A Regency Captain's Prize. Margaret McPhee

towards the tent.

      ‘I am not yet finished,’ he said icily.

      Josie hesitated, feeling his words rankle, but she turned back and raised her eyes calmly to his. ‘You wish to say something further, sir?’

      ‘I wish to ask you some questions.’

      It seemed that her chest constricted and her heart rate kicked to a stampede. ‘You said there would be no more questions.’

      ‘No more questions last night,’ he amended.

      She held her head high and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Captain. You will waste your time with questions—there is nothing more that I can tell you.’

      ‘We will see, mademoiselle.’

      She breathed deeply, trying to keep her fear in check. He could not mean to interrogate her, not now, not when she was so unprepared. ‘I am tired, sir, and wish only to retire.’

      ‘We are all tired,’ he said harshly.

      She clutched her hands together, her fingers gripping tight.

      ‘You may retire when you have told me of your father.’

      ‘My father?’ She stared at him in disbelief, feeling all of her anger and all of her grief come welling back. ‘Is it not enough that you killed him? He is dead, for pity’s sake! Can you not leave him be even now?’

      ‘It is true that he is dead, mademoiselle,’ admitted Dammartin, his face colder and harsher than ever she had seen it, ‘but not by my hand…unfortunately.’

      She was aghast. ‘Unfortunately?’ she echoed. ‘Our countries may be at war, but my father does not deserve such contempt. He was the bravest of soldiers, an honourable man who gave his life for his country.’

      ‘He was a villain,’ said Dammartin, and in his eyes was a furious black bitterness.

      ‘How dare you slur his good name!’ she cried, her breast heaving with passion, all fear forgotten. All of her anger and hurt and grief welled up to overflow and she hated Dammartin in that moment as she had never hated before. ‘You are the very devil, sir!’ And, drawing back her hand, she slapped his cruel, arrogant face as hard as she could.

      The camp fell silent. Each and every dragoon turned to stare.

      No one moved.

      No one breathed.

      The audacity of Josie’s action seemed to slow time itself.

      She saw the ruddy print of her hand stain his cheek, saw his scar grow livid, and she could not believe that she had struck him with such violence, with such hatred, she who was his captive at his mercy.

      His eyes grew impossibly darker. There was a slight tightening of the muscle in his jaw. His breath was so light as to scarce be a breath at all. The air was heavy with a rage barely sheathed.

      She stared in mounting horror, every pore in her body screaming a warning, prickling at her scalp, rippling a shiver down her spine, and she knew that she should run, but beneath the force of that dark penetrating gaze her legs would not move.

      ‘I…’ She gasped, knowing she had to say something, but the way that he was looking at her froze the very words in her throat.

      Her eyes swept around, seeing the faces of all his men, and all of the incredulity and anticipation so clear upon them, waiting for the storm to erupt.

      Josie began to tremble and slowly, ever so slowly, as if she could move without his noticing, she began to inch away, her toes reaching tentatively to find the solidity of the ground behind her.

      When he struck it was so sudden, so fast, that she saw nothing of it. One minute she was standing before him, and the next, she was in his arms, his body hard against hers, his mouth claiming her own with a savagery that made her gasp with shock.

      Dammartin’s lips were bold and punishing, exploring her own with an intimacy to which he had no right.

      Josie fought back, struggling against him, but his arms just tightened around her, locking her in position, so that she could not escape but just endure, like a ship cast adrift while the lightning flashed and the thunder roared, and the waves crashed upon its deck.

      He claimed her as if she were his for the taking, his lips plundering and stealing her all, his tongue invading with a force she could not refuse. And all the while the dark stubble of his chin rasped rough against her.

      She felt as his hands slid around her back, one tangling within her hair, anchoring her to him, the other pulling her closer still until her breasts were crushed mercilessly against the hard muscle of his chest. This was no kiss, but a possession, an outright punishment.

      And then the anger and violence were gone and she felt his mouth gentle against hers, still kissing her but with a tenderness that belied the ravishment. His lips massaged, stroked, tasted, his tongue dancing against hers in invitation. Kissing her, and kissing her until she could no longer think straight; kissing her until she no longer knew night from day.

      Josie forgot where she was, and all that had just happened—Telemos and her father and just who this man was. There was only this moment, only this feeling, only this kiss—so slow and thorough and seductive. And just as she gave herself up to the sensation his lips were gone, and it was over as suddenly as it had started.

      The men were cheering as Dammartin released her, the idiotic grins splitting their faces hitting her like a dowse of cold water, revealing reality in all its starkness.

      Josie stumbled back, the full horror of the situation hitting her hard, knocking the breath from her lungs, buckling her legs, and she would have fallen had not Dammartin moved to support her, catching her weight against him. She looked up into the dark smoulder of his eyes, and just for that moment their gazes held, before she pushed away, and turning, fled towards the safety of his tent.

      She lay that night, fully clothed, in Dammartin’s tent, on the makeshift bed, alone, but for Josie there was no sleep—there was only the blood-splattered room in Telemos, and the death of her father…and the terrible weight of what she had just done.

      Dammartin lay on his bed within the tent shared by Molyneux and Lamont, listening to their snores, awake, as he had been for hours, running the events of that evening through his mind for the hundredth time. The full-blown argument, her slap, and he would have let it go, done nothing, had not his men been watching.

      She was a prisoner, a captive, Mallington’s daughter and he knew he could not let her action go unpunished. And he wanted so very much to kiss her, to show her that she could not defy him. And hadn’t he done just that? But what had started as a punishment had ended as something very different.

      It seemed he could feel her against him still, so small and slender and womanly, her lips gaping with the shock of his assault. She had fought him, struggled, tried to escape, and he, like a brute, had shown no mercy. He had taken from her that which she did not know she had to give, and the taste of her innocence was like water to a man parched and dying.

      He did not know what had changed, only that something had, and he found that he was kissing her in all honesty, kissing her as if she was his lover, with tenderness and seduction. And the sweetness of her tentative response, the surprise of it, the delight of it…so that he lost himself in that kiss, completely and utterly. It had taken the laughter and jeering of his men to bring him back from it, awakening him from her spell.

      She was as shocked as he. He could see it in her face—shocked and ashamed and guilty.

      Too late, Mademoiselle Mallington, he thought bitterly, too damned late, for there was no longer any denying what he had known these days past: he wanted her—the daughter of the man who had murdered his father. The knowledge repulsed him. God help him, his father must be turning in his grave. But even that thought did not stop him wanting to lay Josephine Mallington down naked beneath him and plunge his hard aching flesh deep within her. He wanted her with a passion