Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  Table of Contents

  He took her captive. She stole his heart.

  Other Books from Virginia Brown

  Capture the Wind

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  He took her captive. She stole his heart.

  “You needn’t assume that I am not well aware of my situation here, Captain. I have managed to fall victim to pirates—any woman’s worst nightmare. Do not deceive yourself, sir. I am properly terrified.”

  Saber seemed faintly startled by her tart rebuttal and stared at her for a long, tense moment. The ship creaked and groaned, rising and falling in a ceaseless motion that might have made Angela queasy if she’d allowed herself to dwell on it. Instead, she focused on Saber’s narrowed blue eyes and contemplative scowl. Finally he gave a harsh bark of laughter.

  “I came down here to terrorize you into submission. I did not expect such easy capitulation.”

  “How dismaying for you. Should I put up a defiant front to assuage your disappointment?”

  “It would salvage some of my pride,” he said wryly, and moved to lean back against the edge of his desk. Still gazing at her, he raked a hand through the dark strands of his hair. “Most females would be swooning in despair by this time. How have I failed?”

  “As I pointed out to you—you have not failed. It’s just that I am too terrified to swoon. Pray, forgive me.”

  “Bloody hell,” he commented, and pushed away from the desk. “You’re a cool one, Miss Angela. I’ll give you that much.”

  “Emily and I cannot decide if you are monster or myth. We have heard so many stories that it is hard to separate fact from fiction. Are you what they say you are, Captain Saber?”

  A slight smile tilted his mouth up at one corner. “And what do they say I am, Miss Angela? Murderer? I’ve killed men, though I can’t say I’ve derived any satisfaction from it. Pirate? Quite true. Though at times, I’ve stolen things that belong to me, so I’m not quite certain what that does to my redoubtable reputation as a thief and scourge of the seven seas.”

  He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a husky timbre that sent chills chasing down her spine. One hand lifted to caress her cheek, then slid around to cup her neck in his palm. His fingers gently massaged her nape, and the breath caught in her throat at his ministrations. He smiled.

  “What was it your Miss Emily spouted last night? That I am known as—let me see—a defiler of damsels? As for that reputation, I gladly plead . . .” His hand shifted, fingers tightening in her hair to draw her head back. Angela’s throat closed, and her heart beat so fast and hard she was certain he could hear it. Saber’s voice was a husky whisper when he finished, “. . . guilty. I plead guilty, Miss Angela.”

  Other Books from Virginia Brown

  Virginia Brown is the author of more than 50 novels in romance, mystery and general fiction. Bell Bridge Books is proud to publish these Virginia Brown titles.

  The Dixie Diva Mysteries

  Dixie Divas

  Drop Dead Divas

  Dixie Diva Blues

  Divas And Dead Rebels

  The Blue Suede Memphis Mysteries

  Hound Dog Blues

  Harley Rushes In

  Suspicious Mimes

  Mystery/Drama

  Dark River Road

  Historical Romance

  Comanche Moon * Capture the Wind

  Savage Awakening * Defy The Thunder

  Storm of Passion * Wild Heart

  Legacy of Shadows * Moonflower

  Desert Dreams * Heaven Sent

  Wildfire * Renegade Embrace

  Emerald Nights * Hidden Touch

  Wildflower * Wildest Heart

  Jade Moon * Highland Hearts

  Capture the Wind

  by

  Virginia Brown

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-226-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-211-8

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 1994 by Virginia Brown

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  A mass market edition of this book was published by Zebra in 1994

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Ship (manipulated) © Franciscah | Dreamstime.com

  Man (manipulated) © Yuri Arcurs | Dreamstime.com

  :Mwc:01:

  Dedication

  To Laura Austin, one of the most important and appreciated people in my life. Thank you, Laura—I’d be lost without you.

  And to Frances Teague, who has proven the value of a real friend. You’re the best, Fran.

  Prologue

  London Docks, 1788

  “Is that the ship, Charles?”

  Elaine Davenport indicated a vessel docking at the Pool below London Bridge. Wind thick with the smell of foul water and rotting wood dislodged strands of her pale hair. Her gloved hand tucked the strays back into place, then pressed a scented handkerchief of Belgian lace to her nose. Her words were muffled. “I don’t see a dark-haired child among those along the ship’s rail.”

  David Charles Edward Sheridan, Fourth Duke of Tremayne and heir to the fortunes of Sheridan Shipping, frowned at the ship nosing into its berth against the broad stone quay. There was the sharp, sour smell of refuse and fish. A forest of masts swayed in the river: huge East Indiamen, galliots, whalers, and tea clippers. Raucous sea birds swooped and circled above quays teeming with activity.

  Charles shrugged. “I don’t see him either. Frankly, it’s been so long, I might not recognize him. Ten years, you know. I suppose he’s no longer a small child, as in the miniatures I’ve shown you. Christian would be . . . oh, he would be nearly seventeen now” Charles shook his head. “The time has passed so swiftly. Plainly, we should be looking for a youth instead of a small boy.”

  Elaine glanced around the dock. Her fingers curled around Charles’s arm, and she murmured disdainfully, “Such riffraff gather here on the docks. It would have been much better to have waited for Filbert to bring him to the house, as I tried to tell you . . .”

  Charles shot her a frown. “I was quite anxious to see him and did not wish to wait. He’s been gone so long, and with pirates, for the love of God—I want to see for myself that Christian is all right.”

  “Yes,
so you said.” Elaine released his arm to smooth a hand over the folds of her immaculate brocade skirt. “Well, I’m certain that once we are wed, I can help you eradicate some of the taint that stains his character. Imagine. It took four of Sir Ramsey’s men to coax him off that ship. Pirates. Dear Lord, and he’s been living among them since . . .”

  She halted when Charles gave her a pained glance. It had taken him some time to accept his wife’s death and his small son’s disappearance. Now that Christian was finally coming home, his betrothed’s reminder of those painful years was a sharp jab. Elaine leaned close.

  “If I’ve provoked uncomfortable memories, I apologize. It’s just that I am so distressed for what you must have suffered.”

  Charles’s stare was level. “You should be more distressed for what poor Christian has suffered. To be kept in the care of pirates sailing the Spanish Main cannot have been pleasant. There is absolutely no way of knowing what he has been through in that time. Sir Ramsey’s letter mentioned that Christian was rather surly and distrustful.”

  “Yes, I can imagine.” Elaine patted an offending curl of blond hair back into place and frowned daintily. “Still, it will take time and a great deal of discipline to remove the stain of years of piracy from the boy. You will have your hands full. Fortunately, my father has recommended an excellent school. It has only the best tutors for his education, and is known for the severity of its discipline when it comes to unruly, disobedient boys. I am certain it will do Christian a great deal of good to have the discipline he has certainly lacked in these past ten years.”

  “Unruly?” Charles shook his head. “Not Christian. He was always timid to the point of annoyance. Scared of his own shadow. I cannot imagine how he survived all those years with pirates.”

  “Can’t you? I should think . . .”

  Charles tensed. “Look. The ship is lowering its ramp.”

  Elaine’s reply faded into the rising hubbub around them as Charles strained to catch the first sight of his son. Dray wagons rumbled by loudly, wheels clattering over rough stones. Long brick warehouses stretched behind the quays, and stacks of cargo waiting to be loaded rose like small buildings. Charles shifted impatiently, staring past Elaine to the lowered ramp nudging the stone quay. He frowned.

  “Where the devil could he be? I was certain Filbert would be right at the rail with him, knowing how I’ve longed for this day.”

  Elaine tugged at the sleeve of his frock coat with a decisive note of censure in her tone. “Do not appear overeager, Charles. It’s unseemly in public.”

  He turned, brows lifting. “Unseemly? To want to see my son after so long? You overstep your boundaries, Elaine.”

  His reproof had the desired effect; she looked down, dark lashes lowering over remarkable green eyes. The soft bottom lip that so many men had gazed at with longing began to quiver slightly. Charles’s voice softened.

  “I appreciate your desire for proper etiquette, but I cannot think of a previous example for a man’s son being returned to him after long years aboard a pirate ship in the Caribbean. There are no proper rules in this instance, I believe.”

  Her voice was distant and cool. “I am certain you are right, but I do believe we should maintain proprieties, even on so joyous an occasion.”

  “For God’s sake, Elaine—” he began in an irritable tone, but was interrupted by a commotion on the deck of the ship.

  They both turned, just in time to see a uniformed seaman go tumbling over the rail and into the narrow space between ship and quay. A loud splash sent up a geyser of water, but did not drown out the lurid string of curses that accompanied the man’s fall.

  These curses did not come from the sailor, however, but from the mouth of a youth being wrestled along the deck of the ship by no less than five men. Charles and Elaine watched in stunned horror. The knot of flailing arms and legs lurched closer, then balanced at the edge of the ramp leading to the quay below.

  Ship passengers and those on the stones of the quay gave a concerted gasp. The tangle of struggling combatants swayed precariously, threatening to tumble into the narrow ribbon of water below in the same manner as the unfortunate sailor. Above the grunts and curses that accompanied the tussle rose a shrieking litany.

  “Slash ’im! Stick ’im! Belay, mates! Ship to starboard! Awwk!”

  A flash of scarlet dipped above the heads of those involved in the conflict; the beat of wings snapped against the wind. Charles and Elaine exchanged glances of dawning horror. They moved forward to arrive at the bottom of the ramp leading from the ship just as the combatants lurched onto the quay.

  Flushed faces were a blur, then a burst of curses and dark hair exploded from the center of the men onto the flat stones and landed in a half-crouch. Snarling with a ferocity that would have done a Bengal tiger proud, the panting youth shoved a brown fist into the air and shook it.

  “Bloody buggers. If I ‘ad my saber, I’d cut you inta too many pieces ta feed ta th’ bloody sharks . . .”

  A flash of scarlet squawked again and settled in a whir of wings onto the boy’s shoulder. “Bloody buggers!” came the shriek, and the bird tilted its head to one side as if expecting confirmation. A brown hand stroked the wings, and then the boy turned in a whirl, eyes raking over Charles and Elaine with a hot blue gaze.

  “Christian,” Charles said in a strangled croak. “Are you Christian Sheridan?”

  A harsh laugh cut the air, and the boy’s lips curled in a sneer. “Not I, guv’nor. They calls me Tiger.”

  “How appropriate,” Charles murmured in obvious relief. His gaze shifted to the breathless man limping forward. “Filbert,” he said faintly. “You look—dreadful.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.” Filbert shot the youth a baleful glare. “Lord Christian seemed to find it an inconvenient time to disembark. We tried to persuade him differently, but he was rather . . . firm . . . in his decision to remain aboard.”

  Charles slid a horrified gaze back to the boy. “This is Christian?”

  As Filbert nodded morosely, the boy snarled, “Bloody ’ell! My name ain’t Christian. It’s Tiger. ’Ow many times do I have ta tell ya that, ya . . .”

  He reeled off a list of colorful titles for the long-suffering Filbert, including several comments about the doubtful legitimacy of his parentage, while Charles listened in growing dismay and Elaine began to make gasping sounds of shock. As if just noticing her, the boy shot Elaine a raking stare.

  “ ’Ello, love. Ain’t you a bit young ta be with this ole geezer? I can toss yer skirts for ya if ya need decent diddlin’ . . .”

  Charles stepped forward and clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth. Reaction was swift. The youth turned in a savage whirl, a bare foot slamming into his father’s middle as he jerked away. The Duke of Tremayne made a muffled sound and slipped to his knees, while the men who had wrestled Christian from the ship to shore grabbed him.

  Above the chaos, the scarlet bird circled gracefully in a screeching frenzy. “Bloody hell! Bloody hell!”

  With a low sigh, Elaine Davenport, the daughter of the Earl of Southwild, slipped into a dead faint on the soiled stones of the quay.

  Christian Sheridan stared at her with an expression of grim satisfaction, ignoring the clutching hands that held him still. A brisk breeze lifted his dark hair, stirring it against his bare shoulders and tugging at the bright red sash around his waist. Below the ragged knee-length trousers he wore, his legs and feet were bare. Sunlight glinted from the dark teak of tanned skin and immature muscle, and made the diamond earring in his left lobe glitter.

  But it was his face that commanded the most attention, a caricature of youth with deep blue eyes that looked older than time. A faint scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek, and when he smiled, as he was now, he looked more like a dangerous predator than a boy of sixteen.

  “Tiger! Tiger!” the bird screeched, and settled with a flap of its wings onto the torn shoulder of Filbert’s once immaculate frock coat.

  Filbert shudde
red, and looked at the boy staring back at him with hot, resentful eyes. “Lord Christian, may I present your father to you, His Grace, the Duke of Tremayne.”

  Christian spat onto the stones. The Duke of Tremayne rose shakily to his feet and took a step forward. His voice was slightly unsteady.

  “Welcome home, Christian.”

  “Go to hell,” the boy snarled, and Tremayne turned.

  “Bring him to our coach, Filbert. If that is possible. Oh, and someone bring Elaine ’round from her faint. It’s time to go home.”

  Tension crackled in the wood-paneled library of Greystone Hall as if a towering blaze. The duke eyed his son with a mixture of frustration and trepidation. He leaned forward, knuckles gouging into the polished surface of his desk.

  “What do you hope to gain by this display of rebellion? There is no reason for it that I can see.”

  “Aye, so ya keep saying,” the boy flung at him. He sprawled his lean frame in a chair as if daring the duke to protest.

  Charles held his tongue, though Filbert would have been beside himself at the insult. No one sat in the presence of a duke unless given express permission. And certainly not a wild-haired boy with a foul-tongued bird perched on his shoulder. The duke studied the bird, grimacing when the creature made a deposit upon the Flemish carpet.

  “I would much prefer that you confine that nasty parrot to a cage,” he said tautly.

  Christian stroked the bird’s feathers with a tender gesture. “He ain’t no parrot. He’s a lory.”

  “A what?”

  The boy’s lip curled with superior contempt. “A bloody lory. Cain’t ya hear good—yer lordship?”

  Charles stiffened. “Christian,” he began, but was cut off by a rude oath and defiant glare.

  “I told ya—my name is Tiger.”

  The duke’s mouth tightened. “And I told you that I refuse to call you by that abhorrent name. Christian is the name your mother and I chose to call you, and—”