Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

“Very well,” she replied. “Emily and I cannot decide if you are monster or myth. We have heard so many stories that it is hard to separate fact from fiction. Are you what they say you are, Captain Saber?”

  A slight smile tilted his mouth up at one corner. “And what do they say I am, Miss Angela? Murderer? I’ve killed men, though I can’t say I’ve derived any satisfaction from it. Pirate? Quite true. Though at times, I’ve stolen things that belong to me, so I’m not quite certain what that does to my redoubtable reputation as a thief and scourge of the seven seas.”

  He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a husky timbre that sent chills chasing down her spine. One hand lifted to caress her cheek, then slid around to cup her neck in his palm. His fingers gently massaged her nape, and the breath caught in her throat at his ministrations. He smiled.

  “What was it your Miss Emily spouted last night? That I am known as—let me see—a defiler of damsels? As for that reputation, I gladly plead . . .” His hand shifted, fingers tightening in her hair to draw her head back. Angela’s throat closed, and her heart beat so fast and hard she was certain he could hear it. Saber’s voice was a husky whisper when he finished, “. . . guilty. I plead guilty, Miss Angela.”

  She closed her eyes as his face blotted out the rest of the cabin, and when his mouth brushed against her lips, she shivered. Saber laughed softly, and caressed her throat with his free hand. His thumb slid over her bottom lip in a slow, silky glide, curiously rough and soft at the same time. She felt her mouth quiver, then open as his grip shifted to apply gentle pressure. Saber made another sound, this one more of a sigh, and his mouth covered hers. Shockingly, his tongue slid between her lips, heated velvet that tasted like apple. The anomaly startled her, and her eyes flew open.

  Saber’s exploring tongue made a brief, sizzling foray that drew a whimper of protest from her, and he paused. His eyelids lifted slightly, and he gazed at her through the thick bristle of his lashes. Still, he did not release her, though his mouth barely grazed her lips.

  “No. Don’t,” he said against her mouth. “It’s best to just surrender to the magic.”

  Magic? Her head was whirling, and she was suddenly certain she was as green as Emily in the throes of her mal de mer. Almost desperately, she tried to pull away from him before he could wreak more havoc on her rebellious system.

  She wanted to push him away, but balked at the contemplation of putting her hand against the taut contours of his bare chest. It would probably ignite a fire, just to touch that smooth flex of sculpted muscle. She leaned away, but still he held her in an iron grip; he shifted one hand to press against the small of her back, holding her body against his. A shudder ran through her. She felt light-headed and weak, and dug her fingers into his upper arms to keep from sliding to the cabin floor in a humiliating heap.

  “Please,” she heard herself whimper, sounding as if her voice came from a great distance.

  Saber laughed softly. Her scalp stung from the pressure of the grip he had on her hair as he tilted back her head. He pulled her into him with an inflexible pressure so that she felt the hard length of his body against hers from breasts to thighs. Her breasts were crushed against him, and even through her bombazine skirts, she could feel his taut, muscular thighs burning against hers. The buckle of his belt nudged against her stomach with an almost painful jab.

  “Captain . . . Saber . . . you must . . . stop,” she managed to get out in a husky rasp that only made him hold her more tightly against him. Her senses were swimming in dizzying whirls, and she felt as if she would truly swoon. Was this what he had meant? This giddy confusion that enveloped her with the contradiction of pleasure and torment? It must be, because he seemed to be enjoying it, and obviously had every intention of prolonging her misery.

  His hand stroked leisurely along her spine, then slid to cup her bottom in his palm and lift her against him. She moaned, and he bent to kiss the sensitive spot in front of her ear. Another shiver racked her, and Angela felt her confusion dissolve into turmoil. An ache ignited somewhere in her middle. She shifted, and he put a hand on the swell of her breast, long fingers gently caressing her.

  It was such a shock—no man had ever touched her there before—that Angela could not move or react. She stood in paralyzed tension, breath caught in her throat as he began to lightly tease her breast. The cabin seemed to tilt, and the floor shifted away as Saber provoked a heated response with his touch and his mouth. She was shaking all over, and a deep, throbbing pulse began between her thighs.

  Dear God, what was he doing? It felt as if she had a fever, but chills made her shiver as his lips traced a light path over the curve of her neck and along her jawline to her other ear. Her eyes were closed though she couldn’t recall shutting them, and her head was tilted back in helpless surrender. It was insane, and she dimly realized that she should be offering resistance, but she had never before encountered such a barrage of intense sensations. The atmosphere of calculated intimidation did nothing to diminish her reaction, but only heightened it. She had been in a state of apprehension for too many hours to retain a sufficient degree of resistance, and she was appallingly aware of it.

  Disaster loomed. It danced upon the hands of the man who held her much too close and touched her way too intimately, and she was helpless to prevent it. She, who had always been in control of her actions and emotions, was now adrift in a sea of heated responses that could have only one ending . . . It was enough to make her nauseous, and she struggled against the desire to become violently ill all over Saber’s shiny black boots.

  But then he released her and took a step back, though he kept one hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. “There,” he said briskly, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Shakily, she touched her lips with her fingertips and croaked, “Bad?”

  Saber smiled faintly. “As opposed to good. You did seem to like it, you know”

  Heat burned her cheeks, this time from a righteous indignation at what he had done, as well as what he now suggested.

  “You cad!” she spat, and was hardly gratified to hear him laugh.

  “Cad? Is that the best you can do, Miss Angela? I am convinced we shall have to improve your education in the proper use of profanity. An afternoon topside with a few of my crew should do it.” He rubbed his hands together and said, “Now that you and I seem to have established a certain rapport, perhaps we should discuss the new bunking arrangements.”

  “Bunking arrangements?” she echoed dazedly. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why, in view of our newfound—shall we say . . . interests?—I think it much more palatable for us to snuggle cozily in my bunk than to snatch stolen moments in shadowy corners. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Angela blinked several times. It took her a moment to grasp the intent behind his words, and then fury deprived her of speech for another moment or two. Almost gasping with outrage, she stuttered out a variety of incomprehensible terms coupled with scathing refusals that seemed to have no effect on Saber whatsoever. He merely lifted a dark brow and regarded her thoughtfully.

  “I take it you are not pleased with my suggestion,” he remarked when she paused for breath. “How devastating. In that case, I shall find suitable accommodations for you and your little friend. But I warn you, madam, that should you display any tendencies toward verbal pique, I shall deem it as a desire for change in your circumstances. Do you understand?”

  Understand? He could hardly have made his intentions clearer. What had just transpired between them was little more than a threat. If she did not cooperate in every way, it was obvious he would have little reluctance in forcing her to his bed.

  Angela nodded silently, and Saber gave a nod of satisfaction. “Very good. I see that you do understand. How enlightened of you. Now, shall I escort you to the mess for a bite to eat?”

  “I see they are well guarded,” Turk remarked to Kit as he regarded the two young ladies seated on a long bench in the mess room. Dylan hovered at th
e door like a watchdog, giving the ladies his assiduous attention.

  “Yes. Dylan seems enamored of his new duties. I may give him the job until we reach port.”

  “How fortunate for Mr. Dylan. It does seem, though, as if Miss Angela is now quite subdued,” Turk said.

  “Refreshing, isn’t it?” Kit shrugged at Turk’s quizzical glance. “Intimidation can be convenient.”

  “I daresay. A most convenient commodity, indeed.” Turk smiled slightly and stepped out into the passageway, ducking to miss the overhead beam. Kit followed, and the two went above deck.

  Sunlight washed over them, bright and blinding. Sails snapped crisply in the wind as the ship sliced through the waves. Kit went up to the quarterdeck, and there found Mr. Buttons at the wheel, a rather apologetic expression on the earnest young face beneath his shock of red hair.

  “Good morning, Captain Saber.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Mr. Buttons,” Kit replied, and waited for the inevitable. He liked Charley Buttons, but there were moments—as now—when the young officer’s addiction to protocol seemed entirely unnecessary. It was due, of course, to his years spent aboard a British man-of-war, a vessel run with strict discipline and astringent adherence to rules. It had left an indelible imprint on the impressionable Mr. Buttons.

  Mr. Buttons curled his hands tightly around the spokes of the wheel and looked straight ahead, at a spot just past Kit’s right eat “Sir, I hesitate to bring this up, but as the sailing master, I have been appointed by the men to—”

  “What men?”

  Mr. Buttons paused, face flushing. “Why, some of the crew, sir. They feel—”

  “Why have you been appointed? Tsk, tsk. A severe departure from proper procedure, Mr. Buttons. I can hardly believe it of you. Protocol demands that, as quartermaster, Turk be spokesman for the crew. Is there something this crew doesn’t feel they can discuss with him directly?”

  Again a pause before the crestfallen Mr. Buttons said slowly, “It would seem so, Captain Saber. Shall I continue, or would you rather I have the men concerned bring this up with Turk?”

  Caught between irritation and amusement, Kit shrugged. “You’ve already begun, Mr. Buttons, and Turk would probably prefer hearing this from me. Pray, continue.”

  “Very well, sir.” He took a deep breath. “It seems that there have been concerns voiced over the presence of the two young ladies aboard.”

  “Concerns? Or complaints?” Kit stared hard at Mr. Buttons, and saw his flush mount from neck to eyebrows, as red as his hair.

  “If I were to hazard a guess, sir, I would say complaints. This is the first time you have allowed females to remain aboard ship, and some of the men recall only too well that incident last year off Barbados.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it. Perhaps some of the men should also recall who owns this ship. We may be regarded as pirates, but it might do to remind them that the Sea Tiger does not follow the usual articles applied by other buccaneers. That was made clear before each man signed on, and it still holds true. Shall I go on?”

  “No, sir.” Mr. Buttons shifted uncomfortably. “I did tell them that, but some of the men were insistent that their grievances be aired. Therefore, to avert any possible trouble, I brought those concerns to you. I regret having wasted your time.”

  Kit shrugged. “It’s not my time that’s wasted. Any man on this vessel who is dissatisfied is free to leave at the next port. I adhere to certain rules of my own, and expect them to abide by them. We may be freebooters, but by God, I do not maltreat innocents, which, I perceive, is what the men are complaining about. There will be plenty of whores in the next port. If I find that one of those young women has so much as heard foul language, I’ll personally strip the hide off the man responsible. Pass that sentiment on to them, Mr. Buttons.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Is there any other business you wish to discuss?”

  “No, sir. That was all.”

  “Then the crew can save any other concerns for the next council.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. I’ll take the wheel now so that you may inform them of our decision.”

  As Mr. Buttons left the quarterdeck, he passed Turk and gave him a brief nod of greeting. Kit waited with his hands on the wheel, the wind tugging at his loose shirt. When Turk moved to take the great wheel that steered the ship, Kit turned to him.

  “Those damn women are going to be trouble,” he remarked.

  “I take it there have been complaints, which explains Mr. Button’s flustered countenance.” Turk sighed. “It has been my experience that women of any station in life frequently incite disagreeable reactions among men. I find it as inexplicable as I do distressing.”

  “I find it irritating.”

  “Indeed.” Turk gazed at him with impassive calm. “And which do you find more irritating? The impending difficulty, or your unfortunate attraction?”

  “I’ve been attracted to women before. I’ve never known it to draw your undiluted speculation, however.”

  “This is an unconventional fascination. It appears that the young lady is no casual harlot, but a refined female who has little inducement to offer other than a wealthy parent. Ordinarily, she would attract no more attention from you than a gnat. Yet she seems to fascinate you.”

  “If I hadn’t known you so long,” Kit remarked, “I would take offense with your misguided meddling. However, as I am well aware of your propensity for interfering in my life with all good intentions, I shall only remind you that whether I am or am not attracted to our lovely captive, it is hardly of any significance to the welfare of this ship and its crew.”

  “A well-spoken sentiment, Captain Saber.”

  Kit just looked at him for a moment. Damn it, but Turk could be insufferable when he wanted to be. What the devil kind of point was he trying to make? That Kit found Miss Angela to be attractive? Attractive women were a penny a dozen, and could be found in every port. If he found her tempting, it should make no difference to anyone. Besides, she was just a simple attraction, despite the kiss he’d given her. It had been—as she had seen—a tactic designed as intimidation. That it had worked was the most uplifting thing that had happened since the Scrutiny had been spotted. She’d been a quiet little mouse all the way to her breakfast, with only an occasional wide-eyed glance at him.

  Damn. It irritated him beyond imagination that he wanted her. He rarely found himself attracted to one particular woman. Most, he accepted as casual encounters, wanting nothing else. He’d learned too long ago not to trust the fair sex, nor to put himself in their hands.

  Bloody hell. Why did he have to find himself wanting the cool-eyed little baggage with such ferocity? Of all the inconvenient times, this was one of the worst. And he was damned if he knew why his lust had been aroused. It wasn’t as if he was a green youth unable to control that side of his sexual nature, and it wasn’t as if she was the most beautiful or desirable woman he’d ever seen. Or lain with, for that matter. Yet, the plain and simple fact was that he wanted her. Lust, that was it, a healthy dose of good, old-fashioned lust. And it would ruin him if he let it.

  Turk cleared his throat suggestively. Kit abandoned any attempt at further explanation of his attraction or aversion to Angela, and said instead, “It’s been four months since we last scraped the Sea Tiger’s hull. I’m afraid we’ll have to put in soon to careen her.”

  Turk deftly adjusted the wheel. “True. I was discussing that fact with Mr. Buttons only yesterday. She’s a bit sluggish, and if that last merchantman had not been such a wallowing tub, we might not have been able to overtake her.”

  “We’ll stop in the Azores to do a boot-topping. That will have to do until we get to Port Royal. There are too many man-o’-wars cruising these waters to make it safe enough for a thorough careening.”

  “I concur.” Turk lifted a brow. “P’raps we shall be able to relinquish our captives in the port of Ponta Delgada beforehand.”

  Kit shrug
ged. “It seems the likeliest spot, though I wonder about our reception. The commissioner was suspicious of our true colors the last time we drew a berth there.”

  “Portugal and England are allies. As a Portuguese possession, they should accept an English flag without objection.”

  “Our letters of marque are genuine, even if they do not belong to us.” Kit grinned. “Commissioner LaRosa did not seem to look too closely once we presented him with all those casks of Spanish wine and French cheeses the last time we were there.”

  “Indeed, he seemed thoroughly charmed by us afterward. I have the notion that some of the excellent stores we gained from the Scrutiny will give him just as much pleasure this time.”

  “And should ensure the swift, efficient disposal of our annoying guests.”

  Turk smiled. “Life should be able to return to normal—or what passes for normal aboard the Sea Tiger—after that, I presume.”

  “God. I hope so.” Kit moved to stand by one of the twelve-pound cannons lashed to the rail. He raked a closed fist over the cold iron. “I certainly don’t need any more problems or delays. If we don’t reach Port Royal in time, I may miss her again.”

  Turk did not ask who her was. He merely nodded silent agreement, while Kit stood at the gunwale and stared across the wind-pocked sea.

  Six

  “What is this?” Angela stared morosely into the wooden bowl in front of her.

  “Oatmeal and salt pork.” Dylan gave her an encouraging smile. “It tastes pretty good once you get used to it.”

  Angela shuddered and lifted her spoon. The cereal tasted of tin sweat from its container, musty and unappealing, and the salt pork did nothing to enhance the flavor. Her spoon dropped. The food was nothing like what she was accustomed to from Mrs. Peach’s whistle-clean kitchen at home. She looked up.

  “I had this for breakfast. I can’t eat it again.”

  Shrugging, the pirate said, “There’s nothing better until the evening meal.”