Capture The Wind by Virginia Brown Page A

Decks had been scoured with sand and holystones, cleared of any sign of battle. The crew was cheerful, as they usually were after a good haul, sitting under lanterns tossing dice and gaming away future shares of their profits.
    “Cap’n,” a laughing voice called as he passed, “I bet I know who you’re looking for.”
    Recognizing Dylan’s rich drawl, Kit paused. The youthful pirate stood up in a fluid motion, a half-grin on his face, his boyish features blurred in the subtle glow of a lightly swinging lantern. Gold flecks sparked his eyes.
    Kit couldn’t help a returning smile. “I’m certain you do. I take it you’ve seen them loitering nearby.”
    Youthfully muscular shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. “You might try looking aft. There’s a bit of lace peeking out from behind some barrels. I hated to say anything, ’cause they seemed to think they were well hid.”
    Kit smothered a sigh. Not only females aboard the Sea Tiger, but idiotic females. “Just what I need,” he muttered.
    Dylan stepped away from his comrades. Candle flame glinted in his long dark hair with reddish lights. He moved with lazy grace until he stood close enough not to be heard by the others. “Saber, these women—I hear that you gave the order they were not to be bothered.”
    “That’s true.” Kit raised a brow and stared at him. “Do you have a problem with that order?”
    Dylan shook his head. A torrent of sable hair brushed against his bare shoulders. He grinned. “Not me, Cap’n. They don’t look like the sort who’d know much about the finer points of what I’d want ’em for.”
    Kit smiled faintly. “Probably not. They seem like the sort who would be more nuisances than pleasurable.”
    “Are they to be held for ransom, then?”
    “I haven’t yet decided their fates.” Kit paused. “It will be brought up at the next council.”
    Dylan nodded. “That sounds fair. For us, anyway.” He laughed in tones as rich as the Colombian coffee plantation where he’d been born twenty-two years before. The illegitimate son of the English-born owner and one of his servants, Dylan had learned early that there would be little future for him there, and so had set out on the high seas to make his own. Having found little justice in life, he had few expectations. Over the years, this had jaded his views of the world, a perception Kit had tried at various times to alter with little success.
    “I’ll see if there’s anything left of them,” Kit said now, ignoring Dylan’s implication. “If not, our problems are over.” Not that he really expected them to do the sensible thing and fling themselves overboard. The blonde had looked as if she intended to survive with a vengeance.
    Kit found them huddled behind barrels strapped to the aft deck. They looked frightened and, in the pale light of the glassed-in lantern he lifted above them, wearier than he had anticipated. He bludgeoned his impatience into diplomacy.
    “Come along, ladies. Your room is ready.”
    A reedy voice said, “No. Not until you promise to—”
    “Sweet Jesus. Do you know where you are? On a bloody pirate ship. I don’t have to promise you anything. Now come out from behind those barrels.”
    After a moment of taut silence came the clear reply, “We’d rather stay here, thank you.”
    They seemed to draw farther into the shadows, and he lost what little patience he could claim. “Come out,” he snapped. “Unless you have a desire to sleep on deck with most of the crew for the night. Not that you’d get much sleep . . .”
    That brought their hesitation to a halt, and the blond came out first, straightening her damp, wilted hat with one hand while she bent to help the other woman crawl out.
    “What do you intend to do with us?” the blonde asked when she turned back to him. Despite her obvious fear, her voice was cool. He had to admire that much, anyway. Apparently, the little chit had good breeding and excellent training, her brief lapse