Tell Me Lies by Claudia Dain

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Chapter One

Caribbean Ocean, 1715

The sun was warm on her bared skin, as warm as the wind that swept gently across the surface of the sea. It was a gentle wind, for the sun was low upon the horizon, its raging heat spent for another day and it took the strength of the wind with it as it hovered near the undulating swells of the darkening sea. Though gentle, the wind was strong enough to lift the ends of her sun-streaked hair, sending them cascading around her shoulders to entwine in a tangled embrace just above her bosom; the wind was also strong enough to muffle sound with its own steady passage by her as it followed the retreating sun. It caressed her, this dying wind. This gentle, tired wind sent slender ropes of hair into her eyes and mouth where they caught and held, refusing to leave. And the sun, for all its running retreat to the far horizon, was still strong enough to light her hair with golden fire and heat her skin to a warm flush, still strong enough to catch the glint of unsheathed steel and dripping blood and eyes lit with the lust of a recent kill. Eyes filled with the certainty of having her. The ropes that cut into her wrists, holding her to her place in the bow, told her the same.

    There was no way out for her.

    The wind was cooling noticeably without the heat of the hot tropical sun to warm it and with each passing moment it was weaker, always weaker in its force. The golden throbbing mass of the sun was half buried in the blue-black waters that seemed to rise to engulf it. She watched it sink, faster and faster now, as if giving up. As if, insteadofbeing pulled into the sea, it was diving in and willfully choosing to allow the dark waters to swallow it whole. When there was just a sliver of gold left trembling before the vastness of the sea, she turned away, unwilling to witness so eager a defeat. There was still enough light to see the blood-soaked deck and the blood-splattered bare feet of the pirates who had captured her. And without the sun, the wind lost the best of its force so that now she could hear very clearly what they said.

    The sun was gone, leaving her in advancing darkness.

    "Got more 'n I reckoned we would."

    A score of eyes shifted in her direction, the vanished sun sending up its light to color the horizon pink and gold and purple ... and to show her those glinting, greedy eyes. She was nothing but cargo to them; no, not cargo ... plunder.

    "Aye, an' if I 'adn't a plucked 'er ..."

    "Don't grab fer glory, Ned, 'twas Pierre who spotted 'er."

    Ned grumbled loudly, wiping his blackened hand across his nose a few times before he fell silent. She had Pierre to thank that she did not lie dead with the others on what remained of her ship. She had no thanks to offer. Better dead than this coil.

    No! she shouted within herself. Do not run to death as that cowardly sun runs to plunge itself into the sea. No! Think of a way to survive! Life is too precious to throw away without a fight. But what manner of fight would it be without a single weapon at her disposal and an ocean away from any aid other than divine?

    "Pierre'll not hoard this booty. Nay, we'll divide th' spoils as always and share the wealth, as always."

    "The captain divides 'a spoils, don' forget, and there's more to the cargo 'an what's trussed up in the bow."

    "Aye, Red Jack would 'ave done us fair, but he's dead."

    "And redder yet," someone chuckled mirthlessly.

    "New captain now; he's killed for the right, but how will he divide?"

    "He's always been right enough, I'm thinkin'."

    "As long as he's not laughin'."

    "He'll not smile when he sees 'er. Don't like killin' much and don't take to captives."

    "But we've got 'er now and I'll slice the man who tries to throw 'er over."

    Her mind whirled as she sorted through this information. She was booty. She was to be shared among them all. The captain divided the spoils of his plunder.

    The sun was gone, but the wash of rosy light it left behind lit the men below her enough to shake her soul. They were ruthless animals, thieves, murderers, rapists. They were pirates. If she was passed among them she would be dead by morning. The will to live bubbled up again within her, stronger now. She did not want to die, not now, not yet. Not like this. Think!

    The captain divided the plunder.

    It was the captain's decision.

    Perhaps she could appeal to him, beseech him to ... she laughed helplessly inside herself. He was a pirate, a captain of pirates. He led pirates in acts of murder; he did not lead them in acts of mercy.

    Piracy: oceanic murder and robbery. The law that ruled them was the law of profit, and the spirit that guided them was the spirit of self-interest. Profit and self-interest. What could she offer a captain of pirates that would appeal to those twin gods he served? She had nothing.

    No, that determined will rumbled in the depths of her mind; you have yourself. Use what you have to survive.

    She wanted to live.

    She had to think rationally, as her father had taught her; she must not allow them to use her as a dumb animal. She had herself and her faith in a heavenly Father more powerful than any man, any pirate. But God seemed very far away. The sun had set and the darkness was growing. Melancholy warred with panic until she banished them both. She had to think of a way to survive, and she would ... she would.

    All she had to fight with was herself.

    They seemed to want her.

    If she could use that wanting against them ...

    If ... if she could make the captain want her, want her to such a degree that he would not share her ... Could she survive even that? She would have to; she could see no other way. The crew would not like it, judging from their comments and the way their eyes roamed over her bared skin and bound hands and moving hair. But he was their captain and he controlled them; of them all, he was the only one who could enforce such an unpopular decision. She dared not place her fate in the hands of one of the crew, especially Pierre, whom the crew thanked even now for his foresight and generosity. No, her best chance was with the captain. With the captain, she might survive. She had to survive.

    Hating the departing sun that took its light and left her in growing darkness, she scanned the deck, illuminated now in the gentlest shades of rose and purple. She was losing the light. She had to find him before she was left in total darkness.

    The band of pirates shifted and parted. They drew back in something like respect or fear and stopped their speculation as to the dividing of the spoils to allow a man to enter their midst. The captain.

    He was tall and dark, his hair black and wavy and his skin dusky in hue. His eyes, even in this fading light, showed light, lighter than his skin, much lighter than his hair. He was well-muscled. His thigh ran red with a long straight slice to mark the source; a long cut, but not deep enough to pose a threat as it was already closing against itself. His features were cleanly drawn and regular, though she thought she saw a wide line of white scar tissue just beneath his jaw. He was relatively clean. He could have been worse. In her heart, she thanked God that he was not repulsive to her and prayed that she could win him to her. She had never thought to pray such a prayer and so fervently. She knew enough about the sex act to know that she must beguile him with the unspoken promise of splendor in her arms. He must want her enough not to contemplate sharing her. Beyond that, she knew little. She was a virgin.

    God, she whispered in her soul, count this not against me as sin. I must survive. Surely God would not deal harshly with her. He had given her the will to live; He would not judge her too harshly if she but used the weapons at her disposal. She had but one weapon: herself.

    But there was no more time for debate within herself. He stood before her, as did they all. They were building themselves up to set upon her. The light was nearly gone. The captain must see her. And want her.

    With all her will she forced herself to relax against the pull of the ropes that bound her. More than that, following some inner instinct, she loosened the tension in her joints until her head arched back and her hips swayed and her breasts tipped toward him. And with every ounce of that stubborn will to survive, she called to him with her eyes, willing him to look at her. For a moment, she did not know what to call to him, what silent message she wanted him to hear; then she knew. She gave to him the urgent message of her heart and her mind and, God forgive her, her soul. Her eyes called out to him, "Want me."

    The captain strode into the midst of his crew with his anger barely suppressed. They had a captive. They never took captives. He and Red Jack had agreed on that, anyway, though little else. But Red Jack was dead now and he was captain, finally, having killed the one man who stood in his way. It had not been a fight he had provoked, but he had won and that was all that mattered on a pirate ship at sea. He had won. And now he ruled them all, by fist or guile. He had waited long for this moment, and the woman was ruining it all. There could be no captives because there could be no witnesses. The captain's orders were: take the goods, kill as few as possible, and sail off. It was that damned Pierre's idea and look at the result: instead of stowing the marketable goods from that limping hulk, they were arguing about the woman.

    Most ships lay to at the first sight of a pirate ship; why fight? Pirates didn't want lives, they wanted profits. There were no profits in dead men. Captives, hostages, whatever one wished to call them, were always trouble. Damn Pierre for his audacity in ignoring standing rules. And damn the woman for causing trouble just by being on his ship.

    He had no thoughts as to how to handle this problem. Given to the men, passed from one to the next, she would likely be dead by morning if she was an innocent. An experienced woman would have more of a chance, though even at that, it would be a slim one. Damn the woman and damn Pierre for his mistake, if mistake it was. Somehow, he doubted it. Pierre was too wily for his own good, and too ambitious. A fight among the men with him thrust into the role of referee might be just what Pierre had planned since there was no chance of the issue of the woman being resolved to everyone's satisfaction. The problem was for the captain to solve, and if the captain did not? Then he might lose their loyalty; pirates served by common consent, usually wrung out of them by either fear or greed. There was no room for failure. Fail in their eyes even once and a sword was at your throat. If he failed to deal well in regard to the woman, Pierre would be only too happy to step up and take his place. And Pierre had brought the woman aboard.

    A sideways glance at Pierre confirmed his suspicions. All eyes were where the woman was being held, all except Pierre's. Pierre's eyes were on him, waiting, watching, speculating. Damn Pierre.

    The captain spared not a glance at his captive, but took his time gauging the mood of his men. They were eager, overeager, to begin reveling in the fruits of their plunder. Rum would overrun the blood-soaked decks, washing them without cleaning them, followed by the vomit of the intemperate. The woman, if she was lucky at all, would be untied to lie upon her back. If they were of a mood, they might take her where she stood with her hands tied behind her. The rising of the sun on this night of debauchery would mean the cleansing of the decks and readying themselves again to hunt fresh game on this vast ocean of opportunity. The woman would most likely not see the rising of the sun. Damn Pierre.

    Lifting his eyes, he finally looked at her, this cause of all his trouble, and was shocked enough by what he saw in the deepening twilight to forget Pierre and the men and even the plunder. She was blatant sexuality, wanton and soft with wanting, yearning desire. Her hair, darkest blond streaked with sun-warm strands, flowed and moved languorously over her rounded shoulders. She was round and full and soft everywhere, from her breasts to the mound of her belly to her hips and thighs. Her dress was torn at the hem to halfway up her leg and again where sleeve attached to shoulder. Forcing his eyes to leave the fullness of her breasts, he studied her face. Her brows were much darker than her hair and strongly arched over eyes of a very light color, ringed with black lashes. Her mouth was wide and slightly open, her nose was straight. He felt compelled to look again at her eyes. Never in his life had he been hit with such a jolt of desire. Never had he wanted a woman so much at first sight.

    He suddenly had the solution to his dilemma, and damn Pierre.

    "It's time to divvy up, Captain," Pierre nudged.

    "Aye, it's time, Pierre," he answered softly.

    The woman leaned away from the ropes at her back and sighed, licking her lips.

    "It's a fair prize we've taken today," the captain began, "and the portions shall be meted out according to rank. You all know"—he glanced at Pierre—"that we do not take captives. As we now have one, I will take her, to keep the trouble she brings to a minimum."

    "Nay, Captain, 'at's not a fair apportioning of th' goods," one of them argued, his hand on his cutlass.

    "No?" he countered. "If I give her to you and you divvy her up between the lot of you, someone would cry 'foul' when she died before his turn. I would not have such a riot as would follow over a woman." Watching them think over that bit of irrefutable logic, he added, "Let's not quibble over a woman. They're as plentiful as barnacles on a hull in the next port."

    "Which port?" one of them called eagerly.

    "Any port," the captain laughed.

    "But, Captain," Pierre cut in, "we are not in port now, and yet you have a woman and would claim her for yourself."

    "Aye, that's true enough, Captain. You've got your portion and the woman."

    Murmurs of "unfair" came at him from the throng that seemed measurably closer to him than a moment ago. He laughed again and spread wide his arms, forcing the men to take a step back. "Did I not say that I would take her for my portion? Did you think I would lay claim to both? Nay, she is my portion and all the trouble she brings with her. The captain's portion will be divided among you."

    They quieted at that. The captain's portion was the largest; they would all be the richer for the further dividing of it. Also, he was right; there were plenty of women in the next port. Money was not so easily come by.

    "Surely, you do not have to give up your portion for her?" Pierre pressed, "She is only a woman."

    The captain looked at his first mate, reading the deceit in his black eyes. "'Tis my portion to do with as I will."

    Pierre shrugged dramatically and said for the benefit of the rest of the men, "It is not my share lost on so foolish a bargain."

    "No," the captain agreed softly, his anger well sheathed, "it is not."

    The decision made, she sagged in relief against the ropes. A strange relief, for her stomach was tied in knots and she struggled against the urge to gag. He had claimed her and stood by the claim. She was safe, for the moment. She did not delude herself into thinking that her position of relative safety could not change at any moment, on a pirate captain's whim. No, she must not let down her weapon of seduction, especially not now, in sight of them all. Perhaps later, when she was alone, after ... Her stomach heaved again. She was hardly safe. Now she must act on the promise of her eyes, though she barely understood what it was that she had done. She had not allowed herself to think during that angry debate of criminals, each with a hand upon his blade. She had only allowed one thought to be in her mind, one thought to blazon from her eyes. "Want me." And when her courage had faltered, she had added, "As I want you." Obviously, it had worked and worked well.

    The captain stood next to her, his sword drawn, and sliced through the bonds that both held her and held her up. She closed her eyes and swayed momentarily before catching herself, and then she forced herself to look into his eyes. They were the color of amber.

    Eyes the shade of the sun on a late summer evening, eyes that flickered with compassion and strength, eyes that held her startled gaze with tidal force; he touched the heart of her with those heated eyes. And she knew with sudden and disturbing clarity that they were the eyes of a man, not a pirate.

    Her resolve, her will, was broken for an instant by the startling humanity reflected in his eyes, and she forgot to send forth her silent lure. The captain stepped back from her and frowned, black brows pulled low over those amber eyes. The sun and all its residue was gone now and the sky was the dark violet before full night. There were some lanterns on the deck, but no moon. God had taken away all His light and left her in the dark. And in that darkness she could see golden eyes studying her.

    I want you, she thought with all her strength. Want me.

    He stepped near her again, wrapping his hand around her arm, and pulled her after him. His frown was gone.

    She could not slip again in her resolve. Surviving was possible now; she would not let it drift away for lack of strength. Blocking out everything else—the blood, the men, the spoils, even the ship itself—she allowed only one thought: Want me as I want you.

    On that rested her survival. She meant to survive.

    She was as soft and pliable as goose down, her eyes soft and dreamy, her step eager. Everything, except for that one moment when he had cut her bonds, proclaimed her eagerness for the coupling that would soon come. This woman was no innocent. Her every movement announced it. She was as experienced in receiving pleasure as she was in giving it, of that he was certain. Perhaps his bargain with the men was not so poorly made after all. It should prove to be an enjoyable week with her as his portion of the spoils of battle.

    He thrust her into his cabin ahead of him, and she had time to make a cursory inspection before he stepped in after her and closed the door with an ominous thud. It was a sparsely furnished space, though she could hardly imagine that any space on a pirate ship would be luxurious, yet this room exuded a certain chill, a lack of personality, that startled her. It was as if no one at all lived in this room. That was all she had time to notice before the captain leaned against the door, pushing it closed. He watched her, his arms folded against his chest. Alone with him, she felt safer than she had on deck with his men all about her. His strength was undeniable and she was thankful for it; he would keep her safe, safe from them all. She turned to face him, hesitant gratitude shining from her eyes. Oddly, she had no fear of him, though he was bruised and bloody, the cut on his leg raw and irritated even in the weak light of the cabin. He was no animal; she had seen kindred humanity in his eyes. She only feared that he would not find pleasure in her arms. She felt safer unbound as well. At least now she could move.

    She had nowhere to go.

    Watching her, he again saw the same change in her that he had noted on deck. It wasn't a change so much as a subtle shifting within her. Seeing her in better light, he knew that, though she was a woman used to sporting in a man's bed, she was no harbor doxy. Nay, her looks were too fine for that. Her skin was dark cream, her face delicate yet lush and heart-shaped. Her hands were not reddened with work. Her clothes, though not the apex of fashion, were of a fine weave and good color. She wore blue. Her dress matched her eyes. No harbor doxy would have that skin and those eyes. No harbor doxy would have been traveling on that ship, either; she would not have been allowed to board her. But it was more than that; intelligence sparkled keenly behind the sheen of her eyes. Before him, her arms crossed in imitation of his, stood a woman who could think, perhaps more than she could feel, for the spark of desire was deserting her even as he watched.

    He studied her more intently. Perhaps the lighting on the deck had misled him. She did not seem the siren now; she seemed ... nervous.

    "I assured my crew that I was content with my portion. Are you not content with yours?"

    She jumped slightly and then drew a deep breath. She had forgotten again, and after strictly lecturing herself not to; she had been lulled into a feeling of safety that was surely false. There was no safety here with this man, there was only survival, and survival beckoned sweetly enough right now. He had noted her fear, and that he must not do. He thought her content with him; he must think her pleased, and she must please him in return or he would cast her to the men without compunction. Had that not been what they all intended? He was a pirate. Human, of course, but just barely. She must never forget that. There was no safety with this man.

    Again she inwardly repeated the words so familiar to her, I want you. Want me. I want you. Had she lived before saying those words, those simple declarative sentences? She couldn't remember. Her life depended on his believing the lie she silently told him, and told herself. I want you. Want me.

    The captain watched her eyes soften with desire, saw the lethargy creep into her bones, saw the pulse quicken in her throat. Nay, no harbor doxy this, but perhaps a courtesan? A woman of quality who pleasured a man in all ways for a very handsome sum? Yes, she was likely a courtesan, smart enough to know her own worth and market it accordingly. He could allow that she was a very successful one, at that.

    Controlling his throbbing lust, he approached her slowly. She was not coarse in her manner, for which he was grateful. He would match her in that. He was not to be outdone in etiquette by a well-paid whore.

    "Have I taken your companion from you today?" he questioned politely. At her blank look, he asked, "Did you fear I would not know your quality and toss you to my men?"

    Hope soared within her. Perhaps there were pirates who practiced mercy and one stood before her. He had rescued her from his men despite their clear displeasure and rapacious violence. She had not been deceiving herself in what she had read in his eyes. He had not abandoned all principle, all civility, all mercy even though he had succumbed to the lure of pirate profit. He was strong, and that strength would be turned to her protection. He would hide her in his cabin until they made port, and then she would leave his ship and no one would know that she had fallen into the hands of pirates and he would sail away to far-off ports. It would all be as if nothing had happened. He was a pirate with mercy.

    "Yes," she murmured, unclasping her arms. But before she could say more, he went on.

    "I am not such an ill-tutored rogue that I would fail to recognize a practiced woman of pleasure when I am fortunate enough to find one." Eyeing her full bosom with anticipation, he added, "You are clearly at the top of your ... ah, profession. You can't be worried over a lack of gentlemen. When I have consumed my portion"—his eyes flared like the fire in the lantern hanging from the beam—"you will be free to go. Reasonable?"

    She scolded herself for her foolishness, doubly angry that she had so much trouble accepting the obvious. Pirates offered no mercy. There was no mercy for her here. His eyes lied. He was a pirate; he would be adept at lying, even the unspoken lie of compassion in his eyes. He was all smiles, all charm, and he had no plans to spare her. Hardly. He thought her a fallen woman and planned to use her as such, without having to pay, of course. And then he would release her; her mind clung to that. And if she wasn't what he thought her to be, what he clearly wanted her to be?

    She managed a small smile in return. A smile so cool that it barely moved her mouth. "Reasonable," she answered with all civility.

    He had the gall to bow crisply in her direction. How very well he played at mercy and compassion and civility.

    The captain held his lust on a tight leash. Let her play at being the courtesan in a fine drawing room, he would have her soon. She knew it and he knew it. He could wait for a few civilized moments before plunging into her. What he would not do was drop his breeches and flip up her skirts like an untried boy. He would prove to her and to himself that she was not that irresistible.

    He walked to a table bolted to the floor in a far corner of the small room. "Brandy?"

    She had never touched it in her life. She had never had any intoxicants beyond a small glass of wine with meals. She knew she would need it now.

    "Yes, please," she answered.

    Nodding, he uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. The room may have been unadorned, but his glassware was superb. Taking the glass from him, she waited for him to drink first, watching him, not forgetting her silent litany, not forgetting to want him, not forgetting to want him to want her. Strange that the brandy was of the same warm color as his eyes, though far, darker. His eyes were like poured honey, sweet and warm and thick with thoughts she could not read, but warm, as warm and golden as the sun which had so recently deserted her.

    I want you, she thought. It was not such an unfamiliar thought now; no, it came easily and readily enough. He was not hard to look upon. No, he was just a step away from beautiful with his black hair and warmly luminous eyes.

    Standing this close to her, he saw that her eyes were not blue, but green or a shade in between the two. They were the color of the water in a shallow tropical bay with white sand underneath. Strange that her eyes were the color of his beloved sea.

    She did not sip her brandy but took a gulp that more than matched his. She did not stop until her glass was empty. She coughed only once. Then she stood, the glass dangling uselessly from her hand, waiting for him to attack her, praying that the brandy would work quickly.

    "You have an unusual way of drinking brandy," he said with a soft smile. "You have a particular fondness for the drink?"

    "Yes," she answered impulsively, holding out her glass for more.

    Still smiling, feeling her smothered tension, he obliged her, taking another full swallow as he watched her tip her glass back until it was once again empty. She did not cough this time. He could read her need of it. Though a courtesan, she was no common whore; she was not one to lift her skirts casually. Her clients were likely carefully chosen and a rapport established; at least he believed so of her. She was not at ease. He would have her so.

    She did not move from her spot. She did not sway on her feet. She must be very accustomed to brandy and immune to its effects.

    Her terror and her resolve were both so great that the brandy could scarce affect them. But she was able to breathe more easily; in fact, she felt a trifle warm across her breasts and belly. She did not move. She did not know what he wanted her to do. Submission was the only card in her deck, and she played it. And waited.

    He could see her waiting, feel her nervous tension. Damn, did she expect him to attack her? Was she so certain of her appeal? He laughed softly at that; any woman would have appeal to a ship full of men in the middle of an ocean.

    Any port in a storm.

    But the storm within him did not rage so fiercely as all that. Not at all. Though he could admit to himself that he had never been so buffeted by the force of passion as he was now, with her. She stirred something up within him long buried and almost forgotten, an emotion that he did not care to examine and find a name for, an emotion that had nothing to do with what had consumed him for so many years: survival. No, with her in the room, on his ship, he did not think of survival. He wanted her. He would have her. He called it passion. Consuming, burning passion. But he would not let her see it.

    The power of his lust for her battered her with an almost physical force. She would not have believed such a thing was possible. This path to destruction was very wide indeed. She had been told of it, of course, been warned against the lure of the sensual. She had listened and accepted, but she had not believed, not in her heart. How could she have believed that the urge to mate would supplant all other desires? She had never experienced such a thing, had never even seen it in others. Until now. The captain was awash with it, the current of his lust carrying him as surely as the sea carried the ship. But why was he doing nothing? Was this the normal way? Was there something she was supposed to do? He had brought her down here for one purpose and one only; she would not again be deluded into looking for mercy from him. He had no mercy. He had only lust, a lust that beat against her senses like a hammer. She could not dissuade him, he was a pirate, after all, but she could lose his favor and if she did, she would die. She would most surely die. God forgive her, but she did not want to die. The captain, studying her now with smoldering eyes and a relaxed stance that suggested more of contained tension than ease, was her bulwark against death. So she told herself, and every word of it was true, but the fire of his desire, so apparent in his light eyes, was causing an answering kindling within her. It was only desire that he gave her, she insisted, not strength and honor and compassion, not from him. He was a pirate and merciless. And he wanted her. But did he want her enough?

    Her eyes searched his and she increased the fervor of her silent plea.

    I want you, I want you, I want you, I want you ...

    The captain groaned softly and threw himself into his bunk, where he lounged with feigned ease against the bulkhead. He would not touch her, didn't dare to, or he'd disgrace himself by spilling his seed all over her torn blue gown. But he had shown her that he wouldn't attack her, and that demonstration of his willpower had taken up enough of his evening. It was time, past time, for her to keep the promise of her eyes. But he didn't dare touch her.

    "Undress, girl, so that we may begin," he commanded quietly, "while I bind my wound with my sash. I would not have the metallic scent of blood spoil our interlude."

    His words inspired her, though she kept her face a mask of submission. His blood would serve to hide her own; she would not betray her virginity to him, not when he so clearly wanted a practiced whore in his bed.

    He had been waiting for her to begin it. She was at fault for not disrobing the moment they entered the cabin; she prayed that he was not terribly angry with her for the delay. But she had never taken her clothes off in front of a man before, not even her father. It was more embarrassing than she would have thought. And worse was to come, God help her. Closing her eyes to block out the sight of him, she tugged at the laces that held her gown together at the back.

    He watched her hands go to her back, her tightly corseted bosom thrusting forward with the motion, her eyes closed and her head back. She was a skilled temptress, this one. This was how she would look at the moment of her pleasure; she was giving him an advance peek. Damn her.

    "Open your eyes, girl, and look at me," he commanded, not so quietly now.

    She obeyed him. To do otherwise would have put the knife to her own throat. How could she do this? He was devouring her with his eyes. There was a tick pulsing irregularly near his mouth. Oh God ...

    He was furious with her.

    She stared at him, her face a mask of careful control, as she continued to remove her clothing. It was not done awkwardly, not by any means, but it was done slowly, almost lethargically, reluctantly, teasingly. This was worse than with her eyes closed. Shining eyes of jeweled aquamarine were leveled at him, taunting him with her self-control when his was so nearly spent.

    "Do you dawdle, girl? Why, when all you do is delay the storm's fury?" he whispered, urging her to complete the task he had set for her. "We shall ride the crest of passion's storm together, girl, and when we are both foaming white, we will trough until the next swell of passion lifts us up. Again and again we will ride the storm. As the sea is unending and unstoppable, so is this," he promised.

    She hardly understood him; his metaphors had no meaning for her, but her breasts tingled with sudden heat and there was a dull throbbing in the pit of her stomach. The exact meaning of his words escaped her. The meaning in his eyes did not. Burning desire and extravagant appreciation she read there, and she felt a small flush of pleasure that he was so pleased. She did not look for a reprieve that she knew she would not see.

    When she was down to her corset and hose, she stopped. Her eyes never left his. To the best of her will, she had obeyed his command, striving to please him on this unfamiliar ground. But now ... did he ask for more? Could she give him more?

    "Why do you stop?" he chided. "Surely I must see all of my portion. 'Tis my right."

    Yes, she was his plunder and he must see that his captain's portion was well met in her. Cargo, plunder, captive, girl: it was how he saw her, how he defined her. But, God, it was not true. She would survive this!

    She was thankful that he did not set himself upon her like a starving dog. There was some dignity left to her in that he allowed her to quietly disrobe before he defiled her. Faint laughter at such a juxtaposition of words rose to turn her lips up in a wry smile. She had sunk far to be thankful that a pirate was gentle in his rape. It was the truth. She was not the woman she had been this morning. Now, survival shone brightly on any terms. And, truthfully, he had been nothing but gentle with her.

    But the day was far from over.

    The corset also laced in the back, in the English fashion. The ties did not trouble her, not this time, nay, they sprang easily apart, and with unintentional hesitancy she let the corset slip from her shoulders and down her arms, catching it at the last moment on her fingers before forcing herself to let it fall to the floor.

    The captain did not see it that way. She was deliberately provoking him with her harlot's tricks, deliberately fanning his already scorching fire with her languid movements and inch by slow inch revelation of her nudity. Oh, what a fire burned in him. He had never in his life experienced anything like it. But he would not show her the effect she had on him, not when her eyes said, "Take me," and her face said, "Go rot."

    And, as he had at every other moment in his life when faced with high stakes and an empty hand, he bluffed.

    Never taking his eyes from hers, he smiled and invited, "You do that very well, as I'm certain you know. Would you be so kind as to do me the same service?"

    She could make no sense of his remark and she heard no invitation. She heard a command, as all his wishes were to her. He must think her an idiot. Or reluctant. Pray God he thought her an idiot; to be considered reluctant was to be soon dead. This must be the way of the bedroom, the way between a man and a woman. Of course, she would not know that, but he did. Yes, it made sense, she reasoned, grappling with her panic at having to touch him in such an intimate and domestic fashion; a wife preparing herself for her husband and then doing the same service for him. Yes, she could see the logic of it. And the seductiveness. Intimacy and trust would be part of such a moment, the tender disrobing of a loved one in preparation for rest. But she was no wife. And he was not her husband. They were not going to rest on that narrow bed in the corner. For a brief flash, she had an image of her mother performing in just such a fashion for her father. She rejected that picture violently; to think of her mother and father now would spell her doom. There was nothing of them in this. She must think of nothing, of no one, but this man. This man, and his pleasure, was the key to her survival.

    On shaky legs she walked to him. His eyes captured hers, compelling her to look at him. His eyes glowed like melting amber, and she felt the heat of the brandy sear her again, sending a throbbing pulse to beat at the tips of her breasts and at the juncture of her legs. It was disconcerting and distracting and oddly compelling. She didn't wonder at brandy's popularity. When she reached him, she knelt at his feet, preparing to start at his shoes, just as she did for her sisters.... Banish that image to rest with the others.

    He was not in any way like her sisters. He was coiled energy and pulsing strength beneath skin bronzed brown by sun reflected off an endless ocean. He was leashed passion and boiling sexuality. He was a storm ready to break, yet he held off, waiting for her, allowing her to control the moment as best she could. He did not attack her. He gave her time. For that, she thanked him because he was the captain and he did not have to show her such ... no, it was not mercy or compassion. It was because he followed pirate whim, and whims changed at the breath of the wind. In the storm of desire that now gripped him, the winds would blow violently and erratically.

    His shoes she removed first and then his stockings; his breeches she would save for last. The captain leaned forward so that she could more easily remove his waistcoat of fine silk faille, a rich gray in color, though stained and sweat-soaked. He wore no matching coat. Odd that she was just now noticing what he wore. His eyes had captured her with their blatant passion; she had seen nothing else. His cravat was simply looped and gave her less trouble than her laces had done; the linen of his shirt clung to him damply and held a strong odor, an odor of salt and sea and dried blood. Impossible that she should be bending over a man, undressing him, her breasts bobbing and swaying less than an arm's length from his face. Impossible that she should feel his breath on her bared and sensitive skin. Impossible that his chest should be as dark as his face and rippling with long, sleek muscles. He was lithe and hard, one muscle lying in twisted cords next to another, overlapping in shared strength, twitching with suppressed energy.

  He was not repulsive.

     He should have been. He was a butchering pirate, fodder for the gallows, and a scourge to all decent folk. But he was magnificent in form and strength and gentle with her.., and there was something calling out to her from the shadows in his sun-bright eyes, something of tenderness and pain and lost redemption. Impossible. He was a pirate.

     He watched desire flame softly in her cool eyes as she touched him, brushing her fingers over his skin as she slipped his shirt from his shoulders. It was a caress, almost. She was good, damn good, at her game, feeding his passion while she kept hers in rigid check. It was a contest as to who would break first. He understood that as he read the careful distance in her eyes if not in her soft hands. She was a cool one, stoking the fire to a blaze without getting singed. And he was ablaze; he had never burned so hot or so bright, certainly never for so long as he had with her. She was a temptress, a naked and submissive handmaiden, her head bent to her task, baring his skin bit by bit as her ripe bosom brushed against his thigh ....

     With the barest hesitation, she reached for the buttons on his breeches, his last remaining garment.

     With no hesitation at all, the captain cursed and grabbed her by the arms, hauling her up the length of his torso until she lay sprawled across him.

     "Damn you, gid," he choked out with a laugh, "you win."

    Stunned by his curse and numbed by his action, she could only think, Win what?

     The numbness did not last. His mouth invaded hers, anticipating a response that she felt compelled to give. Without knowing it, he tutored her. She mimicked his every move, his every groan, hoping to please him. Knowing she had to please him or die. His tongue plunged into her mouth and she responded in kind. His hands swept over her skin as hers did over his, feeling the thick muscles of his biceps as his felt the silky contours of her buttocks and waist. Lifting her up, he fastened his mouth to her breast, suckling like a babe. She watched, fascinated and horrified at once. Lifting her higher, he threw her onto her back, positioning his knees between her legs. Copying him, she lifted her head to lick his flat nipple, urging the tiny bud to erection. The space between her legs widened with the gentle pressure of his. Groaning, he fell atop her. She could only think that it was very odd that he did not crush her with his superior weight. His mouth, teeth and tongue in full play, slid from her mouth to her throat and shoulders and breasts before moving back up again to her mouth. And the space between her legs grew ever wider.

     The captain, his mouth on her nipple, touched the juncture of her legs with the tips of his fingers. She was wet with her passion.

     Without any thought at all as to the appropriateness of her response, she gasped and jerked under his touch.

     "So, you are ready for me," he murmured against her skin, shifting until his mouth brushed her ear.

     "Yes," she answered in complete ignorance as to his meaning, "I am ready." She knew what was to come, understood the anatomy and biology of copulation, understood that he would tear her and that she would bleed and that she must persuade him that her blood was his; her parents had been thorough and precise in their explanations, but she understood nothing of passion. Passion now left her dazed and weak, her limbs loose and her breathing harsh. She understood nothing of what she was feeling, but she was ready.

    He hardly heard her. Plunging in to the hilt, having waited far longer for her than any man should have to wait, the captain shouted his satisfaction. He completely drowned out her loud gasp as he entered. She was a snug harbor for a man. Her "gentleman" must have been a doddering old man to leave her so tight. Two thrusts, three, four, and it was over. She was a delectable portion, after all.

    "Yes, girl," he murmured against her throat, "you won most handily."

    Not moving, a tear falling from the corner of her eye, she wondered, Have I?