Chapter 7 #4
“At this moment, witch,” he murmured, bringing her wrists to the bed in a vise and leaning near to whisper, “I will dare whatever I choose. I have had it! All day you have taunted me, and when I would still uphold my promise, you choose to test me further. The strongest man has his breaking point. You have discovered mine.”
She struggled wildly but soon he had her naked in his arms. Still she fought him, furiously, then desperately, until her strength failed against his indomitable will.
Then his kiss, the lightest caress, touched upon her forehead.
And then upon her cheeks … and finally upon her lips.
She lay still, mesmerized by the tenderness within that gentle assault, such a contrast to the tempest of anger that had exploded between them.
Again his kiss was searing, delving, commanding all, but now the hunger was tempered by a yearning that sweetly seduced.
Her hands, still bound into fists above the bonds of his grip, slowly relaxed, and when he drew his lips from hers, he kissed the palms of her hands, vulnerable then, weakening to his will as she was.
She could not deny the pleasure of the sweet fire ignited within her at his intimate touch.
He wrapped his arms around her, savoring the touch that melded them then, giving them a moment of intimacy that was completely tender; an eye within a storm, a brief interlude of sacred peace.
A broken sob escaped Brianna. “I did not want this.”
But she did want him. She was in love with him.
His pain-filled whisper brushed and caressed her hair and her ear. “Always you refuse me too late, my love. For I must be with you. Please let me love you. Touch me … have me.…”
She couldn’t speak, and yet she answered him by winding her arms more tightly about his back, by kissing the hollow of his shoulder. Her teeth grazed against his flesh with the passionate craving that wound deep within her.
He pulled away from her and lifted his weight from her and spread her thighs.
He slid his hands lovingly over her breasts, along her hips to her legs, lifting them high around him.
And then he came back to her, fusing his lips to hers as he gently claimed her, shuddering as he filled her and received her embrace.
His strokes were slow, and his whispers reassured her.
She arched to meet him, and he enveloped her within his arms and allowed his passion full rein.
Her soft moans and the sensual undulation of her hips against him fed the fires of his hunger to an all-consuming flame.
He heard her cry out and shudder beneath him, and all the passion within him burst in an explosive moment of pleasure so great that he trembled again and again as his limbs slowly relaxed against hers.
He wanted to speak to her but could not. And when he finally said her name, she shook her head and buried her face against his chest. He held her and, in time, rose to extinguish the lamps that still burned, and then lay down beside her once more.
There was a spell to the night, and as long as it was not broken by words, it would endure. Within that spell and the enchanted darkness he could make love to her again, slowly … nurturingly … teaching her new beauty. In turn, his witch truly taught the devil what heaven could be.
His brooding eyes were upon her when morning came.
She rested upon his chest, her cheek a gentle warmth against him.
His arm cradled around her shoulder and back and his hand rested upon the sloping curve of her hip.
He reveled in her beauty, and the light brush of his fingers that idly massaged her spine spoke of tenderness, and not of passion.
For he was torn by a deep sense of shame, and he did not know how to face her; he was convinced more than ever that he could never let her go. He had to mask his feelings and stiffen his resolve, for when she awoke, the magic of darkness would be gone.
He would have to defend himself; yet he felt his guilt and so would have to shield himself with declarations of right. He would do so, for he could never promise to keep his distance from her again.
He felt suddenly a difference within her, and realized that she, too, had been pensively lying awake. He tensed, expecting her tears or her anger. Then he twisted above her, green eyes hard as they stared into hers, but what he found was far more difficult to bear than fury or tears.
Her blue gaze echoed a depth of misery that clamped about his heart. She offered no reproach, only the pain of that sadness.
Instinctively he moved to pull her close, to offer the comfort and security of his strength and warmth. But she pulled away from him and drew the bedcovers about herself, smiling ruefully and shaking her head.
“I did not—” he began.
“Sloan,” she interrupted with soft dignity, “I charge you with no fault. I did not seek to cause trouble with your men, but I did think to taunt you and cause you misery. It was a foolish game to play, milord; your strength should not be tested. Perhaps I … I did want … what happened between us. I did not know it … nor am I glad to know it now. And so I beseech you, please release—”
Rising on his elbow, he cupped her chin in his hands.
“Do not ask me to give you up, for I cannot.” He fell silent for a moment, searching her eyes.
“I need you,” he told her, with fervor and conviction.
“I swear, Scottish witch, that I need you as I have never needed another woman in all the years of my life.”
She returned his gaze, and he felt her shivering.
“I cannot be your mistress,” she said painfully.
“I cannot bear it when your men shout ‘whore’ at me—and know that they speak the truth.” She continued in a whisper, “If it is true, my lord, that you need me above all others, then give me the freedom to be there for you. Marry me.”
The cold shield that covered his eyes was instantaneous, and the hands that touched her grew stiff.
He stared at her a moment longer and then turned from her, rising to dress with smooth efficiency.
He glanced her way only once, and Brianna knew the man who had loved her with both tenderness and burning, passionate demand was gone.
“I cannot,” he said simply, as he pulled on his boots. It was not only his words that ripped her apart as if a blade had pierced her; it was his chilly flat tone. “You have no choice but to remain aboard the Sea Hawk,” he told her harshly.
He turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, the captain of his ship, the unfathomable, cold, and authoritative lord.
“We dock today for supplies and repairs, Mistress MacCardie. Do not seek to leave the ship. Paddy will remain aboard, and he will see to your needs until we set sail again.” He hesitated a moment and continued.
“You needn’t fear being called ‘whore’ again.
The men would not dare anger me a second time. ”
Brianna began to laugh, yet sobered quickly. “Milord, you cannot punish them for what they see, and for what is truth!” It didn’t really matter, she thought dully. Once they docked, she would be gone. More than ever, she had to escape him.
“You will not hear the word again,” he said curtly.
He walked out the door, and she heard the slip of the bolt.
Still, she was too numb for tears. Surely the pain of burning at the stake could not equal the agony of loving this man and knowing that she must leave him.
If only he loved her. Cherished her. Wished to marry her.
But he had never said that he loved her.
For a moment she closed her eyes tightly against the pain. Then, rising from the bed, she dressed methodically, glad of the numbness that sustained her.
The door had been bolted, but she would find a way to escape him when she was on English soil. It would be her last chance to save her heart—and her soul—from this devil of a man with whom she had so foolishly waged battle—and lost.