Devil's Mistress by Heather Graham
He caught her fingers and massaged them with his, then kissed each individually. Desire, warm and delicious, began to sweep through her like the relentless push of the tide.
She shakily extracted her fingers from his and began to undo the buttons of his shirt, her eyes upon her task. She felt the rush of his breath when her fingers touched his bare chest.
His arms swept around her and his lips crushed hers hungrily, devouring with need and tenderness. He drew apart from her again, trembling as he held her away. “Sweet witch, your magic has more strength than my will. This is a temptation that I cannot deny …”
Again his mouth came to hers and his tongue parted her lips and elicited the most tantalizing elixir of ardent response. For a long while they kissed deeply, holding each other in a passionate embrace. But at last he broke away from her, peeled away his shirt, and when his chest was bare, she had to explore the thick dark hair that covered its expanse, her eyes following the touch of her fingers with fascination. She noted all wonderful things, the tensing muscles beneath her fingers, the clean line of his collarbone, the hard rounded sinews of his arms and the curling trail of hair which became so slender as it narrowed to his breeches.
She set her hands upon the drawstring, and again delighted in the force of his shudder, the catch of his breath. The tide of yearning washed over her again, leaving a fire that blazed and wound within her abdomen and sent her quivering.
The string about his breeches gave under her questing fingers. Her feminine wiles were quickly igniting him to excitement unlike any he had felt before. Her fingers slid over the tensely knotted firmness of his hard-muscled buttocks. Each graze of her nails sent his senses spiraling to a higher pinnacle of arousal, each movement of her lips against his sent him deeper under her unique bewitching spell.
This was no cunning seduction game for Brianna. She longed for him and she needed to touch him. Her lips traveled over his chest and she paused at his hard nipple feathered with dark hair. She grazed it with her teeth, nipping, tasting the salt spray and his intoxicating maleness. Her hands and fingers moved caressingly, and as he stood, she slowly lowered his breeches down his trim hips until she knelt to peel them from his strong legs. She was overwhelmed with the wonder that he was hers, that she was free to love him so, that she could create the racing of his blood and incite his desire.
“Dear God!” His husky groan touched her heart and thrilled her senses. “You are a witch, you love me as no other …”
He broke off with a gasp as she slid her hands over his legs, luxuriating in their strength. With the innocence and curiosity of Eve she pressed the moist heat of her kisses along his calves and then moved upward, to his knees, and to the tightly wired muscles of his thighs.
“Brianna!”
He was down beside her with his hands on her shoulders, holding her. She met his flaming eyes, and then his lips were on hers, ravaging, and yet tender. He ripped away the flimsy material of her gown.
Then he froze, and abruptly withdrew from her.
“What is wrong?” she cried, wondering desperately what could have overtaken him with such horror.
Then she felt his hands on her again, gently touching those spots where the pick had broken her flesh. “Damn fate that I cannot kill that man a thousand times again!” he swore.
She clutched his head to her breast, breathing a sigh of relief. Her fingers moved through his hair and she brokenly assured him, “There is no pain, Sloan; that is in the past. Please, don’t leave me! Your touch is the greatest balm.”
“I would not hurt you—”
“Then love me, and let him come no more between us.”
So tenderly did he touch her, his lips were a cooling breeze to every small hurt. She could not bear to go slowly, and pleaded that he set his passion free. He responded to her entreaties and allowed the leashed desire of many cold and lonely nights to unfold and soar.
She was lifted high and the remainder of her clothing impatiently drawn from her. He laid her down on the bed, and she met the blaze of his eyes with yearning invitation, her slender arms outstretched. The heat of anticipation that raced through her could mount no higher, and intuitively she shifted her long legs to receive him; but he smiled as he knelt beside her and brushed a kiss against the column of her throat.
“Not yet, my beloved witch … not yet. Magic is eternal …”
His hand moved to the juncture of her thighs and she gasped out his name as she convulsively arched to him. He smiled at her, his ravenous needs drawing his features tight, yet still he waited, watching her, reveling in the undulation of her form, hips writhing, breasts arching.
“Sloan …”
His kisses muffled her words as he touched her, and his mouth followed his expert and reverent fingers, knowing the swell of her hip, the dip of her belly, the slender length of her thigh, and the flowering of her deepest desires. His name was not a whisper when it gasped from her throat, but an ardent cry. And she could no longer lie prone, but twisted to rise and meet his embrace. He buried her face against his neck. “Now, my love,” he murmured.
He lifted her chin and their lips melded, fiery and sweet. When he at last brought his body to hers, their joining was as smooth as a silken embrace, and velvet strokes became a tempest of nature, a maelstrom of wild, shuddering ecstasy. Rapture soared to sun-drenched peaks, and soared onward yet again, his rhythmic, pulsing strength demanding the ultimate triumph while ever seeking the ultimate intimacy, as if he could touch her soul and truly make them one.
Their rapture at last reached its shuddering pinnacle and burst with volatile brilliance. A thousand golden snowflakes littered the warm air about them as they lovingly, tenderly clung together and allowed the satiation of love to still the mad beating of their hearts.
He buried his face in the damp web of her luxurious hair. “Glorious witch,” he murmured. “Beautiful, beautiful witch. Ever more you entice me, ensnare me, until I feel I am not whole unless I can experience your touch and see the love in your eyes. Ah, Brianna, never have I known anything so sweet as your love.”
Brianna smiled, wondering if her happiness could ever be greater. It was as great as the rapture he created in her. For a moment, a chill passed over her heart. She became afraid, for the rapture of their lovemaking flew so high and crested so intensely, swathing her with pleasure so great it was almost unbearable.
And then it ebbed. Gone, until it should be nurtured again.
Could happiness, could love, follow that same sweet route? Growing ecstasy, a moment’s wonderful glory—and then a fading as irrevocable as the yearning for release.
No! She stopped her silly, fearful thoughts. No! For the rapture between them did not end with that release; the moments after, when he held her, were just as dear, just as awesomely sweet. Her happiness, her love, would also soar and peak and crest. It would find calm and it would find storm, but always it would be nurtured.
She curled into his arms, forcing the chill of fear to leave her and savoring the repletion of her body and soul. “I love you so much, Sloan,” she murmured, limbs entangling naturally with his. “You are a part of me, milord, the part that is my heart.”
He loved her. He loved her. He would make her his wife, and she would happily follow him anywhere until the end of her days.
Chapter Twelve
For Brianna, the early morning was as full of wonder as the night. The sun rose gently, creeping through the starboard window like a silken pink mist. Bathed and shrouded in that tender glow, she curled against Sloan, her fingers against his chest. She did not seek to wake him; she was happy just to lie there, basking again in the knowledge that he loved her. And at his side she could learn to live again—forgive herself for all that had occurred, and learn to forget the horror of Matthews’s touch, the feel of a rope about her throat, the scent of death in the roar of a fire.
He was not sleeping. He stroked her hair until she tilted her head and looked upward, smiling a little shyly into his eye
“I love you,” she whispered.
“And I you.” He returned her smile, and his arms held her tightly but tenderly. Then he drew away slightly, for he longed to look at her, to bask not only in her beauty but in the warmth of her smile.
She nuzzled closer to him, pressing her cheek against his chest once more. She sighed softly, a contented and yet sorrowful little sound that shook her.
“Oh, Sloan! If only Matthews had not somehow chased us to Port Quinby. If only Robin and your other fine men had not died.”
“Hush,” he told her, frowning as he stroked a lock of her hair over the healing wound on her shoulder where Matthews had stabbed her with his pick. “He wanted my blood as much as yours.”
“But it was my fault he wanted it to begin with,” she said mournfully. “Had I not stumbled upon you in Glasgow, you would now be peacefully on your way to your prince. And Robin and the others would still be alive.”
“You can’t punish yourself for what happened, Brianna. We are a crew of men trained to fight—be it pirates, or even the king’s forces, should they not accept William.”
She twisted her head upward once again and saw that he was staring out the window, watching as the pink light of the sun suddenly flared with a stroke of gold and crimson. There was something tense about his face, which was not unusual, except that last night … last night he had seemed to lose the hardness of his countenance; he had seemed younger, lighter of heart and spirit than she could remember. He was not a solemn man, but he was stubborn and determined, and ever sure of his course of action. Last night she had seen the lines ease, and laughter come to him again.
“You truly hate King James with all your heart, don’t you?” she asked now.
His gaze came quickly from the window to her. “I don’t know anymore,” he said, watching her with a small smile. “He executed a man who was committing treason in his eyes; what I cannot bear is that Jemmie was his own blood, and that he pleaded for his life and lost it anyway.” He paused, noticing how she watched him, aware that in the blue depths of her eyes there was a longing to understand everything about him. He stroked her cheek. “I cannot tell you what it was to have grown up with Jemmie Scott, Brianna. When I was a lad, he was everything. At times, my only friend. So like Charles. Willful—but generous of himself in every way. He knew he was his father’s son, and he knew the English people did not want a Catholic succession. He was young and very brave and, with the right guidance, would have made a very fine king. The only thing that stood between him and the crown was his bastardy. When I heard of the execution, I despised James. I longed to kill him with my bare hands. Yet now—I think I pity him. I’ve searched my soul over this, and I can now say that I join William and Mary because I believe they will be best for England.”
Brianna raised herself up, planting a light kiss softly against his lips. “You are truly,” she told him, “a knight in the most shining armor!”
He burst out laughing, rolling over to pin her beneath him. “A knight, eh? Nay, love, a salt-ridden man born to a title, nothing more. But I am deeply gratified to hear you call me so, for it is far kinder than anything you had to say when first we met!”
She laughed, too, delighted that life could remain ever more sweetly beautiful with the coming of day. And then she was laughing no more, for the tenderness in his eyes did take flame and she felt her flesh heat with his desire. He brought his lips to hers, kissing her slowly, and soon their arms and limbs were entwined with the eager passion of their love.
Later, feeling wholly languorous and as satisfied as a sleek black cat, Sloan sighed and dragged his legs over the bed, stretching before he stood. Brianna watched the muscle play of his back and quivered a bit, wondering that she should be loved by such a man. But she did not doubt that she was, and that, too, touched her with wonder.
He pulled on his breeches and reached for his shirt, wishing fervently that the ship did not need repairs so he could order Paddy to take command for a day of leisure.
“ ’Tis very hard to leave you,” he told her.
“Is it?” she asked him.
He dropped his shirt and knelt down beside her, curling a lock of her hair about his finger with abject fascination. “Aye. ’Tis so hard that I can barely do it. So easily could I climb beneath the sheets again, between the silken embrace of your bewitching thighs! Forgetting all, lamenting not. Forgetting that we are outlaws and prime picking for a navy of hangmen.”
Alarm jumped to her eyes. She shoved at his chest. “Go! Get about your business—lecherous swain that you are!” She was teasing him, but she was not. He shrugged and rose, still regretfully. “The situation is not that bad,” he admitted. “We’ll make port for our repairs, and I believe we’ll find cordial welcome. I’ve come often to Upsinwich,” he assured her. “We will make out well, I’m sure.”
She stretched out lazily again, closing her eyes with a smile.
“Eh, girl! None of that!” Sloan admonished her with a firm swat upon the derriere that rose temptingly beneath the sheet. “If you would set your feet on land with me, you will get yourself ready now!”
“You’ll take me ashore? Is it safe? Not for anything, Sloan, would I cause bloodshed again!”
“You didn’t cause bloodshed—and aye, I’m quite certain it is safe. The town would warn us long before a battle could arise. And I’ve anchored here these several days to give belief to any enemies that we are halfway to the Orangeman’s household.”
She was out of the bed before he finished speaking, excitement giving a high flush and beauty to her cheeks and lighting up her eyes like the summer sky beneath a dazzling sun.
“Wear something demure, my love. You’re likely to dazzle the steadfast morals of these pious folks as it is!”
She tossed her head back imperiously. “I’ll have you know, Lord Treveryan, that I’m well acquainted with the Puritan faith! I was raised in it for many years.” She noticed the smile that twitched about his lips and queried him sharply.
“What, my lord, is that smirk for?”
“I am not smirking. I merely find it difficult to think of you as an innocent Puritan maiden, that is all.”
“Hmmph!” she sniffed, and turned her back on him once again.
She slipped her gown over her head, yet before she could secure it she was struck with a sudden thought, and even as she fumbled with the gown, she was crossing the few steps to him, clasping his arms in high excitement to gain his attention.
“Oh, Sloan, I was thinking! I know that we’re entering a Puritan town, but surely, we could find a minister of the Church of England—and we could be married today!”
The smile faded from his features so suddenly and completely that she was stunned, and felt as if she had been covered in ice. His eyes clouded, and she saw the hard jade once again, rather than the verdant warm green of a forest.
“I told you once, Brianna,” he said, his voice suddenly harsh and raggedly pained, “I cannot marry you.”
Had he viciously slapped her, he could not have given her a crueler blow. Her hands fell from his arms; she backed away from him and stared at him, seeing the implacable set of his face. All thought of laughter departed; it seemed that perhaps a storm cloud had passed over the sun, for neither did the day remain brilliant, but appeared to grow as gray as the pall that had come between them.
Brianna moistened her lips to speak. She did not recognize her own voice, it was so cool and distant. “I do not understand. Last night you promised that you loved me. That you would do so for life. Is your word so light, then, so completely without honor?”
His eyes closed briefly as he struggled with himself. He stepped toward her, reaching out a hand. “No!” she cried, and she feared that she would burst into tears if he touched her. “No! Explain yourself to me!”
“I said nothing that was not true. I love you. I love you with all my being, as I had never thought to know love. From now until my dying day, I swear that I will love you. B
“Why?” she shrieked, furiously battling her tears. “Dear God, sir! I cannot understand! Aye, you’ve risked your life for me, yet still it seems I am lady enough for the sport of your bed but not to bear your name under God.”
“Brianna.” He came to her then, grasping her arms. She twisted her head from him and tried to fight his grip, but he was firm and would not release her. “Brianna—I am married.”
“What?” The word was both cry and whisper. She no longer fought him, but stood dead still, staring at and refusing to accept the finality of what he was saying.
“I am married, Brianna,” he said quietly, trying to soothe her, to hold her.
She did not want to be held, or touched, or soothed. She pulled away from him, shaking her head furiously and fighting tears. “Don’t, oh, don’t! Sloan—”
“Brianna!” He tried to interrupt: she would not allow him.
“How could you, Sloan? You have a wife, yet you determined to keep me too? You had no right—”
“You do not understand!”
“I could never have been anything to you but a mistress!” She was dangerously close to tears. “Never—there was never any chance! Oh, all my dreams! I believed that, yes, you did love me! That there could be a future—”
“I never lied to you!” Sloan charged, clenching his hands into fists at his side, fighting the urge to reach for her, grab her, force her to listen. “If you’d hear me out—”
“And what of your wife? Oh, poor wretched lady! She sits at home, always alone! Wondering, waiting, anxious—while you! A whore in every port!”
“Brianna!” His voice had taken on an edge of warning. She could not take heed; she could not care. Oh! It should have been so obvious! She should have realized. But she had not, and the fantasy had so recently soared. She did not know if she wanted to scream and shout, or dissolve onto the floor in tears.