“Th-that’s not my name.” She fought to still her trembling. He pried the cloth of his frock from her fingers, slipped it from her shoulders. His gaze fixed upon her. “Then what is your name?”
She shielded her breasts, tried to lift her chin. “Brighid. Brighid Ni Maelsechnaill.”
To Brighid’s surprise, he carefully repeated what she’d said, though his tongue stumbled a bit over her ancestral name. “My name is Jamie Blakewell, Brighid. And I won’t hurt you.”
“So you say.”
“By the end of this night, you will know I mean what I say. “His warm hands settled on her arms and slid up to cup her shoulders. He drew her to him, enfolded her in his embrace, forced her stiff, resisting body to mold to his.
She did not want this and would have turned her head away were it not for the strong hand on the back of her neck. He was going to rape her, rob her of her virtue, steal from her the only gift she could ever give a man, the gift she had saved for her husband. A whimper of dread escaped her, as he lowered his lips to hers. His lips brushed softly over hers once, twice, three times, then slanted to take hers in a gentle kiss. She’d never been kissed before, not really. She had expected to feel disgust, loathing, revulsion. Instead, she felt out of breath, warm. His mouth was a brand, hot and persistent. His lips coaxed and caressed hers, sent shivers down her spine. He smelled of fresh air, tasted slightly of brandy. When his lips parted hers and his tongue stroked inside her mouth, the shock of it sent her senses reeling. Alarmed by her body’s response, Brighid balled her hands into fists and pushed against his chest. But he was a man, full-grown and strong, and she knew she would not be able to resist him.
He held her fast, his body hard and hot against hers. His kisses captured her cries of protest, as his hands sought the fastenings of her gown. “I know you’re afraid. I know you don’t want to share my bed.” The words were whispered against her cheek so softly she wondered if he’d really spoken. Why had he told her this? Did he want her to know he had no qualms about taking an unwilling woman? Hatred surged from the pit of her stomach. “I’m not afraid,
Sasanach.”
But she was.
He pulled the gown down over her shoulders. It slid to the floor, puddled at her feet.
She stood now, breasts bare, dressed only in her corset, petticoat, and chemise. In her fear, she struck at him—hard. “No!”
Neither the blow nor her plea had any effect. He captured her wrists in one hand, pinned them against his chest.
She struggled to pull away, but found herself hauled up tightly against him.
His lips brushed over hers, then began to taste her cheeks, her hair. “You smell like roses.” His voice was thick, husky. Then it again dropped to a whisper. “I’m not going to force myself on you, Brighid, but you must play along. I fear he is watching.”
Chapter Four
Jamie felt her stiffen, saw her gaze dart to the comers of the room.
“Wh-where—“ He held her still, brushed her lips with his, whispered, “Shh, love. Say nothing. Trust me.” Fury flashed into her eyes. “Trust you—“ She tried to pull away.
“I warn you not to fight me.” This he said aloud. “You cannot win, and I’ve no wish to use my strength against you.”
She stilled. Jamie could see the confusion and fear in her eyes, felt an unexpected stab of tenderness. It had been years since he’d felt anything for a woman. He cursed Sheff for putting him—for putting her—in this position. Then he cursed himself. It was his unexpected and unfathomable reaction to her that had drawn Sheff’s attention to her in the first place. He bore at least some responsibility for her safety.
He turned her around, began to unlace her corset. Bending down, he kissed the tender flesh of her nape and spoke for her ears alone. “These walls are riddled with holes. I will do all I can to help you escape, but you must play along. I am not your enemy.”
The corset fell to the carpet.
She quickly covered her breasts with the cloth of her chemise. “You are English.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Why would you help me?”
Jamie turned her to face him again, pulled her against him so he could speak to her without being overheard. “I have never taken a woman against her will, and I don’t mean to start with you.”
He felt a tremor pass through her, felt the heat within him rise in response.
This was not going to be easy.
His gut told him Sheff was watching from the room next door. Jamie thought he’d heard the door to the room, where no one was staying, open and close just after he’d pushed Sheff out. He remembered well enough the stories he’d heard of Sheff s father. The elder Lord Byerly had watched his guests and servants disrobe, bathe, and tup through small openings in the walls and had been sexually gratified. He’d watched his wife and servants give birth and had enjoyed that, too. He’d eventually shared his secret with his eldest son, who had told Jamie as if it were some grand lark.
Jamie hadn’t found it funny. And he hadn’t forgotten. Somehow he had to convince Sheff his gift was being well used so that Sheff would seek his own sport elsewhere.
Then he had to spirit Brighid away from here. She was not safe. Jamie knew as soon as he was gone, Sheff would do whatever he chose with her. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, Jamie couldn’t let that happen. For now, however, he was a player on a stage. He needed to remember his lines.
“That’s better. Just relax.” He spoke aloud for the benefit of his audience. “I will try to give you pleasure if you let me.”
“Tis only shame you’ll bring me.” Her voice quavered. “You’re sure of that, are you?” He drew her earlobe into his mouth, nibbled the exposed flesh of her neck. He felt her quick intake of breath and knew she was not sure.
But he felt no sense of triumph, only fury at the circumstances. When Sheff had said he had a special gift for Jamie, Jamie had thought perhaps Sheff was giving him a pup from one of his prized bitches or a fantastically expensive bottle of cognac. Then the servants had opened the door, and she’d walked forward out of the dim hallway, a look of terror on her young, pale face. At once, Jamie had been struck by two overpowering emotions.
The first was rage as hot as any fire in hell. He’d never imagined Sheff could treat an innocent maid like a whore, like chattel to be given away against her will. The second emotion was lust as primal as the ocean tide. Dressed in a gown of light blue silk, the dusky rose of her nipples visible behind the lace of her bodice, she was the most desirable woman Jamie had ever seen. He’d wanted her then.
He wanted her now.
He set her from him, removed his stock, began to unbutton his waistcoat.
She clutched her chemise to her breasts, looked at the floor, stepped away from him.
“You are beautiful, Brighid. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.” He tossed his waistcoat carelessly onto a nearby chair, bent to loosen the buckles at his knees. Why he should waste time on such words was beyond him—he wasn’t really making love to her, after all. Then again, he’d only spoken the truth.
“Father Padraig says beauty is a curse for Irish women.” There was fear in her voice, but her words were lilting, her accent enticing.
Jamie removed his shoes and stockings, tossed them aside. “Then you are likely the most cursed woman I’ve ever seen.”
Her head snapped up. There was anger in her eyes, behind it desperation. “Tis no laughing matter, my lord. I am here against my will, a prisoner.” “I’m not laughing.” Jamie reached for the fall of his breeches, began to unbutton them. “And I’m no lord.” She looked at him curiously for a moment before her gaze fell to what his hands were doing. She gasped, looked away.
Jamie pulled his breeches down over his thighs. They joined his waistcoat on the chair. Then he realized the men in her life were likely unable to afford linen for drawers. She probably thought he was standing before her bare from the waist down.
He removed his shirt, tossed it aside. “Brighid, look at me.”
She shook her head.
He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, tucked a finger beneath her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “You’re trembling again.”
“ I . . . I cannot help it. I’ve ne’er been so near a man. I want to go home.”
Her fear, her unhappiness tore at him. “How old are you, love?”
“Almost eighteen.”
“In all your years, has no man ever kissed you?” His fingers sought the pins that held her hair, began to remove them one by one.
She shivered. “No.”
“Has no man even tried?”
“A few have tried.”
Her hair fell in a glorious mass to her hips, thick, dark, and soft as silk. The warm scent of roses filled the air. The feminine sweetness of it was torture. “And did you make them suffer?” He ran his fingers through her tresses.
Her eyes closed. “M-my brothers did.” “I see.” He pulled her close against him. “And what would your brothers do to a man who kissed you like this?”
He kissed her again, deeply.
This time she melted against him, her palms flat against his chest. A little moan escaped her throat, her breath warm and sweet. Her lips yielded to his, as his tongue sought union with hers. She was soft and pleasing and utterly innocent.
Jamie felt himself grow hard, his body more than ready to mate with hers. He was getting lost in her. He was forgetting. This was an act. It wasn’t real. He couldn’t let it be real, for her sake. She did not want this.
He pulled his mouth from hers, looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips swollen and wet. Her cheeks were flushed. Then her lashes fluttered open, and she glared at him.
“You lied! You are trying to seduce me!” Her whisper was unsteady, her breathing rapid.
He lowered his voice. “If that were my plan, I would already have succeeded.” He reached down to untie the lacings of her petticoat. His hand touched something sharp and hard.
She gasped, reached for the hidden object, but he was quicker.
He caught her wrist with one hand, pulled the knife from the waistband of her skirts with the other, whispered, “Was this intended for me?”
Her petticoat slipped to the floor with a rustle. She looked up at him, met his gaze, whispered. “If that were my plan, I would already have succeeded.” Her words showed spirit, and Jamie almost laughed. But he could see the terror in her eyes. He raised a hand to brush the hair from her face.
She shrank from him.
He spoke aloud again. “I’m not going to strike you, Brighid.” He kissed her, his lips just brushing hers. “I’m going to do everything I can to keep from hurting you.” He reached over and pulled down the coverlet on the bed. He let the knife fall into the folds of cloth, where it lay hidden. It would come in handy later. He turned back to her, lifted her into his arms, laid her on the soft feather mattress.
She lay shivering, her dark hair draped in waves of ebony across the pillows. Her slender legs, held fast together, were hidden beneath gossamer silk stockings tied into place with blue ribbons. The thin chemise she wore could not fully conceal the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs or the dusky tips of her breasts. He knelt by the bed, slipped the soft leather slippers from her feet, tried to ignore the persistent throb in his groin. To gaze upon her lovely body, to feel her ready softness, to smell her skin, all without being able to take her, was torture—a pleasurable sort of torture, but torture nonetheless.
But he knew that she suffered truly, and suffered far more.
He lifted one slender leg, reached for its ribbon. She cried out, pulled the cloth of her chemise down over her thighs.
“You’ve a beautiful body, Brighid. There’s nothing of which to be ashamed.” He rolled the silk down her smooth thigh, over her shapely calf, down her ankle, and slipped it off her dainty foot. Then he lifted the other leg. “M-must you really undress me like this?” Jamie chuckled for the benefit of his audience, but he understood her question.
If this were just pretend, why couldn’t he just get it over with? Why take it this far?
There was no script, so he improvised. “I suppose I could just toss you on your belly, lift your gown, and get on with it. But it’s better this way, isn’t it?” This time, his lips followed his hands as he slowly slipped off the stocking. He tasted her creamy thigh, nibbled the sensitive skin above her knee, sampled the white smoothness of her calf, kissed the daintiness of her ankle, licked the delicate arch of her foot. He felt her body tense, heard her breath catch in her throat.
She trembled anew, and he knew it was not from fear alone.
Why
had
he taken it this far? He could have pretended to take her at any time. He could have left her fully clothed and pretended to rut between her thighs without prelude, yet he had insisted on this mockery of seduction. Was he taking advantage of her plight, enjoying her while pretending to play the hero? What good was it to save her virtue if he left her feeling sullied? He dismissed his doubts. While he couldn’t deny there was pleasure in this for him, it was also more than a little awkward. He had no more chosen to be in this situation than she. If he opted to feign seduction, it was to spare her the memory of something rougher and more vulgar. From her untrained responses, he knew she had experienced nothing of the passion between men and women. Whatever he did tonight would stay with her and color her feelings about men for years to come, perhaps for life. He stood, untied his drawers, let them fall.