Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Unwed and Unrepentant\Return of the Prodigal Gilvry\A Traitor's Touch (39 page)

‘What?' he said his voice harsh. ‘Do I know what?'

‘How they are used?'

He stilled. Something changed in his expression; it lightened, and though he frowned, the glint in his eyes was curiosity, not anger. And yes—at least, she was almost sure—hope.

‘Do you like the idea of being shackled?' His voice deepened and became silky and dark and mesmerising as his eyes seemed to look right into her soul. ‘Of being held in chains. Helpless to defend your honour against a man who will do with you just as he will.'

Her insides melted. She gasped, helpless against the deliciously wicked sensations rippling through her body. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to speak. Afraid of what she might reveal. Fearing he would turn away in disgust. Then she nodded and waited for his revulsion.

‘And would you submit to such a man, obey his every dark demand?'

Her eyes fluttered closed on a little moan of helpless pleasure.

‘Rowena,' he said, his voice a rough whisper. ‘Look at me.'

She opened her eyes. His mouth was so close to hers. His breath warm on her lips.

‘Rowena,' he murmured, ‘would you submit like that to me? Let me do as I willed? Give way to my every wish?' He drew in a harsh breath. ‘If I promise I wouldna' hurt you? Not really?'

All her life she had longed for a man who would want her badly enough to take command of her body and soul. Could she humble herself enough to ask for what she wanted? ‘I have dreamed of a man who...' He would find her disgusting.

‘Of a man who what?' he asked hoarsely. ‘Who what, Rowena? Answer me.'

‘Who would be my master and I his slave.' She blushed and bowed her head in shame. ‘It is a foolish fancy.'

She started to rise.

He put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘Do not move.' He picked up the box and set it on the table beside the bed.

She looked up at his face, the face of half devil, half angel. ‘I—'

‘You do not have my permission to speak.'

She shuddered with pleasure.

* * *

Drew stared down at her bowed head. Had he understood? He thought he had. Or had he simply wished to hear what he wanted? Or had she agreed because she was afraid?

‘Look at me, Rowena.'

She raised her gaze to meet his and he saw excitement and breathless anticipation in her expression.

‘You don't have to do this,' he said. ‘Not if you don't want to.'

‘I do,' she said. ‘If you think you would like it.'

Like it? He had a feeling it would kill him if she changed her mind. ‘If anything I do, we do, makes you afraid, you can always stop me. Cry “uncle” and I'll stop at once. I swear it. Do you understand?'

‘Uncle,' she said, nodding.

‘So you want to stop?'

‘No. Not now. Not yet.'

He looked down at her, saw the courage in her eyes and the melting softness. Had he actually found a woman who liked this game as much as he did? She always seemed so strong, so self-contained. But as she knelt before him, he could see that this was something she wanted and he let the beast inside him out of its cage. Not loose—never did he let it go entirely free—but he would let it play a while. Just for a moment or two.

‘Stand up, girl, and face me.'

She did as he bid. He could see she was trembling, the sheer fabric of her robe shivering at the hem.

‘Do you know who I am?'

She shook her head.

‘I have captured the ship on which you travelled and will sell you in the slave markets of Algeria if you do not please me.'

Her soft mouth parted on a gasp and her breathing quickened. His blood pounded in answer to that betraying little sign of pleasure.

‘Let your hair down. I want to see it free around your shoulders.'

She pulled the pins free and it tumbled down. It reminded him of the way he'd seen it at McRae's. It was long and straight and a pretty shade of chestnut brown.

‘Untie your belt, girl. Quickly now.'

Her lovely long fingers hastened to do as he bid and the robe fell open.

Just as he recalled from the night in the bothy, her breasts were small and high and beautifully firm. The curls at the juncture of her thighs were a lovely dark chestnut, darker than the hair on her head.

A desperate urge to touch her with hands and mouth almost overwhelmed him, but she was not yet ready. ‘Let the robe fall.'

‘Must I?' she asked, raising her gaze to his.

Ah, a little bit of defiance. He let his mouth curl in a mocking smile. ‘You must if you don't want me to hand you over to my men.'

A shiver racked her body. She let the robe fall from her shoulders and slide to pool at her feet.

‘Up on the bed with you.'

She glanced over her shoulder and then shook her head. ‘Sir, would you steal my innocence?'

His shaft hardened inside his trousers at the words and the sound of her breathy voice. ‘Everything belongs to me now.' He selected the whip from the box, a light riding crop, and ran it through his palm suggestively.

She licked her lips, staring at the whip, then looked into his face.

She would tell him no. He knew she would. Rowena wasn't that kind of woman. His kind of woman.

She turned, walked to the bed and climbed up.

He let a breath go and stalked after her, standing at the side of the bed as she watched him approach, her arms and hands covering her body.

‘None of that now,' he said with a scowl, tapping her fingers with the tip of the whip. ‘I want to see my prize. Lie back and put your hands at your sides.'

After a moment's hesitation she lay back on the pillows and placed her hands flat on the bed, her grey eyes fixed on his face, her breasts rising and falling with little breaths. Slowly her milk-white skin flushed and the air filled with the scent of arousal. Hers. And his.

Damn, she was lovely. And she wanted him. Like this.

Slowly, lightly he ran the whip down her body, over her breasts, watched the peaks tighten to hard rosy little nubs and heard a little whimper from deep in her throat.

Not fear.

She was too brave to be afraid. Too courageous.

He couldn't believe how aroused he was. It was a long time since he had played his little games with a woman. And he didn't remember one who had entered into it with such abandon. He stroked the leather across the flat plane of her belly. Lord, but she was slender. Almost thin, as if she'd not been well fed.

A surge of anger at her husband rippled through him. And guilt that he hadn't noticed. He circled her navel with the tip of the crop and her flesh quivered beneath the touch. He traced the jut of her hip bones and the sensitive hollow.

She flinched. Just as he knew she would.

He shook his head. ‘Lie still, I said. Now you must be punished. Roll over.'

She hesitated.

‘Now,' he said harshly, giving her the tiniest flick with the crop. Not enough to leave a mark. Not enough to cause anything but a lick of pleasure-pain. And she moaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillows, her hands on each side of her head.

Her back was long and lovely, every bone of her spine visible through the skin. Her bottom was beautiful. Womanly. Round, high and firm, with its dark shadow below her tail bone. It really was the most delectable sight he had viewed in a long time.

He hardened to rock and revelled in the agony of denial. For only when he was sure she was satisfied could he take what he wanted.

He stripped out of his breeches and shirt, knowing she could hear what he was doing, and, seeing her hands curl into the sheet, he knew she wanted to look at him the way he was looking at her. Somehow she knew better than to take a peek.

‘It's too late to be good,' he said. ‘You deserve all you get.'

Her buttocks tightened in anticipation. He bit back a groan at the sight of that little twitch. He wanted to bite each cheek until she cried for mercy.

He knelt on the bed beside her and raised his hand. He slapped that lovely, sumptuous flesh, not hard enough to hurt—to hurt her would kill him—just enough to cause it to tingle and warm.

She gave a little squeak of surprise.

‘That earns you five more,' he said. And waited.

She tensed.

So he waited.

Slowly she relaxed and he slapped her again, carefully, just enough to feel the weight of his hand, his strength. And he counted out loud until he reached five.

Her bottom was a delicious pink, and warm beneath his hand.

He swept her pretty brown hair aside and leaned over to breath in her ear, to flick his tongue around the tender little curls, then kissed the leaping pulse below her ear. ‘Will you disobey again?'

She made no sound and his heart tumbled over. ‘You may answer.'

‘No,' she said. ‘I'll not disobey again.' The laugher in her voice said she probably would. And something warm and very tender filled his chest, soothing the ugliness inside him.

‘Turn over and face me.'

She flipped on to her back. Her gaze raked his body, her eyelids drooped sensually, a smile curved her wide mouth, making her look beautiful and lascivious as she took in his rampant arousal.

‘So,' he said, jerking his chin, ‘you like what you see.'

She raised her gaze to his face. ‘I like it very much.'

‘Speaking again, unbidden?'

She bit her lip.

‘Another punishment is in order.'

She eyed the whip warily.

He set it down alongside her and rummaged in the box. ‘Ah,' he said, like a gloating pirate who had just found buried treasure. ‘Close your eyes.'

When he turned back to her, her eyes were squeezed shut. He quickly tied the blindfold around her head. Now the real fun would begin.

* * *

Darkness. Not a scrap of light penetrated the silk binding her eyes. All she could hear was the thunder of her heart and her rapid breathing. And all she seemed to feel was the slight sting of her buttocks. It seemed so much more intense now she couldn't see.

Panic surged. The word
uncle
forced its way up into her throat.

A firm warm hand gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Give me your hands, little one,' his dark voice murmured.

Little one? She choked back a laugh, more hysterical than amused. No one had ever called her little. Not since she was a child. But this was Drew. Humouring her with the game she'd wanted to play. Not some terrible stranger wanting to do her harm.

Her fears dissipated. Her body relaxed and she lifted her hands.

He caught them in his and she heard the clink of metal and felt the grip of something solid around her wrists. Solid, but soft. The manacles lined with velvet. She remembered how she'd held them in her hands. They snicked closed.

Slowly, infinitely carefully, her hands were drawn upwards and another click above her head made her test the bonds that held her fast.

‘You'll not be escaping from there,' he said gruffly.

But she could. She just had to say the word and he would let her go. But she didn't want him to, not yet. The shivers of fear had turned to trembling excitement. What would he do next?

Something stroked across her breasts. She gasped at the way her skin tightened at the unexpected touch.

What was it? Not the riding crop. It had been nowhere near as light a sensation. It swirled around first one nipple, then the other. Her breasts seemed to become heavy and full. Her nipples hardened. She could feel them puckering and pulling tight. It felt wickedly delicious. Unbearable.

She almost cried out when it stopped. Almost begged for more. And then it touched her lips, a delicate whisper of touch. The feather. It had to be the feather. Who would ever have thought such a soft delicate thing could create such torment?

She moaned.

‘Ah, my little beauty,' he said. ‘If you think this is bad, just wait.'

The feather, for she was certain that was what it was, trailed a path across her cheek and swirled in her ear. She shivered and twitched.

‘Be still,' he ordered, without a smidgeon of mercy for her predicament.

She was trying, but it was hard in the face of such delicate torture. She gulped in a breath of air and tried to control her body's reactions.

He chuckled softly as she lay still.

‘Oh, my brave beauty,' he said softly.

The touch of the feather left her. Silence surrounded her. Every nerve in her body awaited what he would do next.

The feather ticked her inner thigh.

She gasped. Shocked. Surprised.

‘Open,' he said in a rough command.

A shudder of pleasure hit her hard. She complied instantly.

He continued his torment, stroking each inner thigh in turn, then gently brushing her woman's flesh, which sprang to life, hot and wanting.

Did he want her, too?

She didn't know, couldn't tell in her dark world, though she could hear his harsh breathing somewhere beside her. Above her. All around her. Her fingers twitched in their bindings with the longing to touch him, to feel the hard mass of his arms and the deep chest she had glimpsed so briefly.

But she couldn't. He had her held fast. His captive.

Her insides seemed to melt. Her body flushed with the heat of desire.

The feather returned to her breasts, stroking all the places that loved to be touched: behind her knee, the rise of her breasts and the hollow of her throat.

And tormenting all the places that jumped and flickered: the hollow of her hip, the soles of her feet, the place below her ear.

And never did she know where he would touch her next. She was panting and breathless and almost out of her mind with longing and pleasure and exquisite pain from her sensitised skin. Almost ready to cry
uncle
.

The bed dipped. Him, shifting his weight. Then the warmth of him beside her hip. A knee pressed between her legs. ‘Wider,' he said.

And then he was between her thighs, the rough hair on his legs just as tormenting as the feather.