The Prize. Brenda Joyce

pulled his bloody shirt over his head, letting it drop on the floor.

      She backed away until she hit the door. “What in God’s name are you doing?” she cried, her gaze riveted on broad, naked shoulders and a glimpse of an equally broad, rock-hard chest.

      She looked lower. His belly was flat and tight, with interesting lines, and then it began to ripple. She quickly averted her gaze, but her cheeks had warmed.

      “I have the good sense to change my clothes,” he returned evenly, forcing her gaze to his.

      She met a pair of pale gray eyes and knew she should not have stared. Her spirits sank stunningly, with real dismay. The face of a god, the body of a warrior. She had seen a few men without their shirts before at Sweet Briar, but somehow, a glimpse of Frank’s naked chest had never distressed her in such a way.

      Of course, at Sweet Briar, she wasn’t being held a prisoner against her will, in such a small, confined space with her captor. “This cabin is too small for us both,” she repeated, aware of her racing heartbeat.

      He held a new, clean shirt in his hands, but he didn’t move. In fact, had she not seen the rise and fall of his very sculpted chest, she would have thought him to be a lifelike statue. Slowly he said, “You are repeating yourself.”

      Her shivering abruptly ceased as their gazes locked. The cabin had become hot. It had also become airless.

      His face was taut. “You are staring again.”

      She somehow looked away. “You could have asked me to step outside,” she managed, carefully looking at the floor.

      “I hadn’t realized a man’s chest would be so fascinating,” he said bluntly.

      Her gaze flew up. His back was to her now, encased in fine white lawn, but he was pulling one Hessian boot off, and then another. As he reached into the closet, Virginia glimpsed a sparkle of gold, and then a pair of clean, cream-colored britches were in his hands.

      She didn’t speak. She whirled, about to dash out the door.

      He crossed the space of the cabin in a heartbeat and placed a hand on the door, preventing her from opening it. “You cannot go out on deck that way.”

      His arm was over her shoulder and she felt the presence of his large body just behind hers. She couldn’t turn around to face him because if she did she would be in his arms. “I am not going to watch you undress,” she said, and her tone sounded odd and rough.

      “I am not asking you to watch, Miss Hughes. I apologize. I have forgotten how innocent a woman of eighteen is.”

      Virginia froze. Was he now playing the part of a gentleman? Disbelief warred with a vast confusion.

      In that endless moment, she became aware of the heat actually emanating from his body, as only inches separated them. Abruptly he dropped his hand from the door and stepped back.

      Slowly, Virginia turned around.

      He still held the clean britches in his hand. He broke the silence. Tersely, he said, “Look the other way. I will be done in a moment and then you may change your gown.”

      “I prefer to step outside—” she began.

      “Good God, woman! Will you dispute my every word? Your gown is indecent.” He raked a gaze over her bosom and stalked away, unfastening his britches as he did so.

      It was a moment before she comprehended his words. Virginia looked down and was utterly chagrined. The wet silk of her gown and chemise molded her small breasts, enhanced by her corset, and clearly defined each erect nipple, the entire effect so revealing that no one could be in any doubt as to the size or state of her anatomy. No wonder he had stared. She might as well have been naked. She was mortified.

      Cloth rustled.

      Virginia looked and glimpsed far more than she should have—high, hard buttocks, muscled thighs and calves—and she reversed, facing the door, breathing harshly against the wood. Suddenly she wanted to cry.

      She had been as brave as she could be for an interminable amount of time, but her courage was failing her now. She had to get to London, she had to beg her uncle for pity and the payment of her debts. Instead, she was on board a pirate ship, in a pirate’s cabin, a pirate who at times spoke like an aristocrat, a pirate who exuded such seductive virility that she was, for the first time ever in her life, aware of her own body in an entirely different way than ever before. How had this happened? How?

      He was her enemy. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. She hated him passionately—and she must not ever find a single inch of him interesting, intriguing or fascinating.

      “I’ll wait outside,” he said, suddenly behind her again.

      Virginia fought the tears back, nodding and stepping aside while refusing to look at him. She was aware of him hesitating and staring at her. She walked over to her bag and made a show of finding new garments, praying he hadn’t seen a single tear. Finally, she heard the door close.

      She sank onto the floor by her valise and wept.

      THE WIND BLEW STRONG and hard behind them. Devlin had taken the helm, as if that would make everything right again. Gripping it with the ease of one who could steer a huge ship in his sleep, he focused on the task at hand—outrunning the storm chasing them.

      “Will we make it?” a quiet voice asked from behind just as a pair of moist violet eyes invaded his mind.

      Devlin relaxed, relieved by the interruption. He glanced at the ship’s surgeon, a small, portly man with thick sideburns and curling gray hair. “It’s fifty-fifty,” he responded. “I’ll know in the next fifteen minutes.”

      Jack Harvey folded his arms across his chest and gazed up at the inky, starless sky. “What is this hostage-taking business, Devlin?”

      Devlin stared into the gray horizon. “My own mad affair, I’m afraid.”

      “Who is she?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “I caught a glimpse of her on board the Americana. She’s a young lady. I smell a ransom. I don’t know why. You’ve never ransomed a woman before.”

      “There’s always a first time,” Devlin said, having no intention of telling the good surgeon anything at all. “How are the wounded?”

      “Brinkley is dying, but I’ve given him laudanum and he doesn’t know it. Buehler and Swenson will make it. Does she need medical attention?”

      Devlin became irritated. “She needs a gag, but no, she does not need medical attention.”

      Jack Harvey raised both bushy brows in surprise. Then he said, “She’s a beautiful wild thing, isn’t she? Good God, the men are talking about how she tried to shoot you! She—”

      “Reams!” Devlin snapped. “Take the helm. Stay true to course.” He jammed a finger at the compass heading and stalked across the quarterdeck. He did not know why he was suddenly very annoyed and angry.

      “I take it you are not inviting me to join you for a bite of supper before we face the winds of hell?” Harvey called out to his back.

      Devlin didn’t bother answering. But it was now or never—if the storm caught them, he needed a full belly and all of his strength.

      Had she been crying when he left the cabin?

      Not that he cared. Women used tears for the sole purpose of manipulation—he had learned that long ago. As he didn’t care about any woman to begin with, tears had no effect on him.

      He opened the cabin door and saw Virginia seated at his table, which was set with silver and fine crystal and a covered platter, from which savory aromas were wafting. Her posture was terribly erect, her hands were clasped in her lap and two bright pink spots blotched her cheeks. Her gaze, which seemed wild, clashed with his.

      He straightened, closing