Captured for the Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge

of bitterness colouring his voice sent warning prickles across her shoulders. Yet she wanted to know more of this man’s history. She waved a nonchalant hand. ‘Why did you leave England for America?’

      He grimaced. ‘Not of my own volition, I assure you.’

      Deported? It was possible. Britain had long been sending her criminals abroad. Or might he have fled? A horrid vision popped into her mind. ‘Did you kill your man at dawn?’ Over some woman.

      He snorted. ‘Duelling is a waste of time. There are far better ways to satisfy honour. Tell me why the Conchita was flying a Spanish flag?’

      Another change of direction. Conversing with this man was like balancing on the edge of a knife. One slip and you’d be cut to ribbons. She found the whole thing exhausting.

      ‘There were rumours of privateers.’ A wry smile twisted her lips. ‘They proved correct.’

      ‘It was your idea, wasn’t it?’

      She nodded.

      ‘Well, let me thank you for making my work easier.’

      Her palm itched with the desire to slap the supercilious expression from his face. Instead, she regally bent her neck. ‘Glad to be of service.’

      A laugh of genuine amusement rumbled up from his chest, low and warm. It strummed a chord low in her belly. She scowled.

      ‘You are certainly an enterprising woman,’ he said.

      Time to give him another surprise. The number of her pieces scattered on his side of the board proved he’d played well, if cautiously. Now she would bring their evening to a close. She moved her monk. ‘Checkmate.’

      He recoiled, staring at the board. ‘Good God.’

      Another man who thought women didn’t have any mental capacity. She smiled tightly. ‘Thank you for a close-run game.’

      He glanced up at her face, shock lingering in his eyes like shadows. ‘I had no idea how much I’d forgotten.’

      At least he hadn’t accused her of cheating as one gentleman had. ‘You played well enough.’

      Staring at the board, he gulped down his wine, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as he swallowed. He leaned forwards, gaze intent, as if replaying the game. Finally he looked up at her, with a sort of boyish eagerness that robbed her of breath. ‘Where did I go wrong?’

      With effort, she gathered her thoughts. ‘I took advantage of your mistakes.’

      He didn’t look the slightest bit insulted by her honesty. She found herself liking him for that. Blast it. She really did have no sense when it came to men. ‘Then I must do better. Next time.’

      There wasn’t going to be a next time. She hoped.

      He cocked his head, listening. ‘The hour grows late.’

      She heard only the breeze singing in the rigging and the slap of the waves against the hull from the open window. She glanced at him questioningly.

      ‘The men are all abed, except those on watch.’

      The revelry outside had died away long ago. She’d been too intent on their game and fielding his sharp questions to notice the passage of time. She swallowed. ‘I should leave.’

      ‘I have many more questions. Drink your wine, Miss Fulton.’ He gestured at her glass. ‘Come, a toast.’

      To humour him, she picked up her glass.

      ‘To success,’ he said.

      ‘Yours or mine?’

      ‘Mine.’ While she sipped, he drank deeply. When he lowered his glass the predatory expression was back on his face.

      The cabin seemed stuffy all at once, airless and hot. The skin on her scalp tightened the way it did before a lightning storm and she knew she had to bring the evening to a close. Somehow she had to end this tête-à-tête on a friendly note.

      She stood and carried her glass to the window on legs that felt the way they did the first moments on land after a long voyage. Like wet rags. Unfortunately, this voyage was far from over and a storm loomed on the horizon.

      She gazed out into the dark, breathing in the salt air. ‘I must thank you for a pleasant evening.’

      Cat-like, on silent feet, he appeared behind her, his face reflected in the glass over her shoulder, his smile a glimmer of white. The warmth radiating from his body fired off a storm of heat in her own. A demented blush from head to toe, thankfully hidden in the dark reflection.

      ‘You were right about me,’ he said, his voice low, his body warm at her back. ‘Once, I also had all the advantages of wealth and position.’ Deep beneath the easy tone, she heard great sorrow.

      She resisted the urge to sympathise. She’d heard many similar tales. It was the women she pitied. ‘Did you lose your money in one of London’s hells? Is that why you prey on ships? Stealing what you lost?’ It happened all the time. Fortunes won and lost in a night. Men who committed suicide in the cold light of the following day.

      She shuddered. At least Father preferred the comfort of brandy.

      His reflected gaze skewered her like a blade. ‘I can never replace what I lost.’

      The depth of pain in those words scoured her ridiculously soft heart like sand carried on a desert wind. ‘You lost the family estate?’

      The silence stretched taut and painful. The urge to fill it, to pretend things were normal, brought words to her lips. ‘What will you do when the war is over? When there are no more letters of marque? When peace allows no ships to be taken?’

      The long exhale of breath, a sigh of longing he probably wasn’t aware of. ‘I plan to return to England where I have unfinished business.’

      ‘You think you will be welcome?’

      ‘A man with money is always welcome.’

      A bitter truth. She said nothing.

      ‘What about you, Miss Fulton? What do you hope for? A husband? Children?’ He breathed softly in her ear. ‘A lover on the side?’

      Her nipples tightened, felt sensitive against her stays. Furious at herself, she spun around to face him.

      Chest to chest they stared at each other. His eyes glittered dangerously. A sign of intoxication? Or anger?

      He clasped his warm hand over hers on the stem of her glass. Hot against her cold skin. The diamond-sharp facets pressed into her palm. ‘You tremble, Miss Fulton. I wonder why?’ Holding her gaze, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the table.

      His eyes turned slumberous. A sensual awareness flashed between them too strong to ignore. It had been there all night, connecting them with a filament of heat. Now, standing close to him, the minute sliver of air between their bodies practically crackled.

      His lips hovered a few inches from hers. The warmth of his body washed up against her skin. He was going to kiss her. A mad kind of yearning filled her empty heart. She swayed closer. Her eyelids fluttered shut. The scent of sandalwood cologne and fresh sea air filled her nostrils.

      He cursed.

      She blinked.

      He pressed his fingertips to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut.

      ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

      Michael stared at her. Wrong? For a moment he didn’t recognise the word as a flash of light seared jagged through the space behind his eyes.

      ‘Are you in pain?’ Her voice was soft, gentle and kind. Her hazel eyes filled with concern. ‘Is it your arm?’

      Why the hell did Alice Fulton have to be kind? ‘I’m all right.’

      Another stab, more insistent. Why