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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?”
Her mind scrambled and raced. “I had to lie to Captain Horatio to get passage,” she said, and she thought her explanation brilliant. “Obviously he would not let a child travel to Britain alone. I told him I was eighteen—”
He cut her off, his eyes cold. “You did not look fourteen in your wet gown, Miss Hughes.”
She stiffened.
His smile was a mere twist of lips. “Do sit down. As interesting as this conversation is, I am here for a purpose. A storm threatens to catch us, and if so, a long night ensues.” He moved swiftly to the table and held out her chair.
Virginia found it hard to sit down. Oddly, she hated her deception now; she did not want him to really think of her as a child. But did he even believe her? She did not quite think so. And he wasn’t a pirate, oh no! Some of her anger at being duped—and pointlessly frightened—returned. “Why didn’t you tell me that you are a captain in the royal navy?”
He shrugged. “Do you care?”
“Of course I do!” she cried, facing him earnestly now. “Because I thought I was your prisoner, although I could not fathom why. Now I know differently, although I still do not understand why I am on your ship and not the Americana. I know that the British navy thinks nothing of seizing American ships, as you have clearly done, for your country has no respect for our rights! But we are not at war with you, and you are not a pirate! In some ways, we are allies. Clearly you will release me in Portsmouth!” For this was the conclusion she had drawn upon finding his naval uniform in his closet. An officer in the British navy was not about to ransom an American citizen. But what was he about?
“We are not allies,” he said harshly.
This was not the reply she had expected and she did not like the look on his face or in his eyes.
“And I am not releasing you in Portsmouth.”
“What?” She was shocked. “But—”
“In fact, I am taking you to Askeaton. Have you ever been to Ireland, Miss Hughes?”
CHAPTER FIVE
VIRGINIA WAS DISBELIEVING. “Ireland? You think to take me to Ireland?”
“I hardly think it,” he murmured, “I plan it. Now, do sit down, as I also intend to eat.” He held out her chair.
Confusion overcame her. “I am not sure that I understand.”
“Good God!” he shot. “What is there to understand? I am taking you to Ireland, Miss Hughes, as my guest.”
She was truly trying to comprehend him. “So I am your prisoner,” she managed to say hoarsely.
“I prefer to think of you as a guest.” He became serious. “I will not harm you—not even if you are eighteen.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. Now, sit.”
Virginia had believed her terrible predicament over. She shook her head, refusing to take the offered chair. “I have no appetite. Is it a ransom that you seek?”
“How clever.” His smile was cold.
“I have no funds. My inheritance is being sold in bits and pieces as soon as possible, and the proceeds go to the repayment of my father’s debts.”
He shrugged as if he did not care.
Virginia became very alarmed, but managed to breathe slowly, evenly. “You let Mrs. Davis go. She was rather wealthy.”
“If you think to starve, so be it.” He sat down and began serving himself from the platter, where a hearty mutton stew was revealed.
Unfortunately, the sight and smell of the stew caused her stomach to growl loudly, but he did not seem to hear. He began to eat, and quickly, as if eating were a mission and he were in a rush to accomplish it.
Finally he took a sip of wine and saluted her with his glass. “Fine contraband, indeed.”
Virginia did not reply. A terrible inkling was dawning upon her. He intended to ransom her and he couldn’t care less about her inheritance.
He had known her name from the moment they had met.
He must know of her uncle, the earl.
She sat down hard on the chair he had left pulled out from the table. That action caused him to glance up, although he never ceased eating.
But now she was safe enough, was she not? The man was in the navy, even if about to be discharged, or worse—and she hoped he hanged from the nearest gallows. He was no common outlaw. He wanted a ransom, one that would surely be paid, and considering all circumstances, she doubted he would return her to her uncle blemished in any way.
Virginia wondered what the ransom would be and if her uncle was wealthy enough to pay her ransom and her father’s debts. Her dismay was infinite.
“You seem distraught,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair, apparently having finished his meal.
“You have no morals, sir,” she said tightly. “That much is clear.”
“I have never said I did.” He eyed her. “Morals are for fools, Miss Hughes.”
She stared. Impulsively, she leaned forward. “How can I make you change your mind?” She could hardly believe herself now. “There cannot be a ransom from my uncle, Captain O’Neill. I am eighteen, not fourteen.” His face never changed expression. “I will do whatever I must to be freed.”
He stared for an interminable moment. “Is that the offer that I think it is?”
She felt ill…breathless…ashamed…resigned. “Yes, it is,” she croaked.
He stood. “The storm is upon us. I am afraid I must go. Do not leave this cabin. A chit such as yourself would be blown overboard instantly.” He tossed his napkin aside and strode across the now-rolling floor of the cabin as if it were still and flat.
That was his reply? She was incredulous.
At the door, he paused. “And my answer is no.” He walked out.
She collapsed on the table in tears, all of which now flowed purely from desperation. She already knew her uncle didn’t give a damn about her. He would never pay both a ransom and her father’s debts.
Because of the damned Irishman, she would lose Sweet Briar.
Anger exploded and she leapt up, racing across the cabin. As soon as she had swung the door open, a huge gale wind sent her forward helplessly across the entire deck. She had never felt such a force in her life; Virginia saw the raging, frothing sea beyond the railing and it seemed to be racing toward her. She couldn’t even cry out and then she was slammed hard, midsection first, into wood and rope.
Pain blinded her. The sea sprayed her, while the wind wanted to push her overboard. Panic consumed her—she did not want to die!
“You damnable stubborn woman,” O’Neill hissed, his strong arms wrapping around her. And she was cocooned against his entire hard, powerful body, the sea and the wind now relentlessly battering them both.
She inhaled, unable to look up, her face pressed against his chest. His grip tightened, and then he was dragging her with him as he confronted the wind, walking fiercely, determinedly into it, a single man against the elements.
