Captured for the Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge

He bowed with old-fashioned grace, almost as if flourishing a handkerchief or a cocked hat. ‘Lionhawk at your service. Captain of the Gryphon.’

      He was their captain? Her stomach sank. ‘No wonder you can’t cook.’

      A smile lifted his lips, his eyes twinkled. ‘I am sorry for my culinary disasters.’

      She wanted to hit him—he looked so pleased with himself. ‘So am I.’

      He cocked a dark arrogant eyebrow.

      Why couldn’t the captain have been the Viking-looking fellow? Somehow, he’d seemed far less intimidating than this wickedly smiling man. ‘So, Captain Pirate. What is it you want?’

      The smile faded. ‘Privateer.’

      ‘Personally, I can’t tell the difference. It is still stealing.’

      ‘A privateer operates within the law,’ he said with a scowl. ‘Unlike your father. Sailing a British ship under another country’s flag is illegal.’

      She winced. It was so annoying that he should be in the right. Especially when it was her fault they’d flown a false flag in the first place. One of the merchants in Lisbon had suggested the ruse when they couldn’t pay the inflated insurance and she’d persuaded Anderson to give it a try. In hindsight, not a wise choice. Too late to do anything about it now except bluff.

      ‘My father is carrying on a legitimate business. He is not harming anyone.’

      An eerie stillness filled the room. Although he looked relaxed, she sensed a hidden tension in his body and an underlying emotion she could not begin to fathom.

      ‘No harm?’ he uttered softly.

      The chill in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. The fear she’d been holding at bay expanded in her chest. It rose up her throat. She swallowed what felt like broken glass. ‘Where are my brother and Lady Selina?’

      ‘My other prisoners are in the hold.’

      Prisoners. A bone-deep tremble shook her frame. Hearing the words spoken so casually brought home the evils of their position. The nearby chair invited her collapse. She locked her knees, refusing to let him see any weakness. ‘Then I demand to join them.’ Infuriatingly, her words came out a low croak. She swallowed again, vainly seeking moisture and calm.

      ‘Demand?’ He prowled toward the desk. All the while he’d remained like a sentinel at the door, the force of his presence had seemed contained. Now it flooded the room, filling the corners, circling around her, no longer charming, but dark and forbidding. And if he intended his cool raking gaze to intimidate her, he was succeeding admirably.

      Clearly issuing orders wasn’t the most sensible thing she’d ever done, but calm good sense seemed to have gone the way of her courage. She edged closer to the window, widening the distance between them. The open window provided a measure of air and dropped straight to the sea.

      ‘I—I am sure you are a busy man.’ She gestured at his desk. ‘You must have courses to plot. Orders to give. I will be in the way.’

      He tilted his head on one side. ‘True.’

      Thank heaven. He might be a pirate—no, a privateer, no point in insulting him again—but he seemed reasonably intelligent. ‘I am glad we agree. Would you care to direct me?’ She headed for the door, passing within inches of his broad-shouldered frame. Close enough for a quick glance to take in the long dark lashes framing his vivid eyes and trickles of water from his bath coursing from his hairline into his beard.

      Up close, he seemed impossibly large. And very male. And far too handsome. With a wince at her wayward thoughts, she turned the door handle and pulled it open. It jerked out of her hand and slammed shut with a bang.

      Above her head one large hand lay flat on the panel. Damn. She whirled around, back to the door. His chest, encased in an embroidered cream waistcoat over a pristine white shirt, hemmed her in.

      ‘No,’ he said, his expression implacable.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No. I do not care to escort you. Not yet, anyway.’

      ‘My brother is injured. You must take me to him.’ Hating the shake in her voice, she locked her gaze with his, and instantly regretted it. The eyes fixed on hers blazed hot.

      And then he smiled. It didn’t make him look friendly, just wolfish, as if he’d scented something tasty. ‘More orders, Miss Fulton?’

      Her heart gave an uncomfortable thump. ‘A request.’

      ‘A barely civil request. You could try being a little more polite.’ His deep voice ran over her skin like liquid honey. His chest rose and fell inches from her cotton bodice. Warmth permeated her skin. She inhaled the scent of ocean and soap. Clean and very male. Intoxicating.

      Best not to notice his scent. Or how close he stood. Or the rapid beat of her pulse.

      He placed his other hand flat on the door, framing her head within white linen shirtsleeves beneath which lay the bone and muscle she’d admired earlier in the day.

      Her stomach gave a slow lazy roll. Her heart stuttered as if seeking a new rhythm. ‘How is your arm?’

      Lord, what made her say that? She didn’t care about his arm. Would he think it an appeal for gratitude?

      ‘Almost as good as new.’ He flashed a smug grin. ‘Thanks to you.’

      ‘I wish I had chopped it off when I had the chance.’ Her stomach clenched at her rudeness, but she forced herself to meet his gaze without a blink.

      He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze raking her face as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard aright. He ducked his head, pressed his mouth to hers.

      Retribution. Punishment. Anger. All these things his mouth relayed through her lips. And something else. Something reckless and wild that made her insides tighten. Hunger.

      She whipped her head aside. He caught her nape, held her fast, his mouth softening, teasing, wooing.

      Her heart pounded. Her breathing became shallow. Her insides liquefied. She was melting from the inside out. She lifted her hands to push him away. They hovered above his chest, trembling, fingers curling with longing to touch and knowing it would be fatal.

      The tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Her eyelids drooped as wonderful warmth rolled over her skin.

      Wickedness. Her body glowed with it. Her pulse fluttered with a longing she shouldn’t even be aware of. Her lips parted to his teasing.

      His tongue tangled with hers. A thrill exploded low in her abdomen. A small moan rose up in her throat.

      He pulled away and gazed at her with gleaming eyes, his chest rising and falling with rapid intakes of breath. A sensual smile curved his lips.

      Easy virtue. That was what his smile said. Wanton. As if he knew. He couldn’t. Not from just a kiss. ‘Get away from me,’ she snapped, only too aware of her own humiliating shortness of breath.

      He let his arms fall to his sides and straightened, looking a little surprised. ‘Perhaps you’ll have more care with your words in future. Then I won’t feel the need to stem the tide.’

      She didn’t want to talk to him at all. She dodged beneath his arm, and scuttled ignominiously across the room, jerking around to face him when she reached the far side. To her relief, he made no move to follow. ‘I wish to go to my brother.’

      He cocked a brow.

      Her heartbeat slowed and she felt more like herself. ‘If you please,’ she said regally.

      He leaned against the doorpost, folding his arms over that broad expanse of very male chest and observed her with narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t please. Sit down, Miss Fulton. We need to have a conversation.’

      ‘What can you and I possibly