The Prize. Brenda Joyce
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unruly. Thank God she did not look like Sarah Lewis.
Virginia froze.
Footsteps sounded directly above and to the right of her head. Virginia began to shake. Someone was traversing the hold where the sailors slept, just as she had in order to find her hiding place. Trembling again, unable to stop it, she glanced at the hatch she had come through. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but still there was nothing she could see on the other side where the ladder from the upper deck was.
Wood creaked.
Virginia closed her eyes. After all the days she had been at sea, Virginia had become accustomed to the sounds of the ship—its moans and groans, the soft sigh and slap of the sea. She did not have to debate to know that this sound was not a natural one and that someone was coming down that ladder.
Sweat trickled between her breasts.
She gripped the pistol more tightly, holding it in the folds of her skirts.
He was coming down that ladder, she simply knew it.
On the other side of the hatch, light flickered from a candle.
Virginia blinked, sweat now blurring her vision, and made out a white form on the other side of the hatch, holding up the candle, turning slowly and thoroughly assessing the space there. She couldn’t breathe and she feared suffocation.
He stepped through the hatch.
Virginia didn’t move because she could not. He held up the candle, saw her instantly and their gazes locked.
Virginia could not look away. This man was the ruthless monster responsible for numerous deaths; she was not prepared for the sight of him. He had the face of a Greek god come down from Mount Olympus—dangerously, disturbingly handsome—high planes, hard angles, piercing silver eyes. But that face—the face of an angel—was carved in granite—and it was the face of a sea devil instead.
He was also far taller than she had assumed—she knew her head would just reach his chest—and broad-shouldered, his hips lean. His legs, while impossibly muscular from the days he spent riding the sea, were encased in bloody britches. Blood covered his white linen shirt as well. He wore a sheathed sword, a dagger was in his belt, but otherwise, she saw no other weapon.
Virginia bit her lip, finally breathing, the sound loud and harsh in the small space they now shared. She did not have to know anything else about this man to know that he was cruel and ruthless and incapable of kindness or mercy.
He broke the tense silence. “Come here.”
She remained standing beside a number of piled-up crates. She wasn’t sure she could obey even if she wished to—she wasn’t sure that she could move. Virginia finally understood Mrs. Davis’s paralyzing fear.
“I am not going to hurt you. Come out.”
His tone was one of authority—she sensed he was never disobeyed. Virginia continued to stare into his cold eyes—she was incapable of looking away—as if hypnotized. He looked angry. She saw it now, because he was glancing at all of her—her mouth, her hair, her small waist, her sodden skirts—and his eyes were turning stormy gray, his jaw was flexed, his temples ticking visibly. It was very clear he did not care for the sight of her.
She took another huge breath, seeking courage, her hand holding the pistol behind her back, in the folds of her navy-blue skirts. Virginia wet her lips. “What—what do you want?”
“I want you to come here, as I never give an order twice, and this is the third time.” Impatience edged his voice.
Virginia realized there was no choice. But stubbornly, childishly, she wanted reassurance from the least reassuring human being she had ever had the misfortune to meet. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked hoarsely.
“I am taking you to my ship,” he said flatly.
He was going to abuse her—rape her. Virginia willed herself to stop shaking, but the trembling refused to cease. “You have just attacked an innocent ship,” she managed to say hoarsely. “But I am a young, defenseless woman, and I ask mercy of you now.”
His mouth curved into a smile at once mirthless and merciless. “You will not be harmed,” he said.
She started. “What?”
“Does that disappoint you?” he asked.
She stared, stunned, trying to determine whether to believe him or not. Then she realized she should not believe him, because he was a murderer, which meant he must be a liar as well. “I am not going to your ship of my own free will,” she heard herself say.
His eyes widened in real surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
She tried to back up, but there was nowhere to go, and the wood crates dug into her back and her hand as it held the pistol.
Suddenly he laughed. The sound was raw, as if laughter was hard for him. “You dare to disobey me, the captain of this ship?”
“You are not—” she began, and bit her lip, hard. Do shut up, she told herself.
His smile was hard, his eyes colder than a block of ice. “I beg to differ with you. I am the captain of the Americana, as I have seized her and she has surrendered to me.” And then he started for her. “I also have no patience. We have a fine nor’easter,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Virginia didn’t move, planning to strike him over the head with the pistol when he reached her side. But he was so tall, she would never succeed in wielding that blow. She glanced between his legs and decided to strike him there.
The space was so small in the hold that two of his hard strides closed the distance between them. Virginia’s heart was banging so rapidly in her chest that it hurt. She stiffened as he reached for her, and as his large hand closed over her left arm, she swung the pistol at him.
He had the reflexes of a wild beast. He leapt aside, the butt of the gun grazing one rock-hard thigh, which it actually bounced off. His grip tightened on her arm and she cried out.
“That, mademoiselle, was distinctly unladylike.”
Tears filled her gaze in a rush.
“But should I expect more from a vixen who thinks to shoot me?” he demanded.
She blinked and looked into pale, opaque eyes. So he knew. The adage was that the eyes were a window to the soul. If that was so, this man was soulless. “What are you going to do with me?” she whispered roughly.
“I told you. You will be transferred aboard my ship.” He removed the pistol from her grip, tossing it aside. He gestured at the ladder in the other hold, never releasing her arm.
Virginia didn’t move. “Why? I’m not pretty.”
He started, then his gaze narrowed with comprehension. “Why? Because you shall be my guest, Miss Hughes.”
She gasped at the sound of her name and real fear flooded within her. An instant later, her shrewd wit saved her—he had surely just learned her name from the captain or his crew. “My guest? Or your victim?” she whispered.
“God, you are defiant for such a little wench!” He moved her forward and her feet had no choice but to rise and fall, the one after the other. Her sodden skirts quickly tangled, making it hard to keep her balance. “Can you climb the ladder or do I have to throw you over my shoulder?” he asked.
But she had no intention of being manhandled by him until there was no other choice. Still, she heard herself say, “Captain, sir! I am on my way to London—my business is most urgent—you must let me continue on!”
He reached for her, clearly intending to hoist her into his arms, obviously devoid of any more vestiges of patience.
Virginia whirled, grabbed the ladder, gripped her skirts and scrambled upward. But she heard no movement behind her and suddenly she had an awful notion. On one of the top rungs, she paused