by Brenda Joyce
“What?” she gasped, realizing that the master bedroom, if it was that, had a fine four-poster bed and one chaise, two end tables, a bureau, a hearth and that was all.
He walked over to her.
Virginia tensed, still breathless and still wishing desperately that she did not burn to be in his arms. “What are you doing, Devlin?” she asked quietly.
“Unfortunately, I will have to provoke your uncle into paying a ransom,” he said flatly. “You will live in my rooms as if you are my mistress, and in public, we shall act like a very shameless pair of lovers. I expect your cooperation, Virginia,” he warned, “and I remind you that your interest remains in being freed quickly. The sooner Eastleigh cannot stand my parading you so openly about, the sooner you will be on your merry way home—or wherever it is that you choose to go.”
She simply gaped.
“I once thought to enjoy toying with him over this.” He was so grim. “But actually, I am sorry he will not pay me directly so that we might be done.”
It took her a moment to truly understand his plan and her comprehension of it made it impossible for her to hear his last words. “We will pretend to be lovers? We will share this room? You will ruin me in the eyes of the world—but you are not going to share my bed?” She heard disbelief and the tremor of hurt in her own tone. What he suggested was more than incredible, more than shocking. He would ruin her good name—flaunt her in society. She was stunned.
“That is the gist of it, yes,” he answered, his hands on his hips and his strong thighs braced. In fact, he looked braced for a very real storm.
“A gentleman does not live openly with a woman other than his wife—a gentleman does not escort his mistress about his neighbor’s halls.”
“There is no other way.”
“How can you do this to me?” She found it hard to breathe now. For here was the ultimate proof that Sean was wrong and Devlin did not care—he would callously use her and ruin her name, all for the sake of the ransom.
Maybe you are the one who can help him find his soul.
Absolutely not, Virginia thought in response to Sean’s terrible words. Devlin could not care about her, not at all, if he thought to destroy her reputation this way. To use her so deliberately, he could not have any soul left to save. She was now horrified.
“You know what motivates me,” he said rather harshly. “Again, I have no wish to abuse you, but there is no choice. I did not come this far to have Eastleigh simply laugh in my face and refuse to pay your ransom.” And he turned away, as if he could not face her now.
But she was imagining that. “They are impoverished! They cannot pay it and it is obvious!” She had to sit down as her legs had become useless. “Even if they could…how could you do this…to me?”
“They can sell off the estate, Virginia, or borrow more funds; they might even succeed in selling Sweet Briar. I hardly care what they do.” He stalked toward the door, his strides stiff. Then he turned. “We both know you don’t care what anyone thinks—you just spent five months unchaperoned at Askeaton—and that does make this easier. I know that if I actually made you my mistress, you would be pleased. So cease this sham of hurt and outrage!” Inexplicably, he was trembling.
She did not know why he was so distressed and she could not care. What if her uncle sold her home in order to pay her ransom? “No one knew I was at Askeaton, and the villagers thought I was your fiancée. I am hurt, Devlin,” she said with what dignity she could muster. “I am hurt that you care so little for my reputation that you would flaunt me as your lover just to gain your ends. You justify ruining me for the sake of your revenge.”
And he was furious—so much so, that for a moment, he could only stare. And what he saw was the most hurt, vulnerable expression he had ever beheld. Tears filled the violet pools of her eyes. In fact, Virginia was looking at him as if he had betrayed her. In that moment, he hated himself for what he was doing—but there was no choice. Was there?
And for one moment he hesitated, aware of the oddest urge to back down—to let her go and be done with it all.
Then Eastleigh’s cold laughter came to mind, followed by the terrible memory of his father’s sightless eyes staring up at him from the ground. Eastleigh could not win. Justice had to be served. “You are making far too much of this. I am sparing you actual degradation. I am not making you my mistress in fact. And when this is over I will tell the world, if you wish me to, that it was all a lie to humiliate your uncle. But as you intend to return to Virginia, what happens here is of no consequence—there, no one will know what has happened here.” And he knew his attempt at rationalization was a pathetic one.
She raised her chin but her tone was so soft, it was barely audible. “If we were really lovers, you would guard my reputation fiercely and no one would ever know of the affair.”
She was right. He felt as if he had been struck a severe and physical blow. “I fail to see the difference,” he lied. “There is no other choice.”
“There is always another choice, Devlin. Even if you use me so callously, what makes you think they will pay, even if they can sell my home or borrow the funds?” she cried.
He gripped the doorknob but did not face her, as he could not. “It will be a matter of honor,” he said. “They will pay—I will make certain of it.” And he walked out as quickly as he could, as if in doing so he might forget the atrocious plan he had set in motion, a plan that would, in fact, destroy Miss Virginia Hughes once and for all.
VIRGINIA WAS AFRAID.
It was crystal clear now that Devlin was so obsessed with his revenge that nothing and no one would stand in his way. It was equally clear that Sean was so very wrong—she could not show him the light of a different way, because if he were not completely lost, he would have some guilt over what he was doing to her. But she hadn’t seen an inkling of guilt—she had only seen utter determination. Of course, Devlin O’Neill was a master at controlling his emotions.
I am asking you to save my brother.
“Sean, do go away!” Virginia cried, splashing the water in her bath and just realizing how cool it had become. “He is beyond saving!”
She became still, an odd despair coiled around her. Was he beyond any and all help? Was anyone, as long as he still lived and breathed? Virginia closed her eyes tightly. His every other action somehow hurt her, yet even now, she could not hate him, as foolish as that was.
She was at a loss. She had become a child again, bewildered and hurt. She did not know what to do. Somehow she remained consumed with her captor, defending his actions to herself, and still secretly hoping to save him from himself. But was there anything that she could do? From the moment he had attacked and seized the Americana, she had been but a pawn, tossed this way and that, at his very whim. And now there was this new terrible twist in his game, a twist that proved his indifference toward her.
Virginia sighed, beginning to shiver. She should hate him for holding her a prisoner yet again. She should hate him for planning to flaunt her as his mistress. She should hate him for a lot of things, but she didn’t hate him at all. She felt sorry for him, deeply so. She felt sorry for the small boy who had seen his father murdered, and she felt sorry for the man that boy had become.
She got out of the bath, wrapping herself in a towel, and went to stand before the fire in the bedroom.
Virginia stared at the dancing flames but only saw Devlin. Now, as before, she had no choice but to play his game his way and see where it led. She was strong enough to do so. Devlin had been partly right. She did not care what society thought of her—or not very much. Then she stiffened.
But why not be more clever than he?
Why not play his game to win?
Stunned with her thoughts, Virginia began to dress, thinking very carefully. She wanted her freedom and she wanted Sweet Briar, but that was not what she wanted most. Did she dare admit to herself what she really wanted?
Unfortunately, what she desired most was her captor.
Dressed only in her chemise and pantalettes, Virginia gripped the mirror and stared at her reflection there. Her violet eyes were huge and bright hot spots of soft pink marred her complexion. She wanted Devlin to think her beautiful, to be overwhelmed by his passion, and most of all, she wanted him to love her.
She wanted his love.
Terrified, Virginia managed to find the chaise, where she sat, shaking. Most people who knew him would claim he was incapable of love. How could she be such a fool?
Did she dare even hope for the impossible?
And more important, did she dare try to make him love her?
Virginia bit her lips, tears forming in her eyes. She wasn’t even beautiful, although he clearly found her attractive. She wasn’t a lady, either, which he already knew. How could she think to entice such a man?
But what was the alternative? To be ransomed and set free, so she could go home or stay and marry his brother?
Virginia trembled and it had nothing to do with being wet and cold. Somehow, sometime, somewhere between the Americana and Wideacre, she had fallen in love with Devlin O’Neill, and nothing was ever going to be the same. There was no choice. She was going to have to do whatever she had to do in order to save his soul—and make him love her, too.
AS VIRGINIA WENT DOWNSTAIRS, she was very preoccupied and very somber. Her terrible new comprehension—and her new plan—consumed her thoughts, and her steps were faltering and filled with trepidation.
“Is there anything that you need, Miss Hughes?”
At the sound of Mrs. Hill’s firm voice, at once condescending and obsequious, she started, turning. “My blue day gown and the matching pelisse need laundering, if that is at all possible,” Virginia said with a pleasant smile.
“Of course. I’ll send the maid up.” She smiled tightly at Virginia. How strained her expression seemed.
And her dark eyes were twin mirrors of disapproval. Virginia smiled back, said thank you, and added, “Where is the captain?”
“In the library,” she said.
Virginia met her regard and thought that it was far too knowing, as if she suspected that Virginia wished to find her captor for a very illicit and carnal reason. As Virginia walked away, she was disturbed. She was surprised to realize that she did not like being judged and disliked—but she reminded herself that she did not care what people thought of her and the housekeeper’s opinions meant nothing. After all, everyone had looked down on her as a country bumpkin at the Marmott School, and she had not given a damn.
But it was terribly familiar, the condescension. Her entire childhood she had been accused of being more like a boy than a girl, of being a wild child in her britches and on horseback. Those asides and snide glances had bewildered her then, although there was nothing bewildering about the rigid housekeeper’s thoughts now.
Virginia quickly dismissed the unpleasant memories. Her childhood was far behind her and only a very uncertain future remained. Not to mention an even more tenuous present, she thought somewhat grimly.
She passed the open doors to a shabby salon with a faded gold velvet sofa, the draperies a sober mustard color, the chairs a grim brown paisley. The next door opened to a study where a medium-size desk was in one corner, a dark green sofa facing the fireplace. All of the walls were lined with bookcases crammed with books, and with the dancing fire and the sun setting outside behind the overgrown lawns, the room became a pleasant one.
Except for Devlin, sitting on the sofa, a glass of Scotch in his hand. He had been staring as if entranced into the hearth; now he turned and their gazes locked.
Her heart careened and crashed. Oh, ho, his mood was dire, indeed, and what did it mean? She went on alert. Worse, he continued to stare, his expression quite harsh and very forbidding, and then his gaze dipped and slipped over her, causing an instant tightening within her, and a heightening of her already profound tension. “You are in a fine kettle,” she murmured, standing in the doorway, not brave enough to enter.
Did she really think to play his game and win? Did she really think to make him fall in love with her?
But he stood and inclined his head. “Care for a Scotch? I’d offer you wine but the stuff in the cabinet has turned.”
She thought about the sip or two of Scotch she’d shared with him in his cabin on the Defiance. “No, thank you.” She smiled cautiously at him.
His eyes widened and she knew he sensed some purpose on her part; then he eyed her with far too much speculation, like a big, slothful lion sunning himself—not quite sated and not quite starving, but very capable of pouncing for his evening meal. “Are you no longer inclined toward good Scotch whiskey, or are you suddenly afraid of me, Virginia?”
She stepped into the room, never one to refuse a challenge. “I am sure your Scotch is fine.” She smiled again. “I remain taken aback,” she said, and it was true. “Not only can I not fathom you, your impossibly dark humor has somehow become even darker.”
He merely gazed at her, as watchful as before. He had shed his uniform and wore only a silk shirt of the finest quality and his britches and boots. As usual, the britches fit far too suggestively and he had left the shirt carelessly unbuttoned at the throat. “The Earl of Eastleigh hardly brings out my best mood.”
“You are not enjoying the hunt? You are not enjoying stalking a poor, fat old man?”
He eyed her as he moved to the sideboard, a huge and heavy piece of furniture that was simply ugly. “I am enjoying the hunt. Of course I am enjoying it. But if you dare to pity that murderer, I suggest you keep your feelings to yourself.” He handed her a glass of Scotch.
“I don’t pity him,” she said softly. “It is you I feel sorry for.”
For one moment he stared and she expected his temper to flare. It did not. Instead he shrugged and said, “You have said so before. If you think to arouse me, you will not. Feel what you will and do sit down. I won’t bite. Besides, the servants are expecting you to enjoy my company.” He drained his glass and poured another one.
“I am only joining you because there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to do,” she said quietly, sitting on the far side of the sofa, although that was as far from the truth as could be.
He finally smiled at her and sat as well, his big body dominating the sofa, the room, herself. “Really? Frankly, I believe you enjoy my company,” he said. His gaze became hooded. “Although I cannot think why,” he added in a silken murmur.
Virginia started and became even more rigid and more breathless. “Are you in your cups, Devlin?”
He saluted her. “Only a little.”
“Only a foolish woman would want and enjoy your company,” she said, flushing, aware of how many women must leap at his beck and call.
“Then many women are foolish, I suppose,” he returned evenly. Another half a glass of Scotch had vanished.
Was he trying to become inebriated? And if so, why? But more importantly, how many women did he mean? “How many?”
“How many what?”
“How many women have enjoyed your company?” she dared—for she simply had to know.
“I beg your pardon?” His eyes widened and he looked torn between disbelief and laughter. “Are you asking me how many women I have had in bed?” He now choked.
“Yes, I think I am,” she said, clasping her hands tightly in her lap and blinking furiously. She felt her cheeks begin to burn.
He began to laugh. His laughter had that rough, raw, unused quality, but it was not unpleasant. “I think what I like most about you is your rampant curiosity,” he said, “as it is so unique.” His laughter died. But he smiled now with real mirth and her heart lurched wildly. She had never seen such a handsome man.
“No, strike that, I like your outspoken manner. Has it ever occurred to you not to reveal your every thought, wish and desire?”
She blinked, trembling
. Not only had she made him laugh, really laugh, he was flattering her—he liked her curiosity, her manner! Did he know what he was doing? Was this another game, or was she finally glimpsing him relaxed, his guard down, the truth allowed out due to the Scotch he had imbibed? Did he like her just a little bit? “How much have you drank, Devlin?”
“A Scotch or two,” he said softly. “Very well, this is the third. No, the fourth. I am not drunk, Virginia. I do not get drunk.”
“I think you are,” she said, and somehow their gazes met and held. His eyes had become soft, with no hint of ice, as if he was feeling warmly toward her now. She was so elated she could not breathe properly. “No one likes my outspoken manner. Even my parents despaired.”
He smiled again. “You are unpredictable—I never know what you shall say or do. It is interesting.”
Her heart raced. “So you like me, a little, after all?” Dear God, had that been a hopeful tone in her voice? She prayed not.
He tore his gaze from hers and slowly got to his feet, the slumbering lion preparing to feed. He gave her a seductive glance, sidelong and direct, and slowly began to pace. “So many questions,” he murmured. Then he added, “I sent Tompkins to the Defiance for some wine. The cook has prepared venison and I think a hearty cabernet will do. But I know you prefer white, and I asked him to bring some, too.” He paused, facing her, leaning one slim hip against the sideboard. The posture was at once indolent and suggestive.
She leapt to her feet. “Don’t change the subject.”
His lashes lowered. “There have been many women, Virginia, and I do not count,” he murmured.
How clever he now was, avoiding the subject she so wished to discuss. “It is hardly the end of the world if the great and oh-so-cold Captain O’Neill actually likes another human being,” she said.
His lashes lifted, revealing the gleam of silvery eyes, and then he looked away. “You are like a dog with a bone. What is it that you want me to say? That I find you beautiful? That I yearn for your kiss? That I cannot live without you? I’m afraid that while I do find you unpredictable and interesting, I am not the kind of man to grovel over a woman, to yearn for true love or any other such nonsense. Leave it alone.”