Then everything ebbed except for blinding sensation. She was gasping for breath, half sobbing as she clung to him, arching, emitting a strangled cry—an echo of the shattering ecstasy that convulsed her body, flooding it with the most wonderful, volatile, delightful sensation she had ever known. For long moments the feeling held her in wonder, and then it slowly began to fade. All that was left was the comfort of the man who held her through it, smoothing her hair, his steel power cooling but losing no strength.
She was alone, naked in bed, with a stranger.
Brianna choked back a cry of pain and fury and twisted from him, stunned and so miserable that she was almost numb. She knew that he was watching, that she was risking his fury—and her own expulsion. She felt so coldly wretched that she couldn’t care.
Sloan was watching her. He made no move to touch her, but frowned as he observed her slender shoulders, moist with the dampness of their passion, tremble with emotion.
Why had she come to him, he wondered—irritated and confused. He finally reached out to touch her shaking shoulder. “Don’t!” she demanded in a low, cold voice.
Stunned, Sloan felt his anger grow along with the deathly silence that seemed to fill the room. Perplexed, and thoroughly annoyed, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair.
A shout, clear and thunderous, rose from outside the window again. Heedless of his nudity, Sloan stalked over to the shutters.
“That damned Matthews,” he muttered beneath his breath. “It’s a pity the devil doesn’t rise up in a wall of flame and consume him.”
Sloan heard the sharp intake of her breath and turned back to the bed. She was staring at him now—and her face had gone as white as the sheets she had drawn about her.
He frowned curiously, then added, “I believe he’s gone.”
She relaxed visibly; a small, soft sigh escaped her.
Sloan’s sharp gaze narrowed reflectively. He crossed his arms over his chest and strode back to the bed as she watched him warily, her blue eyes wide with alarm at the speculation in his stare and cynical, knowing half-grin.
“You’re the witch,” he breathed.
“I’m not a witch!” she protested desperately.
“Oh, you are a witch!” he laughed, “but not the type Matthews is hoping to burn. Are you?”
If possible, her face went whiter.
“Brianna,” he persisted, the teasing smile leaving his face. “Are you the woman Matthews is out there searching for?”
She dropped her head hopelessly against the pillow, staring sightlessly up at the rafters.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked softly. “You could have saved yourself…the apparent misery of my person.”
She swallowed and touched her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I…I didn’t dare tell you. You might have…”
“Turned you in? Please, madam! What do I look like? A fanatic like Matthews?”
Brianna bit her lip, trying to weigh her desolate reply. “You’re a lord,” she told him tonelessly. “You might be a loyal supporter of King James.”
He chuckled softly. “I’m a Welsh lord, my sweet. One who does not feel he owes loyalty to James. And anyone who thinks the devil dwells within innocent women, be he Welsh, English, Scot, or Frank, is either sadly misguided or a raving lunatic.” He paused reflectively for a moment. “Matthews, I believe, is definitely the latter.”
“Welsh,” she murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Welsh,” she repeated tonelessly. “I had no idea who or what you were. I didn’t know whether I could possibly trust you. I don’t even know your given name,” she added bitterly.
The wicked smile came into play. “Sloan,” he told her. “Captain Sloan Michael Treveryan, mistress, Fourteenth Duke of Loghaire. It is a Welsh title, not always recognized by the English. We have been “united” for over a century, but the English still have a penchant for acquiring Welsh lands. Nevertheless, my father was a close friend of the late and well-lamented King Charles, and therefore the Treveryans’ fortune has done well of late.”
Brianna was amazed to hear herself laugh, but she sobered as he did. He grinned wryly in return, and yet she sensed a tension in him, a bitterness, when he spoke of the English crown. It was apparent that he had loved Charles II, and equally apparent that he did not bear that same love for James. It appeared that he despised James—deeply, personally.
“The question,” he said softly, “is, who are you? Certainly not the girl Brice promised to send.”
“Brice?” Brianna murmured with confusion.
