“May the gods let you choke—” Skye began, but she never finished, for she cried out as she found herself lifted and cast over his shoulder with determined force. He had played with her, she realized, but he played no more. The day had made him sober. She struggled against him, but he ignored her, holding her firmly with ease, and striding across the deck, shouting commands. “Fenwick, you will captain our prize—”
“Let me down!” Skye screamed, pummeling furiously against his shoulders. “Let me—”
“Milady, shut up!” he commanded, and she discovered herself choking out a humiliated cry, for his hand landed upon her rump with a fearsome power, bringing tears to her eyes. She was momentarily silenced, and he continued speaking to his men, striding for the rigging as he did so. “Take care with our prisoners, for we will demand ransoms. One-Eyed Jack’s men to the brig if they choose to surrender. Take the guns and any prizes from his ship, then send her to the bottom of the sea.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” came a dozen replies.
“Get your hands off me!” Skye swore, straining against him. It was a futile effort. With his left hand he caught hold of the mainmast rigging and crawled upon it. The ship pitched and swayed violently again. He was a madman, she decided. The sea was a whirlpool, the wind was vicious, and he ignored them both. Like a wraith he took his ease with the rigging. Rather than fighting him, Skye suddenly discovered herself clinging to him as he crawled high upon the rigging to catch hold of a free-swinging rope. She screamed in sheer terror as she realized his intent.
“Relax—Lady Kinsdale. Relax, and hold tight,” he advised her, but otherwise he gave her fear no consideration.
Then a moment later, it seemed that they were flying. They fell against the coolness of the wind and the soft gray of the sky. She didn’t know if she was plunging to her death or soaring to the heavens.
She did neither, for in seconds he had made an easy leap to the deck of his own ship. Dizzy, Skye struggled to see around herself, and became aware of more of his crew, most of them barefoot, clad only in cotton shirts and knee breeches and many of them whiskered and bearded. They seemed to be of all ages, and to a man, they smiled and waved at her with good humor. It seemed they were loyal to their captain. A cheer went up as he landed nimbly upon the deck with her. Skye thought that they would both tumble at last upon the wooden decking, for the ship swayed starboard as if it would capsize.
Silver Hawk did not fall or falter. His men, too, held their ground, and raised their voices once again in a loud salute. Their captain lifted a hand to acknowledge them, then swung about with her, his prize, in his arms still.
Skye pressed against his back, seeking to plead with his crew of cutthroats.
“I’m worth a fortune!” she cried suddenly. “See that he leaves me be this instant, and my father will reward you greatly!”
“Will he now?” a graybeard called pleasantly.
“Good night, milady!” said another, and they all bowed to her deeply, ignoring her plight.
She cried out in rage again, once more struggling to free herself from her ignominious position upon the pirate’s shoulder.
He spun around again, seeing her eyes as she raised herself upon his shoulders. “What is this!” he said in mock protest. “Why, gents, I swear to you that just seconds ago, she held on to me like an adoring mistress. Women are fickle, are they not?” He did not desire a reply, nor did he get one, and the humor fell from his voice as he spoke again. “I’ll be at the helm, me lads. The wind is howling ever louder. Like a woman.”
“Which is more deadly, Cap’n, do you think? The lady wind that rages upon the sea, or the Lady Kinsdale, shrieking upon your back?”
More laughter rose. “Why,” replied the captain, “the lady upon my back, of course!”
He turned about and strode with her now upon his own ship, past the mainmast and forward. A set of handsome, intricately carved double doors lay before them. He set his hand upon a brass knob and pushed inward. Barely a moment later Skye found herself falling hard upon the large carved bunk in the far starboard corner of the cabin. She gasped for breath, realizing suddenly that the remains of her petticoats and gown were rising precariously to her hips and that she was lying before him nearly naked. She had no doubts as to his intent, but she planned to fight him to the very death if need be. She might lose, but she would fight.
He stood above her, shadowed by the sudden darkness in the cabin, and she rolled as best she could against the wall, pulling the fine-knit bed covering over her exposed limbs as she did so. She tried to meet his eyes in the sudden shadow to dare him to protest, but she could read nothing of his gaze, and fear set into her once again even as she assured herself that she would fight forever.
If she could only see his face now!
But she could not. She could see only the hard, lean length of the man, a silhouette before her. He would pounce upon her, she thought. He was like a hawk indeed, circling his prey, waiting only for the precise right moment to pounce down upon her.
Fear seized her, and in panic she thought to bolt, not knowing where she would run. She tried to leap from the bunk, but landed instead within his arms.
“Bastard!” she hissed, near tears as his arms wound around her.
“Alas, lover, I do apologize!” he said, pressing her back. “That you are so eager to consummate this affair, but I must leave you, milady!”
“Eager! I loathe you, I long to skewer you through—”
His laughter cut her off. She could see his eyes suddenly, or something of their deep blue flame and searing humor. “Take care!” he warned her, and there was a razor’s edge to the sound of his voice. “Lest you be the one…skewered through!”
She knew not if he meant that he would slay her, or if his words carried a more intimate meaning, but his laughter and the soft touch of his breath against her cheeks made her tremble once again, and she braced hard against the steel power of his arms and chest. She could never fight this man, she realized. He was in the prime of life, muscular, powerful, and skillful. She could not best him with a sword, and she would never best him with her fists. She waged her war with a vengeance, and he merely smiled at her futile efforts. He laughed. He gloated. He was completely assured of his triumph in all things. He held her steady against the continual rock and sway of the ship.
“Let me go!” she cried, and she sought to rake her nails over his bearded cheek, but he caught her hand, and the pressure he grimly set against it caused her to cry out, and give up, sagging against him. She became acutely aware of him then as a man, for the black material of his shirt and breeches was thin, and her own clothing gave her no barrier. He was strikingly warm and alive, vibrant. Energy as hot and powerful as the lightning that lit up the heavens beyond them seemed to surround him. To leap from him.
To touch her.
“Please!” she gasped out.
