The Prize. Brenda Joyce

that could one day change.” He sounded doubtful.

      O’Neill appeared as harsh and hard as he had been heroic—and he also seemed very alone. Virginia realized she was staring at him again. Standing there as he did, controlling the huge frigate, a commanding figure with an inescapable presence, the aura of power almost visible, she instantly amended her thoughts. The man gave no sign that he was lonely. In fact, he seemed an island unto himself, and only a very foolish woman would dare to think him lonely or needy in any way.

      “He is not a bad man,” Harvey said softly. “Which is why I do not understand what he has done and what he is doing. He certainly doesn’t need this ransom.”

      Virginia started. “Are you certain?”

      “As captain, he gets three-eighths of every prize we take. I know what we’ve been about these past three years. The man is wealthy.”

      Virginia shivered, staring with dismay and dread. If this was not about her ransom, then what, dear God, was it about?

      And she decided the time was now. She touched the surgeon’s hand. “Mr. Harvey, I need your help,” she said plaintively.

      HE HAD HAD ENOUGH. His damned ears were burning as if he were some child in the schoolroom—he knew they were talking about him. “Martin, take command of the ship,” he said. As the officer came forward, Devlin wheeled and leapt off of the quarterdeck.

      His eyes widened as he saw his little hostage with her hand on Harvey’s, her eyes huge and pleading, her rosebud mouth trembling. Suspicion reared itself. The chit was acting like some foolish, simpering coquette—and there was nothing foolish, simpering or coy about Miss Virginia Hughes. What was afoot?

      His irritation had decreased, amusement taking its place. The one thing Virginia Hughes was, was entertaining.

      He almost smiled, until he thought of how she had felt, asleep and spooned into his stiff, aroused body last night. He grimaced instead. He hadn’t even known she was in his bed when he had dropped there in absolute exhaustion after the storm had abandoned the ship. But he had certainly become aware of her while asleep, because when he had awoken, his body had been urging him to take instant advantage of her. Fortunately, he prided himself on his self-control—he had been exercising self-will and self-discipline since he was a boy of ten. Ignoring his physical needs was not the easiest task, but there was simply no question that it was a task he would complete.

      Surprisingly, she had not felt at all like a bag of bones in his arms.

      She had felt soft and warm, tiny but not fragile.

      “Good day.” He nodded sharply at them both, dismissing his thoughts.

      Virginia dropped her tiny hand from Harvey’s, her cheeks flaming, as if caught at the midnight hour with her hand in someone else’s safe. She looked as guilty as could be.

      By God, they were plotting against him, he thought, amazed. The little vixen had enticed Harvey to her side, into insubordination. It wasn’t a guess. He smelled the conspiracy in the air the way he had first smelled the approaching storm last night.

      “Devlin, good morning. I hope you don’t mind my taking some air with our guest?” Harvey smiled cheerfully at him.

      “Fortunately my orders did not include you,” Devlin said calmly.

      “Of course they didn’t. I’m the ship’s surgeon,” Harvey said with humor.

      Virginia’s eyes widened as she understood. “I hope those ridiculous orders no longer stand!”

      He faced her. She was so petite that she made him feel as tall as a mythological giant. “My orders do stand, Miss Hughes.” He didn’t like the look of the gash on her temple. “Harvey, I want you to tend to that immediately.”

      “I’ll get my bag,” Harvey said, striding off.

      And they were alone. Devlin stared at her. She, however, refused to meet his gaze. What was this? An effect of guilt? This morning she had been in his bed, on the verge of begging him for his kisses. Devlin was no fool. Desire had clearly shimmered in her hungry violet eyes. “Feeling guilty?” he purred, deciding to enjoy the debate that would surely ensue.

      She jumped. “What do I have to feel guilty about? You are the one who should be prone with guilt, but then, you would have to have a heart in order to feel anything.”

      “I confess,” he said, smiling, “to being absolutely heartless.”

      “How far off course are we?” she asked, and it was more of a demand than a question.

      “About a hundred and fifty miles,” he said, and he saw her pale. “That distresses you?”

      She stared and finally nodded. “Where do we sail now?” she asked grimly.

      She was very clever. He admired her wit and decided never to underestimate it again. “There’s no point in tacking south to Portsmouth. Besides—” his heart tightened, proving that he was capable of feeling after all “—I have grave doubts about the Americana making port there.”

      Her eyes widened. “You don’t think…”

      “I doubt she survived the storm. We barely outran her—the Americana could not outrun her. Mac is a fine sailor, but he was sailing with a skeleton crew.” A soft sorrow crept over him. He didn’t try to shove it away. This was the way of the sea and he knew it very well; it took more lives than it ever let go. Over the years he had learned that it was better to mourn the loss of his men and be done with it. He had also learned not to expect longevity from those who chose to sail with him. It was far easier dealing with death when one accepted its inevitability.

      “You don’t care,” she gasped. “You do have a heart of stone—if you even have a heart at all,” she accused. “Those men—that ship—they lie at the bottom of the ocean because of you!”

      Now he was angry. He gripped her wrist so quickly that she cried out and he did not let it go. “They lie in a watery tomb because of the gale, Miss Hughes, and as I am not Poseidon, I had little to do with the making of that storm last night.”

      She dared to shake her head at him. “No! Had you not battled that ship, wounding it terribly—in order to abduct me—they would be alive!”

      This woman seemed to have the capacity to ignite his fury as no one else could. He flung her wrist away and was ashamed to find it red. “Had I not battled that ship, wounding it and abducting you, you would be on the ocean’s floor with them.” He was about to stalk away. It crossed his mind that if he bedded her, he might teach her the respect she so clearly lacked. That, and far more.

      But he was struck with his earlier assessment, and he whirled to face her again. “Do not plot against me with Harvey,” he warned.

      She cried out, appearing frightened. “I…I’m not!”

      “Liar,” he whispered, bending so close that their faces almost touched. “I know a conspiracy when it forms beneath my nose. Do you know what the fate of a mutineer is, Miss Hughes?”

      “There is no mutiny,” she began.

      He smiled at her coldly. “Should you entice Harvey to your schemes, that is mutiny, my dear. We hang mutineers,” he added with relish, and it was not entirely a lie. He wouldn’t hang Harvey, but he’d lose a damned fine ship’s surgeon, and they were as hard to come by as an Indian ruby, if not even more so.

      She shrank away from him, against the wall. “I have something to say to you,” she said fiercely.

      He had been about to go. He didn’t like her tone and he turned, awaiting her blow.

      “I despise you,” she said thickly.

      Oddly, he flinched, not outwardly, but somewhere deep inside his body. Outwardly, he felt his lips twist into a mirthless smile. “That is the best that you can do?”

      She looked