Wicked at Heart (30 page)

"Such rage
that fuels you!  I know that it goes beyond the navy, and has its origins in
something much deeper."

"I could
have you in this chair, with your skirts tossed up over your face and your
wrists tied behind its back."

"I know
that your threats and your deliberate crudeness and all your attempts at
intimidation are only to keep me away from the
real
man beneath that
cold and unfeeling demeanor."

"And
I
know that I will have you.  Today. 
Now.
  And I also know that you think
this silly babbling of yours will distract you enough to prevent what is
inevitable between us.  But for how long can you keep it up, my dear?" he
murmured, and she sucked in her breath as she felt his tongue slip out to touch
her nipple, just once.

"How long
do you think I
want
to keep it up?  What on earth makes you think I
don't want to see this through, and the sooner the better?  I desire you, I
told you that."

"Good, then
let's dispense with this nonsense and get down to business."

He bent over her
left shoulder, pressing her down into the chair and filling her senses. 
Through half-open eyes she saw the glorious waves of his dark hair, the faint
shadow that cloaked his jaw, the long sweep of his lashes and the devil's eyes
that glittered beneath them.  She moaned as his lips grazed her neck . . . her
collarbone . . . the swell of her breast.  He slid his fingers beneath it, then
lifted it up toward his mouth, his intentions clear.

She was trapped,
pinned effectively between him and the chair.

"Isn't this
much more fun than telling me things I don't want to hear?  Now tell me
something I
do
want to hear."

His lips breezed
over her hot flesh, seeking her areola.  He circled it lazily with his tongue,
avoiding the nipple, and Gwyneth's gasps became helpless moans.  The nipple
thrust shamelessly toward him, tight and hard and pink, and he continued with
this exquisite torture for another long moment before finally giving it the
attention it craved.  His mouth closed over the hard bud, surrounding it with hot,
liquid warmth, pulling it up into his mouth, and she felt the rasp of his
tongue, the first questing, flicking taste he took of her.  Her eyes fell shut,
and only his other arm, firmly against her rib cage, kept her from sliding
bonelessly out of the chair.  "I cannot resist you, Damon.  Is that what
you want to hear?"

"I suppose
I should admire you for admitting it."

"Make me
admire you equally, then, and admit that what I've said to you is the truth. 
Admit it, and stop hiding behind your fear."

"Dare you
call me a coward?"

"You are no
coward, merely an intimidating, manipulative, magnificent devil of a man who is
afraid to face his own demons."

"Ah.  And
you have appointed yourself as the one who will make me face them."

"I think
you are worth saving."

He merely
laughed, his teeth grazing her nipple and setting her body on fire.  Gwyneth's
head lolled against the velvet upholstery of the chair back, rolled back the
other way.  Dimly, she heard a clatter as the parasol fell from her loose
fingers and hit the floor.

"I think
you are worth . . . understanding," she persisted, faintly.

Against her
nipple he mumbled, "Ah — but am I worth
loving
?"

The defiance,
the fragile, guarded hope — it was all there.

"Yes,"
she breathed.  "You are well worth loving, Damon.  God help me, you are. 
Now prove it — to yourself, as well as to me.  Prove it by carrying me to that
bed and letting the – the inevitable play out with tenderness and feeling, not
fighting and fury and the desire to conquer.  I challenge you.  Can you do
that?"

He merely pulled
her nipple up between his teeth, drawing it in and out of his mouth, his hand
shaping her breast as he went.  Her senses, her reason deserted her, and she
felt that hot, pooling warmth between her thighs growing, spreading, flaring
out in all directions to consume her.

Then his hand
skimmed down her stomach, gathering her skirts at the knee and dragging them
back up her thigh.

"Don't
disappoint me, Damon," Gwyneth managed, weakly.  "Don't, I beg of
you."

And he didn't. 
Damon felt her squirming, sighing delight, saw her flushed cheeks and heavy
eyes, and knew that this war between himself and her, himself and the truth of
what she'd said, could not go on.  With a growl of impatience, he crushed both
skirts and petticoats in his hand and yanked them up to her hips, exposing the
long, slender legs from foot to thigh.

There, before
him, were stockings and garters, pale white thighs, and her silken mound of
dark-gold curls.

Breathing hard,
he cupped it in his hand.

You're mad,
Lady Simms.  Utterly, barking mad.  But you challenged me, and so I'll
challenge you.  I'll give you what you want.  Then we'll see if you let me down
as everyone else has in my life.

He pressed down
on her mound, grinding his palm and the heel of his hand against her until she
moaned softly.

Let's see if
you really are as different as I so desperately want you to be.

And then,
dipping his head once more to savor the sweet bud of her breast, he drove the
blade of his hand between her thighs.

She arced back
against the chair.  "For heaven's sake, Damon,
prove it
!"

It was enough.

Still suckling
her breast, he slid his fingers through those damp curls, parted the slick
petals of flesh, and then, rubbing the hard bud of her clitoris with his thumb,
slid his middle finger deep inside of her, all the way to the knuckle.

She cried out and
bucked, and he felt her hot climax contracting the flesh all around his hand.

This is just
the start of it.

With a savage
growl, he swept her up and carried her to the bed.

Chapter
18

Triumph.

Gwyneth was
dimly aware of a sinking sensation, of falling into and then being embraced by
thick, silken pillows and a bed as soft as clouds; tousled sheets and then
Morninghall's crushing weight, his darkly beautiful face, as he lowered himself
atop her.  She felt his powerful length covering her, felt their clothes
crumpling between their straining bodies.  His hand skimmed down her ribs and
hips, untying one garter, then the other.  As he peeled her filmy stockings
down her knees, her calves, her ankles, she was deliciously afraid, wondrously
excited, unable to think of anything but this dark and beautiful lord.  Her
slippers were already gone, though she did not know when she had lost them; her
body was still throbbing from that exquisite pleasure-pain he had brought her
to, begging shamelessly for more and already thrusting upward, toward him, of
its own accord.  She looped her arms around his neck, met his hungry kisses,
and closed her eyes as his tongue hungrily, desperately invaded her mouth.

Somewhere, maybe
in the back of her imagination, maybe somewhere else, Gwyneth heard a low,
rising, rumbling sound, like a gathering of mighty force.

But no, it was only
Damon's hand on her breast, Damon's fingers squeezing, stroking, massaging her
flesh, Damon's hard mouth grinding against hers, Damon's heady, suddenly gentle
and teasing kisses.

"Wait!"
she gasped.  "There is something I must tell you —"

"No more of
your prattle, woman, or I swear I'll go mad!"

She put her arms
around his shoulders and pulled his head down to hers.  She kissed the side of
his jaw, then raised herself up to nuzzle his ear.  "Deep in your heart,
you know you're really a kind and gentle man, and you're going to prove it to
me," she whispered.

He pulled back and
made a noise of high amusement.

She drew his
head back down.  Amused he might have been, but he could not hide the fact that
he was intrigued and listening avidly.  Growing bold, she put her tongue in his
ear, swirling around the folds of flesh until he groaned with delight. 
"You must admit it, Morninghall, because if you can, I'll tell you a
little secret of my own."

"Anything
you say, Lady Simms. . .  I admit it."

"Good. 
Because, you see, I am a virgin, and I wouldn't want anyone but a kind and
gentle man to make me a woman."

"A
what
?"
he cried, pushing back and away from her.

"A
virgin."

"But — but you
were a married woman!"

"Married, but
untouched.  I trust you'll be gentle."

He was pulling
back, shaking his head, his face going white with horror.  "Oh, no.  This
changes things entirely.  I'm not making love to a virgin, no way in hell, no
matter what you want of me."

"Damon!"

"For God's
sake, I'll probably
break
something —"

"Isn't that
the idea?"

He merely stared
at her, stunned and shocked, his eyes unguarded, confused, and disbelieving.  Then
she saw something else coming into them:  respect.  For in backing off and
refusing to touch her, he had just proved to her — and more importantly, to himself
— that he was indeed not the wretched beast he believed himself to be.

She stretched
her arms up toward him in silent invitation but saw the indecision warring with
want in his eyes, the tortured look on his face.  He took a deep and steadying
breath, and then lowered himself back down, refusing to seduce her, wanting
only to hold her.

But in that
stunned and wondrous moment, they both heard the roaring noise that Gwyneth had
thought she'd imagined just moments before.  Except now it was punctured by a
gunshot, a shout, a rising cacophony of yelling voices.  Morninghall leaped off
her with a violent curse and lunged for the pistol on his table at the very
moment the door crashed open and a crowd of dirty, rage-maddened prisoners burst
into the room, all shouting like madmen.

There were at
least thirty, maybe forty of them, with several hundred more shoving from
behind.

Gwyneth screamed
and leaped from the bed.

"Get back,
Gwyneth!" the marquess roared, throwing himself protectively in front of
her and squeezing off a shot.  One of the wild-eyed men at the front of the
pack stumbled and fell sprawling.  His demise did not deter his companions, though,
who trampled straight over his body as they rushed into the cabin, howling and
shrieking like a legion straight from hell.  Gwyneth saw it all in flashes that
would haunt her worst nightmares for years to come:  the tide of crazed,
murderous men storming into the cabin, the deck beyond them a blur of movement
and streaks of scarlet as the guards tried desperately to contain the prisoner
uprising; gunfire all around; the wild clangor of alarm bells somewhere
outside, screams, shouts.  And Lord Morninghall, his pistol spent, his last
noble act to shove her desperately toward the window before the mob fell on
him, pulling him down, burying him beneath their leaping bodies and brutal
fists, their savage, kicking feet and unholy shouts of triumph and rage.  She
screamed and tried to race past the frenzied tangle for help, unable to escape the
sound of fists against flesh, against bone.  She saw one of Morninghall's arms
flailing beneath the clamoring horde, just the arm and nothing else, heard
their enraged curses and yells, saw their flying fists, saw the arm relax and
go still.  Hands grabbed at her as she tried to run past, and she was jerked up
against a filthy chest, smelling tooth rot as a mouth crashed over hers.  She heard
her own screams, felt her arm nearly ripped from its socket, then saw
Lieutenant Radley's wild face as he hauled her from the melee and out of the
cabin, across the deck and to the rail.  She screamed Damon's name, felt a
bullet whiz past her head, heard gunfire at close range —

And then only
empty space as she tumbled over and over again before hitting the shocking icy
water of the harbor.

The impact drove
the breath out of her.  Hissing bubbles of silence enclosed her and she felt
herself sinking, the loose curtain of her hair swirling about her face and
blinding her, the weight of her skirts dragging her down . . . down . . . down
into the cold, black depths.  Blissful, terrifying silence.  Raw, aching cold. 
Give it up and die.
  Then someone snared her upthrust hand and she was
yanked forcefully to the surface, which she broke sputtering, coughing, and
crying.  Something hard smacked across her ribs and wood smashed against her
cheek before she realized she'd been tossed into a boat.  She opened her eyes
and found herself staring up into the handsome face of the seaman who'd been
rowing the dead body ashore.

The body was
gone and she lay in its place.

"Get down,
woman, things have gone mad," the man said urgently, picking up his oars
as the angry pops of gunfire broke the air above.

"I can't
leave!  I must go back!  Lord Morninghall, he tried to save me, the prisoners
overwhelmed the ship, they'll kill him, for God's sake, take me back!"

Her rescuer
flung down his oars and grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging into her
flesh to calm her hysteria.  He stared hard into her eyes.  "
There is
nothing you can do!
"  Then, wasting no time, he began rowing with all
his strength toward shore, sending a wake of ripples fanning out from astern. 
Shots rang out from the prison hulk, and Gwyneth heard the agonized screams of
dying men and splashes as bodies were hurled off the ship.

"You can't
just leave him to their mercy!" she cried in anguish.  "
They'll
kill him!
"

The sailor kept
rowing, desperate to get them away from the hulk.

"Damn you,
take
me back
!"

He ignored her
until he was satisfied they were well clear of the danger.  Then he laid down
the oars, and as the sea streamed past the boat and the sounds of gunfire
echoed across the water, his eyes met hers.  They were wise, those eyes, too
wise for such a youthful face, and in them was a deep and sympathetic sadness. 
Very quietly, he said, "If they haven't killed him yet, they will
certainly have done so by the time any of us can get to him."  He reached
out and gently took her hand.  "It is too late, my lady."