Captured for the Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge

at their Spanish flag with a wince. Perhaps after all it had not been such a good idea to hide their national identity. If only they hadn’t been quite so desperate to make sure this cargo reached England safely.

      ‘Is it a privateer?’ she asked.

      The captain jerked his head around as if he’d only just noticed her presence. ‘Miss Fulton, I really must ask you to go below. And you, too, Lady Selina. Mr Anderson, please escort the ladies.’

      ‘Do you think it is a privateer, Captain Dareth?’ Alice asked firmly, aware of the heightened clamour of her heart.

      The captain’s gaze shifted above her shoulder, then travelled up the mainmast to the sails being unfurled by his crew. ‘I don’t know, Miss Fulton. There were rumours in Lisbon.’

      There were always rumours. ‘But you think it might be.’

      Selina gave a little squeak of terror. ‘Are we in danger?’

      ‘I must take every precaution,’ the captain said.

      Mr Anderson took Selina’s elbow and reached for Alice’s arm. ‘Ladies, if you please?’

      ‘No,’ Alice said. ‘Selina, go below if you wish, but it is as hot as Hades down there. Surely the Conchita will easily outrun her.’ The ship had been specially designed for speed. Father had thrown every last penny into making her one of the fastest merchantmen operating out of England.

      Clearly unwilling to argue with his employer’s daughter, Mr Anderson turned his attention to Selina. He escorted her down the nearby companionway.

      ‘It would be pretty exciting if it is a privateer,’ Richard said.

      The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Excuse me, Miss Fulton.’ He hurried off to confer with his first officer. A couple of crew members were taking down the shade awning, the rest hauled on sheets to the second officer’s command in grim silence.

      The pursuing brig was now close enough to see crewmen moving around on its deck.

      Richard raised his glass to his eye. ‘They are gaining on us.’

      Boys. All they cared about was speed and danger. Hadn’t he learned anything on this voyage? This cargo was Father’s last hope—their family’s last hope—to salvage their fortunes.

      She forced a smile. ‘Pray he doesn’t catch us instead of cheering him on.’

      Richard looked down at her, his boyish face suddenly serious. ‘I’m not on his side, Alice. But you have to admire such a fine ship.’

      ‘I’d prefer to admire it far behind in our wake.’

      Richard returned the glass to his eye. ‘Strange decking aft. High for a brig. Doesn’t seem to slow her speed.’

      Apparently not. The brig’s bow was almost level with the Conchita’s stern. Please, please, let him break a mast, or foul his rudder. Anything, so they weren’t caught. Her hands gripped the parasol handle so tightly, they hurt. She snapped the blasted thing closed. Who cared about freckles when minute by minute their pursuer narrowed the patch of ocean between the ships?

      Only yards from their rail, the Union Jack on the other ship’s mast went down and the American flag rose. In the stern a large blue flag unfurled bearing the image of a gryphon in gold, all sharp claws and gleaming teeth.

      ‘I knew it,’ Richard crowed.

      Alice gritted her teeth, and yet she couldn’t help but stare in fascination at the approaching ship’s elegant lines.

      A puff of smoke emerged from the privateer’s bow. A thunderous bang struck their ears. Alice jumped. Selina’s scream pierced the deck’s planking from below. A plume of water fountained ahead of the Conchita. A warning shot. The maritime signal to halt.

      The captain issued a rapid order to the helmsman, who dragged the wheel hard over. The Conchita heeled away from their pursuer. Alice grabbed for the rail as the deck slanted away.

      ‘That surprised her,’ Richard muttered, one arm hooked around a rope.

      The privateer’s sails flapped empty of wind.

      ‘Oh, good show. She’s in irons.’ Richard hurried off to join the captain at the helm.

      ‘Not for long,’ Mr Anderson said gloomily, joining Alice at the rail. Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw Perkin emerge through the hatch and take in the scene.

      ‘You,’ an officer shouted. ‘To the yards.’

      Perkin made for the stern.

      With her heart in her throat and unable to do more than gaze with horrified fascination, Alice watched the privateer’s swift recovery. She swung across the Conchita’s wake, then clawed her way up their port side. All down the length of the sleek-looking ship, black squares of open gun ports bristled with nasty-looking muzzles.

      ‘Surely he’s not going to fire at civilians?’ she said.

      Someone came up behind her. As she turned to see who it was, a steely arm went around her waist and a pistol pressed against her temple. She stared at Perkin’s grim profile with a cry of shock.

      ‘Sorry, Miss Fulton,’ he muttered. ‘Do as you are bid and no harm will befall you.’

      ‘Captain Dareth,’ he roared. ‘Surrender.’ Her ears rang with his bellow.

      The rise of Perkin’s chest with each indrawn breath pressed hot against her back. Sparks ran down her spine and lit a glow low in her stomach in a most inappropriate way. How could she respond to this criminal with such unladylike heat?

      She jabbed Perkin’s ribs with her elbow. She might as well have poked a granite rock with her baby finger for all the notice he took. Come to think of it, his stomach gave less than granite, although she did hear a faint grunt.

      ‘Dareth,’ he yelled again.

      The captain turned, his eyes as round as marbles, his jaw dropping to his neatly knotted cravat. He stood stock-still and stared.

      Perkin cursed harshly. ‘Strike your colours, man, before someone gets hurt.’

      Even dazed with astonishment, Alice couldn’t help but notice the change in the cook from common sailor to a man used to command.

      She twisted in his grip. ‘You’re part of this.’

      ‘Silence,’ he snarled.

      A cannon boomed. A tearing rush of air whistled overhead. Then the ship seemed to disintegrate in the sound of splintering wood and the shouts. A spar, tangled with ropes and sail, slammed on to the deck. One end knocked Richard sideways. He collapsed.

      The breath rushed from Alice’s throat. She struggled to find her voice, fought to break the iron grip around her waist.

      ‘Richard,’ she screamed. She stilled at the pistol’s increased pressure. ‘Hold still,’ he growled in her ear.

      ‘Let me go. My brother needs help.’ She stamped down on his bare instep.

      He uttered a foul curse, but the rock-hard grip didn’t ease a smidgeon.

      Beside the helm, their captain’s face blanched. He gave the order to strike their colours.

      ‘About bloody time,’ Perkin muttered as their flag fluttered to the deck. ‘Heave to,’ he shouted. The helmsman brought the ship around and the sails hung limp. The other ship drew alongside and men leaped across the gap into the Conchita’s ratlines. Privateers poured on to their ship.

      ‘Get your brother below,’ Perkin said, pushing her forwards. He strode for the rail.

      Heart faltering, terrified of what she would find, she ran to Richard’s side. One end of the spar lay across his chest. Ropes and canvas littered the deck around his still body. A blue lump marred his temple. ‘Richard,’ she cried, shaking