Praise for
BRENDA JOYCE
and her de Warenne dynasty

The Prize

“Joyce writes lush stories with larger-than-life characters and a depth of sensuality and emotion that touches chords within the reader and keeps them coming back for more.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Masquerade

“Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine Elizabeth ‘Lizzie’ Fitzgerald’s family…. Joyce’s tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A passionate tale of two lovers caught up in a web of secrets, deceptions, and lies. Readers who love the bold historicals by Rosemary Rogers and Kathleen Woodiwiss will find much to savor here.”

—Booklist

“An intensely emotional and engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit, scandal and pride…an intelligent love story with smart, appealing and strong characters. Readers will savor this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Stolen Bride

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A powerfully executed romance overflowing with the strength of prose, high degree of sensuality and emotional intensity we expect from Joyce. A ‘keeper’ for sure.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Lady at Last

“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly

A “classic Pygmalion tale with an extra soupçon of eroticism.”

—Booklist

“A warm, wonderfully sensual feast about the joys and pains of falling in love. Joyce breathes life into extraordinary characters—from her sprightly Cinderella heroine and roguish hero to everyone in between—then sets them in the glittering Regency, where anything can happen.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The Perfect Bride

“Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama…. Entirely fluff-free, Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”

—Booklist

“Joyce’s latest is a piece of perfection as she meticulously crafts a tender and emotionally powerful love story. Passion and pain erupt from the pages and flow straight into your heart. You won’t forget this beautifully rendered love story of lost souls and redemption.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Dangerous Love

“The latest de Warenne novel is pure Joyce with its trademark blend of searing sensuality, wild escapades and unforgettable characters. You’ll find warmth and romance alongside intense emotions and powerful relationships. It’s a story you won’t easily forget.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Brenda Joyce

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

The Prize

MILLS & BOON

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This one’s for Aaron Priest and Lucy Childs

The best team in town! Thanks for getting me back

on track and where I belong—writing about bygone

times, alpha men and the women who dare to brave

all to love them….

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE: THE CAPTIVE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART TWO: THE BARGAIN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PART THREE: THE BRIDE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

July 5, 1798

The south of Ireland near Askeaton Castle

GERALD O’NEILL RUSHED INTO the manor house, his once-white shirt crimson, his tan britches and navy coat equally stained. Blood marred his cheek, matted his whiskers. An open gash on his head was bleeding and so were the cuts on his knuckles. His heart beat with alarming force and even now the sounds of battle, the cries of imminent death, rang in his eardrums. “Mary! Mary! Get into the cellar now!” he roared.

Devlin O’Neill could not move, stunned. His father had been gone for more than a month—since the middle of May. He had sent word, though, every few weeks, and while Devlin was only ten years old, he was acutely aware of the war at hand. Farmer and priest, shepherd and squire, peasant and gentry alike had risen up to fight the English devils once and for all, to take back all that was truly theirs—the rich Irish land that had been stolen from them a century ago. There was so much hope—and there was so much fear.

Now his heart seemed to simply stop and he stared at his father, relieved to finally see him again and terribly afraid. He was afraid that Gerald was hurt—and he was afraid of far worse. He started forward with a small cry, but Gerald did not stop moving, going to the bottom of the stairs and bellowing for his wife again. His hand never left the scabbard that sheathed his cutlass, and he carried a musket as well.

Devlin had never seen his eyes so wild. Dear God.

“Is Father hurt?” a tiny voice whispered beside him, a small hand plucking at his torn linen sleeve.

Devlin didn’t even look at his dark-haired younger brother. He could not take his eyes from his father, his mind spinning, racing. The rebels had taken Wexford town early in the rebellion and the entire county had rejoiced. Well, the papist part of it, at least. Other victories had followed—but so had other defeats. Now redcoats were everywhere; Devlin had spied thousands from a ridge just that morning, the most ominous sight he’d ever seen. He’d heard that Wexford had fallen, and a maid had said thousands had died at New Ross. He’d refused to believe it—until now. Now he thought that maybe the whispers of defeat and death were true. Because he saw fear in his father’s eyes for the first time in his young life.

“Is Father hurt?” Sean asked again, a tremor in his tone.

Instantly Devlin turned to him. “I don’t think so,” he said, knowing he had to be brave, at least for Sean. But fear gripped him in a clawlike vise. And then his mother came rushing down the stairs, her infant daughter in her arms.

“Gerald! Thank God, I’ve been so worried about you,” she cried, as pale as any ghost.

He seized her arm, releasing the scabbard of his sword to do so. “Take the boys and go down to the cellar,” Gerald said harshly. “Now, Mary.”

She cried out, her blue eyes filled with fear, riveted on his face. “Are you hurt?”

“Just do as I say,” he cried, pulling her across the hall.

The baby, Meg, began to wail.

“And keep her quiet, for God’s sake,” he said as harshly. But now he was looking over his shoulder at the open doorway, as if expecting to see the British soldiers in pursuit.

Devlin followed his gaze. Smoke could be seen in the clear blue sky and suddenly the sounds of muskets firing could be heard.

Mary pushed the babe against her breast as she opened her blouse, never breaking stride. “What will happen to us, Gerald?” And then, lower, “What will happen to you?”

He opened the door to the cellar, the opening hidden by a centuries-old tapestry. “Everything will be fine,” he said harshly. “You and the boys, the babe, all will be fine.”

She stared up at him, her eyes filling with tears.

“I’m not hurt,” he added thickly, and he kissed her briefly on the lips. “Now go downstairs and do not come out until I say so.”

Mary nodded and went down. Devlin rushed forward as a cannon boomed, terribly close to the manor. “Father! Let me come with you—I can help. I can shoot—”

Gerald whirled, striking Devlin across the head, and he flew across the stone floor, landing on his rump. “Do as I say,” he roared, and as he ran back through the hall, he added, “And take care of your mother, Devlin.”

The front door slammed.

Devlin blinked back tears of despair and humiliation and found himself looking at Sean. There was a question in his younger brother’s pale gray eyes, which remained wide with fear. Devlin got to his feet, shaking like a puny child. There was no question of what he had to do. He had never disobeyed his father before but he wasn’t going to let his father face the redcoats he’d seen earlier alone.

If Father was going to die, then he’d die with him.

Fear made him feel faint. He faced his little brother, breathing hard, willing himself to be a man. “Go down with Mother and Meg. Go now,” he ordered quietly. Without waiting to see if he was being obeyed, Devlin rushed through the hall and into his father’s library.

“You’re going to fight, aren’t you?” Sean cried, following him.

Devlin didn’t answer. A purpose filled him now. He ran to the gun rack behind his father’s massive desk and froze in dismay. It was empty. He stared in disbelief.

And then he heard the soldiers.

He heard men shouting and horses whinnying. He heard swords ringing. The cannon boomed again, somewhere close by. Shots from pistols punctuated the musket fire. He slowly turned to Sean and their gazes locked. Sean’s face was pinched with fear—the same fear that was making Devlin’s heart race so quickly that he could barely breathe.

Sean wet his lips. “They’re close, Dev.”

He could barely make his mouth form the words, “Go to the cellar.” He had to help his father. He couldn’t let Father die alone.

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You need to take care of Mother and Meg,” Devlin said, racing to the bench beneath the gun rack. He tore the pillows from the seat and hefted the lid open. He was disbelieving—Father always kept a spare pistol there, but there was nothing but a dagger. A single, stupid, useless prick of a dagger.

“I’m coming with you,” Sean said, his voice broken with tears.

Devlin took the dagger, then reached into the drawer of his father’s desk and took a sharp letter opener as well. He handed it to Sean. His brother smiled grimly at him—Devlin couldn’t smile back.

And then he saw the rusty antique display of a knight in his armor in the corner of the room. It was said that an infamous ancestor, once favored by an English queen, had worn it. Devlin ran to the statue, Sean on his heels as if attached by a short string. There, he shimmied the sword free from the knight’s gauntlet, knocking over the tarnished armor.

Devlin’s spirits lifted. The sword was old and rusted, but it was a weapon, by God. He withdrew it from the hilt, touched the blade and gasped as blood spurted from his fingertip. Then he looked at Sean.

The brothers shared a grin.

The cannon boomed and this time the house shook, glass shattering in the hall outside. The boys blinked at each other, wide-eyed, their fear renewed.

Devlin wet his lips. “Sean. You have to stay with Mother and Meg.”

“No.”

He felt like whacking his brother on the head the way Gerald had struck him. But he was also secretly relieved not to have to face the red hordes alone. “Then let’s go,” Devlin said.

THE BATTLE WAS RAGING just behind the cornfields that swept up to the ruined outer walls of Askeaton Castle. The boys raced through the tall plants, hidden by the stalks, until they had reached the last row of corn. Crouching, Devlin felt ill as he finally viewed the bloody panorama.

There seemed to be hundreds—no, thousands—of soldiers in red, by far outnumbering the ragged hordes of Irishmen. The British soldiers were heavily armed with muskets and swords. Most of the Irishmen had pikes. Devlin watched his countrymen being massacred, not one by one, but in waves, five by five, six by six, and more. His stomach churned violently. He was only ten but he knew a slaughter when he saw one.

“Father,” Sean whispered.

Devlin jerked and followed his brother’s gaze. Instantly, he saw a madman on a gray horse, swinging his sword wildly, miraculously slaying first one redcoat and then another. “Come on!” Devlin leapt up, sword raised, and rushed toward the battle.

A British soldier was aiming his musket at a farmer with a pike and dagger. Other soldiers and peasants were intently battling one another. There was so much blood, so much death, the stench of it everywhere. Devlin heaved his sword at the soldier. To his surprise, the blade cleaved through the man completely.

Devlin froze, shocked, as the farmer quickly finished the soldier off. “Thanks, boyo,” he said, dropping the dead soldier in the dirt.

A musket fired and the farmer’s eyes popped in surprise, blood blossoming on his chest.

“Dev!” Sean shouted in warning.

Devlin turned wildly to face the barrel of a musket, aimed right at him. Instantly he lifted his sword in response. He wondered if he was about to die, as his blade was no match for the gun. Then Sean, the musket in his hands clearly taken from the dead, whacked the soldier from behind, right in the knees. The soldier lost his balance as he fired, missing Devlin by a long shot. Sean hit him over the head, and the man lay still, apparently unconscious.

Devlin straightened, breathing hard, an image of the soldier boy he’d just helped kill in his mind. Sean looked wildly at him.

“We need to go to Father,” Devlin decided.

Sean nodded, perilously close to tears.

Devlin turned, searching the mass of struggling humanity, trying to spot his father on the gray horse. It was impossible now.

And suddenly he realized that the violent struggling was slowing.

He stilled, glancing around wide-eyed, and now he saw hundreds of men in beige and brown tunics, lying still and lifeless across the battlefield. Interspersed among them were dozens of British soldiers, also lifeless, and a few horses. Here and there, someone moaned or cried out weakly for help.

An Englishman was shouting out a command to his company.

Devlin’s gaze swept the entire scene again. The battlefield had spread to the banks of the river on one side, the cornfield behind and the manor house in the south. And now the British soldiers were falling into line.

“Quick,” Devlin said, and he and Sean darted over dead corpses, racing hard and fast for an edge of the cornfield and the invisibility it would give them. Sean tripped on a bloody body. Devlin lifted him to his feet and dragged him behind the first stalk of corn. Panting, they both sank to a crouch. And now, from the slight rise where the cornfield was, he could see that the battle was truly over.

There were so many dead.

Sean huddled close.

Devlin knew his brother was close to crying. He put his arm around him but did not take his gaze from the battlefield. The manor was to his right, perhaps a pasture away, and there were dead littering the courtyard. His gaze shot back to the left. Ahead, not far from where they hid, he saw his father’s gray stallion.

Devlin stiffened. The horse was being held by a soldier. His father was not mounted on it.

And suddenly, several mounted British officers appeared, moving toward the gray steed. And Gerald O’Neill, his hands bound, was being shoved forward on foot.

“Father,” Sean breathed.

Devlin was afraid to hope.

“Gerald O’Neill, I presume?” the mounted commanding officer asked, his tone filled with mockery and condescension.

“And to whom do I have the honor of this acquaintance?” Gerald said, as mocking, as condescending.

“Lord Captain Harold Hughes, ever His Majesty’s noble servant,” the officer returned, smiling coldly. He had a handsome face, blue-black hair and ice-cold blue eyes. “Have you not heard, O’Neill? The Defenders are beaten into a bloody pulp. General Lake has successfully stormed your puny headquarters at Vinegar Hill. I do believe the number of rebel dead has been tallied at fifteen thousand. You and your men are a futile lot.”

“Damn Lake and Cornwallis, too,” Gerald spat, the latter being the viceroy of Ireland. “We fight until every one of us is dead, Hughes. Or until we have won our land and our freedom.”

Devlin wished desperately that his father would not speak so with the British captain. But Hughes merely shrugged indifferently. “Burn everything,” he said, as if he were speaking about the weather.

Sean cried out. Devlin froze in shocked dismay.

“Captain, sir,” a junior officer said. “Burn everything?”

Hughes smiled at Gerald, who had turned as white as a ghost. “Everything, Smith. Every field, every pasture, every crop, the stable, the livestock—the house.”

The lieutenant turned, the orders quickly given. Devlin and Sean exchanged horrified glances. Their mother and Meg remained in the manor house. He didn’t know what to do. The urge to shout, “No!” and rush the soldiers was all-consuming.

“Hughes!” Gerald said fiercely, his tone a command. “My wife and my children are inside.”

“Really?” Hughes didn’t seem impressed. “Maybe their deaths will make others think twice about committing treason,” he said.

Gerald’s eyes widened.

“Burn everything,” Hughes snapped. “And I do mean everything.”

Gerald lunged for the mounted captain, but was restrained. Devlin didn’t stop to think—he whirled, about to run from the cornfield to the manor. But he had taken only a step or two when he halted in his tracks. For his mother, Mary, stood in the open front door of the house, the baby cradled in her arms. Relief made him stumble. He reached for Sean’s hand, daring to breathe. Then he looked back at his father and Captain Hughes.

Hughes’s expression had changed. His brows had lifted with interest and he was staring across the several dozen yards separating him and his prisoner from the manor. “Your wife, I presume?”

Gerald heaved violently at his bonds and the three men holding him. “You bastard. You touch her and I’ll kill you, one way or another, I swear.”

Hughes smiled, his gaze on Mary. As if he hadn’t heard Gerald, he murmured, “Well, well. This is a pretty turn of events. Bring the woman to my quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Smith whirled his mount toward the manor.

“Hughes! You touch a hair on my wife’s head and I’ll cut your balls off one by one,” Gerald ground out.

“Really? And this from a man fated to hang—or worse.” And he calmly unsheathed his sword. An instant later, one solid blow struck Gerald, severing his head.

Devlin stared—beyond shock—as his father’s headless body collapsed slowly to the ground—as his head rolled there, both gray eyes open and still filled with rage.

He turned, still in absolute denial, and watched his mother fall in a swoon. Meg wailed loudly, kicking and flailing, on the ground by Mary.

“Take the woman,” Hughes said. “Bring her to my quarters and burn down the damned house.” He spurred his mount around and galloped off.

And as two soldiers started toward the manor—toward his unconscious mother, Meg wailing on the ground beside her—the reality of his father’s brutal murder hit Devlin with stunning force. Father was dead. He’d been murdered, savagely murdered, in cold blood. By that damned English captain, Hughes.

He’d left the sword behind in the battle; now he raised the silly little dagger. A scream emanated from somewhere, a monstrous sound, high-pitched, filled with rage and grief. He vaguely realized the sound came from himself. He started forward unsteadily, determined to kill anyone that he could, anyone who was British.

A soldier blinked at him in wild surprise as Devlin raced toward him, dagger raised.

A blow from behind took him on the back of his head and mercifully, after the first moment of blinding pain, there was blackness—and blessed relief.

DEVLIN AWOKE SLOWLY, with difficulty, aware of a sharp pain in his head, of cold and dampness and a vague sense of dread.

“Dev?” Sean whispered. “Dev, are you waking?”

He became aware now of his brother’s thin arms wrapped tightly around him. An odd smell pervaded the air, acrid and bitter. He wondered where he was, what was happening—then he saw his father standing shackled between the redcoats; he saw Captain Hughes raise his sword and sever his head.

Devlin gasped, eyes flying open.

Sean hugged him harder, once.

Full recollection made him struggle to his knees. They were in the woods and it had rained some time ago, leaving everything cold and wet. Devlin lurched aside and wretched dryly, clinging to the dark Irish earth.

Finally it was over. He sat back on his haunches, meeting Sean’s gaze. His brother had made a small fire, just enough to see by, not enough for warmth. “Mother? Meg?” he asked hoarsely.

“I don’t know where Mother is,” Sean said, his tiny face pinched. “The soldiers took her away before she even woke up. I wanted to go get Meg, but after you went berserk and that soldier whacked you, I dragged you here, to be safe. Then they started the fires, Devlin.” His eyes filled with tears. He began to pant harshly. “It’s all gone, everything.”

Devlin stared, for one moment as frightened as his brother, but then he came to his senses. Everything was up to him now. He could not cry—he had to lead. “Stop blubbering like a baby,” he said sharply. “We need to rescue Mother and find Meg.”

Instantly, Sean stopped sobbing. His eyes wide and riveted on his brother, he slowly nodded.

Devlin stood, not bothering to brush off his britches, which were filthy. They hurried through the glade. At its edge, Devlin stumbled.

Even in the moonlight, the land had always been soft with meadows and tall with stalks. Now a vast flatness stretched before him, and where the manor once was, he saw a shell of stone walls and two desolate chimneys. The acrid odor was immediately identifiable—it was smoke and ash.

“We’ll starve this winter,” Sean whispered, gripping his hand.

“Did they go back to the garrison at Kilmallock?” Devlin asked sharply, grimly. Determination had replaced the icy fear, the nauseating dread.

Sean nodded. “Dev? How will we rescue her? I mean, they’ve got thousands…. We’re just two—and boys, at that.”

That exact question was haunting him. “We’ll find a way,” he said. “I promise you, Sean. We will find a way.”

IT WAS HIGH NOON WHEN THEY arrived atop a ridge that overlooked the British fort at Kilmallock. Devlin’s spirits faltered as he looked past the wood stockades and over a sea of white tents and redcoats. Flags marked the commanding officer’s quarters, well in the midst of the fort. Immediately, Devlin thought about how he and Sean, two young boys, could enter the fort. Had he been taller, he would have killed a soldier for his uniform. However, now he considered the possibility that they could simply walk through those open front gates with a wagon, a convoy or a group of soldiers, as they were both so small and unthreatening.

“Do you think she’s all right?” Sean whispered. His color had not returned, not even once, since they saw their father so gruesomely murdered. He remained frighteningly pale, his lips chewed raw, his eyes filled with fear. Devlin worried that he would become sick.

Devlin put his arm around him. “We’re going to save her and make everything right again,” he said firmly. But somehow, deep in his sickened heart, he knew his words were a terrible lie—nothing would ever be right again.

And what had become of little Meg? He was afraid to even think of the possibility that she had burned in the fire.

Devlin screwed his eyes shut. A terrible stillness slid over him. His breathing, for the first time, calmed. The churning in his insides steadied. Something dark began to form in his mind. Something dark, grim and hard—something terrible and unyielding.

Sean started to cry. “What if he hurt her? What if…what if he…he did to her…what he did to Father?”

Devlin blinked and found himself staring coldly down at the fort. For one moment, he continued to stare, ignoring his brother, aware of the huge change that had just affected him. The ten-year-old boy had vanished forever. A man had appeared in his place, a man cold and purposeful, a man whose anger simmered far below the surface, fueling vast intent. The strength of his resolve astonished him.

The fear was gone. He wasn’t afraid of the British and he wasn’t afraid of death.

And he knew what he had to do—even if it took years.

Devlin turned to Sean, who was watching him with huge, tearful eyes. “He didn’t hurt Mother,” he heard himself say calmly, his tone as commanding as their father’s had once been.

Sean blinked in surprise, and then he nodded.

“Let’s go,” Devlin said firmly. They scrambled down the hill and found a boulder to hide behind just off of the road. After an hour or so, four supply wagons led by a dozen mounted troops appeared. “Pretend we want to welcome them,” he whispered softly. He had seen so many peasants waving and obsequiously greeting the British troops, and fools that the redcoats were, they never knew that after they had passed, the smiles were replaced by leers and taunts.

The boys stepped onto the road, the sun high now, warm and bright, to smile and wave at the troops as they approached. Some of the soldiers waved back, and one tossed them a piece of bread. As the wagons passed, the brothers continued to wave, their smiles fixed. And then Devlin dug his elbow in Sean’s ribs and they took off, racing after the last wagon. Devlin leapt onto it, then turned and held out his hand. Sean leapt up and caught it and Devlin pulled his brother up. They both dove behind sacks of meal and potatoes and then they huddled closely, looking at each other.

Devlin felt a small, savage satisfaction. He smiled at Sean.

“Now what?” Sean whispered.

“We wait,” Devlin said. Oddly, he was coldly confident.

Once the wagon was safely inside the front gates of the fort, Devlin peered out from their hiding place. He saw no one looking and he nudged Sean. They jumped to the ground and dashed around the side of the closest tent.

Five minutes later they were lurking outside the captain’s tent, hiding behind two water barrels, mostly out of sight and, for the moment, safe.

“What are we going to do now?” Sean asked, wiping sweat from his brow. The weather remained pleasant, although the gray clouds far on the horizon threatened more rain.

“Shh,” Devlin said, trying to think of how to free their mother. It seemed hopeless. But surely there had to be a way. He had not come this far to let her fall into Captain Hughes’s clutches. Father would want him to rescue her—and he would not let him down again.

The ghastly memory returned—his father’s severed head upon the ground, in a pool of his own blood, his eyes wide and still enraged, although lifeless.

Some of his newfound confidence wavered but his resolve hardened imperceptibly.

Voices were raised. Horses approaching at a fast gait could be heard. Devlin and Sean got to their knees and peered around the barrels. Hughes had stepped outside of the tent, looking quite content, a snifter of brandy in his hand, apparently also interested in the commotion.

Devlin followed the direction of the captain’s gaze, looking south through the open front gates of the fort, the way he and Sean had come. He started in surprise. A horde of riders was approaching at a hard gallop, and the banner waving above the outrider was cobalt, silver and black, its colors painfully familiar. Beside him, Sean inhaled sharply, and he and Devlin exchanged a look.

“It’s the Earl of Adare,” Sean whispered with excitement.

Devlin clapped his hand over his brother’s mouth. “He must have come to help. Quiet.”

“Damn the bloody Irish, even the English ones,” Hughes said to another officer. “It’s the Earl of Adare.” He tossed the brandy, snifter and all, onto the ground, obviously annoyed.

“Shall we close the gates, sir?”

“Unfortunately the man is well acquainted with Lord Castlereagh, and he has held a seat on the Irish Privy Council. He was at a dinner of state, I heard, with Cornwallis. If I close the gates, there will be bloody hell to pay.” Hughes scowled now, and red blotches had appeared on his neck above the black-and-gold collar of his red military jacket.

Devlin tried to contain his excitement. Edward de Warenne, the Earl of Adare, was their landlord. And although Gerald had leased his own ancestral lands from Adare, the two men were, in fact, far more than lord and tenant. At times, they had attended the same country suppers and balls, the same fox hunts and steeplechases. Adare had dined a dozen times at the manor at Askeaton. Unlike other landlords, he had been fair in his dealings with the O’Neill family, never rack-renting them, never demanding more than his share.

Devlin realized that he and Sean were holding hands. He watched breathlessly as the earl and his men cantered toward the captain’s tent. They never slowed and soldiers ran to get out of their way. Finally, abruptly, the riders halted before Hughes and his men. Instantly a dozen redcoats armed with muskets formed a circle around the newcomers.

The earl spurred his black mount forward. He was tall and dark, his appearance distinct and formidable, his presence emanating power and authority. But his face was a mask of rage. “Where is Mary O’Neill?” he demanded tersely. A navy-blue cloak swirled about his shoulders.

Hughes smiled tightly. “I take it you’ve heard of O’Neill’s untimely demise?”

“Untimely demise?” The Earl of Adare launched himself to the ground and strode forward. “Murder is more like it. You’ve murdered one of my tenants, Hughes.”

“So now you are a papist? He was fated for the gallows, Adare, and you know it.”

Adare stared, trembling with fury, and finally he breathed low. “You bastard. There was always the chance of exile and a royal pardon. I would have moved heaven and earth to make it so. You arrogant son of a bitch.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

Hughes shrugged indifferently. “As I said, a papist and a Jacobin. These are dangerous times, my friend. Even Lord Castlereagh would not want to be associated with a Jacobin.”

For a moment, Adare did not speak, clearly fighting for self-control. “I want the woman. Where is she?”

Hughes hesitated, his jaw flexing, more red color blotching his features.

“Do not make me do something I dearly wish to do—which is choke the very life out of you,” Adare said coldly.

“Fine. An Irish bitch hardly enthralls me. They’re a dozen a penny.”

Devlin was so stunned by the gross insult that he reeled. He would have rushed forward to kill Hughes, but he didn’t have to. Adare strode the brief distance separating him from Hughes and shoved his face up against the captain’s. “Do not underestimate the power of Adare. I suggest you cease with any further slanders before you find yourself in command of redskins in Upper Canada. I dine with Cornwallis on the fifteenth, and there is nothing I would prefer to do than whisper some very unpleasant facts in his ears. Do you understand me, Captain?”

Hughes couldn’t speak. His face had turned crimson.

Adare released him. He strode into the tent, his dark cloak billowing about him.

Devlin exchanged glances with Sean—and then he ran past the red-faced Hughes with his brother in hand and into the tent behind the earl. Instantly he saw his mother sitting in a small chair and he knew at once that she had been weeping.

“Mary!” the earl cried, halting in his tracks. “Are you all right?”

Mary stood, her blue eyes wide, her blond curls in disarray. Their gazes locked. “I thought you would come,” she said unevenly.

Adare hurried forward, gripping her shoulders, his dark blue eyes wide. “Are you hurt?” he asked more softly.

It was a moment before she could speak. “Not in the manner you are thinking, my lord.” She hesitated, staring at him, and her eyes filled with tears. “He murdered Gerald. He murdered my husband before my very eyes.”

“I know,” Adare responded with anguish. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

Mary was undone; she looked away, close to weeping again.

He turned her face forward again and their eyes met another time. “Where’s Meg? Where are the boys?”

Tears spilled then. “I don’t know where Meg is. She was in my arms when I fainted and—” She could not continue.

“We’ll find her.” He smiled a little then. “I will find her.”

Mary nodded and it was clear that she believed he might succeed against all hope. And then she saw her sons standing by the tent’s front flap, as still as statues, watching her and the powerful Protestant earl. “Devlin! Sean! Thank God you’re alive—you’re unhurt!” She rushed to them, hugging them both at once.

Devlin closed his eyes, almost incapable of believing that he had found his mother and she was safe, for he knew the earl would take care of her now. “We’re fine, Mother,” he said softly, pulling away from her embrace.

Adare joined them, putting one arm possessively around Mary. His assessing gaze quickly moved over both boys and Devlin met his gaze. A part of him wished to rebel, though they desperately needed the earl’s help now. But Gerald was not yet buried, and he knew Adare’s real inclinations—he had sensed them for some time.

“Devlin, Sean, listen closely,” Adare instructed. “You will ride back to Adare with my men and myself. When we leave this tent, mount up quickly, behind my men. Do you understand me?”

Devlin nodded, but he could not help looking quickly back and forth between Adare and his mother. He had seen the way Adare looked at his mother in the past, but then, many men had admired her from afar. Before Gerald’s death, it had been so easy to tell himself that Adare admired her the way any man would. Now he knew he had lied to himself. He was relieved that the powerful earl was coming to their aid, but he was also resentful. The earl was a widower and he loved Mary. Devlin was certain of it. But what about Father, who was not yet even properly buried? Not yet even cold in his grave?

“Devlin!” Adare’s words were a whip, his gaze as sharp. “Move.”

Devlin quickly obeyed, he and Sean falling into line behind Adare and Mary. And the foursome left the relative safety of the tent.

Outside, the sun was higher, hotter, brighter. An unearthly silence had fallen over the camp and the mountains beyond where more ominous clouds gathered. Dozens of armed British soldiers had formed in banded rows about Adare’s two dozen mounted and armed men. Clearly, if Hughes wished it, there would be another massacre that day.

Devlin glanced at the earl, but if Adare was afraid, he did not show it. Devlin’s respect for him increased. Adare was very much like Gerald, and he must be as brave. He tamped down any fear that was trying to rise.

Adare never faltered as he crossed the ground between the tent and his men. He lifted Mary onto his mount. Hughes was watching, his face rigid with tension and hatred. Devlin pushed Sean at a knight, and as he leapt up behind another rider, Sean was hauled up onto the back of a horse, as well.

Adare was already in the saddle, behind Mary. His gaze swept over the boys, then the rows of armed British soldiers, and finally, Hughes. “You have trespassed upon what is mine,” he said, his words ringing. “Never do so again.”

Hughes smiled grimly. “I had no idea you and the lady were…involved.”

“Do not twist my words, Captain,” Adare cried. “You murdered my liege, you burned my land, and that is an affront to me and mine. Now let us pass.”

Devlin looked from Adare to Hughes as the two men locked gazes. He was aware of sweat gathering between his shoulder blades and trickling down his back. For one moment, the fort was so quiet that had a leaf rustled, it would have been heard.

And finally, Hughes spoke. “Stand aside,” he barked. “Let them go.”

And the line of soldiers parted.

Adare raised his hand, spurring his horse into a canter, leading his men through the British troops and out of the fort.

Devlin held on to the soldier he was riding behind. But he looked back.

Right into the captain’s pale blue eyes.

And the burning began.

It began somewhere deep inside his soul, emanating in huge, hard, dark waves, creeping into his very blood, until it consumed him, bitterly acrid, red hot.

One day he would have his revenge. One day, when the time was right. Captain Harold Hughes would be made to pay the price of Gerald O’Neill’s murder.

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

April 5, 1812

Richmond, Virginia

“SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW how to dance,” one of the young ladies snickered.

Her cheeks burning, Virginia Hughes was acutely aware of the dozen young women standing queued behind her in the ballroom. She had been singled out by the dance master and was now being given a lecture on the sissonne ballotté, one of the steps used in the quadrille. Not only did she not comprehend the step, she didn’t care. She had no interest in dancing, none whatsoever—she only wished to go home to Sweet Briar.

“But you must never cease with polite conversation, Miss Hughes, even in the execution of a step. Otherwise you will be severely misconstrued,” the dark, slim master was admonishing.

Virginia really didn’t hear him. She closed her eyes and it was as if she had been swept away to another time and place, one far better than the formidable walls of the Marmott School for Genteel Young Ladies.

Virginia breathed deeply and was consumed with the heady scent of honeysuckle; it was followed by the far stronger and more potent scent of the black Virginia earth, turned up now for the spring burning. She could picture the dark fields, stretching away as far as her eye dared see, parallel lines of slaves made white by their clothes as they spread the coals, and closer, the sweeping lawns, rose gardens and ancient oaks and elms surrounding the handsome brick house that her father had built. “She could have been built in England,” he’d said proudly, many times, “a hundred years ago. No one can take a look at her and know any differently.”

Virginia missed Sweet Briar, but not half as much as she missed her parents. A wave of grief crashed over her, so much so her eyes flew open and she found herself standing back in the damnable ballroom of the school she had been sent to, the dance master looking extremely put out, his hands on his slim hips, a grim expression on his dark Italian face.

“What’s she doing with her eyes screwed up like that?” someone whispered.

“She’s crying, that’s what she’s doing,” came a haughty reply.

Virginia knew it was the blond beauty, Sarah Lewis—who was, according to Sarah, the most coveted debutante in Richmond. Or would be, when she came out at the end of the year. Virginia turned, fury overcoming her, and strode toward Sarah. Virginia was very petite and far too thin, with a small triangular face that held sharp cheekbones and brilliant violet eyes; her dark hair, waist long, was forced painfully up, as she refused to cut it, and appeared in danger of crushing her with its massive weight. Sarah was a good three inches taller than Virginia, not to mention a stone heavier. Virginia didn’t care.

She’d been in her first fight when she was six, a fisticuffs, and when her father had broken up the match, she’d learned she was fighting like a girl. Instruction in how to throw a solid punch—like a boy—had followed, much to her mother’s dismay. Virginia could not only throw a solid punch, she could shoot the top off a bottle at fifty feet with a hunting rifle. She didn’t stop until she was nose to nose with Sarah—which required standing on her tiptoes.

“Dancing is for fools like you,” she cried, “and your name should be Dancing Fool Sarah.”

Sarah gasped, stepping back, her eyes wide—and then the anger came. “Signor Rossini! Did you hear what the country bumpkin said to me?”

Virginia held her head impossibly higher. “This country bumpkin owns an entire plantation—all five thousand acres of it. And if I know my math—which I do—then that makes me one hell of a lot richer than you, Miss Dancing Fool.”

“You’re jealous,”’ Sarah hissed, “because you’re skinny and ugly and no one wants you…which is why you are here!”

Virginia landed hard on her heels. Something cracked open inside of her, and it was painful and sharp. Because Sarah had spoken the truth. No one wanted her, she was alone, and dear God, how awfully it hurt.

Sarah saw that her barb had hit home. She smiled. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve been sent here until your majority! That’s three years, Miss Hughes. You will be old and wrinkled before you ever go home to your farm!”

“That’s enough,” Signor Rossini said. “Both of you ladies step over to—”

Virginia didn’t wait to hear the rest. She turned and ran from the ballroom, certain there were more titters behind her, hating Sarah, hating the other girls, the dance master, the whole school and even her parents…How could they have left her? How?

In the hallway she collapsed to the floor, hugging her thin knees to her breasts, praying the pain would go away. And she even hated God, because He had taken her parents away from her in one terrible blow, on that awful rainy night last fall. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered against her bony knee. “I miss you so.”

She knew she must not cry. She would die before letting anyone see her cry. But she had never felt so lost and alone before. In fact, she had never been lost and alone before. There had been sunny days spent riding across the plantation with her father and evenings in front of the hearth while Mama embroidered and Papa read. There had been a house full of slaves, each and every one of whom she had known since the very day of her birth. There had been Tillie, her best friend in the entire world, never mind that she was a house slave two years older than Virginia. She hugged her knees harder, inhaling deeply and blinking furiously. It was a long moment before she regained her composure.

And when she did, she sat up straighter. What had Sarah said? That she was to remain at the school until her majority? But that was impossible! She had just turned eighteen and that meant she would be stuck in this awful prison for another three years.

Virginia stood up, not bothering to brush any dust from her black skirts, which she wore in mourning. It had been six months since the tragic carriage accident that had taken her parents’ lives and while the headmistress had expressed an interest in Virginia giving up mourning, she had solidly refused. She intended to mourn her parents forever. She still could not understand why God had let them die.

But surely that witch Sarah Lewis did not know what she was speaking about.

Very disturbed, Virginia hurried down the wood-paneled hall. Her only relative was an uncle, Harold Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh. After her parents had died, he had sent his condolences and instructions for her to proceed to the Marmott School in Richmond, as he was now her official guardian. Virginia barely recalled any of this; her life then had been reduced to a blur of pain and grief. One day she had found herself in the school, not quite recalling how she had gotten there, only vaguely remembering being in Tillie’s arms one last time, the two girls sobbing goodbyes. Once the initial grief had lessened, she and Tillie had exchanged a series of letters—Sweet Briar was eighty miles south of Richmond and just a few miles from Norfolk. Virginia had learned that the earl was trustee of her estate and that he had ordered everything to continue to be managed as it had been before his brother’s death. Surely, if Sarah was correct, Tillie would have told her of such a terrible and cruel intention on the part of her guardian. Unless she herself did not know of it….

Thinking of Tillie and Sweet Briar always made her homesick. The urge to return home was suddenly overwhelming. She was eighteen, and many young women her age were affianced or even married with their own households. Before their deaths her parents hadn’t raised the subject of marriage, for which Virginia had been grateful. She wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with her, but marriage—and young men—had never occupied her mind. Instead, since the age of five, when Randall Hughes had mounted her on his horse in front of him, she had worked side by side with her father every single day. She knew every inch of Sweet Briar, every tree, every leaf, every flower. (The plantation was a hundred acres, not five thousand, but Sarah Lewis had needed to be taken down a peg or two.) She knew all about tobacco, the crop that was Sweet Briar. She knew the best ways to transplant the seedling crop, the best way to cure the harvested leaves, the best auction houses. Like her father, she had followed the price per bale with avid interest—and fervent hope. Every summer she and her father would dismount and walk through the tobacco fields, fingering the leafy plants in dirty hands, inhaling their succulent aroma, judging the quality of their harvest.

She had had other duties and responsibilities as well. No one was kinder than her mother, and no one knew herbs and healing better. No one cared more about their slaves. Virginia had attended dozens of fevers and flux, right by her mother’s side. She was never afraid to walk into the slave quarters when someone was ill—in fact, she packed a darn good poultice. Although Mama had not allowed her to attend any birthings, Virginia could birth foals, too, and had spent many a night waiting for a pregnant mare to deliver. Why shouldn’t she be at home now, running Sweet Briar with their foreman, James MacGregor? Was there any point in being at this damnable school? She’d been born to run the plantation. Sweet Briar was in her blood, her soul.

Virginia knew she wasn’t a lady. She’d been wearing britches from the moment she had figured out that there were britches, and she liked them better than skirts. Papa hadn’t cared—he’d been proud of her outspoken ways, her natural horsemanship, her keen eye. He had thought her beautiful, too—he’d always called her his little wild rose—but every father thought so of a daughter. Virginia knew that wasn’t true. She was too thin and she had too much hair to ever be considered fair. Not that she cared. She was far too smart to want to be a lady.

Mama had been tolerant of her husband and her daughter. Both of Virginia’s brothers had died at birth, first Todd and then little Charles when she was six. That was when Mama had first looked the other way about the britches, the horses, the hunting. She had cried for weeks, prayed in the family chapel and, somehow, found peace. After that, her smiles and sunny warmth had returned—but there had been no more pregnancies, as if she and Papa had made a silent pact.

Virginia couldn’t comprehend why any woman would even want to be a lady. A lady had to follow rules. Most of the rules were annoying, but some were downright oppressive. Being a lady was like being a slave who didn’t have the fine home of Sweet Briar. Being a lady was no different from being in shackles.

Virginia paused before the headmistress’s office, the decision already made. Whether Sarah Lewis had spoken the truth or not, it no longer mattered. It was time to go home. In fact, making the decision felt good. For the first time since her parents had died, she felt strong—and brave. It was a wonderful way to feel. It was the way she had felt right up until the minister had come to their door to tell her that her parents were dead.

She knocked on the fine mahogany door.

Mrs. Towne, a plump, pleasant lady, gestured her inside. Her kind eyes held Virginia’s, solemn now, when usually they held dancing lights. “I’m afraid you will have to learn to dance sooner or later, Miss Hughes.”

Virginia grimaced. The one person she almost liked at the school was the headmistress. “Why?”

Mrs. Towne was briefly surprised. “Do sit down, my dear.”

Virginia sat, then realized her knees were apart, her hands dangling off the arms of the chair, and quickly rearranged herself, not because she wished to be proper, but because she did not want to antagonize the headmistress now. She clamped her knees together, clasped her hands and thought about how fine it would be to be in her britches and astride her horse.

Mrs. Towne smiled. “It isn’t that difficult to cooperate, dear.”

“Actually, it is.” Virginia was also very stubborn. That trait her mother had bemoaned.

“Virginia, ladies must dance. How else will you attend a proper party and enjoy yourself?”

Virginia didn’t hesitate. “I have no use for parties, ma’am. I have no use for dancing. Frankly, it’s time for me to go home.”

Mrs. Towne stared in mild surprise.

Virginia forgot about sitting properly. “It’s not true, is it? What that wicked Sarah Lewis said? Surely I am not to remain here—forgotten—a prisoner—for another three years?”

Mrs. Towne was grim. “Miss Lewis must have overheard me speaking privately with Mrs. Blakely. My dear, we did receive such instructions from your uncle.”

Virginia was shocked speechless and she could only stare. It was a moment before she could even think.

For a while, she had been afraid that Eastleigh would send for her, forcing her to go to England, where she had no wish to go. That, at least, was one dilemma she did not have to face. But he would lock her up in this school for three more years? She’d already been here six months and she hated it! Virginia would not have it. Oh, no. She was going home.

Mrs. Towne was speaking. “I know that three years seems like a very long time, but actually, considering the way you were raised, it is probably the amount of time we need to fully instruct you in all the social graces you shall need to succeed in society, my dear. And there is good news. Your uncle intends to see you wed upon your majority.”

Virginia was on her feet, beyond shock. “What?”

Mrs. Towne blinked. “I should have known you would be dismayed by the proposal. Every well-born young lady marries, and you are no exception. He intends to find a suitable husband for you—”

“Absolutely not!”

Mrs. Towne was now the one speechless.

Anger consumed Virginia. “First he sends me here? Then he thinks to lock me away for three years? Then he will send me to another prison—a marriage with a stranger? No, I think not!”

“Sit down.”

“No, Mrs. Towne. You see, I will marry one day, but I will marry for love and only love. A grand passion—like my parents had.” Tears blurred her vision. There would be no compromise. One day she would find a man like her father, the kind of love her parents had so obviously shared. There would be—could be—no compromise.

“Virginia, sit down,” Mrs. Towne said firmly.

Virginia shook her head and Mrs. Towne stood. “I know you have suffered a terrible tragedy, and we all feel for you, we do. But you do not control your fate, child, your uncle does. If he wishes you to stay here until your majority, then so it shall be. And I am sure you will come to be fond of your future husband, whoever he may be.”

Virginia couldn’t speak. Panic consumed her. A stranger thought himself to be in control of her life! She felt trapped, as if in a cage with iron bars, worse, the cage was being immersed in the sea and she was drowning!

“My dear, you must make an effort to become a part of the community here. You are the one who has chosen to be disdainful of the other fine young women here. You have not tried, even once, to be friendly or amusing. You have set yourself apart from the moment you arrived and we allowed that, being respectful of your grief. I know why you held your head so high, my dear, but the others, why, they think you prideful and vain! It is time for you to make amends—and friends. I expect you to make friends, Virginia. And I expect you to excel in your studies, as well.”

Virginia hugged herself. Had the others really thought her too proud and vain? She didn’t believe it. They all despised her because she was from the country, because she was so different.

“You are so clever, Virginia. You could do so well here if you bothered to try.” Mrs. Towne smiled at her.

Virginia swallowed hard. “I can’t stay here. And they don’t like me because I am different! I’m not fancy and coy and I don’t faint at the sight of a handsome man!”

“You have chosen to be different, but you are a beautiful girl from a good family, and in truth, that makes you no different at all. You must cease being so independent, Virginia, and you will be very happy here, I promise you.” Mrs. Towne walked over to her and clasped her thin shoulder. “I am sure of this, Virginia. I want nothing more than for you to become a successful graduate of this school—and a very happy young lady.”

Virginia forced a brittle smile. There was nothing more to say. She was not going to stay at the school, and she was not going to let her uncle the earl choose a husband for her—and that was that.

Mrs. Towne smiled at her warmly. “Do give up your rebellious nature, my dear. The rewards will be great if you do.”

Virginia managed to nod. A moment later, the interview was over and she fled. As soon as she was alone on her cot in the dormitory, Virginia began to plan her escape.

TWO DAYS LATER, VIRGINIA performed her morning ablutions as slowly as she could. The other young ladies were filing out of the dormitory while she continued to wash her hands. Early morning light was filtering through the dormitory’s skylights. From the corner of her eye, Virginia watched the last of the young ladies leaving the long, rectangular room. Miss Fern paused at the door. “Miss Hughes? Are you unwell?”

Virginia managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Fern, but I am so dizzy and light-headed today.” She hung on to the bureau beside the washstand.

Miss Fern returned to her, touching her forehead lightly. “Well, you do not have a fever. But I suppose you should go to Dr. Mills directly.”

“I think you are right. I must be coming down with influenza. I need a moment, please,” Virginia said, sitting down on the edge of her narrow bed.

“Take a moment, then.” Miss Fern smiled, walked down the aisle between the twenty beds and finally left the room.

Virginia waited, silently counting, “One-two-three,” then she leapt to her feet. She hurried across the aisle to the fourth bed. She went right to the bureau there and began rummaging through contents that did not belong to her. Guilt assailed her, but she ignored it.

Sarah Lewis always had pin money, and Virginia quickly found twelve dollars and thirty-five cents. She took every penny, leaving an unsigned note instead. In it, she explained that she would pay the sum back as soon as possible. Still, it felt terrible being reduced to thievery and she could almost feel her mother’s disapproval as she watched over her daughter from heaven.

“I will pay Sarah back, Mama, every darned penny,” she whispered guiltily. But there was just no choice. She needed fare for a coach and an inn. As brave as she was, she didn’t think she could walk the entire eighty miles to Sweet Briar without several nights’ rest and a few good meals.

Virginia then reached under her bunk. In her cloak—despite the spring weather, the nights remained cool—she had wrapped her few precious personal belongings: her mother’s cameo necklace, her father’s pipe and a horsehair bracelet Tillie had made for her when she was eight. She also had an extra shirtwaist, gloves and bonnet. The entire cloak was bundled up and tied with string. Virginia went to a window at one end of the room, heaved it open and dropped the bundle to the sidewalk below.

Virginia somehow slowed her eager legs and walked demurely downstairs, passing two of the school’s staff as she did so. Finally she reached the end of the hall. Ahead lay the gracious, high-ceilinged foyer of the building. There, marble floors vied with dark wood columns and even darker wood paneling. The front door wasn’t kept locked during the day, as no student ever walked out. Virginia looked carefully around. This was her chance to escape, but if someone saw her now, it was over before her journey had even begun.

Footsteps sounded from a different hall. Virginia darted back around the corner, not daring to breathe, hearing two voices and recognizing them as belonging to the music master and the French professor. She assumed they would cross the foyer and come her way—all of the classrooms lay behind her. Virginia looked around and slipped into the janitor’s closet.

The pair of instructors passed.

Virginia was sweating. She had also lost all patience. She cracked open the door and saw that the hallway was empty. She slipped out, peered into the foyer and found that empty, too. She inhaled hard for courage and rushed across, flinging open the huge and heavy front door. She stepped outside into bright spring sunlight and she smelled and even tasted freedom. God, it was good!

She ran down the walk and out the wrought-iron front gates, down the public sidewalk, around the corner, and found her bundled cloak. Virginia seized it and ran again.

“I’M SO HAPPY WE COULD see you most of your way, my dear,” Mrs. Cantwell said, smiling and clasping Virginia’s hands.

Three days had passed. Virginia had spent most of the first morning on foot until she had left the bustling city of Richmond behind. At a country inn she had eaten a hearty lunch, famished from her long walk. There, she had stumbled across the Cantwell family.

A matronly wife, three proper children, a plump, bespectacled husband—all traveling in a pretty private coach. Virginia had overheard their conversation, learning that they had been to Richmond to visit the husband’s ailing parents. Now they were on their way home to Norfolk. Which meant they would pass within miles of Sweet Briar.

Virginia had helped one of the small children blow his nose and had quickly become the interest of Mrs. Cantwell. She had lied about her age and marital status, claiming that she was returning home to her husband after visiting her ailing mother in Richmond. She had quickly slipped her mother’s ring to her left hand to corroborate her story. Mrs. Cantwell, upon learning of her destination, had quickly offered her a ride, clearly desperate for company and help with the children.

Now Virginia hardly heard the pleasant lady. They were at a crossroads, one sign reading Norfolk, the other reading Land’s End, Four Corners and Sweet Briar. Her heart beat so hard that she felt faint. Five miles down the road was her home. Five simple miles…

“You must miss your husband so much,” Mrs. Cantwell added.

Virginia came to life. She turned and clasped the blond woman’s hands. “Thank you so much for the ride, Lilly. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You have been so wonderful with the children!” Lilly Cantwell exclaimed. “And if we weren’t so close to home, I would insist we take you all the way to Sweet Briar so we might meet your wonderful husband.”

Virginia flushed with guilt—she’d become an adept liar as well as a thief in a very short time, and how she hated it! “May I write you?” she asked impulsively. She instantly decided she would write Lilly Cantwell and tell her the entire truth, while thanking her once again for her kindness.

“I should love to hear from you and remain friends,” Lilly cried, beaming.

The two women hugged. Virginia then hugged tiny Charlotte, tugged Master William’s ear and winked at little Thomas. She thanked Mr. Cantwell as well, and as their carriage pulled away, she thought she heard him remarking, “There’s something odd about that young lady and I still don’t think she’s old enough to be married!”

Virginia grinned. Then she spread her arms wide and laughed loudly, spinning around and around, until her feet hurt and her ankle twisted and she was so dizzy she had to drop to the ground. Lying there, she laughed again. She was home!

She quickly got up, adjusted her bundle and began running down the dirt road. The five miles passed endlessly, but every gentle field, every spring-green hill, every gushing stream only made her hurry even more. She was breathless and hot when she first spied the beautifully engraved wood sign hanging between two stately brick pillars: SWEET BRIAR. A long dirt drive wound from the entrance up a hill all the way to the house, and surrounding it were the red curing barns, the whitewashed slave quarters and the fields and fields of rich brown sandy earth.

Her heart hammered like a drum. Virginia dropped her bundle and lifted her skirts and ran up the dirt drive. “Tillie!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Tillie! Tillie! Tillie! It’s me, I’m home, Tillie!”

Frank, Tillie’s husband, was hitching up a wagon not far from the front of the house and he saw her first. His mouth dropped open and he gaped. “Miz Virginia? Is that you?”

Behind him, his little twin boys were wide-eyed. Then, from the corner of her eye, Virginia saw the front door of the house open as Tillie stepped onto the veranda. But it was too late, she was already in Frank’s arms. “Have you lost your wits?” she cried, hugging him so hard he choked. “Of course it’s me! Who else would it be!” She stepped back, laughing up at the big young man.

“God Almighty, that fine an’ fancy school sure ain’t made you a lady,” Frank said, grinning, his teeth stunningly white against his dark skin.

“You do mean ‘thank God,’ don’t you?” Virginia teased. “Rufus, Ray, get over here and give me hugs, or don’t you remember your mistress?”

The boys, both just shy of seven, rushed forward, grabbing her around her thighs. Virginia finally felt the tears rising in her eyes as she tried to bend down and hug them both.

Then she felt Tillie behind her, and slowly, she turned.

Tillie smiled, tears staining her coffee-and-cream complexion. She was as tall as Virginia was short, as voluptuous as she was thin, and very beautiful. “I knew you’d come home,” she whispered.

Virginia moved into her arms. The two young women clung.

When she could control her tears, she stepped back, smiling. “My feet hurt like hell,” she said. “And I’m starving to death! How did the burning go? Did we find rot? And what do the seedlings look like?” She grinned as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

But Tillie didn’t smile back. Her golden eyes were frighteningly solemn.

“Tillie?” Virginia asked, not liking the look she was receiving. Dread began. “Please tell me everything is all right.” For something seemed terribly wrong and she was so scared to learn what it was.

She’d had enough of misfortune. She couldn’t stand one more stroke of bad luck.

Tillie gripped her arms. “They’re selling the plantation—and everything and everyone on it.”

Virginia didn’t understand. “What did you just say?”

“Your daddy’s in debt. Beg pardon—Master Hughes was in debt—and now your uncle has an agent here and he’s started selling off everything…the land, the house, the slaves, the horses, he’s selling it all.”

Virginia cried out. A huge pain stabbed through her chest, so vast that she reeled. Tillie caught her around the waist.

“What’s wrong with me! Here you are, skinnier than ever, as hungry as a winter wolf, and I’m telling you our troubles! C’mon, Virginia, you need some hot food and a hot bath and then we can talk. You can tell me all about what it’s like to be a fine lady!”

Virginia couldn’t respond. This had to be a nightmare, an awful dream—it couldn’t be reality. Sweet Briar could not be up for sale.

But it was.

SHE WAS WEARING HER MOTHER’S Sunday best. Virginia smiled bravely at Frank, who had driven her into Norfolk, smoothing down her blue skirts, adjusting the bodice of her fitted blue pelisse and then her matching bonnet. Her mother’s clothes were loose upon her small frame, but Tillie and two other slaves had been sewing madly all night to make everything fit perfectly. Now Frank tried to smile back and failed. Virginia knew why—he was heartsick, afraid his wife and children would be sold off to some distant owner and that he’d never see them again.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Virginia intended to move heaven and earth—and more specifically, her father’s good friend Charles King, the president of the First Bank of Virginia—in order to prevent Sweet Briar from being sold. She swallowed hard, her entire body covered with perspiration. The stakes were so damned high. She was so deathly afraid. But Charles King had been a good family friend and now he’d see her not as a child but a capable lady. Surely, surely, he’d loan her the funds necessary to pay off her father’s debts and save Sweet Briar.

Virginia closed her eyes tightly against the glaring sun, her smile faltering. God, she hated her uncle, the Earl of Eastleigh, a man she’d never met. He hadn’t even discussed the state of the plantation with her! Yet it belonged to her!

Or it would, if it hadn’t been sold off by the time she turned twenty-one.

Now the three years between the present and her majority loomed as an eternity.

“Miz Virginia,” Frank suddenly said, restraining her from entering the imposing facade of the brick-and-limestone bank.

Virginia paused, her stomach churning with fear and dread. She managed a small smile. “I may be long—but I hope not.”

“It’s not that,” he said roughly. He was very tall, perhaps five inches over six feet, and dangerously handsome. Tillie had fallen in love with him at first sight, almost five years ago, not that anyone would have known it, with the way she’d snubbed him and put on airs. Apparently it had been mutual—not six months later he’d asked Randall Hughes for permission to marry her, and that permission had been instantly given. “I’m afraid, Miz Virginia, afraid of what will happen to Tillie and my boys if you don’t get this loan today.”

Virginia had been acutely aware of her responsibility to save Sweet Briar and her people, but now it crashed over her with stunning force. Fifty-two slaves were depending on her, many of them children. Tillie, her best friend, was depending on her, and so was Frank. “I will get this loan, Frank. You have nothing to worry about.” She must have sounded forceful and confident, because his eyes widened instantly and he doffed his hat to her.

Virginia gave him another reassuring smile, silently begged God for a little help and entered the bank.

Inside, it was blessedly cool, oddly reverent and as quiet as a church. Two customers were at the teller’s queue and one clerk was at a front desk. At a desk in the back sat Charles King. He looked up then and saw her, his eyes widening in surprise.

This was it, she thought, lifting her chin to an impossible height. Her smile felt odd and brittle, fixed, as she marched forward through the lobby and the spacious back area of the bank.

King stood, a fat man neatly and well dressed, his old-fashioned wig powdered and tied back. “Virginia! My dear, for one awful moment, I thought you were your mother, God rest her beloved soul!”

Her father had told her many times that she looked just like her mother, but Virginia hadn’t ever believed it because Mama was so beautiful, although they shared the same nearly black hair and the same oddly violet eyes. She held out her hand as Charles took it firmly, clearly pleased to see her. “An illusion of light, I suppose,” she said, impressed with her own grace and bearing. But she had to convince Charles that she was a fine and capable lady now.

“Yes, I suppose. I thought you were at school in Richmond. Do come in—have you come to see me?” he asked, leading her back to his desk and the high chairs facing it.

“Yes, frankly, I have,” Virginia said, gripping her mother’s elegant black velvet reticule tightly.

Charles smiled, offering her a chair and some tea. Virginia declined. “So how have you found the big city, Virginia?” he asked, taking his seat behind his desk. His gaze held hers, with some concern. Virginia knew he was finally noticing how peaked she was, due to the terrible strain of her grief and now her worry over the state of her father’s finances.

Virginia shrugged. “I suppose it is fine enough. But you know I adore Sweet Briar—there is no place I would rather be.”

For one moment Charles stared and then he was grim. “I know you are a clever young lady, so may I assume you realize your uncle is selling the plantation?”

She wanted to lean forward and shout that the earl had no right. She didn’t move—she didn’t even dare to breathe—not until her temper had passed. But even then she said, “He has no right.”

“I am afraid he has every right. After all, he is your guardian.”

Virginia sat impossibly stiff and straight. “Mr. King, I have come here to secure a loan, so that I may pay off my father’s debts and save Sweet Briar from sale and even possible dissolution.”

He blinked.

She smiled bleakly at him. “I have helped Father manage the plantation since I was a child. No one knows how to plant and harvest, ship and sell tobacco better than I. I assure you, sir, that I would repay your loan in full, with any necessary interest, as soon as was possible. I—”

“Virginia,” Charles King began, too kindly.

Panic began. She leapt to her feet. “I may be a woman and I may be eighteen but I do know how to run Sweet Briar! No one except my father knows how better than I do! I swear to you, sir, I would repay every penny! How much do I need to pay off Father’s debts?” she cried desperately.

Charles regarded her with pity. “My dear child, his debts amount to a staggering twenty-two thousand dollars.”

The shock was so great that her heart stopped and her knees gave way and somehow, she was sitting down. “No.”

“I have spoken with your uncle’s agent at great length. His name is Roger Blount and I do believe he is on his way back to Britain in the next few days after seeing to your affairs here. Sweet Briar is not a lucrative plantation, Virginia,” he continued gently. “Your father had loss after loss, year after year. Even if I were foolish enough to lend a young and untried girl such a sum of money, there is simply no way you could ever repay me—not from the plantation. I am sorry. Selling Sweet Briar is the only intelligent and viable option.”

She stood, sick in her heart, in her soul. “No. I can’t let it be sold. It’s mine.”

He also stood. “I know how upsetting this is for you. Virginia, I’m not sure why you are not in school, but that is where you should be—although if you wish, I could try to arrange a match for you, a good one, and speak with your uncle about it. That would certainly solve your problems—”

“Unless you think to marry me to a very wealthy man, then that solves nothing,” Virginia cried. “I cannot allow Sweet Briar to be sold! Why won’t you help me? I would pay you back, somehow, one day! I have never broken my word, sir! Why can’t you see that this is all I have left in the entire world?”

He stared. “You have a glorious future, my dear. I promise you that.”

She closed her eyes and trembled violently. Then she looked him in the eye. “Please lend me the funds. If you loved my father, my mother, at all, then please, help me now.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot. I simply cannot lend an impossible sum to a young girl who will never in an entire lifetime pay the bank back.”

She could not give up. “Then lend me the funds personally,” she cried.

He blinked. “Virginia, I do not have that kind of wealth. I am sorry.”

She was in disbelief. He started to say something about a fresh start, and she turned and ran wildly through the bank and outside. There she collapsed against a hitching post, panting hard, shaking wildly, tears of panic and desperation trying to rise. This could not be happening, she thought. There had to be a way!

“Miz Virginia? Are you all right?” Frank had her by the elbow. His tone was concerned and anxious.

She met his black eyes but did not respond—because an idea had struck her so forcefully that she could not respond.

Her uncle was an earl.

Earls were wealthy.

She would borrow the money from him.

“Miz Virginia?” Frank was asking again, this time with a slight pressure on her elbow.

Virginia pulled free of his grasp and stared blindly across the busy street. She did not see a single wagon, carriage or pedestrian.

She had not a doubt that her uncle had the funds to save Sweet Briar. He was her only hope.

But clearly he didn’t wish to save the plantation, or he would have already done so. That meant she had to confront him directly—personally. A letter would not do. The stakes were far too high. Somehow, she would find the means to cross the Atlantic Ocean, even if it meant selling some of her mother’s precious jewelry, and she would meet her uncle and convince him to save Sweet Briar rather than sell it. She’d beg, rationalize, argue, debate, she’d do whatever she had to, even marry a perfect stranger, as long as he agreed to pay off her father’s debts. Virginia realized she had to make plans and quickly, because she was on her way to England.

She knew she could do this. As her father was so fond of saying, where there was a will there was a way.

She’d always had plenty of will. Now she’d find a way.

CHAPTER TWO

May 1, 1812

London, England

WORD HAD SPREAD OF HIS arrival. Cheering throngs lined the banks of the Thames as his ship, the Defiance, proudly edged her way toward the naval docks.

Devlin O’Neill stood square on the quarterdeck, unsmiling, his arms folded across his chest, a tall, powerful figure as still as a statue. For the occasion of this homecoming—if it could be called such—he was in his formal naval attire. A blue jacket with tails, gold epaulets adorning each shoulder, pale white britches and stockings, highly polished shoes. His black felt bicorn was worn with the points facing out, as only admirals had the privilege of wearing the points front to back. His hair, a brilliant gold, was too long and pulled back in a queue. The crowd—men, women and children, agile and infirm, all London’s poorest classes—raced up the riverbanks alongside his ship. Some of the women threw flowers at it.

A hero’s welcome, he thought with no mirth at all. A hero’s welcome for the man one and all called “His Majesty’s pirate.”

He had not set foot in Great Britain for an entire year. He would not be setting foot there now, had he a choice, but it had become impossible to ignore this last summons from the Admiralty, their fourth. His mouth twisted coldly. What he wanted was a steady bed and a pox-free woman who was not a whore, but his needs would have to wait. He did not wonder what the admirals wanted—he had disobeyed so many orders and broken so many rules in the past year that they could be asking for his head on any number of counts. He also knew he would be receiving new orders, which he looked forward to. He never lingered in any port for more than a few days or perhaps a week.

His glance swept over his ship. The Defiance was a thirty-eight-gun frigate known for her speed and her agility, but mostly for her captain’s outrageous and unconventional daring. He was well aware that the sight of his ship caused other ships to turn tail and run, hence his preference for pursuit at night. Now top men were high on both the fore and main masts, reefing sails. Fifty marines in their red coats stood stiffly at attendance, muskets in their arms, as the frigate cruised toward its berth. Other sailors stood with them, eager for the liberty he would soon grant. Forecastle men readied the ship’s huge anchors. All in all, three hundred men stood upon the frigate’s decks. Beyond the docks, where two state-of-the-line three deckers, several sloops, a schooner and two gunships were at birth, the spires and rooftops of London gleamed in the bright blue sky.

The past year had been a very lucrative one. A year of cruising from the Strait of Gibraltar to Algiers, from the Bay of Biscayne to the Portuguese coast. There’d been forty-eight prizes and more than five hundred captured crewmen. His duties had been routine—escorting supply convoys, patrolling coastal shorelines, enforcing the blockade of France. Nights had been spent swooping upon unsuspecting French privateers, days lolling upon the high seas. He had been rather wealthy before this past year, but now, with this last prize, an American ship loaded with gold bullion, he was a very wealthy man, indeed.

And finally, a smile touched his lips.

But the boy trembled and remained afraid. The boy refused to go away. No amount of wealth, no amount of power, could be enough. And the boy had only to close his eyes to see his father’s eyes, enraged and sightless in his severed head, there upon the Irish ground in a pool of his own blood.

Devlin had gone to sea three years after the Wexford uprising, with the Earl of Adare’s permission and patronage. Adare had married his mother within the year, although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found. The earl had fabricated a naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and not as the lowliest sailor far below decks. Devlin had quickly risen to the rank of lieutenant. Briefly he’d served on Nelson’s flagship. At the Battle of Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command. The small vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck the Gazelle in under the leeward hull of a French frigate. With the French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right over the Gazelle. His own guns, at point-blank range, had torn apart the decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately. He’d towed his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the Loretta.

He had only been eighteen.

There had been so many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.

The heat of highly controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more. Devlin ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the Defiance eased into its berth between a schooner and a gunship. Devlin nodded at his second in command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell. Mac used the horn to announce a week’s liberty. Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been given. He didn’t mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been with him since he’d been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit. They were good men, brave and daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands seemed suicidal. The Defiance had become the scourge of the seas because of their loyalty, faith and discipline.

He was proud of his crew.

Mac fell into step with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have outgrown. Mac was Devlin’s own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had bulked out. Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad Scot with the flaming hair, the tall, blond Irishman with the cold silver eyes.

“Ach, got to find me land legs,” Mac growled.

Devlin smiled as the land heaved under them as high and hard as any storm swell. He clapped his shoulder. “Give it a day.”

“That I shall, a day and seven, if you don’t mind.” Mac grinned. He had all his teeth and only one was rotten. “Got plans, Cap? I’m achin’ meself for a lusty whore. Me first stop, I tell you that.” His laughter was bawdy.

Devlin was lenient with the men—like most ships’ commanders, he allowed them their whores in port, but he preferred them to bring the women aboard, so the ship’s surgeon could take a good look at them. He wanted his crew pox-free. “We were in Lisbon a week ago,” he said mildly.

“Feels like a year,” Mac grunted.

Devlin saw the post chaise waiting for him—he’d sent word to Sean by mail packet that he was on his way back. “Can I offer you a ride, Mac?”

Mac flushed. “Not goin’ to town,” he said, referring to the West End.

Devlin nodded, reminding him that he was expected back aboard the Defiance in a week’s time to set sail at noon, with all three hundred of his men. His rate of desertion was almost zero, an astonishing fact that no one in the British navy could understand. But then, with so many spoils taken and shared, his crew were all well off.

Thirty minutes later the chaise was clipping smartly over London Bridge. Devlin stared at the familiar sights. After days spent in the wind and on the sea, or at exotic, sultry ports in the Mediterranean, North Africa and Portugal, the city looked dark and dirty, unclean. Still, he was a man who liked a beautiful woman and refused a common whore, and his wandering eye took in more than his fair share of elegant ladies in chaises, carriages and on foot, shopping in the specialty stores. His loins stirred. He had sent several letters ahead and one was to his English mistress. He fully expected to be entertained that night and all the week long.

The London offices of the Admiralty were on Brook Street in an imposing limestone building built half a century before. Officers, aides and adjutants were coming and going. Here and there, groups of officers paused in conversation. As Devlin pushed open the heavy wood doors and entered a vast circular lobby with a high-domed ceiling, heads began to turn his way. Portraits of the greatest admirals in British history adorned the walls, as did paintings of the greatest ships and battles. His mistress had once said his portrait would soon hang there, too. The conversation began to diminish. An eerie quiet settled over the lobby; Devlin was amused. He heard his name being whispered about.

“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant with crimson cheeks saluted him smartly from the bottom of the marble staircase.

Devlin saluted him rather casually back.

“I am to escort you to Admiral St. John, sir,” the freckle-faced youth said. His flush had somehow deepened.

“Please do,” Devlin remarked, unable to restrain a sigh. St. John was not quite the enemy—he disliked insubordination, but he knew the value of his best fighting captain. It was Admiral Farnham who wanted nothing more than to court-martial him and publicly disgrace him, and these days, he was egged on by Captain Thomas Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh’s son.

Admiral St. John was waiting for him. He was a slender man with a shock of white hair, and he was not alone. Farnham was with him—at once bulkier and taller, with far less hair—and so was the Earl of Liverpool, the minister of war.

Devlin entered the office, saluting. He was intrigued, as he could not recall ever seeing Liverpool at West Square.

The door was solidly shut behind him. Liverpool, slim, short and dark-haired, smiled at him. “It’s been some time, Devlin. Do sit. Would you like a Scotch whiskey or a brandy?”

Devlin sat in a plush chair, removing his felt. “Is the brandy French?”

The earl was amused. “I’m afraid so.”

“The brandy,” Devlin said, stretching out his long legs in front of him.

Farnham appeared annoyed. St. John sat down behind his desk. “It has been some time since we have had the privilege of your appearance here.”

Devlin shrugged dismissively. “The Straits are a busy place, my lord.”

Liverpool poured the brandies from a crystal decanter, handing one over to Devlin and passing the others around.

“Yes, very busy,” Farnham said. “Which is why deserting the Lady Anne is an exceedingly serious offense.”

Devlin took a long sip, tasting the brandy carefully, and decided his own stock was far superior, both on his ship and at home.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” St. John asked.

“Not really,” Devlin said, then added, “she was in no danger.”

“No danger?” Farnham choked on his brandy.

Liverpool shook his head. “Admiral Farnham is asking for your head, my boy. Was it really necessary to leave the Lady Anne in order to chase that American merchantman?”

Devlin smiled slightly. “The Independence was loaded with gold, my lord.”

“And you knew that when you spotted her off the coast of Tripoli?” St. John asked.

Devlin murmured, “Money, my lord, buys anything.”

“I know of no other commander as audacious as you. Who is your spy and where is he?” St. John demanded.

“Perhaps it’s a she,” he murmured. And in fact, the wench in Malta who ran an inn often used by the Americans was just that. “And if I do employ spies, I am afraid that is my affair entirely—and as it does aid me in the execution of my orders, we should lay the question to rest.”

“You do not follow orders!” Farnham said. “Your orders were to convey the Lady Anne to Lisbon. You are lucky she was not seized by enemy ships—”

He was finally annoyed, but he remained slouched. “Luck has naught to do with anything. I control the Straits. And that means I control the Mediterranean—as no one can enter her without getting past me. There was no danger to the Lady Anne and her safe conveyance to Lisbon has proved it.”

“And now you are rather rich,” Liverpool murmured.

“The prize is with our agent at the Rock,” he said, referring to Gibraltar. He’d towed the Independence to the British prize agent there. His share of the plunder was three-eighths of the total sum, and a quick estimation of that figure came to one hundred thousand pounds. He was wealthier than anyone would ever guess, and he had far exceeded his own expectations some time ago.

“But I do not care about the fate of the Lady Anne, a single ship,” Liverpool said. “And while you directly disobeyed your orders, we are all prepared to ignore the matter. Is that not right, gentlemen?”

St. John’s nod was firm, but Devlin knew it killed Henry Farnham to agree, and he was amused.

“I care about finishing this bloody war, and finishing it soon.” Liverpool was standing and orating as if before the House. “There is another war on the horizon, one that must be avoided at all costs.”

“Which is why you are here,” St. John added.

Devlin straightened in his chair. “War with the Americans is a mistake,” he said.

Farnham made a sound. “You are Irish, your sympathies remain Jacobin.”

Devlin itched to strangle him. He did not move or speak until the desire had passed. “Indeed they are. America is a sister nation, just as Ireland is. It would be shameful to war with her over any issue.”

Liverpool said bluntly, “We must retain absolute control of the seas, Devlin, surely you know that.”

“His loyalties remain selfish ones. He cares not a whit for England—he cares only about the wealth his naval career has afforded him,” Farnham said with heat.

“We are not here to question Devlin’s loyalties,” Liverpool said sharply. “No one in our navy has served His Majesty with more loyalty and more perseverance and more effect.”

“Thank you,” Devlin murmured wryly. But it was true. His battle record was unrivaled at sea.

“The war is not over yet, and you know it, Devlin, as you have spent more time than anyone patrolling the Straits of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, as well. Still, our control there is without dispute. You will leave this room with your new orders, if I can be assured that you will effect them appropriately.”

His brows lifted with real interest. Where was Liverpool leading? “Do continue,” he said.

“Your reputation precedes you,” St. John pointed out. “In the Mediterranean and off these shores, every enemy and privateer knows your naval tactics are superior, if unorthodox, and that if you think to board, you carry fighting men, men who think nothing of carrying a second cutlass in their teeth. They fear you—that is why no one battles you anymore.”

It was true more often than not. Devlin usually fired a single warning shot before boarding with his marines. There was rarely resistance—and he had become bored with it all.

“I believe your reputation is so great that even near American shores, the enemy will flee upon the sight of your ship.”

“I am truly flattered,” he murmured.

Liverpool spoke. “We are trying to avoid war with the Americans.” He gave Devlin a look. “Sending you there could be like releasing a wolf in a henhouse and then expecting healthy, happy hens and chicks. If you are sent westward, my boy, I want your word that you will follow your orders—that you will scare the bloody hell out of the enemy but that you will not engage her ships. Your country needs you, Devlin, but there is no room for pirate antics.”

Did they truly expect him to sail west and play nanny of sorts to the American merchants and navy? “I am to chase them about, threaten them, turn them back—and retreat?” He could scarcely believe it.

“Yes, that is basically what we wish for you to do. No American goods can be allowed to enter Europe, that has not changed. What has changed are the rules of engagement. We do not want another ship seized or destroyed, another American life accountable to our hands.”

Devlin stood. “Find someone else,” he said. “I am not the man for this tour.”

Farnham snorted, at once satisfied and disbelieving. “He refuses direct orders! And when do we decide to hang him for his insubordination?”

Devlin felt like telling the old fool to shut up. “It is a mistake, my lord,” he said softly to Liverpool, “to send a rogue like myself to such a duty.”

Liverpool studied him. And then he smiled, rather coldly. “I do not believe that, actually. Because I know you far better than you think I do.” He turned to the two admirals present. “Would you excuse us, gentlemen?”

Both men were surprised, but they both nodded and slipped from the room.

Liverpool smiled. “Now we can get down to business, eh, Devlin?”

Devlin turned the corners of his mouth up in response, but he waited, unsure of whether he was to receive a blow or a gift.

“I have understood your game for some time now, Devlin.” He paused to pour them both fresh drinks. “The blood of Irish kings runs in your veins, and when you joined the navy you were as poor as any Irish pauper. Now you have a mansion on the Thames, you have bought your ancestral home from Adare, and I could only estimate the amount of gold you keep in the banks—and in your own private vaults. You are so rich now that you have no more use for us.” His brows lifted.

“You make me seem so very unpatriotic,” Devlin murmured. Liverpool was right—almost.

“Still, a fine man like yourself, from a fine family, always at sea, always seizing a prize, always at battle—never on land, never at home before a warm hearth.” He stared.

Devlin became uneasy. He sipped his brandy to disguise this.

“I wonder what it is that motivates you to sail so fast, so far, so often?” His dark brows lifted.

“I fear you romanticize me. I am merely a seaman, my lord.”

“I think not. I think there are deep, grave, complex reasons for your actions—but then, I suppose I will never know what those reasons are?” He smiled and sipped his own brandy now.

The boy trembled with real fear. How could this stranger know so much?

“You have fanciful imaginings, my lord.” Devlin smiled coolly.

“You have yet to win a knighthood, Captain O’Neill,” Liverpool said.

Devlin stiffened in surprise. So it was to be a gift—after a blow, he thought.

Once, his ancestors had been kings, but a century of theft had reduced them to a life of tenant-farmers. He had changed that. His stepfather had happily sold him Askeaton when he had come forward with the bullion to pay for it. His grand home on the River Thames had been purchased two years ago when the Earl of Eastleigh had been forced by financial circumstances to put it up for sale. Liverpool knew Devlin had used the navy to attain the security that comes with wealth. What he did not know—could not know—was the reason why.

“Do continue,” he said softly, but he had begun to sweat.

“You know that a knighthood is a distinct possibility—you need only follow your orders.”

The ten-year-old boy wanted the title. The boy who had watched his father fall in an act of cold-blooded murder wanted the title as much as he wanted the wealth, because the added power made him safer than ever before.

Devlin hated the boy and did not want to feel his presence. “Knight me now,” he said, “and barring any unforeseen and extenuating circumstance, I will sail to America and threaten her shores without inflicting any real harm.”

“Damn you, O’Neill.” But Liverpool was smiling. “Done,” he then said. “You will be Sir Captain O’Neill before you set sail next week.”

Devlin could not contain a real smile. He was jubilant now, thinking about the knighthood soon to be his. His heart raced with a savage pleasure and he thought of his mortal enemy, the Earl of Eastleigh—the man who had murdered his father.

“Where would you like your country estate?” Liverpool was asking amiably.

“In the south of Hampshire,” he said. For then his newly acquired country estate would be within an hour of Eastleigh, at the most.

And Devlin smiled. His vengeance had been years in the making. He had known from the tender age of ten that in order to defeat his enemy, he would have to become wealthy and powerful enough to do so. He had joined the navy to gain such wealth and power, never dreaming that one day he would be ten times wealthier than the man he planned to destroy. A title added more ammunition to his stores, not that it truly mattered now. Eastleigh was already on the verge of destitution, as Devlin had been slowly ruining the man for years.

From time to time their paths crossed at various London affairs. Eastleigh knew him well. He had somehow recognized him the first time they met in London, when Devlin was sixteen and dueling his youngest son, Tom Hughes, over the fate of a whore. The wench’s disposition was just an excuse to prick at his mortal enemy by wounding his son, but the duel had been broken up. That had only been the beginning of the deadly game Devlin played.

His agents had sabotaged Hughes’s lead mines, instigated a series of strikes in his mill and had even encouraged his tenants to demand lower rents en masse, forcing Eastleigh to agree. The earl’s financial position had become seriously eroded, until he teetered on the verge of having to sell off his ancestral estate. Devlin looked forward to that day; he intended to be the one to buy it directly. In the interim, he now owned the earl’s best stud, his favorite champion wolfhounds and his Greenwich home. But the coup de grâce was the earl’s second wife, the Countess of Eastleigh, Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes.

For, during the past six years, Elizabeth had been the woman so eagerly sharing his bed.

And even now, she was undoubtedly waiting for him. It was time to go.

WAVERLY HALL HAD BEEN in the possession of the earls of Eastleigh for almost a hundred years—until two years ago, when a cycle of misfortune had caused the earl to put it up for sale. The huge limestone house had two towers, three floors, a gazebo, tennis courts and gardens that swept right down to the river’s banks. Devlin arrived at his home in an Italian yacht, a prize he had captured early in his career. He strolled up the gently floating dock, his gaze taking in the perfectly manicured lawns, the carefully designed gardens and the blossoming roses that crawled up against the dark stone walls of the house. It was so very English.

Unimpressed, he started up the stone path that led to the back of the house, where a terrace offered spectacular views of the river and the city. A man rose from a lawn chair. Devlin recognized him instantly and his pace quickened. “Tyrell!”

Tyrell de Warenne, heir to the earldom of Adare and Devlin’s stepbrother, strode down the path to meet him. Like his father, Ty was tall and swarthy with midnight-black hair and extremely dark blue eyes. The two men, as different as night and day, embraced.

“This is a very pleasant surprise,” Devlin said, pleased to see his stepbrother. It made the homecoming to which he was so indifferent suddenly inviting.

“Sean told me you were on your way home, and as I have had some affairs to see to in town, I decided to stop by the mansion to see if you were here yet. My timing is impeccable, I see.” Tyrell grinned. He was darkly, dangerously handsome and had had many love affairs to prove it.

“For once,” Devlin retorted as they strolled up to the terrace. “How is my mother? The earl?”

“They are fine, as usual, and wondering when you will come home,” Tyrell said with a pointed glance.

Devlin pushed open French doors and entered a huge and elegantly appointed salon, choosing to ignore that particular subject. “I have just accepted a tour of duty in the North Atlantic,” he said. “It is unofficial, of course, as I have yet to receive my orders.”

Tyrell gripped his shoulder and Devlin had to face him. “Admiral Farnham is in a rage over the Lady Anne, Dev. Everywhere I go, I am hearing about it. In fact, even Father has heard that Farnham plots against you. I thought this was your last tour.” His gaze was dark and frankly accusing.

Devlin moved to a bell pull, but his butler had already materialized, smiling as if pleased to see him. Devlin knew the Englishman detested having an Irishman as his overlord; it amused him, enough so that he had kept Eastleigh’s staff when he had bought the mansion. “Benson, my good man, do bring us some refreshments and a fine bottle of red wine.”

Then Devlin turned back to his stepbrother. Like the rest of his family, Tyrell thought he spent far too much time at sea and there was a general effort being made to convince him to resign his commission. “I am being offered a knighthood, Ty.”

Briefly Tyrell stared in surprise; then he was smiling, smacking Devlin’s back. “That is fine news,” he said. “Damned fine!”

“Materialist that I am, I could not refuse the opportunity.”

Tyrell studied him for a moment. “A storm gathers behind your back. You need to take care, Dev. I don’t think Eastleigh has forgiven you for your purchase of this house. Tom Hughes has been lobbying around the Admiralty for a general court-martial,” he said. “And he spreads nasty rumors about you.”

Devlin raised a brow. “I really don’t care what he says.”

“I have heard it said that he has accused you of using vast discretion with French privateers—that is, allowing some to slip through your net for a hefty sum. That kind of gossip could hurt your career—and you, personally,” Tyrell warned.

“If I’m not worried, why should you be?” Devlin asked calmly, but he thought of Thomas Hughes, who had never even been to sea, except on a fancy flagship where he and the admiral and other officers lived in state. Nonetheless, Hughes held the very same rank as Devlin, though Devlin knew the man could not sail a toy boat on a park lake. In fact, Lord Captain Hughes spent all of his time fawning over and playing up to the various admirals with whom he served. Devlin was well aware of the fact that Tom despised him, and it amused him to no end. He did wish he had wounded him that one time when they had dueled over the whore. “I am not afraid of Tom Hughes,” he said dryly.

Tyrell sighed as Benson returned with two manservants, each bearing a silver tray with refreshments. Both men were quiet as a small table overlooking the grounds and the river was quickly set. Benson bowed. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

“No, thank you,” Devlin said. When the servants had left, he handed his stepbrother a glass of wine and walked over to the windows overlooking the terrace. He stared out the window, not particularly enjoying the view.

It was impossible not to think about Askeaton.

Tyrell followed him to the picture window. As if reading Devlin’s mind, he said, “You haven’t been home in six years.”

Devlin knew the last time he had been home, he knew it to the day and hour, but he smiled and feigned surprise. “Has it been that long?”

“Why? Why do you avoid your own home, Dev? Damn it, everyone misses you. And while Sean does a fine job of managing Askeaton, we both know you would do even better.”

“I am hardly at liberty to cruise up to Ireland whenever the urge overtakes me,” Devlin murmured. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but he was avoiding the question and they both knew it. The truth was he could sail up the Irish coast almost any time he chose.

“You are a strange man,” Tyrell said sharply. “And I am not the only one who worries about you.”

“Tell Mother I am more than fine. I captured an American merchantman carrying gold to a Barbary prince, a ransom for their hostages,” Devlin said smoothly. “With my share of the booty, I could ransom a hostage or two myself.”

“You should tell her yourself,” Tyrell said flatly.

Devlin turned away. He missed Askeaton terribly, but he had learned in the past years that his home was a place to be avoided at all costs. For there, the memories were too volatile; there, they threatened to consume him; there, the boy still lived.

A FEW HOURS LATER, pleasantly relaxed from an abundance of wine, Devlin started upstairs, Tyrell having gone to the Adare town home in Mayfair. His private rooms took up an entire wing of the second floor; upon possession of the house, he had gutted the master suite completely, as if gutting the Earl of Eastleigh himself. He strolled through one pretty parlor after another, past vases and artwork others had chosen, past a piano that was never played, aware that not one item in the house—other than his books—gave him pleasure. But he hadn’t bought the house for pleasure. He had bought it for a single purpose—revenge.

A maid met him on the threshold of his bedroom. She was flushed and perspiring, a pretty thing with brown hair and pale skin, and briefly Devlin thought of inviting her into his bed. But she turned a brighter shade of crimson upon espying him and then fled past him and down the hall with a gasp.

Devlin glanced after her, amused and wondering what had caused such a swift retreat. Had his intentions been that obvious? He was horny, certainly, but not aroused.

And then he entered the master bedroom and understood.

A blond Venus arose from the midst of his massive bed, a sheer undergarment caressing and revealing full, billowy breasts with large dusky nipples, round, lush hips, plump thighs and a dark ruby-red delta between.

Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes smiled at him. “I received your message and came as soon as I could.”

His loins filled as he looked at her. She belonged to his mortal enemy, a man he was slowly but surely wreaking his vengeance upon, and she aroused him as no other woman could.

Elizabeth was very pretty, and now her green eyes moved directly to his swollen groin. “You are in need of attention, Captain,” she murmured.

He moved forward, red-hot blood filling his brain, removing his shirt as he did so. With the raging blood came raging lust—blood lust—savage and uncontrolled. The beast always chose this moment to walk the earth. Devlin mounted her as he mounted the bed, pushing her down, unfastening his britches, thrusting his massive hardness inside.

Elizabeth cried out in pleasure, already hot and wet. He moved as hard and fast as he could, images of Eastleigh filling his mind, gray of hair, fatter and fifty now, and then fourteen years ago, slimmer, younger, crueler. His hatred knew no bounds. It mingled with the lust. His mouth found hers and he thrust there deeply, hurtfully, grinding against her, until he had become the beast itself. Elizabeth never knew. She gripped his sweat-slickened back, keening wildly in her ecstasy.

He wanted to release himself, too, but the hatred, the pleasure and the lust were so great and so satisfying that he refused, pounding deeper, harder, but ugly memories rode him now as he rode her…ugly, bloody glimpses of a dark and terrible past, rising fast and furious—a small boy, a headless man, a severed head, sightless eyes, a pool of blood.

He forgot the woman he rode as the wave preceding his climax, a wave of intense, growing pleasure, turned into one of anger and pain, and he was swept forward, against all will, a wave that now unfurled like a topsail, hard and fast. Behind that wave the memories chased him. His father’s furious, sightless eyes accused him now. You let me die, you let me die. Devlin sought now only to escape, and when he climaxed, he did just that.

There was no moment of peace, no moment of relief. Instantly he was conscious, aware of the woman he lay upon, aware of the man he was cuckolding—aware of the gruesome memories that he now must bury, at all cost. Devlin flipped over, away from the countess, breathing harshly. In that instant a painfully familiar emptiness emanated from deep within him and consumed him entirely. It was so huge, so hollow, so vast.

Devlin leapt to his feet.

“Good Lord, one would think you’d been without for an entire year,” Elizabeth murmured with a satisfied sigh. Then she eyed him with a small, pleased smile, her gaze lingering on his narrow hips and muscled thighs.

Naked, Devlin hurried across the bedroom, hardly aware of her words, quickly pouring a glass of wine. He downed it in a gulp, shaken, as always, by the memories he had vowed never to forget. He drained the glass and fought the beast until it finally returned to its lair.

“Nothing ever changes, does it, Devlin?” the countess asked, sitting up.

He poured another glass of wine and approached her, aware of his manhood stirring. Her gaze moved to his groin and she smiled. “You are becoming terribly predictable, Devlin.”

“I could change that easily enough,” he remarked casually, handing her the wine. As he did, he paused to admire her breasts. “You haven’t changed,” he added.

“And you remain a gentleman, in spite of your reputation,” she said, but she was smiling and pleased. “I’m a year older, a bit fatter and lustier than ever.”

“You haven’t changed,” he said firmly, but now he noticed the slight wrinkles at her eyes and the equally slight thickening of her waist. Elizabeth was several years his senior, although he wasn’t really certain of her age—he had never cared enough to learn what it might be. She had two adolescent daughters, and he thought, but wasn’t sure, that the eldest was fourteen or fifteen. Neither daughter belonged to Eastleigh.

“Darling, would it ever be possible for you to lie quietly by my side?” she asked, setting her glass down and stroking his inner thigh.

He hardened like a shot. “I have never pretended to be anything but what I am with you. I am not a quiet man.”

“No, you are His Majesty’s Pirate, for that is what I hear you called from time to time, when your exploits become dinner conversation.” Her hand drifted upward, its back brushing his phallus as she toyed with his thigh.

“How boring those dinners must be.” He couldn’t care less what he was called, but he didn’t bother to say so. The countess loved to chat idly after their various bouts of lovemaking. She had been the source of much of his information about Eastleigh for the past six years, so he usually encouraged her chatter.

Now she murmured, “I have missed you, Dev.”

There was simply nothing to be said; he took her hand and placed it firmly on his swollen shaft. “Show me,” he said.

“Spoken like a true commander,” she said hoarsely, lowering her head.

He hadn’t meant to give an order, but it was his nature now. He didn’t move, waiting patiently for her to nibble and lick him, watching her dispassionately as she did so. One day Eastleigh would learn of their affair—he had only to decide which moment to choose.

Suddenly she lifted her head and smiled up at him. “Will you ever tell me that you have missed me, too?”

Devlin tensed. “Elizabeth, there is a better time for discussion.”

“Is there? The only time we are together is in moments like these. I wonder what beats beneath your chest? Sometimes, Dev, I do think your heart is cast of stone.”

His erection had been complete for some time, and talking was actually painful. But he said, “Have I ever made you any promises, Elizabeth?”

“No, you have not.” She sat up, facing him. “But it’s been six years, and oddly, I have become quite fond of you.”

He did not respond. He did not know what to say, for once in his life at a loss.

“I may be in love with you, Dev,” she said, her gaze riveted to his.

Devlin stared at her attractive face, a face as enticing as her body. He carefully considered his words. He felt nothing for her, not even friendship; she was a means to an end. But he didn’t dislike her—it was her husband whom he hated, not Elizabeth Hughes. He preferred for things to remain exactly as they were—he did not wish for her to be hurt, and not out of compassion. He was not a compassionate man. The world was a battlefield, and in battle, compassion was a prelude to death. He did not want to hurt Elizabeth only because she remained so useful to him; he wanted her at his disposal, on his terms, not hurt and angry and spiteful.

“That would not be wise,” he finally said.

“Can’t you just pretend?” she asked wistfully. “Lie to me, just once?”

He didn’t hesitate. He rubbed his thumb over her lips, ignoring the tear he had just glimpsed forming in her eye, and then he rubbed it lower, over her throat, her chest and, finally, a swelling nipple. His mouth followed in the path of his finger. Several moments later, they were once again entwined in frenzy, with Devlin pounding deeply and forcefully inside her.

Several hours later, Devlin tested the water in his hip bath and found it warm enough. Elizabeth was dressing; he climbed into the claw-footed tub and sank down into the tepid water. After months at sea, the temperature was very pleasant. He’d had enough climaxes so that now, finally, his mind remained a blessed blank and there were no monsters to defeat.

“Darling?”

Devlin jerked—he had dozed off in his bath. Elizabeth smiled at him, elegantly dressed in a sapphire-blue gown with black velvet trim. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have awoken you!” she exclaimed. “Devlin, you look so enticing in that bath, I could jump right in with you.”

He raised a brow. “Isn’t Eastleigh expecting you?”

She frowned. “We have supper plans, so yes, he is. I just wanted to tell you that I will be in town for another two weeks.”

He understood. She wished to see him again before he shipped out, but that was perfectly fine with him. “I haven’t received my official orders yet,” he said carefully, “so I do not know when my next tour begins.”

Her eyes brightened. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon?”

He smiled a little at her. “That would be fine, Elizabeth. Will Eastleigh also remain in town?” he asked. The question would seem innocent enough to her. After all, any lover would ask such a question.

“Fortunately, the answer to that is no, so perhaps we could even spend the night together.”

He chose not to respond to that. He had never allowed any woman to spend a night in his bed and he never would.

Her expression changed; she appeared annoyed. “I have been ordered to remain in London for a fortnight! It’s a miracle that you are here, too, so I should not be so put out, really.”

“Why?” he asked mildly.

“Eastleigh’s American niece is on her way to London. She is aboard the Americana and we expect her in the next ten days.”

He was mildly surprised. He hadn’t even known that there was a niece, much less an American one. He was very thoughtful. “You have never mentioned a distant relation before,” he said calmly.

Elizabeth shrugged. “I suppose there was no reason to do so, but now she is an orphan and she is coming here. Eastleigh intended for her to remain in a ladies’ school over there, but I imagine she thinks to latch on to our coattails. Oh, this is just what I do not need! Some uncouth colonial! And what if she is beautiful? She is eighteen, and Lydia is only sixteen! I have no interest in having an American orphan compete with my daughter for a husband, and by all rights, the colonial is the one who should be married off first!”

Well, now he knew how old Elizabeth’s eldest daughter was. He smiled slightly, wry. “I doubt she will outshine your daughters, Elizabeth, not if they are as beautiful as you.” His reply was an automatic one, as he was thinking now, hard and fast.

Eastleigh’s niece was on her way to Britain aboard an American ship. He was about to be given very specific orders to sail west to interfere with American trade there but not to harm any American ships. The niece was clearly unwanted and just as clearly she would soon be in his path.

Could he use this bit of information? Could he use her?

“Well, thank you for that!” Elizabeth said. “I am just annoyed at having to take her in. You know how pinched we’ve become these past few years. It has been one thing after another. We cannot afford to bring her out properly, Dev, and that is that!”

Devlin nodded. There was no guilt. He remained very thoughtful and it became obvious what he must do.

Eastleigh might not want the girl, but he wanted scandal even less. Oh, how he would enjoy pricking the fat earl one more time! He would seize the ship and take the girl and force Eastleigh to pay a ransom he could ill afford for a young woman he did not even want.

Devlin began to smile. His heart raced with excitement. This was a stroke of fortune too good to be true—and too good to be ignored.

CHAPTER THREE

Late May, 1812

The High Seas

THEY WERE BEING ATTACKED!

Virginia knelt upon her berth, her gaze glued to the cabin’s only porthole, gripping a strap for balance as the ship bucked wildly in response to the boom of more cannons than she could count. She was in shock.

It had all begun several hours ago. Virginia had been told that they were but a day away from the British coastline, and that, at any time, she might soon see a gull wheeling in the cloudy blue skies overhead. Soon afterward, a ship had appeared upon the horizon, just a dark, inauspicious speck.

That speck had grown larger. She was racing the wind—the Americana was tacking slowly across it—and it appeared that the two ships would soon cross paths.

Virginia had been taking sun on the ship’s single deck and had quickly become aware of a new tension in the American crew. The ship’s commander, an older man once a naval captain, had trained his binoculars upon the approaching vessel. It hadn’t taken Virginia long to realize they were worried about the identity of the approaching ship.

“Send up the blue-and-white signal flags,” Captain Horatio had said tersely.

“Sir? She’s flying the Stars and Stripes,” the young first officer had said.

“Good,” the captain had muttered. “She’s one of ours, then.”

But she wasn’t. The frigate had sailed within fifty yards of them, maneuvering herself to the leeward side so she rode below the Americana, when the red, white and blue American flag had disappeared, replaced by nothing at all. Virginia had been ordered below. The crew had scrambled to the ship’s ten guns. But Virginia hadn’t even made it to the ladder when a cannon had boomed once, loudly but harmlessly, the ball falling off to the side of the stern.

“Americana,” a voice boomed over the foghorn. “Close your gun ports and prepare to be boarded. This is the Defiance speaking.”

Virginia froze, clinging to the dark hatch that would take her below, glancing back at the other ship, a huge, dark, multimasted affair. Her gaze instantly found the treacherous captain. He stood on a higher, smaller deck, holding the horn, his hair blindingly bright, as gold as the sun, a tall, strong figure clad in white britches, Hessian boots and a loose white shirt. She stared at him, briefly mesmerized, unable to tear her gaze away, and for one moment she had a very peculiar feeling, indeed.

It was indescribable.

As if nothing would ever be sane or right again.

Time was suspended. She stared at the captain, a creature of the high seas, and then she blinked and there was only her wildly racing heart, filled with panic and fear.

“Hold your fire,” Captain Horatio cried. “Do not close the gun ports!”

“Captain!” the first officer cried with panic. “That’s O’Neill, the scourge of the seas. We can’t fight him!”

“I intend to try,” Horatio snapped.

Virginia realized there would be no surrender. She needed a gun.

She glanced wildly around as the captain of the Defiance repeated his demands that they surrender to be boarded. An interminable moment followed as the crew of the Americana hastily prepared to fire. And suddenly the sea changed. A huge blast of too many cannons to count sounded, the Defiance firing upon them. The placid seas swelled violently as the ship bucked and heaved, hit once or many times—Virginia could not know—and as someone screamed, she heard a terrible groaning above her.

She turned and glanced upward and cried out.

Horatio was yelling, “Fire!” but Virginia watched one of the Americana’s three masts and all its rigging toppling slowly over before crashing down on several gunners. Several cannons now fired again from the Defiance, but not in unison. Virginia didn’t hesitate. Lifting her skirts, she raced to the fallen men. Three were crushed and alive, one was apparently dead. She tried to heave the mast, but it was useless. She grabbed a pistol from the murdered sailor and ran back to the hatch that led below.

She could not breathe. She scrambled down and into the tiny cabin that she shared with the merchantman’s only passengers, a middle-aged couple. In the small, cramped and dark space below, Mrs. Davis was clutching her Bible, muttering soundlessly, her face stark with terror. Virginia had glimpsed Mr. Davis on deck, trying to help the wounded.

Virginia gripped her arm. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

The woman gazed at her with wild terror, clearly unable to hear her or respond.

More cannons boomed and Virginia heard wood being ripped apart as they were clearly hit again. Virginia leapt onto her narrow berth, grabbing a hanging strap for balance, and stared at the attacking ship through the porthole. The Americana lurched wildly, and she was almost tossed from the bunk.

How could this be happening? she wondered wildly, aghast. Who would attack an innocent, barely armed and neutral ship?

Mrs. Davis began to sob. Virginia listened to familiar prayers and wished the woman had remained silent.

What would happen next? What did that terrible captain want? Did he intend to sink the ship? But that would not make sense!

Her gaze moved instinctively back to the quarterdeck where he stood so motionlessly that he could have been a statue. He was staring, she knew, at the Americana, as intent as a hawk. What kind of man could be so merciless, so ruthless? Virginia shivered. Officer Grier had referred to him as the scourge of the seas.

Then she stiffened with real fear. The Defiance’s decks, a moment ago, had been frenzied with activity. Now the gunners at the cannons and the men in the masts were still. The only activity was a number of sailors climbing down into two rowboats that were tied to the frigate’s hull. Her gaze flew back to the captain with real horror; he was sending a boarding party.

Now the Americana had become eerily quiet. Virginia already thought that Captain Horatio would not surrender, and nor would she, if she were in command. She checked the pistol to find it primed and loaded.

“Dear Father who art in Heaven,” Mrs. Davis suddenly cried. “Have mercy on us all!”

Virginia could not stand it. She turned and seized the other woman’s arm savagely, shaking her hard. “God isn’t here today,” she cried. “And he sure as hell isn’t going to help us! We’re being boarded. They must be pirates. We are losing this battle, Mrs. Davis, and we had better hide.”

Mrs. Davis clutched her Bible to her bosom, clearly paralyzed with fear. Her mouth moved wildly now, forming words, but no sounds came.

“Come,” Virginia said more kindly. “We’ll hide down below.” She knew there were lower decks and hoped they could find some small cranny to hide in. She tugged on the other woman. But it was useless.

Virginia gave up. Pistol in hand, she climbed back to the main deck and saw the first of the rowboats approaching. O’Neill stood in the bow behind his men, his legs widely braced against the seas. Virginia hesitated. Why the hell wasn’t anyone shooting at him?

If she had a musket, he’d now be dead.

Her fingers itched, her palms grew clammy. She didn’t know what range the pistol she held carried, but she did know it wasn’t much. Still, he was getting closer and closer and why wasn’t Horatio firing upon him?

Virginia could not stand it. She rushed to the rail and very carefully, very deliberately, took aim.

With some finely honed instinct, perhaps, he turned his head and looked right at her.

Good, she thought savagely, and she fired.

The shot fell short, plopping into the sea directly before the rowboat’s hull. And she realized had she waited another minute or two for him to travel closer, she would have got him after all.

He stared at her.

Virginia turned and ran around the first hatch to the one that the seamen used. She scrambled down the ladder, realized she was in the sailors’ cramped, malodorous quarters—she was briefly appalled at how horrid they were—when she saw another hatch at the far end of the space. She lifted that and found herself descending even lower below the sea.

She didn’t like being below the ocean. Virginia couldn’t breathe and panic began, but she fought it and she fought for air. Not far from the bottom of this ladder was an open doorway, through which was utter darkness. Virginia wished she’d had the wit to bring a candle. She went cautiously forward and found herself in a small hold filled with crates and barrels. Virginia crouched down at the far end and realized she still held her pistol, now useless, because in the midst of battle she hadn’t thought to grab any powder and shot.

She didn’t toss it aside. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she reversed it, holding the barrel now in her right hand.

Then her knees gave way. He had seen her take a shot at him.

She felt certain of it. She felt certain that the expression on his face had been one of utter surprise.

Of course, she hadn’t been able to make out his features, so she was guessing as to his reaction to her sniper attempt, and if she were very lucky, he hadn’t seen that miserable shot.

What would happen now?

Just as Virginia realized that the puddle of water she had been standing in was slightly higher—and she prayed it was her imagination—she heard shots begin: musket fire. Swords also clashed and rang. Her gut churned. The pirates had clearly boarded. Were they now murdering the crew?

And what was her fate to be?

She was seized with fear. Her first thought was that she might be raped.

She knew what the act entailed. She’d seen horses bred, she’d seen slaves naked as children, and she could imagine the gruesome act. She shivered and realized the water was ankle deep.

Then she stiffened. The gunfire and sound of swords had stopped. The decks above were eerily silent now. Good God, could the battle already be over? Could his men so quickly subdue the American ship? Virginia estimated the Americana held about a hundred sailors. The deathly silence continued.

If he hadn’t seen her, maybe he would loot the ship and sail straight back to the hellish place he had come from.

But what would he do if he had seen her attempt to shoot him?

Virginia realized she was trembling, but she told herself it was from the frigidly cold water, which was almost calf deep.

Would he kill her?

She told herself that murdering an innocent eighteen-year-old woman made no sense, although if one were a ruthless, mercenary pirate, she supposed that attacking a trading ship that was carrying cotton, rice and other merchandise was rational, indeed. So maybe there was hope.

For once, Virginia gloried in the fact that she was so skinny she was often mistaken for someone about fourteen, and that her face was too small, too pale, her hair utterly unruly. Thank God she did not look like Sarah Lewis.

Virginia froze.

Footsteps sounded directly above and to the right of her head. Virginia began to shake. Someone was traversing the hold where the sailors slept, just as she had in order to find her hiding place. Trembling again, unable to stop it, she glanced at the hatch she had come through. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but still there was nothing she could see on the other side where the ladder from the upper deck was.

Wood creaked.

Virginia closed her eyes. After all the days she had been at sea, Virginia had become accustomed to the sounds of the ship—its moans and groans, the soft sigh and slap of the sea. She did not have to debate to know that this sound was not a natural one and that someone was coming down that ladder.

Sweat trickled between her breasts.

She gripped the pistol more tightly, holding it in the folds of her skirts.

He was coming down that ladder, she simply knew it.

On the other side of the hatch, light flickered from a candle.

Virginia blinked, sweat now blurring her vision, and made out a white form on the other side of the hatch, holding up the candle, turning slowly and thoroughly assessing the space there. She couldn’t breathe and she feared suffocation.

He stepped through the hatch.

Virginia didn’t move because she could not. He held up the candle, saw her instantly and their gazes locked.

Virginia could not look away. This man was the ruthless monster responsible for numerous deaths; she was not prepared for the sight of him. He had the face of a Greek god come down from Mount Olympus—dangerously, disturbingly handsome—high planes, hard angles, piercing silver eyes. But that face—the face of an angel—was carved in granite—and it was the face of a sea devil instead.

He was also far taller than she had assumed—she knew her head would just reach his chest—and broad-shouldered, his hips lean. His legs, while impossibly muscular from the days he spent riding the sea, were encased in bloody britches. Blood covered his white linen shirt as well. He wore a sheathed sword, a dagger was in his belt, but otherwise, she saw no other weapon.

Virginia bit her lip, finally breathing, the sound loud and harsh in the small space they now shared. She did not have to know anything else about this man to know that he was cruel and ruthless and incapable of kindness or mercy.

He broke the tense silence. “Come here.”

She remained standing beside a number of piled-up crates. She wasn’t sure she could obey even if she wished to—she wasn’t sure that she could move. Virginia finally understood Mrs. Davis’s paralyzing fear.

“I am not going to hurt you. Come out.”

His tone was one of authority—she sensed he was never disobeyed. Virginia continued to stare into his cold eyes—she was incapable of looking away—as if hypnotized. He looked angry. She saw it now, because he was glancing at all of her—her mouth, her hair, her small waist, her sodden skirts—and his eyes were turning stormy gray, his jaw was flexed, his temples ticking visibly. It was very clear he did not care for the sight of her.

She took another huge breath, seeking courage, her hand holding the pistol behind her back, in the folds of her navy-blue skirts. Virginia wet her lips. “What—what do you want?”

“I want you to come here, as I never give an order twice, and this is the third time.” Impatience edged his voice.

Virginia realized there was no choice. But stubbornly, childishly, she wanted reassurance from the least reassuring human being she had ever had the misfortune to meet. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked hoarsely.

“I am taking you to my ship,” he said flatly.

He was going to abuse her—rape her. Virginia willed herself to stop shaking, but the trembling refused to cease. “You have just attacked an innocent ship,” she managed to say hoarsely. “But I am a young, defenseless woman, and I ask mercy of you now.”

His mouth curved into a smile at once mirthless and merciless. “You will not be harmed,” he said.

She started. “What?”

“Does that disappoint you?” he asked.

She stared, stunned, trying to determine whether to believe him or not. Then she realized she should not believe him, because he was a murderer, which meant he must be a liar as well. “I am not going to your ship of my own free will,” she heard herself say.

His eyes widened in real surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

She tried to back up, but there was nowhere to go, and the wood crates dug into her back and her hand as it held the pistol.

Suddenly he laughed. The sound was raw, as if laughter was hard for him. “You dare to disobey me, the captain of this ship?”

“You are not—” she began, and bit her lip, hard. Do shut up, she told herself.

His smile was hard, his eyes colder than a block of ice. “I beg to differ with you. I am the captain of the Americana, as I have seized her and she has surrendered to me.” And then he started for her. “I also have no patience. We have a fine nor’easter,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Virginia didn’t move, planning to strike him over the head with the pistol when he reached her side. But he was so tall, she would never succeed in wielding that blow. She glanced between his legs and decided to strike him there.

The space was so small in the hold that two of his hard strides closed the distance between them. Virginia’s heart was banging so rapidly in her chest that it hurt. She stiffened as he reached for her, and as his large hand closed over her left arm, she swung the pistol at him.

He had the reflexes of a wild beast. He leapt aside, the butt of the gun grazing one rock-hard thigh, which it actually bounced off. His grip tightened on her arm and she cried out.

“That, mademoiselle, was distinctly unladylike.”

Tears filled her gaze in a rush.

“But should I expect more from a vixen who thinks to shoot me?” he demanded.

She blinked and looked into pale, opaque eyes. So he knew. The adage was that the eyes were a window to the soul. If that was so, this man was soulless. “What are you going to do with me?” she whispered roughly.

“I told you. You will be transferred aboard my ship.” He removed the pistol from her grip, tossing it aside. He gestured at the ladder in the other hold, never releasing her arm.

Virginia didn’t move. “Why? I’m not pretty.”

He started, then his gaze narrowed with comprehension. “Why? Because you shall be my guest, Miss Hughes.”

She gasped at the sound of her name and real fear flooded within her. An instant later, her shrewd wit saved her—he had surely just learned her name from the captain or his crew. “My guest? Or your victim?” she whispered.

“God, you are defiant for such a little wench!” He moved her forward and her feet had no choice but to rise and fall, the one after the other. Her sodden skirts quickly tangled, making it hard to keep her balance. “Can you climb the ladder or do I have to throw you over my shoulder?” he asked.

But she had no intention of being manhandled by him until there was no other choice. Still, she heard herself say, “Captain, sir! I am on my way to London—my business is most urgent—you must let me continue on!”

He reached for her, clearly intending to hoist her into his arms, obviously devoid of any more vestiges of patience.

Virginia whirled, grabbed the ladder, gripped her skirts and scrambled upward. But she heard no movement behind her and suddenly she had an awful notion. On one of the top rungs, she paused and glanced down.

He was studying her calves and ankles, fully revealed in her frilly pantalettes. There was an odd look in his eyes and it made her heart skip wildly in fear.

His gaze lifted. “I haven’t seen a woman in pantalettes in years.”

Her color increased and a cruel comment made by Sarah Lewis when she had been in school in Richmond flashed through her mind: “Virginia, I hate to be the one to tell you, but those things are not in fashion anymore!”

The heat in her cheeks increased. She realized he had begun to climb up and she scrambled out of the hatch and into the hold where the ship’s crew slept.

She gagged as she hurried through, acutely aware of her captor an inch behind her, giving her no chance to escape. But she would have to escape, and soon, wouldn’t she? It was that or become reduced to being his whore.

Another ladder faced them. Virginia did not want to climb up first. The pirate lightly pressed her forward. “Go up, Miss Hughes.”

She dared to face him. “It is clear you are no gentleman, sir, but keep your eyes to yourself.”

An incredulous look crossed his face, followed by amusement, and for one moment, Virginia expected him to chuckle. “Miss Hughes, I am not interested in your charms.”

“Good,” she snapped, as her temper suddenly reared. “Then you can leave me on this ship and let me continue on my way while you rape someone else.”

He stared at her for a long, tense moment. “I told you that you would be my guest.”

“And I am to believe a murderer?”

His jaw flexed. “You may believe as you will, but I am not in the habit of raping my guests. Frankly, I am not in the habit of rape at all. Go up the ladder.”

“Then why?” she asked, confused.

“I am very tired of your insolence, Miss Hughes.”

Virginia saw that here, at least, was the unfettered truth. She hoisted her skirts and scrambled up, and this time she made certain she did not look back.

Above, clouds were scudding in the blue sky and the stench of death was everywhere. Virginia choked upon seeing five corpses of American sailors laid out neatly in a row, clearly about to be tossed out to sea. One of them was dear Captain Horatio. She fought genuine tears. He had been more than kind to her—he had, in an odd way, reminded her of her own father.

The rest of the American crew was shackled. Then she saw Mr. and Mrs. Davis, holding each other. She turned abruptly, suddenly furious.

“What will you do with Mr. and Mrs. Davis? Are they to be your guests, as well?” Her tone was filled with loathing and sarcasm.

“No.” He wasn’t even looking at her now. “Mac! Gus!”

A brawny seaman armed with two pistols, each tucked into his belt, two daggers and a sword hurried forward, followed by a slender blond lad, also heavily armed. Both men bore their share of blood, not their own. “Cap?” the redhead asked quickly.

“Gus will take Miss Hughes to the Defiance. Make certain that her bags accompany her. Issue the following orders—no one is to speak to her, look at her or acknowledge her in any way. She is my personal property, and as far as the crew is concerned, she does not exist. Am I clear?”

Mac nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Gus nodded grimly as well. Neither man looked her way, not even once.

Virginia choked in disbelief. She was his personal property? “I thought I was your guest!” she cried.

The captain ignored her, as did Mac and Gus. “Mac, you captain this ship,” the golden-haired pirate said. “Sail her to Portsmouth. We’ll take our bounty from the prize agent there. Drogo, Gardener and Smith will stay on board to crew for you. Handpick ten others. I will be following,” he said.

Mac blinked. “Yer comin’ with us to Portsmouth?”

He clapped a hand on Mac’s broad shoulder. “Our plans have changed,” he said flatly. “You will rejoin the Defiance in Portsmouth.”

“Yessir.”

Virginia, listening intently and watching closely, felt her heart sink. Why were his plans changing? She prayed that it had nothing to do with her.

And what did he intend to do with her? It crossed her mind then that she was well enough dressed for him to be thinking of ransoming her. On the other hand, Mrs. Davis was the one with the pearl necklace, the diamond rings and the expensive clothing.

The pirate said, “Mr. and Mrs. Davis, I suggest you go down to your berth. We have a fine nor’easter and we’re setting sail immediately. You will be allowed to disembark in Portsmouth.”

Clearly in terror, the Davis couple rushed past the pirate and disappeared into the hold below.

Now Virginia had a very bad feeling indeed. Why wasn’t he robbing Mrs. Davis? Her rings were worth thousands of dollars. A new fear—and a new dread—filled her.

The pirate started away.

“Captain O’Neill, sir?” Gus hurried after him.

O’Neill didn’t stop. “You may address Miss Hughes for the sole purpose of finding the location of her bags and escorting her to my cabin, Gus.” He did not look back at Virginia, not even once. He leapt onto the higher portion of the deck where clearly many of his cannons had done a great deal of damage to the middle mast and sails. Several pirates seemed to be about to attempt repairs to the rigging there.

“Lash the mainmast,” he commanded. “There’s good canvas below. Replace the main staysail. The rest can be patched. Put everyone on it. You have one hour and we set sail. I will not lose this wind.”

Virginia stared at his tall, arrogant figure, until she realized that someone was speaking to her.

“Miss Hughes, please, this way, Miss, er, Hughes.”

Virginia turned and faced the blond man, who seemed younger than herself. His cheeks were flushed and he was not looking at her, clearly taking his captain’s orders very seriously, indeed. “Where are we going?”

Still gazing past her shoulder, he said, “To the Defiance. Where are your bags?”

“In the cabin below,” she said, hardly caring about her baggage.

Gus turned, grabbed another young sailor, and sent him below for her luggage. Virginia found herself at the railing where a dinghy waited for her in the swells below. She hesitated, filled with desperation now.

He had said he would not hurt her. She didn’t believe him. She would be a fool to believe him. She dismissed the notion that he intended to ransom her, for he hadn’t looked twice at the wealthy Davis couple. What did he want? What could he possibly want?

The Atlantic Ocean was silvery gray, far darker than his eyes, and it looked as immensely threatening. One false step and she would be immersed in its frigid watery depths. It crossed her mind that another woman would jump to a watery death, saving herself from any further abuse.

She gripped the rail tightly. She had no death wish, and only a fool would choose suicide over life—any kind of life.

“Do not even think about it,” he said, landing catlike by her side.

Virginia flinched and met his brilliant gray eyes.

He stared back and he was very angry, indeed.

Virginia reminded herself to never forget that this man had acute senses—that he did not miss a thing—that he almost had eyes in the back of his head. Perversely, she said, low and almost as angry as he, “If my wish is to jump, the time will come when you will not be able to stop me.”

And he smiled. “Is that a challenge or a threat?”

She inhaled, struck hard by his look, his tone, his words. Something odd happened then. He was standing so close, he was so tall, so virile, so in control, and with the comprehension that he would not allow her to die came a breathless sensation and a fiery tingling to her every nerve. She backed away instantly, nervously, suddenly awash in confusion.

“Get her to the Defiance. And if she even looks at the water, blindfold her,” he snapped to Gus.

Virginia stared. He stared back. In that moment she knew that in any battle that ensued between them, she simply could not win.

Male arms lifted her over a hard shoulder. She cried out, but it was too late, for Gus was climbing down the rope ladder to the dinghy, holding her like a treasured sack of gold. Upside down, she met the pirate’s eyes. It was hard to see clearly from this humiliating position, but she could have sworn that he was frowning harshly at her now.

And by the time she was right side up and seated in the bow, he was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

FROM THE DECKS OF THEAmericana the seas had looked pleasant enough. The moment the dinghy was set free, the small boat leapt and bucked wildly as two sailors rowed it toward the hulk that was the Defiance. Virginia gripped the edge of the boat, sea spray soaking her. A minute ago, the Defiance had seemed so close by. Now it looked terribly far away.

A huge wave took the rowboat high up toward the sky. Virginia bit her lip to keep from crying out and then they were cast at breakneck speed toward the pit of the rushing seas.

But they did not go under. Another frothing swell raised them up again. Virginia hadn’t eaten since that morning, but she realized she was in danger of retching. She managed to tear her gaze from the violence of the ocean and saw that none of the sailors seemed at all concerned. She tried to breathe more naturally but it was impossible. Then her gaze met Gus’s.

Instantly he looked away at the mother ship, his cheeks crimson.

What nonsense, she thought angrily, to order the men to avoid looking at her. “Gus! How will we disembark?” she shouted at him. An attempt to do so now seemed suicidal.

Another huge sea spray thoroughly soaked her; Gus acted as if he hadn’t heard her question. The ocean was very loud, however, so she repeated herself, now hollering. His shoulders squared and he refused to look her way.

Finally they reached the other ship. A sailor tossed down ropes and a plank attached to the ship was lowered, answering Virginia’s question. She could not wait to get out of the bucking rowboat.

The sailors above were staring at her. Their rude gazes gave her a savage satisfaction. Gus said tersely, “She’s the captain’s. No one’s to speak to her, no one’s to look at her, captain’s orders.”

Four crude gazes veered away.

As Virginia was helped onto the plank by Gus, who held on to her with a firm grip, she wondered at the control that O’Neill had over his men. How did he instill their instant submission and obedience? Undoubtedly he was a cruel and harsh master.

“This way,” Gus said, not looking at her. He’d released her arm now that they were on the vast main deck of the frigate, for she rode the sea more gently than the dinghy and even than the Americana.

A sick feeling began. Virginia gazed about her at the huge pirate ship, wishing she knew her fate. She found herself being led across the deck, where word of the captain’s orders had obviously spread, as she was studiously avoided. A moment later she was in a small cabin with her single valise, the door closed behind her.

Virginia hugged herself. It had happened. She was the pirate captain’s prisoner—she was in the pirate captain’s cabin.

She shivered, realized she was trembling from the cold—she was soaked from head to foot—and she blinked and glanced around at her new accommodations. The cabin was about four times the size of the berth she’d shared with the Davises. It was, in fact, luxuriously appointed. Just beyond the doorway there was a low four-poster mahogany bed, bolted to the floor and covered with paisley silk quilts in a bold red, black and gold pattern. Gold-tasseled red velvet pillows were piled high on the bed, looking distinctly Eastern. Two rows of shelves were on the wall above the bed and two dark red Persian carpets covered the floor. A desk covered with books, maps and charts was in a corner of the cabin.

There was also a fine, small dining table in the cabin, gleaming with wax, its pedestal base incredibly carved, clawed and detailed. Four tall, elegantly upholstered striped chairs graced it. A black Chinese screen, inlaid with mother of pearl, was against the fourth wall. A closet seemed to be built into the wall. A porcelain hip bath was there, as well.

Virginia grimaced, terribly uneasy. She hated being in his quarters, surrounded by his personal effects. Worse, it bothered her to no end that the appointments were far more elegant than those of her own home. She walked over to the bed, ignoring it, but helplessly wondering where she was going to sleep. There were some folded garments on one shelf—she saw what she thought were drawers and stockings. There was a mirror, a razor, a thick shaving brush, a toothbrush and a gold-engraved porcelain bowl. There were also several candles in sterling-silver holders.

Dismay somehow joined the unease.

On the higher shelf were dictionaries: French-English, Spanish-English, German-English, Italian-English, Portuguese-English and Russian-English. And then there were two small, tattered books, one on common phrases in the Arabic language, the other Chinese.

Was her captor educated? He’d had a heavy Irish brogue, but he’d also had the airs of an aristocrat. In fact, he hadn’t appeared at all the way she would expect a pirate to appear—he hadn’t been toothless, smelly and dirty—except for the blood. It crossed her mind that he had been clean-shaven, too.

She couldn’t stand it. The cabin, filled with his presence, now threatened to suffocate her. She rushed to the door and tried it, expecting to find it locked. To her shock, it opened instantly.

She wasn’t locked in.

The door ajar, she peered out and saw that the preparations on the Americana were almost complete. A new mainsail was being unfurled, which meant only one thing—the ship would soon begin to sail. If only she could manage to get back on board, she thought.

She stepped out of the cabin. It was growing later in the afternoon now and a swift breeze had picked up, chilling her more thoroughly. She shivered, shading her eyes with one hand and gazing out at the Americana. No dinghy remained tied to its side, so even if she could have thought of a way to get back over to the other ship, it was too late; the ships were casting off.

Cautiously, Virginia glanced around. Men were climbing the masts, unfurling some sails, reefing others, and other men were hoisting a huge anchor. No one seemed to be aware of her presence.

She hesitated, then saw him on the quarterdeck. Virginia stilled. He was obviously giving orders. The strong wind was now blowing strands of his hair wildly about, even though he wore it tied back, and it was also causing his billowing and still-bloody shirt to collapse against his torso, defining ridge after ridge and plane after plane of muscle. His presence was commanding. Far too commanding for him to be some farmer-turned-pirate. The man was an aristocrat, she decided instantly, an aristocrat gone bad.

He saw her and across a vast distance, he stared.

Virginia found it hard to breathe.

A moment later he put his back to her. The Defiance suddenly bolted as if it were a horse let out of a starting gate. Virginia was thrown back against the outside wall of the cabin.

Gus appeared. “Captain asks that you stay below, Miss Hughes,” he said, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“Then why doesn’t he lock the door?” she asked tartly.

“Please go inside, Miss Hughes. Captain’s orders,” he insisted, crimson-cheeked once again.

“Gus!” she snapped, gripping his wrist. “I don’t care what he’s ordered, as he is not my captain!”

Gus blinked and, for one moment, regarded her with disbelief.

She felt a tiny surge of triumph. “Please look at me when you address me. I am not a door or a post.”

He flushed and looked away. “Captain’s orders, miss.”

“Damn your murdering captain! Damn him to hell—which is where I have no doubt he will one day end up, far sooner than later!” Virginia cried.

Gus dared to glance at her again. “Wind’s changed. Storm’s coming. Please go inside or I am ordered to take you in.”

Virginia made a distinctly unladylike sound, very much a snort, and she stormed into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind her. She waited to hear a padlock being put in place, but she heard nothing at all. But they were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and there was, quite simply, nowhere for her to go.

She would escape in Portsmouth.

Virginia sat down hard on one of the dining room chairs, filled with sudden excitement. They were but a day away, if she understood correctly. Surely she could keep the lecherous captain at bay for an entire day—and surely, in the next twenty-four hours, she could come up with a plan.

And Portsmouth was in Britain. Somehow she would find a way to get from Portsmouth to London, where she was certain her uncle was expecting her.

Hope filled her. So did relief.

Virginia finally faced the fact that she had nothing to do other than plot and plan. She was freezing, though, and she eyed her valise. She was afraid to change. She was afraid of being caught in a state of undress by the captain. Rubbing her hands together, she decided to focus on planning her escape.

Within minutes, her mind slowed and dimmed and her eyes became heavy, refusing to stay open. Finally, her head fell onto her arms and she was asleep.

“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.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW MUCH time had passed or how long he’d stood there in the growing dusk, staring at her as she slept. But suddenly Virginia was awake, and as she lifted her head, he was the first thing that she saw.

She gasped, sitting upright, riveted by an odd glitter in his eyes. Devlin didn’t move. He stood in front of the closed door as if he had just entered the cabin.

Virginia leapt to her feet. Her clothes remained damp and wet and that told her she’d slept for just a short time. “How long were you standing there?” she demanded.

His gaze slipped from her eyes to her breasts. Quickly, they returned to her eyes, and then he moved across the cabin, past her. “Not long.” His reply was cool and indifferent.

Virginia hugged herself, flushing. Had that man just ogled her bosom? She had no bosom, and the cabin was too small for the two of them. “I thought this was my cabin now.”

He was opening the closet door. He turned toward her, his expression mild and inscrutable. “It is.”

“Then you should leave.”

Now he fully faced her. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the tongue of a shrew?”

“And you are rude. This cabin is too small for the both of us and…” She faltered, finally looking at his wet, bloody shirt. It clung to interesting angles and planes. “You smell.”

“For your edification, Miss Hughes, this is my cabin and you are in it as my guest. You did not change your clothes. Why?”

She blinked, his sudden change of topic taking her by surprise. “I don’t wish to change my clothes,” she said warily.

“You like the appearance of a drowned cat?” His dark brows lifted. “Or is it the cold you enjoy?”

“Thank you for the flattery—and the sarcasm.”

He sighed. “Miss Hughes, you will catch pneumonia if you do not get out of those garments. My intention is not for you to die.”

She jumped at the cue. “What is your intention?”

His expression changed and it was clear he was now annoyed. He half turned and before she could make a sound, he had pulled his bloody shirt over his head, letting it drop on the floor.

She backed away until she hit the door. “What in God’s name are you doing?” she cried, her gaze riveted on broad, naked shoulders and a glimpse of an equally broad, rock-hard chest.

She looked lower. His belly was flat and tight, with interesting lines, and then it began to ripple. She quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks had warmed.

“I have the good sense to change my clothes,” he returned evenly, forcing her gaze to his.

She met a pair of pale gray eyes and knew she should not have stared. Her spirits sank stunningly, with real dismay. The face of a god, the body of a warrior. She had seen a few men without their shirts before at Sweet Briar, but somehow, a glimpse of Frank’s naked chest had never distressed her in such a way.

Of course, at Sweet Briar, she wasn’t being held a prisoner against her will, in such a small, confined space with her captor. “This cabin is too small for us both,” she repeated, aware of her racing heartbeat.

He held a new, clean shirt in his hands, but he didn’t move. In fact, had she not seen the rise and fall of his very sculpted chest, she would have thought him to be a lifelike statue. Slowly he said, “You are repeating yourself.”

Her shivering abruptly ceased as their gazes locked. The cabin had become hot. It had also become airless.

His face was taut. “You are staring again.”

She somehow looked away. “You could have asked me to step outside,” she managed, carefully looking at the floor.

“I hadn’t realized a man’s chest would be so fascinating,” he said bluntly.

Her gaze flew up. His back was to her now, encased in fine white lawn, but he was pulling one Hessian boot off, and then another. As he reached into the closet, Virginia glimpsed a sparkle of gold, and then a pair of clean, cream-colored britches were in his hands.

She didn’t speak. She whirled, about to dash out the door.

He crossed the space of the cabin in a heartbeat and placed a hand on the door, preventing her from opening it. “You cannot go out on deck that way.”

His arm was over her shoulder and she felt the presence of his large body just behind hers. She couldn’t turn around to face him because if she did she would be in his arms. “I am not going to watch you undress,” she said, and her tone sounded odd and rough.

“I am not asking you to watch, Miss Hughes. I apologize. I have forgotten how innocent a woman of eighteen is.”

Virginia froze. Was he now playing the part of a gentleman? Disbelief warred with a vast confusion.

In that endless moment, she became aware of the heat actually emanating from his body, as only inches separated them. Abruptly he dropped his hand from the door and stepped back.

Slowly, Virginia turned around.

He still held the clean britches in his hand. He broke the silence. Tersely, he said, “Look the other way. I will be done in a moment and then you may change your gown.”

“I prefer to step outside—” she began.

“Good God, woman! Will you dispute my every word? Your gown is indecent.” He raked a gaze over her bosom and stalked away, unfastening his britches as he did so.

It was a moment before she comprehended his words. Virginia looked down and was utterly chagrined. The wet silk of her gown and chemise molded her small breasts, enhanced by her corset, and clearly defined each erect nipple, the entire effect so revealing that no one could be in any doubt as to the size or state of her anatomy. No wonder he had stared. She might as well have been naked. She was mortified.

Cloth rustled.

Virginia looked and glimpsed far more than she should have—high, hard buttocks, muscled thighs and calves—and she reversed, facing the door, breathing harshly against the wood. Suddenly she wanted to cry.

She had been as brave as she could be for an interminable amount of time, but her courage was failing her now. She had to get to London, she had to beg her uncle for pity and the payment of her debts. Instead, she was on board a pirate ship, in a pirate’s cabin, a pirate who at times spoke like an aristocrat, a pirate who exuded such seductive virility that she was, for the first time ever in her life, aware of her own body in an entirely different way than ever before. How had this happened? How?

He was her enemy. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. She hated him passionately—and she must not ever find a single inch of him interesting, intriguing or fascinating.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, suddenly behind her again.

Virginia fought the tears back, nodding and stepping aside while refusing to look at him. She was aware of him hesitating and staring at her. She walked over to her bag and made a show of finding new garments, praying he hadn’t seen a single tear. Finally, she heard the door close.

She sank onto the floor by her valise and wept.

THE WIND BLEW STRONG and hard behind them. Devlin had taken the helm, as if that would make everything right again. Gripping it with the ease of one who could steer a huge ship in his sleep, he focused on the task at hand—outrunning the storm chasing them.

“Will we make it?” a quiet voice asked from behind just as a pair of moist violet eyes invaded his mind.

Devlin relaxed, relieved by the interruption. He glanced at the ship’s surgeon, a small, portly man with thick sideburns and curling gray hair. “It’s fifty-fifty,” he responded. “I’ll know in the next fifteen minutes.”

Jack Harvey folded his arms across his chest and gazed up at the inky, starless sky. “What is this hostage-taking business, Devlin?”

Devlin stared into the gray horizon. “My own mad affair, I’m afraid.”

“Who is she?”

“Does it matter?”

“I caught a glimpse of her on board the Americana. She’s a young lady. I smell a ransom. I don’t know why. You’ve never ransomed a woman before.”

“There’s always a first time,” Devlin said, having no intention of telling the good surgeon anything at all. “How are the wounded?”

“Brinkley is dying, but I’ve given him laudanum and he doesn’t know it. Buehler and Swenson will make it. Does she need medical attention?”

Devlin became irritated. “She needs a gag, but no, she does not need medical attention.”

Jack Harvey raised both bushy brows in surprise. Then he said, “She’s a beautiful wild thing, isn’t she? Good God, the men are talking about how she tried to shoot you! She—”

“Reams!” Devlin snapped. “Take the helm. Stay true to course.” He jammed a finger at the compass heading and stalked across the quarterdeck. He did not know why he was suddenly very annoyed and angry.

“I take it you are not inviting me to join you for a bite of supper before we face the winds of hell?” Harvey called out to his back.

Devlin didn’t bother answering. But it was now or never—if the storm caught them, he needed a full belly and all of his strength.

Had she been crying when he left the cabin?

Not that he cared. Women used tears for the sole purpose of manipulation—he had learned that long ago. As he didn’t care about any woman to begin with, tears had no effect on him.

He opened the cabin door and saw Virginia seated at his table, which was set with silver and fine crystal and a covered platter, from which savory aromas were wafting. Her posture was terribly erect, her hands were clasped in her lap and two bright pink spots blotched her cheeks. Her gaze, which seemed wild, clashed with his.

He straightened, closing the door, sensing a battle’s first blow.

She smiled and it was as cold as ice. “I wondered when you would return…Captain.”

Delight tingled in his veins. How he loved a good war. He intended to enjoy this one. “I hadn’t realized you were pining for my company,” he said with a courtly inclination of his head.

“I only pine for your head—on that silver serving platter,” she said, as regally as if she were England’s queen.

He wanted to smile. He nearly did. Instead, he approached cautiously and saw the fury in her eyes. “I fear to disappoint you. My chef is French. I have far better fare on that platter.”

“Then I shall wait patiently for a better day, when the dinner I truly desire is served,” she almost spat.

He refused to chuckle. “You do not strike me as a patient woman, Miss Hughes, and as I doubt the day you seek will come for a good many years, what will you do instead of waiting?”

“You’re right. I have no patience, none at all! Rogue!” she cried.

He almost laughed. “Bastard” was more like it. “Have I somehow offended you, Miss Hughes?”

Her laughter was brittle. “You murder innocent Americans, you abduct me, take me prisoner, strip in front of me, ogle my breasts and ask me if I am offended? Hah,” she said.

He reached for the bottle of red wine. “May I?” he asked, about to pour into her glass.

She leapt to her feet. “You’re an officer!” she shouted, and he tensed, thinking she intended to strike him. But she only added in another shout, “In the British navy!”

He set the bottle down and swept her a mocking bow. “Sir Captain Devlin O’Neill, at your service, Miss Hughes.”

She was trembling with rage, he saw. He decided to give in to lechery and admire her perfect breasts. “Stop leering,” she hissed. “You have committed criminal acts. Atrocious criminal acts! Explain yourself, Captain, sir!”

He gave up. This woman dared to order him. It was the single truly entertaining moment of his life. She was on his ship, in his command and she ordered him about. He laughed.

Virginia froze, startled by the brief eruption of that rough sound, with its oddly raw tone. Then, still furious at his deception, and worse, at what clearly was not the dire predicament she had thought herself to be in, she snapped, “I am waiting for an explanation, Captain.”

He shook his head and looked at her. Very softly, he asked, “Are you not afraid of me?”

She hesitated. What kind of question was this?

“Be truthful,” he said, as if in earnest.

“You terrify me,” she heard herself say, her pulse quickening. Then she amended, “You have terrified me, and all for naught, damn it!”

His brows lifted. “Ladies do not curse.”

“I don’t care. Besides, I have not been treated like a lady, now have I?”

He gave her a very odd, long look. “Another man would have had you in that bed—where you belong. But you are hardly there, are you?”

She went still. Alarm filled her. Alarm and such a forceful heartbeat she could no longer breathe. “I har—I har—I hardly belong in your bed!” she stammered. Terrible images of her there, with him, in his powerful arms, assailed her.

“A slip of the tongue.” His brows, darker than his hair, lifted. “I agree. Skinny women tend to be exceedingly uncomfortable.”

She almost gasped again. Then she cried, “I am only fourteen, sir! You would take a child to your bed?”

His gaze slammed to hers.

She wet her lips. She was perspiring and she desperately needed him to believe her now.

His jaw flexed. His gaze narrowed with speculation, causing her heart to lurch with dread. “This is a dangerous game you play, Miss Hughes,” he said softly.

“It is no game!”

“Indeed? Then explain to me the fact of your passage, alone and without chaperone, aboard the Americana?”

Her mind scrambled and raced. “I had to lie to Captain Horatio to get passage,” she said, and she thought her explanation brilliant. “Obviously he would not let a child travel to Britain alone. I told him I was eighteen—”

He cut her off, his eyes cold. “You did not look fourteen in your wet gown, Miss Hughes.”

She stiffened.

His smile was a mere twist of lips. “Do sit down. As interesting as this conversation is, I am here for a purpose. A storm threatens to catch us, and if so, a long night ensues.” He moved swiftly to the table and held out her chair.

Virginia found it hard to sit down. Oddly, she hated her deception now; she did not want him to really think of her as a child. But did he even believe her? She did not quite think so. And he wasn’t a pirate, oh no! Some of her anger at being duped—and pointlessly frightened—returned. “Why didn’t you tell me that you are a captain in the royal navy?”

He shrugged. “Do you care?”

“Of course I do!” she cried, facing him earnestly now. “Because I thought I was your prisoner, although I could not fathom why. Now I know differently, although I still do not understand why I am on your ship and not the Americana. I know that the British navy thinks nothing of seizing American ships, as you have clearly done, for your country has no respect for our rights! But we are not at war with you, and you are not a pirate! In some ways, we are allies. Clearly you will release me in Portsmouth!” For this was the conclusion she had drawn upon finding his naval uniform in his closet. An officer in the British navy was not about to ransom an American citizen. But what was he about?

“We are not allies,” he said harshly.

This was not the reply she had expected and she did not like the look on his face or in his eyes.

“And I am not releasing you in Portsmouth.”

“What?” She was shocked. “But—”

“In fact, I am taking you to Askeaton. Have you ever been to Ireland, Miss Hughes?”

CHAPTER FIVE

VIRGINIA WAS DISBELIEVING. “Ireland? You think to take me to Ireland?”

“I hardly think it,” he murmured, “I plan it. Now, do sit down, as I also intend to eat.” He held out her chair.

Confusion overcame her. “I am not sure that I understand.”

“Good God!” he shot. “What is there to understand? I am taking you to Ireland, Miss Hughes, as my guest.”

She was truly trying to comprehend him. “So I am your prisoner,” she managed to say hoarsely.

“I prefer to think of you as a guest.” He became serious. “I will not harm you—not even if you are eighteen.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Now, sit.”

Virginia had believed her terrible predicament over. She shook her head, refusing to take the offered chair. “I have no appetite. Is it a ransom that you seek?”

“How clever.” His smile was cold.

“I have no funds. My inheritance is being sold in bits and pieces as soon as possible, and the proceeds go to the repayment of my father’s debts.”

He shrugged as if he did not care.

Virginia became very alarmed, but managed to breathe slowly, evenly. “You let Mrs. Davis go. She was rather wealthy.”

“If you think to starve, so be it.” He sat down and began serving himself from the platter, where a hearty mutton stew was revealed.

Unfortunately, the sight and smell of the stew caused her stomach to growl loudly, but he did not seem to hear. He began to eat, and quickly, as if eating were a mission and he were in a rush to accomplish it.

Finally he took a sip of wine and saluted her with his glass. “Fine contraband, indeed.”

Virginia did not reply. A terrible inkling was dawning upon her. He intended to ransom her and he couldn’t care less about her inheritance.

He had known her name from the moment they had met.

He must know of her uncle, the earl.

She sat down hard on the chair he had left pulled out from the table. That action caused him to glance up, although he never ceased eating.

But now she was safe enough, was she not? The man was in the navy, even if about to be discharged, or worse—and she hoped he hanged from the nearest gallows. He was no common outlaw. He wanted a ransom, one that would surely be paid, and considering all circumstances, she doubted he would return her to her uncle blemished in any way.

Virginia wondered what the ransom would be and if her uncle was wealthy enough to pay her ransom and her father’s debts. Her dismay was infinite.

“You seem distraught,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair, apparently having finished his meal.

“You have no morals, sir,” she said tightly. “That much is clear.”

“I have never said I did.” He eyed her. “Morals are for fools, Miss Hughes.”

She stared. Impulsively, she leaned forward. “How can I make you change your mind?” She could hardly believe herself now. “There cannot be a ransom from my uncle, Captain O’Neill. I am eighteen, not fourteen.” His face never changed expression. “I will do whatever I must to be freed.”

He stared for an interminable moment. “Is that the offer that I think it is?”

She felt ill…breathless…ashamed…resigned. “Yes, it is,” she croaked.

He stood. “The storm is upon us. I am afraid I must go. Do not leave this cabin. A chit such as yourself would be blown overboard instantly.” He tossed his napkin aside and strode across the now-rolling floor of the cabin as if it were still and flat.

That was his reply? She was incredulous.

At the door, he paused. “And my answer is no.” He walked out.

She collapsed on the table in tears, all of which now flowed purely from desperation. She already knew her uncle didn’t give a damn about her. He would never pay both a ransom and her father’s debts.

Because of the damned Irishman, she would lose Sweet Briar.

Anger exploded and she leapt up, racing across the cabin. As soon as she had swung the door open, a huge gale wind sent her forward helplessly across the entire deck. She had never felt such a force in her life; Virginia saw the raging, frothing sea beyond the railing and it seemed to be racing toward her. She couldn’t even cry out and then she was slammed hard, midsection first, into wood and rope.

Pain blinded her. The sea sprayed her, while the wind wanted to push her overboard. Panic consumed her—she did not want to die!

“You damnable stubborn woman,” O’Neill hissed, his strong arms wrapping around her. And she was cocooned against his entire hard, powerful body, the sea and the wind now relentlessly battering them both.

She inhaled, unable to look up, her face pressed against his chest. His grip tightened, and then he was dragging her with him as he confronted the wind, walking fiercely, determinedly into it, a single man against the elements.

He shoved her into the cabin, and for one moment stood braced in the doorway, pounded by the wind. “Stay inside!” he shouted to make himself heard.

“You have to let me go!” she shouted back. Oddly, she wanted to thank him for saving her life.

He shook his head, lashed her with a furious look and began running across the deck, finally leaping up to the quarterdeck. It had begun to rain, pounding and fierce.

Virginia stayed safely within the cabin, out of the reach of the storm, but she made no move to close the door, which had become nailed open by the wind. Now she realized how serious the storm was. The ship was riding huge tidal waves the way the tiny dinghy had earlier, cresting to each huge tip, only to plummet sickeningly down again. She glanced around and saw sailors everywhere, straining against ropes, crawling in the masts. They were hanging there, too.

Then she looked back up and cried out in horror, because a man was hanging from a middle yardarm, and she knew he had fallen and was about to careen to his death.

She had to do something, yet there seemed to be nothing that she could do.

She glanced toward the quarterdeck. She was too small to even cross the space between O’Neill’s cabin and where he stood, to tell him what was happening. She looked back up—and the hanging man was gone.

Vanished…drowned.

Her insides lurched terribly. He was gone, and she hadn’t even been able to hear him scream.

As the ship bucked violently, Virginia saw that all of the sails were tied down save one. She quickly realized that the sailor who had fallen had been sent up the first mast to reef a single sail that remained taut and unfurled.

And the huge ship instantly began to turn over on its side.

Virginia was thrown against the floor and carried all the way across it, downward, until she slammed into the opposite wall, her shoulder taking the blow, and then her head. For a moment, as the ship lay on its side—or nearly so—she remained there, incapable of moving, stunned.

She then realized that the ship was going to capsize if it didn’t become righted again. She looked at the doorway, which remained wide open, and now was oddly above her, like the ridge of a hill, the angle severe, perhaps forty-five degrees or more. The black sky shimmered in the open hatch.

They were all going to die, she thought wildly.

Virginia began to climb the floor, using the bolted table legs to help her, then the leg of the bed. Once there, she managed to stretch flat and reach high up to grab the ridge of the floor where it adjoined the door. Her arms screamed in protest, her shoulder joints felt racked. Virginia slowly pulled herself to the doorway, and once there, her back pressed into one wall, her feet into another, gazed wildly around.

The sailors on deck were also fighting the terrible angle of the ship, and its lowered side, while still not submerged, was being pounded with whitecaps. Virginia looked up at the masts and froze.

There was no mistaking Devlin O’Neill, a dagger in his teeth, climbing up the first mast, another man behind him. Above him, the huge foresail billowed, begging the storm to capsize them.

He was going to die, she thought, mesmerized, just the way that other man had. For as he climbed, using sheer strength and will to fight the pitch of the ship, the huge winds and the rain, the frigate rolled precariously even further to its side.

Virginia watched in horror. Even if he didn’t die, they were surely doomed, as no man could defeat the wind and the bucking ship in order to cut the sail free.

She watched as O’Neill paused, as if exhausted, the man beneath him also stopping. Virginia could not remove her gaze. She prayed as both men took a brief respite, clinging to the swaying mast.

He started back up. He’d reached the yardarm from which the sailor had fallen and he began to slash at the rigging. The other man joined him. Virginia watched them avidly. A few brief moments passed into an eternity when suddenly the huge canvas broke free of its rigging, sailing wildly away into the night.

The huge ship groaned and sank back evenly into the water.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, watching him begin a precarious but nimble descent. It was obvious he had just saved his ship and crew, and it was also obvious he had dared to do what few others would even contemplate.

She began to shake. The man knew no fear.

She realized she had never been more afraid in her life.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there when a sailor shoved his face at her. “Get inside, Captain says so.”

Virginia had no time to react. She was shoved back into the cabin, while the sailor used all of his strength to pry the door free from the outside wall, fighting the gale and eventually slamming it in her face.

This time, she heard the click of a lock.

Virginia stumbled over to his bed, where she collapsed and lapsed into unconsciousness.

SUNLIGHT WAS STREAMING brightly through the portholes of the cabin when she awoke. Every part of her body ached and her head pounded, while her eyes felt too heavy to even open. She had never been so tired in her life, and she had no wish to awake. She snuggled more deeply beneath the covers, cocooned in warmth. Then a mild irritation began—only the back side of her body seemed to be covered.

She groped for the blanket…and realized there were no covers and she was not alone.

She stiffened.

The length of a hard body lay against her, warming her from her shoulders to her toes. She felt a soft breath feathering her jaw, and an arm was draped over her waist.

Oh God, she thought, blinking into bright midday sunlight. And trembling, a new tension filling her, she looked at the hand on her waist.

She already knew who lay in bed beside her and she stared at O’Neill’s large, strong, bronzed hand, which lay carefully upon her. She swallowed, an odd heavy warmth unfurling in the depth of her being.

How had this happened? she thought with panic. Of course the explanation was simple enough and she guessed it immediately—sometime after the storm died, he had stumbled into bed just as she had, too tired to care that she lay there. That likelihood did not decrease her distress. In fact, her agitation grew.

Then a terrible comprehension seized her.

His hand lay carefully on her waist.

Not limp and relaxed with sleep, but carefully controlled and placed.

Her heart skipped then drummed wildly. He was not asleep. She would bet her life on it.

She debated feigning sleep until he left her bed. But her heart was racing so madly it was an impossibility, especially as she felt his hand tighten on her waist. Virginia turned abruptly and faced a pair of brilliant silver eyes and the face of an archangel. Their gazes locked.

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, and could think of nothing intelligent to say.

Then his gaze moved to her temple, which she now realized truly hurt. “Are you all right?” he asked, also still. His gaze slipped slowly to her mouth, where it lingered before moving as slowly back up to her eyes.

His gaze felt like a silken caress.

“I…” She stopped, incapable of speech. And she could not help but stare. His face was terribly close to hers. He had firm, unmoving lips. Her gaze shot back to his. His face was expressionless, carved in stone and impossible to read, but his eyes seemed bright.

She wondered what it would feel like, to have his hard mouth soften and cover hers. “You saved my life,” she whispered nervously. “Thank you.”

His jaw flexed. He started to shove off of the bed.

She gripped the hand that had been on her waist. “You saved the ship, the crew. I saw what you did. I saw you up there.”

“You are in my bed, Virginia, and unless you wish to remain here with me for another hour, at least, leaving the last of your youth behind, I suggest you let me get up.”

She remained still. Her mind raced. Her body burned for his touch and she knew it. It was foolish now to deny. Somehow, his heroism of the night before had changed everything. Anyway, he was perfectly capable of getting up, never mind that she had seized his wrist. She found herself looking at his mouth again. She had never been kissed.

Abruptly he lurched off of the bed and before she could even cry out, he was gone.

Virginia slowly sat up, stunned.

There was no relief. There was a morass of confusion, and more bewildering, there was disappointment.

VIRGINIA REMAINED ON THE BED, sitting there, beginning to realize what she had almost done.

She had been a hairbreadth away from kissing her captor—she had wanted his kiss.

Disbelief overcame her and she leapt to her feet as a knock sounded on her door. O’Neill never knocked, so she snapped, “Who is it?”

“Gus. Captain asked that I bring you bathing water.”

“Come in,” she choked, turning away. O’Neill was the enemy. He had taken her against her will from the Americana, an act of pure avarice and greed. He was holding her against her will now. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. How could she have entertained, even for an instant, a desire for his touch, his kiss?

Gus entered, followed by two seamen carrying pails of hot water. He set a pitcher of fresh water on the dining table, not looking at her. Both sailors also treated her as if she were invisible, filling the hip bath.

How kind, she thought, suddenly furious with him—and furious with herself. She had never even thought of kissing anyone until a moment ago. This had to be his fault entirely—she was overwrought from the crisis of the abduction, of the storm, the crisis that was him! He was somehow taking advantage of her state of confusion, her nerves. In any case, the entire interlude was unacceptable. He was the enemy and would remain so until she was released. One did not kiss one’s enemy, oh no.

Besides, kissing would surely lead to one certain fate—becoming his whore!

“Is there anything else that you need, Miss Hughes?” Gus was asking, cutting into her raging thoughts.

“No, thank you,” she said far too tersely. Her cheeks were on fire. She was on fire. And she was afraid.

Gus turned, the other sailors already leaving.

Virginia fought the fear, the despair. She reminded herself that she had to escape. She had to convince her uncle to save Sweet Briar. Soon, this nightmare that was O’Neill would be only that, a passing bad dream, a memory becoming distant. “Gus! Where are we? Are we close to shore?”

He hesitated, but did not turn to face her. “We were blown off course. We’re well north of England, Miss Hughes.”

She gaped as he left, before she was able to demand just how far north they had been blown off course. Her geography was rusty, but she knew rather vaguely that Ireland was north of England. Being taken to Portsmouth was far better than being taken to Ireland, and ironically, now she was afraid he’d change his damnable plans and not take the Defiance to Portsmouth first.

She ran to his desk and glanced at the map there. It took her a moment to confirm her worst fears. Ireland was north and west of England, and if they had been blown far north enough, Ireland would be smack in their way. But could a mere storm have blown them that far off course? To her uneducated eye, two hundred miles or more were required for them to be on a direct line with the other country.

She glanced at the map of England. Portsmouth did not look to be far from London. She tried to estimate the distance and decided it was a day’s carriage ride. At least that one point was in her favor, she thought grimly.

Now what? Virginia’s gaze fell on the steaming bath. Instantly she decided not to waste the hot water. She bathed quickly, afraid of an interruption, scrubbing his touch from her body. Leaping out, she barely toweled dry, afraid he would walk in and catch her unclothed. She braided her hair while wet, in record time donning the same clothes. A glance in his mirror showed her that she was frightfully pale, which only made her eyes appear larger. She looked terribly unkempt—her gown was beyond wrinkled and torn at the hem, with a bloodstain on one shoulder. But even worse was the abrasion on her temple. It looked like a terrible gash, and when she touched it she found the wound sensitive.

She looked like a washerwoman in a fine lady’s clothes, one who’d been in a fistfight or other battle.

But then, she had been in a battle, she had been in a constant battle since the moment O’Neill had attacked the Americana.

Virginia walked over to a porthole, which she levered open. It was a beautiful spring day, the sky blue and cloudless, the ocean almost flat, and she was amazed at how serene the sea was after the horror of the night before. She strained for a glimpse of land or even a seagull, but saw neither. Virginia left the porthole open and stepped out onto the deck.

She espied him instantly. O’Neill had his back to her, standing with an officer who was steering the ship, his legs braced wide apart, his arms apparently folded in front of his chest. She felt an odd breathless sensation as she stared at him, one she did not care for. He turned slightly—the man had the senses of a jungle tiger—and their gazes locked.

He nodded.

She ignored his gesture and walked over to the railing, only too late realizing that this was very close to the spot where she would have been washed overboard if he hadn’t rescued her.

She clung to the rail, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warm May sun. But inside, she was shaken to the core. Last night, she had almost died. It was an experience she hoped never to repeat.

A distinct recollection of the feel of his strong arms wrapping around her, and then the sensation of being pressed deeply against his body, overcame her. Virginia stood very still, allowing her eyes to open, reminding herself that he was the enemy and that would never change—not until he let her go free.

“A fine spring day,” an unfamiliar voice said cheerfully behind her.

Virginia started, turning.

A plump man with curly gray hair and dancing brown eyes smiled at her. He wore a brown wool jacket, britches and stockings—he could have been strolling the streets of Richmond, except for the lack of a hat, cane and gloves. “I’m Jack Harvey, ship’s surgeon,” he said, giving her a courtly bow.

She smiled uncertainly, sensing that he was a good man—unlike his superior. “Virginia Hughes,” she said.

“I know.” His smile was wide. “Everyone knows who you are, Miss Hughes. There are no secrets on board a ship.”

Virginia absorbed that and helplessly darted a glance at O’Neill. He seemed oblivious to her presence on his deck now, his back remaining to her and Harvey.

“How are you holding up?” Harvey asked. “And should I take a look at that temple of yours?”

“It’s sore,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. “I am holding up as well as can be expected, I think. I have never been abducted before.”

Harvey met her gaze, grimacing. “Well, you may know that as far as Devlin is concerned, this is a first for him, as well. He’s taken hostages before, but never women or children. He always frees the women and the children.”

“How wonderful to be an exception,” she said with bitterness.

“Has he hurt you?” Harvey asked abruptly.

She started and stared. An image of his silver gaze as she turned in bed to face him filled her mind. She hesitated.

“You are very beautiful,” Harvey said in the lapse that had fallen. “I have never seen such extraordinary eyes. I do not approve of Devlin sharing that cabin with you.”

Did she have an ally in the ship’s surgeon? She inhaled sharply, her mind racing. Then, carefully, she summoned tears—a feat she had never before performed. “I begged for mercy,” she whispered. “I told him I was a young, innocent and defenseless woman.” She stopped as if she could not continue.

Harvey’s eyes widened in shock. “I don’t believe it! The bastard…seduced you?”

He would be an ally, she could feel it. “Seduced? I don’t think that is the right word.”

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 life 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 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?”

She looked as if she might strike him.

“Do not,” he warned softly.

She clenched her fists. “I am sorry I missed,” she said suddenly. “I’m a fine shot, and if only I had waited, you would now be dead.”

“But I’m not dead, alas,” he mocked. Her words had an edge he refused to feel, cutting deep. “Patience, Miss Hughes, is a virtue. And you, my harridan, lack it entirely.” He strode away.

“Why are you doing this? O’Neill!” she cried after him. “Harvey says you are rich!”

He pretended not to hear.

“Bastard,” she said.

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