Captured For The Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge

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      The cabin seemed stuffy all at once, airless and hot. The skin on her scalp tightened the way it did before a lightning storm and she knew she had to bring the evening to a close. Somehow she had to end this tête-à-tête on a friendly note.

      She stood and carried her glass to the window on legs that felt the way they did the first moments on land after a long voyage. Like wet rags. Unfortunately, this voyage was far from over and a storm loomed on the horizon.

      She gazed out into the dark, breathing in the salt air. ‘I must thank you for a pleasant evening.’

      Cat-like, on silent feet, he appeared behind her, his face reflected in the glass over her shoulder, his smile a glimmer of white. The warmth radiating from his body fired off a storm of heat in her own. A demented blush from head to toe, thankfully hidden in the dark reflection.

      ‘You were right about me,’ he said, his voice low, his body warm at her back. ‘Once, I also had all the advantages of wealth and position.’ Deep beneath the easy tone, she heard great sorrow.

      She resisted the urge to sympathise. She’d heard many similar tales. It was the women she pitied. ‘Did you lose your money in one of London’s hells? Is that why you prey on ships? Stealing what you lost?’ It happened all the time. Fortunes won and lost in a night. Men who committed suicide in the cold light of the following day.

      She shuddered. At least Father preferred the comfort of brandy.

      His reflected gaze skewered her like a blade. ‘I can never replace what I lost.’

      The depth of pain in those words scoured her ridiculously soft heart like sand carried on a desert wind. ‘You lost the family estate?’

      The silence stretched taut and painful. The urge to fill it, to pretend things were normal, brought words to her lips. ‘What will you do when the war is over? When there are no more letters of marque? When peace allows no ships to be taken?’

      The long exhale of breath, a sigh of longing he probably wasn’t aware of. ‘I plan to return to England where I have unfinished business.’

      ‘You think you will be welcome?’

      ‘A man with money is always welcome.’

      A bitter truth. She said nothing.

      ‘What about you, Miss Fulton? What do you hope for? A husband? Children?’ He breathed softly in her ear. ‘A lover on the side?’

      Her nipples tightened, felt sensitive against her stays. Furious at herself, she spun around to face him.

      Chest to chest they stared at each other. His eyes glittered dangerously. A sign of intoxication? Or anger?

      He clasped his warm hand over hers on the stem of her glass. Hot against her cold skin. The diamond-sharp facets pressed into her palm. ‘You tremble, Miss Fulton. I wonder why?’ Holding her gaze, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the table.

      His eyes turned slumberous. A sensual awareness flashed between them too strong to ignore. It had been there all night, connecting them with a filament of heat. Now, standing close to him, the minute sliver of air between their bodies practically crackled.

      His lips hovered a few inches from hers. The warmth of his body washed up against her skin. He was going to kiss her. A mad kind of yearning filled her empty heart. She swayed closer. Her eyelids fluttered shut. The scent of sandalwood cologne and fresh sea air filled her nostrils.

      He cursed.

      She blinked.

      He pressed his fingertips to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

      Michael stared at her. Wrong? For a moment he didn’t recognise the word as a flash of light seared jagged through the space behind his eyes.

      ‘Are you in pain?’ Her voice was soft, gentle and kind. Her hazel eyes filled with concern. ‘Is it your arm?’

      Why the hell did Alice Fulton have to be kind? ‘I’m all right.’

      Another stab, more insistent. Why was this happening now? Right when he had everything in his grasp.

      She tilted her head in puzzlement. ‘Perhaps a fever brought on by your wound?’

      He stared at her, the words garbling in his head, the lights in the cabin unbearably bright. ‘Get out.’ The words came out like the snarl of a wild beast.

      She backed away.

      Another flash of light. Her face wavered, blurred, then righted. He had less than half an hour.

      Another round of flickering stabs. This time behind his forehead. Any moment now he’d be a useless shipwreck cast up on the beach of his aching head.

      Too much wine. Why the hell had he drunk so much?

      The pain spiked. He rubbed his temples, seeking relief. A grinding throb set up home at the base of his skull.

      No holding this one off. He grabbed for her again. ‘You’re leaving.’

      Her eyes widened, filling with fear. He didn’t care. He had to get her out of here. He would not let her see him brought to his knees.

      ‘It’s your head,’ she said. ‘Let me—’

      ‘No,’ he said, tugging cruelly hard on her wrist.

      Anger. A hot raging beast he couldn’t control crawled up his throat. ‘Move.’ Dragging her along, he strode for the door. He flung it open.

      ‘Simpson,’ he roared. ‘Take her to the hold.’ Peering through the blinding haze, he thrust her outside. Simpson would see to her. He wouldn’t let him down.

      God damn it all.

      Thoughts whipped around in his head like storm-damaged rigging in a gale. Faces skittered across his memory. Meg falling. His beloved mother and father surrounded by flames. And Jaimie.

      The light from the candles burned through his closed eyelids. Barbed arrows tore into his brain. The urge to hit something bunched his muscles. He stormed around his cabin, flinging things aside, looking for the source of his pain. The light.

      The punishing light.

      ‘Simpson,’ he bellowed. ‘Where the hell are you?’

      A flicker of sanity gave him the answer. Gone with the girl. The daughter of his enemy.

      He found the bed and ripped off the covers. Found the hooks. Nausea rose in his throat. He gripped the blanket in both fists.

      ‘The light,’ he whispered. ‘For God’s sake, someone douse the bloody light.’

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