One of his mates cleared his throat meaningfully and the sailor snatched off his hat, crumpling it into a ball. “M-M-Miss Snow,” he stammered. “Didn’t know you were about. ’Twas hardly fit talk for a lady’s ears.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to string you up from the yardarm, won’t we?”
The lad’s Adam’s apple bobbed with obvious distress and Lucy sighed. For some reason, no one could ever tell when she was joking. She knew that most of her acquaintances suspected she’d been born with no sense of humor at all. She was, however, blessed with a finely honed sense of the absurd.
The weathered sailor in the peacoat shoved his way forward as if fearing she might actually weave a noose of her delicate shawl. “Allow me to escort you to your cabin, Miss Snow. ’Tisn’t safe for a young lady of quality to be roamin’ ’bout the deck after dark.”
He gallantly offered her his arm, but the patronizing note in his voice struck the wrong chord with Lucy.
“No, thank you,” she said coolly. “I believe I shall take my chances with Captain Doom.”
Tilting her nose to a regal angle, she sailed past them, ignoring the discordant murmur that rose behind her. Some perverse seed of rebellion drove her away from the narrow companionway leading to her cabin and toward the deserted stern.
She studied Lord Howell’s memoirs for a moment, then tossed them over the aft rail into the churning froth of the ship’s wake. The leather-bound book sank without a trace.
“Sorry, Sylvie,” she whispered to her absent friend.
Since Lord Howell was an old friend of her father’s, she suspected the Admiral had only recommended the book because of its flattering, if somewhat exaggerated, accounts of his own cunning exploits during the Americans’ ill-mannered rebellion against England.
She wondered how her father was faring on his overland voyage. Since his untimely leg wound had forced him to retire from His Majesty’s service six years ago, the Admiral had never missed a chance for a sea voyage, even one as tame as the journey from their summer home in Cornwall to their modest mansion in Chelsea on the bank of the Thames.
She drew her shawl close around her. True to its fickle nature, London society had spurned all things French except for their fashions. The brisk wind blowing off the North Atlantic Sea whipped up Lucy’s skirt and bit through her thin petticoat. But she could bear that discomfort better than being trapped in the stifling confines of her cabin, her fate decided by the whims of others. If she stayed on deck long enough, perhaps the Captain’s half-deaf mother would retire for the evening and Lucy would be spared bellowing at her over the galley dining table.
Lucy usually found a ship by night soothing to her senses, but the peace she sought drifted just out of her reach, her solitude tainted by restlessness. Even the low-pitched music of male voices working in perfect accord seemed muted and distant.
She frowned, licking away the sea salt that flecked her lips. In the rising mist, sound should carry with the clarity of a ringing bell, but the night was draped in silence as if the sea were holding its breath with her. She strained her eyes, seeing nothing but fog swirling up from the inky darkness and the rising moon flirting with tattered patches of clouds.
Chill ribbons of mist coaxed their way through the gauzy muslin of her gown, dampening her bare skin with their greedy touch. The sailors’ tales of Captain Doom haunted her. On such a night it took little imagination to envision a phantom ship stalking the seas in search of prey. Lucy could almost hear the chant of its betrayed sailors vowing vengeance, the hollow bong of a bell that would seal their doom.
She shook off a delicious shiver. She could only imagine what the Admiral would say if he caught her indulging in such whimsy.
She was turning away from the rail to seek the more mundane comforts of her cabin when the veil of darkness parted and the ghost ship glided into view.
Lucy’s heart slammed into her rib cage, then seemed to stop beating altogether. She clutched the rail, her shawl falling unheeded to the deck.
A glimmer of moonlight stole through the clouds as the sleek black bow of the phantom schooner crested the waves, its towering spars enshrouded by mist, its rigging glistening like the web of a deadly spider. Ebony sails billowed in the wind, whispering instead of flapping. The vessel sailed in eerie silence with no lanterns, no sign of life, no hint of mercy.
Lucy stood transfixed, mesmerized by a primitive thrill of fear. Although the wind whipped her hair across her face and fed the hungry sails of the phantom ship, she seemed to be standing in a vortex of airlessness. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.
It was then that she saw the ship’s Jolly Roger rippling from the highest spar—a man’s hand, ivory against a sable background, squeezing scarlet drops of blood from a captive heart. Her fist flew to her breast as she battled the absurd notion that it was her heart, no longer beating of its own will, but thundering in accord with the dark command of the ghost ship’s master. If she was the only one to see the ship, then surely its grim message was meant for her.
The phantom ship came about with lethal grace. Remembering the sailor’s story, Lucy pressed her eyes shut, knowing the ship would be gone when she opened them. A poignant sense of loss tightened her throat. There was no place in her neatly ordered life for such dark fantasy, yet the ship’s unearthly beauty had touched some secret corner of her soul.
Cannonfire blazed against the night sky. Lucy’s eyes flew open in shock as the ghost ship fired a very earthly warning shot over their bow in the universal demand for surrender.
CHAPTER TWO
IN THAT FIRST DAZZLING BURST OF LIGHT, the name carved on the phantom ship’s bow was forever emblazoned in Lucy’s memory: Retribution.
Hoarse cries of alarm and the stampede of running feet shook the deck of the Tiberius as the panicked crew wavered between battle and surrender. Lucy was jerked from her openmouthed astonishment by a rough hand on her arm. The young sailor who had earlier jeered the mere existence of Captain Doom pulled her away from the rail with a familiarity he wouldn’t have dared only moments before.
“You’d best take shelter in your cabin, miss. This looks to get ugly.” His bold demeanor could not hide a complexion chalky with terror.
Lucy found herself dragged through the fray and shoved none too gently toward the main companionway. Obeying without thought, she flew down the narrow passage, thankful for once to be unencumbered by heavy skirts and petticoats. She slammed the door of her cabin behind her and whirled around in the middle of the floor.
A fresh salvo of cannonfire shuddered the hold. Lucy dropped to her knees and clapped her hands over her ears, choking back a frantic scream. As a child, she had once scampered into the garden only to plunge through an enormous spiderweb strung across the path. She had beat at the sticky fibers with her small hands, screaming in terror. She felt again that same helpless fear. She couldn’t bear being trapped like an animal with no control over her fate.
She could still remember the Admiral’s contemptuous words as he had watched her sniffle into Smythe’s crisp waistcoat while the servant patiently plucked the tattered web from her hair. Silly little chit. Given to hysteria just like her mother. French blood will tell every time.
Lucy’s hands curled into fists and fell away from her ears. Her back straightened. She was Lucinda Snow, daughter of Admiral Sir Lucien Snow, and she’d be damned if she’d let some ridiculous ghost pirate frighten her into hysterics.
Spurred to practical action, she rifled through her tidy valise, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon. An ivory-handled letter opener was her only find. She slipped off her shoes so she could move silently if the need arose and tucked the letter opener into one of her stockings. Then she grabbed the low-burning lantern and crouched down beside her rumpled bunk to wait.
A masculine bellow of terror and the thunder of running footsteps sounded overhead. Lucy gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. The wire handle of the lanter
n bit into her palm. She knew the lantern was useless as a weapon. The dangers of fire aboard ship had been too deeply ingrained in her since childhood. She would die a gruesome death before hurling the lantern at an attacker.
She feared that noble notion was about to be tested when the door to her cabin crashed inward and a hulking shape appeared in its place. Lucy killed the lantern’s flame and squeezed her eyes shut in the childish hope that if she couldn’t see the intruder, he wouldn’t be able to see her either.
But all of her hopes, present and future, were smothered by the gag thrust into her mouth and the dank length of burlap tossed over her head.
“Damn it to blasted hell!”
The oath rolled from Captain Doom’s lips like the thunder of cannonfire. The deck listed beneath his long, furious strides, but he never stumbled, never faltered, his flawless balance as finely tuned as each of his other senses. Had any of his enemies seen him in that moment, they would have sworn lightning bolts actually could sizzle from his narrowed eyes.
“I can’t believe you brought a woman on board.” He swung past the dangling rigging with the natural swagger of a born sailor. “You know how superstitious Tarn and Pudge are. They’re liable to jump ship if they find out.”
The ebony-skinned giant marching in his wake appeared unaffected by his captain’s ire. Only someone who knew him well could have detected the sarcasm in his melodic bass voice. “Shall I fetch the cat-o’-nine-tails, sir, so you can flog me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” the Captain growled. “I should have left you to hang in Santo Domingo when I had the chance.”
Doom ducked his head at the precise moment it would have struck the foreboom and folded his lean frame into the hold. His companion dropped after him, landing with a cat’s lithe grace on the pads of his bare feet.
The Captain rubbed his beard in frustration. “Have you been at sea so long you didn’t notice she was a bloody woman?”
“She squirmed more like a rat. She was soft in spots, but since the Admiral has retired, I thought he might have gone soft himself. Like a rotten peach.”
“I do believe you’ve gone soft. In the head.”
“The cabin was listed in the ship’s log just as you said it would be—L-U-C-period-S-N-O-W.”
Doom had never before been so tempted to curse his mate’s gift of being both literate and literal. Steering his way through the shadowy hold, he shook his head in disgust. “If she’s of any importance, we’ll have the whole Channel Fleet down on our heads by dawn. Couldn’t you even get a name out of her?”
“Sorry, sir. The iron maiden was occupied. Kevin was sleeping in it. Besides, you’re the one with the reputation for terrorizing innocent maidens.”
Doom shot him a dark look as they halted before a door bolted from the outside. “She’s probably mute with terror already. You’re enough to give any proper young English virgin nightmares.”
As if in full agreement, his mate flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile, emphasizing the raven purity of his skin. His bald head had been polished to a sheen so bright the captain caught a glimpse of his own scowling reflection. There was no man Doom would rather have at his side during battle, but his composure in the face of such disaster made Doom want to choke him.
The Captain turned toward the door. With a gesture from another lifetime, long gone and best forgotten, he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and smoothed his cambric shirt.
“Are you going to interrogate her or court her?” his companion rumbled.
“I haven’t decided. Maybe neither. Maybe both.” All traces of humor fled his face. The grim twist of his lips would have given even those most skeptical of his legend pause for reflection. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find out why the morally upstanding Admiral Snow had a woman sequestered in his cabin.”
With that vow, Doom lifted the makeshift bolt, unlocked the door, and slipped into the sumptuous confines of his own quarters.
A child, was Doom’s first horrified thought. His mate had stolen a little girl.
A rapid blink proved his perception flawed. Oddly enough, it wasn’t his captive’s size, but her stern demeanor that made her look no more than twelve years of age. She sat rigidly straight in the spartan chair as if having her ankles bound to its legs and her hands tied behind her were mere inconveniences to be tolerated like a pair of too-tight boots.
He had been dreading her hysteria, but the pale cheeks below the sable silk of the blindfold were free of tearstains. Her lips were pursed in a faintly bored expression as if she wished someone would happen by and offer her tea. Her transparent determination to ignore his presence both irritated and amused him.
His gaze raked her in blunt appraisal. His mate had taken no chances. The only thing unbound about her was her hair. It streamed down her back in a fall of ash-blond silk, unmarred by a single frivolous curl.
Doom scowled. The silly garment she wore troubled him. Had his mate dragged her out of her bunk? Surely fashions hadn’t changed that much in six years. He remembered only too well when he’d been intimately acquainted with every lace, hook, and button of a woman’s elaborate toilette.
His captive’s high-waisted gown was shamelessly devoid of such restraints. The skirt of the gossamer sheath clung to her parted legs, the sheer petticoat beneath more enticement than hindrance. Silk stockings, the delicate blue of a robin’s egg, enveloped her slender feet. The angle of her bound arms thrust her small breasts upward to strain against the thin fabric of her bodice. Doom’s gaze lingered there of its own volition. His mate had been wrong. Her softness was not that of rotten peaches, but of fresh peaches. Ripe, tender peaches.
His too-long-deprived body surged at the image with a violence that made him ache. His captive might have the deceptive appearance of a child, but his response to her was definitely that of a man. Alarmed by the rapacious slant of his thoughts, Doom strode to the teakwood sideboard bolted to the cabin wall and attempted to douse the passions she’d ignited with a slug of brandy.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nursing the childish urge to punish her for his weakness. But the vulnerability of her posture gutted his anger, tinging it with contempt for what he was about to become.
He put the brandy glass aside, steeling himself to be as dispassionate and remorseless as his task required. There was no room for passion or pity in the black heart of Captain Doom. Especially if he was dealing with Lucien Snow’s whore.
He moved to stand directly in front of her, hands locked at the small of his back and feet splayed, his silence a blatant challenge. He watched, secretly amused, as a flush of pink crept into the hollows beneath her elegant cheekbones. He would have almost sworn it was caused not by fear, but anger.
Lucy had known she was in trouble the moment this man entered the cabin. She had recognized in the space of a skipping heartbeat that he was not the same man who had abducted her, the man whose hands had been almost gentle as he apologized for frightening her, his voice melodious and soothing.
There was nothing soothing about this man. The very air around him crackled with threat. Lucy feared she was in the presence of Captain Doom himself, no phantom but flesh and blood—solid, disturbing, and only inches from her face.
Being deprived of vision had heightened her other senses. Her ears were tuned to the harsh whisper of air from his lungs. Her nostrils flared at the scent of him—an alluring brew of salt spray, brandy, and the pure spice of male musk. He smelled like the predator he was and she knew instinctively that if she allowed him to scent her fear, she was done for.
She was thankful her initial panic had been swallowed by outrage at being trussed up like a Christmas goose. When he had first entered the cabin, she had refrained from speaking for fear she would gibber in terror. Now she was simply too obstinate to be the first to break the taut silence.
Back straight, Lucinda, the Admiral snapped from memory. Feet together like a little lady.
But Lucy could not bring her feet togethe
r. They were bound to opposite chair legs, making her feel exposed, vulnerable, and in the wake of the Admiral’s imaginary rebuke, deeply ashamed.
The stranger’s gaze seared her cheeks, but she refused to avert her face from his scrutiny. Her jaw was beginning to ache from being clamped so hard. She could almost envision him standing arrogantly before her, his legs braced against the faint swell and dip of the cabin floor.
“Your name.”
Lucy flinched as if he had struck her. His husky words were a demand, not a request. Had he claimed her soul with such merciless authority, she would have been equally as powerless to resist him.
“Lucinda Snow,” she replied, her only defense the shards of ice dripping from her voice. “My friends call me Lucy, but I think under the circumstances, you’d do well to address me as Miss Snow.”
Her captor was silent for several heartbeats, but his excitement was palpable. Gone was the barely repressed violence, replaced by a ferocious satisfaction she sensed might be even more dangerous to her.
“Miss Snow?” he finally said. “May I assume there’s no Mr. Snow fretting over your untimely disappearance?”
His voice was both rough and smooth, like well-aged whiskey steeped in smoke. She suspected its raspy timbre was designed for disguise, but it still sent a shiver of raw reaction down her spine. She prayed he did not see it.
“Admiral Sir Snow is my father and I can assure you that when he finds out I’ve been abducted by brigands, he’ll be a man given to action, not fretting.”
“Ah, a worthy opponent.” The contempt in his words chilled her.
His boot heels clicked in muted rhythm as he began to pace in a maddening circle around her chair. Not knowing exactly where he stood was even more disconcerting than having him glare at her. She couldn’t shake the sensation that he was only biding his time, seeking her most vulnerable spot before he pounced for the kill.