The Prize

He set the binoculars down. Her reputation would be tattered enough when he finally delivered her to Eastleigh. He didn’t care. Why should he? She meant nothing to him. And if he learned that Eastleigh was fond of her, then he would be even more pleased to present her with a shredded reputation. As for his own reputation, it was very simple—he didn’t give a damn and he never had.

He had been talked about behind his back for most of his life. As a small boy, before his father’s murder, their neighbors used to whisper with a mixture of pity and respect that he should have been The O’Neill one day, like his ancestors before him. Then they would whisper about his family’s current state of destitution—or about his father’s love affairs. Gerald had been a good husband, but like many men, he had not been entirely faithful. And the whispers had not stopped after Gerald’s murder. There were more whispers then, more stares, mostly unkind and accusatory. They whispered about his family’s conversion to Protestantism, they whispered about his mother’s love for her new husband, and then they dared to whisper about his real paternity. With stiff shoulders, his cheeks aflame, Devlin had ignored them all.

Now the rumors were spread in society by the English lords and ladies there. They bowed to him with the utmost deference, but their whispers were hardly different. They called him a hero to his face, and a rogue, a scoundrel and a pirate behind his back, even as they foisted their pretty, unwed, wealthy daughters upon him at the balls they invited him to.

And he wasn’t worried about his naval career, either. It was a career that had served him well but it was also one that he was ambivalent about. His life was the wind and the sea, his ship and his crew—of that, there was no doubt. Should his naval career end prematurely, he would still sail the high seas, just differently. He felt no loyalty and no love for his British masters, but he was a patriot—he would do anything for his country, Ireland.

Devlin was very aware that he had failed to follow his orders once again. In fact, he had done more than fail to follow them, he had actually flagrantly violated them. But the Admiralty needed him more than they wanted his head; besides, he would see that this new game with Eastleigh was conducted fashionably, discreetly and with the semblance of honor. Eastleigh had no wish for scandal, and Devlin knew he would keep the abduction and ransom of his niece a very private affair. He intended to conclude it as swiftly as possible—after he toyed with Eastleigh just a bit.

And Devlin smiled at the darkening sky.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW MUCH time had passed or how long he’d stood there in the growing dusk, staring at her as she slept. But suddenly Virginia was awake, and as she lifted her head, he was the first thing that she saw.

She gasped, sitting upright, riveted by an odd glitter in his eyes. Devlin didn’t move. He stood in front of the closed door as if he had just entered the cabin.

Virginia leapt to her feet. Her clothes remained damp and wet and that told her she’d slept for just a short time. “How long were you standing there?” she demanded.

His gaze slipped from her eyes to her breasts. Quickly, they returned to her eyes, and then he moved across the cabin, past her. “Not long.” His reply was cool and indifferent.

Virginia hugged herself, flushing. Had that man just ogled her bosom? She had no bosom, and the cabin was too small for the two of them. “I thought this was my cabin now.”

He was opening the closet door. He turned toward her, his expression mild and inscrutable. “It is.”

“Then you should leave.”

Now he fully faced her. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the tongue of a shrew?”

“And you are rude. This cabin is too small for the both of us and…” She faltered, finally looking at his wet, bloody shirt. It clung to interesting angles and planes. “You smell.”

“For your edification, Miss Hughes, this is my cabin and you are in it as my guest. You did not change your clothes. Why?”

She blinked, his sudden change of topic taking her by surprise. “I don’t wish to change my clothes,” she said warily.

“You like the appearance of a drowned cat?” His dark brows lifted. “Or is it the cold you enjoy?”

“Thank you for the flattery—and the sarcasm.”

He sighed. “Miss Hughes, you will catch pneumonia if you do not get out of those garments. My intention is not for you to die.”

She jumped at the cue. “What is your intention?”

His expression changed and it was clear he was now annoyed. He half turned and before she could make a sound, he had pulled his bloody shirt over his head, letting it drop on the floor.

She backed away until she hit the door. “What in God’s name are you doing?” she cried, her gaze riveted on broad, naked shoulders and a glimpse of an equally broad, rock-hard chest.

She looked lower. His belly was flat and tight, with interesting lines, and then it began to ripple. She quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks had warmed.

“I have the good sense to change my clothes,” he returned evenly, forcing her gaze to his.

She met a pair of pale gray eyes and knew she should not have stared. Her spirits sank stunningly, with real dismay. The face of a god, the body of a warrior. She had seen a few men without their shirts before at Sweet Briar, but somehow, a glimpse of Frank’s naked chest had never distressed her in such a way.

Of course, at Sweet Briar, she wasn’t being held a prisoner against her will, in such a small, confined space with her captor. “This cabin is too small for us both,” she repeated, aware of her racing heartbeat.

He held a new, clean shirt in his hands, but he didn’t move. In fact, had she not seen the rise and fall of his very sculpted chest, she would have thought him to be a lifelike statue. Slowly he said, “You are repeating yourself.”

Her shivering abruptly ceased as their gazes locked. The cabin had become hot. It had also become airless.

His face was taut. “You are staring again.”

She somehow looked away. “You could have asked me to step outside,” she managed, carefully looking at the floor.

“I hadn’t realized a man’s chest would be so fascinating,” he said bluntly.

Her gaze flew up. His back was to her now, encased in fine white lawn, but he was pulling one Hessian boot off, and then another. As he reached into the closet, Virginia glimpsed a sparkle of gold, and then a pair of clean, cream-colored britches were in his hands.

She didn’t speak. She whirled, about to dash out the door.

He crossed the space of the cabin in a heartbeat and placed a hand on the door, preventing her from opening it. “You cannot go out on deck that way.”

His arm was over her shoulder and she felt the presence of his large body just behind hers. She couldn’t turn around to face him because if she did she would be in his arms. “I am not going to watch you undress,” she said, and her tone sounded odd and rough.

“I am not asking you to watch, Miss Hughes. I apologize. I have forgotten how innocent a woman of eighteen is.”

Virginia froze. Was he now playing the part of a gentleman? Disbelief warred with a vast confusion.

In that endless moment, she became aware of the heat actually emanating from his body, as only inches separated them. Abruptly he dropped his hand from the door and stepped back.

Slowly, Virginia turned around.

He still held the clean britches in his hand. He broke the silence. Tersely, he said, “Look the other way. I will be done in a moment and then you may change your gown.”

“I prefer to step outside—” she began.

“Good God, woman! Will you dispute my every word? Your gown is indecent.” He raked a gaze over her bosom and stalked away, unfastening his britches as he did so.

It was a moment before she comprehended his words. Virginia looked down and was utterly chagrined. The wet silk of her gown and chemise molded her small breasts, enhanced by her corset, and clearly defined each erect nipple, the entire effect so revealing that no one could be in any doubt as to the size or state of her anatomy. No wonder he had stared. She might as well have been naked. She was mortified.

Cloth rustled.

Virginia looked and glimpsed far more than she should have—high, hard buttocks, muscled thighs and calves—and she reversed, facing the door, breathing harshly against the wood. Suddenly she wanted to cry.

She had been as brave as she could be for an interminable amount of time, but her courage was failing her now. She had to get to London, she had to beg her uncle for pity and the payment of her debts. Instead, she was on board a pirate ship, in a pirate’s cabin, a pirate who at times spoke like an aristocrat, a pirate who exuded such seductive virility that she was, for the first time ever in her life, aware of her own body in an entirely different way than ever before. How had this happened? How?

He was her enemy. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. She hated him passionately—and she must not ever find a single inch of him interesting, intriguing or fascinating.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, suddenly behind her again.

Virginia fought the tears back, nodding and stepping aside while refusing to look at him. She was aware of him hesitating and staring at her. She walked over to her bag and made a show of finding new garments, praying he hadn’t seen a single tear. Finally, she heard the door close.