Captured for the Captain's Pleasure Read online

  Apparently not. The brig’s bow was almost level with the Conchita’s stern. Please, please, let him break a mast, or foul his rudder. Anything, so they weren’t caught. Her hands gripped the parasol handle so tightly, they hurt. She snapped the blasted thing closed. Who cared about freckles when minute by minute their pursuer narrowed the patch of ocean between the ships?

  Only yards from their rail, the Union Jack on the other ship’s mast went down and the American flag rose. In the stern a large blue flag unfurled bearing the image of a gryphon in gold, all sharp claws and gleaming teeth.

  ‘I knew it,’ Richard crowed.

  Alice gritted her teeth, and yet she couldn’t help but stare in fascination at the approaching ship’s elegant lines.

  A puff of smoke emerged from the privateer’s bow. A thunderous bang struck their ears. Alice jumped. Selina’s scream pierced the deck’s planking from below. A plume of water fountained ahead of the Conchita. A warning shot. The maritime signal to halt.

  The captain issued a rapid order to the helmsman, who dragged the wheel hard over. The Conchita heeled away from their pursuer. Alice grabbed for the rail as the deck slanted away.

  ‘That surprised her,’ Richard muttered, one arm hooked around a rope.

  The privateer’s sails flapped empty of wind.

  ‘Oh, good show. She’s in irons.’ Richard hurried off to join the captain at the helm.

  ‘Not for long,’ Mr Anderson said gloomily, joining Alice at the rail. Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw Perkin emerge through the hatch and take in the scene.

  ‘You,’ an officer shouted. ‘To the yards.’

  Perkin made for the stern.

  With her heart in her throat and unable to do more than gaze with horrified fascination, Alice watched the privateer’s swift recovery. She swung across the Conchita’s wake, then clawed her way up their port side. All down the length of the sleek-looking ship, black squares of open gun ports bristled with nasty-looking muzzles.

  ‘Surely he’s not going to fire at civilians?’ she said.

  Someone came up behind her. As she turned to see who it was, a steely arm went around her waist and a pistol pressed against her temple. She stared at Perkin’s grim profile with a cry of shock.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Fulton,’ he muttered. ‘Do as you are bid and no harm will befall you.’

  ‘Captain Dareth,’ he roared. ‘Surrender.’ Her ears rang with his bellow.

  The rise of Perkin’s chest with each indrawn breath pressed hot against her back. Sparks ran down her spine and lit a glow low in her stomach in a most inappropriate way. How could she respond to this criminal with such unladylike heat?

  She jabbed Perkin’s ribs with her elbow. She might as well have poked a granite rock with her baby finger for all the notice he took. Come to think of it, his stomach gave less than granite, although she did hear a faint grunt.

  ‘Dareth,’ he yelled again.

  The captain turned, his eyes as round as marbles, his jaw dropping to his neatly knotted cravat. He stood stock-still and stared.

  Perkin cursed harshly. ‘Strike your colours, man, before someone gets hurt.’

  Even dazed with astonishment, Alice couldn’t help but notice the change in the cook from common sailor to a man used to command.

  She twisted in his grip. ‘You’re part of this.’

  ‘Silence,’ he snarled.

  A cannon boomed. A tearing rush of air whistled overhead. Then the ship seemed to disintegrate in the sound of splintering wood and the shouts. A spar, tangled with ropes and sail, slammed on to the deck. One end knocked Richard sideways. He collapsed.

  The breath rushed from Alice’s throat. She struggled to find her voice, fought to break the iron grip around her waist.

  ‘Richard,’ she screamed. She stilled at the pistol’s increased pressure. ‘Hold still,’ he growled in her ear.

  ‘Let me go. My brother needs help.’ She stamped down on his bare instep.

  He uttered a foul curse, but the rock-hard grip didn’t ease a smidgeon.

  Beside the helm, their captain’s face blanched. He gave the order to strike their colours.

  ‘About bloody time,’ Perkin muttered as their flag fluttered to the deck. ‘Heave to,’ he shouted. The helmsman brought the ship around and the sails hung limp. The other ship drew alongside and men leaped across the gap into the Conchita’s ratlines. Privateers poured on to their ship.

  ‘Get your brother below,’ Perkin said, pushing her forwards. He strode for the rail.

  Heart faltering, terrified of what she would find, she ran to Richard’s side. One end of the spar lay across his chest. Ropes and canvas littered the deck around his still body. A blue lump marred his temple. ‘Richard,’ she cried, shaking his shoulder. He didn’t move.

  She pressed her ear to his heart. A strong steady heartbeat. Thank God.

  Now if she could move this timber… With shaking hands, she crouched and grabbed one end of the huge spar. Too heavy. It didn’t move. Muscles straining, she heaved again. Hopeless. She needed help.

  She looked around wildly. For all that they looked like a motley crew, the privateers were swiftly and efficiently rounding up Conchita’s crew at pistol and sabre point. Not one of them looked her way.

  A sailor ran past. She caught his arm. ‘You. Give me a hand here.’ The grey-haired, barrel-chested gnome of a man stopped in his tracks. His button-black eyes blinked.

  ‘Help me move this spar,’ she said.

  He glanced down at Richard. ‘Aye, aye, miss.’ He pulled out a knife, held it over her brother.

  Alice’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Please. No.’

  The man slashed the ropes free and glanced up. ‘Did you say something, miss?’

  Panting, her heart still thundering too hard for speech, Alice shook her head.

  The man proceeded to lift one end of the spar and to drag it clear.

  ‘Perkin told me to get him below deck,’ she said, going to Richard’s feet. ‘You must help me.’

  The man looked blank. ‘Can’t, miss. Speak to the captain.’ He rushed off.

  She glanced around for someone else. Within the few short minutes she’d been busy with Richard, the privateers, twenty or more of them and all as rough as Perkin, had taken command of her father’s ship and were clearing the deck of torn sails, broken spars and damaged rigging. An acrid smell lingered in the air, the smell of gunpowder from the shots they had fired.

  Oh Lord, what a disaster. And they could have been killed. An enormous lump rose up from her chest and stuck firm in her throat. She swallowed the rush of panic. Richard needed help. But who would give it?

  A blond Viking of a man was striding aft issuing orders as he went. This must be the captain. She started towards him. He paused to speak to the traitorous Perkin, who appeared to have grown a foot since the privateers came on board. She marched across the deck and planted herself in front of both men. ‘My brother needs help.’

  The blond man recoiled. ‘Good God. A woman? What’s she doing on deck?’

  A shade taller than his captain and as dark as the other man was fair, Perkin muttered into the blond giant’s ear.

  ‘You, Perkin,’ she said. ‘Tell your captain this is an honest merchant ship carrying civilian passengers.’

  The blond giant raised a brow at his accomplice. ‘Michael?’

  ‘You know what to do,’ Perkin said and strode away.

  ‘Simpson,’ the captain shouted. ‘Get your sorry self over here.’

  The grey-bearded man who had freed Richard ran over.

  ‘He wants her on the Gryphon,’ the captain said.

  Her?

  Simpson’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. ‘Aye, aye, sir. This way, miss.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Alice said. ‘My brother is injured.’ She dodged around the portly fellow and dashed back to her pale and still brother.

  A hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked around to find a rough-looking sa
ilor with a drooping moustache and a tarry pigtail staring at her from mud-coloured eyes. He grinned.

  She tried not to notice the blackened stumps of his teeth. ‘Take him below.’

  The sailor’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll be happy to take ye below, missy.’

  ‘Get away from her, Kale.’

  Perkin again, with a pistol in his hand and his eyes blazing fury.

  Her insides did a strange kind of somersault. The kind that shouldn’t be happening for any man, let alone a pirate even if he had defended her.

  ‘Back to your duties, Kale,’ Perkin ordered.

  Kale seemed to shrivel. He gave a half-hearted salute. ‘Aye, sir.’ He shambled off.

  A rather red-looking Simpson appeared at Perkin’s side. Perkin gave him a frown. ‘Damnation, Simpson, get her on board the Gryphon before she causes any more trouble.’ He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to Simpson and muttered something in his ear.

  The crewman’s eyes widened, then he touched his forelock with a wink. ‘Aye, aye.’

  ‘No,’ Alice said, ‘not without Richard’, but Perkin strode off as if she hadn’t said a word.

  ‘Orders is orders, miss,’ Simpson said, his black eyes twinkling.

  He grabbed her around the waist and tossed her effortlessly over his shoulder. She landed hard on the bony point. It knocked the breath from her lungs. ‘Ouch, you brute! Put me down.’ She thumped him on the back. Kicked at his stomach. ‘I’m not going anywhere without my brother.’

  The man’s only response was a laboured grunt. He strode across the deck and dropped her into a canvas bucket hanging off the side of the ship. The scoundrels had rigged up ropes and a pulley between the ships, no doubt intending to steal everything of value.

  Oh, God. The cargo. They were ruined.

  She tried to scramble out again. ‘I can’t leave my brother.’ Or Selina. She’d be terrified witless. Who knew what a dreadful man like Kale would do? ‘My friend is below deck. You have to bring her too.’

  Simpson hopped in next to her and grasped her arm. ‘Be still, miss. I ain’t wanting to hurt ye. Haul away,’ he yelled at a sailor on the other ship handling the ropes.

  She clung to the edge of the bucket, her stomach pitching like a rowboat in a storm, staring back at the Conchita, trying to see what was happening. Was someone bending over Richard? She raised up on tiptoes. Dash it. She couldn’t see.

  Simpson must have seen her dismay, because his expression turned almost fatherly. ‘Don’t ye be worrying about yer friends. The captain will see to ’em.’

  See to them? Why didn’t that make her feel any better? Indeed, her stomach churned worse than before and her throat dried as if she’d swallowed an ocean of seawater. ‘You have to go back for them.’

  The bucket bumped against the side of the brig and Simpson hopped out. He made a grab for her. She backed away. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared. ‘Now then, miss, do as I say, or you and your friends will have more trouble than you bargained for.’

  She stilled. She had no wish to bring harm to Richard and Selina.

  An elderly seaman with a cherry-red nose traced with blue veins hurried up to them. Strands of greying hair clung to his scalp, his bloodshot-grey eyes looked anxious. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked Alice’s gaoler.

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘My brother. He’s received a blow to the head.’

  The man, the doctor she assumed, blinked. ‘Hmm. What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Captain’s orders.’

  ‘Women. Nothing but bad luck.’ He climbed into the bucket. ‘Haul away, man,’ he said to the other sailor.

  Alice clutched at Simpson’s shirt. ‘He will look at my brother, won’t he?’

  ‘That will be up to the captain.’ He must have seen the protest forming on her lips because he hurried to say, ‘If you do exactly what I says, I’ll make sure he does.’ He pushed her towards the stern, towards the ornately carved walls of the strange-looking poop-deck. It reminded her of pictures of ancient Spanish galleons, only smaller.

  Biting her lip, she let him hurry her along.

  Simpson opened a brass-fitted mahogany door and ushered her into a chamber lit by the floor-to-ceiling square-paned window angled back over the stern. Surprisingly, the cabin’s furnishings were sumptuous. A Turkish carpet covered the floor, a mahogany desk and a throne-like gilt chair occupied the centre of the room.

  Beneath a skylight, an enormous bed covered in fine white sheets filled an alcove. A black gryphon, wings spread wide, curved beak open, and lion claws raking, sprang from the headboard.

  The stuff of nightmares.

  This must be their captain’s stateroom. Why bring her here? Her heart thumped a warning. She turned to leave and found her way blocked by a sympathetic-looking Simpson.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, miss.’

  He backed out of the door. She heard the key turn in the lock.

  Make herself comfortable? Wasn’t that like telling someone falling off a cliff to enjoy the journey?

  Beyond the window, the azure sky and sparkling sea mocked her predicament.

  Chapter Two

  Eyes closed, Michael relished the cold sting of the salt-water pump as he washed away the filth of days beneath the merchantman’s decks.

  Luck had landed on his shoulder these past few days. He touched the talisman hanging on the chain around his neck in silent thanks. Fulton playing into his hands was one thing. Finding both Fulton heirs on board was like throwing a main.

  Fulton’s children at his mercy. He could kill them out of hand. Or he could make them suffer the torment of the damned he and Jaimie had suffered. The beys were always looking for infidel slaves. Or the boy could be pressed into the Navy. And the girl? She’d make a fine mistress, for a week or two.

  Something dark unfurled deep within his chest as he imagined Fulton’s despair at the loss of his children. Dark and triumphant and ugly.

  And that wouldn’t be the worst of what lay in store.

  He rinsed the soap from his hair and gestured for Jacko to cease his efforts with the pump. The monkey-faced lad flashed a salute and tossed him a towel. Michael let the water cascade from his body then dried off.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ David Wishart asked from where he leaned against the rail awaiting orders.

  Michael glanced down at the puckered red line with its spidery black stitches. ‘Courtesy of the Conchita’s cook. He argued about giving up his berth.’

  ‘Did you make him stitch you up?’

  ‘No.’ She’d done that. Alice Fulton. Needle in hand, she’d paled beneath the freckles dusting her cheeks, but to his surprise she’d done better than many a surgeon.

  He owed her for that. He hated being beholden to anyone, but a debt to a Fulton tasted bitter.

  A female Fulton to boot.

  And a bossy one. Even in his lowly position as cook, it hadn’t taken him long to realise she ruled the roost on the Conchita. She’d be his key to learning about her father, not the boy. He was too much the mooncalf to be of any use. Which was why he’d had Simpson take her to his cabin for questioning.

  She was certainly no beauty, Miss Fulton, with her serious eyes and plain round face. Nothing like her pretty friend. Yet beneath that mousy exterior lay unquiet currents. A maelstrom.

  He’d felt it beneath his hands.

  His blood ran hot, as it had when he’d had her pressed tight against his side and a pistol at her temple. As unexpected as it was unwanted.

  Hell. She was Fulton’s daughter. In his cabin. At his non-existent mercy. Except he did owe her a debt.

  Dammit.

  Jacko produced a mirror and a razor. ‘Will you shave today, Cap’n?’

  He’d planned to shave on this last leg of the journey to England in an attempt to make himself look more respectable, but the arrival of the prisoners on his ship required he chart a new course. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘Scissors, if you please.’

  He pulled a clean shirt over
his head, drew on his breeches and peered into the glass Jacko held up.

  ‘Report if you would, Mr Wishart.’ He snipped at the untidy black hair on his jaw.

  His second-in-command’s fair brow furrowed. ‘I don’t like this, Michael.’

  Michael didn’t blame him. They’d never ventured this close to Britain’s waters nor ventured into the rocky shoal of prisoners before, but Fulton, the bastard, had wandered into Michael’s net. Only a fool would ignore that kind of fortune.

  Idiot he was not and besides it was time he enjoyed fortune’s favour. Long past time.

  He dragged a comb through his hair and tied it with the black ribbon Jacko had draped over his arm. ‘Report please, David.’

  David took a deep breath. ‘The Fulton youth and the female we found below deck are in the hold under guard, along with another male civilian, who has a broken arm. Bones is with them. Hopefully, he has something for hysterics.’

  Michael glanced at his friend’s pained expression and winced. ‘That bad?’

  David’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘The civilian is doing his best to keep her calm.’ His first officer’s face resumed its troubled expression. ‘Michael, we shouldn’t keep them on board. Send them to Lisbon with the Conchita. Prisoners are a complication we don’t need.’

  David Wishart had sailed alongside Michael in one of his Majesty’s stinking frigates for five years. Since then he’d spent another three as Michael’s first officer. This was the first time he’d questioned an order. And blast it, he was right. Michael should send the Conchita’s passengers to port with the prize ship. And yet an uneasy feeling swirled in his gut as he opened his mouth to agree, a sense of something about to go wrong. A knowledge that the Fates would not appreciate him letting their gift slip so easily from his grasp.

  He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I assume you found the falsified documents, as well as the log that proves she’s operating under another nation’s flag?’

  David sighed. ‘We did. Fulton doesn’t have a leg to stand on.’

  ‘Good. Name off a crew and send the Conchita back to Lisbon. Let the admiralty decide.’ He shrugged into his waistcoat.