Capture The Wind

by Brown, Virginia

  Turning on his heel, he strode over the deck without looking back. If they chose to follow, fine. If not, they could bloody well take what options would be left to them, which would make going down with a burning ship preferable in comparison.

  The shuffles of footsteps behind him were evidence that they’d decided to chance him rather than his crew. A wise choice, in his opinion. Not that his crew weren’t good men, but they were not exactly the sort that young ladies of this ilk would find pleasant companions.

  He slammed open the door to his cabin with more force than was necessary, then stood in the opening and motioned for the two women to precede him. They scuttled past him with obvious trepidation, and he felt another wave of irritation. Damn them. He didn’t really want them aboard the Sea Tiger anyway, and he certainly didn’t much care for the way they looked at him as if he was picking his teeth with human bones. It only increased his annoyance.

  He left the door open and crossed to the cabinet that held pistols and sabers shining lethally in its racks. He locked it, tucked the key into the small placket in the front of his trousers, then turned to eye the two women. They clung to one another as if for safety, and he let go another irritated sigh.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the debauchery for another time, ladies. I fear my day has been too long and tiring to be of much use as a despoiler of distressed damsels tonight. Do forgive me.”

  He’d reached the cabin door before they spoke, and he turned to see the blond take a step toward him. She frowned. “We are to stay alone in your cabin?”

  He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “Regrettably, yes. Disappointed?”

  She shook her head. “No. Pleasantly surprised. But I would like to ask a favor if I could, please . . .”

  “Of course. Being left in peace could not be enough for you, I’m certain. What do you want? Jewels? Gold? Another pistol, perhaps?”

  “All that would be quite delightful,” she snapped, “but we would much prefer food.”

  He stared at them. The mundane request seemed anticlimactic after her blazing theatrics above deck.

  Indicating her companion, the blond continued, “Emily has a predilection to nausea aboard a ship. I thought if she ate, she would feel better.”

  “Or have more to empty onto my carpet.” Kit straightened from his lazy posture against the doorjamb. “Very well. I’ll see what I can find in the galley. The cook has finished for the day, I’m certain, so it will have to be whatever I can manage to find.”

  The girl stared at him, eyes cool and green and assessing. That, he discovered, irritated him as much as her melodramatic expectations. He shrugged and left, leaving the door open.

  When he’d gone, Angela turned to Emily. The girl gazed back at her with wide, shadowed brown eyes.

  “He kissed you,” Emily whispered, a tinge of awe in her tone.

  Angela flushed. “I am aware of that, thank you. And now I would prefer to forget it.”

  “But . . . was it nice?”

  She shot Emily a withering glance. “Nice? He’s a pirate, Emily. How can you ask a question like that?”

  Emily shook her head. “I—I just wondered. I’ve never been kissed, you see. I had the thought . . .” She paused and flushed painfully. “Well, he is handsome, for all that he’s a dreadful pirate.”

  Angela stared at her. She had no intention of confessing that Captain Saber’s kiss had flustered her more than it had revolted her. She should have been horrified, and said something so crushing he would have slunk away like a dog with its tail between his legs. All she had been able to do, however, was tell him he was rude. Her cheeks grew hot at the memory, and she turned her attention back to Emily with an effort.

  “Miss Angela, look. He left the door open!”

  It swung gently on its hinges, noiseless and inviting, a tempting trap. She nodded. “Yes, I see that, Emily.”

  “We can escape.”

  “To where? The crow’s nest atop a mast? As he said, there is no place to hide aboard a ship, Emily. He would find us, and be quite angry that we had caused him trouble. No, we’ll have to wait here, I’m afraid. At least he doesn’t seem inclined to do anything too dreadful tonight. And he does intend to feed us.”

  Emily gave a dainty shudder. “Why is it that I feel like a sheep being fattened for the slaughter?”

  “What an alarming analogy. Perish the thought.”

  “Perhaps he means to sell us as slaves at the next port,” Emily said glumly. “It happens a great deal to female captives, you know.”

  “No. I didn’t know.” Angela stared at her with growing irritation. “I declare, Emily, I don’t know whether to believe your suspicions at times or ignore them. Do you get all this lurid information from the tabloids and pamphlets that circulate the London streets?”

  Emily nodded. “A great deal of it, yes. But the information is based upon truth, Miss Angela. It may be exaggerated at times, but the truth is there.” She shuddered. “You know that pirates are cruel and brutal, and if they do not kill their captives, they do horrible things with them.”

  “Such as sell them.”

  “Yes. And that is one of the least dreadful fates that can befall gentlewomen.” She drew in a shaky breath. “I read that, last year, one of the women Captain Saber took as his prisoner threw herself overboard rather than face her family after what he’d done to her. And there is the matter of his crew. They are said to—”

  “Enough,” Angela said fiercely. “Perhaps you are right, but I refuse to listen to any more of this. We will deal with what we must when the time comes.”

  “Yes, Miss Angela.” Emily bent her head and stared down at her hands folded in her lap. “At least Captain Saber seems a bit more civilized than the pamphlets reported.”

  Angela ignored that. Civilized? Hardly. Not with her lips still burning from his kiss. She resisted the impulse to touch them. She was aware, however, even more so than Emily, that he could do much more than he had. A shiver tickled down her spine, and she tried to forget her initial reaction to his kiss. It had startled her. She should have struggled against him, fought him, but instead had been taken aback by the spark of response that had ignited inside her. She shook her head, and thrust the memory from her mind.

  Not now, for pity’s sake, when she had to think of a way out of this dreadful situation. She slumped with weariness as she studied the cabin in the mottled light provided by flickering lamps set in holders along the dark-paneled walls. Three sets of windows with thick, leaded glass in tiny diamond panes would flood the room with sunlight during the day. The cabin was quite large.

  She was surprised at the tasteful furnishings that could have come from any London drawing room. A thick Turkish carpet of deep red and scattered gold flowers covered gleaming bare planks; several lacquered tables of exquisite craftsmanship held a variety of objects she would not have thought an uncouth pirate captain would wish to own. Delicate porcelain figurines, a Chinese fan in gilt and ivory, and tall, slender vases of the Ming dynasty reposed behind the glass doors of a wall cabinet. Nestled beside it was another set of glass doors holding shelves of leather-bound books. More books were stacked in a haphazard fashion around the cabin.

  Angela walked to a table, and lifted a copy of Castle Rackrent by Maria Edgeworth in her hands. There was also a leather-bound treatise of the recent discovery of the Rosetta stone in Egypt. She flipped idly through pages that detailed how the stone made possible the deciphering of ancient hieroglyphics. About to close it, a name on the inside leather caught her attention. Apparently, pirates had no compunction about robbing even a duke. The name David Charles Edward Sheridan, Fourth Duke of Tremayne had been neatly inscribed there, mute testimony to the previous owner. Really. This Captain Saber was a dreadful man.

  Emily made a muffled sound, and Angela turned to see that her face had gone from ivory to a distinct greenish shade. Slowly, Emily sank to the carpeted floor with her hands over her mouth. Ang
ela dropped the treatise back to the table.

  “What is it, Emily?”

  “I feel ill,” came the smothered reply.

  Angela sighed. “Again?”

  Emily nodded, eyes welling with tears and desperation. Angela searched swiftly for a bowl, and found one in a lacquered cabinet bolted to the floor beneath a swaying lantern. She looked down at it for a moment. This was no crude metal bowl such as the one she’d had aboard the Scrutiny, but a Chinese enameled bowl painted with blue horses. Not at all the sort of chamber pot she’d expected to find in a pirate captain’s cabin.

  Moaning, Emily made a retching noise, and Angela hurried toward her. The continuous pitching of the ship had increased, but she had been too distraught to notice it until now.

  She shoved the bowl into Emily’s trembling hands just in time, and knelt beside her while the unfortunate girl retched violently. As always, Angela offered what comfort she could, patting Emily’s shoulder and holding her hair back from her face as she bent over the bowl. Concerned, she did not hear Captain Saber’s return until he spoke.

  “What a charming scene. I shall remember it fondly in the days to come.”

  Angela turned to look up at him with a frown. “Emily cannot help it. It’s the ship’s motion that causes her distress. I would think you could be a bit more sympathetic to her affliction.”

  Saber dropped a wooden tray on a table. “I ooze sympathy. I just do it discreetly. Seasickness has never been a particular problem aboard the Sea Tiger, so perhaps you can understand my attitude. Shall I send Turk to you?”

  “Turk—oh yes. The Moorish pirate.”

  “Moorish? Do not suggest that ancestry to Turk. He will debate the accuracy of it with you at some length, and he can become quite tedious.”

  Emily moaned, and Angela gave her another comforting pat before rising to her feet to face Saber. She fought a faint tremor in her voice as she asked, “Just what is Turk’s cure for nausea?”

  “Nothing too painful, I assure you.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you expect poison? Dissection? No one aboard the Sea Tiger has been dissected in several months. We’ve almost forgotten how, and I’m certain our knives are too dull by now.”

  Angela looked at him uncertainly. Her perception of him was undergoing a slight readjustment. Though Captain Saber certainly looked as if he could dismember her with a reasonable amount of skill and efficiency, there was none of the look of a rabid dog about him, as Emily’s pamphlets so faithfully reported. Still, the earlier scene of his impassivity while consigning Captain Turnower and his crew to the watery depths of the Atlantic remained fixed in her memory as a grim warning that Saber could not be trusted to behave as a gentleman.

  She drew in another deep breath. “If you think Mr. Turk—”

  “Turk. No Mr.”

  “If Turk,” she continued, “could be of assistance to Emily, I would be most grateful.”

  Captain Saber’s brow lifted. “Gratitude. How alarming. Next thing I know, you’ll be eating the meal I brought you without first checking for the dismembered portions of any previous captives.”

  Angela flushed, though she could not stop a swift glance at the tray. Saber gave a bark of sardonic laughter.

  “How absolutely predictable you are. I see that I’m going to have to contact the authors of those pamphlets that circulate London and insist upon some accuracy in reporting the details of my depredations. I assure you, the truth is diabolical enough without embellishment.”

  Angela didn’t doubt that for a moment, but she refused to rise to his baiting comment this time. She remained silent while he studied her with a cool gaze. She took the opportunity to stare back at him, taking in his casual garb with an unsettling admiration. He did seem the very picture of a romantic rogue, with the flowing sleeves of his loose white shirt, and tight black breeches and knee-high boots. A scarlet sash circled his lean waist and held several weapons. She saw the butt of a pistol as well as the carved bone handle of a dagger, while a thin belt held a sword at his left side. He looked well armed and dangerous, an articulate corsair of startling good looks.

  His brow lifted at her silent survey. “Do you approve of my haberdasher, madam?”

  She couldn’t help smiling faintly. “I admit, your tailor does seem to have a flair for the dramatic.”

  “Ah, and you, of course, are addicted to all forms of drama, I note.”

  “At times.” She cast a quick glance at Emily, still crouched over the washbowl in discomfort, then looked back at Captain Saber. “Do you suppose that Mist—that Turk would be so kind as to bring Emily something to ease her discomfort?”

  “It has nothing to do with kindness, and everything to do with an extreme dislike of cleaning a soiled carpet.” Saber moved to the door again, then turned back to look at her. “Whatever is your name, by the way?”

  She hesitated. The name Lindell was well known in some circles. It would not be unlikely to suppose that a man as obviously well read and diverse as Captain Saber would have heard of her wealthy father. Should she risk being held hostage, or was it preferable to an unknown fate?

  Saber seemed to read her mind, for his lips twisted with wry humor. “Just your given name will suffice. Very few of us aboard the Sea Tiger even recall our true names, nor do we wish to be reminded of them.”

  “I see. Well—Angela.”

  His brow lifted, and his mouth curved into a smile so devastating that she caught her breath at his male beauty. His derisive comment quickly banished that appealing image.

  “Angela—it means angelic one. How inappropriate. I should think Medusa much more suitable for you.”

  Four

  Kit stood at the rail and stared at the night-dark sea. Faint lights from the ship bobbed erratically, casting glimmers on the choppy surface in gossamer shapes. He wondered once again just why he felt this peculiar attraction to Miss Angela Whomever. It went beyond physical interest, and that baffled him. Though he did, indeed, nurture a healthy physical response to her, there had been a nebulous tremor of something that went far deeper. Maybe it was a sort of admiration for her refusal to collapse into hysteria, as most women would have done, given the same circumstances. Her little maid had certainly seen no reason not to indulge in hysterics, which had, surprisingly, seemed to irritate her mistress rather than tempt her to the same.

  It was intriguing. This Angela was the essence of all the women in his life that he despised, with her pretty manners and haughty demeanor. Didn’t he know well what happened when it came to women of her kind?

  Oh yes, he’d learned early to avoid them, and stick to females of a less complicated nature, females eager to please with little expectation beyond a pretty bauble or two and some careless admiration. Yet there was something about this one that drew him and, at the same time, set to jangling every alarm bell in his defense system.

  He had enough to do without being involved with a female hostage, he thought irritably, and turned sharply away from the rail. Boxy shadows clumped over the deck as the night watch answered the bosun’s bells. He leaned back against the rail again, regarding the smooth running of the ship as a thing of beauty to be appreciated. Orderliness was a virtue. He subscribed to it faithfully. His early years had been so chaotic, that his need for system and order had become a driving force in his life.

  That, and his need for answers.

  A brisk wind made the sails flap loudly and tugged at the ratlines as Kit curled his hands over the smooth, polished surface of the side rail. He had to find her. He had to know. Too much of his life had been spent searching, and now he was near—so near. He would not rest until he found the answers he sought, and he had no intention of being distracted. This time, he would succeed.

  “What is that?”

  Angela gazed suspiciously at the concoction in the huge quartermaster’s hands. Steam rose from the brew Turk had mixed in a bowl. He ignored her, and poured a liberal amount from the bowl into a cup.

  “Drink this,” he ordered,
holding the cup to Emily’s lips.

  Emily drew in a deep breath of the aromatic steam, her eyes widening. “It smells like . . . Mrs. Peach’s cookies.”

  “I daresay.” Turk nudged the edge of the cup closer. “It is quite tasty, so you needn’t look at me as if I intend to poison you, child.”

  Emily cast him a quick, frightened glance, then drummed up her courage and took a sip of the brew. For a moment, she waited, as if she expected to fall into writhing convulsions at any second, then she took another cautious sip.

  “Good heavens, child,” Turk said, his rich voice rife with impatience. “Drink it all. It cannot cure you from the outside.”

  “Ginger,” Angela said suddenly, and Turk looked in her direction. She indicated the mixture. “It smells just like ginger.”

  “How astute of you. That is precisely what it is.” He turned his attention back to Emily, who took the cup and drained the remainder in a single gulp. Turk nodded his approval. “Marvelous.”

  Angela scooted to the edge of the deep chair behind the captain’s desk and folded her hands primly in her lap. “What benefit does the ginger have?”

  “It eases motion sickness, which is what your companion suffers from at present.”

  Intrigued, Angela said, “I suppose sailors must have all sorts of remedies available of that nature, given that you are always at sea.”

  “Not necessarily.” Turk poured another small amount into a cup for Emily and gave it to her, then stood, his full height intimidating in the cabin. “I know of few men at sea who become seasick. Though there are, I suppose, a fair number who might begin their career with that affliction. As we do not generally invite passengers aboard, I have never had to use ginger for this particular ailment.”

  “No?” Angela glanced at him. His dark face gleamed with a polished luster in the light of the lantern. Some of her distrust of the quartermaster dissolved. Despite the ferocity of his appearance, he spoke like a cultured gentleman. She looked away from his piercing gaze and decided to stay with a safe topic of conversation. “Have you made a study of herbs?”