Devil's Mistress (6 page)

Sloan exulted in her. Her exquisite form heightened his desire unbearably. He had never known a woman to give pleasure so unthinkingly, whose innate sensuality alone could send a man into tempest. He slipped his hand between her sleek thighs, parting them. They trembled slightly, and gave to his touch.

The invitation of her body totally severed the fine line of his control. He groaned aloud as the floodgates of his restraint shattered, leaving him totally at the mercy of his need. He entered into her with explosive force, and was stunned as the scream tore from her throat, shocked at the message that vaguely filtered into his mind.

But he couldn’t withdraw from her. Nor would any purpose now be served. Questions would have to come later. She had come to him, and her innocence was irretrievably lost. He could only hope to gentle his approach, coax her along as he would have had he known …

It was too late to ease the pain he had inflicted with his first explosive thrust—it was equally too late to leave her.

“No. Dear God, no! Leave me!” she pleaded brokenly. And then her voice rose in anger. “Leave me!”

She suddenly pitted her strength against him like a madwoman.

Sloan was startled, and then furious. No man was expected to come—to be seduced—to this point and then to withdraw with chivalry. He had given her every opportunity to leave his chamber.

He smiled grimly at the glazed fury in her eyes as she struggled against him. “Mistress,” he said softly, “the damage is done.”

“No,” she denied with a shake of her head; and yet the fury left her eyes and pain replaced it. He eased his hold upon her and gently soothed her hair.

“Shhh …” he murmured to her, able to pause only a minute, but gaining control again. “I will be gentle, Brianna. He moved against her slowly, fluidly. She clasped her arms around him as he held her still beneath him, her teeth grazing into the muscle of his shoulder, her nails lightly raking his back. He felt the tenseness that had seized her slowly begin to ebb, and he whispered to her, promising the pain would go away, that the rapture would come again.

And his strokes within her were velvet and smooth. He was right; the pain did begin to ebb. But when it had come, it had been a slap in the face. It had reminded her what she had done. Where she was. What she had lost.

“Brianna …” His voice was a whisper of air. A husky sound that touched inside her again. As the pain faded away, the fire began to lap at her again. And suddenly she realized that his thrusts were deep within her again, steel and fire.

The smoldering fire became a flame. The flame rose surely to a blaze. And she was holding him, fusing with him. Arching with a hunger all her own. He took her with him, and they were flying.

Then everything ebbed except for blinding sensation. She was gasping for breath, half sobbing as she clung to him, arching, emitting a strangled cry—an echo of the shattering ecstasy that convulsed her body, flooding it with the most wonderful, volatile, delightful sensation she had ever known. For long moments the feeling held her in wonder, and then it slowly began to fade. All that was left was the comfort of the man who held her through it, smoothing her hair, his steel power cooling but losing no strength.

She was alone, naked in bed, with a stranger.

Brianna choked back a cry of pain and fury and twisted from him, stunned and so miserable that she was almost numb. She knew that he was watching, that she was risking his fury—and her own expulsion. She felt so coldly wretched that she couldn’t care.

Sloan was watching her. He made no move to touch her, but frowned as he observed her slender shoulders, moist with the dampness of their passion, tremble with emotion.

Why had she come to him, he wondered—irritated and confused. He finally reached out to touch her shaking shoulder. “Don’t!” she demanded in a low, cold voice.

Stunned, Sloan felt his anger grow along with the deathly silence that seemed to fill the room. Perplexed, and thoroughly annoyed, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair.

A shout, clear and thunderous, rose from outside the window again. Heedless of his nudity, Sloan stalked over to the shutters.

“That damned Matthews,” he muttered beneath his breath. “It’s a pity the devil doesn’t rise up in a wall of flame and consume him.”

Sloan heard the sharp intake of her breath and turned back to the bed. She was staring at him now—and her face had gone as white as the sheets she had drawn about her.

He frowned curiously, then added, “I believe he’s gone.”

She relaxed visibly; a small, soft sigh escaped her.

Sloan’s sharp gaze narrowed reflectively. He crossed his arms over his chest and strode back to the bed as she watched him warily, her blue eyes wide with alarm at the speculation in his stare and cynical, knowing half-grin.

“You’re the witch,” he breathed.

“I’m not a witch!” she protested desperately.

“Oh, you are a witch!” he laughed, “but not the type Matthews is hoping to burn. Are you?”

If possible, her face went whiter.

“Brianna,” he persisted, the teasing smile leaving his face. “Are you the woman Matthews is out there searching for?”

She dropped her head hopelessly against the pillow, staring sightlessly up at the rafters.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked softly. “You could have saved yourself the apparent misery of my person.”

She swallowed and touched her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I … I didn’t dare tell you. You might have …”

“Turned you in? Please, madam! What do I look like? A fanatic like Matthews?”

Brianna bit her lip, trying to weigh her desolate reply. “You’re a lord,” she told him tonelessly. “You might be a loyal supporter of King James.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m a Welsh lord, my sweet. One who does not feel he owes loyalty to James. And anyone who thinks the devil dwells within innocent women, be he Welsh, English, Scot, or Frank, is either sadly misguided or a raving lunatic.” He paused reflectively for a moment. “Matthews, I believe, is definitely the latter.”

“Welsh,” she murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Welsh,” she repeated tonelessly. “I had no idea who or what you were. I didn’t know whether I could possibly trust you. I don’t even know your given name,” she added bitterly.

The wicked smile came into play. “Sloan,” he told her. “Captain Sloan Michael Treveryan, mistress, Fourteenth Duke of Loghaire. It is a Welsh title, not always recognized by the English. We have been “united” for over a century, but the English still have a penchant for acquiring Welsh lands. Nevertheless, my father was a close friend of the late and well-lamented King Charles, and therefore the Treveryans’ fortune has done well of late.”

Brianna was amazed to hear herself laugh, but she sobered as he did. He grinned wryly in return, and yet she sensed a tension in him, a bitterness, when he spoke of the English crown. It was apparent that he had loved Charles II, and equally apparent that he did not bear that same love for James. It appeared that he despised James—deeply, personally.

“The question,” he said softly, “is, who are you? Certainly not the girl Brice promised to send.”

“Brice?” Brianna murmured with confusion.

“Never mind,” he said with a shake of his head. “Who are you? Why is Matthews after you?”

Brianna blinked furiously as tears came to her eyes, her voice breaking as she spoke. “The ‘witch’ Matthews executed this afternoon was my aunt. She didn’t even get a trial. I tried to get her a barrister, but no one would even speak with me! I didn’t dare go near her because my neighbor warned me Matthews would take me if I interfered.”

Brianna lowered her head, feeling her tears fall upon the linen she clasped against her chest. “Pegeen was never a witch; she was wonderful, and admired, and loved.”

Sloan reached out a finger to smooth the tears from her cheek. “Probably too well loved,” he answered quietly. “Love can breed envy, and the envious make the most vicious enemies.”

The gentle quality in his voice brought her eyes back to his. She was suddenly acutely aware of the strength of character in his face. The long, hawklike nose, the high-arched jet brows, the full, demanding mouth, were ruggedly arresting. Confidence and command were indelibly stamped into them. And, a touch of arrogance.

She furiously wiped her tears away. She withdrew as far as possible from him on the bed as she thought of all that had passed between them. He was a man she might have been able to admire and respect. A man from whom she would have liked to receive admiration—and respect.

But his respect was lost to her now—as shattered as the innocence she would never know again.

Perhaps he read the thoughts in her mind. Or perhaps his own thoughts had simply fallen upon the situation. He crossed his arms over his chest and said softly, “Don’t worry, Mistress Brianna. I will take care of you.”

A tide of shame and humiliation washed through her. Brianna was grateful for life—but she felt as if her pride lay at her feet like cold ashes.

“Why should you?” she asked coolly.

His eyes narrowed. “Because I’m not fond of seeing women burned at the stake,” he replied in a low, warning voice.

“I appreciate your concern,” she heard herself murmur, “but I prefer to take care of myself. I’ll leave alone.”

“Leaving the tavern?” he inquired. “For where, dear lady?” he mocked curtly. “Matthews will seek you out through all of Glasgow—for days.”

“I won’t stay in Glasgow.”

“What will you do? Hire a coach and ride away? That’s quite unlikely. The roads will be guarded.”

“I’ll hide in the forest.”

“Forever? I don’t believe they’ll stop burning witches next month! In time, perhaps, men will know their folly. But that time could be decades away, even centuries. It wouldn’t matter either way; you would long be dust in the wind.”

Brianna swallowed with despair. His words were true. There would be no sanctuary for her in the forest she so loved. But if she could just reach the Powells, they would somehow manage to shield her.

“I’ll have to take you with me,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Her eyes flew open wide. “Take me with you? No! I’ve family in England; all I have to do is get to them—”

“And you’re talking in circles, girl!” Sloan exploded irritably. “Don’t you understand yet? You can’t get anywhere without me.”

“But I just told you, I have family! I—”

“You have to come with me!”

“And where might that be?” she demanded, her voice rising with fury and desperation.

“I’m not sure yet—” he began, cutting himself off sharply as he suddenly stiffened, his eyes sharp and narrow.

“What—”

“Hush!” he exclaimed.

And then she heard what he had. A commotion growing in the common room below, and the tread of footsteps upon the stairs.

A thunderous pounding on their door.

And the roar of a voice. “Open in the name of the king! I know you’re in there, Treveryan, and you harbor a witch!”

Brianna’s eyes met Sloan’s with undisguised terror. He stood, putting his breeches on, his stare willing her not to make a sound. “Get behind the screen!” he whispered.

For an instant she froze, and then she jumped to do his bidding, shielding herself with the screen and peeking around it.

To her horror she saw that he was about to open the door.

“What the bloody hell do you want, Matthews?”

The Welshman’s voice bellowed angrily within the small room. Behind the screen, Brianna tried desperately to still her shivering, and yet she could not. Her life hung in the balance in these seconds.

Despite the danger she had to peek around the corner of the screen. She could see only Sloan Treveryan, who was clad in nothing but his breeches, while Matthews was in full dress; still, it was the sea captain who appeared the most threatening. Brianna was gratified to see that Matthews took a step backward when challenged by Treveryan.

“You bed with a witch, Milord Treveryan,” Matthews stated, his voice rather politer now. “I ask only for the harlot. For the good of your immortal soul—”

“My immortal soul is my concern, Matthews,” Sloan interrupted coolly, “as are my bedding habits. Get out of my doorway.”

“Milord, I do not care to enter by force—”

“Enter by force and it is your life that will be forfeit,” Sloan interrupted once more with harsh assurance.

“I am on the king’s business—”

“For a king who sits upon a shaky throne. A king who must now placate his nobles, since the Prince of Orange looks ever toward England.”

“Take heed, Welshman.”

“You take heed, Matthews. I would cheerfully run you through with my sword; I spare your worthless life begrudgingly. Trouble me no further. I am soundly aware that James wants no nobles—Welsh, Scottish, or English—disturbed. I would take great pleasure in reporting to your king that you barged into my bedroom and most rudely disturbed my leisure activities.”

Brianna could see Matthews’s face, choked by rage, turn into an ugly mask.