IMPRISONED BY DESIRE…
It was an age of great rebellion, of a sweeping call to freedom, and a war that had to be. And no two people belonged to their age more than Katherine Devereaux and Captain Matthew Hampton—the cool Union beauty and the dashing Confederate Captain whohad the audacity to abduct her. From the wartime shipyards of Boston, to the locked cabin of a great clipper ship, to Liverpool and white slavery, and back to the cotillions of New York—their stormy romance sweeps across a world at war and blazes with the conflicts of an era!
RESCUED BY ECSTASY
The magnificent story of two proud, stubborn people whose passion for freedom was as great as their capacity for love!
THE CAPTAIN’S CAPTIVE
THE MORE SHE STRUGGLED THE TIGHTER HE HELD HER..
His arms imprisoned her like bands of steel; she struggled wildly, but to no avail. With one hand he tore down the front of her dress, ripping the bodice apart. She gasped and tried to cover herself, but he pulled her hands firmly away and to her sides.
“Lovely,” he murmured, staring hungrily at the swell of her creamy breasts above her chemise.
Furiously she sprang at him, scratching, biting, and kicking; it was all he could do to subdue her. Pinning her arms to her sides, he held her still until finally she exhausted herself with struggling and stopped, limp and trembling like a horse after a hard race.
Quietly he nuzzled her hair and neck, while one hand roamed freely over her body, caressing her breasts and travelling down her stomach and abdomen. She gasped and flinched at the intimacy of his touch.
“Hush, little one,” he murmured. “Soon you’ll come to know the feel of my hand.”
Copyright © 1978 by Candace Camp
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First Jove/HBJ edition published June 1978
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 78-58602
Printed in Canada
Jove/HBJ books are published by Jove Publications, Inc. (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich) 757 Third Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10017
BOSTON
Chapter 1
Mrs. James Miller bent her sternest gaze upon her sister, a look calculated to make that timid woman tremble, and said in dire tones, “Amelia, it is all your fault.”
“Oh, no, Amanda, truly—you know she never listens to me,” Miss Amelia Fritham protested faintly.
“Precisely,” Amanda said, nodding her head in emphasis, so that the purple feathers on her hat bobbed perilously. “That is where your fault lies. You have never exercised the least control over that child.”
“Hardly a child—twenty-four years old,” Amelia murmured.
“From the day you first set foot in this house, she’s run all over you. It is bad enough that her father spoils her—after all, he’s only a man and doesn’t know the first thing about rearing a child—but you give her her head, too!”
“But Amanda, I tried. The first day I came to live here, I did just as you said and when she disobeyed me, I told her I would send her to her room and she’d get only bread and water; and she said—she said …” Amelia paused to gulp back her tears, “she said, ‘Auntie, I’ve been running this household ever since my mother took ill a year ago. ‘Tis I who order the servants and ‘tis I who carry the household keys. I think it’s you who best watch out for the bread and water.’ And then she winked at me and laughed.”
“You’re such a fool, Sister,” Amanda said, dispassionately. “And no sixteen-year-old chit would have dared to say that to me!”
Leaning forward, Amanda launched into her major campaign. “But that’s all water under the bridge. Usually Katherine’s common sense has kept her from doing anything disgraceful. But now! The entire city of Boston is talking about her. Going down to the shipyards to work in Mr. Devereaux’s office! It simply isn’t proper.” Mrs. Miller agitatedly began to pace the room. Propriety was, in Mrs. Miller’s scheme of things, above cleanliness and perhaps even above godliness. A widow for several years, she had worn black the requisite number of years and then donned her magnificent purple half-mourning, from which she never swerved—not out of respect for the late Mr. Miller (she would be the first to tell you of his many disagreeable attributes) but because it was the proper thing to do.
In amazement, Amelia watched Amanda pace the room; it was most unusual for her stolid sister to so give way to an attack of nerves. Amelia began to twist her handkerchief.
Ever since she came from Amanda’s home to this house eight years ago, Amanda had rebuked her constantly for the way she handled Katherine. She just didn’t understand, Amelia would wail to herself. Their sister Alicia had been seriously ill for a year before she died. Gradually her fifteen-year-old daughter Katherine took over the household duties. She ruled the house efficiently and well and was loved and admired by the servants. She was stubborn, unafraid, and independent. And though she had welcomed her Aunt Amelia as a guest, she never thought of looking on her as the new mistress of the house and her substitute mother. Amelia acquiesced quickly. Her meek nature infinitely preferred not being in control. Her life was much more pleasant than it had been at Amanda’s, where her older sister had bullied her unmercifully, and where she had had to put up with the vapid giggles and pouts of Amanda’s daughters. The only real thorn in her side was Amanda’s visits to remonstrate with her over her lax supervision.
Amanda was offended by her niece’s independent attitude. Her worst sin was being a spinster. It was not that she disapproved of Katherine’s icy demeanor—far from it. In her eyes, Katherine’s prim dresses and cool, almost haughty manner were quite proper. What couldn’t be tolerated was the fact that despite her many faults she had received some eligible proposals and had refused them. The most intolerable thing was that Amanda’s own son James Eastland Miller IV had been among the eligible proposals refused.
“Yesterday Matilda Cranshaw told me that she found Katherine’s behavior absolutely shocking. Well, I was humiliated,” Amanda seethed.
“Are you here bullying Aunt Amelia again, Aunt Amanda?” came a cool voice from the doorway.
“Katherine!” Amanda swung around to face her niece, who stood slim and straight in the doorway.
“Since I am apparently the source of your anger, why not have it out directly with me?” she said, advancing briskly into the room and seating herself. “I’d like some tea, Auntie, if you would please ring for Annie. Would you care for some refreshment, Aunt Amanda?”
“No, I would not. Young lady, you are about to bring ruin on your family!”
“Indeed?” Katherine’s brows raised inquiringly.
“Don’t look so cool and innocent, missy.” It stoked the fire of her righteous anger to see Katherine sitting there in her dove-gray dress with its flawlessly white collar and cuffs and every hair severely in place, her manner calm and collected. “You know very well that I am speaking of your latest escapade.”
Katherine’s lips twitched slightly, but she said only, “Escapade, Aunt Amanda?”
“Yes, escapade. Working at your father’s shipyards! Katherine, it simply isn’t done.”
“Well, I imagine that dressing up like Indians and dumping tea into the harbor wasn’t quite the proper thing, either, Auntie. I’m simply being patriotic. Because of the War with the South, nearly all Papa’s clerks have gone to the Army. He has only Teddy Mathias, who’s just fourteen years old. Yet the demands on him are greater than ever because the Navy needs ships. I’ve proved my efficiency and business ability running this house. It would be criminal for me not to help out by keeping
Papa’s books.”
“But for a well-brought-up young lady…”
“Really, Aunt Amanda. I’m no longer a girl to sit around being modest and protected and stupid, waiting for someone to marry me. I am twenty-four years old, and I have accepted—even if you have not—the fact that I am going to be an old maid. I need to learn Papa’s business; I will have to operate it someday.”
“Katherine, there are lawyers and agents and things to do that. Or better yet, a husband. Your chances aren’t completely over; why, my Jamie still thinks fondly of you.”
“Thinks fondly of my money, you mean,” Katherine snapped. “Oh, let’s not quarrel about that, too. Believe me, there is little chance of my getting married. I don’t intend to entrust my business to strangers, and Papa agrees with me. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with what I do. I walk to the yards with Papa and my maid comes down to walk back home with me in the afternoon. The entire day I spend with a young boy and a half-blind old man, and my father is there the whole time! How could that possibly be improper?”
“It’s simply not proper to work. If you wanted to help the war effort, why not work with the Ladies’ Auxiliary?”
“Oh, pooh—rolling bandages and knitting socks. Why, I’m helping to build ships!”
“Yes, but look at you—ink on your hands. You’ll get lines around your eyes from squinting at numbers. Katherine, a lady simply does not work in an office. Not to mention those low people you associate with—that young hoodlum and that crazy old sailor. I despair of you, Katherine!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but if I can’t be a lady and still do something useful with my life, then I guess you’ll just have to continue despairing. Because I intend to continue working.”
“Well!” In a high dudgeon, Amanda Miller picked up her gloves and parasol and stormed to the door. Amelia fussed along beside her, wringing her hands and pleading with her not to be angry. In the doorway, Amanda halted and delivered her parting shot. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Katherine sighed and settled down to enjoy her tea. But such was not to be her lot, for Aunt Amelia, summoning her courage, came back into the room to add her mite.
“I do wish you and Amanda wouldn’t fight so—but you’re just so much alike.”
“Alike! Please, Auntie, don’t be insulting.”
“Katherine, you’re stubborn and willful just like her, and that’s why you never can see eye to eye.”
The girl sighed and looked at her aunt. In the past eight years, she had become fond of her. Heaven knows, she was a silly, fluttery, timid thing, but she was kind and loving. Lacking the beauty of her sister Alicia and the bulldog determination of Amanda, she had never married. The Fritham family was very genteel, but also poor, and so she had become the poor spinster aunt, forced to live off the charity of her relatives. Katherine, knowing that she might well have been forced into the same position had she not had her father’s money, felt sorry for Amelia and tried to be patient with her.
“Katherine, I know I may be speaking out of turn, and I hope you won’t dislike it, but I feel I must agree with Amanda. I know how she aggravates you, but this time, I think perhaps she’s right. It’s just not, not—right.” Her courage failing, her voice trailed off.
“Well, Aunt Amelia, of course I respect your opinion, but I must do what I think is correct. And I’m just sure I’m doing the right thing. Please, let’s not talk about it anymore, shall we?”
Amelia sighed, knowing that, as usual, she had failed in her duty. “Of course, if you don’t wish to.”
“Good. Then I think I shall check over the household accounts before dinner. Are we having anyone to dinner tonight?”
“Mr. Stephens and his daughter Lillian.”
“How dreadful.”
“Katherine, please, if you would just make a little effort—”
“I know, I know. I could ‘catch’ the honorable Mr. Stephens. The only thing is I have no desire to play stepmother to a girl only six years younger than myself. And even less desire to play wife to that avaricious old windbag.”
“Katherine!” her aunt gasped.
Katherine swept out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen. There are times, she thought to herself, when I think that if I hear “Katherine!” one more time I shall scream. It seemed the only way she had never heard it said was in love. That thought brought her up short. Never? She cast back in her mind. Her mother, perhaps; not her father—he was always too busy. Old Charlie Kesey, the one-eyed sailor who swept out her father’s office—yes, he had shown love for her, whittled toys for her, told her stories of the sea, listened to her problems. But had any young man ever whispered her name against her ear, his voice soft and yearning? Oh, there had been one or two who had cast their eyes upon her and gravely confessed that they wished to marry her. But none had ever loved her; they had only thought “it would be a good match,” that she “would make a proper wife.” Mentally she shook herself; enough of this nonsense—standing around mooning in the hall. There was work to be done.
Going over the accounts in the housekeeper’s fine, spidery writing soon gave her a headache. The accounts were, as always, perfectly in order. Rebecca Woods was an efficient, no-nonsense housekeeper from the top of her tidy iron-gray hair to the bottom of her practical shoes. She was honest and loyal, kept an eagle eye on the maids, knew every item in the pantry down to the last cracker, and moreover, was an excellent cook. Katherine knew she couldn’t have asked for more, but there were times, as now, when she longed for Betsy Carter, the housekeeper of her childhood, who had retired three years before. Had Betsy been here, she would have fussed around like a mother hen, admonishing her for working too hard, and given her a big glass of milk and a batch of sugar cookies. Katherine drew a long sigh, remembering the many hours of her childhood spent in that warm kitchen, listening to Betsy and learning how to cook, to sew, to patch up a cut or a burn. How much more enjoyable it had been than the hours spent on her formal education—learning to draw, to play the piano, to make polite conversation, and to write an elegant hand, to embroider, to cipher, and to read—with every mistake rebuked by a sharp rap across the knuckles. Possessed of a keen mind, she had excelled at Miss Harrington’s School for Young Ladies. Although she did not learn Greek as she would have had she been a boy and therefore aiming for Harvard, she was taught Latin and French, progressed to geometry, and delved into the classics and Shakespeare (properly edited, of course, for the eyes of the modest young female). It was an education formidable enough to frighten off more than one timid suitor.
The truth of the matter, though Katherine didn’t realize it, was that she herself was simply too formidable for most men. Her looks were quite striking; she was rather tall, with a ripe figure hidden by her high-collared, hoop-skirted dresses. Her face was sculptured, with high, wide cheekbones, a straight nose, strong jaw, and a firm, wide mouth. Her eyes were large and a strange, almost golden color, like rich, dark honey. Her thick curling hair, which she pulled back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, was tawny, almost the color of her eyes. Her looks were too exotic for Victorian Boston, and she was judged not to be a beauty. Moreover, her demeanor stopped any romantic young man. She seemed icy, indifferent, and overly intelligent. It was no wonder that most young men shied away from her. And as the years passed, she grew more independent, more reserved, and even began to adopt the dull colors of spinsterhood—dark blues, grays, browns. The only men who courted her were dull, unromantic types who thought that she, like they, looked on marriage as a no-nonsense business deal.
Unfortunately for them, Katherine, with an inner warmth that few suspected, had no intention of forming such a marriage. She had almost come to the conclusion that she must be incapable of love, but even so she certainly wasn’t going to marry to form an alliance. Which is why, she thought savagely to herself, frowning fiercely, I won’t have Mr. Henry Stephens, either!
“Miss Devereaux, is there something amiss with the books?”
“What?” Katherine looked up blankly at her housekeeper. “Oh. No, no. Just fine, as always. I must compliment you, Mrs. Woods.”
“Thank you, miss.”
Katherine went up the back stairs from the kitchen to her room and rang for her maid, a saucy, redheaded Irish immigrant named Pegeen Shaughnessy. “I must dress for dinner, Pegeen. Mr. Stephens is to be our guest.”
“Faugh! That one,” Pegeen said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Exactly. And his daughter, too. I have developed a headache, and I think I would like to have my hair brushed out.”
“Sure, and we’ll fix you right up,” the girl said, deftly unpinning the heavy mass of her hair and brushing it out in long, deep strokes.
Under her expert hands, Katherine relaxed and the painful throbbing in her head eased. “Now,” Pegeen said, “we’ll just bathe your temples in a little rose water and loosen your stays. You lie down and take a little rest while I iron your dress for this evening.”
Katherine smiled faintly. “You’re an angel, Peggy.”
“Which dress is it you’ll be planning to wear tonight? The deep blue one?”
“No. Something more—more—”
“Something uglier. You’re right. The deep blue is too pretty for the likes of him.”
Katherine, snuggling into her pillow, smiled drowsily.
The evening turned out to be everything she had feared it would be. Dressed in a pearl-gray evening gown with a modest white lace bertha—chosen by Pegeen as being the most unbecoming she had—Katherine had greeted her guests stiffly. Mr. Stephens, a portly, graying gentleman, bent gallantly over her hand and murmured that her beauty overwhelmed him. She quickly snatched her fingers from his grasp and turned to his daughter, whose amused look affirmed Pegeen’s proud statement, “There, now, Miss Kate, you look as drab as I can make you.” Lillian Stephens was the Victorian beauty Katherine was not. Her hair was a mass of soft golden curls, her eyes wide and blue, her mouth a pretty little pout, her complexion the pink and white of a china doll. She was eighteen years old and had just recently made her debut; therefore her wide-skirted dress was a demure white.
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