My Angel (28 page)

He studied her carefully, a puzzled expression on his dark features. "Angela," he began. "You're carrying this too far. A little rebellion I can tolerate, but..." He piled her plate high with eggs and ham. Fresh bread was set beside the plates, sliced and spread with butter.

She changed the subject. "When are you going to give me something to wear? When I sleep with you?" she asked, wishing she could see this his way, knowing she couldn't. No amount of coercion on his part would make her. She would never give in to his proposition.

"My fair lady, you do me wrong."

"Then where are my clothes?" she asked, trying desperately to keep the anger and the childish tantrum that threatened to explode from doing just that.

"In the laundry," he replied, forking a piece of egg and holding it out to her. He ran the food across her lips. Her stomach rumbled and he laughed. "Come on; eat," he said, and like a lamb being led to the slaughter, she allowed him to feed her.

He kept her mouth filled, which kept her stomach happy.

"I do like your compliance," he said, just as her lips closed over a succulent piece of ham.

Compliance?

She nearly choked on the food. Her hand went to her throat, and her meager covering slipped. She grappled with the sheet for a few minutes, knowing Alexi must have surely glimpsed parts of her she didn't want him to see.

"This is not compliance. What you see is hunger."

"Of course, whatever you say, angel." He rose.

Angela squirmed on her chair, not liking the look on his face at all. He walked slowly behind her chair. His hands suddenly rested on her bare shoulders. She squeaked.

"Hush, I'm only going to massage away the kinks you got last night when you foolishly tried to sleep in that horrible chair. You really should take better care of yourself. When there is a perfectly comfortable bed available, you should use it. You have nothing to fear from me. I always hold true to my promises.'' His hands worked magic on her muscles. She didn't want to relax. Relaxation could prove too dangerous.

He kissed her neck where he'd pulled her hair away, then brushed his lips lightly down the column of her throat.

She sprang from the chair. "No!" Angela had turned and faced him, her anger and fear roiling inside, sweeping through her. If nothing else, she was determined. "No," she said again, a little less forcibly, but the panic was still in her voice.

He smiled a jaunty smile and walked from the room.

The lock grated closed.

~ * ~

For a few glaring minutes, Sam Chamberlain let the fury rumble deep in his chest, let it grow until the anger and frustration he felt erupted in a wild Sioux war cry.

In unison the men loading a merchant ship nearby turned to stare at him. At his sides his fists clenched and unclenched. He thought of the knife he'd strapped to his leg, hidden by the pants he wore, and what he'd like to do with it--bury it deep inside Devil's heart. High-handed aristocrat or not, Devil Black-moor would pay for what he'd done to his daughter.

Drizzle spilled relentlessly from the heavens above, and a cold wind stung his cheeks. He longed for a fight, for release from the pain he felt. He had meant to protect his daughter from her own foolishness and had failed. The
Mystic's
sails slowly dipped below the horizon as Sam paced the docks in
New York
harbor, cursing Devil Blackmoor and Misha and whatever gods had allowed this to happen.

Blackmoor would pay a hundredfold if he'd touched his daughter intimately, if Angela had been hurt in any way. There would be no place on earth Blackmoor could hide.

The next ship to
England
wasn't due out until the evening tide. Frustration pooled in Sam's gut. Anger surged in mercuric flows in his bloodstream. At least he would be only a few hours behind that son of a bitch. Staking the bastard out in the desert would have to wait. When he caught Devil, he meant to feed him to the sharks--forget the desert ants and foul-smelling buzzards.

"Fool," he berated himself. "Idiot." He glared at the heavens above. When Angela had stepped on that train heading for the finishing school, willing and eager, he should have known something was wrong. He should have known she was up to something. Her running away with Devil Blackmoor had come as a complete surprise.

He should have never placed his trust in Misha. Misha had led him a merry dance, one that took him over most of
New York City
and into the early hours of the morning.

Misha would pay, too.

After Misha left him, he'd finally located Devil's room in the Waldorf, only to find out that Devil had departed along with his paramour--as the bellboy had delicately put it--early that same morning.

"Angela." His breath vanished in the gray afternoon, the single word swallowed by the cold drizzle. "How on earth could you have let that man deceive you so? Didn't I teach you to be a better judge of character?"

The blame was his own; he knew that for a fact. He'd allowed Angela to chase after wild dreams, never imagining that she'd run from him. Yet Angela had always been surrounded by people she could trust, had never known the shadier side of human nature.

Blackmoor was a devil.

All along he'd known Angela craved adventure, but he'd never guessed she would run after it and abandon all the rules of propriety he'd taught her.

He should have seen the warning signs.

It was not like him to misread his daughter so completely.

He had never believed she was old enough to think herself in love.

"Son of a bitch!"

He could curse himself a thousand times in several languages, yet all the swearing in the world would not bring Angela home or keep her out of Blackmoor's bed. She'd already slept with the devil, of that he was sure.

The room in the hotel had been ripe for romance, a candlelit table, a soft, glowing fire--and the bed had been well and truly rumpled, as if they'd frolicked there for hours.

From his coat pocket he pulled a crumpled piece of paper. The note Misha left him was water-logged, the ink running in rivulets down the parchment. The words, etched hi his mind, infuriated him even more two hours later than they had when he'd first read them.

Nice meeting you, Angela's father, I'm sure we'll meet again, but not for a few months. Alexi's clipper ship the
Mystic
is faster than any other ship in
New York
harbor.

And
Europe
is a huge continent. I'd wish you good luck in your endeavor, but I wouldn't mean it. It might take you years to find us in his homeland. My heart would go out to you if I weren't such a loyal subject to the prince.

Sincerely,

Misha
--
your friend in another circumstance.

"Damn you, Misha. You knew how I felt about Angela. How could you?''

Another low growl emanated from the pit of Sam's stomach. Despair and a deep foreboding settled in the core of his heart. If it wasn't already too late, it would be by the time he reached Angela. His precious daughter had been or would be used thoroughly by an aristocratic snob who thought it was his right to abuse women and their hearts.

He would have to be there for Angela, be there to pick up the pieces of her broken heart. Beyond any doubt, Sam knew his daughter loved a devil.

Devil was in for his day of reckoning.

Chapter Ten

Alexi welcomed the tempest that sent salt spray licking the deck and wind pummeling the sails. Gale-force winds challenged his ship and the captain. The
Mystic
slumped into a deep trough and then rode the next swell. Waves rushed across the deck, sweeping everything that wasn't tied down into the ocean's murky depths.

Two long weeks had passed since the ship had sailed out of
New York
harbor, and he'd gained no ground with the recalcitrant lady below in his cabin. Angela refused to understand or even listen to his vows of good faith and the privileges of becoming his beloved and protected paramour. She refused to listen to the reasons he gave her as to why she could never become his wife.

He meant to protect and cherish her. He meant to lavish her with gifts.

Wasn't that enough?

She turned a cold shoulder to him each time he walked into his chambers. Lately he'd taken to sleeping on deck, just to ease the ache inside that looking at her caused him. He knew she hurt, too.

Allah, but a hard, furious fight would do him a world of good. He wondered if Misha would oblige him.

"Hit the deck." Misha's loud call jolted him out of his brooding.

The crack of a mast far overhead, which meant rigging hurtling downward, filled him with fear for his men and, strangely enough, renewed energy. Even with the sails trimmed to fight the furious winds, the masts had taken a beating. Another crack echoed loudly, and one mast toppled forward. The men looked for shelter from the bombardment.