Sweet Seduction hmtl

by Patricia Pellicane

  "It hardly suits you, does it?"

  Meg, oddly enough, felt offended but instantly deemed the emotion ridiculous considering the source of the insult. "Why?" Her eyes narrowed as she awaited his answer.

  "Because you should wear bright colors." He shrugged out of his jacket and began unbuttoning his white shirt. "Red blouses that slide off your shoulders and are easy for a man to lower were made for a woman like you."

  For the first time, Meg realized what he was about. She hadn't till this moment noticed that he was slowly disrobing. "Stop right there," she said, but her words brought about no immediate reaction. He continued to unbutton his shirt:

  "What were you doing at the ball tonight? Did you have a particular pigeon in mind, or were you going to pick any pocket?"

  Comprehension finally dawned. He thought her to be a Gypsy and imagined a Gypsy would have only one reason for attending such an affair. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she could clear this entire matter up with her explanation. "Wait a minute. You've gotten the wrong impression. I'm not a Gypsy. Well, I am," she corrected at his look of disbelief, "but only one-quarter. You see, my father's mother was a Gypsy. She married my lather's father, who was—"

  Tristan laughed.

  Her brow creased into a frown. "Do you find something amusing in particular, or is it your practice to always laugh while a woman is—"

  "I find you amusing," he interrupted. "I couldn't care less if your father's father married your aunt's uncle."

  Meg shot him a look of annoyance. "I'm trying to explain something to you."

  "Explain away," he said as he moved toward her, cuffs loosened, his shirt open and hanging free of his trousers. "But you won't mind getting a bit more comfortable while we have our little discussion, would you?"

  Meg stared for a long moment at his opened shirt. It hung from his shoulders — unusually wide shoulders, she mentally noted —and lay open perhaps three inches. It was enough for her to see that his chest was as tanned as his face and covered with dark curly hair. Meg couldn't for a moment ascertain why that fact should make her stomach flutter. It was with some surprise that she realized he was moving closer, almost upon her in fact. She darted away. "I certainly would mind," Meg said, and then frowned to find her voice oddly breathless. "And we are not having a discussion. I'm trying to explain something."

  The captain's quarters were roomier than most but hardly large enough for her to escape him for long. Tristan grinned as he stalked her. "Why are you suddenly so skittish?"

  "You've just abducted me. Do you truly expect me to calmly accept that fact?"

  "You have little choice, actually."

  "Will you give me a chance to explain?"

  Tristan shrugged. "You'll only be delaying the inevitable."

  "An explanation might stop you from making a serious mistake."

  Tristan grinned as she backed away from his advance. He matched her movements step for step.

  "There'll be no mistakes tonight, Gypsy, serious or otherwise. The only thing I'm going to make is love to you."

  Meg swallowed at his bold comment, somewhat amazed that it brought on no rush of anger but instead left her feeling oddly excited. No, excited was the wrong word for what she felt. She was nervous and probably a bit hysterical. That was it. There was no other explanation for the sensations that filled her body at his brazen look and impertinent words.

  Meg held up her hands as if that in itself would halt his progress. "No. Wait," she said as she moved around his desk, almost falling over an unnoticed chair.

  "Why? We both know what we want. Why play games?"

  "Let me tell you what happened. Who I am."

  "I know who you are."

  "Mr. Hall, you must listen." Meg's plea took on a desperate tone, but only she seemed to notice. Tristan's attention was suddenly on breasts that heaved as if she'd been running miles.

  "It's Captain Hall, and the only thing I must do is kiss you."

  Meg knew better than to let this man near her. The two times he'd kissed her she'd lost every trace of willpower. She couldn't allow that to happen again. "You're going to laugh when you realize what has happened," she said, praying that her statement held even a glimmer of truth even as she continued backing away from him.

  She gave a soft, weak laugh herself and watched him smile. "You see, I was visiting my relatives." And at his blank look, she nodded. "You know, the Gypsies."

  Tristan grinned. She was so damn adorable, he couldn't wait to hold her in his arms again. He continued to stalk her, happy to see they had circled the room and he was backing her closer and closer to the bed.

  "As I was saying, I was visiting my relatives, and they—" Meg felt the edge of the bed hit the back of her legs. An instant later she jumped suddenly upon it, her skirt and petticoats flying high, offering him a delightful glimpse of stocking-clad, shapely legs as she scooted to the other side. Just as if there had been no break in her conversation, she went on. "—like just about everyone in the entire country, were going into London to celebrate the Queen's coronation. I went with them. That's where I met you."

  Tristan nodded. He couldn't stop his grin. "I remember quite clearly. And I paid you fifty pounds for a night that never came about."

  Meg ignored his comment. She'd get to that later. "I wasn't really a Gypsy, you see." She shook her head. "Well, I was but . . ." She gave him a pleading, desperate look that bespoke of her own confusion. Lord, she needed a miracle here. Nothing less would make this man understand what sounded, even to her, like gibberish.

  Tristan smiled. She was enchanting. And the more she talked, the more desirable he found her.

  "Go on."

  "Anyway, Marta—that's my cousin —she said I should tell fortunes. She just about shoved me into the tent." Meg shrugged and held out her hands in helpless gesture. "What could I do? The woman is already inside." "So you told her fortune."

  "I did." She nodded as his grin widened. "No, really." She nodded again, this time a bit more vigorously. "I did. It was the most amazing thing. I don't know how I knew what was going to happen, but somehow I saw it."

  Tristan grinned like a cat cornering a mouse. He lost licked his chops. "Can you see what's going happen now?"

  "Wait, I'm not finished."

  "I think you are. I'm getting dizzy."

  "So am I. Look, could we sit down? If you just listen for a minute, I know I can clear everything up," she said with just a touch of nervousness. "If, after I'm finished, you still don't believe me, we could always start this merry-go-round again."

  Tristan smiled and sat his hip on the corner of desk. Pouring a bit of rum into a glass he offered it to her. He shrugged at her refusal and downed the liquid in one swallow. Meg watched the muscles of his throat move and for no apparent reason felt suddenly lightheaded as if it were she who had just swallowed the strong liquor. "You were saying?"

  Meg looked wildly about the room. There was no means of escape except through the door, and he'd neatly disposed of the key. At least one of them. The room held a large desk and chair. Behind it, the wall was lined with cabinets. On the opposite wall beneath a line of wide windows, stood an unusually large bed. Nothing else cluttered the room. Nothing else offered a place to sit. Meg refused to sit on that bed. And in order to sit on the chair, she'd have to pass him. She remained standing as she tried to collect her thoughts. "Let me start from the beginning. My father and sister and I came to London for the Queen's coronation. While we were here, my father took us to visit our relatives," she nodded as if the movement would make everything clear, "from his mother's side of the family." She nodded again. "You know, the Gypsies." Meg offered him a weak smile while praying he knew what she was talking about. "I met for the first time my great-grandmother. I wanted to see her again, so the next day I went back to the camp. That was the day we met. Marta practically forced me into telling fortunes, so when you saw me — "

  "You offered to tell mine."

  Meg shrugged. "We
ll, you were so anxious to part with your money. It was all done as a lark anyway."

  "Is that what you thought?" Tristan grinned. "It's a lark so I might as well steal this man's money?"

  "No, that's not what I thought." Her defiant look turned suddenly guilty. "At least not at first."

  She shook her head. "I'm getting ahead of myself. The point is that when I told your fortune, you got the wrong impression."

  Tristan shot her a look of disbelief, but Meg was trying to sort things out in her mind and never noticed.

  "At first I didn't understand what you were talking about. When I finally realized your intent, I was insulted and then angry. I thought to teach you a lesson."

  "Why? I was willing to pay your price."

  "That's not why I was angry." Meg's long sigh told clearly her dismay. This wasn't going well at all. What could she say to make this man understand? She tried again. "What I should have done was tell you the truth of the matter then. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about this whole mess."

  "And that's it?" Tristan's tone was a mixture of anger and astonishment. This one had nerve, he would give her that. "Is that supposed to take care' of everything? You played me for a fool and stole my money. And because you're sorry, that's the end of it?"

  "I told you, you could have the money back."

  "And I told you, I don't want it."

  Meg worried her bottom lip with small white teeth. Tristan had a time of it remaining where he was as he watched her bite the soft flesh. "What about the beating I took from your cousins? What about your order to emasculate me? Should nothing be done about that?"

  "I only said that because you were so hateful. If you hadn't looked at me with such disgust . . ." She shrugged not knowing how else to explain the terrible thing she'd done.

  "Was I supposed to be happy? If you remember correctly, the arrival of your family came at a most inopportune moment."

  "And whose fault was that?" she asked in righteous anger. "You dragged me into the woods. I wasn't willing."

  "No? You felt like you were more than willing to me."

  Meg's cheeks grew in color at his reminder. "I wasn't" she insisted, knowing even as she said the words that she lied.

  "You're a liar. You were soft and warm in my arms. Softer and warmer than any woman I've ever known."

  "I never wanted any of this," she cried.

  "Not at first, perhaps, but you didn't complain once I kissed you."

  Meg's shrug told the truth of that statement. "Perhaps I did give the impression that I wouldn't be averse to your attentions, but that was wrong of me. I'm mortified to think how badly I acted."

  "And now I'm supposed to accept this wild explanation and all is forgiven?"

  "It's the truth, sir. And I would be ever so grateful."

  "How grateful?" Tristan almost leered.

  "What do you mean?" She blinked in all innocence.

  Tristan shook his head. "Never mind." She was good. He had to give her that. If he hadn't seen for himself her deceit, he would have been the first to believe her. Tristan watched her closely for a long moment before he nodded. "One question."

  Meg sighed with relief. Thank God. He believed her. All would soon be put to rights. She wasn't sure she would have believed a story so wild. Her eyes met his as she waited for his question. "Where did you steal those clothes?"

  Meg's eyes widened, and her heart sank with despair. He hadn't believed a word she'd said. Her heart beating like thunder in her breast, she tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly dry. "The dress belongs to me."

  Tristan laughed as he levered himself away from the desk. "Now. But who owned it first?"

  It no longer mattered what she said. The man wasn't of a mind to believe a word she might utter. "Does that matter?"

  "I'd say it matters to the lady who had hoped to wear it. Is that where you got the invitation to the ball? Did you steal it from her as well?"

  Meg ignored his question. She shouldn't have wasted her time explaining anything. What she should have been doing was trying to find a way of this room from the moment he'd thrown her here. "Unlock the door." The words brooked no

  nonsense.

  Tristan chuckled wickedly. "You said that before."

  "I'll see you hang for this," she warned as they began again their cat and mouse play.

  Tristan grinned as he followed her retreating steps. "Maybe, but if that's the case, we'll no doubt hang together. Stealing is also a crime; you know."

  Meg didn't bother to declare her innocence. He wouldn't believe her in any case. It was easy enough to see this man was going to believe exactly what suited him. Only he wasn't going to accomplish what he had in mind. Not if she had any say in the matter.

  "I won't make it easy for you." He had her backed up to his desk. They were barely three steps or so apart when she darted to her right. Instantly his arm was around her waist. He pushed her back against the desk. His hips holding her in place, his arms on each side of her prevented any chance of escape. Meg leaned back, trying desperately to keep some space between their bodies and sighed fatalistically. They'd both known he'd eventually trap her. He was bigger and obviously faster. She couldn't have evaded him forever.

  Tristan laughed. "Ah, Gypsy, nothing has been easy since the first day I saw you. I don't expect things to change in the near future."

  Meg fought against the unwanted sensations that suddenly filled her. He was so close she could smell his clean, warm scent, which sent shivers down her spine and caused a certain breathlessness. But it her hands that proved the traitors. Locking her fingers together, she forced them to remain at her back. Her cheeks grew flushed as she realized she'd almost touched him. She'd almost reached a fingertip to the hair on his chest. Meg couldn't hide her sudden shiver, for despite her fear, she wanted to know the feel of him more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

  Meg forced from her mind his nearness and the disgraceful things it was doing to her. Her hand moved behind her, searching for anything that might afford her some protection, anything she might use in defense. A paperweight, a letter opener. Please God, something! She almost sighed aloud and offered a silent prayer of thanks as her fingers nearly knocked over the bottle of rum. She slipped her hand around its narrow neck and then tried one last desperate tactic. Anything, anything that would momentarily take his mind from his intent. "I wouldn't have thought that a man like you would have to resort to force."

  "Meaning I'll have to force you to join me in that bed?" He glanced at the object under discussion from over his shoulder and laughed. Once he got ler there, the only forcing that would be done would be to keep the fire that raced through both of them from incinerating his entire ship. His hips pressed against hers, his gaze on her mouth as he lowered his head to her parted lips. Meg took the opportunity he offered, knowing this was her last chance. If she allowed him this kiss, all would be lost. She grasped the bottle tightly in her hand and brought it up over her head. Immediately rum spilled out soaking both their heads. Meg hardly noticed. She swung with all her strength. An instant later the bottle cracked against the side of Tristan's skull.

  Meg gave a soft cry of alarm as he fell against her. For a second, she imagined her blow ineffectual, but it was not. Almost as if in slow motion he slid down the length of her and then crumpled to the floor at her feet. Dear Lord, he'd hit his head so hard! For a terrible minute Meg thought she'd killed him.

  Moments later she realized with some relief from the steady rise and fall of the man's chest that he was only knocked senseless. She wasted no time, but hurried to find the key. She had to get out of there.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Tristan began to stir, Meg had already searched through the desk and the cabinets behind it. Anything that might have held a key had been impatiently emptied; most everything else had been swept to the floor. Still she had not found the extra key.

  She sat now, calmly awaiting her fate. The floor was littered with debris. Roll
ed charts and maps, pens, an inkwell, a smashed porcelain figurine, a box of ammunition, matches, and flint were among the dozen personal articles she'd carelessly flung aside. A cup of hard soap and a cracked mirror lay at her feet. His shaving brush nearby greedily soaked up the spilled black ink that left a lasting, ugly, black stain upon the cabin's polished wooden floor.

  Meg glanced at her skirt and with some surprise found it splattered and stained as well. She hadn't remembered knocking the ink to the floor.

  With a careless shrug, Meg dismissed the condition of her clothes. Certainly a ruined dress was the least of her problems. Her only concern was escape. That she had tried but failed was not an acceptable solution. She had no alternative but to try again. And this time she would succeed.

  He wouldn't be gentle, of that she could be assured. No man would be pleased to find a bump on his head the size of a robin's egg. Meg had seen Tristan Hall angry, but she'd never had the misfortune to know the brunt of his wrath. She had no doubt her time had come.

  Her fingers twisted nervously in her lap, for she felt much like a lamb being led to slaughter. He moaned and stirred again. Meg let out a deep trembling sigh. She was terrified, her fears only adding to her wild imagination. What would he do? Would he be angry enough to beat her? Or would he control the impulse, realizing his superior strength and knowing that he was apt to do her some real harm?

  Meg wasn't afraid of the pain he was likely to inflict . She knew she was strong enough to take whatever this man deemed as just punishment. It was the waiting that so disturbed her.

  Tristan opened one eye and then the other. What the hell had happened? He was lying on the floor of his cabin, his head filled with throbbing pain, the upper portion of his body covered with rum. Had he gotten drunk again? Had he passed out and fallen to the floor? Tristan moved one hand to his head and then groaned at the lump he found there.

  The dark empty bottle of rum lay near his head. Tristan shot it a murderous glare. Damn it to hell, his drinking was getting out of control. Silently he swore he'd seen the last of the evil brew. He wouldn't be touching another drink anytime the near future.