Chapter One #3
She was weeping loudly by now, terrified. But in spite of her fear, she kept her mouth shut. He watched her face, the tightly closed eyes and rivers of tears, before moving a hand to her belly, stroking the fabric and the flesh beneath.
“Nay,” she begged tearfully. “Please stop. Sweet Jesus, have you no sense of decency?”
“Nay,” he said flatly. “I am an animal, remember?”
She opened her eyes, looking at him. “I… I did not mean it,” she whispered urgently. “Please forgive me. I did not mean it at all.”
He lifted a red eyebrow at her, now dipping his head to lick the soft skin of her cheek. “I forgive you,” he said. “But you will tell me your name.”
She was back to weeping again, closing her eyes tightly and turning away.
His response was to suckle the flesh of her chin, feeling her squirm beneath him.
She was soft and sweet, much more than any woman he had ever known.
He had only started the game to coax forth her name, but now the game had overtaken him and he was lost in a haze of the most powerful lust he had ever known.
But he controlled himself.
He didn’t want to be that animal she accused him of being.
“Tell me your name,” he breathed, his voice quivering with desire. “I want to know who you are and why you are here. I promise I will not hurt you if you tell me the truth.”
She gazed up at him, so terrified that she could hardly speak. But she could not allow her stubbornness and pride to be the cause of her downfall. It was time to push that all aside to save herself from this terrible folly.
“Do… do you swear it?” she asked.
“I swear it if you will tell me your name.”
“I am Lady Emllyn Nesta Isabella Fitzgerald,” she whispered after a moment’s hesitation. “My brother is the Earl of Kildare and it is his fleet that the Irish destroyed this night.”
He gazed down at her, believing every word.
She was far too fine and beautiful to be anything other than a noblewoman.
Still, his lust had the better of him and the hand moved back to her hip moved, stroking it gently.
There was something terribly personal about his touch, enough to have her quivering with terror.
Or perhaps it might even be desire.
It was difficult to know.
“Your brother is the Earl of Kildare?” he repeated in a ragged whisper.
“Aye.”
“I find it difficult to believe that your brother would allow you to sail, considering this is a battle fleet.”
Emllyn was terrified that hand on her hip was going to move somewhere more personal even though he’d not made the attempt.
Yet, anyway.
“He did not allow me to sail,” she said. “I… I came without his permission.”
His brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
She hesitated and he could see the stubborn streak rear itself again. The hand on her hip moved slightly, just to remind her what could happen if she didn’t cooperate.
“Why did you come, Emllyn?” he asked again.
She could feel his fingers brushing against the side of her buttocks now. “Nay… please..!”
“Tell me now.”
She yelped as he pinched the flesh of her hip, but the message was obvious. “I wanted to come because…” She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her wits. “Because Trevor was on the ship. I… I wanted to surprise him. I wanted to be with him.”
“Trevor?” he repeated. “Who is Trevor?”
“The man I love.”
“Are you betrothed?”
She shook her head. “Nay,” she breathed. “I was hoping… hoping to show him what a worthy wife I would be.”
“And your brother has no knowledge of you coming with his fleet?”
“Nay.”
“You followed a man you hoped to become betrothed to?”
“Aye.”
“That was foolish. Stupid and foolish.”
Her eyes lolled open, red-rimmed, to look at him. “I took the risk,” she whispered, the defiance back in her tone. “I had no way of knowing that the Irish would be waiting for the fleet to destroy it.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps he should not have tried to invade,” he said. “The sons of Eire are stronger than the English. ’Tis time they realized that.”
“Did you have to kill them all?”
“I did.”
Surprisingly, she didn’t dissolve into more tears. Her gaze was steady. “I heard that man say that I was your gift for a decisive victory,” she said. “You led the battle. You must be the one they call Black Sword.”
“Your brother has lost two things dear to him this night,” he muttered. “His sailing fleet and his sister.”
She grunted as that hand on the side of her buttocks grew bolder, although she had to admit that it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. In spite of their tense situation, it was almost… gentle.
“Are you Black Sword?” she asked.
His eyes glimmered in the dark room. “I am the Lord of Black Castle,” he said softly. “My name is Devlin de Bermingham. If that name means nothing to you now, it soon will.”
She turned away from him, feeling his hand as it began to caress her hip and buttock. It was so large that his fingers could reach down her thigh. Whatever he intended to do, she knew she couldn’t stop him.
That was perhaps the most painful realization of all.
“It does not matter,” she whispered, closing her eyes as the tears started to come again. “After this night, Trevor will not want me even if he has survived the battle. No one will want me. Do what you must and get on with it.”
He gazed down at her, struggling against any pity he might be feeling.
For the moment, all he could see was the most desirable woman he had ever known, her soft body and exquisite face the most potent aphrodisiac he had ever experienced.
He was torn between finishing what he had started and walking away, although he did not know why he was so indecisive. He should not have been.
His night of dominance over the English was not finished, not in the least, and this moment would finally seal his hatred against the Earl of Kildare, the man grossly despised by his people for the inequities and injustice he had spread among them.
By pure luck, he had the earl’s sister and he intended to take advantage of it.
His mercy, at the moment, did not include her.
At least, he hadn’t thought so.
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He should have been coiling his buttocks and ramming into her tender body.
Every stroke would have been for Irish freedom, something he lived and breathed every day against the hated English.
It would have been better for her had she lied and told him she was Scots or French. Perhaps he would have let her go.
Perhaps not.
When there should have been anger in his movements, there was indecision.
Hesitation. The hand on her hip remained there as he pondered his next move.
He made no move to bruise or hurt her. She was too exquisite for that and he did not want to damage her any more than he already was, even if it was only emotional.
She was frightened out of her mind. But he should have been dominating and humiliating Fitzgerald.
He should have been sending the English a message.
But he wasn’t.
Eventually, he released her wrists and her little hands slapped at him, eventually falling still on the mattress as if disgusted by the very feel of him.
But he remained where he was as if frozen in that position, unable to make a decision as to how to proceed.
His men thought he was ravaging her and he very well should be.
Frustration swamped him.
“For years, the English have practiced the immoral act of taking Irish brides on their wedding night,” he said, pushing himself off her.
“English lords have demanded first right with the bride if she hails from his lands. Many English bastards have been born in Ireland and Scotland because of this deviant law. You are fortunate that tonight I did not punish you for years of English abuse. But keep in mind that I still might. Displease me and my mercy is at an end. Your brother will come to know what it is like to have someone he loves bear the bastard of the hated enemy.”
Emllyn’s eyes rolled open, gazing at him as tears streamed down her temples. She lay curled up, rolled on herself as if to hide from the world.
“If that is your intention, you will be sorely disappointed,” she whispered. “My brother will not care. If you believe you punish him by harming me, he will laugh at you for it.”
Devlin left her lying on the mattress without another word.