Chapter 7 #2
The anger erupted, stunning him with its force.
Pity was a weakness. And if she continued to defy his authority, he could easily enough turn her eyes soft and smoky with the plunging hardness of his own body.
In fact, he was beyond tempted now. Should he discipline her in his bed, there’d be no more defiance, no more escape attempts. Then, escape would not be on her mind.
Cries echoed on the docks ahead.
Devlin started, all thoughts of sex vanishing, and saw a commotion aboard the Mystere.
A group of men were boarding her. Someone on the deck held a torch, shouting, and Devlin thought he heard his name.
Then his gaze slammed to the railing in utter disbelief and instant recognition.
Virginia stood atop the rail, arms outstretched, poised to dive into the icy river.
What in hell was she doing?
Devlin’s heart slammed to a hard stop.
And as she sailed off of the rail, he ran for the dock. He saw her break the water, and just before he dove in after her, his heart racing with alarm, he wondered if she could even swim.
As he knifed into the frigid water, he felt a surge of fear. Surely she knew how to swim! After all, the woman could shoot, curse like a sailor, strip a man naked and steal his clothes. She was probably an excellent swimmer—but he was not relieved.
The water was pitch-black. As he dove, he flailed for her, but felt nothing.
He continued to dive until weeds grasped greedily at his hands, arms and legs.
If Virginia became enmeshed in the vegetation at the river’s bottom, she might never be able to get free.
He continued to search for her by feel, but there was only the occasional piece of wood and rock.
His lungs finally bursting, a seizure of panic beginning, he had no choice but to swim back up to the surface. As his head popped free, he breathed in harshly, the air cold and sweet.
And their gazes locked.
She was treading water and gulping air just a few meters from him. More torches had been carried to the rail of the Mystere, lighting up the water around them. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, moving closer to her and reaching for her.
Her answer was a vicious one. As he gripped her wrist, the sharp blade of a knife cut through his own arm.
He was stunned that she had a weapon, much less that she was attacking him with it. For one instant, he could only recoil as their gazes clashed again, her eyes filled with fierce determination. Then he sensed another strike.
Still treading water, she slashed at him again, this time at his face. He caught her wrist, thwarting the ugly blow. “Drop it,” he warned, very angry now.
Her eyes widened with alarm. “No.”
He was disbelieving again, but would not dwell on her folly. Ruthless fury filled him and he increased his grip without mercy. She whimpered and released the knife. He pulled her against his side.
“I almost won,” she whispered, and he realized tears were shimmering in her eyes.
The stab of pity came again. He shoved it far away. “You never came close to a victory, Miss Hughes. And you never will. Not if you think to battle me.”
A fat tear rolled down her wet cheek. “One day I am going to dance with glee upon your grave, you bastard.”
“I have no doubt,” he said, suddenly aware of her slim legs entwining with one of his. And the anger vanished. In its stead was lust.
“O’Neill! Take the rope!”
Devlin realized that the men on the Mystere were throwing a lifeline to him.
He turned, a soft, surprising breast pressing into his rib cage, stunned by the surge of sudden desire.
Keeping one arm around her, he caught the end of the rope.
As they were reeled in, he thought Virginia began to cry, but he wasn’t sure.
Her odd, raspy breaths might have been from the cold.
She wasn’t crying when they reached his cabin. She was shivering violently as she preceded him in. Devlin faced Gus. “Heat up some water for her, before she dies of an ague.”
“Aye, sir,” Gus said, casting a worried look at Virginia. She was ashamed enough of what she had done to avoid all eye contact with him. Instead, she kept her back to both men, hugging herself and trembling wildly, her teeth chattering loudly.
Devlin closed the door behind Gus, lighting several candles. “You had better get out of those clothes,” he said, moving past her to the closet. He took out a nightshirt he’d never worn, as he slept in the buff.
“Go to hell,” she chattered.
He looked at her and froze. Gus’s soaking clothes clung to her like a second skin, and he could see every possible line of her body—from the tips of her hard nipples to the hand-span that was her waist and, goddamn it, the cleaved arc that delineated her sex.
For one moment he did stare, imaging a wealth of dark curls and a handful of moist flesh.
The cabin became torridly hot, humid, airless.
Red tinged his vision; his manhood hardened impossibly, the pain acute.
“O’Neill?” she whispered roughly.
He jerked, still in the throes of the most incredible lust he had ever experienced, and then he found a semblance of sanity and he tossed the nightshirt at her. He walked away, keeping a deliberate distance from her, his heart pounding as if he had just run from Limerick to Askeaton and back again.
Why protect her virginity?
She was the enemy, never mind that she was eighteen. He could take her now, so quickly satisfying himself. Did it really matter? Would anyone really care? She was an orphan, an American, and Eastleigh had no wish to be burdened with her. No one would care if he returned her without her maidenhead.
He would care.
He would care because he was the son of Gerald and Mary O’Neill, and he had been raised to respect women, to know the difference between right and wrong—and to hate the English. God, his captive wasn’t even English, he thought grimly.
He poured himself a Scotch whiskey and realized his hands were shaking. Not only that, the blood continued to press and pummel in his loins, the pressure there escalating, not decreasing. He downed one glass, then another. No warmth, no softening, was to be found.
He realized that the cabin was terribly silent. Devlin turned.
She stood where he’d left her, but she was staring at him, her gaze wide and fixed, no longer shivering at all.
She hadn’t put on the nightshirt—of course she wouldn’t obey him—and the moment he faced her, he realized she was as aware of the charged atmosphere in the cabin as he was.
She understood his desire, no matter her naiveté and innocence.
She slowly glanced at the long, hard ridge quivering visibly against the tight fabric of his britches. Then she looked up at his face again. She didn’t speak, but her cheeks were brilliantly pink.
“I’m a man,” he murmured. “And you are a woman. It’s quite simple, really.” How smoothly he lied.
She wet her lips. It was a long moment before she spoke. “Are you…” She faltered. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you want me to do?” he heard himself reply.
Her eyes widened with surprise. She whispered, “I don’t know.”
He heard himself laugh with disbelief. Virginia’s nipples remained tight and taut. He only had to glance down to know that she was swelling for him—and he hadn’t even touched her. “I think you lie, Miss Hughes. I think you burn for my touch today the way you burned for it yesterday.”
She stiffened. “I do not.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want.” He poured another Scotch, and now, beginning to enjoy himself despite the erotic pressure, he walked to her and handed her the glass. “You lost all your rights when you dared to defy me this one last time.”
“I never had any rights.”
“You had many rights, but you have been relinquishing them one by one. Drink. It will help warm you while we wait for your bathwater.”
“I’m not cold anymore.”
He almost inhaled harshly, because her words, spoken so innocently, further inflamed him. He tilted up her chin with his fingertips. “Drink,” he said softly, and then he decided to touch her.
He slowly explored her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
She inhaled, and then began to breathe too quickly.
Impossibly, the heat and humidity thickened in the room.
Her lower lip was full, firm, damp. Her mouth had parted for him.
Red hazed his vision again. One kiss, he thought, one long, slow, deliberate kiss. How terrible would that be?
Instead, he closed his hand over hers, lifting it and the glass she held, until the rim reached her mouth. “Trust me on this one small point,” he murmured, aware that his voice had become as thick as the tension in the cabin.
She sipped, not once but several times.
“You are no stranger to Scotch,” he said, surprised.
She held the glass tightly against her chest between her small breasts, clearly unaware of what she was doing and how interesting it appeared. “My father was very fond of Scotch whiskey and he frequently let me take a sip or two, as long as Mother wasn’t watching.”
Something twisted inside of him like a knife. Gerald had shown him how to load a musket at the tender age of six, grinning and whispering, “Mama will murder me if she knows, so don’t breathe a word of this, you hear?”
“You loved your parents very much,” he heard himself remark, shoving the pain of the beast away.
“Yes,” she whispered, and she looked down at her drink. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed as she realized her appearance. “Oh.” She looked up wildly, wide-eyed.
“I am enjoying myself immensely,” he remarked.
She gulped the Scotch, then shoved the half-empty glass at him, turning away.
“You know,” he remarked as casually, “you do not strike me as being the modest type, Virginia.”
She didn’t answer. But she slowly bent to retrieve his nightshirt.