Captured For The Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge

stab, more insistent. Why was this happening now? Right when he had everything in his grasp.

      She tilted her head in puzzlement. ‘Perhaps a fever brought on by your wound?’

      He stared at her, the words garbling in his head, the lights in the cabin unbearably bright. ‘Get out.’ The words came out like the snarl of a wild beast.

      She backed away.

      Another flash of light. Her face wavered, blurred, then righted. He had less than half an hour.

      Another round of flickering stabs. This time behind his forehead. Any moment now he’d be a useless shipwreck cast up on the beach of his aching head.

      Too much wine. Why the hell had he drunk so much?

      The pain spiked. He rubbed his temples, seeking relief. A grinding throb set up home at the base of his skull.

      No holding this one off. He grabbed for her again. ‘You’re leaving.’

      Her eyes widened, filling with fear. He didn’t care. He had to get her out of here. He would not let her see him brought to his knees.

      ‘It’s your head,’ she said. ‘Let me—’

      ‘No,’ he said, tugging cruelly hard on her wrist.

      Anger. A hot raging beast he couldn’t control crawled up his throat. ‘Move.’ Dragging her along, he strode for the door. He flung it open.

      ‘Simpson,’ he roared. ‘Take her to the hold.’ Peering through the blinding haze, he thrust her outside. Simpson would see to her. He wouldn’t let him down.

      God damn it all.

      Thoughts whipped around in his head like storm-damaged rigging in a gale. Faces skittered across his memory. Meg falling. His beloved mother and father surrounded by flames. And Jaimie.

      The light from the candles burned through his closed eyelids. Barbed arrows tore into his brain. The urge to hit something bunched his muscles. He stormed around his cabin, flinging things aside, looking for the source of his pain. The light.

      The punishing light.

      ‘Simpson,’ he bellowed. ‘Where the hell are you?’

      A flicker of sanity gave him the answer. Gone with the girl. The daughter of his enemy.

      He found the bed and ripped off the covers. Found the hooks. Nausea rose in his throat. He gripped the blanket in both fists.

      ‘The light,’ he whispered. ‘For God’s sake, someone douse the bloody light.’