The Prize (19 page)

Huge violet eyes
gazed pleadingly at him. /
cannot survive without Sweet Briar. Please let
me go! Please. I beg you....

He refused to feel
sorry for her, not even in the most dispassionate and clinical way. He did not
wish
Virginia
ill, certainly, but her last
name was Hughes, and she would serve him and his purpose well. But oddly, he
could not help but recognize that she was a terribly innocent victim of his
plans.

Devlin's steps slowed
as he realized he did pity her after all. He had no feelings for
Elizabeth
, but he pitied his captive,
perhaps because of her youth and innocence, or maybe because she did not know
that
Eastleigh
hadn't the funds to save her
beloved plantation.

Her violet eyes
seared him again, this time soft with love.

/
was born at
Sweet Briar. It is near
Norfolk
,
Virginia
, and it is heaven on earth....

The anger erupted,
stunning him with its force. Pity was a weakness. And if she continued to defy
his authority, he could easily enough turn her eyes soft and smoky with the
plunging hardness of his own body. In fact, he was beyond tempted now. Should
he discipline her in his bed, there'd be no more defiance, no more escape
attempts. Then, escape would
not
be on her mind.

Cries echoed on the
docks ahead.

Devlin started, all
thoughts of sex vanishing, and saw a commotion aboard the
Mystere.
A
group of men were boarding her. Someone on the deck held a torch, shouting,
and Devlin thought he heard his name. Then his gaze slammed to the railing in
utter disbelief and instant recognition.
Virginia
stood atop the rail, arms outstretched,
poised to dive into the icy river.

What in hell was
she doing?

Devlin's heart
slammed to a hard stop.

And as she sailed off
of the rail, he ran for the dock. He saw her break the water, and just before
he dove in after her, his heart racing with alarm, he wondered if she could
even swim.

As he knifed into the
frigid water, he felt a surge of fear. Surely she knew how to swim! After all,
the woman could shoot, curse like a sailor, strip a man naked and steal his
clothes. She was probably an excellent swimmer—but he was not relieved.

The water was
pitch-black. As he dove, he flailed for her, but felt nothing. He continued to
dive until weeds grasped greedily at his hands, arms and legs. If
Virginia
became enmeshed in the
vegetation at the river's bottom, she might never be able to get free. He
continued to search for her by feel, but there was only the occasional piece of
wood and rock.

His lungs finally
bursting, a seizure of panic beginning, he bad no choice but to swim back up to
the surface. As his head popped free, he breathed in harshly, the air cold and
sweet.

And their gazes
locked.

She was treading
water and gulping air just a few meters from him. More torches had been carried
to the rail of the
Mystere,
lighting up the water around them. She
seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

"Are you all
right?" he demanded, moving closer to her and reaching for her.

Her answer was a
vicious one. As he gripped her wrist, the sharp blade of a knife cut through
his own arm.

He was stunned that
she had a weapon, much less that she was attacking him with it. For one
instant, he could only recoil as their gazes clashed again, her eyes filled
with fierce determination. Then he sensed another strike.

Still treading water,
she slashed at him again, this time at his face. He caught her wrist, thwarting
the ugly blow. "Drop it," he warned, very angry now.

Her eyes widened with
alarm. "No."

He was disbelieving
again, but would not dwell on her folly. Ruthless fury filled him and he
increased his grip without mercy. She whimpered and released the knife. He
pulled her against his side.

"I almost
won," she whispered, and he realized tears were shimmering in her eyes.

The stab of pity
came again.
He
shoved it far away. "You never came close to a victory, Miss Hughes. And
you never will. Not if you think to battle me."

A fat tear rolled
down her wet cheek. "One day I am going to dance with
glee
upon your
grave, you
bastard."

"I have no
doubt," he said, suddenly aware of her slim legs entwining with one of
his. And the anger vanished. In its stead was lust.

"O'Neill! Take
the rope!"

Devlin realized that
the men on the
Mystere
were throwing a lifeline to him. He turned, a
soft, surprising breast, pressing into his rib cage, stunned by the surge of
sudden desire. Keeping one arm around her, he caught the end of the rope. As
they were reeled in, he thought
Virginia
began to cry, but he wasn't sure. Her odd, raspy breaths might have been from
the cold.

She wasn't crying
when they reached his cabin. She was shivering violently as she preceded him
in. Devlin faced Gus. "Heat up some water for her, before she dies of an
ague."

"Aye, sir,"
Gus said, casting a worried look at
Virginia
.
She was ashamed enough of what she had done to avoid all eye contact with him.
Instead, she kept her back to both men, hugging herself and trembling wildly,
her teeth chattering loudly.

Devlin closed the
door behind Gus, lighting several candles. "You had better get out of
those clothes," he said, moving past her to the closet. He took out a
nightshirt he'd never worn, as he slept in the buff.

"Go to
hell," she chattered.

He looked at her and
froze. Gus's soaking clothes clung to her like a second skin, and he could see
every possible line of her body—from the tips of her hard nipples to the
hand-span that was her Waist and, goddamn it, the cleaved arc that delineated
her sex.

For one moment he did
stare, imaging a wealth of dark curls and a handful of moist flesh.

The cabin became
torridly hot, humid, airless.

Red tinged his
vision; his manhood hardened impossibly, the pain acute.

"O'Neill?"
she whispered roughly.

He jerked, still in
the throes of the most incredible lust he

                              155

had ever experienced,
and then he found a semblance of sanity and he tossed the nightshirt at her.
He walked away, keeping a deliberate distance from her, his heart pounding as
if he had just run from
Limerick
to Askeaton and back again.

Why protect her
virginity?

She was the enemy,
never mind that she was eighteen. He could take her now, so quickly satisfying
himself. Did it really matter? Would anyone really care? She was an orphan, an
American, and
Eastleigh
had no wish to be burdened with
her. No one would care if he returned her without her maidenhead.

He would care,

He would care because
he was the son of Gerald and Mary O'Neill, and he had been raised to respect
women, to know the difference between right and wrong—and to hate the English.
God, his captive wasn't even English, he thought grimly.

He poured himself a
Scotch whiskey and realized his hands were shaking. Not only that, the blood
continued to press and pummel in his loins, the pressure there escalating, not
decreasing. He downed one glass, then another. No warmth, no softening, was to
be found.

He realized that the
cabin was terribly silent. Devlin turned.

She stood where he'd
left her, but she was staring at him, her gaze wide and fixed, no longer
shivering at all. She hadn't put on the nightshirt—of course she wouldn't obey
him—and the moment he faced her, he realized she was as aware of the charged
atmosphere in the cabin as he was. She understood his desire, no matter her naiveté"
and innocence.

She slowly glanced at
the long, hard ridge quivering visibly against the tight fabric of his
britches. Then she looked up at his face again. She didn't speak, but her
cheeks were brilliantly pink.

"I'm a
man," he murmured. "And you are a woman. It's quite simple, really."
How smoothly he lied.

She wet her lips. It
was a long moment before she spoke. "Are you..." She faltered.
"What are you going to do?"

"What do you
want me to do?" he heard himself reply.

Her eyes widened with
surprise. She whispered, "I don't know."

He heard himself
laugh with disbelief.
Virginia
's nipples remained tight and
taut. He only had to glance down to know that she was swelling for him—and he
hadn't even touched her. "I think you lie, Miss Hughes. I think you burn
for my touch today the way you burned for it yesterday."

She stiffened.
"I do not."

"It doesn't
matter what you want." He poured another Scotch, and now, beginning to
enjoy himself despite the erotic pressure, he walked to her and handed her the
glass. "You lost all your rights when you dared to defy me this one last
time."

"I never had any
rights."

"You had many
rights, but you have been relinquishing them one by one. Drink. It will help
warm you while we wait for your bathwater."

"I'm not cold
anymore."

He almost inhaled
harshly, because her words, spoken so innocently, further inflamed him. He
tilted up her chin with his fingertips. "Drink," he said softly, and
then he decided to touch her.

He slowly explored
her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

She inhaled, and then
began to breathe too quickly.

Impossibly, the heat
and humidity thickened in the room.

Her lower lip was
full, firm, damp. Her mouth had parted for him.

Red hazed his vision
again. One kiss, he thought, one long, slow, deliberate kiss. How terrible
would that be?

Instead, he closed
his hand over hers, lifting it and the

glass she held, until
the rim reached her mouth. "Trust me on this one small point," he
murmured, aware that his voice had become as thick as the tension in the cabin.

She sipped, not once
but several times.

"You are no
stranger to Scotch," he said, surprised.

She held the glass
tightly against her chest between her small breasts, clearly unaware of what
she was doing and how interesting it appeared. "My father was very fond of
Scotch whiskey and he frequently let me take a sip or two, as long as Mother
wasn't watching."

Something twisted
inside of him like a knife.
Gerald had shown him how to load a musket at the
tender age of six, grinning and whispering, "Mama will murder me if she
knows, so don't breathe a word of this, you hear?"

"You loved your
parents very much," he heard himself remark, shoving the pain of the
beast away.

"Yes," she
whispered, and she looked down at her drink. Her eyes widened and her cheeks
flushed as she realized her appearance. "Oh." She looked up wildly,
wide-eyed.

"I am enjoying
myself immensely," he remarked.

She gulped the
Scotch, then shoved the half-empty glass at him, turning away.

"You know,"
he remarked as casually, "you do not strike me as being the modest type,
Virginia
."

She didn't answer.
But she slowly bent to retrieve his nightshirt.

He could feel her
mind racing. What was she up to now? he wondered, and as he sipped her Scotch,
he finally felt himself begin to relax. He looked forward to whatever it was
that she intended and decided not to even try to guess.

She suddenly looked
at him, the gaze sidelong and lingering.

His heart slammed,
because it was the gaze of a courtesan, not an eighteen-year-old orphan.

Then she pulled Gus's
shirt off.

She wore her chemise
beneath it, but she might as well have worn nothing, and she was half-turned
toward him, so he had everything to view that he wished to. Then his heart
stopped as she removed the sodden chemise as well.

He was still.

Facing him was a
perfect profile with a tiny nose and full lips, small, upthrust breasts, a slim
rib cage and soft, flat tummy.

Fully aware that he
was staring, she slowly lifted the nightshirt over her head. For one moment
her slender bare arms were upstretched, her small breasts thrust tautly
forward, her back arched, her naval visible as Gus's pants rode lower. His
resolve vanished. His clean, soft cotton gown slithered over her head and down
her bosom. Then she reached under it and slid off Gus's pants and her
pantalettes, all in one motion.