Devil's Mistress by Heather Graham
He was watching her—too acutely, too curiously. She smiled quickly, thinking that a whore would be stroking his ego. “It’s quite a pleasure to see a man of your strength,” she crooned softly.
“Is it?” he asked. She kept smiling, even though she longed to slap him and tell him he was incredibly insolent. What would the real whore respond? Brianna wondered. Worse still, what if the real whore put in an appearance while they were sitting there?
“Yes, it is,” she replied quickly. “It’s such a pleasure that I’m very anxious to be alone with you.”
He leaned across the table. She was made very aware of his scent, clean and male and tangy like the sea.
One of the serving girls came to the table with a steaming bowl of stew, a crude pewter wine-cup, and a new tankard of ale for the captain, or lord, or whatever he might be. She was a pretty wench, busty and well rounded, and she had a saucy smile for the captain and a faint glance of skepticism for Brianna.
Brushing closely against the captain, she asked coyly, “Will ye be needin’ anything, m’lord?”
He smiled in return to her, “I think not, Bessie, thank you.”
Bessie pouted her lips slightly. “If ye decide that ye do”—her glance suggested that with Brianna as his “companion,” it was most likely that he would discover himself in need—“ye just let me know, m’lord.”
“He won’t, Bessie,” Brianna said sweetly, but with a deadly warning.
With a swish of her ample rear, Bessie left the table.
God, she was hungry, but she wanted to eat quickly and leave the public room. Glancing up, she discovered that he was still watching her, and that he was very close.
“Umm, aren’t you eating?” she inquired.
He shook his head, his expression curious. “I’ve eaten, thank you.”
Brianna glanced quickly toward the tavern’s doors. It was possible that the officers would rush into the tavern, screaming “witch,” and drag her back out into the rain-muddied streets. She had to eat quickly.
She did so, taking large sips of her wine in between bites of the stew. The wine was potent and comforting. It helped to blur the rough edges of terror that still gnawed at her whenever she glimpsed the tavern door.
She was startled when the long fingers that had been idly drumming the table suddenly stretched out to cover her hand. A little jolt of heat seemed to flash through her at that touch, and she lifted her eyes warily to meet his.
“Are you through?”
She nodded uneasily. For a second there seemed to be a quirk of amusement in those enigmatic and compelling eyes.
Fears played havoc with her; icy shivers ran along her spine. She was going to have to play her role if she wanted to escape the public room. Distance, she reminded herself. Withdraw into yourself, and he cannot really touch you.
“Would you like something else? More … stew?”
“No!” she responded quickly. She leaned across the table, reaching out to touch his cheek, to caress the rugged contours of his face with her fingers. Her fingertips seemed to burn at the action; he was very real, male, and disturbing. She wanted to pull away so desperately. “I told you,” she whispered. “I’m anxious.”
He caught her hand and pressed his lips against it. “Are you really?” he asked softly. “I’ll be … anxious … to see this myself. After you’re cleaned up, of course.”
She did jerk her hand back, but forced her lips into another smile. He lifted a hand to summon the serving wench, but as they waited for the girl, the tavern doors swung open. An old peg leg entered, shouting excitedly. “They’re combing the streets out there—a witch-hunt if ever I’ve seen one!”
Brianna froze in her chair, feeling as if cold fingers had grabbed her by the throat. She lowered her lashes instantly over her eyes in hope of concealing her terror.
But the handsome captain didn’t notice. She heard him utter an exclamation of disgust, and her eyes flew open. “Superstitious rot!” he muttered, but he wasn’t talking to her, just to himself.
Brianna barely noticed his words because panic was with her once again. She stood, took his hand, and leaned against him. “May we leave?” she murmured. Leave! When they left, she would be running out of time. No, no, she could stall, and play for time once he took her to his lodgings. Fool! she charged herself. How would she play for time then—when she had been telling him how “anxious” she was! Then he would discover that she was not at all what she claimed.
That would still be minutes away, and right now she had to take things minute by minute. She had to get out of the main room of the tavern just in case the searchers did burst through the doors.
One of his handsome black brows quirked up a third time as her entreaty brought him back from private thoughts. “Please,” she said more softly.
He inclined his head slightly, a faint smile curving the full and sensuous mouth. “Certainly.” He stood, and once again she was struck by his height and powerful size.
Where were his lodgings? she wondered in a moment of panic. If he headed toward the street, she was doomed.
His hand slipped around her elbow and they left the sheltered table behind. The tavern’s patrons, listening avidly to the peg leg’s account of the witch burning that had taken place in the common, barely glanced up as they made their way toward the stairs.
Bessie, her pert nose still somewhat in the air, stopped them at the landing. Her eyes flashed over Brianna’s slender figure contemptuously before boldly meeting those of the man.
“Yer room’s fresh and clean, m’lord Treveryan,” she said with a little bob. “Ye will call me …” Her voice trailed away insinuatingly.
“Water, Bessie, and soap, please.”
“Right away, Lord Treveryan,” Bessie said with another bob. She wrinkled her nose toward Brianna, but Brianna barely noticed, she was so intent upon Bessie’s words.
Lord Treveryan. Whoever he was, he was of the nobility. He might think witch-hunts contemptible, but he might still be loyal to the crown of James.
She didn’t have long to think, for moments later she was being ushered into a small, sparsely furnished room. There was a bed and a dresser, and a plain latticed screen to the far left of the room. They had barely entered the room before Bessie followed them with a washbowl and pitcher. She carried them behind the screen, where there must have been a table, as Brianna heard the pottery click against the wood.
But she did not pay attention to Treveryan or Bessie, because there was a shuttered window overlooking the street below. Brianna walked nervously to the window and cracked open the shutters. The rain had stopped, and afternoon was fast fading into night. Her heart skipped a little beat as she saw a man in the king’s uniform stalking down the street.
She almost jumped out the window when a hand came down upon her shoulder.
“What is the matter with you?” Jade eyes bored into hers as Treveryan irritably voiced the question. His hands were upon her shoulders, holding her to face him.
Brianna blinked quickly, and reminded herself that it was her life at stake. “Nothing,” she whispered huskily to him. “Nothing at all—”
He lifted surprisingly gentle fingers to her cheek and traced the bone structure down to her mouth. A shiver trailed down her spine as he lightly followed the curve of her lips with his thumb.
His voice was husky when he spoke again, and the velvet within it sent another tingling wave racing along her spine.
“If you do not wish to be here, Brianna, then you must leave.”
Leave! Walk out when the king’s men were prowling the street!
“No!” she murmured quickly. She forced herself to open her eyes to him again and face him with a dazzling smile. “No,” she repeated, softly this time. “I’m exactly where I wish to be.”
“Then let’s get on with it, shall we?” he said softly. But there was a hint of impatience in his voice—a warning.
He had cast aside his greatcoat and she saw that his shirt was
“The washstand,” he told her pointedly, “is over there.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured, and walked quickly behind the screen.
She hesitated there, just for a moment. If a miracle was going to occur to save her, now was the time.
No miracles occurred. She closed her eyes tightly, then reached nervously to undo her muddied gown. It fell to the floor, and when she stood in her shift only, she shivered fleetingly, then with numb fingers she reached for the soap. Cleaning herself of the mud felt good, but the water was cold, shocking her into a greater realization than she wanted to face. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go through with it!
“Brianna!”
His tone was very irritated. She flinched behind the cover of the screen, finding strength in the hatred for him that leapt to her breast. “I’m coming,” she called out sharply, then winced again at her own tone. “I want only to please you!” she called out silkily. Then, she came around the screen and in desperation, hurried to him.
She slipped her arms around him, allowing her fingers to play upon the flesh at the nape of his neck. She felt his muscles beneath her touch and the crush of his broad chest against her breasts. His arms slipped around her and the power and heat that enveloped her made her shiver. She had to go through with it, she warned herself furiously.
But what then? What happened when he was done with her?
She had to pray that darkness would have descended and that the streets would be cleared of soldiers. She could escape back to the forest and then somehow get to the Powells.
She smiled at him, aware that she didn’t know what was expected of her. Words, she hoped, would suffice. “Lord Treveryan, truly, truly I wish to be nowhere else,” she murmured, the nervousness in her voice giving it a husky, sensual quality.
“I’m glad,” he told her in a low murmur. He turned then and sat on the bed to remove his boots. Brianna watched him for several seconds, then turned quickly from him, unnerved by his strange appraisal of her. His eyes moved over her as if he were surprised by her, and oddly pleased. Brianna risked another glance out of the window. Soldiers were still prowling along the street. She felt the coil of fear wind tightly in her stomach, and she stared surreptitiously back at the captain.
He was, she decided objectively, an extremely fine example of a man. Lean, fit, and agile, and yet so sinewed that an attractive play of muscle could be seen beneath the taut fabric of his breeches and beneath the ballooning silk of his shirt-sleeves. His countenance, with the piercing eyes and coal-dark arching brows, was more than handsome; it was ruggedly strong and determined. She could well imagine him as a sea captain, standing solid against the wind, his voice roaring out orders above the tempest of the sea. She had no doubt that each and every man aboard would scurry to carry out his commands.
She suddenly had to clutch her fingers together to keep them from shaking. Her position was a miserable one. She was forced to play a humiliating role before a man who emanated power, a certain arrogance, and a very rugged determination. How she would love to keep her pride before such a man.
His boots hit the floor with a thud.
Her heart was pounding; her limbs seemed frozen. She felt a sudden terror that she would break if he touched her. He moved silently on his stockinged feet, and that silent movement of such a hard and well-muscled man unnerved her further. You would sell your soul to the devil, she reminded herself, and perhaps that was what she was doing. There was a heated gleam in his eyes that surely belonged to a devil, and a pulse ticked within a blue vein in his well-corded neck.
No! she thought, this just couldn’t be happening. She had to try to stall, to keep praying for a miracle …
She stepped back—eluding his arms.
She saw a frown knit his brow tightly, and then the flame of anger creep into his eyes.
“Lass! I warned you I was in no mood for games. I have to be back aboard ship soon, and I haven’t the time for whatever this is that you’re playing.”
She thought quickly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she queried with a show of bravado.
“Am I?”
“Payment in advance, Lord Treveryan.” Would they haggle? Would it buy her more time?
“Dammit! Certainly—but, so help me, wench, let’s get on with this!”
With his words he tossed a handful of gold coins upon the bed. A flaming blush of humiliation crept into Brianna’s cheeks and she raised her eyes to meet his; but he was no longer watching her. He had turned with disgust, and now it was he who stalked to the window to stare out to the street below.
Brianna stared at the coins, ready to burst into tears, wishing she could slap herself into some sense. He did not want to hurt her; he just wanted her. She was trying desperately to save her life—but allowing panic to bring her closer and closer to the stake.
“Dammit, girl!” he thundered, and she realized he was watching her again, his eyes flashing annoyance. “I ask you again, is this bargain not to your liking? If that is so, go! I will have no unwilling woman, lady or whore.”
She must have flinched visibly, because his voice softened. “If you need the money, girl, take it. But if you wish to leave me, do so now, for I have been at sea a long time, and there are things I would forget for a while in the arms of someone soft and sweet-smelling. It matters not to me who this woman should be, as long as she is clean and shapely and can ease the needs of a man.”
Brianna began to speak but couldn’t continue. He was being kind, she realized bitterly, offering her pay for services not performed. For some absurd reason it hurt her that he didn’t care if he had her or another.
“Make up your mind now,” he told her. “You were so anxious before—have you lost interest now? If so, I want you out of this room.”
“No!” Brianna protested quickly. Blindly, she picked up the coins. Bitterly aware that she might need them to reach England and the Powells, she slipped them into the pocket of her shift.
With awkward, trembling fingers, she reached to unfasten the hooks at the rear of her shift.
It was then that there came a tapping at the door and Brianna’s fingers froze once more.
“My lord?”
It was a woman’s voice. Soft, questioning, and it was followed by a husky giggle.
The whore—the whore he had been expecting! Brianna thought swiftly. In desperation she flashed him a quick smile as she hurried to the door.
She threw it open and stepped into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind her and forcing the golden-haired woman with the painted face away from it.
“Who are you?” she demanded haughtily of Brianna.
“The first to arrive,” Brianna replied coolly.
“I’m here for the Lord Treveryan,” the golden-haired woman said angrily.
“Then you have been misled, for he is already occupied.”
“Get out of my way. I was told to come—”
“So was I,” Brianna lied, smiling sweetly but with a determined flash to her eyes and a threat of malice. She handed the woman one of Treveryan’s gold pieces. “Take this—and yourself—out of here quickly.”
“I will not!” The whore protested, narrowing her eyes. “I think I’ll just take a look at his lordship myself, love, and see if he wouldn’t prefer—”
“I’m much, much younger,” Brianna interrupted pointedly. She couldn’t let this slut cost her her life!
But pity touched her, and she could really feel no malice.
“Please, take the money and leave be. It will be for nothing.”
“You have youth, but I have experience. Perhaps my Lord Treveryan would prefer what I have to offer.” She laughed. “He’s not choosing a bride, lass, Just an hour’s entertainment.??
“Brianna!” The voice thundered from the room. At any second Lord Treveryan would stalk into the hallway, demanding to know what was going on.
Brianna took a step toward the woman with new menace and a ruthless determination. “Take yourself from here now! He is mine, and I promise to slit your throat from ear to ear to keep him! Keep this—and go!”
The woman appeared stunned, but still the gold piece was being offered her, and the assurance of that piece seemed more profitable than an assault upon herself. She backed away.
Brianna leaned wearily against the doorframe, desperately wishing it were she with the freedom to walk down the steps.
“Brianna!” The impatient call came out to her, like a noose, tightening about her throat.
Better that noose than the heat of the flames, she reminded herself.
She reentered the room, grateful for the coming darkness that hid her eyes from the relentless green stare of the man, Lord Treveryan.
Chapter Three
Sloan Treveryan frowned as he watched the unusual blue-eyed beauty who had come his way. Her manner was most peculiar—one moment he felt as if he were with the most sensual harlot, and in the next, he felt as if he had come across a most indignant aristocrat.
Brice MacMichael—whom Sloan had met when he docked, and who had convinced him he was in need of casual companionship—had kept his promise to send someone “exquisite.” Someone to ease his dark and brooding mood, a temporary haven from the cares of a tragic personal responsibility, and from the tension and danger of his true purpose in Glasgow.
This girl could, he thought with a smile, do all that. She could make him forget everything.
At times it seemed she shuddered from his touch—but she had fought with a fiery temper to keep him for herself. There was a strange sense of innocence about her, yet he sensed in her blue eyes that she could be a tempest of sensuality. He had felt that for some reason she was regretting their liaison, yet when she was offered an out, she strenuously declined to take it.