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Captured for the Captain's Pleasure
Ann Lethbridge
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesPredator by name, passionate by nature! Captain Michael Hawkhurst relishes his fearsome reputation, for he lives only to wreak revenge on the Fulton family, who so cruelly destroyed his own. Spirited Alice Fulton knows a ship is no place for a lady, but she is determined to save her father’s business…When fate delivers him Fulton’s virginal daughter as his captive, Michael faces a dilemma – should he live up to his scandalous name and find revenge with sweet Alice, or will his honourable side win out – and win the girl…?


‘I was going to say that if either of us is pretty, it is you.’
Once more she’d surprised him. He couldn’t hold back his smile. ‘Men are not pretty.’

Alice shrugged. ‘Are they not? You are one of a kind. A darkly handsome man who exudes danger. The ladies of the ton would faint at your feet.’

‘Yet you deny your own prettiness when it is quite obvious to me?’

‘I’m a realist, Captain, and you’ve been on board ship for many months, no doubt.’

Her contempt for his compliment irritated like a sharp piece of gravel inside a stocking.

‘Let me tell you what I see. I see a Madonna’s calm face and eyes shadowed by secrets. I see a sun-kissed complexion and copper glints in silky hair. Intelligence sits on your brow. Your lips tempt mine.’ He paused. ‘I sense hot blood running beneath alabaster skin.’

She gasped, her eyes widening in maidenly horror.

He caught her shoulders, gazed into brown eyes pierced by emerald-green.

Longing hit him in the chest.

Her face tipped up and he cupped her cheeks in his hands. Before he could stop himself, he tasted her pliant velvet mouth…

Author’s Note
For all that he was a rogue, I couldn’t help liking Long John Silver when I read Treasure Island as a child. For ages now I’ve wanted to write a pirate story, but by the Regency pirates were, as they say, history. Privateers, however, were a whole other breed. Men who were given licence or letters of marque by governments to prey on enemy ships, they generally made life difficult for the opposing side. Many of them became extremely wealthy in the process, and legally too.
So I hope you enjoy this not-quite-a-pirate story. I think you will find that Michael meets his match in Alice. And, while she doesn’t think she has a romantic bone in her body, there is just something about a rogue…

I love to hear from readers, so if you would like to drop me a line you can find me at ann@ann.lethbridge. gmail.com, and if you would like to know more about me and my books visit http://www.annlethbridge.com

Captured for the Captain’s Pleasure
Ann Lethbridge



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Ann Lethbridge has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.

Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels by this author:
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN
WICKED RAKE, DEFIANT MISTRESS

and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone eBooks:
THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER
I dedicate this book to my dad, who was known all his life as Peter, though it was not his given name. He introduced me to the writings of Georgette Heyer when I was very young, for which I can’t thank him enough. He always encouraged me to reach for the stars, no matter how hard the journey. I would like to thank Joanne Grant and her team at Harlequin Mills & Boon for making this a better book, my agent Scott Eagan, and my fabulous critique partners, Maureen, Molly, Sinead, Mary, Jude and Teresa, who show unfailing patience with every rewrite.

Chapter One
Off Lisbon—June 1814
Repairing a gash in a man’s brawny forearm on a ship’s deck bore not the slightest resemblance to mending a rip in a petticoat, Alice Fulton decided. She dabbed at the dried blood around the wound with a cloth moistened in seawater.
The prospect of causing pain gave it a wholly different aspect. The ship’s pitch and yaw added a further challenge. Fortunately, clear skies and a light breeze kept the motion to a minimum and the awning above their heads protected them from the midday heat.
Roped in as an unwilling assistant, her fellow passenger and best friend, Lady Selina Albright, stared grimly out to sea as if her life depended on it.
Perched in front of her on a barrel, with a three-inch gash in his sun-bronzed skin, her patient, Perkin, seemed remarkably unperturbed. But then she hadn’t told the sullen fellow staring at the planks at his feet that this was the first wound she’d actually stitched herself. No sense in scaring him.
Not that much would scare this strapping sailor. Even with his head respectfully lowered and his bearded face hidden by the tangle of dark-brown hair falling around his shoulders, he had a swagger.
‘When did you do this?’ she asked.
‘The night afore I came aboard,’ he muttered, not looking up. ‘I told you, miss, it ain’t nothing. I’ll take care of it.’
She’d caught him bandaging it one-handed when she passed the galley. On this merchant ship, the cook doubled as surgeon and he could hardly sew himself. ‘It needs sutures.’
He glanced up, giving her a brief impression of a face younger than she’d first thought and handsome in a harsh, unkempt sort of way. His cheeks above the black-bearded jaw had been tanned to the colour of light mahogany. Deep creases radiated from the corners of eyes the strangest shade of turquoise rimmed with grey. Right now they held a distinctly resentful gleam. Or even anger? He lowered his head before she could be sure.
A feeling of unease disturbed her normally calm stomach. He’d been making her nervous since he had joined their ship in Lisbon, replacing their original cook who had disappeared amid the stews on the wharf. They’d certainly lost in the exchange. What Perkin knew about cooking he must have learned from a tanner. She stared at the large, strong, well-shaped hand resting on a formidably muscled thigh. At least his fingernails were clean.
No matter how bad his food or his attitude, this wound needed sewing.
‘Ugh.’ Selina gave a delicate shudder. ‘You should let the sailmaker do it as Captain Dareth ordered,’ she said in her naturally breathy voice.
Perkin nodded agreement, his strange eyes warming as they roved over Selina’s lush figure.
Alice wanted to hit him.
Why, she couldn’t imagine. There wasn’t a man alive whose eyes wouldn’t warm when they fell on Selina’s dark flamboyance, whereas Alice’s immature figure, nondescript brown hair and hazel eyes, rarely warranted a second look. Which suited Alice down to the ground.
‘Hodges won’t be off watch for hours,’ she muttered, threading her needle. ‘The longer the wound remains open the less likely it will heal.’ And besides this might be her only chance to make use of her knowledge.
‘Are you certain you know how?’ Selina’s voice quavered.
Certain? She stared at the bloody gash. In theory, yes. Practice was an altogether different proposition.
‘This fascination of yours for surgery is positively macabre.’ Selina gave another of her carefully honed shudders.
At least her friend wasn’t calling her interest unladylike, as Father did. He’d always blamed it on the months she’d spent on the long round trip to India with nothing to do but follow the surgeon around. At nine, she’d been half in love with the ship’s doctor. Her interest in medicine had survived the years. Love was a whole other story.
‘Be ready to hand me the scissors. And don’t look. I don’t want you fainting.’ Lord, she didn’t want to faint herself.
She lined up her needle.
Prickles darted down her back. Sweat trickled cold between her breasts and clung to her palms. The needle seemed to slither in her grasp like a maggot in a ship’s biscuit.
Now or never, Alice. She inhaled a deep breath. The ship rolled. She staggered.
Perkin put out a hand. Caught her wrist. ‘Steady, miss.’
His palm was warm, strong, calloused. A touch that burned. His eyes flashed concern. He released her swiftly as if he too had felt the sudden burst of heat.
Ridiculous.
She braced against the roll of the ship, absorbed the motion with her knees as she’d been doing for days. She swallowed to relieve the dryness in her throat. ‘Ready, Perkin?’
He grunted.
Pulse racing, she pressed the needle into the bronzed skin. It dimpled. Her hand shook.
‘If yer goin’ to do it, give it a good hard jab,’ Perkin muttered in a growl.
Right. Alice stabbed. The needle punctured the skin. The man didn’t flinch, but she knew from a hitch in his breath she’d caused pain.
‘Forgive me,’ she murmured.
Surprise glimmered in his blue eyes, before he looked away.
She pushed through the other side of the gash, pulled up and knotted. Mr Bellweather would have been proud. Good. And no blood. ‘Scissors, please.’
They appeared in front of her, dangling at the end of lacy gloved fingers.
She snipped the thread and returned the scissors to Selina’s outstretched palm.
Alice let her breath go, felt her heart steady, and stabbed again. ‘Four stitches should do it,’ she murmured.
Head averted, Perkin started whistling ‘Spanish Ladies’ under his breath as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She had to admire his fortitude after hearing many a man whine like a puppy when faced with a stitch or two. His calmness instilled her with courage and in no time at all there were four nice neat knots along the puckered skin.
‘Bandage, Selina, please.’
The bandage appeared under her nose.
Ceasing his whistle, Perkin inspected his arm, his expression hidden by the mass of black hair. ‘Thank ye.’ The tone sounded grudging.
She ignored his sullenness and smiled. ‘I think it will be all right.’ They wouldn’t know for a day or two if the gash would heal properly. If it didn’t, if she’d made things worse…Her stomach clenched. Don’t think that. She’d done a good job. Carefully she wrapped the bandage around a sun-weathered, sinewy forearm strong enough to haul up a mainsail by itself, if needed. She tied the strip of cloth off. ‘I will look at it later today.’
‘Nah, miss. I’ll look a’ter it.’
Disappointed, but unsurprised by his reticence, Alice nodded. ‘As you wish. Please take more care next time you gut a fish.’
That startling gaze whipped up to her face. Not angry this time, more puzzled. ‘Aye, aye, miss.’ He rolled down his shirtsleeve, covering up all those lovely muscles.
Oh, Lord. Had she really just thought a common sailor’s arm lovely? Was she turning into one of those eccentric spinsters who peered at males sideways and made up stories in their heads?
‘That’s that, then.’ She rinsed her hands in the bowl and handed it to Perkin, along with the cloth she had used. He took them without a word and headed below.
A sense of disappointment invaded her chest. She made a wry grimace. What had she expected from such a surly man? Effusive thanks? She wiped her face and the back of her neck with her handkerchief. He was probably horrified at the thought of a lady lowering herself to touch him. Men of all classes were odd in that regard.
‘Alice?’ Selina said, a strange note in her voice. ‘What are they looking at?’ She pointed to the bulwark where all of the ship’s officers were clustered at the starboard rail with their spyglasses directed astern. Between the master and his second officer, her brother Richard’s fifteen-year-old gangly body looked distinctly out of place. Like the others, he was watching a ship drawing down on them. Its present course would bring it exceedingly close to the Conchita. Hairs rose on the back of her neck. Her stomach gave a roll in direct opposition to the movement of the ship. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What is it?’ Selina asked, her face anxious, her bright green eyes wide.
It couldn’t be. Not on this voyage, when they’d taken the utmost precautions. ‘It’s probably a ship looking for news,’ she said, heading to the rail. Everyone sought news these days, with rumours of peace circulating the docks.
‘Wait,’ Selina called. ‘Your parasol. You know how you burn.’
With a huff of impatience, Alice turned back to retrieve the lacy object from her friend. She smiled her thanks, took Selina’s arm and joined Mr Anderson, her father’s factotum, at the rail.
‘What ship is it?’ Alice asked.
Mr Anderson grimaced. ‘Can’t see from this angle, Miss Fulton. She’s flying the Union Jack.’
Alice breathed a sigh of relief. Thomas Anderson chewed on his bottom lip. ‘I think you and Lady Selina should go below.’
‘Why?’ Selina asked, her wide-eyed gaze turning to the middle-aged man who immediately turned pink. He’d been blushing every time she so much as glanced his way since they had left port. Not that Selina gave him the slightest encouragement. She simply took admiration as her due. Alice suppressed her irritation. She was past being interested in men of any sort.
Captain Dareth lowered his glass. ‘Let’s see if we can outrun her.’
The tense low mutter added pressure to Alice’s already taut chest. She kept silent as the second officer rushed off shouting orders for more sail. The captain didn’t need additional worries.
Richard, obviously brimming with excitement, turned to the master. ‘She’s fast for a brig.’
‘She is that,’ Captain Dareth said.
‘A privateer, do you think?’ Richard ask, his adolescent voice cracking with excitement.
Alice gasped. A run-in with a privateer was the worst possible scenario. With England at war with France and her allies, as well as America, too many nations had given out letters of marque. The legal document allowed greedy captains with fast ships to take as prizes any enemy merchantmen trying to slip through the blockade. They were little better than pirates, but they had the law on their side.
Until now, Fulton’s Shipping had prided itself on following international law to the letter, but the situation had become intolerable, with ships being routinely stopped. She glanced up at their Spanish flag with a wince. Perhaps after all it had not been such a good idea to hide their national identity. If only they hadn’t been quite so desperate to make sure this cargo reached England safely.
‘Is it a privateer?’ she asked.
The captain jerked his head around as if he’d only just noticed her presence. ‘Miss Fulton, I really must ask you to go below. And you, too, Lady Selina. Mr Anderson, please escort the ladies.’
‘Do you think it is a privateer, Captain Dareth?’ Alice asked firmly, aware of the heightened clamour of her heart.
The captain’s gaze shifted above her shoulder, then travelled up the mainmast to the sails being unfurled by his crew. ‘I don’t know, Miss Fulton. There were rumours in Lisbon.’
There were always rumours. ‘But you think it might be.’
Selina gave a little squeak of terror. ‘Are we in danger?’
‘I must take every precaution,’ the captain said.
Mr Anderson took Selina’s elbow and reached for Alice’s arm. ‘Ladies, if you please?’
‘No,’ Alice said. ‘Selina, go below if you wish, but it is as hot as Hades down there. Surely the Conchita will easily outrun her.’ The ship had been specially designed for speed. Father had thrown every last penny into making her one of the fastest merchantmen operating out of England.
Clearly unwilling to argue with his employer’s daughter, Mr Anderson turned his attention to Selina. He escorted her down the nearby companionway.
‘It would be pretty exciting if it is a privateer,’ Richard said.
The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Excuse me, Miss Fulton.’ He hurried off to confer with his first officer. A couple of crew members were taking down the shade awning, the rest hauled on sheets to the second officer’s command in grim silence.
The pursuing brig was now close enough to see crewmen moving around on its deck.
Richard raised his glass to his eye. ‘They are gaining on us.’
Boys. All they cared about was speed and danger. Hadn’t he learned anything on this voyage? This cargo was Father’s last hope—their family’s last hope—to salvage their fortunes.
She forced a smile. ‘Pray he doesn’t catch us instead of cheering him on.’
Richard looked down at her, his boyish face suddenly serious. ‘I’m not on his side, Alice. But you have to admire such a fine ship.’
‘I’d prefer to admire it far behind in our wake.’
Richard returned the glass to his eye. ‘Strange decking aft. High for a brig. Doesn’t seem to slow her speed.’
Apparently not. The brig’s bow was almost level with the Conchita’s stern. Please, please, let him break a mast, or foul his rudder. Anything, so they weren’t caught. Her hands gripped the parasol handle so tightly, they hurt. She snapped the blasted thing closed. Who cared about freckles when minute by minute their pursuer narrowed the patch of ocean between the ships?
Only yards from their rail, the Union Jack on the other ship’s mast went down and the American flag rose. In the stern a large blue flag unfurled bearing the image of a gryphon in gold, all sharp claws and gleaming teeth.
‘I knew it,’ Richard crowed.
Alice gritted her teeth, and yet she couldn’t help but stare in fascination at the approaching ship’s elegant lines.
A puff of smoke emerged from the privateer’s bow. A thunderous bang struck their ears. Alice jumped. Selina’s scream pierced the deck’s planking from below. A plume of water fountained ahead of the Conchita. A warning shot. The maritime signal to halt.
The captain issued a rapid order to the helmsman, who dragged the wheel hard over. The Conchita heeled away from their pursuer. Alice grabbed for the rail as the deck slanted away.
‘That surprised her,’ Richard muttered, one arm hooked around a rope.
The privateer’s sails flapped empty of wind.
‘Oh, good show. She’s in irons.’ Richard hurried off to join the captain at the helm.
‘Not for long,’ Mr Anderson said gloomily, joining Alice at the rail. Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw Perkin emerge through the hatch and take in the scene.
‘You,’ an officer shouted. ‘To the yards.’
Perkin made for the stern.
With her heart in her throat and unable to do more than gaze with horrified fascination, Alice watched the privateer’s swift recovery. She swung across the Conchita’s wake, then clawed her way up their port side. All down the length of the sleek-looking ship, black squares of open gun ports bristled with nasty-looking muzzles.
‘Surely he’s not going to fire at civilians?’ she said.
Someone came up behind her. As she turned to see who it was, a steely arm went around her waist and a pistol pressed against her temple. She stared at Perkin’s grim profile with a cry of shock.
‘Sorry, Miss Fulton,’ he muttered. ‘Do as you are bid and no harm will befall you.’
‘Captain Dareth,’ he roared. ‘Surrender.’ Her ears rang with his bellow.
The rise of Perkin’s chest with each indrawn breath pressed hot against her back. Sparks ran down her spine and lit a glow low in her stomach in a most inappropriate way. How could she respond to this criminal with such unladylike heat?
She jabbed Perkin’s ribs with her elbow. She might as well have poked a granite rock with her baby finger for all the notice he took. Come to think of it, his stomach gave less than granite, although she did hear a faint grunt.
‘Dareth,’ he yelled again.
The captain turned, his eyes as round as marbles, his jaw dropping to his neatly knotted cravat. He stood stock-still and stared.
Perkin cursed harshly. ‘Strike your colours, man, before someone gets hurt.’
Even dazed with astonishment, Alice couldn’t help but notice the change in the cook from common sailor to a man used to command.
She twisted in his grip. ‘You’re part of this.’
‘Silence,’ he snarled.
A cannon boomed. A tearing rush of air whistled overhead. Then the ship seemed to disintegrate in the sound of splintering wood and the shouts. A spar, tangled with ropes and sail, slammed on to the deck. One end knocked Richard sideways. He collapsed.
The breath rushed from Alice’s throat. She struggled to find her voice, fought to break the iron grip around her waist.
‘Richard,’ she screamed. She stilled at the pistol’s increased pressure. ‘Hold still,’ he growled in her ear.
‘Let me go. My brother needs help.’ She stamped down on his bare instep.
He uttered a foul curse, but the rock-hard grip didn’t ease a smidgeon.
Beside the helm, their captain’s face blanched. He gave the order to strike their colours.
‘About bloody time,’ Perkin muttered as their flag fluttered to the deck. ‘Heave to,’ he shouted. The helmsman brought the ship around and the sails hung limp. The other ship drew alongside and men leaped across the gap into the Conchita’s ratlines. Privateers poured on to their ship.
‘Get your brother below,’ Perkin said, pushing her forwards. He strode for the rail.
Heart faltering, terrified of what she would find, she ran to Richard’s side. One end of the spar lay across his chest. Ropes and canvas littered the deck around his still body. A blue lump marred his temple. ‘Richard,’ she cried, shaking his shoulder. He didn’t move.
She pressed her ear to his heart. A strong steady heartbeat. Thank God.
Now if she could move this timber…With shaking hands, she crouched and grabbed one end of the huge spar. Too heavy. It didn’t move. Muscles straining, she heaved again. Hopeless. She needed help.
She looked around wildly. For all that they looked like a motley crew, the privateers were swiftly and efficiently rounding up Conchita’s crew at pistol and sabre point. Not one of them looked her way.
A sailor ran past. She caught his arm. ‘You. Give me a hand here.’ The grey-haired, barrel-chested gnome of a man stopped in his tracks. His button-black eyes blinked.
‘Help me move this spar,’ she said.
He glanced down at Richard. ‘Aye, aye, miss.’ He pulled out a knife, held it over her brother.
Alice’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Please. No.’
The man slashed the ropes free and glanced up. ‘Did you say something, miss?’
Panting, her heart still thundering too hard for speech, Alice shook her head.
The man proceeded to lift one end of the spar and to drag it clear.
‘Perkin told me to get him below deck,’ she said, going to Richard’s feet. ‘You must help me.’
The man looked blank. ‘Can’t, miss. Speak to the captain.’ He rushed off.
She glanced around for someone else. Within the few short minutes she’d been busy with Richard, the privateers, twenty or more of them and all as rough as Perkin, had taken command of her father’s ship and were clearing the deck of torn sails, broken spars and damaged rigging. An acrid smell lingered in the air, the smell of gunpowder from the shots they had fired.
Oh Lord, what a disaster. And they could have been killed. An enormous lump rose up from her chest and stuck firm in her throat. She swallowed the rush of panic. Richard needed help. But who would give it?
A blond Viking of a man was striding aft issuing orders as he went. This must be the captain. She started towards him. He paused to speak to the traitorous Perkin, who appeared to have grown a foot since the privateers came on board. She marched across the deck and planted herself in front of both men. ‘My brother needs help.’
The blond man recoiled. ‘Good God. A woman? What’s she doing on deck?’
A shade taller than his captain and as dark as the other man was fair, Perkin muttered into the blond giant’s ear.
‘You, Perkin,’ she said. ‘Tell your captain this is an honest merchant ship carrying civilian passengers.’
The blond giant raised a brow at his accomplice. ‘Michael?’
‘You know what to do,’ Perkin said and strode away.
‘Simpson,’ the captain shouted. ‘Get your sorry self over here.’
The grey-bearded man who had freed Richard ran over.
‘He wants her on the Gryphon,’ the captain said.
Her?
Simpson’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ‘Aye, aye, sir. This way, miss.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Alice said. ‘My brother is injured.’ She dodged around the portly fellow and dashed back to her pale and still brother.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked around to find a rough-looking sailor with a drooping moustache and a tarry pigtail staring at her from mud-coloured eyes. He grinned.
She tried not to notice the blackened stumps of his teeth. ‘Take him below.’
The sailor’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll be happy to take ye below, missy.’
‘Get away from her, Kale.’
Perkin again, with a pistol in his hand and his eyes blazing fury.
Her insides did a strange kind of somersault. The kind that shouldn’t be happening for any man, let alone a pirate even if he had defended her.
‘Back to your duties, Kale,’ Perkin ordered.
Kale seemed to shrivel. He gave a half-hearted salute. ‘Aye, sir.’ He shambled off.
A rather red-looking Simpson appeared at Perkin’s side. Perkin gave him a frown. ‘Damnation, Simpson, get her on board the Gryphon before she causes any more trouble.’ He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to Simpson and muttered something in his ear.
The crewman’s eyes widened, then he touched his forelock with a wink. ‘Aye, aye.’
‘No,’ Alice said, ‘not without Richard’, but Perkin strode off as if she hadn’t said a word.
‘Orders is orders, miss,’ Simpson said, his black eyes twinkling.
He grabbed her around the waist and tossed her effortlessly over his shoulder. She landed hard on the bony point. It knocked the breath from her lungs. ‘Ouch, you brute! Put me down.’ She thumped him on the back. Kicked at his stomach. ‘I’m not going anywhere without my brother.’
The man’s only response was a laboured grunt. He strode across the deck and dropped her into a canvas bucket hanging off the side of the ship. The scoundrels had rigged up ropes and a pulley between the ships, no doubt intending to steal everything of value.
Oh, God. The cargo. They were ruined.
She tried to scramble out again. ‘I can’t leave my brother.’ Or Selina. She’d be terrified witless. Who knew what a dreadful man like Kale would do? ‘My friend is below deck. You have to bring her too.’
Simpson hopped in next to her and grasped her arm. ‘Be still, miss. I ain’t wanting to hurt ye. Haul away,’ he yelled at a sailor on the other ship handling the ropes.
She clung to the edge of the bucket, her stomach pitching like a rowboat in a storm, staring back at the Conchita, trying to see what was happening. Was someone bending over Richard? She raised up on tiptoes. Dash it. She couldn’t see.
Simpson must have seen her dismay, because his expression turned almost fatherly. ‘Don’t ye be worrying about yer friends. The captain will see to ’em.’
See to them? Why didn’t that make her feel any better? Indeed, her stomach churned worse than before and her throat dried as if she’d swallowed an ocean of seawater. ‘You have to go back for them.’
The bucket bumped against the side of the brig and Simpson hopped out. He made a grab for her. She backed away. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared. ‘Now then, miss, do as I say, or you and your friends will have more trouble than you bargained for.’
She stilled. She had no wish to bring harm to Richard and Selina.
An elderly seaman with a cherry-red nose traced with blue veins hurried up to them. Strands of greying hair clung to his scalp, his bloodshot-grey eyes looked anxious. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked Alice’s gaoler.
‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘My brother. He’s received a blow to the head.’
The man, the doctor she assumed, blinked. ‘Hmm. What’s she doing here?’
‘Captain’s orders.’
‘Women. Nothing but bad luck.’ He climbed into the bucket. ‘Haul away, man,’ he said to the other sailor.
Alice clutched at Simpson’s shirt. ‘He will look at my brother, won’t he?’
‘That will be up to the captain.’ He must have seen the protest forming on her lips because he hurried to say, ‘If you do exactly what I says, I’ll make sure he does.’ He pushed her towards the stern, towards the ornately carved walls of the strange-looking poop-deck. It reminded her of pictures of ancient Spanish galleons, only smaller.
Biting her lip, she let him hurry her along.
Simpson opened a brass-fitted mahogany door and ushered her into a chamber lit by the floor-to-ceiling square-paned window angled back over the stern. Surprisingly, the cabin’s furnishings were sumptuous. A Turkish carpet covered the floor, a mahogany desk and a throne-like gilt chair occupied the centre of the room.
Beneath a skylight, an enormous bed covered in fine white sheets filled an alcove. A black gryphon, wings spread wide, curved beak open, and lion claws raking, sprang from the headboard.
The stuff of nightmares.
This must be their captain’s stateroom. Why bring her here? Her heart thumped a warning. She turned to leave and found her way blocked by a sympathetic-looking Simpson.
‘Make yourself comfortable, miss.’
He backed out of the door. She heard the key turn in the lock.
Make herself comfortable? Wasn’t that like telling someone falling off a cliff to enjoy the journey?
Beyond the window, the azure sky and sparkling sea mocked her predicament.

Chapter Two
Eyes closed, Michael relished the cold sting of the salt-water pump as he washed away the filth of days beneath the merchantman’s decks.
Luck had landed on his shoulder these past few days. He touched the talisman hanging on the chain around his neck in silent thanks. Fulton playing into his hands was one thing. Finding both Fulton heirs on board was like throwing a main.
Fulton’s children at his mercy. He could kill them out of hand. Or he could make them suffer the torment of the damned he and Jaimie had suffered. The beys were always looking for infidel slaves. Or the boy could be pressed into the Navy. And the girl? She’d make a fine mistress, for a week or two.
Something dark unfurled deep within his chest as he imagined Fulton’s despair at the loss of his children. Dark and triumphant and ugly.
And that wouldn’t be the worst of what lay in store.
He rinsed the soap from his hair and gestured for Jacko to cease his efforts with the pump. The monkeyfaced lad flashed a salute and tossed him a towel. Michael let the water cascade from his body then dried off.
‘What happened to your arm?’ David Wishart asked from where he leaned against the rail awaiting orders.
Michael glanced down at the puckered red line with its spidery black stitches. ‘Courtesy of the Conchita’s cook. He argued about giving up his berth.’
‘Did you make him stitch you up?’
‘No.’ She’d done that. Alice Fulton. Needle in hand, she’d paled beneath the freckles dusting her cheeks, but to his surprise she’d done better than many a surgeon.
He owed her for that. He hated being beholden to anyone, but a debt to a Fulton tasted bitter.
A female Fulton to boot.
And a bossy one. Even in his lowly position as cook, it hadn’t taken him long to realise she ruled the roost on the Conchita. She’d be his key to learning about her father, not the boy. He was too much the mooncalf to be of any use. Which was why he’d had Simpson take her to his cabin for questioning.
She was certainly no beauty, Miss Fulton, with her serious eyes and plain round face. Nothing like her pretty friend. Yet beneath that mousy exterior lay unquiet currents. A maelstrom.
He’d felt it beneath his hands.
His blood ran hot, as it had when he’d had her pressed tight against his side and a pistol at her temple. As unexpected as it was unwanted.
Hell. She was Fulton’s daughter. In his cabin. At his non-existent mercy. Except he did owe her a debt.
Dammit.
Jacko produced a mirror and a razor. ‘Will you shave today, Cap’n?’
He’d planned to shave on this last leg of the journey to England in an attempt to make himself look more respectable, but the arrival of the prisoners on his ship required he chart a new course. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘Scissors, if you please.’
He pulled a clean shirt over his head, drew on his breeches and peered into the glass Jacko held up.
‘Report if you would, Mr Wishart.’ He snipped at the untidy black hair on his jaw.
His second-in-command’s fair brow furrowed. ‘I don’t like this, Michael.’
Michael didn’t blame him. They’d never ventured this close to Britain’s waters nor ventured into the rocky shoal of prisoners before, but Fulton, the bastard, had wandered into Michael’s net. Only a fool would ignore that kind of fortune.
Idiot he was not and besides it was time he enjoyed fortune’s favour. Long past time.
He dragged a comb through his hair and tied it with the black ribbon Jacko had draped over his arm. ‘Report please, David.’
David took a deep breath. ‘The Fulton youth and the female we found below deck are in the hold under guard, along with another male civilian, who has a broken arm. Bones is with them. Hopefully, he has something for hysterics.’
Michael glanced at his friend’s pained expression and winced. ‘That bad?’
David’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘The civilian is doing his best to keep her calm.’ His first officer’s face resumed its troubled expression. ‘Michael, we shouldn’t keep them on board. Send them to Lisbon with the Conchita. Prisoners are a complication we don’t need.’
David Wishart had sailed alongside Michael in one of his Majesty’s stinking frigates for five years. Since then he’d spent another three as Michael’s first officer. This was the first time he’d questioned an order. And blast it, he was right. Michael should send the Conchita’s passengers to port with the prize ship. And yet an uneasy feeling swirled in his gut as he opened his mouth to agree, a sense of something about to go wrong. A knowledge that the Fates would not appreciate him letting their gift slip so easily from his grasp.
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I assume you found the falsified documents, as well as the log that proves she’s operating under another nation’s flag?’
David sighed. ‘We did. Fulton doesn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Good. Name off a crew and send the Conchita back to Lisbon. Let the admiralty decide.’ He shrugged into his waistcoat.
‘Aye, aye,’ David said. ‘But I still don’t like it. We aren’t much better than Fulton, flying an American flag. Those letters of marque you bought won’t stand up under close scrutiny and could land us in trouble if anyone takes the trouble to look.’
‘They won’t. You worry too much.’ Michael clapped his first officer and closest friend on the shoulder.
‘I wish you worried more. I’ll get a crew together.’ David stomped off.
At the sound of the tumbling lock, Alice ceased her pacing and retreated to the window. Her heart drummed. Her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth, stifling the words she’d practised in her head.
The door swung back.
Perkin, huge in the doorway, searched her out with narrowed eyes. Freshly washed and groomed, he looked magnificent. A wild and untamed restless force not unlike the ocean. How could she ever have mistaken him for a simple cook?
The air in the cabin seemed to evaporate, leaving her nothing to breathe. The thunder of her heart intensified as if her chest had shrunk to half its normal size. She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. ‘What do you want? Where is your captain?’
His eyes widened a fraction, then white teeth flashed in his bearded face. He looked positively handsome. Her stomach gave an odd kind of lurch. Was she mad? Or just fearful?
It had to be the latter.
He closed the door behind him.
Instinctively she backed up a step, the roar of pumping blood in her ears. Fear. And it was making her knees weak and her mind an empty vessel. All she seemed able to do was stare. At his face. At the width of his shoulders. At the lithe movement of his hips as he stepped closer.
‘Apparently an introduction is required.’ He bowed with old-fashioned grace, almost as if flourishing a handkerchief or a cocked hat. ‘Lionhawk at your service. Captain of the Gryphon.’
He was their captain? Her stomach sank. ‘No wonder you can’t cook.’
A smile lifted his lips, his eyes twinkled. ‘I am sorry for my culinary disasters.’
She wanted to hit him—he looked so pleased with himself. ‘So am I.’
He cocked a dark arrogant eyebrow.
Why couldn’t the captain have been the Viking-looking fellow? Somehow, he’d seemed far less intimidating than this wickedly smiling man. ‘So, Captain Pirate. What is it you want?’
The smile faded. ‘Privateer.’
‘Personally, I can’t tell the difference. It is still stealing.’
‘A privateer operates within the law,’ he said with a scowl. ‘Unlike your father. Sailing a British ship under another country’s flag is illegal.’
She winced. It was so annoying that he should be in the right. Especially when it was her fault they’d flown a false flag in the first place. One of the merchants in Lisbon had suggested the ruse when they couldn’t pay the inflated insurance and she’d persuaded Anderson to give it a try. In hindsight, not a wise choice. Too late to do anything about it now except bluff.
‘My father is carrying on a legitimate business. He is not harming anyone.’
An eerie stillness filled the room. Although he looked relaxed, she sensed a hidden tension in his body and an underlying emotion she could not begin to fathom.
‘No harm?’ he uttered softly.
The chill in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. The fear she’d been holding at bay expanded in her chest. It rose up her throat. She swallowed what felt like broken glass. ‘Where are my brother and Lady Selina?’
‘My other prisoners are in the hold.’
Prisoners. A bone-deep tremble shook her frame. Hearing the words spoken so casually brought home the evils of their position. The nearby chair invited her collapse. She locked her knees, refusing to let him see any weakness. ‘Then I demand to join them.’ Infuriatingly, her words came out a low croak. She swallowed again, vainly seeking moisture and calm.
‘Demand?’ He prowled toward the desk. All the while he’d remained like a sentinel at the door, the force of his presence had seemed contained. Now it flooded the room, filling the corners, circling around her, no longer charming, but dark and forbidding. And if he intended his cool raking gaze to intimidate her, he was succeeding admirably.
Clearly issuing orders wasn’t the most sensible thing she’d ever done, but calm good sense seemed to have gone the way of her courage. She edged closer to the window, widening the distance between them. The open window provided a measure of air and dropped straight to the sea.
‘I—I am sure you are a busy man.’ She gestured at his desk. ‘You must have courses to plot. Orders to give. I will be in the way.’
He tilted his head on one side. ‘True.’
Thank heaven. He might be a pirate—no, a privateer, no point in insulting him again—but he seemed reasonably intelligent. ‘I am glad we agree. Would you care to direct me?’ She headed for the door, passing within inches of his broad-shouldered frame. Close enough for a quick glance to take in the long dark lashes framing his vivid eyes and trickles of water from his bath coursing from his hairline into his beard.
Up close, he seemed impossibly large. And very male. And far too handsome. With a wince at her wayward thoughts, she turned the door handle and pulled it open. It jerked out of her hand and slammed shut with a bang.
Above her head one large hand lay flat on the panel. Damn. She whirled around, back to the door. His chest, encased in an embroidered cream waistcoat over a pristine white shirt, hemmed her in.
‘No,’ he said, his expression implacable.
‘No?’
‘No. I do not care to escort you. Not yet, anyway.’
‘My brother is injured. You must take me to him.’ Hating the shake in her voice, she locked her gaze with his, and instantly regretted it. The eyes fixed on hers blazed hot.
And then he smiled. It didn’t make him look friendly, just wolfish, as if he’d scented something tasty. ‘More orders, Miss Fulton?’
Her heart gave an uncomfortable thump. ‘A request.’
‘A barely civil request. You could try being a little more polite.’ His deep voice ran over her skin like liquid honey. His chest rose and fell inches from her cotton bodice. Warmth permeated her skin. She inhaled the scent of ocean and soap. Clean and very male. Intoxicating.
Best not to notice his scent. Or how close he stood. Or the rapid beat of her pulse.
He placed his other hand flat on the door, framing her head within white linen shirtsleeves beneath which lay the bone and muscle she’d admired earlier in the day.
Her stomach gave a slow lazy roll. Her heart stuttered as if seeking a new rhythm. ‘How is your arm?’
Lord, what made her say that? She didn’t care about his arm. Would he think it an appeal for gratitude?
‘Almost as good as new.’ He flashed a smug grin. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘I wish I had chopped it off when I had the chance.’ Her stomach clenched at her rudeness, but she forced herself to meet his gaze without a blink.
He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze raking her face as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard aright. He ducked his head, pressed his mouth to hers.
Retribution. Punishment. Anger. All these things his mouth relayed through her lips. And something else. Something reckless and wild that made her insides tighten. Hunger.
She whipped her head aside. He caught her nape, held her fast, his mouth softening, teasing, wooing.
Her heart pounded. Her breathing became shallow. Her insides liquefied. She was melting from the inside out. She lifted her hands to push him away. They hovered above his chest, trembling, fingers curling with longing to touch and knowing it would be fatal.
The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Her eyelids drooped as wonderful warmth rolled over her skin.
Wickedness. Her body glowed with it. Her pulse fluttered with a longing she shouldn’t even be aware of. Her lips parted to his teasing.
His tongue tangled with hers. A thrill exploded low in her abdomen. A small moan rose up in her throat.
He pulled away and gazed at her with gleaming eyes, his chest rising and falling with rapid intakes of breath. A sensual smile curved his lips.
Easy virtue. That was what his smile said. Wanton. As if he knew. He couldn’t. Not from just a kiss. ‘Get away from me,’ she snapped, only too aware of her own humiliating shortness of breath.
He let his arms fall to his sides and straightened, looking a little surprised. ‘Perhaps you’ll have more care with your words in future. Then I won’t feel the need to stem the tide.’
She didn’t want to talk to him at all. She dodged beneath his arm, and scuttled ignominiously across the room, jerking around to face him when she reached the far side. To her relief, he made no move to follow. ‘I wish to go to my brother.’
He cocked a brow.
Her heartbeat slowed and she felt more like herself. ‘If you please,’ she said regally.
He leaned against the doorpost, folding his arms over that broad expanse of very male chest and observed her with narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t please. Sit down, Miss Fulton. We need to have a conversation.’
‘What can you and I possibly have to discuss?’
‘Your future and that of your companions.’ His voice was flat and hard and full of confident power.
Her stomach dipped, but she kept her expression calm. ‘Very well.’ She marched to the only other chair in the room apart from the one behind the desk. She perched on its edge, folding her hands in her lap, praying he wouldn’t see how she shook inside and pinned an afternoon-tea-with-strangers smile on her lips. ‘What are your plans?’
‘It depends on you.’
‘How?’
He pursed his mobile mouth as if deciding how to deliver bad news.
Looking into his eyes was like watching the ever-changing ocean. If eyes were the windows to the soul, his had turned the colour of storms at sea, the cold grey-green of the Atlantic in winter.
The cold crept into her blood.
He pushed off from the doorway and stalked to his desk. He perched one lean hip on the corner. Once more he was far too close for comfort. She squashed the urge to flee.
‘We might as well be civil,’ he said. ‘May I offer you some refreshment after your ordeal?’
Now he would play the gentleman? And would she submit meekly? Play the polite lady? ‘No, thank you.’
‘You won’t mind if I do?’ He reached down, clearly not caring if she minded or not, and opened a drawer. He pulled out a bottle and glass, poured a measure into the goblet and returned the bottle to the drawer. Every movement was elegant, unhurried, yet rife with leashed power.
It was all she could do to simply draw breath and sit unmoving beneath his cool stare.
‘To the Fultons.’ He grimaced and swallowed a long draught as if to remove the taste of her name from his tongue.
One booted foot swung as he observed her over the rim of his goblet. She’d never seen such long, muscular legs displayed to such heart-stopping effect. Oh, no! How could she be impressed by this an awful man? The problem was, he was too dreadfully handsome and his kisses were like a drug to her senses.
She pressed her lips together. Let him speak what was on his mind. It worked in business. It would work with him too.
‘Why were you on board?’ he finally asked. ‘You and your brother?’
If it wasn’t too strange to contemplate, she might have thought the note in his voice was gloating. ‘I was visiting a friend in Lisbon. My brother loves the sea. It was a treat for him, before he goes to school.’
‘A spree? With a war on?’ He shook his head. ‘Your father must care very little for your safety.’
‘If it wasn’t for men like you, our safety wouldn’t be an issue.’
His dark brows drew together.
Dash it. It really wasn’t a good idea to poke a lion with a stick to see what it would do, but this man had her feeling ill at ease, not herself at all. Not afraid so much as frazzled. Now she understood how an oyster felt with a bit of sand beneath its shell. Irritable. If she could only keep her gaze from admiring his manly physique, she might gather a few coherent thoughts.
‘You’ve a sharp wit to go along with your sharp tongue, I believe,’ he said. ‘You used it to good effect on the merchants in Lisbon.’
Everything had depended on her forcing Anderson up to the mark in his dealings for this cargo, but she had the feeling the less this man knew, the better. And on this occasion, she didn’t mind playing the female card. She widened her eyes and curved her lips in a vacuous smile. ‘La, sir. Me? Engage in business?’
‘And the other woman? Lady Selina Albright? Your last-minute addition to the passenger list? Why is she on board?’
She lifted a shoulder. ‘If it is any business of yours, Lady Selina is a friend. She wanted to return to England early. I offered her a berth.’
Offered was far too gentle a word. Selina had showed up in tears on the night of their sailing demanding to be taken home. To make room for her, Alice had been required to leave her maid behind on the dock.
‘I see,’ he said.
The words had the weight of a threat.

Chapter Three
She had more courage than half the men he knew. The rays of the setting sun warmed her pale skin and glinted in the wisps of caramel hair at her temples. He hadn’t expected such a prim little mouth, with its full bottom lip, to issue such blistering condemnations.
He certainly hadn’t expected a gently bred, haughty English female to respond to his kiss with the passion of a tropical siren. Not that he had any interest in her kisses. He’d simply wanted to stop her words. He’d learned early that women forgot their nagging when you pleasured their senses. He’d kissed lots of them quiet. Most of them far more lush and lovely than this one.
To his annoyance, he found himself aroused. But he did not want her silence. He had uses for Miss Fulton’s tongue that had nothing to do with the blood stirring in his body.
He scratched at his chin. ‘Albright,’ he mused. ‘A wealthy family, I recollect. She would fetch a fine ransom.’
‘Ransom?’ The high pitch of her voice revealed her shock. Anger bloomed rosy on her cheeks. ‘Aren’t you getting enough from stealing the cargo?’
Not nearly enough. ‘Did you think I brought you on board for the pleasure of your company?’ He flashed a smile. ‘Delightful though it is, of course.’
Her eyes widened. Her body shifted. He saw worry in the way she lowered her gaze, and fear in the way her fingers plucked at her skirts.
Small strong hands. Clever hands that felt good on a man’s body. Not that he’d feel them again.
Finally she raised her head. ‘Why am I here?’ She gestured around her. ‘Why are you keeping me from my brother?’
A perfectly logical question. Something he didn’t expect when dealing with females, but he’d already learned that this one had a brain when she wasn’t worrying about her sibling. ‘Before you return to your friends, I need some questions answered.’
‘I won’t tell you anything.’
‘Then you will remain here.’
Her shoulders slumped in defeat. He felt more than a little guilty.
‘I will tell you anything you want to know. But not until I have seen my brother,’ she said, lifting her chin.
Defeated but not routed apparently ‘Very well.’ The words surprised him, but he’d get more from her with honey than vinegar. And he had honey to spare as she’d discover.
She cast him a wary glance. ‘May I also ask for your promise that we will not be harmed while we are your…guests?’
The little minx. He almost smiled. Damn it, he did not want to admire her spirit. ‘You may ask.’
‘I see you take pleasure in toying with me, sir.’ Her light laugh sounded like breaking glass.
The sound wrenched at something in his chest. Something he’d frozen out of existence. He forced it back where it belonged, out in the cold, ignored and unnoticed. ‘Answer my questions to my satisfaction and I will consider your request.’
Moisture shimmered in her green-flecked brown eyes, but she held her gaze steady, unblinking, and nodded.
He found he couldn’t look at her any more. It was like looking in the mirror and seeing your faults laid out on public view.
Hell’s teeth. He wasn’t the one who should feel guilty. Old Fulton was the one who had sent her into danger. He deserved the blame, for this and so much more.
‘Hurry up, if you want to see your brother now, or I will insist on receiving my answers first.’ He opened the door wide. ‘No matter how long it takes.’
Alice stared at the privateer warily. An aura of danger hung about him. A danger she seemed unable to resist.
She should never have tried to cross swords with him. He’d met her assault with ruthless seduction as if he sensed where her weakness lay. The thought made her tremble. But if she wanted to see Richard, she had to do as he said.
He raised a brow.
With a quick inward breath to steady her nerves, she walked past him and out on deck.
‘Stay close,’ he murmured, leaning close. ‘My men aren’t used to women on board.’
She shivered, but whether from his warm breath on her cheek, or the threat he implied, she wasn’t sure.
Outside the door, the squat sailor stood at attention, his black eyes gleaming.
‘You met my steward,’ Lionhawk said. ‘He will see to my guests’ every comfort. Won’t you, Simpson?’
‘Aye, Cap’n.’
Guests. She almost snorted. ‘The only thing I would find of comfort is to be landed at the nearest port.’
Lionhawk laughed. An annoyingly seductive chuckle that hit a nerve low in her stomach. ‘Come, we are wasting time.’
Time Richard might not have. She quickened her pace.
His hand in the small of her back, he guided her aft while above their heads a few stars were already piercing the velvet blue to the east. A light breeze caressed her heated skin.
A sailor coiling ropes beside the mast watched them pass with a sly grin from beneath his straggly moustache. Kale. The man Lionhawk had chased off on the deck of the Conchita. Other men hung in the ratlines. The helmsman darted a glance their way, and a lad half-heartedly mopping the deck saluted. She kept her back straight and her gaze firmly fixed ahead.
‘What do you think of my ship?’ Lionhawk asked with an expansive wave of his hand and pride in his voice.
‘The truth?’
‘Of course.’
‘I wish I’d never set eyes on her.’
He chuckled. ‘You wound me, Miss Fulton. I thought I was offering you every courtesy.’
Liar. She pressed her lips firmly together, determined not to provide him with any more amusement.
‘Down here,’ he said and plunged down a companionway. Highly polished wooden panels reflected her face beneath the wall-hung oil lamp. Brass fittings gleamed dull gold and without so much as a fingerprint in sight. The ship was clearly well run and it must have cost him a fortune to build.
At the bottom of the steps, he plucked a lamp from the wall. ‘The crew’s quarters are on the gun deck. Down here is the hold.’ He bent and pulled on an iron ring in the floorboards. The trapdoor lifted with a creak.
Musty air wafted up from the dark void. She choked back a gasp. Holding the lantern aloft, Lionhawk stepped on to the ladder.
Alice shuddered. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt, grasped the rope lines on either side of the openrung steps and followed him down.
At the bottom, his lantern cast a halo of light into the gloom. A chain swung from a nail driven into a beam like an instrument of torture in some ancient oubliette. And if she wasn’t mistaken there was a strong odour of chicken manure. She grabbed at the wall to steady herself.
‘Seasick, are you?’
‘I’ve never been seasick in my life, but the stench is disgusting. How can you put people down here?’
He recoiled, his eyes flashing anger. ‘I’m sorry my accommodations don’t meet with your approval. We keep livestock down here on long voyages,’ he said and moved ahead. ‘If it is good enough for chickens, it should be good enough for a group of Fultons,’ he muttered.
At least that was what she thought she heard before a sailor in a coarse linen shirt and wide canvas trousers rose from a stool beside a bulkhead door. ‘All quiet, Cap’n.’
‘Thanks, Del.’ He hesitated. ‘You did open the hatches before you put the prisoners in there, didn’t you?’
‘Er…Mr Wishart didn’t say anything about opening any hatches.’
Lionhawk cursed under his breath. ‘See to it, man.’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ The sailor dodged around them and was heading up the ladder in a flash.
It seemed the captain had some shred of humanity, even if he had to be reminded.
‘It’s the best I can do,’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t have accommodations on my ship for passengers.’ He flashed a cheeky grin. ‘I’m sure your friends wouldn’t want to sling their hammocks with the crew, though I’m sure the crew wouldn’t mind entertaining your friend, Lady Selina.’
It was almost as if he wanted to make her angry rather than appreciative. She sniffed. ‘Fresh air will help, I am sure.’
He removed a bunch of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. He gestured for her to enter. ‘After you.’
Indeed, the area resembled nothing more fearful than a smelly barn. Richard and Mr Anderson lay stretched out on two of the four cots placed along the hull. Selina, her head in her arms, drooped at a table that also held the remains of what looked like a meal of bread and cheese.
A couple of lanterns swinging from the beams provided light and the floor was carpeted with what looked like fresh straw, upon which stood their trunks. So they were not to be left in the clothes they stood up in.
‘Selina.’ Alice rushed forwards. Selina surged to her feet. She flung herself at Alice’s breast and they clung to each other.
‘Are you all right?’ Alice asked, holding her friend’s shaking body. ‘No one hurt you? Touched you?’
‘My men have strict orders not to lay hands on my prisoners without my express instructions,’ Lionhawk said from behind her.
A shame he didn’t include himself in his order, Alice thought, breaking free and making for Richard’s still form.
‘I’m quite all right, now,’ Selina murmured with a swift resentful look at their captor. ‘You get used to the smell after a while, but I thought I’d die of fright in that horrid swinging contraption.’ She shuddered. ‘I wish I had never asked you to bring me home.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Where did you go? I was so worried. I kept asking and asking for you.’
When Alice touched Richard’s shoulder, he didn’t flicker so much as an eyelid. ‘Is he sleeping?’
Selina shook her head. ‘He’s been the same ever since we arrived in this dreadful place.’
Alice sank to her knees beside the pallet. ‘Richard,’ she whispered. She pressed a palm to a cheek pale beneath its tan. Cold and clammy. For one horrible moment she thought he wasn’t breathing. A horrid churning rolled in her stomach. Then she felt the faint pulse beating in his throat beneath her fingertips and saw the gentle rise of his chest. Not dead. She closed her eyes in thanks.
‘He’s had a knock to the head,’ Lionhawk said.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘By a spar shot down by your men.’ But why was he still unconscious? Panic tightened her chest. ‘He needs a doctor.’
From above their heads came a scraping sound, the hatch covering being removed. Alice glanced up. Through the gratings, she could just see the twinkle of stars and a gust of sweet air set the lanterns flickering. She inhaled a deep breath. While the smell wasn’t entirely gone, it was certainly a whole lot fresher and a great deal healthier.
No doubt Lionhawk would want her gratitude for that little concession.
‘The doctor looked at your brother,’ Anderson said from the neighbouring cot. He struggled up on one elbow. His broken arm rested in a sling against his chest, but he looked none too bad.
‘How are you, Mr Anderson?’Alice asked.
‘The sawbones seems to know his business, Miss Fulton. He set my arm. He’s given your brother something to keep him calm and sleeping. I’m afraid it is Lady Selina who is not feeling quite the thing. The doctor left her some smelling salts.’
Poor Selina. She really wasn’t meant for hardship.
‘Mr Anderson has been a tower of strength,’ Selina said, beaming at him. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without him.’
Mr Anderson turned the colour of a house brick. If Selina wasn’t careful, she’d have him spiking a temperature.
‘I am in your debt, Mr Anderson,’Alice said. ‘Please send word if you have cause for concern.’
Selina gasped. ‘Send word? Where are you going? Not with that disgusting pirate?’ She glanced over her shoulder, tossed her head and shot Lionhawk a look of dislike.
Selina’s rudeness brought heat to Alice’s cheeks, which didn’t make a bit of sense. ‘He has questions I am to answer.’
Selina looked at her askance. ‘What sort of questions?’
‘I’m not exactly sure.’
‘Alice, you can’t be alone with him.’
No fool, Selina, when it came to men. Without her timely intervention, Alice might have married Andrew. But Alice had already given her word to provide answers in exchange for this visit and she’d have to rely on her own wits to bring her off safely. ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’
Selina lowered her voice. ‘What about my reputation? I’m all alone with two bachelors.’
Alice frowned at her. ‘Mr Anderson is an honourable married man. You know he is. And Richard is naught but a boy. Besides, they need your help. It is only for an hour or two.’
‘You know more about nursing the sick than I do.’ Selina’s lower lip drooped in pathetically adorable fashion.
Alice pressed her lips together. ‘All right. You deal with Lionhawk.’
Selina’s eyes widened. ‘Alice.’
‘I thought you came to visit your brother,’ Lionhawk’s voice grated in the thick, stale air. ‘If you are done, we will leave.’
His steps echoed in the hold as he strode across the floor, his shadow looming on the curved hull like the carved gryphon over his bed. He entered the circle of light, his expression impatient and his eyes watchful.
Selina shrank back, staring at him as if he had two heads. ‘Alice, isn’t that…?’
‘The man who signed on as our cook. Yes.’ She glared at him. ‘I am not ready to leave yet, sir.’
‘Lady Selina,’ he said with a flash of a charming smile and a bow, ‘I don’t believe we have been formally introduced. I’m Lionhawk, Captain of the Gryphon.’
A simple introduction delivered with the charm of a wolf who’d found his dinner.
Selina shifted closer to Alice, seemingly unable to take her gaze from the dark face of her gaoler.
Lionhawk bared his teeth all the more. ‘Come into the light, Lady Selina. Let’s take a proper look at you.’
‘Alice!’ Selina’s voice rose to a squeak.
Alice mentally groaned. This lion or hawk or evil dragon, whatever he called himself, needed a lesson in how to treat a lady. She patted Selina on the shoulder. ‘Ignore him. He’s just trying to bedevil me.’ She glanced back at Richard and a trickle of fear ran through her stomach. ‘I would like to speak to the doctor.’
‘Not tonight, you won’t.’ Lionhawk’s voice had the implacable quality of a man expecting obedience. ‘My crew are celebrating their victory. Bones won’t be in any shape to look at anyone tonight and he tells me your brother will be all right until morning. Come along before I carry you out.’
Dash it all. Whoever this doctor was, he had no business leaving an injured man unconscious. The man she had seen climbing into the bo’sun’s chair had looked far from competent. No wonder he hadn’t seen to opening the hatch. And if he was drunk, as his captain suggested, she preferred her own ministrations. The sooner she answered Lionhawk’s questions, the sooner she could return to her brother.
Selina flung herself into Alice’s arms, tears running like diamonds down her cheeks. Somehow Selina managed to look like a goddess when she wept. ‘Alice, what is to become of us?’
That was a line out of a play for Lionhawk’s benefit. A quest for sympathy. Wasted on this man. Thankfully, beneath the weeping goddess, Selina was made of sterner stuff. Stern enough to walk out on her chaperon and jump aboard Alice’s ship without so much as a by your leave.
Easing from Selina’s grip, Alice lifted her friend’s chin with a fingertip, capturing her watery gaze in her own. ‘Do pull yourself together.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper meant only for her friend’s ears. ‘Trust me. I’ll come back soon. In the meantime, I’m relying on you to help care for Richard and Mr Anderson.’
Selina straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t mean to make things more difficult. I will do my best.’ She glanced quickly at Lionhawk, her eyes sharp. ‘Alice, mark my words. Be very careful of that man.’
‘Come along, Miss Fulton,’ Lionhawk said, the sardonic line of his lips cruel in its indifference. Then he smiled, all charm again. ‘Unless you would both like to join me in my cabin.’
Alice glared at him. ‘One of us is all you need to answer your questions.’ Somehow during the course of the evening she’d convince Lionhawk to let her raid his medical supplies. A poultice set to Richard’s temple might be the best thing to bring him back to his senses.
Blast the man. By now he’d probably guessed she’d do anything to keep her brother safe. Selina was right—she would have to be very careful. Or very clever.
With one last glance at her brother, she headed out of the door.
Lionhawk closed it, pocketed the key and took her arm. Up on deck, he guided her towards his cabin. ‘I’d introduce you to my crew,’ he murmured, ‘but they are in a rollicking mood. Not good company for a lady such as yourself.’
From the prow came the sound of a flute and deep men’s voices raised in drunken harmony. ‘I’ll accept your judgement in that regard.’
Just how safe were the prisoners with such a crew? Thank God Lionhawk held the key.
She sucked in a breath. Did that mean she actually trusted the fellow to keep his captives safe? Trusting anyone on this ship would be like trusting a rabid dog. It would be like a green girl with stars in her eyes trusting Andrew. No longer was she green and the stars had long ago faded.
Lionhawk opened his cabin door. ‘Supper awaits.’
Supper? A good idea. Men became easier to handle on a full stomach. She stepped inside.
A lantern hung from the central beam. Candlesticks glimmered on the desk. A low table had been placed in front of the window laid with a tray of bread, cheeses and cold meats along with a decanter of red wine and two filigreed goblets.
She took the chair he pulled out. He seated himself on the other side. ‘It’s all there is, I’m afraid.’
Alice waved an airy hand, à la Selina. ‘It is all I need.’ She picked up the bread knife.
Swiftly, he leaned across and removed the knife from her grip. ‘I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.’
He carved the half-cottage loaf into thick slices and leaned back, retaining the knife as if he thought she might have at him. Unfortunately, killing him would likely not improve her situation.
And what could he possibly have in mind that he would think she might become so desperate? More questions? Or more kisses? A skitter went through her stomach that wasn’t exactly unpleasant.
A sensation best guarded against.
‘Eat,’ he said.
Glad to see her hands did not tremble too much, she filled her plate with bread and cheese. ‘It is a while since I dined alfresco,’ she said lightly. ‘A picnic,’ she added.
He stretched his booted feet out in front of him and frowned at her. ‘I know what alfresco means. Normally, I’d provide a hot meal. There was no cooking fire today.’
‘Open fires and gunpowder are not a good mix,’ she agreed. ‘I’m pleased to see you care about the safety of your men. It would hardly do for their ship to burn while they run down innocent merchantmen.’
A glint of amusement flashed in his eyes. ‘Innocent is not a term I would use, and nor would you,’ he remarked in dry tones.
Now what did he mean by that? She picked up a piece of bread. Even buttered, it tasted little better than ashes. Fear did that to a person, ruined the appetite. She added a slice of cheese. A marginal improvement. If she washed it down with wine, it might cure the trembles in her stomach.
Perhaps not. She’d need all her wits to survive the coming interview.
‘More?’ he asked softly, waving the knife at the bread.
She shook her head, noticing he had eaten nothing while consuming at least half the wine in the decanter. Perhaps he, too, was nervous, though she could scarcely credit it.
Simpson arrived to clear away the tray. Alice watched the knife’s departure with a flicker of regret. It might have come in handy. She flashed hot, then cold. Hopefully such drastic measures wouldn’t be necessary.
Lionhawk refilled his glass and cast her a charming smile. A breath caught in her throat at the threat that smile contained. ‘Now then, Miss Fulton. It is time to answer my questions.’
Somehow she managed not to flee for the door. She fought to keep her face blandly enquiring.
As handsome as sin, as dark as Satan, he lounged carelessly in his ornate chair, legs outstretched, glass held loosely in his hand. Masculine power at ease to a fault, but ready to spring if she made one false move.
A heavy-lidded gaze cut her way. Seductive. Threatening. He frightened and fascinated all at once. Against all reason, she found him impossibly attractive, the way one might find a lion or tiger attractive. Beautiful, sleek and dangerous.
‘What did you wish to know?’ She was glad her voice didn’t shake too badly.
‘Everything.’ To her utter confusion, he put a world of meaning in the one word and its accompanying narrowed-eyed stare. ‘I thought we would start with the story of your life.’
She almost laughed. ‘It makes for dull telling, sir.’
‘But it is new to me. To begin with, I suppose it is too much to hope that you play chess,’ he said, rather wistfully.
‘Chess?’ She almost slipped off her seat in surprise.
‘I hear it is an acceptable pastime for men and women to play together in intimate surroundings. Perhaps you prefer cards?’
The word intimate rang in her ears. She gripped the edge of her seat. ‘I do play chess. Quite well, in fact.’
He got up and prowled dangerously close. ‘Quite well?’ He smiled as if she’d hand-fed the wolf in him a succulent morsel. Or a piece of herself.
Her pulse tripped a warning. She gazed back boldly. ‘Some would say very well.’
He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, his wine-scented breath a whisper against her cheek. ‘Excellent. And while we play, you will talk.’
Clutching her goblet tight to her breast, she fought the tremble in her hands. Fear of his threat, not a wild heart-stopping impulse to taste his sensual lips again. Only by the fiercest resolve did she manage not to blink. ‘It sounds delightful.’
His gaze ran from her head to her heels and a trickle of warmth beneath her skin followed its progress. She stifled a sigh of pure pleasure.
A slow smile dawned on his face. ‘I must warn you, I have not played for a very long time.’
‘Then prepare for defeat.’
He grinned. ‘Defeat by a woman has its benefits.’ The lascivious note in his voice made her insides clench. She kept her expression blank. Proper young ladies did not understand such innuendo. And it would not do to let him believe she was anything but a proper young lady.
He retrieved a marquetry box inlaid with silver from his desk. Inside, two shades of green jade pieces nestled in white satin, beautiful carvings depicting samurai and dragons and other Oriental images. Worth a king’s ransom and no doubt stolen from some poor traveller.
He set out the pieces on a plain, painted wooden board that set the ornate pale and dark green jade off to perfection.
He sat down. ‘Your move.’

Chapter Four
‘Tell me about your father,’ Lionhawk said in a lazy drawl. ‘Alex Fulton.’
They were the first words he’d spoken since she’d made her opening move and the intensity in his gaze created a tightness in her abdomen. Apparently her answer was important.
‘He owns a shipping line.’
The dark brows drew down. ‘I know what he does. Tell me about him.’
How odd. She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you could say he is an older version of Richard. He is a bit heavier, not quite so tall, but they are clearly father and son.’
‘Is he a good father?’
She squirmed in her seat. ‘No worse than any other.’
He moved a warrior to guard his queen. ‘A prevarication, Miss Fulton? I must say I am surprised a father would put his daughter on a ship flying a false flag in these dangerous times.’
When Father learned about that, he’d be horrified. He might even disappear into a brandy bottle and never get around to raising the ransom. He’d been doing a lot of disappearing lately. A cold little breeze whisked across her shoulders from the open window. She forced herself not to rub her arms. ‘It really is none of your business.’
A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘I suppose he forgot to tell you of the risk?’
She gritted her teeth at the amused note in his voice. It was as if he liked the idea of Father putting her and Richard in danger.
‘How many ships does Fulton Shipping own in addition to the Conchita?’ he asked.
‘What concern is it of yours?’
He straightened. ‘Come, come, Miss Fulton. Surely you want the doctor to visit your brother tomorrow?’
Damn him. ‘There are no other ships besides the Conchita.’
A derisive sound issued from his throat. ‘You surely don’t think me such a halfwit as to believe the great Fulton Shipping Lines owns only one ship?’
‘Believe what you like. You asked me a question and I answered it.’
‘Trying to do me out of my ransom, Miss Fulton?’
So that was where this was leading. ‘I don’t lie, Captain Lionhawk.’
‘Michael.’ He picked up one of the pieces she’d lost to him, a female figure in long robes. Idly, his long strong fingers stroked the elegant piece.
Strangely breathless, she watched his fingertips trace the flowing curves in a strangely intimate gesture. Heat flowed through her veins.
‘A geisha,’ he said.
Her gaze flew to his face. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The figure. She is called a geisha. They are trained in the art of pleasing men.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at the board. The geishas took the place of pawns. ‘They are lovely.’
‘Yes. Are you telling me your father has sold all his ships, including the ship he’d named after you?’
He knew more than she expected. ‘Would you believe anything I say?’
The movement of his fingers stilled. ‘Your meaning?’
‘It is quite obvious. You mean to squeeze my father for every penny. I could tell you anything, but you would have no way of knowing if I spoke the truth.’
If it wasn’t impossible, she might have thought the corner of his mouth twitched with the urge to smile. ‘You are foolhardy, Miss Fulton. Your brother’s health is at stake, remember?’
As if she could think of anything else? She huffed a sigh. ‘Very well. These past two years have been difficult for Fulton’s. Insurance costs have increased sixfold. Losses to privateers have been enormous. My father has only one ship left.’
He absorbed her answer without reaction. ‘It is your turn to move.’
She picked up her dragon and plonked it down in front of what should have been a bishop, but was some sort of monk.
‘Tell me about your childhood,’ he said. ‘Where did you grow up?’
An odd choice of topic. What harm could it do? ‘I was raised in Oxfordshire. We have a house there. Westerly.’
‘Named after a fair wind, I presume.’
‘A family joke.’
His mouth tightened. He moved his other monk to block two of her geishas.
‘Did you have a happy childhood?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Thank you. I had loving parents and a comfortable home. Who could ask for more?’
‘Who indeed?’ He shook his head as if pondering the vagaries of life. ‘And yet your father endangers your life on a risky venture.’
‘Thank you for your concern. And what about you? If I’m not mistaken, you also are English. Where did you grow up?’
Bleakness darkened his gaze. His smile faded. ‘In hell.’
She blinked. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Are you? Do you care what happens to life’s unfortunates? Or do you wander through your shallow life in London thinking all is right with the world? Or perhaps the mere thought of the dregs of humanity makes you nervous?’
Well, really! A thief, questioning her morals? She studied the fine workmanship of the little dragon she’d won earlier in the game, reining in a sudden surge of anger. ‘Why would it make me nervous, sir, when in my exalted existence I never come into contact with any such persons? I sail through life with my nose in the air and see nary a one of them. Even on shipboard, my father’s sailors only come out at night so I don’t have to look at them.’
He laughed softly. ‘Touché, Miss Fulton. By the way, where did you learn to stitch up a man’s flesh? I must say you did a good job.’
She glanced at the fine linen of his shirt covering his arm. ‘It is healing, then?’
‘It is,’ he said gravely. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m glad.’ She felt more pleased than she ought. She pressed her lips together to hold back a smile.
He shifted in his chair, drawing up one booted foot to rest on his knee. Another display of beautiful male muscles.
Blast. She had to stop thinking about his physique or he’d mesmerise her into telling him something she did not want him to know. Like her father’s coffers had a very big hole in the bottom.
‘Tell me more about Westerly. Is it large? Are there stables?’
‘Naturally, there are stables.’ Fine empty ones these days.
He swirled his wineglass. ‘Do you hunt, Miss Fulton?’
She shook her head. ‘I spend most of my time in London. If I want to ride, I hire a hack. Do you hunt, sir?’
His eyelids lowered a fraction and his teeth flashed white. A pirate’s grin, sly and devastatingly attractive. ‘Only ships.’
Irritation warred with feminine desire. ‘I imagine it is an occupation that provides little occasion for riding around the countryside.’
His smile disappeared. ‘You imagine correctly.’
‘You are missing a sport most gentlemen find exhilarating.’
Apparently deciding to ignore her barb, he inclined his head. ‘Thank you for the recommendation. What do you do in London?’
No doubt he expected her to list the usual social whirl of balls and routs, but for some reason she didn’t want him to think her so frippery. ‘Mostly I help my father. I am also a member of the committee raising funds for St Thomas’s Hospital’s new surgery.’
He curled his lip. ‘A sterling member of society, in fact.’
He made it sound as if she was bragging. She pressed her lips together and returned her gaze to the board.
‘And you expect me to believe your father has but one ship?’
She winced. She scarcely believed it herself. ‘Why should it be of concern to you?’
Candlelight danced in his bright aquamarine eyes. A mocking smile curved his lips, as if he was somehow enjoying their verbal sparring. He reminded her of a cat toying with a mouse. A very large, very dangerous, cat with enormous claws. ‘I only want my due, Miss Fulton.’
‘Your due?’ She couldn’t help how incredulous she sounded. ‘How would you feel if some stranger stole the bread from the mouths of your wife and family?’
A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘I have no family.’
‘A rolling stone?’ She arched a brow. ‘Or perhaps none you care to own to.’
‘Miss Fulton, I would never abandon a child of mine. I hope, for your sake, your father is equally responsible.’
Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. What her father would do depended on whether he could raise any more credit.
He leaned forwards and blocked her samurai knight with a well-placed geisha-pawn.
‘Check,’ he said. ‘What about your prospects—is there no wedding in your future?’
‘I haven’t yet met a man I prefer.’
‘There was talk of an engagement a few years ago, I heard. To some minor Scottish family.’ He raised a brow.
Her body stilled. Pain squeezed her chest as raw as the day Selina had told her of Andrew’s treachery. How did this pirate know? Had his capture of their ship been more than a crime of opportunity?
Her fingers shook as her hand hovered over her monk. If she tried to pick it up, she might drop it.
She returned her hand to her lap as if she’d changed her mind about which piece to move, aware that his silence required an answer.
‘We did not suit,’ she said carelessly. Andrew only wanted her money. His profession of love was naught but a false coin.
‘Rumour has it you are an unconscionable flirt. That you were looking higher. For a title.’
Lies to cover Andrew’s chagrin when she cried off.
‘How would you know this ancient news?’ she asked. It had happened so long ago, even the ton had forgotten.
He shrugged. ‘I have friends. I hear gossip from time to time. Fulton’s is well known among sailors.’
A truth.
Feeling calmer, she reached for the decanter and poured him a glass of wine with a smile, hoping to distract him from this line of questioning.
‘Join me,’ he said.
A command. She shrugged and filled her glass.
‘Where did you go to school?’ she asked.
He frowned at her. ‘Me?’
‘I assumed you received some sort of education. You don’t sound like a common seaman.’
For once his insouciance seemed to slip. His lips flattened, his eyes grew hard. ‘I learned all I know before the mast.’ The tang of bitterness colouring his voice sent warning prickles across her shoulders. Yet she wanted to know more of this man’s history. She waved a nonchalant hand. ‘Why did you leave England for America?’
He grimaced. ‘Not of my own volition, I assure you.’
Deported? It was possible. Britain had long been sending her criminals abroad. Or might he have fled? A horrid vision popped into her mind. ‘Did you kill your man at dawn?’ Over some woman.
He snorted. ‘Duelling is a waste of time. There are far better ways to satisfy honour. Tell me why the Conchita was flying a Spanish flag?’
Another change of direction. Conversing with this man was like balancing on the edge of a knife. One slip and you’d be cut to ribbons. She found the whole thing exhausting.
‘There were rumours of privateers.’ A wry smile twisted her lips. ‘They proved correct.’
‘It was your idea, wasn’t it?’
She nodded.
‘Well, let me thank you for making my work easier.’
Her palm itched with the desire to slap the supercilious expression from his face. Instead, she regally bent her neck. ‘Glad to be of service.’
A laugh of genuine amusement rumbled up from his chest, low and warm. It strummed a chord low in her belly. She scowled.
‘You are certainly an enterprising woman,’ he said.
Time to give him another surprise. The number of her pieces scattered on his side of the board proved he’d played well, if cautiously. Now she would bring their evening to a close. She moved her monk. ‘Checkmate.’
He recoiled, staring at the board. ‘Good God.’
Another man who thought women didn’t have any mental capacity. She smiled tightly. ‘Thank you for a close-run game.’
He glanced up at her face, shock lingering in his eyes like shadows. ‘I had no idea how much I’d forgotten.’
At least he hadn’t accused her of cheating as one gentleman had. ‘You played well enough.’
Staring at the board, he gulped down his wine, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he swallowed. He leaned forwards, gaze intent, as if replaying the game. Finally he looked up at her, with a sort of boyish eagerness that robbed her of breath. ‘Where did I go wrong?’
With effort, she gathered her thoughts. ‘I took advantage of your mistakes.’
He didn’t look the slightest bit insulted by her honesty. She found herself liking him for that. Blast it. She really did have no sense when it came to men. ‘Then I must do better. Next time.’
There wasn’t going to be a next time. She hoped.
He cocked his head, listening. ‘The hour grows late.’
She heard only the breeze singing in the rigging and the slap of the waves against the hull from the open window. She glanced at him questioningly.
‘The men are all abed, except those on watch.’
The revelry outside had died away long ago. She’d been too intent on their game and fielding his sharp questions to notice the passage of time. She swallowed. ‘I should leave.’
‘I have many more questions. Drink your wine, Miss Fulton.’ He gestured at her glass. ‘Come, a toast.’
To humour him, she picked up her glass.
‘To success,’ he said.
‘Yours or mine?’
‘Mine.’ While she sipped, he drank deeply. When he lowered his glass the predatory expression was back on his face.
The cabin seemed stuffy all at once, airless and hot. The skin on her scalp tightened the way it did before a lightning storm and she knew she had to bring the evening to a close. Somehow she had to end this tête-à-tête on a friendly note.
She stood and carried her glass to the window on legs that felt the way they did the first moments on land after a long voyage. Like wet rags. Unfortunately, this voyage was far from over and a storm loomed on the horizon.
She gazed out into the dark, breathing in the salt air. ‘I must thank you for a pleasant evening.’
Cat-like, on silent feet, he appeared behind her, his face reflected in the glass over her shoulder, his smile a glimmer of white. The warmth radiating from his body fired off a storm of heat in her own. A demented blush from head to toe, thankfully hidden in the dark reflection.
‘You were right about me,’ he said, his voice low, his body warm at her back. ‘Once, I also had all the advantages of wealth and position.’ Deep beneath the easy tone, she heard great sorrow.
She resisted the urge to sympathise. She’d heard many similar tales. It was the women she pitied. ‘Did you lose your money in one of London’s hells? Is that why you prey on ships? Stealing what you lost?’ It happened all the time. Fortunes won and lost in a night. Men who committed suicide in the cold light of the following day.
She shuddered. At least Father preferred the comfort of brandy.
His reflected gaze skewered her like a blade. ‘I can never replace what I lost.’
The depth of pain in those words scoured her ridiculously soft heart like sand carried on a desert wind. ‘You lost the family estate?’
The silence stretched taut and painful. The urge to fill it, to pretend things were normal, brought words to her lips. ‘What will you do when the war is over? When there are no more letters of marque? When peace allows no ships to be taken?’
The long exhale of breath, a sigh of longing he probably wasn’t aware of. ‘I plan to return to England where I have unfinished business.’
‘You think you will be welcome?’
‘A man with money is always welcome.’
A bitter truth. She said nothing.
‘What about you, Miss Fulton? What do you hope for? A husband? Children?’ He breathed softly in her ear. ‘A lover on the side?’
Her nipples tightened, felt sensitive against her stays. Furious at herself, she spun around to face him.
Chest to chest they stared at each other. His eyes glittered dangerously. A sign of intoxication? Or anger?
He clasped his warm hand over hers on the stem of her glass. Hot against her cold skin. The diamond-sharp facets pressed into her palm. ‘You tremble, Miss Fulton. I wonder why?’ Holding her gaze, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the table.
His eyes turned slumberous. A sensual awareness flashed between them too strong to ignore. It had been there all night, connecting them with a filament of heat. Now, standing close to him, the minute sliver of air between their bodies practically crackled.
His lips hovered a few inches from hers. The warmth of his body washed up against her skin. He was going to kiss her. A mad kind of yearning filled her empty heart. She swayed closer. Her eyelids fluttered shut. The scent of sandalwood cologne and fresh sea air filled her nostrils.
He cursed.
She blinked.
He pressed his fingertips to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
Michael stared at her. Wrong? For a moment he didn’t recognise the word as a flash of light seared jagged through the space behind his eyes.
‘Are you in pain?’ Her voice was soft, gentle and kind. Her hazel eyes filled with concern. ‘Is it your arm?’
Why the hell did Alice Fulton have to be kind? ‘I’m all right.’
Another stab, more insistent. Why was this happening now? Right when he had everything in his grasp.
She tilted her head in puzzlement. ‘Perhaps a fever brought on by your wound?’
He stared at her, the words garbling in his head, the lights in the cabin unbearably bright. ‘Get out.’ The words came out like the snarl of a wild beast.
She backed away.
Another flash of light. Her face wavered, blurred, then righted. He had less than half an hour.
Another round of flickering stabs. This time behind his forehead. Any moment now he’d be a useless shipwreck cast up on the beach of his aching head.
Too much wine. Why the hell had he drunk so much?
The pain spiked. He rubbed his temples, seeking relief. A grinding throb set up home at the base of his skull.
No holding this one off. He grabbed for her again. ‘You’re leaving.’
Her eyes widened, filling with fear. He didn’t care. He had to get her out of here. He would not let her see him brought to his knees.
‘It’s your head,’ she said. ‘Let me—’
‘No,’ he said, tugging cruelly hard on her wrist.
Anger. A hot raging beast he couldn’t control crawled up his throat. ‘Move.’ Dragging her along, he strode for the door. He flung it open.
‘Simpson,’ he roared. ‘Take her to the hold.’ Peering through the blinding haze, he thrust her outside. Simpson would see to her. He wouldn’t let him down.
God damn it all.
Thoughts whipped around in his head like storm-damaged rigging in a gale. Faces skittered across his memory. Meg falling. His beloved mother and father surrounded by flames. And Jaimie.
The light from the candles burned through his closed eyelids. Barbed arrows tore into his brain. The urge to hit something bunched his muscles. He stormed around his cabin, flinging things aside, looking for the source of his pain. The light.
The punishing light.
‘Simpson,’ he bellowed. ‘Where the hell are you?’
A flicker of sanity gave him the answer. Gone with the girl. The daughter of his enemy.
He found the bed and ripped off the covers. Found the hooks. Nausea rose in his throat. He gripped the blanket in both fists.
‘The light,’ he whispered. ‘For God’s sake, someone douse the bloody light.’

Chapter Five
‘Cap’n’ll be in a foul mood today.’
He struggled to make sense of the words penetrating the thick, swirling, grey fog.
‘Always is,’ replied the piping tones of a boy. ‘After one of they headaches.’
Who? The question bounced sluggishly in the miasma of his brain. Panic closed his throat as he stared into the surrounding heavy blackness. Who was he?
He jerked to a sitting position at the sound of a crash followed by the tinkle of shattering glass.
‘Careful, lad. The Cap’n’ll have your hide.’
Memories flooded in. His name was Michael. The all-too-familiar yawning pit of despair receded. He was Lionhawk. He owned this ship and he knew his name, his parents’ names, his grim reality.
Michael sank back on to the mattress, safe in the dark tent of blankets put up by Simpson before he collapsed. Relief washed through him. A headache had laid him low. The momentary blank when he first awoke scared him worse than any nightmare. The rush of blessed memory, every last hellish one of them, dawned like manna from heaven.
The first episode for months. It had struck him hard. And he’d thought he was free of them. He hauled air into his lungs, gathering momentum for the task of getting up. No mean feat after a night of agony.
‘Did you see the look on his face when he ordered her back to the hold?’ Simpson’s voice.
‘Naw.’ Jacko, his cabin boy. ‘I only heard him roar at her.’
Her? Michael frowned and winced at the sensation of tight skin stretching over his scalp.
‘I’m surprised he wanted that ’un,’ Jacko said. ‘T’other ’un’s much purtier. Like a china doll I saw once at the market in Freeport, black curly hair and pretty pink cheeks.
Simpson grunted. ‘You’re too young to know, me lad. That ’un’s done naught but complain. She can’t hold a candle to the Fulton wench.’
Bloody hell. Alice Fulton and her brother. The pieces of the puzzle fell together in splashes of colour and light. He’d captured Fulton’s ship and all who sailed in her and celebrated with too much red wine.
It put paid to his planned seduction, but he had learned a great deal more about his enemy.
In the cold light of day another truth lay before him as obvious as a steaming dollop of horse dung in the middle of a fancy soirée. Fulton Shipping had hit rough water.
Laughter balled in his chest. Served the bastard right. But just how badly off was he? Some men complained if they lost so much as a farthing.
The sounds of a scuffle broke out as Jacko and Simpson fought for the privilege of serving him. The wily boy won and pushed his ugly wharf-rat face between the edges of Michael’s makeshift cavern, grinning from one misshapen ear to the other.
‘Here ye are, Cap’n. Coffee. Will ye be wanting your breakfast?’
‘On my desk. And be quick about it.’ The cheeky grin didn’t falter, but the boy dashed off, leaving Simpson to pull down the blankets.
Michael covered his eyes with one hand and suppressed a groan.
‘Might do that lad some good to feel the flat of your hand on his backside once in a while,’ Simpson grumbled.
‘Not on my ship. I’ll turn off anyone who does.’ He pressed his fingers to his temples.
‘Ain’t seen you this poorly since we got into the fight with the press gang from the Dreadnought,’ Simpson commented. ‘The water for your bath is on the way. Shall I call the sawbones or do you want a hair of the dog?’
The doctor could do nothing and the thought of alcohol made Michael’s stomach roll. ‘Coffee is all I need.’
‘Cap’n?’
‘Yes.’
‘Er…’
‘What, man? Spit it out.’
‘That there Fulton lass. She told Wishart you gave orders for her and the rest of them to promenade on the deck today. Health reasons.’
Michael’s mouth fell open. ‘Promenade?’
Simpson rummaged through a chest for Michael’s clothes. ‘Sort of take a walk, like.’
‘I know what the hell promenade means.’
‘They’re to come up at six bells. Bones agreed it would do the sick lad some good.’
So, the lad was up and about. ‘I’ll see Wishart in here after coffee and a bath.’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ Simpson held out a towel.
Absently, Michael took it. Promenade on his deck without authority from him, would she? The wench had some nerve.
But then he’d known that already. Apparently, Miss Fulton now had so little respect for him, she thought to take charge of his ship.
For some unfathomable reason, he looked forward to correcting her mistake in person. The sensation took him all abeam.
Alice stepped over the coaming at the top of the companionway and squeezed her eyelids tight against the mid-morning dazzle.
‘Alice, where’s my parasol?’ Selina asked from the top step. In a pink muslin matched by the ribbons on her straw hat, Selina might have been preparing for a stroll through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, instead of emerging from a dungeon. Alice smiled. One could always count on Selina to add style to the occasion.
Alice assisted her out on to the deck. ‘You gave it to Mr Anderson.’
‘So I did. Mr Anderson, my sunshade, if you please.’
‘Here you are, Lady Selina,’Anderson said, opening the parasol. Two days’ growth of beard and his arm in a sling gave the usually smart business agent a rather disreputable appearance.
A bandage around his forehead, Richard followed him out. Mr Anderson directed them to the shade beneath the awning slung over the Gryphon’s deck. Mr Wishart had proved most helpful in meeting Alice’s requests, once she had the doctor’s agreement. Once out of the heat of a blazing sun riding high in a cloudless sky, Alice lifted her face to the cooling breeze.
Richard clung to the rail. For all his brave words, he looked as if he didn’t trust his legs for support.
‘Don’t do too much on your first day up,’ she warned, taking his arm.
‘I’m all right.’ He shook her off and peered over the mahogany rail into the blue-green ocean sliding by. ‘You are worse than old Nanny Mills.’
And that was a bad thing? Alice curbed her tongue. Finding Richard still unconscious when she’d been hustled back to the hold last night had given her a fright. She’d bathed his temples with cool water and spent the night dozing in a chair beside his cot. Her relief at his awaking this morning with a demand for food knew no bounds.
Apart from the usual creaks and the wind humming in the rigging, the ship seemed strangely silent. No sailors aloft or on deck. She sent a sidelong glance at their captain at the helm and his nearby first officer. Now why would they send the men below?
Richard must have seen the direction of her gaze. ‘Damn, but he’s something, isn’t he?’
‘Richard, your language,’ Alice admonished.
But her brother was right. At one with the elements, with his strong hands gripping the wheel, he braced against the wind and stared at the horizon as if nothing in the world existed but him and his ship. The wind played with his loose-fitting white shirt. It pulled the fabric taut and teased her with a glimpse of the sculpted muscles of his torso. Then it dove inside the shirt, billowing the cotton like a sail, emphasising his narrow hips and strong thighs in tightfitting breeches.
Her breath hitched in appreciation of his male beauty.
It was a good thing she understood her own wanton nature, her own weakness, or she might be tempted to do more than look. But she’d followed that path before and knew the pitfalls. She was well armed to resist the handsome rogue. She hoped.
She took a deep breath. What she needed to do was find a way out of captivity that did not end in her father’s complete ruin.
Lionhawk’s questions seemed to hold the key, if she could just work out what it was he wanted and why he knew so much about her and her family.
‘Richard, whatever the captain asks you about Father’s business, tell him nothing,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Tell him you have been away at school and this is the first time you’ve been on one of these trips.’
Richard grimaced. ‘You mean tell him the truth.’ Once more his gaze strayed to the man at the wheel. ‘What I’d give to have a ship of my own, to be answerable to no one. I want to sail, not buy and sell things or spend hours in a stuffy office pouring over accounts.’
The admiration in her brother’s expression sent a sick feeling sliding around in her stomach, like the queasiness during the first days at sea. Richard was far too easily impressed. He’d always wanted to go to sea and Lionhawk was just the kind of man he’d take it in his head to emulate.
‘What are you looking at?’ Selina asked, joining them with Mr Anderson in tow. ‘That pirate?’
‘Privateer,’ Richard corrected.
Selina poked her arm. ‘What questions did he ask you last night?’
Richard swung around. ‘What is Lady Selina talking about?’
‘I had a long talk with our captain while we played a game of chess,’ Alice said. ‘He was prying into Father’s affairs, trying to ascertain how much ransom we were worth.’
Selina shivered. ‘Horrid man.’
‘Yes,’ Alice said, wishing her stomach didn’t give a flutter every time she looked at him.
Richard bristled. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to his cabin.’
‘Do you think I had a choice?’ she said drily. ‘I don’t believe I told him more than I should.’ If only she knew the purpose behind his questions, she might mount a better defence.
‘Take heart, Lady Selina,’ Anderson said. ‘At least he’s not thrown us overboard.’
Selina’s green eyes grew round. ‘Do you think he would?’
‘There’s no saying what a blackguard like that would do,’ Anderson said. ‘Preying on merchant ships about their lawful business and capturing honest citizens. He deserves to hang.’
Selina blanched.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mr Anderson,’ Alice said. ‘Can’t you see you are frightening Lady Selina? It really is too bad. All the man wants is money.’
Anderson coloured. He bowed stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies.’
Richard thrust out his chest and tried to look manly. ‘Don’t worry, Lady Selina, I’ll keep you safe.’ He turned an anxious pair of eyes on Alice. ‘He didn’t offer you any insult, did he?’
‘Of course not,’ she said, not quite meeting his gaze. To her shame, she couldn’t call a kiss she’d responded to with enthusiasm an insult any more than she could call Andrew to account for what they’d done together.
Selina pouted. ‘I want to go home. We are going to miss the Bedlingfords’ rout.’

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