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  Virginia suddenly flinched as voices sounded behind her. She ducked her head, pressing against a shop door as she tried to look at the pair of men.

  They were obviously sailors. As obviously, they were drunk and boisterously discussing the merits of a wench at the Boar’s Head Inn. She did not recognize either of them. But then, she could not possibly recognize all of O’Neill’s crew.

  Virginia ran up to them, lowering her voice as she spoke. “Hey, mates. I’m lookin’ fer a ship to get home to London.” She hoped to mime a cockney accent. “D’ye know who’s bound that away?”

  The men paused, one of them drinking from a mug. The stout one spoke. “Mystère sets sail on the first tide, boy. I heard the cap’s short his crew, too, an’ he’s takin’ anyone who can walk.”

  Virginia could not believe her good luck. She beamed. “Why, thank you!”

  The man suddenly shoved his face closer, peering at her. “Hey, you look familiar, boy. You been on the Defiance, sailin’ with us?”

  Virginia turned and ran without answering, aware of how fortunate she was that the two sailors were so drunk. The Mystère was a sloop, half the size of the Defiance and berthed close by. Virginia hurried up the gangplank. Instantly the watch called out to her.

  “Name’s Robbie,” she growled. “I’m looking to set sail tomorrow with ye boys if the cap’n will allow it.”

  A lanky sailor came forward, shoving a torch toward her. “Cap is dinin’,” he said. “But we’re real short of men. C’mon, Rob. I’m sure he’ll speak with you.”

  Virginia followed the other youth, her heart continuing to race, relieved he carried the torch while walking ahead of her.

  “How old ye be?” the watchman asked.

  She hesitated. “Fifteen.”

  “Ye look twelve, maybe,” the lad laughed. “Don’t worry, Captain Rodrigo won’t care if yer eight. We got a few boys just out of nappies on board.”

  Virginia grunted as they paused before the small cabin that was just beneath the quarterdeck. The watch knocked, was told to enter, and Virginia followed him in.

  “Got a boy here, Cap, lookin’ to sail with us.”

  A barrel-chested man with a gray beard and dark piercing eyes sat at a small table, apparently finishing a supper of bread, cheese, mutton and ale. He eyed Virginia, who stood as close to the door as possible. “Step forward, boy,” he said roughly. “Ye ever sailed a ship before?”

  Virginia came forward, avoiding looking him in the eye. She needed to get to London, and decided there was no choice but to lie. “Aye, sir. Been at sea since I was, er, eight.”

  “Really?” The ship’s captain wiped his hands on his thighs, then belched. “Which ships?”

  Virginia felt herself pale. Then a brilliant idea came to her and she said, “The Americana, Cap.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “We were seized by the Defiance, sir. Just a few days ago. The Americana is probably at the bottom of the sea right now—she’d never have had the sail to outrun the gale that hit us. I was lucky enough to be taken aboard the Defiance,” she said, and she smiled at him.

  “An’ why jump ship?” Rodrigo stared far too closely at her. “Most of my men would give an arm to sail with O’Neill.”

  Virginia hesitated. “Not me, sir. He likes boys, if you know what I mean, Cap.”

  The captain’s broad face never changed expression. “O’Neill’s reputation for fine women is well-known. Seize her, Carlos.”

  Seize her, Carlos.

  Seize her.

  Virginia whirled as the lanky youth, Carlos, reached for her. She ducked under his arm easily enough and bolted out the door.

  “Get the girl,” Rodrigo shouted. “She’s O’Neill’s fiancée, goddamn it, and there’s a pretty reward for her return!”

  It all clicked then, as she raced across the deck. O’Neill had not bothered to search for her, knowing she would try to find a ship to London. She hated him then as she ran toward the gangplank.

  How could she fail now? When freedom was so close?

  A group of men were stepping onto the gangplank from the docks below. Behind her, Carlos cried, “Seize that woman! That’s not a boy, it’s a woman! O’Neill’s woman!”

  Virginia faltered as the men below hesitated, and then the four of them bolted up the plank toward her.

  She looked back.

  Carlos stood a few feet behind her, grinning at her, his arms dangling at his side, fingers twitching as if eager to grab her.

  Virginia looked to her right as the four sailors ran toward her.

  The water was black and iridescent in the starlight.

  It looked so calm. She was a strong swimmer, too.

  Virginia darted toward the rail. And then she leapt up onto it.

  Carlos shouted, “Grab her before she jumps!”

  Virginia paused on the top rail, took her dagger from her belt, and held both arms high up overhead. Then she dove.

  DEVLIN STRODE TOWARD THE docks, leaving the waterfront bars and inns behind. His mood was dire, indeed. Somehow his dead father had haunted him all day, as if he did not have enough on his mind with Virginia’s witty escape. Everywhere he had turned since setting foot on Irish soil, he had almost expected to see Gerald O’Neill standing there, having something to say. But that was only his imagination, of course. Gerald was dead and unlike most people, Devlin did not believe in ghosts.

  Besides, what could his father wish to say to him, anyway? Eastleigh was nearly ruined. Long ago, Devlin had decided a miserable impoverished existence would be far better punishment than death, and wasn’t that revenge good enough?

  Sightless eyes stared up at him from the bloody stump of his father’s severed head.

  The memory made him angry. He hadn’t been tormented with it since he had set sail from London—no, since he had seized the Americana, and the absence had been a huge and welcome relief. But hadn’t he known that returning home would undo him? The boy had returned, frightened and uneasy, weak and without confidence.

  Devlin hated the boy—he always had—and he softly cursed.

  He needed no haunting, no memories of his past, not when his prisoner was missing. And he could not rest easy until he had his captive back. He reminded himself that if she managed to escape, it really did not matter; she was only salt that he would mercilessly rub in Eastleigh’s gaping wounds. But that rationalization did not quell his annoyance. Virginia Hughes was far more than a brat, daring to defy him. This was a challenge, one he could not let pass.

  Huge violet eyes gazed pleadingly at him. I cannot survive without Sweet Briar. Please let me go! Please. I beg you….

  He refused to feel sorry for her, not even in the most dispassionate and clinical way. He did not wish Virginia ill, certainly, but her last name was Hughes, and she would serve him and his purpose well. But oddly, he could not help but recognize that she was a terribly innocent victim of his plans.

  Devlin’s steps slowed as he realized he did pity her after all. He had no feelings for Elizabeth, but he pitied his captive, perhaps because of her youth and innocence, or maybe because she did not know that Eastleigh hadn’t the funds to save her beloved plantation.

  Her violet eyes seared him again, this time soft with love. I was born at Sweet Briar. It is near Norfolk, Virginia, and it is heaven on earth….

  The anger erupted, stunning him with its force. Pity was a weakness. And if she continued to defy his authority, he could easily enough turn her eyes soft and smoky with the plunging hardness of his own body. In fact, he was beyond tempted now. Should he discipline her in his bed, there’d be no more defiance, no more escape attempts. Then, escape would not be on her mind.

  Cries echoed on the docks ahead.

  Devlin started, all thoughts of sex vanishing, and saw a commotion aboard the Mystère. A group of men were boarding her. Someone on the deck held a torch, shouting, and Devlin thought he heard his name. Then his gaze slammed to the railing in utter disbelief and instant
recognition. Virginia stood atop the rail, arms outstretched, poised to dive into the icy river.

  What in hell was she doing?

  Devlin’s heart slammed to a hard stop.

  And as she sailed off of the rail, he ran for the dock. He saw her break the water, and just before he dove in after her, his heart racing with alarm, he wondered if she could even swim.

  As he knifed into the frigid water, he felt a surge of fear. Surely she knew how to swim! After all, the woman could shoot, curse like a sailor, strip a man naked and steal his clothes. She was probably an excellent swimmer—but he was not relieved.

  The water was pitch-black. As he dove, he flailed for her, but felt nothing. He continued to dive until weeds grasped greedily at his hands, arms and legs. If Virginia became enmeshed in the vegetation at the river’s bottom, she might never be able to get free. He continued to search for her by feel, but there was only the occasional piece of wood and rock.

  His lungs finally bursting, a seizure of panic beginning, he had no choice but to swim back up to the surface. As his head popped free, he breathed in harshly, the air cold and sweet.

  And their gazes locked.

  She was treading water and gulping air just a few meters from him. More torches had been carried to the rail of the Mystère, lighting up the water around them. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, moving closer to her and reaching for her.

  Her answer was a vicious one. As he gripped her wrist, the sharp blade of a knife cut through his own arm.

  He was stunned that she had a weapon, much less that she was attacking him with it. For one instant, he could only recoil as their gazes clashed again, her eyes filled with fierce determination. Then he sensed another strike.

  Still treading water, she slashed at him again, this time at his face. He caught her wrist, thwarting the ugly blow. “Drop it,” he warned, very angry now.

  Her eyes widened with alarm. “No.”

  He was disbelieving again, but would not dwell on her folly. Ruthless fury filled him and he increased his grip without mercy. She whimpered and released the knife. He pulled her against his side.

  “I almost won,” she whispered, and he realized tears were shimmering in her eyes.

  The stab of pity came again. He shoved it far away. “You never came close to a victory, Miss Hughes. And you never will. Not if you think to battle me.”

  A fat tear rolled down her wet cheek. “One day I am going to dance with glee upon your grave, you bastard.”

  “I have no doubt,” he said, suddenly aware of her slim legs entwining with one of his. And the anger vanished. In its stead was lust.

  “O’Neill! Take the rope!”

  Devlin realized that the men on the Mystère were throwing a lifeline to him. He turned, a soft, surprising breast pressing into his rib cage, stunned by the surge of sudden desire. Keeping one arm around her, he caught the end of the rope. As they were reeled in, he thought Virginia began to cry, but he wasn’t sure. Her odd, raspy breaths might have been from the cold.

  SHE WASN’T CRYING WHEN they reached his cabin. She was shivering violently as she preceded him in. Devlin faced Gus. “Heat up some water for her, before she dies of an ague.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gus said, casting a worried look at Virginia. She was ashamed enough of what she had done to avoid all eye contact with him. Instead, she kept her back to both men, hugging herself and trembling wildly, her teeth chattering loudly.

  Devlin closed the door behind Gus, lighting several candles. “You had better get out of those clothes,” he said, moving past her to the closet. He took out a nightshirt he’d never worn, as he slept in the buff.

  “Go to hell,” she chattered.

  He looked at her and froze. Gus’s soaking clothes clung to her like a second skin, and he could see every possible line of her body—from the tips of her hard nipples to the handspan that was her waist and, goddamn it, the cleaved arc that delineated her sex.

  For one moment he did stare, imaging a wealth of dark curls and a handful of moist flesh.

  The cabin became torridly hot, humid, airless.

  Red tinged his vision; his manhood hardened impossibly, the pain acute.

  “O’Neill?” she whispered roughly.

  He jerked, still in the throes of the most incredible lust he had ever experienced, and then he found a semblance of sanity and he tossed the nightshirt at her. He walked away, keeping a deliberate distance from her, his heart pounding as if he had just run from Limerick to Askeaton and back again.

  Why protect her virginity?

  She was the enemy, never mind that she was eighteen. He could take her now, so quickly satisfying himself. Did it really matter? Would anyone really care? She was an orphan, an American, and Eastleigh had no wish to be burdened with her. No one would care if he returned her without her maidenhead.

  He would care.

  He would care because he was the son of Gerald and Mary O’Neill, and he had been raised to respect women, to know the difference between right and wrong—and to hate the English. God, his captive wasn’t even English, he thought grimly.

  He poured himself a Scotch whiskey and realized his hands were shaking. Not only that, the blood continued to press and pummel in his loins, the pressure there escalating, not decreasing. He downed one glass, then another. No warmth, no softening, was to be found.

  He realized that the cabin was terribly silent. Devlin turned.

  She stood where he’d left her, but she was staring at him, her gaze wide and fixed, no longer shivering at all. She hadn’t put on the nightshirt—of course she wouldn’t obey him—and the moment he faced her, he realized she was as aware of the charged atmosphere in the cabin as he was. She understood his desire, no matter her naiveté and innocence.

  She slowly glanced at the long, hard ridge quivering visibly against the tight fabric of his britches. Then she looked up at his face again. She didn’t speak, but her cheeks were brilliantly pink.

  “I’m a man,” he murmured. “And you are a woman. It’s quite simple, really.” How smoothly he lied.

  She wet her lips. It was a long moment before she spoke. “Are you…” She faltered. “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you want me to do?” he heard himself reply.

  Her eyes widened with surprise. She whispered, “I don’t know.”

  He heard himself laugh with disbelief. Virginia’s nipples remained tight and taut. He only had to glance down to know that she was swelling for him—and he hadn’t even touched her. “I think you lie, Miss Hughes. I think you burn for my touch today the way you burned for it yesterday.”

  She stiffened. “I do not.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want.” He poured another Scotch, and now, beginning to enjoy himself despite the erotic pressure, he walked to her and handed her the glass. “You lost all your rights when you dared to defy me this one last time.”

  “I never had any rights.”

  “You had many rights, but you have been relinquishing them one by one. Drink. It will help warm you while we wait for your bathwater.”

  “I’m not cold anymore.”

  He almost inhaled harshly, because her words, spoken so innocently, further inflamed him. He tilted up her chin with his fingertips. “Drink,” he said softly, and then he decided to touch her.

  He slowly explored her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

  She inhaled, and then began to breathe too quickly.

  Impossibly, the heat and humidity thickened in the room.

  Her lower lip was full, firm, damp. Her mouth had parted for him.

  Red hazed his vision again. One kiss, he thought, one long, slow, deliberate kiss. How terrible would that be?

  Instead, he closed his hand over hers, lifting it and the glass she held, until the rim reached her mouth. “Trust me on this one small point,” he murmured, aware that his voice had become as thick as the tension in
the cabin.

  She sipped, not once but several times.

  “You are no stranger to Scotch,” he said, surprised.

  She held the glass tightly against her chest between her small breasts, clearly unaware of what she was doing and how interesting it appeared. “My father was very fond of Scotch whiskey and he frequently let me take a sip or two, as long as Mother wasn’t watching.”

  Something twisted inside of him like a knife. Gerald had shown him how to load a musket at the tender age of six, grinning and whispering, “Mama will murder me if she knows, so don’t breathe a word of this, you hear?”

  “You loved your parents very much,” he heard himself remark, shoving the pain of the beast away.

  “Yes,” she whispered, and she looked down at her drink. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed as she realized her appearance. “Oh.” She looked up wildly, wide-eyed.

  “I am enjoying myself immensely,” he remarked.

  She gulped the Scotch, then shoved the half-empty glass at him, turning away.

  “You know,” he remarked as casually, “you do not strike me as being the modest type, Virginia.”

  She didn’t answer. But she slowly bent to retrieve his nightshirt.

  He could feel her mind racing. What was she up to now? he wondered, and as he sipped her Scotch, he finally felt himself begin to relax. He looked forward to whatever it was that she intended and decided not to even try to guess.

  She suddenly looked at him, the gaze sidelong and lingering.

  His heart slammed, because it was the gaze of a courtesan, not an eighteen-year-old orphan.

  Then she pulled Gus’s shirt off.

  She wore her chemise beneath it, but she might as well have worn nothing, and she was half-turned toward him, so he had everything to view that he wished to. Then his heart stopped as she removed the sodden chemise as well.

  He was still.

  Facing him was a perfect profile with a tiny nose and full lips, small, upthrust breasts, a slim rib cage and soft, flat tummy.

  Fully aware that he was staring, she slowly lifted the nightshirt over her head. For one moment her slender bare arms were upstretched, her small breasts thrust tautly forward, her back arched, her naval visible as Gus’s pants rode lower. His resolve vanished. His clean, soft cotton gown slithered over her head and down her bosom. Then she reached under it and slid off Gus’s pants and her pantalettes, all in one motion.