Capture The Wind (11 page)

“That is not at all true!” Emily rose indignantly from the cushions beneath the portholes to glare at Saber. “Why, Miss Angela is from a very good family, and her papa owns banks and businesses that are worth a great deal of—”

“Emily!”

Horrified, Emily clapped a hand over her mouth, while Angela stared at her with a mixture of irritation and dismay. Then she turned to look at Captain Saber. His expression was cold and intent.

“So,” he drawled, and shifted to sit on the edge of his desk, “you are valuable after all, Miss Angela. How interesting. Am I supposed to shout ‘Aha!’ and send a ransom note to your rich papa now?”

“I hardly think—“

“Don’t worry. I still don’t give tuppence for what your papa is worth, so all this acting is useless.” He uncoiled from his casual posture and moved to her, his action so swift that she had no time to retreat before he’d caught her by one arm. “Listen carefully,” he ground out, his face only inches from hers, so close that she could count each individual eyelash and view at close range the scar that curved from his left eyebrow to his cheek. “I detest females who manipulate those around them. I have no intention of keeping you aboard my ship any longer than absolutely necessary. As soon as we come to a safe harbor, I am putting you ashore. I don’t give a damn about recompense, only the vast relief I shall feel at knowing that I do not have to suffer you aboard my ship any longer. Is that clear enough?”

It seemed that they had inadvertently stepped on his toes, and she tried to recall exactly what had provoked this reaction. Saber’s icy blue eyes were heated with hostility. She managed a nod, more disturbed than she would have liked to admit.

“Good,” he said. “Do not treat me to any more of your ridiculous histrionics, or I may actually succumb to my growing desire to see you lashed to the shrouds.”

Releasing her with a shove, Captain Saber turned to scoop up the map he’d spread out. He rolled it into a cylinder with swift, furious motions, then stalked from the cabin. The door slammed loudly behind him.

Shaken, Angela stared after him. “What a moody individual,” she said after a moment, and then heard Emily’s soft sob. She flashed her a look of irritation. “Oh, do be quiet. At least we now know that he does not intend to sell us or hold us for ransom.” She frowned. “But he
is
a pirate. What does he consider a safe harbor, I wonder?”

“Stupid, idiotic females,”
Kit snarled, wresting Turk’s attention from his breakfast to his captain.

Lifting a brow, Turk asked “Do I detect a singular note of hostility, Captain?”

“Not a single note—a roaring symphony of hostility would more closely describe my emotions at this moment.”

Kit flung the leather chart cylinder to the table and straddled a bench. Rigging creaked loudly in the rising wind. Two of the crew slanted wary glances at him as they finished their meal. Kit nodded curtly, then lapsed into seething silence until the men had left the mess room. He looked up at Turk.

Turk eyed him speculatively. “I see that the regal Miss Angela has managed to arouse your ire early this morning.”

“I would have done better to have sent Mr. Buttons to fetch the chart. As it is, I’ve already been accused of trafficking in slave trade, and possibly pandering. Not to mention abduction of an English gentlewoman who is, I’ve been informed, worth a great deal to her doting, rich papa.” Kit raked his clenched fist across the scarred wooden table in an irritated motion. “There are times, Turk, that piracy and its attending profits can be quite attractive.”

“Am I to deduce from that cryptic statement that you plan on ransoming Miss Angela to her wealthy parent?” Turk dipped a carved wooden spoon into his bowl of oatmeal, eyeing Kit with a quizzical expression while he ate.

“Not necessarily. If her papa has any sense, he would insist that I keep her. It’s just that the options described to me as worthy of a pirate seem infinitely preferable to keeping her aboard.”

“Ah, you’ve still not forgiven her for her
 . . .
low blow, so to speak.”

Kit narrowed his eyes at Turk’s bland expression. “Why do you say that?”

“You’re not normally so irascible this early.”

“Normally, I’m not accused of slave trading this early. Nor am I forced to view two witless females in various stages of undress in my comfortable cabin, while I spent the night coughing in a hammock on the quarterdeck.”

Frowning, Turk took a sip of strong, aromatic tea. “You are aware of the method to cure that particular affliction, so I cannot feel too much sympathy.”

“Hell, that again?” Kit groaned. “I’d rather cough than eat seaweed and rice, thank you.”

“A most foolish preference. However, it’s your ailing constitution, not mine. Proper nutrition would enhance your health immensely. A macrobiotic diet is the most effective manner of ridding your system of unhealthy poisons.”

“I would rather not get into this discussion with you again. It’s boring and not at all productive. I refuse to eat food that even a sheep would scorn, thank you.”

“Very well. Continue with your present menu and your internal organs will one day rebel completely.”

“Then you can say ‘I told you so.’ Until then, however, I would appreciate it if you would not harp on my diet, my constitution, or my unappreciation of your concern. Let us return to the former topic of conversation, if you please.”

Turk nodded. “I bow to your wishes under protest. Dare I ask why you did not send Mr. Buttons to fetch the chart from your cabin for you?”

“Of course. He would have been only too delighted at the opportunity. If I had, he would still be there standing on his tongue, however.”

Kit raked a hand through his hair, trying to sort through the conflicting emotions that ranged from irritation to a vague uneasiness he couldn’t quite place. Why should he be uneasy? The women in his cabin meant nothing to him—beyond a certain obscure pang of sympathy now and then. Yet the memory of Angela clad in a brief chemise that did nothing to hide her charms was a stinging one.

Recalling the upthrust of her breasts against the thin material, the curve of her hips, and the exposure of her long, slender legs still made him physically uncomfortable. At the time he’d not been able to move, but had stood like a boy paralyzed by the sight of his first woman. He’d been only too grateful that she hadn’t noticed his reaction.

Nothing was as it should be. By all rights, the girl should be cowering in a dark corner and be only too willing to cooperate. Kit could recall his own feelings of helplessness as a youth caught in the same sort of situation, and supposed he’d thought she might feel the same.

Helpless. Not her. Helpless as a panther, perhaps. Even Rollo had regarded the illustrious Miss Angela with a wary eye, a most unusual reaction for the intrepid bird.

“Here,” Turk said. “Have a slice of dried apple. It will improve your health if not your temper.”

Kit glared at him, but took the dried fruit. Chewing it, he muttered, “I knew it was a bad idea to bring those women aboard.”

“And still you persisted. How noble.” Turk’s brow lifted at Kit’s surly snarl. “Look at it from another perspective, if you will. The lady obviously does not expect much courtesy from a man reviled as a scourge of the seas. What would you think if you were Miss Angela?”

“I’d think it would be wise to keep my sharp tongue firmly between my teeth instead of prodding the man who held my fate in his hands. Prod the wrong man and situations can grow nasty.”

“Yes, we’ve both experienced that consequence. Miss Angela, I fear, has yet to suffer any graver consequence than missing her afternoon tea.”

Kit reflected on that for a moment. Turk’s casual comment presented an attractive idea. He smiled slightly. “Perhaps I should educate her.”

Turk took another sip of the Japanese tea he favored.

“There are some educations that are beneficial, while others are best averted. Do you think it considerate to educate her in that respect?”

“Not considerate, perhaps.” Kit met Turk’s gaze. “But necessary if she stays another night aboard this ship.”

“I see that you are not to be dissuaded from that end.”

“No. I think that Miss Angela Whomever should learn the vagaries of pirate captains when unwisely prodded.”

“Do you.” Turk applied his knife industriously to the slice of dried apple, dissected it neatly, then speared the individual bites with the tip. After a moment of silence, he looked up. “It would undeniably be a propitious lesson, but I wonder for whom?”

Kit stared at him. “Just what the devil do you mean by that?”

“I anticipate that we shall see soon enough.”

“I hate it when you look superior and talk in riddles.” Kit rose from the bench and retrieved the leather cylinder from where it had rolled to the edge of the table. Only the fiddles, small racks wisely placed to keep skidding dishes still on the table, kept the cylinder from tumbling to the floor. He held the leather in one hand, sliding his fingers absently over the smooth surface as he wondered what it was about the women that made their fates appeal to Turk. Normally abstaining from any sort of involvement with strangers, and particularly women, the voluble giant had inexplicably gathered these two strays under his wing.

He turned to look at Turk. “I shall be below terrifying the two English misses if you decide to join me. Wear appropriate attire for properly terrorizing them, please. I do not wish to seem the only savage aboard.”

Turk waited until Kit had reached the open door of the galley before he murmured loud enough for him to hear, “But you are the fiercest savage aboard.”

Angela had almost decided to brave the unknown by going above deck, when she heard the latch lift on the cabin door. She exchanged a quick glance with Emily and rose to her feet, holding tightly to the back of a chair to keep her balance.

It was not a surprise to see the pirate captain enter, and she recognized from his expression that he was still in a nasty mood. The door swung back to bang against the wall, and his steps were firm on the portion of planked floor between rug and threshold. Angela’s grip on the curved back of the chair loosened, and the chair tilted sharply away with a clatter, as if it were a wild creature bucking from beneath her grasp. She grabbed at it in vain, and barely kept her balance.

“Sit down before you fall and expect me to pick you up again,” Saber shot in her direction as he crossed to his desk. He immediately became absorbed in a large ledger that he pulled from a shelf. Dark head bent, he propped one hand against the gleaming surface of the desk and used the other to riffle the pages. He took up a goose quill pen and scratched notations on one of the pages, apparently forgetting the two captives.

Angela righted the chair and exchanged a quick glance with Emily, who looked close to hysterics again. Gathering her flagging courage, she blurted, “Emily is better but still weak. Do you intend to feed us this morning?”

He looked up. An unfriendly light glittered in sharp blue eyes. “Eventually. Are you always so governed by your stomach?”

Before she could splutter an angry reply, a pirate appeared at the open door. He was young and muscular, with gold eyes and a long shock of dark hair that fell halfway down his back in a glossy ribbon. Garbed in the disturbing attire—or half-attire—of the other pirates, somehow it seemed to fit him. A sleeveless leather vest hung loosely over his bare chest, and snug-fitting buff breeches ended in knee-high boottops. His amber-gilt glance moved from the women to Saber.

“Begging your pardon, Cap’n, but Mr. Buttons says you wanted to see me.”

Saber nodded. “I do. I have a task for you.” He straightened and indicated Emily. “Dylan, please escort this young lady to the mess and see that she is fed. I will depend upon your gallantry to see that no harm comes to her.”