He knew he wasn't on board the Unicorn. The smells, the sounds, even the motion of the ship through the water were all wrong for him to be on board his own frigate.
'A lucky knock on your head—for us,' said the mocking voice. 'Your master was killed by the same flying debris which only knocked you unconscious. But your officers seem to have thought you were hit by a sniper. So much blood. Very distressing for them.'
Gifford's mouth was dry and tasted foul.
'Is this how you always treat your prisoners?' he asked harshly. 'Where are my men?'
'In the hold.'
Gifford's lips curled in a silent snarl. Mocking voice clearly didn't believe in the honourable treatment of a defeated enemy. In all his years at sea Gifford had never once treated a captured enemy officer with so little respect.
'Who are you?' he growled.
'Captain Paul Olivier,' mocking voice replied. 'A sweet victory you've given me, Sir Gifford. One fine frigate. One hundred and ninety-three prisoners. Five slaves. And, of course, the honour of defeating such a renowned officer as yourself.'
Gifford's anger chilled. England had been at war with America for over a year. There were many American privateers preying upon English merchantmen in the Caribbean. But from everything Gifford had heard so far, it seemed clear that Olivier was little better than a pirate. He probably did possess the letters of marque which gave his ship the status of an American privateer, authorising him to fight enemy ships. But in Olivier's case the letters of marque were no more than a cover for acts of unauthorised piracy. It was unlikely that his government would condone his conduct if it ever came to light.
Five slaves?
There had been four black seamen on board the Unicorn. And Anthony.
'Your cousin is a well-educated fellow,' said Olivier.
Gifford felt the blade of a knife glide lightly down his body from his shoulder to his groin. He tensed but didn't flinch even a hair's breadth.
'He'll fetch a good price. He's now my brother's prisoner. On the other privateer? You do remember you were attacked by two ships, Sir Gifford?'
'I remember,' Raven said grittily.
'Good. Because your cousin and half your crew are now prisoners on board my brother's ship,' said Olivier. 'One false move from you—and they will all be killed.'
Gifford felt the cold knife blade against his skin, then the rope around his wrists fell away.
Abigail woke in the grey light of morning. Her sleep had been disturbed, her dreams confusing. Fler body ached. She was too hot. But nameless fear chilled her soul. She opened her eyes and stared at an unfamiliar wall.
Her confusion increased. And her fear intensified as she realised she wasn't alone in the room—or even in the bed. Behind her she could hear someone else, their breathing harsh and agitated.
Memories of her kidnapping and the nightmarish auction crashed in upon her. She pulled her knees up into her chest and screwed her eyes tight shut. Trying to block out the horrifying images.
Who was behind her in the bed?
Her throat locked with fear. She recalled Charles caressing her breast with the barrel of his pistol. An obscene memory.
And Gifford. Buying her. Riding out of the Blue Buck with her. Shooting at the gatekeeper.
She uncurled her body, her movements stiff and a little jerky. Whoever was in bed with her cursed in a low, vicious voice. Her heart thudded with fright. She pushed herself forward and fell out of the bed, landing on her hands and knees. The fall jarred her tense body, but she gripped the edge of the bed and peered cautiously over the top of the mattress.
Gifford was lying on the other side of the bed. Abigail had been sleeping beneath a sheet—the night was too hot for any further covering. Gifford was lying on top of the sheet. He was saying something. At first she thought he was speaking to her. She was nervous about talking to him for the first time in such circumstances. Then she realised he was talking to himself.
He was in the throes of a nightmare.
He wore only his breeches and shirt, which was open nearly to the waist. His torso glistened with sweat. And he was having a nightmare.
Abigail rose unsteadily to her feet, staring at him in dismay. She didn't know what to do. Would he wake up and threaten her with a dagger? Shout at her? Hurt her in the mistaken belief she was his enemy?
She looked helplessly around the room. Where was Anthony? Should she try to find him? Then she remembered Anthony had been wounded.
She swallowed. Bit her lip. And climbed back on to the bed.
Gifford's good eye flew open. He stared at her.
She stared back. Her heart thudded so loudly she could hardly think. She supposed he'd sensed the movement of the mattress. But why hadn't he woken up when she'd fallen out of the bed?
She knelt beside him and tentatively stretched out her hand towards him. She was still half-afraid he might confuse her for an enemy, and she wanted to reassure him as quickly as possible.
'It's me,' she whispered. Very bravely she laid her hand flat against his shoulder and felt him jerk in response. 'We're safe,' she said, and then gazed at him helplessly. It didn't seem like a very intelligent thing to say, but she couldn't think of anything better.
Gifford continued to stare at her, his hawklike expression unreadable.
'You rescued me,' she reminded him.
His shoulder was hot, hard, and slick with sweat beneath her hand. She stroked him a little bit, trying to keep her touch firm and reassuring, as if she were trying to gentle a dangerous animal. Which she supposed he was.
She had a dim notion that you shouldn't let a dangerous animal know you're scared of it. Or make it feel cornered. The muscles beneath her palm were rigid with tension. Perhaps he didn't want to be reassured.
Very slowly and carefully she withdrew her hand and then folded both hands together in her lap. She smiled hopefully at him.
'It's morning,' she said. 'Are you hungry?'
Gifford stared at her for a further heart-stoppingly potent thirty seconds. Then he jack-knifed off the bed, and stood with his back to her.
Abigail jerked away in surprise. She pressed one hand against her breast bone, in an effort to contain the wild jumping of her heart, and stared at his broad back.
As her shock receded, she saw the rigid set of his body, the way he held his clenched fists so stiffly at his sides, and guessed how difficult his awakening had been for him. She was sure he hated that she'd witnessed the first nightmare he'd had in Bath. Now she'd seen another one.
The tension in the room was thick, almost suffocating. Abigail had no experience to guide her in such a situation. Only instinct.
She was powerfully aware of Gifford's virile masculinity. All the social conventions which usually masked the most potent differences between male and female had been stripped away.
Gifford was unshaven. His feet were bare. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to the muscular contours of his back. His shoulders were unbelievably wide. Her hand still tingled from the feel of his hard muscles beneath her palm.
Abigail tipped her head to one side as she wondered what to do, and felt her unconfined hair brush across the nape of her neck. She looked down and saw that she was still wearing the same white gown in which she'd been sold. The ribbon that fastened the neckline had come undone, and the bodice now dipped almost
to her nipples. She gasped, and snatched up the sheet to hide herself.
Gifford turned around at her unwary utterance. He looked down at her, at the sheet she clutched against her breasts, and a faint, almost mocking smile curved his lips. His gaze rose and locked with hers.
The tension between them increased. Abigail's body vibrated with awareness of Gifford. She stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Her eyes widened and her lips parted.
Gifford swore and spun away from her.
Abigail's hands trembled. She felt dizzy, but finally remembered to breathe. She didn't know what to do, or to say. She felt utterly exposed, in some ways more ex
posed than she had done when the men leered at her in the inn yard. They'd only seen her scantily clad body, but it seemed as if Gifford had just looked straight into her confused, excited soul.
'I have to know.' Gifford's voice was harsher than she'd ever before heard it. 'What did Johnson do to you?'
He asked the question—but he didn't look at her as he said it.
'Do?' Abigail's grip on the sheet tightened. 'He sold me!' Her own voice sounded strident in her ears. 'What... else?'
She stared at Gifford. Her throat closed up. Her eyes filled with tears as she remembered her terror and humiliation at Charles Johnson's hands. She couldn't describe that to anyone.
Gifford whirled around, took one long stride to the bedside and seized Abigail's upper arms. He lifted her until they were face to face.
'What did he do to you?'
Gifford's scarred features, dark with anger and torment, misted before Abigail's eyes. He was so full of rage and savage emotion. He frightened her. Words clogged in her throat and she turned her face away from him.
'Dear God!' He lowered her gently on to the bed and sat down beside her. 'I'm sorry!' he whispered thickly. 'God, I'm sorry! Abby.'
Abigail swayed uncertainly, then leant against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. A few seconds later his arms closed around her.
'I didn't mean to upset you,' he murmured against her hair. 'I promised myself I wouldn't—dammit!' He broke off, cursing both Johnson and himself.
Abigail didn't want Gifford to be angry. She wanted him to be calm and quiet and hold her.
She pushed him away and looked up at him.
'Why are you angry with yourself?' she demanded, swiping her tears away with the back of her hand.
'I should never have let him take you!' Gifford ground out.
'You knew what he meant to do?' Abigail was stunned.
'Of course not! How the hell...? But I shouldn't have let him take you.'
'Now you're God!' Abigail leapt to her feet, her own temper suddenly spiralling out of control. 'Why are you
so angry? You're not the one he sold! / am! It's me he frightened and humiliated and u-used...'
She started to sob with a mixture of shame and fury.
'Abigail...?'
'Don't touch me!' She pushed him away with so much force he stumbled back, lost his balance, and sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed.
'I don't want you to be angry with him and me and you!' she said wildly. 'It's horriblel I h-hate it! It hurts V
'You want me to let him get away with it?'
'No! But I d-don't want to think about it now. I don't want to think about it! I want to be myself again. I w-want to wear my own clothes... and put my hair up...and wear my cap...and...and...be me again!' Her lips trembled as she whispered the last few words.
Gifford stood up. It occurred to her that he was moving unusually slowly. Warily. It didn't make any sense. Gifford never moved warily. He moved with the assurance of the great predator he was. Then she realised he was wary of her. The idea was so ludicrous she burst into slightly hysterical laughter.
'Abigail? Abby? Don't.' He pulled her up against his chest. One arm circled her waist. His other hand stroked her hair. 'Abby, don't.' He sounded distracted and anxious.
Abigail let him support her weight. She didn't want to think or argue. She just wanted to be quiet. His body was a hard, secure haven for hers. She sighed, and allowed herself to enjoy his soothing caresses: She liked the little tingles than ran up and down her spine when he stroked her hair. It was very pleasant to have
such...direct...experience of the contrasts between his strength and her softness.
She closed her eyes and relaxed.
Gifford was rapidly discovering that torture could take many forms. His experiences with the privateers had taught him more about powerlessness, fear, and the desire for vengeance than he'd ever wanted to know. He'd relived many of those emotions when Abigail had been abducted and he'd been forced to buy her.
And then he had woken from his nightmare to find her sitting next to him. Her hair rumpled from sleep, her dress so unselfconsciously disarrayed she might have been less tempting totally naked. He'd been aroused by the sight of her. He'd hated the fact she'd seen him have another nightmare. He was tormented by fears of what else Johnson might have done to her. He was furious with himself for desiring her so soon after her ordeal.
He was also angry with her—which made him even angrier at himself. Abigail had done nothing wrong, but he found himself wishing she hadn't gone back to make one last check on Miss Wyndham's house, hadn't put herself, however innocently, in a position where Johnson could hurt her.
And now she rested quietly in his arms, her anger as well as his apparently forgotten. Her soft, rounded breasts pressed against his chest. They both wore so little clothing that he was acutely conscious of her voluptuous contours. The slick heat of their bodies. This was torture of another kind. Abigail was only seeking
comfort, but Gifford's body hardened with arousal. He continued to stroke her hair in gentle caresses, but he ached to sweep his hand down her back, over the enticing swell of her hips. He wanted to tip her head back and kiss her. He wanted to press her against his pelvis, let her feel his excitement. He wanted to strip off her dress and his breeches and bury himself in her.
The bed was only a foot away, and only her sheer muslin gown and his sense of honour protected her from his lust.
Abigail stirred slightly in his arms. 'He didn't do anything,' she said quietly.
'Do?' Gifford had momentarily forgotten Charles Johnson as he fought the more immediate battle with his desires.
'He took me from the house. He said no one would notice or care. Sampson pointed a pistol at me.' She shuddered at the memory.
'Sampson?' Gifford fought to keep his voice calm.
'His servant. He was in the cart with us.'
'I remember.' With a severe effort, Gifford managed to stay still and continue stroking Abigail's hair in the same soothing rhythm.
'Then he took me to that place.' Abigail's shoulders twitched. 'He made me p-put on this dress,' she whispered. 'Then he...then he put the...put the rope round my neck and took me outside. To the cart. You saw everything after...after that.'
Gifford's arms burned with the need to punch something—someone. He waited until he could trust his voice. Then he said, 'Is that...did he...did anything else happen?'
He felt Abigail draw in a deep, unsteady breath. 'No. He said...he said...he couldn't sell damaged goods.'
Gifford's relief was so immense it knocked all the strength from his limbs. He held on to Abigail, taking as much comfort from her warm, pliant body as he hoped she found in his embrace. His worst fear—that Abigail had been raped—had been laid to rest.
He remembered Johnson's introductory speech, before he'd opened the bidding on Abigail. Johnson had indeed boasted about her untouched purity, but Gifford had listened with self-imposed detachment. He'd known he couldn't let his emotions blind him to what he needed to do to rescue her.
'He had no right to sell me!' Under any other circumstances Abigail's indignation might have been comic, as she pushed away from Gifford to frown up at him. 'He said men sell their wives all the time, and he was perfectly entitled to sell me—since I belonged to his aunt, and his aunt hadn't left him anything else worth selling. Do men sell their wives? It's very, very wrong.'
'I've heard of occasions,' Gifford admitted. 'When the people involved can't afford the legal formalities of divorce. Malcolm wrote to me about such a case a few years ago. A blacksmith from a village near one of our estates sold his wife to a man from another village. I don't remember the details.'
'And everyone thinks it is so splendid to be married,' said Abigail tartly. 'I wouldn't want to be married to any man who was at that...that place last night. I expect most of them were married.'
'Probably.' Gifford let his arms drop to his sides as Abigail moved away from him. To his reli
ef her mood seemed to have improved. She almost sounded her usual self. 'But last night was different, Abigail'
'I know that!' she exclaimed, rubbing her palms against her upper arms.
'I just meant...in the case of the blacksmith and his wife—they'd already arranged the sale with the other man beforehand,' Gifford explained. 'The public sale was just to make sure all the local people knew what had happened—so they wouldn't go on dunning the blacksmith for her debts. She wasn't put up for auction...'
His voice faded away as he realised his explanation would hardly be of much comfort to Abigail.
'I don't have any debts,' she said caustically. 'You're confusing me with Charles.'
Gifford opened his mouth, then closed it again. In the circumstances, silence seemed the best course of action.
'I'll see if I can find us something to eat,' he said practically. 'And a brush and comb,' he added, remembering her desire to put up her hair.
When he'd gone, Abigail slumped onto the edge of the bed. She was grateful for the brief respite from Gifford's volatile temper.
His rage at Charles Johnson had been a tangible entity, sucking all the air out of the small room. It had been painful to tell Gifford what had happened to her, and she had missed out some of her more disturbing
memories—she knew she would never be able to tell anyone about the muzzle of Charles's pistol stroking her breast. But she'd forced herself to find the words to reassure Gifford.
In the rational light of morning she knew that nothing irreversibly bad had happened to her. It would be hard to go on with her life from here, but not really much harder than it would have been before Charles had kidnapped her. She was sure to find a way to manage. But Gifford's fury had frightened her.
There was a pitcher of water and a bowl on a stand. The water had been there all night, but it was cool and refreshing against Abigail's face and neck. She washed as well as she could, though she was too nervous to remove the white gown completely. The dress was very damp when she'd finished, and concealed even less than before.
Abigail had heard that dampened petticoats were fashionable, but when she looked down at the muslin clinging to her breasts, she could only conclude that London was a very scandalous place indeed—or that she'd somehow misunderstood the gossip.
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