Jason's brows drew together. "Who has been filling your head with such nonsense?"
When she didn't answer, he leaned his head back against the chair and spoke quietly, the smooth timbre of his voice playing on her senses like a soft melody. "There are such marriages, no doubt, but that has never been my idea of happiness. Imagine, Cat-eyes, a union of two people. A union of souls, of minds. A husband and wife who are partners, lovers, friends. A man and woman who share a single heart. They are bound to each other, yes, but by trust and affection and passion. It could be that way between us, sweetheart."
Lauren felt herself being lulled by the velvet texture of his voice, enveloped by the warmth of his embrace. For a moment, she even allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be married to such a powerful, persuasive man. She couldn't remember being held by anyone the way Jason was holding her now, with tenderness and reassurance. It was strange the way he made her feel cherished and protected.
He couldn't be involved with Burroughs, she decided. Not after saying such things to her. Even so, she would never have the opportunity to discover if such a marriage was possible.
As if he could read her thoughts, Jason buried his fingers in the silken mass of her hair and bent his head. His warm breath fanned her cheek as he held her gaze. "Give me the right to show you, my heart," he whispered.
Watching her, he saw the gold-flecked eyes darken with distress, saw the conflicting emotions flicker across the pale, oval face, and his chest ached with the need to comfort her. Diamond drops of tears sparkled on her lashes, and Jason bent to kiss them away before he began to rain gentle kisses over her face, her brow, her lips.
He gathered her more closely in his arms then, driven by the single purpose of making love to the beautiful girl in his embrace. His lips cajoled, demanded, pleaded, while his hands communicated wordlessly, expressing need and promising exquisite pleasure in return.
Lauren was dismayed to feel herself surrendering to him, to the vital power that was such an integral part of him, yet when Jason kissed her, she opened her mouth to him, and after a moment, threaded her arms about his neck.
Feeling her trembling response to his rising passion, he resumed his assault on her innocence, letting his hand glide along a silken thigh, stroking and caressing. Lauren stiffened when his fingers claimed the golden curls that hid her womanhood, hut his arousing kisses had stolen her breath away, preventing her from uttering a protest. Halfheartedly, she pushed against Jason's shoulders, trying to escape the aching warmth that was dazing her senses, yet wanting to surrender to it.
Jason's own pulse leapt wildly when Lauren squirmed in his lap. With her hips grinding against his thighs, her feminine softness was making him wildly feverish, driving him beyond the bounds of caution. He ached with wanting her, ached in every part of his body. Every muscle, every nerve throbbed with fire. But he inhaled a ragged breath, and forced himself to go slowly.
"Trust me, sweetheart. I won't hurt you." His velvet-edged voice was huskier than hers, Lauren noted vaguely, before Jason began a new agony, slowly stroking her with warm, insistent fingers, arousing a throbbing tension inside her, between her thighs.
Lauren clutched his shoulders, her tight grip betraying her fear of the wondrous sensations he was creating within her. She could feel the corded muscles rippling beneath his lawn shirt, but somehow the sinewy hardness of body only excited her more. Her head fell back in surrender.
Not only a warlock, she thought dazedly, but a magician. His skillful, knowing fingers were working magic. And his mouth. His mouth was like a hot brand, setting her on fire. It traced a flaming path down her throat to the ripe swells of her breasts, reverently kissing a rounded crest before tugging at the nipple and intensifying the burning heat in her belly and loins. And all the while his fingers were slowly exploring and tormenting her. Lauren could only writhe helplessly in his arms, her heart racing as she clung to him.
Jason felt lightheaded with triumph as she arched her hips against him, straining for a release she didn't know existed. He stroked with increased urgency, willing her to experience her first taste of passion. His own head was spinning dizzily as his fingers plied the sensitive, feminine flesh, making her breath come in ragged gasps that matched his rhythmic movements.
The heat continued to build. Lauren whimpered, feeling as if she were drowning in a hot, churning sea of sensation. Desperately, she tangled her fingers through Jason's tawny hair, gripping tightly. The fire seemed to gather in a tight central core deep within her, building and building. . . . Then suddenly it exploded in all directions, sending flames shooting throughout her body.
Jason muffled her cry of astonished pleasure with his lips, feeling but not minding at all the slender fingers that gripped his hair. He could feel the thudding of her heart as she recovered from the violence of her passion. When the shudders that wracked her body finally subsided, he cupped her chin in his hand, turning her so that he could look down into her desire-glazed eyes. Satisfied that he had at least won the first round, he pressed her head against his shoulder, smoothing her silken hair with his hand, caressing her cheek with gentle fingers.
Lauren was only vaguely aware of his warm breath brushing her temple. She felt strangely, wonderfully weak. She should not have enjoyed his scandalous attentions, though. She was doing this for money. . . .
Later, she told herself. Later she would be aghast at her wantonness, but now she couldn't speak or even think as Jason cradled her limp body in his arms. Gratefully, she closed her eyes and curled against him.
Allowing himself to relax at last, Jason shut his own eyes and leaned his head back to rest for a moment. The deep weariness that had assailed him earlier was even stronger now. He was still hard and pulsing with desire, but he felt totally drained of energy. It was an effort merely to hold her in his arms.
He didn't know how long he sat there in that dazed stupor, or how he found the strength to lift Lauren and carry her to the bed. A vague suspicion teased at his befogged brain as he lowered her to the mattress, but he was unable to focus his thoughts on anything except his throbbing need of her. He stood above her, swaying, reminding himself that he had no right to take her until he had made her his wife.
His wife. Soon she would be his.
Looking down into those incredible green-gold eyes, Jason wondered what had caused the intense sadness he saw there.
When he tried to ask, though, his tongue moved sluggishly. His speech sounded garbled, even to his own ears, so he gave it up.
It wasn't until his legs nearly buckled beneath him that Jason realized he was losing consciousness. Lauren swam dizzily in his vision, her image fading in and out of darkness.
The wine. She had drugged his wine.
Why?
God, no. Please, no.
She meant to leave him. She would disappear from his life as suddenly as she had entered it, and he would be powerless to stop her.
His one focused thought was that he couldn't let her go. Fear welled up in him, fear of losing her. He could feel her slipping from his grasp, fading away with her wavering golden image.
Jason reached out to her, fighting against the overwhelming weakness as he stumbled forward onto the bed. He landed almost on top of Lauren, startling a surprised cry from her.
He lay there a moment, sprawled halfway across her, his breathing labored. When he felt her squirm beneath him, as if attempting to free herself from his weight, the same fierce possessiveness he had known earlier surged through him. She belonged to him. He would claim her with his body and prevent her from leaving. He would make her his own, make her a part of him, bind her to him. He would make her his wife.
With a desperation he had never known before, Jason wrapped an arm about Lauren's waist, dragging her beneath him. She didn't protest, having steeled herself to submit to him, prepared to honor their agreement.
Jason raised himself up on one arm, somehow managing to loosen his breeches and free his rigid flesh. Awkwardly
then, he pushed up her skirts, baring the feminine softness that only a short time ago had never known a man's touch, a softness that was still warm and moist from his caresses.
He felt her stiffen as he spread her legs with his knees. But then his arms gave out and he collapsed on top of her, pinning her beneath his large body, the impact nearly crushing the breath from her lungs.
Lauren couldn't know it, but her startled gasp served to revive Jason for a brief while. Mingled fury and desire drove him then, and with his last vestiges of strength, he rose above her again and pressed into her, forcing himself deep within her as she twisted helplessly beneath him.
Jason heard her whimper of pain as she thrashed her head from side to side, but it was if the sound came from a great distance away. He buried his face in the mass of golden hair, pressing his cheek against hers, feeling the warm wetness of her tears.
There was no joy in the knowledge that he had made her his own, only a deep, frustrated anger at his own helplessness. But as the blackness edged aside consciousness, his fury ebbed, and so did all other sensation.
Chapter Five
Cornwall, 1812
Planting his feet firmly apart, Jason braced himself against the icy wind that blew off the sea. He could almost imagine himself on the deck of a ship as the wind, a residue of the recent winter storm, ruffled his hair and sent the capes of his greatcoat whipping about him. Looking down at the boiling waters far below the cliffs edge, it was easier still to remember the many times he had scaled the rigging and been afforded a similar view of churning waves.
He couldn't fail to be impressed by the beauty below. The frothing surf exploded continually in a violent display of nature's power, while the heavy spumes appeared startlingly white against the storm-darkened brine, presenting the only contrast to dreary gray. Jason's gaze lifted to scan the horizon. Only a thin line appeared to separate the vast ocean from the leaden sky, and he guessed that in a few hours even the sea would be obscured by dense fog rolling inward toward the Cornish coast.
Jason couldn't totally define what had prompted him to travel such a distance in order to see for himself the stage of the tragedy. He supposed it was because he wanted to learn all he could about the young woman to whom he had been so briefly promised.
Again his gaze swept the cove below. The rock which lined the coast appeared to have been ripped from the earth and thrown into the sea by some monstrous hand. Gigantic formations rose in twisting, jagged shapes from the depths, as if in agonized protest of the constant battering from the crashing breakers.
There was nothing in the savage vista to remind him of pale, delicate features and soft, feminine curves, yet the image indelibly imprinted on his memory appeared unbidden before him. By now Jason was quite familiar with the portrait of Andrea Carlin as a young girl. His mind's eye, however, persisted in adding minor details to the youthful features: a haunting luminescence to the eyes; a graceful fullness to the figure; an unconscious seductiveness to the smile. That smile had easily set his blood on fire, while the enchanting beauty of her face still tore at his heart.
Yet at the same time he wondered how faulty his memory had become in the many months since his intended bride's disappearance. He had thought her fragile and vulnerable, but she had to have been strong to have survived in this desolate corner of the world. The traumatic events in her short life had shaped her character for certain, although to what magnitude he couldn't guess.
Had she stood at this same spot on the cliffs, gazing out to sea, troubled and puzzled by her guardian's actions? But no, she wouldn't have had the opportunity. Burroughs had seen to that. The man had openly admitted to Jason his fear for his ward and the precautions he had taken for her safety.
Turning, Jason could see the great pile of gray stone that was Carlin House. The stark, forbidding structure had been built by Jonathan Carlin to resemble a castle, complete with turrets and battlements, and was set back some distance from the cliffs. Carlin House blended in well with the wild Cornish landscape, but a fanciful imagination could assign a sinister quality to the Gothic edifice. It was certainly no place to raise a young orphaned girl. Jason believed he could understand her reasons for running away.
He hadn't understood then. He had spent three frantic days searching the docks and the passenger dockets of all the ships sailing from London, before admitting that Andrea Carlin had disappeared, presumably with Lila, and had covered her trail completely. Then he had gone to the Carlin offices.
His actions that day had been those of a madman; he had nearly killed Burroughs with his angry demands to know what had become of the girl. He had finally released his tight grip of the man's throat, not because Burroughs swore ignorance, but because he pleaded a weak heart and truly appeared to be near collapse. Jason had set about reviving him, urging him to lie down upon a settee, loosening his neckcloth and collar, and forcing sips of water between his bloodless lips. It was some time before either of them were in a condition to speak calmly of the heiress.
"It is a long story," Burroughs said then. "I mean to divulge it to you, for the simple reason that I need your assistance. Your own past, Captain Stuart, has proven your capabilities, and Lord Effing tells me you may be relied upon. I would not have chosen you for my ward, otherwise."
The flexing muscles of Jason's jaw betrayed his barely leashed anger. "I am waiting," he replied dangerously.
Burroughs suddenly rose from his seat and began to pace the parquet floor, wringing his hands in agitation. "I must insist. . . I must have your word that nothing of what I will tell you will ever pass your lips without dire cause." When he paused, Jason gave a brief nod of agreement, wondering at his urgent plea for discretion.
"It began almost thirty years ago," Burroughs said in a low voice, almost to himself. "It was before I became a partner in the Carlin Line, before Jonathan Carlin wed my sister Mary. Jonathan was rather hotheaded in his youth, but even then he was imperious and stubborn. He was a law unto himself, and he would brook no defiance."
Jason's eyes narrowed as his gaze was drawn once again to the portrait of Jonathan Carlin with his wife and young daughter. Carlin stood arrogantly staring from the canvas, his long, tapered fingers resting possessively on the shoulder of the woman seated before him. Kneeling at his feet was a child, a young girl who had both arms flung around the neck of a mastiff. Her cheek was pressed against the dog's head and she was smiling slightly.
Andrea Carlin resembled neither of her solemn, bewigged parents, either in expression or appearance, Jason thought. Her unpowdered hair gleamed a rich gold and contrasted brightly with her pale complexion, while her amber-green eyes glowed with a compelling light. An apt portrayal, Jason decided, except that the artist had failed to catch the smile. In the portrait, it was sweet and innocent, not beguiling and alluring.
Tearing his gaze away, he focused on Burroughs. The company's major officer was a large ruddy-faced man given to portliness in his advancing years, but he exuded none of Jonathan Carlin's aura of power and assurance. His habitually mournful expression was intensified by a watery discharge that continually streamed from his pale-blue eyes. Regardless, Jason was well aware that behind the rheumy eyes was as shrewd a brain as one could wish. Jason granted Burroughs his full attention.
"It always pleased Jonathan to be able to play God," Burroughs said with a sigh. "He liked to control people, bend them to his will. There were few who dared defy Jonathan, but his own sister Regina was one. Against her brother's express wishes, she began seeing a Spaniard by the name of Rafael. When Jonathan couldn't stop her, he had her lover apprehended. He presented Rafael with a choice—hanging or transportation. The Spaniard chose the latter, and was consigned to a slaver, with little chance for escape."
Burroughs noted Jason's raised eyebrow and replied without further prompting to the unspoken question. "The company dealt in slaves then, yes. It was how Jonathan made such huge profits in the beginning. But this was not an ordinary run. Rafael was taken to Algeria.
More than a decade passed before he was heard of again."
At that juncture, Burroughs stopped his pacing and began clawing at his collar and gasping for breath. Observing the almost frantic gestures, Jason was again compelled to lend assistance by helping the man to the settee.
Once he was lying down, Burroughs waved a feeble hand in dismissal. "I am all right," he said faintly. "In addition to a weak heart, I also possess a weak stomach." He shut his eyes. "You see, I was the one who found them . . . in the caves . . . below Carlin House."
"You found them?" Jason urged gently when Burroughs remained silent.
"Jonathan and Mary . . . and Andrea. Their . . . remains."
Jason's gaze flew to the portrait again, his mind reeling. For an instant before logic once again ruled, he focused on the possibility that Andrea Carlin was dead. Yet she couldn't have died . . . not unless her spirit had somehow returned to the flesh and she had—
Jason forcibly repressed his wild imaginings. But his grip on Burroughs's wrist was stronger than necessary and his voice had a hoarse ring when he demanded what had become of the Carlin family.
"Rafael . . . and his gang tortured them. I can't describe . . . God, there was so much blood. Vicious animals. . . ."
"But not the daughter. The girl was spared," Jason said in an unrecognizable voice.
"I suppose you could say that. Andrea was . . . She had been . . ."
Jason's heart lurched. "Rafael raped her?" he demanded, momentarily forgetting the virginal stains upon Lila's sheets.
"No, just my . . . poor sister Mary. And it was not Rafael," Burroughs replied. "He wasn't capable of such an act. Eunuchs are not . . . That was why he took such pleasure in . . . castrating Jonathan. Only he didn't stop there . . . Rafael only watched while his men, his followers, had Mary and then . . . took a knife to her. By the time they turned to Andrea, they were almost blind with drink. They slashed her thighs and arms, before she managed to escape by way of the tunnel beneath the house. She collapsed there, but Jonathan and Mary . . ."
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