Devil's Mistress (8 page)

“Quarters!” Brianna cried, trying desperately to dislodge herself from Sloan’s hold. “Sir!” she called out, trying to gain Paddy’s attention. “This man is abducting me! I don’t wish to come aboard this ship! Sir, I’ve a family! I need help. I—”

“Talkative, isn’t she?” Sloan groaned.

Paddy laughed and Brianna realized she would have no assistance from Sloan Treveryan’s man. She groaned furiously as Sloan spun about again—knocking her cheek hard against his rigid back. Paddy shouted, and the silent ship came alive. Brianna instantly saw ghost shapes hurrying along as Sloan carried her along the deck, nodding briefly to the men who saluted him curiously. She tried to twist, from his grasp to survey the massive ship, to no avail. Near the aft he stopped before a door and shoved it open with his boot. He set her roughly on her feet, catching her for only a second as she staggered, then releasing her quickly. Brianna found her balance, then raged after him almost insanely, thrashing out at his chest with flailing fists. “You imperious, insolent, arrogant—rogue! I can’t go on this ship! I’ve got to get to my family. Please!”

“Leave off!” Sloan grated out like a whiplash, catching her wrists, then pushing her from him. “Girl, I am trying to keep you alive!”

Brianna paused, gasping for breath, staring at him incredulously. She just couldn’t make him understand, and there seemed to be no way to fight his strength.

Seeing her breasts heave as she struggled to breathe, he bowed mockingly. “Sleep well, mistress!”

“I will not be your prisoner, Lord Treveryan,” she raged, stamping a foot in her impotent fury.

“Really?” He cocked a rakishly angled brow with amusement, took a long step toward her, and reached out a finger to lift her chin. “ ’Tis a far better thing to be at the moment than a ‘witch’! And”—his voice deepened slightly to that soft but husky tone she was coming to know as dangerous—“for that matter, ’tis preferable, I would think, to be my prisoner than a lady of the streets. Of course, you would be going out with more experience now.”

Brianna jerked from his touch. How grating he was against her fully ignited temper—and her raw misery, and all the horror the day had wrought. It was true that she had no wish to burn, but how she hated him now! He was taking her from her only salvation—the dream of reaching her family, the Powells. She would get away from him; and tightening her lips in white rage, she raised a hand to strike him.

She never got the chance. He bowed again, and withdrew. The door closed upon her uplifted arm. She heard his husky laughter. “Perhaps you should spend the time meditating upon your temper, my love.”

The door shuddered as she struck wildly against it, and the next spate of curses he received would have brought a blush to Paddy’s face. “Treveryan, you have the sense and manners of an ass! Do you hear me? Open this door!”

“I haven’t the time, lass. But it is flattering to know how eager you are to see me! I shan’t be a minute longer than necessary.”

“Damn you, Treveryan! Open this door!”

There was no answer—except that of his footsteps receding along the planking.

She pulled at the doorknob, twisting and jerking, but to no avail. “Treveryan!” she screamed with rising anger. How dare he make her a prisoner! “Treveryan!” Her fists pounded furiously against wood, but the action was an exercise in futility.

Suddenly the great ship pitched, and she fell awkwardly to her knees. She scrambled back to her feet, but since she had never sailed before, she found even the slightest rocking of the ship difficult to handle. She finally discovered that she could stand and sway with the movement of the ship, and Brianna hung on, listening to the shouts in the night and the pounding of feet along the decks.

How many minutes passed as she clung to the door? she wondered. She wasn’t sure, but finally the pitching ship seemed to steady, and she was finally able to survey her surroundings.

It was, most obviously, the captain’s cabin. A broad bunk was fitted into the far left corner, with cabinets above and below. A large wardrobe was built into the opposite corner, and a huge desk stood prominently to the right. The cabin was compact, and yet it held all the amenities. A rich Oriental carpet covered the floor, and the teakwood that made up the few furnishings was sleek and simply carved. A large bird in flight was the emblem on the footboard of the bunk and the huge desk. Upon careful examination Brianna noted that the bird was a seahawk.

“Treveryan!” she murmured dryly to herself. He had saved her life, that much she had to admit. But though “Lord” might be his title, the man was no gentleman. He seemed to be an adventurer—fond of action. He didn’t own her, though, and he had no right to hold her against her will.

The ship rolled again suddenly and she grasped at the desk for balance. It occurred to her then that they had actually set sail, and her eyes moved instinctively to the bunk and the shuttered porthole above it.

She moved quickly to the bunk, mindless of the neatly folded comforter. The window glass was fogged, and she quickly ran her fingers over it.

Already the coastline was growing dim. The buildings of Glasgow were fading into the glow of darkness, becoming like little miniatures in a shop window. The other ships at dock appeared as nothing more than toys.

A haze was over the city. It joined with the misted light and orange color of distant lamps and reminded her of the fire that had burned earlier the same day. It reminded her that Pegeen was dead.

The pain was like the honed edge of a blade, twisting deeply within her, cutting away a piece of her heart, of her very existence.

Would she ever see Scotland again, her homeland? The heathered hill where she had grown, the slopes and valleys that had embraced her and all the dreams of innocence? Tears filled her eyes and she fought hard not to cry. Yes! Yes! She promised herself. She would escape Treveryan, and she would get to the Powells! It was a promise she made to herself, a vow. It was all she could do to hang on to the shreds of her pride—and her life—and to still the misery in her heart.

And so she continued to stare as the distance and night swallowed the shore. The pain of her heart began to fade like the shoreline, dimmed by the succor of exhaustion. It was impossible that one day had held so much. Impossible that Pegeen was dead, impossible that her fate was in the hands of an arrogant Welsh lord—whom she had come to know far too well. But he didn’t own her! And if he thought she would be waiting for him, that she would ever allow him to touch her again—he was crazy!

A gentle shudder touched her, warm and aching. In all her dreams the man to have claimed her, loved her, would have been of a gentler sort—more determined to woo and please. But he might have stood as tall as Sloan, and he might have had his muscled, agile form. His eyes would have had such a touch of steel—or of fire that made her tremble at their gaze, too weak and stunned to do other than relish his touch.

She smiled, bitterly, sadly. The girl she had been was gone. Her world of independence had crumbled. But she would have it again, she promised herself. She would have it again …

All she had to do was escape Sloan Treveryan. When and where, she couldn’t know yet, but she would use her time wisely and well.

Brianna stared out the window again. There seemed to be nothing but clouds, obscuring all vision of land, even all vision of the seemingly endless sea.

Scotland was gone, but maybe not forever.

But Pegeen was dead.

Brianna took a deep, shuddering breath. Tears fell from her eyes in a sudden cascade of loss and misery. They fell, and fell, and fell, and she could not control them. She shuddered and gave up. Perhaps they could cleanse her soul and take away the terrible edge of pain.

I will cry tonight,
she promised herself, and then I will cry no more.

She realized that she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of the sea, not of fire, not of anything. She was just weary. Numbness and exhaustion at last took their toll upon her. She slipped out of consciousness rather than into sleep.

Sloan slowed his footsteps as he neared his cabin. He hesitated, then quietly twisted his key in the lock and silently slid the well-oiled door inward. His tread was silent as he moved toward the bunk, and he stood still again, gazing upon her by the muted light of the moon. She was curled upon the lower section of the bunk with no pillow beneath her head. Watching her, he thought of how he had first seen her lying upon the bed at the tavern. Then, he had been fascinated by her. And he still was.

He bent to see her closer, and noticed the tears that had dried upon her cheeks. A strange feeling of tenderness assailed him as he watched her; how horrible it must have been for her to see one she loved murdered so cruelly, and to know that the same fate awaited her.

Sloan straightened. It was over. She was in his care now and there she would have to stay. She was so desperately fighting him that she could not see her own danger. She didn’t realize that she was condemned without a trial. He could not bring her to her family because Matthews would find her.

He sighed and strode the few steps to his desk, where he pulled out the captain’s chair, sat, and stretched his booted legs comfortably over the teakwood corner. From the bottom left drawer he drew out a pint of Caribbean dark rum and drank a long draft from it, wincing slightly as the potent brew burned down his throat.

Rubbing his temple, he began to think of his own future, and of the business that had brought him to Glasgow. Ostensibly, he had been selling tobacco. In truth, he had been sent by a London delegation to ferret out the political climate in the city.

The same English lords who had sent him to Scotland had recently sent ambassadors to Holland, inviting William of Orange to invade England—and force James to abdicate his throne.

On June twentieth, James II’s wife had given birth to a son. While the English people had tolerated their Catholic monarch as long as they assumed his heir apparent to be his oldest daughter, Mary, a staunch Protestant and the wife of William of Orange, they were not likely to tolerate the possibility of their king’s leaving the throne to a Catholic son. There was trouble ahead; of that Sloan was keenly aware. He knew the king. He knew that James would so implement his power that he would enrage his barons, as well as the English people. Sloan also knew William of Orange and understood that he was very ambitious and determined.

Sloan winced slightly. There had been a time when he had liked James. A time when James had been a bold and brave man, a careful thinker, and a fine admiral. But that time was past. James had grown older, and fanatical—unbending, and sometimes cruel. He had executed his own nephew. Over the crown.

James, the Duke of Monmouth—“Jemmy” to his friends—had been the illegitimate son of Charles II. He’d possessed a full quota of Stuart charm; he’d been reckless, daring, and adventurous.

To Sloan he had been much more. When he was ten years old, his father had died—and he’d been sent to live in Jemmy’s household. When Sloan was young, Jemmy had been his hero. As he grew older and wiser, Sloan recognized his good points as well as his lack of prudence over the matter of the crown. But knowing his recklessness had done nothing to change the emotions that had grown over the years, and when Sloan heard that Jemmy had lost his head after his fruitless rebellion to gain the throne, he felt the deepest loss and fury. Jemmy had pleaded for his life but James had refused him—and executed him.

Sloan cast his head back and drank another long, long draft of the rum. The things he’d learned in the tavern that day had been interesting. William of Orange had assumed the Scots would be solidly against him. Some of them would be, but not all, Sloan knew now. If William and Mary secured their position in England, it was quite likely that the northern country would accept them too.

He laid his head back, brooding about politics, and then about the ties that bound him to Wales with webs spun of pity and honor.

Then he started suddenly, hearing a rustle from the bed. He had forgotten the Scottish lass in the gloom of his thoughts.

He smiled and pulled his boots from his feet, setting them beneath his desk before stripping methodically and casting his clothing over the chair. Then he stood over the girl again, debating whether to move her to a more comfortable position or let her be.

It was not surprising that she had been labeled “witch”—she was incredibly beautiful. The loveliest ladies were usually marred in some way; minus several teeth, perhaps, or scarred in face or form by pockmarks or the like. This girl was nothing less than perfect. It was easy to believe that a less fortunate person might enviously decide that only a pact with the devil could create such flawless beauty. But that didn’t matter now. He would keep her safe. He found himself shuddering slightly, warmed by the thought of her. He wanted to sleep with her again—and again. He wanted her to touch him and practice her brand of witchcraft upon him. He could lose himself so easily within the midnight web of her hair, the soft mystique of her cream-and-rose flesh.

His thinking should have surprised him—perhaps even worried him. He had never before been so enamored of a woman as to worry about their future together. But he thought of permanency when he looked at this girl. And as he was of high-ranking nobility, Sloan possessed the inevitable ego of his rank. He was the Fourteenth Duke of Loghaire and a Scottish country lass should be quite content as his coveted mistress.