Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  Too much wine. Why the hell had he drunk so much?

  The pain spiked. He rubbed his temples, seeking relief. A grinding throb set up home at the base of his skull.

  No holding this one off. He grabbed for her again. ‘You’re leaving.’

  Her eyes widened, filling with fear. He didn’t care. He had to get her out of here. He would not let her see him brought to his knees.

  ‘It’s your head,’ she said. ‘Let me—’

  ‘No,’ he said, tugging cruelly hard on her wrist.

  Anger. A hot raging beast he couldn’t control crawled up his throat. ‘Move.’ Dragging her along, he strode for the door. He flung it open.

  ‘Simpson,’ he roared. ‘Take her to the hold.’ Peering through the blinding haze, he thrust her outside. Simpson would see to her. He wouldn’t let him down.

  God damn it all.

  Thoughts whipped around in his head like storm-damaged rigging in a gale. Faces skittered across his memory. Meg falling. His beloved mother and father surrounded by flames. And Jaimie.

  The light from the candles burned through his closed eyelids. Barbed arrows tore into his brain. The urge to hit something bunched his muscles. He stormed around his cabin, flinging things aside, looking for the source of his pain. The light.

  The punishing light.

  ‘Simpson,’ he bellowed. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  A flicker of sanity gave him the answer. Gone with the girl. The daughter of his enemy.

  He found the bed and ripped off the covers. Found the hooks. Nausea rose in his throat. He gripped the blanket in both fists.

  ‘The light,’ he whispered. ‘For God’s sake, someone douse the bloody light.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘Cap’n’ll be in a foul mood today.’

  He struggled to make sense of the words penetrating the thick, swirling, grey fog.

  ‘Always is,’ replied the piping tones of a boy. ‘After one of they headaches.’

  Who? The question bounced sluggishly in the miasma of his brain. Panic closed his throat as he stared into the surrounding heavy blackness. Who was he?

  He jerked to a sitting position at the sound of a crash followed by the tinkle of shattering glass.

  ‘Careful, lad. The Cap’n’ll have your hide.’

  Memories flooded in. His name was Michael. The all-too-familiar yawning pit of despair receded. He was Lionhawk. He owned this ship and he knew his name, his parents’ names, his grim reality.

  Michael sank back on to the mattress, safe in the dark tent of blankets put up by Simpson before he collapsed. Relief washed through him. A headache had laid him low. The momentary blank when he first awoke scared him worse than any nightmare. The rush of blessed memory, every last hellish one of them, dawned like manna from heaven.

  The first episode for months. It had struck him hard. And he’d thought he was free of them. He hauled air into his lungs, gathering momentum for the task of getting up. No mean feat after a night of agony.

  ‘Did you see the look on his face when he ordered her back to the hold?’ Simpson’s voice.

  ‘Naw.’ Jacko, his cabin boy. ‘I only heard him roar at her.’

  Her? Michael frowned and winced at the sensation of tight skin stretching over his scalp.

  ‘I’m surprised he wanted that ’un,’ Jacko said. ‘T’other ’un’s much purtier. Like a china doll I saw once at the market in Freeport, black curly hair and pretty pink cheeks.’

  Simpson grunted. ‘You’re too young to know, me lad. That ’un’s done naught but complain. She can’t hold a candle to the Fulton wench.’

  Bloody hell. Alice Fulton and her brother. The pieces of the puzzle fell together in splashes of colour and light. He’d captured Fulton’s ship and all who sailed in her and celebrated with too much red wine.

  It put paid to his planned seduction, but he had learned a great deal more about his enemy.

  In the cold light of day another truth lay before him as obvious as a steaming dollop of horse dung in the middle of a fancy soirée. Fulton Shipping had hit rough water.

  Laughter balled in his chest. Served the bastard right. But just how badly off was he? Some men complained if they lost so much as a farthing.

  The sounds of a scuffle broke out as Jacko and Simpson fought for the privilege of serving him. The wily boy won and pushed his ugly wharf-rat face between the edges of Michael’s makeshift cavern, grinning from one misshapen ear to the other.

  ‘Here ye are, Cap’n. Coffee. Will ye be wanting your breakfast?’

  ‘On my desk. And be quick about it.’ The cheeky grin didn’t falter, but the boy dashed off, leaving Simpson to pull down the blankets.

  Michael covered his eyes with one hand and suppressed a groan.

  ‘Might do that lad some good to feel the flat of your hand on his backside once in a while,’ Simpson grumbled.

  ‘Not on my ship. I’ll turn off anyone who does.’ He pressed his fingers to his temples.

  ‘Ain’t seen you this poorly since we got into the fight with the press gang from the Dreadnought,’ Simpson commented. ‘The water for your bath is on the way. Shall I call the sawbones or do you want a hair of the dog?’

  The doctor could do nothing and the thought of alcohol made Michael’s stomach roll. ‘Coffee is all I need.’

  ‘Cap’n?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘What, man? Spit it out.’

  ‘That there Fulton lass. She told Wishart you gave orders for her and the rest of them to promenade on the deck today. Health reasons.’

  Michael’s mouth fell open. ‘Promenade?’

  Simpson rummaged through a chest for Michael’s clothes. ‘Sort of take a walk, like.’

  ‘I know what the hell promenade means.’

  ‘They’re to come up at six bells. Bones agreed it would do the sick lad some good.’

  So, the lad was up and about. ‘I’ll see Wishart in here after coffee and a bath.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ Simpson held out a towel.

  Absently, Michael took it. Promenade on his deck without authority from him, would she? The wench had some nerve.

  But then he’d known that already. Apparently, Miss Fulton now had so little respect for him, she thought to take charge of his ship.

  For some unfathomable reason, he looked forward to correcting her mistake in person. The sensation took him all abeam.

  Alice stepped over the coaming at the top of the companionway and squeezed her eyelids tight against the mid-morning dazzle.

  ‘Alice, where’s my parasol?’ Selina asked from the top step. In a pink muslin matched by the ribbons on her straw hat, Selina might have been preparing for a stroll through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, instead of emerging from a dungeon. Alice smiled. One could always count on Selina to add style to the occasion.

  Alice assisted her out on to the deck. ‘You gave it to Mr Anderson.’

  ‘So I did. Mr Anderson, my sunshade, if you please.’

  ‘Here you are, Lady Selina,’ Anderson said, opening the parasol. Two days’ growth of beard and his arm in a sling gave the usually smart business agent a rather disreputable appearance.

  A bandage around his forehead, Richard followed him out. Mr Anderson directed them to the shade beneath the awning slung over the Gryphon’s deck. Mr Wishart had proved most helpful in meeting Alice’s requests, once she had the doctor’s agreement. Once out of the heat of a blazing sun riding high in a cloudless sky, Alice lifted her face to the cooling breeze.

  Richard clung to the rail. For all his brave words, he looked as if he didn’t trust his legs for support.

  ‘Don’t do too much on your first day up,’ she warned, taking his arm.

  ‘I’m all right.’ He shook her off and peered over the mahogany rail into the blue-green ocean sliding by. ‘You are worse than old Nanny Mills.’

  And that was a bad thing? Alice curbed her tongue. Finding Richard still unconscious when sh
e’d been hustled back to the hold last night had given her a fright. She’d bathed his temples with cool water and spent the night dozing in a chair beside his cot. Her relief at his awaking this morning with a demand for food knew no bounds.

  Apart from the usual creaks and the wind humming in the rigging, the ship seemed strangely silent. No sailors aloft or on deck. She sent a sidelong glance at their captain at the helm and his nearby first officer. Now why would they send the men below?

  Richard must have seen the direction of her gaze. ‘Damn, but he’s something, isn’t he?’

  ‘Richard, your language,’ Alice admonished.

  But her brother was right. At one with the elements, with his strong hands gripping the wheel, he braced against the wind and stared at the horizon as if nothing in the world existed but him and his ship. The wind played with his loose-fitting white shirt. It pulled the fabric taut and teased her with a glimpse of the sculpted muscles of his torso. Then it dove inside the shirt, billowing the cotton like a sail, emphasising his narrow hips and strong thighs in tight-fitting breeches.

  Her breath hitched in appreciation of his male beauty.

  It was a good thing she understood her own wanton nature, her own weakness, or she might be tempted to do more than look. But she’d followed that path before and knew the pitfalls. She was well armed to resist the handsome rogue. She hoped.

  She took a deep breath. What she needed to do was find a way out of captivity that did not end in her father’s complete ruin.

  Lionhawk’s questions seemed to hold the key, if she could just work out what it was he wanted and why he knew so much about her and her family.

  ‘Richard, whatever the captain asks you about Father’s business, tell him nothing,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Tell him you have been away at school and this is the first time you’ve been on one of these trips.’

  Richard grimaced. ‘You mean tell him the truth.’ Once more his gaze strayed to the man at the wheel. ‘What I’d give to have a ship of my own, to be answerable to no one. I want to sail, not buy and sell things or spend hours in a stuffy office pouring over accounts.’

  The admiration in her brother’s expression sent a sick feeling sliding around in her stomach, like the queasiness during the first days at sea. Richard was far too easily impressed. He’d always wanted to go to sea and Lionhawk was just the kind of man he’d take it in his head to emulate.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Selina asked, joining them with Mr Anderson in tow. ‘That pirate?’

  ‘Privateer,’ Richard corrected.

  Selina poked her arm. ‘What questions did he ask you last night?’

  Richard swung around. ‘What is Lady Selina talking about?’

  ‘I had a long talk with our captain while we played a game of chess,’ Alice said. ‘He was prying into Father’s affairs, trying to ascertain how much ransom we were worth.’

  Selina shivered. ‘Horrid man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said, wishing her stomach didn’t give a flutter every time she looked at him.

  Richard bristled. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to his cabin.’

  ‘Do you think I had a choice?’ she said drily. ‘I don’t believe I told him more than I should.’ If only she knew the purpose behind his questions, she might mount a better defence.

  ‘Take heart, Lady Selina,’ Anderson said. ‘At least he’s not thrown us overboard.’

  Selina’s green eyes grew round. ‘Do you think he would?’

  ‘There’s no saying what a blackguard like that would do,’ Anderson said. ‘Preying on merchant ships about their lawful business and capturing honest citizens. He deserves to hang.’

  Selina blanched.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mr Anderson,’ Alice said. ‘Can’t you see you are frightening Lady Selina? It really is too bad. All the man wants is money.’

  Anderson coloured. He bowed stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies.’

  Richard thrust out his chest and tried to look manly. ‘Don’t worry, Lady Selina, I’ll keep you safe.’ He turned an anxious pair of eyes on Alice. ‘He didn’t offer you any insult, did he?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, not quite meeting his gaze. To her shame, she couldn’t call a kiss she’d responded to with enthusiasm an insult any more than she could call Andrew to account for what they’d done together.

  Selina pouted. ‘I want to go home. We are going to miss the Bedlingfords’ rout.’

  ‘There will be many more routs, I assure you,’ Alice said.

  Selina twirled her parasol. ‘Do you always have to be so practical? Walk with me, someone. I need the exercise.’

  Always restless, Selina would not be happy unless she was dancing until dawn and riding out all afternoon, part of the reason she had fled from sedate Lisbon society. That and a man.

  ‘Take my arm, Lady Selina,’ Anderson said, holding out his good one. ‘A ship’s deck is no easy matter for a delicate female. Ropes and such, you know.’

  Trust Selina to bring out chivalry in a man when Alice could only manage a rough dismissal. Not that she cared. She’d been delighted to leave his cabin, even if it was rather mortifying to be thrown out like a lump of bad meat.

  Selina and Anderson strolled off towards the bow.

  Off the rail, the ocean flashed diamonds. Gulls dived into the water, sending up tiny waterfalls full of rainbows. The beauty of the day jarred with the turmoil in Alice’s mind.

  ‘I hate school,’ Richard grumbled. ‘Do you think Father will let me join the navy when we get back? I’m never seasick. Captain Dareth said I’m a natural sailor.’

  If they weren’t very careful, Richard might run away to sea. The thought of him joining as a common sailor chilled her blood. ‘I’ll talk to him when we get home.’

  But when would that be? Who knew how long it would take Father to raise funds for the ransom? The trick would be to convince Lionhawk not to ask for too much, which wasn’t much at all.

  Completely oblivious to her worries, Richard gave her shoulders a quick hug. ‘I knew I could count on you, Allie.’ A rush of tenderness for the man-boy at her side filled her heart. She patted his cheek. Her fingers met hot flesh. Too hot. ‘I think you may have a fever.’

  Richard groaned and jerked his face away. ‘The doctor said I’m all right.’

  Every time she thought how close her brother had come to death, she went cold all over. She’d finally talked to Mr Bones this morning and, despite his disreputable appearance, he’d seemed to know his business. She’d ask him for willow-bark tea the next time he came to check on Richard. It would help with the fever.

  Captain Dareth had taken a dreadful risk in trying to escape. Thank God Lionhawk had made him heave to before the Gryphon put a hole in their hull and people died, even if it did mean they’d ended up as his prize. Besides, a good lawyer might be able to prove something irregular about a prize taken by such underhanded means—if they ever made landfall to give evidence.

  Against her wishes, her gaze found its way back to their captain. He looked more like a pirate than ever today in his open-necked loose-fitting shirt, black breeches and shiny black boots. Or he would, if it weren’t for Selina and her fluttery pink ribbons and matching parasol parading across his deck.

  As if sensing Alice’s observation, he turned his head and their gazes locked. The flare of heat she saw in his piercing eyes made her tremble inside.

  This had to stop. This wanton longing. It would only lead to trouble.

  She forced herself to look away. When she looked back it was to see him disappearing into his cabin and Wishart alone at the wheel.

  Chapter Six

  Alice turned at the sound of running feet. A boy dashed by waving something aloft in a flurry of scrawny, sun-bronzed limbs.

  A sailor lumbered after him a few yards behind. Kale. Alice recognised him at once.

  ‘Give it back, you imp of Satan,’ Kale bawled. He lowered his head and charged the lad. ‘I’ll take my belt to you,
when I catches you.’ He lunged. Meaty fists grabbed the boy’s shirt. ‘Got you.’

  The boy struggled, twisting and ducking, kicking out with bare feet. Kale picked him up, dangling him like a puppy in its dam’s jaws, though his intent seemed far from maternal. The shirt ripped. The boy crashed to the deck on his behind, rolled and sprang cat-like to his feet. With a crow of triumph, he pelted off. Naked from the waist up, thin arms pumping, his striated ribs expanded and contracted beneath tightly stretched skin.

  Alice wanted to cheer him on, but could only watch in horrified fascination.

  The lad dodged behind the mast and turned to face his pursuer. His eyes widened, his lips drawing back from his teeth.

  Kale cursed. Arms stretched wide, he lurched from side to side, blocking the boy’s escape.

  This was no game. No rough and tumble among shipmates. The boy was clearly terrified.

  ‘Belay that!’ Wishart roared, his face red. Good. He would stop it.

  But Kale wasn’t listening. He had something in his hand. It flashed metallic. A knife.

  Mouth dry, her breath tangled with her voice and her shout of warning came out no more than a croak of fear.

  He threw. A glinting sliver of death, turning end over end, flew right at the boy.

  ‘Look out!’ Richard cried.

  At the last possible second, the boy sensed his danger and ducked. The blade whizzed over his head and landed against the bulwark with a clatter.

  Thank God.

  With a hoot of defiance, the lad flung himself into the ratlines on the starboard side and clambered upwards on frantic skinny limbs. Kale strode after him.

  ‘Kale!’ Wishart’s roar boomed across the deck.

  The seaman seemed not to hear. He hauled his burly body up on to the rail and into the yards.

  Wishart roared again. ‘I said enough!’

  Kale turned his head, glared and then dropped to the deck, fists clenched.

  Alice let go her breath.

  ‘Stand there,’ Wishart yelled. ‘You heard the captain. No one on deck while the prisoners take the air. He’ll be having words with you.’