The Prize (12 page)

There was still time,
however, before he needed to reef in the topsails. Now he hoped to outrun the
storm, although doing so was pushing them off course.

And the girl was in
his cabin. A pair of huge violet eyes, angry and outraged, assailed his mind's
eye. They were set in a small, finely formed face. Dismissing the unwanted images,
he glanced at Gus, who was blushing. "Give you a hard time, did she?"
He could not help but find Gus's discomfort amusing.

Gus hesitated.
"She's very brave for such a small lady, sir."

He turned away with a
grunt. Brave? That was an understatement. Her huge violet eyes had been
disturbing him ever since he had had the misfortune to finally meet the Earl of
Eastleigh's American niece. He didn't know whether to be

truly amused by her
antics, or genuinely furious with her lack of respect and subordination. The
girl was as small as a child of thirteen, but he was a fine judge of character
and she had the courage of ten grown men. Not that he cared. She was a hostage
and a means to an end.

He had been expecting
a refined lady with equally refined airs, a fully grown and experienced woman
like Elizabeth, a woman he might consider bedding just to sweeten the pot. He
had not anticipated a pint-size hellion who would try to murder him with a
sniper shot and then had dared attack him again, this time with the butt of a
pistol.

It was not amusing.
Devlin stalked to the side of the quarterdeck, raising spyglasses to his eyes.
A heavy feeling simmered in the pit of his loins, dangerous and hot, and it
was the seed of a huge, terrible lust.

His mouth twisted
mirthlessly as he gazed through the binoculars. Fucking
Eastleigh
's niece was a terrible
temptation. The savage blood lust smoldering in him felt far greater than any
lust he'd ever experienced before, perhaps because the girl was just that, more
child than woman, making the act even more vicious and brutal. He knew it would
add to the triumph of his revenge. But he hadn't lied when he had said he did
not rape and neither did his men. It was not allowed. He was a man, not a
monster. He had, in fact, been raised by both his mother, his father and his
stepfather to be a gentleman. And he supposed that when he infrequently
attended a ball or affair of state, it was assumed that he was just that. But
he was not. No
gentleman
could ever triumph on the high seas, not in war
and not in peace. No
gentleman
could amass a real fortune by seizing
prize after prize. His crew would never obey a
gentleman.
Still, ruining
an eighteen-year-old virgin was simply not an option, even if he was intrigued
enough to be thinking about it.

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.

200                           

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.

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.