Chapter 2 #3
He was watching her—too acutely, too curiously. She smiled quickly, thinking that a whore would be stroking his ego. “It’s quite a pleasure to see a man of your strength,” she crooned softly.
“Is it?” he asked. She kept smiling, even though she longed to slap him and tell him he was incredibly insolent. What would the real whore respond? Brianna wondered. Worse still, what if the real whore put in an appearance while they were sitting there?
“Yes, it is,” she replied quickly. “It’s such a pleasure that I’m very anxious to be alone with you.”
He leaned across the table. She was made very aware of his scent, clean and male and tangy like the sea.
One of the serving girls came to the table with a steaming bowl of stew, a crude pewter wine-cup, and a new tankard of ale for the captain, or lord, or whatever he might be.
She was a pretty wench, busty and well rounded, and she had a saucy smile for the captain and a faint glance of skepticism for Brianna.
Brushing closely against the captain, she asked coyly, “Will ye be needin’ anything, m’lord?”
He smiled in return to her, “I think not, Bessie, thank you.”
Bessie pouted her lips slightly. “If ye decide that ye do”—her glance suggested that with Brianna as his “companion,” it was most likely that he would discover himself in need—“ye just let me know, m’lord.”
“He won’t, Bessie,” Brianna said sweetly, but with a deadly warning.
With a swish of her ample rear, Bessie left the table.
God, she was hungry, but she wanted to eat quickly and leave the public room. Glancing up, she discovered that he was still watching her, and that he was very close.
“Umm, aren’t you eating?” she inquired.
He shook his head, his expression curious. “I’ve eaten, thank you.”
Brianna glanced quickly toward the tavern’s doors. It was possible that the officers would rush into the tavern, screaming “witch,” and drag her back out into the rain-muddied streets. She had to eat quickly.
She did so, taking large sips of her wine in between bites of the stew. The wine was potent and comforting. It helped to blur the rough edges of terror that still gnawed at her whenever she glimpsed the tavern door.
She was startled when the long fingers that had been idly drumming the table suddenly stretched out to cover her hand. A little jolt of heat seemed to flash through her at that touch, and she lifted her eyes warily to meet his.
“Are you through?”
She nodded uneasily. For a second there seemed to be a quirk of amusement in those enigmatic and compelling eyes.
Fears played havoc with her; icy shivers ran along her spine. She was going to have to play her role if she wanted to escape the public room. Distance, she reminded herself. Withdraw into yourself, and he cannot really touch you.
“Would you like something else? More … stew?”
“No!” she responded quickly. She leaned across the table, reaching out to touch his cheek, to caress the rugged contours of his face with her fingers.
Her fingertips seemed to burn at the action; he was very real, male, and disturbing.
She wanted to pull away so desperately. “I told you,” she whispered. “I’m anxious.”
He caught her hand and pressed his lips against it. “Are you really?” He asked softly. “I’ll be … anxious … to see this myself. After you’re cleaned up, of course.”
She did jerk her hand back, but forced her lips into another smile. He lifted a hand to summon the serving wench, but as they waited for the girl, the tavern doors swung open. An old peg leg entered, shouting excitedly. “They’re combing the streets out there—a witch-hunt if ever I’ve seen one!”
Brianna froze in her chair, feeling as if cold fingers had grabbed her by the throat. She lowered her lashes instantly over her eyes in hope of concealing her terror.
But the handsome captain didn’t notice. She heard him utter an exclamation of disgust, and her eyes flew open. “Superstitious rot!” he muttered, but he wasn’t talking to her, just to himself.
Brianna barely noticed his words because panic was with her once again.
She stood, took his hand, and leaned against him.
“May we leave?” she murmured. Leave! When they left, she would be running out of time.
No, no, she could stall, and play for time once he took her to his lodgings.
Fool! She charged herself. How would she play for time then—when she had been telling him how “anxious” she was!
Then he would discover that she was not at all what she claimed.
That would still be minutes away, and right now she had to take things minute by minute. She had to get out of the main room of the tavern just in case the searchers did burst through the doors.
One of his handsome black brows quirked up a third time as her entreaty brought him back from private thoughts. “Please,” she said more softly.
He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile curving the full and sensuous mouth. “Certainly.” He stood, and once again she was struck by his height and powerful size.
Where were his lodgings? she wondered in a moment of panic. If he headed toward the street, she was doomed.
His hand slipped around her elbow and they left the sheltered table behind. The tavern’s patrons, listening avidly to the peg leg’s account of the witch burning that had taken place in the common, barely glanced up as they made their way toward the stairs.
Bessie, her pert nose still somewhat in the air, stopped them at the landing. Her eyes flashed over Brianna’s slender figure contemptuously before boldly meeting those of the man.
“Yer room’s fresh and clean, m’lord Treveryan,” she said with a little bob. “Ye will call me.…” Her voice trailed away insinuatingly.
“Water, Bessie, and soap, please.”
“Right away, Lord Treveryan,” Bessie said with another bob. She wrinkled her nose toward Brianna, but Brianna barely noticed, she was so intent upon Bessie’s words.
Lord Treveryan. Whoever he was, he was of the nobility. He might think witch-hunts contemptible, but he might still be loyal to the crown of James.
She didn’t have long to think, for moments later she was being ushered into a small, sparsely furnished room.
There was a bed and a dresser, and a plain latticed screen to the far left of the room.
They had barely entered the room before Bessie followed them with a washbowl and pitcher.
She carried them behind the screen, where there must have been a table, as Brianna heard the pottery click against the wood.
But she did not pay attention to Treveryan or Bessie, because there was a shuttered window overlooking the street below.
Brianna walked nervously to the window and cracked open the shutters.
The rain had stopped, and afternoon was fast fading into night.
Her heart skipped a little beat as she saw a man in the king’s uniform stalking down the street.
She almost jumped out the window when a hand came down upon her shoulder.
“What is the matter with you?” Jade eyes bored into hers as Treveryan irritably voiced the question. His hands were upon her shoulders, holding her to face him.
Brianna blinked quickly, and reminded herself that it was her life at stake. “Nothing,” she whispered huskily to him. “Nothing at all.”
He lifted surprisingly gentle fingers to her cheek and traced the bone structure down to her mouth. A shiver trailed down her spine as he lightly followed the curve of her lips with his thumb.
His voice was husky when he spoke again, and the velvet within it sent another tingling wave racing along her spine.
“If you do not wish to be here, Brianna, then you must leave.”
Leave! Walk out when the king’s men were prowling the street!
“No!” she murmured quickly. She forced herself to open her eyes to him again and face him with a dazzling smile. “No,” she repeated, softly this time. “I’m exactly where I wish to be.”
“Then let’s get on with it, shall we?” He said softly. But there was a hint of impatience in his voice—a warning.
He had cast aside his greatcoat and she saw that his shirt was of fine white silk.
She shuddered once, just once, and resigned herself to her charade.
If she did not please him, she would think of something to say.
But while there was breath in her, and while he offered this hiding place, this safety, she would stay with him.
“The washstand,” he told her pointedly, “is over there.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured, and walked quickly behind the screen.
She hesitated there, just for a moment. If a miracle was going to occur to save her, now was the time.
No miracles occurred. She closed her eyes tightly, then reached nervously to undo her muddied gown.
It fell to the floor, and when she stood in her shift only, she shivered fleetingly, then with numb fingers she reached for the soap.
Cleaning herself of the mud felt good, but the water was cold, shocking her into a greater realization than she wanted to face.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go through with it!
“Brianna!”
His tone was very irritated. She flinched behind the cover of the screen, finding strength in the hatred for him that leapt to her breast. “I’m coming,” she called out sharply, then winced again at her own tone.
“I want only to please you!” She called out silkily.
Then, she came around the screen and in desperation, hurried to him.
She slipped her arms around him, allowing her fingers to play upon the flesh at the nape of his neck.
She felt his muscles beneath her touch and the crush of his broad chest against her breasts.
His arms slipped around her and the power and heat that enveloped her made her shiver.
She had to go through with it, she warned herself furiously.
But what then? What happened when he was done with her?