The Prize - Brenda Joyce

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wasn’t sure how long she sat there when a sailor shoved his face at her. “Get inside, Captain says so.”

      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 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

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