The Prize (8 page)

Unimpressed, he
started up the stone path that led to the back of the house, where a terrace
offered spectacular views of the river and the city. A man rose from a lawn
chair. Devlin recognized him instantly and his pace quickened.
"Tyrell!"

Tyrell de Warenne,
heir to the earldom of Adare and Devlin's stepbrother, strode down the path to
meet him. Like his father, Ty was tall and swarthy with midnight-black hair and
extremely dark blue eyes. The two men, as different as night and day, embraced.

"This is a very
pleasant surprise," Devlin said, pleased to see his stepbrother. It made
the homecoming to which he was so indifferent suddenly inviting.

"Sean told me
you were on your way home, and as I have had some affairs to see to in town, I
decided to stop by the mansion to see if you were here yet. My timing is
impeccable, I see." Tyrell grinned. He was darkly, dangerously handsome
and had had many love affairs to prove it.

"For once,"
Devlin retorted as they strolled up to the terrace. "How is my mother?
The earl?"

"They are fine,
as usual, and wondering when you will come home," Tyrell said with a
pointed glance.

Devlin pushed open
French doors and entered a huge and elegantly appointed salon, choosing to
ignore that particular subject. "I have just accepted a tour of duty in
the North Atlantic," he said. "It is unofficial, of course, as I
have yet to receive my orders."

Tyrell gripped his
shoulder and Devlin had to face him.

"Admiral Farnham
is in a rage over the
Lady Anne,
Dev. Everywhere I go, I am hearing
about it. In fact, even Father has heard that Farnham plots against you. I
thought this was your last tour." His gaze was dark and frankly accusing.

Devlin moved to a
bell pull, but his butler had already materialized, smiling as if pleased to
see him. Devlin knew the Englishman detested having an Irishman as his
overlord; it amused him, enough so that he had kept Eastleigh's staff when he
had bought the mansion. "Benson, my good man, do bring us some
refreshments and a fine bottle of red wine."

Then Devlin turned
back to his stepbrother. Like the rest of his family, Tyrell thought he spent
far too much time at sea and there was a general effort being made to convince
him to resign his commission. "I am being offered a knighthood, Ty."

Briefly Tyrell stared
in surprise; then he was smiling, smacking Devlin's back. "That is fine
news," he said. "Damned fine!"

"Materialist
that I am, I could not refuse the opportunity."

Tyrell studied him
for a moment. "A storm gathers behind your back. You need to take care,
Dev. I don't think Eastleigh has forgiven you for your purchase of this house.
Tom Hughes has been lobbying around the Admiralty for a general
court-martial," he said. "And he spreads nasty rumors about
you."

Devlin raised a brow.
"I really don't care what he says."

"I have heard it
said that he has accused you of using vast discretion with French
privateers—that is, allowing some to slip through your net for a hefty sum.
That kind of gossip could hurt your career—and you, personally," Tyrell
warned.

"If I'm not
worried, why should you be?" Devlin asked calmly, but he thought of Thomas
Hughes, who had never even been to sea, except on a fancy flagship where he and
the admiral and other officers lived in state. Nonetheless,

                              
65

Hughes held the very
same rank as Devlin, though Devlin knew the man could not sail a toy boat on a
park lake. In fact, Lord Captain Hughes spent all of his time fawning over and
playing up to the various admirals with whom he served. Devlin was well aware
of the fact that Tom despised him, and it amused him to no end. He did wish he
had wounded him that one time when they had dueled over the whore. "I am
not afraid of Tom Hughes," he said dryly.

Tyrell sighed as
Benson returned with two man servants, each bearing a silver tray with
refreshments. Both men were quiet as a small table overlooking the grounds and
the river was quickly set. Benson bowed. "Is there anything else, Captain?"

"No, thank
you," Devlin said. When the servants had left, he handed his stepbrother a
glass of wine and walked over to the windows overlooking the terrace. He stared
out the window, not particularly enjoying the view.

It was impossible not
to think about Askeaton.

Tyrell followed him
to the picture window. As if reading Devlin's mind, he said, "You haven't
been home in six years."

Devlin knew the last
time he had been home, he knew it to the day and hour, but he smiled and
feigned surprise. "Has it been that long?"

"Why? Why do you
avoid your own home, Dev? Damn it, everyone misses you. And while Sean does a
fine job of managing Askeaton, we both know you would do even better."

"I am hardly at
liberty to cruise up to Ireland whenever the urge overtakes me," Devlin
murmured. It wasn't exactly a lie, but he was avoiding the question and they
both knew it. The truth was he could sail up the Irish coast almost any time he
chose.

"You are a
strange man," Tyrell said sharply. "And I am not the only one who
worries about you."

"Tell Mother I
am more than fine. I captured an American merchantman carrying gold to a
Barbary prince, a ransom for their hostages," Devlin said smoothly.
"With my share of the booty, I could ransom a hostage or two myself."

"You should tell
her yourself," Tyrell said flatly.

Devlin turned away.
He missed Askeaton terribly, but he had learned in the past years that his home
was a place to be avoided at all costs. For there, the memories were too
volatile; there, they threatened to consume him; there, the boy still lived.

A few hours later,
pleasantly relaxed from an abundance of wine, Devlin started upstairs, Tyrell
having gone to the Adare town home in Mayfair. His private rooms took up an
entire wing of the second floor; upon possession of the house, he had gutted
the master suite completely, as if gutting the Earl of Eastleigh himself. He
strolled through one pretty parlor after another, past vases and artwork
others had chosen, past a piano that was never played, aware that not one item
in the house—other than his books—gave him pleasure. But he hadn't bought the
house for pleasure. He had bought it for a single purpose—revenge.

A maid met him on the
threshold of his bedroom. She was flushed and perspiring, a pretty thing with
brown hair and pale skin, and briefly Devlin thought of inviting her into his
bed. But she turned a brighter shade of crimson upon espying him and then fled
past him and down the hall with a gasp.

Devlin glanced after
her, amused and wondering what had caused such a swift retreat. Had his
intentions been that obvious? He was horny, certainly, but not aroused.

And then he entered
the master bedroom and understood.

A blond Venus arose
from the midst of his massive bed, a sheer undergarment caressing and revealing
full, billowy breasts with large dusky nipples, round, lush hips, plump thighs
and a dark ruby-red delta between.

Elizabeth Sinclair
Hughes smiled at him. "I received your message and came as soon as I
could."

His loins filled as
he looked at her. She belonged to his mortal enemy, a man he was slowly but
surely wreaking his vengeance upon, and she aroused him as no other woman
could.

Elizabeth was very
pretty, and now her green eyes moved directly to his swollen groin. "You
are in need of attention, Captain," she murmured.

He moved forward,
red-hot blood filling his brain, removing his shirt as he did so. With the
raging blood came raging lust—blood lust—savage and uncontrolled. The beast always
chose this moment to walk the earth. Devlin mounted her as he mounted the bed,
pushing her down, unfastening his britches, thrusting his massive hardness
inside.

Elizabeth cried out
in pleasure, already hot and wet. He moved as hard and fast as he could, images
of Eastleigh filling his mind, gray of hair, fatter and fifty now, and then
fourteen years ago, slimmer, younger, crueler. His hatred knew no bounds. It
mingled with the lust. His mouth found hers and he thrust there deeply,
hurtfully, grinding against her, until he had become the beast itself.
Elizabeth never knew. She gripped his sweat-slickened back, keening wildly in
her ecstasy.

He wanted to release
himself, too, but the hatred, the pleasure and the lust were so great and so
satisfying that he refused, pounding deeper, harder, but ugly memories rode
him now as he rode her...ugly, bloody glimpses of a dark and terrible past,
rising fast and furious—a small boy, a headless man, a severed head, sightless
eyes, a pool of blood.

He forgot the woman
he rode as the wave preceding his climax, a wave of intense, growing pleasure,
turned into one of anger and pain, and he was swept forward, against all will,
a wave that now unfurled like a topsail, hard and fast. Be-

hind that wave the
memories chased him.
His father's furious, sightless eyes accused him now.
You let me die, you let me die.
Devlin sought now only to escape, and when
he climaxed, he did just that.

There was no moment
of peace, no moment of relief. Instantly he was conscious, aware of the woman
he lay upon, aware of the man he was cuckolding—aware of the gruesome memories
that he now must bury, at all cost. Devlin flipped over, away from the
countess, breathing harshly. In that instant a painfully familiar emptiness
emanated from deep within him and consumed him entirely. It was so huge, so hollow,
so vast.

Devlin leapt to his
feet.

"Good Lord, one
would think you'd been without for an entire year," Elizabeth murmured
with a satisfied sigh. Then she eyed him with a small, pleased smile, her gaze
lingering on his narrow hips and muscled thighs.

Naked, Devlin hurried
across the bedroom, hardly aware of her words, quickly pouring a glass of wine.
He downed it in a gulp, shaken, as always, by the memories he had vowed never
to forget. He drained the glass and fought the beast until it finally returned
to its lair.

"Nothing ever
changes, does it, Devlin?" the countess asked, sitting up.

He poured another
glass of wine and approached her, aware of his manhood stirring. Her gaze moved
to his groin and she smiled. "You are becoming terribly predictable, Devlin."

"I could change
that easily enough," he remarked casually, handing her the wine. As he
did, he paused to admire her breasts. "You haven't changed," he
added.

"And you remain
a gentleman, in spite of your reputation," she said, but she was smiling
and pleased. "I'm a year older, a bit fatter and lustier than ever."

"You haven't
changed," he said firmly, but now he noticed the slight wrinkles at her
eyes and the equally slight thickening of her waist. Elizabeth was several
years his senior, although he wasn't really certain of her age—
-be
had
never cared enough to learn what it might be. She had two adolescent daughters,
and he thought, but wasn't sure, that the eldest was fourteen or fifteen.
Neither daughter belonged to Eastleigh.

"Darling, would
it ever be possible for you to lie quietly by my side?" she asked, setting
her glass down and stroking his inner thigh.

He hardened like a
shot. "I have never pretended to be anything but what I am with you. I am
not a quiet man."

"No, you are His
Majesty's Pirate, for that is what I hear you called from time to time, when
your exploits become dinner conversation." Her hand drifted upward, its
back brushing his phallus as she toyed with his thigh.

"How boring
those dinners must be." He couldn't care less what he was called, but he
didn't bother to say so. The countess loved to chat idly after their various
bouts of lovemaking. She had been the source of much of his information about
Eastleigh for the past six years, so he usually encouraged her chatter.

Now she murmured,
"I have missed you, Dev."

There was simply
nothing to be said; he took her hand and placed it firmly on his swollen shaft.
"Show me," he said.

"Spoken like a
true commander," she said hoarsely, lowering her head.

He hadn't meant to
give an order, but it was his nature now. He didn't move, waiting patiently for
her to nibble and lick him, watching her dispassionately as she did so. One day
Eastleigh would learn of their affair—he had only to decide which moment to
choose.

Suddenly she lifted
her head and smiled up at him. "Will you ever tell me that you have missed
me, too?"

70                           

Devlin tensed.
"Elizabeth, there is a better time for discussion."

"Is there? The
only time we are together is in moments like these. I wonder what beats beneath
your chest? Sometimes, Dev, I do think your heart is cast of stone."

His erection had been
complete for some time, and talking was actually painful. But he said,
"Have I ever made you any promises, Elizabeth?"