Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  The longer the low rumble of their visitor’s voice continued, the more sure Alice became that it was Michael closeted with her father. Reason bade her dismiss the idea out of hand as wishful thinking. Her foolish heart continued to beat a little too fast.

  With no choice but to wait, Alice padded up and down the drawing room, much like their visitor’s horses walked up and down the street outside. If it was Michael, he was taking a terrible risk. And what on earth would he say to Father? She’d said nothing about their marriage to anyone.

  Hope and fear hopped around in her stomach.

  The door along the corridor opened. Voices echoed off the bare walls. She ran to the sofa and perched on its edge. From here she could see the visitor pass and finally set her mind to rest. Her heart picked up speed. Her breathing came in short little spurts.

  She clenched her hands in her lap to still their tremble. It was not Michael. Could not be.

  Father appeared in the doorway. Beaming. Looking like a man who had lost a crown and found a pot of gold. ‘I’ve someone here who wishes to meet you, my dear.’

  Alice stared at the gentleman behind Father. Dark-haired, clean-shaven, and elegant, he looked like any other English gentlemen, but there was no mistaking those gleaming turquoise eyes. Michael. He looked more handsome, more delicious, dressed as a gentleman than he had on board ship. Her skin warmed

  Her heart leaped forwards in greeting.

  A smile on her lips, she started to rise. His gaze issued a warning. He shook his head.

  She sank into the cushions, unable to take her gaze from his face.

  Father gestured for Michael to enter. ‘Alice, this is Lord Hawkhurst.’

  Lord Hawkhurst? Her indrawn gasp sounded loud in the quiet room.

  Michael’s eyebrow shot up, giving him a quizzical expression. The corner of his mouth twitched. Fortunately, Father seemed oblivious to her response.

  Knees shaky, she rose and dipped a curtsy. ‘My lord.’

  ‘Miss Fulton,’ he said with a clipped formal bow, so unlike his sweeping courtesy on board ship. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He took her hand. He squeezed her fingers lightly. She gathered some strength from the small connection.

  The wretch winked, a mere flick of one eyelid. He was laughing at her. She frowned. His smiled broadened. ‘Your father has been extolling your many accomplishments.’

  She shot a bemused gaze at Father, who rubbed his hands together. ‘Good news, daughter.’

  ‘What may that be, pray?’

  ‘His lordship has asked for your hand.’

  ‘H-he has?’ Then the wedding on shipboard was not a true marriage after all? Why was she not surprised?

  But then—why was he here?

  He bowed with all the grace of the lord he was pretending to be. ‘Indeed. I would be honoured, Miss Fulton, if you would consent to be my wife.’

  A glance passed between Michael and her father. There was more.

  Father cleared his throat. ‘As part of the settlement, Viscount Hawkhurst will become a partner in Fulton Shipping.’

  He already was. Unless they weren’t married.

  Father shot her a warning glance. Oh dear, he was up to something. And Michael? Viscount Hawkhurst, no less, the rogue. What was he about?

  Michael was watching her expectantly. Father had a similar expression. She was beginning to feel a bit like a carcass about to be shared between two wolves. She didn’t like it.

  ‘Come,’ Michael said, flashing his pirate smile, all teeth and charm, and definitely wolfish. ‘What do you say, Miss Fulton?’

  In spite of her misgivings, the urge to say yes trembled on her tongue. She glanced over at her father. A groove formed between his grey brows. His eyes warned. Something was wrong.

  ‘It is all rather sudden, my lord. I should like some time to think about your kind offer.’

  ‘I have already accepted on your behalf,’ Father said, sharply. ‘It is your duty.’

  ‘I know my duty, Father.’

  ‘Perhaps Miss Fulton and I should spend a few moments alone,’ Michael proposed, the airy wave of the dandy quite spoiled by the bunching of powerful muscle beneath the tight fabric of his elegant coat. ‘Get to know each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ Father said, before she could speak. ‘Take all the time you need. I’ll be in my study.’ He turned and bustled out of the door.

  A fait accompli.

  Michael sat down beside her on the sofa. Heat radiated from his body. Sandalwood wrapped around her like familiar arms. She straightened her shoulders and half-turned so she could see his expression. ‘What are you about, Michael?’

  He took her hand, brushed his lips against her knuckles, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘Claiming my wife.’

  She fought the trickle of heat low in her stomach. ‘Disguised as a lord? Do you want to be hung?’

  His face grew serious. ‘There is no risk, Alice. This is who I am. Michael Preston, Viscount Hawkhurst. The confirmation a mere formality in the House of Lords.’

  She tried to pull her hand away. He held it fast, covered it with his other hand. She read the truth in his eyes.

  ‘And Lionhawk?’

  ‘Is no more.’

  ‘What if someone recognises you?’

  ‘I was a privateer, but I worked for England against France.’

  ‘But you took my father’s ship. An English ship.’

  ‘A ship flying Spanish colours. I had reason to suspect she was not all she seemed.’

  ‘You flew an American flag.’

  He winced. ‘A mistake. I’ve already explained it to the Admiralty. And now I am here to claim what is mine.’

  Her insides clenched, the betrayal of desire. Yet her mind wasn’t quite turned to mush and something didn’t ring true. Or was it that she couldn’t believe he was here, that he wanted her?

  She stared down at her hand and forced herself to voice her doubts. ‘You don’t have to marry me. I’ll freely give you my half of Fulton’s.’

  ‘Sweet Alice,’ he murmured, ‘I am afraid we are already married. There is no going back.’

  She raised her face, searching his face for the truth. His expression seemed carefully neutral. ‘Then why the denial on the Essex?’ A denial that had cut her to the quick.

  He flashed her a wicked smile. ‘If you recall, I asked you if you were sure.’

  ‘Yes, you asked. But in such a way as to make me think we were not married. And if we are, then why make an offer for my hand now?’

  A smile flickered across his lips. ‘You returned to England as Miss Fulton. It would look rather odd if we announced a secret wedding. I thought to save you embarrassment.’

  There was something he wasn’t telling her. She saw it in the way he shuttered his gaze. Dash it. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if theirs was a love match. If her body would recognise that fact, then they might rub along quite well.

  Father clearly wanted the connection. What did she have to lose? She took a deep breath. ‘As you wish.’

  He took her other hand, and she gazed into his eyes, melting at the heat of his fingers grasped around hers.

  ‘I have a special licence for tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I apologise for the haste, but I have to go north right away, to visit my cousin. He is ill. I want him to meet you. The trip will serve as our honeymoon.’

  Days and nights of wedded bliss instead of being alone. Anticipation ran hot in her blood, her skin glowed, her pulse raced. The longing she’d tried to ignore consumed her, made her weak.

  ‘Tomorrow is all right.’ She laughed, casting her doubts aside with abandon. ‘Today would be better. I am already packed.’

  He touched her cheek with his fingertips. A gentle brush. A promise of nights in his arms. ‘I will see you in the morning. In the meantime, I will arrange rooms for your father here in town. He tells me this house is sold.’

  Father. She’d forgotten about his part in all this. ‘Father isn’t well. He really
should retire to Westerly.’

  ‘I need his help with the business.’ His voice took on a cold edge.

  A trickle of unease stirred in her stomach. Trust, her heart whispered. If this marriage is going to work, you have to trust him.

  She nodded.

  He rose to his feet. ‘Until tomorrow then.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The second day on the road after their wedding proceeded very much as the first. Michael had begged her indulgence, citing a horror of enclosed spaces and had ridden his horse in spite of the rain.

  Unlike Selina, Alice didn’t despise her own company. Never had. She’d brought along a book and some needlework to while away the hours. She’d been less indulgent about his disappearance into his own room at the inn last night. He’d pleaded a headache. A little nagging doubt made her think he might be avoiding her.

  She sighed. There she was again, worrying without cause. Dash it, had her brush with Andrew made it impossible to trust even her husband? It had been she who had forced him to admit to feeling under the weather. His grim refusal of her offer of help had hurt a little, but he had apologised for being the worst of bridegrooms before he went off to find Simpson and left her to spend the night of her second wedding alone.

  At breakfast this morning he’d looked pale and drawn and disinclined to speak. When he’d helped her into the carriage with a rueful smile, he informed her they would arrive at his cousin’s house for luncheon.

  It was now well past one o’clock.

  The carriage lurched. Looking out of the window, she saw they had turned on to a drive. Drips from the over-arching trees drummed on the roof of the carriage. She pressed her cheek against the glass in the door, and made out the house ahead. A lovely old building of Palladian proportions, with walls the colour of wet sand.

  Thank God. Food at last.

  Michael came to help her down. From the colour in his face the fresh air had done him some good. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  He smiled and her stomach gave its usual flutter of appreciation. ‘Better, thank you.’

  She glanced up at the house. ‘Your cousin must be a great man?’

  ‘I apologise, I should have told you about him last night. He is the Earl of Sandford. He eagerly awaits to welcome you into the family.’ He hesitated. ‘You might find his ways a little odd. He’s been an invalid since childhood.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. What ails him?’

  Michael tucked her hand under his arm and started towards the front door. ‘The doctors really aren’t sure. Some sort of wasting disease. I just wish they could get him to eat. It is almost as if he doesn’t want to get well.’

  A butler stood ready at the open door. ‘Lunch is ready, my lord, but Lord Sandford hopes you will join him in the garden room first?’

  ‘Of course,’ Michael said. ‘I am sure my wife would like to freshen up?’ There was a proprietorial note to his voice that made her stomach jolt.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said.

  The butler organised the housekeeper to take her to an upstairs chamber where she found a bowl of hot water, a towel, soap and a maid.

  The young woman set to work to make her presentable.

  ‘Whenever you are ready, my lady,’ the housekeeper said a few minutes later. ‘I am to take you to the garden room.’

  Alice gazed at the wrinkles in her gown and smiled at the maid. ‘That’s the best we can do, I think.’

  She followed the woman downstairs and along a corridor to the back of the house. A pair of glass double-doors opened into what indeed looked like a garden, with box hedges and roses, and small trees, but a roof covered it all. Along one wall an open bank of windows brought in a breeze and sunlight. It reminded her of the orangery at Kensington Palace

  Along with the smell of greenery, a sweetish, pungent scent drifted on the air. Curls of smoke hung over the plants as if someone had lit a fire.

  ‘You’ll find the master at the end of this walk, my lady,’ the housekeeper said, bobbing a curtsy and leaving Alice to find the rest of the way alone.

  Male voices rumbled off in the distance. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of heated discussion. She followed the sound.

  Where the hedge-lined walkway ended, a scene out of the Arabian nights opened up. A colourful swathe of fabric draped down from the ceiling. A curtained canopy, beneath which, stretched out on piles of cushions, a man in a peacock-blue banyan and a turban of gold-and-blue silk smoked a long wooden pipe with a silver bowl.

  The source of the smoke.

  Cross-legged beside him among the brightly coloured silks, Michael looked distinctly out of place in his dark coat, doeskin breeches and dust-coated Hessians.

  Both men stopped talking and looked up. The man sprawled on the cushions looked very much like Michael, but finer boned and darker eyed. His paper-white skin clung to his cheekbones and jaw as if no flesh lay beneath. His dark eyes, rimmed with long black lashes, were huge.

  Michael rose to his feet with all the grace of a large cat and the frown on his brow disappeared as he smiled warmly. ‘My dear, I would like you to meet my cousin, Sandford. Jaimie, this is Alice.’

  She dipped a curtsy.

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up,’ Sandford said in a soft dreamy voice, casting a rather sly smile at Michael. He reached out a languid hand, the skin so translucent every blue vein was clearly visible.

  Alice took his hand and found it cool and dry. She gazed into huge black pupils surrounded by warm brown. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, my lord.’

  ‘Call me Jaimie,’ he said, collapsing back against the cushions. ‘Do sit down, please. Michael, make your lady comfortable. It is giving me an ache in my neck looking up at you both. I swear, Coz, you get taller each time I see you.’

  Michael grimaced. ‘You are equally as tall, if you’d bother to stand up.’

  ‘Too tiring,’ Sandford said.

  When in Rome. Alice crossed her ankles and dropped to the carpeted floor beneath the canopy. Michael arranged some cushions at her back. Despite his cheerfulness, she sensed an underlying worry about his cousin.

  He dropped down beside her with a cocky grin. ‘What do you think, Jaimie?’

  The pale young man regarded her intently, his dark gaze sweeping every inch of her. She felt her skin grow hot beneath his gaze.

  ‘Not your usual bill of fare, if your stories are true.’

  ‘Sailors’ talk. Mind your manners, whelp,’ Michael said in a growl.

  Jaimie laughed. ‘Please excuse me, my lady. Michael is so easy to tease, but I mean no disrespect. I must thank you for bringing Hawkhurst’s prodigal son home to his family.’ He gazed at her from half-lidded eyes. ‘The question is, are you granite or sandstone?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I do not take you meaning?’ she said.

  Michael lifted a hand in warning.

  The young lord didn’t seem to notice. He gave her a sweet smile. ‘It takes granite to bend a river in full flood. It cuts straight through weaker rock.’

  ‘Jaimie,’ Michael said, ‘don’t talk in riddles.’

  A gentle smile curved the young man’s lips. ‘I think I am sandstone. Take after my name. I would wish you both well, if I thought it would do any good.’

  She glanced over at Michael, who frowned and shook his head at his cousin.

  There were secrets between these two men. And an undercurrent of the argument she’d interrupted remained in the air. It made her feel itchy and uncomfortable, and definitely unwelcome.

  Once more she became aware of those huge dark eyes on her face. This time, they held regret. ‘Ring the bell for champagne, Michael,’ Jaimie said. ‘I will drink a toast to the bride and groom. Then you will partake of luncheon.’

  Food. The thought of it made her stomach gurgle. Both men pretended not to notice, while her face went as red as the silk of the cushion against which her host reclined.

  The butler must have expected the call, because he appeared almost immediately wit
h a silver tray and three glasses. He handed them around and departed on slippered feet.

  Alice couldn’t help but stare at the embroidered footwear.

  ‘I don’t like noise,’ Jaimie said, following the direction of her gaze. A small smile curved his full sensual mouth, and he looked more like Michael than ever. Michael the privateer, not the English lord with his neat hair and careful manners.

  ‘To health and happiness,’ Jaimie said.

  ‘And yours,’ Michael said, in an oddly strained voice.

  They drank.

  ‘About that offer of lunch?’ Michael said, rising and pulling Alice to her feet.

  ‘Waiting in the dining room,’ Jaimie said. ‘I won’t join you. I ate earlier.’

  ‘I wished I believed you,’ Michael said, frowning as Jaimie picked his pipe.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jaimie said with a smile. ‘Cynthia makes sure I eat.’

  Michael cursed under his breath, but seemed disinclined to argue since he placed Alice’s hand on his sleeve. ‘Will we see you later?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Jaimie inhaled deeply and gave Michael a meaning-filled look. ‘I think you and I need to talk, though, Michael. Soon. In private.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Michael said, sounding more than a little irritated. ‘I’ll call back the first chance I get.’

  His mood infected his stride; his steps were so long she felt like a colt galloping to keep up with its trotting mother. ‘Slow down,’ she said.

  He winced. ‘I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.’ He adjusted his steps to hers. He clearly knew his way around the house, because after passing a dizzying number of doors along a hallway, he marched into the dining room where a buffet was laid out on a sideboard. Two places were set at a long table, which also bore a decanter of red wine, another of lemonade and two glasses.

  Michael handed her a plate and proceeded to fill it with slices of shaved ham, a portion of pie and some slices of chicken. He added some asparagus shoots.

  ‘Enough, thank you,’ she said and took her plate to the table while he filled a plate for himself.

  He sat down and gestured to the decanters.

  ‘Lemonade, please,’ she said.