Dark Torment (17 page)

“Take your hands off me!”

His frown deepened. His blue eyes darkened and turned cloudy.
Despite her words, his hand returned to her face to be joined by its fellow as
he cupped her cheeks, his expression grave as he stared down at her face,
studying it.

“Sarah . . .”

“Don’t call me that! I’m
Miss
Sarah to
you! Oh, will you let me up?” She was suddenly, ragingly angry at him.
Sarah welcomed the feeling as an antidote to the utter shame that threatened to
overwhelm her. What had she done? How could she have allowed him to . . . to .
. . ? The strength returned to her arms. She shoved furiously at the wide
shoulders that loomed over her, blocking out the moon.

“Certainly.
Miss
Sarah.”

He rolled away from her, coming easily to his feet, standing with
his legs apart and his hands balled into fists on his hips as he towered above
her. He was naked, the moonlight silvering the hard planes and muscles of his
body, hiding nothing. Before, Sarah had been too caught up in her dream world
to notice how he looked naked. Now, she could not look away. Her stomach heaved
as she absorbed the broad shoulders and powerful chest, the narrow waist and
hips, the abdomen that she knew was as hard and unyielding as a board, the
long, well-muscled legs—and that
thing
that hung between them.
It still looked huge, even semilimp. . . . Sarah shuddered. Everything about
him repulsed her now, from the thick black whorls of hair that formed a wedge
on his chest and tapered down to trail across his belly before widening again
to form a bushy nest around that obscene proof of his maleness, to the muscles
bulging in his arms as they angled away from his body, even to the
too-beautiful face. Like the rest of him, it was too uncompromisingly male. It
made her sick to her stomach. . . .

With a start, she realized that his eyes were moving over her body
just as hers had moved over his. She looked hastily down at herself, feeling
fiery color creep up her neck as she realized how very wanton she must look,
long, slim, pale legs, still clad in her white stockings and garters, sprawled
apart, tawny strands of hair cascading down over her shoulders past her waist
to tangle with the only slightly darker triangle of curls between her thighs,
her belly and the small, tip-tilted mounds of her breasts glistening with his
sweat. She scrambled into a crouching position, swinging her hair forward,
intent on hiding as much as she could from him as she groped for the clothes
that he had flung aside as he had pulled them from her body. Her chemise was
crumpled and stained with earth, but she pulled it thankfully over her head as
soon as it came to hand. Then she reached for her petticoat, only to find his
hand there before hers, snatching it out of her reach.

“Look at me.” His voice was ominous.

Sarah, still crouching, feeling almost as indecent in her
near-transparent chemise as she had moments earlier when she had been naked,
needed no encouragement to glare at him. His unabashed nakedness as he stood
there glowering down at her, her white petticoat dangling from his hand, made
her cringe.

“For God’s sake, put on your clothes,” she
muttered, averting her eyes.

He swore, the oath succinct and so profane that it fairly
blistered Sarah’s ears. Then her petticoat came fluttering into her line
of vision as he flung it to the ground. Before she could register his
intention, he was crouching before her, his hand rough as it caught her chin
and jerked her face around so that her eyes met his.

“I’ll be damned before I’ll apologize.” He
sounded as angry as she felt.

She matched him glare for glare, refusing to shrink away as her
every instinct urged her to. He had stripped her of every vestige of virtue she
had felt she possessed; she would not let him steal what few tatters remained
of her pride.

“Have I asked you to? Take your hand off me!”

His eyes narrowed. “It’s a little late for that now,
isn’t it?” The words were a cruel taunt. Inwardly Sarah flinched;
outwardly her eyes flashed at him, golden with scorn.

“I said take your hand off me!” The words were hissed
from between her teeth, deadly with the cold superiority of a mistress to her
servant. As it registered, his eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, and
his mouth compressed into a savage line.

“Don’t take that tone with me, you haughty little
bitch! You wanted my hand on you badly enough earlier, remember? You wanted
everything I did to you! You were hot for it, you liked it—so what the
hell’s the matter with you now?”

He was speaking through his teeth just as she was, rage darkening
his face so that he really did resemble the devil. Her fingers itched to slap
him with every bit of strength she possessed; but instinctively she knew that
if she did, it would snap the tight rein that kept his temper under control. He
was far bigger than she, far stronger. . . . Clutching at the shreds of her
dignity, Sarah met the fire in his eyes with ice in her own.

“I made a mistake.”

Rage flared brighter in his eyes. The hand holding her chin
tightened painfully. Sarah tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

“You sure as hell did, lady. Now that I’ve scratched
your itch for you, you’ve remembered that I’m a
convict.
That’s
what this little farce is all about, isn’t it?”

She winced, both from his deliberate crudeness and the accuracy of
his guess, and refused to answer; her eyes wavered and fell before the savage
light in his.

He swore again, his expression ugly, and practically threw her
chin away from him. Standing, he snatched up her clothes and flung them at her.

“Get dressed and get out of my sight,” he growled.

Sarah thought about snapping that she didn’t take orders
from him, but his words coincided so exactly with her own desires that she
quickly scrambled into her clothes. Her fingers were clumsy as she knotted the
ties to her petticoat; they fumbled as she tried to do up the buttons of her
dress, only to find when she was done that she had missed one and had to go
back and do it over again. Hopping from one foot to the other as she slid her
slippers on her feet, she started to move away almost before the second sole
hit the ground. Gallagher’s hand on her arm stopped her. She whirled to
face him, her hand flying up to knock his away. He had made no move to don his
own clothes, she saw. His unabashed nakedness made bile rise in her throat.

“Your hair.” The words were thick with dislike.

“Don’t you dare put your hand on me again, you . . .
!” she raged, too angry to listen to his words, or to come up with an
epithet to adequately describe how she loathed him. He grabbed her arm again,
his grip cruel. She tried futilely to pull away from him, wincing at the force
with which his fingers dug into her soft flesh.

“Put up your damned hair: you look like you’ve been
rolling around on the ground with a man—which, of course, you
have.”

“What do you care?”

“I think we’d both agree that what happened out here
tonight is best kept between ourselves. Sweet Jesus, do you want everyone in
there to know you lost your virtue—to a
convict
?” He bit
the last words out at her.

“I’ll go up the back stairs: no one will see
me.” Sarah ignored the savage taunt, wild to get away from him before her
rage reverted again to shame and she disgraced herself by breaking down
completely. She could feel hysterical tears dangerously near the surface.

“I’m not willing to take that chance,” he said.
Hauling her to him by his hand on her arm, he raked his fingers through the
tangled thickness of her hair, not caring that he was hurting her, oblivious to
the tears that stood in her eyes as he searched for the hairpins that still
clung to the heavy strands. When he had several between his teeth, he turned
her so that her back was to him. He had to let go of her arm to gather up her
hair. It was a task that needed both hands. Sarah immediately lunged forward,
desperate to escape. He caught her by her hair, jerking brutally to bring her
back to where he wanted her.

“Stand still,” he growled at her. Then, as she made
one final, abortive movement, he jerked at her hair again. “Stand still,
damn you, or . . .”

He never said what he would do, but Sarah found that she
didn’t want to know. Fury emanated from him in waves, reminding her
suddenly that, despite what had transpired between them tonight, she
didn’t know him at all. Except for the fact that he was a convict. She
could well believe him guilty of the most vicious of crimes, she thought,
shuddering. Deadly menace was in his hands and his voice as he twisted her hair
into its customary knot at her nape. The one glimpse she had had of his eyes
frightened her. He looked on the verge of violence.

“Now get out of my sight,” he muttered when he was
done.

Sarah wasted no time in obeying him. She flew through the trees
toward the house as fast as her feet would carry her, running as though the
devil himself were at her heels. All around her moonlight shimmered, and the
hot wind caressed her skin as his hands had earlier. Sarah shuddered at the
comparison, forcing herself to slow her headlong pace as she neared the house.
Every window was lit, reminding her of the party still in progress. Voices
floated to her ears, and laughter, and the clink of glasses. Music swirled out
to surround her. The haunting strains made her catch her breath. With a choked
little laugh, she recognized the lilting melody that, just an hour before, had
so betrayed her.

Dominic watched her go, watched the tall slim shape of her
skimming over the rough ground like a ghost as her white dress billowed behind
her and shimmered in the moonlight. He cursed again, viciously. What the sweet
bloody hell had happened? He’d taken the little bitch with more
tenderness and care than he had ever before lavished on a woman, given her a
woman’s supreme pleasure—he knew damned well he had!—and as
soon as the throes of rapture had passed she had been sick to death with shame
because she considered him so far beneath her. She
owned
him, he
reminded himself with savage mockery. And tonight she had gotten her
money’s worth with a vengeance. His performance had been pretty damned
good for a paid stud, if he did say so himself. He had given her ecstasy, only
to have her treat him afterward like a leper. She had
used
him. The
thought made him grind his teeth. Usually it was he who used women—he had
never expected the tables to be turned as they were now. Maybe it was rough
justice, but he didn’t like it one damned bit.

Tonight, when he had first seen Sarah standing in the moonlight,
it had entered his mind that this might be the best chance he would ever get to
make love to her. He’d known that persuading her into it would not be all
that difficult, despite the maddening air of prim propriety that she wore like
a cloak. Enough women had been attracted to him over the years for him to
recognize the signs. She wanted him, no matter how hard she tried to disguise
the fact. Tonight he had simply decided that, if he could, he would give her
what she wanted.

Three days ago, when he had first kissed her, he had been
astounded at the shaft of desire that had hardened all his muscles, but he had
decided that it was an aberration. He couldn’t possibly be taken with a
female shaped more like a boy than a woman, with an adder’s tongue to
boot and a damned uppity way about her that made him long to strangle her at
least half the time. No woman had ever given him orders before, or spoken to
him like a servant and eyed him with condescension mixed with, yes, dammit,
with pity. It enraged him. He had not yet gotten used to having come so far
down in the world. Tonight he had meant to turn the tables on her, to make
himself her master, to reduce her to a clinging supplicant in his arms. He had
thought he could take her body and walk away triumphant, knowing that she had
been humbled as she had been part of his humiliation. But, from the beginning,
everything had gone wrong.

To start with, she was no prim old maid. When they had danced and
she had laughed and her hair had tumbled down, she had charmed him utterly.
When he had kissed her, the strength of his own wanting had caught him by
surprise. And then, when he’d done more, he had discovered to his
bedazzled enjoyment that beneath that proper manner, those unattractive clothes
and that awful bun, was a woman as wild as any he’d bedded. She had been
on fire for him, quivering in his arms, begging him to take her with her mouth
and body and hands . . . until he had obliged. He had hesitated even then,
feeling some faint inkling through the throbbing lust that drove him that
something was not right, he was being drawn in too deep, deeper than he had
ever been before. When he had felt her maidenhead, he had almost pulled back.
Now he wished to God he had.

He had found her lovely. Dominic laughed harshly. Was it possible
that, all unknowing, he preferred boys? he asked himself sardonically. Every
woman he had had before had been lushly endowed, flauntingly female with full
white breasts and an ample behind. Yet, none of their bodies had fired his
senses as Sarah’s had tonight. Her slim body, gleaming pale in the
moonlight, had been so sleek and supple under his hands; her small breasts with
their dusky rose nipples so enticingly virginal; her hips so slight, her bottom
so firm and round, as taut and smooth as any boy’s. Her long, slender,
curving legs and tiny waist were the only truly feminine things about her.
Except, of course, for the satin of her skin; the softness of her mouth; her
huge golden eyes; the silken masses of sun-shot hair . . . and her passion.
That was all woman, and it had shaken him to the core.

His possession of her body had, at the end, been frenzied. He had
meant to spin it out, to bring her to that ecstasy again and again and again
before succumbing to his own pleasure. But, to his amazement, he hadn’t
been able to wait. He had been so damned hot for her. . . . Unwillingly he
remembered how she had felt beneath him, how soft yet resilient her body was,
how sweet her breasts had tasted, how hot and wet that woman part of her had
been for him, and felt himself hardening again. He muttered a single, succinct
profanity, then forced the memory from his mind. But her face as it had looked
afterward, pale and sick with shame, would not be banished. Those huge golden
eyes filled with loathing as they stared at him would, he feared, haunt him to
his grave.