Devil's Mistress

by Heather Graham

“Sit,” he told her pleasantly enough, “and I’ll prepare you a plate.”

  Brianna sat nervously upon the edge of the bed. Sloan didn’t glance her way as he heaped a plate full with biscuits and steaming beef swimming in gravy. He handed her the plate with decorum and no mockery—his gaze telling her nothing when their eyes did meet. Sloan set a cup of tea before her within easy reach before preparing himself a plate. He then sat down upon the captain’s chair.

  He ate without talking and for several moments Brianna followed suit. But then she decided that he would also be suspicious of her if she did not challenge him. To plan an escape, she had to know where they were heading, and what difficulties she might encounter.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded, staring at him pointedly.

  His eyes swept from his food to sear into hers. “Holland,” he replied briefly.

  Brianna was so surprised she almost lost the plate of food that was balanced precariously upon her knees.

  “Holland!” she gasped with dismayed amazement. How would she ever escape him in a land so very foreign to her? And though she didn’t know much about politics, she did know that there was severe tension between James II and his son-in-law and nephew, William of Orange; a friction that hinted of a coming war. “But—but,” she stuttered, “then you are a traitor, Lord Treveryan!”

  Perhaps if she hadn’t been taken so much off guard, she wouldn’t have blurted out the accusation so foolishly. As it was, there was no recourse when she saw his lips compress angrily within the strong contours of his jaw and his eyes sizzle as they narrowed.

  “I am no traitor, mistress. I am a Protestant, and a friend to the Parliament James has seen fit to dissolve. I am also a friend to Princess Mary of Orange, and therefore to her husband, William.”

  Brianna stared blankly at her plate, stiffening beneath his words. “William of Orange—and Mary,” she murmured, struggling to maintain her composure while her mind whirled. Holland! How would she ever manage to get back to her family? She wouldn’t even be able to hire passage aboard a ship if she didn’t get the money back.

  Sloan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes had narrowed upon her, and it seemed that a hint of amusement played about his mouth.

  “Of course,” he told her, “we won’t be heading straight for the Dutch court. We’ll have to dock for supplies and repairs.”

  “Oh?” Brianna nonchalantly picked at a bit of food. “And where will that be?” Her heart thundered with new hope.

  “Liverpool.”

  Liverpool! Wonderful, Brianna thought. It was a busy, bustling port where a woman could quickly disappear, and close enough to the southwest counties so that she could reach the Powells.

  “But then again …” Sloan’s voice drifted away. Brianna stared at him sharply once again.

  “Then again what?” she snapped impatiently.

  He shrugged. “We might dock farther south. Who can say?” he replied with a pleasant shrug.

  “Umm. Who can say,” she returned, trying not to allow her voice to ring with sarcasm or anger. A silence followed her words, one that made her uneasy. She didn’t want him knowing anything that went on in her mind. More for something to say than to really strike a blow at him, she glared at him accusingly again.

  “You are tampering a great deal with the law. James is the proper heir to the English throne.”

  He laughed briefly, a dry sound that cut the air with no humor. “So thought Charles, and yet I doubt that he believed his brother would ever murder his son.”

  “Jemmy Scott?” Brianna frowned, curious despite herself at the tone of Sloan’s voice. “The Duke of Monmouth?”

  “Aye, the same,” Sloan said, “Beheaded at James’s command,” he added harshly. For a second he fell silent; then he was staring at her again. “You owe little loyalty to James, my little Scottish witch. It is beneath his rule that you almost burned.”

  “Do you mean to tell me,” Brianna demanded coolly, “that all persecution shall cease beneath William and Mary?”

  Sloan wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and, tossing it upon his unfinished plate, stood and stalked the room. Brianna noted that he wore the same clothing of the morning, the fine silk shirt, the fawn breeches that fitted so finely to his form, hugging sinewed thighs and muscled calves.

  “I tell you,” he said heatedly, “that Charles, libertine as he was often labeled, was still a just and tolerant king. He knew his people and he knew when to give. James has proven himself to be an ineffectual king with a talent for turning even his friends into enemies. Will persecution cease with William and Mary? No, not completely, for people still believe in the power of witchcraft. And,” he reminded her pointedly, “there are people who do practice witchcraft. I’m not so sure yet that you’re not a witch! But both the Prince and Princess of Orange believe passionately in tolerance, and in Parliament. And I might add that they are the choice of the people.”

  She set her plate upon his desk. “You’ll forgive me, Lord Treveryan, if I know little of the English court or its royalty. Or of the intrigue of politics. I have spent my life in the ‘wilds’ of Scotland. A country ‘witch,’ if you will, my lord.”

  None of it made any difference, Brianna knew. Whatever British port he chose for his repairs, she would find her escape there. But she spoke with biting sarcasm—and curiosity—continuing caustically, “And what, pray tell, do you intend to do with me in Holland?”

  He appeared somewhat startled by the question, as if she should know the answer. And then his anger faded with amusement. “I intend to leave you with Mary,” he replied simply, smiling at her.

  Brianna successfully hid her surprise at his casual reply. Fine! Let him believe that he could safely leave her in the charge of the princess he so admired. She would never have to face Mary—as Lord Treveryan’s courtesan or anything else. She would be a memory to Sloan Treveryan before he ever reached the Dutch shore.

  Sloan came to her and lifted her chin. “Are you dismayed?” he asked her, his voice suspiciously solicitous. “Don’t be. Mary is a kind woman, you will be safe in her keeping.”

  She pulled her chin from his grasp and met his eyes with a bitter smile. “How do you plan to introduce me to our chaste princess, Treveryan?”

  He sighed with impatience. “Have you no comprehension whatever, girl? It makes no difference! I could not, in all conscience, set you ashore! Until Matthews is stopped, you will not be safe anywhere in England or Scotland—or even Wales.”

  “That’s not true! If I went to my family—”

  “They could do nothing if Matthews found you!” Sloan interrupted savagely. Then he emitted a groan and turned from her. “Mary grew up in her uncle’s court. James kept as many mistresses as Charles. She will hardly be shocked.”

  The argument made no difference. Brianna was certain that he was wrong, and that she could hide for as long as was necessary with the Powells. But she could not help arguing with him and mocking him for his negligent assumptions. “No,” she told Sloan with saccharine sweetness, “Mary will merely assume that I am your current entertainment.”

  “Entertainment?” Sloan queried, spinning to face her once again, his hands tensing over his hips as his anger rose. “Lass, you have been anything but entertaining. You have been a complete nuisance to me. If it will stop your shrewish tongue, I will assure you that I will tell Mary of your predicament—and that I seek to give you asylum only.”

  She lowered her head quickly, trying to remember that she must keep her thoughts hidden from him, and that to do so, she should learn to control her temper—and her tongue. She spoke quietly to him.

  “It will stop my shrewish tongue if you will assure me that you truly wish to give me asylum and ask nothing in return.” With the words out she faced him again.

  For long seconds they glared at one another. Brianna could almost feel the heat of his anger; it seemed to crackle about him. She quailed within, yet would not allow her
eyes to fall from his, nor relinquish her stand. She could not bear the tension that riddled the air, so she spoke, trying desperately to keep entirely calm. There were things she wanted from him—things she wanted back!

  “I know you must think me ungrateful. I am not. I do thank you, again, for saving my life. But if you did so, it was, I believe, your own choice. I don’t owe you anything, and yet you continue to take from me. I—”

  “I continue to take from you?” He interrupted softly—his voice a rasp of silk. “To what are we referring? Your clothing? I did assure you it would be returned, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” she agreed quietly. “But when will I have it?”

  He walked closer to her, as he brought a hand to her cheek. She shuddered slightly at that touch; no matter how infuriated she became, she could not deny the startling heat of his caress and its unnerving effect upon her.

  “Oh … soon, I would think,” he assured her.

  Rather than meet his eyes she allowed her lashes to fall. “Thank you,” she murmured demurely.

  “Brianna?”

  “Yes?” She raised her eyes to his.

  He smiled, and for a brief moment she was allowed to feel a little thrill in her art of craft and seduction. But then that victory was dashed as he said simply, “You won’t get the money back.”

  Her smile faded; open hostility filled her eyes and she stepped back from him furiously.

  “Why not? It’s mine—I earned it!” she snapped, bitterly mocking herself.

  Sloan laughed, walking toward the cabin door, then turning back to her and grinning as he leaned idly against the paneling. “I’m not so sure that you did earn it. A man hires a … lady of the streets for her to pleasure him. I don’t remember your going terribly out of your way to be the obliging one.”

  The taunt touched her soul like blazing iron. Without thought or reason she swept across the small cabin, determined to fell him with her furious blows.

  She did, at least, force his grin to fade quickly. But that was all. Her wrists were quickly secured behind her back and she found herself pressed hard against his chest, her breasts heaving with exertion.

  “When will you learn!” he exploded harshly. “I care for you, little fool, and I will not see you dead by your own folly!”

  “My life is my own!” Brianna cried out in protest. “I am not related to fools! I can find shelter. I can remain hidden.”

  He shook his head, sadly, his anger fading.

  “I am not a man known for his patience,” he told her quietly. “Don’t keep testing it.”

  She lowered her head. “Let me go,” she told him dully.

  He released her, stepping back. None of the tension left his strong and resolute features, but when he spoke, it was with a measure of patience once more.

  “Brianna, what has happened cannot be erased. I cannot give back what I have taken. I haven’t forced anything from you, nor will I. You must stay in this cabin, for you are not safe abovedecks without me—and I am far too busy to worry about your effect upon the men. You must sleep in that bed, for there is nowhere else where you may safely sleep. Whether it is a palatable situation to both of us or neither of us, you have become my responsibility—and must remain so, for the time being.”

  “You are a liar, Treveryan!” she charged hotly. “What of the woman whose clothing I wear? She had her own quarters—and, I would assume, the run of the ship!”

  There was a furious tick of a pulse against his throat, yet he remained in a deathly calm control. “I had a smaller crew when she was aboard. Sleeping arrangements have changed.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “And I don’t give a damn what you do and do not believe! This is my ship, I am the captain, and so help me God, you will follow my orders. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, I think I understand too well,” she replied bitterly.

  “Just so that you do,” he warned in a chilling whisper.

  She lifted her chin and spoke softly. “How long will we be at sea, Lord Treveryan?”

  He shrugged. “Three to four weeks, depending upon the weather.”

  “And you suggest that I not leave this cabin all that time?”

  He sighed. “I’ll take you out for a stroll on deck each afternoon. But you will have to find a way to entertain yourself for the greater part of the day. The panel behind the bed slips open, and you’ll find a number of books. Do you read?” At Brianna’s nod he continued. “Should you happen to do anything so useful as sewing, and not find the task too distasteful, I’ve shirts within the wardrobe which could use the tender touch of a needle.”

  She didn’t reply. Sloan noted that she stood very straight, but that the sweep of her lashes hid the blue flames of her eyes.

  “Good afternoon,” he told her cordially, sweeping her a very proper bow—and allowing a wicked grin to filter across his lips in the midst of it.

  As he closed the door behind him, Brianna was very much tempted to throw something after him.

  The days they sailed south upon the Irish Sea were long ones.

  Sloan did not come to his cabin until late at night, and when he did arrive, Brianna feigned sleep. She had found a nightgown among the clothing given her by Paddy, and she wore it each evening, grateful that it was modest.

  He unfailingly stripped without a shade of self-consciousness before stretching beside her. But he did not touch her. Not once. And it seemed that she heard his even breathing almost instantly when his head touched his pillow.

  He was always gone when she awoke in the morning, but he returned to the cabin in the midmorning to breakfast with her. He spoke to her very courteously at those times, as if the nights did not exist, and as if they had never been lovers.

  Often, in the late afternoon, he would escort her about the ship. Within days she had learned a great deal about the Sea Hawk. He brought her to the cargo holds and showed her where the guns were placed. She learned the names of the numerous sails, and she met the fifty-man crew one by one. They ranged in age from youths to graybeards, and just as widely in social standing. Younger sons from noble families sought their fortunes at sea, just as did the strapping sons of commoners.

  Some were rough and quarrelsome, some quiet and genteel; but they all seemed to share one common trait—an intense loyalty to Lord Sloan Treveryan. She knew that their respect for their captain kept them all cordial to her. Yet she often winced when they passed a group of the sailors, for she felt the gazes they raked over her form. They knew that she slept in the captain’s cabin—assumed her to be “his”—and perhaps envied him.

  Brianna had seen Sloan roar out orders with the severity of a fire-breathing dragon; she had also learned that service and valor were rewarded, that double portions of rum were doled out each time the crew brought the Sea Hawk through a storm or treacherous shoal.

  Although she came to know the ship and the men, it was all for show. The promise of escape was the hope that she clung to. Every day she plotted her escape; how to slip the lock should it be turned, which passages to take, where to dive from the ship to the sea, should that prove necessary.

  She awoke slowly one morning to realize that she was becoming accustomed to the sounds of the sea—the wind as it whistled through the rigging, the waves as they lapped and crashed against hull and bow. And as she closed her eyes once more to savor the gentle sounds of morning and close out the brilliance of the sunlight streaming into the cabin, she realized unhappily that she was also becoming accustomed to Sloan Treveryan.

  Although he was distant, as if his mind were far from her, their life aboard ship had assumed a certain domesticity. Boredom had taken its toll upon her, and bit by bit she had come to keep the cabin impeccably neat; she even mended his shirts. More often than not they shared their meals. And every night she waited for him. Waited to feel his heat as he slid his long form beside hers. He always smelled so cleanly of salt air and the sea, he exuded a masculine strength, and despite herself, sh
e longed to curl against him, to be held, to touch him. It was agony to know that she must despise him and escape him—when she could not, inside herself, deny his allure. When she could not pretend that his arms were not those of a strong and fascinating man, that he was not arresting, that his eyes did not touch her all the way to her soul. And so she lay awake wretchedly, sometimes barely breathing, sometimes praying that he would shift and slip his arm around her, stroke her hair, edge closer to her—and then praying fervently that he would not.

  She could not deny to herself that she was falling beneath his spell. Perhaps, falling a little bit in love. Sometimes, she allowed herself to dream. To envision that he might marry her, love her, and cherish her.

  It was a sweet dream, a bitter dream. Yet it went on. She wondered if he could love her; and in that wondering, she could not help but think that he was a man to do what he chose to do, rather than follow convention.

  If he loved her, he would marry her.

  It was a dangerous fantasy. Very dangerous. Sloan Treveryan was a lord, and a man as fiercely independent as she longed to be. She urged herself strenuously away from dreams and fantasies, and set herself firmly to remember that she must maintain her distance from him—and escape him as soon as possible.

  Before she lost more of herself to him than she already had. Without malice he had taken her innocence. She grew ever more terrified that if she did not cling to outrage and fury, he would also take her heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Sloan’s temper had been growing shorter and shorter during the endless days, until his control over it was almost nonexistent.

  He had been polite, he had been reserved. He had escorted her unerringly. He had been certain that she would begin to bend—and then yield. They lived together, damn it!

  But she didn’t bend—and she didn’t yield.

  He knew she was awake—when he entered the cabin at night—and each time he heard her relieved sigh when she assumed he was asleep, he wanted to pounce upon her like a tiger.

  But he couldn’t. As he lay beside her, unable to reach out, feeling the light fall of her every breath, the curve of her body so close, his muscles would constrict, sweat would break out upon his brow and he would remember her so vividly that he bit into his lip until he drew blood to keep from groaning out in the depths of an agonized shudder. Finally, he would sleep.