Captured for the Captain's Pleasure. Ann Lethbridge
‘I know what alfresco means. Normally, I’d provide a hot meal. There was no cooking fire today.’
‘Open fires and gunpowder are not a good mix,’ she agreed. ‘I’m pleased to see you care about the safety of your men. It would hardly do for their ship to burn while they run down innocent merchantmen.’
A glint of amusement flashed in his eyes. ‘Innocent is not a term I would use, and nor would you,’ he remarked in dry tones.
Now what did he mean by that? She picked up a piece of bread. Even buttered, it tasted little better than ashes. Fear did that to a person, ruined the appetite. She added a slice of cheese. A marginal improvement. If she washed it down with wine, it might cure the trembles in her stomach.
Perhaps not. She’d need all her wits to survive the coming interview.
‘More?’ he asked softly, waving the knife at the bread.
She shook her head, noticing he had eaten nothing while consuming at least half the wine in the decanter. Perhaps he, too, was nervous, though she could scarcely credit it.
Simpson arrived to clear away the tray. Alice watched the knife’s departure with a flicker of regret. It might have come in handy. She flashed hot, then cold. Hopefully such drastic measures wouldn’t be necessary.
Lionhawk refilled his glass and cast her a charming smile. A breath caught in her throat at the threat that smile contained. ‘Now then, Miss Fulton. It is time to answer my questions.’
Somehow she managed not to flee for the door. She fought to keep her face blandly enquiring.
As handsome as sin, as dark as Satan, he lounged carelessly in his ornate chair, legs outstretched, glass held loosely in his hand. Masculine power at ease to a fault, but ready to spring if she made one false move.
A heavy-lidded gaze cut her way. Seductive. Threatening. He frightened and fascinated all at once. Against all reason, she found him impossibly attractive, the way one might find a lion or tiger attractive. Beautiful, sleek and dangerous.
‘What did you wish to know?’ She was glad her voice didn’t shake too badly.
‘Everything.’ To her utter confusion, he put a world of meaning in the one word and its accompanying narrowed-eyed stare. ‘I thought we would start with the story of your life.’
She almost laughed. ‘It makes for dull telling, sir.’
‘But it is new to me. To begin with, I suppose it is too much to hope that you play chess,’ he said, rather wistfully.
‘Chess?’ She almost slipped off her seat in surprise.
‘I hear it is an acceptable pastime for men and women to play together in intimate surroundings. Perhaps you prefer cards?’
The word intimate rang in her ears. She gripped the edge of her seat. ‘I do play chess. Quite well, in fact.’
He got up and prowled dangerously close. ‘Quite well?’ He smiled as if she’d hand-fed the wolf in him a succulent morsel. Or a piece of herself.
Her pulse tripped a warning. She gazed back boldly. ‘Some would say very well.’
He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, his wine-scented breath a whisper against her cheek. ‘Excellent. And while we play, you will talk.’
Clutching her goblet tight to her breast, she fought the tremble in her hands. Fear of his threat, not a wild heart-stopping impulse to taste his sensual lips again. Only by the fiercest resolve did she manage not to blink. ‘It sounds delightful.’
His gaze ran from her head to her heels and a trickle of warmth beneath her skin followed its progress. She stifled a sigh of pure pleasure.
A slow smile dawned on his face. ‘I must warn you, I have not played for a very long time.’
‘Then prepare for defeat.’
He grinned. ‘Defeat by a woman has its benefits.’ The lascivious note in his voice made her insides clench. She kept her expression blank. Proper young ladies did not understand such innuendo. And it would not do to let him believe she was anything but a proper young lady.
He retrieved a marquetry box inlaid with silver from his desk. Inside, two shades of green jade pieces nestled in white satin, beautiful carvings depicting samurai and dragons and other Oriental images. Worth a king’s ransom and no doubt stolen from some poor traveller.
He set out the pieces on a plain, painted wooden board that set the ornate pale and dark green jade off to perfection.
He sat down. ‘Your move.’
Chapter Four
‘Tell me about your father,’ Lionhawk said in a lazy drawl. ‘Alex Fulton.’
They were the first words he’d spoken since she’d made her opening move and the intensity in his gaze created a tightness in her abdomen. Apparently her answer was important.
‘He owns a shipping line.’
The dark brows drew down. ‘I know what he does. Tell me about him.’
How odd. She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you could say he is an older version of Richard. He is a bit heavier, not quite so tall, but they are clearly father and son.’
‘Is he a good father?’
She squirmed in her seat. ‘No worse than any other.’
He moved a warrior to guard his queen. ‘A prevarication, Miss Fulton? I must say I am surprised a father would put his daughter on a ship flying a false flag in these dangerous times.’
When Father learned about that, he’d be horrified. He might even disappear into a brandy bottle and never get around to raising the ransom. He’d been doing a lot of disappearing lately. A cold little breeze whisked across her shoulders from the open window. She forced herself not to rub her arms. ‘It really is none of your business.’
A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘I suppose he forgot to tell you of the risk?’
She gritted her teeth at the amused note in his voice. It was as if he liked the idea of Father putting her and Richard in danger.
‘How many ships does Fulton Shipping own in addition to the Conchita?’ he asked.
‘What concern is it of yours?’
He straightened. ‘Come, come, Miss Fulton. Surely you want the doctor to visit your brother tomorrow?’
Damn him. ‘There are no other ships besides the Conchita.’
A derisive sound issued from his throat. ‘You surely don’t think me such a halfwit as to believe the great Fulton Shipping Lines owns only one ship?’
‘Believe what you like. You asked me a question and I answered it.’
‘Trying to do me out of my ransom, Miss Fulton?’
So that was where this was leading. ‘I don’t lie, Captain Lionhawk.’
‘Michael.’ He picked up one of the pieces she’d lost to him, a female figure in long robes. Idly, his long strong fingers stroked the elegant piece.
Strangely breathless, she watched his fingertips trace the flowing curves in a strangely intimate gesture. Heat flowed through her veins.
‘A geisha,’ he said.
Her gaze flew to his face. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The figure. She is called a geisha. They are trained in the art of pleasing men.’
‘Oh.’ She looked down at the board. The geishas took the place of pawns. ‘They are lovely.’
‘Yes. Are you telling me your father has sold all his ships, including the ship he’d named after you?’
He