Chapter 3
Sloan Treveryan frowned as he watched the unusual blue-eyed beauty who had come his way. Her manner was most peculiar—one moment he felt as if he were with the most sensual harlot, and in the next, he felt as if he had come across a most indignant aristocrat.
Brice MacMichael—whom Sloan had met when he docked, and who had convinced him he was in need of casual companionship—had kept his promise to send someone “exquisite.” Someone to ease his dark and brooding mood, a temporary haven from the cares of a tragic personal responsibility, and from the tension and danger of his true purpose in Glasgow.
This girl could, he thought with a smile, do all that. She could make him forget everything.
At times it seemed she shuddered from his touch—but she had fought with a fiery temper to keep him for herself.
There was a strange sense of innocence about her, yet he sensed in her blue eyes that she could be a tempest of sensuality.
He had felt that for some reason she was regretting their liaison, yet when she was offered an out, she strenuously declined to take it.
She had sent away another woman, Sloan reflected with amusement. It was a curious situation. Who was this Brianna—and just what was going on? Had old Brice decided to send him not just one woman, but several?
Brianna was awkward with her hooks, almost as if she were reluctant to disrobe.
Yet she was beguiling as she did so. Her shift came slowly up, baring long, shapely legs that were as lovely as alabaster.
She hesitated again with the hem just at the top of her thighs.
Sloan realized a bit foolishly that he had held his breath while her fingers hovered there …
anticipation created a rush of blood within his ears.
He exhaled as she raised the shift again, uncovering to his view firm, rounded buttocks that were as shapely as her legs.
Her waist was tiny, emphasizing that subtle and evocative flare of hips, drawing attention to her long ribcage, sleek shoulders, which were proud and square, and the hint of the swell of her breasts that he could just see as she tossed back her rich mane of ebony hair.
Darkness was falling, he realized regretfully. How he longed to light a candle. But he did not, sensing that she needed to come to him in shadow.
She didn’t glance his way, but hurriedly climbed into the bed.
He caught a quick glimpse of the front of her and he was suddenly aware that his breath was as ragged as the wind.
A shudder tore through his body, and he was made very acutely aware of his almost painful reaction to her.
His muscles tensed; his manhood throbbed.
A loud shout from the street pierced the web of sensual enchantment that was spinning around him, and he twisted to glance out the shutters once more.
Matthews. That damned raving lunatic! Sloan had seen him before, finding “witches” in Liverpool by order of King James.
Matthews shouted something again. He and his men turned down the alley. They slowly disappeared.
A slight sound, a shifting of long limbs against the sheets, attracted his attention. He returned his gaze to the bed, and the stunning woman who lay upon it.
Her hair was spread upon the pillow, a dark silken fan against the white linen. Her eyes were closed. His eyes roamed to the elegant length of neck and ivory throat. She was flushed a tender pink, and her luxurious dark lashes swept low over her cheeks.
Just a glance at her, he thought incredulously, and I feel that I am touched by fever.
The roaring in his ears began all over again, and thought was swept cleanly from his mind. He wanted his cravings soothed and his mind cleansed. It could happen.
Even in the darkness she appeared pale as new-fallen snow and her enigmatic eyes were as wide as a pair of gold doubloons. But then that look was gone—her ink-black lashes slid lazily over her eyes, a subtle curve touched her lips, and a tremor suddenly riddled his body.
He moved lightly to her. She glanced up at him, blue eyes widening again. He saw a pulse beating furiously at the base of her throat and again he found himself wondering just who was this most unique female? Too fine, too beautiful, for her calling.
He touched a silken lock of her hair. Her eyes stared into his, deep and mysterious, slightly glazed and luminescent.
Her lashes brushed over her cheeks and her fingers curled over the sheets.
He moved his gaze over her, haunted by the round, full beauty of her breasts, and the valley dipping between them.
He found himself smiling at her, impatient, his rushing blood seeming to come alive with a smoldering fire.
Yet he was equally willing to go slow and prolong his own torture to touch and explore all that made up the perfection of her form.
He had wanted nothing more than a quick, uninvolved bedding; now he wanted to make love, to tease her senses as he allowed his own to soar.
He knelt down beside her, taking her gently into his arms.
“I need you, Brianna,” he whispered to her.
She flinched at his touch but so faintly, he might have imagined it.
He began to touch her, savoring the softness of her flesh.
She jerked slightly as his fingers grazed the crest of her breasts, then settled between them to find the erratic beat of her heart.
She was still as he allowed his fingers to explore, massaging her throat, the slope of her shoulders, the length of her midriff to the curve of her waist. He found the cleft in her back, the slight dimples that shadowed her buttocks just below her spine.
Brianna barely dared to breathe, staring, as if compelled, at his eyes. It had taken all her willpower—and the rampant fear of a burning death—to remain still at his first touch.
It was becoming more than willpower and fear that held her.
If there was truly a devil who could lure and seduce the innocent, it was he.
Conscious thought slipped slowly but surely away from her.
A part of her mind darkened to oblivion; a new part awakened vibrantly.
Her flesh came alive, and the heat grew within her, spinning from some undefined center.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to stop him! She wanted more!
“Search! Search every street! Suffer not a witch to live!”
The cry came to them faintly from the streets.
Brianna, hearing the words, willed herself not to stiffen.
She offered Treveryan her best attempt at a sultry and seductive smile and pressed her nakedness closely against him, slipping her arms around his shoulders, allowing her nails to graze and tease over his shoulders.
“How I want you,” he murmured.
“And I you …” she replied, again grateful that the fear in her voice created a huskiness that could pass for sensuality. And she was aflame—torn between the exotic new sensations of his caress and the terror that kept her blood pounding mercilessly through her system.
He was gone suddenly—she opened her eyes cautiously to see that he was stripping away his shirt.
He paused then, drinking in her beauty as she lay there, the rouge crests of her breasts provocative as they darkened and hardened in sweet reply to his care, the natural seduction of the curve of her hips, the shadows of her abdomen.
One of her knees was slightly raised over the other, creating a haunting and intriguing mystery of velvet ebony where the shapely length of her legs converged.
He lay beside her again, slipping his arms around her and crushing her breasts against his bared chest. Her head tilted backward, her eyes widened as her arms responded instinctively to his hold, slipping around his neck.
Despite the fever that gripped him, straining his masculinity against his breeches, he was still too fascinated to hurry his torment to an end.
He lowered his head slowly over hers, feeling as if he were drowning a bit in the fantasy of her blue eyes.
His lashes closed only as he touched her lips with his, tasting her natural sweetness more potent than wine.
With the lightest touch he caressed her mouth, vaguely aware that he had stumbled into quicksand and he would sink farther and farther into a magical abyss of no return.
It didn’t matter. He traced her lips with his tongue, and then the fever overwhelmed him and he delved deeply into her mouth, tasting a nectar that drove him wild.
He was compelled to consume, and his mouth hungrily ravaged hers, his tongue delving deeper and deeper, demanding all.
A soft, strangled moan escaped her, but she was not fighting him.
Her lips were forming to his, her fingers threading through his hair.
“Brianna …” he said softly, the word on his lips a caress, “you are, my sweet, a witch.…”
Her body, so sweetly pliant beneath his, suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened until they seemed to encompass her face.
“What?” she gasped, a croak that sounded strangely of terror.
“A temptress, my sweet,” he assured her, “enchantress, seductress. You have ensnared me in the spell of your beauty.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled, and as she did, the tension left her limbs.
“Oh …” she murmured softly. When her eyes met his again he saw that they were veiled, her cheeks were flushed.
Sloan stood to pull the string on his breeches and remove them. She returned his gaze at first, but when he stood naked before her, the flush in her cheeks became crimson. As if suddenly aware of her own nudity, she closed her eyes with a shudder and reached nervously for the linen bed coverings.
“No!” he cried, startling himself with the sound of his voice. But her action had stunned him. It was almost as if his nudity had frightened her, where her own did not.