She looked up to his face just as a pistol was fired into the ceiling—silencing the melee into instant sobriety and stillness.
Sloan was not looking at her. He was staring with utter fury at the scene before him—his men bloodied from their brawl; the galley a shambles. His eyes gleamed his wrath with a devil fire.
She had seen him angry, but never like this.
For a moment of cowardice she was ready to slink to the floor and crawl away to avoid him. But she was not at fault! she cried to herself. She had been hungry and he had ignored her to a point where she had been forced to take action.
“I warrant you, gentlemen,” Sloan said coolly, hands upon his hips, legs spread and feet firmly upon the ground, “that it is easy for men to come to blows at sea. I’ll warrant that you’ve even had a certain provocation.” At this point he glanced briefly at Brianna, and she wanted to slap him. There was nothing but a raging venom in the gaze he gave her; cold and contained. He did not defend her, he accused her.
“But you’ve all jobs to do for which you’re all well paid aboard the Sea Hawk. And at this moment, lads, we are sailing for the Princess Mary. Clean up this mess and report back to duty. If the perpetrators of this brawl do not report to me, you’ll all be on half rations until we reach Holland.”
George stepped up to Sloan immediately. He was trembling, but he stood with dignity. “I started the actual fighting, Captain,” he said.
“I suppose I needn’t ask why,” Sloan said dryly, and again his deadly gaze lit upon Brianna, who had no choice but to remain before him.
“A night in the brig,” he said dismissively. He turned around to speak and Brianna saw Paddy following behind him. “There are others who created this fiasco. See that they step forward as George did. Those responsible can make their peace in the brig till we make port in Dover tomorrow. Then the matter will be forgotten.”
Brianna had been listening to him—but still she was taken completely off guard when his hand clamped upon her shoulder and wrenched her toward the door. She wanted to remain calm, to tell him scathingly but clearly just what she thought of his treatment. It was impossible.
“Treveryan, you disgraceful sea-scum, you are hurting me! I insist that you release me.”
“Hurting you!” he exploded. “I’d like to whip you black-and-blue. You were told not to leave the cabin alone. You deliberately defied me, and thanks to you half my crew will spend the week limping and losing their teeth!” They reached his cabin, but even when he slammed the door behind them he did not release his grip upon her.
“Defy you! I owe you no obedience,” Brianna protested heatedly. “I was starving, and since you were too busy to care, I was left no recourse except to seek something to eat.”
“Does it give you pleasure to see men brawl for you, lass? Did you promise that fool boy special favors to defend you?”
With a strength that amazed her she broke his grip and whirled on him, raking her palm and nails furiously across his face. “Noble bastard!” she hissed, too incensed to care that she was adding fuel to his fury. “That boy should never have had to come to my defense! It is because of you that I was called ‘whore’—‘the captain’s whore.’ As I am forced to sleep in your cabin, milord, it is difficult to blame them for labeling me so.”
“You little witch!” he replied in a whispered quiet that frightened her. He went tensely still, bringing his hand to the scratches that welted red upon his face. “Were you not with me, mistress—the captain’s whore—they would have their fun with you. But whore is not the word I would have used. Slut is more applicable for a woman who flaunts herself and enjoys taunting men.” He took a step toward her and she felt as if the blood were draining out of her.
“Slut!” He hissed venomously as she backed away, seeking the shield of his desk.
“That accusation is laughable, milord. And, no, Captain Treveryan, I promised George no favors, but I would! He is a man who at least cares for me, who is at least a gentleman, who is there when I need him, willing to defend me. He does not ignore my needs.”
“So your needs have been ignored, mistress, is that it?” That he spoke quietly did not fool her. His steps were calm and unhurried as he came toward her. Her heart beat erratically, for she felt the tension leaping and crackling like lightning, and the fury that, still leashed, was as combustible as a storm.
“Was that it, my sweet innocent? You’ve taunted each and every one of my men to blows because you were ignored? The beguiling smiles, the gentle, bewitching speeches? You’ve seduced them all.”
“I have not!”
They faced each other across the desk, but then he began his stealthy walk once more and Brianna was forced to counter him. “George has simply been kind to me, and I have—”
“Played your act upon him, as you have on me? A light touch upon the arm, forced nearness in a narrow hallway? Pressing close …”
“No!” He was moving toward her again. In desperation she clutched the logbook from his desk and threw it at him. It grazed off his shoulder, and she shivered as she saw his eyes narrow and his lips compress still further.
“I did nothing!” she cried.
“No? I think you have done much. Take this morning, my little Scot. That lovely little charade when you dressed before me with such modest allure.”
“You refused to leave.”
“Aye—I played right into your hands!”
He was staring at her, his eyes cold and challenging. “Don’t come any nearer to me!” she warned, and nervously continued. “And I understand, Lord Treveryan, that other women have sailed in this ship—with their own sleeping quarters. I demand—”
“You demand?”
“Yes!”
He offered her a subtle grin. “You demand, Mistress MacCardle?” he repeated softly, brows arching as he rounded the desk and seized her with a lithe movement that was too quick and too agile for her to counter.
“No!” she shrieked, wrenching about in panic. She kicked and bit at him and struggled like a wild tiger, only to exhaust herself as he parried her every movement. He held her shoulders and jerked her so that her throat arched and she was left to meet the full fury and tension in his grim features. “Aye, my lass, I’d like to whip you black-and-blue, cure you of your scratching and throwing. But you’ve been demanding all day—and fool that I am, I didn’t understand. Worry yourself no longer, my Scottish love, for I’ll take care not to ignore you.”
His fingers sank into the hair at the nape of her neck as his mouth lowered to hers. She brought her hands against his chest, but it was like pitting a straw against the wind. Warmth filled her, a touch of hot flame; yet she fought that warmth as she fought him, furiously, wildly, fully aware that if she lost the battle, she lost all.
“No!” With desperate effort she at last twisted her head from his, gasping for breath, praying for strength.
He did not release her, but his hold eased and he pulled her head to his chest, where she could hear the rampant beating of his heart. His chin rested over her forehead as he massaged her back.
“I’ve tried,” he murmured. “God knows I’ve tried. Don’t play games of chance, my love.”
Brianna realized that after all, he intended to keep his word. He was going to let her be. Her system was alive with tumult. She wanted to beat against him in fury, and yet she was sorry for her actions.
She tilted her head to meet his eyes, wanting to say something, to tell him somehow how it hurt to be called whore, that she was sorry she had played foolish games. But as she gazed into his eyes, where passion still smoldered and anger still lurked, she couldn’t find the words. She simply shook her head. She had won, she thought bitterly. She had won her game. He wanted her—he wanted to strangle her—but he wanted her.
The victory was bitter. And for some inexplicable reason she had to ease the tension that again reigned. She stood upon her toes and kissed him, meaning the gesture to be the apology she couldn’t voice. She had no thou
ght of malice; she wished only to make amends. She did not realize the portent of her simple actions, nor did she think of danger when he lifted her against him to close the short distance to the bed. She did not realize that she sought a peace that could not be. She just kept whispering his name.
He didn’t make a sound to alert her to his change of intent. She felt his hands upon her gown and heard the rip of the material as it failed to give to his impatient hands. Apology instantly faded from her mind. Where she had been penitent, she was freshly enraged.
“No!” She attempted furiously to pull from his hold. But his hands about her were firm and strong, his glare scornful and resolute.
His voice grated harshly to her. “Lass, I may be a fool, but never a saint. You cannot jerk the strings of a man as you do a marionette.”
She was stunned as he rose and tossed her upon the bed, and yet she saw that he truly believed she had been beckoning him on further to test her power. She stared at him stunned—and then gasped in outrage as she saw that he was stripping with a ruthless determination that assured her she had indeed tested him too far.
She began scrambling for the torn fabric of her gown. His boots hit the floor, his shirt was cast aside, and still she scrambled to pull on her clothing. She fumbled to her knees upon the mattress, drawing her bodice together, yet he blocked her exit from the bed. And when she attempted to rise, he relentlessly pressed her back.
“Sloan—wait—damn you—I didn’t mean … don’t you dare—”
“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 MacCardle. 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 fo
r 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.
Chapter Eight
Port Quinby
From the high ridges of the cliffs, a troop of men looked at the Sea Hawk as she glided smoothly into harbor at Port Quinby. Three quarters of her massive sails were furled, yet she still appeared majestic as she skimmed the light waves before her shirtless crew brought her to dock.
Matthews, clad as always in black, stood with a booted foot cast arrogantly on a high rock, his elbow resting upon his knee as he watched the scene. That the Sea Hawk had now docked made the misery he had endured to reach this squalid port town well worth the effort.
He had barely slept as he pushed himself and the troops, given him by the crown, to the limit of human endurance. He had been certain that the storms at sea would force Treveryan to seek harbor. He had traveled over fifty miles most days, and Matthews had remained certain all the while that God was guiding him. Never had he pursued a witch with such a vengeance, but never before had he met quite so frightening a witch. The girl had power; she had haunted him, she had come night after night to torment him in his dreams.