Chapter 7
Sloan’s temper had been growing shorter and shorter during the endless days, until his control over it was almost nonexistent.
He had been polite, he had been reserved. He had escorted her unerringly. He had been certain that she would begin to bend—and then yield. They lived together, damn it!
But she didn’t bend—and she didn’t yield.
He knew she was awake when he entered the cabin at night—and each time he heard her relieved sigh when she assumed he was asleep, he wanted to pounce upon her like a tiger.
But he couldn’t. As he lay beside her, unable to reach out, feeling the light fall of her every breath, the curve of her body so close, his muscles would constrict, sweat would break out upon his brow and he would remember her so vividly that he bit into his lip until he drew blood to keep from groaning out in the depths of an agonized shudder. Finally, he would sleep.
Their battles—for the most part—had abated.
She had ceased to rail against him. She kept a cool distance, answering his every question, speaking civilly, even caring for his clothing and cabin.
And yet she was more untouchable than any queen.
Always it seemed that something simmered beneath the surface, a brooding tempest that seemed destined to erupt.
“Damn witch!” Sloan muttered, staring portside to the coast of England.
The sun was shining brilliantly and everything that surrounded him, the fresh sea air, the warmth, the sound of the waves, was beautiful.
But the beauty of the day did nothing for his mood, and he sighed.
He had been avoiding his own cabin and Brianna this morning.
“Paddy—take the wheel!” he called out.
“Aye, aye, Cap’n!” Paddy returned, hurrying from a task at the rigging to take Sloan’s place. Sloan felt that his mate was amused as he gazed at him—which further irked him.
He paused before ducking down the steps that led to his cabin. They were at last nearing Dover. Tomorrow, he decided, they could put into port, where the ship could receive her minor repairs and take on fresh provisions.
He hesitated before his cabin door, about to knock. Annoyed, he reminded himself that it was his cabin, the captain’s cabin, and twisting the knob, he entered.
He found her still in her nightgown, reading by the light from the paned window.
Sloan entered the cabin slowly, feeling the familiar tension creep through him.
Her hair was a tangled enticement upon the pillows, a fan of deep and rich billowing black.
The perfection of her features was enhanced by that raven frame.
Her skin so like ivory contrasted with the darkness of her hair.
The lace of her modest nightgown edged about her throat, but still he could see the rise and fall of her full, firm breasts.
She hadn’t noticed him there, he thought with annoyance—she was involved in her book. And the cabin was a mess! Clothes strewn here and there, the bed tousled and with her still in it!
“Lass,” he exclaimed irritably, ripping the bed coverings, “it’s nearly the noon hour and high time you should be up and about!”
Her eyes, wide, startled, and resentful, met his. Sloan turned quickly from her, determined that she not realize he was angry.
“When one is a prisoner within a cabin,” she responded calmly and quietly, “it seems to matter little how the day is spent!”
Sloan sat behind his desk and finally brought his eyes to hers. “You are not a prisoner, Mistress MacCardle, merely a well-tended guest. Yet it ill befits such a guest to while away the hours with no purpose. Women who grow fat and lazy and indolent are considered most unattractive.”
He had wanted to anger her, to get some reaction from her. But when he was met by her blue gaze once more, it was annoyingly cool.
“Lord Treveryan, I would of all things hope not to prove myself indolent, so I suppose I must rise. Perhaps you would be good enough to leave the cabin again so that I might dress.”
He rested first one booted leg over the edge of his desk, and then the other over that, leaning comfortably back in his chair as his brows arched high in disapproval.
“Nay, lass, I’ll not be asked to leave my cabin so that you may dress, when the sun is already in the middle of the sky.
You’ll have to make do with my presence. ”
He expected to see the fires burn in the depths of her eyes.
She would try to hold her tongue, but she would not be able to, and soon she would be tempted to scratch out his eyes.
But she only shrugged, as if he were indeed an annoyance and nothing more.
She rose from the bed and turned her back on him, and as she did so, the brilliant daylight clearly showed every curve of her body.
She moved to the wardrobe and chose a gown, and with graceful dignity loosed the nightdress from her shoulders and arms, yet held it about her hips as she slid the mauve velvet over her head.
It was a difficult procedure performed well—too well.
He was given a long glance at her bare back, the gentle curve of her spine leading to the dip and swell of her buttocks.
He could see a hint of the fullness of her breasts, and it was a merciless taunt to his senses.
He could not see the sudden smile that tinged her lips, nor the mischief that seized her.
Brianna was weary of boredom, weary of the solemn role in which she had cast herself—and she was very weary of the silent torture she endured night after night when he lay down beside her.
There was only one more day at sea. She had seen how closely they traveled to the coast and she heard the sailors talk about Port Quinby.
She decided, quite abruptly, that it was time for him to suffer.
She had done well, maintaining a polite, very remote distance from him.
Today, with so little time left before she would escape him for good, she was determined to play a different role—one that would thoroughly taunt and haunt him, and leave him as miserable as she had been as his prisoner all this time!
His feet suddenly hit the floor with a thud and he stood and paced the small confines of the cabin as he finally bellowed out at her, “Have done with the primping, lass. If you’ve trouble with the hooks, come over to me.”
“I have no trouble at all,” Brianna replied sweetly, securing the last of her petticoats and turning to face him.
“I haven’t eaten all day, Brianna. If you wish a meal, come along how.”
She was startled by the freedom offered her, and so swept by him quickly.
But whereas she usually took great care not to touch him, she did the opposite this day, passing him so that her skirts brushed his thighs, turning as if in apology so that the fan of her hair teased his chest and chin.
“Excuse me,” she murmured primly, and continued down the hall, bowing her head as she walked to hide her smile.
She had clearly heard the grating of his teeth as she passed him.
Her smile faded as he gripped her elbow roughly, jerking her around.
The scowl that tightened his sun-bronzed features gave her pause for a moment; a shiver rippled through her.
She knew that she was playing a dangerous game.
She felt reckless, ready to explode, and she could not help herself.
She felt as if her flesh were scorched where his fingers touched her.
“Since it is my ship, lass, and since I am one with knowledge of the whereabouts of the galley, I think that I should lead.”
She offered him a dazzling smile. “Forgive me, Captain,” she murmured, extracting her elbow from his grip and slipping her arm through his. “The thought of leaving the cabin for a breath of sunshine left me so exhilarated. Please, do lead, Captain.”
Her sweetness left him wondering bitterly at what mockery lay beneath it, and did not ease his temper.
Nor did her pleasant proximity. Her hair smelled faintly of light summer flowers, and he thought dryly that she had bewitched Paddy as she had himself.
Apparently Paddy had been daily supplying her with a tub of heated water for bathing and the best of the French toilet articles contained within the hold of the ship.
The hall was narrow until they reached the deck, and she was pressed against him.
The mauve gown she had chosen displayed an ample portion of ivory bosom, and that was continually crushed against his arm and chest as they walked.
Moving topside toward the bow did little to ease his irritation, for the men all stopped at their tasks to salute him and bow to her with deep smiles. He saw wistfulness and envy—and hunger—in their eyes.
She smiled in return, replying sweetly to their good-days.
He wanted to slap her.
“You’re rather charming today, aren’t you?” He queried her suspiciously.
“Am I?”
“More so than usual.”
“Ah! But it’s hard to be charming when you continually pursue your prison tactics! Today, My Lord Treveryan, I am seeking to turn the other cheek.”
Sloan laughed. “I don’t believe you’d ever ‘turn the other cheek,’ Brianna. But we’ll see, shan’t we?”
He had never brought her to the galley before.
She was surprised by the elegance of the crew’s dining quarters within a ship designed for cargo and speed—and warfare.
Ol’ John, the cook, seemed as startled to see her as she was to be there, and he prepared her a plate of fish dressed in herbs and ringed by lemon rinds.
Sloan led her to a planked table and sat across from her, eating his meal.
He didn’t speak, but she felt his eyes upon her as she ate, and so she looked at him and questioned him curiously.
“How is it that you, a Welshman, have become so familiar with the Prince and Princess of Orange?”
Sloan hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.