Devil's Mistress (32 page)

She should have come to him long ago …

She was afraid to see him, yet she longed to see him. Since she had known he was here, she had been almost physically ill with the craving just to look at him again.

She was a wife now, she reminded herself. Robert’s wife. And by God, she owed him everything. He had been kindness itself; he had loved her, cared for her—and she loved him. Never in the exact way she’d loved Sloan, but every bit as deeply.

Brianna forced her feet to carry her to the door. She knocked, and the door opened.

A liveried black butler bowed deeply to her.

“Miz Powell?”

She nodded. The door opened further. “Come in, please, ma’am. Cap’n Treveryan is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

With a very correct bow the young butler turned, expecting her to follow. There was not far to go to the double doors that apparently led to the drawing room, but in those few short steps, her heart and mind began to whirl again.

He could not be the same. She would see him, and she would be all right. It would be gone, the “thing” between them—the attraction, the passion, and the love. Perhaps it had always only been illusion …

It had been so long since she had seen him. Almost a lifetime.

The butler threw open the doors and stepped into the room. Brianna froze at the entrance.

His back was to her. He was in tight-fitting fawn breeches and a white shirt with a minimum of ruffles. He wore no wig, his hair was still as dark as the night, as sleek as the night, and knotted at his nape. Just as it had been that first time she had seen him …

He was very tall, and very straight, and his shoulders were as broad as she remembered. And when he began to turn, she almost wanted to scream.

Nothing had changed. Nothing.

“The Goodwife Brianna Powell, Lord Treveryan.”

And then suddenly she was ushered into the room. The butler was gone, closing the door behind him, and Sloan turned.

But he had changed. His face was as bronzed as ever, contrasting with the sharp jade color of his eyes, but there were new lines about those eyes, and his cheeks seemed more gaunt. Perhaps it was his expression that had changed. He seemed both tired and worn, even more so than on the day they had parted and she had seen how deeply anguish could etch itself into a man’s features.

He held his hands still clasped behind his back, as if keeping them there to exercise the most stalwart control. His eyes moved over her slowly, and she could read no emotion in them. Nor did his features alter—he might have been surveying a stranger.

“Brianna,” he said at last. And then he turned from her, and walked to the window. What he watched out on the road she did not know, but it had his attention and she did not. Her mouth was dry, her body quivered.

He turned back to her quite suddenly. “May I get you something to drink?” he inquired politely. She shook her head, somewhat stricken as she watched him turn from the window, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Come, have a glass of port with me.”

Still she could not leave the safety of the door. He walked to the rear of the comfortable room, to a sideboard containing a crystal decanter and matching glasses. Into the glasses he poured the ruby-red liquid, and then his long strides brought him disturbingly near.

He handed her a glass. With trembling fingers she reached for it and felt again the full scrutiny of his gaze. But then he moved inward again, sweeping his arm to indicate the settee.

“Sit down, Goodwife Powell. I’m anxious to hear the purpose of this visit.”

She was not sure that she could walk, and yet she did. Lowering her eyes, she swept quickly by him, reaching the settee none too soon, else she would have fallen. Her hand clutched the crystal wine goblet as if it were her salvation. Once she was seated, she very quickly took a sip of the liquid, so very grateful that it moistened the dry tinder of her throat.

He did not sit, but stood instead behind the green velvet chair that faced the settee.

He lifted his glass, and a hint of his old arrogant smile curled the corners of his mouth.

“To you, Goodwife Powell. To … past associations.

She could not raise her glass again. He shrugged and tossed back his head to drain his own. Something about him changed then, as if he were a night-stalker tiring of an unexpected chase. Had she forgotten that his eyes could gleam like those of a wary cat, hard and cold as marble? That his tension, unleashed, was like the portent of a storm within the confines of a room?

“Why have you come, Brianna?” he demanded sharply, and his tone, both husky and brushed with fury, stole her breath away. “Why?”

She winced as if lashed by his words, and suddenly her plea came rushing from her. “I need your help.”

“For what?”

“I—I wish to leave Salem, Village and Town. I—”

She broke off, because he was bitterly laughing. “Why are you still here, madam? Of all women, you should know that when a witch-hunt begins, it does not end until countless innocent souls are laid bare to bleed.”

“We couldn’t leave.” She swallowed, tightly clutching her port. “Robert cannot travel the roads in his condition. His lungs cannot take the dirt, nor would his heart sustain such a journey.”

His expression did not change or falter; he continued to stare at her, until slowly he smiled. “I see. You have come to ask me for a favor. For passage for you and your husband. And that is all.”

She did not want to meet his gaze; her eyes refused to fall at her mind’s command. “Yes,” she whispered.

He picked up his glass again—and she started when he sent it flying across the room to crash against the hearth and fall, shattered, into the ashes. His fingers, as taut as talons, gripped the rich velvet upholstery of the chair.

“That is all?” he grated hoarsely. Before she could do more than emit a startled cry, he was around the chair and beside her on the settee, catching her chin in his hand, studying her eyes with a blazing anger and something quite close to hatred.

“My
son,
Brianna! That child is my son, my flesh, my blood! And you did not see fit to allow me to see him, or even to tell me.”

Brianna wrenched her chin from his grasp, got up quickly from the settee, dropping her wine, and ran to the door. He caught her forcefully by the shoulders, spinning her around, then holding her to him. But it was not a lover’s caress; it was not longing she saw in his eyes—just fury leashed with a hard and cold demand for explanation.

She tossed her head back angrily to meet his assault. “Michael is not your son, Sloan.”

“Liar!” he charged her with a furious shake.

“He is not!” she railed in reply, heedless of his anger. “Robert is his father. Robert married me and gave Michael his name and a home—and his presence and his love! How dare you—”

“Bitch!” He was so angry then that he pushed her from him, not at all certain that he wouldn’t strike her if he remained too close. “Never did I desert you, Brianna, never did I leave you! You sent me away without even telling me!”

She stood still, the blood draining from her face. God, they had become bitter enemies! But still she could only think of all she remembered about him: his scent, fresh and male and reminiscent of the sea and storms and waves and radiant sun and musky darkness; his face, so familiar she could feel again, without touching him, her fingers over his cheeks, his mouth; his eyes, that sizzle of jade, cold stone, burning fires. If he reached for her, she would know exactly how to fit into his arms, she would know the giddy, heated feel of her body when his pressed to it like steel. If …

They had become strangers and enemies, she reminded herself.

“I did not know when you left!” she cried out.

Sloan sank suddenly down on the settee, placing his booted feet on the small table before it. He cast her a dry glance of contempt and she shivered at his tone.

“Am I to believe that?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” she snapped out, spinning around to leave.

He was no longer on the sofa. She was suddenly staggering back and he was blocking the door, rigidly standing with his legs wide apart as if sailing the ship, his hands upon his hips and his eyes seeming to rip through her like green blades.

“Not so fast, Goodwife Powell. Since you are here now, I think we have a few things to discuss.”

“There’s nothing more to discuss. I came here for help and I can tell I shall get none.” She tilted her head to the side, determined not to cry, or beg. “Don’t you recall?” she taunted him politely. “I remember a day when you told me I might come to you if ever I found that I was in need.”

“Ah,” he returned in mocking kind, “but I loved you then. Fool that I was, I loved you.”

Her lashes fell, her heart felt as if it were slowly crumbling. She had been the fool, to love on when love had been lost.

She raised her head again. “Could I please step by, My Lord Treveryan?”

“I’ve yet to hear what you have in mind.”

Brianna took a step back, narrowing her eyes while her breath seemed to catch and rasp. “What game are you playing, Lord Treveryan? I told you—”

“You told me that you wished to leave Salem. Am I supposed to drop everything and take you away—you and your husband, and
your
son—is that it?”

His tone was too polite; she had not seen him for a long time, but once she had known him well, and his quiet tones were still, it seemed, his most dangerous.

“Yes—and you’ve refused me, so let me by.”

He backed against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, I’ve not refused you—yet.” He lifted an arm toward the settee. “Sit, Goodwife Powell.”

She turned, and sat once again upon the settee. Sloan went down upon one knee to pick up the remnants of the glass she had dropped. She stiffened, feeling his dark head near her knees.

“How is Lady Treveryan, my lord?” she queried with quiet and caustic rebuke.

“Dead,” he answered bluntly, not looking her way.

Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. “How convenient for you,” she murmured.

He jerked up, swinging an arm back with such murderous loathing in his eyes that she cried out, scrambling to the edge of the settee. Dark lashes fell to conceal his eyes; his arm dropped to his side and he walked to the hearth and tossed the fragments of crystal into it.

“I—I’m sorry,” Brianna said at last, miserably. She did not turn to look at him.

Silence came between them and then he spoke again. “Well, madam, I can’t say that I quite understand why you are here. There are other ships.”

“I cannot pay for passage.”

“Can’t you?” he queried cruelly. “I seem to remember that you are not averse to hiring out—in desperation, that is.”

She rose again, her heart and mind a tempest, wishing she could tear him limb from limb. She stared at him then, watching his casual, negligent stance against the mantel, clenching her fingers into fists at her side to keep from lashing out.

“Or,” he persisted, “did you come to me specifically knowing that I just might be an easy mark?”

The taunt was more than she could bear. She flew at him, her clenched fists flying hard against his jaw and chest as she sobbed out furious curses.

He caught her arms, locking them with his own behind her back. She struggled with little success, then leaned against him, cheeks dampened by the futility of her action, by her rage, by the wrenching agony of seeing him again.

His hand came to her throat and her cheek, gently caressing as he raised her eyes to his.

“I could demand it,” he told her raggedly. “I could tell you that, yes, I would take you away, but that you must pay for the passage. And by God, if you did not agree, you would be a fool, for this place is quick becoming a cauldron of insanity. You would do anything to save your child and your husband. It would make things easy in your heart and mind.”

“No,” she whispered. She could do no more. Staring in his eyes, feeling the fascination, the pulse and heat of his body pressed so naturally to hers, she could do no more.

His lips twitched into a bitter and pained smile. His thumb continued its tender graze over her throat and chin, and the soft flesh of her cheeks.

Then his mouth slowly lowered to hers, taking it, softly, in gentle exploration. But that touch was like fire, burning, melting her. His mouth fused to hers then, hot and demanding, sending desire, pulsing and vital, raging through her. His arms wrapped around her, his palms found the curve of her breasts and her hips; his fingers found the pins in her hair and flung them aside until the dark mass, rich and luxurious, cascaded all around them.

Brianna choked out a cry, and turned her face from his. She vaguely heard him draw a hesitant breath and his hand fell tenderly to her head. Ah, how easy it would have been! She had not forgotten him; she had not forgotten how they had loved. Had he forced his bitter taunt, she might have been his again, here, now, upon the clean-swept floorboards of Lord Turnberry’s elegant drawing room.

But he could not. She was married, and not—as some ladies of the courts often were—oblivious to such commitments. If she did love him now, she would despise him if he forced her, no matter how deep her need. A woman like Brianna would live with the torment of the damned for her betrayal. Nor would she be wrong in suffering, for Sloan still could not deny that she had married a good man, weak in body but strong in heart.