The Prize (14 page)

Virginia
had no time to react. She was
shoved back into the cabin, while the sailor used all of his strength to pry
the door free from the outside wall, fighting the gale and eventually slamming
it in her face.

This time, she heard
the click of a lock.

Virginia
stumbled over to his bed, where
she collapsed and lapsed into unconsciousness.

* * *

Sunlight was
streaming brightly through the portholes of the cabin when she awoke. Every
part of her body ached and her head pounded, while her eyes felt too heavy to
even open. She had never been so tired in her life, and she had no wish to
awake. She snuggled more deeply beneath the covers, cocooned in warmth. Then a
mild irritation began—only the back side of her body seemed to be covered.

She groped for the
blanket...and realized there were no covers and she was not alone.

She stiffened.

The length of a hard
body lay against her, warming her from her shoulders to her toes. She felt a
soft breath feathering her jaw, and an arm was draped over her waist.

Oh God,
she thought, blinking into bright
midday
sunlight. And trembling, a new
tension filling her, she looked at the hand on her waist.

She already knew who
lay in bed beside her and she stared at O'Neill's large, strong, bronzed hand,
which lay carefully upon her. She swallowed, an odd heavy warmth unfurling in
the depth of her being.

How had this
happened?
she
thought with panic. Of course the explanation was simple enough and she guessed
it immediately—sometime after the storm died, he had stumbled into bed just as
she had, too tired to care that she lay there. That likelihood did not decrease
her distress. In fact, her agitation grew.

Then a terrible
comprehension seized her.

His hand lay
carefully on her waist.

Not limp and relaxed
with sleep, but carefully controlled and placed.

Her heart skipped
then drummed wildly.
He was not asleep.
She would bet her life on it.

She debated feigning
sleep until he left her bed. But her

                             
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heart was racing so
madly it was an impossibility, especially as she felt his hand tighten on her
waist.
Virginia
turned abruptly and faced a
pair of brilliant silver eyes and the face of an archangel. Their gazes locked.

She didn't move,
didn't breathe, and could think of nothing intelligent to say.

Then his gaze moved
to her temple, which she now realized truly hurt. "Are you all
right?" he asked, also still. His gaze slipped slowly to her mouth, where
it lingered before moving as slowly back up to her eyes.

His gaze felt like a
silken caress.

"I..." She
stopped, incapable of speech. And she could not help but stare. His face was
terribly close to hers. He had firm, unmoving lips. Her gaze shot back to his.
His face was expressionless, carved in stone and impossible to read, but his
eyes seemed bright.

She wondered what it
would feel like, to have his hard mouth soften and cover hers. "You saved
my life," she whispered nervously. "Thank you."

His jaw flexed. He
started to shove off of the bed.

She gripped the hand
that had been on her waist. "You saved the ship, the crew. I saw what you
did. I saw you up there."

"You are in my
bed,
Virginia
, and unless you wish to remain
here with me for another hour, at least, leaving the last of your youth behind,
I suggest you let me get up."

She remained still.
Her mind raced. Her body burned for his touch and she knew it. It was foolish
now to deny. Somehow, his heroism of the night before had changed everything.
Anyway, he was perfectly capable of getting up, never mind that she had seized
his wrist. She found herself looking at his mouth again. She had never been
kissed.

Abruptly he lurched
off of the bed and before she could even cry out, he was gone.

Virginia
slowly sat up, stunned.

There was no relief.
There was a morass of confusion, and more bewildering, there was disappointment.

Virginia
remained on the bed, sitting
there, beginning to realize what she had almost done.

She had been a
hairbreadth away from kissing her captor—she had
wanted
his kiss.

Disbelief overcame
her and she leapt to her feet as a knock sounded on her door. O'Neill never
knocked, so she snapped, "Who is it?"

"Gus. Captain
asked that I bring you bathing water."

"Come in,"
she choked, turning away.
O'Neill was the enemy.
He had taken her
against her will from the
Americana
,
an act of pure avarice and greed. He was
holding her against her will now. He stood between her and Sweet Briar. How
could she have entertained, even for an instant, a desire for his touch, his
kiss?

Gus entered, followed
by two seamen carrying pails of hot water. He set a pitcher of fresh water on
the dining table, not looking at her. Both sailors also treated her as if she
were invisible, filling the hip bath.

How kind, she
thought, suddenly furious with him—and furious with herself. She had never even
thought of kissing
anyone
until a moment ago. This had to be his fault
entirely—she was overwrought from the crisis of the abduction, of the storm,
the crisis that was him! He was somehow taking advantage of her state of
confusion, her nerves. In any case, the entire interlude was unacceptable. He
was the enemy and would remain so until she was released. One did not kiss
one's enemy, oh no.

Besides, kissing
would surely lead to one certain fate— becoming his whore!

"Is there
anything else that you need, Miss Hughes?" Gus was asking, cutting into
her raging thoughts.

"No, thank
you," she said far too tersely. Her cheeks were on fire.
She
was on
fire. And she was afraid.

Gus turned, the other
sailors already leaving.

Virginia
fought the fear, the despair.
She reminded herself that she had to escape. She had to convince her uncle to
save Sweet Briar. Soon, this nightmare that was O'Neill would be only that, a
passing bad dream, a memory becoming distant. "Gus! Where are we? Are we
close to shore?"

He hesitated, but did
not turn to face her. "We were blown off course. We're well north of
England
, Miss Hughes."

She gaped as he left,
before she was able to demand just how far north they had been blown off
course. Her geography was rusty, but she knew rather vaguely that
Ireland
was north of
England
. Being taken to
Portsmouth
was far better than being taken to
Ireland
, and ironically, now she was afraid he'd
change his damnable plans and not take the
Defiance
to
Portsmouth
first.

She ran to his desk
and glanced at the map there. It took her a moment to confirm her worst fears.
Ireland
was north and west of
England
, and if they had been blown far north
enough,
Ireland
would be smack in their way. But
could a mere storm have blown them that far off course? To her uneducated eye,
two hundred miles or more were required for them to be on a direct line with
the other country.

She glanced at the
map of
England
.
Portsmouth
did not look to be far from
London
. She tried to estimate the distance and
decided it was a day's carriage ride. At least that one point was in her favor,
she thought grimly.

Now what?
Virginia
's gaze fell on the steaming
bath. Instantly she decided not to waste the hot water. She bathed quickly,
afraid of an interruption, scrubbing his touch from her body. Leaping out, she
barely toweled dry, afraid he would walk in and catch her unclothed. She
braided her hair while wet, in record time donning the same clothes. A glance

in his mirror showed
her that she was frightfully pale, which only made her eyes appear larger. She
looked terribly unkempt—her gown was beyond wrinkled and torn at the hem, with
a bloodstain on one shoulder. But even worse was the abrasion on her temple. It
looked like a terrible gash, and when she touched it she found the wound
sensitive.

She looked like a
washerwoman in a fine lady's clothes, one who'd been in a fistfight or other
battle.

But then, she had
been in a battle, she had been in a constant battle since the moment O'Neill
had attacked the
Americana
.

Virginia
walked over to a porthole, which
she levered open. It was a beautiful spring day, the sky blue and cloudless,
the ocean almost flat, and she was amazed at how serene the sea was after the
horror of the night before. She strained for a glimpse of land or even a
seagull, but saw neither.
Virginia
left the porthole open and
stepped out onto the deck.

She espied him
instantly. O'Neill had his back to her, standing with an officer who was
steering the ship, his legs braced wide apart, his arms apparently folded in
front of his chest. She felt an odd breathless sensation as she stared at him,
one she did not care for. He turned slightly—the man had the senses of a jungle
tiger—and their gazes locked.

He nodded.

She ignored his
gesture and walked over to the railing, only too late realizing that this was
very close to the spot where she would have been washed overboard if he hadn't
rescued her.

She clung to the
rail, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warm May sun. But inside,
she was shaken to the core. Last night, she had almost died. It was an
experience she hoped never to repeat.

A distinct
recollection of the feel of his strong arms wrap-

ping around her, and
then the sensation of being pressed deeply against his body, overcame her.
Virginia stood very still, allowing her eyes to open, reminding herself that
he was the enemy and that would never change—not until he let her go free.

"A fine spring
day," an unfamiliar voice said cheerfully behind her.

Virginia
started, turning.

A plump man with
curly gray hair and dancing brown eyes smiled at her. He wore a brown wool
jacket, britches and stockings—he could have been strolling the streets of
Richmond
, except for the lack of a hat,
cane and gloves. "I'm Jack Harvey, ship's surgeon," he said, giving
her a courtly bow.

She smiled
uncertainly, sensing that he was a good man— unlike his superior.
"Virginia Hughes," she said.

"I know."
His smile was wide. "Everyone knows who you are, Miss Hughes. There are no
secrets on board a ship."

Virginia
absorbed that and helplessly
darted a glance at O'Neill. He seemed oblivious to her presence on his deck
now, his back remaining to her and Harvey.

"How are you
holding up?"
Harvey
asked. "And should I take a
look at that temple of yours?"

"It's
sore," she admitted, meeting his gaze. "I am holding up as well as
can be expected, I think. I have never been abducted before."

Harvey
met her gaze, grimacing.
"Well, you may know that as far as Devlin is concerned, this is a first
for him, as well. He's taken hostages before, but never women or children. He
always frees the women and the children."

"How wonderful
to be an exception," she said with bitterness.

"Has he hurt
you?"
Harvey
asked abruptly.

She started and
stared. An image of his silver gaze as she turned in bed to face him filled her
mind. She hesitated.

"You are very
beautiful,"
Harvey
said in the lapse that had

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fallen. "I have
never seen such extraordinary eyes. I do not approve of Devlin sharing that
cabin with you."

Did she have an ally
in the ship's surgeon? She inhaled sharply, her mind racing. Then, carefully,
she summoned tears—a feat she had never before performed. "I begged for
mercy," she whispered. "I told him I was a young, innocent and
defenseless woman." She stopped as if she could not continue.

Harvey
's eyes widened hi shock. "I
don't believe it! The bastard...
seduced
you?"

He would be an ally,
she could feel it. "Seduced? I don't think that is the right word."