The Game (15 page)

“Will she moan all night, I wonder?”

“I do not know,” Katherine said tersely.

Liam reached down and touched Juliet’s forehead. She did not open her eyes. Her cheeks were red—but that could be from the use of rouge. “She is not feverish.”

“No.”

“I suppose you wish to attend her?” Katherine nodded so eagerly he almost laughed. He sighed. “Katherine, tomorrow Juliet leaves this ship. And it will be just you and I for the remainder of our trip.”

She paled.

He bent closer, so that he could have easily kissed her
small nose had he wished. “You merely delay the inevitable,” he said softly.

Katherine’s brows rose, but she remained mute.

Liam turned abruptly, deciding to give her a reprieve—just in case the dark-haired girl was really ill. He exited the cabin, leaving the tray of food.

The next morning, when he returned, every single morsel was gone.

Thurlstone Manor, Cornwall

“Juliet! Have you been harmed?”

Juliet’s uncle was not a particularly kind or caring man, but those were the first words he uttered upon seeing her. She managed to smile at him, somewhat tearfully, and her tears were from the joy she felt at finally being home. “I have had an adventure, Uncle,” she said rather timidly. He had always managed to intimidate her.

“’Tis hardly what I would call an adventure,” he said sternly. “But you are back, and you appear sound.” Hixley faced Liam O’Neill grimly. The pirate had brought Juliet home, and had calmly explained how he had seized her ship at sea, and then been instructed by the queen to return Juliet to Thurlstone immediately. “And I hope that you, Captain, shall understand why I will not invite you to dine with us.”

Liam shrugged, his face devoid of any expression. “I have no wish to dine with you, Sir Richard, for I have a ship to return to.” He bowed then at Juliet, the gesture grand and sweeping, as any courtier might. Then he spun on his heel and strode for the door.

Juliet started, then raced after him. “Captain! Captain O’Neill!”

He paused, turning slightly to face her, raising one slashing golden-brown brow.

“Please, take good care of Katherine, and see that she, too, rests unharmed,” Juliet pleaded.

His gaze held hers but for a moment. “I shall take good
care of her,” he finally said, “I promise you that.” And then he was gone.

Juliet stared after him anxiously.

“Come with me, Juliet,” Richard said. “I wish to speak with you.”

She turned, unable to smile. Her uncle was of average height, but quite portly. His face was pleasant to look upon, but his brown eyes were stern and unforgiving. Her father had appointed him the guardian of his estates just before his death, after he had become ill. Juliet’s mother had died many years before that. She and Hixley were not related by blood; he had become her uncle when he had married her aunt. He had his own wealthy estate farther north from Thurlstone Manor, on the edge of the Atlantic. Juliet knew that the guardianship had forced him to divide his time between Thurlstone and his own home and his wife and children.

Juliet’s anxiety grew. She guessed what he wished to discuss—but it would not be a discussion. “Uncle, I have only just returned, and I am hungry and tired, as well as quite dirty. Perhaps we might speak later this evening?”

“We are having guests this evening,” Richard said flatly.

Juliet had no choice, and she followed him through the manor. Thurlstone was a medieval manor, but it was a rich one, thanks to the vast deposits of iron ore that had been discovered by her grandfather and had been mined so assiduously ever since. Brilliantly colored tapestries covered all of the walls. Coats-of-arms hung high above them, boasting the black Stratheclyde dragon upon a gold ribbon and a field of red. Medieval weapons, which had been in the family for generations, also graced the walls. Crossed swords, a mace and dagger, and several ceremonial spears. Stratheclyde pennants hung from the timbered ceiling.

They entered a long brick gallery which had been added onto the original manor before Juliet’s father died. Richard faced one of the glass windows, while Juliet sat down on a bench.

“You know, of course, why I summoned you home.”

Juliet nodded, feeling miserable even though she knew that she should be thrilled.

He faced her, but seemed to look right through her. “I know you are still a bit young for marriage, but I am growing old, Juliet, and it is difficult for me to administer two estates properly.”

Juliet resolved to be gracious, to say nothing. Instead she quavered, “But I will not be sixteen until June.”

He shrugged dismissively. “I have drawn up a list of candidates for your hand, men from good families, and I intend to arrange a betrothal by your next birthday.” He looked at her directly. “These suitors will wish to meet you.”

Juliet could not restrain her lower lip from trembling. These suitors wished to meet her. She was not completely naive. They wished to determine that she was no skinny hag, nor any fat cow. While she, she had no desire at all to meet them.

“You do not appear pleased, Juliet.”

She knew she should thank her uncle for all of his efforts. She said, in a low whisper, “I’m only fifteen. Other women do not wed until they are eighteen.”

“I must find someone to manage Thurlstone,” Richard said sharply.

She gazed into his eyes. “What…what if I do not like him?”

Richard stared at her, shocked.

She flushed and looked down at her lap.

“This is nonsense,” Richard admonished. “If you start crying, Juliet, I shall send you to your room as I would a small child.”

Juliet said nothing. She did not cry.

Richard continued. “In truth, the list of suitors is not a long one. I have decided upon three prospects after interviewing ten times that number.”

Three prospects. She would only be paraded before three men. She was not relieved. Juliet was finally beginning to realize how imminent this was. By June, she would be affianced. Oh, God. To a man she did not know, did not want—did not love.

Juliet realized that she was on her feet. Somehow she forced the words from her lips. “Thank you, Uncle. I appreciate all that you have done.”

And when she was finally alone, in her bedchamber, she lay down, holding her pillow, dreaming of love—and wondering why it was too much to ask for.

Juliet was gone now. Katherine hugged herself, standing at the porthole in Liam’s cabin, watching the sun sinking lower and lower, a fiery red ball, over what had been the tip of Cornwall. The ship continued to speed northeast toward the coast of Ireland.

They were in the Atlantic Ocean. It was far rougher than the Channel or the seas off the Cornish coast. Katherine stood with her legs braced far apart, one shoulder against the wall, as the ship lurched through the waves, pushed by strong and favorable winds. Already the sun hung low upon the horizon, which was turning ink-dark. How was she going to avoid Liam O’Neill this night?

Katherine had no answer. She kept recalling his kiss in the queen’s dining hall. And her knees grew weak, her blood grew hot.

Katherine rubbed her face against the smooth, wooden wall. She thought about the kiss. She shivered. She thought about his hands—his dangerous hands.

She thought about Hugh. The man she was on her way to rejoin. The man she would marry. Oh, God. There was no place in her mind for Liam O’Neill. Damn him. For being so golden, so virile.

She froze as she heard the bolt being lifted on the door and she half turned. It was only the boy, Guy.

He carried her supper inside. “The captain says to tell you to go ahead and eat alone. He’ll be down later.”

Katherine stared at Guy. “How much later?”

Guy shrugged and left.

Katherine regarded the tray. She could smell fried fish and fresh bread, but she had no appetite. She turned again to the porthole. The sun was gone. The sea was black now, as was the sky, and there was no way of discerning where one ended and the other began.

Katherine stood there, trying not to think. It was impossible. She knew what was going to happen. She watched the stars blink. She watched the moon appear. It was full. Dread warred with anticipation.

Yet she knew that she must fight him. She must fight him and win.

She turned and walked to the table and poured herself not a glass of ale, which was what women usually drank, but a glass of French wine. She sipped it quickly, hoping it would steady her nerves. It did not seem to have any effect.

It was not until Liam appeared in the doorway, a small light in his hand, that she realized she stood in complete darkness. She stiffened, she stared.

He smiled at her, then closed the door carefully. He moved across the cabin, in no apparent rush. He met her gaze again. Her heart fluttered wildly. There was no mistaking his intentions. None.

His gaze slid over her, then the table, but he said nothing in response to the fact that she had not touched the tray of food, except for the goblet of wine which sat half-empty upon the table. He walked away from her, to the bed. She watched him set the taper in the small nook in the headboard designed for that purpose and cover it with an open glass dome. He closed the door to the nook, securing the light. And he faced her. “Come, Katherine.”

“What?”

“Come.” He stood with his booted legs apart, his hands on his hips. The candlelight flickered over him. Katherine decided that the bulge in his breeches was more notable than usual. “Come to bed.”

“I am n-not sleeping with you.”

His smile flashed, impossibly confident, impossibly seductive. “This bed is large enough to share.”

“You do not think about a simple sharing of the bed!” she cried.

“I will not force you to do anything you do not wish,” he said, silken and soft.

The sound Katherine made was strangled.

“Katherine, come.”

Katherine hesitated, and then she rushed for the door, which she knew was unlocked. He caught her before she had even crossed the room, murmuring softly in her ear as he pulled her up against his very hard body. “I want you, Katherine.”

She froze. He stood behind her, his arms locked around her waist, his massive manhood pushing against the cleft of her buttocks, his lips against her neck. “I want to pleasure you, Katherine,” he said softly, and then he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

L
iam deposited Katherine in the center of the bed, coming down on top of her. For one instant he stared into her eyes, and in that instant, Katherine felt every inch of him, from her chest to her toes. His hips pressed hers, and his manhood pulsed strongly against her sex.

It all flashed through her mind with lightning speed. The convent and her flight from it, the violent capture of the French trader on which she had escaped, and Liam surveying it all from the forecastle as if it were his kingdom. And Hugh. Hugh, who waited for her, to give her his name, his home, and his children.

“Katherine, sweet,” Liam said roughly, his thumb stroking over her cheek. His hand was shaking.

Katherine stared into his smoky eyes and was almost mesmerized by the desire she saw there. How potent, how powerful, it was. But she was not totally ensnared. She had a shred of sanity left. Her hands were free, and she raised them with the intention of clawing him, or forcing him to release her. But Liam caught her wrists before she could touch him, wrenching them up over her head so abruptly that pain shot up her arms into her shoulders. He stilled her bucking by pinning her legs with his own powerful thighs. “Cease!” he commanded. “Damnation, woman, I am not going to hurt you!”

“You lie!” Katherine cried. She thought of his kiss, his hands, and her body shuddered beneath his. “You are going to ruin me—rape me!”

He was grim. “I have no intention of raping you. Not now, not ever. So cease fighting me.”

“I do not believe you,” she spit. “You are the son of Shane O’Neill!”

“How tired I am of being reminded of that unfortunate fact,” he said sharply.

“Then you should behave like a gentleman.” Katherine tried to buck again and failed. “He raped your mother, did he not? Poor Mary Stanley!”

His nostrils flared, his eyes darkened even more, but his tone was conversational. “I am not my father, Katherine. Never forget it. And now”—his smile did not reach his eyes—“I shall prove it.” He bent his head to kiss her.

Katherine jerked her face to the side so that his mouth landed against her cheek, where it played very softly. His kisses were feather-light. She panted, “I belong to Hugh!”

“After this night, you will know that there is only one man for you—and it is not Hugh Barry.” He still held her wrists above her head, but with one hand. With the other he turned her face to his and covered her lips.

Katherine bucked frantically, but she only succeeded in pushing up against his erection, so she stilled. This time he had not forced her jaws apart, so she refused to open her mouth. But he did not seem intent upon hurrying. His lips brushed hers. Tears formed in the corners of her tightly closed eyes. Already he was unleashing a storm of desire within her body—as she had known he would.

When he paused, murmuring, “Bend to me, darling,” Katherine jerked her face aside.

Panting, she said, “The queen approves of my betrothal to Hugh!”

His gray eyes gleamed. “Bess has been known to change her mind.”

Katherine wished that he would shift his body so that she would not have to be so aware of every throbbing inch of him. “She will be furious with you if you really do this!”

He smiled at her, bent, and with his tongue, tested the tight seam of her lips. Katherine’s clenched mouth eased
slightly but she managed to swallow a choked, mewling sound.

“Do not worry about Bess,” he murmured, his tongue flicking first one corner of her mouth and then the other. He paused, met her eyes, said huskily, “I can manage Bess.”

Katherine stiffened in shock. As he spoke, he had begun to rotate his hips, very languidly, and very gently—all the while watching her eyes. She choked then, for the effect was to push his rock-hard sex back and forth against her soft, swollen loins. Katherine finally gasped, arching up beneath him—to meet him.

He laughed and claimed her mouth with his, stroking inside with his tongue. Katherine knew she was about to succumb to him. Against her will, her own hips were lifting restlessly, eagerly, against his. Her body was on fire. She had one determined thought. To spread her already open legs wider still and take every inch of him inside her.

Hugh. She must remember Hugh. Shane O’Neill. She must remember who this man’s father was—and who and what this man himself was. A savage pirate, a murderer. She must not give Liam O’Neill her virtue. Her entire future was at stake.

Katherine seized the thought—and bit down on his tongue.

He howled in pain-filled rage, leaping up. Katherine cried out, too late realizing that she had gone too far. But he had been withdrawing his tongue when she had bitten, fortunately for him, and she did not see any blood at the comers of his mouth.

He stood beside the bed now, enraged, one hand on his mouth. Katherine realized that she was free, and she scrambled to sit up, backing as far from him as she could.

“Wench!” he finally spit out, and she saw a fleck of red. “Damnable wench!” His face turned harsh and grim.

Katherine knew she was in dire jeopardy, and she cried out. “No! I am sorry!”

But he leaned toward her, grabbed her arm and jerked her to the center of the bed, then pushed her down on her back. Before Katherine could jump up, he tied her wrist
to the near poster of the bed with one of the red-and-gold cords that had tied the bed-curtains back. “Damnable wench!” he said on a long breath. Now he jerked up her other arm, ignoring her wild struggles. “You almost bit my tongue in half—damnation!”

“You forced me to do it!” Katherine gasped, straining at her bonds. “I was only defending myself!”

He tied her ankles to the posters at the bottom of the bed as well, then lanced her with a dark, dire look. “You are lucky, Katherine, ’tis but a scratch.” Suddenly the corners of his mouth lifted very slightly. “Had you dismembered me, one day, you would have sorely regretted it.”

Her temper flared; she forgot her bonds. “I should have bitten you harder!”

His eyes widened. “You seek to provoke me now?”

Instantly Katherine realized the folly of indulging her anger. “No! No! Please untie me. Please.” She had never been more vulnerable or exposed in her life, and it had been insanity to forget her predicament even for a moment. But it was not fear that caused her pulse to thunder in her ears.

He did not answer. His eyes had turned a startling silver and as he smiled slightly, his dagger appeared in his hand. “Punishment,” he said softly.

Katherine pulled against her bonds. They were not so tight that she was completely immobilized, and she found she could move somewhat.

He strode to her and hooked the center of the neckline of her gown with the dagger. Katherine began to comprehend his intentions and she froze in shock. He slid the dagger slowly through the faded blue silk, down between her breasts. Katherine watched the blade and whimpered. Her ribbon-edged shift was revealed. The knife moved down her torso, down her stomach, and between her legs. Katherine did not move a muscle, did not breathe. He slashed then quickly down to her toes. He had cut her gown in half. But she had not felt the knife, not even once.

“Stop,” Katherine said hoarsely. Her breasts were heav
ing, and every breath she took so laboriously parted her cut gown even more.

He eyed the expanse of her linen-bound breasts, stared at her protruding nipples. His gaze moved to hers, and then he hooked the tip of his knife in the shift. Katherine tensed. Still looking into her eyes, he began to move the knife between her breasts.

Katherine gasped, watching as a swath of ivory skin was revealed as her underclothes were sliced in half. Cool air followed in the wake of his dagger. Very carefully, very slowly, he slid the knife down her torso and stomach and between her legs. A moment later he had sliced her petticoats in two.

Katherine was panting. All that was left intact upon her was her open, crotchless drawers. His gaze lifted to hers. It glittered wildly, but his face was formed into harsh lines. Katherine could not look away, nor could she breathe.

He hooked the tip of the dagger in the center of the lace-trimmed waistband, revealing her navel. Katherine stared at the glinting knife. She could not tear her gaze from the silver blade as it began to shred the fine lawn material, moving down her belly, revealing the nest of auburn hair as it paused between her thighs. Just barely she could feel the cool blade between her legs.

His gaze lifted abruptly. Silver smoke. Katherine made another sound, wet her dry lips nervously. Every nerve ending she had seemed to be swollen, throbbing madly.

His jaw flexed. He then quickly slashed a line down the inside of each leg. He sheathed the knife, and met her wide, unblinking gaze.

Then he reached down and pushed open the two halves of her dress and shift, revealing first her full, heaving breasts, then her slender rib cage, the nest of dark auburn curls at the juncture of her thighs, and then the long length of her pale legs.

Katherine sucked in her breath. It had become feverishly hot in the cabin, making it difficult to breathe. She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but only wound up tossing her head from one side to the other. Her whole body undulated as her head moved.

“You are beautiful, Katherine,” he said hoarsely, sitting beside her. His hand swept over one breast and Katherine gasped. Her nipple was already taut, but it seemed to swell as his palm caressed it. She had never dreamed that a man’s hand would feel this way against her naked skin. “You wear your gowns too tight, hiding the bounty you are blessed with.” He rolled her nipple, caught her eye.

“You like that, Katherine?”

Katherine shook her head no.

He laughed, sudden and abrupt. “Then you are either a liar, or a fool.” His gaze moved to her other nipple, which he plucked gently. “I know you are no fool, sweetheart.”

Katherine stared, torn between dismay and desire, as he bent and flicked his tongue over her nipples, one by one. She was lost. Her eyes closed and she moaned, long and low, earthily.

He murmured an endearment and began to suckle her. Katherine began to writhe. The more he laved and teased her, the more he sucked, the more anguished her aching sex became. Katherine gasped, cried out, twisting beneath him. She was shocked when her hands came free of her bonds. She did not dwell upon the realization that, somehow, he had cut her free. Instead she gripped his head, moaning, pressing him closer to her breasts.

But he dragged his head down. Katherine cried out. He kissed her belly, her navel. Katherine had wrapped her long legs around him, and she pumped her hips toward him furiously. But she stilled when his hand cupped her sex.

She was panting. He was still nibbling her belly, but his fingers were separating the thick, wet folds of her flesh. Katherine gasped as he rubbed her there, crying out as his thumb stroked inside their folds, then flickered over her clitoris.

She moaned and thrashed. Dimly she was aware that his kisses were becoming dangerous, for as he played with her sex his head moved lower and lower. She froze when his mouth brushed the thatch of pubic hair. She did not move as his lips kissed the inside of her thigh, his face brushing the cleft he had been just toying with.

He kissed the cleft.

Katherine gasped his name.

He parted her and kissed her again, languidly. Katherine moved. She pumped against him. Holding her open, he stroked her with his expert tongue. Katherine cried out. And cried out and cried out, as a huge and terrible wave of anguish built and became pleasure which crested and finally crashed over her.

She sagged into the bed. Ecstasy faded, pleasure ebbed. Katherine became aware of the feel of his silken hair in her hands—which she clenched tightly. She became aware of the feel of his scratchy cheek, pressed against her inner thigh. She became aware of his fingers, which still fluttered over her sex.

In one stunning moment, she realized what she had done. As she had predicted, her body had welcomed him eagerly. Although he was a bloody pirate and the son of the notorious rapist Shane O’Neill, although she was betrothed to another, she had welcomed him, had been on fire for him—and as he had said, he had not had to rape her.

Nor would he have to. He need only use that cunning tongue of his, and within moments she would be begging for his cock.

Katherine twisted onto her side with a sob, only to realize her legs were still tied to the bed. She subsided onto her back, covering her face with her hands, telling herself that she would not weep now in shame in front of him.

“Katherine?”

It was no use. Katherine sobbed into her hands.

Liam raised his head from her leg. She felt him looking at her. “Why in God’s name do you weep?” he asked harshly.

She dropped her hands and gazed at him with murderous fury. “Are you pleased? Pleased? That you have proved just how manly you are—and just what a whore I am?”

His eyes widened.

“Do you what you will,” she said, choking a fist
against her mouth. “Damn you, God damn you, how I hate you, O’Neill! How I hate myself.”

He stared at her. “You are not a whore, Katherine. We both know that,” he said harshly.

Katherine covered her face with her hands. Waiting for him to touch her. But he did not.

“Don’t cry, Katherine.”

Katherine heard him but ignored him. She was struggling to control her hysteria—and her sudden, complete hatred for this man, who had seduced her so easily.

She heard him cursing savagely, and then he cut her legs free. Instantly Katherine rolled away from him, sitting up with her back to him. Maybe he would, miraculously, leave her alone now. She doubted it.

Silence filled the room. Suddenly he touched her shoulder from behind. Katherine froze.

“You are not a whore,” he repeated. “Don’t do this to yourself. What we did is the most natural act between a man and a woman, Katherine. Especially with the kind of desire we share.”

Katherine whirled. “We do not share desire!” she shouted, knowing full well that she lied.

His expression was restrained, yet clearly skeptical.

Katherine wished that she had not turned to face him. Especially after uttering such a blatant lie. She found herself staring. His gray eyes glittered. A trickle of perspiration teased his temple. His nostrils were slightly flared; his breathing was hardly steady. Cords stood out in his strong neck. Katherine saw his pulse beating there, thick and strong and steady.