‌Ashley’s sudden transformation sucked the wind from my sails. A scathing sob rose in my throat, and I trapped it there, humiliated, devastated, and overcome.‌

The salve on my wounds, the pretty words about my beauty, the almost- kiss… It had all been a ruse to disarm and hurt me.

“Don’t move.” He straightened the shirt, covering my bare bottom and igniting sore flesh.

I showed no reaction and made no move to disobey. I needed to reassemble my thoughts and rein in the blubbering jumble of emotions unraveling inside me.

He set a chair directly behind my bent position, selected a book from a nearby shelf, and grabbed a bowl of lobscouse from the table. Then he settled in to eat and read as if naught were out of order.

The seething agony of his rejection and outright dismissal of my existence shook me to the core. If I were a cold-hearted woman, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so damned hurt. But I wasn’t, and I did. A vise of pain shredded my organs to a pulp. Prickling heat seared the backs of my eyes, and my head pounded beneath the pressure.

He couldn’t see my face from his position, and that alone kept me in place.

I couldn’t hide my true feelings behind a mask like his. Couldn’t stifle the spill of tears or the quiver in my chin. Until I fastened a tourniquet around my bleeding heart, I couldn’t look into his pitiless eyes.

He’d beaten me with emotional warfare.

Hadn’t I considered something as equally nefarious with Priest? I was going to fuck another man in front of him. Probably.

Probably not.

When it came down to it, I wasn’t as cruel as I wanted people to believe. But I wasn’t a saint, either. I didn’t even claim a god. Maybe I deserved this degradation.

Every proud fiber of my being bristled in objection. I was a female prisoner, bent over a powerful man’s table for his amusement, after being assaulted to a level of agony that would prevent me from sitting. I hadn’t been convicted of a crime, and until then, it was my right to fight.

But to survive this captivity, I needed to adjust, bend with the strikes, and set aside my pride.

So I lay there, deprived of grace and dignity, listening to the clink of his spoon and the rustle of pages turning in his book.

As a king’s commodore, he was expected to put country and crown before himself, behave as an officer and a nobleman, and exercise control and order at all times.

But who was he beneath the rank and title? Was he actually reading the words in that book? Tasting the meat he scooped into his mouth? Or was he hiding bawdy thoughts about me and the erection he’d neglected in his breeches?

“Bennett.” His English accent—terribly deep and more beautiful than it should have been—curled up my spine. “Stand and face me.”

Damnation. If I disobeyed, he would wrench me up by my hair. He’d done that enough times that my scalp shuddered at the sound of his voice.

I pushed myself off the table, discreetly wiping my eyes on my arm. I didn’t erase all the tears, but no matter. More fell, trailing itchy rivers down my cheeks. All I could do was remain vertical and hold my head high as I turned.

He closed the book and set it and the empty bowl aside. “Tell me the lesson learned tonight.”

“Humility.”

He’d been right about me not being frightened enough. While it went against my nature to cower, my ostentatious boldness hadn’t helped me, either. His indifference to the suffering of a woman made him a man to be feared. Not that I deigned to be treated differently because of my sex. I just wasn’t accustomed to his degree of callousness.

“Bring me the second bowl of stew.” He flicked a finger at the table.

I followed his order, grimacing as the muscles in my backside protested the movement. When I returned to him holding the lobscouse, he tossed a cushion between his boots.

“Kneel.” He took the bowl, his gaze giving mine an icy reception. “Or sit in a chair.”

The ruthless bastard knew I couldn’t put weight on my throbbing arse. My hands fisted at my sides, my stomach in turmoil. Would his torture never end?

I lowered to my knees in the V of his legs. Then he fed me.

Spoon to lips, the action felt awkward, but he showed no sign of discomfort. Patient as ever, he scooped, lifted, and served, catching droplets on my chin, waiting for me to chew, and repeating the motions.

I was too hungry and beat down to refuse the hand that fed me. The lukewarm meat melted in my mouth, the broth bursting with spicy flavors. My stomach rolled with pleasure.

Halfway through the stew, he set the spoon in the bowl. “Address me properly, and you may ask your questions.”

Let go of your pride, Bennett. It won’t save you.

“Why are you so mean, my lord?”

“It’s not like me to be so with a woman.” He lifted his free hand to my cheek and traced the drying track of tears. “You behave more like a man.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Or rather… An animal.”

“There’s an animal in all of us. Including you.”

“Quite so. But the difference, madam, is that I control mine.”

“Have you always? What were you doing before you went a-hunting for pirates?”

“I fought in the War of the Spanish Succession.” His eyes illuminated as he absently lifted the spoon and resumed feeding me. “The battles that followed kept me occupied in the Mediterranean for five years, where I climbed from the lowest naval rank to my current standing.”

“Has the conflict ended there?”

“For now. This ship and my crew celebrated victory in an undeclared war last year when Spain tried to retake Gibraltar and Menorca. After that, we were sent back to England.”

“But you didn’t go.”

“I command the heaviest warship in the Royal Navy. It would be a shame to moor it.” He slid the spoon into my mouth and let the tip linger on my bottom lip, his gaze stuck there. “I found another use for it.”

Pirate hunting.

My stomach twisted, and I leaned back, breaking the connection. “I’m no longer hungry.”

He set the bowl at his foot and slanted forward, resting elbows on his knees. The position put his gorgeous face so close to mine I had to fight every instinct to remain where I was. I feared him, but I wouldn’t cower.

Not even when his hand caught the open neckline of my shirt. “Do you still love him?” he murmured.

My heart stopped and restarted. “Who?” “The man who wore this shirt.”

All the warmth in my face drained to my knees, replaced by a coldness that numbed my lips. I was too raw, too exhausted to fight another battle, pass another test, learn another lesson—whatever he had in store for me.

I closed my eyes, failing to slow my breaths. Until a curled finger caught me under the chin and lifted my head.

“Yes.” My gaze shot to his, hardening with sudden anger. “I still love him, but I’m working on rectifying that. It’s a process.” I motioned between my chest and head. “In here.”

“He betrayed you.” The hand beneath my jaw tensed, loosened, and fell away. “Was he involved in the mutiny on your ship that threw you overboard?”

“No.” I stared into his eyes, letting him find the truth in mine. “He bedded another.”

“Bedded and loved.” I wanted to share this. Perhaps not with Ashley, but it felt freeing to voice it to an impartial ear. “He still loves her, but she won’t have him. He’s alone, and I should be happy about that. I am happy about that.”

Not really. I was lying through my teeth.

“He didn’t maliciously try to hurt you by seeking the arms of another,” Ashley said.

“No.” My eyebrows crawled together. “I don’t see why that matters.”

“Love isn’t a decision. It arrives unannounced, breeds madness, and leaves a sea of ruin in its wake. Hate him or love him. Either way, he’s in certain hell.”

My jaw unhinged under the weight of piling questions, but my voice deserted me. As I stared at his detached expression, I couldn’t separate the truth from the rhetoric. Was he feeding me what he wanted me to hear? Or was he speaking from experience?

“Close your mouth.” He reclined in the chair, regarding me. “You speak of love from experience?”

“There’s a woman,” he said slowly. “A lady to whom I’m betrothed.” “Do you love her?” My knees teetered, struggling to hold me up.

“I am here.” He spread his arms wide, indicating the ship and the sea. “And she is not.”

What did that mean? Did he want her here? Who was she? To be betrothed to a high-ranking officer and son of a viscount, she would have her own titles, family wealth, and obligations.

She would be someone important.

“Does she love you?” I shook my head, changing the direction of my thoughts. “Of course, that has no consequence. She wants to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She’s well-bred, titled, educated, modest, kind, beautiful, virtuous— everything a nobleman could want from his betrothed.”

There was positively no want in his voice or expression. But this was Ashley—buttoned, polished, and starched. Even so, why didn’t he race home after the war to see her? She must miss him horribly.

He was an extraordinary catch. Gorgeous. Wealthy. Powerful. As a titled lord, he was required to behave like a gentleman in her presence, meanwhile keeping her in the dark about his unchristian proclivities. Such as restraining, spanking, and sharing a bed with his half-naked female prisoner.

As Lady Ashley Cutler, she would turn the other cheek and focus all her energy on high society. In exchange for his status and affluence, she would only need to open her legs once or twice a year to give him his requisite heirs.

And such was the life of the good and the great.

Yawn.

“Your families want the arrangement,” I said. “And you want your career.”

“That’s the essence of it.” He rose to his feet and gripped my waist, lifting me to stand.

I swayed, flinching in pain. “Will you spank her after you marry her?”

With a hand on my arm, he escorted me toward the sleeping cabin. “A gentleman does not spank a lady.”

He only spanks his whores.

Indignation steamed from my ears, but I kept my voice soft as syrup. “While you spend months or years away at sea, your lady sits at home alone, waiting, starving for attention. Left to her own devices, she’ll find ways to pass the time. Delicious, devious ways that involve ungentlemanly spankings from handsome footmen and burly gardeners.”

“The nuptials will proceed, with or without her maidenhood intact.” He released me in the aft chamber. “Go to bed.”

I searched his tone and features and found only the prosaic, unimaginative facts.

What did he feel? It was not fear or dread. Perhaps he felt a whole lot of nothing full of nothing.

Or perhaps he cared very much about his sweet lonely virgin and her potential transgressions. I wouldn’t know until I found a way to lift that cold mask. I was tired of seeing it. So goddamn tired.

I peeled off the stays and crawled into bed, face down and bottom up—a bottom that would be black and blue by the morrow.

Ashley left the cabin and returned moments later with the salve. He removed his clothing except the breeches and stood over me, his irresistible physique straight and proud with all those muscled indentations.

I turned my head and faced the wall.

He knelt beside me and, with the dispassionate hands of a doctor, applied more cooling medicinal ointment to my buttocks.

“Lieutenant Flemming treated my wrists last night.” I closed my eyes, melting into the glide of his touch. “As the ship’s surgeon, shouldn’t he be the one doing this?”

His fingers paused on my hips, and a tremor rippled through them.

“I am the only man who touches you here.” He splayed a huge palm over my sore backside.

The possessive declaration hitched my breath. I expected that nonsense from Priest’s mouth. But Ashley’s? What the unholy hell?

He yanked down my shirt and climbed off the bed, leaving me whirling in bewilderment.

“What about the forty pirates in the hold?” I listened to him move through the cabin. “Does the threat of them touching me still stand?”

“From Monday to Sunday.” He dimmed the lanterns and stripped off his breeches.

The bed sank beside me. I kept my face turned away, eyes closed. The coverlet tugged and stretched as he settled. Then silence.

Replaying our conversations, I slipped into drowsy introspection. The matter of his betrothed didn’t concern me. If he loved her, he would’ve put me in another bed. Or on the floor, for that matter.

No, his heart didn’t beat for her. If anything, he was looking for a reason to avoid going home.

His career resided on this ship. A warm female body slept beside him in this bed. With the right whispered words, I could move his mind, stir his passion, and convince him that his home was here.

With a pirate whore.

I was a far leap from the noblewoman waiting for him in England. But my gut told me that if it was an obedient virgin that hardened his cock, he would be with his betrothed. Not here with me.

I am the only man who touches you here.

He was the only one stopping himself from touching me everywhere.

Unless my feral, possessive husband showed up. Then my efforts with the commodore would be for naught.

If Priest had his way, my captivity would transfer from Ashley to him. Being Priest’s prisoner wasn’t favorable, but it was a great deal more appealing than hanging from a noose.

In an ideal world, I would escape both men, recover my compass, and live the rest of my life a free woman, commanding my beloved ship.

But there was so much that could go wrong and so little that could go right.

Those were the thoughts that chased me to sleep. When I drifted, I sank hard. And I dreamed about my mother.

A halo surrounded her, like a blurry ring of light around the sun. Was it her golden hair? Her aura? I wanted to touch it, but I didn’t have a body. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t know if she was dead or alive.

None of this was real. Not her smile nor the cliff on which we stood nor the wings that unfurled behind her. No, wait. Those wings were real, for when she jumped, she didn’t fall.

She flew.

I woke gently, quietly, blinking into the darkness and marveling at the discrepancy in the dream. For years, I’d relived the countess falling to the rocks and always woke gasping and shaking with tears in my eyes.

But not this time.

This time I felt warm and peaceful and… I wasn’t the only one awake.

Lying on my side, I stared at the wall. The wild mane of my hair sprawled across the mattress behind me. With a hand tangled in it.

Ashley was petting me.

I held still, measuring my breaths as he stroked the spiraled strands and smoothed out the knots.

The sensation crawled into my veins, torturing me. I didn’t know what felt true—my delirious pleasure in the affection or his ability to give it. But it felt right. He felt right. I didn’t want him to stop.

His breathing quickened, deepened, and his fingers wandered to my hip. The heat of his hand lingered there, soaking through the blanket and saturating my skin. It was the touch of a man with one thing on his mind.

My body fevered, and my pulse sped up. This was what I’d wanted. But wasn’t it too soon?

If he gave me his seed tonight, I could move forward with the pregnancy plan. But shouldn’t I try for his heart first? That ruse was easier to play out, less complicated.

If he tried to bed me now, I could deny him, give him the chase men seemed to love. It might make him want me more.

If I denied him, he might force me.

I spent thirty seconds reasoning this out before his hand disappeared.

He slid soundlessly from the bed and strode to the balcony, making the decision for me.

I simmered in frustration and cursed myself for feeling rejected again

by a man I didn’t want.

But I did desire him. For reasons any woman with working eyes desired him. I could look past his pestilent personality for an hour or two if it meant putting my hands all over that flawless, godlike body.

I wasn’t usually so lustful and eager. But it had been two years since I’d lost myself on a man’s cock, and after spending two days with this one, I was feeling that abstention right where I needed him the most.

My cunt throbbed. My nipples hardened. My entire body strained to sense his movements on the balcony. Then I heard it.

A grunt. A heavy breath. More followed. Then, “Oh, God. Oh, Christ, yes.”

I froze, dazed, rendered utterly confused. Those whispered throaty words sounded nothing like his voice.

Sliding from the bed, I followed the string of muffled groans toward the balcony. The loud creaking of the ship deadened my soft steps. His gasping sounds smothered my own labored breaths.

Pausing just out of view, I peeked around the edge of the open door and choked.

Standing in the muted glow of the distant stern lantern, a broad- shouldered silhouette bent at the rail, tall, dark, and gloriously nude. With his back to me, he gripped the balustrade with one hand and stroked his shaft with the other.

My drubbing heart propelled into my throat, and I pressed a hand over my gaping mouth.

Ashley Cutler, you gorgeous, filthy pervert.

His arse was so chiseled and perfectly shaped I wanted to cry. Powerful thighs flexed and contracted as he strained on his toes and worked his muscled arm. And his noises… Those hungry grunts, trapped behind clenched teeth, sent a million shivers up and down and through my body.

Leaning into his impassioned strokes, he was in plain view of the moon and the endless roaring sea. Oh, I envied those waves. He pleasured himself for them, gripping and jerking his long swollen rod.

Earlier, I’d felt the thick length of it through his breeches. But to behold it in the flesh, to feel the weight of it in my hand… My fingernails bit into my palms as bolts of liquid heat pulsed through my blood and leaked between my legs.

His breathing came faster. Mine came harsher. Moisture broke out on my forehead. More trickled down my thigh.

Impressive in size and manner, he loomed on the balcony, absorbing shadows and taking up space. The muscles in his back bunched and played

with the dim light, his body smooth and hard, glinting silver like the sea in the moonlight.

Watching him, I felt too little, too delicate to accommodate all that strength and terrifying authority. But I would. I would fit him inside me and wrap myself around that broad chest, those muscular legs, that hard, hungry cock.

And if I stood here another second, I might do something embarrassing like force myself upon him.

Fisting my hands, I slowly retreated and crept back to bed. There, I lay on my side, facing the wall, and listened to him grunt, stroke, and moan his way to release.

The sound of him coming set off a mini-orgasm through my core. I shuddered and shook with my hand over my mouth, trying with all my might to calm myself.

By the time he returned, my eyes were closed, and my breathing had resumed an even tempo. But with my body still on fire, I didn’t think sleep would find me again.

Until his hand sank into my hair.

He caressed my locks in a soporific rhythm, flowing with the undercurrent that rocked the creaking ship. It was my undoing.

I fell with him, deeply, tranquilly into perfect slumber.

Over the next two nights, he repeated his erotic performance on the balcony, unaware that he had an audience. I watched from the shadows as he grunted and trembled and squirted his seed into the wind. Then I fell asleep to the soothing cadence of those cock-stroking fingers in my hair.

Sinful. Resplendent. Undeniably wrong. I could spend an eternity with him like that.

But alas, the sun rose each morning, bringing with it his severe, tedious countenance. He spent the daylight hours elsewhere, leaving me alone with my needlework and pent-up frustration. In the evenings, he avoided conversation, and I thereby escaped more spankings.

On the fourth day as his captive, I finished the gown. At last, I could leave his cabin.