Wicked at Heart (10 page)

It had to be the
latter — of course.

Didn't it?

A very irate Admiral
Bolton had already come and gone, nearly five hundred prisoners were cheering
loud enough to split the very ship in two, Radley was outside yelling for order
in the uproar, and through it all carpenters were hard at work, hammers banging
as they patched up the hull compromised by the Wolf's actions, shouting back
and forth as they fought to hear each other over the din.  One of them had come
in earlier to report another hole, already as big as a man's fist, this one
several inches beneath the sentry's walk running around the hull just above the
water-line.  Radley had gone off to try to find the culprit, and as Damon had
sat in his swivel chair, fingers pressed against his pounding temples, Radley
had marched back in, a defiant American by the name of Nathan Ashton in tow,
the enraged clamor of the prisoners beyond the door and on the decks below
making hearing all but impossible.  "Ten days Black Hole, Captain, he
doesn't deserve any less!" Radley had thundered, to which Ashton had
started hollering protests, Radley had begun yelling for fourteen days instead,
and Damon had calmly rotated the chair around, shutting himself off from all of
it until Radley had finally dragged the fellow back out, his enraged promises
of eternal escape attempts still ringing in Damon's aching head.

It was obvious
how the escapees had got past the seven night sentries who continually paced
the open-floored gallery.  Five of the guards had lumps the size of hen's eggs
on their heads, and the other two — liars who couldn't be trusted as far as one
could hurl a brick — had no doubt been bribed by the prisoners themselves.

The uproar
continued outside.  Damon hoped to hell that the nights' events, along with the
punishment of Nathan Ashton, wouldn't bring a mutiny down on his head.  Radley
had told him all about what the prisoners had done to the last captain.

Massaging his
temples, he stared out the stern windows.  There was a boat putting out from
shore, and in it was Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms.

His head began
to pound even harder.

Soon enough the
commotion rose in pitch and he knew she was aboard.  He calmly poured himself a
glass of brandy and then swiveled the chair around to face the door, legs
spread before him and his moody gaze directed on the unforgiving wood.  Sure
enough, there was a sharp rap.

"Enter,"
he drawled, glass dangling negligently from his hand.

Foyle showed the
woman inside, then he fled.

And Damon forgot
his headache.

Her hair was
scraped up and back from her high cheekbones, plaited and wrapped atop her head
with a pair of pearl-encrusted combs to anchor it.  A hat of purple velvet,
also sporting pearls and several plum-colored feathers, was perched neatly atop
this elegant coiffure, giving her a smart look of militant efficiency.  A pearl
choker ringed her neck, her bodice showed off the swell of her breasts to
maddening temptation, and pale lilac skirts shot through with silver thread
only added to her regal hauteur.  She had a parasol, and the way she was
looking at him, he wondered if she were going to smash him over the head with
it.  But despite the picture she presented, he knew there was a passionate
being beneath all the ice.  He could see it in the flush that moved across her
cheeks at his deliberately rude stare; he could see it in the sudden confusion
and, yes, anger that darkened her violet eyes when he merely sat there, looking
at her.  At last he raised his glass in a mocking salute and smiled.

"Ah, such
passion you exhibit for your so-called
causes
, Lady Simms.  One must
wonder if that passion extends to the bedroom, as well."

She reached into
her reticule and withdrew a small pistol, pointing it dead center at his chest. 
His brows rose.

"I'll have
no more nonsense from you, Morninghall.  What you did the other day was
unforgivable."

"My memory fails
me," he murmured, eyes gleaming, though he knew very well what he had done
and had only to look at her rosy lips, the tempting swell of her bosom, to
experience that heady pleasure all over again.

"Mine does
not.  Get up."

He sipped his
brandy, pointedly ignoring the pistol.  "I must say, this
is
a
surprise.  I knew you were dangerous, but armed besides?"

"I want a
tour of this ship. 
Now
."

"Do
you?"  He waved the glass, not spilling a drop.  "Well, I want
command of a frigate, my abilities glowingly reported to my superiors, and an
end to what has just become a throbbing headache. 
Now
.  But as I do not
expect to have any of my wishes granted within the next several moments, I
shall have to make do without them — and so, my dear vixen, shall you." 
He rose to his feet and slowly, deliberately, moved toward her, seizing her
wrist and easily forcing the pistol toward the deckhead.  Alarm flashed in her
eyes, then anger.  Holding her so, he leaned down into her face until her eyes
were not three inches from his own and her nostrils flared with fear.  "Do
not threaten me, Lady Simms.  I can promise you, you'll live to regret
it."

And then, to add
to her humiliation, he let her go.

For a moment she
merely stood there, cheeks dark with anger, back stiff as a ramrod as she
massaged her wrist and glared at him.  He could see the pulse beating wildly at
her throat, the venom and fire in her stare.

She put the
pistol back in her reticule and moved past him.  She went straight to the chair
he had just vacated and sat, her parasol stabbing into the decking before her
as she leaned over it and fearlessly met his gaze.

"You amaze
me with your conceit and arrogance, my lord.  Do you honestly think you have an
effect on me?  That you frighten me?"

The glass
dangling from his hand, he leaned negligently against the bedpost.  "I do
not frighten you, but you desire me."

"Like I
desire the devil, whose company, I must admit, would be immensely preferable to
your own.  But I did not come here to compare your
devastating charm
to
that of Satan, the wealthiest London blade, nor even that of the Black Wolf.  You
flatter yourself if you think any woman would want you, especially me."

His mouth went
hard, and his eyes began to glitter.  For the briefest of moments, he allowed
humor to move across the irises, as though granting her points for the
well-aimed hit; then, they became cold once more, the gaze of the dispassionate
aristocrat.  He stared flatly at her for a long, unpleasant moment; then he let
his gaze move slowly down her face, her neck . . . her breasts.

Gwyneth's heart
began to pound.  She regretted putting the pistol away, but there was no way to
retrieve it without losing face.

Morninghall
remained staring at her, weight slung suggestively against the bedpost.  Not
moving.  Just . . . looking.

She met his stare,
refusing to be intimidated.

At last he
straightened up and moved toward her.  Gwyneth's stomach flipped over.  He came
right up to the chair, looking down at her with a malevolent little smile for a
long, terrible moment.  Then, his fingertips dragging across the polished wood
of its arm, he moved with a sinister, stalking grace around the chair in what
could only be a deliberate attempt to unnerve her.  Gwyneth didn't move.  He
was behind her now, his fingers whispering over the top of the chair, just
above her nape.  She sat frozen.  He came around the other side, still looking
down at her, silently mocking her fear, before finally pausing right in front
of her and putting both hands on either arm of the chair.

He leaned down, trapping
her where she sat, those diabolical eyes very, very close to her own.

"A tour,
you want."

She stared
fearlessly into those wicked depths.  "Yes.  I cannot see why that is so
much to ask."

His nose came
closer.  "I do not concern myself with the workings of this ship, nor what
goes on outside that door.  That's Foyle's job.  Perhaps he will oblige
you."

"Perhaps he
will.  But I'd rather
you
escort me."

He straightened
up a little, that same terrifying smile still on his lips.  She could feel the
heat of him, the banked fury, and her feet longed to take flight.  She dug them
into the planking, anchoring herself by gripping the handle of her parasol.

He noted her
fear, and the smile became downright malicious.  "And why is that?"

"You said
yourself that you do not concern yourself with the workings of this ship. 
Perhaps it is time you viewed firsthand, the horrors those imprisoned here are
forced to endure."

"I do not
care what they are forced to endure.  They made their beds, they shall lie in
them."

"You would
condemn a man simply because he fought for another side and was unfortunate
enough to end up in the
gentle hands
of the Royal Navy?"

He leaned so
close that she could feel his breath on her face, the heat that emanated from
his powerful body.  "I did not ask to be put in command of a prison ship. 
I do not
like
being in command of a prison ship.  And I do not like
you
,
Lady Simms.  In fact, at the present moment, I cannot think of anything that
appeals to me more —" he was so close that she could feel his brow just
touching hers — "than the idea of tossing you down on that bed and having
my way with you.  Persist in annoying me, and you may well see a side of this
beast you will wish you hadn't."

The back of her
head pressed against the chair.  "Do you always resort to intimidation and
empty threats to get what you want, Morninghall?"

"I can
assure you, my dear, that they are not empty.  And I would be more than
delighted to prove it."

Malevolent eyes
glittering with warning, he straightened up at last, the master of the moment,
triumphant.

"And I
would be more than delighted to shoot you where you stand, should you even
try," Gwyneth murmured weakly.  He gave her a disdainful look, and she
thanked God he couldn't hear the wild thumping of her heart.  Her hand shaking,
she reached into her reticule and extracted the tiny pistol, pretending to
examine its fine finish before looking up at him.  She smiled sweetly.  "The
tour, please."

He merely stared
at her.  Not a nuance of emotion passed over that dispassionate face.

She cocked the
pistol, the faint click sounding very loud in the cabin, and pointed it at his
chest.  "
Now.
"

He sighed, turned
his back on her in blatant disregard for the weapon in her hand, and moved to
the door.

"Very well
then," he murmured, pushing it open.  His smile was alive with malice. 
"Come along with me.  But do leave the pistol here, my dear."

"And why should
I?"

"Because I might
otherwise have to use it on one of those poor wretches you seek to help when
they turn on you."

She stared at
him for a moment, uncomprehending.  Then her gaze dropped, and she slowly put
the weapon down on the table.  Her legs barely able to support her, she got to
her feet, following his back and quelling the impulse to drive her parasol
straight between those lordly shoulders.

Chapter
6

She had bested
him, damn her to hell.  She had not backed down, had not given in, and now here
she was, walking along just behind him, triumphant, victorious, smug.

Damon saw red.

She wanted a
tour, did she?  She wanted to see firsthand what horror the prisoners had to
endure?  Oh, he'd show her all right.  He'd show her just what a miserable
command that bastard Bolton had given him; he'd show her sights that would make
her hair curl, her skin turn green, and the sweat to pop out on her smooth and
pristine brow.

He strode out
onto the quarterdeck, not bothering to shorten his stride so she could keep up. 
The deafening clamor made by several hundred bored and miserable wretches came
to a slow, screeching stop at the sight of her.  Someone gave a long, low whistle;
another a mocking bow; and yet another hollered a taunt in broken English that
she was going to get her fine gown as filthy as the grave.  Then one of the
Americans, on hands and knees as he scrubbed the deck, caught sight of Damon. 
Elbowing his mates, he pointed and began to call out insults.  Damon kept his
face coldly expressionless, determined to ignore the man and his chanting
mates, knowing the humiliation was only going to get worse as they went below.

"I need to
know what happens to new arrivals when they're first brought aboard the
ship," Lady Simms was saying in a clinical, no-nonsense tone, raising her
voice to be heard above the noise.

He walked ahead,
not bothering to turn around.  "They're given a bath."

"Warm water
or cold?"

"Whatever
comes out of the damned harbor.  They're prisoners, they don't deserve any
better."

He heard her
enraged intake of breath, and the fact that he'd gotten to her filled him with
gratification and pleasure. 
Good.
  But her footsteps had stopped, and when
he turned he saw her extract a small notebook and pencil from her reticule and
begin to scribble madly.

"Bath . . .
cold water . . . must make note of this to —"

"Come
along," he snapped nastily.  "I haven't got all bloody day."

She shot him a
look that could've melted iron, refusing to move, her brow knit and her pencil
moving over the page, the wind ruffling the feathers of her hat, rippling the
fine silk of her skirts.

He seized her
elbow and yanked her forward.  "I said come along, damn it!"

"Take your
hands off me, you scoundrel!"  She jerked free of him and held her elbow
protectively close to her body, her eyes spitting sparks.  "I want to know
what clothes they're issued, what they're fed, if they're allowed visitors —"