Devil's Mistress (10 page)

Sleep—dear God, she needed sleep. Release from pain, from the tempest of her soul. And though sleep eluded her for a time, it eventually brought her release again.

She saw his eyes as she slept. Deep green, devil-green. Narrowing angrily, glittering with sensual amusement. The planes of his face, the full, mobile line of his mouth and the handsome slash of white teeth against the tan of the seafarer.

The arch of his jet brow.

He would not leave her dreams.

Brianna awoke with a start of panic to a knock on the door. Then she realized that Sloan Treveryan would never knock upon his own door. She was well swathed in her blanket but still loath to see anyone clad so—within the captain’s cabin. She shrugged and lifted her chin—there was no help for any of it at the moment. “Yes?” she queried softly.

“It’s just me—Paddy. Captain asked that I bring ye something clean to wear.”

“Uh—come in—and thank you,” Brianna responded.

Brianna tried to hide her astonishment at the wardrobe carried in for her. Paddy laid out a pile of fine muslins and silks, some trimmed with delicate laces, some with precious furs. Paddy, after spreading the rich clothing out, turned back to her, and noticed the surprise upon her features.

“Uh … an old friend of the captain’s used to keep quarters upon the ship, my lady. I doubt she’ll be needing these again.”

Color suffused Brianna’s face along with the rage that filled her. Treveryan! He was giving her the cast-off goods of another woman. Another woman who had apparently had the run of the ship—despite Sloan’s men! He had done nothing but lie to her and give her ridiculous excuses about her situation!

Brianna said nothing and fought to hide her emotions from Paddy. Sloan was the one who had wronged her. Her dark lashes swept her cheeks and then she faced Paddy with a slight smile. “Thank you, Paddy.”

Paddy had spent his life serving the Treveryans and sailing the seas. He was an old sea salt—a far cry from a courtly gallant. But when she spoke, he felt a gentling toward her, despite the fact that she seemed like nothing but trouble. “ ’Twas nothing, girl,” he promised.

There was a slight sound at the door, and both Brianna and Paddy looked that way, startled.

Sloan stood within the doorway. Brianna stiffened, expecting some form of mockery at the interchange.

But his expression was unfathomable. “I see that Paddy has provided you with clean clothing to wear. I’ll give you leave to dress and return with a meal.”

He left the door open behind him. Paddy shuffled his feet awkwardly and then backed toward it, pausing only to grab up the wet pile of her soaked things. “Good day … Brianna.”

“Good day,” she murmured.

He left her with a bit of a grimace and Brianna followed to close the door behind him. When she was alone she again glanced at the pile of luxurious clothing strewn across the chair. The gowns were stunning—far grander than any she had ever owned.

But fury grew within her again at the sight of them and she stomped across the room and swept them onto the floor with a vengeance.

They had belonged to another woman. A mistress. A woman he had discarded and passed on as easily as he did the gowns.

What would be her fate when he finished with her? Would she be cast aside as easily? Lord, how she wanted to thrash him at that moment! Treveryan! The arrogance of the man! He would never, never cast her aside, because she would never be his to cast. But something within her hurt again; an ache that attacked her stomach and caused her to grit her teeth tightly together.

She sighed—she had to school herself away from both anger and pain. Neither would serve her and the gowns would, since she preferred to be fully clad when she was near him!

She paused for a minute. Had last night meant that he intended to respect her wishes? A shiver first cold, and then warm, touched upon her spine. Or was he baiting her, taunting her, playing with her, as a cat did with a mouse?

How she wanted her freedom! Freedom, and safety, she reminded herself. But anywhere would be far from Glasgow—and Matthews. All she had to do was fight to maintain a remote distance from Sloan—until they docked somewhere. Then she could disappear. Dear God! she prayed silently. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful to be alive—she was, so very, very grateful. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to be grateful to a man like Treveryan. Without fail he had the ability to make her completely lose all control of her temper.

She chose the most modest of the gowns, a deep-blue muslin with a petticoat in a lighter shade of velvet, and dressed quickly. It was a bit loose, and a bit short (as she was tall for a woman), but the fit was far better than she might have expected. She determined to have the rest of the gowns picked up before Sloan returned, but it was when she started this task that she suddenly spun around with horror.

Brianna closed her eyes, remembering how Paddy had picked up the bundle of her own soaked clothing when he left the cabin.

Her clothing, the gold coins—her means for escape were gone!

Brianna raced stupidly to the spot where her clothing had lain. How had she let it happen? “No!” she whispered. And then she screamed the word, stamping her foot down furiously. Panic and anger filled her with a driving bitterness. She had earned that money; earned it with the loss of all innocence and the one beauty that had been hers to give. She had to get the money back, because it was the one means she had to escape Sloan Treveryan.

“Damn!” Brianna emitted in a furious wail, and her temper took complete control of her for a moment of ridiculous vengeance. She swirled about and lifted the new gowns and kicked and tossed them furiously about.

So involved in the venting of rage and misery did she become that she did not hear the door when it opened. It was by pure chance that she raised her eyes to the doorway and saw Sloan standing there, holding a tray, and watching her with curious amusement.

“What is your problem now?”

Brianna stopped cold, staring at him warily while she warned herself to take as much care with the situation as she could.

“My—my own things are gone. I want them back,” she told him.

He shrugged. “When they are dried and clean, they will be returned to you.” He took a further step into the room, closing the door. “What did you want with them? They are little but rags now.”

“I’ve a great sentimental attachment to my own things,” she told him coolly.

“Have you, now?”

As he walked past her, Brianna inhaled a delicious aroma that reminded her she was starving.

Sloan paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping the scene before him—the disarray upon his floor, and the rebellious defiance in the stunning blue eyes that rose to his. He successfully hid a smile as he continued on to his desk and set the tray down.

“There’s room in the wardrobe for those things,” he told her casually. “But perhaps you would care to eat first.”

Brianna, wondering how to make sure she got the coins back with her clothing, was startled from her reverie by this very polite side to the devil she had come to know.

“Ah, yes,” she murmured, “thank you.” She quickly lowered her eyes from his. It appeared he intended to remain polite. She would challenge him, but be polite and distant herself. She would prefer to demand that he give her what was rightfully hers, but she was afraid that any insistence would only make him laugh and keep the coins, knowing she intended to use them for escape.

“Sit,” he told her pleasantly enough, “and I’ll prepare you a plate.”

Brianna sat nervously upon the edge of the bed. Sloan didn’t glance her way as he heaped a plate full with biscuits and steaming beef swimming in gravy. He handed her the plate with decorum and no mockery—his gaze telling her nothing when their eyes did meet. Sloan set a cup of tea before her within easy reach before preparing himself a plate. He then sat down upon the captain’s chair.

He ate without talking and for several moments Brianna followed suit. But then she decided that he would also be suspicious of her if she did not challenge him. To plan an escape, she had to know where they were heading, and what difficulties she might encounter.

“Where are we going?” she demanded, staring at him pointedly.

His eyes swept from his food to sear into hers. “Holland,” he replied briefly.

Brianna was so surprised she almost lost the plate of food that was balanced precariously upon her knees.

“Holland!” she gasped with dismayed amazement. How would she ever escape him in a land so very foreign to her? And though she didn’t know much about politics, she did know that there was severe tension between James II and his son-in-law and nephew, William of Orange; a friction that hinted of a coming war. “But—but,” she stuttered, “then you are a traitor, Lord Treveryan!”

Perhaps if she hadn’t been taken so much off guard, she wouldn’t have blurted out the accusation so foolishly. As it was, there was no recourse when she saw his lips compress angrily within the strong contours of his jaw and his eyes sizzle as they narrowed.

“I am no traitor, mistress. I am a Protestant, and a friend to the Parliament James has seen fit to dissolve. I am also a friend to Princess Mary of Orange, and therefore to her husband, William.”

Brianna stared blankly at her plate, stiffening beneath his words. “William of Orange—and Mary,” she murmured, struggling to maintain her composure while her mind whirled. Holland! How would she ever manage to get back to her family? She wouldn’t even be able to hire passage aboard a ship if she didn’t get the money back.

Sloan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes had narrowed upon her, and it seemed that a hint of amusement played about his mouth.

“Of course,” he told her, “we won’t be heading straight for the Dutch court. We’ll have to dock for supplies and repairs.”

“Oh?” Brianna nonchalantly picked at a bit of food. “And where will that be?” Her heart thundered with new hope.

“Liverpool.”

Liverpool! Wonderful,
Brianna thought. It was a busy, bustling port where a woman could quickly disappear, and close enough to the southwest counties so that she could reach the Powells.

“But then again …” Sloan’s voice drifted away. Brianna stared at him sharply once again.

“Then again what?” she snapped impatiently.

He shrugged. “We might dock farther south. Who can say?” he replied with a pleasant shrug.

“Umm. Who can say,” she returned, trying not to allow her voice to ring with sarcasm or anger. A silence followed her words, one that made her uneasy. She didn’t want him knowing anything that went on in her mind. More for something to say than to really strike a blow at him, she glared at him accusingly again.

“You are tampering a great deal with the law. James is the proper heir to the English throne.”

He laughed briefly, a dry sound that cut the air with no humor. “So thought Charles, and yet I doubt that he believed his brother would ever murder his son.”

“Jemmy Scott?” Brianna frowned, curious despite herself at the tone of Sloan’s voice. “The Duke of Monmouth?”

“Aye, the same,” Sloan said, “Beheaded at James’s command,” he added harshly. For a second he fell silent; then he was staring at her again. “You owe little loyalty to James, my little Scottish witch. It is beneath his rule that you almost burned.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Brianna demanded coolly, “that all persecution shall cease beneath William and Mary?”

Sloan wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and, tossing it upon his unfinished plate, stood and stalked the room. Brianna noted that he wore the same clothing of the morning, the fine silk shirt, the fawn breeches that fitted so finely to his form, hugging sinewed thighs and muscled calves.

“I tell you,” he said heatedly, “that Charles, libertine as he was often labeled, was still a just and tolerant king. He knew his people and he knew when to give. James has proven himself to be an ineffectual king with a talent for turning even his friends into enemies. Will persecution cease with William and Mary? No, not completely, for people still believe in the power of witchcraft. And,” he reminded her pointedly, “there are people who do practice witchcraft. I’m not so sure yet that you’re not a witch! But both the Prince and Princess of Orange believe passionately in tolerance, and in Parliament. And I might add that they are the choice of the people.”

She set her plate upon his desk. “You’ll forgive me, Lord Treveryan, if I know little of the English court or its royalty. Or of the intrigue of politics. I have spent my life in the ‘wilds’ of Scotland. A country ‘witch,’ if you will, my lord.”

None of it made any difference, Brianna knew. Whatever British port he chose for his repairs, she would find her escape there. But she spoke with biting sarcasm—and curiosity—continuing caustically, “And what, pray tell, do you intend to do with me in Holland?”

He appeared somewhat startled by the question, as if she should know the answer. And then his anger faded with amusement. “I intend to leave you with Mary,” he replied simply, smiling at her.

Brianna successfully hid her surprise at his casual reply. Fine! Let him believe that he could safely leave her in the charge of the princess he so admired. She would never have to face Mary—as Lord Treveryan’s courtesan or anything else. She would be a memory to Sloan Treveryan before he ever reached the Dutch shore.