Captured

by Victoria Lynne

  Captured

  by

  Victoria Lynne

  CAPTURED is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1995 by Victoria Lynne

  Digital editions copyright © 2011 by Victoria Burgess

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-96778

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address VictLynne@aol.com.

  Originally published 1995 by Avon Books, a division of the Hearst Corporation

  Digital editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

  High Praise for Ms. Lynne’s Novels

  With This Kiss

  A Romantic Times ‘Top Pick’

  “Ms. Lynne weaves her magic to bring the reader a bit of poignancy along with a sexually charges romance in this very satisfying historical romantic suspense. Find a place for this one on your special shelf.” —Romantic Times

  “With This Kiss is a delightful read. Full of strong imagery, slow burning passion, and lots of quick-witted dialogue, Morgan and Julia are an odd match which grows into a seamless, perfect fit. Ms. Lynne is a fabulous storyteller!”—;Rendezvous

  “The unexpected twists and turns in Ms. Lynne’s newest historical entertain and satisfy.” —Publisher’s Weekly

  “A smoldering Victorian era romance.” —Booklist

  What Wild Moonlight

  “From the mesmerizing beginning to the surprising climax, What Wild Moonlight is a wild ride of an adventure romance, destined to keep you reading all night. Simmering with sexual tension and the perfect amount of suspense, Victoria Lynne secures a place on readers’ bookshelves” –Romantic Times

  “Ms. Lynne combines adventure, suspense, and romance in a tale that will delight any reader.” –Rendezvous

  “Readers need to provide themselves adequate time when they begin What Wild Moonlight in order to avoid sleep deprivation, because this is a one-sitting tale. The action-packed storyline is suspense at it’s most intense. The characters are charming, and placing this Victorian couple in the new aristocratic playpen of Monaco adds freshness to the novel.” –Harriet Clausner

  Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Finalist: Best Historical Romantic Adventure

  Chasing Rainbows

  "Extremely well-written, fast-paced and funny, Chasing Rainbows is a pot of gold from this talented, up-and-coming author. One for your keeper shelf." —Romantic Times

  "A feisty yet vulnerable heroine who's had her share of pain and a sexy hero who pretends to have a hard heart come together in this warmly tender love story filled with perils and excitement." —Rendezvous

  Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Finalist: Best Western Romance of the Year

  Captured

  “This book is a pure delight!” —Rendezvous

  “A wonderful, madcap adventure from beginning to end.”—Affaire de Coeur

  RITA Award Finalist: Best Short Historical Romance and Best First Book

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  High Praise…

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  April 1861

  Charleston, South Carolina

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  Maggie Spencer was pleased with how the words came out: soft and innocent, with just the right amount of nervous trepidation to her voice. Satisfied, she slowly raised her eyes to meet those of the man in whose lap she was seated.

  “Like hell,” he answered, his deep voice equally soft.

  Startled, Maggie searched his eyes. She found neither anger nor cynicism in their dark brown depths, merely amusement. As though he was fully aware of the game she was playing, yet quite content to let her continue. She did.

  “I don’t even know your name, sir.”

  “Abe Lincoln.”

  Maggie formed her lips into a pretty pout. He wasn’t cooperating, but she wasn’t about to object. She had determined to have him the instant she saw him walk into the Black Swan, the dockside tavern where she worked. That had been at midnight, nearly four hours ago. Unlike her regular customers, who were openly appreciative of her dark good looks, ample curves, and relaxed virtue, the man seemed almost indifferent. In fact, it had taken her this long just to maneuver herself into the position she was in now.

  It wasn’t merely the man’s physical appeal that drew her, though Lord knew that was considerable. Her eyes raked hungrily over his tall, masculine physique, his thick mane of tawny-gold hair. That alone hadn’t been enough to set her pulse racing. Rather it was the way he carried himself, his movements conveying a combination of animal grace and reckless confidence, as if the rules that the rest of the world lived by somehow didn’t apply to him. She heard it in his laughter, saw it in his cocky grin.

  “Why, Mr. Lincoln,” she purred, shifting her hips to press firmly against his groin, “I do believe you’ve got your hands up my skirt.”

  His eyes locked on hers. “Is that a fact?”

  Fortunately he took her words for the invitation they were meant to be. He set down the glass of whiskey he’d been nursing and reached beneath the table. Her petticoats rustled softly as he tucked them aside. She felt his fingers brush lightly over her ankles and continue to travel upward. She closed her eyes, barely suppressing a shudder of excitement. It wouldn’t do. Not in the middle of a crowded tavern. But then, that’s what made the game so exciting.

  Maggie sucked in her breath as the rough calluses of his palms scraped gently over the silky skin of her inner thighs. She waited a few seconds, then felt his powerful frame stiffen. His hands stilled.

  She smiled in secret triumph, pleased that she’d caught him off-guard. Apparently he hadn’t anticipated that she’d be wearing nothing beneath her skirts. She fluttered her lashes and sent him a coquettish smile. “Goodness. Whatever did you find?”

  He grinned. “The true meaning of Southern hospitality.”

  Maggie leaned forward, crushing her breasts against his chest. “Let’s go back to your ship.”

  “I have a better idea,” he replied. “Let’s stay right here.”

  It took a moment for the full intent of his words to sink in. Shock coursed through her, along with a strange, forbidden thrill. Her stomach tightened as she considered his suggestion. Was it possible…? Could they really…? Here? She shook her head, almost dizzy with the rush of desire that surged through her. That was taking her little game further than she’d ever taken it in her life. He watched her silently, his lips curved in a small, speculative smile.

  “Why, Mr. Lincoln,” she finally managed.

  “Why, Miss Spencer,” he returned, a subtle challenge ringing in his tone.

  Maggie’s eyes darted around the room. Fat Harry was busy behind the bar and hadn’t seemed to notice her. The rest of the patrons were either minding their own business or too deep in their cups to pay her any attention. Normally the Black Swan would have closed hours ago, but these days men lingered endlessly over their drinks, crowding the tavern until the wee hours of the morning, holding stupid, pointless debates about abolitionists and self
rule. Immersed, as they had been for months, in heated talk of war‌—‌a war that she knew as well as anyone would never happen. It had been that way ever since South Carolina seceded from the Union.

  Tonight was the first real excitement she’d had in ages. She glanced down at her skirts, noting the way he’d arranged them to fall discreetly over his lap. Correctly interpreting her silence for assent, he began to move his hands once again. His heavy, sensual gaze focused on her as he explored the tender flesh beneath her skirt. He moved with slow, steady strokes that were both deliberate and arousing: caressing her thighs and the soft swelling of her hips, tracing the rounded curve of her buttocks. Shifting his knees, he rocked her in a subtle motion that likely was imperceptible to a casual observer, but that played havoc with her senses. She felt hot and tense; her breath came in faint, shallow pants. Before she could react, he brought his hand between her thighs, massaging and stroking with unerring expertise.

  Maggie choked back a gasp and gripped the edge of the table. She clenched her teeth, struggling to keep from giving herself away. From a nearby table, two men regarded them curiously, then shrugged and turned away. Rather than cooling her passion, the risk of exposure only heightened her excitement. She hoped her expression was outwardly composed, but was too far into their game to truly give a damn. This man‌—‌whoever he was‌—‌was Christmas come early as far as she was concerned. It was time to open her present. With trembling fingers, she reached for the buttons on his trousers.

  The explosion of cannon fire shattered the stillness of the night.

  Maggie emitted a startled cry and let her hand drop. All around her, the patrons of the tavern exhibited various degrees of stupefaction as the first explosion was followed by another. A few men, fuddled by drink, stumbled upright and gazed around in a dull stupor. Most, however, reacted just the opposite. They leaped to their feet in eager anticipation, as if the moment they’d been long awaiting had finally arrived.

  A boy of about eighteen lunged through the tavern door. “They’re firing on the fort!” he shouted, bursting with pride and excitement. “They’re gonna knock them damned Yanks outta Fort Sumter!”

  A roar of approval went up in the tavern as the men poured out after the boy, racing down to the docks to witness the action for themselves. Even Fat Harry hustled out the door, leaving the bar untended‌—‌a move that was unprecedented in the three years that Maggie had been at the Black Swan. She stared after him, stunned speechless. Abruptly recalling herself, she turned back to the man in whose lap she remained seductively perched.

  “Rotten timing,” he said amiably.

  Unwilling to accept that he could be fully aware of the gravity of the situation and remain so calm, she informed him, “They’re firing on the fort.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  She studied him, waiting for a reaction. When none came, she continued darkly, “But won’t that mean—”

  “War,” he finished for her. He shrugged and removed his hands from beneath her skirts, smoothing the fabric across her lap in a gesture that was as offhand as his voice.

  Shock coursed through her. “War,” she echoed.

  He nodded in mock solemnity. “I suppose there’s always the possibility that the North will interpret this as a gesture of goodwill, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “You’re… joking, aren’t you?” she ventured uncertainly.

  His lips twitched, but he didn’t bother to reply. He eased her off his lap and onto the chair beside him, his manner suddenly brisk and efficient. “I regret, Miss Spencer, that our time together has unexpectedly been cut short,” he said, his tone carrying the same grave courtesy that one might bestow upon the finest of ladies.

  She stared at him in undisguised dismay. “But… but what about…”

  “Another time, love.” He raised her hand and brushed the back of it with a gentle parting kiss. “I’m afraid I’m one of those damned Yanks you Southerners are so all-fired anxious to be rid of. I believe my welcome in this fair city has just expired.”

  A Yank?! But he was so charming! Maggie reeled in surprise as she watched his long strides carry him swiftly out the door. She opened her mouth to call after him, then hesitated, swearing softly instead. She didn’t even know his name.

  A blast of cool air greeted Cole McRae as he stepped from the Black Swan and followed the sound of booming cannon down to the docks. It seemed the entire city of Charleston had come out to witness the attack on Fort Sumter. Men, women, and children swarmed all around him, more than a few roused from their beds and taking to the streets while still attired in their night-clothes, determined not to miss a minute of the momentous occasion.

  Cole found a spot away from the bustling crowds and stopped, watching the bombardment from his own private vantage point. He propped his foot up on an empty crate and pulled a cheroot from his pocket. He lit the thin cigar and drew in deeply, enjoying both the flavor of the tobacco and the warmth it brought. His thoughts ran along a purely selfish vein: he was glad he’d already finished his business in town, selling his cargo and taking on fresh goods and supplies. Judging from the giddy pandemonium that surrounded him, it’d be hell trying to get any real work done now.

  This would mean war, no doubt about it. President Lincoln had refused to make any aggressive moves, despite the fact that several Southern states had already declared themselves seceded from the Union. In fact, the president had taken pains to ensure that if the South was really determined to fight for its independence, it would have to begin by taking the first hostile action. Well, the hotheaded fools had finally done it.

  Cole frowned as he reconsidered, wondering if that might not be for the best after all. Let them blow off some steam. Tension had been escalating between the North and South for years; why not bring it out in the open? After a few months‌—‌six at the most‌—‌the war would be over and the conflict would finally be settled.

  As dawn rose and the sky was infused with soft shades of pink and gold, the damage Fort Sumter had taken became clear. The walls were already beginning to crumble under the constant shelling. Cole felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the men charged with defending the fort, but the emotion quickly turned to envy. At least they were being challenged. Tested. His own life was disgustingly void of anything remotely akin to that experience.

  He found himself growing increasingly restless, wanting more. The war might actually offer an interesting diversion from his normal routine, he thought, brightening a bit. He considered putting his ship, the Islander, out to sea, if for no other reason than to match his skill against that of some arrogant Southern captain.

  The more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea. An excitement he hadn’t felt in ages built slowly within him. Why not do it? He tossed down his cheroot and smiled as he stubbed it out, suddenly eager for thrill of the chase. Anxious for the taste of victory.

  It never occurred to him that there might be any other outcome.

  CHAPTER 1

  July 1862

  Fort Monroe, Virginia

  Cole McRae weaved his way through the crowded streets, his long strides carrying him swiftly to his destination. The stockades, nearly abandoned after the Revolutionary War, were once again brimming with men doing time for desertion, drunkenness on duty, and insubordination to a ranking officer.

  Cole stepped inside, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior. A young guard who looked no older than seventeen and supremely bored, shuffled over. “Tell Sergeant Coombs that Captain McRae is here to pick up his prisoner,” Cole ordered. The boy nodded and headed off into the dark recesses of the building.

  “You McRae?” came a gravelly voice from down the hall.

  Cole peered into the darkness. “Coombs?”

  “Yup.” It was more a belch than a reply. The sergeant stepped forward, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks covered with a week’s worth of dark stubble. A stunning assortment of stains blotched what could only loosely be call
ed a uniform. He reached down, absently scratching the fat, hairy belly that protruded from his shirt. “Me ’n’ the boys was just having a little drink. C’mon.” He turned and stumbled back down the hall.

  Cole frowned as he followed him into an office that reeked of cheap whiskey. Five men lounged about in chairs, looking as drunk and sluggish as Coombs himself. The sergeant took a seat behind a thick oak desk and reached for the bottle sitting atop it. He refilled his glass, then looked around for one for his guest. Spotting a mug that had rolled onto the floor, he picked it up and blew into it to rid the inside of dust. He filled it and set it in front of Cole, gesturing expansively to a wobbly chair with torn upholstery and a broken arm. “Have a seat, McRae.”

  Cole ignored both the chair and the filthy glass of whiskey. “I’m here for the woman. Where is she?”

  His question drew a low round of laughter from the men in the room and a slow, lewd smile from Coombs. “Anxious for her, are ye?” He removed a thin cigar from his shirt pocket, clamped it between badly stained teeth, and took his time lighting it. The sour fumes from the cigar mixed with the stale odor of cheap liquor. Incredibly, the sergeant himself smelled even worse. “So was I,” he continued. “She’s a purty little thing, but she won’t make it easy for you. It just takes a little manly persuasion, if you get my meaning.”

  Cole got his meaning. Revulsion swept over him as he took a menacing step closer to the sergeant. “Spare me the details, Coombs. Just bring her out here.”