Free Capture The Wind by Virginia Brown Page A

cool gaze. She took the opportunity to stare back at him, taking in his casual garb with an unsettling admiration. He did seem the very picture of a romantic rogue, with the flowing sleeves of his loose white shirt, and tight black breeches and knee-high boots. A scarlet sash circled his lean waist and held several weapons. She saw the butt of a pistol as well as the carved bone handle of a dagger, while a thin belt held a sword at his left side. He looked well armed and dangerous, an articulate corsair of startling good looks.
    His brow lifted at her silent survey. “Do you approve of my haberdasher, madam?”
    She couldn’t help smiling faintly. “I admit, your tailor does seem to have a flair for the dramatic.”
    “Ah, and you, of course, are addicted to all forms of drama, I note.”
    “At times.” She cast a quick glance at Emily, still crouched over the washbowl in discomfort, then looked back at Captain Saber. “Do you suppose that Mist—that Turk would be so kind as to bring Emily something to ease her discomfort?”
    “It has nothing to do with kindness, and everything to do with an extreme dislike of cleaning a soiled carpet.” Saber moved to the door again, then turned back to look at her. “Whatever is your name, by the way?”
    She hesitated. The name Lindell was well known in some circles. It would not be unlikely to suppose that a man as obviously well read and diverse as Captain Saber would have heard of her wealthy father. Should she risk being held hostage, or was it preferable to an unknown fate?
    Saber seemed to read her mind, for his lips twisted with wry humor. “Just your given name will suffice. Very few of us aboard the Sea Tiger even recall our true names, nor do we wish to be reminded of them.”
    “I see. Well—Angela.”
    His brow lifted, and his mouth curved into a smile so devastating that she caught her breath at his male beauty. His derisive comment quickly banished that appealing image.
    “Angela—it means angelic one. How inappropriate. I should think Medusa much more suitable for you.”

Four
     
    Kit stood at the rail and stared at the night-dark sea. Faint lights from the ship bobbed erratically, casting glimmers on the choppy surface in gossamer shapes. He wondered once again just why he felt this peculiar attraction to Miss Angela Whomever. It went beyond physical interest, and that baffled him. Though he did, indeed, nurture a healthy physical response to her, there had been a nebulous tremor of something that went far deeper. Maybe it was a sort of admiration for her refusal to collapse into hysteria, as most women would have done, given the same circumstances. Her little maid had certainly seen no reason not to indulge in hysterics, which had, surprisingly, seemed to irritate her mistress rather than tempt her to the same.
    It was intriguing. This Angela was the essence of all the women in his life that he despised, with her pretty manners and haughty demeanor. Didn’t he know well what happened when it came to women of her kind?
    Oh yes, he’d learned early to avoid them, and stick to females of a less complicated nature, females eager to please with little expectation beyond a pretty bauble or two and some careless admiration. Yet there was something about this one that drew him and, at the same time, set to jangling every alarm bell in his defense system.
    He had enough to do without being involved with a female hostage, he thought irritably, and turned sharply away from the rail. Boxy shadows clumped over the deck as the night watch answered the bosun’s bells. He leaned back against the rail again, regarding the smooth running of the ship as a thing of beauty to be appreciated. Orderliness was a virtue. He subscribed to it faithfully. His early years had been so chaotic, that his need for system and order had become a driving force in his life.
    That, and his need for answers.
    A brisk wind made the sails flap loudly and tugged at the ratlines as Kit curled