Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

by Ann Lethbridge

  He sat down. ‘Your move.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Tell me about your father,’ Lionhawk said in a lazy drawl. ‘Alex Fulton.’

  They were the first words he’d spoken since she’d made her opening move and the intensity in his gaze created a tightness in her abdomen. Apparently her answer was important.

  ‘He owns a shipping line.’

  The dark brows drew down. ‘I know what he does. Tell me about him.’

  How odd. She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you could say he is an older version of Richard. He is a bit heavier, not quite so tall, but they are clearly father and son.’

  ‘Is he a good father?’

  She squirmed in her seat. ‘No worse than any other.’

  He moved a warrior to guard his queen. ‘A prevarication, Miss Fulton? I must say I am surprised a father would put his daughter on a ship flying a false flag in these dangerous times.’

  When Father learned about that, he’d be horrified. He might even disappear into a brandy bottle and never get around to raising the ransom. He’d been doing a lot of disappearing lately. A cold little breeze whisked across her shoulders from the open window. She forced herself not to rub her arms. ‘It really is none of your business.’

  A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘I suppose he forgot to tell you of the risk?’

  She gritted her teeth at the amused note in his voice. It was as if he liked the idea of Father putting her and Richard in danger.

  ‘How many ships does Fulton Shipping own in addition to the Conchita?’ he asked.

  ‘What concern is it of yours?’

  He straightened. ‘Come, come, Miss Fulton. Surely you want the doctor to visit your brother tomorrow?’

  Damn him. ‘There are no other ships besides the Conchita.’

  A derisive sound issued from his throat. ‘You surely don’t think me such a halfwit as to believe the great Fulton Shipping Lines owns only one ship?’

  ‘Believe what you like. You asked me a question and I answered it.’

  ‘Trying to do me out of my ransom, Miss Fulton?’

  So that was where this was leading. ‘I don’t lie, Captain Lionhawk.’

  ‘Michael.’ He picked up one of the pieces she’d lost to him, a female figure in long robes. Idly, his long strong fingers stroked the elegant piece.

  Strangely breathless, she watched his fingertips trace the flowing curves in a strangely intimate gesture. Heat flowed through her veins.

  ‘A geisha,’ he said.

  Her gaze flew to his face. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The figure. She is called a geisha. They are trained in the art of pleasing men.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked down at the board. The geishas took the place of pawns. ‘They are lovely.’

  ‘Yes. Are you telling me your father has sold all his ships, including the ship he’d named after you?’

  He knew more than she expected. ‘Would you believe anything I say?’

  The movement of his fingers stilled. ‘Your meaning?’

  ‘It is quite obvious. You mean to squeeze my father for every penny. I could tell you anything, but you would have no way of knowing if I spoke the truth.’

  If it wasn’t impossible, she might have thought the corner of his mouth twitched with the urge to smile. ‘You are foolhardy, Miss Fulton. Your brother’s health is at stake, remember?’

  As if she could think of anything else? She huffed a sigh. ‘Very well. These past two years have been difficult for Fulton’s. Insurance costs have increased six-fold. Losses to privateers have been enormous. My father has only one ship left.’

  He absorbed her answer without reaction. ‘It is your turn to move.’

  She picked up her dragon and plonked it down in front of what should have been a bishop, but was some sort of monk.

  ‘Tell me about your childhood,’ he said. ‘Where did you grow up?’

  An odd choice of topic. What harm could it do? ‘I was raised in Oxfordshire. We have a house there. Westerly.’

  ‘Named after a fair wind, I presume.’

  ‘A family joke.’

  His mouth tightened. He moved his other monk to block two of her geishas.

  ‘Did you have a happy childhood?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I had loving parents and a comfortable home. Who could ask for more?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ He shook his head as if pondering the vagaries of life. ‘And yet your father endangers your life on a risky venture.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern. And what about you? If I’m not mistaken, you also are English. Where did you grow up?’

  Bleakness darkened his gaze. His smile faded. ‘In hell.’

  She blinked. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Are you? Do you care what happens to life’s unfortunates? Or do you wander through your shallow life in London thinking all is right with the world? Or perhaps the mere thought of the dregs of humanity makes you nervous?’

  Well, really! A thief, questioning her morals? She studied the fine workmanship of the little dragon she’d won earlier in the game, reining in a sudden surge of anger. ‘Why would it make me nervous, sir, when in my exalted existence I never come into contact with any such persons? I sail through life with my nose in the air and see nary a one of them. Even on shipboard, my father’s sailors only come out at night so I don’t have to look at them.’

  He laughed softly. ‘Touché, Miss Fulton. By the way, where did you learn to stitch up a man’s flesh? I must say you did a good job.’

  She glanced at the fine linen of his shirt covering his arm. ‘It is healing, then?’

  ‘It is,’ he said gravely. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She felt more pleased than she ought. She pressed her lips together to hold back a smile.

  He shifted in his chair, drawing up one booted foot to rest on his knee. Another display of beautiful male muscles.

  Blast. She had to stop thinking about his physique or he’d mesmerise her into telling him something she did not want him to know. Like her father’s coffers had a very big hole in the bottom.

  ‘Tell me more about Westerly. Is it large? Are there stables?’

  ‘Naturally, there are stables.’ Fine empty ones these days.

  He swirled his wineglass. ‘Do you hunt, Miss Fulton?’

  She shook her head. ‘I spend most of my time in London. If I want to ride, I hire a hack. Do you hunt, sir?’

  His eyelids lowered a fraction and his teeth flashed white. A pirate’s grin, sly and devastatingly attractive. ‘Only ships.’

  Irritation warred with feminine desire. ‘I imagine it is an occupation that provides little occasion for riding around the countryside.’

  His smile disappeared. ‘You imagine correctly.’

  ‘You are missing a sport most gentlemen find exhilarating.’

  Apparently deciding to ignore her barb, he inclined his head. ‘Thank you for the recommendation. What do you do in London?’

  No doubt he expected her to list the usual social whirl of balls and routs, but for some reason she didn’t want him to think her so frippery. ‘Mostly I help my father. I am also a member of the committee raising funds for St Thomas’s Hospital’s new surgery.’

  He curled his lip. ‘A sterling member of society, in fact.’

  He made it sound as if she was bragging. She pressed her lips together and returned her gaze to the board.

  ‘And you expect me to believe your father has but one ship?’

  She winced. She scarcely believed it herself. ‘Why should it be of concern to you?’

  Candlelight danced in his bright aquamarine eyes. A mocking smile curved his lips, as if he was somehow enjoying their verbal sparring. He reminded her of a cat toying with a mouse. A very large, very dangerous, cat with enormous claws. ‘I only want my due, Miss Fulton.’

  ‘Your due?’ She couldn’t help how incredulous she sounded. ‘How would you feel if some stranger stole the bread from the mo
uths of your wife and family?’

  A muscle flickered in his jaw. ‘I have no family.’

  ‘A rolling stone?’ She arched a brow. ‘Or perhaps none you care to own to.’

  ‘Miss Fulton, I would never abandon a child of mine. I hope, for your sake, your father is equally responsible.’

  Her stomach gave a sick little lurch. What her father would do depended on whether he could raise any more credit.

  He leaned forwards and blocked her samurai knight with a well-placed geisha-pawn.

  ‘Check,’ he said. ‘What about your prospects—is there no wedding in your future?’

  ‘I haven’t yet met a man I prefer.’

  ‘There was talk of an engagement a few years ago, I heard. To some minor Scottish family.’ He raised a brow.

  Her body stilled. Pain squeezed her chest as raw as the day Selina had told her of Andrew’s treachery. How did this pirate know? Had his capture of their ship been more than a crime of opportunity?

  Her fingers shook as her hand hovered over her monk. If she tried to pick it up, she might drop it.

  She returned her hand to her lap as if she’d changed her mind about which piece to move, aware that his silence required an answer.

  ‘We did not suit,’ she said carelessly. Andrew only wanted her money. His profession of love was naught but a false coin.

  ‘Rumour has it you are an unconscionable flirt. That you were looking higher. For a title.’

  Lies to cover Andrew’s chagrin when she cried off.

  ‘How would you know this ancient news?’ she asked. It had happened so long ago, even the ton had forgotten.

  He shrugged. ‘I have friends. I hear gossip from time to time. Fulton’s is well known among sailors.’

  A truth.

  Feeling calmer, she reached for the decanter and poured him a glass of wine with a smile, hoping to distract him from this line of questioning.

  ‘Join me,’ he said.

  A command. She shrugged and filled her glass.

  ‘Where did you go to school?’ she asked.

  He frowned at her. ‘Me?’

  ‘I assumed you received some sort of education. You don’t sound like a common seaman.’

  For once his insouciance seemed to slip. His lips flattened, his eyes grew hard. ‘I learned all I know before the mast.’ The tang of bitterness colouring his voice sent warning prickles across her shoulders. Yet she wanted to know more of this man’s history. She waved a nonchalant hand. ‘Why did you leave England for America?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not of my own volition, I assure you.’

  Deported? It was possible. Britain had long been sending her criminals abroad. Or might he have fled? A horrid vision popped into her mind. ‘Did you kill your man at dawn?’ Over some woman.

  He snorted. ‘Duelling is a waste of time. There are far better ways to satisfy honour. Tell me why the Conchita was flying a Spanish flag?’

  Another change of direction. Conversing with this man was like balancing on the edge of a knife. One slip and you’d be cut to ribbons. She found the whole thing exhausting.

  ‘There were rumours of privateers.’ A wry smile twisted her lips. ‘They proved correct.’

  ‘It was your idea, wasn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, let me thank you for making my work easier.’

  Her palm itched with the desire to slap the supercilious expression from his face. Instead, she regally bent her neck. ‘Glad to be of service.’

  A laugh of genuine amusement rumbled up from his chest, low and warm. It strummed a chord low in her belly. She scowled.

  ‘You are certainly an enterprising woman,’ he said.

  Time to give him another surprise. The number of her pieces scattered on his side of the board proved he’d played well, if cautiously. Now she would bring their evening to a close. She moved her monk. ‘Checkmate.’

  He recoiled, staring at the board. ‘Good God.’

  Another man who thought women didn’t have any mental capacity. She smiled tightly. ‘Thank you for a close-run game.’

  He glanced up at her face, shock lingering in his eyes like shadows. ‘I had no idea how much I’d forgotten.’

  At least he hadn’t accused her of cheating as one gentleman had. ‘You played well enough.’

  Staring at the board, he gulped down his wine, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he swallowed. He leaned forwards, gaze intent, as if replaying the game. Finally he looked up at her, with a sort of boyish eagerness that robbed her of breath. ‘Where did I go wrong?’

  With effort, she gathered her thoughts. ‘I took advantage of your mistakes.’

  He didn’t look the slightest bit insulted by her honesty. She found herself liking him for that. Blast it. She really did have no sense when it came to men. ‘Then I must do better. Next time.’

  There wasn’t going to be a next time. She hoped.

  He cocked his head, listening. ‘The hour grows late.’

  She heard only the breeze singing in the rigging and the slap of the waves against the hull from the open window. She glanced at him questioningly.

  ‘The men are all abed, except those on watch.’

  The revelry outside had died away long ago. She’d been too intent on their game and fielding his sharp questions to notice the passage of time. She swallowed. ‘I should leave.’

  ‘I have many more questions. Drink your wine, Miss Fulton.’ He gestured at her glass. ‘Come, a toast.’

  To humour him, she picked up her glass.

  ‘To success,’ he said.

  ‘Yours or mine?’

  ‘Mine.’ While she sipped, he drank deeply. When he lowered his glass the predatory expression was back on his face.

  The cabin seemed stuffy all at once, airless and hot. The skin on her scalp tightened the way it did before a lightning storm and she knew she had to bring the evening to a close. Somehow she had to end this tête-à-tête on a friendly note.

  She stood and carried her glass to the window on legs that felt the way they did the first moments on land after a long voyage. Like wet rags. Unfortunately, this voyage was far from over and a storm loomed on the horizon.

  She gazed out into the dark, breathing in the salt air. ‘I must thank you for a pleasant evening.’

  Cat-like, on silent feet, he appeared behind her, his face reflected in the glass over her shoulder, his smile a glimmer of white. The warmth radiating from his body fired off a storm of heat in her own. A demented blush from head to toe, thankfully hidden in the dark reflection.

  ‘You were right about me,’ he said, his voice low, his body warm at her back. ‘Once, I also had all the advantages of wealth and position.’ Deep beneath the easy tone, she heard great sorrow.

  She resisted the urge to sympathise. She’d heard many similar tales. It was the women she pitied. ‘Did you lose your money in one of London’s hells? Is that why you prey on ships? Stealing what you lost?’ It happened all the time. Fortunes won and lost in a night. Men who committed suicide in the cold light of the following day.

  She shuddered. At least Father preferred the comfort of brandy.

  His reflected gaze skewered her like a blade. ‘I can never replace what I lost.’

  The depth of pain in those words scoured her ridiculously soft heart like sand carried on a desert wind. ‘You lost the family estate?’

  The silence stretched taut and painful. The urge to fill it, to pretend things were normal, brought words to her lips. ‘What will you do when the war is over? When there are no more letters of marque? When peace allows no ships to be taken?’

  The long exhale of breath, a sigh of longing he probably wasn’t aware of. ‘I plan to return to England where I have unfinished business.’

  ‘You think you will be welcome?’

  ‘A man with money is always welcome.’

  A bitter truth. She said nothing.

  ‘What about you, Miss Fulton? What do you hope for? A husband? Ch
ildren?’ He breathed softly in her ear. ‘A lover on the side?’

  Her nipples tightened, felt sensitive against her stays. Furious at herself, she spun around to face him.

  Chest to chest they stared at each other. His eyes glittered dangerously. A sign of intoxication? Or anger?

  He clasped his warm hand over hers on the stem of her glass. Hot against her cold skin. The diamond-sharp facets pressed into her palm. ‘You tremble, Miss Fulton. I wonder why?’ Holding her gaze, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the table.

  His eyes turned slumberous. A sensual awareness flashed between them too strong to ignore. It had been there all night, connecting them with a filament of heat. Now, standing close to him, the minute sliver of air between their bodies practically crackled.

  His lips hovered a few inches from hers. The warmth of his body washed up against her skin. He was going to kiss her. A mad kind of yearning filled her empty heart. She swayed closer. Her eyelids fluttered shut. The scent of sandalwood cologne and fresh sea air filled her nostrils.

  He cursed.

  She blinked.

  He pressed his fingertips to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  Michael stared at her. Wrong? For a moment he didn’t recognise the word as a flash of light seared jagged through the space behind his eyes.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ Her voice was soft, gentle and kind. Her hazel eyes filled with concern. ‘Is it your arm?’

  Why the hell did Alice Fulton have to be kind? ‘I’m all right.’

  Another stab, more insistent. Why was this happening now? Right when he had everything in his grasp.

  She tilted her head in puzzlement. ‘Perhaps a fever brought on by your wound?’

  He stared at her, the words garbling in his head, the lights in the cabin unbearably bright. ‘Get out.’ The words came out like the snarl of a wild beast.

  She backed away.

  Another flash of light. Her face wavered, blurred, then righted. He had less than half an hour.

  Another round of flickering stabs. This time behind his forehead. Any moment now he’d be a useless shipwreck cast up on the beach of his aching head.