Devil's Mistress (3 page)

As she spun about, the gray of the sky was brilliantly lit by a jagged streak of lightning. A peal of thunder followed so quickly, it sounded as if the heavens had split. And as if the sky had truly been torn asunder, rain began to fall in torrents.

Brianna stared desperately about herself once more, blinking against the rain. At the far end of the townhouses she could make out a sign. It creaked and swayed beneath the wind and rain, but she could make out the words,
HAWK’S TAVERN
. Knowing only that she could not stand awaiting capture in the pouring rain, she raced for the three rickety steps that led to the tavern’s door.

It was gray inside, almost as gray as it was outside. The air was heavy too; but heavy with odors that were pleasant to the senses. The delicious scent of fresh bread was in the air; the appetizing scent of braised and seasoned meat.

Brianna stood against the door for a second, wide blue eyes scanning the tavern. There were rough wood tables about the room, a fireplace against the far wall that offered a mellow, comforting heat. A number of the tables were filled with male customers—crusty old sea salts, from the looks of them. But, Brianna noticed, her heart giving a little leap of relief, there was another woman in the room. She was dressed in a rather startling low-cut gown of red, and she sat with one of the sailors. There were also females waiting upon the tables, two of them, both engaged at present in slamming down tankards of ale and hunks of mutton before boisterous customers.

Brianna prayed desperately that she had enough coins in her shoe to purchase a tankard of ale. If she could slip quietly into one of the shadowy corners of the gray room, she could bide a little time.

Her decision made, she moved quickly, keeping close to the wall to reach the secluded corner table. It was concealed by a broad structural beam as well as by the darkness. Nervously Brianna sidled around the beam in hopes of quickly sliding into a chair and avoiding notice by any of the tavern’s other patrons. All she wanted to do was disappear into the woodwork.

Instead, she found herself drawing in a sharp gasp, and then swallowing quickly so that she wouldn’t cry out.

The chair she had sought behind the beam was not empty, and she did not sit down upon cold wood. Through the wool of her dress and the linen of her chemise she could feel heat, and something as hard and firm and strong as wood; but unlike the wood, the form she came in contact with was alive and vital. She tried to rise again with her gasp, but found she could not—because a pair of arms as strong as steel were tightly around her. She twisted quickly to stare into a pair of arresting green eyes.

A high-arched black brow rose with amusement within the contours of a strongly chiseled and handsome face. Full, mobile lips curved into a dry smile. “I’ve been waiting for you. Welcome to the tavern.”

“What?” She gasped out.

He was frowning then, assessing her with annoyance. “Damn, but you’re a mess! I wasn’t expecting the latest fashions from Paris—but clean would have been appreciated.”

“I beg your pardon!” Brianna snapped, and then paused with the cold realization that the man had been expecting a whore—and that he was assuming she was the woman he had hired. She could think of nothing at first except escaping his iron hold and the strange tremors that swept through her as he held her.

“No—” she started to protest, but suddenly there was another man striding through the dimly lit tavern toward them. “Get on out of here, girl!” the man, a husky, ill-kempt fellow in an apron, told her grimly. “We do not cater to womenfolk here!”

The man had his hand upon her arm. Brianna was reminded that the streets crawled with the King’s men, searching her out.

“Leave her be, Liam,” the green-eyed stranger with the iron arms said quietly. “I’ve been expecting a—companion.”

He had spoken so softly, and yet his words carried such force that the harried Liam immediately paused and grinned a smile that was minus a front tooth.

“As ye wish, Captain, as ye wish.”

“Oh, Liam, will you see that the lady is brought some wine rather than ale, and some of the lamb stew and that bread you’ve just baked.” He spoke in English rather than in Gaelic with a slight accent that she could not place. That wasn’t strange, because English was quite common in Glasgow. But the accent …

“Right away, m’lord, right away.” Liam hurried off, wiping his broad hands upon his apron.

Reason began to cut through the haze of fear and numbness that had engulfed Brianna. She glanced quickly from the handsome and stalwart jade-eyed man to the woman in red she had seen upon entering the tavern.

Indignation rose within her as she quickly assessed the woman in red. Her gown was not only shamefully brilliant, but it was cut low over heaving breasts. The woman’s cheeks were also heavily powdered and rouged. And this man had grouped her along with the slut in red!

Anger swept over her and she clawed at the little vises of steel that were his fingers locked around her.

“Let me up!” she demanded.

“Let you up?” A single dark brow rose high again with amusement, then lowered as his eyes narrowed with a flash of cynicism. “As you wish.”

He stood and she found herself unceremoniously upon the floor, staring up at him. She was too stunned to speak for a moment, made so acutely aware of his height and the breadth of his shoulders. He must stand, she thought with a bit of awe, well over six feet. Fawn breeches clung tightly to well-muscled thighs, and his expertly tailored navy-blue greatcoat accentuated his powerful chest and a torso that tapered handsomely at the waist and lean hips. His calves, of which she was given a bird’s-eye view from her ignominious position, were encased in high black boots, and were as long and sinewed as his sturdy thighs.

Brianna suddenly realized that she was giving the stranger a commendable assessment while half seated, half sprawled, at his feet. She rose swiftly, barely aware that the top of her head was well below his chin when she planted her hands firmly upon her hips, arched back her throat, and snapped, “You bastard!”

He shrugged, thick dark lashes half hovering over his radiant eyes with disinterest. “I am not in the mood for games,” he told her, the lashes rising again.

That sea-jade stare could sizzle dangerously, Brianna noted, but she was too incensed to heed any danger signals. Her treatment at the hands of this apparent “lord” was simply unacceptable. She lifted her hand and slapped him fully across the face.

She gasped as his hand shot out to catch her wrist, constricting it painfully in his grip. Belatedly she realized that his eyes were indeed as dangerous as the square set of his determinedly formed jaw.

And belatedly she remembered why she had run into the tavern. He might be quite dangerous, but Matthews was the enemy, and this man might just well offer her escape. At the very least she could play for time.

“Madam,” he grated harshly, his use of the word a mockery. “I have told you, I am in no mood for games. You appeared hungry and I was willing to feed you. But if our arrangement is not to your liking, please feel free to leave. The tavern door swings both ways.”

Brianna quickly lowered her eyes. She couldn’t leave that tavern; she didn’t dare. The streets could still be swarming with the King’s madmen shouting, “Witch!”

Resolution, like the icy waters of a winter stream, flowed through her. Cold. So very cold. So very different from the burning flames of death. She couldn’t save her aunt, she could only try now to save herself.

God help her! Having seen the flames of death, she would indeed sell her soul to any devil to escape that fate. He wanted a whore—she’d have to act the part. She shivered suddenly. Could she do it? Could she? She had to!

“Forgive me,” she mumbled sweetly, not raising the shield of her lashes. She slid silently into the chair opposite the stranger and kept her gaze fixed upon the rough planking of the table until she had gathered herself together. Then she raised her lashes and gazed at him with wide eyes and an apologetic smile. “I really am so very sorry! The weather is awful, I had difficulty traveling. I tripped, you see, and was splattered with mud. I’m afraid I’m quite nervous.” He kept staring at her and she allowed her lashes to flutter and fall again, praying he would believe her.

She felt his gaze upon her, boring into her. One of his boot-clad legs was stretched out alongside the table; his arm rested upon it and he lightly drummed his fingers against it.

“What is your name?” he asked her.

She glanced up at him—offering him another radiant smile. “Brianna,” she said softly. How long, she wondered, could she stay here with him? Was she convincing him that she was what he wanted? Tension gripped her stomach painfully as she grew more and more uneasy with the role she allotted herself. Was he a loyal supporter of King James? Would he eagerly throw her to the man who searched for her?

No! She couldn’t allow herself to think that way. She had to play him out, flirt with him, tease him, until …

Until what? she wondered with desperation. Until the king’s men cleared the streets, and she could make good an escape out of Glasgow to the forest.

“You’re very kind,” she said, irritated by her stiff tone. You’ll have to do better than that! she reproved herself. And she smiled again, with all the allure she could muster. “I am famished, and the meal will be most appreciated.”

“So will soap and water,” he muttered, watching her curiously. She returned his scrutiny and discovered that she could act boldly.

She felt very remote watching him as if she were someone else. The past days had begun the change and the past minutes had completed it. Her carefree life had been swept away—and with it her youth, and all her dreams.

She lowered her head, and a bitter smile came fleetingly to her lips. Oh, how life had changed! Just days ago she had been so assured and confident. Her dreams of the future had included a valiant knight falling in love with her, promising eternal devotion. She had been Brianna of the Forest to the local boys—untouchable. She had laughed with them and accepted their adoration, like a snow queen with her courtiers. Ah, she was so chaste, so determined that none should ever touch her until her forever love, the misted knight who would one day claim her!

That had been last week. This was now. The untouchable little “snow queen” was sitting at a table with a man who assumed she was a whore. And the man was no boy, no stripling lad. He appeared as rugged as the highland hills, as vital as the sea that crashed a tempest against the coast.

She grated her teeth together hard. This was also reality and she would do anything for his protection. She would do anything not to burn. Oh, God! She had almost ruined it! She’d almost thought herself that other Brianna—that princess of the forest—and ruined it all with her silly dreams!

Yes! She would do anything to escape the flames. She would beg, borrow, steal—or even bed with this hard, imposing stranger—to escape. If it did come to that, she would withdraw into herself. And if she could just do that, she would remain untouched.

He was watching her—too acutely, too curiously. She smiled quickly, thinking that a whore would be stroking his ego. “It’s quite a pleasure to see a man of your strength,” she crooned softly.

“Is it?” he asked. She kept smiling, even though she longed to slap him and tell him he was incredibly insolent. What would the real whore respond? Brianna wondered. Worse still, what if the real whore put in an appearance while they were sitting there?

“Yes, it is,” she replied quickly. “It’s such a pleasure that I’m very anxious to be alone with you.”

He leaned across the table. She was made very aware of his scent, clean and male and tangy like the sea.

One of the serving girls came to the table with a steaming bowl of stew, a crude pewter wine-cup, and a new tankard of ale for the captain, or lord, or whatever he might be. She was a pretty wench, busty and well rounded, and she had a saucy smile for the captain and a faint glance of skepticism for Brianna.

Brushing closely against the captain, she asked coyly, “Will ye be needin’ anything, m’lord?”

He smiled in return to her, “I think not, Bessie, thank you.”

Bessie pouted her lips slightly. “If ye decide that ye do”—her glance suggested that with Brianna as his “companion,” it was most likely that he would discover himself in need—“ye just let me know, m’lord.”

“He won’t, Bessie,” Brianna said sweetly, but with a deadly warning.

With a swish of her ample rear, Bessie left the table.

God, she was hungry, but she wanted to eat quickly and leave the public room. Glancing up, she discovered that he was still watching her, and that he was very close.

“Umm, aren’t you eating?” she inquired.

He shook his head, his expression curious. “I’ve eaten, thank you.”

Brianna glanced quickly toward the tavern’s doors. It was possible that the officers would rush into the tavern, screaming “witch,” and drag her back out into the rain-muddied streets. She had to eat quickly.

She did so, taking large sips of her wine in between bites of the stew. The wine was potent and comforting. It helped to blur the rough edges of terror that still gnawed at her whenever she glimpsed the tavern door.

She was startled when the long fingers that had been idly drumming the table suddenly stretched out to cover her hand. A little jolt of heat seemed to flash through her at that touch, and she lifted her eyes warily to meet his.