The Prize Page 15

  Blood pounded in his groin, in his brain.

  She faced him, smiling softly. “Thank you for the clean gown, Captain.” And she was walking toward him.

  He was in a stupor, one of sheer lust. But even so, he wondered if he were in the midst of a dream, as this had become far too surreal. She was a seductress now, smiling softly, pausing to stand before him, naked beneath his shirt, and in spite of the terrible urgency consuming him, he knew she was up to no good.

  “Did you like kissing her?” she asked. “The woman on the docks?”

  “What?” he asked, giving in. He closed his hands on her waist, pulling her up against his arousal, precisely where she belonged.

  She gasped, eyes flying wide.

  He smiled then, savagely, and slid his hands down to her buttocks. He gripped her there, hard and possessive, pulling her snugly over him, so she rode him.

  She held on to his shoulders, eyes closing, moaning deeply.

  He looked at her. She had the face of an angel and he could no more deny it than he could that he was close to a terrible climax. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld, and he had thought so from the moment he had seen her standing on the deck of the Americana, pointing a silly and useless pistol at him. Her hair had been loose, flying in the wind, and she had been both avenger and angel. Now she was nothing but soft, succulent woman, warm and wet and ripe, waiting for him to master her.

  He dug his hand into her nape, wishing her hair was free, and he did what he wanted to do more than anything, other than to thrust inside her. He took her mouth with his.

  She moaned again as he covered her, as he opened her, not waiting, all patience disintegrating, as he thrust huge and deep. She moaned as he rocked her back, until she was on the bed and he was on top of her, still deeply inside her mouth, trying to touch and taste every possible place. Her hands fisted in his wet hair, her thighs wrapped around his legs. He began to rub the long edge of his arousal over her sex.

  She tried to tear her lips away from his mouth desperately.

  Amazed, he realized she was on the verge of her climax. He released her lips and looked down at her. She gazed up at him with wild, unfocused eyes. “Oh, please,” she gasped, squirming against his shaft.

  “With pleasure,” he said, and he held himself up and moved more precisely against her, once, twice, stroking her swollen flesh three times, while she clawed and scratched his back and shoulders. He stared, incapable of doing anything other than watch her every expression now, and when he saw her eyes fly open, when he saw the heat erupt in the violet depths, when she arched up, crying helplessly, the pressure became impossible to resist. The dam broke. She clung to him, sobbing unabashedly, as he spasmed as uncontrollably, as suddenly.

  Her cries eased.

  He lay on top of her, breathing hard, absolutely shocked. He had just committed a terrible faux pas, like the greenest of schoolboys, and his little captive had climaxed—loudly, vocally—with hardly any effort on his part.

  Still stunned, but now acutely aware of the soft, limp woman beneath him, he rolled off of her, abruptly sitting up. He did not dare look at her now.

  And he did not dare think.

  Action. He needed action. He leapt to his feet, grabbed clean, dry clothes from the closet, and quickly stripped. His mind wanted to function, urging him desperately to do so, but with iron resolve, he refused.

  Ruthlessly he blocked out every single possible thought.

  Instead, he carefully focused on the task at hand. He fastened his trousers, but damn it, he could feel her gaze on him. He became even more grim, almost furious, knowing he must not look at her. But one thought finally crept in. If only he had resisted, if only he hadn’t kissed her—and helped her achieve what was probably her very first climax.

  He whirled, shirtless, and their gazes collided. “Was that your first time?”

  She was sitting up against the pillows, tendrils of dark hair curling about her fragile face, her eyes huge and riveted upon him. In his large nightshirt, she looked impossibly innocent. She looked like a goddamned virgin. “Wh-what?” Her cheeks were turning pink.

  “Was that your first time coming?”

  “C-coming?” She seemed dazed.

  “Climaxing,” he demanded, furious now, at her, at himself, at Eastleigh, at the world. He strode over. “Climaxing—le petit mort, the French call it. It means having an orgasm, if one wishes to be clinical.”

  “You mean…what happened at the end?” Her gaze never left his.

  He nodded. The urge was sudden and huge, to strike her not just physically, but to strike her out of his life. “When you began screaming like a whore,” he said coldly, hating himself for being so cruel and helplessly wishing to be even crueler.

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  Relief overwhelmed him—and only increased the fury. “Remind me to never offer you a Scotch again,” he said.

  She winced. “It had nothing to do with the Scotch,” she said unsteadily, but her head was high. “It had everything to do with you.”

  He walked away. He did not intend to hear another word, oh no.

  “I have never been kissed before, Devlin,” she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  VIRGINIA DECIDED THAT SHE hated her dark blue silk dress and the black pelisse that went with it almost as much as she hated him. She stared at her pale reflection in his mirror, her eyes impossibly huge, the pupils dilated, her mouth appearing oddly swollen, or at least, it seemed far larger, lusher and riper than before. It was the morning after. She trembled and wished him dead.

  But what, exactly, would that solve? She would be free, oh yes, to go her unhappy way, but she would not be free of the memory of him.

  She flushed.

  Something was terribly wrong with her. That fact, at least, was clear. Because while no woman could be immune to a man like Devlin O’Neill, the combination of power, danger and impossibly virile good looks inescapable, only a fool would be held against her will and then think to entice him to kiss her. Therefore, she was a very foolish woman, because last night, alone with him in his cabin, her escape thoroughly thwarted, she had begun to think about his touch and his kisses, when she should have been scheming up another escape instead.

  “Are you ready?” he demanded from outside the cabin door. Last night he had disappeared, sleeping God only knew where. And he had locked the cabin door behind him when he had left—Virginia had tested it to be certain.

  The worst part was, Virginia decided, still staring at her reflection and wondering who the wanton woman staring back at her really was, she more than ached for his touch. She wanted to know if she had somehow imagined what had happened. Surely she had. Surely the excitement and thrill of being in his arms, his mouth and body on hers, had not been as huge and vast as she recalled. Surely, if he held and kissed her again, she would not be affected. This had to be a terrible mistake!

  He walked in, clad in a pale gray coat that matched his eyes, riding britches and worn Hessian boots. His expression was filled with impatience. Instantly their gazes met in the looking glass.

  Virginia simply could not breathe.

  His gaze raked her. “We’ll have your clothes pressed at Askeaton. Come. The coach is waiting.”

  Virginia bit her lip and turned, moving past him with the utmost caution, as if afraid he might reach out for her—or she would reach out for him. His gaze narrowed as he watched her, and finally exasperation sounded in his tone. “Forget about last night,” he snapped. “It was a mistake and it won’t happen again.”

  She whirled. “Why not?”

  “So now you are eager to warm my bed? One brief encounter—although a mutually satisfying one, I assure you—and you have changed your tune?”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you shared my bed.” And that was the terrible truth.

  His gaze widened.

  Virginia wished she were a different woman, one not so amoral and not so outspoken. But the fool remained, oh yes.r />
  “Have you no wish to be innocent and chaste on your wedding night?” he finally asked seriously.

  “I hadn’t ever thought about it,” she said truthfully.

  He started. “It’s what all women think about—dream of—live for.”

  She became annoyed instantly. “Not this one! I have no intention of ever marrying, not unless I find the love my parents had.”

  He stared at her as if she had grown two heads. Then he dared to laugh. The sound was rough and condescending. “No one marries for love,” he said flatly. “If the emotion even exists.”

  She felt like kicking his shin. “My parents loved each other and married for love. I am sorry your parents did not love each other,” she said angrily. “Clearly that has scarred you deeply. Perhaps that explains your cruelty and your lack of compassion.”

  In an instant, he was in front of her, towering over her. “Never bring up the subject of my parents again, as they are none of your affair. Do you comprehend me, Miss Hughes?”

  She recoiled. How had this maddened him so? “You could not be more forthcoming.”

  “And dare I remind you that not once since I have taken you aboard my ship, has anyone, myself included, been in the least bit cruel toward you? Unless you consider the sweet death you experienced last night cruelty—”

  “Leaving me to wonder how a woman feels when the act is truly accomplished, and if the sweet death you referred to changes in any manner, that is certainly cruel,” Virginia heard herself say.

  He looked stunned.

  Virginia knew she flushed. “I can’t help wondering what it must be like—”

  He seized her arm and propelled her out of the cabin. “I am sorry that I cannot control your thoughts,” he said tersely.

  “You cannot be angry now that I am curious, when it is all your fault!” she cried, looking at his hard, perfect profile.

  “My fault?” He propelled her down the gangplank. “I do believe you were the seductress, Miss Hughes.”

  “I am eighteen. I had never kissed anyone before last night. How could I possibly seduce you?” Ahead of them, she saw a carriage and a liveried driver. A big gray stallion was tied to the back. The mount was saddled. She realized the coach was for her and the horse for him.

  How glorious it would be to be astride again, she thought. But she instantly knew she should not let him know the superb rider that she was, just in case another instance presented itself for escape.

  Devlin handed her into the coach. She dared to look into his cold gray eyes. He remained angry with her. It was simply ludicrous. “Wait,” she cried softly, before he could leave.

  Impatiently he did so, his jaw hard with tension.

  “What is so terrible about what happened last night? Didn’t you enjoy yourself? You seemed to. But again, I have had no experience so I would hardly—”

  He slammed the door closed in her face. “Good day, Miss Hughes.”

  VIRGINIA GAZED OUT OF THE carriage window, eager in spite of herself. Although the day was gray and threatened rain, the countryside was a rich, fertile sweep of verdant green hills, mostly pasture and crop and the occasional stand of woods. The narrow road they were on wound atop a ridge. They were passing a number of small farms, where every cottage looked the same—a garden out back, a field of corn and wandering, grazing cows and sheep. Ahead she glimpsed a stone church and beyond that, some other imposing buildings she could not quite make out.

  Suddenly Devlin rode up to her window, which was open in spite of the chill day. “This is Askeaton,” he said, his gaze fierce with pride. “As far as the eye can see, the land belongs to me.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She smiled at him. “It reminds me of Sweet Briar, Devlin.”

  He stared at her, then abruptly galloped ahead of the coach.

  He angered even more easily than he had when they had first met, she thought, poking her head out of the window and gazing after him. He was letting the gray run, and man and beast were far ahead. But now Virginia could see that the buildings ahead belonged to a manor. She saw several barns, more cottages and a gracious manor house surrounded by flowering gardens, as well as what looked like an old tower or castle in the distance. Excitement caused her heart to pound. She was very curious to see his home and to meet his family—if he had any family, that is.

  The carriage paused in front of the manor house. Virginia didn’t wait for the driver, leaping out instead. Devlin stood with his fists on his hips, staring at the house, the lawns surrounding it, the buildings they had just passed, and then back at the house again. Virginia could not imagine what he was thinking, although perhaps he was taking an inventory of his holdings. The manor, which was three stories, looked very new, except for the two chimneys and an outer wall. Vines crept up the walls and a gazebo was to one side. She smiled. He had such an enchanting home for such an ill-tempered man.

  The front door opened and a man stepped out, tall, lean and dark. “Dev!”

  Her captor whirled. Virginia caught his expression and she inhaled, hard, for it was one of bright, pure joy. She stood very still as the younger man rushed down the stone walk. “Sean!” Devlin said hoarsely.

  He strode forward. The two men embraced, tightly clinging. Virginia inched forward. This had to be a brother, as they were close in age and Sean was very handsome, too, with the same unmistakable silvery-gray eyes, although his hair was nearly black.

  The two men pulled apart. “It’s about goddamned time,” Sean exclaimed, but he was smiling.

  “Yes, it is,” Devlin said, his tone rough. “The house looks good, Sean. Clearly it has been well-built, and I like the new door.”

  “Wait till you see the hall. I think you’ll be pleased.” Suddenly he stopped, eyes widening as his gaze landed on Virginia. “We have a guest?”

  Devlin turned and Virginia received the warmth of his genuine smile. It made her heart speed and spin and then a terrible yearning began. “Yes, we have a guest,” he said, extending his hand.

  Virginia didn’t move. That smile wasn’t meant for her, it was meant for his brother. But it was a smile that could melt most of the North Pole. Why didn’t he use it more often?

  “Virginia, come. I’d like you to meet my brother, Sean,” he said, the glorious smile fading. But his tone held a lightness she hadn’t heard before.

  Virginia summoned up her own smile and came forward. “Hello,” she said.

  “I wish I’d known we were having company,” Sean said with worry. His gaze was wide and went back and forth between Virginia and Devlin. “But Fiona can have the yellow room ready soon enough, I think.”

  “This is Miss Hughes, Sean. Miss Virginia Hughes of Sweet Briar, Virginia.”

  Virginia started, stunned he would introduce her so, and then she noticed that Sean seemed even more shocked.

  “Miss Hughes?” he echoed.

  Why was Sean so surprised by her name? Virginia wondered in sudden confusion.

  “Let’s have a drink. We have a lot to catch up on,” Devlin said, clapping his back.

  But now Sean stared at Virginia—and he didn’t look pleased, either.

  A feminine squeal sounded.

  Virginia started and saw a dark-haired woman rushing from the house. For one instant, Virginia saw only thick, straight black hair, a voluptuous figure and a huge smile, while more happy cries sounded. She stiffened as the woman halted right in front of Devlin, her heaving bosom mostly revealed by her low-cut blouse. She was dark and sultry enough to be a Spaniard or a Gypsy. “My lord! Welcome home! Oh, Captain O’Neill! Welcome!” she cried, looking an instant away from jumping into his arms—and his bed.

  Virginia folded her arms across her own nondescript chest and scowled.

  A look of recognition crossed Devlin’s face. “Fiona?”

  “Yes, it’s me, my lord!” she cried, clapping her hands together. “My lord, it has been so long, and I am so happy you are home—we all are, my lord Captain! The hero of Askeaton has returned! We
are so proud of you!”

  Devlin said, “Thank you.” His tone was polite.

  “Fiona,” Sean interjected. “It’s Captain or Sir Captain or Sir Devlin now.”

  Fiona nodded, grinning. “What can I do for you, my lord?” she asked, and there was no mistaking her meaning. In fact, Virginia felt certain the other woman had already enjoyed Devlin’s lovemaking in the past and intended to do so again, very shortly.

  “Please show Miss Hughes to a guest room,” Devlin said, “and bring her a tray of refreshments once she is settled in.” His gaze wandered past the house and settled on the ruins of the castle.

  Fiona blinked, glancing at Virginia for the first time, clearly not having even noticed her until then. Her gaze met Virginia’s, slid down her figure and back up and instantly became dismissive. She turned back to Devlin, beaming. “Yes, of course, my lord. I am so happy to see you again.” She curtsied and Virginia expected her breasts to fall free of her blouse, but they did not. The woman clearly wore no underclothes, not even a corset.

  “I am very happy to be home,” Devlin said. He was gazing at the house now, as if inspecting every inch, and not at the maid. His expression was just a bit softer than usual and it made him far less intimidating—it made him seem human.

  Virginia almost relaxed. He hadn’t seemed to notice that Fiona was pretty and very voluptuous and wishful of being in his bed. And why should she worry? Last night, she was the one who had enthralled him. Virginia didn’t have to have any experience with men to know that Devlin O’Neill had been swept up in the same rapture as she.

  “Connor, Miss Hughes’s bags,” Sean instructed another servant, this one an older man. “Fiona, please show Miss Hughes to the yellow room. Bring flowers,” he added.

  Fiona nodded, never even looking at him. She only had eyes for Devlin.

  Suddenly Devlin turned and strode to Virginia. She didn’t move. “There is nowhere to go. You know that.”