Читать книгу The Prize - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10

May 1, 1812

London, England

WORD HAD SPREAD OF HIS arrival. Cheering throngs lined the banks of the Thames as his ship, the Defiance, proudly edged her way toward the naval docks.

Devlin O’Neill stood square on the quarterdeck, unsmiling, his arms folded across his chest, a tall, powerful figure as still as a statue. For the occasion of this homecoming—if it could be called such—he was in his formal naval attire. A blue jacket with tails, gold epaulets adorning each shoulder, pale white britches and stockings, highly polished shoes. His black felt bicorn was worn with the points facing out, as only admirals had the privilege of wearing the points front to back. His hair, a brilliant gold, was too long and pulled back in a queue. The crowd—men, women and children, agile and infirm, all London’s poorest classes—raced up the riverbanks alongside his ship. Some of the women threw flowers at it.

A hero’s welcome, he thought with no mirth at all. A hero’s welcome for the man one and all called “His Majesty’s pirate.”

He had not set foot in Great Britain for an entire year. He would not be setting foot there now, had he a choice, but it had become impossible to ignore this last summons from the Admiralty, their fourth. His mouth twisted coldly. What he wanted was a steady bed and a pox-free woman who was not a whore, but his needs would have to wait. He did not wonder what the admirals wanted—he had disobeyed so many orders and broken so many rules in the past year that they could be asking for his head on any number of counts. He also knew he would be receiving new orders, which he looked forward to. He never lingered in any port for more than a few days or perhaps a week.

His glance swept over his ship. The Defiance was a thirty-eight-gun frigate known for her speed and her agility, but mostly for her captain’s outrageous and unconventional daring. He was well aware that the sight of his ship caused other ships to turn tail and run, hence his preference for pursuit at night. Now top men were high on both the fore and main masts, reefing sails. Fifty marines in their red coats stood stiffly at attendance, muskets in their arms, as the frigate cruised toward its berth. Other sailors stood with them, eager for the liberty he would soon grant. Forecastle men readied the ship’s huge anchors. All in all, three hundred men stood upon the frigate’s decks. Beyond the docks, where two state-of-the-line three deckers, several sloops, a schooner and two gunships were at birth, the spires and rooftops of London gleamed in the bright blue sky.

The past year had been a very lucrative one. A year of cruising from the Strait of Gibraltar to Algiers, from the Bay of Biscayne to the Portuguese coast. There’d been forty-eight prizes and more than five hundred captured crewmen. His duties had been routine—escorting supply convoys, patrolling coastal shorelines, enforcing the blockade of France. Nights had been spent swooping upon unsuspecting French privateers, days lolling upon the high seas. He had been rather wealthy before this past year, but now, with this last prize, an American ship loaded with gold bullion, he was a very wealthy man, indeed.

And finally, a smile touched his lips.

But the boy trembled and remained afraid. The boy refused to go away. No amount of wealth, no amount of power, could be enough. And the boy had only to close his eyes to see his father’s eyes, enraged and sightless in his severed head, there upon the Irish ground in a pool of his own blood.

Devlin had gone to sea three years after the Wexford uprising, with the Earl of Adare’s permission and patronage. Adare had married his mother within the year, although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found. The earl had fabricated a naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and not as the lowliest sailor far below decks. Devlin had quickly risen to the rank of lieutenant. Briefly he’d served on Nelson’s flagship. At the Battle of Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command. The small vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck the Gazelle in under the leeward hull of a French frigate. With the French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right over the Gazelle. His own guns, at point-blank range, had torn apart the decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately. He’d towed his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the Loretta.

He had only been eighteen.

There had been so many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.

The heat of highly controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more. Devlin ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the Defiance eased into its berth between a schooner and a gunship. Devlin nodded at his second in command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell. Mac used the horn to announce a week’s liberty. Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been given. He didn’t mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been with him since he’d been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit. They were good men, brave and daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands seemed suicidal. The Defiance had become the scourge of the seas because of their loyalty, faith and discipline.

He was proud of his crew.

Mac fell into step with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have outgrown. Mac was Devlin’s own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had bulked out. Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad Scot with the flaming hair, the tall, blond Irishman with the cold silver eyes.

“Ach, got to find me land legs,” Mac growled.

Devlin smiled as the land heaved under them as high and hard as any storm swell. He clapped his shoulder. “Give it a day.”

“That I shall, a day and seven, if you don’t mind.” Mac grinned. He had all his teeth and only one was rotten. “Got plans, Cap? I’m achin’ meself for a lusty whore. Me first stop, I tell you that.” His laughter was bawdy.

Devlin was lenient with the men—like most ships’ commanders, he allowed them their whores in port, but he preferred them to bring the women aboard, so the ship’s surgeon could take a good look at them. He wanted his crew pox-free. “We were in Lisbon a week ago,” he said mildly.

“Feels like a year,” Mac grunted.

Devlin saw the post chaise waiting for him—he’d sent word to Sean by mail packet that he was on his way back. “Can I offer you a ride, Mac?”

Mac flushed. “Not goin’ to town,” he said, referring to the West End.

Devlin nodded, reminding him that he was expected back aboard the Defiance in a week’s time to set sail at noon, with all three hundred of his men. His rate of desertion was almost zero, an astonishing fact that no one in the British navy could understand. But then, with so many spoils taken and shared, his crew were all well off.

Thirty minutes later the chaise was clipping smartly over London Bridge. Devlin stared at the familiar sights. After days spent in the wind and on the sea, or at exotic, sultry ports in the Mediterranean, North Africa and Portugal, the city looked dark and dirty, unclean. Still, he was a man who liked a beautiful woman and refused a common whore, and his wandering eye took in more than his fair share of elegant ladies in chaises, carriages and on foot, shopping in the specialty stores. His loins stirred. He had sent several letters ahead and one was to his English mistress. He fully expected to be entertained that night and all the week long.

The London offices of the Admiralty were on Brook Street in an imposing limestone building built half a century before. Officers, aides and adjutants were coming and going. Here and there, groups of officers paused in conversation. As Devlin pushed open the heavy wood doors and entered a vast circular lobby with a high-domed ceiling, heads began to turn his way. Portraits of the greatest admirals in British history adorned the walls, as did paintings of the greatest ships and battles. His mistress had once said his portrait would soon hang there, too. The conversation began to diminish. An eerie quiet settled over the lobby; Devlin was amused. He heard his name being whispered about.

“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant with crimson cheeks saluted him smartly from the bottom of the marble staircase.

Devlin saluted him rather casually back.

“I am to escort you to Admiral St. John, sir,” the freckle-faced youth said. His flush had somehow deepened.

“Please do,” Devlin remarked, unable to restrain a sigh. St. John was not quite the enemy—he disliked insubordination, but he knew the value of his best fighting captain. It was Admiral Farnham who wanted nothing more than to court-martial him and publicly disgrace him, and these days, he was egged on by Captain Thomas Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh’s son.

Admiral St. John was waiting for him. He was a slender man with a shock of white hair, and he was not alone. Farnham was with him—at once bulkier and taller, with far less hair—and so was the Earl of Liverpool, the minister of war.

Devlin entered the office, saluting. He was intrigued, as he could not recall ever seeing Liverpool at West Square.

The door was solidly shut behind him. Liverpool, slim, short and dark-haired, smiled at him. “It’s been some time, Devlin. Do sit. Would you like a Scotch whiskey or a brandy?”

Devlin sat in a plush chair, removing his felt. “Is the brandy French?”

The earl was amused. “I’m afraid so.”

“The brandy,” Devlin said, stretching out his long legs in front of him.

Farnham appeared annoyed. St. John sat down behind his desk. “It has been some time since we have had the privilege of your appearance here.”

Devlin shrugged dismissively. “The Straits are a busy place, my lord.”

Liverpool poured the brandies from a crystal decanter, handing one over to Devlin and passing the others around.

“Yes, very busy,” Farnham said. “Which is why deserting the Lady Anne is an exceedingly serious offense.”

Devlin took a long sip, tasting the brandy carefully, and decided his own stock was far superior, both on his ship and at home.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” St. John asked.

“Not really,” Devlin said, then added, “she was in no danger.”

“No danger?” Farnham choked on his brandy.

Liverpool shook his head. “Admiral Farnham is asking for your head, my boy. Was it really necessary to leave the Lady Anne in order to chase that American merchantman?”

Devlin smiled slightly. “The Independence was loaded with gold, my lord.”

“And you knew that when you spotted her off the coast of Tripoli?” St. John asked.

Devlin murmured, “Money, my lord, buys anything.”

“I know of no other commander as audacious as you. Who is your spy and where is he?” St. John demanded.

“Perhaps it’s a she,” he murmured. And in fact, the wench in Malta who ran an inn often used by the Americans was just that. “And if I do employ spies, I am afraid that is my affair entirely—and as it does aid me in the execution of my orders, we should lay the question to rest.”

“You do not follow orders!” Farnham said. “Your orders were to convey the Lady Anne to Lisbon. You are lucky she was not seized by enemy ships—”

He was finally annoyed, but he remained slouched. “Luck has naught to do with anything. I control the Straits. And that means I control the Mediterranean—as no one can enter her without getting past me. There was no danger to the Lady Anne and her safe conveyance to Lisbon has proved it.”

“And now you are rather rich,” Liverpool murmured.

“The prize is with our agent at the Rock,” he said, referring to Gibraltar. He’d towed the Independence to the British prize agent there. His share of the plunder was three-eighths of the total sum, and a quick estimation of that figure came to one hundred thousand pounds. He was wealthier than anyone would ever guess, and he had far exceeded his own expectations some time ago.

“But I do not care about the fate of the Lady Anne, a single ship,” Liverpool said. “And while you directly disobeyed your orders, we are all prepared to ignore the matter. Is that not right, gentlemen?”

St. John’s nod was firm, but Devlin knew it killed Henry Farnham to agree, and he was amused.

“I care about finishing this bloody war, and finishing it soon.” Liverpool was standing and orating as if before the House. “There is another war on the horizon, one that must be avoided at all costs.”

“Which is why you are here,” St. John added.

Devlin straightened in his chair. “War with the Americans is a mistake,” he said.

Farnham made a sound. “You are Irish, your sympathies remain Jacobin.”

Devlin itched to strangle him. He did not move or speak until the desire had passed. “Indeed they are. America is a sister nation, just as Ireland is. It would be shameful to war with her over any issue.”

Liverpool said bluntly, “We must retain absolute control of the seas, Devlin, surely you know that.”

“His loyalties remain selfish ones. He cares not a whit for England—he cares only about the wealth his naval career has afforded him,” Farnham said with heat.

“We are not here to question Devlin’s loyalties,” Liverpool said sharply. “No one in our navy has served His Majesty with more loyalty and more perseverance and more effect.”

“Thank you,” Devlin murmured wryly. But it was true. His battle record was unrivaled at sea.

“The war is not over yet, and you know it, Devlin, as you have spent more time than anyone patrolling the Straits of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, as well. Still, our control there is without dispute. You will leave this room with your new orders, if I can be assured that you will effect them appropriately.”

His brows lifted with real interest. Where was Liverpool leading? “Do continue,” he said.

“Your reputation precedes you,” St. John pointed out. “In the Mediterranean and off these shores, every enemy and privateer knows your naval tactics are superior, if unorthodox, and that if you think to board, you carry fighting men, men who think nothing of carrying a second cutlass in their teeth. They fear you—that is why no one battles you anymore.”

It was true more often than not. Devlin usually fired a single warning shot before boarding with his marines. There was rarely resistance—and he had become bored with it all.

“I believe your reputation is so great that even near American shores, the enemy will flee upon the sight of your ship.”

“I am truly flattered,” he murmured.

Liverpool spoke. “We are trying to avoid war with the Americans.” He gave Devlin a look. “Sending you there could be like releasing a wolf in a henhouse and then expecting healthy, happy hens and chicks. If you are sent westward, my boy, I want your word that you will follow your orders—that you will scare the bloody hell out of the enemy but that you will not engage her ships. Your country needs you, Devlin, but there is no room for pirate antics.”

Did they truly expect him to sail west and play nanny of sorts to the American merchants and navy? “I am to chase them about, threaten them, turn them back—and retreat?” He could scarcely believe it.

“Yes, that is basically what we wish for you to do. No American goods can be allowed to enter Europe, that has not changed. What has changed are the rules of engagement. We do not want another ship seized or destroyed, another American life accountable to our hands.”

Devlin stood. “Find someone else,” he said. “I am not the man for this tour.”

Farnham snorted, at once satisfied and disbelieving. “He refuses direct orders! And when do we decide to hang him for his insubordination?”

Devlin felt like telling the old fool to shut up. “It is a mistake, my lord,” he said softly to Liverpool, “to send a rogue like myself to such a duty.”

Liverpool studied him. And then he smiled, rather coldly. “I do not believe that, actually. Because I know you far better than you think I do.” He turned to the two admirals present. “Would you excuse us, gentlemen?”

Both men were surprised, but they both nodded and slipped from the room.

Liverpool smiled. “Now we can get down to business, eh, Devlin?”

Devlin turned the corners of his mouth up in response, but he waited, unsure of whether he was to receive a blow or a gift.

“I have understood your game for some time now, Devlin.” He paused to pour them both fresh drinks. “The blood of Irish kings runs in your veins, and when you joined the navy you were as poor as any Irish pauper. Now you have a mansion on the Thames, you have bought your ancestral home from Adare, and I could only estimate the amount of gold you keep in the banks—and in your own private vaults. You are so rich now that you have no more use for us.” His brows lifted.

“You make me seem so very unpatriotic,” Devlin murmured. Liverpool was right—almost.

“Still, a fine man like yourself, from a fine family, always at sea, always seizing a prize, always at battle—never on land, never at home before a warm hearth.” He stared.

Devlin became uneasy. He sipped his brandy to disguise this.

“I wonder what it is that motivates you to sail so fast, so far, so often?” His dark brows lifted.

“I fear you romanticize me. I am merely a seaman, my lord.”

“I think not. I think there are deep, grave, complex reasons for your actions—but then, I suppose I will never know what those reasons are?” He smiled and sipped his own brandy now.

The boy trembled with real fear. How could this stranger know so much?

“You have fanciful imaginings, my lord.” Devlin smiled coolly.

“You have yet to win a knighthood, Captain O’Neill,” Liverpool said.

Devlin stiffened in surprise. So it was to be a gift—after a blow, he thought.

Once, his ancestors had been kings, but a century of theft had reduced them to a life of tenant-farmers. He had changed that. His stepfather had happily sold him Askeaton when he had come forward with the bullion to pay for it. His grand home on the River Thames had been purchased two years ago when the Earl of Eastleigh had been forced by financial circumstances to put it up for sale. Liverpool knew Devlin had used the navy to attain the security that comes with wealth. What he did not know—could not know—was the reason why.

“Do continue,” he said softly, but he had begun to sweat.

“You know that a knighthood is a distinct possibility—you need only follow your orders.”

The ten-year-old boy wanted the title. The boy who had watched his father fall in an act of cold-blooded murder wanted the title as much as he wanted the wealth, because the added power made him safer than ever before.

Devlin hated the boy and did not want to feel his presence. “Knight me now,” he said, “and barring any unforeseen and extenuating circumstance, I will sail to America and threaten her shores without inflicting any real harm.”

“Damn you, O’Neill.” But Liverpool was smiling. “Done,” he then said. “You will be Sir Captain O’Neill before you set sail next week.”

Devlin could not contain a real smile. He was jubilant now, thinking about the knighthood soon to be his. His heart raced with a savage pleasure and he thought of his mortal enemy, the Earl of Eastleigh—the man who had murdered his father.

“Where would you like your country estate?” Liverpool was asking amiably.

“In the south of Hampshire,” he said. For then his newly acquired country estate would be within an hour of Eastleigh, at the most.

And Devlin smiled. His vengeance had been years in the making. He had known from the tender age of ten that in order to defeat his enemy, he would have to become wealthy and powerful enough to do so. He had joined the navy to gain such wealth and power, never dreaming that one day he would be ten times wealthier than the man he planned to destroy. A title added more ammunition to his stores, not that it truly mattered now. Eastleigh was already on the verge of destitution, as Devlin had been slowly ruining the man for years.

From time to time their paths crossed at various London affairs. Eastleigh knew him well. He had somehow recognized him the first time they met in London, when Devlin was sixteen and dueling his youngest son, Tom Hughes, over the fate of a whore. The wench’s disposition was just an excuse to prick at his mortal enemy by wounding his son, but the duel had been broken up. That had only been the beginning of the deadly game Devlin played.

His agents had sabotaged Hughes’s lead mines, instigated a series of strikes in his mill and had even encouraged his tenants to demand lower rents en masse, forcing Eastleigh to agree. The earl’s financial position had become seriously eroded, until he teetered on the verge of having to sell off his ancestral estate. Devlin looked forward to that day; he intended to be the one to buy it directly. In the interim, he now owned the earl’s best stud, his favorite champion wolfhounds and his Greenwich home. But the coup de grâce was the earl’s second wife, the Countess of Eastleigh, Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes.

For, during the past six years, Elizabeth had been the woman so eagerly sharing his bed.

And even now, she was undoubtedly waiting for him. It was time to go.

WAVERLY HALL HAD BEEN in the possession of the earls of Eastleigh for almost a hundred years—until two years ago, when a cycle of misfortune had caused the earl to put it up for sale. The huge limestone house had two towers, three floors, a gazebo, tennis courts and gardens that swept right down to the river’s banks. Devlin arrived at his home in an Italian yacht, a prize he had captured early in his career. He strolled up the gently floating dock, his gaze taking in the perfectly manicured lawns, the carefully designed gardens and the blossoming roses that crawled up against the dark stone walls of the house. It was so very English.

Unimpressed, he started up the stone path that led to the back of the house, where a terrace offered spectacular views of the river and the city. A man rose from a lawn chair. Devlin recognized him instantly and his pace quickened. “Tyrell!”

Tyrell de Warenne, heir to the earldom of Adare and Devlin’s stepbrother, strode down the path to meet him. Like his father, Ty was tall and swarthy with midnight-black hair and extremely dark blue eyes. The two men, as different as night and day, embraced.

“This is a very pleasant surprise,” Devlin said, pleased to see his stepbrother. It made the homecoming to which he was so indifferent suddenly inviting.

“Sean told me you were on your way home, and as I have had some affairs to see to in town, I decided to stop by the mansion to see if you were here yet. My timing is impeccable, I see.” Tyrell grinned. He was darkly, dangerously handsome and had had many love affairs to prove it.

“For once,” Devlin retorted as they strolled up to the terrace. “How is my mother? The earl?”

“They are fine, as usual, and wondering when you will come home,” Tyrell said with a pointed glance.

Devlin pushed open French doors and entered a huge and elegantly appointed salon, choosing to ignore that particular subject. “I have just accepted a tour of duty in the North Atlantic,” he said. “It is unofficial, of course, as I have yet to receive my orders.”

Tyrell gripped his shoulder and Devlin had to face him. “Admiral Farnham is in a rage over the Lady Anne, Dev. Everywhere I go, I am hearing about it. In fact, even Father has heard that Farnham plots against you. I thought this was your last tour.” His gaze was dark and frankly accusing.

Devlin moved to a bell pull, but his butler had already materialized, smiling as if pleased to see him. Devlin knew the Englishman detested having an Irishman as his overlord; it amused him, enough so that he had kept Eastleigh’s staff when he had bought the mansion. “Benson, my good man, do bring us some refreshments and a fine bottle of red wine.”

Then Devlin turned back to his stepbrother. Like the rest of his family, Tyrell thought he spent far too much time at sea and there was a general effort being made to convince him to resign his commission. “I am being offered a knighthood, Ty.”

Briefly Tyrell stared in surprise; then he was smiling, smacking Devlin’s back. “That is fine news,” he said. “Damned fine!”

“Materialist that I am, I could not refuse the opportunity.”

Tyrell studied him for a moment. “A storm gathers behind your back. You need to take care, Dev. I don’t think Eastleigh has forgiven you for your purchase of this house. Tom Hughes has been lobbying around the Admiralty for a general court-martial,” he said. “And he spreads nasty rumors about you.”

Devlin raised a brow. “I really don’t care what he says.”

“I have heard it said that he has accused you of using vast discretion with French privateers—that is, allowing some to slip through your net for a hefty sum. That kind of gossip could hurt your career—and you, personally,” Tyrell warned.

“If I’m not worried, why should you be?” Devlin asked calmly, but he thought of Thomas Hughes, who had never even been to sea, except on a fancy flagship where he and the admiral and other officers lived in state. Nonetheless, Hughes held the very same rank as Devlin, though Devlin knew the man could not sail a toy boat on a park lake. In fact, Lord Captain Hughes spent all of his time fawning over and playing up to the various admirals with whom he served. Devlin was well aware of the fact that Tom despised him, and it amused him to no end. He did wish he had wounded him that one time when they had dueled over the whore. “I am not afraid of Tom Hughes,” he said dryly.

Tyrell sighed as Benson returned with two manservants, each bearing a silver tray with refreshments. Both men were quiet as a small table overlooking the grounds and the river was quickly set. Benson bowed. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

“No, thank you,” Devlin said. When the servants had left, he handed his stepbrother a glass of wine and walked over to the windows overlooking the terrace. He stared out the window, not particularly enjoying the view.

It was impossible not to think about Askeaton.

Tyrell followed him to the picture window. As if reading Devlin’s mind, he said, “You haven’t been home in six years.”

Devlin knew the last time he had been home, he knew it to the day and hour, but he smiled and feigned surprise. “Has it been that long?”

“Why? Why do you avoid your own home, Dev? Damn it, everyone misses you. And while Sean does a fine job of managing Askeaton, we both know you would do even better.”

“I am hardly at liberty to cruise up to Ireland whenever the urge overtakes me,” Devlin murmured. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but he was avoiding the question and they both knew it. The truth was he could sail up the Irish coast almost any time he chose.

“You are a strange man,” Tyrell said sharply. “And I am not the only one who worries about you.”

“Tell Mother I am more than fine. I captured an American merchantman carrying gold to a Barbary prince, a ransom for their hostages,” Devlin said smoothly. “With my share of the booty, I could ransom a hostage or two myself.”

“You should tell her yourself,” Tyrell said flatly.

Devlin turned away. He missed Askeaton terribly, but he had learned in the past years that his home was a place to be avoided at all costs. For there, the memories were too volatile; there, they threatened to consume him; there, the boy still lived.

A FEW HOURS LATER, pleasantly relaxed from an abundance of wine, Devlin started upstairs, Tyrell having gone to the Adare town home in Mayfair. His private rooms took up an entire wing of the second floor; upon possession of the house, he had gutted the master suite completely, as if gutting the Earl of Eastleigh himself. He strolled through one pretty parlor after another, past vases and artwork others had chosen, past a piano that was never played, aware that not one item in the house—other than his books—gave him pleasure. But he hadn’t bought the house for pleasure. He had bought it for a single purpose—revenge.

A maid met him on the threshold of his bedroom. She was flushed and perspiring, a pretty thing with brown hair and pale skin, and briefly Devlin thought of inviting her into his bed. But she turned a brighter shade of crimson upon espying him and then fled past him and down the hall with a gasp.

Devlin glanced after her, amused and wondering what had caused such a swift retreat. Had his intentions been that obvious? He was horny, certainly, but not aroused.

And then he entered the master bedroom and understood.

A blond Venus arose from the midst of his massive bed, a sheer undergarment caressing and revealing full, billowy breasts with large dusky nipples, round, lush hips, plump thighs and a dark ruby-red delta between.

Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes smiled at him. “I received your message and came as soon as I could.”

His loins filled as he looked at her. She belonged to his mortal enemy, a man he was slowly but surely wreaking his vengeance upon, and she aroused him as no other woman could.

Elizabeth was very pretty, and now her green eyes moved directly to his swollen groin. “You are in need of attention, Captain,” she murmured.

He moved forward, red-hot blood filling his brain, removing his shirt as he did so. With the raging blood came raging lust—blood lust—savage and uncontrolled. The beast always chose this moment to walk the earth. Devlin mounted her as he mounted the bed, pushing her down, unfastening his britches, thrusting his massive hardness inside.

Elizabeth cried out in pleasure, already hot and wet. He moved as hard and fast as he could, images of Eastleigh filling his mind, gray of hair, fatter and fifty now, and then fourteen years ago, slimmer, younger, crueler. His hatred knew no bounds. It mingled with the lust. His mouth found hers and he thrust there deeply, hurtfully, grinding against her, until he had become the beast itself. Elizabeth never knew. She gripped his sweat-slickened back, keening wildly in her ecstasy.

He wanted to release himself, too, but the hatred, the pleasure and the lust were so great and so satisfying that he refused, pounding deeper, harder, but ugly memories rode him now as he rode her…ugly, bloody glimpses of a dark and terrible past, rising fast and furious—a small boy, a headless man, a severed head, sightless eyes, a pool of blood.

He forgot the woman he rode as the wave preceding his climax, a wave of intense, growing pleasure, turned into one of anger and pain, and he was swept forward, against all will, a wave that now unfurled like a topsail, hard and fast. Behind that wave the memories chased him. His father’s furious, sightless eyes accused him now. You let me die, you let me die. Devlin sought now only to escape, and when he climaxed, he did just that.

There was no moment of peace, no moment of relief. Instantly he was conscious, aware of the woman he lay upon, aware of the man he was cuckolding—aware of the gruesome memories that he now must bury, at all cost. Devlin flipped over, away from the countess, breathing harshly. In that instant a painfully familiar emptiness emanated from deep within him and consumed him entirely. It was so huge, so hollow, so vast.

Devlin leapt to his feet.

“Good Lord, one would think you’d been without for an entire year,” Elizabeth murmured with a satisfied sigh. Then she eyed him with a small, pleased smile, her gaze lingering on his narrow hips and muscled thighs.

Naked, Devlin hurried across the bedroom, hardly aware of her words, quickly pouring a glass of wine. He downed it in a gulp, shaken, as always, by the memories he had vowed never to forget. He drained the glass and fought the beast until it finally returned to its lair.

“Nothing ever changes, does it, Devlin?” the countess asked, sitting up.

He poured another glass of wine and approached her, aware of his manhood stirring. Her gaze moved to his groin and she smiled. “You are becoming terribly predictable, Devlin.”

“I could change that easily enough,” he remarked casually, handing her the wine. As he did, he paused to admire her breasts. “You haven’t changed,” he added.

“And you remain a gentleman, in spite of your reputation,” she said, but she was smiling and pleased. “I’m a year older, a bit fatter and lustier than ever.”

“You haven’t changed,” he said firmly, but now he noticed the slight wrinkles at her eyes and the equally slight thickening of her waist. Elizabeth was several years his senior, although he wasn’t really certain of her age—he had never cared enough to learn what it might be. She had two adolescent daughters, and he thought, but wasn’t sure, that the eldest was fourteen or fifteen. Neither daughter belonged to Eastleigh.

“Darling, would it ever be possible for you to lie quietly by my side?” she asked, setting her glass down and stroking his inner thigh.

He hardened like a shot. “I have never pretended to be anything but what I am with you. I am not a quiet man.”

“No, you are His Majesty’s Pirate, for that is what I hear you called from time to time, when your exploits become dinner conversation.” Her hand drifted upward, its back brushing his phallus as she toyed with his thigh.

“How boring those dinners must be.” He couldn’t care less what he was called, but he didn’t bother to say so. The countess loved to chat idly after their various bouts of lovemaking. She had been the source of much of his information about Eastleigh for the past six years, so he usually encouraged her chatter.

Now she murmured, “I have missed you, Dev.”

There was simply nothing to be said; he took her hand and placed it firmly on his swollen shaft. “Show me,” he said.

“Spoken like a true commander,” she said hoarsely, lowering her head.

He hadn’t meant to give an order, but it was his nature now. He didn’t move, waiting patiently for her to nibble and lick him, watching her dispassionately as she did so. One day Eastleigh would learn of their affair—he had only to decide which moment to choose.

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.