Kresley Cole: The Captain of All Pleasures

“Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed just once before she reached the steps. She knew no one was coming to her rescue. Tonight her survival was in her own hands.

Fast as Nicole flew to the stairs, the big brute was faster, and she managed just three steps up the companionway before he leapt for her legs. Catching her ankles in a manacle-like grip, he snatched them back viciously. She felt weightless for a fraction of a second before she crashed against the stairs in a jarring bounce. Stunned, she scarcely registered the pain as the wood shoved into her stomach and chest, wrenching the air out of her lungs.

Over her violent gasps, she dimly heard the scarred man yelling at them over the din of screaming animals. The pain ebbed and her sight blurred…until Clive hauled her back down, dragging her limp body toward him, one hand over the other snaking higher up her leg.

Fight, damn it, fight! With a hidden reserve of strength, she kicked forcefully, her heel catching the man squarely in his foul, soft mouth.

Blood spurt. He howled in pain, yet managed to keep one hand fisted around her leg. Another furious kick connected, loosening his hold, and she pulled at the stairs above with all the fading power left in her arms.

She’d broken free. She’d—

“I’ll shoot you if you try that again.” The words accompanied the rasp of a pistol hammer being cocked.

She craned her head back over her shoulder. The scarred man had a gun trained on her. Shaking, she looked back down at Clive, who rose to his feet and staggered toward her, his bloody face split into a gruesome sneer.

One glance into his pebbly eyes, seeing the frenzied rage directed at her, decided her fate in a flash.

Ignoring the gun pointed at her back, she sprang to her feet and bolted up the stairs, pumping her arms for speed, knowing she was too weak…too slow.

Halfway up, she felt rather than heard the click of the hammer. A shot roared through the shadowy hold.

Derek Sutherland was an angry man.

Those who knew him well, and they were few, feared he wasn’t many years away from becoming a bitter man. The events of the last four years did seem to guarantee his descent in that direction.

Late on this cold and bleak night, in addition to being angry, he was drunk. As was usual.

In truth, only one thing was out of the ordinary. He’d begun sobering up, an inconvenience he hoped to remedy soon in a nearby tavern. Lengthening his strides, he weaved his way through the broken crowds that populated the docks. He made his way easily even with the influx of people the race had drawn, since most wisely gave him a wide berth when he came near.

This wasn’t only because he was a large man, standing a head taller than most out here. Nor was it that his hard face evinced the anger he wrestled with more and more each day. It was because he’d become a man who had nothing to lose, making him the most dangerous kind. And it showed.

He wasn’t unaware of his effect on those around him—for years it’d been this way. In fact, only a handful of people didn’t back down from him. One of whom was Amanda Sutherland, his mother—which was unfortunate, he thought, as he recalled this latest meaningless evening at the Sutherland London town house.

He’d been about to leave for the night when she’d summoned him into her deliberately feminine sitting room. He didn’t have to guess what course the conversation would take and only wondered that it had taken her this long to approach him yet again.

When he sauntered in, he’d forgone planting a kiss on her offered cheek, and ignored the brief flash of hurt in her eyes. He moved straight to the least-delicate chair facing her and settled uncomfortably in the small seat.

Crossing his long legs at the ankles, Derek drawled, “I can’t imagine why you would want to see me, Mother.”

She pursed her lips at that, but after painstakingly smoothing her crisp skirts, she spoke evenly. “Will you stop by your club tonight?”

He laughed at her ludicrous question, but the sound was foreign and grated. He grew silent and fought to rein in the formidable temper that had helped bring his life to the low point he currently enjoyed.

Before he answered, he leaned forward in his seat to glare a warning. “I’ll be damned if we do this again. You know bloody well that I am not going to the club or to any of your balls or soirees or anywhere else I might have to see or hear of…of my situation,” he snapped, his face tense with resentment.

Though she should have been accustomed to it by now, his mother had looked startled at his quickening fury. Nevertheless, she said, “You have a responsibility to your title, Derek. It’s time, past time, you had an heir.”

“Grant’s my heir,” he’d said, naming his brother.

“But a son—”

“Cannot and will not happen.”

His baleful tone hadn’t even slowed her. No, she took a fortifying breath and proceeded to drag them both through the same old argument. She never missed a chance—they had it every time he was in London.

For what had to be half the night, he’d listened to her rant and plead, changing tactics with expert precision. Finally, he’d grown so furious he’d shot out of his chair to leave, intending to stay away from his family until he sailed.

But she wouldn’t let it go.

“So which route are you sailing this time? China? South America?” she questioned before he could escape to the hall.

Reluctantly he turned back toward her, making his face cold as dead ash. “London to Sydney.”

“Sydney?” she replied with mock excitement. “Oh, yes, Queen Victoria’s Great Circle Race. I read about it in the paper some time back. How patriotic of you.” Her brittle smile belied the sentiment of her words. “And how utterly convenient to find yet another voyage that goes so far afield.”

Derek couldn’t disagree.

She studied his face. “There and back should take you how long?”

“Half a year.” Then, seeing the disappointment in her flinty gray eyes, eyes so like his own, he’d once again turned toward the door.

As expected, nothing had been resolved. But her parting shot kept running through his mind: “I often wonder if you go to sea because you love it…or because you are a base coward.”

Christ, he needed a drink.

What did that woman want him to do? And his brother Grant, who’d regarded him with awkward commiseration as Derek stormed past him and out the door? Everyone involved knew he could find no out, no possible redemption. He understood it, and damn it, he behaved accordingly.

He wondered vaguely what his mother and brother would say if they learned that something had finally pierced through the weary anger that clung to him. That a young dockside whore with soulful, dark eyes had provoked the earl to a pulse. A whore in boys’ clothing working the Mermaid, of all places—

Several shrieks coming from ahead interrupted his thoughts. Curious to see what had unhinged the mob tonight, he made his way to a row of canvas-wrapped crates at the side of the walk and stepped up to get a better view. Under a canopy of large, cheaply milled hats and gathered heads, a small lad sped down the quay, running clumsily into several outraged women loitering about. With a quick lift of his chin, Derek made out two rough men beyond, plowing through the crowd after him.

Derek jumped down lightly and, with a brush of his hands, continued on his way. That boy had riled the wrong people, he mused indifferently. Those men were cutthroats—the kid didn’t have a chance against one of them, let alone two. Even knowing this, he vowed to look the other way, as every other person on the docks would. He was no different from the worst sorts out here on this night.