Devil's Mistress (13 page)

“You shouldn’t move about unescorted.”

“Then perhaps, sir, you would escort me.”

He flushed deeply with pleasure, but then took her plate from the cook with a nod and led her toward the back of the galley, as far as possible from the crew members who were taking their meals.

“Tell me”—she thought furiously to remember the youth’s name—“George, where is your home?”

“The north country,” he told her pleasantly. “I’m the third son of Lord Percy, and therefore, not in line for much of an inheritance!”

“Ahh,” Brianna murmured, chewing a morsel of food before speaking again. Dinner was fish once more, but she was truly ravenous, and so it mattered little. Also, it was nice to be in the company of this youth so near her own age, who was so cordial and obviously pleased to be with her.

“I shouldn’t worry, George,” she told him. “You seem a bright and able young man and I’m sure you’ll make your own way in the world.”

He beamed at her words. “Oh, I do think so, Mistress Brianna. Being a younger son has its advantages. It gives me a certain freedom. I can work where I will, and love where I will. My brother must make a marriage advantageous to the family, while I …”

His blush became very dark. He stuttered for a moment, and then began to speak once more. “Should you ever find yourself alone, Brianna, I would be honored to marry you.”

She was both stunned and touched—and ashamed at the implication. If the captain tired of her and abandoned her, he would be there …

“Thank you,” she managed to choke out, but before the startling conversation could go farther, they were interrupted.

“Seaman—what goes on here?”

The purser, Gyles Brill, a dark-eyed Welshman, stood behind George’s shoulder. He was close to forty, Brianna imagined, but a man still in his prime and confident with himself. He smelled faintly of rum, and the gaze that he gave Brianna made her distinctly uncomfortable.

“I am escorting the captain’s lady while she has her dinner,” George mumbled swiftly.

“That’s not your job. Get on deck, seaman, the winds are shifting.”

“I’ll take Brianna back to her cabin.”

“You needn’t. I’ll do so.”

“You haven’t the rank.”

“I outrank you.”

“Eh, look, mate, will you!” someone suddenly rang out. “The dandies are fighting over the captain’s whore!”

Brianna blanched, but the horror had just begun. Young George was suddenly on his feet, hurling himself across the room to find the speaker. Shouts rang out all over, until the galley was in bedlam. The dining area had turned into a brawl, a cacophony of grunts and curses and flying fists.

Brianna leapt to her feet in horror as a man came flying across the room, crashing into her table. He gazed at her with a crooked smile upon his face, and then shot like a cannon back into the melee. “I’d brave the plank for a touch of her silk! For but a minute with the captain’s whore,” someone yelled, and Brianna wondered briefly who would uphold what was left of her honor, and who would be ready to take it. Chairs, plates, and tankards flew. “Ye’ll not call her a whore!” George raged, and others joined his bellow. “Let me to her!” The words came wrapped in a licentious chuckle, which ended in a loud wallop and a groan. Her effort to flaunt Sloan had created the disaster, and she realized that her wisest course of action would be to disappear—lest the winners of the brawl include the man who would walk the plank for his chance with the captain’s “whore.”

She turned to flee, but as she did so, she crashed into something that felt more impregnable than the ship’s panels. Something, however, that radiated heat and steel, strength. A man’s chest, clad in light-blue silk.

She looked up to his face just as a pistol was fired into the ceiling—silencing the melee into instant sobriety and stillness.

Sloan was not looking at her. He was staring with utter fury at the scene before him—his men bloodied from their brawl; the galley a shambles. His eyes gleamed his wrath with a devil fire.

She had seen him angry, but never like this.

For a moment of cowardice she was ready to slink to the floor and crawl away to avoid him. But she was not at fault! she cried to herself. She had been hungry and he had ignored her to a point where she had been forced to take action.

“I warrant you, gentlemen,” Sloan said coolly, hands upon his hips, legs spread and feet firmly upon the ground, “that it is easy for men to come to blows at sea. I’ll warrant that you’ve even had a certain provocation.” At this point he glanced briefly at Brianna, and she wanted to slap him. There was nothing but a raging venom in the gaze he gave her; cold and contained. He did not defend her, he accused her.

“But you’ve all jobs to do for which you’re all well paid aboard the
Sea Hawk.
And at this moment, lads, we are sailing for the Princess Mary. Clean up this mess and report back to duty. If the perpetrators of this brawl do not report to me, you’ll all be on half rations until we reach Holland.”

George stepped up to Sloan immediately. He was trembling, but he stood with dignity. “I started the actual fighting, Captain,” he said.

“I suppose I needn’t ask why,” Sloan said dryly, and again his deadly gaze lit upon Brianna, who had no choice but to remain before him.

“A night in the brig,” he said dismissively. He turned around to speak and Brianna saw Paddy following behind him. “There are others who created this fiasco. See that they step forward as George did. Those responsible can make their peace in the brig till we make port in Dover tomorrow. Then the matter will be forgotten.”

Brianna had been listening to him—but still she was taken completely off guard when his hand clamped upon her shoulder and wrenched her toward the door. She wanted to remain calm, to tell him scathingly but clearly just what she thought of his treatment. It was impossible.

“Treveryan, you disgraceful sea-scum, you are hurting me! I insist that you release me.”

“Hurting you!” he exploded. “I’d like to whip you black-and-blue. You were told not to leave the cabin alone. You deliberately defied me, and thanks to you half my crew will spend the week limping and losing their teeth!” They reached his cabin, but even when he slammed the door behind them he did not release his grip upon her.

“Defy you! I owe you no obedience,” Brianna protested heatedly. “I was starving, and since you were too busy to care, I was left no recourse except to seek something to eat.”

“Does it give you pleasure to see men brawl for you, lass? Did you promise that fool boy special favors to defend you?”

With a strength that amazed her she broke his grip and whirled on him, raking her palm and nails furiously across his face. “Noble bastard!” she hissed, too incensed to care that she was adding fuel to his fury. “That boy should never have had to come to my defense! It is because of you that I was called ‘whore’—‘the captain’s whore.’ As I am forced to sleep in your cabin, milord, it is difficult to blame them for labeling me so.”

“You little witch!” he replied in a whispered quiet that frightened her. He went tensely still, bringing his hand to the scratches that welted red upon his face. “Were you not with me, mistress—the captain’s whore—they would have their fun with you. But
whore
is not the word I would have used.
Slut
is more applicable for a woman who flaunts herself and enjoys taunting men.” He took a step toward her and she felt as if the blood were draining out of her.

“Slut!” He hissed venomously as she backed away, seeking the shield of his desk.

“That accusation is laughable, milord. And, no, Captain Treveryan, I promised George no favors, but I would! He is a man who at least cares for me, who is at least a gentleman, who is there when I need him, willing to defend me. He does not ignore my needs.”

“So your needs have been ignored, mistress, is that it?” That he spoke quietly did not fool her. His steps were calm and unhurried as he came toward her. Her heart beat erratically, for she felt the tension leaping and crackling like lightning, and the fury that, still leashed, was as combustible as a storm.

“Was that it, my sweet innocent? You’ve taunted each and every one of my men to blows because you were ignored? The beguiling smiles, the gentle, bewitching speeches? You’ve seduced them all.”

“I have not!”

They faced each other across the desk, but then he began his stealthy walk once more and Brianna was forced to counter him. “George has simply been kind to me, and I have—”

“Played your act upon him, as you have on me? A light touch upon the arm, forced nearness in a narrow hallway? Pressing close …”

“No!” He was moving toward her again. In desperation she clutched the logbook from his desk and threw it at him. It grazed off his shoulder, and she shivered as she saw his eyes narrow and his lips compress still further.

“I did nothing!” she cried.

“No? I think you have done much. Take this morning, my little Scot. That lovely little charade when you dressed before me with such modest allure.”

“You refused to leave.”

“Aye—I played right into your hands!”

He was staring at her, his eyes cold and challenging. “Don’t come any nearer to me!” she warned, and nervously continued. “And I understand, Lord Treveryan, that other women have sailed in this ship—with their own sleeping quarters. I demand—”

“You demand?”

“Yes!”

He offered her a subtle grin. “You demand, Mistress MacCardle?” he repeated softly, brows arching as he rounded the desk and seized her with a lithe movement that was too quick and too agile for her to counter.

“No!” she shrieked, wrenching about in panic. She kicked and bit at him and struggled like a wild tiger, only to exhaust herself as he parried her every movement. He held her shoulders and jerked her so that her throat arched and she was left to meet the full fury and tension in his grim features. “Aye, my lass, I’d like to whip you black-and-blue, cure you of your scratching and throwing. But you’ve been demanding all day—and fool that I am, I didn’t understand. Worry yourself no longer, my Scottish love, for I’ll take care not to ignore you.”

His fingers sank into the hair at the nape of her neck as his mouth lowered to hers. She brought her hands against his chest, but it was like pitting a straw against the wind. Warmth filled her, a touch of hot flame; yet she fought that warmth as she fought him, furiously, wildly, fully aware that if she lost the battle, she lost all.

“No!” With desperate effort she at last twisted her head from his, gasping for breath, praying for strength.

He did not release her, but his hold eased and he pulled her head to his chest, where she could hear the rampant beating of his heart. His chin rested over her forehead as he massaged her back.

“I’ve tried,” he murmured. “God knows I’ve tried. Don’t play games of chance, my love.”

Brianna realized that after all, he intended to keep his word. He was going to let her be. Her system was alive with tumult. She wanted to beat against him in fury, and yet she was sorry for her actions.

She tilted her head to meet his eyes, wanting to say something, to tell him somehow how it hurt to be called whore, that she was sorry she had played foolish games. But as she gazed into his eyes, where passion still smoldered and anger still lurked, she couldn’t find the words. She simply shook her head. She had won, she thought bitterly. She had won her game. He wanted her—he wanted to strangle her—but he wanted her.

The victory was bitter. And for some inexplicable reason she had to ease the tension that again reigned. She stood upon her toes and kissed him, meaning the gesture to be the apology she couldn’t voice. She had no thought of malice; she wished only to make amends. She did not realize the portent of her simple actions, nor did she think of danger when he lifted her against him to close the short distance to the bed. She did not realize that she sought a peace that could not be. She just kept whispering his name.

He didn’t make a sound to alert her to his change of intent. She felt his hands upon her gown and heard the rip of the material as it failed to give to his impatient hands. Apology instantly faded from her mind. Where she had been penitent, she was freshly enraged.

“No!” She attempted furiously to pull from his hold. But his hands about her were firm and strong, his glare scornful and resolute.

His voice grated harshly to her. “Lass, I may be a fool, but never a saint. You cannot jerk the strings of a man as you do a marionette.”

She was stunned as he rose and tossed her upon the bed, and yet she saw that he truly believed she had been beckoning him on further to test her power. She stared at him stunned—and then gasped in outrage as she saw that he was stripping with a ruthless determination that assured her she had indeed tested him too far.

She began scrambling for the torn fabric of her gown. His boots hit the floor, his shirt was cast aside, and still she scrambled to pull on her clothing. She fumbled to her knees upon the mattress, drawing her bodice together, yet he blocked her exit from the bed. And when she attempted to rise, he relentlessly pressed her back.

“Sloan—wait—damn you—I didn’t mean … don’t you dare—”

“At this moment, witch,” he murmured, bringing her wrists to the bed in a vise and leaning near to whisper, “I will dare whatever I choose. I have had it! All day you have taunted me, and when I would still uphold my promise, you choose to test me further. The strongest man has his breaking point. You have discovered mine.”