Captured for the Captain's Pleasure

‘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 monkeyfaced 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.

‘Aye, aye,’ David said. ‘But I still don’t like it. We aren’t much better than Fulton, flying an American flag. Those letters of marque you bought won’t stand up under close scrutiny and could land us in trouble if anyone takes the trouble to look.’

‘They won’t. You worry too much.’ Michael clapped his first officer and closest friend on the shoulder.

‘I wish you worried more. I’ll get a crew together.’ David stomped off.