Her Master's Touch (15 page)

“It’s Damon. And It was a compliment.”

“I fail to see it that way. You
deliberately—”

“
Elizabeth!
” Lord Sheffield broke in.
“That’s quite enough.” He gave Damon a sheepish grin. “Like I said,
Elizabeth tends to be a bit too outspoken. But I assure you, she is
innocent of men and their needs.”

“Then as my wife I will make it a point to
educate her." Damon held her gaze. "I have no doubt she’ll be an
apt pupil.”

Elizabeth bristled. “How could you possibly
make that assumption about me, Lord... Damon? We’ve only just
met.”

“That may be, but it feels as if we’ve known
each other for years, don’t you think?”

“It’s funny you should mention it,” Lord
Sheffield said. “I wondered if perhaps your paths might have
crossed in India. You seem... acquainted. Maybe if Damon didn’t
have the whiskers you’d recognize him, Elizabeth, and realize you’d
met at some time while in India.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “That seems highly
unlikely.”

Damon curved his palm around Elizabeth’s hand
and said to Lord Sheffield. “We seem like old acquaintances because
everything was so sudden. At the ball, Elizabeth took me by
complete surprise. In fact, I was nearly dumbstruck when I first
saw her.”

“And you, Elizabeth?" Lord Sheffield asked.
"What was your first impression of Damon?”

Elizabeth pulled her hand from beneath
Damon’s palm and interlaced her fingers together in her lap. She
looked at Damon, while saying to her father, “Had it not been for
the flashy jewel in his gold turban, I doubt if I would have
noticed him at all.”

Damon gave her a dark smile, and said with
irony, “So, it seems I'm marrying a woman who covets my
jewels.”

Elizabeth shot him a look of dire warning. “I
don’t covet them," she said, "I just can't help but notice them
when you display them in such an ostentations manner.”

Damon eyed Elizabeth with amusement. “You
have
agreed to marry me, Elizabeth, so something about me
must have caught your fancy? I'm curious to know what it was.
According to your father, you’ve shown no interest in any of your
suitors."

“Well, since you’re pressing the issue,
something about you did catch my attention, though not my fancy,”
Elizabeth said. She gave him a waggish smile. “It was your eyes.
Their color reminded me of someone I met in India a long time ago,
an arrogant, egotistic, self-absorbed man I’d just as soon
forget.”

Damon held her unwavering gaze. “But have not
been able to, it seems.”

“Unpleasant memories hang on longer than
pleasant ones," Elizabeth said. "I’m marrying you because I no
longer wish to be a burden to my father.”

“Then we’d better discuss the wedding,” Lord
Sheffield interjected. “We have an awkward situation on our hands,
with Damon presenting himself as a prince.”

“I’m glad you brought that up, Father,"
Elizabeth said. "Just who am I to marry? Lord Damon Ravencroft, or
Prince Rao Singh?”

“Actually, neither. You’ll be marrying Lord
Edmund Damon Carlisle, who will eventually become Earl of
Westwendham. The paperwork is in order, and you will be married by
the captain of the steamer. The captain has agreed to allow you to
board under cover of darkness the night before embarking. He will
marry you right away, then Damon will dispense with the whiskers
and be himself again, and you will present yourselves aboard as
Lord and Lady Damon Ravencroft. After Damon has cleared his name,
you will return to England as Lord and Lady Edmund Damon
Carlisle.”

“Or as Lord Carlisle and Lady Sheffield,"
Elizabeth reminded. "Please see that the pre-nuptial agreement
includes the clause about the three-month trial period,
Father.”

Lord Sheffield released a long sigh. “Yes,
Elizabeth, I’ll see to it.” He turned to Damon. “I warned you she
was headstrong, but I trust marriage will mitigate some of those
tendencies. She’ll be a good wife to you, Damon, once she knows
what’s expected of her.”

“I do know what’s expected of a wife,
Father.” She glared at Damon. “And I want you, Lord Raven... Damon,
to give my father your word, in my presence, that you will not
attempt to consummate our marriage for three months.”

Damon looked at Lord Sheffield. "I give you
my word, William, that I will not consummate this marriage for
three months—" he shifted his gaze to Elizabeth "—unless, of course
it’s Elizabeth’s wish to do so.”

Elizabeth gave him a sharp look. “Why did you
add that?”

Damon shrugged. “You might change your mind.
Headstrong women are often impulsive. Besides, we’ll have three
weeks at sea to get better acquainted. By the time we reach India,
we should know each other... intimately.”

“We may know a little more about each other
by then," Elizabeth said, "but I assure you, we will
not
know each other intimately.”

One corner of Damon’s mouth lifted. “We’ll
see.”

***

Lady Edmund Damon Carlisle swept open the
door, expecting to find a two-room suite, and found instead, a
stateroom with a berth barely wide enough to accommodate two
people. She turned and confronted Damon, foot tapping restively
against the floor. “I expected to have a suite with separate
staterooms, or in the very least, separate beds," she said.

Damon eyed her dispassionately. “Then you'll
have to change your expectations.”

Elizabeth looked at the narrow berth. There
was no way they could share it without coming in contact with each
other—her back touching his back if they lay on their sides facing
away from each other. Her backside against his loins if he turned
over and curved himself around her. Or if they happened to roll
over and face each other, their lips would be only inches apart.
She paused on that thought long enough to remind herself that what
happened in his bedchamber when she was clearing away dead mice
would never happen again. She couldn't remember what it was about
his mouth that made her lose control of herself, along with her
inhibitions, but she could not imagine ever being tempted to repeat
that inexcusable behavior with him again.

She made a brief survey of the stateroom: two
captain's chairs, a dresser with several drawers and a long mirror
above, a 'throne' with a chamber pot, a wash stand with a basin and
pitcher and a small mirror above. But no privacy screen, which
meant she'd have to dress and undress in front of Damon, even be
forced to use the commode in his presence. The thought of sharing
such intimacies with the man she was trapped into marriage with
brought tears of humiliation stinging her eyes. “You gave my father
your word in writing that you would not consummate the
marriage.”

Damon stepped around her and closed the door.
“I agreed not to consummate the marriage,” he said. “I did not
agree to sleep in separate beds.”

Feeling as if he were invading her private
space just being in the closed quarters, Elizabeth backed away,
putting some distance between them. “Well, I refuse to sleep in
that bed with you. It would be far too intimate. It’s out of the
question. I demand you get me my own cabin,” she said, refusing to
cringe beneath his haughty demeanor.

“You demand?" Damon said, eyes fixed on hers
in a lethal mind-game. "You’re in no position to demand anything,
gypsy girl. You’re no longer under your father’s protection, you’re
under mine, so what you demand is immaterial. I chose these
quarters so that by the time we reach India I will be intimately
familiar with every inch of you. I’ll know precisely when you go to
sleep and when you wake up. I'll know whether you sleep soundly or
turn restlessly in the night. I'll know when you bathe and when you
use the commode. And most of all, I’ll know if you carry vials
between your breasts or strap an ivory-handled knife to your leg. I
intend to know more about you than you know about yourself, so that
by the time we reach India there’ll be no way in hell you’ll trick
me again.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin, determined not to
be intimidated by this man who now held legal power over her, power
she’d granted to him with a few words hastily uttered before the
captain just moments before. But even though she was powerless if
Damon intended to get his way, she’d not give in to him easily.
“Well, I absolutely refuse to share that—" she pointed a stiff
finger at the bed "—with you.
I’ll sleep on the floor!”

Damon walked over to her and trailed a finger
along the side of her face and across her tightly pressed lips,
leaving them tingling and parted. “Fine, you do that,” he said, his
gaze on her lips. His hand moved down to rest on her shoulder. “You
sleep on the floor like the gypsy wench you are. It will make it
easier for me to keep my hands off you.”

Elizabeth dipped her shoulder from beneath
his palm and backed away from him until her spine met the stateroom
wall. “If we had separate staterooms it would be easier yet. I'd be
no threat to you if I happened to awaken during the night and be
tempted to draw my knife and shove it between your ribs,” she said,
feeling a small sense of pleasure that her presence was causing him
stress, hoping he’d reconsider their close proximity for the
duration of the voyage and procure a second stateroom.

One corner of Damon's mouth tugged in a wry
smile. “It might be easier," he said, "but I couldn’t study you the
way I intend to. Could I?”

“I hate you,” she hissed.

In one long stride he stood a breath away
from her. He gripped her chin and raised her face, forcing her to
meet his dark gaze. “That’s precisely why we will share this
stateroom.” He released her chin and started unbuttoning his shirt.
Elizabeth's heart began a staccato beat.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Taking off my clothes.”

She looked at him, alarmed. “Why?”

“Because I intend to go to bed and I don’t
sleep in my clothes.” He shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it on
the bed. Elizabeth stared at the tattoo above his heart,
remembering the wretchedness in his eyes when he’d learned she’d
tattooed a rat there, and his hasty departure afterward. She’d felt
a need to go after him then, tell him she was sorry for whatever
grief she’d caused him. Now, she felt a great sense of satisfaction
that she’d caused him misery, hopefully as much misery as he was
causing her.

He placed his hand over the tattoo and said,
“I carry it like a brand.”

She licked her dry lips and shifted her gaze
to the brush of dark hair on his chest, wary of exactly what it was
he intended to do, standing half-naked before her. He was blocking
her path to the door, and she could not back away from him with the
wall behind her. And it appeared he had no intention of moving
aside for her to escape. “What do you want from me?” she asked,
troubled by his unyielding presence.

“I want you to touch me, gypsy girl. I want
you to put your hands on my chest.”

Oddly, it some bizarre way she couldn’t
explain, she wanted to touch him, wanted to run her palms over the
sleek hard contours of his chest. But she had no intention of
acting on that urge, ever. “Why should I touch you?” she asked.

He moved a step closer. “Because I want to
look into your eyes and see the expression on your face when you
feel my heart beating beneath your palm, knowing it’s a heart you’d
like to see stop. Then I’ll commit to memory that expression, and
the look in your eyes, because it may save my life some day.” When
she made no move, he took her hand, placed it over his heart and
held it at length while studying her closely. “It’s a good strong
heart, gypsy girl, and it's guarded by a sturdy rib cage and a band
of solid muscles. It would no doubt take a knife sturdier than a
little ivory-handled one to stop it."

Damon's heart pulsing strong and steady
beneath Elizabeth's palm, it was the span of several heartbeats
before she realized he'd removed his hand, yet her palm remained
pressed against his chest. She jerked it away. But she could not
quell the restlessness she’d felt with each heavy beat of his
heart. Nor could she dismiss the intimate, unwanted moment that
passed between them when she’d looked into his eyes, eyes so
compelling she hadn't realized she'd been holding her palm to his
chest of her own will. He knew her weakness now, and it was his
gain. In future, she'd be on guard. "Perhaps I'll strangle you
instead," she said. "That too would give me pleasure."

"I'll keep that in mind." Damon crouched in
front of her, and while she stood staring down at him like a
dimwitted dolt, he flipped up her skirt and tucked his head beneath
it.

“
What do you think you’re doing!?”
She
swished her skirt across his face and kicked out a foot, attempting
to strike him.

Damon grabbed her ankle and held firm. “I'm
checking for knives." He patted his palm up her leg to the juncture
of her thighs, his fingers slipping through the slit in her
drawers, bringing an audible gasp from her before moving down the
other leg. “Just because your ivory-handled knife ended up in the
chest of my gateman," he said, "does not mean that you're not armed
with another." He released her ankle and stood.

As her skirts settled around her legs,
Elizabeth felt an almost overwhelming urge to shed her drawers and
scrub away the tingling left by his intimate contact. Whether he'd
touched her privates on purpose or by accident made no difference.
He'd violated her. Yet knowing that, she couldn't dismiss the
memory of another time and another place, when tingles such as she
was feeling intensified, filling her with a need so strong she'd
clung to him like a wanton hussy, helpless to stop what was
happening, and not wanting to. For that flash of ecstasy she'd paid
dearly. But it would not happen again. “You needn’t worry about
finding a knife in your heart," she clipped, "because I don't have
one, though the image
that
brings to mind gives me a small
amount of pleasure, as does the thought of seeing you swing by your
neck in the town square."