Devil's Mistress (20 page)

He hurried along the hallway. His boots clipped crisply across the flooring as he sought the companion ladder to climb topside. He needed time to feel the sea and the wind, to watch the great sails of the ship billow proudly against the velvet night sky. The wind had always been his true mistress, the unpredictable sea his tempestuous love. Perhaps they would reclaim him, or at least fill him with new strength. Work their form of magic upon his soul … and return to the staunch guise of indomitability that was the trademark of Sloan Treveryan, His Grace, the Fourteenth Duke of Loghaire.

The “devil” master of the swift and cunning
Sea Hawk
and a man so enamored of a blue-eyed lass that he trembled beneath a clear sky, searching for answers within the stars.

Matthews was now dead. Brianna was going to assume that made her safe, that she had every valid reason to demand that he set her free to reach her family. But she wouldn’t be safe until William was king, and her records could be swept clean of the witchcraft accusations. She was an outlaw, just as he had become. She was going to have to stay aboard the
Sea Hawk
and he was going to have to tell her so.

He emitted a loud oath, suddenly furious with himself. Then he gripped his ship’s rail and exhaled a long breath. He was Lord Treveryan, the master of his ship. He had twice wrested her from the hands of a true devil. He could command her, for he was a man who had rightfully and unquestionably made her his.

But he did not seek to command. He sought to be loved. And to give her his love. But he could not give her the one thing she so heartily desired. He could not give her his name.

“Ah, Brianna, it was not my choice to be assigned to the likes of Matthews,” Lord Stuart Darton said as he sat opposite Brianna in the galley. “I am a soldier, a fighting man. I’ve little knowledge of the law.” He shrugged, then stared up at her. “Odd, though, I did not doubt Matthews’s ability. Not until he accused Sloan. I could not believe Lord Treveryan of all men to dabble in wizardry!” He shook his head. “It did not seem plausible. And yet I am convinced that Matthews believed you both truly to be the devil’s representatives on earth.”

Brianna stared at Lord Darton curiously. He was a tall, muscular man with snow-white hair, and a face wrinkled with the years. And he had been very kind to her.

Robin’s death was a cruel blow to her heart. Sloan wanted no part of her, and that increased her heartache. She had not even been able to thank him for risking his crew and his life to save her. For long hours she had lain in the cabin thinking that she would have welcomed death in Robin’s stead. Lord Darton and George had brought her back to an acceptance of living. But she stared at him now, curious to know his true feelings.

“Lord Darton,” she said at last, “truly, I am not a witch.” He smiled slightly and drank a long sip of his ale.

“I believe you,” he told her, leaning slightly across the table so that his fading blue eyes seemed to touch hers. “But do not judge the law too harshly, girl, for witches do exist.”

“Do they?” Brianna asked skeptically.

“I’ve seen them,” Darton said simply. “Six months ago in Norwich we did bring to trial one Anne Gilligan. She argued with a neighbor, then told him he would die that night. The poor man did. When the warrant was sworn out, Anne Gilligan’s house was searched. She had fashioned a doll of straw and stuck numerous pins into it. She confessed to the murder and she was quite proud of her craft.”

Brianna lifted her hands helplessly. “But, Lord Darton, you tell me of one woman. I know that I am not a witch, and therefore I must believe that many are falsely accused.”

There was a sound of dry laughter beside them and Brianna smiled slightly as George slid onto the bench at her side. “Ah, Lord Darton! You should hear Captain Treveryan on this subject! He is very opinionated! Sloan says that it is not witchcraft that kills or injures, but the very fear of it.”

Darton shrugged. “Perhaps. I know little of the matter.”

“Ro—” George broke off quickly, looking at Brianna. He exhaled a long breath, then decided to speak. “Robin also had strong views on the subject. His grandfather was hanged as a warlock.”

“He was?” An ache grew in Brianna’s heart, and yet she was glad that George was telling her this.

“Aye. When Cromwell defeated Charles I, a witchfinder named Matthew Hopkins became the scourge of England. Thousands died at his hands.” He hesitated. “Robin was quite willing to do battle with Matthews.”

“But the devil does exist!” Darton exclaimed. “If we, as good Christians, believe in our God, we must know of the devil.”

“I believe in God,” Brianna said. “And there might well be a devil. But I know, too, what it is to be innocent—and persecuted.”

“Persecution was once much worse,” George told her. “They say that James I, back in 1598, had been threatened by a wizard. To extract confession, the wizard was tortured. His fingernails were ripped out and he was beaten unmercifully. Nor are we English alone the barbarians! In one German city, nine hundred witches were executed in one scourge.”

Brianna’s face paled and her stomach heaved. “George!” Darton cut in sharply. “Take care of your speech, seaman, I charge you.”

“I’m sorry,” George said quickly. “Brianna, I did not mean—”

“I’m all right, George, truly,” she assured him. But though she had long ignored her own draft of ale, she smiled a little painfully and consumed half of it. Lord Darton was quickly changing the conversation. “Young George, have you heard? Lord Treveryan and I have decided upon Upsinwich as the port in which to berth.”

“Upsinwich? ’Tis a Puritan community, is it not?”

“Aye. Men who may not be fond of the Church of England, but who surely stand against the Pope.”

Brianna almost choked on her ale. “Puritans?” she inquired.

“Aye,” Lord Darton said curiously. “Why do you inquire so?”

“I—uh—I have family of the Puritan persuasion,” Brianna murmured. They were not from Upsinwich, but they were not far inland.

She noticed then that both men were staring at her curiously. “What is wrong?” she asked them.

“Oh, nothing,” Darton answered quickly.

George hesitated, twisting his jaw. “Brianna, this Matthew Hopkins who executed so many witches with such zeal was a Puritan.”

She stared at George, then laughed, a thing she had thought she might never do again. “George! The Powells are my family! They are kind and good and wonderful, I promise you.”

George shrugged. “I’m sorry, Brianna. It’s just that I do find their leanings to be strange.” He finished his ale quickly. “I must be back on duty. Brianna—may I take you to your cabin?”

She did not get a chance to answer. Darton was sighing and rising. “I, too, must meet with the men who were under my command. George, you will see to Brianna?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” George said respectfully, and Brianna went with him back to the lonely cabin.

But at least now she had something to think about other than grief. If they came into Upsinwich, she would have the opportunity, possibly, to receive news on the Powells. And since it seemed quite obvious that Sloan no longer cared …

She stood still in the center of the cabin, knotting her fingers together in her lap as she fought a wave of surging depression. When he had come for her, when he saved her …

Somehow she had dreamed that he would sweep her into his arms and hold her as if she were a fragile flower, a precious gem. And he would whisper that he could not have stood it had she died, that his life would have no meaning without her; that he would tell her he would ignore all obstacles, all barriers of class and nation and creed—and make her his wife.

“Fool!” she whispered aloud, yet she found herself racing the short distance across the cabin to hurl herself on the bed, and though she had been certain that she had already been bled dry of tears, she cried once more. All the while she tried furiously to tell herself that surely she had learned that life was the most wonderful gift, and Sloan owed her nothing more, for twice he had granted her that gift. Whatever her future held, she was blessed to be alive.

Her tears at last dried and she rose numbly to pace the cabin and at last to stare blankly upon the wardrobe. Sloan’s treatment of her was all for the best, for she must find infinite strength if she was going to be able to offer him her most heartfelt gratitude—yet plan to leave him still. Quietly. She would never risk a recurrence of what had happened at Port Quinby, though such a thing could not happen again, Matthews being dead.

But her life still remained a question—one with little hope of a decent answer. And she was worried now that she could bring trouble and heartache to the Powells.

Her thoughts and the beat of her heart seemed to cease simultaneously as she heard the rasp of the door. She did not turn, but she knew that Sloan had entered the room. His presence was as dominating as his character; his masculine scent of clean air and sea wafted about her like a breeze.

She turned, facing him. He had come to her at last. It was wrong, but she knew the greatest joy.

“My lord?” Her query was breathless. She could not read or understand what his tensely drawn features concealed. He closed the cabin door firmly behind him, and then leaned against it, arms staunchly folded across his chest. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. He cleared his throat impatiently, and when his words came they were husky and harsh.

“Girl, if you ever pull a stunt again such as that one at Port Quinby, I’ll tie you to the mast!”

Brianna winced painfully and stared down at her fingers as she swallowed and breathed deeply. Still, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I can never tell you how sorry I am that I caused so much trouble and grief. I put not only your life in danger, but the lives of your entire crew. I brought about so many deaths.”

“You did not, Brianna. Matthews did.”

She lowered her head, wishing not to dispute him in her heart. “Sloan, twice you risked your own life for mine—”

“Damn it! It is not my life that worries me, and although I readily admit that the lives of my crew are dear to me, those men are fighters trained and ready—and quite pleased when given an excuse to wage war against the likes of Matthews. Brianna, you made me half insane with worry. What if Matthews hadn’t been there? You didn’t need a fanatical witchfinder to bring you to grief! Port Quinby is a dangerous town for a girl alone. You might well have found your way to the slave marts of the East!”

“I could never thank you adequately—even if my life were to stretch a century—for all that you have done for me! When that noose was about my neck I was certain that I would die, and never, never could I have known how precious life is—until that instant. Never can I repay that!”

“Brianna!”

His voice silenced her, and she at last allowed herself to look up into his eyes, which held such turmoil that they frightened her.

“Brianna,” he repeated more quietly, “when I knew that Matthews had you I was ill. I wanted to tear him limb from limb. I swore that if he had touched you, done you harm, I would sever him into bits. Dear God, you little fool! I would battle any man for you again and again, peasant or king.”

“Sloan—?”

“Hear me out! I meant what I said. I would kill for you. I would die for you. But so help me God, girl, don’t go dancing into the hands of the enemy again! Don’t think to defy me so foolishly!”

“Sloan, please, you don’t understand.”

“I am not sure that I care to,” he said violently, pushing away from the door to stalk toward her. “But then maybe I do already. Do you find a gentler man in young George? Or perhaps Lord Darton’s staid age is to your fancy?”

“George! Lord Darton?” she repeated incredulously, and then her anger rose. “You come to me now with vile accusations? Nay, I seek neither of them—as husband or lover. All I have ever sought from you is the freedom to find my own flesh and blood! How dare you, Sloan! When I was shocked and bereaved, when I despised myself for the death of poor loyal Robin, they were there, to help me, when you were not!”

“But you did not want me! How many times, mistress, have you made that abundantly clear!”

“I did long to tell you of sorrow—and gratitude.”

He turned from her, sauntering to his desk and turning about to casually take his chair. He swung his boots atop the desk and laced his fingers behind his head.

“Sloan, Matthews is dead. Now I must leave the ship.”

“Leave!” He raged suddenly. “Are you insane? As I am an outlaw, so are you! I pray that we can reach Holland in one piece.”

“But—”

“Brianna, that is the sorry state of it. Under William’s rule I can see your name cleared. But until then … Tell me, Mistress MacCardle, just what would you have me do. You must understand why I cannot set you off the ship.”

“I …”
Foolish man!
she wanted to scream.
I would have you marry me, I would have you love and cherish me with death itself the only thing to break the bonds of God.

“Ah, yes, lass, I know. You still cannot be my mistress. It is not enough that a man is willing to lay down his life.”

He sounded bitter.

She held still, afraid to move. Still he used the word
mistress.
She knew how she loved, how she longed for him. Yes, he would fight for her, as he would fight for his ship, for his men, for the Prince of Orange and Princess Mary, to whom he had sworn his fealty.