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  Suddenly she lifted her head and smiled up at him. “Will you ever tell me that you have missed me, too?”

  Devlin tensed. “Elizabeth, there is a better time for discussion.”

  “Is there? The only time we are together is in moments like these. I wonder what beats beneath your chest? Sometimes, Dev, I do think your heart is cast of stone.”

  His erection had been complete for some time, and talking was actually painful. But he said, “Have I ever made you any promises, Elizabeth?”

  “No, you have not.” She sat up, facing him. “But it’s been six years, and oddly, I have become quite fond of you.”

  He did not respond. He did not know what to say, for once in his life at a loss.

  “I may be in love with you, Dev,” she said, her gaze riveted to his.

  Devlin stared at her attractive face, a face as enticing as her body. He carefully considered his words. He felt nothing for her, not even friendship; she was a means to an end. But he didn’t dislike her—it was her husband whom he hated, not Elizabeth Hughes. He preferred for things to remain exactly as they were—he did not wish for her to be hurt, and not out of compassion. He was not a compassionate man. The world was a battlefield, and in battle, compassion was a prelude to death. He did not want to hurt Elizabeth only because she remained so useful to him; he wanted her at his disposal, on his terms, not hurt and angry and spiteful.

  “That would not be wise,” he finally said.

  “Can’t you just pretend?” she asked wistfully. “Lie to me, just once?”

  He didn’t hesitate. He rubbed his thumb over her lips, ignoring the tear he had just glimpsed forming in her eye, and then he rubbed it lower, over her throat, her chest and, finally, a swelling nipple. His mouth followed in the path of his finger. Several moments later, they were once again entwined in frenzy, with Devlin pounding deeply and forcefully inside her.

  Several hours later, Devlin tested the water in his hip bath and found it warm enough. Elizabeth was dressing; he climbed into the claw-footed tub and sank down into the tepid water. After months at sea, the temperature was very pleasant. He’d had enough climaxes so that now, finally, his mind remained a blessed blank and there were no monsters to defeat.

  “Darling?”

  Devlin jerked—he had dozed off in his bath. Elizabeth smiled at him, elegantly dressed in a sapphire-blue gown with black velvet trim. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have awoken you!” she exclaimed. “Devlin, you look so enticing in that bath, I could jump right in with you.”

  He raised a brow. “Isn’t Eastleigh expecting you?”

  She frowned. “We have supper plans, so yes, he is. I just wanted to tell you that I will be in town for another two weeks.”

  He understood. She wished to see him again before he shipped out, but that was perfectly fine with him. “I haven’t received my official orders yet,” he said carefully, “so I do not know when my next tour begins.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow afternoon?”

  He smiled a little at her. “That would be fine, Elizabeth. Will Eastleigh also remain in town?” he asked. The question would seem innocent enough to her. After all, any lover would ask such a question.

  “Fortunately, the answer to that is no, so perhaps we could even spend the night together.”

  He chose not to respond to that. He had never allowed any woman to spend a night in his bed and he never would.

  Her expression changed; she appeared annoyed. “I have been ordered to remain in London for a fortnight! It’s a miracle that you are here, too, so I should not be so put out, really.”

  “Why?” he asked mildly.

  “Eastleigh’s American niece is on her way to London. She is aboard the Americana and we expect her in the next ten days.”

  He was mildly surprised. He hadn’t even known that there was a niece, much less an American one. He was very thoughtful. “You have never mentioned a distant relation before,” he said calmly.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I suppose there was no reason to do so, but now she is an orphan and she is coming here. Eastleigh intended for her to remain in a ladies’ school over there, but I imagine she thinks to latch on to our coattails. Oh, this is just what I do not need! Some uncouth colonial! And what if she is beautiful? She is eighteen, and Lydia is only sixteen! I have no interest in having an American orphan compete with my daughter for a husband, and by all rights, the colonial is the one who should be married off first!”

  Well, now he knew how old Elizabeth’s eldest daughter was. He smiled slightly, wry. “I doubt she will outshine your daughters, Elizabeth, not if they are as beautiful as you.” His reply was an automatic one, as he was thinking now, hard and fast.

  Eastleigh’s niece was on her way to Britain aboard an American ship. He was about to be given very specific orders to sail west to interfere with American trade there but not to harm any American ships. The niece was clearly unwanted and just as clearly she would soon be in his path.

  Could he use this bit of information? Could he use her?

  “Well, thank you for that!” Elizabeth said. “I am just annoyed at having to take her in. You know how pinched we’ve become these past few years. It has been one thing after another. We cannot afford to bring her out properly, Dev, and that is that!”

  Devlin nodded. There was no guilt. He remained very thoughtful and it became obvious what he must do.

  Eastleigh might not want the girl, but he wanted scandal even less. Oh, how he would enjoy pricking the fat earl one more time! He would seize the ship and take the girl and force Eastleigh to pay a ransom he could ill afford for a young woman he did not even want.

  Devlin began to smile. His heart raced with excitement. This was a stroke of fortune too good to be true—and too good to be ignored.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Late May, 1812

  The High Seas

  THEY WERE BEING ATTACKED!

  Virginia knelt upon her berth, her gaze glued to the cabin’s only porthole, gripping a strap for balance as the ship bucked wildly in response to the boom of more cannons than she could count. She was in shock.

  It had all begun several hours ago. Virginia had been told that they were but a day away from the British coastline, and that, at any time, she might soon see a gull wheeling in the cloudy blue skies overhead. Soon afterward, a ship had appeared upon the horizon, just a dark, inauspicious speck.

  That speck had grown larger. She was racing the wind—the Americana was tacking slowly across it—and it appeared that the two ships would soon cross paths.

  Virginia had been taking sun on the ship’s single deck and had quickly become aware of a new tension in the American crew. The ship’s commander, an older man once a naval captain, had trained his binoculars upon the approaching vessel. It hadn’t taken Virginia long to realize they were worried about the identity of the approaching ship.

  “Send up the blue-and-white signal flags,” Captain Horatio had said tersely.

  “Sir? She’s flying the Stars and Stripes,” the young first officer had said.

  “Good,” the captain had muttered. “She’s one of ours, then.”

  But she wasn’t. The frigate had sailed within fifty yards of them, maneuvering herself to the leeward side so she rode below the Americana, when the red, white and blue American flag had disappeared, replaced by nothing at all. Virginia had been ordered below. The crew had scrambled to the ship’s ten guns. But Virginia hadn’t even made it to the ladder when a cannon had boomed once, loudly but harmlessly, the ball falling off to the side of the stern.

  “Americana,” a voice boomed over the foghorn. “Close your gun ports and prepare to be boarded. This is the Defiance speaking.”

  Virginia froze, clinging to the dark hatch that would take her below, glancing back at the other ship, a huge, dark, multimasted affair. Her gaze instantly found the treacherous captain. He stood on a higher, smaller deck, holding the horn, his hair blindingly bright, as gold as the sun, a ta
ll, strong figure clad in white britches, Hessian boots and a loose white shirt. She stared at him, briefly mesmerized, unable to tear her gaze away, and for one moment she had a very peculiar feeling, indeed.

  It was indescribable.

  As if nothing would ever be sane or right again.

  Time was suspended. She stared at the captain, a creature of the high seas, and then she blinked and there was only her wildly racing heart, filled with panic and fear.

  “Hold your fire,” Captain Horatio cried. “Do not close the gun ports!”

  “Captain!” the first officer cried with panic. “That’s O’Neill, the scourge of the seas. We can’t fight him!”

  “I intend to try,” Horatio snapped.

  Virginia realized there would be no surrender. She needed a gun.

  She glanced wildly around as the captain of the Defiance repeated his demands that they surrender to be boarded. An interminable moment followed as the crew of the Americana hastily prepared to fire. And suddenly the sea changed. A huge blast of too many cannons to count sounded, the Defiance firing upon them. The placid seas swelled violently as the ship bucked and heaved, hit once or many times—Virginia could not know—and as someone screamed, she heard a terrible groaning above her.

  She turned and glanced upward and cried out.

  Horatio was yelling, “Fire!” but Virginia watched one of the Americana’s three masts and all its rigging toppling slowly over before crashing down on several gunners. Several cannons now fired again from the Defiance, but not in unison. Virginia didn’t hesitate. Lifting her skirts, she raced to the fallen men. Three were crushed and alive, one was apparently dead. She tried to heave the mast, but it was useless. She grabbed a pistol from the murdered sailor and ran back to the hatch that led below.

  She could not breathe. She scrambled down and into the tiny cabin that she shared with the merchantman’s only passengers, a middle-aged couple. In the small, cramped and dark space below, Mrs. Davis was clutching her Bible, muttering soundlessly, her face stark with terror. Virginia had glimpsed Mr. Davis on deck, trying to help the wounded.

  Virginia gripped her arm. “Are you all right?” she demanded.

  The woman gazed at her with wild terror, clearly unable to hear her or respond.

  More cannons boomed and Virginia heard wood being ripped apart as they were clearly hit again. Virginia leapt onto her narrow berth, grabbing a hanging strap for balance, and stared at the attacking ship through the porthole. The Americana lurched wildly, and she was almost tossed from the bunk.

  How could this be happening? she wondered wildly, aghast. Who would attack an innocent, barely armed and neutral ship?

  Mrs. Davis began to sob. Virginia listened to familiar prayers and wished the woman had remained silent.

  What would happen next? What did that terrible captain want? Did he intend to sink the ship? But that would not make sense!

  Her gaze moved instinctively back to the quarterdeck where he stood so motionlessly that he could have been a statue. He was staring, she knew, at the Americana, as intent as a hawk. What kind of man could be so merciless, so ruthless? Virginia shivered. Officer Grier had referred to him as the scourge of the seas.

  Then she stiffened with real fear. The Defiance’s decks, a moment ago, had been frenzied with activity. Now the gunners at the cannons and the men in the masts were still. The only activity was a number of sailors climbing down into two rowboats that were tied to the frigate’s hull. Her gaze flew back to the captain with real horror; he was sending a boarding party.

  Now the Americana had become eerily quiet. Virginia already thought that Captain Horatio would not surrender, and nor would she, if she were in command. She checked the pistol to find it primed and loaded.

  “Dear Father who art in Heaven,” Mrs. Davis suddenly cried. “Have mercy on us all!”

  Virginia could not stand it. She turned and seized the other woman’s arm savagely, shaking her hard. “God isn’t here today,” she cried. “And he sure as hell isn’t going to help us! We’re being boarded. They must be pirates. We are losing this battle, Mrs. Davis, and we had better hide.”

  Mrs. Davis clutched her Bible to her bosom, clearly paralyzed with fear. Her mouth moved wildly now, forming words, but no sounds came.

  “Come,” Virginia said more kindly. “We’ll hide down below.” She knew there were lower decks and hoped they could find some small cranny to hide in. She tugged on the other woman. But it was useless.

  Virginia gave up. Pistol in hand, she climbed back to the main deck and saw the first of the rowboats approaching. O’Neill stood in the bow behind his men, his legs widely braced against the seas. Virginia hesitated. Why the hell wasn’t anyone shooting at him?

  If she had a musket, he’d now be dead.

  Her fingers itched, her palms grew clammy. She didn’t know what range the pistol she held carried, but she did know it wasn’t much. Still, he was getting closer and closer and why wasn’t Horatio firing upon him?

  Virginia could not stand it. She rushed to the rail and very carefully, very deliberately, took aim.

  With some finely honed instinct, perhaps, he turned his head and looked right at her.

  Good, she thought savagely, and she fired.

  The shot fell short, plopping into the sea directly before the rowboat’s hull. And she realized had she waited another minute or two for him to travel closer, she would have got him after all.

  He stared at her.

  Virginia turned and ran around the first hatch to the one that the seamen used. She scrambled down the ladder, realized she was in the sailors’ cramped, malodorous quarters—she was briefly appalled at how horrid they were—when she saw another hatch at the far end of the space. She lifted that and found herself descending even lower below the sea.

  She didn’t like being below the ocean. Virginia couldn’t breathe and panic began, but she fought it and she fought for air. Not far from the bottom of this ladder was an open doorway, through which was utter darkness. Virginia wished she’d had the wit to bring a candle. She went cautiously forward and found herself in a small hold filled with crates and barrels. Virginia crouched down at the far end and realized she still held her pistol, now useless, because in the midst of battle she hadn’t thought to grab any powder and shot.

  She didn’t toss it aside. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she reversed it, holding the barrel now in her right hand.

  Then her knees gave way. He had seen her take a shot at him.

  She felt certain of it. She felt certain that the expression on his face had been one of utter surprise.

  Of course, she hadn’t been able to make out his features, so she was guessing as to his reaction to her sniper attempt, and if she were very lucky, he hadn’t seen that miserable shot.

  What would happen now?

  Just as Virginia realized that the puddle of water she had been standing in was slightly higher—and she prayed it was her imagination—she heard shots begin: musket fire. Swords also clashed and rang. Her gut churned. The pirates had clearly boarded. Were they now murdering the crew?

  And what was her fate to be?

  She was seized with fear. Her first thought was that she might be raped.

  She knew what the act entailed. She’d seen horses bred, she’d seen slaves naked as children, and she could imagine the gruesome act. She shivered and realized the water was ankle deep.

  Then she stiffened. The gunfire and sound of swords had stopped. The decks above were eerily silent now. Good God, could the battle already be over? Could his men so quickly subdue the American ship? Virginia estimated the Americana held about a hundred sailors. The deathly silence continued.

  If he hadn’t seen her, maybe he would loot the ship and sail straight back to the hellish place he had come from.

  But what would he do if he had seen her attempt to shoot him?

  Virginia realized she was trembling, but she told herself it was from the frigidly cold water, which was almo
st calf deep.

  Would he kill her?

  She told herself that murdering an innocent eighteen-year-old woman made no sense, although if one were a ruthless, mercenary pirate, she supposed that attacking a trading ship that was carrying cotton, rice and other merchandise was rational, indeed. So maybe there was hope.

  For once, Virginia gloried in the fact that she was so skinny she was often mistaken for someone about fourteen, and that her face was too small, too pale, her hair utterly unruly. Thank God she did not look like Sarah Lewis.

  Virginia froze.

  Footsteps sounded directly above and to the right of her head. Virginia began to shake. Someone was traversing the hold where the sailors slept, just as she had in order to find her hiding place. Trembling again, unable to stop it, she glanced at the hatch she had come through. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but still there was nothing she could see on the other side where the ladder from the upper deck was.

  Wood creaked.

  Virginia closed her eyes. After all the days she had been at sea, Virginia had become accustomed to the sounds of the ship—its moans and groans, the soft sigh and slap of the sea. She did not have to debate to know that this sound was not a natural one and that someone was coming down that ladder.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts.

  She gripped the pistol more tightly, holding it in the folds of her skirts.

  He was coming down that ladder, she simply knew it.

  On the other side of the hatch, light flickered from a candle.

  Virginia blinked, sweat now blurring her vision, and made out a white form on the other side of the hatch, holding up the candle, turning slowly and thoroughly assessing the space there. She couldn’t breathe and she feared suffocation.

  He stepped through the hatch.

  Virginia didn’t move because she could not. He held up the candle, saw her instantly and their gazes locked.

  Virginia could not look away. This man was the ruthless monster responsible for numerous deaths; she was not prepared for the sight of him. He had the face of a Greek god come down from Mount Olympus—dangerously, disturbingly handsome—high planes, hard angles, piercing silver eyes. But that face—the face of an angel—was carved in granite—and it was the face of a sea devil instead.