Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  “I see.” Kit swept out an arm. “Shall we go below and discuss this over a glass of port, Lieutenant—”

  “Garcia. Rafael Santos y Garcia.” The officer brightened. “But of course, señor. We are only doing our jobs, you understand.”

  “I do. The necessary papers are in my cabin below. One of my officers has taken our letters ashore for the commissioner, but should be back at any time. I am certain we will be able to straighten out any problems quite easily, once we get away from all this smoke.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Buttons began, but Kit sliced him such a fierce glance that he immediately subsided into a coughing stammer.

  Ignoring him, Kit led the way below. As soon as he opened the door to his cabin, he realized he should have listened to his young officer. Angela and Emily, sooty and with torn garments, were tied to chairs in the middle of the floor. Perched on the arm of a lamp, Rollo swung back and forth in a screeching frenzy.

  “Fire! Fire! More rum, boys, more rum,” the bird chanted cheerily.

  Kit heard the Portuguese officer mutter something under his breath, and Angela looked up with a grim smile.

  “Well, so you’ve decided to come at last,” she said. “I wondered how long it would take you.”

  Striding forward, Kit knelt down beside her, his fingers curling around her wrist in a harsh grasp. She smelled strongly of smoke and—rum? He kept a smile on his face and his voice lightly pleasant.

  “So, you’ve managed to irritate the normally placid Mr. Buttons,” he said. “I see he has you restrained for your own safety.”

  “Not exactly,” she began, glaring up at him. His grip tightened and she smothered a gasp of pain.

  “Now, sweetheart,” he said, “you know that Papa will worry if I don’t keep you safe.” Half turning on the balls of his feet, he looked back at the officers still standing in the open door. “My sister,” he explained. “She has run away so often that we’re forced to resort to extreme measures. Papa has despaired of her ever being wed, as no man wants a harpy, so I am to take her to a convent until she learns temperance.”

  “Ah.” Lieutenant Garcia smiled slightly. “I have six sisters. They are all high-strung, and we have had to offer a huge dowry for each of them. It is very expensive.”

  Angela had begun to sputter furiously, and Kit looked back down at her. “Quiet, little one, or I shall gag you,” he warned in a solicitous tone that made her eyes narrow.

  “Yes, brother dear,” she said so sweetly that he looked at her more sharply. “I should hate to make matters worse. Especially as it’s been so difficult for you lately, with half the English Navy chasing you—”

  His thumb dug viciously into the tendons of her wrist, and he tucked a hand under her chin, his gaze boring into hers. “No, no, I’ve told you several times—those were French ships.”

  “Flying English flags?” she chirped. Her soot-streaked mouth curved into a smile when his hand tightened, and she whispered, “We need to talk privately, or I shall be forced to confess all I know to our inquisitive visitor.”

  “It’s hard to talk with a slit throat,” he muttered, but heard Garcia cough politely and knew that he would have to silence her. He turned, forcing a smile. “She feels a bit light-headed. Allow me to see her to her cabin, and—”

  “My cabin is on fire,” Angela said sweetly. “And I feel fine.”

  “Capítan,” Garcia interrupted, “perhaps we should discuss this a bit more. There seems to be a contradiction here.”

  Kit met Angela’s triumphant gaze with a flash of grudging admiration. She had cleverly managed to maneuver him into a difficult position. If he was to avoid detainment at the best, and at the worst—arrest—he would have to bargain with her. As much as it went against his grain to agree, he heard himself murmur, “I understand we are to go to New Orleans.”

  She smiled. “How considerate of you. I trust we’ll have a most amicable voyage.”

  Turning, Kit said to Lieutenant Garcia, “Please be seated, and my sister and I will endeavor to straighten out any misconceptions you may have.”

  Nine

  “All in all,” Turk said thoughtfully, “it was a rather creative effort. In my opinion.”

  Kit ignored him, which was not easily done. He continued scratching notes in his log, trying to focus on what should be said and what he would like to say about the previous day’s events.

  “Left Ponta Delgada with cargo intact. Was allowed to take on water and necessary supplies after paying what was required by the commissioner as fees.” Pause. He chewed on the end of his pen for a moment, then dipped it back into the inkwell. “After unfortunate explosion aboard ship, decision was made to sell cargo in Caribbean.” He scratched out the last word and penned in New Orleans, then used a blotter on the page.

  “What do you propose to do with the young ladies?” Turk asked into the silence, and Kit looked up.

  “I find myself torn between sewing them up in burlap bags with heavy rocks and throwing them into the sea, or just tossing them overboard. I lean toward the former myself, as the latter leaves too much to chance.” He closed the log book. “And with a woman like Angela, nothing should be left to chance.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” Kit rose from behind his desk. “I’m glad, because I certainly don’t. What the hell did she expect to gain from that little performance?”

  “Isn’t it evident? She gained what she desired, which is passage to New Orleans. It is entirely coincidental that we just happen to be sailing to that particular destination. Ah, the vagaries of Fate . . .”

  “Damn Fate,” Kit said shortly. “If I had my way, the little vixen would be sailing back to England in a paper boat at this very moment.”

  “Indeed.” Turk settled his large frame into a Moroccan leather chair and crossed one leg over his knee. “Why is it that my analysis of the situation is so disparate from yours?”

  “Because you’re too eager to jump to conclusions. Enough, Turk. I’m not in the mood.”

  “No, I presume you are not. In the mood for a correct evaluation, at any rate.”

  Kit reached for the decanter of brandy. His temper was short, and he found Turk’s attitude aggravating. He poured a large amount in a glass and swallowed it, then poured another liberal portion, aware of Turk’s somber gaze on him.

  “Alcohol will not help.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Kit said nastily. “Alcohol won’t help. A handy little slogan to recall in the heat of battle, or when some damned female has again managed to bungle up my life.”

  “You’re blaming Angela for what others have done. I hardly deem that just, Kit.”

  Turk’s quiet reproof was jarring. Kit slammed down his empty glass on the desktop. “No? Then what do you deem fair? Some of the crew opted for ten strokes with the cat, but others think it might kill her too quickly to suit them. Dylan, of course, thinks we should just keep her cozily in a cabin and out of sight until she gets where she wants. That,” he growled, “would kill me. So—what do you suggest?”

  “Members of the crew are still perturbed that they were denied shore leave. Anger is a natural reaction. They will recover in time. It is you who concerns me, however.”

  “Me?” Kit gave a harsh laugh and poured more brandy. “How am I a concern? I didn’t kill her, though God help me, I was sorely tempted. Once Garcia left, it was all I could do not to curl my hands around her pretty white throat and squeeze until she turned blue. Jesus. I can still envision it.” He closed his eyes and smiled.

  “Kit.”

  Opening his eyes, Kit met Turk’s dark gaze. Must the man be so knowing? Must he realize exactly what Kit was feeling? His hands curled around the brandy glass and he set it down slowly.

  “I know, Turk. She’s not Vivian, and she’s not Elaine, or even Susan. But she’s just like them. She’s careless. She’s egocentric. She doesn’t care about anyone else when her own plans are in jeopardy. And all those wonderful attributes are wrapped tidily
in a very appealing package, which only makes it more difficult to understand. Or see through.” He picked up his glass again. “And you’re wrong. Alcohol does help.”

  Sighing, Turk shook his head. “No, it only dulls the edges. I don’t suppose her declaration of love for this Philippe du Plessis has anything to do with your pique?”

  “No. Only a faint stirring of sympathy for Monsieur du Plessis.”

  “Ah. Then I don’t suppose you would care to discuss your plans for her in the interim.”

  “You suppose correctly.” Kit gazed at Turk over the rim of his glass. “Truth be told, I have no idea what I intend to do. All my instincts are screaming that I should drown her, but what little common decency I have left urges me toward caution. She’s like a bomb. Or a bottle of rum with a lit rag stuffed into the mouth. My God, she could have blown up the entire ship. Poor Buttons. He was beside himself, wasn’t he? I thought he was going to faint at one point.”

  “Yes, when Garcia left and you dragged Miss Angela from your cabin and to the rail, there were many faint hearts and light heads.”

  Kit snorted. “The hell there was. Only two—Buttons and Dylan.” He sat on the edge of his desk, one leg swinging back and forth. “What is it, do you think, that has generated such compassion from Dylan? For five years I’ve been trying to find something that would matter to him. Now, these strays come straggling along, and he’s a man with a mission.”

  “Perhaps you should have purchased him a pet.” Turk stood up. “Or taken into account that it would be in his best interests to be put in a responsible position for someone weaker than he. It’s a rather novel notion for a youth reared to have responsibility for no one but himself.”

  “I daresay.” Kit frowned. “A puppy would have been better. Soiled carpets are minor compared to the damage these two have done in such a short time.”

  “The cabin is not damaged beyond repair. But I divine that is not what you are making reference to—am I correct?”

  “As always.” Kit drained the last of his brandy and set down his glass. “And now, I shall brave Miss Angela in her den—or what’s left of it—and do my best not to kill her. It should be a most illuminating interview.”

  “Slavery? Dear God. Your melodramatics are almost more than I can stand.” Saber lifted a mocking brow, and Angela felt her face grow warm.

  “Well,” she said defensively, “you did intend to ransom us to a man who would show little courtesy toward the paying customer. I thought we were to be sold as slaves. Can you deny it?”

  Kit sat forward in his chair with an unfriendly light in his eyes. “It would serve you right. Nuñez is not foolish enough to allow any harm to come to his hostages. They are worth far less if they have been abused.”

  His mocking assurance did little to lessen her righteous indignation, and Angela’s chin lifted slightly as she met his astringent blue eyes. They seemed overly sharp, cold nearly to the point of frigidity. She looked away after a moment, and said, “I apologize for the damage to our cabin.”

  She felt his amusement when he drawled, “Your apology should be given to Mr. Buttons. It is his cabin.” He paused, then said, “Where did you learn to make bombs with bottles of rum, pray tell?”

  Angela had no intention of telling him that she’d led a rather carefree childhood in the company of her rowdy cousin Tommy, who had gotten her into all manner of scrapes. She said merely, “I am well aware of the volatile tendencies of alcohol when ignited.”

  “Apparently. Good thing Mr. Buttons’ cabin is located close to the fire buckets or the entire ship might have gone up in flame. Did you stop to think what might have happened?”

  “I was confident that Mr. Buttons was watching closely, though I admit I was rather startled at how quickly feather pillows burn. And so much smoke—I probably didn’t even need those last few.”

  Saber stood up. “No more fires, please. We are far from shore now, and it would be a long swim.” He started for the door, paused, and turned back to her. “You may thank your good fortune that Lieutenant Garcia did not have the imagination to see the truth behind your ridiculous story. If he had tried to arrest us, yours would have been the first throat I cut.”

  Angela stared at him. He was so matter-of-fact that she didn’t doubt him for a moment. She felt a wave of nausea. There were times she tended to forget that she was dealing with a pirate, a man accustomed to all forms of murder and depravity. Saber’s gentlemanly facade lured her into false security at times, and she realized rather shakily that her actions could have led to a very different kind of ending. She swallowed the impulse to babble an apology.

  For a long moment, Saber stared at her. A muscle flickered at one corner of his mouth, and his eyes were narrowed. Then he reached out to grasp her chin in his palm, his long fingers cradling her face in a hold that was not quite gentle, not quite harsh.

  “There are times,” he said softly, “when I forget myself with you. Do not make the mistake of thinking me docile, however.”

  Bewildered by the contrast of savage expression and inexplicable comment, Angela could only stare at him silently. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her jaw muscles with almost painful intensity. Her breath caught in the back of her throat when his head lowered, and she instinctively closed her eyes.

  “Afraid at last, angel?” he purred. “You should be. I’m feeling quite lethal at the moment.”

  Not quite daring to move or speak, Angela waited wretchedly for his next move or comment. Whatever it was she was certain it would be devastating. Nothing with this man was ever easy, and yet she found herself thinking of him more often than was necessary. Or prudent. Why couldn’t she just relegate him to some dim recess of her mind and focus on escape? Why must he invade her every waking moment with some form of mental anguish?

  And dear God, why must she find herself stirring to just the touch of his hand upon her face? The brush of his fingers against her cheek sparked a hundred different reactions, the least among them being a vague sense of disquiet.

  “I’d swear,” Kit murmured against her mouth, “that I still smell rum and soot in your hair.”

  “Probably,” she managed to reply with what she hoped sounded like poise. “The closest I’ve been to water since the fire was when you held me over the rail.”

  “A memory I still cherish. I’ve entertained fond thoughts of how large a splash you would have made into the sea.”

  Angela opened her eyes and tried to match his insouciance. “I have an inescapable feeling that I would have been much better off if you had drowned me.”

  “Ah, sweetheart, you’ve no idea how much better off you would have been.”

  Her stomach dropped, and icy fingers gripped her heart when he tightened his hold for an instant. Then he was pushing her backward until she came up short against the bunk. It caught her behind the knees, unbalancing her. Kit took immediate advantage of the situation, and in an instant, she was sprawled across the bunk beneath his heavy weight.

  Catching both her wrists in one hand, he drew her arms up and over her head, pressing them into the mattress, using his weight to hold her. His expression was intent and, to her consternation, as exciting as it was frightening. With his mouth curled into a wicked half-smile and his blue eyes narrowed, he made her think of things she probably shouldn’t,

  Such as the afternoon of her bath, and how he’d held her then. It always left a queer churning in the pit of her stomach when she thought of that day, and the things he’d done and the way she’d reacted—like now, when he was sliding his hand over her torso and creating quivering sensations that she knew better than to surrender to.

  “Kit . . . no,” she said in a husky whisper that sounded weak even to her own ears. She wasn’t a bit surprised when he ignored her, but continued his explorations, fingers touching and teasing skin that was highly sensitized. His hand tightened on her ribcage then slid upward, opening to cup the full swell of her breast. When his thumb closed on his finger, teasin
g her nipple, Angela cried out softly.

  Kit took immediate advantage of the opportunity to kiss her again, tongue sliding between her lips in a shockingly intimate manner. She wanted to twist away from him, but he held her still, rotating his thumb in a slow, leisurely motion that made her shudder.

  Desperately clinging to the shreds of her resistance, Angela gasped out, “Why are you doing this?”

  The words gave him pause, and he lifted his head to stare down at her with a dark blue gaze that held no mercy or emotion. She swallowed a half-sob, and his mouth twisted.

  “Damned if I know.” He sat up, raking a hand through his hair as he released her wrists. For a long moment he looked at her, and she had the thought he was seeing someone else instead of her.

  Rubbing at her wrists—she would no doubt have bruises there on the morrow—she watched him carefully, uncertain as to what he would do next. But Kit only rose in a fluid motion and took two steps away from the bunk. Volatile emotions chased across his face. After a moment, he gave her cheek a gentle pat then pivoted on his heel and stalked to the door. It swung open noiselessly, and he stepped out.

  When the door had shut behind him, she collapsed into a shivering mass of relief. It did not matter that he had locked her in, or that Emily was being impounded elsewhere. They were alive and on their way to America. That should be all that mattered.

  Yet during the next week, Angela found it increasingly difficult to remember her resolve. Boredom set in. Only Dylan visited her in the tiny cabin where she was kept—imprisoned was a more suitable term, she thought—and the days stretched long and endless. Monotony was her worst enemy now, and she surprised herself at times by thinking longingly of the days when Saber had tormented her with visits and verbal spats.

  Dylan refused to argue with her, his face set and remote when she attempted to draw him out. She grew listless and spent long hours lying motionless on the small, hard bunk, sleeping or staring up at the ceiling. Dylan brought her some books. She had no desire to read them or even look through them. Then he brought in Rollo for diversion, but that was hardly successful.