The Prize (24 page)

Desire thoroughly
blinded him. "No, here," he said, taking one of her hands and pushing
it over the hard ridge that was his arousal. She gasped and he almost laughed,
but the pain and the pressure was far too intense and he could not get a sound
out. Choking, he forced her hand to slide down the length there, and when
suddenly she closed her fingers around most of him, he pulled her down to the
floor, moving on top of her, claiming her mouth yet again. And briefly, there
was no more thought.

She clawed his
shoulders and moaned; he kissed his way down her throat, pulled her bodice
down, exposing both perfect breasts. And as he stared at one erect nipple, two
images came to mind—
Eastleigh
, fat and gray, and Sean, dark
and angry.

What was he doing?

He was so angry he
couldn't even think clearly, and this was so fast and furious it wasn't even
seduction—it wasn't rape, but because of her and Sean, he was poised to take
her, violently and brutally. He had sworn to return her to
Eastleigh
unharmed—but instead, he had
lost all control.

She reached for his
face, thrashing beneath him. "Hurry," she begged.

He looked again at
her erect nipple, at her small, plump breast, and desperately fought the
increasing pressure in his loins, the red haze growing in his head, the frantic
urgency. He was out of control. Stunned, he pulled her dress up, covering her
breasts, and somehow stood.

What in hell had just
happened?

This woman had
brought him to a point he had never before reached.

He was a master of
self-control
—
but
she had shattered it.

Not looking at her,
not daring to, he started swiftly from the room.

He heard her sitting
up on the floor. "Devlin," she gasped. "Come back. Please."

He ground his jaw
down and did not falter.

"You can't leave
me like this!" she cried.

He bounded up the
stairs, taking them two at a time. Then he strode down the hall. By the time he
reached his bedroom door, he felt as if he had regained some semblance of control—but
not all of it.

He was very
disturbed.

Because
Virginia
had just had power over him—and
he could not, would not, ever let anyone have any power over him, not in any
way, and not his very own prisoner.

He entered his room,
quickly shutting the door, shrugging off his navy coat. His erection still
raged and he tugged uselessly at his britches but found no relief.

"Oh, do let me
help with that." Fiona stepped forward, resplendently naked.

He stopped short,
staring in surprise, for he had completely forgotten about her.

She was smiling as
she came forward, her pendulous breasts swaying, and before he could even
assimilate that she was present because he had told her to be so, she dropped
onto her knees, unfastening his britches deftly.

He inhaled hard as he
sprang free, then inhaled again as she took his entire length into her mouth
and down her throat.

Huge violet eyes,
unfocused and glazed with desire, filled his mind as his own eyes closed. He
gripped Fiona's head tightly, and as she sucked his engorged shaft as if she
wished to swallow him whole, his treacherous mind envisioned a different woman
on her knees performing the very same act, a woman small and dainty, impossibly
beautiful, outspoken and defiant. The thick straight hair in his hands became
soft, silken curls. The large tongue became small and pointed. Full, tender
rosebud lips now stretched taut around him. With his hands, he encouraged
Virginia
to hurry and finish him off.

The dam broke. He
cried out and when he was done, he moved to the bed, where he sat, breathing
hard and stunned by the intensity of his release. She moved against him from
behind. Suddenly aware of the huge breasts against his back, he stiffened,
realizing that Fiona was in his bed; that Fiona had just performed fellatio
upon him, not Virginia Hughes.

Very seductively, she
began rubbing herself against him. "The night has only begun, my
lord," she purred.

He sat there almost
laughing at himself. How could he have thought, even for an instant, that
Virginia
could perform such an act? It
wasn't even a matter of her innocence, it was a matter of her—and his—size.

But the incipient
amusement vanished. He had never experienced such pleasure before. And
recalling it, images of
Virginia
returned to him full force and
instantly his manhood rose to the occasion.

"I knew you
would return to me, my lord," Fiona said.

He had a
choice—dismiss her or take her. Devlin turned, pushing her onto her back on the
bed. And closing his eyes, he mounted her.

He paced the manor,
disturbed.

The events of the
past few hours were haunting him.

And a ghost seemed to
follow him, the presence as disquieting as that entire evening had been.

It was as if Gerald
had followed him from the docks of
Limerick
,
refusing to release him.

A bottle of fine
French brandy in hand, Devlin stared at the gun rack that was mounted on the
wall. Once, ages ago, he had found his father's gun rack empty in a terrible
time of need. That rack had been destroyed in the fire set by
Eastleigh
's troops so long ago. Although
there was no need, modern muskets filled the brackets—it would never be left
empty again.

When will you let
our father rest in peace?

Devlin drank. Half
the bottle was gone, and he was going to pay for it on the morrow. He hated
thinking about Gerald, he hated each and every memory, the good being far worse
than the bad—which was why he never came home.

Sightless eyes
filled with fury turned mocking.

"Go away,"
Devlin murmured. "Your time will come." He paused drunkenly before a
huge fire roaring in the massive hearth.

The halls seemed to
shimmer in the shadows, but no one answered him. Not that he had expected an
answer, and besides, he didn't believe in ghosts.

Still, the room felt
heavy and full. He did not feel alone.

Vengeance belongs
to God, not you...you do this only for yourself!

"Christ,"
Devlin gritted. He drank some more, and now his stomach burned from the
excessive consumption of liquor. Images of
Virginia
taunted him, standing on the deck of the
Americana
,
the wind whipping her hair, aiming that
silly pistol at him. Her face changed, smiling brightly, her eyes sparkling as
they had at supper, enchanting his brother with her humor, her wit, her
conversation, and then there was Sean, dark and angry, claiming to be falling
in love.

You will have to
destroy her...how can you live with yourself? How?

Devlin stalked about
the great room, wondering if, on this cold and windless night, his conscience
had decided, finally, to make an appearance in his life. The hall had been
furnished with blood money. Elegantly appointed, it was a testament to the
hundreds of ships he had attacked, seized and destroyed at sea, the thousands
of crew taken prisoner, the hundreds left behind, dead and buried by the sea.
His home was as elegant as any lord admiral's, as fine as Adare's. His next
intention was to begin reconstruction of the old keep in ruins behind the manor
house. Once, family myth had it, a great pirate ancestor of his had lived there
and loved a most extraordinary woman, the daughter of the infamous traitor,
Gerald FitzGerald, the one-time Earl of Desmond.

Now he had the
funds—his last prize, loaded with bullion, had made him a very rich man.

                             
195

Enough! Give up.

Devlin stiffened as
if shot. He could have sworn he'd just heard his father's stern, angry voice
echoing in the room. He slowly looked around the huge hall, almost expecting to
see someone materializing in the shadows, but the room was still and silent.
Through one tall glass window, he saw stars and the night. He was alone. His
imagination was playing tricks upon him—either that, or he did have a damned
conscience after all.

But the odd feeling
of not being alone at all remained.

Give up.

Devlin flinched. Was
he actually hearing a voice, or was it his drunken imagination and nothing
more? Still, the advice was good. Prowling his home in the wee hours of the
coming dawn was as useless as sailing into the wind. He started for the stairs.
The sensation remained however, dark and disturbing—the sensation of being
watched.

He refused to look
back.

And his last waking
thought before drifting to sleep as dawn broke over the Irish countryside was
that he would never give up, not ever, not until Eastleigh was dead.

Virginia
realized that she was starving.
She gave the little, very fancy, bay mare another pat, then stepped out of the
stall and left the stables. It was a beautiful morning, the sky a brilliant
deep shade of blue, cloudless, the sun bright and burning, threatening to make
the day extremely hot. In the end last night, she had been exhausted, and the
moment she had crawled into bed, she had fallen deeply asleep. But old habits
died hard and she had been up at dawn, walking the grounds and exploring the
ruins of the old castle behind the house. Devlin's home was lovely, and the
ruins had intrigued her. There was something poignant and romantic about them.
Now she started across the lawns toward the manor, aware of a new tremor within
her. She had seen Devlin once, briefly, galloping his gray across a distant
hill, apparently out for an early morning ride. Astride a horse, he made the
same irresistible figure that he did on the quarterdeck of his ship. He
remained an enigma, simply impossible to understand. Had he accused her of
somehow being too friendly with Sean? Everything had happened so very quickly
in the study when she

had dared to ask him
to stroll with her in the moonlight. He had been very angry with her, but why?
Sean was a nice man and
Virginia
genuinely liked him. She had
enjoyed dining with him. She hoped he would one day visit her at Sweet Briar.
But not only hadn't Devlin joined in their conversation, he had seemed to
think that she had a romantic interest in Sean. That was absurd! How could he
think that, given the intimacy they had shared?

But he had ordered
her to stay away from her brother. There was one other possibility. Perhaps he
was afraid that she would entice Sean into helping her escape the way she had
Jack Harvey.

Virginia
's steps dragged so she might
have a bit more time to think. It was impossible not to recall
everything
that
had happened last night. Her cheeks began a slow burn. When he had held her in
his arms, when he had begun to kiss her, when she had felt his huge arousal,
all of her sanity had vanished, exactly as it had the other night on the ship.
She hadn't imagined her passionate reaction to being in his arms, oh no. The
fever and the frenzy he evoked in her was very real and simply stunning. And in
a way, it was frightening, too.

Because when he held
her, she was not herself. When he held her, she turned into a creature of
desire and little else. In fact, when she was in his arms being kissed and
aroused, nothing else mattered.

Fortunately it was
midmorning now and
Virginia
was no longer insane with that
terrible lust. Her body was definitely changing in response to thinking about
the encounter, but at least she was capable of rational thought. Why did he
have such an effect upon her?

He was impossibly
mesmerizing, impossibly handsome in a terrible, powerful way, but she was his
prisoner, not his guest. Devlin stood between her and Sweet Briar and she was
starting to forget that, as if she had all the time in the world

to play out this
interlude in captivity before rescuing the plantation. She needed to be
stronger, firmer, more resolved—time was not on her side.

Still, he wasn't a
pirate or a madman. He hadn't hurt her, not a single time, and he was clearly
trying to respect her. The world worshipped him for being a heroic naval
captain. He
was
heroic—he was the very stuff that heroes were made from.
But he had broken the law by abducting her—not to mention that he had so
arrogantly stepped all over the
Americana
,
which
had every right to ply its trade. He had committed at least those two crimes,
and her spinning thoughts always returned to this final point. The
Americana
lay wrecked upon the bottom of the sea, she
was his prisoner and she had no right to yearn for his embrace.

And she still had no
idea why he really wished to ransom her.

It was probably
fortunate that he had decided to end their interlude last night as if he had
just discovered she was a leper. His hasty exit was almost comical in the light
of this morning, and she did smile, recalling it. But it hadn't been amusing
last night. Last night she had been desperate and crushed and more confused
than ever.

Virginia
entered the house, becoming
grim. She needed to know why. She needed to know why he risked his career for a
ransom he did not need. And in spite of the fact that she was actually enjoying
being at Askeaton, that she wasn't in a rush to leave, she had to get to the
Earl of Eastleigh. If she wanted a home to return to, she must stay focused and
resolved and disregard the passionate attraction they seemed to share.

Virginia
walked through the hall,
wondering if Devlin had returned from his ride. She had seen Sean riding out
some time ago, after Devlin but separately and at a more sedate pace. She felt
certain he was beginning his day's work. Virginia glanced into the dining room
and found only one place set. She sighed, caught up between disappointment and
relief.

Virginia
raided the breadbasket, giving
in to hunger. With one blueberry scone in hand, she began eating a slice of raisin
bread, fresh and warm from the oven, as she started upstairs. She decided to
give up thinking about Devlin O'Neill. What she would do instead was change
into the riding britches she had brought with her from home and take a long
ride across the O'Neill lands.

Virginia
finished the bread and was
beginning on the scone as she entered her bedroom. Fiona was humming away as
she made the bed, having opened all of the windows to let in the warm spring
day.
Virginia
ignored her, going to the closet
for her valise. "Good morning," Fiona said with abundant cheer.

Every fiber of her
being tensed. Alarm began—what was this? Slowly, britches in hand, her riding
boots on the floor,
Virginia
turned.

Fiona beamed at her.
"I brought you roses from the garden," she said, pointing to the pink
roses in a vase beside her bed.

The alarm began to
change, turning into dread.
Virginia
inhaled, wondering if Sean or
Devlin had set her down for her delinquent manner yesterday. "Thank
you," she said carefully. "Would you help me out of my dress?"

"Of
course!" Fiona practically ran across the room, and
Virginia
glimpsed her beatific expression
just before she turned. As the other woman undid the buttons and helped her out
of the gown, she said, "You are inordinately happy today."

Fiona laughed.
"It's a fine day, is it not?"

Virginia
had a sick feeling. She stepped
into the boys' britches, then pulled on the high, worn riding boots. A simple
cotton shirt followed, which she vaguely nicked in. "Have you received
some good news?" she asked, lacing up her boots.

200                           

Fiona laughed again.
"I think I am in love," she confided happily.

Virginia
jerked up, staring, appalled.
"In...love?"

Fiona nodded eagerly,
clasping her hands together. "It was everything I dreamed it would be. He
was everything I dreamed he would be, I mean! Oh, God, it was glorious, what a
man, so strong, so tireless..." She finally faltered, her cheeks splotched
feverishly, a similar glaze in her eyes.

"You...you and
Devlin?"
Virginia
managed, the contents of her
stomach seriously roiling now.

"Yes,"
Fiona cried. "He made love to me all night, that man can hold it like a
stud! I have never, ever been with a man like that, and I do not know how I
will ever wait until tonight!"

Devlin had taken
Fiona to bed.

Virginia
sat on the edge of the chair,
beyond ill, in stupefaction.

"He's so
big," Fiona whispered now. "I can hardly fit him in my hand."

Last night Devlin
had kissed her and held her and then he had gone to Fiona.

Virginia
was about to vomit. And the
shattering began in her heart. Somehow she smiled as she stood. Somehow she
held her breakfast down. "I am happy for you, Fiona. The two of you make a
fine pan:."

"We do, don't
we! He's so golden, I'm so dark, he's handsome, I'm beautiful," she
cried, clapping her hands together.

Virginia
left the room, as fast as her
legs could carry her without running. She broke into a run as she reached the
stairs, not able to breathe, her heart ripping hideously apart. Instantly her
slick booted soles slid on the polished wood and she fell hard, tumbling down
half of the steps.

On the bottom she
paused on her hands and knees, panting harshly, beyond shock. Then she somehow
got up, ran out the front door, and there she threw up on the closest rose
bush.

When she was done,
she crawled around the side of the house and sat there, shaking. Images of
Devlin straining over Fiona taunted her, mocked her, throwing pound after pound
of salt in her wounds. It was some time before she could take control of her
raw emotions, and it was only then that the horrific images began to infuriate
her.

Oh, how they deserved
each other!

She was a whore—he
was a whoremonger!

She didn't care—she
had her maidenhead intact, thank God—no, thank Fiona!

Virginia
hated them both.

How could he go to
Fiona after being with her? How?

Virginia
somehow stood, her knees oddly
weak, brushing dirt off of her beige britches. This was for the best. Soon she
would leave Askeaton and
Ireland
, soon she would return to Sweet
Briar and never, ever have to see Devlin O'Neill again.

How, how, how?

"She's beautiful
and I'm ugly, that's how!"
Virginia
raged. She stormed past the house and down to the stables, where the bay mare
recognized her and whinnied.
Virginia
found a saddle that looked a bit
smaller than the others, grabbed a bridle and blanket and quickly saddled the
little mare up. It began to rain. She held the mare's reins and stroked her
neck as her hands became wet. "You're so sweet," she choked. Then she
led the mare outside, where the sky was blue, confusing her.