Devil's Mistress (14 page)

She struggled wildly but soon he had her naked in his arms. Still she fought him, furiously, then desperately, until her strength failed against his indomitable will. Then his kiss, the lightest caress, touched upon her forehead. And then upon her cheeks … and finally upon her lips. She lay still, mesmerized by the tenderness within that gentle assault, such a contrast to the tempest of anger that had exploded between them. Again his kiss was searing, delving, commanding all, but now the hunger was tempered by a yearning that sweetly seduced. Her hands, still bound into fists above the bonds of his grip, slowly relaxed, and when he drew his lips from hers, he kissed the palms of her hands, vulnerable then, weakening to his will as she was.

She could not deny the pleasure of the sweet fire ignited within her at his intimate touch. He wrapped his arms around her, savoring the touch that melded them then, giving them a moment of intimacy that was completely tender; an eye within a storm, a brief interlude of sacred peace. A broken sob escaped Brianna. “I did not want this.”

But she did want him. She was in love with him.

His pain-filled whisper brushed and caressed her hair and her ear. “Always you refuse me too late, my love. For I must be with you. Please let me love you. Touch me, have me …”

She couldn’t speak, and yet she answered him by winding her arms more tightly about his back, by kissing the hollow of his shoulder.

Her teeth grazed against his flesh with the passionate craving that wound deep within her.

He pulled away from her and lifted his weight from her and spread her thighs. He slid his hands lovingly over her breasts, along her hips to her legs, lifting them high around him. And then he came back to her, fusing his lips to hers as he gently claimed her, shuddering as he filled her and received her embrace. His strokes were slow, and his whispers reassured her. She arched to meet him, and he enveloped her within his arms and allowed his passion full rein. Her soft moans and the sensual undulation of her hips against him fed the fires of his hunger to an all-consuming flame. He heard her cry out and shudder beneath him, and all the passion within him burst in an explosive moment of pleasure so great that he trembled again and again as his limbs slowly relaxed against hers.

He wanted to speak to her but could not. And when he finally said her name, she shook her head and buried her face against his chest. He held her and, in time, rose to extinguish the lamps that still burned, and then lay down beside her once more.

There was a spell to the night, and as long as it was not broken by words, it would endure. Within that spell and the enchanted darkness he could make love to her again, slowly … nurturingly … teaching her new beauty. In turn, his witch truly taught the devil what heaven could be.

His brooding eyes were upon her when morning came. She rested upon his chest, her cheek a gentle warmth against him. His arm cradled around her shoulder and back and his hand rested upon the sloping curve of her hip. He reveled in her beauty, and the light brush of his fingers that idly massaged her spine spoke of tenderness, and not of passion.

For he was torn by a deep sense of shame, and he did not know how to face her; he was convinced more than ever that he could never let her go. He had to mask his feelings and stiffen his resolve, for when she awoke, the magic of darkness would be gone.

He would have to defend himself; yet he felt his guilt and so would have to shield himself with declarations of right. He would do so, for he could never promise to keep his distance from her again.

He felt suddenly a difference within her, and realized that she, too, had been pensively lying awake. He tensed, expecting her tears or her anger. Then he twisted above her, green eyes hard as they stared into hers, but what he found was far more difficult to bear than fury or tears.

Her blue gaze echoed a depth of misery that clamped about his heart. She offered no reproach, only the pain of that sadness.

Instinctively he moved to pull her close, to offer the comfort and security of his strength and warmth. But she pulled away from him and drew the bedcovers about herself, smiling ruefully and shaking her head.

“I did not—” he began.

“Sloan,” she interrupted with soft dignity, “I charge you with no fault. I did not seek to cause trouble with your men, but I did think to taunt you and cause you misery. It was a foolish game to play, milord; your strength should not be tested. Perhaps I … I did want … what happened between us. I did not know it … nor am I glad to know it now. And so I beseech you, please release—”

Rising on his elbow, he cupped her chin in his hands. “Do not ask me to give you up, for I cannot.” He fell silent for a moment, searching her eyes. “I need you,” he told her, with fervor and conviction. “I swear, Scottish witch, that I need you as I have never needed another woman in all the years of my life.”

She returned his gaze, and he felt her shivering. “I cannot be your mistress,” she said painfully. “I cannot bear it when your men shout ‘whore’ at me—and know that they speak the truth.” She continued in a whisper, “If it is true, my lord, that you need me above all others, then give me the freedom to be there for you. Marry me.”

The cold shield that covered his eyes was instantaneous, and the hands that touched her grew stiff. He stared at her a moment longer and then turned from her, rising to dress with smooth efficiency. He glanced her way only once, and Brianna knew the man who had loved her with both tenderness and burning, passionate demand was gone.

“I cannot,” he said simply, as he pulled on his boots. It was not only his words that ripped her apart as if a blade had pierced her; it was his chilly flat tone. “You have no choice but to remain aboard the
Sea Hawk,”
he told her harshly.

He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, the captain of his ship, the unfathomable, cold, and authoritative lord.

“We dock today for supplies and repairs, Mistress MacCardle. Do not seek to leave the ship. Paddy will remain aboard, and he will see to your needs until we set sail again.” He hesitated a moment and continued. “You needn’t fear being called ‘whore’ again. The men would not dare anger me a second time.”

Brianna began to laugh, yet sobered quickly. “Milord, you cannot punish them for what they see, and for what is truth!” It didn’t really matter, she thought dully. Once they docked, she would be gone. More than ever, she had to escape him.

“You will not hear the word again,” he said curtly.

He walked out the door, and she heard the slip of the bolt. Still, she was too numb for tears. Surely the pain of burning at the stake could not equal the agony of loving this man and knowing that she must leave him. If only he loved her. Cherished her. Wished to marry her. But he had never said that he loved her.

For a moment she closed her eyes tightly against the pain. Then, rising from the bed, she dressed methodically, glad of the numbness that sustained her.

The door had been bolted, but she would find a way to escape him when she was on English soil. It would be her last chance to save her heart—and her soul—from this devil of a man with whom she had so foolishly waged battle—and lost.

Port Quinby

From the high ridges of the cliffs, a troop of men looked at the
Sea Hawk
as she glided smoothly into harbor at Port Quinby. Three quarters of her massive sails were furled, yet she still appeared majestic as she skimmed the light waves before her shirtless crew brought her to dock.

Matthews, clad as always in black, stood with a booted foot cast arrogantly on a high rock, his elbow resting upon his knee as he watched the scene. That the
Sea Hawk
had now docked made the misery he had endured to reach this squalid port town well worth the effort.

He had barely slept as he pushed himself and the troops, given him by the crown, to the limit of human endurance. He had been certain that the storms at sea would force Treveryan to seek harbor. He had traveled over fifty miles most days, and Matthews had remained certain all the while that God was guiding him. Never had he pursued a witch with such a vengeance, but never before had he met quite so frightening a witch. The girl had power; she had haunted him, she had come night after night to torment him in his dreams.

Oh, bless God, who was about to deliver the enemies of heaven to his feet!

At last Matthews turned to Lord Darton, commander of the troops. His eyes held a fevered gleam that made even Darton uncomfortable.

“You see, Darton, that devil traitor does seek harbor, as I prophesied.”

Darton shrugged. “Luck has been with you, Matthews.”

“Luck? No, never luck!” Matthews exclaimed fanatically. “It was the Lord who sent him to my snare! The Lord, Who will suffer not his witch to live, nor allow that messenger of Satan himself to draw breath upon the morrow!” He had not known that he would catch Lord Treveryan in southern England, but he had prayed fervently each and every evening that he might do so.

Darton appeared startled. He was a military man, accustomed to battle, and to the law. He knew that village hags who dealt with potions and the like were sometimes executed for witchcraft, but to accuse a man such as Treveryan? It seemed most implausible. “You cannot mean to burn Treveryan, sir! I do not doubt that witchcraft exists, but I cannot believe that Lord Treveryan consorts with the devil!”

Matthews looked at Darton long and hard, then sighed. “They hang witches, here, sir, and I do, indeed, intend to see the man hanged. Be not fooled, my Lord Darton, by the appearance of the man! He has been bewitched, and has fallen to the devil himself.”

“I have known Treveryan,” Darton said stiffly. “He is a powerful man with a will of steel—and the courage and strength to pursue his will.”

“Strong men are ever better tools for their master, the devil. Satan is clever and cunning. You must understand, Lord Darton. Satan has imbued his servant with the power to seduce even such men as yourself. I tried to save Treveryan, but the Scottish witch delivered him into the arms of the devil. And see! See how he comes to me now. God has given me the power to seek His vengeance. It is His will that I cast those sinners this day into their rightful place in hell!”

Matthews waited for Darton’s response.

“I will not see Treveryan led to a noose without a fair trial—if,” he reflected, “we are able to bring him to trial.” He glanced sternly at Matthews. “I do assume you intend fair trials for Treveryan—and the girl?”

“I will prove her a witch! Do not be seduced by the beauty of her face; she is the devil’s own mistress,” Matthews vowed earnestly. For she was a witch. He saw her day and night when he dared to close his eyes. She had cast a spell on him and he knew his only release would be through her death. He turned abruptly and sought his horse. “Come. We will pay our visit to the lord mayor of Port Quinby and set our trap for Captain Treveryan.”

Darton followed suit, but not at all happily. Treveryan was a better man to call friend than enemy. The man did not need the help of any devil to be a formidable foe.

Within fifteen minutes Matthews stood at the doorway to the lord mayor’s attractive brick residence. The serving girl who answered his pounding greeted him nervously, informing him that the lord mayor was at breakfast.

Matthews pushed his way through the door and stalked through the house until he found the portly lord mayor, a jovial man, about to savor his second serving of kidneys.

“What is this interruption?” he demanded in a fluster, and not without a certain nervousness, as Matthews in his raven-black and ten of the soldiers filed into his sunny breakfast room.

“King’s business!” Matthews bellowed, tossing a document before the man’s nose. “The sea devil and Welsh traitor finds port here today. It is known, Lord Mayor, that you have a fondness for the man. He will come here today, and if you value your own health, my friend, you will be ready to welcome him—as my men will be.”

The lord mayor nodded slowly and set down his knife and fork as ten swords were drawn and angled toward his neck. Matthews did not notice that the lord mayor gazed beyond him—to the girl who had opened the door.

The lord mayor’s nod to her was imperceptible to the others. She slipped out of the house just moments before Matthews’s boots rang clearly upon the cold stone behind her.

“Darton—I leave you in charge. See that Treveryan wears chains as soon as he enters. Remember that he is the spawn of Satan—and a dangerous man.”

“Aye, I’ll remember,” Darton replied broodingly. He was well aware that Treveryan was a devil—with a cutlass at least—and he feared for the lives of his men. He was not happy about arresting one of his peers, especially when it seemed that Matthews was sure of conviction before the trial. How Darton despised this duty to which he had been assigned! He sighed. How he despised Matthews. The gleam in the man’s eyes—it was almost as if he were not quite right in the head. And yet few men were qualified to deal with matters such as witchcraft, and Matthews had been given his commission by the king.

Matthews was leaving. He called a division of twenty men to follow. “Where are you going?” Darton demanded, irritated that he had been set to such a task by a fanatic not willing to be a part of the bloodletting sure to follow.

Matthews halted in the entryway and faced Darton with red-rimmed eyes that seemed to gleam with greater fever. “To seek the girl,” he said with a smile that was so chilling that Lord Darton felt fear ripple along his spine.