Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  ‘You think I threw you out because you won?’

  She shrugged. ‘I can only assume so, since you didn’t offer an explanation.’

  ‘A captain of a ship doesn’t need an explanation.’

  She pressed her lips together.

  ‘What were you going to say, Miss Fulton?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Say it. I promise I won’t throw you overboard.’

  This time she saw the slight twitch of his lips. Another jest. ‘We sound like a couple of squabbling children.’

  He leaned back in his chair, the glass to his lips, laughter fracturing the blue of his eyes, giving them the colour of tropical waters warmed by the sun.

  ‘At least I have the grace to admit it,’ she said.

  At that he did laugh out loud. And the itchy sensation of discomfort fell away. Suddenly they were two people enjoying a meal, if not exactly like old friends, then like reasonable adults.

  He served her some of the fish and drizzled it with sauce. She picked up her knife and fork and ate a piece of the delicate white flesh. ‘This is delicious.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell Alphonse.’

  Thankfully he did not gobble his food like a pig, or, worse yet, pick his teeth with his fork, all the things her etiquette teacher had insisted was everyday behaviour for the lower classes. Not because there was anything wrong with the lower classes, but because they were not lucky enough to have etiquette teachers.

  It was not their fault.

  It was too bad some of her gentlemen acquaintances hadn’t been forced to take etiquette classes. They seemed to descend a level or two when confronted with food and a surfeit of wine.

  This man was nothing but elegant at the table.

  His fork halted halfway to his mouth and he shot her an enquiring glance. Oh heavens, she must have been staring. She tilted her head as if waiting for him to say something.

  He shrugged and took another bite with his strong, even white teeth.

  She filled her fork with fish and savoured another mouthful of the delicious meal.

  ‘I’m glad you have a good appetite after your ordeal,’ he said in easy tones. ‘You know the Conchita’s captain should never have run after the warning shot. Wishart wouldn’t have fired into the rigging if he’d heaved to as ordered.’

  Was he making excuses? Perhaps even an apology? She put down her knife and fork and picked up her wine. ‘What I don’t understand is why you were on board. Do you usually smuggle yourself on to ships you plan to take as a prize?’

  ‘I wanted to take a look at your cargo. I planned to leave before the Conchita slipped her moorings. Your captain told the harbourmaster he planned to depart at first light.’ The lie slid easily from his tongue.

  ‘And we left at midnight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We hoped to clear Lisbon in the dark and slip through the blockade.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘Not clever enough. How did Wishart find us?’

  Lionhawk set down his cutlery and rang the bell. ‘I hate to say this, but pure blind luck.’

  ‘Your luck. Not ours.’ She realised she sounded quite miserable and lightened her expression. ‘Fate, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Fate.’

  The words sounded fervent. Her shoulders tightened defensively. She thrust the feeling aside. She didn’t believe in luck. She believed in hard work and sensible decisions. Out of courtesy she raised her glass to his toast.

  ‘Your father made a fortune in shipping,’ he said, his gaze watchful. ‘He must be a clever man.’

  She shrugged. ‘My grandfather established the company. My father has continued it.’

  ‘It is unusual for a family of merchants to be accepted into society.’

  ‘He married a Carstairs.’

  ‘I see. Very advantageous.’

  ‘It broke his heart when my mother died.’ And that was when the rot had set in.

  Lionhawk looked faintly disbelieving. ‘I suppose such a rich man must have a lot of power.’

  ‘He is well known among the ton.’ She tried not to wince at her side-step.

  A beaming Simpson entered with coffee and, of all things, sweetmeats on a plate. Marchpane and spun-sugar confections were moulded into the shapes of lions and tigers and even a giraffe.

  ‘How lovely. He truly is an artist.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lionhawk said, sounding supremely satisfied. ‘And an excellent to’gallant man. That will be all, Simpson. Shall we take our coffee to the board and start our game?’

  ‘Won’t you be mortified when you lose?’

  ‘You are very confident.’

  ‘Ah, but you see I have your measure.’

  Both eyebrows shot up at that and she had the feeling she’d said something a little risqué. Then it dawned on her what he might be thinking she was measuring. Her body blushed all over.

  ‘At chess,’ she said.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said, his eyes dancing.

  Oh, Lord, now she’d really given too much away. She tried to look unconscious of his silent amusement. ‘Let the duel begin.’

  Only the battle would not be won or lost by way of the chess board, but by her ability to confuse the enemy. And that gave her a rather unpleasant sensation in her stomach, as if she’d eaten too many of the sweetmeats when she’d yet to sample a single one.

  Their game proceeded swiftly. Despite Lionhawk’s lazy appearance, his moves were brisk, and, Alice admitted, looking at the board, devastating. It had taken all her powers of concentration to follow his strategy. A growing suspicion he’d let her win yesterday made her feel a tiny bit nauseous.

  Yet there were weaknesses in his play. And the longer the game continued, the more confident she became that she had the skills to beat him. Just.

  This game would finish in a moment. He would win as she’d planned. It was time to play her real hand.

  ‘I think I have you on the run,’ she said, with a smile. She leaned forwards, hopefully giving him an excellent view down the front of her gown.

  Wonders of wonders, he was staring at her bosom as if he’d discovered something toothsome. Heat surged up from the pit of her belly. Her breasts tingled as if he’d touched her there. Warmth trickled through her veins.

  ‘Do you?’ he said, his gaze drifting up to her face. What she saw in his eyes both thrilled and terrified.

  The heat of desire.

  She felt as if she hovered on the brink of a whirlpool. If she did not take care, it would suck her down into the depths of depravity.

  What she and Selina had planned was truly dangerous.

  She had the feeling this man had the means to strip away her defences, break down her barriers. Fortunately, he had no idea of his power.

  ‘Captain Lionhawk—’

  ‘Please…’ he offered her a warm smile, a smile so seductive it pinned her to her seat ‘…call me Michael.’

  She swallowed. ‘Michael. Did any of your captives fail to pay their ransom?’

  He stroked his beard. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I wondered, that is all.’ The air in the room seemed too thin. She drew in a couple of quick breaths, aware of the rapid beat of her heart. Oh, dear Lord, she couldn’t let him see she cared about the answer.

  He leaned back, eyes narrowed. ‘Never. But if it happened there are several ways I can make up for the loss, I suppose. The easiest is to give the relatives time to raise the funds.’ His low murmur was barely discernible above the blood rushing in her ears. ‘There’s a man in Algiers who would, for a percentage, keep the prisoners until the funds came through.’

  Algiers? Her mouth dried. She darted a glance at his face. It told her nothing. ‘And if the money never arrived?’

  ‘There are always the slave markets.’

  A flash of amusement shone from his eyes. If she hadn’t been watching his reaction, she might have missed it.

  ‘Another of your jests?’

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nbsp; ‘Perhaps. Are you worried that your father won’t pay for you and your brother?’

  Tell him. He’d risked his life today to save a small boy. Instinct said he was not as cruel as he liked to appear.

  Right, Alice. Her instincts had served her exceptionally well in the past when it came to men. Only a fool would trust a man who stole for a living. She’d been fooled by one fortune hunter, she wouldn’t repeat her mistake. ‘My father will pay.’

  ‘Of course, the price goes up with every day’s delay.’

  See. Nothing but a pirate. He’d taken their ship, he deserved to be saddled with a foundering business.

  She fanned her face and pouted. ‘I’m so utterly bored with this game.’

  He cocked his head. ‘Because I’m winning?’

  She snapped the fan shut. ‘It doesn’t matter who wins when there is nothing at stake.’

  He curled his lip. ‘Victory?’

  She picked up her coffee cup and sipped the dark aromatic brew. ‘Winning matters to you because you lost last time. But if you win, we are even and if I win, then I prove I am a better chess player. Boring in the extreme.’

  He frowned. ‘Are you saying you won’t finish the game?’ The frustration in his voice gave her a little thrill, the kind she felt when a patient she’d taken an interest in took a turn for the better.

  ‘I’m saying it is dull. Ennui has me in its thrall. I thought someone like you would understand?’

  ‘Someone like me?’ He grimaced. ‘And just what does that mean?’

  ‘An adventurer. A man who craves a challenge.’

  ‘Do you think I risk my men’s lives for mere excitement?’

  The gravel in his throat sent a little shimmer down her spine. Lord, but the man managed to hit that nerve, or whatever it was, every time he growled at her.

  She put her cup down and widened her eyes. Selina would have been proud. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘You, Miss Fulton, have no idea what drives a man like me.’

  Wasn’t it all about money and winning? She yawned behind a languid hand. ‘I think I prefer to retire. Perhaps we could finish our game another time.’ She pushed to her feet.

  ‘Sit down.’

  The command in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. A delicious chill. Excitement mingled with the thrill of the hunt. She took a deep breath, raised what she hoped was a haughty brow.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please sit down. Let us make it more interesting. A wager. The best of three games.’

  The breath she’d been holding slipped from her parted lips. He had no idea how close she’d come to submitting to his will. What sort of woman let a command make her weak and full of longing for things of which she should have no knowledge? A wanton through and through. Whatever happened, she must not let him see her weakness or she would be lost.

  ‘And the stakes?’ she enquired with faint interest.

  He shrugged. ‘What would make it interesting to you?’

  ‘If I win, you agree to let us go.’

  He looked at her as if she were mad. ‘Do you seriously contemplate I would wager what would obviously be an enormous loss to me and my crew?’

  She yawned. ‘Afraid you will lose?’

  ‘Am I?’ he said grimly. He stared at the board as if he could see into the future.

  Surely he must see he would win this game? She let doubt show on her face. ‘Of course I would have tried a little harder from the off had I known that was at stake.’

  ‘No matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t have won. I learned this game from a master and he taught me all he knew. I must admit I had forgotten much, but it comes back to me, Miss Fulton. It comes back. You cannot beat me.’

  Arrogant man. If only he knew she didn’t want to win. At least not this game. A fear unfurled in the pit of her belly, a gnawing anxiety. She’d overplayed her hand. She had asked for too much and he wasn’t going to bite. ‘What is the use of a wager, if one does not risk all?’

  His gaze flicked up to search her face. ‘And what do I get if I win?’

  ‘You win your ransom.’

  A slow lazy smile lit his face and warmed his eyes. ‘I’m not a fool, my dear. The ransom is already mine.’ He rubbed his jaw, his gaze skimming her body, lingering on the expanse of skin above her neckline. ‘Let me think. What do I want?’

  She went hot, then cold. The gown was supposed to be a distraction, not an invitation, but she couldn’t help her surge of warm womanly pride at the obvious flare of interest in his eyes.

  ‘I have an idea,’ she said before her brain went up in the conflagration.

  ‘No doubt,’ he said.

  Inwardly, she winced. Had she been so obvious? No turning back now. ‘Why not a half-share in Fulton Shipping?’

  All the languor left his body. He leaned forwards. Ah. Now she had his attention.

  ‘You don’t own a half of Fulton’s Shipping,’ he said.

  ‘My dowry,’ she said calmly, despite the race of her heart.

  Michael didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. All through their conversation this evening, he had sensed her underlying unease. A quiet desperation that had him feeling like a cur. Sympathy. A dangerous emotion females used to their advantage. This new ploy shook the wind from his sails. He narrowed his gaze on her innocent-looking face. ‘Your dowry?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to marry me,’ she said with a snap to her voice. ‘It is mine to do with as I wish.’

  ‘Why would an unmarried woman risk her dowry?’

  ‘It is not much of a risk, is it?’ she said, eyeing the board.

  Damn her. She really did think little of his skills. And if he refused her wager, she would think he was afraid. This second game had gone much better than the first. Some of his earlier play had been instinctive, but during this last game he’d had flashes of memory of playing as a young lad. Before he went to sea.

  Memories of his father’s instructions. The knowledge that he’d been taught by a master. It was like peeking through a door only slightly ajar, but he knew he’d been good enough to earn his father’s praise.

  Miss Fulton had no idea just how tempting her offer was, or how helpful. He’d be a fool to let the opportunity slip, especially when there was no chance she would win. ‘Very well. If you win, you will go free. If I win, I get the ransom and half of Fulton’s.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought….’

  ‘What, that I would give up my ransom? When it is already mine? If I win, I get both.’

  Clearly she didn’t like his reply, for her eyes hardened and her lips thinned. She must think him witless, if she thought he’d give up what was already his by rights.

  ‘You said, you will go free,’ she said, holding his gaze with fierce intensity. ‘All the prisoners are to be released.’

  There it was again, her courage, her selflessness, bright and sharp like a sword blade angled against the sun. She would not accept anything but the release of his prisoners, he could see it in the set of her chin and the intensity in her eyes. She’d be a fool to settle for anything less, though he could probably bargain her down.

  But no matter how good she was, she would not win again. This last game had revealed all the weakness in her play.

  Regret flashed through him. For a moment, a very brief moment, he wanted to back down, to free her and her companions and sail away basking in her gratitude.

  Perhaps if he’d been free to choose, he would have followed his gut, but he’d made a vow. If the Fates meant him to use Alex Fulton’s daughter, he would not turn his back and risk their ire.

  He held out his hand. ‘Agreed, Miss Fulton.’

  For a long moment, she stared at his hand. Finally she stretched out her small fine-boned one and he grasped it firmly, felt its warmth and light dampness against his palm. And deep in his bones, he felt the tremble. Knew her fear.

  Bugger. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn’t it have been her empty-headed friend, who acted no different to
the countless other women he’d bedded and left happy over the years? Why did this serious-faced woman with her mysterious gaze and her hidden well of passion tempt him beyond endurance? Why did she have to be Fulton’s daughter?

  Because that was how the Fates worked. Giving with one hand and taking with the other. Every old salt on the ocean could give examples of their cruelty.

  No matter his regrets, he had to go forwards. He could not break his oath. He released his grip. ‘Have at it, Miss Fulton. The best of three.’

  She pursed her lips and pushed her queen in front of his knight. A clever move.

  His knight swooped in for the kill. ‘Check and mate.’

  Her hands clenched in her lap, the knuckles white. She nibbled her bottom lip. Slowly she raised her gaze to his face. ‘Congratulations.’ She sounded pleased for him. Sportingly putting a brave face on her loss. And that he admired.

  He started setting up the board for their final game.

  In a jerky movement, she rose to her feet and stepped closer to the window, leaning forwards to look out through the open casement.

  He rose and went to stand behind her as he had the previous evening. He inhaled her scent. Sunshine in green open fields and wild flowers nodding in a breeze. Images of England he didn’t know he remembered formed like freshly painted landscapes in his mind. His whole being yearned for home as it hadn’t for years, even as he knew in his heart what he longed for was gone. Courtesy of Alex Fulton.

  ‘You won, Captain Lionhawk,’ she murmured softly.

  ‘One game each,’ he said, offering a salve to her pride.

  Through the glass, he could see the white wake and the glint of moonlit waves.

  She remained still and silent, staring into the darkness. Unaccountably, illogically, he wanted her to respond to his presence.

  He exhaled. A slow trickle of breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape.

  She shivered. A delicate tremble of female flesh. She might not want to acknowledge it, but she knew he was there.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. He’d used the gambit many times before. For once, oddly, he cared about the answer.