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 wound sensitive.
She looked like a washerwoman in a fine lady’s clothes, one who’d been in a fistfight or other battle.
But then, she had been in a battle, she had been in a constant battle since the moment O’Neill had attacked the Americana.
Virginia walked over to a porthole, which she levered open. It was a beautiful spring day, the sky blue and cloudless, the ocean almost flat, and she was amazed at how serene the sea was after the horror of the night before. She strained for a glimpse of land or even a seagull, but saw neither. Virginia left the porthole open and stepped out onto the deck.
She espied him instantly. O’Neill had his back to her, standing with an officer who was steering the ship, his legs braced wide apart, his arms apparently folded in front of his chest. She felt an odd breathless sensation as she stared at him, one she did not care for. He turned slightly—the man had the senses of a jungle tiger—and their gazes locked.
He nodded.
She ignored his gesture and walked over to the railing, only too late realizing that this was very close to the spot where she would have been washed overboard if he hadn’t rescued her.
She clung to the rail, closing her eyes and lifting her face to the warm May sun. But inside, she was shaken to the core. Last night, she had almost died. It was an experience she hoped never to repeat.
A distinct recollection of the feel of his strong arms wrapping around her, and then the sensation of being pressed deeply against his body, overcame her. Virginia stood very still, allowing her eyes to open, reminding herself that he was the enemy and that would never change—not until he let her go free.
“A fine spring day,” an unfamiliar voice said cheerfully behind her.
Virginia started, turning.
A plump man with curly gray hair and dancing brown eyes smiled at her. He wore a brown wool jacket, britches and stockings—he could have been strolling the streets of Richmond, except for the lack of a hat, cane and gloves. “I’m Jack Harvey, ship’s surgeon,” he said, giving her a courtly bow.
She smiled uncertainly, sensing that he was a good man—unlike his superior. “Virginia Hughes,” she said.
“I know.” His smile was wide. “Everyone knows who you are, Miss Hughes. There are no secrets on board a ship.”
Virginia absorbed that and helplessly darted a glance at O’Neill. He seemed oblivious to her presence on his deck now, his back remaining to her and Harvey.
“How are you holding up?” Harvey asked. “And should I take a look at that temple of yours?”
“It’s sore,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. “I am holding up as well as can be expected, I think. I have never been abducted before.”
Harvey met her gaze, grimacing. “Well, you may know that as far as Devlin is concerned, this is a first for him, as well. He’s taken hostages before, but never women or children. He always frees the women and the children.”
“How wonderful to be an exception,” she said with bitterness.
“Has
