“That accusation is laughable, milord. And, no, Captain Treveryan, I promised George no favors, but I would! He is a man who at least cares for me, who is at least a gentleman, who is there when I need him, willing to defend me. He does not ignore my needs.”
“So your needs have been ignored, mistress, is that it?” That he spoke quietly did not fool her. His steps were calm and unhurried as he came toward her. Her heart beat erratically, for she felt the tension leaping and crackling like lightning, and the fury that, still leashed, was as combustible as a storm.
“Was that it, my sweet innocent? You’ve taunted each and every one of my men to blows because you were ignored? The beguiling smiles, the gentle, bewitching speeches? You’ve seduced them all.”
“I have not!”
They faced each other across the desk, but then he began his stealthy walk once more and Brianna was forced to counter him. “George has simply been kind to me, and I have—”
“Played your act upon him, as you have on me? A light touch upon the arm, forced nearness in a narrow hallway? Pressing close…”
“No!” He was moving toward her again. In desperation she clutched the logbook from his desk and threw it at him. It grazed off his shoulder, and she shivered as she saw his eyes narrow and his lips compress still further.
“I did nothing!” she cried.
“No? I think you have done much. Take this morning, my little Scot. That lovely little charade when you dressed before me with such modest allure.”
“You refused to leave.”
“Aye—I played right into your hands!”
He was staring at her, his eyes cold and challenging. “Don’t come any nearer to me!” she warned, and nervously continued. “And I understand, Lord Treveryan, that other women have sailed in this ship—with their own sleeping quarters. I demand—”
“You demand?”
“Yes!”
He offered her a subtle grin. “You demand, Mistress MacCardle?” he repeated softly, brows arching as he rounded the desk and seized her with a lithe movement that was too quick and too agile for her to counter.
“No!” she shrieked, wrenching about in panic. She kicked and bit at him and struggled like a wild tiger, only to exhaust herself as he parried her every movement. He held her shoulders and jerked her so that her throat arched and she was left to meet the full fury and tension in his grim features. “Aye, my lass, I’d like to whip you black-and-blue. Cure you of your scratching and throwing. But you’ve been demanding all day—and fool that I am, I didn’t understand. Worry yourself no longer, my Scottish love, for I’ll take care not to ignore you.”
His fingers sank into the hair at the nape of her neck as his mouth lowered to hers. She brought her hands against his chest, but it was like pitting a straw against the wind. Warmth filled her, a touch of hot flame; yet she fought that warmth as she fought him, furiously, wildly, fully aware that if she lost the battle, she lost all.
“No!” With desperate effort she at last twisted her head from his, gasping for breath, praying for strength.
He did not release her, but his hold eased and he pulled her head to his chest, where she could hear the rampant beating of his heart. His chin rested over her forehead as he massaged her back.
“I’ve tried,” he murmured. “God knows I’ve tried. Don’t play games of chance, my love.”
Brianna realized that after all, he intended to keep his word. He was going to let her be. Her system was alive with tumult. She wanted to beat against him in fury, and yet she was sorry for her actions.
She tilted her head to meet his eyes, wanting to say something, to tell him somehow how it hurt to be called whore, that she was sorry she had played foolish games. But as she gazed into his eyes, where passion still smoldered and anger still lurked, she couldn’t find the words. She simply shook her head. She had won, she thought bitterly. She had won her game. He wanted her—he wanted to strangle her—but he wanted her.
The victory was bitter. And for some inexplicable reason she had to ease the tension that again reigned. She stood upon her toes and kissed him, meaning the gesture to be the apology she couldn’t voice. She had no thought of malice; she wished only to make amends. She did not realize the portent of her simple actions, nor did she think of danger when he lifted her against him to close the short distance to the bed. She did not realize that she sought a peace which could not be. She just kept whispering his name.
He didn’t make a sound to alert her to his change of intent. She felt his hands upon her gown and heard the rip of the material as it failed to give to his impatient hands. Apology instantly faded from her mind. Where she had been penitent, she was freshly enraged.
“No!” She attempted furiously to pull from his hold. But his hands about her were firm and strong, his glare scornful and resolute.
His voice grated harshly to her. “Lass, I may be a fool, but never a saint. You cannot jerk the strings of a man as you do a marionette.”
She was stunned as he rose and tossed her upon the bed, and yet she saw that he truly believed she had been beckoning him on—further to test her power. She stared at him—stunned—and then gasped in outrage as she saw that he was stripping with a ruthless determination that assured her she had indeed tested him too far.
She began scrambling for the torn fabric of her gown. His boots hit the floor, his shirt was cast aside, and still she scrambled to pull on her clothing. She fumbled to her knees upon the mattress, drawing her bodice together, yet he blocked her exit from the bed. And when she attempted to rise, he relentlessly pressed her back.
“Sloan—wait—damn you—I didn’t mean…don’t you dare—”
“At this moment, witch,” he murmured, bringing her wrists to the bed in a vise and leaning near to whisper, “I will dare whatever I choose. I have had it! All day you have taunted me, and when I would still uphold my promise, you choose to test me further. The strongest man has his breaking point. You have discovered mine.”
