Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘Alice, it’s about tempting him with a wager and diverting his mind.’

  Much as she didn’t want to admit it, Selina was on to something. The wager might well be the way out of all of their troubles. With the business debts unloaded on Lionhawk, they could retire to Oxford and live quietly on half of whatever profits the privateer managed to squeeze out of Fulton Shipping.

  Selina folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. ‘I think you should borrow the gown I wore to the General’s ball in Lisbon.’

  ‘It will be too big,’ Alice said, remembering the daring gown with horror.

  ‘I may not be good for much more than decoration,’ Selina said, with a bitter edge to her voice, ‘but I do know how to alter a dress to fit.’ She headed for her trunks.

  ‘Who said that?’ Alice asked. ‘The bit about only being good for decoration.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten.’ Selina rummaged through her gowns and shawls, clearly not intending to say more. ‘Aha.’ She stood up with a wisp of white silk over her arm. ‘Right. Let’s get you dressed.’

  An hour later, Selina stepped back. ‘Let me look.’

  Alice glanced down at the wide expanse of skin and very little curve above a lacy neckline. She grimaced. ‘The neck is too low.’

  ‘You are looking at it from the wrong angle. From here it looks gorgeous.’ She tilted her head. ‘And the colour is perfect.’

  ‘It’s white.’ With pink silk roses around the hem and edging the off-the-shoulder sleeves and neckline. ‘I never wear pink and white. No. I’m changing into my blue gown. It’s perfectly adequate.’

  A knock rattled the door of their prison. Lionhawk. A breath stuck in her throat, solid and hard. She choked it down.

  ‘You look lovely, Alice,’ Selina whispered, drawing close. ‘Trust me. He’ll be at your feet.’

  ‘I don’t want him at my feet. I want him stuck with Father’s debts.’ There, she’d said it. The whole scheme was machiavellian. Wrong.

  Her friend’s eyes softened. She patted Alice’s shoulder. ‘You can do it.’ The breathy voice was back, the little girl pout she wore like a suit of armour. ‘This plan turns on you distracting his attention. All you need to do is tease him a bit.’

  All very well for the mistress of feminine wiles to say. The only thing flirting ever got Alice was trouble. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I do. Right now, in that gown, the poor dear will be lucky if his brain manages to get above the level of his waistband.’

  ‘Selina!’

  ‘You never met my mother, did you, Alice? She taught me all I know about men.’

  Another knock. Louder this time.

  ‘Come in,’ Selina called out.

  Dash it, there was no time to change. Alice swung around to face the visitor.

  Selina gave her shoulders a squeeze. ‘That’s my girl.’

  It wasn’t Lionhawk after all, but Mr Anderson and a seaman with the key in his hand just behind him. The business agent paused in the doorway, his round face glowing, his scruffy beard gone. While she and Selina had bathed down here, the men had completed their ablutions up on deck.

  ‘Ladies.’ He bowed. And then he stared. ‘Miss Fulton.’ His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘I—er—I—’

  Well, what a surprise.

  ‘Do come in, Mr Anderson,’ Selina said. ‘Where is Richard?’

  He managed to drag his gaze from Alice’s chest and focus on Selina, whose expression was annoyingly smug. ‘He decided to stay aloft. Mr Wishart is teaching him the use of a sextant. He is doing remarkably well.’

  Inwardly Alice groaned. Clearly if she was going to save Richard from a life at sea, this plan needed to work.

  Dressed and ready, Michael paced the deck outside his open cabin door, occasionally glancing inside to check on progress.

  His plans were set. He’d ask Fulton for an impossible sum and the man would never see either of his children again. Never know what became of them before he met his end.

  It wasn’t enough. Michael needed to know what drove a bastard like Fulton. Money. Power. Ambition. Then Michael would strike where it would do the utmost damage.

  For that insight he needed Alice.

  ‘La-dee-da,’ Jacko chirped from inside. Michael caught a glimpse of him waltzing past the door with a broom in his arms and glowered. The men would not let him get away with this without a ribbing. They’d never guess his seduction was a means to a far different end.

  Simpson stuck his head out of the door. ‘Almost done. Shall I fetch her up?’

  Fetch her up? She wasn’t a sack of potatoes. ‘No. I will escort her.’ Besides, what if she’d changed her mind since this morning? Only his threats over her brother and her friend kept her under control.

  ‘You’ve got less than five minutes,’ he said to Simpson.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Simpson said.

  Michael stomped across his deck, glad of nightfall. Glad no one would see the anxiety in his expression or his impatience.

  The stooped and scholarly Bones, his strands of grey hair plastered to his bald head and his bulbous blue-veined nose redder than usual, stopped him just before he ducked down the companionway. The slight roll to his gait said he was already half-seas-over.

  ‘How’s the head today, Michael?’

  ‘Your tea did the trick.’

  ‘Willow bark. I used it on the Fulton lad too.’

  ‘Will he suffer any permanent ill effect?’

  Bones shook his head. ‘I don’t believe so. His mind is clear, the pain almost gone.’

  ‘Good.’ He wouldn’t wish his headaches on a dog, let alone another human being. He bolted down the ladder, feverish, impatient.

  Outside the hold’s door, he straightened his cravat, took a deep breath and knocked.

  A deep voice called enter. Anderson. The boy was still up on deck, following Wishart around.

  He turned the key.

  At first he thought it was the other woman gowned in white who opened the door, her hair arranged in some intricate series of coils above her ears and her face framed with carefully curled tendrils. But his body recognised Alice with a clench of pleasure.

  Alice. Dressed as if she were going to a ball. This was something new.

  He ignored the quickening in his blood and bowed the way he’d been taught as a boy. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Fulton.’

  When he straightened he saw puzzlement in her expression. She offered a straight-backed curtsy. A little dip of the knees.

  A muffled giggle emerged from the shadows. Lady Selina, seated at the table with a hand over her mouth and her eyes dancing with mirth. Had he done something wrong? He gritted his teeth and held out his arm. ‘Are you ready?’

  She placed the tips of her fingers on his sleeve. They rested there so lightly he felt nothing. He wanted to growl at her to take a firm hold, but he stilled his tongue. There was something about the other woman, Lady Selina, that made him feel as if he didn’t quite fit in his skin. And tonight, for the first time, he had a similar feeling around Miss Fulton. She looked too much the elegant lady. Too far above his common sailor’s touch, even if he did outrank her.

  Intending to put him in his place, no doubt.

  He set his jaw and urged her ahead of him up the ladder. He racked his brain for small talk. The weather? Too banal. Even he knew that. Her brother’s health? A bit like rubbing salt in a wound. Besides, he would be addressing remarks to her rather lovely bottom, which seemed all the more delicious because of the way the flimsy gown clung to its slight curves.

  Something a gentleman wasn’t supposed to notice. Who was he fooling? Certainly not Alice Fulton and her friend. He shouldn’t have bothered dragging out the courtly manners he’d learned as a boy. He’d probably remembered incorrectly and that’s why they were laughing.

  He stiffened his spine and held out his arm when he emerged on deck where she stood waiting.

  Her wretched brother dashed up. ‘Alice. You’ll never guess. I too
k a reading with the sextant and got it right second try.’

  ‘Well done,’ she said, her smile tight.

  The lad seemed not to notice her lack of enthusiasm. ‘I’m going to help Mr Wishart trim the sails for the night.’

  Her eyes widened and she drew back. ‘You are not going up there.’

  The boy thrust out his chin. ‘Yes. I am.’

  She grasped her brother’s sleeve. ‘What if you become dizzy? Only a day ago you suffered a head injury.’

  The lad glowered, his body tense. It didn’t take much imagination to envisage him taking foolish risks just to annoy his sister. Couldn’t she see too much petticoat government was making him worse? ‘Leave him be. This way, Miss Fulton.’

  The boy’s expression changed from sullen to puzzled. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Go and climb your stupid sails. And if you fall and break your neck, don’t expect me to put you back together.’

  The boy hesitated for a moment, then dashed off, probably terrified she’d change her mind.

  ‘Can’t you stop him?’ she asked

  He could. But he wouldn’t. Not when he was angry that the lad hadn’t had more concern for his sister’s welfare.

  Damn it. He should be glad the lad wasn’t making a fuss. ‘He’ll be safe with Wishart.’

  A sharp sigh gusted in his direction. Her brows lowered.

  Wonderful. The perfect companion. A resentful female. This evening had the makings of a new low in enjoyment.

  He placed his hand in the small of her back and urged her on. The small bones moved beneath his hand. Delicate, but not fragile. There was steel inside her willowy body. Resilience. It would bend without breaking. Flex against his strength.

  His body hardened.

  The cabin door was ajar and, to Michael’s surprise, she stepped inside without hesitation. Perhaps tonight would go just as he planned, after all.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she murmured, staring at the dining table with its white damask cloth, ornate silver epergne with three branches of candles and glittering silverware.

  The back of his neck went hot. He’d almost preened like some callow youth at her admiration. He didn’t care what she thought of his few family treasures. He’d intended them as reminders of why this evening was necessary.

  He strode across the room to where Simpson had placed a silver tray full of glasses and a couple of crystal decanters on his desk. ‘Would you care for a drink? There is brandy or sherry. I’d offer champagne, but it never tastes pleasant when warm.’

  ‘Sherry,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  She strolled to the window and looked down at the side table where he had once more set out the chess board. The light from the candles around the cabin glowed on her skin. Each step she took stirred the white fabric at her hips and revealed a pair of white satin clad feet and trim ankles. Against the dark of the window, she looked untouchable, as if a marble statue had stepped down from its pedestal.

  Untouchable was not good.

  ‘Are you ready to risk another game?’ she asked.

  He poured her sherry into a goblet and held it out. ‘Most certainly.’

  She smiled up at him, her hazel eyes unfathomable. ‘Are you seeking revenge?’

  He froze, staring at her. Nothing in her face indicated she’d guessed his intent. It was simply harmless banter.

  He let go of a long breath, forced a smile. ‘Naturally.’

  She took the glass. Their fingers touched. A slight brush of skin on skin, nothing to speak of, and yet his fingers tingled as if they’d been scorched.

  Her little gasp said she felt it too.

  ‘Must be a storm coming up,’ he said. ‘Electricity in the air.’

  ‘Oh, I hope not.’ She reached down and touched a geisha with a fingertip, revealing the valley between her small pert breasts.

  His mouth dried.

  She nudged the geisha one square. ‘Your move.’

  Simpson coughed and they both spun around like nervous cats at a dog’s bark.

  ‘Dinner is ready for serving, Cap’n.’

  ‘Good.’ It would be a relief to have something to do, something to keep his mind off her tantalising flesh. ‘May I seat you, Miss Fulton?’

  ‘Indeed you may, Captain Lionhawk.’

  Blister it. She was going kill him with all this politeness. Something between them had changed.

  He shrugged it off. They weren’t going to be friends. Tonight he would learn all he needed to know and take the final step in her ruin.

  He pulled out her chair and she sank down gracefully. He sat down. Their gazes locked above the fine linens and sparkling silver.

  Alice carefully drew in a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to fall out of this gown and from the grim set to her companion’s face, she wasn’t sure it was having the desired effect.

  So much for Selina’s faith in her ability to distract.

  ‘The table looks lovely,’ she said. ‘The china is Meissen, is it not?’

  He glanced at the plate in front of him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you not afraid they will get broken if you run into rough weather?’

  ‘Yes.’ The light from the candles emphasised his high cheekbones and red highlights glinted from the dark beard. He looked almost demonic with candle flames dancing in his unreadable, light-coloured eyes. My word, her imagination was active tonight. It must be nerves.

  ‘Simpson packs them away in straw when they are not in use,’ he said in a rather off-hand manner, as if he didn’t care whether they broke or not. And why would he? He could always steal more.

  ‘My father imported china from Meissen before Napoleon gobbled up Europe.’ She traced the delicate rose pattern around the circumference of the plate. ‘Perhaps he even imported some of these pieces.’

  She looked up to find an expression of shock on his face.

  ‘It is not possible,’ he said.

  She frowned. ‘It is entirely possible. Fulton Shipping regularly brought such pieces from Saxony. My father had an exclusive licence.’

  His expression smoothed out. And yet it seemed to require some effort to take command of his emotions because he took a deep breath. ‘You know a great deal about your father’s business.’

  ‘Yes. I do. Mother died when Richard was very young. I helped where I could.’

  ‘Surely he has employees for that sort of thing.’

  Employees who needed direction. And when the master couldn’t lift his brandy-soaked head, someone had to give orders. ‘A family business is best kept within the family.’

  ‘The Fulton secret of success.’ His voice had a razor-sharp edge as if he’d like to slice the Fulton name into slivers and feed it to a shark.

  She repressed a sharp retort and smiled agreement instead.

  The door opened and Simpson marched in, followed by Jacko and another member of the crew. The two men carried silver platters beneath covers and the boy carried a sauce boat.

  Simpson set his platter down in the centre of the table and directed the other two. The boy grinned the moment he put down his jug.

  ‘How is your hand?’ she asked.

  He held out his bandaged palm. ‘Bones tied it up. It don’t hurt none.’

  ‘Brave lad,’ she said.

  He bowed and skipped out of the room. The other sailor tugged his forelock and departed just as swiftly.

  Simpson’s black eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Dinner is served, Cap’n, Miss Fulton.’ He whipped off the silver covers and beamed. Alice felt as if she ought to give him a round of applause. One platter held small fish lined up like soldiers, the other an assortment of root vegetables.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It smells delicious.’

  ‘We have a Frenchie chef,’ Simpson said with obvious pride.

  ‘Alphonse was a chef to a French nobleman,’ Lionhawk added. ‘He does his best with the supplies we have available. Though sometimes his Gallic sensibilities get the better of him and he
refuses to cook anything at all.’

  She laughed at the dry tone of his voice. ‘He certainly seems to have excelled himself this evening.’ She inhaled the wonderful aroma.

  Across the table, the tension in her companion’s shoulders eased. He managed the faint impression of a smile, a twitch at the corner of his lips. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘May I serve you, miss?’ Simpson asked.

  ‘It’s all right, Simpson. I think Miss Fulton and I can manage to serve ourselves this evening. You can pour us both a glass of wine before you go.’

  Simpson bowed. He removed their sherry glasses and returned with a decanter and poured red wine into the crystal glasses set beside each of their plates.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Cap’n?’

  ‘No, thank you. Nothing further tonight. I will ring if I need you.’

  There was a bell pull? Then she noticed the little hand-bell in the centre of the table. The silver handle was delicately filigreed. ‘Oh, how pretty.’

  ‘That belonged to Cap’n’s mother,’ Simpson said with his customary wink.

  ‘That will be all,’ Lionhawk said, his voice tight.

  Not that it bothered the irrepressible Simpson, because he bowed again and marched in solemn fashion out of the room.

  ‘He has ambitions to become a butler,’ Lionhawk said.

  ‘I think he would make a very good one.’ If he learned not to grin and wink.

  ‘I’ll tell him you said so, though I’m afraid it will go to his head. Allow me to serve you some fish.’

  ‘I hope my companions are enjoying a similar meal?’ she said with a smile.

  He lowered his brows. ‘Your companions, as you put it, will eat the same as the rest of the crew.’

  ‘Oh. What is that?’

  ‘Weevily biscuit and gruel.’

  Chapter Eight

  Selina would be horrified. ‘In that case, I will join them.’

  He observed her over his glass. ‘Do you think I’d keep my men if I fed them Royal Navy rations? I joke, madam.’

  ‘I must say it is difficult to tell. I suppose tossing me out of your cabin after I won at chess was also your idea of a joke.’ Not a tactful thing to say, by the darkening of his expression. He’d be tossing her out again at any moment and that would not suit her purpose at all.