Chapter 9 #3
A yawning silence came over the study. Devlin stared at his own cigar, burning in the porcelain ashtray. He was grim. Virginia had been nothing but a pawn in his game with Eastleigh until that night. Now he felt as if she had become a terrible viper in their midst.
But he could not change his course.
He covered his eyes briefly, pain stabbing in his forehead, then paced wildly, allowing the anger in, welcoming it.
She had come perilously close to flirting with Sean tonight.
She had encouraged his emotions. Her attentive behavior, her pretty laughter, her eager conversation had ensnared his brother thoroughly.
She had become a problem, one he must quickly solve.
The sooner he was rid of her, the better. The better for everyone.
Suddenly Virginia materialized in the doorway. He stiffened. She didn’t smile, but said, low, “It’s a beautiful night. Would you walk with me, Devlin?”
“No.”
She jumped at the harsh sound of his voice.
“Come in,” he ground out, fully aware of what he must do to end any further dalliance between her and his brother. As she did, her eyes wide and wary, he walked swiftly past her and closed the door.
“What’s wrong?” she asked cautiously.
“You are to stay away from Sean.”
“What?” she gasped.
He found himself gripping her shoulders. Now his anger had become infused into something entirely different and it was rearing up insistently, the blood there hot and red, pounding. “Let me repeat myself. Stay away from Sean.”
“Whatever you are thinking—you are wrong!” she cried, eyes wide.
“Am I? The last thing I need is my brother falling in love with you, Miss Hughes. Do I make myself clear?” He found his grip tightening. She whimpered, but it was too late, somehow his hands had a will of their own, pulling her up against his hard, aroused body.
“Devlin,” she whispered, the sound throaty with need.
Triumph surged within him. She would not think about his brother now.
“Do you wish to know something, an interesting fact?” he asked harshly, palming her backside and holding her up against his arousal, where she began to squirm.
“I don’t think it will be very difficult to make you forget all about Sean… darling.”
Her eyes were glazing over. She gripped his shoulders, her chest heaving, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t want Sean,” she said hoarsely. “I want you.”
Inside his brain, coherence exploded. Devlin crushed her to his chest, taking her mouth, forcing it open. As his tongue swept deep, hers came forth to meet him. More explosions went off inside of his head. Then he felt her small hands sliding over his waist.
Desire thoroughly blinded him. “No, here,” he said, taking one of her hands and pushing it over the hard ridge that was his arousal.
She gasped and he almost laughed, but the pain and the pressure was far too intense and he could not get a sound out.
Choking, he forced her hand to slide down the length there, and when suddenly she closed her fingers around most of him, he pulled her down to the floor, moving on top of her, claiming her mouth yet again. And briefly, there was no more thought.
She clawed his shoulders and moaned; he kissed his way down her throat, pulled her bodice down, exposing both perfect breasts. And as he stared at one erect nipple, two images came to mind—Eastleigh, fat and gray, and Sean, dark and angry.
What was he doing?
He was so angry he couldn’t even think clearly, and this was so fast and furious it wasn’t even seduction—it wasn’t rape, but because of her and Sean, he was poised to take her, violently and brutally. He had sworn to return her to Eastleigh unharmed—but instead, he had lost all control.
She reached for his face, thrashing beneath him. “Hurry,” she begged.
He looked again at her erect nipple, at her small, plump breast, and desperately fought the increasing pressure in his loins, the red haze growing in his head, the frantic urgency. He was out of control. Stunned, he pulled her dress up, covering her breasts, and somehow stood.
What in hell had just happened?
This woman had brought him to a point he had never before reached.
He was a master of self-control—but she had shattered it.
Not looking at her, not daring to, he started swiftly from the room.
He heard her sitting up on the floor. “Devlin,” she gasped. “Come back. Please.”
He ground his jaw down and did not falter.
“You can’t leave me like this!” she cried.
He bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Then he strode down the hall. By the time he reached his bedroom door, he felt as if he had regained some semblance of control—but not all of it.
He was very disturbed.
Because Virginia had just had power over him—and he could not, would not, ever let anyone have any power over him, not in any way, and not his very own prisoner.
He entered his room, quickly shutting the door, shrugging off his navy coat. His erection still raged and he tugged uselessly at his britches but found no relief.
“Oh, do let me help with that.” Fiona stepped forward, resplendently naked.
He stopped short, staring in surprise, for he had completely forgotten about her.
She was smiling as she came forward, her pendulous breasts swaying, and before he could even assimilate that she was present because he had told her to be so, she dropped onto her knees, unfastening his britches deftly.
He inhaled hard as he sprang free, then inhaled again as she took his entire length into her mouth and down her throat.
Huge violet eyes, unfocused and glazed with desire, filled his mind as his own eyes closed.
He gripped Fiona’s head tightly, and as she sucked his engorged shaft as if she wished to swallow him whole, his treacherous mind envisioned a different woman on her knees performing the very same act, a woman small and dainty, impossibly beautiful, outspoken and defiant.
The thick straight hair in his hands became soft, silken curls.
The large tongue became small and pointed.
Full, tender rosebud lips now stretched taut around him.
With his hands, he encouraged Virginia to hurry and finish him off.
The dam broke. He cried out and when he was done, he moved to the bed, where he sat, breathing hard and stunned by the intensity of his release.
She moved against him from behind. Suddenly aware of the huge breasts against his back, he stiffened, realizing that Fiona was in his bed, that Fiona had just performed fellatio upon him, not Virginia Hughes.
Very seductively, she began rubbing herself against him. “The night has only begun, my lord,” she purred.
He sat there almost laughing at himself. How could he have thought, even for an instant, that Virginia could perform such an act? It wasn’t even a matter of her innocence, it was a matter of her—and his—size.
But the incipient amusement vanished. He had never experienced such pleasure before. And recalling it, images of Virginia returned to him full force and instantly his manhood rose to the occasion.
“I knew you would return to me, my lord,” Fiona said.
He had a choice—dismiss her or take her. Devlin turned, pushing her onto her back on the bed. And closing his eyes, he mounted her.
He paced the manor, disturbed.
The events of the past few hours were haunting him.
And a ghost seemed to follow him, the presence as disquieting as that entire evening had been.
It was as if Gerald had followed him from the docks of Limerick, refusing to release him.
A bottle of fine French brandy in hand, Devlin stared at the gun rack that was mounted on the wall.
Once, ages ago, he had found his father’s gun rack empty in a terrible time of need.
That rack had been destroyed in the fire set by Eastleigh’s troops so long ago.
Although there was no need, modern muskets filled the brackets—it would never be left empty again.
When will you let our father rest in peace?
Devlin drank. Half the bottle was gone, and he was going to pay for it on the morrow. He hated thinking about Gerald, he hated each and every memory, the good being far worse than the bad—which was why he never came home.
Sightless eyes filled with fury turned mocking.
“Go away,” Devlin murmured. “Your time will come.” He paused drunkenly before a huge fire roaring in the massive hearth.
The halls seemed to shimmer in the shadows, but no one answered him. Not that he had expected an answer, and besides, he didn’t believe in ghosts.
Still, the room felt heavy and full. He did not feel alone.
Vengeance belongs to God, not you…you do this only for yourself!
“Christ,” Devlin gritted. He drank some more, and now his stomach burned from the excessive consumption of liquor.
Images of Virginia taunted him, standing on the deck of the Americana, the wind whipping her hair, aiming that silly pistol at him.
Her face changed, smiling brightly, her eyes sparkling as they had at supper, enchanting his brother with her humor, her wit, her conversation, and then there was Sean, dark and angry, claiming to be falling in love.
You will have to destroy her…how can you live with yourself? How?
Devlin stalked about the great room, wondering if, on this cold and windless night, his conscience had decided, finally, to make an appearance in his life.
The hall had been furnished with blood money.
Elegantly appointed, it was a testament to the hundreds of ships he had attacked, seized and destroyed at sea, the thousands of crew taken prisoner, the hundreds left behind, dead and buried by the sea.
His home was as elegant as any lord admiral’s, as fine as Adare’s.
His next intention was to begin reconstruction of the old keep in ruins behind the manor house.
Once, family myth had it, a great pirate ancestor of his had lived there and loved a most extraordinary woman, the daughter of the infamous traitor, Gerald FitzGerald, the one-time Earl of Desmond.
Now he had the funds—his last prize, loaded with bullion, had made him a very rich man.
Enough! Give up.
Devlin stiffened as if shot. He could have sworn he’d just heard his father’s stern, angry voice echoing in the room.
He slowly looked around the huge hall, almost expecting to see someone materializing in the shadows, but the room was still and silent.
Through one tall glass window, he saw stars and the night.
He was alone. His imagination was playing tricks upon him—either that, or he did have a damned conscience after all.
But the odd feeling of not being alone at all remained.
Give up.
Devlin flinched. Was he actually hearing a voice, or was it his drunken imagination and nothing more?
Still, the advice was good. Prowling his home in the wee hours of the coming dawn was as useless as sailing into the wind.
He started for the stairs. The sensation remained however, dark and disturbing—the sensation of being watched.
He refused to look back.
And his last waking thought before drifting to sleep as dawn broke over the Irish countryside was that he would never give up, not ever, not until Eastleigh was dead.