The Prize by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

blinked.
"Virginia, I do not have that kind of wealth. I am sorry."
    She was in disbelief.
He started to say something about a fresh start, and she turned and ran wildly
through the bank and outside. There she collapsed against a hitching post,
panting
    hard, shaking wildly,
tears of panic and desperation trying to rise. This could not be happening, she
thought. There had to be away!
    "Miz Virginia?
Are you all right?" Frank had her by the elbow. His tone was concerned and
anxious.
    She met his black
eyes but did not respond—because an idea had struck her so forcefully that she
could not respond.
    Her uncle was an
earl.
    Earls were
wealthy. . She would borrow the money from him.
    "Miz
Virginia?" Frank was asking again, this time with a slight pressure on her
elbow.
    Virginia pulled free
of his grasp and stared blindly across the busy street. She did not see a
single wagon, carriage or pedestrian.
    She had not a doubt
that her uncle had the funds to save Sweet Briar. He was her only hope.
    But clearly he didn't
wish to save the plantation, or he would have already done so. That meant she
had to confront him directly—personally. A letter would not do. The stakes were
far too high. Somehow, she would find the means to cross the Atlantic Ocean,
even if it meant selling some of her mother's precious jewelry, and she would
meet her uncle and convince him to save Sweet Briar rather than sell it. She'd
beg, rationalize, argue, debate, she'd do whatever she had to, even marry a
perfect stranger, as long as he agreed to pay off her father's debts. Virginia
realized she had to make plans and quickly, because she was on her way to
England.
    She knew she could do
this. As her father was so fond of saying, where there was a will there was a
way.
    She'd always had
plenty of will. Now she'd find a way.
     
     

Chapter 2

     
    May
1, 1812 London , England
    Word had spread of
his arrival. Cheering throngs lined the banks of the Thames as his ship, the Defiance , proudly edged her way toward the naval
docks.
    Devlin O'Neill stood
square on the quarterdeck, unsmiling, his arms folded across his chest, a
tall, powerful figure as still as a statue. For the occasion of this
homecoming—if it could be called such—he was in his formal naval attire. A
bluejacket with tails, gold epaulets adorning each shoulder, pale white
britches and stockings, highly polished shoes. His black felt bicorn was worn
with the points facing out, as only admirals had the privilege of wearing the
points front to back. His hair, a brilliant gold, was too long and pulled back
in a queue. The crowd—men, women and children, agile and infirm, all London 's poorest classes—raced up the riverbanks alongside
his ship. Some of the women threw flowers at it.
    A hero's welcome, he
thought with no mirth at all. A hero's welcome for the man one and all called
"His Majesty's pirate."
    He had not set foot
in Great Britain for an entire year. He would not
be setting foot there now, had he a choice, but it had become impossible to
ignore this last summons from the Admiralty, their fourth. His mouth twisted
coldly. What he wanted was a steady bed and a pox-free woman who was not a
whore, but his needs would have to wait. He did not wonder what the admirals
wanted—he had disobeyed so many orders and broken so many rules in the past
year that they could be asking for his head on any number of counts. He also
knew he would be receiving new orders, which he looked forward to. He never
lingered in any port for more than a few days or perhaps a week.
    His glance swept over
his ship. The Defiance was a thirty-eight-gun frigate known for her
speed and her agility, but mostly for her captain's outrageous and
unconventional daring. He was well aware that the sight of his ship caused
other ships to turn tail and run, hence his preference for pursuit at night.
Now top men were high on both the fore and main masts, reefing sails. Fifty
marines in their red coats stood stiffly at