Her lower lip was full, firm, damp. Her mouth had parted for him.

Red hazed his vision again. One kiss, he thought, one long, slow, deliberate kiss. How terrible would that be?

Instead, he closed his hand over hers, lifting it and the gla.s.s she held, until the rim reached her mouth. "Trust me on this one small point," he murmured, aware that his voice had become as thick as the tension in the cabin.

She sipped, not once but several times.

"You are no stranger to Scotch," he said, surprised.

She held the gla.s.s tightly against her chest between her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s, clearly unaware of what she was doing and how interesting it appeared. "My father was very fond of Scotch whiskey and he frequently let me take a sip or two, as long as Mother wasn't watching."

Something twisted inside of him like a knife. Gerald had shown him how to load a musket at the tender age of six, grinning and whispering, "Mama will murder me if she knows, so don't breathe a word of this, you hear?"

"You loved your parents very much," he heard himself remark, shoving the pain of the beast away.

"Yes," she whispered, and she looked down at her drink. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed as she realized her appearance. "Oh." She looked up wildly, wide-eyed.

"I am enjoying myself immensely," he remarked.

She gulped the Scotch, then shoved the half-empty gla.s.s at him, turning away.

"You know," he remarked as casually, "you do not strike me as being the modest type, Virginia."

She didn't answer. But she slowly bent to retrieve his nightshirt.

He could feel her mind racing. What was she up to now? he wondered, and as he sipped her Scotch, he finally felt himself begin to relax. He looked forward to whatever it was that she intended and decided not to even try to guess.

She suddenly looked at him, the gaze sidelong and lingering.

His heart slammed, because it was the gaze of a courtesan, not an eighteen-year-old orphan.

Then she pulled Gus's shirt off.

She wore her chemise beneath it, but she might as well have worn nothing, and she was half-turned toward him, so he had everything to view that he wished to. Then his heart stopped as she removed the sodden chemise as well.

He was still.

Facing him was a perfect profile with a tiny nose and full lips, small, upthrust b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a slim rib cage and soft, flat tummy.

Fully aware that he was staring, she slowly lifted the nightshirt over her head. For one moment her slender bare arms were upstretched, her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s thrust tautly forward, her back arched, her naval visible as Gus's pants rode lower. His resolve vanished. His clean, soft cotton gown slithered over her head and down her bosom. Then she reached under it and slid off Gus's pants and her pantalettes, all in one motion.

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 l.u.s.t. 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 b.u.t.tocks. 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 s.e.x.

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 d.a.m.n 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 pet.i.t mort, the French call it. It means having an o.r.g.a.s.m, 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 wh.o.r.e," 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 G.o.d 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 gla.s.s.

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 a.s.sure 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.

"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 compa.s.sion."

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 pa.s.sing 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.