Devil's Embrace (9 page)

“What are you going to do?”

“What I would have done had I known you were a virgin.”

She drew her legs together and pulled impotently at the handkerchiefs. When she felt his weight upon the bed, she looked to see him holding a small jar in his hand.

“What is that?” she said, lifting her head from the pillow to see him better.

He did not answer her, but wedged his hand between her thighs, forcing them apart. Cassie felt his finger ease inside her, and her muscles tightened at the feel of something cool and soothing inside her.

The earl saw her eyes, wide and pleading, upon his face, and though he wanted to reassure her, he knew that anything he said would only prolong her fear.

Cassie felt herself stretch to hold him when he entered her, but she felt no pain. She felt him pushing against her maidenhead, and she stiffened.

“Cassandra,” he said, his voice bringing her eyes to his face, “I must hurt you, but just for a moment.”

She cried out once at a sharp pain, and felt him move deep within her. She felt a numbing shock that brought hopeless tears to her eyes. His large hands were clasping her hips, drawing her upward to meet him. She heard him moan above her, curiously tense, and felt his seed deep inside her.

She heard herself sobbing aloud, and tears streaked down her cheeks, their salty heat upon her lips.

Cassie felt a warm wet cloth touching her face, soothing away her tears, and slowly opened her eyes. She felt defiled, awash with helpless anger at her weakness, at her womanness.

“I hate you,” she whispered to the dark face above her.

“Yes, I know,” he said gently. “I am sorry that I had to hurt you, Cassandra.” He paused a moment and pulled damp tendrils of hair away from her eyes. “If you would know the truth, I wanted only to get the damned business over with. Next time, I promise you that there will be no pain, indeed, I want to give you pleasure, for that is the object of lovemaking, you know.”

The thought that he would force her again made her hollow with despair. She felt the cloth moving over her thighs, pressing lightly against her. She drew her stiff legs slowly together.

He continued calmly, as if in polite conversation in a drawing room. “In Genoa, and indeed in many parts of
Italy, it is a tradition among the peasants for the bridegroom to hang the bedsheet out the window after the wedding night. There must be spots of blood on the sheet, you see, so that all will know that his wife came to him as a virgin.”

She said, her voice trembling with fury, “So you will fly the damned sheet from the mast?”

He looked up and smiled, delighted at her spirit. “I just might,” he said coolly, “if for no other reason than to celebrate your remarkable lie.”

She felt his fingers brush over her belly. “You will be a bit sore, but it will pass quickly.”

“So that is how you dismiss brutal rape, my lord. Your victim will only be a bit sore—nothing of any importance.”

“Not my victim, Cassandra, my wife.”

“You may take your insane notion and go to hell.”

“Then you will meet the devil with me. Now, if you promise not to lash out at me—physically, that is—I’ll release your wrists.”

She felt beyond caring, though she was aware of a growing numbness in her hands. She turned her face away from him.

She felt him unfasten the silk knots and bring her arms down to her sides.

Anthony frowned at the welts about her wrists as he gently rubbed feeling into them again.

“Do you feel better now?”

“I would feel better if I could stick a knife between your ribs.”

“Ah, yes, much better, I see. Poor Eliott has never been a match for your acerbic tongue. And if he marries Miss Eliza Pennworthy, I fear that his God-given wit will rust with disuse within a year. As for what Edward Lyndhurst would say about your spirit, I daresay it would not be loving.”

She did not answer him, and he continued lightly, “Nor do I believe that you would have managed to subvert your opinions and ideas for very long with Edward Lyndhurst. He has very set notions about the wifely behavior of English ladies, you know.”

Cassie felt a raw surge of grief. “Edward must believe me dead by now.”

“Probably not yet. I’ll wager that he will scour the coast for you for some days to come before he finally accepts the fact.”

“You must listen to me,” Cassie said, easing herself up on her elbows. “Now that you have used me, will you not cease this cruel charade and take me home? Since I am no longer a virgin, there can be no sport left for you.” She was aware that his eyes wavered from her face, and she grasped the corner of a sheet and pulled it over her.

“My lady shows such modesty.” He grinned as he rose. “I am naked too, and yours for the asking.”

“Answer me.” she yelled at him.

“If you speak nonsense, you leave me nothing to say,” he said easily. He stretched, and Cassie’s eyes dropped to the thick bush of black hair at his groin. His man’s sex lay flaccid and soft.

“I cannot be erect for you all of the time, my lady. Even your faithful servant must rest upon occasion.”

She felt tears sting her eyes, and gulped down a sob, turning away from him. She felt his hand touch her loosened braids.

“You must brush out your hair, else it will be a mess on the morrow.” She made no move and he sighed. “Very well, then I shall do it for you. Will you hold still, or must I tie you up again?”

She turned back to him wearily. “Give me the bloody brush.”

Though her arms ached, she ruthlessly jerked the brush through the masses of hair, smoothing down the deep ripples from the braids with her fingers.

“Your hair, like the rest of you, is exquisite.”

She stared stonily ahead of her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn and look toward the clock atop the ornate oak desk. “It is time to sleep, Cassandra. It has indeed been a long, quite fatiguing day.”

“Where will you sleep?”

His dark eyes twinkled. “Wrapped around your lovely body, of course.”

“I wish a nightgown.”

“I am sorry, my lady, but a nightgown is the only item of apparel that you will not find in your wardrobe.”

“I never sleep without a nightgown.”

“Then it is time to break such prudish habits.”

She choked down an angry curse and gave in to her exhaustion. The earl moved about the cabin and extinguished the lamps. He again stretched his muscles in the darkness and allowed his nerves their first respite in two months. With a smile of contentment, he climbed into bed beside her.

He lay on his back, his arms above his head, listening to her angry breathing. “Come here, Cassandra,” he said finally, bringing his arms down. “I will not take you again, I promise.” He could picture her drawn into a small ball, pressed against the starboard wall. “If you do not do as I bid you, I shall go back on my promise.”

She cursed and moved reluctantly against him.

He gathered her stiff body in his arms and pulled her tightly against his chest. “Good night, love,” he whispered, and pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

He felt her lashes brushing against his flesh, as she lay wide-eyed in the darkness. He sought for words to comfort her, but as he was her nemesis, he could think of nothing that would not upset her more.

He thought about the vagaries of fate that had led him to commit what he himself considered an outrageous act, an act that would keep him from English shores for many years to come, and for an unwonted moment, he felt doubt in himself that he would eventually succeed.

He felt the wet of her tears touch his shoulder and brought his hand up to brush them away. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her tight. “Go to sleep, Cassandra. All will be well, you will see.”

“Damn you to hell, you bastard. If I were a man, I would stick a sword through your gullet.”

“If you were a man, I would be cast in the role of pederast, a thought I find truly appalling. You will have countless
hours to upbraid me. I suggest that you sleep now. Your wits will be all the sharper in the morning.”

Countless hours—his words rang like a death knell in her mind. Damn you to hell, she swore silently, pulling herself from despair. I will escape you.

F
or an instant, Cassie was at home at Hemphill Hall, in her sunlit bedchamber, waiting to hear Dolly Mintlow’s shuffling steps at her door with her morning cup of chocolate.

Her bed seemed to lurch wildly, and she awoke with a start.

She grabbed at the lattice headboard as the yacht gave a loud creak and heeled sharply to port. She sat up and gazed dumbly about the cabin, eerily gray in the dull morning light cast through the square bow windows. Heavy rain battered the yacht, and thunder sounded like muted gun-shots overhead. Would be that it were, she thought, her throat constricting. She prayed that the earl and his precious yacht would be plummeted by the storm to the bottom of the Channel. At least her nightmare would be over and she would truly be an eternity away from Edward and her family. The yacht creaked and floundered, but the wild lurching lessened, and it held, she imagined, to its course.

“Thank God for the storm,” she whispered. It was in all likelihood the only reason he was not with her. At the thought of the earl returning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared down at herself. She was quite naked. She rose slowly, aware of a dull twinge of tenderness between her thighs. She drew a deep breath to steady herself and made her way carefully to the commode. She poured water from the fat-bellied pitcher into the basin and began methodically to bathe herself. This was to have been my wedding day, she thought blankly, oblivious to the water sloshing over the sides of the basin onto the carpeted
floor. She splashed water over her face furiously, for she felt tears welling in her eyes.

She cursed at the sight of her tattered gown tossed in a heap where the earl had left it the night before. As she had no intention of facing him naked, she opened the oak armoire and eyed the row of brightly colored gowns. She thought belatedly of undergarments and jerked open the drawers of the dresser. She ground her teeth at his thoroughness, and quickly shrugged on a set of exquisite lace and silk underclothes. She selected the least colorful gown, a soft dove-gray muslin, but discovered that its neckline wasn’t as high as she’d hoped. The gown fit her perfectly, just as did the undergarments. She pulled an ivory-handled brush through her tangled hair, tied it at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon, and smoothed the muslin skirt.

Once fully clothed, she felt more confident. She walked to the closed cabin door and gingerly turned the knob. It was locked, of course. Her anger rose with her confidence, and she found herself fairly daring him to enter.

She paced in impotent frustration, her steps growing more certain as she discovered the rhythm of the yacht. Her stomach growled for her breakfast, and she cursed him. Was he trying to starve her into submission?

The wild pitching of the yacht became gradually more predictable, and the pounding rain, too, slowly lightened. She turned at the sound of footsteps outside the cabin door and squared her shoulders.

A key grated in the lock and the door swung open. The earl strode in, filling the doorway. He was like a vital, threatening force, and she drew back from him. She saw a black canvas cape, glistening with drops of rain, lying in the companionway outside the door before he shoved it closed.

“Good morning, Cassandra,” he said, his voice obnoxiously cheerful, as he wiped his full-sleeved shirt over his wet brow. “Or rather I should say good afternoon.”

She gazed at him, not speaking.

“The gown becomes you,” he continued easily, his gaze sweeping over her stiff figure. “I trust everything else that I purchased for you fits as well.”

She thought of the silk underclothes that caressed her
and took a step backward, her hand moving unconsciously to cover the expanse of her white bosom.

The earl, seemingly blind to her discomfort, walked to the table, poured himself a glass of water, and tossed it down. “Scargill will be here momentarily with our lunch. Forgive him for not bringing you breakfast, but he has been mightily occupied. Channel storms can be dangerous, you know, else I would have never left the warmth of our bed.” He pictured her as she looked in sleep, her face peaceful and her golden hair fanned over her shoulders and breasts. When he had reluctantly eased away from her early in the morning, she had sighed softly and curled into a small ball, her sleep unbroken.

“My lady is remarkably silent today,” he remarked casually, as he sank down into a chair. “No venomous words? I shall begin to believe you afraid of me, Cassandra, if you continue to cower so in the corner.”

She said, “I was hungry, my lord, but enduring your presence has made me quite lose my appetite.”

“I do hope you regain it for I should not like your splendid charms to waste away.”

There was a light knock on the cabin door, and at the earl’s command, Scargill entered, his arms laden with covered plates.

The valet glanced furtively at Cassie as he moved silently about the table, setting the places. Although she tried valiantly to ignore him, she felt her cheeks grow red. She wanted to dash to the mirror above the dresser to see if she somehow looked different, if her expression, her eyes perhaps, betrayed her lost innocence. She became aware that the earl was speaking to her and raised her eyes warily to his face.

“The idea was mine,” he was saying modestly. “There may be a veritable tempest above deck, but your plate will remain just where you place it.”

She looked blankly at the heavy pewter dishes.

“Loadstones,” Scargill said, lifting a dish for her inspection. “Ye see these strips here? Ye set the dish along this line and it will take a man’s heavy hand to pry it up. If ye
will be seated, madonna, I’ve a tasty lamb stew for yer lunch.”

The talk of loadstones flitted from her mind, for the smell of the lamb stew made her mouth water. She did as she was bid, wondering while she sat down at the table why he had called her “madonna.” She ate her fill, all the while keeping her eyes upon her plate.