"You will find me dead, like as not!" Tessa shouted back. His own too-young third wife walked into the room then, and Tessa's father slammed his fist down upon the arm of his chair once again. "Madam!" he told his wife. "Provide me with no more daughters!"
And with an oath, he left them both. But it seemed he realized just how determined she was that she would not marry Flambert. When the day came for her to sail, she carefully planned to appear to board the ship, and then escape it and make her way back to England. The dream was a sweet one. Her grandfather would provide for her, ask nothing of her in return, and she would love and serve him dearly. But even as she sipped her morning coffee, she felt a strange lethargy stealing over her, and right before her head landed on the snowy white cloth of the breakfast table, she realized that her father had drugged her. No sodden, teary goodbyes for his only daughter. Pick her up, pack her aboard, and have done with her.
When she awoke, they were well under sail. And bleakly, she began to pray once again. "Do something, please, dear Lord! Stop this, just grant me one little miracle..."
And here she was, in this wretched position, the prisoner of a domineering English pirate, threatened from one side right up the other! The Red Fox was interested in one thing only—gold. She would be duly handed over to Flambert. Indeed, the wretch thought that she would write her own ransom letter!
He was mad.
She would certainly do no such thing.
She bit her lip suddenly, sitting up.
At least she had been delayed. She would certainly do nothing to aid this English pirate...
And she would begin to plot out her chances for escape.
The door suddenly slammed open.
He had returned. Once again, he was there, the Red Fox, the English scourge of the seas! A silhouette that dominated the doorway, he stood now with his hands on his hips, his booted feet spread wide apart, his legs solid and shapely. A well-defined brow shot up in a high arc as he surveyed her with cool disdain, a smile curving into the fullness of the man's sensual lips.
"Well, my lady?" he asked, and the question was surprisingly soft. "Have you determined to write your betrothed as yet?"
She stood, her own hands upon her hips, her stance every bit as solid and determined, her head high, her throat arched back. Her eyes sizzled into his.
"Hell will freeze over, my lord pirate, before I do anything whatsoever that you command!"
His smile deepened. He stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
"If the fires of hell will not freeze over, my lady, then they will begin to burn like an inferno, here and now!"
He took a stride toward her, and the courage she had summoned nearly failed her.
For then he took another step...
And another.
Chapter 3
Sweet Jesu, what was it with the woman? Didn't she have any sense within her at all? Here he was, the infamous Red Fox, striking terror into the hearts of many a stalwart French and Spanish sailor, and this little bit of baggage with her headful of golden hair and her wide azure eyes was defying him with complete confidence.
He had thought once that he might want to hurt her. Hurt her as that wretch Flambert had hurt sweet young Jane. Perhaps it wasn't in him to be quite so ruthless, or perhaps, now that the time had come, he had been too startled by Flambert's beautiful young fiancée. From the moment he had first seen her, the defiant creature in her elegant blue linen and velvet, her hair golden against it, her eyes matching the tempest of the sea, he had been at a disadvantage. Even when she had held her steel against him, when he had knocked aside her blade, he had been at the disadvantage. She was not what he had expected.
That she wasn't angered him all the more. Flambert did not deserve such a girl. Not someone so beautiful, not someone with so much courage. Not someone with such a wild and reckless will, so boldly determined that she would neither buckle nor bend!
So what? What did he do now? Now that he was walking toward her, the threat in his eyes if not in his heart—and yet all the desires and infernos of hell seeming to awake within him? She would rant, she would turn, she would beg, she would plead, she would somehow break before him now!
But she did not. He stood directly in front of her, and she did not back away. Those endlessly sea-blue eyes stared into his with a wild rage and fury, her slim hands and long, delicate fingers remained planted firmly upon her hips. He touched her chin, lifting it. And then, giving in to the fiercest temptation ever to touch his soul, he kissed her. No cruel, biting, pirate's kiss. He touched his lips to hers, fascinated, tasting, testing, breathing in her sweet fragrance, feeling the burst of heat that seemed to emanate from her, feeling the insatiable seduction of that very simple touch...
Then she was in his arms. She stiffened, yet it seemed for only seconds, and then he was feeling the softness of her, the full pressure of her breasts, the silk of her flesh, the honey-sweet taste of her mouth. Well, I have threatened to rape and ravage, he thought as his tongue delved more and more deeply, and his fingers wove into the velvet of her hair, and the fires built within his groin. Ah, yes! I could well be the pirate she thinks me, I could do things I had imagined myself, I could strip her, have her here, now, for I am certainly the stronger, and the pirate, and in all my life, I have wanted no woman more...
A groan escaped him, rumbling between their lips, and suddenly he found that he was holding her still, his hands now digging into her shoulders as he stared into her eyes, even more beautiful now, for they were touched with a tinge of dampness, as were his slightly swollen lips.
"Girl, you have no sense!" he all but roared at her. He gritted his teeth, and suddenly grabbed her and threw her down atop his bunk. He pointed a finger at her. "You will learn to obey me, or you will pay the consequences!"
To his amazement, she was instantly up once again, and stalking him. She walked to within a foot of him, blonde hair now spilling erotically down the length of her back. She stared at him, and suddenly, with no warning, sent her hand cracking hard against his face.
Stunned, he caught her wrist and wrenched her to him. "Never again, ma belle!" he warned softly. "Never, never again!"
"And what will you do?" she demanded heatedly, and despite his anger, he felt something inside him twist and groan, for he was certain that, despite her words and actions, she was close to tears. "Beat me, sir? Drown me? Throw me overboard, perhaps? Feed me to the sharks?"
"It would most assuredly give the sharks tremendous indigestion!" he swore. He thrust her a distance from him by the wrist, then released her, and bowed deeply once again. "Will you join us in the officers' quarters for dinner, my lady? Or would you prefer your meal brought here?"
"I do not dine with pirates," she informed him icily.
He smiled once again, determined that he would strip away her haughty assurance before some uncontrollable disaster came upon them. "Fine, my lady, you will not dine with pirates! But tonight, ma belle amie, you will sleep with one!"
With those words he turned again, nearly desperate to escape her.
Out on the deck, his fingers gripped fiercely around the railing, he looked out across the sea in the blood-red light of dusk. He could see the Mademoiselle, steered now by his own men, following their course across the waves. The sun was falling, the moon was rising. He had heard there would be a gale this morning, but they had sailed it out, and now the waves just rose and fell with a rhythmic beauty. The night was calm, the salt air was sweet, the breeze was cooling.
He still felt as if her hellfires swept through him. Never. Never in all of his life had he wanted something so very much. Never had he touched a woman and felt such an agony of desire...
He groaned out loud to the wind. Behind him, Billy Bowe, a wizened little old scrap of a man who had signed aboard as his personal servant, cleared his throat. "Captain, what will the lady's pleasure be? Shall I bring her a morsel to your cabin?"
The Red Fox—better known as Steven Mallory to h
is few close friends—leaned against the rail, now staring at Billy Bowe. What could the man know? Yet Billy seemed to be looking at him with sorrowful eyes, as if he sensed something wrong, though he knew not what.
"Aye, give her a morsel of something!" Steven muttered raggedly, shaking his head in frustration. Billy was an intuitive man. He had advised Steven often on what ships to take, he had known who sailed upon them, and he had been able to weigh what each Spanish and French captain might carry as cargo—he had the ability to read men, and thus had served Steven very well. Their commission, of course, came straight from Queen Anne, and it was true that they might be called privateers, but they were pirates, and that was that. Of course they only preyed upon the ships of England's enemies, but it made no difference. It was a harsh life, and one Steven had chosen only because of Jane.
Only because it might one day provide him with a way to have his revenge upon Raoul Flambert.
Steven had always loved the sea. His family home was near Bristol and his father was Lord Malcolm Mallory, who had long served high in the British navy. He fought first against the Dutch with Charles II, held fast to his command during the brief reign of James II, served William and Mary, and then William alone, and retired from the sea only with the death of King William, when he had determined that he had already outlived several monarchs and wanted to spend time with his family. Of course, by then his sons and daughters were grown, but his wife was glad to have him home, and Steven was still happy to visit the family estate when he was in England. But though he had determined not to join the Royal Navy himself, Steven had sailed all his life. He was fascinated by the countries and islands of the New World. He loved New York, the old "New Amsterdam" they had wrested from the Dutch, and he was in love with the rolling blue and green hills of the Virginia Colony. The Caribbean islands were places of lulling beauty, places with white sand; hot, shimmering suns; gracefully waving palms; and exotic plants and flowers. He had sailed for various monarchs himself on private ventures; he had grown rich in trade, and by the time the war broke out, he had acquired a handpicked, hearty, talented, and loyal crew. And still...
He would have battled any enemy ship with all his power, but he had not chosen to fight for the queen's cause until he had learned about Jane.
They had grown up together near Bristol. She was his third cousin, sweet, and yet with a lighthearted spirit for fun and adventure. Just as the hostilities had broken out, she had been sailing with her older brother in the Caribbean, quite near the island of Dejere. A French ship had attacked their merchant sloop. Jane's brother had been killed in the fighting, and Jane had been taken to Dejere.
He had never learned exactly what had happened to her there; she had cried every time he tried to talk to her about it. But she had been sold back to her father by Flambert after months of furious negotiations. No matter how the very pious Queen Anne had tried to intervene, there was nothing she could do to speed up the process. Jane had been with Comte Raoul Flambert for months before the French king finally demanded that his subject return her for the ransom agreed. Steven had sailed up the James River and into the new capital of the Virginia Colony, Williamsburg, just days after Jane had been returned there. Her brother was gone; he was all that she had. Steven was ready to bring her back to her family in England, but Jane would not go. She had been engaged to Sir Ralph Lawston, a brilliant solicitor rising high in British politics, but she begged that Steven bring Ralph her letter severing the engagement. She would never marry, she assured Steven. She planned to remain in Virginia and bring Christianity westward in the colony to the Indians.
It was a noble enough cause, but Steven feared not only for her life, but for her sanity. Ralph had dearly loved her and would be heartbroken; her parents would be bereft.
Jane was staying in the Virginia manor of a mutual friend, when Steven first arrived after her return. He paced the length of the drawing room as he sought vainly for the right words to say to her. Jane, ever the lady, would never say that Flambert had raped her; when Steven suggested such a thing her lip would tremble and she would demand that he not make her talk about it. Frustrated, he paced the room like an angry lion. "I'll kill him, I swear, Jane, I will kill him for this. You mustn't throw your life away for him!"
"I cannot marry; I will never marry."
"All men are not Flambert!"
"But I will never—oh, Steven, you do not know!" she whispered.
"I want to know, I want to help you—"
"Then leave me in peace."
"I will marry you."
"Steven, don't be a fool, you do not love me."
"I have always loved you."
"As a good, dear friend. No, I will not marry you, and I will not go home. I must build my own soul again, Steven, please understand!"
At length, with no choice, he had left her.
Three weeks later, she died of a fever. He brought her home to England in a coffin, before which he sat morosely day after day of the long trip. When he reached England, he had taken a commission from the queen as a privateer in the War of the Spanish Succession. Within months, he had gained a reputation as one of the most dangerous pirates at sea. He was known among the enemy by his ship and by the name the Spanish had given him—Red Fox. Red for his hair, fox for his ability to come upon them out of nowhere and to slip away into banks of fog whenever it seemed he might be outnumbered or outgunned.
He had already taken a total of twenty-three Spanish ships and fourteen French.
But he had never been quite so anxious to take a ship as the Mademoiselle. Rumor had gone swiftly through the islands that Raoul Flambert, governor of the French colonial island of Dejere, was expecting a bride. She was the young and innocent daughter of a wealthy French aristocrat, very beautiful—a Christmas gift he was avidly awaiting from his old friend, the girl's father. And she would be aboard the Mademoiselle.
Steven hadn't given a whit if there had been a single piece of gold upon the ship. He would have died to have taken it—just to steal Flambert's bride.
Well, he had her. And now that he had her...?
He realized that Billy Bowe remained before him, waiting. Steven frowned.
"She's not willing to take her meal in the room with the officers, eh, Captain?" Billy said.
"She doesn't think of any of us as officers, Billy. To her we are pirates," he said irritably. "Besides, she probably speaks no English, and she would be most uncomfortable there."
"Perhaps we should have brought her maid aboard this ship, for company," Billy suggested.
"Perhaps you should stick to my laundry!" Steven said with a scowl, but Billy merely tried to hide a smile.
"What will it be, Captain? Do I bring her a decent meal, or bread and water?"
Steven's eyes narrowed and his features darkened further, but Billy pretended not to notice his captain's raw temper. "She's quite something, eh, your little French sprite!" He shook his head in admiration. Then he spat over the bow. "And to think! You are going to give her back to the likes of Flambert!"
Steven stiffened against the bow. "What would you have me do with her—pitch her overboard?" He hesitated just a moment, then felt some of the tension ease from his muscles. "The girl is not guilty of any crime; Flambert is the monster. If she is so determined on marrying him, I will see that she is returned to him. For a price that will break him, I swear it, and only when he believes that she has suffered as he has caused others to suffer."
"So... she will suffer, or she will not suffer?" Billy asked, and the trace of a smile remained at the corners of his lips.
"Will you attend to your tasks in the galley, man?" Steven demanded, aggravated.
"Aye, Captain, right away!" Billy agreed. He started away, then turned back. "Sir, shall I have some other quarters prepared for you, since the hostage remains in your own?"
"Aye—" Steven began, then he paused, remembering his promise to the girl. She would not eat with pirates.
But would sleep with one.
>
He thought again of Jane...
And gave little heed to the agony twisting inside him. "No, Billy. I will be sleeping in my own quarters tonight. If our guest finds herself uncomfortable... well, it is a risk one takes when sailing these waters!" he assured Billy. "Now out of my way, Mr. Bowe. I must see to our course!"
He stepped around Billy, determined to get the girl out of his mind. Steven had decided on the island where he would take his captured ship—and Flambert's captive fiancée. It was a very small island in the Caribbean, not far from Flambert's own Dejere, yet it was all but unknown, and those who did see it were usually wrecked upon the surrounding reefs, unaware of the deep channel that gave clear access—if you could find it. The sands were brilliantly white there, the sea the most extraordinary shade of aquamarine. The cliffs protected the harbor, there was a good supply of fresh water, and they had found harbor on the island often enough to have left behind some of the comforts of home. Steven and his men had built wood and thatch houses there and brought ashore cooking implements, sheets, blankets, basins, salt, rum, ale, and even such luxuries as stolen French soaps, perfumes, and fine vintage wines.
From there he would send out his negotiations with Flambert and begin to strip his captured ship to be refitted as an English vessel of war.
He walked on toward the helm.
* * *
Billy Bowe watched his captain leave, and sighed. Steven Mallory was a fine captain for whom to sail—and despite the Frenchies' and Spaniards' natural loathing of such a talented enemy, he was also an extraordinary man. They always placed tremendous importance on all human life when they fought—first on the lives of their own men, and then Captain Mallory was determined they should fight in a way that brought them the greatest riches and cost the fewest enemy lives as well. And they had done well. Their mate in the crow's nest had an eye like a hawk, and he could see ships at a tremendous distance, determine their names, and—from the continual rumor and gossip they picked up at their ports of call—calculate what their strengths were, and what their booty.
Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures Page 3
