said warily.

“You like the appearance of a drowned cat?” His dark brows lifted. “Or is it the cold you enjoy?”

“Thank you for the flattery—and the sarcasm.”

He sighed. “Miss Hughes, you will catch pneumonia if you do not get out of those garments. My intention is not for you to die.”

She jumped at the cue. “What is your intention?”

His expression changed and it was clear he was now annoyed. He half turned and before she could make a sound, he had pulled his bloody shirt over his head, letting it drop on the floor.

She backed away until she hit the door. “What in God’s name are you doing?” she cried, her gaze riveted on broad, naked shoulders and a glimpse of an equally broad, rock-hard chest.

She looked lower. His belly was flat and tight, with interesting lines, and then it began to ripple. She quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks had warmed.

“I have the good sense to change my clothes,” he returned evenly, forcing her gaze to his.

She met a pair of pale gray eyes and knew she should not have stared. Her spirits sank stunningly, with real dismay. The face of a god, the body of a warrior. She had seen a few men without their shirts before at Sweet Briar, but somehow, a glimpse of Frank’s naked chest had never distressed her in such a way.

Of course, at Sweet Briar, she wasn’t being held a prisoner against her will, in such a small, confined space with her captor. “This cabin is too small for us both,” she repeated, aware of her racing heartbeat.

He held a new, clean shirt in his hands, but he didn’t move. In fact, had she not seen the rise and fall of his very sculpted chest, she would have thought him to be a lifelike statue. Slowly he said, “You are repeating yourself.”

Her shivering abruptly ceased as their gazes locked. The cabin had become hot. It had also become airless.

His face was taut. “You are staring again.”

She somehow looked away. “You could have asked me to step outside,” she managed, carefully looking at the floor.

“I hadn’t realized a man’s chest would be so fascinating,” he said bluntly.

Her gaze flew up. His back was to her now, encased in fine white lawn, but he was pulling one Hessian boot off, and then another. As he reached into the closet, Virginia glimpsed a sparkle of gold, and then a pair of clean, cream-colored britches were in his hands.

She didn’t speak. She whirled, about to dash out the door.

He crossed the space of the cabin in a heartbeat and placed a hand on the door, preventing her from opening it. “You cannot go out on deck that way.”

His arm was over her shoulder and she felt the presence of his large body just behind hers. She couldn’t turn around to face him because if she did she would be in his arms. “I am not going to watch you undress,” she said, and her tone sounded odd and rough.

“I am not asking you to watch, Miss Hughes. I apologize. I have forgotten how innocent a woman of eighteen is.”

Virginia froze. Was he now playing the part of a gentleman? Disbelief warred with a vast confusion.

In that endless moment, she became aware of the heat actually emanating from his body, as only inches separated them. Abruptly he dropped his hand from the door and stepped back.

Slowly, Virginia turned around.

He still held the clean britches in his hand. He broke the silence. Tersely, he said, “Look the other way. I will be done in a moment and then you may change your gown.”

“I prefer to step outside—” she began.

“Good God, woman! Will you dispute my every word? Your gown is indecent.” He raked a gaze over her bosom and stalked away, unfastening his britches as he did so.

It was a moment before she comprehended his words. Virginia looked down and was utterly chagrined. The wet silk of her gown and chemise molded her small breasts, enhanced by her corset, and clearly defined each erect nipple, the entire effect so revealing that no one could be in any doubt as to the size or state of her anatomy. No wonder he had stared. She might as well have been naked. She was mortified.

Cloth rustled.

Virginia looked and glimpsed far more than she should have—high, hard buttocks, muscled thighs and calves—and she reversed, facing the door, breathing harshly against the wood. Suddenly she wanted to cry.

She had been as brave as she could be for an interminable amount of time, but her courage was failing her now. She had to get to London, she had to beg her uncle for pity and the payment of her debts. Instead, she was on board a pirate ship, in a pirate’s cabin, a pirate who at times spoke like an aristocrat, a pirate who exuded such seductive virility that she was, for the first time ever in her life, aware of her own body in an entirely different way than ever before. How had this happened? How?

He was her enemy. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. She hated him passionately—and she must not ever find a single inch of him interesting, intriguing or fascinating.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, suddenly behind her again.

Virginia fought the tears back, nodding and stepping aside while refusing to look at him. She was aware of him hesitating and staring at her. She walked over to her bag and made a show of finding new garments, praying he hadn’t seen a single tear. Finally, she heard the door close.

She sank onto the floor by her valise and wept.

THE WIND BLEW STRONG and hard behind them. Devlin had taken the helm, as if that would make everything right again. Gripping it with the ease of one who could steer a huge ship in his sleep, he focused on the task at hand—outrunning the storm chasing them.

“Will we make it?” a quiet voice asked from behind just as a pair of moist violet eyes invaded his mind.

Devlin relaxed, relieved by the interruption. He glanced at the ship’s surgeon, a small, portly man with thick sideburns and curling gray hair. “It’s fifty-fifty,” he responded. “I’ll know in the next fifteen minutes.”

Jack Harvey folded his arms across his chest and gazed up at the inky, starless sky. “What is this hostage-taking business, Devlin?”

Devlin stared into the gray horizon. “My own mad affair, I’m afraid.”

“Who is she?”

“Does it matter?”

“I caught a glimpse of her on board the Americana. She’s a young lady. I smell a ransom. I don’t know why. You’ve never ransomed a woman before.”

“There’s always a first time,” Devlin said, having no intention of telling the good surgeon anything at all. “How are the wounded?”

“Brinkley is dying, but I’ve given him laudanum and he doesn’t know it. Buehler and Swenson will make it. Does she need medical attention?”

Devlin became irritated. “She needs a gag, but no, she does not need medical attention.”

Jack Harvey raised both bushy brows in surprise. Then he said, “She’s a beautiful wild thing, isn’t she? Good God, the men are talking about how she tried to shoot you! She—”

“Reams!” Devlin snapped. “Take the helm. Stay true to course.” He jammed a finger at the compass heading and stalked across the quarterdeck. He did not know why he was suddenly very annoyed and angry.

“I take it you are not inviting me to join you for a bite of supper before we face the winds of hell?” Harvey called out to his back.

Devlin didn’t bother answering. But it was now or never—if the storm caught them, he needed a full belly and all of his strength.

Had she been crying when he left the cabin?

Not that he cared. Women used tears for the sole purpose of manipulation—he had learned that long ago. As he didn’t care about any woman to begin with, tears had no effect on him.

He opened the cabin door and saw Virginia seated at his table, which was set with silver and fine crystal and a covered platter, from which savory aromas were wafting. Her posture was terribly erect, her hands were clasped in her lap and two bright pink spots blotched her cheeks. Her gaze, which seemed wild, clashed with his.

He straightened, closing the door, sensing a battle’s first blow.

She smiled and it was as cold as ice. “I wondered when you would return…Captain.”

Delight tingled in his veins. How he loved a good war. He intended to enjoy this one. “I hadn’t realized you were pining for my company,” he said with a courtly inclination of his head.

“I only pine for your head—on that silver serving platter,” she said, as regally as if she were England’s queen.

He wanted to smile. He nearly did. Instead, he approached cautiously and saw the fury in her eyes. “I fear to disappoint you. My chef is French. I have far better fare on that platter.”

“Then I shall wait patiently for a better day, when the dinner I truly desire is served,” she almost spat.

He refused to chuckle. “You do not strike me as a patient woman, Miss Hughes, and as I doubt the day you seek will come for a good many years, what will you do instead of waiting?”

“You’re right. I have no patience, none at all! Rogue!” she cried.

He almost laughed. “Bastard” was more like it. “Have I somehow offended you, Miss Hughes?”

Her laughter was brittle. “You murder innocent Americans, you abduct me, take me prisoner, strip in front of me, ogle my breasts and ask me if I am offended? Hah,” she said.

He reached for the bottle of red wine. “May I?” he asked, about to pour into her glass.

She leapt to her feet. “You’re an officer!” she shouted, and he tensed, thinking she intended to strike him. But she only added in another shout, “In the British navy!”

He set the bottle down and swept her a mocking bow. “Sir Captain Devlin O’Neill, at your service, Miss Hughes.”

She was trembling with rage, he saw. He decided to give in to lechery and admire her perfect breasts. “Stop leering,” she hissed. “You have committed criminal acts. Atrocious criminal acts! Explain yourself, Captain, sir!”

He gave up. This woman dared to order him. It was the single truly entertaining moment of his life. She was on his ship, in his command and she ordered him about. He laughed.

Virginia froze, startled by the brief eruption of that rough sound, with its oddly raw tone. Then, still furious at his deception, and worse, at what clearly was not the dire predicament she had thought herself to be in, she snapped, “I am waiting for an explanation, Captain.”

He shook his head and looked at her. Very softly, he asked, “Are you not afraid of me?”

She hesitated. What kind of question was this?

“Be truthful,” he said, as if in earnest.

“You terrify me,” she heard herself say, her pulse quickening. Then she amended, “You have terrified me, and all for naught, damn it!”

His brows lifted. “Ladies do not curse.”

“I don’t care. Besides, I have not been treated like a lady, now have I?”

He gave her a very odd, long look. “Another man would have had you in that bed—where you belong. But you are hardly there, are you?”

She went still. Alarm filled her. Alarm and such a forceful heartbeat she could no longer breathe. “I har—I har—I hardly belong in your bed!” she stammered. Terrible images of her there, with him, in his powerful arms, assailed her.

“A slip of the tongue.” His brows, darker than his hair, lifted. “I agree. Skinny women tend to be exceedingly uncomfortable.”

She almost gasped again. Then she cried, “I am only fourteen, sir! You would take a child to your bed?”

His gaze slammed to hers.

She wet her lips. She was perspiring and she desperately needed him to believe her now.

His jaw flexed. His gaze narrowed with speculation, causing her heart to lurch with dread. “This is a dangerous game you play, Miss Hughes,” he said softly.

“It is no game!”

“Indeed? Then explain to me the fact of your passage, alone and without chaperone, aboard the Americana?”