Teresa Medeiros (3 page)

Lucy usually found a ship by night soothing to her senses, but the peace she sought drifted just out of her reach, her solitude tainted by restlessness. Even the low-pitched music of male voices working in perfect accord seemed muted and distant.

She frowned, licking away the sea salt that flecked her lips. In the rising mist, sound should carry with the clarity of a ringing bell, but the night was draped in silence as if the sea were holding its breath with her. She strained her eyes, seeing nothing but fog swirling up from the inky darkness and the rising moon flirting with tattered patches of clouds.

Chill ribbons of mist coaxed their way through the gauzy muslin of her gown, dampening her bare skin with their greedy touch. The sailors’ tales of Captain Doom haunted her. On such a night it took little imagination to envision a phantom ship stalking the seas in search of prey. Lucy could almost hear the chant of its betrayed sailors vowing vengeance, the hollow bong of a bell that would seal their doom.

She shook off a delicious shiver. She could only imagine what the Admiral would say if he caught her indulging in such whimsy.

She was turning away from the rail to seek the more mundane comforts of her cabin when the veil of darkness parted and the ghost ship glided into view.

Lucy’s heart slammed into her rib cage, then
seemed to stop beating altogether. She clutched the rail, her shawl falling unheeded to the deck.

A glimmer of moonlight stole through the clouds as the sleek black bow of the phantom schooner crested the waves, its towering spars enshrouded by mist, its rigging glistening like the web of a deadly spider. Ebony sails billowed in the wind, whispering instead of flapping. The vessel sailed in eerie silence with no lanterns, no sign of life, no hint of mercy.

Lucy stood transfixed, mesmerized by a primitive thrill of fear. Although the wind whipped her hair across her face and fed the hungry sails of the phantom ship, she seemed to be standing in a vortex of airlessness. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

It was then that she saw the ship’s Jolly Roger rippling from the highest spar—a man’s hand, ivory against a sable background, squeezing scarlet drops of blood from a captive heart. Her fist flew to her breast as she battled the absurd notion that it was
her
heart, no longer beating of its own will, but thundering in accord with the dark command of the ghost ship’s master. If she was the only one to see the ship, then surely its grim message was meant for her.

The phantom ship came about with lethal grace. Remembering the sailor’s story, Lucy pressed her eyes shut, knowing the ship would be gone when she opened them. A poignant sense of loss tightened her throat. There was no place in her neatly ordered life for such dark fantasy, yet the ship’s unearthly beauty had touched some secret corner of her soul.

Cannonfire blazed against the night sky. Lucy’s eyes flew open in shock as the ghost ship fired a very earthly warning shot over their bow in the universal demand for surrender.

I
N THAT FIRST DAZZLING BURST OF LIGHT, the name carved on the phantom ship’s bow was forever emblazoned in Lucy’s memory:
Retribution
.

Hoarse cries of alarm and the stampede of running feet shook the deck of the
Tiberius
as the panicked crew wavered between battle and surrender. Lucy was jerked from her openmouthed astonishment by a rough hand on her arm. The young sailor who had earlier jeered the mere existence of Captain Doom pulled her away from the rail with a familiarity he wouldn’t have dared only moments before.

“You’d best take shelter in your cabin, miss. This looks to get ugly.” His bold demeanor could not hide a complexion chalky with terror.

Lucy found herself dragged through the fray and shoved none too gently toward the main companionway. Obeying without thought, she flew down the narrow passage, thankful for once to be unencumbered by heavy skirts and petticoats. She slammed the door of
her cabin behind her and whirled around in the middle of the floor.

A fresh salvo of cannonfire shuddered the hold. Lucy dropped to her knees and clapped her hands over her ears, choking back a frantic scream. As a child, she had once scampered into the garden only to plunge through an enormous spiderweb strung across the path. She had beat at the sticky fibers with her small hands, screaming in terror. She felt again that same helpless fear. She couldn’t bear being trapped like an animal with no control over her fate.

She could still remember the Admiral’s contemptuous words as he had watched her sniffle into Smythe’s crisp waistcoat while the servant patiently plucked the tattered web from her hair.
Silly little chit. Given to hysteria just like her mother. French blood will tell every time
.

Lucy’s hands curled into fists and fell away from her ears. Her back straightened. She was Lucinda Snow, daughter of Admiral Sir Lucien Snow, and she’d be damned if she’d let some ridiculous ghost pirate frighten her into hysterics.

Spurred to practical action, she rifled through her tidy valise, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon. An ivory-handled letter opener was her only find. She slipped off her shoes so she could move silently if the need arose and tucked the letter opener into one of her stockings. Then she grabbed the low-burning lantern and crouched down beside her rumpled bunk to wait.

A masculine bellow of terror and the thunder of running footsteps sounded overhead. Lucy gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering. The wire handle of the lantern bit into her palm. She knew the lantern was useless as a weapon. The dangers of fire aboard ship had been too deeply ingrained in her since childhood.
She would die a gruesome death before hurling the lantern at an attacker.

She feared that noble notion was about to be tested when the door to her cabin crashed inward and a hulking shape appeared in its place. Lucy killed the lantern’s flame and squeezed her eyes shut in the childish hope that if she couldn’t see the intruder, he wouldn’t be able to see her either.

But all of her hopes, present and future, were smothered by the gag thrust into her mouth and the dank length of burlap tossed over her head.

“Damn it to blasted hell!”

The oath rolled from Captain Doom’s lips like the thunder of cannonfire. The deck listed beneath his long, furious strides, but he never stumbled, never faltered, his flawless balance as finely tuned as each of his other senses. Had any of his enemies seen him in that moment, they would have sworn lightning bolts actually could sizzle from his narrowed eyes.

“I can’t believe you brought a woman on board.” He swung past the dangling rigging with the natural swagger of a born sailor. “You know how superstitious Tarn and Pudge are. They’re liable to jump ship if they find out.”

The ebony-skinned giant marching in his wake appeared unaffected by his captain’s ire. Only someone who knew him well could have detected the sarcasm in his melodic bass voice. “Shall I fetch the cat-o’-nine-tails, sir, so you can flog me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” the Captain growled. “I should have left you to hang in Santo Domingo when I had the chance.”

Doom ducked his head at the precise moment it would have struck the foreboom and folded his lean frame into the hold. His companion dropped after
him, landing with a cat’s lithe grace on the pads of his bare feet.

The Captain rubbed his beard in frustration. “Have you been at sea so long you didn’t notice she was a bloody woman?”

“She squirmed more like a rat. She was soft in spots, but since the Admiral has retired, I thought he might have gone soft himself. Like a rotten peach.”

“I do believe you’ve gone soft. In the head.”

“The cabin was listed in the ship’s log just as you said it would be—L-U-C-period-S-N-O-W.”

Doom had never before been so tempted to curse his mate’s gift of being both literate and literal. Steering his way through the shadowy hold, he shook his head in disgust. “If she’s of any importance, we’ll have the whole Channel Fleet down on our heads by dawn. Couldn’t you even get a name out of her?”

“Sorry, sir. The iron maiden was occupied. Kevin was sleeping in it. Besides, you’re the one with the reputation for terrorizing innocent maidens.”

Doom shot him a dark look as they halted before a door bolted from the outside. “She’s probably mute with terror already. You’re enough to give any proper young English virgin nightmares.”

As if in full agreement, his mate flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile, emphasizing the raven purity of his skin. His bald head had been polished to a sheen so bright the captain caught a glimpse of his own scowling reflection. There was no man Doom would rather have at his side during battle, but his composure in the face of such disaster made Doom want to choke him.

The Captain turned toward the door. With a gesture from another lifetime, long gone and best forgotten, he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and smoothed his cambric shirt.

“Are you going to interrogate her or court her?” his companion rumbled.

“I haven’t decided. Maybe neither. Maybe both.” All traces of humor fled his face. The grim twist of his lips would have given even those most skeptical of his legend pause for reflection. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find out why the morally upstanding Admiral Snow had a woman sequestered in his cabin.”

With that vow, Doom lifted the makeshift bolt, unlocked the door, and slipped into the sumptuous confines of his own quarters.

A child
, was Doom’s first horrified thought. His mate had stolen a little girl.

A rapid blink proved his perception flawed. Oddly enough, it wasn’t his captive’s size, but her stern demeanor that made her look no more than twelve years of age. She sat rigidly straight in the spartan chair as if having her ankles bound to its legs and her hands tied behind her were mere inconveniences to be tolerated like a pair of too-tight boots.

He had been dreading her hysteria, but the pale cheeks below the sable silk of the blindfold were free of tearstains. Her lips were pursed in a faintly bored expression as if she wished someone would happen by and offer her tea. Her transparent determination to ignore his presence both irritated and amused him.

His gaze raked her in blunt appraisal. His mate had taken no chances. The only thing unbound about her was her hair. It streamed down her back in a fall of ash-blond silk, unmarred by a single frivolous curl.

Doom scowled. The silly garment she wore troubled him. Had his mate dragged her out of her bunk? Surely fashions hadn’t changed
that
much in six years. He remembered only too well when he’d been intimately
acquainted with every lace, hook, and button of a woman’s elaborate toilette.

His captive’s high-waisted gown was shamelessly devoid of such restraints. The skirt of the gossamer sheath clung to her parted legs, the sheer petticoat beneath more enticement than hindrance. Silk stockings, the delicate blue of a robin’s egg, enveloped her slender feet. The angle of her bound arms thrust her small breasts upward to strain against the thin fabric of her bodice. Doom’s gaze lingered there of its own volition. His mate had been wrong. Her softness was not that of rotten peaches, but of fresh peaches. Ripe, tender peaches.