Captured for the Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge

made her tremble. But if she wanted to see Richard, she had to do as he said.

      He raised a brow.

      With a quick inward breath to steady her nerves, she walked past him and out on deck.

      ‘Stay close,’ he murmured, leaning close. ‘My men aren’t used to women on board.’

      She shivered, but whether from his warm breath on her cheek, or the threat he implied, she wasn’t sure.

      Outside the door, the squat sailor stood at attention, his black eyes gleaming.

      ‘You met my steward,’ Lionhawk said. ‘He will see to my guests’ every comfort. Won’t you, Simpson?’

      ‘Aye, Cap’n.’

      Guests. She almost snorted. ‘The only thing I would find of comfort is to be landed at the nearest port.’

      Lionhawk laughed. An annoyingly seductive chuckle that hit a nerve low in her stomach. ‘Come, we are wasting time.’

      Time Richard might not have. She quickened her pace.

      His hand in the small of her back, he guided her aft while above their heads a few stars were already piercing the velvet blue to the east. A light breeze caressed her heated skin.

      A sailor coiling ropes beside the mast watched them pass with a sly grin from beneath his straggly moustache. Kale. The man Lionhawk had chased off on the deck of the Conchita. Other men hung in the ratlines. The helmsman darted a glance their way, and a lad half-heartedly mopping the deck saluted. She kept her back straight and her gaze firmly fixed ahead.

      ‘What do you think of my ship?’ Lionhawk asked with an expansive wave of his hand and pride in his voice.

      ‘The truth?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘I wish I’d never set eyes on her.’

      He chuckled. ‘You wound me, Miss Fulton. I thought I was offering you every courtesy.’

      Liar. She pressed her lips firmly together, determined not to provide him with any more amusement.

      ‘Down here,’ he said and plunged down a companionway. Highly polished wooden panels reflected her face beneath the wall-hung oil lamp. Brass fittings gleamed dull gold and without so much as a fingerprint in sight. The ship was clearly well run and it must have cost him a fortune to build.

      At the bottom of the steps, he plucked a lamp from the wall. ‘The crew’s quarters are on the gun deck. Down here is the hold.’ He bent and pulled on an iron ring in the floorboards. The trapdoor lifted with a creak.

      Musty air wafted up from the dark void. She choked back a gasp. Holding the lantern aloft, Lionhawk stepped on to the ladder.

      Alice shuddered. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt, grasped the rope lines on either side of the openrung steps and followed him down.

      At the bottom, his lantern cast a halo of light into the gloom. A chain swung from a nail driven into a beam like an instrument of torture in some ancient oubliette. And if she wasn’t mistaken there was a strong odour of chicken manure. She grabbed at the wall to steady herself.

      ‘Seasick, are you?’

      ‘I’ve never been seasick in my life, but the stench is disgusting. How can you put people down here?’

      He recoiled, his eyes flashing anger. ‘I’m sorry my accommodations don’t meet with your approval. We keep livestock down here on long voyages,’ he said and moved ahead. ‘If it is good enough for chickens, it should be good enough for a group of Fultons,’ he muttered.

      At least that was what she thought she heard before a sailor in a coarse linen shirt and wide canvas trousers rose from a stool beside a bulkhead door. ‘All quiet, Cap’n.’

      ‘Thanks, Del.’ He hesitated. ‘You did open the hatches before you put the prisoners in there, didn’t you?’

      ‘Er…Mr Wishart didn’t say anything about opening any hatches.’

      Lionhawk cursed under his breath. ‘See to it, man.’

      ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ The sailor dodged around them and was heading up the ladder in a flash.

      It seemed the captain had some shred of humanity, even if he had to be reminded.

      ‘It’s the best I can do,’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t have accommodations on my ship for passengers.’ He flashed a cheeky grin. ‘I’m sure your friends wouldn’t want to sling their hammocks with the crew, though I’m sure the crew wouldn’t mind entertaining your friend, Lady Selina.’

      It was almost as if he wanted to make her angry rather than appreciative. She sniffed. ‘Fresh air will help, I am sure.’

      He removed a bunch of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. He gestured for her to enter. ‘After you.’

      Indeed, the area resembled nothing more fearful than a smelly barn. Richard and Mr Anderson lay stretched out on two of the four cots placed along the hull. Selina, her head in her arms, drooped at a table that also held the remains of what looked like a meal of bread and cheese.

      A couple of lanterns swinging from the beams provided light and the floor was carpeted with what looked like fresh straw, upon which stood their trunks. So they were not to be left in the clothes they stood up in.

      ‘Selina.’ Alice rushed forwards. Selina surged to her feet. She flung herself at Alice’s breast and they clung to each other.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Alice asked, holding her friend’s shaking body. ‘No one hurt you? Touched you?’

      ‘My men have strict orders not to lay hands on my prisoners without my express instructions,’ Lionhawk said from behind her.

      A shame he didn’t include himself in his order, Alice thought, breaking free and making for Richard’s still form.

      ‘I’m quite all right, now,’ Selina murmured with a swift resentful look at their captor. ‘You get used to the smell after a while, but I thought I’d die of fright in that horrid swinging contraption.’ She shuddered. ‘I wish I had never asked you to bring me home.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Where did you go? I was so worried. I kept asking and asking for you.’

      When Alice touched Richard’s shoulder, he didn’t flicker so much as an eyelid. ‘Is he sleeping?’

      Selina shook her head. ‘He’s been the same ever since we arrived in this dreadful place.’

      Alice sank to her knees beside the pallet. ‘Richard,’ she whispered. She pressed a palm to a cheek pale beneath its tan. Cold and clammy. For one horrible moment she thought he wasn’t breathing. A horrid churning rolled in her stomach. Then she felt the faint pulse beating in his throat beneath her fingertips and saw the gentle rise of his chest. Not dead. She closed her eyes in thanks.

      ‘He’s had a knock to the head,’ Lionhawk said.

      ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘By a spar shot down by your men.’ But why was he still unconscious? Panic tightened her chest. ‘He needs a doctor.’

      From above their heads came a scraping sound, the hatch covering being removed. Alice glanced up. Through the gratings, she could just see the twinkle of stars and a gust of sweet air set the lanterns flickering. She inhaled a deep breath. While the smell wasn’t entirely gone, it was certainly a whole lot fresher and a great deal healthier.

      No doubt Lionhawk would want her gratitude for that little concession.

      ‘The doctor looked at your brother,’ Anderson said from the neighbouring cot. He struggled up on one elbow. His broken arm rested in a sling against his chest, but he looked none too bad.

      ‘How are you, Mr Anderson?’Alice asked.

      ‘The sawbones seems to know his business, Miss Fulton. He set my