The Prize (15 page)

He was pale beneath
his coppery tan. "I will make sure he finds accommodations
elsewhere," he said tersely. He glanced over his shoulder at O'Neill, who
remained with his back to them, facing the prow of the ship. "Not that
that will change what he has done," he said, clearly distressed.
"Miss Hughes, I am so sorry. Clearly you are a lady, and frankly, this is
entirely out of character for Devlin."

She was certain she
had won him over. She pretended to wipe her eyes, making certain that her hands
trembled. "I am sorry, too. You see, I have terribly urgent affairs in
London
, my entire life is at stake, and now...now
I doubt I will be able to solve the crisis I am in. Are you his friend?"
she asked without a pause and without premeditation.

He started and then
became thoughtful. "Devlin is a strange man. He keeps his distance from
everyone. You never really know what he is thinking, what he is intending. I've
been aboard his ships for three years now and that should make us friends. But
the truth is, I know very little about him—no more than the rest of the world.
We all know of his exploits, his reputation. I do consider myself a friend—he
saved my Me in
Cadiz
—but frankly, if we are friends,
I have never had a friendship like this before."

It was almost sad,
but
Virginia
was not about to be swayed by
any compassion. Curiosity consumed her. "What exploits? What
reputation?"

"They call him
'His Majesty's Pirate,' Miss Hughes,"
Harvey
said, smiling as if on safer ground now.
"He puts the prize first always, and I suspect he has become a very rich
man. His methods of battle are unorthodox, as are his strategies—and his
politics. Most of the Admiralty despise him, for he rarely follows orders and
thinks very little of those old men in blue and doesn't care if they know it.
The papers fill pages with accounts of his actions at sea. Hell—er, excuse
me—they write about his actions on land, too. The social pages always mention
him when he is at home, attending this ball, that club. He was only eighteen at
Trafalgar. He took over the command of his ship and destroyed two much larger
vessels. He was instantly given his own command, and that was only the
beginning. He will not accept a ship-of-the-line, however. Oh, no, not
Devlin." Finally
Harvey
paused for breath.

"Why not? What's
a ship-of-the-line?"
Virginia
asked, glancing toward her
captor again. Daylight glinted boldly on his sun-streaked hair. The man
attended balls and clubs. She could not imagine it. Or could she?

She had a flashing
image of him in a black tailcoat, a flute of champagne in his large, graceful
hand, and she had no doubt the ladies present would all be vying desperately to
gain his attention.

Oddly, she didn't
care for the image at all.

"A
battleship—they travel and fight in a traditional formation. Devlin is too
independent for that. His way is to sail alone, to swoop in on the
unsuspecting—or deceive the suspecting. He never loses, Miss Hughes, because
he rarely maneuvers the same way twice. The men trust him with their lives.
I've seen him give commands that appeared suicidal.

But they weren't.
They were victorious instead. Most commanders flee—or try to—when they realize
the
Defiance
is on the horizon. He is the greatest
captain sailing the high seas today, mark my words."
Harvey
was smiling. "And I am not alone in
that opinion."

"You like
him!"
Virginia
accused, amazed. But in spite of
the animosity she refused to release, she was also impressed—with his
exploits, not the man himself.

Harvey
raised both brows. "I
admire him. I admire him greatly. It is impossible not to, not if one is in his
command."

"He saved the
ship last night," she remarked. "Why didn't he send someone else up
that mast?"

Harvey
shook his head. "Because he
knew he could accomplish the mission. That is why we admire him, Miss Hughes,
because he leads—he really leads—and then, how can we not follow?"

She hesitated, her
heart racing. "Is he...married?"

Harvey
was surprised, and then he
laughed. "No! I mean, do not get me wrong, he likes his women, and there
are many London ladies who wish to entice him to the altar—he was just
knighted, you know—but I cannot imagine Devlin with a wife. She would have to
be a very strong woman, to put up with a man like that." He became
thoughtful. "I don't think Devlin has even thought of marrying, if you
must know. But he is young. He is only twenty-four. His life is the sea, I
think. I suppose that could one day change." He sounded doubtful.

O'Neill appeared as
harsh and hard as he had been heroic— and he also seemed very alone.
Virginia
realized she was staring at him
again. Standing there as he did, controlling the huge frigate, a commanding figure
with an inescapable presence, the aura of power almost visible, she instantly
amended her thoughts. The man gave no sign that he was lonely. In fact, he
seemed an island unto himself, and only a very foolish woman would dare to
think him lonely or needy in any way.

"He is not a bad
man,"
Harvey
said softly. "Which is why
I do not understand what he has done and what he is doing. He certainly doesn't
need this ransom."

Virginia
started. "Are you
certain?"

"As captain, he
gets three-eighths of every prize we take. I know what we've been about these
past three years. The man is wealthy."

Virginia
shivered, staring with dismay
and dread.
If this was not about her ransom, then what, dear God, was it
about?

And she decided the
time was now. She touched the surgeon's hand. "Mr. Harvey, I need your
help," she said plaintively.

He had had enough.
His damned ears were burning as if he were some child in the schoolroom—he knew
they were talking about him. "Martin, take command of the ship," he
said. As the officer came forward, Devlin wheeled and leapt off of the
quarterdeck.

His eyes widened as
he saw his little hostage with her hand on
Harvey
's, her eyes huge and pleading, her rosebud
mouth trembling. Suspicion reared
itself.
The chit was acting like some
foolish, simpering coquette—and there was nothing foolish, simpering or coy
about Miss Virginia Hughes. What was afoot?

His irritation had
decreased, amusement taking its place. The one thing Virginia Hughes was, was
entertaining.

He almost smiled,
until he thought of how she had felt, asleep and spooned into his stiff,
aroused body last night. He grimaced instead. He hadn't even known she was in
his bed when he had dropped there in absolute exhaustion after the storm had
abandoned the ship. But he had certainly become aware of her while asleep,
because when he had awoken, his body had been urging him to take instant
advantage of her.

Fortunately, he
prided himself on his self-control—he had been exercising self-will and
self-discipline since he was a boy of ten. Ignoring his physical needs was not
the easiest task, but there was simply no question that it was a task he would
complete.

Surprisingly, she had
not felt at all like a bag of bones in his arms.

She had felt soft and
warm, tiny but not fragile.

"Good day."
He nodded sharply at them both, dismissing his thoughts.

Virginia
dropped her tiny hand from
Harvey
's, her cheeks flaming, as if caught at the
midnight
hour with her hand in someone else's safe.
She looked as guilty as could be.

By God, they were
plotting against him, he thought, amazed. The little vixen had enticed
Harvey
to her side, into insubordination. It
wasn't a guess. He smelled the conspiracy in the air the way he had first
smelled the approaching storm last night.

"Devlin, good
morning. I hope you don't mind my taking some air with our guest?"
Harvey
smiled cheerfully at him.

"Fortunately my
orders did not include you," Devlin said calmly.

"Of course they
didn't. I'm the ship's surgeon,"
Harvey
said with humor.

Virginia
's eyes widened as she understood.
"I hope those ridiculous orders no longer stand!"

He faced her. She was
so petite that she made him feel as tall as a mythological giant. "My
orders do stand, Miss Hughes." He didn't like the look of the gash on her
temple. "
Harvey
, I want you to tend to that
immediately."

"I'll get my
bag,"
Harvey
said, striding off.

And they were alone.
Devlin stared at her. She, however, refused to meet his gaze. What was this? An
effect of guilt? This morning she had been in his bed, on the verge of begging
him for his kisses. Devlin was no fool. Desire had

                             
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clearly shimmered in
her hungry violet eyes. "Feeling guilty?" he purred, deciding to
enjoy the debate that would surely ensue.

She jumped.
"What do I have to feel guilty about? You are the one who should be prone
with guilt, but then, you would have to have a heart in order to feel
anything."

"I
confess," he said, smiling, "to being absolutely heartless."

"How far off
course are we?" she asked, and it was more of a demand than a question.

"About a hundred
and fifty miles," he said, and he saw her pale. 'That distresses
you?"

She stared and
finally nodded. "Where do we sail now?" she asked grimly.

She was very clever.
He admired her wit and decided never to underestimate it again. "There's
no point in tacking south to
Portsmouth
. Besides—" his heart
tightened, proving that he was capable of feeling after all "—I have
grave doubts about the
Americana
making port there."

Her eyes widened.
"You don't think..."

"I doubt she survived
the storm. We barely outran her— the
Americana
could not outrun her. Mac is a fine sailor,
but he was sailing with a skeleton crew." A soft sorrow crept over him. He
didn't try to shove it away. This was the way of the sea and he knew it very
well; it took more lives than it ever let go. Over the years he had learned
that it was better to mourn the loss of his men and be done with it. He had
also learned not to expect longevity from those who chose to sail with him. It
was far easier dealing with death when one accepted its inevitability.

"You don't
care," she gasped. "You do have a heart of stone—if you even have a
heart at all," she accused. "Those men—that ship—they lie at the
bottom of the ocean because of you!"

Now he was angry. He
gripped her wrist so quickly that she cried out and he did not let it go.
"They lie in a watery tomb because of the gale, Miss Hughes, and as I am
not Poseidon, I had little to do with the making of that storm last
night."

She dared to shake
her head at him. "No! Had you not battled that ship, wounding it
terribly—in order to abduct me— they would be alive!"

This woman seemed to
have the capacity to ignite his fury as no one else could. He flung her wrist
away and was ashamed to find it red. "Had I not battled that ship, wounding
it and abducting you, you would be on the ocean's floor with them." He was
about to stalk away. It crossed his mind that if he bedded her, he might teach
her the respect she so clearly lacked. That, and far more.

But he was struck
with his earlier assessment, and he whirled to face her again. "Do not
plot against me with
Harvey
," he warned.

She cried out,
appearing frightened. "I...I'm not!"

"Liar," he
whispered, bending so close that their faces almost touched. "I know a
conspiracy when it forms beneath my nose. Do you know what the fate of a
mutineer is, Miss Hughes?"

"There is no
mutiny," she began.

He smiled at her
coldly. "Should you entice
Harvey
to your schemes, that is mutiny, my dear. We hang mutineers," he added
with relish, and it was not entirely a lie. He wouldn't hang
Harvey
, but he'd lose a damned fine ship's
surgeon, and they were as hard to come by as an Indian ruby, if not even more
so.

She shrank away from
him, against the wall. "I have something to say to you," she said fiercely.

He had been about to
go. He didn't like her tone and he turned, awaiting her blow.

"I despise
you," she said thickly.

Oddly, he flinched,
not outwardly, but somewhere deep inside his body. Outwardly, he felt his lips
twist into a mirthless smile. "That is the best that you can do?"