Submission

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Submission Fiona Vance

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Copyright © 2009 by Fiona Vance ISBN: 978-1-936751-17-4 Cover by Annie Melton All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Etopia Press electronic publication: May 2011 http://www.etopia-press.net

~ Dedication ~ To my husband: Who believes, who does, who loves, who makes dreams come true, who knows the best stuff you can buy comes from the Internet, even if he can’t find his way out of the Vegas airport. Ab initio, ad infinitum, totus tuus.

Submission Heat pooled up around her, rising in a delicious tickle that raised gooseflesh from the bottom of her exposed derrière to the nape of her neck. A sigh of pleasure escaped on the ripples of a half-laugh. “Silence!” The sting of the riding crop across her bottom brought a sharp end to the laughter and sent a jolt of fire to her loins. “How many times must I tell ye? Keep yer mouth shut, blast yer eyes, or I’ll chain ye to the keel!” Juliet lay still, blindfolded, arms and legs bound to the bedposts, reveling in the coil of pleasure between her legs that she dare not verbalize again. It was all she could do to not grind her throbbing nub into the bed sheets, but if she moved, Captain Black would be extremely displeased. Another burn of the crop low on her backside, just at the crease of her thighs, then the slow drag of the leather tip down her leg, past the tender flesh inside her knee, her ankle, and back up to the juncture of her thighs. Another flare of intense desire. “I asked ye a question.” The captain’s growl, warm against her ear, raised another delicious tickle through her entire being. He’d asked a question? She couldn’t help it; she ground her hips into the bed, and another surge of intense pleasure washed over her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You were saying?”

He rubbed his hands over her buttocks, kneading into the soft flesh at the tops of her thighs, his thumbs stopping just at the apex of her trouble. She moved her legs, trying somehow to attract his touch into that spot, but her ankles were bound to the bedposts. Her left ankle pressed a tad too tightly against the wood. “Be a dear and loosen the left foot? It’s a tad tight.” “Silence,” the captain snapped. Then in his own voice, “The left, you say?” “Yes.” The silk drapery cord loosened, and the tasseled end tickled her instep. “Better?” “Quite. Thank you.” The riding crop came back down upon her backside again and raised another flash of sharp desire. “Be done w’ yer babble, wench. I’m here to plunder your booty, not play lady’s maid.” The bonds around her left ankle loosened completely. Then the right. Then he was behind her, his hands teasing over the skin of her legs, her buttocks, closer and closer to the place she needed him to be. The heat in her womb rose in waves, rippling over her in the wake of his fingers across her thigh, up over the curve of her buttocks, around her throbbing sex, circling, approaching, but never quite arriving… “For God’s sake, Henry, get on with it. You’re driving me mad!” He yanked her hips up and drove into her from behind. An intense stab of pleasure rushed through

her, bursting from her lips in a cry of pure abandon. Each thrust pushed her further, each slap of his thighs against her backside called her closer to the heat and joy and desire all vying to consume her first. She didn’t try to hold it back, not now. She let herself go with it, matching the energy of each thrust as if racing her own body to the climax, onward and onward. Henry reached around her and found her nub with his fingers, and her climax rushed up to meet her. Henry came with her then, and another ripple of delight consumed her as he reached his fullest length and throbbed within her. He groaned her name, and she cried out in answer. She lay still for quite some time, catching her breath, her body pleasantly humming. That one had been rather good, even if she had been forced to orchestrate most of the action herself. Henry still lay puffing like a freight train on her back. “Henry, dear, I can’t breathe.” She wriggled to dislodge him, but her wrists were still tied to the posts. “It’s Captain Black to you, wench,” he said, then kissed her shoulder and heaved himself up. He patted her bottom affectionately and rolled off her. “Perhaps I’ll leave you tied, eh? Could you imagine the look on the stable boy’s face in the morning?” “I shan’t ask why you’d have the stable boy in your bedroom.” Juliet smiled vaguely, content to lie in the down featherbed a while longer while her

breathing returned to normal. With Henry, it was always someone else finding her the next day; the maid, the chimney sweep, the fellow who delivered the produce. The best was his old biddy aunt, the dowager Marchioness of Hadleyshire, who was the unwitting financier of these little soirées. Not to mention owner of the house, the grounds, and every stitch of Henry’s clothing and existence. If she only knew. “Perhaps I shall lie here for another few weeks until Auntie sends the ragman to claim all your draperies in payment of your gambling debts.” Henry gave her a plump, mustachioed smile, more suited to an accountant than a murderous pirate of the seven seas. “Certainly not,” he said, untying her wrists with thick fingers. “The marchioness keeps me destitute, never a feather to fly with. There’s not a stitch left in this place of any value, even to the ragman.” He reached over and gave her a pat on the cheek as she sat up. “My rags are perfectly safe, my dear.” “Well, you should put them on then, before we go back down to the other guests.” “I daresay. Wouldn’t be sporting to distract the others from their play with my raw masculinity.” Juliet grinned. Henry Warren was about as raw and masculine as the cherub statuary that frolicked throughout the house and grounds. Nevertheless, he was—and had—one of the club’s most enthusiastic members. If only he could learn to be a little more…assertive. Funny how men were happy to bluster and try to dominate everyone around them by day, servants and wives alike, until one

got them naked and needy. Timid titmice, the lot of them. Still, at least Henry enjoyed being on top and made a fine go of whatever scenario they drew. She was always happy when she pulled his name from the hat. She heaved a heavy sigh and sat up. If only the uninitiated of the ton knew exactly what kind of “literature” the London Literary Club met so regularly to “discuss.” “Be a dear and help me with my buttons,” she said, “or I shall indeed be giving the servants something to talk about.” *** Juliet brushed back a wisp of hair before joining the others in the music room. The dashing George Russell, soon-to-be Earl of Danbury, reclined in a deep wing chair with a brandy propped upon his crossed knee, while Tarkenton plunked out an absolute sacrilege on the old pianoforte. Handsome, both of them, but strictly bottoms. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate beneath the marble mantle, throwing a gentle flicker onto the red-and-gold-striped wallpaper. Despite Henry’s complaints of poverty, his allowance was quite sufficient to keep the place opulently appointed and to keep his friends properly shot in the neck with Portuguese brandy. “Miss me?” Juliet settled herself on the piano bench beside the spider-fingered Tarkenton and

gave him a peck on the cheek. He grinned but did not look up from his assault on the keys. “Always, my dear,” George Russell said from his wing chair, eyeing the last swig of brandy at the bottom of his glass. “And now that it’s clear that Hadleyshire hasn’t made off with you, it’s time to be going. Tarkenton’s racket is attracting all the neighborhood tomcats.” “Everyone else gone?” Juliet rose from her place beside Tarkenton and moved to the gilt and ebony settee across from George. “Ages ago. Don’t you have a party to prepare for tomorrow?” He tossed back the last of his brandy and set the snifter down on the side table, completely ignoring the square of lace set there for the purpose. “Sadly, yes,” Juliet said. “Charlotte and Pelham’s engagement party. You’ll be there, of course?” She rose from the settee and moved his glass from the polished wood onto the lace. “I don’t know why I let them talk me into these things. I suppose it’s because I’m a fool for true love.” George erupted into choking laughter. “What’s so funny?” “You are.” George gave himself one last cough to clear his throat. “The most cynical bird in town, endorsing true love.” “There’s nothing wrong with true love,” she said, “as long as it’s for other people. Besides, it’s not love that’s the problem. It’s when people muddle it up with money and sex and fidelity and call it marriage that everything becomes a muck

yard. One would have better luck combining champagne, nails, and goats’ milk; the result would be infinitely more digestible.” Tarkenton raised his head from the keys. A sublime silence fell as he ceased his banging. “What’s wrong with marriage?” Juliet met George’s glance and sighed. “Nothing at all,” she said. “’Tis an admirable affliction.” “I’ve always rather fancied mine,” Tarkenton said. George stood and stretched his shoulders. “And with that brilliant example of Juliet’s point, I’m off. While you and Henry were upstairs taking bloody forever, I pulled the short straw to host this month. Tuesday next, if you’ve nothing committed.” He shot a glance at Tarkenton, who had resumed his cat-calling. “I’ll have my man unstring the piano before then.” “Good idea.” Juliet grinned and grabbed her wrap from the rolled arm of the couch by the fire. “Allow me,” George said and deftly took the wrap from her hands. “No, no. I insist.” Tarkenton leaped from the piano bench and grasped at the other end, as if he and George had wagered on who could get most in her way. Men. They were so solicitous over the easy things, but something important, like love? Fidelity? Bah. Couple that with the fact that they were all mewling babes once their breeches came off, and she wondered why any woman past the age

of twelve could ever believe in the fantasy of marriage. She’d sooner believe the squat, gentle Henry a murderous pirate than any man a good husband. *** Juliette glanced out the carriage window as it pulled up the drive. A rush of fear made her stomach clench—there was a light on in the library.

Oh, please, don’t let Charlotte have arrived a day early! Juliet straightened her dress and ran a

hand over the dark tendrils that spilled from her bonnet. She must look a wreck. And she was certain she smelled more of Henry Warren than she cared to. She took the footman’s hand and stepped out of the carriage, wondering if she could sneak in through the kitchen and avoid her late night nuisance altogether. “It’s about time you returned.” The smooth baritone seemed to come from all around her, and she spun to try to locate it. The nuisance stepped out of the shadows and grinned at her. “One more cup of tea, I’d have crawled out of my skin.” “Wakefield!” Juliet placed a shaking hand to her heart. “You scared me witless, you rogue.” He took her hand and bent low to brush a kiss over her glove. His dark hair was invisible in the shadows, but the silky ends brushed against the delicate skin of her wrist. He raised his head and melted her with that rakish grin, the one end

quirking up and pressing his cheek into its dimple. His bright, blue eyes beckoned to her, cool and inviting like a woodland pool in springtime, but she knew they hid dangerous depths and jagged rocks beneath their deceptively calm surface. James Wakefield might be her oldest friend, but he was a rogue, and a blackguard, and a knave. “What on earth are you doing here this time of night?” Juliet asked, drawing her hand back. He didn’t let go. “Kissing the hand of a beautiful woman, who’s even more beautiful when she’s coming home late from a dark, scandalous assignation with…who was it this time? Alexander the Great? Attila the Hun? The Marquis de Sade himself, perhaps. No, wait, that was last month…” Juliet snatched her hand out of his and pushed past him up the flagstone walk. “Don’t be absurd. The Marquis de Sade’s in an asylum in France. Has anyone offered you supper?” “Several times. I’m not hungry; I’m just imposing on your hospitality for the night while those damned singing stevedores load the hold. We set sail for the Orient in the morning.” He stepped around her and opened the door. Juliet eyed him warily, then, with a practiced flourish of her wrap, she swept past him into the foyer and began untying her bonnet. “Elizabeth, dear, are you still up?” Juliet poked her head into the sitting room, still pulling off her bonnet, and almost collided with her portly maid. “Oh, there you are, dear. Could you please have a

late supper brought into the library for me? And bring a little something extra for Mr. Wakefield; otherwise, he’ll pick off my plate while protesting he doesn’t want anything, and I’ll go to bed hungry.” “You mean there’s a hunger yet unsated?” Wakefield raised a dark brow at her. “I thought your little club would at least serve hors d’œuvres.” Juliet slapped his arm. “Hush, or you can sleep in the stable with the other beasts.” The maid gazed from Juliet to Wakefield and back to Juliet, took her wrap and bonnet, then silently trundled down the hall. Juliet turned her back on him and headed for the library. “So what brings you to London? I thought you were out to sea for the ‘indefinite future.’” She stopped at the marble-topped sideboard and poured him a brandy. She thought about pouring herself a glass of port but decided against it. One always led to two, and she’d already had enough at Henry’s. Enduring the mindless prattle of an eager bride would be trial enough without a hangover. “Just a stop to reprovision,” Wakefield said. He took the brandy and sat down in the black and gilt salon chair beside the fire. Beneath the handsomely carved mantle, the flames had burned low, leaving ash-covered coals that throbbed with red heat. On the table beside him sat another empty snifter, as well as a tea tray with two pots and a plate of biscuit crumbs. “Been waiting long, have you?” Juliet asked.

He smiled that wicked, crooked smile at her, the one that Juliet figured women must find irresistible. The one that had always gotten him out of trouble after he’d gotten them into it as children. “Just wanted to say hello before I set sail again. It’s been quite some time.” “It has,” she said. “But your timing is atrocious. I should be in bed; I have a very important party to host tomorrow.” She dropped into the settee across from him and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. “An engagement party.” He chuckled softly. “You?” She looked up and glared down her nose at him. “Why not me?” She stood and reached across the space between them, took his brandy snifter out of his hand, and took a sip. A large one. She forced herself not to choke on the fumes that rose up the back of her nose. “You’re the second person this evening who’s implied I’m some kind of ogre that eats lovers.” “Don’t you?” He raised one dark slash of brow at her. “I thought your little club specialized in that sort of thing.” “Don’t start, Wakefield. You’ve already registered all your prudish complaints, no need to keep poking me about it. Besides, just because I wouldn’t marry you, doesn’t mean I despise the entire institution.” “Of course you do,” he said, taking his snifter back with a proprietary little tug. “You have your

little club to amuse you, and you believe you need nothing else.” She snatched the snifter out of his hand and downed the contents. The fumes made her eyes water, and she coughed once but spoke through it. “If men were capable of providing anything else, I’d be of quite a different opinion.” He glared at her a moment. “I’m not a prude,” he said. “I’m simply worried about you. One of these days, one of those…perverts…” “Perverts? Oh please, Wakefield, they’re not perverts. And there is absolutely no danger. It’s just harmless fun. You do know what fun is, don’t you?” “You know, Jules, there are deranged people in the world.” He rose and came to perch on the edge of her settee. He took the empty snifter from her hand and set it upon the lace doily atop the end table. Then he clasped her two small hands in his large warm ones. “What if someone gets…overzealous?” The warmth of his skin made her shiver in the relative chill of the library. His normally cool blue eyes reflected turbulent currents beneath, and Juliet closed her eyes to escape his gaze. Here we go again. Damned man, why couldn’t he stay away? She hated when he looked at her like that. Almost as if he gave a damn. She pulled her hands from his. The alcohol had gone to her head, and she wasn’t going to go around this bush again. “The club is perfectly safe. It’s very hush-hush, very exclusive, as you’d know if you’d

ever had the stones to accept any of my invitations. And no one gets overzealous. We use a code if we need to call a halt. For example…imagine I’ve tied you up…” “Tied me up!” “Oh, hush, Wakefield. Say I’ve tied you up, and the rope’s too tight and starting to cut. One might say, ‘Dear, the rope’s a tad tight, could you let it up a bit?’ But what fun would that be? There’s no real feeling of danger if you can just ask to be released.” “So you agree that it’s dangerous,” he said, leaning smugly back on the settee beside her with an air of checkmate about him. “Of course not. It just has to seem dangerous. That’s the fantasy.” She parted her lips in a way that was meant to unnerve him, then leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “Don’t you find danger…erotic?” “You mean me, personally?” “I mean you. Personally.” She ran her finger along the edge of his stubbled jaw, enjoying the rasp of it under her fingers. She knew it was the brandy making her toy with him, and she was vaguely aware that it made her not care. He deserved to be tormented. James Wakefield was probably the only man in the entire world who would have made a wonderful husband. If only he weren’t afraid of his own ballocks. She ran her finger down the cord of his neck, dipped it beneath his open collar, toyed with the loosened knot of his cravat. “Doesn’t it excite you? The danger, the intensity, the fear of not knowing

what will become of you, being totally at the mercy of another?” She leaned in and let her warm breath linger on the soft flesh beneath his ear. “It makes your heart race and your breath come quick and sharp, and the suspense of what each moment will bring makes even the barest touch as intense as pure flame.” He took her hand from his neck and stood, then walked away from her and came to rest before the fire. “Flames burn, Juliet.” Her heart fell and crashed upon the floor. Damn him. Damn him. James Wakefield might be her oldest and dearest friend, but the only thing that made his heart race was his ship. Or perhaps his first mate, some vindictive, jealous beast inside her added. But not her. Never her. She swept up the bits of her heart and stuffed them back inside, as she’d done many times in the past, each time swearing she’d never toss it to him again. Why she continued in this vein, year after year, was beyond her. Perhaps her mother had been right—God rest her soul—and she really was an addlebrained twit. “Tell me about this code,” Wakefield said from the fireplace. “Why do you care? It’s not as if you have the remotest interest in m—the club.” “Come now, Jules, don’t be an imp. You know I care about your welfare.” She pulled what was left of her dignity around her and straightened her shoulders. She would not let him make her cry. “We choose a word to stop the

other person if something truly does go wrong. Something like…” She looked about, and her eyes landed on his snifter. “Brandy.” “Brandy?” “Yes, brandy. Let’s say you have me tied up and are giving me little…swats.” “Swats?” “Yes, you know, with a riding crop.” “Riding crop!” “Oh, do be quiet, Wakefield, one would think you’re a myna bird. If you have me tied up, and something is wrong, say you swat a little too hard, I don’t say, ‘Oh, please stop!’ because that’s part of the script, so to speak, and you’re supposed to refuse. But if I say ‘brandy,’ you know it’s not part of the game, that something really is wrong, and you will stop and fix the problem.” “You actually let men beat you with riding crops?” “Wakefield!” “What if the fellow decides not to stop, even if you say ‘brandy’?” Juliet gaped at him. “He wouldn’t. That’s not how it’s done.” “But what if?” James insisted, sitting back down in the salon chair across from her and glaring at her, his eyes hard with challenge. “What if, one of these days, someone joins your little club who likes to play by his own rules? Who likes things rough and doesn’t stop when you cry brandy?” His blue eyes held her with passionate intensity. He leaned in, and Juliet’s mouth went

dry as the scent of brandy, warm on his breath, caressed her lips. So close. She had to swallow to speak, but damn him, he would not win this hand. “Perhaps overzealous would be a nice change,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze with devilmay-care candor. “Paunchy earls dressed as highwaymen and pirates lose their excitement after a while.” James laughed and sat back. “Playing at pirates, Jules? Still? You always did love to play at pirates. Come to think of it, you really did have this quirk of adventure play all your life, even as a child.” “Me? If you remember, it was always you luring us into one sort of mischief or another.” “And yet, if you remember, it was you who lured me into the grape arbor at my father’s place in the country.” James smiled and picked up his glass. It was empty. Juliet’s face heated. “That was aeons ago. We were just children.” James went to the sideboard and refilled his brandy, and then poured a second one and brought it to her. “Maybe so,” he said, “but I remember all the same.” He raised his glass to her and drained it. Juliet remembered too. She’d tried to seduce him, but he’d failed to perform. She’d called him a fop. He’d called her a whore. And it was the last time he’d succumbed to her seductions. She wished he’d stayed at sea. She wished James had never come back and reminded her of

all the things she’d done in the past and how she’d hurt him. She wished he hadn’t been such a clumsy lover at sixteen, such a prude at thirty. “You’re a cad, James,” she said, taking a sip of her brandy. “Bringing that up.” “You’re the one teasing me with your little club.” “I’m not teasing you. I’ve invited you a dozen times, and you always refuse. Impolitely, I might add. We’re meeting again Tuesday next at Danbury’s if you’re man enough.” Wakefield pressed back into the cushions. “I think not. I’ve no desire to be beaten by some masked woman with a riding crop.” “Would you prefer a man?” “Juliet!” She smiled and patted his arm. “You see why it would never have worked between us?” “Why, because you demand I sleep with a man?” “No,” she said. “Because I demand I do.” He glared at her, the summertime light of his eyes gone cold. “Thank you for your hospitality. I shall be gone with the tide.” With that, he stood and strode out of the room, his ire trailing him like musk. *** The sun barely rose the next morning, preferring to stay abed within its swaddling of clouds. Juliet threw an extra wrap about her

shoulders and stepped into the hall, stopping at the doorway to the guestroom. She felt terrible about her behavior the previous evening, about tormenting him so, and her banging head seemed determined to take revenge in Wakefield’s stead. She’d known that brandy was a bad idea. After all, it wasn’t James’s fault he was so upright and…traditional. He’d always been that way, even as a child. Mischievous, yes, but in the end, tradition and honor had always won out. Besides, it was in terribly poor taste to tease a man who had once made a public, smitten fool of himself offering for a girl two steps beyond his social reach. But it was his own fault, damn him. She’d have gladly married him and faced the scandal if he hadn’t been so damned…puritanical. He’d told her precisely what he thought of her that afternoon under the grape arbor, and again upon the several humiliating occasions thereafter when she’d failed to arouse any desire in him whatsoever. Afterward, she couldn’t abide his empty protestations of love, punctuated by chaste kisses that left her wanting more. And worse, his cold ability to ignore her most decadent seductions that left her feeling small and awkward and unwanted. How could he have expected her to marry him and face a lifetime of rejection? Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would. She paused before knocking. She should leave him to his last moments of solitude before he was off to sea, but she couldn’t. Apology or no, she

needed to see him once more before he went off for another year. She rapped on the door, then pushed it open and strode in. The room stood empty. The bed was made, and the coals in the grate had long gone cold. “Well, fine then,” she said. “Be off to sea without my apology. Serves you right.” But she still felt dreadful. And empty. And terribly, terribly old. She closed the door, and her stomach churned with a sudden, desperate intent. The idea bloomed in full flower, absurd, but brilliant. She would not replay this annual charade with him until she was old and dry and then look back on her life with regret. “Amelia!” She strode back down the hallway toward her rooms and met her maid at the head of the stairs. “Run and tell O’Hara to hitch the town coach and prepare a messenger, then hurry back to help me dress. I have an errand to run.” If Charlotte and her retinue arrived before she returned, they’d just have to begin preparing for the party without her. *** “Oh, Julie, it’s so wonderful to see you!” Juliet stood dripping rain from the ruffled brim of her hat as Lucy Beaufort came around the corner of the entryway to greet her. Lucy was always glad to see her, even when she arrived in the middle of

breakfast, unannounced, looking a complete wreck with her hat dripping rain on the black and white marble and her hem muddy beyond salvage. Lucy leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, careful not to bang her forehead on Juliet’s bonnet. “What on earth are you doing here so early? Nothing’s wrong, is it?” “No, no, everything’s fine. Listen. You remember my dear friend James Wakefield, the sea captain?” Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You mean the dashing rakehell with the devil’s own blue eyes, who asked you to marry him at your coming out, but whom you were too foolish to accept? Who then went on to make a fortune in shipping? That one?” “Don’t tease. This is serious,” Juliet said. “I need you to seduce him.” “Seduce him? But it’s nine in the morning! I think you’ve had a bit too much sun.” “Don’t be absurd, Lucy, it’s pouring buckets. And you don’t need to go through with it; you just need to lure him off his ship.” “Whatever for?” Juliet’s glee returned. Her plan was the pinnacle of pure, strategic genius. And it was damned devious, to boot. “We’re going to kidnap him!” “Shh!” Lucy said, pushing Juliet farther down the hall away from the dining room door. “Lucy, dear,” Lord Beaufort shouted from the dining room, “who’s that with you in the hall?”

“No one, Father,” Lucy called, then lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Are you mad? What do you mean, ‘kidnap him’?” “It’s brilliant! He said he was setting sail this morning, but they’re still in port; I had O’Hara go down and check. All you have to do is lure him off the ship to where Danbury and O’Hara will be waiting, and then…ta-da! We tie him up and throw him in the carriage. Danbury said he’d help, after he’d dressed, the dandy. We’re to stop back for him on our way to the docks. But we have to hurry; they could set sail at any moment.” “But…why?” The answer twisted in her gut. “Because I’m tired of loving him. Once we get him to Danbury’s I’m not letting him go until he admits he still loves me and agrees to marry me. And sleep with me. And if he won’t, then I’ll make it clear our acquaintance has come to an end and he can never speak to me, or drop in unannounced to turn my life upside down, ever again.” Lucy reached out and patted her hand. “Julie, dear, you’ve taken complete leave of your senses.” “So you’ll come?” Juliet said, grasping Lucy’s hands tightly in her own. Lucy gave her a sad smile. “I can’t go out at this hour; Father would question me to death. And if he ever found out about the club… No, Julie. I’m afraid you’ll have to do the seducing yourself.” ***

It was never going to work. She watched the manicured gardens of St. James’s pass by her carriage window in a dreary rain as O’Hara kept the horses trotting at a brisk clip. She hoped Danbury would be ready, the twiddle poop. If Wakefield sailed before they arrived, the opportunity would be lost, and she had no idea when he would be back ashore to give her another run. She had even less idea how she and Danbury were going to get him off that ship. Damn that Lucy. The carriage jolted her almost out of her seat. She peered out the rain-spattered window, and the carriage hitched again, still moving awkwardly forward, throwing her to the muddy floor. The carriage listed to its side and hurtled her against the door. Voices shouted from outside. The carriage righted itself, and then the horses abruptly jerked to a halt. A moment later, O’Hara sailed past her window from the driver’s seat and rolled end over end into the muddy roadway. “O’Hara!” Juliet opened the door, but the force of the carriage lurching into motion sent her sprawling back to the floor. Outside, someone shouted at the horses, and they broke into an agitated gallop. She peered back through the window to where O’Hara lay motionless in the road, growing smaller in the distance, until he vanished into the rainy gloom. “Help! My driver!” Juliet pounded on the roof. “Stop this carriage at once!”

Buildings blurred past her rainy window. This couldn’t be happening. She gripped her reticule with shaking fingers, struggling to think against the rising panic. What would become of her poor groom? O’Hara was as dear to her as a father. And her horses were going to be killed running all out on the slick pavement. She threw open the door to peer out, but again, the force of the moving carriage slammed it back at her. She tried again, throwing her body against it, hoping she didn’t end up rolling beneath the carriage wheels, and managed to wedge her body into the door enough to peer unsteadily out. Ice-cold rain needled into her face, and her fingers clutched the cold, wet edge of the door, slipping as they scrabbled for purchase. She could barely see the man in the driver’s seat through the pelting rain. The clatter of the wheels over the cobbles and the rush of the wind against her face made it impossible to hear, and she doubted he could hear her, either. He crouched upon the seat like a giant bat, the cape of his great black duster flapping about him as the carriage surged forward. If he turned around, she imagined he’d look like the devil himself. The carriage jolted over a pothole, and Juliet’s foot slipped off the running board. She flung her arm out and clutched the door for dear life. It swung outward, carrying her with it. Her head hit the doorframe and pulled her hat off, gagging her with the ribbons and yanking out a clump of hair as

she swung out into the rain, her legs dangling into the cold emptiness. She must have screamed, because the driver turned to glare at her. She flung her leg out, desperately trying to catch the step and swing the door closer to the carriage as it jounced on, trying to shake her free, the cold rain biting her face and freezing her fingers into useless nubs. She scrabbled again with her foot, but all she found was air between herself and the ground blurring by beneath the carriage wheels. The driver reined the horses in sharply and brought them to a skidding halt on the wet cobbles. He leapt off the seat and ran to her, then yanked her off the door. Juliet tried to see his face, but he wore his collars turned up and his hat down low against the weather, bathing his face in shadow. She reached for his hat, but he tossed her into the carriage like a sack of flour and slammed the door. Before Juliet could get her feet under her to stand, the carriage lurched forward again. Her heart pounded madly. Idiotically, she thought of Wakefield and his fears that some interloper to the club would be a danger to her. Why hadn’t he ever worried about her being accosted by a highwayman a mile from her home? After an interminable hell, the carriage came to a stop. She looked out, but rain still pelted the outside of the window and ran down in runnels,

smearing the view. She cupped her hands to the glass and peered out. Casks and barrels poked out of the slanting gray rain that veiled the way ahead. A wooden piling with rope wound about it stood off to the side. Beyond it, dark shadows huddled against each other, seeming to rise and fall with the wind that rocked the carriage and hammered at a large bell somewhere close by. A tangle of masts and lines rose skyward, muted and blended by the gloom. Beyond that there was nothing, just endless gray where sea met sky. Heaven help her, she was down at the docks. A cold rush of fear raised gooseflesh on her arms. The docks were no place for a lady. Especially on a stormy day with no one about to hear her scream. The door swung open, and the highwayman in the black duster stood in the gap, rain streaming in rivulets down his oilskin coat. He offered her his hand, but Juliet pressed herself as far back into the carriage as she could go. His arm darted in like a cobra, grabbed her, and pulled her out. Before Juliet could even draw breath to scream, he wrestled a burlap sack over her head and pinned her hands behind her back with rope. Juliet screamed finally, but nothing happened. She struggled to pull her hands free, yet the man behind her was stronger and the rope bit into her wrists. Disoriented by the sack, she felt herself being hoisted up, then tumbling forward to land over the man’s shoulder. Her breath whooshed out

of her at the impact, and the cheesy smell of the sackcloth and the press of the man’s shoulder into her gut as he took each step made it difficult to breathe. “Un…hand…me!” The wind off the Thames blew cold and razor sharp, and the rain bit through the thin fabric of her dress. She kicked at him, hoping to catch him in the baubles, but his stride never faltered. The sound of her captor’s boots on the stones changed to the hollow thud of boots on wood, and they were going up. Finally, he put her down on her bottom. The floor she sat on shifted angrily forward and back, rising and falling. A ship. “About time,” a voice said, rough and hoarse, like sand on steel. Juliet quieted her breathing and strained to hear through the sack. She heard him toss something to the other man, which jingled like a sack of coin. “Now get yer arse off me ship.” The gravely drawl of that voice, the utter contempt that dripped from it, froze the blood in Juliet’s veins. She wished for the highwayman to pick her back up and take her away, anywhere other than here. Someone did pick her up. She prepared to be hoisted over another shoulder, but instead, she found herself planted on her feet so abruptly her teeth clacked shut. “Well, well, well.” That voice. “What ’ave we here?”

The boot steps went around her in a circle, measuring. “Be it a fine lady o’ London, come to let an old cap’n dock his oars afore he sets sail?” Juliet said nothing. She forced herself to stand still, even though her heart threatened to burst. “I asked ye a question, wench. Cap’n Black is no man for patience.” Captain Black? Certainly not the Captain Black! If she was truly on the ship of the infamous pirate, she was in terrible trouble. “I asked ye a question! Have ye come to pleasure me or no?” “Pleasure you?” Juliet took a deep, musty breath of burlap to calm herself. “Have you any idea who I am?” “Aye, and I best not ’a been gypped. I paid me a fair coin for the lovely Lady De Mar. T’will be a sad day for that sprat in the great cloak if I find he’s brought me an imposter.” Juliet tensed. “How do you know me?” Gravelly laughter, subtle, yet loaded with meaning. “By reputation.” He chuckled again, and the sound sent a shiver down her back. “I admire a lady what goes a-rogueing through London’s most exclusive clubs. The London Literary Club, for example.” All the blood seemed to drain to her feet. “A lady does not ‘go a-rogueing,’” she said. “And my social commitments are none of your concer—” Her words grunted out as he grabbed her around the knees and tossed her over his shoulder. “Let me go! I demand you unhand me at once!”

Nothing from her captor. The blood rushed to her head and pounded at her temples as she hung upside down, her hands still tied behind her and pulling at her shoulders. The burlap chaffed against her cheek where it pressed to his back, and she tried as hard as she could to lift her head. Her leg banged the wall as they rounded a corner, but she bit down and refused to cry out. She would give this ruffian no sense of satisfaction at cowing her. Even though his mention of the club had made her palms sweat. How on earth had he learned of the club and…her reputation? Dear Lord, she had a reputation? She was ruined! Ruined? She wanted to laugh and cry, both, at her own stupidity. Holding a season’s voucher at Almack’s meant little if one were dead. Behind her, a door slammed. Her captor tossed her down, and the darkness spun around her as she fell, tumbling blindly onto her back. A mattress, with more lumps than flat spaces. Even through the sack she smelled musty straw and stale linen and unwashed man. Unwashed pirate. A pirate who knew of the club. She was in terrible trouble indeed. Black was notorious, even his Majesty’s Navy cowered when they came broadside to Black’s vessel, the Randy Maid. He gave no quarter, took no prisoners. None that survived to the next port, at any rate. Stories of his gristly tortures made even the staunchest of sailors go green at the gills, James had once said.

James. She lay still on the mattress and

listened for the sound of her captor. What she’d give to be on his ship right this moment, instead of this one. “Now behave yerself,” Black growled. He untied her hands from behind her and rubbed the raw spots a moment. Freedom! Her first instinct was to struggle, but she quelled it. He’d only tie her again. She’d wait ’til he left, then she’d remove that awful sack from her head and figure out where she was. He took her hand and snapped it into a cold, steel bracelet. “What is that? What are you doing?” Her arm suddenly stretched out against her will, pulled by the bracelet around her wrist. She reached for it with her other hand, but he slapped it away. “Now, don’t be starting any of that. I’d have ye alive and possessing all yer parts when I ride ye.” She panicked. He took her other wrist, and she yanked it out of his hands and pushed away from him as hard as she could. She scrabbled backward over the lumpy mattress, but he grabbed a hold of her wrist again and dragged her back toward him, then snapped the second shackle onto it. Both her arms rose up to shoulder height as he drew upon something, a chain, clinking and rattling upon itself, and secured it somehow that she couldn’t see. Bedposts? She tugged, sitting up on her knees on the smelly straw mattress, with her arms outstretched to her sides, but to no avail. He’d cross-tied her as surely as a horse in a stall.

“Let me go,” she said, trying to steady the quaver in her voice. “I’ve done nothing to you.” “Not yet,” he said. “After ye do, an’ I like it well enough, then we’ll see.” He gave the tie on her arm a tug to test its hold. “If not, maybe Davy Jones hisself will have better luck with ye.” He laughed roughly, his voice coarse and unforgiving. “Now quiet yerself, before I gag ye. There’s only one sound I like to hear from a woman, and it ain’t her naggin’.” “Please. I can pay you. Whatever it is you gave that man to bring me here, I can pay you double. Triple! You can buy three women with that! That’s certainly a fair bargain, is it not?” “Aye, if it were gold I be after.” Something touched her arm—his finger? It ran up to her shoulder, then down to circle the décolletage of her gown. It lingered over the soft skin just above her cleavage, toyed with the lace edging, rasped against her skin. He grabbed her embroidered fichu and pulled the ends out of the front of her dress, then unwound it from around her neck, leaving her neckline exposed. “I’ve got me plenty of gold,” he said. The lace end of the scarf grazed across the exposed décolletage. “What I want is warm, willing womanflesh heaving beneath me bones.” She twisted her torso, but her restraints prevented her from moving. “Then I suggest you take your thrice-a-pittance and use it to buy yourself someone else. This womanflesh will never heave beneath you, willingly or otherwise.”

He laughed again, and even though she couldn’t see him through the sackcloth, she heard the mockery in his voice. She’d be damned if she’d let him see her shake. “You’ll sooner have a corpse rotting beneath you,” she added, “if you don’t remove this sack so I can get some air.” His raucous laughter grated her nerves like the caw of ravens. “Aye, me lady, that I will. Keep still and I’ll send me lad in to get ye fed and ready for the festivities.” Boot steps thumped across the floor, heavy and hollow, and then the door opened and closed. She sagged into herself, letting the shackles around her wrists support her weight for a moment. Then she let out a long, single sob. But she wouldn’t weep. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her tears. *** It was only a moment later when the door behind her opened and footsteps crossed the floorboards. Silent hands began working the rope that held the sack tied around her neck. “Thank heavens,” she said, “I was about to die for lack of air.” The hands kept moving, but silently. The sack lifted, and a rush of fresh air cooled her damp skin. Well, perhaps not fresh, but at least it was air. She was most definitely on a ship. She sat across a bed, a real land bed built of some exotic, dark wood, with a high footboard and tall posts, carved with all

manner of leaves and vines and flowers, like something from the jungle. Her arms were chained to the headboard posts. She turned her head at the sound of footsteps behind her, but couldn’t turn far enough. Then the hands came at her, this time with a blindfold, and darkness descended upon her once again. “Please, don’t cover my eyes!” The hands continued their silent, meticulous movements in securing the silk blindfold, and a moment later, she felt a cup at her lips. It pushed gently, and she tipped her head back and drank. Water. Fresh and cool. Another sip. Then she smelled bread, and a soft piece touched her lips, still warm. Her stomach flip-flopped inside her with sudden voracity. She opened her mouth and took a tentative bite. Fresh and white, with melting clotted cream. “If you please,” she said, her mouth undaintily full as she spoke, “I’d much prefer to feed myself.” Nothing from the owner of the hands. Another chunk of bread pressed to her lips, and she ate it. From beside her came the sound of a silver service tray and the smell of roast beef. Her stomach roiled again in anticipation. The scrape of silverware on china, then something else came to her lips. Warm beef. She opened her mouth, and her tongue sang with pleasure as she bit down on a tender, succulent morsel of rib roast. Her absolute favorite. She let the hands feed her, alternating between the juicy meat and the soft, white bread, interspersed with sips of a really rather good

French Bordeaux, and she decided she might not be in so much danger after all. Certainly, this Captain Black, pirate as he may be, wouldn’t waste good rib roast on someone he was about to do in. And the fine white bread? Wakefield always told her about the hard biscuit they relied upon at sea. Apparently, Captain Black had an epicurean streak. She took another sip of wine from the glass that pressed to her lips. She could feel it already, the alcohol making her head a bit tipsy. Last thing she needed was to find herself half-sprung and unable to think herself out of this. At the next press of the glass, she pulled back and said, “No more, thank you. I’ve had quite enough.” The glass clinked down onto the tray. She listened for the sounds of tidying up, but none came. The hands touched the back of her neck. “What are you doing?” They began to unfasten the buttons of her gown. No sound, no answer, just the steady, unhurried unbuttoning. The top. The next. The next. “Stop that! Stop it I say!” Juliet tried to pull back out of the hands’ reach, but her outstretched arms prevented her from moving. The hands continued downward, slipping one button after the next. Cool air pressed in through the thin fabric of her chemise. Finally, the hands came to the end, and Juliet’s heart gave a tiny little shout of victory.

She couldn’t very well slip out of her gown with her arms extended and chained to the bedposts. Something ice cold pressed against her back, and she heard the snipping of scissors through the fine fabric of her chemise. “Oh no! Please don’t cut my chemise; it’s the best one I own!” Then she realized the greater problem. This person intended to remove her dress from her person. The cold shears snipped their way down, keeping a close contact with the skin of her back. Oh, why hadn’t she opted for her corset? When the scissors reached the base of her spine, they continued snipping through the fabric of both dress and chemise until they reached the hem. She heard the trouble they had when they reached the heavy lace at the edge and hoped they’d be stymied by the thick trimming. They were not. The hands parted the two halves of her shorn clothing, exposing her back to the brisk cold air. “How dare you,” Juliet said, her voice shaking. She wriggled her shoulders as much as she could, bound as she was, but it did little to resettle her dress around her. She’d lost the bravado with the cold steel snipping-snipping-snipping down the bare skin of her back. “When the captain arrives, I shall tell him that I’m most displeased at how you’ve treated his guest.”

The footsteps crossed the way, then the door opened and closed, and she was left alone with the cool air and the darkness. *** Juliet’s arms started to grow tired. When she let her arms fall limp, the shackles dug uncomfortably into her wrists. She wished the captain or his mute servant would come back so she could plead for her delicate skin. The door opened. The footfalls across the floor sounded heavier this time. “Hello?” she asked. She hated the blindfold; it gave her a strange sense of confinement worse than the shackles and chains. She could feel the presence of the person behind her, but no one spoke. “Who’s there?” she asked. Quiet, rasping laughter. “Miss me already, do ye?” Oh, no. Not him, not like that. He sounded…lustful. “My wrists ache,” she said. “From the shackles.” He reached out and took one of her wrists and examined it. “Pain ye, do they?” “Yes,” she said. She’d tried to sound businesslike, but she was afraid it had come out a bit scared and vulnerable. And weak. She knew enough about horses and dogs to know that a show

of weakness could be the kiss of death. She imagined men were much the same. He let go of her wrist and examined the other. “Hrmph. Not even a trace of pink on yer dove-white flesh. Still, I suppose a fine lady like yerself prefers silk to steel, eh?” She wasn’t sure how to answer, so she said nothing. “If you’re a good girl and do as the good cap’n tells ye, maybe you can earn some silk cords instead of cold steel for your ladylike skin.” “But please, I—” “Enough!” He came in close, and she smelled the brandy on his breath. His breath found her neck, her ear, and then his tongue gently teased her lobe and slid to the small spot at the base of her neck. She recoiled with fear. “Stop. You have no right to touch me.” Laughter, harsh and unmerciful. “I have every right. This is my ship. And I can do as I please with the skirt I paid good coin for.” “Where are we going?” “Interested in navigation, are ye? Well, let’s see… First, I’ll sail across yer pretty white neck.” He dragged his finger from the spot beneath her ear, across the underside of her jaw, and down over her throat. “Then, across the rolling sea of yer breasts.” He drew his finger over the mound of one, stopping at the peak of her nipple. A quiver of heat shot to her womb, but she squelched it, confused at her body’s response.

“Then,” he continued, “over the calm, flat seas of yer belly, to the waiting port, where some say serpents hide in the depths.” He traced the path down her belly to the cleft of her legs, where his finger pressed the fabric of her gown into the gap between her thighs. She shifted her hips backward to escape his touch. “Ah, ye don’t like the direct route, eh? Prefer the slow, secret way?” He went behind her and trailed a finger down her back, lingering at the base of her spine, and wriggled it beneath the cleft of her bottom. “Maybe ye like the southern seas better?” Again she shifted away from him, but there was nowhere to go. “I’ll have you know I’m expected at home. I’m dreadfully late, and I’m certain my staff will have summoned the authorities. They’ve probably already set off to come to my rescue.” “Aye, and I hope they’re fine swimmers, for that’s how they’ll be going home when I blow a hole in the hull of their ship.” He came in closer and kissed her full on the lips. His mouth was sodden with brandy. It took a moment before she realized his lips were soft. She wished she’d drunk more of the wine she’d been offered at dinner to dull the sensation of his hot, wet…seductive mouth on hers. He lifted his head. “That’s more like it. Nice and docile. At this rate, I’ll hardly have to beat ye at all.” Her head jerked back in surprise. “Beat me! I’ve done nothing to warrant being beaten!”

He grabbed her chin and turned her face directly into the brandy fumes. “Don’t play coy with me, missy. I know fer a fact that fancy wenches like yerself want to be shown who’s boss.” No weakness. “That’s absurd.” “Absurd, is it?” He pressed the open back of her dress apart and ran a finger down her back. His boot steps thudded around her, and the mattress sunk down in front of her as he sat. He grabbed the neck of her gown, fumbled with it a moment, then with a powerful yank, tore it down the center. Juliet heard the fabric rip and felt the tug of it against her shoulders. He pressed back the two halves, and cool air soughed through her whisperthin chemise, caressing her heavy, taut breasts. “Ah, lush and round, like a pair of melons.” He grabbed both breasts and hefted them, as if measuring their weight. She pulled away, but the chains held her still. “And a couple a’ big, ripe berries to top ’em off.” He took the nipples between his fingers and squeezed. Pleasure rushed through her and made her back arch against her will. “Stop that! Unhand me!” What was she doing? Why was her body responding to the touch of a villain? “A feisty wench, just as they say. You’ll give a man a wild ride, I can tell by the look of ye.” “I’ll give you nothing!” she said. Another chuckle. “Perhaps not, but in chains, as ye are, I can take what I want.” He squeezed her

nipple once more. A rush of moisture flowed between her legs, and she grew thick with desire. A knock at the door. “What!” “You’re needed on deck, Cap’n.” “Ah, blast it! Not a moment’s peace.” The weight of him lifted off the bed, and his footsteps crossed the floor. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, then laughed and closed the door behind him. She took a deep breath. She had to think of a way out of this. Her body might be foolish enough to respond to the right touch, but her head was quite certain she would wind up dead. The blindfold was the first thing that had to go. She scrunched her face, wriggled her nose. She moved her head to rub it against her shoulder, but with her arms outstretched, all she could reach was her cheek and ear. She tried the other side. The blindfold didn’t budge. Her arms, then. She turned her wrists, to the left, to the right. Up. Down. There was room between her delicate wrists and the large cuffs, but at the angle at which they hung, suspended by the length of chain, she couldn’t get any leverage, and the cuff just moved with her arms. If only she could press one against something, the wall… Maybe the chain could be loosened from the post. Blast it, if only she could see! She shook the left arm and jangled the chain, but stopped as soon as she heard how loud a sound it made. She didn’t want to draw him back before she had a chance to get free. Her foot?

She tried to shift her weight to lift her foot, but it didn’t connect with anything other than air. She let out a sigh of frustration. She’d think of something. Perhaps when he returned, if she could convince him to loosen her bonds, or change her position, or even remove her blindfold, then she could find the leverage she needed to escape. *** As if summoned by her thoughts, the captain opened the door and strode through, slamming it behind him. “Fools. Not a one of them fit to sail a ship.” Juliet remained silent, listening to his sharp footsteps as he crossed the floorboards. He came up behind her and grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Ouch!” “Quiet!” he said, giving her head a small tug. “I’m about out of patience.” He drew her head back, arching her body toward him, and pressed his lips to her neck. Juliet jerked her head aside. “Stop that!” He tugged on her hair again. “I’ve no more patience, and I’ll not listen to yer complaints. If I have to hear something, it’ll be you begging me to ride ye harder.” “Like hell.” She gritted her teeth against the tug of his fist in her hair. “And I hate having my hair pulled.” He chuckled then, that hard scraping laugh. “Aye, I’m sure ye do. But ye make such a pretty

sight from back here, with your head laid back and your lovely pair o’ cat heads thrust up to peek at me through yer shift.” With the one hand still secure in her hair, his other hand found the edge of the fabric and toyed with it, walking his fingers down over it to grasp her breast through the fine muslin. “Aye, a might pretty sight.” He traced the outline of her nipple and then slid his thumb over it, moving it in slow, firm circles. Another splinter of hot desire rushed to her womb and filled her with a traitorous need to writhe beneath him. “Aye, that’s more like it.” He let go of her hair and her breast at the same time. “When you’re a good girl and do as I say, it feels much, much better. Unless you’re the type who likes it rough?” He yanked back on her hair again. “No,” she said. “No? I’ll wager ye do.” He pressed his face into her neck, and his words breathed into her ear. “I’ll bet you like a little pain in your pleasure. Just a little.” “No,” she whispered back. “Good thing I always carry my little helper.” A moment later, cold steel pressed against her cheek. “There,” he said. “See? A wee knife will do the trick.” She sat as still as she could, afraid to move lest the blade cut her skin. Absurdly, her thoughts turned to what everyone would say when they realized she was dead. Dead. She was going to die. She felt the knife again, ever so gently moving downward to press

against her throat. “Please don’t cut me,” she whispered. “Cut you?” He laughed that rough laughter. “I ain’t even gotten yer clothes off yet.” The blade pressed into her skin a little harder. Juliet’s heart raced, sending a rush of adrenaline through her blood. The knife withdrew. Shears began to snip, cold against her shoulder, and a moment later her arms went suddenly light as the rest of her dress fell away, first one side, then the other, leaving only her shift. Leaving her nearly naked and vulnerable. He kissed her neck again, then her mouth. He tasted still of brandy, and of something else, something not unpleasant. His hands fell to her sides and rode their way up the fabric of her chemise to her breasts, which he took in his strong grasp. Strong, but not painful. She stayed very still and didn’t move, and tried to calm her racing heart and her growing need for air. His lips moved softly over hers, raising gooseflesh over her skin. It was the most arousing kiss she’d ever experienced. Then his tongue seared a line between her lips, and she shuddered. Abruptly, he let her go. He moved away from her, and her chains clanked. Her left arm fell weightless to her side. He was setting her free! She pulled at the chain, and it gave, but only slightly. “No, lass, you’re not going free,” he said. “I just think it’s time for us to get a little more…comfortable.”

He moved to the other side and loosened that arm as well. “Lay down,” he said. She turned to push herself away, but her arms pulled her up short. “What for?” His hands dug into in her hair. He yanked her head back, exposing her throat, and laid the cold steel along the curve of her jaw. “I said, ‘lay down.’” Her heart pounded, and her breath came fast and sharp. Slowly, she let herself lay back. Her shift had ridden up and bunched at her hips, exposing her…limbs, but she couldn’t wriggle it back down. He let go of her hair, and the knife disappeared from her throat. “Ah, and look what we’ve found here,” he said. “A leg.” “How dare you.” She hoped he hadn’t caught how her pulse had raced at his vulgar word. It raced again when his hand grasped her ankle, then slid up to her knee, higher still to the top of her thigh, where her chemise just barely covered her most important parts. She could feel herself growing wet and swollen, and she couldn’t keep her breath from rasping out. Then he pulled his hand away, leaving a cold spot on her thigh. His boots thumped hollowly across the floor while he moved about, adjusting her chains and stretching her arms fully out. More boot steps, then his hand grabbed her foot and cold iron clicked shut around her ankle. He gripped her other ankle and shackled it as well.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew what he was doing, he was going to spread her legs on the bed, tie them open, so he could… A shiver of anticipation peeked through the fear. No! That was preposterous. This was going too far! The chains clinked upon themselves, and her left leg was drawn out to the side. Cool air pressed against her thighs, against her heated womanflesh, and the shiver of anticipation returned. He drew open the other leg and secured that chain as well, and Juliet’s heart beat faster. Through the darkness of her blindfold, she sensed his gaze on her, and the little shiver gave way to a larger one that spread in a warm rush through her blood. “Cold, are ye?” he asked. His boots came closer on the floor, then stopped at her head. His warm breath brushed along her jaw. “What do ye expect, going about in nothing but yer shift?” Her heart beat wildly. Fear, the vulnerability of being completely open to him, the suspense of the darkness, not knowing what was coming next—she knew he would do something, but she didn’t know what. He tugged on the bodice of her shift. “Little good this is doing to keep ye warm.” She felt his hands undoing the tiny buttons at the top, one by one, until he got to the tops of her breasts. He paused there, and she sensed his gaze on her.

He undid another one. Let his finger linger over the soft curve. Another. Another. A feather-light graze of his thumb, just at the inner slope. Another button. Another. He drew his finger down between her breasts, raising a line of goose bumps on her skin. Two more buttons and he reached her belly. There the buttons ended. Nothing happened. What was he doing? Where was he? He took the top edges of her shift and slowly pulled it open to expose her breasts. Her breath caught. She knew he was looking at her, could feel the power in his gaze, and her nipples hardened. Something brushed one of them. Her breath caught again at the sensation, there and then gone. She held herself perfectly still, waiting to see if he would touch her again. This time, the sensation was firmer, pressing against her nipple, moving against it in a rhythm that sent a rush of sensation stabbing into her womb. Then he stopped. She found herself waiting to see where his next touch would fall. More, she found herself willing his hand to touch that same spot again. Just once more… Oh, what was wrong with her? This was no game; he was a ruffian, a…pirate! The rogue had put a knife to her throat! How many woman had he plundered and sent to their graves in the sea?

His warm mouth clamped down on her nipple, and she couldn’t help the little gasp of pleasure that escaped her. His tongue circled it, around and around, and the sensation made her back arch and her body press up toward his mouth. She instinctively tried to grind her legs together, but they were held firmly apart. The pressure rushed to her groin, throbbing, making her delicate tissues swell with the need to be touched. Then his mouth left her breast, and she almost cried out in dismay. She waited a moment, then another. Then the lower hem of her shift slid up over her thighs, as if moved by magic. The fabric brushed the taut, sensitive flesh of her arousal, and she couldn’t help the faint sound she made on the exhale. He said nothing, but the fabric continued to rise, exposing her as she lay spread wide to his gaze. The fabric fell in a little mound on her belly, just below her navel. She waited. The faintest brush of a finger glided over her thigh. Higher. Slowly, slowly higher. To her hip. Low across her belly to the other hip. Down the other thigh. Up again, just to the edge of her hair. Then it was gone. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her whole body swam with the anticipation of more. There! He touched her, finally, in the very center of all her writhing, wet desire. He slid his finger up to her swollen nub, moving it in slow, decadent circles, winding her tighter and tighter

with raw sensation. Her hips rose up to meet his touch, and abruptly, it was gone. He laughed softly. “Like that, do ye?” She said nothing; she could barely keep her breathing even. She waited, unable to move, wanting desperately for him to touch her there again. His lips were to her ear. “Well, do ye?” “Yes.” “Aye, I thought so. Don’t worry, I’m not through with you yet.” The bed moved, and then all was still. She waited, wondering in her blindfolded darkness what would happen next. He caught her by surprise with a wide, wet lave of his tongue over her wet curls. The gasp left her lips on its own. He licked her again, slowly, firmly, and then took her swollen flesh between his teeth. Desire rose inside her, threatening to climax around her. He let her go. “No, not yet, love,” he said. She writhed on the bed, trying desperately to connect with something, anything. “Please,” she heard herself say. “Oh, please, is it? What happened to that feisty wench who said she’d never be begging me?” Juliet wondered the same thing, but right then, she didn’t care. She arched her hips, searching for his touch. He chuckled to himself, and then his tongue found the spot between her legs that he’d teased to stark attention. He licked her, bottom to top,

bottom to top, stroking her, making the desire spiral around her again. Her hips rocked in time to the thrusts of his tongue, and then he brought her swollen nub into his mouth again and suckled. The desire began to climax around her in ripples, building as he stoked the rhythm with his tongue, then a pure jolt of lightning when he put his finger inside her and stroked the same quivering spot from inside. She cried out as the climax took her, drawn into the pitch and roll of pure, perfect sensation. His hand and mouth left her, and she gasped at the sudden emptiness. He lowered his body onto her and entered her with his shaft, thrusting deep into the waves of her climax. She moaned again, unable to control anything about herself. He drove into her, filing her, stretching her, pressing into every part of her, forcing the waves of sensation even deeper and higher. She let herself fall into them, letting them take her where they would. She heard him groan as his own climax started, felt him grow larger and harder within her, and joined him in the final waves of passion before they rode it out together to the last ripple. She lay panting beneath him, the warmth of his breath on her neck, the sound of his ragged exhalations in her ear. She moved her arm unthinkingly to caress him, but the shackle bit into her wrist. The clank of chain and the pull of metal against her skin dissolved the mist of passion and snapped

her back to reality. She was miles out to sea, captive to a pirate, and she’d just been willingly ravished. “Ah, you wench,” he said, but his voice had lost its raspiness and was smooth and sentimental with the afterglow of spent desire. “You didn’t even give me a chance to use the riding crop.” Her breath caught. “I beg your pardon?” “And you didn’t even once think to say ‘brandy.’ Even after I kept swilling the stuff to get you to notice it.” It hit her like a bucket of cold water, full in the face. “Wakefield?” He kissed her neck and then rolled his weight off her. “Wakefield!” If… He… Oh! “You son of a whore! Release me at once!” He laughed. “Do you think I’m mad? Release you now and let you stab me to death with my own knife? Certainly not.” Then she remembered the knife. “You bastard! You actually put a knife to my neck! What if your hand slipped or I struggled against it and slit my throat!” He laughed. “I’m teasing, Jules. If you can cut butter with that knife, you’ve got a stronger hand than I do.” “Like bloody hell! I felt that point against my throat!” “You felt this against your throat,” he said, and again she felt the prick of the knife.

She stiffened away from it. “Yes, precisely, and I want you to take it away from me immediately.” He slid it across her neck, and she gasped. Then she let out the breath. Nothing happened. No blood. No pain. He drew it down over her chest and tossed it onto her. “See? It hasn’t a tenth the edge that you have, my dear.” “Oh! I cannot believe you did this! I cannot—” She could not believe he was kissing her. Worse, she could not believe her foolish body was stirring again and kissing him back. “Please, no more accusations of murder.” He drew away from her, and she heard his bare feet pad across the floor, then return. He took her hand, fumbled with something, and the shackle fell away. She threw a punch, and the bones of her fist crushed against something solid as stone. “Ouch!” “Ow! Dammit, Jules!” She yanked off her blindfold in triumph. Her hand hurt like the blazes, but his shocked expression was worth it. He rubbed his jaw, glaring at her, and then leaned over and unlocked the other shackle. She swung again, but fast as a whip, he reached out and caught her arm. “Please, Jules, I’m not quite stupid enough to fall for it twice.” Her gaze fell from his eyes to the hand that clasped her wrist, to the darkly tanned and tightly muscled arm, shoulder, chest. She’d never seen him completely naked, and the closest time she’d come,

he’d been a coltish adolescent. Now, he was spectacular. “Hrmph,” she said. He leaned over her and unlocked her ankles, and she grabbed the scraps of her shift to cover herself. “A bit late for that now, don’t you think?” “I cannot believe you did this! You’ve destroyed my best dress!” “I bought you a new one. French. Very expensive. It’s over there.” Then she remembered the carriage. “And O’Hara! That highwayman of yours left him for dead!” He chuckled and bent to pick his shirt up off the floor. “That highwayman of mine was O’Hara. And he loved every minute of this little masquerade. Not to mention the guinea I paid him for his half-hour’s work.” Juliet stared at him a moment, speechless. “But I saw him fall into the road!” “That was me.” “It was not! It was O’Hara!” “Fine, then. Ask him yourself when you get home.” He stood and shrugged into his shirt. “But O’Hara was supposed to be working for me to kidnap you!” “And he was,” James said, grinning his lopsided smile. It looked even more devilish with the day’s dark growth shadowing his jaw and the unmitigated glee creasing the corners of his blue

eyes. “How do you think I learned of your little plan to begin with?” “Oh! I’ll flay him!” She felt a hideous combination of embarrassment and anger and sorrow, as if a childhood bully had pushed her down and laughed at her. Tears began to burn somewhere behind her eyes. “How could you do such a thing? And make O’Hara go along with it?” “After the things you said to me in your library the other evening? Taunting me with your little club, as if no one else had any idea how to please a woman? How to please you? How could I not?” “Yes, but—” “And it was you who were planning to kidnap me in the first place, so don’t keep carrying on with the crocodile tears.” “But I wasn’t planning on…humiliating you.” “Humiliating you? Oh for pity’s sake, Jules, are you really that blind? Do you think O’Hara would have agreed to help me humiliate you?” “Then why else would you do such a thing!” He stopped with a button half way through its hole. “Good God, woman. I’m in love with you. I have been ever since I asked you to marry me fifteen years ago.” He looked down and forced the button the rest of the way through. “I have been since we were six years old.” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “And I’m tired of hearing about your damned club. I wanted to prove a point.” “And what point is that? That after all these years, you can still make me feel like a fool?”

He looked up again. “That I can make you happy. That I can give you everything you get from your little club, only better.” “Then why, by the good green earth, didn’t you ever just let me seduce you all those years ago when you were courting me?” “After that humiliating incident in the grape arbor? And your less than sympathetic response? Not bloody likely.” “But we were just children—” “Aye, we were. And then we were grown, and all you could talk about was how men are completely useless and how any woman who even entertained the idea of marrying one ought to swallow a pistol ball.” “You called me whore!” “You called me a sodomite!” “Well, what else was I to think when I could seduce every man in town except you?” “What was I to think when you seduced every man in town?” She gazed at him and, for once, could think of nothing to say. “Blame O’Hara,” he said. “After your little display last night, I decided that I’d had enough humiliation. I’d decided I wasn’t going to keep coming back year after year, hoping you’d eventually change your mind. He was the one who talked me out of it.” “Change my mind? About what?” “About me. About us.” He resumed fastening the buttons of his shirt. “About that damn club

being all you need and me not even worthy of your time.” She lowered her gaze and found the riding crop he’d set out next to the bed. A tray of other things was there as well—a feather, a rose, a pot of honey… “You brought all these things…for me?” “Certainly not for the ship’s cook.” The muscle at the corner of his jaw clenched, and something melted inside her. “We didn’t even get to use any of them.” “No.” He didn’t look at her, only down at his hands as he buttoned. She picked up the crop and pressed the leather end of it against his fingers. He stopped and looked at her. “Take off the shirt,” she said. He glanced down at the crop, then up at her face, then started in on his cuffs. “A little late, Jules.” She swatted his fingers. “I said, take off the shirt.” He frowned at her, his eyes narrowing to slits. He gazed at her a long while, measuring. The heat of his questions burned through her, and she did her best to let her own eyes answer. “I’m not joking, Juliet. I won’t abide a wife who sleeps with half the ton. No more club. And for God’s sake, no more of that dandy, Danbury.” She couldn’t help the slight quirk of her lips. “If you insist.” She ran the crop across his chest, down the row of buttons, lower, to the dark curls at his

groin. His shaft hardened and began to rise. She smiled and patted him on the derrière with the crop. “Now take off your shirt and lie down.” He did so. Juliet tossed the crop to the floor and lay down beside him, snuggling into the arm that wrapped around her. “And now kiss me again,” she said and reached for the pot of honey. ~End~

~ About the Author ~ Before eloping to Las Vegas with a hot, dark, and dangerous stranger, Fiona Vance was an office manager, a cocktail waitress, a guitarist for an allgirl punk band, a ballet teacher, a lingerie homeparty sales rep, and a web developer. While some feats were more successful than others, all were accomplished without a net or any significant amount of medication (although she did once have a German shepherd on Zoloft). Someday, when she has time for hobbies, she’ll have a horse, a vegetable garden, and will win back the thirty bucks she lost in the quarter slots at Excalibur. Originally from Rhode Island, she currently resides in Oregon with her author-husband, the odd offspring or two, and a feisty calico cat named Snowy (who’s not currently a compulsive gambler or on any prescription medication). Find out more about Fiona at: http://fionavance.wordpress.com http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000853123600 http://twitter.com/fionavance