Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  Breathing hard, he pulled away, rose up on arms trembling with the effort to remain in control. ‘A scar,’ he bit out.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ she asked softly, the pity in her voice stirring up memories of impotent helplessness.

  What would she think when she realised he’d been beaten like a dog? Shame soured his gut. ‘It’s nothing,’ he forced himself to say. He gentled his tone. ‘An old injury. I don’t like it touched.’ He eased his weight on to one hand and brushed the hair back from her face, then dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’ He captured her small hand and placed it on his chest. ‘I love the feel of your touch here.’

  She blinked like a kitten gazing into the light. She nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  A pang speared his heart at the tenderness in her whisper. His eyes stung at the unexpected need to feel worthy of her kindness and knowing the one thing she would ask of him, he would not give. The best he could offer was the pleasure he could bring with his body. It would have to be enough. Slowly he began to move inside her.

  Bliss, Alice thought as sensations rolled through her. This is what the word meant.

  Against the glitter of night-sky through the skylight, his large male shape hung over her like a dark avenging angel. Her angel.

  Pleasure increased tenfold as he thrust into her. She lifted her hips in time to his slow and powerful thrusts, smooth strokes that drove her wild. Her body clenched him tight within her and she reached for the stars outlined above his head.

  He paused to kiss her mouth and throat and suckle at her breasts. She moaned and writhed as if a serpent had invaded her body, its flame-breath heating her blood, its coils tightening inside her until she cried out with the pain of too much pleasure. Thoughts refused to form.

  Awed, she clung to the sweat-slick shoulders bunching beneath her fingers. She heard his ragged breath in her ear as he thrust deeper, faster. One hand reached between them, circling and rubbing, driving her higher amid waves of endless pleasure.

  And then she flew apart. Scattered like ashes on the wind, burned by the fiery beast.

  He pulled away, and his groan of completion mingled with her gasps of joy. Vaguely, she felt him draw her against his scorching body, stroking and petting, her hair, her breasts. He rained kisses on her face. She glowed like a smouldering ember, yet her limbs felt liquid.

  Heavy lidded, she stared at his beautiful sensual face. ‘That was…astonishing. Wonderful. I never—’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, his chest rising and falling, his voice full of laughter. He stilled, gazing at her for a long moment. His expression changed, hardened. She felt herself brace.

  ‘Who was he?’ he asked. ‘Your first lover.’

  She should have guessed he would ask. No sense in hiding the truth. ‘My fiancé. Does it bother you?’

  ‘The man was a cur.’

  It bothered him. She opened her mouth to say more, but he pressed a finger against her lips. ‘Rest, my sweet. There will be time for talk later.’

  She didn’t want to talk. Not of Andrew. So she smiled and nestled into the hollow of his warm broad shoulder. With limbs as heavy as lead, she let her eyelids fall closed. She lay in his embrace, his lips nuzzling her neck, his warm breath stirring her hair.

  Tendrils of bliss ran through her veins. Married. To a pirate. Perhaps, given her nature, she’d made the right choice, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

  Michael strode up and down the deck above his stateroom clad only in his shirt and breeches, his teeth clamped on his cigar, his gaze constantly straying to the skylight overlooking the bed.

  The early morning air did nothing to cool the heat running through his veins, while his mind reviewed the previous night in graphic detail and his body responded with vigorous enthusiasm.

  The woman had courage. And passion. Bottomless passion. She’d been thoroughly delightful. Delicious. Responsive.

  Not an innocent. Hah. She might as well have been a virgin for all she knew about the art of love. Clearly the fellow had fired her ardour and then debauched her without much thought to her pleasure. He’d probably broken her heart into the bargain. The bastard.

  His fists clenched. And he was going to do the same. Hades. He wanted her again. Badly. More incredibly, he’d woken at dawn with her snuggled in his arms without a moment of his usual confusion. Only by exercising the greatest restraint had he been able to leave her to sleep. He wanted to please her, not wake her like some rutting animal. Because he wanted her to be happy.

  A worrying thought.

  He halted and leaned against the rail, staring down into a green ocean creaming away from the stern. How happy would she be when she realised the future he had planned?

  A kind of madness seemed to have infected his brain. A desire to lead a normal life with Alice at his side. To forgo justice and be at peace.

  He struck the bulwark with his fist.

  How did one delightful night pay for the horrors inflicted by Fulton?

  His gut churned. It couldn’t. Nor did marrying the wench. A scant three years ago he’d learned of his past. Since then he’d lived only to see Fulton punished. Set his plan in motion. No matter what, he must see his vow through to the bitter end.

  She’d hate him when she found out he’d tricked her.

  Bitterness dried his tongue and the back of his throat. With a grimace, he tossed the cigar over the side.

  If the future was as empty as his past, it was Alex Fulton’s fault and Michael would take whatever scraps of joy the Fates offered in the here and the now.

  He approached the skylight, leaned over, one bare foot on the sill. She stretched, the sheet slipped to her waist, exposing her tiny perfect breasts, taut and rose-tipped in the early morning sunlight. His blood thundered and his body hardened. He turned and leaped down to the main deck.

  Wishart beside the helm caught his eye. Michael waved him off and entered his cabin, all thoughts focused on the woman in his bed.

  She sat up when he burst through the door.

  ‘Oh, it is you,’ she said, colour flushing her cheeks, her gaze wary. ‘I suppose it is time I arose.’

  He knelt on the bed and took her face in his hands. She lowered her gaze, hiding her thoughts.

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, sweetheart,’ he said.

  The delightful shade of pink deepened to rose. Embarrassment? Shame? Had her enthusiasm been naught but a sham? A female wile?

  ‘Shy today, love?’ he said, trying to keep his suspicions from his voice.

  She winced as if he’d caused her pain. Clumsy fool. He tipped her chin, brushed his mouth against hers, wooed her with flicks of his tongue.

  After a moment of hesitation, she melted against him, her arms sliding around his neck, her body arching, her lips clinging.

  Reluctantly he broke the kiss. ‘I am here on Simpson’s orders to say your bath is ready.’

  She glanced around with a frown. ‘A bath?’

  He tried not to look overly smug, tried not to feel proud as he crossed the room. ‘Through here.’ He triggered the catch to the hidden door in the bulkhead and revealed his dressing room.

  Rising from the bed, her hair around her shoulders in glorious disarray, she wrapped herself in the sheet and tiptoed past him to gaze through the door. Lit only by candles, the copper tub gleamed softly and scented steam filled the small space. ‘Oh, my.’

  He grinned. ‘My one luxury.’

  Clearly beguiled, she smiled, and his heart faltered at the beautiful sight of her pleasure.

  Capturing her around the shoulders, he fastened his mouth to hers and kissed her deeply, drank of her gentle sweetness, pushing aside the future. For now she was his and perhaps he could bind her to him. If the Fates were kind.

  With a swift kick of his heel, he pushed the door shut and pried the sheet from her fingers. It pooled at her feet with a rustle.

  Her soft gasp of protest filled his mouth.

  Slowl
y he released her and took her hand as if leading her into a ballroom. With a bow, he led her to the wooden stool before the steaming tub.

  Skin, the colour of cream, untouched by cruel sunlight, stretched over fine bones he could snap in one hand. Small and firm, her breasts invited his large calloused hands, a sweet indent of waist, hips that were almost boy-slim, aroused a protective instinct he barely understood. Most of the women he had known could only be described as voluptuous. In hindsight they seemed vulgar, overblown, whereas once they had seemed exotic. The knowledge that this one was his alone was stronger than the most powerful of aphrodisiacs. He wanted her.

  Her cheeks blazing, his not-so-virginal, but modest wife, stepped up and over the side of the bath, quickly immersing in fragrant water that hid little from his view. As a sop to her delightful modesty, he pretended not to look and went around behind her.

  ‘I can manage,’ she said, clutching her knees to her chest and hiding her face with the silken fall of her hair, while providing him with a lovely view of the curve of her slender back and the delicate roundness of buttocks below the water. A water sprite. An earth goddess, but no seductress, for all her brave words. Yet she pleased him enormously. More than he’d ever hoped.

  Had he hoped?

  For years he’d wallowed in the depths of a stinking navy ship. A rat below the waterline, fighting for scraps, friends like Simpson guarding his back when he awakened with terrified screams at nightmares he didn’t understand. Every breath he’d taken had been about the next crumb, the next task, survival.

  He’d dreamed of a simple life on shore. A family. Children.

  Then he’d learned the truth.

  Hope had no place in his life. Not until duty was done. Again he fought off a vague feeling of rocky shoals ahead. What the hell was the matter with him? He had his ship, a willing woman, and a fair wind for England. He also had the means to bring his enemy down. Everything had fallen into place.

  The hair on the back of his neck rose. The Fates demanded payment for too much good fortune.

  Enough. He’d worry about that later.

  For now, Alice was his to enjoy.

  He rolled up his shirtsleeves and gathered soap and towels from the washstand. He dipped one end of a towel into the water behind her back and worked up a lather. The scent of sandalwood perfumed the air. His scent. On her it smelled different. Intoxicating.

  Gently he parted her hair to fall over her shoulders and breasts, leaving her nape and slender back a feast for his hungry gaze. He circled the soapy cloth over the smooth creamy skin with its dusting of tiny golden hairs, paying attention to each small nub of her spine and the delicate striation of ribs. Nothing marred her tender perfection.

  She reminded him of a china doll. If he did not know better, he would have feared she would break.

  His eager body stirred. He tamped down his desire. There was no need for haste. He would have many days to savour her delights, to get to know every inch of that delectable body before the world and its obligations intruded.

  He ran his soapy hands down her softly rounded arms, then her shoulders, reaching under her arms to soap her breasts. She murmured a soft sound of approval. He adored her tiny body with his hands. She shivered as his slippery fingers skimmed her nipples. They hardened at his touch. He flicked them gently with his thumb and thrilled to her indrawn gasp of pleasure.

  His penis jerked to attention.

  The hairs on his chest brushed her back each time he leaned forwards. He felt her breathing pick up speed in response. He soaped her narrow ribcage. Wickedly, his index finger dipped inside her navel and she leaned back against his shoulder, eyes closed in dreamy passion.

  Contentment glowed in a dark corner of his soul. A soft and gentle light. A mere flicker, not much more than an ember, but so precious he would guard it with his life.

  With gentle strokes, he washed her flat belly, a soft plain of pure delight. He measured the span of her waist and traced the bones at her hips. He exulted in the feel of her silky skin beneath his rough and calloused hands.

  ‘May I join you?’ he whispered.

  Her gaze fractured. ‘What if I said no?’

  ‘Then I would be sad, but you would have your way.’ A reckless offer, but not one he couldn’t keep. He nuzzled her ear. ‘Sweet Alice, don’t you want me in your bath?’

  She let go a long sigh, as if she’d been fighting a battle in her head and had lost. ‘I do,’ she whispered. She turned her face and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Then I’m pleased.’ He stripped off his breeches and shirt and climbed in, saw her little jolt of awareness at the sight of his erection and resisted the urge to crow in triumph like a lad.

  Instead, he settled into the water, thanking God he’d insisted on a bath big enough for him to lie down in. With his legs cradling her hips and her feet draped over his thighs, there was more than enough room for them both. From this angle she looked glorious. Pink and soft and glowing. The damp ends of her hair clung to her breasts. Steam sheened her face with moisture. He wanted to lick it off her skin. Her modestly cast-down gaze drove him to distraction, because he could see her peeking at his body from beneath her lashes.

  She wanted him.

  He lifted her ankle, clasping her small foot. It barely filled his palm. He washed the sole, the heel and between each small toe, then massaged the arch.

  She wriggled enchantingly, making tiny ripples in the water.

  ‘Like that, do you?’ he said, his voice a growl.

  ‘Mmm,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ He moved the cloth up her shapely ankle. ‘There’s more.’

  Alice watched his bronzed hands move over her white skin, her limbs melting as he caressed first her calf, and then her knee. She drew in a breath and glanced at his face softened by desire, intent on his task, his long black eyelashes veiling his eyes.

  Dark and hard and ruthless as a general rule, at this moment he seemed almost tender. Yet this was all about money. And lust. Heaven help her, even knowing she’d had no choice in this marriage of theirs, she could not resist his allure. What kind of wicked woman was she?

  Some might say it served her right, after what she’d done to Andrew. But they didn’t know the truth. How he’d spoken of love, and lied.

  And now she was lying to Lionhawk.

  Her heart picked up speed. Fear. Fear of him and the spell he wove. Too much, she loved the feel of the slide of his hands over her skin, the temptations offered by his mouth.

  She could not allow the temptation to be all one-sided. She grabbed at the washcloth.

  Eyes smoky, he gazed at her. ‘Had enough?’

  The disappointment in his voice made her want to giggle. Nerves. And excitement. And a feeling of daring. She batted her lashes. ‘My turn to wash you.’

  His raised brows and the grin of surprised pleasure on his bearded face fired her confidence. A kind of feminine pride she’d not felt for a very long time.

  She slid forwards, her calves around his waist so she could reach him.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, looking down through the soapy water at the junction of her thighs.

  Heat rushed to her face. ‘You too,’ she said, bravely indicating the male member jutting proudly from the water.

  He laughed and pulled her against his arousal. Then, he leaned back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes with a sigh. ‘I’m all yours.’

  He was. Hers. Her husband. The realisation jolted her stomach. If she brought him joy, mayhap he wouldn’t care about her hiding the extent of Father’s debts.

  Drawing in a breath, she took the soap and lathered her hands. Where to start? His broad expanse of chest with its sprinklings of short black curls and smooth sculpted curve of muscle tempted her fingertips. Tentatively, she placed her hands flat on his chest. The feel of rough wet hair against her palms was wicked and delicious. Her insides clenched with a little thrill.

  She stroked in slow circles as he had, raking her fingers through t
he hair on his chest, and massaging the hard muscle beneath.

  The nub of his male nipples hardened against her palm. Fascinated, she tweaked one between her finger and thumb.

  A groan rumbled up from his chest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, snatching her hand back.

  He opened an eye. ‘Oh, don’t be sorry, sweet. Do it again. Harder.’

  Her insides quivered at the rough note in his voice.

  With a quick swallow to ease her dry throat, she grazed her nails across both of his nipples. His erection gave an odd little jump against her belly, the ridges of muscle beneath his ribs tightened and rippled. A beautiful sight. Pleasure sent spirals of heat up from her belly.

  Apart from a small dark line of hair running from the centre of his chest down to his navel and disappearing into the thick thatch of curls at the base of his member, the skin on his stomach was smooth and tanned from the sun.

  Whereas his shoulders were broad, his waist tapered down to narrow hips in a most interestingly enticing way.

  She’d seen statues and men working in the fields with their shirts off in summer, and had her hands on Andrew in the dark, but nothing had prepared her for this vision of hard, lovely, male strength or the feel of his nakedness under her hands. She lathered the soap and set to work to wash his ribs and stomach, loving the feel of muscle and bone and sinew.

  He let go a soft moan.

  She scooped up handfuls of water and washed away the bubbles and eyed his lower torso. She desperately wanted to touch him there, but lacked the courage.

  Arms. First she should wash his arms. And his hands. A naughty drawing she’d seen once flashed into her mind.

  She washed his hand, then rinsed it in the tub. She lifted it to her mouth and sucked each digit dry, including his thumb.

  His eyes flew open. ‘Do you have any idea how sensual that feels?’

  Sensual. The word curled around her insides. ‘I saw it in a book.’ A dreadful, blood-stirring, shocking book she’d found in her father’s library. Not that she could imagine her father ever reading such a naughty work. Or her mother.

  ‘A book?’ He chuckled. ‘Alice, you are full of surprises.’