Captive Mistress Read online

  DESTINY’S PRISONER

  Desperate to escape her cruel, greedy uncle, ravenhaired Christy hid herself aboard the Merrimer, certain she could sneak back ashore before the ship set sail. But before she knew it, the luscious stowaway drifted asleepand awoke to the hard, flinty glare of Captain Michael Lancer. Christy trembled when he threatened to send her to a watery grave, but she was utterly terrified when he decreed she would pay for her passage with nothing less than her private services in the captain’s cabin!

  ECSTASY’S SLAVE

  With his chiselled features and manly build, Michael Lancer never lacked for feminine attention. But when he saw the tempting, petite Christy, she shattered he control and ravaged his resolve to never touch an unwilling woman. Something in the way her h pouted and her hips swayed drove him mad with desire. And when she refused to succumb to his sensual charms, Michael had no choice but to claim forever and make her his own.

  PASSION’S MASTER

  “Would it make you feel powerful and mighty to crush meto make me feel your conquering strength? Well, go ahead and do your worst, master.” Christy dared him openly.

  The captain’s senses reeled. His blood pulsed at a dizzying speed. His head pounded wildlyready to explode. A fever raged within him.

  With unquenchable hunger he snatched her to him. Arms of steel encircled her. His fiery lips crushed down on hers, aflame with desire and urgency. The fire of his kiss assaulted her senses, and for a brief moment Christy too felt the spark of his passion pulsing through her veins. But this was wrong!

  Panic gripped Christy. He was like a wild, raging ,. animal, driven by lustful desire. “Take your hands off me!” she cried with every ounce of authority she possessed trying to shock him out of his madness.

  “No. Not this time, my love,” he whispered, low and unswayable. He reached up to free her long black hair, sending the shining mass tumbling down….

  Prologue

  The London harbor was a beehive of activity on that oppressively hot July day in 1758. Sweaty men swarmed over the docks and on heavily laden ships headed for all parts of the trading world.

  The men loading The Merrimer were no exception. The sun melted down on them as they skillfully manipulated ropes and pullies to maneuver their precious cargo into the hold. Tired muscles strained and tempers flared, but the general mood was optimistic. The trip to Charleston, South Carolina promised to be extremely profitable if they succeeded in reaching port before their arch competitor, The Rupert. Hopes were high for their success for they had a skillful, daring captain and a strong crew to supply the muscle.

  Earnestly involved in all the hustle of activity, few took notice of a small shabbily clothed fugitive dodging through the crowds. A heavy overcoat, out of place on the hot day, came to the wearer’s knees, while oversized gray trousers dragged on the ground.

  The figure halted for an instant in the sunlight, panting heavily. A black hat pulled tightly down over a smudged, pale face hid long lush lashes fluttering over expressive emerald green eyes that looked down over a small, dainty nose and full, red lips. Few could guess that the sodden, boyish attire disguised a pretty young girl.

  Casting a nervous glance behind her, she sped swiftly ‘ to a stack of massive crates scattered along the loading dock and crouched down behind them. Her breath came in jagged gasps as her ears strained for the sound of approaching footsteps. Her palms felt cold and clammy, despite the oppressive heat, as she cautiously peered over . the crate.

  A scream nearly escaped her lips, but she bit her finger to stifle the cry. Quickly she ducked down behind the boxes. The swift movement engulfed her in a new wave of suffering. Excruciating pain from the scores of gashes covering her back brought tears to her eyes. Again she bit on her finger until the threat of unconsciousness passed.

  Her situation was desperate. A brief glimpse had revealed the hideous vision of Henry Slate laboring ever nearer. His beady eyes darted between every box. Saliva dripped unchecked down the corners of his twisted, filthy mouth. He wheezed heavily from the physical strain on his obese body.

  She shuddered violently at the vision. He would kill her if he caught her. It was escape or die! But how?

  “Let’s load these crates here next,” came a deep, throaty voice directly above her head.

  Her heart stopped! It was over. In seconds she would be discovered.

  “No. The captain wants this foodstuff loaded before it spoils in this damn heat,” came another voice, farther off.

  “Goddamnit. Tell him to make up his mind,” grumbled the man as he shuffled off.

  The young fugitive swallowed hard and took a deep breath. She’d come too close to being discovered. It was imperative to move.

  Whispering a silent prayer, she risked another look from behind her cover. Cold fear sent icicles down her spine. Slate was no more than sixty feet away!

  Again she crouched down and bit savagely on her lip. Should she risk an outright dash for freedom and gamble her adversary was too drunk and clumsy to follow? But no weak and feverish from her wounds, she knew it was sheer folly to even attempt such rashness. Even in his intoxicated condition he could undoubtedly overtake her. There was also the possibility that his exclamations would elicit the aid of some passing stranger to his cause. Outright flight seemed to lead only to guaranteed capture. But what else could she do?

  She shifted her weight to ease her discomfort. The oppressive heat was closing in on her. Every noise was magnified a thousandfold as she strained to hear the approach of Slate or the workmen. Her head pounded . unbearably. Her muscles tensed. She thrust her hand out to push off against the crate.

  A throbbing pain shot up her arm and she stared dumbly at her scraped, bleeding fingers. Could she endure more? Even the crates seemed to be against her. The crates ti . .

  Suddenly an idea crashed through her mind. Of course, the crates! Why had she not thought of it sooner? She could hide inside one of them until Slate tired of his searchand she could be gone before the dock men began to load. It seemed her only chance.

  Spurred by a ray of hope, she hunched down and threaded her way through the confusion of ropes and cartons searching for a suitable hideout.

  A ray of sunlight shining on a nearby box caught her eye. Slits in the side revealed neatly folded fabrics with ample space at the top to protect the precious linens from being crushed. Perhaps there was just enough room for a small, thin girl to squeeze in.

  She brushed aside irksome, tears. Yes! She just might fit. But did she have time before Slate was upon her? How could she climb up and in without being seen? Was this just another dead end? Chewing anxiously on her lip, she ventured another peek over the crate to assess her position. Slate was nearly on top of her!

  She pivoted, ready to bolt from the spot. A loud crash halted her flight. She gazed in wonder as Slate, caught up in his own drunken rage, stumbled on a piece of rigging. He fell heavily, evoking a stream of loud, obscene curses. The men loading the ship stopped their work to watch in amusement as he struggled clumsily to his feet.

  Seizing upon the diversion, she jumped up, shoved aside the lid, and nestled herself into the crate … and waited.

  The box was dark and cramped and she lay very still, hardly daring to breathe. Seconds ticked by and false hope tingled her senses. Slate had abandoned his hunt. She was safe at last!

  Abruptly her hopes vanished. Heavy footfalls approached and hard, labored breathing sounded directly above her. The rank, pungent smell of whiskey and body odor made her want to gag. Her eyes strained to see through the tiny slits. Would he see her lying inside? Her heart pounded wildly. She dared not even breathe. Every nerve in her body strained and panic churned her stomach into tight knots.

  Suddenly his hand came
down on the lid. He knew she was there! In seconds he would raise the lid. She’d be trapped. His filthy hands would lock about her neck and he would strangle the very life from her! A scream rose in her throat. She fought it with every ounce of will power she possessed.

  But wait. Slate was moving awayvery slowly. He had not seen her nor had he heard her. She was safe!

  A slow, deep breath filled her lungs and she let it out with deliberate control, forcing herself to relax. Desperately she wanted to climb from her stifling prison. But prudence warned her to wait a few moments longer, just to be sure Slate was gone and would not come back.

  With imminent danger now forestalled, her abused, exhausted body again was racked with misery. Cramped in the uncompromising carton, her back ached unbearably. Waves of nausea and dizziness plagued her. Life was so cruel so haphazard in dealing out sorrows. Hadn’t she already endured far more than her share these past two years? Where would the suffering and sorrow end?

  Death had struck her a cruel blow when a freak K accident nearly two years ago had snatched away the two most important people in her life. Her father, a wellknown known horse breeder and racer, had strong convictions concerning the morality of slavery. Numerous times he had been warned against his outspoken condemnation of the buying and selling of Negroes in the Colonies. But as always, little could deter his determination Despite the rightness of the cause, his zeal had wrought only sorrow. He and his wife had been killed on their way to an antislavery rally. Their carriage had lost control and gone plunging over a narrow mountain ravine. The tragedy had been listed as accidental, but the girl knew otherwise. She was convinced her parents had been murdered in cold blood. Hadn’t the carriage smith inspected the broken buggy after the accident and found certain unusual malfunctions in the supposedly sturdy rig? It had been concluded that when the carriage reached a high speed, one wheel had given way and sent it rumbling off uncontrollably. The carriage smith had admitted to her that the stage had probably been sabotaged, but he had suddenly been frightened into silence and would say nothing publicly. The death of her parents had been listed as a tragic mishap.

  It had all happened so suddenly.. One day she had been the carefree, happy daughter of a wealthy merchant the next, all semblance of that happiness had vanished forever. She was unceremoniously whisked off to the small farm outside London to live with her Aunt Heather and her aunt’s husband, Henry, as their ward. , The transition had been swift and devastating. But for the orphan girl, the real tragedy had only begun. The pompous, greedy magistrate, Theodore Joanace, had ordered a thorough investigation into the estate of the late Mr. and Mrs. William Patterson. With the help of some of his elite and equally despicable associates,’

  Joanace had produced evidence that the Pattersons owed a substantial amount of taxes to the Crown. Any amateur accountant could have seen through the forged figures and accounts they produced, yet no one dared protest the findings. Thus the estate had been completely sold off to settle the supposed debt, and the girl had been sent to live with her relatives as best she could. Her parents had been labeled blackguards and swindlers, and their names forever etched as traitors to the country.

  She knew Joanace had been behind the previous threats to her parents’ lives. Their refusal to be intimidated only intensified his anger. Anyone who opposed profits at the exploitation of slaves offered a potential threat and made him appear weak and ineffectual ruler before the King. Their elimination rid him of the unpleasant situation and also served as a warning to others who would follow in their stead. The added settlement of the estate in Joanace’s behal no doubt had gone to further appease him. The girl grew purple with rage every time she thought to what great lengths he had gone to dispose of them thoroughly and completely. She prayed that someday he would be repaid for his wickedness and treachery.

  She had little time to ponder life’s injustices, however, for life with the Slates was painfully hard. They were poor farmers and had barely enough to support themselves, much less a young girl. But she had done her put, working long hours in the fields. Her back ached and her hands bled many a night, but Slate was never satisfied no matter how strenuous her labors. His desire for drink and money was insatiable and caused him to drive her almost beyond endurance.

  Her aunt, a frightened, unhealthy woman, pleaded with her husband to ease up on the girl. But he paid no heed and drove her on all the more. For survival she had learned to endure his backbreaking demands in silence. But the mental agony he inflicted by his baiting, demeaning slurs and insults about her beloved parents rankled deeply. Despite her most valiant efforts to hold her tongue, eventually her resolve would weaken and she would argue back. It did not take long, however, before she learned the only response Slate gave to her defense of her parents was the crack of his whip.

  After nearly a year of such abuse, she had finally disciplined herself to ignore his taunting and thereby save herself the agony of the lash. But when he drank, as he did more indulgently after the death of his wife, he would become vicious and take out his stick and whip her unmercifully, with little provocation. The past year she was never without gashes marking her bruised, white flesh. Numerous attempts to escape had always been thwarted. His severe punishment after such incidents had petrified her into abandoning any hope of relief.

  Last night’s drama, however, had given her a new resolve. He had been drinking more than usual and had come home from town in a wicked mood. His cutting remarks about her and her parents had been even more degrading than usual. Despite her courageous efforts, she had given in and fought back his verbal slurs. She had refused to acknowledge that her parents had indeed been traitors. He had become enraged and had beaten her until he fell over from exhaustion in a drunken stupor. She had staggered away, half dead, but with a vow that never again would she listen to his ranting or feel his whip upon her.

  It had taken her most of the night to reach London. The girl had to stop several times to fight the pain and unconsciousness which plagued her every step of the way. The delay had given him time to recover and he had ‘ doggedly followed her here to the docks. Would she ever be free of his malicious clutches?

  The air gradually grew stale inside the selfmade prison. Her feverish musings tumbled together in confusion. Voices, distant and indiscernible, filtered in and out of her consciousness from another time another place. She felt groggy and incoherent. The insistent yet unfamiliar voices grew louder, grating annoyingly on the recesses of her mind.

  “This is the last of ‘em to be loaded. Hurry it up now. We’re running way behind as it is.”

  Her eyes flew open. The faceless voices were all too real now. Panic pulsed through her veins. She muffled a scream as several men passed by. Should she alert them that she was in the box? Surely it would cause a commotion. What if Slate was still prowling about? She had been a fool to linger overlong and lose track of time. Had she dozed for two minutes or two hours? Her mind felt near bursting. What should she do? A deafening blow rendered the sides of the crate. They were nailing it shut!, They were trapping her inside!

  Frantically she tried to raise a fist to pound on the crate. But what was wrong? Her arms seemed restrained by tremendous weights. She was paralyzed and powerless to move!

  The crate pressed in on all sides smothering her as they continued pounding nails. Suddenly the crate began to drag along the dock. Fear gripped her anew and frantically she strained every ounce of her being, aching from the effort. Still she could not speak.

  In seconds she was suspended in the air. The carton rocked dizzily from side to side. Nausea churned her empty stomach and her head reeled giddily. Back and forth she swung in her suspended prison. Suddenly the crate was falling, fasterfaster! Her breath caught in her lungs. Cold terror surged through every vein. Her heart stopped beating. She was being plunged into the sea or smashed to the ground! Death gripped at her with cold, black fingers. Life was over. Would there be pain?

  The box crashed to the deck.

  “T
ake it easy with these crates, Jackman!” yelled the worker. “Those Charleston belles won’t be appreciating wrinkled silks and finery.”

  His reprimand was lost on the young fugitive. Her head slammed against the carton and blackness consumed her.

  Two

  A dull, persistent pounding throbbed in her head. It was so hot, breathing itself was an exhausting chore. Every muscle in her body screamed in agony. Slowly, reluctantly she pried open her eyes. Her head swam dizzily. A sick gnawing churned in her stomach. This had to be some terrible nightmare. Yet who could even dream of such agony? No, this was all too real.

  Slowly her senses began to function once again and she nurtured the resolve to free herself from the crate. The men had no doubt taken a rest from the strenuous loading. She must escape before they returned. With great effort she raised her arms to lift the lid. The temporary paralysis had vanished as quickly as it had come, but a drugged, weakened effect still lingered.

  She pushed gently. No response. She pushed again, harder this time. Still the lid would not budge. A new twinge of fear swept through her as she tried once again to free herself. The wooden structure held firm.

  Her adrenaline began to pump. Would this box of fine linen prove to be her coffin? Was she to be trapped and suffocate or starve to death her emaciated body to be discovered when the crate was opened? Had she escaped the clutches of Slate only to die as a trapped animal?

  No! She would not succumb to such a demise. A surge of strength sprang to her limbs. Fighting the pain her actions brought, she threw her shoulders again and again at the stubborn lid. The crate offered pitifully little room for leverage. She was pitting her meager strength against the sturdy containerand losing! The thought compelled her to heave all the harder.

  At last the bite of the nails into the wood began to loosen. Encouraged somewhat by the splintering wood, she continued to slam her weight against the crate in vigorous determination. Yet the lid held fast. Then a crackling pierced her ears and she pitted her final ounce of strength against the crate. The battered lid cracked from the blow and crashed to the floor.