Devil's Embrace

by Catherine Coulter

  “How odd,” she mumbled, and tried to raise herself on her elbows. She realized that she was naked and let herself fall again.

  “There is no sign of the Spanish frigate?”

  “No.”

  “Will my back be scarred?”

  He grinned at her belated display of vanity. “I do not believe so. You will be sore for several days.”

  “You will not tell the men, will you, my lord?”

  “I do not think that will be necessary,” he said. Actually, he imagined that he would have a mutiny on his hands if his men were to discover what he had done.

  He started forward in his chair at a tear that fell from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek.

  “Cassandra,” he said, uncertain.

  She raised her hand and dashed it away. “I am sorry,” she choked out. “The laudanum is making me a fool. I cannot seem to help it. I wish you would but leave.”

  “No. I will not leave.”

  She flinched at the anger she saw in his eyes. “Do not be angry. I am sorry to shame you.”

  He scraped back his chair and rose abruptly. He guessed that she felt pain but was too proud to admit to it. “Be quiet. It is not a question of shaming me. Do not move, I will get you more laudanum.”

  With shaking hands, he poured a few more drops into a large goblet of wine. It was much more than she needed, but he needed it to relieve his guilt as much as her discomfort.

  He thrust the glass to her lips. “Here.”

  It took her some minutes to down the entire contents, and a trickle of wine fell down her chin. He wiped it away with his fingertip.

  He realized that her wits were indeed addled when she clumsily pushed herself onto her side, facing him, heedless of her bare breasts. Her eyelids appeared heavy, her cheeks flushed.

  “It is dreadfully uncomfortable to lie on one’s stomach,” she mumbled.

  “I daresay that you are right.”

  “I feel rather strange, as if I were floating outside of myself. And my words don’t seem to speak themselves easily.”

  The earl sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “It is because you are drunk, Cassandra,” he said.

  “I have never been drunk before, you know,” she said aloud, trying to focus her eyes upon his face. “Nor,” she added thoughtfully, “have I ever been beaten before.”

  “I did not want to thrash you, but you gave me no choice.”

  Her hazy thoughts wove themselves together as his gently spoken words penetrated her mind. “No, there was no choice. You did what was just.” She sighed and whispered, her words so slurred that he could barely make them out, “But there have been other things you have done to me, things you have made me feel that I did not wish. There was choice there, I think.”

  Before he could decide how to respond to her, she said, “Your laudanum and French burgundy have worked. I do not hurt now.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the pillow.

  He leaned forward and smoothed a strand of hair from her forehead. Her breathing was even. She slept.

  He rose and pulled the cover again to her waist, and returned to his chair.

  Chapter 11

  The cabin door burst open, and Cassie quickly stepped back and clutched the satin chemise to her breast. The earl filled the doorway, looking, as ever, powerful and confident. “Can you not at least knock!”

  “E una bellissima giornata, cara.”

  “I do not care if it is foul or beautiful weather, my lord. You have no right to burst in unannounced.”

  He disregarded her outburst and studied her carefully. He could detect no remnants of pain, no discomfort, save, of course, her usual unease in his presence. He smiled, pleased with her temper. She had been too restrained the last day and a half. Of course, his dosing her wine with laudanum because he could not trust her to admit to any pain she felt had dulled her mind and rendered her more tractable.

  “It would appear,” he said easily, closing the door behind him, “that your temper at least is back to normal. I have come to help you dress. We are in the Straits of Gibraltar and have the good fortune of a westerly wind—very uncommon for the summer months.”

  For an instant, Cassie forgot her ire and the fact that she was clothed only in her petticoats. “The Pillars of Hercules,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “So you have learned your history, I see. Such knowledge you possess, Cassandra.”

  “I have enough knowledge to realize that you are an overbearing ass, my lord. Now, if you would cease your nonsense and leave, I will dress.”

  “How is your back?”

  His abrupt inquiry took her off guard. Though she rarely felt any pain, she had been on the point of fetching another chemise, for this one was embroidered with stiff lace that would bind tightly across her back. She didn’t want his concern.

  “I am quite all right now, my lord.”

  He frowned at the frothy satin and lace garment she still held protectively against her breasts. “Surely a muslin chemise would be more comfortable for you.” Without a by-your-leave, he strode to the dresser and tossed undergarments aside until he found a soft, lightweight muslin chemise that was cut high in the back.

  “Ah, here it is,” he said, grinning at her. “It is fortunate that I thought to add this dowdy garment to your wardrobe, is it not?”

  “It is obvious that you had in mind all along to beat me.”

  “Oh no,” he said cheerfully. “Indeed, I can think of fewer things less pleasurable than beating you. But it is a question of control, is it not, Cassandra? I think we have both learned a lesson.”

  “You will never control me, my lord,” she said in a voice of deadly calm. “And you are a fool if ever you begin to believe your own braying. I accepted my punishment from the captain of this ship. There is nothing that I will willingly accept from the man.”

  “How well you have trimmed my sails, cara,” he said, his calm undisturbed. “Before you lash out at me again, I wish to rub more ointment into your back. And you needn’t argue with me, because if you do, it is likely that we will be through the straits and you will have missed your Pillars of Hercules.”

  She gnawed her lower lip in uncertainty, but she knew him well enough by now to realize that he would have his way. “Very well,” she said, and turned her back to him.

  The earl lifted her mane of hair, tousled from her night’s sleep, and looked at her back, still lightly crisscrossed with fading welts.

  “Bend over a bit and keep your hair out of the way.”

  His fingers made light circular movements over her skin, their motion gentle and caressing, turning her back white with the cream.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  Cassie jumped at his voice. “No. Please, my lord, just be done with it.” He finally dropped his hands, and she drew a thankful sigh, allowing herself to relax.

  He silently handed her the muslin chemise. She did not turn to face him until she had laced the bodice together over her breasts. Her expression was one of dogged wariness, and he smiled.

  “I will await you on deck.”

  Ten minutes later, the earl turned to see her walking crisply toward him with the firm stride of someone well used to the gentle rolling of the deck. He smiled at her choice of gowns—a pale green muslin, chosen undoubtedly because it fastened in the front and not the back.

  “That is Gibraltar?” There was wonder in her voice as she gazed to port at the huge outjutting rock, stark and awesomely harsh under the brilliant morning sun.

  “Yes. Impressive, is it not? Look to starboard, Cassandra. That is Jebel Musa, in Morocco.” He enjoyed her excitement, and her naturalness. Her eyes readily followed his pointing finger.

  Cassie shaded her eyes against a sun so bright that it bathed the land in shimmering shades of white. She looked again to port, and then to starboard. It was as if someone had carved the straits directl
y through a range of jagged hills.

  “I had no idea that the straits were so narrow,” she said at last. “Why the Moslems are at our very door.”

  “A mere nine miles at the narrowest point. As to the Moslems, they have throughout the ages many times crossed through our door and made themselves quite at home in our drawing room.”

  Cassie nodded, scanning the Spanish coastline, and then again the rough-hewn African terrain. “I never believed that I would see any more of the world than England. This is very unlike England, you know.”

  He smiled and pointed starboard. “On the point there, touching the Mediterranean, is the Spanish town of Ceuta; and there, northward, is the little hill town of San Roque. Unfortunately, it is too hazy for you to see Tangier. Look at the color of the water. It is difficult to describe, is it not? Like a sapphire, perhaps.”

  She nodded enthusiastically, and the earl was both amused and pleased by her eagerness. The yacht sailed swiftly through the straits, the westerly wind holding the billowing sails taut overhead. He closed his eyes a moment, listening to the squawking of the sea birds, the sound of lines slapping against the wooden masts, and the voices of his men as they went about their morning work. He opened his eyes to see Cassandra gazing open-mouthed at the sheer-faced, awesome rock. “The name Gibraltar comes from Gebel Tarik, which means the rock of Tarik, or the hill of Tarik.”

  Cassie turned to him, frowning. “But Gibraltar is such an English name. Surely you are mistaken.”

  He shook his head. “Tarik was a Moslem who captured Gibraltar long ago, in the eighth century, I believe. He built a castle, which is still very much in use. The English are relative newcomers.”

  “Yes, it was the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 that forced the Spanish to give it up.” She looked pleased with herself for remembering such a useless fact.

  “The Spanish have not given it up yet. Indeed, the situation grows more tense by the year. Charles III is not a man to accept English control of such a strategic site. It is a constant thorn in his imperial side.”

  Cassie shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. “Oh, the Spanish, they are nothing compared to us.”

  The earl smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, most Englishmen share your opinion. Only time will tell.”

  “Are there still pirates about? We are near the Barbary Coast, are we not?” She eagerly scanned the jagged African coastline, but saw nothing save craggy black rocks and barren rolling hills. There was no sign of activity anywhere.

  “Yes, that is the Barbary Coast. There are pirates, unfortunately, but not so many as a hundred years ago. You see those inlets cutting into the coast? They look deserted enough, but looks are many times deceiving. The pirates move swiftly, for their livelihood depends upon surprise. Now, if it were the sixteenth century, we would not be standing here by the railing enjoying the scenery. That was the time of Barbarossa and his Turkish pirates.”

  “Barbarossa,” Cassie repeated slowly. “How dashing his name sounds.” She sighed. “I wager you are not being honest with me, my lord. There are probably no pirates left at all now. Today is terribly modern and unexciting.”

  “I will let you read some accounts of Barbarossa,” the earl said, his tone dry. “No man, woman, or child was safe from his raids. He much enjoyed pillaging, taking the men for slaves in his galleys and ravishing the women, a pastime I find hardly romantic.”

  Cassie slowly turned at his words. “And just how would you describe the ravishing of women, my lord?”

  She thought he flushed, but his tan was so deep that it was difficult to be certain.

  He regarded her steadily, and when he finally spoke, his voice was curiously gentle. “It is said that Barbarossa once deflowered twenty-four virgins in one day. The girls were of various ages, the youngest supposedly but twelve years old. As this exploit was the result of a wager with a neighboring prince, Barbarossa filled the long hall of his palace with many men to witness his prowess. None of the girls resisted him, for to have refused Barbarossa would have meant a painful, lingering death. They were all naked, of course, with no veils over their faces, for Barbarossa wanted all the men to see their faces when he thrust through their maidenheads. He did not concern himself with what became of them after he won his wager. It is written that many of the girls were stoned to death, for what man would want a girl who was no longer a virgin, who had no longer any claim to honor?” He paused a moment, and looked at her whitened cheeks.

  “I believe, Cassandra, that there are differences, if you wish to find them.”

  She shivered, even though the sun burned hot and white overhead. She looked at the man beside her and thought inconsequentially that if she were standing closer to him, she would not be able to see the sun. She felt oddly bereft. Her voice was cold and crackling dry. “I believe, my lord, that men have changed little since the time of your cruel story. Women are still to be possessed as a man’s chattel. They are to be protected or cast aside, according to a man’s whim. I see little difference, my lord. Regardless of what you make me feel in your bed, I shall always hate you for what you have done to me.”

  “You are wrong, cara, and I shall prove it to you.”

  She turned on her heel and hurried away from him.

  “Cassandra.”

  She felt fear at the cold fury in his voice, but continued her headlong flight, nearly tripping over a coiled rope that lay close to the mainmast.

  His fingers closed about her upper arm, and he jerked her none too gently about to face him.

  “You are worse than Barbarossa. At least he did not cloak his villainy—”

  “You will be silent.”

  She drew a shattered breath and saw from the corner of her eye that members of the crew were watching them.

  He drew her close to his chest, and she winced, for her back was still tender.

  “What is it you intend, my lord? Another beating so that I will learn to cower before your wrath? I will see you in hell first.”

  “Come, Cassandra. Don’t make me carry you.”

  She thrust her chin up defiantly, but fell into stiff step beside him.

  Her step lagged at the cabin door, but he shoved her inside, and ground the key in the lock. His fingers closed over the silver buckle on his belt.

  “I will not submit to this beating, my lord. You will have to tie me down.”

  He stared at her. “By God, you witless little fool. You honestly believe that I—”

  He got no further, for at that instant a heavy book struck his shoulder.

  “Witless, am I, my lord?” she yelled at him. “You will see that I am not helpless.” She grasped two more weighty books from the library shelves and flung them at him with all her strength. He raised his arm and knocked them aside.

  He strode toward her and Cassie, with a sob of anger, abandoned the books, clutched the huge ivory candle holder from atop his desk, and flung it at him. He ducked it, vaguely wondering as he heard one of his prized possessions crash heavily to the floor if the ivory had cracked.

  He reached her behind the large mahogany desk and she lashed out at him. Her fist connected with his belly.

  “That is quite enough, Cassandra,” he said, and pinned her arms to her sides. She tried to kick at him, but he pulled her so tightly against his body that she could not move.

  Her heart beat wildly and her breasts heaved against his chest. She had believed—still believed—that he was going to beat her.

  “Cassandra, look at me.”

  He shook her slightly. Reluctantly, she raised her head. Her face was drained of color, yet there was defiant anger in her eyes.

  “Why would you think that I would beat you?”

  Although his tone was gentle, Cassie felt her stomach churn, for she knew she was impotent against him, impotent in all things.

  “You are cruel.”

  “Like Barbarossa?”

  His expression was impassive and she felt uncertainty about herself, and about him. “Why do you mock me?�
��

  “I do not mock you, cara, nor was it ever my intention to beat you.”

  “Don’t lie to me. You were furious at me and you were taking off your belt.”

  “Yes, I was angry at your vicious tongue. But understand me, Cassandra, I would never thrash you because you behave like a stupid child or a raging termagant. As to my belt, it must be removed if I am to strip off my clothes. It is my body you need, cara, not a beating.”

  “No.” She twisted frantically against him to break his hold. She felt the hardness of him against her belly and color surged to her cheeks.

  “You are worse than Barbarossa.”

  He merely smiled at her and leaned against the desk. He spread his thighs and pulled her between them. He held her hands behind her with one hand, and let the other move casually over her hips.

  “Why hold yourself so rigid, my love?” he whispered, his warm breath against her temple. “Think about how you will feel very soon now. We have been apart for much too long a time.” His fingers continued their gentle probing, and she felt his hard member through her gown and petticoats, throbbing and hungry for her.

  His voice, deep and sensual, sounded again in her ear. “Think about my mouth moving over you. You are so pink and soft, cara. You taste so sweet.”

  Cassie reared her head back. “Damn you, I will not let you seduce me with words. I will not listen to you.”

  She felt his mouth close over her, and the now familiar gentle probing of his tongue against her lips. His fingers caressed the back of her neck, then moved slowly to the bodice of her gown. She felt him pulling away the velvet ribbon that bound her hair. He released her mouth, and his lips trailed over her throat, and up to nibble at her ear. She felt a sudden bolt of heat burn through her. She was scarce aware that he no longer held her hands behind her, that her arms of their own volition tugged at his shoulders to bring him closer to her.

  “Please,” she whispered brokenly, “don’t make me feel like this.” But even as she spoke, she pressed against him, consumed by her own desire.

  As his fingers parted the buttons of her gown and drew open the ribbons of her chemise, he murmured, “I want to touch you, be close to you, be drawn deep inside of you.”