36. Thief of Hearts (Teresa Medeiros)

I heart pirates

Synopsis from Amazon:
Prim and pampered, Lucina Snow knew little of men and nothing of danger, until the fog-shrouded night she found herself abducted — and at the mercy of the legendary Captain Doom. Ruthless and mocking, tender and virile, the notorious pirate awakened all Lucy's passionate longings, then abandoned her with nothing but a kiss .... Now safely at home, the alluring waif is tormented by treacherous memories — and by the presence of Gerard Claremont, her mysterious new bodyguard. Everything about him, from his forbidding size to his impertinent manner, sparks her defiance. And even when Gerard's smile turns seductive, no one can make her forget Doom. Yet only when Lucy's path crosses the captain's once more, will she learn who is on a voyage of retribution, and who is out to steal her heart ....

My rating: 5 stars

Excerpt:

Prologue

London

1780

His mother's scream sliced through the fabric of the night.

Its agonized timbre went unheeded amidst the rattling cart wheels, bawling street vendors, cooing prostitutes, and clamor of voices outside the narrow crib. The boy crouched beside a pile of quilts and pressed a rusted dipper against his mother's lips. Brackish water trickled down her chin.

"There now, Ma. Try to drink a bit," he urged.

As she attempted a feeble swallow, the boy's nervous gaze flicked to her distended abdomen. Its bloated contours were an obscene contrast to her flaccid skin and prominent ribs.

She was too old to be having this baby, he thought frantically. Nearly a month past twenty-eight. Her fingernails dug into his knuckles as another bout of agony seized her. The dipper slid from his hand. He clenched his teeth against his own cry of pain and held fast to her hands, fighting the despairing litany that drowned out even her screams. Too old. Too thin. Too poor.

Her fingers slowly relaxed as she lapsed into exhausted stupor. Her silence frightened him more than her screams. It was as if she'd surrendered her last pathetic hope of relief. He was reaching to shake her awake when the door behind him burst open.

A man stumbled in, his rumpled uniform marking him as a sailor. "Molly!" he bellowed, his breath reeking of gin. "Where's my pretty girl?"

The boy leaped to his feet. "Out, damn y'! Y've no right to burst in here like y' own the bloody place!"

The boy was shocked by his own virulence. The man might even be the father of this child, he thought, before realizing bitterly that it could be any one of a dozen men.

The sailor blinked stupidly at him, more addled by gin than given to petty cruelty. "Damn your insolence, whelp! I been at sea for ten months without so much as a kiss from a comely chit." He lifted his fist to cuff the boy out of the way. "No need to be jealous, lad. There's ample room 'tween thighs as willin' as Molly's."

Futile rage tinged the boy's vision with scarlet. Without even realizing the gravity of what he was doing, he snatched up the paring knife his mother had laid out to cut the baby's cord. His ears roared with the remembered grunts and groans of all the men his mother had bedded to put bread in his mouth.

He brandished the knife like a sword. "Out of here, mate," he said softly, "before I carve y' a new gullet."

The sailor lowered his fist, sobered by the unflinching light in the boy's eyes. He'd sailed in the Royal Navy for over twenty years as an able seaman, thumbing his nose at the death-spewing cannons of both pirates and Frenchies, but now his nostrils twitched as if he could already scent his own spilled blood.

Before he could retreat, a hoarse whimper, more animal than human, arose from the shadows behind the boy. The lad spun around and dropped to his knees beside the tattered quilts. The sailor peered over his narrow shoulders, catching a glimpse of sunken cheeks, stark eyes, and the tortured contractions of a swollen abdomen.

His stomach rebelled. Most of his mates were eager to spill their seed, but only too happy to be at full sail when it took root. He clapped a hand over his mouth and stumbled out of the hovel, knowing with a sailor's instinct that he had witnessed not only impending birth, but impending death.

"The babe's comin', lad," Molly whispered through cracked lips.

The intruder forgotten, the boy fumbled with the things she had commanded he fetch. A basin of cloudy water. A nest of rags. A length of dirty twine. Swallowing his fear, he drew back the sheet that covered her legs.

She arched off the quilts and bit her bottom lip until it pearled with blood, but she did not make another sound until the tiny creature spilled into her son's waiting hands. A groan of pure relief broke from her throat.

The boy followed her whispered instructions, refusing to look at the cause of her pain, already hating it for what it would cost him. He swaddled it in the rags, then laid it in the crook of her arm.

As she gazed into her baby's face, the echo of a smile trembled on her lips, giving her son a heartbreaking glimpse of the beauty that must have once enchanted his father.

When he would have turned away from the sight, she clutched his arm, searching his fine features as avidly as she had searched the babe's. "Y're a good boy, son. Just like y'r pa. Don't ever forget it."

He closed his eyes against the bittersweet refrain. If his pa was so fine, why had he left them for the sea? Why had he chosen her salty grave over the adoration of a wife who would have waited forever for his return?

A wisp of a sigh rose from the quilt. He lifted his head to find his mother's eyes as barren as his hopes. A burning knot tightened in his throat. He leaned over and kissed her cool brow.

"Night, Ma," he whispered, gently closing her eyes.

The alien creature was beginning to squirm in her limp arm. The boy eyed it with distaste, then reluctantly reached for it as he knew his mother would have wished. It. He refused to think of it as anything else. As he drew it toward his chest, his trembling legs folded beneath the weight of responsibility.

He would have to find a girl to nurse it. He should have no trouble there. Births were as common as deaths in this twisting warren of alleys. His disgruntled gaze lingered on the thing's face. He supposed he should wash it. It was dirty, but when had anything clean ever come from this place? It would be coughing up soot like the rest of them soon enough.

He stroked a finger down the babe's cheek, marveling that anything so chubby had emerged from his mother's wasted flesh. Their gazes met, the baby's unfocused, his sullen. Curiosity overcame his disgust and he unwound the rags.

Amazed at the miniature perfection, he felt his lips twitch in bemusement. "Well, lad, it seems y've got all the right equipment."

Lad. Boy. Brother.

His brother. A wave of protectiveness crested in him as his arms tightened around the tiny bundle. The poor creature had no mother. Tears of grief welled in his eyes; he dashed them away. At least he'd had a pa to give him a name. This little bugger had no one. No one but him.

From outside the crib, a roar of drunken laughter mocked his fresh emotions. He couldn't bear another moment trapped with the empty shell that had been his mother. Cradling the baby awkwardly against his chest, he rose and ducked into the chaos of the night.

No one paid him any heed as he rushed down the cobbled alley, blindly seeking the one place where he might wash the stench of birth and death from his nostrils. The graceful spars of the docked ships soared into the night sky, drawing him like a beacon.

Was this what had drawn his father? he wondered, dropping to his knees on the rough planking. The siren song of the waves lapping gently at the pilings?

He knew what he had to do. He had to take his brother away from here. To a place where the scent of the sea wasn't befouled by the oily stench of the river.

He drew back the rags to gaze into the puckish face God had entrusted to his care. "I'll take y' away, lad," he whispered. "I swear I'll find a place where we both can breathe."

His little brother's flailing fist struck him square in the nose. The boy threw back his head and laughed, his misgivings tempered by a fierce surge of joy.

Chapter 1

The English Channel

1802

"Aye, there's some that says he's the ghost o' Captain Kidd come back from the dead to revenge hisself on those who betrayed him."

Lucy Snow peeked over the top of her book, finding the lure of such torrid gossip more irresistible than the modestly titled, self-published memoirs of Lord Howell: Nautical Genius of the Century her father had provided for her journey. The creeping shadows of twilight had made reading nearly impossible anyway.

Unaware of her scrutiny, the sailor leaned against a barrel, his ancient bones creaking in harmony with the deck of the HMS Tiberius. His audience consisted of a handful of sailors and a starry-eyed cabin boy. "None's ever seen him and lived to tell of it. Some say only a glance from his evil eye'll skewer you to the deck like a bolt o' lightning. Aye, bold and ruthless is Captain Doom."

Lucy sniffed back a derisive snort. Captain Doom indeed. This mythical pirate was beginning to sound like a character in one of the dreadful Gothic novels Lord Howell's flighty daughter Sylvie insisted on reading.

One young sailor was of like mind. Lucy wrinkled her nose as he spat a wad of tobacco on the freshly scrubbed deck of the modest frigate. "Balderdash! I heard the stories, too, but I says it's nothin' but rum talkin'. There ain't been true pirates in these waters for o'er seventy-five years." He tilted his hat to a cocky angle, underscoring the brashness of his youth. "We ain't livin' in lawless times like Captain Kidd. This bloke'd be more likely to get his timbers shivered by the Channel Fleet than not."

Knowing her father would not have approved either her eavesdropping or interrupting what was meant to be a private conversation, Lucy bit back an agreement. The war with France had lapsed into tentative truce with the Peace of Amiens, but the quieter the winds blew from Napoleon's burgeoning empire, the more nervous the Royal Navy became. This Captain Doom would have to be either foolhardy or foolish to put himself in their eager cannon sights.

"Not if he truly is a ghost," the cabin boy whispered, startling Lucy with his precise reply to her musings. "Then he'd have nothin' to lose. Nothin' at all."

Lucy shivered in spite of herself and huddled deeper into her shawl. Now, Luanda, the Admiral admonished from perfect memory, seafaring men are a superstitious lot, but you're not a girl given to fancy. For once, his chiding voice brought comfort instead of humiliation.

A sailor in a worn peacoat drew a whalebone pipe from his pocket. As he struck a match and touched it to the capped bowl, the flame cast wavering shadows over a face leathered by sun and salt spray. "I seen him," he announced curtly, earning all of their attentions, including Lucy's. "I was on lookout in the foretop on an eve much like this one. There weren't nothin' but sea and sky for miles, then suddenly the sea opened up and out she sailed like a demon ship cast from the bowels o' hell."

Lucy suspected her own eyes were now as round as the cabin boy's.

"I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. 'Twas as if the very sight o' her froze me blood. Before I could pry me mouth open to shout a warning, the sea swallowed her without so much as a billow. I never seen nothin' like it in all me born days." He shuddered. "Never hope to again."

A pall of silence enveloped the men, broken only by the eerie creaking of the spars and the lazy flapping of the sails against the wind. Full dusk had fallen as they spoke. Tendrils of mist came creeping out of the darkening sea like the tentacles of some mythical beast. Lucy saw one of the sailors glance over his shoulder and sign an unobtrusive cross on his breast. As if to banish the spell of foreboding, the men all began chattering at once.

"I heard he carves his mark on his victims just like the devil he is."

"Won't tolerate babblin', they says. The lass wouldn't stop screamin', so he up and sewed her lips together with sail twine."

"Cleaved the poor bloke in two, he did, with one mighty stroke of his cutlass."

The young sailor who had earlier dared to express scorn for the spectral captain wiggled his eyebrows in a mocking leer. "I'll wager that ain't nothin' compared to the cleavin' he does on his lady captives. One o' my mates swears this Captain Doom ravished ten virgins in one night."

"Ha!" scoffed a grizzled tar. "I done as much after seven months at sea and nary a glimpse o' stocking."

The young sailor elbowed him in the ribs. "Aye, but them weren't hardly virgins, was they?"

The men roared with laughter. Lucy reluctantly decided she'd best make her presence known before she learned more than she ever wanted to know about the romantic foibles of sailors. She extracted herself from her seat of coiled ropes and stepped into full view. The men snapped to flustered attention as if Admiral Sir Lucien Snow himself had marched onto the deck of the ship.

Lucy was not impressed. She'd been receiving such welcomes since she'd been old enough to toddle up the gangplank of a ship. Her father's reputation as one of the most revered admirals in His Majesty's Royal Navy had preceded her every step.

She favored them with a benevolent smile. "Good evening, gentlemen. I do hope I haven't interrupted your charming discourse on the merits of piracy." She nodded toward the young sailor, whose tanned skin had flushed a becoming peach. "Do go on, sir. I believe you were about to treat us to more of your speculations on Captain Doom's romantic exploits."

One of his mates cleared his throat meaningfully and the sailor snatched off his hat, crumpling it into a ball. "M-M-Miss Snow," he stammered. "Didn't know you were about. 'Twas hardly fit talk for a lady's ears."

"Then I suppose we'll have to string you up from the yardarm, won't we?"

The lad's Adam's apple bobbed with obvious distress and Lucy sighed. For some reason, no one could ever tell when she was joking. She knew that most of her acquaintances suspected she'd been born with no sense of humor at all. She was, however, blessed with a finely honed sense of the absurd.

The weathered sailor in the peacoat shoved his way forward as if fearing she might actually weave a noose of her delicate shawl. "Allow me to escort you to your cabin, Miss Snow. 'Tisn't safe for a young lady of quality to be roamin' 'bout the deck after dark."

He gallantly offered her his arm, but the patronizing note in his voice struck the wrong chord with Lucy.

"No, thank you," she said coolly. "I believe I shall take my chances with Captain Doom."

Tilting her nose to a regal angle, she sailed past them, ignoring the discordant murmur that rose behind her. Some perverse seed of rebellion drove her away from the narrow companionway leading to her cabin and toward the deserted stern.

She studied Lord Howell's memoirs for a moment, then tossed them over the aft rail into the churning froth of the ship's wake. The leather-bound book sank without a trace.

"Sorry, Sylvie," she whispered to her absent friend.

Since Lord Howell was an old friend of her father's, she suspected the Admiral had only recommended the book because of its flattering, if somewhat exaggerated, accounts of his own cunning exploits during the Americans' ill-mannered rebellion against England.

She wondered how her father was faring on his overland voyage. Since his untimely leg wound had forced him to retire from His Majesty's service six years ago, the Admiral had never missed a chance for a sea voyage, even one as tame as the journey from their summer home in Cornwall to their modest mansion in Chelsea on the bank of the Thames.

She drew her shawl close around her. True to its fickle nature, London society had spurned all things French except for their fashions. The brisk wind blowing off the North Atlantic Sea whipped up Lucy's skirt and bit through her thin petticoat. But she could bear that discomfort better than being trapped in the stifling confines of her cabin, her fate decided by the whims of others. If she stayed on deck long enough, perhaps the Captain's half-deaf mother would retire for the evening and Lucy would be spared bellowing at her over the galley dining table.

Lucy usually found a ship by night soothing to her senses, but the peace she sought drifted just out of her reach, her solitude tainted by restlessness. Even the low-pitched music of male voices working in perfect accord seemed muted and distant.

She frowned, licking away the sea salt that flecked her lips. In the rising mist, sound should carry with the clarity of a ringing bell, but the night was draped in silence as if the sea were holding its breath with her. She strained her eyes, seeing nothing but fog swirling up from the inky darkness and the rising moon flirting with tattered patches of clouds.

Chill ribbons of mist coaxed their way through the gauzy muslin of her gown, dampening her bare skin with their greedy touch. The sailors' tales of Captain Doom haunted her. On such a night it took little imagination to envision a phantom ship stalking the seas in search of prey. Lucy could almost hear the chant of its betrayed sailors vowing vengeance, the hollow bong of a bell that would seal their doom.

She shook off a delicious shiver. She could only imagine what the Admiral would say if he caught her indulging in such whimsy.

She was turning away from the rail to seek the more mundane comforts of her cabin when the veil of darkness parted and the ghost ship glided into view.

Lucy's heart slammed into her rib cage, then seemed to stop beating altogether. She clutched the rail, her shawl falling unheeded to the deck.

A glimmer of moonlight stole through the clouds as the sleek black bow of the phantom schooner crested the waves, its towering spars enshrouded by mist, its rigging glistening like the web of a deadly spider. Ebony sails billowed in the wind, whispering instead of flapping. The vessel sailed in eerie silence with no lanterns, no sign of life, no hint of mercy.

Lucy stood transfixed, mesmerized by a primitive thrill of fear. Although the wind whipped her hair across her face and fed the hungry sails of the phantom ship, she seemed to be standing in a vortex of airlessness. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.

It was then that she saw the ship's Jolly Roger rippling from the highest spar—a man's hand, ivory against a sable background, squeezing scarlet drops of blood from a captive heart. Her fist flew to her breast as she battled the absurd notion that it was her heart, no longer beating of its own will, but thundering in accord with the dark command of the ghost ship's master. If she was the only one to see the ship, then surely its grim message was meant for her.

The phantom ship came about with lethal grace. Remembering the sailor's story, Lucy pressed her eyes shut, knowing the ship would be gone when she opened them. A poignant sense of loss tightened her throat. There was no place in her neatly ordered life for such dark fantasy, yet the ship's unearthly beauty had touched some secret corner of her soul.

Cannonfire blazed against the night sky. Lucy's eyes flew open in shock as the ghost ship fired a very earthly warning shot over their bow in the universal demand for surrender.

Chapter 2

In that first dazzling burst of light, the name carved on the phantom ship's bow was forever emblazoned in Lucy's memory: Retribution.

Hoarse cries of alarm and the stampede of running feet shook the deck of the Tiberius as the panicked crew wavered between battle and surrender. Lucy was jerked from her openmouthed astonishment by a rough hand on her arm. The young sailor who had earlier jeered the mere existence of Captain Doom pulled her away from the rail with a familiarity he wouldn't have dared only moments before.

"You'd best take shelter in your cabin, miss. This looks to get ugly." His bold demeanor could not hide a complexion chalky with terror.

Lucy found herself dragged through the fray and shoved none too gently toward the main companion-way. Obeying without thought, she flew down the narrow passage, thankful for once to be unencumbered by heavy skirts and petticoats. She slammed the door of her cabin behind her and whirled around in the middle of the floor.

A fresh salvo of cannonfire shuddered the hold. Lucy dropped to her knees and clapped her hands over her ears, choking back a frantic scream. As a child, she had once scampered into the garden only to plunge through an enormous spiderweb strung across the path. She had beat at the sticky fibers with her small hands, screaming in terror. She felt again that same helpless fear. She couldn't bear being trapped like an animal with no control over her fate.

She could still remember the Admiral's contemptuous words as he had watched her sniffle into Smythe's crisp waistcoat while the servant patiently plucked the tattered web from her hair. Silly little chit. Given to hysteria just like her mother. French blood will tell every time.

Lucy's hands curled into fists and fell away from her ears. Her back straightened. She was Lucinda Snow, daughter of Admiral Sir Lucien Snow, and she'd be damned if she'd let some ridiculous ghost pirate frighten her into hysterics.

Spurred to practical action, she rifled through her tidy valise, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon. An ivory-handled letter opener was her only find. She slipped off her shoes so she could move silently if the need arose and tucked the letter opener into one of her stockings. Then she grabbed the low-burning lantern and crouched down beside her rumpled bunk to wait.

A masculine bellow of terror and the thunder of running footsteps sounded overhead. Lucy gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. The wire handle of the lantern bit into her palm. She knew the lantern was useless as a weapon. The dangers of fire aboard ship had been too deeply ingrained in her since childhood.

She would die a gruesome death before hurling the lantern at an attacker.

She feared that noble notion was about to be tested when the door to her cabin crashed inward and a hulking shape appeared in its place. Lucy killed the lantern's flame and squeezed her eyes shut in the childish hope that if she couldn't see the intruder, he wouldn't be able to see her either.

But all of her hopes, present and future, were smothered by the gag thrust into her mouth and the dank length of burlap tossed over her head.

"Damn it to blasted hell!"

The oath rolled from Captain Doom's lips like the thunder of cannonfire. The deck listed beneath his long, furious strides, but he never stumbled, never faltered, his flawless balance as finely tuned as each of his other senses. Had any of his enemies seen him in that moment, they would have sworn lightning bolts actually could sizzle from his narrowed eyes.

"I can't believe you brought a woman on board." He swung past the dangling rigging with the natural swagger of a born sailor. "You know how superstitious Tam and Pudge are. They're liable to jump ship if they find out."

The ebony-skinned giant marching in his wake appeared unaffected by his captain's ire. Only someone who knew him well could have detected the sarcasm in his melodic bass voice. "Shall I fetch the cat-o'-nine-tails, sir, so you can flog me?"

"Don't tempt me," the Captain growled. "I should have left you to hang in Santo Domingo when I had the chance."

Doom ducked his head at the precise moment it would have struck the foreboom and folded his lean frame into the hold. His companion dropped after him, landing with a cat's lithe grace on the pads of his bare feet.

The Captain rubbed his beard in frustration. "Have you been at sea so long you didn't notice she was a bloody woman?"

"She squirmed more like a rat. She was soft in spots, but since the Admiral has retired, I thought he might have gone soft himself. Like a rotten peach."

"I do believe you've gone soft. In the head."

"The cabin was listed in the ship's log just as you said it would be—L-U-C-period-S-N-O-W."

Doom had never before been so tempted to curse his mate's gift of being both literate and literal. Steering his way through the shadowy hold, he shook his head in disgust. "If she's of any importance, we'll have the whole Channel Fleet down on our heads by dawn. Couldn't you even get a name out of her?"

"Sorry, sir. The iron maiden was occupied. Kevin was sleeping in it. Besides, you're the one with the reputation for terrorizing innocent maidens."

Doom shot him a dark look as they halted before a door bolted from the outside. "She's probably mute with terror already. You're enough to give any proper young English virgin nightmares."

As if in full agreement, his mate flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile, emphasizing the raven purity of his skin. His bald head had been polished to a sheen so bright the captain caught a glimpse of his own scowling reflection. There was no man Doom would rather have at his side during battle, but his composure in the face of such disaster made Doom want to choke him.

The Captain turned toward the door. With a gesture from another lifetime, long gone and best forgotten, he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and smoothed his cambric shirt.

"Are you going to interrogate her or court her?" his companion rumbled.

"I haven't decided. Maybe neither. Maybe both." All traces of humor fled his face. The grim twist of his lips would have given even those most skeptical of his legend pause for reflection. "I'll do whatever it takes to find out why the morally upstanding Admiral Snow had a woman sequestered in his cabin."

With that vow, Doom lifted the makeshift bolt, unlocked the door, and slipped into the sumptuous confines of his own quarters.

A child, was Doom's first horrified thought. His mate had stolen a little girl.

A rapid blink proved his perception flawed. Oddly enough, it wasn't his captive's size, but her stern demeanor that made her look no more than twelve years of age. She sat rigidly straight in the spartan chair as if having her ankles bound to its legs and her hands tied behind her were mere inconveniences to be tolerated like a pair of too-tight boots.

He had been dreading her hysteria, but the pale cheeks below the sable silk of the blindfold were free of tearstains. Her lips were pursed in a faintly bored expression as if she wished someone would happen by and offer her tea. Her transparent determination to ignore his presence both irritated and amused him.

His gaze raked her in blunt appraisal. His mate had taken no chances. The only thing unbound about her was her hair. It streamed down her back in a fall of ash-blond silk, unmarred by a single frivolous curl.

Doom scowled. The silly garment she wore troubled him. Had his mate dragged her out of her bunk? Surely fashions hadn't changed that much in six years. He remembered only too well when he'd been intimately acquainted with every lace, hook, and button of a woman's elaborate toilette.

His captive's high-waisted gown was shamelessly devoid of such restraints. The skirt of the gossamer sheath clung to her parted legs, the sheer petticoat beneath more enticement than hindrance. Silk stockings, the delicate blue of a robin's egg, enveloped her slender feet. The angle of her bound arms thrust her small breasts upward to strain against the thin fabric of her bodice. Doom's gaze lingered there of its own volition. His mate had been wrong. Her softness was not that of rotten peaches, but of fresh peaches. Ripe, tender peaches.

His too-long-deprived body surged at the image with a violence that made him ache. His captive might have the deceptive appearance of a child, but his response to her was definitely that of a man. Alarmed by the rapacious slant of his thoughts, Doom strode to the teakwood sideboard bolted to the cabin wall and attempted to douse the passions she'd ignited with a slug of brandy.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nursing the childish urge to punish her for his weakness. But the vulnerability of her posture gutted his anger, tinging it with contempt for what he was about to become.

He put the brandy glass aside, steering himself to be as dispassionate and remorseless as his task required. There was no room for passion or pity in the black heart of Captain Doom. Especially if he was dealing with Lucien Snow's whore.

He moved to stand directly in front of her, hands locked at the small of his back and feet splayed, his silence a blatant challenge. He watched, secretly amused, as a flush of pink crept into the hollows beneath her elegant cheekbones. He would have almost sworn it was caused not by fear, but anger.

Lucy had known she was in trouble the moment this man entered the cabin. She had recognized in the space of a skipping heartbeat that he was not the same man who had abducted her, the man whose hands had been almost gentle as he apologized for frightening her, his voice melodious and soothing.

There was nothing soothing about this man. The very air around him crackled with threat. Lucy feared she was in the presence of Captain Doom himself, no phantom but flesh and blood—solid, disturbing, and only inches from her face.

Being deprived of vision had heightened her other senses. Her ears were tuned to the harsh whisper of air from his lungs. Her nostrils flared at the scent of him—an alluring brew of salt spray, brandy, and the pure spice of male musk. He smelled like the predator he was and she knew instinctively that if she allowed him to scent her fear, she was done for.

She was thankful her initial panic had been swallowed by outrage at being trussed up like a Christmas goose. When he had first entered the cabin, she had refrained from speaking for fear she would gibber in terror. Now she was simply too obstinate to be the first to break the taut silence.

Back straight, Luanda, the Admiral snapped from memory. Feet together like a little lady.

But Lucy could not bring her feet together. They were bound to opposite chair legs, making her feel exposed, vulnerable, and in the wake of the Admiral's imaginary rebuke, deeply ashamed.

The stranger's gaze seared her cheeks, but she refused to avert her face from his scrutiny. Her jaw was beginning to ache from being clamped so hard. She could almost envision him standing arrogantly before her, his legs braced against the faint swell and dip of the cabin floor.

"Your name."

Lucy flinched as if he had struck her. His husky words were a demand, not a request. Had he claimed her soul with such merciless authority, she would have been equally as powerless to resist him.

"Lucinda Snow," she replied, her only defense the shards of ice dripping from her voice. "My friends call me Lucy, but I think under the circumstances, you'd do well to address me as Miss Snow."

Her captor was silent for several heartbeats, but his excitement was palpable. Gone was the barely repressed violence, replaced by a ferocious satisfaction she sensed might be even more dangerous to her.

"Miss Snow?" he finally said. "May I assume there's no Mr. Snow fretting over your untimely disappearance?"

His voice was both rough and smooth, like well-aged whiskey steeped in smoke. She suspected its raspy timbre was designed for disguise, but it still sent a shiver of raw reaction down her spine. She prayed he did not see it.

"Admiral Sir Snow is my father and I can assure you that when he finds out I've been abducted by brigands, he'll be a man given to action, not fretting."

"Ah, a worthy opponent." The contempt in his words chilled her.

His boot heels clicked in muted rhythm as he began to pace in a maddening circle around her chair. Not knowing exactly where he stood was even more disconcerting than having him glare at her. She couldn't shake the sensation that he was only biding his time, seeking her most vulnerable spot before he pounced for the kill.

Fear made her reckless. "I've heard enough about your cowardly tactics, Captain Doom, to know your favored opponents are innocent children afraid of ghosts and helpless women."

A loose plank creaked behind her, startling her. If he had touched her then, she feared she would have burst into tears.

But it was only the mocking whisper of his breath that stirred her hair. "And which are you, Miss Snow? Innocent? Helpless? Or both?" When his provocative question met with stony silence, he resumed his pacing. " 'Tis customary to scream and weep when one is abducted by brigands, yet you've done neither. Why is that?"

Lucy didn't care to admit that she was afraid he'd embroider a skull and crossbones on her lips. "If I might have gained anything by screaming, you'd have left me gagged, wouldn't you? It's obvious by the motion of the deck that the ship is at full sail, precluding immediate rescue. And I've never found tears to be of any practical use."

"How rare." The note in his voice might have been one of mockery or genuine admiration. "Logic and intelligence wrapped up in such a pretty package. Tell me, is your father in the habit of allowing you to journey alone on a navy frigate? Young ladies of quality do not travel such a distance unchaperoned. Does he care so little for your reputation?"

Lucy almost blurted out that her father cared for nothing but her reputation, but to reveal such a painful truth to this probing stranger would have been like laying an old wound bare.

"The Captain's mother was traveling with us." Fat lot of good that had done her, Lucy thought. The senile old woman had probably slept through the attack. "The Captain of the Tiberius is a dear friend of my father's. He's known me since I was a child. I can promise you that should any of the men under his command so much as smile at me in what might be deemed an improper manner, he'd have them flogged."

"Purely for your entertainment, I'm sure."

Lucy winced at the unfair cut. "I fear my tastes in amusement don't run to torture as yours are rumored to," she replied sweetly.

"Touché, Miss Snow. Perhaps you're not so helpless after all. If we could only ascertain your innocence with such flair…"

He let the unspoken threat dangle and Lucy swallowed a retort. She couldn't seem to stop her tart tongue from running rampant. She'd do well to remember that this man held both her life and her virtue captive in his fickle hands.

His brisk footsteps circled her, weaving a dizzying spell as she struggled to follow his voice. "Perhaps you'd care to explain why your noble papa deprived himself of your charming wit for the duration of your voyage."

"Father took ill before we could leave Cornwall. A stomach grippe. He saw no logic in my forfeiting my passage, but feared travel by sea would only worsen his condition."

"How perceptive of him. It might have even proved fatal." He circled her again. "What provoked this timely bout of indigestion? Too much tea? A bad bit of kipper?"

Lucy shook her head. "I couldn't say. He was reading the Times over breakfast as he always does when he suddenly went white and excused himself. He told me later that he'd decided to travel by carriage."

Doom's clipped tones softened. His footsteps ceased just behind her. "So he sent you in his stead. Poor, sweet Lucy."

Lucy wasn't sure what jarred her most—the rueful note of empathy in his voice or hearing her Christian name caressed by his devilish tongue. "If you're going to murder me, do get on with it," she snapped. "You can eulogize me after I'm gone."

The chair vibrated as he closed his hands over its back. Lucy started as if he'd curled them around her bare throat. "Is that what they say about me, Miss Snow? That I'm a murderer?"

She pressed her eyes shut beneath the blindfold, beset by a curious mix of dread and anticipation. "Among other things."

"Such as?"

"A ghost," she whispered.

He leaned over her shoulder from behind and pressed his cheek to hers. The prickly softness of his beard chafed her tender skin. His masculine scent permeated her senses. "What say you, Lucy Snow? Am I spirit or man?"

There was nothing spectral about his touch. Its blatant virility set Lucy's raw nerves humming. She'd never been touched with such matter-of-fact intimacy by anyone. Smythe prided himself on maintaining the reserve of a servant and the Admiral found physical displays of fondness distasteful.

The odd little catch in her breath ruined her prim reply. "I sense very little of the spiritual about you, sir."

"And much of the carnal, no doubt."

His hand threaded through the fragile shield of her hair to find her neck. His warm fingers gently rubbed her nape as if to soothe away all of her fears and melt her defenses, leaving her totally vulnerable to him. Lucy shuddered, shaken by his tenderness, intrigued by his boldness, intoxicated by his brandy-heated breath against her ear.

"Tell me more of the nefarious doings of Captain Doom," he coaxed.

She drew in a shaky breath, fighting for any semblance of the steely poise she had always prided herself on. "They say you can skewer your enemies with a single glance."

"Quite flattering, but I fear I have to use more conventional means." His probing fingertips cut a tingling swath through the sensitive skin behind her ears. "Do go on."

Lucy's honesty betrayed her. "They say you've been known to ravish ten virgins in one night." As soon as the words were out, she cringed, wondering what had possessed her to confess such a shocking thing.

Instead of laughing as she expected, he framed her delicate jaw in his splayed fingers and tilted her head back.

His voice was both tender and solemn, mocking them both. "Ah, but then one scrawny virgin such as yourself would only whet my appetite."

"They also swear you won't abide babbling," Lucy blurted out, knowing she was doing just that. "That you'll sew up the lips of anyone who dares to defy you."

His breath grazed her lips. "What a waste that would be in your case. Especially when I can think of far more pleasurable ways to silence them."

Doom was treading dangerous waters. He'd known it from the moment he'd buried his fingers in the flaxen silk of the girl's hair, the moment he'd inhaled the lemon-scented purity of her skin. He'd clenched the chair back to keep from touching her, but his hands had acted with a stubborn will of their own. Now he could feel the warm waters of temptation closing over his head, making it impossible to breathe anything but her scent. Her mouth maddened him, its generous contours at odds with the chaste angles of her features.

It had been so long. Too long. He had sacrificed desire on the altar of his revenge as he had all other pleasures and emotions that might distract him from its consummation. How ironic that his first flush of victory should free that desire, render it more potent and enticing than the sweet assurance of vengeance trembling beneath his fingertips.

When the girl had confessed her identity, he'd been unable to believe his good fortune. His initial euphoria had been dampened by suspicion. It was simply too delicious to have the girl delivered so neatly into his hands. Did he run the risk of being ensnared by his own trap? he wondered. His intense scrutiny of Snow's past had failed to reveal information about a wife or a child. Was his captive truly Lucien Snow's daughter or only a clever decoy? Had Snow intended her as bait to flush him out of hiding or as some sort of sacrificial lamb? He knew of only one way to find out.

His thumbs caressed the fleecy velvet of her earlobes. Her skin was as soft as a lamb's, making him wonder if she would be that malleable everywhere he touched. She made him ache with need, tempted him to live up to his reputation for sensual ruthlessness. The teak and mahogany splendor of his stolen bed seemed to beckon him as he faced the dilemma of every man who has ever had a woman completely at his mercy.

He wouldn't have to hurt her, he assured himself. He could be gentle, persuasive. He would leave her with no bruises, no marks on her pretty skin, only haunting memories of a phantom lover who had possessed her in darkness and vanished at dawn.

"Please," she whispered as if she could divine the dangerous direction of his thoughts.

"Such charming manners," he murmured, thankful he could not see her eyes. He feared a sheen of tears in them might ruin all of his wicked intentions. "Tell me, Lucy, what do you plead so prettily for? Your life?" He wove his fingers through her hair, making her captivity absolute. "Or your soul?"

Her soft words surprised him. "Perhaps your soul, sir. It will be the one at stake if you commit some grievous sin."

His bitter laugh made her flinch and he immediately gentled his grip, stroking his fingertips across her brow. "Have you forgotten? I'm a dead man already, untroubled by qualms of conscience or soul."

"The soul is eternal, Captain. And I suspect yours isn't as black as you'd like me to believe. Yet."

Doom's gaze lingered on her lips. Generous, treacherous, tormenting him with the memory of a time when he had craved justice more than revenge. A time when he could still tell the difference.

If he bedded this girl against her will, he'd be no better than his father, who had won his mother's love, then sailed away forever, taking the light in her eyes with him. No better than the nameless man who had gotten her with child and left her to die in squalor.

Frustration made his voice crisp. "Your concern for my soul is touching, Miss Snow, but if I'd have wanted a sermon, I'd have abducted a priest. I should have skipped the blindfold and gagged you instead."

Doom suspected her eyes might prove to be as great a hazard to his dormant conscience as her lips. Those lips were parted now, gone slack beneath the probing ministrations of his fingertips. She was as responsive as a kitten to his practiced touch, making him wonder how she would respond if he pressed his suit, how she might move beneath him, what sort of soft, broken sounds she would make.

He swore under his breath. He might deny himself the bounty of her body, but he'd be damned if he was going to forfeit a taste of her luscious mouth. He leaned over and gently rubbed his lips against hers, feeling their sensitive contours ignite like dry tinder beneath an unquenchable flame. His tongue traced their tantalizing softness, priming them for his tender invasion.

A fist pounded the door. "Seventy-four-gunner approaching from the north, Captain." The imperturbable calmness of his mate's voice only underscored the terrible urgency of his message. "Channel Fleet, sir. Flagship Argonaut."