by Brenda Joyce
She already knew who lay in bed beside her and she stared at O’Neill’s large, strong, bronzed hand, which lay carefully upon her. She swallowed, an odd heavy warmth unfurling in the depth of her being.
How had this happened? she thought with panic. Of course the explanation was simple enough and she guessed it immediately—sometime after the storm died, he had stumbled into bed just as she had, too tired to care that she lay there. That likelihood did not decrease her distress. In fact, her agitation grew.
Then a terrible comprehension seized her.
His hand lay carefully on her waist.
Not limp and relaxed with sleep, but carefully controlled and placed.
Her heart skipped then drummed wildly. He was not asleep. She would bet her life on it.
She debated feigning sleep until he left her bed. But her heart was racing so madly it was an impossibility, especially as she felt his hand tighten on her waist. Virginia turned abruptly and faced a pair of brilliant silver eyes and the face of an archangel. Their gazes locked.
She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and could think of nothing intelligent to say.
Then his gaze moved to her temple, which she now realized truly hurt. “Are you all right?” he asked, also still. His gaze slipped slowly to her mouth, where it lingered before moving as slowly back up to her eyes.
His gaze felt like a silken caress.
“I…” She stopped, incapable of speech. And she could not help but stare. His face was terribly close to hers. He had firm, unmoving lips. Her gaze shot back to his. His face was expressionless, carved in stone and impossible to read, but his eyes seemed bright.
She wondered what it would feel like, to have his hard mouth soften and cover hers. “You saved my life,” she whispered nervously. “Thank you.”
His jaw flexed. He started to shove off of the bed.
She gripped the hand that had been on her waist. “You saved the ship, the crew. I saw what you did. I saw you up there.”
“You are in my bed, Virginia, and unless you wish to remain here with me for another hour, at least, leaving the last of your youth behind, I suggest you let me get up.”
She remained still. Her mind raced. Her body burned for his touch and she knew it. It was foolish now to deny. Somehow, his heroism of the night before had changed everything. Anyway, he was perfectly capable of getting up, never mind that she had seized his wrist. She found herself looking at his mouth again. She had never been kissed.
Abruptly he lurched off of the bed and before she could even cry out, he was gone.
Virginia slowly sat up, stunned.
There was no relief. There was a morass of confusion, and more bewildering, there was disappointment.
VIRGINIA REMAINED ON THE BED, sitting there, beginning to realize what she had almost done.
She had been a hairbreadth away from kissing her captor—she had wanted his kiss.
Disbelief overcame her and she leapt to her feet as a knock sounded on her door. O’Neill never knocked, so she snapped, “Who is it?”
“Gus. Captain asked that I bring you bathing water.”
“Come in,” she choked, turning away. O’Neill was the enemy. He had taken her against her will from the Americana, an act of pure avarice and greed. He was holding her against her will now. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. How could she have entertained, even for an instant, a desire for his touch, his kiss?
Gus entered, followed by two seamen carrying pails of hot water. He set a pitcher of fresh water on the dining table, not looking at her. Both sailors also treated her as if she were invisible, filling the hip bath.
How kind, she thought, suddenly furious with him—and furious with herself. She had never even thought of kissing anyone until a moment ago. This had to be his fault entirely—she was overwrought from the crisis of the abduction, of the storm, the crisis that was him! He was somehow taking advantage of her state of confusion, her nerves. In any case, the entire interlude was unacceptable. He was the enemy and would remain so until she was released. One did not kiss one’s enemy, oh no.
Besides, kissing would surely lead to one certain fate—becoming his whore!
“Is there anything else that you need, Miss Hughes?” Gus was asking, cutting into her raging thoughts.
“No, thank you,” she said far too tersely. Her cheeks were on fire. She was on fire. And she was afraid.
Gus turned, the other sailors already leaving.
Virginia fought the fear, the despair. She reminded herself that she had to escape. She had to convince her uncle to save Sweet Briar. Soon, this nightmare that was O’Neill would be only that, a passing bad dream, a memory becoming distant. “Gus! Where are we? Are we close to shore?”
He hesitated, but did not turn to face her. “We were blown off course. We’re well north of England, Miss Hughes.”
She gaped as he left, before she was able to demand just how far north they had been blown off course. Her geography was rusty, but she knew rather vaguely that Ireland was north of England. Being taken to Portsmouth was far better than being taken to Ireland, and ironically, now she was afraid he’d change his damnable plans and not take the Defiance to Portsmouth first.
She ran to his desk and glanced at the map there. It took her a moment to confirm her worst fears. Ireland was north and west of England, and if they had been blown far north enough, Ireland would be smack in their way. But could a mere storm have blown them that far off course? To her uneducated eye, two hundred miles or more were required for them to be on a direct line with the other country.
She glanced at the map of England. Portsmouth did not look to be far from London. She tried to estimate the distance and decided it was a day’s carriage ride. At least that one point was in her favor, she thought grimly.
Now what? Virginia’s gaze fell on the steaming bath. Instantly she decided not to waste the hot water. She bathed quickly, afraid of an interruption, scrubbing his touch from her body. Leaping out, she barely toweled dry, afraid he would walk in and catch her unclothed. She braided her hair while wet, in record time donning the same clothes. A glance in his mirror showed her that she was frightfully pale, which only made her eyes appear larger. She looked terribly unkempt—her gown was beyond wrinkled and torn at the hem, with a bloodstain on one shoulder. But even worse was the abrasion on her temple. It looked like a terrible gash, and when she touched it she found the wound sensitive.
She looked like a washerwoman in a fine lady’s clothes, one who’d been in a fistfight or other battle.
But then, she had been in a battle, she had been in a constant battle since the moment O’Neill had attacked the Americana.
Virginia walked over to a porthole, which she levered open. It was a beautiful spring day, the sky blue and cloudless, the ocean almost flat, and she was amazed at how serene the sea was after the horror of the night before. She strained for a glimpse of land or even a seagull, but saw neither. Virginia left the porthole open and stepped out onto the deck.
She espied him instantly. O’Neill had his back to her, standing with an officer who was steering the ship, his legs braced wide apart, his arms apparently folded in front of his chest. She felt an odd breathless sensation as she stared at him, one she did not care for. He turned slightly—the man had the senses of a jungle tiger—and their gazes locked.
He nodded.
She ignored his gesture and walked over to the railing, only too late realizing that this was very close to the spot where she would have been washed overboard if he hadn’t rescued her.
She clung to the rail, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warm May sun. But inside, she was shaken to the core. Last night, she had almost died. It was an experience she hoped never to repeat.
A distinct recollection of the feel of his strong arms wrapping around her, and then the sensation of being pressed deeply against his body, overcame her. Virginia stood very still, allowing her eyes to open, reminding herself that he was the enemy and that wou
ld never change—not until he let her go free.
“A fine spring day,” an unfamiliar voice said cheerfully behind her.
Virginia started, turning.
A plump man with curly gray hair and dancing brown eyes smiled at her. He wore a brown wool jacket, britches and stockings—he could have been strolling the streets of Richmond, except for the lack of a hat, cane and gloves. “I’m Jack Harvey, ship’s surgeon,” he said, giving her a courtly bow.
She smiled uncertainly, sensing that he was a good man—unlike his superior. “Virginia Hughes,” she said.
“I know.” His smile was wide. “Everyone knows who you are, Miss Hughes. There are no secrets on board a ship.”
Virginia absorbed that and helplessly darted a glance at O’Neill. He seemed oblivious to her presence on his deck now, his back remaining to her and Harvey.
“How are you holding up?” Harvey asked. “And should I take a look at that temple of yours?”
“It’s sore,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. “I am holding up as well as can be expected, I think. I have never been abducted before.”
Harvey met her gaze, grimacing. “Well, you may know that as far as Devlin is concerned, this is a first for him, as well. He’s taken hostages before, but never women or children. He always frees the women and the children.”
“How wonderful to be an exception,” she said with bitterness.
“Has he hurt you?” Harvey asked abruptly.
She started and stared. An image of his silver gaze as she turned in bed to face him filled her mind. She hesitated.
“You are very beautiful,” Harvey said in the lapse that had fallen. “I have never seen such extraordinary eyes. I do not approve of Devlin sharing that cabin with you.”
Did she have an ally in the ship’s surgeon? She inhaled sharply, her mind racing. Then, carefully, she summoned tears—a feat she had never before performed. “I begged for mercy,” she whispered. “I told him I was a young, innocent and defenseless woman.” She stopped as if she could not continue.
Harvey’s eyes widened in shock. “I don’t believe it! The bastard…seduced you?”
He would be an ally, she could feel it. “Seduced? I don’t think that is the right word.”
He was pale beneath his coppery tan. “I will make sure he finds accommodations elsewhere,” he said tersely. He glanced over his shoulder at O’Neill, who remained with his back to them, facing the prow of the ship. “Not that that will change what he has done,” he said, clearly distressed. “Miss Hughes, I am so sorry. Clearly you are a lady, and frankly, this is entirely out of character for Devlin.”
She was certain she had won him over. She pretended to wipe her eyes, making certain that her hands trembled. “I am sorry, too. You see, I have terribly urgent affairs in London, my entire life is at stake, and now…now I doubt I will be able to solve the crisis I am in. Are you his friend?” she asked without a pause and without premeditation.
He started and then became thoughtful. “Devlin is a strange man. He keeps his distance from everyone. You never really know what he is thinking, what he is intending. I’ve been aboard his ships for three years now and that should make us friends. But the truth is, I know very little about him—no more than the rest of the world. We all know of his exploits, his reputation. I do consider myself a friend—he saved my life in Cadiz—but frankly, if we are friends, I have never had a friendship like this before.”
It was almost sad, but Virginia was not about to be swayed by any compassion. Curiosity consumed her. “What exploits? What reputation?”
“They call him ‘His Majesty’s Pirate,’ Miss Hughes,” Harvey said, smiling as if on safer ground now. “He puts the prize first always, and I suspect he has become a very rich man. His methods of battle are unorthodox, as are his strategies—and his politics. Most of the Admiralty despise him, for he rarely follows orders and thinks very little of those old men in blue and doesn’t care if they know it. The papers fill pages with accounts of his actions at sea. Hell—er, excuse me—they write about his actions on land, too. The social pages always mention him when he is at home, attending this ball, that club. He was only eighteen at Trafalgar. He took over the command of his ship and destroyed two much larger vessels. He was instantly given his own command, and that was only the beginning. He will not accept a ship-of-the-line, however. Oh, no, not Devlin.” Finally Harvey paused for breath.
“Why not? What’s a ship-of-the-line?” Virginia asked, glancing toward her captor again. Daylight glinted boldly on his sun-streaked hair. The man attended balls and clubs. She could not imagine it. Or could she?
She had a flashing image of him in a black tailcoat, a flute of champagne in his large, graceful hand, and she had no doubt the ladies present would all be vying desperately to gain his attention.
Oddly, she didn’t care for the image at all.
“A battleship—they travel and fight in a traditional formation. Devlin is too independent for that. His way is to sail alone, to swoop in on the unsuspecting—or deceive the suspecting. He never loses, Miss Hughes, because he rarely maneuvers the same way twice. The men trust him with their lives. I’ve seen him give commands that appeared suicidal. But they weren’t. They were victorious instead. Most commanders flee—or try to—when they realize the Defiance is on the horizon. He is the greatest captain sailing the high seas today, mark my words.” Harvey was smiling. “And I am not alone in that opinion.”
“You like him!” Virginia accused, amazed. But in spite of the animosity she refused to release, she was also impressed—with his exploits, not the man himself.
Harvey raised both brows. “I admire him. I admire him greatly. It is impossible not to, not if one is in his command.”
“He saved the ship last night,” she remarked. “Why didn’t he send someone else up that mast?”
Harvey shook his head. “Because he knew he could accomplish the mission. That is why we admire him, Miss Hughes, because he leads—he really leads—and then, how can we not follow?”
She hesitated, her heart racing. “Is he…married?”
Harvey was surprised, and then he laughed. “No! I mean, do not get me wrong, he likes his women, and there are many London ladies who wish to entice him to the altar—he was just knighted, you know—but I cannot imagine Devlin with a wife. She would have to be a very strong woman, to put up with a man like that.” He became thoughtful. “I don’t think Devlin has even thought of marrying, if you must know. But he is young. He is only twenty-four. His life is the sea, I think. I suppose that could one day change.” He sounded doubtful.
O’Neill appeared as harsh and hard as he had been heroic—and he also seemed very alone. Virginia realized she was staring at him again. Standing there as he did, controlling the huge frigate, a commanding figure with an inescapable presence, the aura of power almost visible, she instantly amended her thoughts. The man gave no sign that he was lonely. In fact, he seemed an island unto himself, and only a very foolish woman would dare to think him lonely or needy in any way.
“He is not a bad man,” Harvey said softly. “Which is why I do not understand what he has done and what he is doing. He certainly doesn’t need this ransom.”
Virginia started. “Are you certain?”
“As captain, he gets three-eighths of every prize we take. I know what we’ve been about these past three years. The man is wealthy.”
Virginia shivered, staring with dismay and dread. If this was not about her ransom, then what, dear God, was it about?
And she decided the time was now. She touched the surgeon’s hand. “Mr. Harvey, I need your help,” she said plaintively.
HE HAD HAD ENOUGH. His damned ears were burning as if he were some child in the schoolroom—he knew they were talking about him. “Martin, take command of the ship,” he said. As the officer came forward, Devlin wheeled and leapt off of the quarterdeck.
His eyes widened as he saw his little hostage with her hand on Harvey’s, her eyes hug
e and pleading, her rosebud mouth trembling. Suspicion reared itself. The chit was acting like some foolish, simpering coquette—and there was nothing foolish, simpering or coy about Miss Virginia Hughes. What was afoot?
His irritation had decreased, amusement taking its place. The one thing Virginia Hughes was, was entertaining.
He almost smiled, until he thought of how she had felt, asleep and spooned into his stiff, aroused body last night. He grimaced instead. He hadn’t even known she was in his bed when he had dropped there in absolute exhaustion after the storm had abandoned the ship. But he had certainly become aware of her while asleep, because when he had awoken, his body had been urging him to take instant advantage of her. Fortunately, he prided himself on his self-control—he had been exercising self-will and self-discipline since he was a boy of ten. Ignoring his physical needs was not the easiest task, but there was simply no question that it was a task he would complete.
Surprisingly, she had not felt at all like a bag of bones in his arms.
She had felt soft and warm, tiny but not fragile.
“Good day.” He nodded sharply at them both, dismissing his thoughts.
Virginia dropped her tiny hand from Harvey’s, her cheeks flaming, as if caught at the midnight hour with her hand in someone else’s safe. She looked as guilty as could be.
By God, they were plotting against him, he thought, amazed. The little vixen had enticed Harvey to her side, into insubordination. It wasn’t a guess. He smelled the conspiracy in the air the way he had first smelled the approaching storm last night.
“Devlin, good morning. I hope you don’t mind my taking some air with our guest?” Harvey smiled cheerfully at him.
“Fortunately my orders did not include you,” Devlin said calmly.
“Of course they didn’t. I’m the ship’s surgeon,” Harvey said with humor.
Virginia’s eyes widened as she understood. “I hope those ridiculous orders no longer stand!”
He faced her. She was so petite that she made him feel as tall as a mythological giant. “My orders do stand, Miss Hughes.” He didn’t like the look of the gash on her temple. “Harvey, I want you to tend to that immediately.”
