A Most Improper Introduction

A Most Improper Introduction

Chapter One

Felicity Barrow should have blamed her eldest brother the moment she saw the black flag flapping on the horizon, but she condemned Femy instead. After all, her headstrong sister was the reason she was captive on the endless blue sea. Edward, or Lord Barrow, as he insisted his six younger siblings call him, had no choice but to send Felicity away because Femy's tricks had ruined any chance of her making a proper match. And now?

Pirates! Why couldn't it have been a storm or the plague? Felicity slumped until a burst of laughter jerked her from her exhausted stupor at the mast. Remembering where she stood made her blood run cold. Another Barrow would be shamed before the world. No gentleman would ever want to marry a woman kidnapped by pirates.

A few lurid guffaws made Felicity shudder. The Anguille, or the Eel, was a ship as slimy as its namesake. She lowered her eyes to avoid any attention while the corsairs rummaged through trunks they'd stolen from her ship. Her family had dropped her aboard the merchantman with no servants or chaperones other than the Packwoods—a clergyman and his wife. It was hardly proper for a Barrow. Had Femy lowered expectations for them all? Good heavens! What the twins would get away with now and monstrous little Genevieve, too.

Felicity stared at the tarred boards beneath her feet. The pirates had spared no gunpowder frightening the West Indiaman vessel into surrender. They'd bandied the British sailors about, emptied their stores, and bound Felicity's arms behind her back. When Mrs. Packwood pleaded for her charge's safety, the pirate's ringleader, a Capitaine Hervieux, garbled something back in angry French, and Felicity was dropped over the side as numb as a potato.

She looked sideways at the vermin around her as they tossed pieces of clothing back and forth like fish. They'd forgotten about their female prisoner—for the moment. Mustering her courage, Felicity assured herself the British Navy could not be too far behind. Hope was the only thing that kept her from coming undone. Weren't they only a day's sail from St. Christopher? Surely her brother Fitz would rush to the rescue in his sloop-o-war the moment he heard she had been captured by pirates. He'd written back to Mama and said that Felicity could come. He must be waiting.

A breeze riffled through Felicity's unpinned hair and cooled the burning sensation on her scalp. What misfortune, and it had sounded so easy in the beginning. Sail to St. Christopher, uphold every standard of propriety in West Indies society, make an advantageous match, and keep the Barrow family scandal as quiet as possible. Now look at her. Kidnapped by pirates. It was a thousand times worse than what Femy had done.

It wasn't fair. Felicity never danced with a partner more than once, never went out without gloves, and now she would be ruined if she was not murdered in the middle of nowhere. She'd let the family down.

A cry from the crow's nest silenced the ship, and Felicity followed the gazes of her captors. They looked aft, some with slackened jaws. Her heart rose with hope. She tugged against her bindings, and rough hemp scratched her arms as she peered toward the western horizon. There it was. Yes. Another vessel skimming across the water and drawing near.

Les pirates! Capitaine Hervieux shouted, and it echoed off the sails. Felicity's mind spun in disbelief. More pirates?

All hands flew into action, and for the second time that day, Felicity braced herself for ear-splitting cannon fire. The fresh fear made her faint with anxiety. Edward had promised she would be safe, but Caribbean waters were still a flurry of perilous activity. It'd all been a lie!

No doubt Edward, now Lord Barrow, had written to Fitz immediately after Femy's elopement and insisted Felicity come to the Indies. Mama was just as determined, for with twin boys and the youngest child remaining from a brood of seven, her second daughter was quite in the way. Edward had said it was the best thing for the family, and Felicity had relented.

She tried to ignore the pounding of her heart. The thick air tasted hot, and she felt wet, exhausted, and afraid. It should have been Fitz making chase beyond her captors' stern, but instead it was just more cutthroats.

Felicity clenched her teeth and began to work the ropes on her wrists with more ardor. Capitaine Hervieux had made no move to molest her, and she suspected it was because she'd given him the names of her family and her brother's ship. Perhaps it was possible she'd be released unharmed, or there would be a ransom.

Grunting, she tugged on the bindings again and glanced at the approaching vessel. She should have put up a fight. What good had it done to submit to these thieves? The new oncoming marauders must be worse. Surely pirates bold enough to attack their own would be murderous. Being a lady or a Barrow wouldn't save her this time.

Now Flick, something reminded her, you can hold your own. Was it Papa's voice, or something she imagined Fitz would say? Either way, they were both right. Born between two older and two younger brothers, Felicity was no stranger to teasing, torture, and the art of self-defense, but could she do it when her life actually depended upon it? What to do about propriety with no one to save her, she did not know.

Felicity watched a pair of cannonballs arc over the surface of the sea with a poof! from the enemy's chasers. One splashed harmlessly into the water to leeward, but the other pounded into the stern with a sickening crack. More cries ensued, and frantic, she jerked until she finally scraped free.

The crew of the Anguille was too busy preparing their defenses to bother with a female. Ducking under rope lines, Felicity clambered around the nearest hatch belching up pirates and raced past the capstan to a door. Blinded by darkness, she felt her way down a short passage, pushed through an opening, and found herself in a well-lit room with a row of stern windows. Clothes and dirty dishes were strewn about a single table and chairs. A well-used hammock swayed from its moorings in the corner.

With a deafening crash, another cannonball found its mark. Felicity gasped as the entire ship shuttered, and the Anguille answered with roaring artillery of its own. Covering her ears, she threw herself into the corner beneath the hammock. The boards around her shook, and she reached for a spindly overturned chair and pulled it over herself. Make it instant, she thought. Make it fast. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pray, but the words wouldn't come. Curse you, Femy, you have finally killed your sister. I hope you're happy now!

The world exploded into booms and groans, and Felicity pressed her forehead to the boards and imagined it was all a nightmare. She told herself she would wake up any moment in the Mayfair townhouse, and Mama would be at the foot of her bed. Her mother would wish her a good morning and not say Femy had eloped to Lamberton, and Felicity would not be shipped to the West Indies to find a husband, either.

Would she ever get to St. Christopher before word spread the Barrows had ruined themselves, or would sea scavengers finish her off for good? What a tragic tale. Perhaps Femy would be excused after all.

***

CAPTAIN THOMAS DOYLE of the privateer ship, Defiance, noted the Anguille was tilted to starboard. Now within range, he gave orders for British colors to fly and waited five extra seconds to correct his timing so he could rake the pirates' larboard side while they reloaded. Mr. Edens, his second, watched from the gunwale with pistols in his fists and a dirk between his teeth. Hopefully, the crew of the Defiance would not be outnumbered. The French corsairs had a fast ship, but they sailed heavy as if they'd just pilfered another vessel's cargo.

Thomas motioned for the gun captain to prepare to blast the scallywags to pieces. Corsairs, he mused, gripping the pommel of his cutlass while watching his chess move unfold. Some of the enemy privateers and downright filthy pirates still refused to accept the treaty that had returned St. Christopher to the hands of the British. He had no idea why these corsairs were testing his waters, but he was sure they were up to no good.

The cannons fired and swept the top deck of the Anguille, snuffing out their guns. With the additional aid of grappling hooks, their yardarms touched, and the ships bounced off one another with a foreboding sound of smashing planks. His crew swung across and hand-to-hand battle ensued. Thomas waited until confident his vessel was safe, and then, unable to bear feeling useless, grabbed a line, sailed over the gunwale, and planted his boots on the enemy's deck. There was nothing more important in the world to him than eliminating evil.

He decided the fierce man in the bicorn at the helm was the pirate captain. The Frenchman leered as he clashed swords with Mr. Edens. Thomas clobbered two corsairs in the head, ducked a punch, and made it to the quarterdeck just as the captain's bicorn fell, and he plopped down beside it like a lifeless doll. Thomas frowned at Mr. Edens' beaming face. His second-in-command scooped up the enemy's hat and planted it on his own head.

Well done, Thomas groused, shoving a complacent man down the ladder. He'd wanted to take the corsair captain down. He despised villainy. Searching the deck of Anguille, he watched the remaining pirates drop to their knees in surrender except for two who went over the side. They shouted in rebellion, preferring to make a swim for it rather than face the iron bars of the gibbets. I'll clean up this mess, he teased Mr. Edens, if you want to sweep the deck below.

Be happy to, Captain Doyle, Mr. Edens grinned. A loyal sailor since Thomas had met him in Nevis, Mr. Edens preferred hand to hand combat over cannon fire and his fists over swords. It was his limp, Thomas assumed, that made the young man want to prove himself.

Help yourself. Thomas bit back a smile of satisfaction. In only minutes, they'd brought the French to their knees, and now had every last piece of treasure aboard to split among themselves after the King's take. Not a bad day's work for a privateer. He'd have enough to purchase Sugar Hill plantation in no time.

His crew bound the wounded and chained the prisoners together before marching them below. Thomas preferred his captives locked in their own holds rather than transferred to his vessel. Mr. Edens could sail the Anguille into port with a skeleton crew. He'd certainly earned it.

With repairs underway to get the hulk seaworthy again, Thomas checked a few barrels then pushed his way inside the pirate captain's quarters. All of its contents were spread across the deck, and one of the galley windows dangled from its hinges.

An odd stillness hung in the air, and suspicious, Thomas withdrew his sword. He lifted a stained shift with the tip of his blade and flicked it aside. An open trunk held a variety of boots and baldrics. He stirred them around, and finding nothing of value, approached a swinging hammock with caution. No fine bed or comfortable cot here. The French captain lived simply if not like a pig.

He glanced at an overturned chair under the hammock and hesitated. Just as his eyes perceived a crumpled pile of dark linen, a woman with a mop of yellow hair popped up before he could reach out. He jerked in surprise and raised his sword, but his boots felt nailed to the planking.

With round, frightened eyes, the cornered woman heaved the piece of furniture at his head, and he tripped onto his backside. Smarting with irritation, Thomas spun like a Nile crocodile and flailed out with his blade, but she did not attack again. Instead, she bolted for the door.

Thomas scrambled to his feet and gave chase, snatching at a flapping ribbon tied around her waist. When he seized it at last, she fell to her knees, and he threw both of his arms around her. With a cry, her hands shot up and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, ripping them from their roots.

Blast! he bellowed, because Ouch! would have sounded cowardly. He clutched the back of her neck, surprised at how fragile it felt. She froze and arched her back in surrender, but Thomas dragged her backward, spun her about, and pushed her against the bulkhead to examine her up close. Face to face, her calamine blue-green gaze narrowed before she ducked her chin and smashed the crown of her head into his nose. It crackled, and he swore under his breath while his own eyes flooded with tears. He managed to grab an elbow as she darted past him again, and when she turned to fight, he threw his weight into her sending them both to the deck with a heavy thump. He hoped someone heard them before he was beaten to a pulp.

Flopped across her with his great girth, Thomas couldn't help but feel like a giant crushing an ant, but he was vindicated. She threw her head back, and he ducked to avoid another injury while fumbling to pin down her wrists. Blast it, woman. It's over! You're beat. We have the crew and your captain.

He's not my captain! she spat in a terse, high voice. Her pale face had red smudges on the apples of her cheeks, and her eyes glowed like sunbeams sparkling off the waves.

He's not, you say? Thomas tried not to gloat, but he couldn't help himself. Why you're a captain's woman if ever I've seen one. He felt his mouth creep into a smug smile and realized his nose was wet.

You're bleeding, his captive groaned in disgust. Get off me.

Thomas hesitated, wavering over the decision to defy the hoyden or act like a gentleman. She bucked and squirmed, so he rolled off of her but kept hold of her wrists. Stop struggling, he ordered, reminding himself that this breathless beauty was a criminal.

My brother will kill you, she hissed, and he thought she sounded like a furious cat.

He felt a laugh gurgle up. Your brother? You don't look like a relative of Hervieux nor do you appear to be French, Madam.

I'm not French, you devil!

Thomas pushed her against the bulkhead again but kept his throbbing nose out of reach. Manners, please, he rebuked her. You're under arrest and are now my prisoner.

Arrest for what? Her bosom heaved like she might faint, and he saw it was more from fear than exertion although she put on a good show. For piracy, he reminded her.

Her lovely water-colored eyes rounded again. I'm not a pirate, she gaped, I'm a prisoner!

You jest, he smiled. In the captain's quarters? Fully dressed?

I was kidnapped this morning, sir! The young woman snapped her jaws shut. He watched her force back tears of frustration. At least hers were from offense and not a broken nose.

Thomas wiped his face with his sleeve and watched her lip curl as he tried to stop the bleeding with what remained of his dignity. There was something dainty about her beneath the squared shoulders and fierce expression. If you had fought the pirates like you fought me, I suspect you'd still be aboard your ship with your family—if it's true.

Yes, I ascertained that after standing tied to the foremast for several hours. She glared at him and tried to shake his hands from her wrists, but he tightened his hold in case she was bluffing. However, they only robbed me. You attacked.

A sense of foreboding crept up on Thomas's heels. You're a prisoner?

I'm a victim, you dolt, she insisted. Now let me go. You're hurting me.

Thomas hesitated. He would have been sure she was a French spy except for the lack of accent. You don't fight like a lady, he grumbled.

You do, she snorted.

Thomas was considering the ostentatious humor in her reply when Mr. Edens burst into the room. His jaw dropped.

Finally, complained Thomas, she nearly killed me.

Mr. Edens pointed over his shoulder with large eyes. We had a small skirmish on the way to the hold, but the prisoners are contained.

The woman in Thomas's arms struggled again.

Do you want me to take her below? Mr. Edens sounded hopeful.

Thomas frowned. Apparently, the lady is a victim or so she says.

Mr. Edens raised his chin as if comprehending something. So, it is true.

What's true? Thomas looked sideways at him with dread.

One of the frogs claimed they took a prisoner from a prize this morning.

That would be me, the woman pointed out.

Thomas felt mild shame flicker on his cheeks. He stared at the bulkhead in disbelief then lowered his gaze to his thick, heavy hands pinning her down like meat hooks. She eyed him from beneath lowered lids, but despite the threatening pretense, a green-blue vein pulsed wildly in her neck. Thomas blinked to push aside his muddled thoughts. He had a duty to protect the Leeward islands' waters, even if he must capture and hand over a beautiful woman.

"Madam, I am Captain Doyle of the Defiant and authorized by the Crown. If you are as innocent as you claim to be, I will need the name of your family," he challenged her. Mr. Edens stepped inside and crossed his arms to look threatening, too.

The woman stiffened her spine. Barrow, she said in a tone spiked with contempt. I am Miss Barrow, daughter of the Right Honourable Edward Lucas Barrow, and sister of Commander Fitzwilliam Barrow of the Royal Navy. She let out a heavy breath that sounded much like relief. I am utterly shocked you hold a captain's rank, sir. Now take me home.

***

BARROW? THOMAS HELD a wet cloth to his nose and sank into his berth. Fitz Barrow? He closed his eyes and dropped his head between his knees. Why in the world had Fitz Barrow's sister fought like a wildcat? And how? He'd mistaken her for a member of the crew even though she didn't look the part. True, it was self-preservation that made him fight, but if he was honest, a certain primal attraction had allowed him to enjoy it. She was as slender and strong as a palm tree in a hurricane, and almost as tall, which was saying a great deal considering his impressive height.

He groaned under his breath. If he'd been any rougher, he might have seriously injured or killed her. Fortunately, the Defiant's surgeon had decided she was nothing more than scraped, sunburned, and in need of water or ale. She was lucky to have been rescued, and fortunate the corsairs had been too busy in the time leading up to the Defiant's arrival to do her irreparable harm.

He frowned. Miss Barrow seemed more horrified by the idea she'd been kidnapped rather than what actually could have happened. And a Barrow? How on earth would he explain to Fitz he'd tackled his sister, and worse, liked it?

Thomas flopped down and sprawled out on the narrow bunk. His nose throbbed from being clobbered by the elegantly violent Miss Barrow, but the rest of him did not because his crew had done most of the work.

You were not much of a captain today, Doyle, he scolded himself. He'd held the Defiant, of course, but Mr. Edens should have left him something to do besides round up another officer's sister. He groaned aloud. How could he have wildly attacked an innocent woman? He'd never raised a finger to a female in his life. Miss Barrow had certainly made a muck of things. He wouldn't be able to buy back Sugar Hill if her brother decided to challenge him to a duel, and Thomas had just convinced Fitz to agree to forty percent of the Defiant's prize money in exchange for the derelict plantation. It was only up to the new Lord Barrow at home to agree to it now.

The deal was fair for Thomas, but a risk for the Barrows, for who knew how much income he might acquire in the allotted time of four years? Would Fitz change his mind when he learned Thomas wrestled his sister to the deck instead of rescuing her from pirates?

Another horrible thought pierced Thomas's mind. Even if the agreement to exchange Sugar Hill for the Defiant's prize money was not negated, he might be forced to marry her. He pinched his nose, tossed the stained cloth to the floor, and