The Prize

She sank onto the floor by her valise and wept.

THE WIND BLEW STRONG and hard behind them. Devlin had taken the helm, as if that would make everything right again. Gripping it with the ease of one who could steer a huge ship in his sleep, he focused on the task at hand—outrunning the storm chasing them.

“Will we make it?” a quiet voice asked from behind just as a pair of moist violet eyes invaded his mind.

Devlin relaxed, relieved by the interruption. He glanced at the ship’s surgeon, a small, portly man with thick sideburns and curling gray hair. “It’s fifty-fifty,” he responded. “I’ll know in the next fifteen minutes.”

Jack Harvey folded his arms across his chest and gazed up at the inky, starless sky. “What is this hostage-taking business, Devlin?”

Devlin stared into the gray horizon. “My own mad affair, I’m afraid.”

“Who is she?”

“Does it matter?”

“I caught a glimpse of her on board the Americana. She’s a young lady. I smell a ransom. I don’t know why. You’ve never ransomed a woman before.”

“There’s always a first time,” Devlin said, having no intention of telling the good surgeon anything at all. “How are the wounded?”

“Brinkley is dying, but I’ve given him laudanum and he doesn’t know it. Buehler and Swenson will make it. Does she need medical attention?”

Devlin became irritated. “She needs a gag, but no, she does not need medical attention.”

Jack Harvey raised both bushy brows in surprise. Then he said, “She’s a beautiful wild thing, isn’t she? Good God, the men are talking about how she tried to shoot you! She—”

“Reams!” Devlin snapped. “Take the helm. Stay true to course.” He jammed a finger at the compass heading and stalked across the quarterdeck. He did not know why he was suddenly very annoyed and angry.

“I take it you are not inviting me to join you for a bite of supper before we face the winds of hell?” Harvey called out to his back.

Devlin didn’t bother answering. But it was now or never—if the storm caught them, he needed a full belly and all of his strength.

Had she been crying when he left the cabin?

Not that he cared. Women used tears for the sole purpose of manipulation—he had learned that long ago. As he didn’t care about any woman to begin with, tears had no effect on him.

He opened the cabin door and saw Virginia seated at his table, which was set with silver and fine crystal and a covered platter, from which savory aromas were wafting. Her posture was terribly erect, her hands were clasped in her lap and two bright pink spots blotched her cheeks. Her gaze, which seemed wild, clashed with his.

He straightened, closing the door, sensing a battle’s first blow.

She smiled and it was as cold as ice. “I wondered when you would return…Captain.”

Delight tingled in his veins. How he loved a good war. He intended to enjoy this one. “I hadn’t realized you were pining for my company,” he said with a courtly inclination of his head.

“I only pine for your head—on that silver serving platter,” she said, as regally as if she were England’s queen.

He wanted to smile. He nearly did. Instead, he approached cautiously and saw the fury in her eyes. “I fear to disappoint you. My chef is French. I have far better fare on that platter.”

“Then I shall wait patiently for a better day, when the dinner I truly desire is served,” she almost spat.

He refused to chuckle. “You do not strike me as a patient woman, Miss Hughes, and as I doubt the day you seek will come for a good many years, what will you do instead of waiting?”

“You’re right. I have no patience, none at all! Rogue!” she cried.

He almost laughed. “Bastard” was more like it. “Have I somehow offended you, Miss Hughes?”

Her laughter was brittle. “You murder innocent Americans, you abduct me, take me prisoner, strip in front of me, ogle my breasts and ask me if I am offended? Hah,” she said.

He reached for the bottle of red wine. “May I?” he asked, about to pour into her glass.

She leapt to her feet. “You’re an officer!” she shouted, and he tensed, thinking she intended to strike him. But she only added in another shout, “In the British navy!”

He set the bottle down and swept her a mocking bow. “Sir Captain Devlin O’Neill, at your service, Miss Hughes.”

She was trembling with rage, he saw. He decided to give in to lechery and admire her perfect breasts. “Stop leering,” she hissed. “You have committed criminal acts. Atrocious criminal acts! Explain yourself, Captain, sir!”

He gave up. This woman dared to order him. It was the single truly entertaining moment of his life. She was on his ship, in his command and she ordered him about. He laughed.

Virginia froze, startled by the brief eruption of that rough sound, with its oddly raw tone. Then, still furious at his deception, and worse, at what clearly was not the dire predicament she had thought herself to be in, she snapped, “I am waiting for an explanation, Captain.”

He shook his head and looked at her. Very softly, he asked, “Are you not afraid of me?”

She hesitated. What kind of question was this?

“Be truthful,” he said, as if in earnest.

“You terrify me,” she heard herself say, her pulse quickening. Then she amended, “You have terrified me, and all for naught, damn it!”

His brows lifted. “Ladies do not curse.”

“I don’t care. Besides, I have not been treated like a lady, now have I?”

He gave her a very odd, long look. “Another man would have had you in that bed—where you belong. But you are hardly there, are you?”

She went still. Alarm filled her. Alarm and such a forceful heartbeat she could no longer breathe. “I har—I har—I hardly belong in your bed!” she stammered. Terrible images of her there, with him, in his powerful arms, assailed her.

“A slip of the tongue.” His brows, darker than his hair, lifted. “I agree. Skinny women tend to be exceedingly uncomfortable.”

She almost gasped again. Then she cried, “I am only fourteen, sir! You would take a child to your bed?”

His gaze slammed to hers.

She wet her lips. She was perspiring and she desperately needed him to believe her now.

His jaw flexed. His gaze narrowed with speculation, causing her heart to lurch with dread. “This is a dangerous game you play, Miss Hughes,” he said softly.

“It is no game!”

“Indeed? Then explain to me the fact of your passage, alone and without chaperone, aboard the Americana?”