Capture The Wind (12 page)

The pirate brightened, and looked at Emily with a friendly smile. “It will be my pleasure, sir.”

Emily didn’t protest when he gave her his arm and drew her up to escort her from the cabin, but she shot a doubtful glance at Angela. Her lower lip trembled.

“Captain Saber,” Angela said immediately, hoping to prevent more hysteria, “we do not wish to be separated.”

“But you do wish for Emily to be fed, do you not? While she is eating, I have something to discuss with you.”

There was nothing she could do, and Angela watched dismally as Emily was led from the cabin. Saber looked back down at his ledger, apparently absorbed in it. Minutes passed, and still he had not spoken or even seemed to recall that she was in the same cabin with him. She stirred restlessly, hoping that she could remain on her feet without losing her balance.

At last he looked up at her, and she felt an odd lurching in the pit of her stomach. Instinctively, she met his gaze with a steady stare. He would not see her cower, no matter how frightened she really was.

Saber did not seem to admire her courage, or perhaps he did not notice it. He moved to the front of the desk and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his half-covered chest. His gaze was hard, with no hint of sympathy or mercy.

Angela’s nerves grew taut when he continued to stare at her so coldly. She almost jumped when he finally rasped, “A woman aboard ship is considered unlucky by most crews.”

She calmed her jittery nerves. “Really? I thought only barge fishermen were prone to such superstition.”

“While I do not encourage superstition, neither do I proscribe it,” Saber growled. “I much prefer having a calm voyage, with no complaints brought before the mast. If I hear complaints about our new passengers being too much trouble, or causing problems in
any type of manner, I will be forced to take—distasteful action. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. You intend to discipline any sailor prone to complaining.”

He straightened. “No. I intend to rid myself of the problem’s cause with little delay. As we are at open sea, my only option may be to jettison the source. One piece at a time, if I must. Now am I clear?”

She clutched the chair back more tightly. “Very clear.”

“Excellent.”

His gaze rested on her face, making her think of a wary wolf. His long, lean frame looked relaxed, almost indolent. Yet beneath that careless facade lay a ruthless purpose that she had only briefly glimpsed on the main deck of the Scrutiny. Captain Turnower was fortunate to have been given at least a chance to escape.

She swallowed, and hoped her expression did not betray her. For a long, tense moment, there was only the sound of creaking timbers and vague ship’s noises in the cabin, then Saber’s boots scuffed over the thick pile of the carpet as he moved toward her.

She tensed, expecting the worst. When he stopped in front of her, she noticed once again how tall he was, so tall he seemed to blot out the light streaming dustily through the high gallery windows across the cabin stern. He made her feel small and helpless, and she hated the feeling of inadequacy and fear that shot through her. To counteract it, she took a step back and lifted her chin, mimicking the gesture she had seen her aunt make numerous times. It had been most effective in the past.

“Keep your distance, Captain. I do not care to be intimidated.”

Saber’s eyes narrowed ominously. His face tightened to a harsh mask. Without warning, his hand shot out to curl around her wrist in a ruthless grip. He drew her closer.

“I don’t think you understand your true situation.”

She tried to pull away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The hell you don’t. This is not some tea party, or a boring night at Almack’s.”

“What would a man like you know of Almack’s Assembly Rooms?” she snapped, jerking her arm from his grasp. “I seriously doubt that you’ve ever seen the inside of any decent house, much less an esteemed establishment such as Almack’s. Why, Lady Castlereagh would faint at the sight of a rogue such as you.”

“Would she?” Saber’s mouth curled into a mocking smile. “Somehow, I think Lady Castlereagh is made of sterner stuff than that. In fact, I happen to know the arrogant, oddly garbed Emily is quite formidable in her way.”

Angela paused. He sounded much too certain of himself about Lady Castlereagh. Perhaps he did know her. It hardly seemed possible, given his chosen career, though he affected the airs of a gentleman with perfect ease. That, of course, was only magnificent theatrics. But what if he had somehow chanced to meet Lady Castlereagh? As John Lindell was well known in those circles, her last name would then be familiar to him. It could be her salvation or her downfall, and she did not yet know which. She quickly formed another assault.

“At any rate, you needn’t assume that I am not well aware of my situation here, Captain. I have managed to fall victim to pirates—any woman’s worst nightmare. Do not deceive yourself, sir. I am properly terrified.”

Saber seemed faintly startled by her tart rebuttal and stared at her for a long, tense moment. The ship creaked and groaned, rising and falling in a ceaseless motion that might have made Angela queasy if she’d allowed herself to dwell on it. Instead, she focused on Saber’s narrowed blue eyes and contemplative scowl. Finally he gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“I came down here to terrorize you into submission. I did not expect such easy capitulation.”

“How dismaying for you. Should I put up a defiant front to assuage your disappointment?”

“It would salvage some of my pride,” he said wryly, and moved to lean back against the edge of his desk. Still gazing at her, he raked a hand through the dark strands of his hair. “Most females would be swooning in despair by this time. How have I failed?”

“As I pointed out to you—you have not failed. It’s just that I am too terrified to swoon. Pray, forgive me.”

“Bloody hell,” he commented, and pushed away from the desk. “You’re a cool one, Miss Angela. I’ll give you that much.”

“Am I to say thank you? Or was that not a compliment?”

Saber paused to stare at her thoughtfully. After a moment he murmured, “Why don’t you do us both a favor, and say what is on your mind?”

She drew in a deep breath. He seemed serious. Was it possible that he might have a touch of decency after all?

“Very well,” she replied. “Emily and I cannot decide if you are monster or myth. We have heard so many stories that it is hard to separate fact from fiction. Are you what they say you are, Captain Saber?”

A slight smile tilted his mouth up at one corner. “And what do they say I am, Miss Angela? Murderer? I’ve killed men, though I can’t say I’ve derived any satisfaction from it. Pirate? Quite true. Though at times, I’ve stolen things that belong to me, so I’m not quite certain what that does to my redoubtable reputation as a thief and scourge of the seven seas.”

He took a step closer, his voice lowering to a husky timbre that sent chills chasing down her spine. One hand lifted to caress her cheek, then slid around to cup her neck in his palm. His fingers gently massaged her nape, and the breath caught in her throat at his ministrations. He smiled.

“What was it your Miss Emily spouted last night? That I am known as—let me see—a
defiler of damsels?
As for that reputation, I gladly plead
 . . .
” His hand shifted, fingers tightening in her hair to draw her head back. Angela’s throat closed, and her heart beat so fast and hard she was certain he could hear it. Saber’s voice was a husky whisper when he finished, “. . . guilty. I plead guilty, Miss Angela.”

She closed her eyes as his face blotted out the rest of the cabin, and when his mouth brushed against her lips, she shivered. Saber laughed softly, and caressed her throat with his free hand. His thumb slid over her bottom lip in a slow, silky glide, curiously rough and soft at the same time. She felt her mouth quiver, then open as his grip shifted to apply gentle pressure. Saber made another sound, this one more of a sigh, and his mouth covered hers. Shockingly, his tongue slid between her lips, heated velvet that tasted like apple. The anomaly startled her, and her eyes flew open.

Saber’s exploring tongue made a brief, sizzling foray that drew a whimper of protest from her, and he paused. His eyelids lifted slightly, and he gazed at her through the thick bristle of his lashes. Still, he did not relea
se
her, though his mouth barely grazed her lips.

“No. Don’t,” he said against her mouth. “It’s best to just surrender to the magic.”

Magic? Her head was whirling, and she was suddenly certain she was as green as Emily in the throes of her
mal de mer.
Almost desperately, she tried to pull away from him before he could wreak more havoc on her rebellious system.

She wanted to push him away, but balked at the contemplation of putting her hand against the taut contours of his bare chest. It would probably ignite a fire, just to touch that smooth flex of sculpted muscle. She leaned away, but still he held her in an iron grip; he shifted one hand to press against the small of her back, holding her body against his. A shudder ran through her. She felt light-headed and weak, and dug her fingers into his upper arms to keep from sliding to the cabin floor in a humiliating heap.

“Please,” she heard herself whimper, sounding as if her voice came from a great distance.

Saber laughed softly. Her scalp stung from the pressure of the grip he had on her hair as he tilted back her head. He pulled her into him with an inflexible pressure so that she felt the hard length of his body against hers from breasts to thighs. Her breasts were crushed against him, and even through her bombazine skirts, she could feel his taut, muscular thighs burning against hers. The buckle of his belt nudged against her stomach with an almost painful jab.

“Captain
 . . .
Saber
 . . .
you must
 . . .
stop,” she managed to get out in a husky rasp that only made him hold her more tightly against him. Her senses were swimming in dizzying whirls, and she felt as if she would truly swoon. Was this what he had meant? This giddy confusion that enveloped her with the contradiction of pleasure and torment? It must be, because he seemed to be enjoying it, and obviously had every intention of prolonging her misery.

His hand stroked leisurely along her spine, then slid to cup her bottom in his palm and lift her against him. She moaned, and he bent to kiss the sensitive spot in front of her ear. Another shiver racked her, and Angela felt her confusion dissolve into turmoil. An ache ignited somewhere in her middle. She shifted, and he put a hand on the swell of her breast, long fingers gently caressing her.

It was such a shock—no man had ever touched her there before—that Angela could not move or react. She stood in paralyzed tension, breath caught in her throat as he began to lightly tease her breast. The cabin seemed to tilt, and the floor shifted away as Saber provoked a heated response with his touch and his mouth. She was shaking all over, and a deep, throbbing pulse began between her thighs.

Dear God, what was he doing? It felt as if she had a fever, but chills made her shiver as his lips traced a light path over the curve of her neck and along her jawline to her other ear. Her eyes were closed though she couldn’t recall shutting them, and her head was tilted back in helpless surrender. It was insane, and she dimly realized that she should be offering resistance, but she had never before encountered such a barrage of intense sensations. The atmosphere of calculated intimidation did nothing to diminish her reaction, but only heightened it. She had been in a state of apprehension for too many hours to retain a sufficient degree of resistance, and she was appallingly aware of it.

Disaster loomed. It danced upon the hands of the man who held her much too close and touched her way too intimately, and she was helpless to prevent it. She, who had always been in control of her actions and emotions, was now adrift in a sea of heated responses that could have only one ending
 . . .
It was enough to make her nauseous, and she struggled against the desire to become violently ill all over Saber’s shiny black boots.

But then he released her and took a step back, though he kept one hand on her shoulder as if to steady her. “There,” he said briskly, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Shakily, she touched her lips with her fingertips and croaked, “Bad?”

Saber smiled faintly. “As opposed to good. You did seem to like it, you know”

Heat burned her cheeks, this time from a righteous indignation at what he had done, as well as what he now suggested.

“You cad!” she spat, and was hardly gratified to hear him laugh.

“Cad? Is that the best you can do, Miss Angela? I am convinced we shall have to improve your education in the proper use of profanity. An afternoon topside with a few of my crew should do it.” He rubbed his hands together and said, “Now that you and I seem to have established a certain rapport, perhaps we should discuss the new bunking arrangements.”

“Bunking arrangements?” she echoed dazedly. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Why, in view of our newfound—shall we say
 . . .
interests?—I think it much more palatable for us to snuggle cozily in my bunk than to snatch stolen moments in shadowy corners. Do you have a problem with that?”