Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  “So,” he drawled, and shifted to sit on the edge of his desk, “you are valuable after all, Miss Angela. How interesting. Am I supposed to shout ‘Aha!’ and send a ransom note to your rich papa now?”

  “I hardly think—“

  “Don’t worry. I still don’t give tuppence for what your papa is worth, so all this acting is useless.” He uncoiled from his casual posture and moved to her, his action so swift that she had no time to retreat before he’d caught her by one arm. “Listen carefully,” he ground out, his face only inches from hers, so close that she could count each individual eyelash and view at close range the scar that curved from his left eyebrow to his cheek. “I detest females who manipulate those around them. I have no intention of keeping you aboard my ship any longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as we come to a safe harbor, I am putting you ashore. I don’t give a damn about recompense, only the vast relief I shall feel at knowing that I do not have to suffer you aboard my ship any longer. Is that clear enough?”

  It seemed that they had inadvertently stepped on his toes, and she tried to recall exactly what had provoked this reaction. Saber’s icy blue eyes were heated with hostility. She managed a nod, more disturbed than she would have liked to admit.

  “Good,” he said. “Do not treat me to any more of your ridiculous histrionics, or I may actually succumb to my growing desire to see you lashed to the shrouds.”

  Releasing her with a shove, Captain Saber turned to scoop up the map he’d spread out. He rolled it into a cylinder with swift, furious motions, then stalked from the cabin. The door slammed loudly behind him.

  Shaken, Angela stared after him. “What a moody individual,” she said after a moment, and then heard Emily’s soft sob. She flashed her a look of irritation. “Oh, do be quiet. At least we now know that he does not intend to sell us or hold us for ransom.” She frowned. “But he is a pirate. What does he consider a safe harbor, I wonder?”

  “Stupid, idiotic females,” Kit snarled, wresting Turk’s attention from his breakfast to his captain.

  Lifting a brow, Turk asked “Do I detect a singular note of hostility, Captain?”

  “Not a single note—a roaring symphony of hostility would more closely describe my emotions at this moment.”

  Kit flung the leather chart cylinder to the table and straddled a bench. Rigging creaked loudly in the rising wind. Two of the crew slanted wary glances at him as they finished their meal. Kit nodded curtly, then lapsed into seething silence until the men had left the mess room. He looked up at Turk.

  Turk eyed him speculatively. “I see that the regal Miss Angela has managed to arouse your ire early this morning.”

  “I would have done better to have sent Mr. Buttons to fetch the chart. As it is, I’ve already been accused of trafficking in slave trade, and possibly pandering. Not to mention abduction of an English gentlewoman who is, I’ve been informed, worth a great deal to her doting, rich papa.” Kit raked his clenched fist across the scarred wooden table in an irritated motion. “There are times, Turk, that piracy and its attending profits can be quite attractive.”

  “Am I to deduce from that cryptic statement that you plan on ransoming Miss Angela to her wealthy parent?” Turk dipped a carved wooden spoon into his bowl of oatmeal, eyeing Kit with a quizzical expression while he ate.

  “Not necessarily. If her papa has any sense, he would insist that I keep her. It’s just that the options described to me as worthy of a pirate seem infinitely preferable to keeping her aboard.”

  “Ah, you’ve still not forgiven her for her . . . low blow, so to speak.”

  Kit narrowed his eyes at Turk’s bland expression. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re not normally so irascible this early.”

  “Normally, I’m not accused of slave trading this early. Nor am I forced to view two witless females in various stages of undress in my comfortable cabin, while I spent the night coughing in a hammock on the quarterdeck.”

  Frowning, Turk took a sip of strong, aromatic tea. “You are aware of the method to cure that particular affliction, so I cannot feel too much sympathy.”

  “Hell, that again?” Kit groaned. “I’d rather cough than eat seaweed and rice, thank you.”

  “A most foolish preference. However, it’s your ailing constitution, not mine. Proper nutrition would enhance your health immensely. A macrobiotic diet is the most effective manner of ridding your system of unhealthy poisons.”

  “I would rather not get into this discussion with you again. It’s boring and not at all productive. I refuse to eat food that even a sheep would scorn, thank you.”

  “Very well. Continue with your present menu and your internal organs will one day rebel completely.”

  “Then you can say ‘I told you so.’ Until then, however, I would appreciate it if you would not harp on my diet, my constitution, or my unappreciation of your concern. Let us return to the former topic of conversation, if you please.”

  Turk nodded. “I bow to your wishes under protest. Dare I ask why you did not send Mr. Buttons to fetch the chart from your cabin for you?”

  “Of course. He would have been only too delighted at the opportunity. If I had, he would still be there standing on his tongue, however.”

  Kit raked a hand through his hair, trying to sort through the conflicting emotions that ranged from irritation to a vague uneasiness he couldn’t quite place. Why should he be uneasy? The women in his cabin meant nothing to him—beyond a certain obscure pang of sympathy now and then. Yet the memory of Angela clad in a brief chemise that did nothing to hide her charms was a stinging one.

  Recalling the upthrust of her breasts against the thin material, the curve of her hips, and the exposure of her long, slender legs still made him physically uncomfortable. At the time he’d not been able to move, but had stood like a boy paralyzed by the sight of his first woman. He’d been only too grateful that she hadn’t noticed his reaction.

  Nothing was as it should be. By all rights, the girl should be cowering in a dark corner and be only too willing to cooperate. Kit could recall his own feelings of helplessness as a youth caught in the same sort of situation, and supposed he’d thought she might feel the same.

  Helpless. Not her. Helpless as a panther, perhaps. Even Rollo had regarded the illustrious Miss Angela with a wary eye, a most unusual reaction for the intrepid bird.

  “Here,” Turk said. “Have a slice of dried apple. It will improve your health if not your temper.”

  Kit glared at him, but took the dried fruit. Chewing it, he muttered, “I knew it was a bad idea to bring those women aboard.”

  “And still you persisted. How noble.” Turk’s brow lifted at Kit’s surly snarl. “Look at it from another perspective, if you will. The lady obviously does not expect much courtesy from a man reviled as a scourge of the seas. What would you think if you were Miss Angela?”

  “I’d think it would be wise to keep my sharp tongue firmly between my teeth instead of prodding the man who held my fate in his hands. Prod the wrong man and situations can grow nasty.”

  “Yes, we’ve both experienced that consequence. Miss Angela, I fear, has yet to suffer any graver consequence than missing her afternoon tea.”

  Kit reflected on that for a moment. Turk’s casual comment presented an attractive idea. He smiled slightly. “Perhaps I should educate her.”

  Turk took another sip of the Japanese tea he favored.

  “There are some educations that are beneficial, while others are best averted. Do you think it considerate to educate her in that respect?”

  “Not considerate, perhaps.” Kit met Turk’s gaze. “But necessary if she stays another night aboard this ship.”

  “I see that you are not to be dissuaded from that end.”

  “No. I think that Miss Angela Whomever should learn the vagaries of pirate captains when unwisely prodded.”

  “Do you.” Turk applied his knife industriously to the slice of dried apple, dissected it neatly, the
n speared the individual bites with the tip. After a moment of silence, he looked up. “It would undeniably be a propitious lesson, but I wonder for whom?”

  Kit stared at him. “Just what the devil do you mean by that?”

  “I anticipate that we shall see soon enough.”

  “I hate it when you look superior and talk in riddles.” Kit rose from the bench and retrieved the leather cylinder from where it had rolled to the edge of the table. Only the fiddles, small racks wisely placed to keep skidding dishes still on the table, kept the cylinder from tumbling to the floor. He held the leather in one hand, sliding his fingers absently over the smooth surface as he wondered what it was about the women that made their fates appeal to Turk. Normally abstaining from any sort of involvement with strangers, and particularly women, the voluble giant had inexplicably gathered these two strays under his wing.

  He turned to look at Turk. “I shall be below terrifying the two English misses if you decide to join me. Wear appropriate attire for properly terrorizing them, please. I do not wish to seem the only savage aboard.”

  Turk waited until Kit had reached the open door of the galley before he murmured loud enough for him to hear, “But you are the fiercest savage aboard.”

  Five

  Angela had almost decided to brave the unknown by going above deck, when she heard the latch lift on the cabin door. She exchanged a quick glance with Emily and rose to her feet, holding tightly to the back of a chair to keep her balance.

  It was not a surprise to see the pirate captain enter, and she recognized from his expression that he was still in a nasty mood. The door swung back to bang against the wall, and his steps were firm on the portion of planked floor between rug and threshold. Angela’s grip on the curved back of the chair loosened, and the chair tilted sharply away with a clatter, as if it were a wild creature bucking from beneath her grasp. She grabbed at it in vain, and barely kept her balance.

  “Sit down before you fall and expect me to pick you up again,” Saber shot in her direction as he crossed to his desk. He immediately became absorbed in a large ledger that he pulled from a shelf. Dark head bent, he propped one hand against the gleaming surface of the desk and used the other to riffle the pages. He took up a goose quill pen and scratched notations on one of the pages, apparently forgetting the two captives.

  Angela righted the chair and exchanged a quick glance with Emily, who looked close to hysterics again. Gathering her flagging courage, she blurted, “Emily is better but still weak. Do you intend to feed us this morning?”

  He looked up. An unfriendly light glittered in sharp blue eyes. “Eventually. Are you always so governed by your stomach?”

  Before she could splutter an angry reply, a pirate appeared at the open door. He was young and muscular, with gold eyes and a long shock of dark hair that fell halfway down his back in a glossy ribbon. Garbed in the disturbing attire—or half-attire—of the other pirates, somehow it seemed to fit him. A sleeveless leather vest hung loosely over his bare chest, and snug-fitting buff breeches ended in knee-high boottops. His amber-gilt glance moved from the women to Saber.

  “Begging your pardon, Cap’n, but Mr. Buttons says you wanted to see me.”

  Saber nodded. “I do. I have a task for you.” He straightened and indicated Emily. “Dylan, please escort this young lady to the mess and see that she is fed. I will depend upon your gallantry to see that no harm comes to her.”

  The pirate brightened, and looked at Emily with a friendly smile. “It will be my pleasure, sir.”

  Emily didn’t protest when he gave her his arm and drew her up to escort her from the cabin, but she shot a doubtful glance at Angela. Her lower lip trembled.

  “Captain Saber,” Angela said immediately, hoping to prevent more hysteria, “we do not wish to be separated.”

  “But you do wish for Emily to be fed, do you not? While she is eating, I have something to discuss with you.”

  There was nothing she could do, and Angela watched dismally as Emily was led from the cabin. Saber looked back down at his ledger, apparently absorbed in it. Minutes passed, and still he had not spoken or even seemed to recall that she was in the same cabin with him. She stirred restlessly, hoping that she could remain on her feet without losing her balance.

  At last he looked up at her, and she felt an odd lurching in the pit of her stomach. Instinctively, she met his gaze with a steady stare. He would not see her cower, no matter how frightened she really was.

  Saber did not seem to admire her courage, or perhaps he did not notice it. He moved to the front of the desk and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his half-covered chest. His gaze was hard, with no hint of sympathy or mercy.

  Angela’s nerves grew taut when he continued to stare at her so coldly. She almost jumped when he finally rasped, “A woman aboard ship is considered unlucky by most crews.”

  She calmed her jittery nerves. “Really? I thought only barge fishermen were prone to such superstition.”

  “While I do not encourage superstition, neither do I proscribe it,” Saber growled. “I much prefer having a calm voyage, with no complaints brought before the mast. If I hear complaints about our new passengers being too much trouble, or causing problems in any type of manner, I will be forced to take—distasteful action. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes. You intend to discipline any sailor prone to complaining.”

  He straightened. “No. I intend to rid myself of the problem’s cause with little delay. As we are at open sea, my only option may be to jettison the source. One piece at a time, if I must. Now am I clear?”

  She clutched the chair back more tightly. “Very clear.”

  “Excellent.”

  His gaze rested on her face, making her think of a wary wolf. His long, lean frame looked relaxed, almost indolent. Yet beneath that careless facade lay a ruthless purpose that she had only briefly glimpsed on the main deck of the Scrutiny. Captain Turnower was fortunate to have been given at least a chance to escape.

  She swallowed, and hoped her expression did not betray her. For a long, tense moment, there was only the sound of creaking timbers and vague ship’s noises in the cabin, then Saber’s boots scuffed over the thick pile of the carpet as he moved toward her.

  She tensed, expecting the worst. When he stopped in front of her, she noticed once again how tall he was, so tall he seemed to blot out the light streaming dustily through the high gallery windows across the cabin stern. He made her feel small and helpless, and she hated the feeling of inadequacy and fear that shot through her. To counteract it, she took a step back and lifted her chin, mimicking the gesture she had seen her aunt make numerous times. It had been most effective in the past.

  “Keep your distance, Captain. I do not care to be intimidated.”

  Saber’s eyes narrowed ominously. His face tightened to a harsh mask. Without warning, his hand shot out to curl around her wrist in a ruthless grip. He drew her closer.

  “I don’t think you understand your true situation.”

  She tried to pull away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The hell you don’t. This is not some tea party, or a boring night at Almack’s.”

  “What would a man like you know of Almack’s Assembly Rooms?” she snapped, jerking her arm from his grasp. “I seriously doubt that you’ve ever seen the inside of any decent house, much less an esteemed establishment such as Almack’s. Why, Lady Castlereagh would faint at the sight of a rogue such as you.”

  “Would she?” Saber’s mouth curled into a mocking smile. “Somehow, I think Lady Castlereagh is made of sterner stuff than that. In fact, I happen to know the arrogant, oddly garbed Emily is quite formidable in her way.”

  Angela paused. He sounded much too certain of himself about Lady Castlereagh. Perhaps he did know her. It hardly seemed possible, given his chosen career, though he affected the airs of a gentleman with perfect ease. That, of course, was only magnificent theatrics. But what if he had somehow chanced to m
eet Lady Castlereagh? As John Lindell was well known in those circles, her last name would then be familiar to him. It could be her salvation or her downfall, and she did not yet know which. She quickly formed another assault.

  “At any rate, you needn’t assume that I am not well aware of my situation here, Captain. I have managed to fall victim to pirates—any woman’s worst nightmare. Do not deceive yourself, sir. I am properly terrified.”

  Saber seemed faintly startled by her tart rebuttal and stared at her for a long, tense moment. The ship creaked and groaned, rising and falling in a ceaseless motion that might have made Angela queasy if she’d allowed herself to dwell on it. Instead, she focused on Saber’s narrowed blue eyes and contemplative scowl. Finally he gave a harsh bark of laughter.

  “I came down here to terrorize you into submission. I did not expect such easy capitulation.”

  “How dismaying for you. Should I put up a defiant front to assuage your disappointment?”

  “It would salvage some of my pride,” he said wryly, and moved to lean back against the edge of his desk. Still gazing at her, he raked a hand through the dark strands of his hair. “Most females would be swooning in despair by this time. How have I failed?”

  “As I pointed out to you—you have not failed. It’s just that I am too terrified to swoon. Pray, forgive me.”

  “Bloody hell,” he commented, and pushed away from the desk. “You’re a cool one, Miss Angela. I’ll give you that much.”

  “Am I to say thank you? Or was that not a compliment?”

  Saber paused to stare at her thoughtfully. After a moment he murmured, “Why don’t you do us both a favor, and say what is on your mind?”

  She drew in a deep breath. He seemed serious. Was it possible that he might have a touch of decency after all?