Devil's Mistress (21 page)

She met his eyes and lifted her hands, encompassing the cabin. “You are the master of the ship; you are the captain, Lord Treveryan. You are His Grace, the Duke of Loghaire. The commands are yours. You spoke the order, and I reside within your cabin. The strength is yours. The power is yours. You commanded, and I was yours.”

“Brianna! I never—”

His voice was a warning, a threatening growl; his boots hit the floor and he was back on his feet.

“Stop! Please, I beg you!” She lifted her hands against him, and the sudden entreaty in her voice held him still.

“You did not ravage or rape me, Sloan, but perhaps what you do is worse, for you seduce me, when you know it is not my will to be seduced! You say that I want you, and, aye, Sloan, that is true! That I cannot pretend to deny! Just as I want to thank you for the gift of my life with my arms about you, to hold you, cherish you. But, Sloan, for God’s sake, have mercy! Oh, don’t you understand yet, you fool!”

He was staring upon her so curiously, so gently, and now she understood what emotion had been in his eyes: it was pain. He took another step toward her, so that they were almost touching again, so that she could too clearly feel the strength and heat of his muscular form, too dearly wish to reach out and touch the sinewed cords of his neck, the thick dark hair that feathered coarsely at the opening of his silk shirt.

“Sloan!” Her voice was a sob as she backed away. “Don’t you see, Lord Treveryan, it is no longer my honor at stake! In all that has come to pass that has been truly brutal and cruel, I am most painfully aware that my loss of innocence at your hands was a gentle thing—never truly shameful, for in Port Quinby I came to discover true shame. I watched men die for me, and what then was my honor? But, Sloan, as I live, I must seek to save my soul! I cannot afford to need you further than I do! Sloan, you are a gallant man, but the day will come when a new maiden takes your fancy, and it will be she whom you will desire! And then I shall be lost. I cannot be your mistress, for the fact is that I do need you and there is nothing you can do or say to change that.”

“Is there not?” he asked her quietly, taking that last step so that she was crushed into his arms and held tenderly. She felt the beat of his heart and the touch of his hands on her hair as he cradled her against his chest, and then he pulled away from her and led her to sit on the bed. He sank to one knee before her and kissed the palms of her hands with gentle reverence. “Dear God, Brianna, can you not love me, can you still deny me, even knowing that I love you with all my heart and soul, my strength and purpose?” he whispered, seeking the answer within her eyes.

“What?” she murmured.

“I love you, Brianna. I swear, before God and all that is holy. I swear upon my life that I love you, and will love you all the days that I may live.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. He lifted his thumb to brush them tenderly away. She threw her arms about his neck and held him, marveling at the simple beauty of holding him close. He loved her. And love … love could conquer anything!

“Nay, Sloan,” she whispered. “I cannot deny you. I love you.” She repeated his name with tender love and reverence, but couldn’t summon words to describe the depths of her emotions. There was so much of him she wanted, so much of herself she yearned to give.

“Beloved, beloved witch …” he murmured in reply.

Her eyes rose to his, filled with the sweet beauty and promise of her heart. The last rays of her tears glistened upon the deep blue of those glorious pools, and Sloan realized that never before now had he known the simple wonder of such an overwhelming love. At long last he managed to speak, and his voice rang with conviction. “I swear to you, that I will never for a moment forget you, that I will care for you always.”

She felt dizzy with the incredible delight of his words. He loved her as he loved his life; he would make her a part of his life. He would never for a moment forget her. They would marry, have a fine home filled with the laughter of children, and forever they would love each other. Perhaps it was wrong to find such happiness in the wake of tragedy, but she could not believe that anyone could begrudge her this love when she had learned so much of the terrors of life. She could barely think; all she could do was look at him trembling with wonder.

He caught her fingers and massaged them with his, then kissed each individually. Desire, warm and delicious, began to sweep through her like the relentless push of the tide.

She shakily extracted her fingers from his and began to undo the buttons of his shirt, her eyes upon her task. She felt the rush of his breath when her fingers touched his bare chest.

His arms swept around her and his lips crushed hers hungrily, devouring with need and tenderness. He drew apart from her again, trembling as he held her away. “Sweet witch, your magic has more strength than my will. This is a temptation that I cannot deny …”

Again his mouth came to hers and his tongue parted her lips and elicited the most tantalizing elixir of ardent response. For a long while they kissed deeply, holding each other in a passionate embrace. But at last he broke away from her, peeled away his shirt, and when his chest was bare, she had to explore the thick dark hair that covered its expanse, her eyes following the touch of her fingers with fascination. She noted all wonderful things, the tensing muscles beneath her fingers, the clean line of his collarbone, the hard rounded sinews of his arms and the curling trail of hair which became so slender as it narrowed to his breeches.

She set her hands upon the drawstring, and again delighted in the force of his shudder, the catch of his breath. The tide of yearning washed over her again, leaving a fire that blazed and wound within her abdomen and sent her quivering.

The string about his breeches gave under her questing fingers. Her feminine wiles were quickly igniting him to excitement unlike any he had felt before. Her fingers slid over the tensely knotted firmness of his hard-muscled buttocks. Each graze of her nails sent his senses spiraling to a higher pinnacle of arousal, each movement of her lips against his sent him deeper under her unique bewitching spell.

This was no cunning seduction game for Brianna. She longed for him and she needed to touch him. Her lips traveled over his chest and she paused at his hard nipple feathered with dark hair. She grazed it with her teeth, nipping, tasting the salt spray and his intoxicating maleness. Her hands and fingers moved caressingly, and as he stood, she slowly lowered his breeches down his trim hips until she knelt to peel them from his strong legs. She was overwhelmed with the wonder that he was hers, that she was free to love him so, that she could create the racing of his blood and incite his desire.

“Dear God!” His husky groan touched her heart and thrilled her senses. “You
are
a witch, you love me as no other …”

He broke off with a gasp as she slid her hands over his legs, luxuriating in their strength. With the innocence and curiosity of Eve she pressed the moist heat of her kisses along his calves and then moved upward, to his knees, and to the tightly wired muscles of his thighs.

“Brianna!”

He was down beside her with his hands on her shoulders, holding her. She met his flaming eyes, and then his lips were on hers, ravaging, and yet tender. He ripped away the flimsy material of her gown.

Then he froze, and abruptly withdrew from her.

“What is wrong?” she cried, wondering desperately what could have overtaken him with such horror.

Then she felt his hands on her again, gently touching those spots where the pick had broken her flesh. “Damn fate that I cannot kill that man a thousand times again!” he swore.

She clutched his head to her breast, breathing a sigh of relief. Her fingers moved through his hair and she brokenly assured him, “There is no pain, Sloan; that is in the past. Please, don’t leave me! Your touch is the greatest balm.”

“I would not hurt you—”

“Then love me, and let him come no more between us.”

So tenderly did he touch her, his lips were a cooling breeze to every small hurt. She could not bear to go slowly, and pleaded that he set his passion free. He responded to her entreaties and allowed the leashed desire of many cold and lonely nights to unfold and soar.

She was lifted high and the remainder of her clothing impatiently drawn from her. He laid her down on the bed, and she met the blaze of his eyes with yearning invitation, her slender arms outstretched. The heat of anticipation that raced through her could mount no higher, and intuitively she shifted her long legs to receive him; but he smiled as he knelt beside her and brushed a kiss against the column of her throat.

“Not yet, my beloved witch … not yet. Magic is eternal …”

His hand moved to the juncture of her thighs and she gasped out his name as she convulsively arched to him. He smiled at her, his ravenous needs drawing his features tight, yet still he waited, watching her, reveling in the undulation of her form, hips writhing, breasts arching.

“Sloan …”

His kisses muffled her words as he touched her, and his mouth followed his expert and reverent fingers, knowing the swell of her hip, the dip of her belly, the slender length of her thigh, and the flowering of her deepest desires. His name was not a whisper when it gasped from her throat, but an ardent cry. And she could no longer lie prone, but twisted to rise and meet his embrace. He buried her face against his neck. “Now, my love,” he murmured.

He lifted her chin and their lips melded, fiery and sweet. When he at last brought his body to hers, their joining was as smooth as a silken embrace, and velvet strokes became a tempest of nature, a maelstrom of wild, shuddering ecstasy. Rapture soared to sun-drenched peaks, and soared onward yet again, his rhythmic, pulsing strength demanding the ultimate triumph while ever seeking the ultimate intimacy, as if he could touch her soul and truly make them one.

Their rapture at last reached its shuddering pinnacle and burst with volatile brilliance. A thousand golden snowflakes littered the warm air about them as they lovingly, tenderly clung together and allowed the satiation of love to still the mad beating of their hearts.

He buried his face in the damp web of her luxurious hair. “Glorious witch,” he murmured. “Beautiful, beautiful witch. Ever more you entice me, ensnare me, until I feel I am not whole unless I can experience your touch and see the love in your eyes. Ah, Brianna, never have I known anything so sweet as your love.”

Brianna smiled, wondering if her happiness could ever be greater. It was as great as the rapture he created in her. For a moment, a chill passed over her heart. She became afraid, for the rapture of their lovemaking flew so high and crested so intensely, swathing her with pleasure so great it was almost unbearable.

And then it ebbed. Gone, until it should be nurtured again.

Could happiness, could love, follow that same sweet route? Growing ecstasy, a moment’s wonderful glory—and then a fading as irrevocable as the yearning for release.

No! She stopped her silly, fearful thoughts. No! For the rapture between them did not end with that release; the moments after, when he held her, were just as dear, just as awesomely sweet. Her happiness, her love, would also soar and peak and crest. It would find calm and it would find storm, but always it would be nurtured.

She curled into his arms, forcing the chill of fear to leave her and savoring the repletion of her body and soul. “I love you so much, Sloan,” she murmured, limbs entangling naturally with his. “You are a part of me, milord, the part that is my heart.”

He loved her. He loved her. He would make her his wife, and she would happily follow him anywhere until the end of her days.

For Brianna, the early morning was as full of wonder as the night. The sun rose gently, creeping through the starboard window like a silken pink mist. Bathed and shrouded in that tender glow, she curled against Sloan, her fingers against his chest. She did not seek to wake him; she was happy just to lie there, basking again in the knowledge that he loved her. And at his side she could learn to live again—forgive herself for all that had occurred, and learn to forget the horror of Matthews’s touch, the feel of a rope about her throat, the scent of death in the roar of a fire.

He was not sleeping. He stroked her hair until she tilted her head and looked upward, smiling a little shyly into his eyes.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“And I you.” He returned her smile, and his arms held her tightly but tenderly. Then he drew away slightly, for he longed to look at her, to bask not only in her beauty but in the warmth of her smile.

She nuzzled closer to him, pressing her cheek against his chest once more. She sighed softly, a contented and yet sorrowful little sound that shook her.

“Oh, Sloan! If only Matthews had not somehow chased us to Port Quinby. If only Robin and your other fine men had not died.”

“Hush,” he told her, frowning as he stroked a lock of her hair over the healing wound on her shoulder where Matthews had stabbed her with his pick. “He wanted my blood as much as yours.”

“But it was my fault he wanted it to begin with,” she said mournfully. “Had I not stumbled upon you in Glasgow, you would now be peacefully on your way to your prince. And Robin and the others would still be alive.”

“You can’t punish yourself for what happened, Brianna. We are a crew of men trained to fight—be it pirates, or even the king’s forces, should they not accept William.”