The Prize. Brenda Joyce

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      “SIR. SHE’S GONE BELOW,” Gus said.

      Devlin allowed his first mate to handle the ship’s helm but he stood beside him, studying the racing clouds, the graying light, acutely aware of the sudden drop in temperature. A gale was blowing in and his every instinct, honed by eleven years at sea, told him it would be a nasty one.

      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.