Her Master's Touch

by Patricia Watters

  Because décolleté gowns were the fashion, the women attending the ball would wear them daringly low—swells of breasts rising above bodices with the aid of stays and whalebone and uplift corsets, all intended to give male viewers an occasional tantalizing peek at a rosy tip. Everything would be utterly proper because it was 'all the fashion.' Elizabeth, however, decided to be more subtle. The unadorned neckline of her blouse covered her completely, but beneath the several gauzy layers of sheer white silk she wore nothing.

  She did a little turn in front of the mirror. Persian silk spun around her like a gossamer teal and rose cloud. Satisfied, she nodded her appreciation to the ayahs. Before leaving her bedchamber, however, she added one last touch. Lifting from her trinket box, the delicate gold chain with its tiny glass vials, she fastened it around her neck. It would, raise the dark brow of a particular pirate king, which was her plan. She wanted to be Eliza Shirazi one last time. She missed her spunk and her sassiness and her proclivity for wrapping a certain lord around her little finger. She felt like toying with Damon tonight, if for no other reason than to make him want what he would never have—her justification for suffering the humility of knowing that Mara would be waiting for him to come to her bed at the end of the evening. If, in fact, Damon went to the ball. There was still some doubt.

  When she'd first informed him that the Viceroy's wife had invited them to the ball, he'd looked at her as if she were deranged. Then he followed with a string of expletives about what he thought of balls in general, followed by a tirade about dressing like a—another few expletives—pirate king. Still, she had the durzi make a costume for him, which had been delivered to his bedchamber that morning.

  All doubt was allayed when she stepped into the hallway just as Damon was coming out of his bedchamber. And what she saw near took her breath away. Tight black breeches tucked into tall buccaneer boots hugged his lean hips, his white silk shirt gaped open to mid chest, revealing a mat of dark hair, and his head was capped with a black tricorn that displayed a skull and cross bones. With the shadow of a beard on his square jaw, he looked dark and intimidating, and magnificently male. The urge to push his shirt aside and run her hands over his muscular chest and snuggle against that enticing matt of dark hair made her question the soundness of her costume design. But tonight was a farce, and she intended to play it to the fullest.

  She dipped a curtsy and said in a bright voice, "Good evening, my lord. You don't mind if I call you that do you? Somehow Your Majesty doesn't quite ring true for a pirate king. Besides, I feel like you're more my master than my monarch."

  Damon scanned the length of her, his eyes hovering on her chest. A slight frown gathered between his brows. At first Elizabeth thought he was scrutinizing the glass vials. But when he leaned forward, and his gaze shifted between her breasts, she realized he was trying to decide if what lay beneath the silk folds was, in fact, bare flesh. She gave him a saucy smile. "To answer your question, no my lord pirate king, I am not wearing anything beneath my blouse. I am a gypsy tonight and gypsies do not wear corsets or camisoles. But I don't think you can see anything, can you?" She smoothed the folds over her breasts, revealing the vague darkened images of two puckered tips.

  Damon's eyes took on a steely glint as he said, in a gruff voice, "You're covered, if that's what you mean." There was a definite edge to his tone.

  Elizabeth found that vastly rewarding. She liked toying with him. Just turnaround. She gave him her most beguiling smile. "And you fill out that silk shirt quite adequately—" she backed away, letting her eyes drift downward "—and the breeches as well." Her gaze locked on the bulge straining against the webwork of crossties that closed his breeches. "If I were not bound by our contract, my lord pirate king," she said in a velvety voice, "I'd be tempted to slip the lacing of those crossties. I have a fancy for rogues in snug breeches." Lifting her folded fan, she smacked him playfully on the belly and sashayed past him.

  Damon followed her down the hallway. It was a trap! He had no idea what her game was this time, but he'd be on guard, not be duped again. If she intended to seduce him tonight it was because she had an ulterior motive, though for the life of him he could not figure what it could be. But he'd long since learned his lesson with Elizabeth. Once a fool, perhaps. Twice a fool, inexcusable. Thrice a fool… No way in hell!

  As the coach made it's way toward Government House, Damon's attention shifted between sultry smiles and long-lashed emerald eyes, and speculation as to why Elizabeth would want to consummate their marriage. His plan to change bitterness and hatred into love and desire had not been implemented, which made him even more suspicious. She was not behaving this way out of love for him. But until he learned her reason, he'd keep his distance, though it would take all the willpower he could marshal if she decided to get inside his breeches, which were becoming painfully uncomfortable with the crisscrossing of lacing, as he pondered that thought.

  Elizabeth patted his thigh and allowed her hand to remain there. "You haven't said what you think of my costume, my lord pirate king," she said. "Do you think I look like a gypsy queen?" She gave him a glowing smile and waited.

  Damon peered into mischievous. "You know more about gypsy queens than I do," he groused. "So you tell me. Are you dressed like a gypsy queen?"

  Elizabeth shrugged. "Not any I've ever seen. But then, I designed it to catch your eye. So, did it catch your eye, the dress that is, not just what's beneath these folds." She squared her shoulders and breathed deeply as she toyed with the material over her breasts.

  Damon stared at the darkened nubs straining against the fabric. What the hell was she doing? Whatever it was, it was raising havoc with his libido, not to mention that painful part of him that felt as if it were being cut into pieces. He snapped his eyes up to meet her teasing gaze. "The dress is fine," he grumbled. "I'm sure every man there will notice." He intended to look away, but couldn't stop from taking in the sight of her unhampered breasts swaying seductively with the motion of the coach. Hellfire and damnation, he wanted to fill his hands with all that soft, warm flesh. Instead, he tugged at his crotch to alleviate the tight constraint caused by the damn lacing, then pressed his knotted fists to his knees.

  Elizabeth made a point of leaning toward him and looking down. "Oh dear. That must be a burden," she said in a playful tone, while pointing. "I hope I'm not the cause. When I designed your costume, I assumed pirate kings should wear snug breeches with lacings instead of buttons, but I can see that was a mistake. Next time I'll have the durzis eliminate the lacing and add a pouch instead to accommodate your… umm... enthusiasm. It would be like a gusset that would start right about here…"

  Damon grabbed her hand before her finger could reach its target. She looked at him and smiled. "Relax, my lord pirate king. You're stiff as a board." She pulled her hand free and waved a finger over his breeches. "And from the looks of all those odd little lumps and bulges pushing out between the lacings I'd swear you're not wearing drawers," she said. "But then, I designed the breeches with lacing so that with one little tug you could be quite free of them, if the need arose."

  "Enough!" Damon said, resisting the urge to slip the lacing and prove her right about the drawers. But the breeches had been too damn tight to accommodate them. And he was paying the price for it now. If the lacings didn't cut him into pieces, the damn fabric would rub him raw. But he refused to give her the pleasure of knowing the hell she was causing.

  "You're very edgy tonight," she said in a plaintive voice, "and this is our one evening out to enjoy. I doubt we'll ever be invited to mingle in British society again."

  Damon's hand still trapping hers, he slid her a sideways glance, and said, "Would that really bother you?"

  Elizabeth tipped her head in thought. "If truth be known, no. But if the evening is too dull, I've come prepared." She pulled her hand from his and lifted the chain with the vials.

  Damon eyed them, dubiously. "Prepared for what?"

  "Righting a wrong." She nudged his shirt
aside, and with the tip of her finger, brushed it over the tattoo above his heart. "It is an elegant rat," she said, her finger tracing its outline, "but since it bothers you, I'm prepared to tattoo something over it, perhaps a flower. The stem would drape along here—" her fingertip followed the rat's tail.

  Damon grabbed her wrist to stop what she was doing. Damnation, he was on the verge of ripping all that flimsy stuff off her and having his way with her in the coach. If it had been any other woman doing the things she was doing he would have planted himself inside her and found blessed relief by now. But Elizabeth had a definite plan, which, it appeared, was to either consummate the marriage or drive him to insanity.

  She looked at him, devilment dancing in her eyes. "Does my touch bother you that much, my lord pirate king?" she said, musingly. "I was only inspecting my handiwork."

  "The inspection's over," he snapped. He clamped her hand against his thigh again.

  "Pity," she said, "because I have an idea for another tattoo. It came to me on the train while I was watching you wash your...umm... self. It would be a dragon, a sort of sleepy thing, with scales, and drowsy eyes, and a flat mouth, and little black nostrils. And whenever something awakened this sleeping dragon it would rise up, and it's eyes would open wide, and its nostrils would flare, and there would be trails of flames coming from its mouth. But I'm afraid, my lord pirate king, that you'd have to sit very still for this one."

  Damon looked straight ahead, determined to not be lured into this trap she was setting. But while he managed to ignore her verbal taunts, he could not dismiss the feel of her hand on his thigh. He curved his fingers around it to prevent it from rubbing against his crotch, whether from the rocking of the coach, or from her not-so-subtle seduction. The irony of it was, he'd fancy this playful, wickedly teasing side of her if he were truly her beloved husband. But he wasn't. And it seemed he never would be.

  If she hadn't spoiled him for any other woman he could simply walk away at the end of their agreement. But from the moment she'd burst into his life, he'd had no desire for any woman but her. He could consummate the marriage and tie her to him forever, but then he'd be nothing more than a puppet dancing on the end of his strings for her favors. No. She'd have to come to him willingly, as his wife, or not at all. Which was ironic.

  From her quick responses to him two years before, he'd assumed she'd give herself to him with little more encouragement than an intimate touch and a passionate kiss. He'd also made it clear on the steamer that when she did give herself to him, it would not be as his wife, but as the wanton hussy he'd assumed her to be. His malicious words were now stamped on her mind, and she seemed intent on holding them there…

  The coach pulled to a halt at the entrance to the grand ballroom. The coachman stepped down and opened the door, and Damon escorted Elizabeth into the ballroom, where a caller announced, "Lord and Lady Ravencroft."

  The reaction from the attendees was entirely predictable. Dead silence. Gradually, the murmur of voices rose, accompanied by the bobbling of heads behind fans, and the cupping of hands around attentive ears.

  Elizabeth glanced around the room. The gypsy queens were dazzling in their opulence, looking much like giant taffeta bells in the brightest of colors, bedecked with beads and trifles and trinkets and other garish baubles. Even their flashy faux crowns, by comparison, made hers look elegant. And the pirate kings strutted their stuff like peacocks in tall boots, with breeches that curved over portly bellies and molded to plump thighs, and ruffled blouses that revealed pale white chests with sagging muscles.

  Elizabeth eyed the pirate king standing beside her, acutely aware of his overwhelming masculine demeanor—the embodiment of pure male essence. She also realized he was not going unnoticed by the females in the room. The realization that this quintessential specimen of a man was her husband in name only made her body come alive in ways she didn't welcome. She hadn't realized her fingers had tightened on his arm until he covered her hand with his, and said against her temple, "You are the reigning queen here tonight, Elizabeth. There's not a woman in this room who doesn't envy your beauty."

  Elizabeth laughed aloud at his wrong assessment. "The women in this room are most definitely not envying my beauty," she quipped. "What they see is a dashing pirate king whose male assets are clearly evident beneath his temptingly tight breeches, and who they want in their beds instead of the flaccid, sexless popinjays at their sides." She gave him a playful smile and waited for his response.

  Peering down at her with smoldering eyes, he said in a sober voice, "If you want this marriage to remain unconsummated so you can have sole title to Shanti Bhavan, Elizabeth, I suggest you stop the teasing."

  Elizabeth wondered if perhaps she'd carried her charade a little too far. But, no worry. There was time to set him straight. The evening was far too young to burden herself with figurative consequences. "But it's all in fun, certainly you know that," she said. "However, I will stop the teasing while you escort me around the dance floor."

  Damon said nothing, only covered her hand with his and started around the floor, while she nodded and smiled at couples as they passed, as if Damon were the pirate king who reigned supreme, and she was his queen. As they continued to stroll around the floor while waiting for the music to begin, Elizabeth was vividly aware of eyes on them—not direct stares, but subtle looks, snatched glances, raised eyebrows. Tongues were wagging. But then, she was the only gypsy queen at the ball who looked gypsy, and she was promenading around the dance floor with the only pirate king who looked capable of commanding a crew of hard-edged buccaneers.

  Deciding to ignore the scandalmongers and leave them to their tittle-tattle, she looked up at Damon, and said, "The impression I got when I told you about this little social gathering was that you'd sooner be drawn and quartered than subjected to the indignities of arriving here as a pirate king. What made you change your mind?"

  Damon peered down at her, the intensity in his eyes deepening as he said, "I thought I'd better come protect you from yourself."

  Elizabeth gave him an impish grin. "Were you afraid that the wild gypsy girl you wrestled to the ground at the horse fair would surface and create a stir?"

  Damon patted her hand. "Something like that."

  The music started, and automatically Elizabeth turned into his arms. As he guided her around the dance floor to a slow waltz, the feel of his hand moving up and down her spine was a heady reminder of the first and last time she'd danced with him. Images of that ill-fated evening unfolded in her mind. Disguised as a prince from the Punjab, she'd been drawn to the sight of him, even while a slow awareness was beginning to dawn. From that point on, he'd made her life a living hell. Which was why, she reminded herself, she was dressed the way she was, and behaving as she was. A reminder again that turn around was fair play.

  However, after several dances, she'd had enough pointed stares to last a lifetime. The entire evening had been a mistake. Why she'd accepted Lady Bourke's invitation she couldn't explain, other than she'd missed some of the pageantry she'd come to know while living in London. Returning to India, with the heat, and the bugs, and the varmints, and the endless servants running her life made her long for some normalcy. But tonight was definitely not normal. And she'd had her fill of gypsy queens and pirate kings. Since Damon was also eager to leave, they slipped away unannounced. Later, she'd extend her thanks to Lady Bourke, but for now, she just wanted to be away from this place and the hundreds of eyes on them.

  During the ride home, Damon stayed to his side of the coach, arms folded, head turned away from her as he silently stared out the window. She reflected on his haughty demeanor in London and the liberties he'd taken with her in the coach on the way to the opera, and again on the steamer, when he'd demanded she strip for his perusal. He'd been in control then, even trapping her into marriage. But tonight, she'd gained the upper hand, and she intended to hold onto it. It was the least she deserved for the humiliation he'd put her through. However, she'd have him suffer
one more penance before the evening was done. One final act as Eliza Shirazi. Then he could go to the devil.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Once they arrived back at Shanti Bhavan, Damon escorted Elizabeth across the wide entry to the base of the stairs that led to the bedchambers, and said, "Goodnight, Elizabeth. This has been an interesting evening."

  Before he could unlatch her hand from his arm, Elizabeth batted her eye lashes at him, and said, "Aren't you going to walk me to my bedchamber?"

  Damon eyed her dubiously, and replied, "You know the way."

  "True, but the evening isn't yet over," Elizabeth said in a silky voice. "If you escort me to my bedchamber—" she looked up at him and gave him a sultry smile "—I'll make it worth your while." She trailed a finger slowly down his chest to his belly, then turned and started up the stairs. She didn't look back, but she heard his footsteps plodding along behind and knew he was following her. She couldn't stop the smile that played about her lips.

  Men, she'd learned, were incredibly predictable.

  At the door to her bedchamber, Damon said, "Alright, I've walked you here, and this is where the evening ends." He stood straight, arms at his sides, hands curled into loose fists.

  Elizabeth glided her palms up his chest. "Relax, my lord pirate king, I can tell you've gone all stiff on me again. But we can fix that." She nudged his shirt open, and planted a kiss on the tattoo of the rat. Then with the tip of her tongue, traced a moist path over a flat, male nipple.