Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  He must think her dreadfully bold. Andrew had. She’d shocked him to the core of his strict Scottish soul. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good God, don’t be sorry. I love it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She leaned forwards and kissed his lips for those kind words. A quick brush and a little flick of her tongue, just to taste. Quick as a cat, he grabbed her nape in warm wet hands, holding her captive while he plundered her mouth. Her mind spun away in a current of pleasure.

  Mindless, she sank into the bliss of his kiss, the strokes of his tongue on hers, the feel of strong firm lips, the tickle of his beard against her chin, his hardness probing her belly.

  Her hands went around his neck and her breasts pressed against his hard wall of chest. Cupping his face in her hands, she came up on her knees.

  Breathing hard, he broke away, the turquoise of his eyes glittering hotly. ‘Is this your idea of torture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He cracked a laugh of surprise.

  She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and saw the muscles of his jaw flicker with tension. He wanted her.

  And she wanted him. All of him.

  But she couldn’t let him see how weak he made her. He’d tormented and teased her body last night and now it was her turn. ‘Lean forwards,’ she demanded.

  He did, his eyes closing as his mouth sought hers. She dodged his lips and reached over his shoulder, intending to soap his back.

  He grabbed her arms. ‘No.’

  His lack of trust hurt more than his fingers digging into her flesh. ‘Why not? I’ve seen scars before.’ She pointed to the red line with its neat row of stitches on his arm, and then to the faint white line on his upper chest.

  His expression tightened. ‘Those are nothing.’

  Her stomach dipped, her rapid pulse beat a warning. ‘It can’t be all that bad. And besides, we are married. I am going to see it sooner or later.’

  He leaned forwards. ‘Then look your fill, wife.’ The bitterness in his tone gave her pause. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath and peeped over his shoulder.

  Instead of a smooth plane of skin across the wide shoulders, the flesh was knotted and raised in a criss-cross of welts. Not one scar, but dozens. Hideous.

  She stifled a gasp. Sensing his tension in his utter stillness, she sat back and stared into a face rigidly blank. ‘Who did such a dreadful thing?’

  The silence was palpable. His chest rose and fell as if he had trouble speaking the words, but when he did, his voice was as flat and unemotional as his expression. ‘The Royal Navy. The cat-o’-nine-tails is routine punishment.’

  ‘What could you have done to deserve…?’ She wanted to recall the words the moment they were out of her mouth. It didn’t matter what he had done. Nothing deserved such abominable cruelty.

  ‘I existed,’ he said flatly. ‘Have your delicate sensibilities suffered enough? Shall I put on my shirt?’

  ‘It’s horrible.’

  He lowered his brows, his gaze avoiding hers, his lip curling as if he suddenly found the situation vastly amusing. ‘I knew it would turn your stomach. I told you not to look.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you. I meant what they did. It’s barbaric. Wrong.’

  His forehead dropped to hers; he breathed hard for a moment or two as if he’d been running. Not fear. A bone-deep anger. ‘It happens every day.’ He raised his head. As his gaze met hers, she thought she saw traces of a shame that belonged to the perpetrator of this crime.

  She slipped her hands beneath his arms and slowly stroked the irregular lumps and bumps, unable to imagine how much it must have hurt. ‘It is wrong. Evil.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said his voice husky. ‘It is wrong. It turns men into brutes. The punished and the punisher.’ He sounded sad.

  ‘But not you, Michael,’ she whispered.

  ‘Not me?’ He stared at her, clearly dumbfounded. ‘You don’t know what you are talking about.’

  Was that how he saw himself? As a brute? ‘You’ve been nothing but kind to your prisoners. You provided medical care, you treated us with respect. You could have taken what you wanted without our marriage.’

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t think of it.’

  ‘But you didn’t act on the thought.’

  His jaw hardened. ‘Don’t make me out to be a hero, Alice. You don’t know me well enough.’

  She resumed her stroking and a groan rumbled up from his deep chest. She felt it all the way to her heart.

  He pulled her close so she could reach farther. ‘Your touch soothes me,’ he said in her ear, his voice husky. ‘It takes away the anger.’ He rested his chin on her shoulder, relaxed, exposed.

  Alice smiled, at his steady heartbeat against her breasts, his bold hardness pressing against her stomach. His vulnerability touched her more deeply than any of his charm. Coils of snaking pleasure unfurled deep within her being. Wanton that she was, she wanted him inside her again. She knelt, raising herself over him. He swiftly realised her intention.

  ‘Hussy,’ he said in tones so velvet her scalp tightened in anticipation.

  ‘Rogue,’ she replied, sinking slowly on to him.

  Her breath caught as he slid inside. So deep, so hard, he filled her to her very core. His warm hands grasped the cheeks of her bottom and he helped her find the stroke and angle for greatest pleasure.

  ‘You were right,’ she murmured. ‘I really had no idea this would be so good.’

  ‘I’m glad you are pleased,’ he said low in her ear, his heartbeat loud in her ears.

  The water moved in waves to their languid rhythm. It cascaded over each end of the bath in a soapy waterfall she barely noticed. She only felt him deep inside her, pleasuring her with the sweetest of agony, his hands and mouth on her breasts, torturing her with delight, his heart and hers melting together through their skin, as water swirled around their joining.

  ‘Now, Michael,’ she demanded.

  ‘Bossy little wench, aren’t you?’ he murmured and he thrust deeper and harder and his fingers sought the place that brought her to the peak of fulfilment.

  For long sweet moments, he teased her with an exquisite agony of gentle rocking, then there was nothing except the spiralling pleasure of release.

  Sated, they lay together in the cooling water, their limbs a tangle of creamy white and bronze. Her wet hair stuck to his chest, her arm, her cheek, his chin.

  ‘Come, sweet Alice,’ he whispered when their breathing steadied and their heartbeats returned to normal. He lifted her out of the tub, wrapped her in a towel and carried her to the bed. He lay her down as if she was made of spun sugar and patted her dry gently. When he was satisfied not a drop of moisture remained on her skin he covered her with the sheet and grabbed another towel. ‘I’ll send your friend to help you dress,’ he said, as he dried himself before donning his clothes.

  She hadn’t expected a man of his ilk to be so thoughtful. It made her want to weep, she felt so treasured.

  Because he only treasured her money.

  When he discovered Father had no money, his attitude would surely change. The deck seemed to tilt, causing a nauseous feeling.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Michael?’

  She stared at the strong features softened by lovemaking and took a swift heartening breath. ‘About Fulton’s. My father really does only have the Conchita left.’

  ‘I see.’ His expression became carefully blank, shuttering his thoughts on the matter. Yet she didn’t think he was displeased. Perhaps because she’d told him the truth right from the beginning?

  ‘I hope you are not too disappointed.’

  He raised her hand to his lips. He turned it over and kissed her palm, his lips warm and dry, his gaze on her face. ‘How can I be disappointed when I have you?’

  A soft velvet touch. A shiver ran down her spine. Her body tightened with yearning. She fought the insidious longing, forced her mind to ignore the clamouring of her body for his touch. He still didn’t know about the debts. But thos
e were Father’s and not hers to discuss. ‘I will do everything I can to help restore the business.’

  Regret flickered in his eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  But it did, she could see that it did in the way his gaze seemed to turn in on itself. ‘Your entry into society is assured,’ she said almost wildly.

  A knock sounded at the door. ‘Cap’n? Mr Wishart needs you on deck.’

  He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then back to her.

  ‘Cap’n.’ Simpson again. ‘Mr Wishart says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Blast,’ he said and rushed out of the door.

  Bugger Wishart, Michael thought, closing the cabin door. Surely he didn’t need Michael’s help at every turn? He glanced at Simpson’s oddly serious face. ‘What is it?’

  The ship yawed beneath his feet. A quick glance up revealed the men scrambling aloft to make more sail. Hell.

  ‘Simpson, ask Lady Selina to help Miss…my wife dress.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n,’ the little man said. ‘And, Cap’n?’

  Michael raised a brow.

  Simpson grinned. ‘Congratulations. She’s a fine young lady.’

  Lady. Aye. Therein lay the problem. The lady had been honourable to a fault, leaving him feeling like the worst of curs. ‘Stir your stumps.’ He headed for a frowning Wishart beside the helmsman.

  ‘About time,’ David said.

  ‘What blows?’

  ‘The wind backed around an hour since, we’ve barely made any headway.’

  Wishart should have let him know, but Michael appreciated his friend’s forbearance.

  ‘What’s our heading?’

  ‘North by nor’west. But that’s not the problem.’ He gestured over Michael’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got company. Kale, blast his eyes, said he didn’t see it.’

  Michael cursed. He strode to the bulwark and Wishart handed him a glass.

  The sail was low on the horizon, but even so, Michael knew in his gut what sort of ship he would see. He climbed the ratlines, hooked one foot in the ropes and looked again.

  ‘Ship of the line,’ he muttered. ‘Seventy-four guns.’

  ‘Altering course,’ the lookout sang out from his perch on the yard. ‘She’s seen us.’

  ‘Hurry up, you bastards,’ Michael yelled. ‘Unfurl those sails. Wishart, bring her round. Let’s get the wind at our backs.’

  Silence rang in Alice’s ears. The shots followed by crashes and the trembling of the ship like some startled filly had ceased as suddenly as they began. ‘What is happening?’

  Anderson pressed his ear to the door of their prison, then shook his head. ‘I do believe we are heaved to.’

  When Michael had rushed her down here, he’d said nothing except not to mention their wedding. Not to anyone. When she’d tried to ask why, he’d cut her off and asked her to do his bidding. His gaze had asked her to trust him, although he hadn’t said the words.

  So she’d said nothing and had quelled Selina’s questions upon her arrival in the gown she’d worn last night with a cool look and a glance at her brother. But she couldn’t help wondering. Couldn’t help going over the marriage ceremony and wondering if it had been real.

  Richard, who’d also been forced to join them in the hold, had expressed confidence that the Gryphon would easily outrun the naval frigate. Then the cannon fire had started. And none of them had said a word about anything.

  Selina uncovered her ears and placed her hands flat on the table. ‘What is going to become of us?’ Her voice quivered with tears. ‘They’ll leave us here to die.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Richard declared, putting his eye to the crack in the door. ‘The fighting is over. Someone will be along in a moment.’

  If Alice hadn’t been quite so worried, she might have laughed at how disconsolate he sounded. She could not help but be glad that Michael had not permitted him to take part in whatever battle had taken place above their heads. She just wished she knew who had won. Hopefully Michael.

  But the sounds above their heads, the shudders of the ship left her fearing the worst. She put an arm around her trembling friend. ‘Richard is right. Someone is sure to be along in a moment. Captain Lionhawk won’t let any harm come to us.’ Did she really believe that?

  The sound of marching feet thumped overhead. Minutes later a key rattled in the lock and the light from several torches spilled into the hold like dawn into a cave. She blinked to clear her vision. Red jackets adorned with white piping of Royal Navy Marines poured into their prison, their boots clattering on the bare planks.

  ‘British lobsters,’ Richard shouted, his face full of excitement. ‘Hooray.’

  Alice’s stomach plummeted as the red-and-white tide formed a line. Michael had lost. An American privateer was unlikely to receive a warm reception from the Royal Navy. Was this his reason for asking her not to speak of their marriage? Knowing they might be captured, had he feared they’d treat her badly as his wife?

  Or had the wedding been a sham after all? There it was. Out in the bright daylight. The fear that once again she’d been played for a fool. The worst part was the hope she was wrong.

  A mist blurred her vision and prickled hot behind her nose. She sniffed and inhaled a deep gasping breath. They’d made a bargain. Until she was proved wrong, she would trust him to stand by his word. And in the meantime, she’d say nothing.

  An officer, a young man with red cheeks and a magnificent moustache, saluted. ‘Lieutenant Liversedge at your service, ladies and gentlemen.’ He bowed. ‘Captain’s compliments. You are to board the Essex.’

  Alice took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. I am Alice Fulton. This is Lady Selina Albright, my brother, Richard Fulton, and Mr Anderson, the Fulton business agent.’

  ‘The Essex?’ Richard said, pushing forwards, his face alight. ‘Wasn’t she at Trafalgar? Do you think I can look around?’

  The officer’s jaw slackened. ‘I…er…I am sure it can be arranged, sir. Now, if your party would follow us, we’ll get you transferred.’

  Mr Anderson urged Selina and Alice forwards. Richard sidled up to the lieutenant, plying him with questions. The troop of soldiers fell in behind.

  Up on deck in harsh sunlight, the ravages of the fighting made her heart ache. The aft stateroom where she had spent her wedding night was naught but a splintered wreck. The mainmast trailed in the sea like a broken wing. The smell of gunpowder lingered on the warm breeze flapping the idle sails on the remaining mast. Beside the smaller Gryphon, his Majesty’s Essex sat fat and wide, like a huge goose next to a wounded seagull. At the stern, ten or so redcoats encircled the dispirited crew. With his blond hair and massive height, Wishart stood head and shoulders above his comrades, but where was their captain? Where was Michael? Alice craned her neck to see around her accompanying guard. There. Smeared with soot, a livid bruise on his forehead, hair wild around his shoulders, he was kneeling beside a man stretched out on the deck.

  ‘Someone is injured.’ She pushed forwards. A marine barred her path with his musket. ‘Stay away from the prisoners, miss.’

  ‘They’ll be cared for, Miss Fulton,’ Liversedge said at her elbow. She didn’t believe him. There was too much indifference in his voice.

  A marine prodded the clearly furious Michael to his feet with the point of a bayonet. One of the soldiers shoved him into line, locking his wrists and ankles into manacles joined by chains to Wishart and the others.

  Bile rose in her throat. She couldn’t bear to look and yet she couldn’t look away. Don’t argue, she wanted to call out. Please don’t. You’ll only antagonise them.

  The marines closed ranks, blocking her view.

  ‘Over the side, ladies and gentlemen,’ Liversedge said. ‘The sergeant and his men will help you into the longboat. If you’ll excuse me, I have prisoners requiring my attention.’ He saluted and marched off.

  Feeling rather like an ewe being worried by a collie, Alice allowed the sergeant to chivvy their little party to the side of the ship. Sh
e looked back for Michael and saw that Kale had been pulled out of the line of prisoners and was in deep conversation with Liversedge. Every now and then the lieutenant’s gaze shot to Michael.

  Kale meant no good, she was sure. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach.

  ‘I can’t,’ Selina wailed, bringing Alice’s attention back to her own party.

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ the sergeant said. ‘It’s the only way.’

  Below them, a very long way below them, four sailors worked their oars to keep the waiting launch steady, while a midshipman in the stern directed their efforts.

  The marine hoisted himself over the side, climbed nimbly down the rope ladder and jumped into the bobbing boat. He steadied himself, then held the ladder taut.

  Alice recalled with fondness the bo’sun’s chair Michael had provided to get her from the Conchita to the Gryphon. It began to look luxurious compared to the swinging ropes against the side of the ship.

  ‘Over you go, miss,’ said the soldier at her side.

  Alice smiled at Selina through gritted teeth. ‘We have no choice.’

  Selina shuddered. ‘Why can’t I just go home on this ship?’

  ‘It’s a piece of cake,’ Richard said, grinning. ‘I’ll go first and make sure you don’t fall.’

  ‘Buck up, Selina, it’s quite safe,’ Alice said, with more bravado than her pitching stomach warranted. The sooner she was on the other ship, the sooner she could find out what would happen to Michael and his crew.

  Selina peered down at Richard below, shrugged, and let the sergeant help her over the side. To Alice’s amazement, she climbed down as if she’d been doing it all her life, despite her hampering skirts. Richard, young gentleman that he was, kept his gaze firmly fixed on the planks in the bottom of the boat.

  If Selina could do it, there were no excuses for her. The sergeant gripped her arm. ‘That’s it, miss. Don’t look down and you will be all right.’

  Wonderful. The ladder swung with the rhythm of the ship on the swell. Alice bit down hard on the little scream in the back of her throat. Her stomach knotted. She couldn’t do it. She hated heights. She took a deep breath. Then another. This was no different to mounting a horse or climbing up a set of stairs. Calm good sense and a careful approach were all she needed. Tell that to her pounding heart.