Prisoner of Desire (2 page)

"I love you, Mother."

Brigitte laughed softly. "I will save you, my son."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "Thank you."

She shook her head, taking a moment to bid each of her sons goodbye before turning in a

graceful sweep of her skirts to deal with the girls. They didn't have a prayer. His mother could charm a pirate out of his share of the treasure.

Warren shook Garrick's hand. "Captain."

His brother Harrison offered his hand too, but Warren slapped him on the shoulder instead.

"Watch out for that beak. It cuts deep."

Harrison laughed. "I will, brother."

With a final look toward his mother, he boarded his ship. The Huntress was the finest ship in Boston's harbor today. Her decks shining and her canvas sails bright in the morning sunlight.

Warren gained the wheel deck, watching his men with a critical eye. His first mate called out the order to let loose the sails.

"Cast off!"

The deck rolled as the Huntress was released from her mooring bounds. Warren braced his feet wide without thinking. His father had taken him to sea the moment he was weaned. He'd learned to walk on a rolling deck and it felt like home to him. The sea breeze filled his lungs as he gripped the wheel with firm hands. The stretch of blue ocean in front of him was an old friend, but today he was bound for unfriendly waters. Britain was still a threat to any American vessel or port in the Caribbean. The fort at San Juan need the black powder stored beneath his feet to maintain her strength against the British vessels that would gladly take her.

The tropical islands dotting the azure seas of the Caribbean echoed with centuries of battles. The ocean floor littered with the wrecks of ships sunk by nations intent on controlling the vital supply ports in the islands. America relied on men, such as him, to make up her navy.

It was a duty he took pride in. His country was young, but it was the best place in the world to live. A democracy and a haven from oppression. The canvas crackled as the sails billowed out.

The Huntress gained speed, heading toward the open water. Behind him, Garrick captained the Golden Dawn. Following in their father's footsteps, they headed out to sea.

Onward...

Caribbean 1837

"Trouble ahead, Captain."

Warren gained the top deck in two powerful strides. Grabbing a telescope from his first mate, he pointed it toward the dark plume of smoke rising from a crippled ship. Its main mast was

shattered and lying over the rail. The weight of the sails and rigging were pulling the ship toward the water. Half her underbelly glistened in the sun. With the aid of the telescope, he watched the crew's desperate attempt to pull the top portion of the mast back on board before it capsized the vessel. It was a desperate and dangerous struggle with the deck tilted so sharply. Several men were already overboard, franticly trying to keep their heads above water.

"Full canvas!"

Men scurried among the rigging, untying the sails so they filled to full capacity. The canvas snapped before capturing the wind and using it to pull the ship across the surface of the water.

"To stations!"

First mate Kurt Barclay bellowed across the decks. Weapons were pulled from the crates they were stored in to keep them from rusting in the humid climate. Sailors leaned over the rail to pull up the hatches covering the cannon portals. Each man knew his duties well, the crew performing like a well-oiled machine.

Warren had trained alongside them. Out here they had only each other. Weak officers cost lives when a ship faced attack. His body tightened only a fraction, his senses sharpening. Turning around he reached for a sword belt. Buckling the wide leather around his waist, he yanked a length of cord from it and tied back his hair. His captain's hat lay discarded near the wheel. He fought as one of his crew. It was something he demanded of himself. Donning the high-brimmed hat would protect him from a deathblow if they were boarded, because the enemy always liked to see the captain on his knees when they took a ship.

But he was no coward and wouldn't ask any man to follow him if he wasn't risking as much as the lowest deckhand under his command.

The crippled ship grew larger, the scent of smoke touching his nose even from upwind. Lifting the telescope once more, he ran it along the tilting deck of the ship, searching for a flag. If she was British, he risked a great deal by coming to her aid. Many a French captain or even

American wouldn't approach an enemy vessel in distress, but his father had taught him

differently. He wouldn't stand idle while the crew went to a watery grave, all the while salvaging his conscience by saying it was the law of the sea. Men had crippled the ship in front of him, not fate.

"She's American!"

Warren sent the call down the deck with his own voice. A ripple of profanity rose from his

crew. His own mood darkened with the knowledge that his own countrymen battled to survive.

Looking up he checked the sails. They were full, every inch of canvas being put to use.

But they weren't going fast enough. Frustration built inside him. The expanse of water between the Huntress and the ship looked twice the distance now that he'd spotted the stars and stripes lying across her rail. Conditions on the ship were so desperate, no one had time to raise the fallen flag.

A cheer went up from her crew as the Huntress drew close enough for her colors to be identified.

It was the sound of men looking at redemption. They clung to the rail that was lifted high out of the water in an attempt to use their weight to push the hull level. Warren could hear the frantic chopping sound of an axe being wielded on the broken main mast. He dropped the telescope, no longer needing it. He scanned the length of the ship, identifying the most critical damage. The name of the vessel became readable even from the angle the hull teetered at.

The Golden Dawn.

Rage flared up inside him. It was blinding for a moment, but he forced it down.

"Stand by with boarding ropes!" Warren barked the command, emotion lacing his normally controlled voice. More than one head turned to cast an eye toward him. "She's the Golden Dawn !”

His men surged to the port side of the ship. They carried large hooks attached to thick hemp rope lines. With practiced hands, they swung the heavy hooks in widening circles before letting them fly over the rail. They arched across the space between the two ships and over the higher rail of the Golden Dawn, her crew sliding down the deck to escape being struck.

The hooks caught and his men heaved the lines taut. Warren joined the effort, his arms straining to pull the other ship back from capsizing. It was strength against gravity. The axe continued to hack away, the hollow blows echoing across both ships now. But the Huntress lent her weight to the struggle, keeping the Golden Dawn from leaning too far to recover.

A cheer went up from the Golden Dawn's crew when the main mast fell into the ocean. It took sails and rigging along with it, but the crew had cut them free. Her hull crashed toward the surface of the ocean, sending up a cascade of water. It washed over the men holding the ropes on the Huntress. Both ships rocked violently before restless back into a gentle roll. The lines holding the ships together were pulled tight. Warren boarded his brother's ship in one jump, many of his own crew following. The fire had sizzled out when the ship righted herself. Steam rose from the front of the vessel now.

The scent of smoke still thick. Men coughed on the deck, their eyes red with irritation.

"Capitan Rawlins! Captain Garrick Rawlins!" Warren shouted through the mass of confusion the Golden Dawns deck was. Splintered wood lay on the polished boards. Several men were at the

far rail attempting to pull their comrades up from the sea. Black powder coated every surface, a testimony to the battle the crew had waged to defend themselves.

It had been self-defense, Warren was certain of that. He and his brothers did not take prizes on the open sea. They earned their money from cargo.

"They took the captain and the officers too."

A soot-darkened crewmen reached up to tug on his cap out of habit, but there was nothing left on his head. His hand patted his uncovered hair in confusion while shock numbed his wits.

"Who?" Warren tried to control the volume of his voice, but his anger sent his question out in a bellow.

"Bastard British. Fired on us for no cause, they did." Men cussed around them. Their faces reflecting their fury.

"Thank Christ you came upon us."

But not soon enough...

His jaw clenched, rage burning hotter than the Caribbean sun. Grasping the sailor's vest, Warren shook him.

"Where did they take my brothers?"

"Can't say for sure." The man sputtered. "But they sailed north and they were mighty gleeful.

Taunting us on how they'd taken everything and every man worth stripping off us. They fired the shot that splintered the main mast once they were well away." His face contorted. "Limy bastards every one of them. Hell-bound, black-soul demons!"

Warren looked north. It was a futile effort. The British had crippled the ship in hope of sinking her. It wasn't the first time, but he swore this time they would regret it. They were sailing for their stronghold at Bermuda. The huge fortress was still under construction and they needed men for the gruelling labour. Officers served a duel purpose. They were educated men who could be used to design walls which would hold up under attack. Every man had a breaking point and the British were experts at pushing their prisoners until they broke.

He battled against the urge to give chase immediately. Squashing the impulse took every bit of discipline he owned. But he couldn't leave his brother's crew at the mercy of the sea. One good squall and the Golden Dawn would sink. It would take every man on both ships to keep her

afloat.

But that left his brothers in the hands of the British. Raw fury raged inside him. It burned hot enough to brand him. Vengeance ran through him taking precedence over his sense of fair play.

He didn't care how, didn't care what it took, he would rescue his brothers. Nothing was going to stop him, nor anyone.

Northfleet, Great Britain 1837

Lorena St. John stared at her stepfather. Her gaze never faltered, nor did her lip quiver. Not even the slightest bit. Geoffrey Godford offered her with a glare that had broken many a man. It sickened her. The man enjoyed his power, delighting in every man who crumpled at his feet.

Determination flared up inside her. Living beneath the man's rule had fired her just like porcelain.

She was beautiful and polished, but hard. There was no fear left in her and she thanked her stepfather for that fact.

It was the only thing she was grateful to him for.

Her stepfather narrowed his eyes, when she failed to curtsy immediately. She would, but not instantly. He had only earned her disgust. She respected every servant from the carriage driver to the cook more than she did her stepfather. He worked her as hard as any servant receiving pay under his roof, dictating a strict schedule for her and her sisters.

He claimed it prevented them from becoming spoilt. Her prim dress, yet another dictate, made to keep her modest and chaste. Solid gray wool without a hint of trim, the garment wore as well as any staff livery. The only finery under Godford's roof was reserved for the master himself, and he did not spare any expense when it came to his comforts.

"You try my patience, as usual."

His voice was full of his rising ire, a thing she knew well the cost of. Bending her knees, she ducked her chin in a perfectly executed curtsy. Maybe it was immature of her, but pressing

against his limits amused her. She was not disrespectful, simply not the first to lavish him with polished manners.

"You sent for me, sir?"

"You know full well I did, madam."

Lorena ignored the alarm trying to sneak past her composure. Her stepfather sent notes to her and her sisters with his instructions. Being summoned into the master's presence never resulted in anything she enjoyed.

"Forgive me for making you wait. It took the maid time to find me in the back closet."

"I write your schedule, madam. I was fully aware of what duty you were about." He stiffened and looked down the length of his nose at her. "It seems I have at the very least been successful in teaching you some measure of obedience to my will on how my house shall function."

Lorena didn't answer. He was baiting her, needling her with his commanding words, to see if she would snap back at him. When she held her tongue he grunted, his expression tightening with a rare hint of satisfaction.

"In spite of your lack of respect for me, I have taken it upon myself to arrange a suitable match for you."

Her poise deserted her. Her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. The approval that had so unexpectedly appeared in his eyes vanished. Struggling against her rising horror, Lorena regained her calm expression.

"I have deliberated many hours over the decision to do so." He raked her with a critical look. "I certainly can not have you displaying improper behavior which will soil the reputation of this family. Still, it would be rather uncivilized of me to keep you a spinster even if the blame was completely yours."

Words sprang into her mind that her mother would haunt her for even knowing. Lorena held

them back, not wanting to please the arrogant bastard by showing him any hint of emotion. She refused to care what he thought of her.

"How thoughtful of you." Her voice emerged smooth and low, pleasing her greatly. Even Godford's eyes flickered with a tiny hint of admiration once more.

"Indeed it was, now wasn't it? So good to see you can recognize how fortunate you are to have me looking after your affairs." He paused.

She was in a corner with prison bars in front of her at the altar. Her inheritance might already have been legally transferred to whoever Godford had chosen as her groom.

"I am not certain I am ready to marry."