Devil's Mistress

  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 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 now.”

  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 the 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 plan
ked 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.

  “My father was a friend to Charles II when he roamed in exile. Sons are often sent from their homes to be tutored in other households. I spent a great deal of time with Charles in the English court.”

  “And yet you turn from his brother,” she said softly.

  “I’ve reasons.”

  Brianna touched his hand where it lay idly upon the table. “There is a passion in what you say that goes beyond politics,” she murmured to him earnestly. “Did James wrong you?”

  “Nay …” Sloan replied slowly. His eyes were upon her fingers as they rested lightly upon the back of his hand. They were very long, and they appeared very delicate and feminine. He twisted his hand so that their palms met, his engulfing hers, and he idly rubbed his thumb along her fingers—and to the center of her palm.

  “James did no great wrong to me. But he did to Charles after his death. He had Jemmy beheaded.”

  Brianna frowned, more curious than ever, and yet greatly distracted by the simple touch that made her blood grow warm and race through her. “You knew him well?”

  “Very well.”

  “Oh,” Brianna murmured, absurdly longing to smooth the frown from his brow. “Sloan,” she reminded him quietly, “Monmouth was a bastard—a pretender to the throne. He fought against James, declaring himself the King. It was treason.”

  His touch upon her ceased; the hand was withdrawn. He stood abruptly. “I have no time for your prattle. I’ll return you to the cabin.”

  “But I haven’t finished.”

  “Then you should have eaten rather than spent time voicing opinions over matters of which you are ignorant.”

  She was hurt and furious, but she controlled her temper. Obviously he had cared deeply for Jemmy Scott—but he did not care to talk about it with her. Because she meant nothing to him! He was quite talented at hurting her, but she was learning she had her own weapons to wield. Treveryan, she fumed silently, you will learn what it is to hurt.

  She would be so very sweet and he would be entirely off guard when she did escape him come the morning!

  She stood, keeping her eyes downcast, and when he came around the table, she meekly took his arm. She thanked the cook, and when they crossed the deck, she was careful not to speak to the men, but equally careful to give them all brilliant smiles. Holding lightly to his arm, she felt each ripple of muscle beneath his shirt, and the leashed power within him—and she felt his tension.

  In the hall she swayed close to him, gaining satisfaction and a sense of power with the knowledge that she did indeed have an effect upon him. The sea-jade eyes that lit upon her were hard and brilliant, and his mouth was sternly compressed. He could not possibly understand her sweetness and humble obedience, but neither could he condemn it. And neither could he force his touch upon her, for he had stated he would not.

  She almost laughed when he at last led her into the cabin. But she did not. She turned to him and said simply, “Thank you, Captain Treveryan, for your time and the outing. Both are greatly appreciated.”

  He barely replied to her. The cabin door slammed in his wake, and she did laugh. She had discovered she could play the game—and her desire to win was strong.

  But as the day passed, her excitement waned with bitterness. The afternoon came and went, and Sloan did not reappear. She had run out of shirts to mend, the cabin was spotless, and she could not clear her mind to enjoy the volume by Chaucer she had found in the hidden bookcase.

  Evening came and daylight faded from the cabin. Paddy brought her water for a bath. He tried to speak with her cheerfully, but could not ease her mood.

  “Paddy,” she demanded of him, “whose clothing do I wear?”

  He hesitated uncomfortably. “I told you, lass, a lady who was a friend to the cap’n.”

  “His ex-mistress, you mean. Or perhaps she is still his mistress.”

  “Nay, lass,” Paddy muttered, “he’ll not be seein’ her again.”

  “Did she hurt him, Paddy? Is that why her things were not within his cabin?”

  His startled eyes met hers. He chuckled. “Nay, lass. The captain broke the relationship. Her things were not within the cabin because he’s never shared his quarters before. Now, lass, I’ll be getting back to me work and ye can enjoy your privacy.”

  Brianna mulled over his words once he had gone, wondering at the pleasure they gave her. Then she reminded herself that it did not matter in the least. Tomorrow she would be free. She would find her family—and once again she prayed she would know what it was like to love and be loved in return. The Powells, she knew with a warming certainty, would want her and welcome her lovingly.

  Brianna stayed in the tub until the water grew cold and she feared Paddy would return. She had barely dried herself and redonned the mauve gown when he did, and she thanked him sweetly. When Paddy had left she combed her hair to a glossy shine and waited for Sloan once again.

  But still he did not come, and as her agitation and hunger grew, her temper soared once again.

  He had barely allowed her to consume half of one meal, and now it appeared that he was too busy to offer her dinner.

  For another half hour she paced the cabin, cursing him profoundly under her breath. Then she decided that meekness be damned. She knew the location of the galley, and she had befriended the cook. If Sloan was angry that she had left the cabin, all the better.

  The Cornish cook frowned his disapproval when he saw her, but he prepared her plate with special favor once again. She was standing before him, waiting for her meal, when a young seaman with whom she had spoken briefly a number of times approached her.

  “Mistress Brianna, you should not be here. The captain would be furious, and you place yourself in grave jeopardy.”

  Brianna smiled. “It seems that Captain Treveryan is very busy tonight. And I was very hungry.”

  “You shouldn’t move about unescorted.”

  “Then perhaps, sir, you would escort me.”

  He flushed deeply with pleasure, but then took her plate from the cook with a nod and led her toward the back of the galley, as far as possible from the crew members who were taking their meals.

  “Tell me”—she thought furiously to remember the youth’s name—“George, where is your home?”

  “The north country,” he told her pleasantly. “I’m the third son of Lord Percy, and therefore, not in line for much of an inheritance!”

  “Ahh,” Brianna murmured, chewing a morsel of food before speaking again. Dinner was fish once more, but she was truly ravenous, and so it mattered little. Also, it was nice to be in the company of this youth so near her own age, who was so cordial and obviously pleased to be with her.

  “I shouldn’t worry, George,” she told him. “You seem a bright and able young man and I’m sure you’ll make your own way in the world.”

  He beamed at her words. “Oh, I do think so, Mistress Brianna. Being a younger son has its advantages. It gives me a certain freedom. I can work where I will, and love where I will. My brother must make a marriage advantageous to the family, while I …”

  His blush became very dark. He stuttered for a moment, and then began to speak once more. “Should you ever find yourself alone, Brianna, I would be honored to marry you.”

  She was both stunned and touched—and ashamed at the implication. If the captain tired of her and abandoned her, he would be there …

  “Thank you,” she managed to choke out, but before the startling conversation could go farther, they were interrupted.

  “Seaman—what goes on here?”

  The purser, Gyles Brill, a dark-eyed Welshman, stood behind George’s shoulder. He was close to forty, Brianna imagin
ed, but a man still in his prime and confident with himself. He smelled faintly of rum, and the gaze that he gave Brianna made her distinctly uncomfortable.

  “I am escorting the captain’s lady while she has her dinner,” George mumbled swiftly.

  “That’s not your job. Get on deck, seaman, the winds are shifting.”

  “I’ll take Brianna back to her cabin.”

  “You needn’t. I’ll do so.”

  “You haven’t the rank.”

  “I outrank you.”

  “Eh, look, mate, will you!” someone suddenly rang out. “The dandies are fighting over the captain’s whore!”

  Brianna blanched, but the horror had just begun. Young George was suddenly on his feet, hurling himself across the room to find the speaker. Shouts rang out all over, until the galley was in bedlam. The dining area had turned into a brawl, a cacophony of grunts and curses and flying fists.

  Brianna leapt to her feet in horror as a man came flying across the room, crashing into her table. He gazed at her with a crooked smile upon his face, and then shot like a cannon back into the melee. “I’d brave the plank for a touch of her silk! For but a minute with the captain’s whore,” someone yelled, and Brianna wondered briefly who would uphold what was left of her honor, and who would be ready to take it. Chairs, plates, and tankards flew. “Ye’ll not call her a whore!” George raged, and others joined his bellow. “Let me to her!” The words came wrapped in a licentious chuckle, which ended in a loud wallop and a groan. Her effort to flaunt Sloan had created the disaster, and she realized that her wisest course of action would be to disappear—lest the winners of the brawl include the man who would walk the plank for his chance with the captain’s “whore.”

  She turned to flee, but as she did so, she crashed into something that felt more impregnable than the ship’s panels. Something, however, that radiated heat and steel, strength. A man’s chest, clad in light-blue silk.