The Pirate and the Pagan by Virginia Henley

he had known, His blood, already intoxicated by the storm, was now enflamed with lust.
    He turned the wheel over to his second-in-command and stalked a direct path to her cabin. “Summer,” he called against the door, “let me in.”
    There was dead silence.
    “I must see for myself that you are safe. Open the door,” he commanded.
    Again there was dead silence. Summer pressed against the inside of the door listening to the desire in his deep voice. She smiled and disobeyed his command.
    The command changed to a subtle threat. “I won’t leave this door until you open it and let me see that you are unharmed.” He knew that if she opened the door to him, she would be symbolically opening her body to him and inviting him inside where he hotly lusted to be. The threat changed to a plea. “My lady, please open the door. The moment I see you are unafraid I will leave you to rest.”
    “I’m perfectly all right, Lord Helford,” she replied. Then in a husky, teasing voice she whispered, “In fact … I’ve never felt better.”
    His arousal was so strong, he knew he must have her. “Let me see for myself,” he commanded.
    “We both know I cannot risk opening this door.” The warm sensual tone of her voice belied her words.
    “Risk?” he challenged.
    “It would deny propriety, my lord, to admit you to my cabin in the middle of the night.”
    His hands were on the door to force it when he realized he was in a reckless mood, savage enough to force her once the door had yielded. He didn’t want to rape her, he wanted to exert such a strong power over her that she would yield herself to him in extravagant abandon.
    “Good night, Lord Helford,” she teased.
    He put his ear against the door and heard her deep breaths whispering against the polished wood. “Summer?” he begged low, desire refusing to be denied.
    Her eyes slitted like a cat’s when it was being stroked and the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile of triumph as she tiptoed across the cabin and slipped into bed.

B y morning it was as if there had never been a storm. The English Channel seemed calm as a duck pond and she surmised they must be somewhere off the Isle of Wight. She hummed a little tune as she bathed and dressed in the pale lavender silk with its prim high neckline. She heard a tap on the door and called, “What is it?”
    “Breakfast, m’lydy,” came the voice of Mr. Cully. She unbolted the cabin door for him and said, “I could have gone to the galley. Thank you very much. When I’ve finished, I’m going up on deck for some fresh air.”
    Mr. Cully shook his head. “Wouldn’t do that, m’lydy … trouble brewin’.”
    “What sort of trouble?” she asked.
    He shook his head again. “Best stay syfe in yer little mouse’ole.”
    “What’s up?” she demanded.
    He hesitated then blurted out, “A floggin’ … Cap’n found a man drunk on watch.” He bobbed his head and ducked out.
    Surely Helford wouldn’t order a man flogged for taking a drink? Especially after the horrors of sailing through that storm. She pushed the food aside and reached for her cloak.
    When she arrived on deck, she realized with horror that she was too late. Not only had Helford ordered the flogging, he was carryingout the punishment himself. The sailor had been stripped to the waist and lashed to the mast. His back was already bloody. Helford stood wielding a bull whip, immaculately garbed in navy breeches and snowy shirt and stock. His long black hair was clubbed back into a cue as neatly as if he wore a wig.
    Outraged, she ran across the deck and cried, “Stop!”
    He looked at her with disbelief. “Go below!” he commanded.
    “No!”
    His eyes narrowed dangerously. “No? On my own quarterdeck you dare to say no?”
    She swayed forward and he saw that she was close to fainting. A foul oath fell from his lips as he threw down the whip and strode to her side. “Cut him down,” he called over his shoulder, then he took hold of her wrist in