Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Happy New Year

I had planned to write long before this, but after New Year I came down with a horrible cold that seized my brain. But I am back now and raring to go.

Captured for the Captain's Pleasure is in stores now and to celebrate I am going to give you a little excerpt that you won't find elsewhere.  Enjoy with my compliments.

“Drink your wine, Miss Fulton.” He gestured at her glass. “Come a toast.”
To humour him, she picked up her glass.
“To success,” he said.
“Yours or mine?”
“Mine.” He drank deeply. He seemed lost in his thoughts.
The skin on her scalp tightened the way it did before a lightning storm. Somehow she had to end this tĂȘte-a-tĂȘte on a friendly note.
She picked up her glass and carried it to the window. Her legs felt rubbery, like the first moments on land after a long voyage. Unfortunately, this voyage would continue and a storm loomed on the horizon.
She gazed out into the dark, breathing in the warm salt air. “Thank you for a pleasant evening.”
As quiet as a cat he appeared behind her, his face reflected in the glass over her shoulder, his lips curved in a sweet almost boyish smile. A trick of the light, no doubt, but the memory of those firm demanding lips on hers, his hard body pressed against her, fired off a storm of heat. A demented blush from head to toe. Thankfully, hidden in the dark reflection.
“You were right about me,” he said, his voice low, his body warm at her back. “Once, I also had all the advantages of wealth and position.”
She resisted the urge to sympathize despite the sorrow in his voice. “Did you lose your money in one of London’s hells? Is that why you prey on ships? Stealing what you lost?”
His reflected gaze skewered her like a blade. “I will never replace what I lost.”
The depth of pain in those words swept across her skin like the sand of a desert storm. “You lost the family estate? It happens all the time. Fortunes won and lost in a night.” Men who committed suicide in the cold light of the following day.
At least Father preferred the comfort of brandy. She shuddered.
The silence stretched taut and painful. The urge to fill it, to pretend thing were normal brought words to her lips. “What will you do when the war is over? When there are no more letters marque? No more ships to be taken. What are your plans for peace?”
The long exhale of breath, a sigh of longing he probably wasn’t aware of. “I plan to return to England. I have unfinished business there.”
“You think you will be welcome?”
“I think you have lied to me all evening, Miss Fulton.
  © Michele Ann Young

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Until Next Time, Happy Rambles