Wicked at Heart (13 page)

His face went
still.  Only the eyes were alive — glittering, malevolent, dangerous.  He
turned away.  "Impressive.  You should have been a poet."

"And
you
should be ashamed of yourself, Morninghall. 
I
am ashamed to think I
share the same species with you, so embarrassed and disgusted am I over what I
have just witnessed below!"

He poured
himself a glass of brandy.

"Doesn't
the sight even
affect
you?"

"As you
said, my heart is a black one."

"For God's
sake, how can you calmly stand there with absolutely no feeling, no concern, no
caring for the people who are suffering and starving beneath your feet? 
How
can you?
"

He turned then, but
not before she saw the shame in his eyes.  "I didn't know it was so
bad."

"You mean
to tell me you've never been
down there
?"

"As a
matter of fact, no, I have not.  Foyle was supposed to be handling things.  I
trusted him to do a task, and he failed me.  Lied to me.  Damn you, don't look
at me like that.  I told you I have no wish to be on this sodding ship, I never
wanted
to be on this sodding ship, and I would like nothing better than
to be out of this sodding
navy
—"

"Then get
out of it!"  Furious, Gwyneth shot to her feet and faced him squarely. 
"Let other men who are more noble than you serve it!  You are a vile and
wretched beast who is so far gone in self-pity you can't even
see
the
plight of those whose sufferings far eclipse your own petty troubles!  And you
know what makes that even more unforgivable?  It's that you do not care!" 
She stalked around the swivel chair and jabbed her finger into his chest to
emphasize her point.  "You don't
care
what those poor men have to
endure,"
jab
, "you don't
care
what they have to eat,
drink, and sleep in,"
jab
, "you care only for your own
ambitions, desires, and comforts —"

He snared her
wrists in one hand, yanking them high above her head; then, putting the brandy
down, he drew her threateningly up against the wall of his chest until her
angry eyes were just inches from his own.  "Those men brought their
sufferings on themselves," he growled, his face so close to hers that she
could see the fury pounding in his brow.  "They're wretched, they're
prisoners, they're the
enemy
, damn it, they're —"

"
Human
beings
!" she spat, fighting to jerk free.  "And they deserve to
be treated as such!"

"They will
be treated as their behavior warrants."

"No
behavior warrants the treatment they are receiving!"

"Your
behavior warrants a treatment all its own, and if you don't stop your damned
struggling, I can assure you you're going to get it."

She froze, twin
spots of mortified color blooming in her cheeks as she looked down and saw what
he had seen.  In her struggle, with her arms held high over her head, one rosy
nipple had popped free of her decolletage.

She gasped, her face
aflame.  She tried to yank her wrists free, but his grip might as well have
been an iron manacle, so tight, so fiercely unrelenting, was it.  She was
suddenly aware of the bed just behind her.  "Unhand me this instant,
Morninghall."

"Gladly,"
he murmured, his tone sending a warning screaming up her spine.  "For a
price."

"I assume
that
price
is to leave you alone and go torment some other prison
ship?"

He leaned close,
oh God,  
far
too close, his darkly malevolent face and broad shoulders
filling the space above her head.  "
Au contraire
, madam.  I have no
wish for you to leave me alone.  You have been a married woman; don't feign
stupidity.  You know what I want."

"Hell will
freeze over before you get it."

"Hell will
never freeze over as long as I am in it."

"Would that
I had my pistol then, sir, for I would gladly put you there."

"Your
pistol is on the table where you left it.  I invite you to retrieve it, and
carry out your threat."  He dragged a finger down the wildly beating pulse
at her throat.  "But what a waste that would be, when we could have
such
an enjoyable time together . . ."

"You are a
repellent creature."

"Yes, I
am.  But you . . . are not."

"I have no
interest in bedding you, Morninghall."

"Perhaps
you just need a taste of what you'd be missing."

"Your pathetic
attempts at seduction are wasted on me.  Let me go."

"Wasted on
you?"  He leaned closer, eyes just inches from her own, burning with fury
and fire beneath lashes blacker than sin.  "Dare you challenge me?"

"I am not
so foolish.  Nor, insane."

"Ah, but if
you consider the challenge foolish or insane, then it can be only because you
know you will lose.  Were you truly convinced that you could resist me, you
would merely laugh at the notion and tell me to give it my best shot, if only
to ridicule me for my failure, afterward."  His voice lowered in pitch. 
"I don't see you laughing, Lady Simms."

"Your
arrogance is colossal beyond belief."

He glanced down
at her nipple.  "You desire me."

"You — you
do nothing for me, Morninghall," she spat, flushing.  "Nothing!"

She glared at
him.  He gazed back, so close she could see the tiny flecks of gold embedded in
the slate that ringed his blacker-than-Hades pupils.  She was aware of his
thumb stroking the sensitive underside of one of her still imprisoned wrists,
the sound of her heart hammering in her chest.  And then she tensed as he
lowered his head, his breath whispering over her brow, his lips grazing the
soft hair at her temple.

 She closed her
mind to him.  She would humiliate him with her lack of response to what he so
arrogantly assumed was his devastating attraction. 
But he
is
attractive, isn't he, Gwyn?
her conscience whispered. 
Not repellent at
all.  You
want
him to touch you.  You hate him fiercely, but you cannot
deny that you find him dangerously exciting, forbidden, wicked . . .

He kissed her
then, and she stopped thinking.

It was a hard
kiss, full of passion, anger, and raw, unrequited male hunger, a kiss that
pinned her head, her spine, against the bedpost behind her and left her nowhere
to go.  There was no mercy in the kiss; no gentleness, no sweet seduction, no
kindness, nothing but the full fury of his anger.  His tongue thrust against
her lips, forcing them open, and Gwyneth felt her defenses falling away, one by
one.  Sudden fear shot through her.  This was no silly challenge intended to wound
his pride.  She was playing with hellfire itself, and she was going to get
burned — badly.  She felt his fingers whispering over her collarbone, grazing
the pearls at her throat, feathering lightly over the swell of her breasts,
brushing across the exposed — and mortifyingly hard — nipple.  Gwyneth tore one
of her arms free and caught his wrist.  She felt the unforgivably hard knit of
sinew, bone and muscle beneath his clean white cuff, the frightening power that
arm wielded, and knew he could smash her as easily as he had that goblet.

And just as
quickly.

He drew back
then and smiled, teeth white against a face dark with malice.

"You've
made your point," she said, breathing hard.  "Release me."

"Afraid,
sweetheart?  You disappoint me."

"You are .
. .
despicable
," she said, uttering this last word as though it was
a rat that had found its way into her mouth.

He bent to kiss
her again, and this time, she turned her head away, hard.

He let her
wrists go, but she was still trapped between him and the bedpost.  "You
make me
burn
, Lady Simms," he snarled, leaning so close she felt
his breath against the side of her neck.  "I shall enjoy making you do the
same.  Burn.  Burn until you can no longer take the air into your lungs."

"Go to
hell," she said, and slapped him hard across the cheek.

He drew back, furious. 
Never had she seen such naked anger, such menace, in anyone's eyes as she did
this man's.  His nostrils flared, and he let his insolent, contemptuous gaze
swept over her bosom.

"You are a
cold and cunning witch," he murmured.  "And you have made me angry.  Very
angry.  Such a pity, that, because when I'm angry, I do terrible things.  Perhaps
it will be the prisoners who will pay."

And then he made
the mistake of turning his back on her.

Blind rage
seized her, and before she could stop herself, Gwyneth grabbed up the small
brass telescope that rested on a table beside the bed and with all of her
strength, flung it at his proud shoulders.

He turned at
that moment, saw the missile — and ducked.  The instrument caught him just
above the ear, and he fell sideways against the swivel chair, sending it
crashing into the bulkhead as he went down with a heavy, sickening thud.

For one
paralyzed moment, Gwyneth could only stare at that dangerous, powerful body
sprawled atop the decking, the telescope rolling across the floor away from
it.  If she was lucky, she had dashed his brains out.  If she was not —

She wasted no
time.  Without a second's more hesitation, she jumped from the bed, sidestepped
the marquess even as he began to stir, and ran for the door.

Chapter
8

Gwyneth ran
straight from the frying pan and into the fire, which proved to be two guards
waiting just outside the cabin on the quarterdeck.

Shoving her hair
off her brow with a trembling hand, she mentally composed herself and went
straight for the nearest one, too distraught to notice his lecherous leer, his
hungry eyes.

"Excuse me,
but I beg you to see me off this ship, immediately."

The sailor
leaned on the stock of his musket and regarded her lazily.  "Is there a
problem, ma'm?"

She glanced
nervously behind her.  "No problem at all.  Please, I must leave.  Now."

Her heart was
thundering in her breast, pulsing against the pearl choker at her throat,
banging in her ears.  She must look a sight, but at the moment all she could
think about was self-preservation, escape — and Morninghall.  Any moment now,
that enraged prince of darkness was going to come storming out of his cabin and
drag her right back into the Hades he ruled.

"Right this
way, then, ma'm," the guard said, smoothly, and took her elbow in one
massive hand.

Thank God,
thank God, thank God. . . .
  Relief swept through her, and it was all she
could do not to succumb to the tears hovering just beneath the surface. 
Gratefully she allowed him to guide her away from the cabin, his companion
trailing just behind, their boots thudding hollowly on the deck.  She thought
of Morninghall, again, and his kiss.  How it had stirred things deep inside
her, made her want more, and how close she might have come to giving it to
him. 
Oh, I'm so very mortified!
  She forced her head up, straightened
her spine, kept her gaze straight ahead.  Inside, though, she was shaking,
confused, burning with shame and fury and a host of emotions she could not name
—

She closed her
eyes on a silent moan of dismay, opened them, and saw that the guard was
escorting her toward the stairs built against the hull that led off the ship.

And then past
them.

She paused, his
blunt fingers biting into her elbow.

"Excuse me,
but I would like to leave," she protested, trying to wrench her arm free.

"You can
leave when 'is Lordship says ye can."  The guard hauled her forward, his
fingers hard against her flesh.  "Meanwhile we gots to put you in a
holdin' area."

"Aye, a
holding area," aped the second guard, who pushed himself so close to
Gwyneth's backside that she could feel his bulging stomach and erect penis pressing
against her, could smell his pungent, unwashed body over the acrid odors
snaking up through the hatches.

Alarm shot
through her.  She looked around for help.  The deck was cleared of prisoners
for the coming night, and only a few guards, all pretending to ignore her
plight, were about.  Panic iced her spine and she began to struggle with sudden
foreboding.

"I
said
,
I wish to leave this ship immediately!" she said angrily, trying to appear
braver than she felt.

"Oh, we'll
let ye go.  Just as soon as the cap'n gives us permission," said the
first.  "Meanwhile, ye'll be quite comfortable in the holdin' area.  Spacious
accommodations.  Complete with a
bed
."

Gwyneth dug both
heels into the deck as he tried to pull her forward, her shoes scraping across
the weathered old wood.  Oh, damn her haste in fleeing Morninghall, for had she
been composed, she wouldn't have forgotten her pistol!  "I demand that you
release me this moment, or I shall scream for help!"

"We
wouldn't like that none, ma'm.  Wouldn't like it a'tall."  And then,
without warning, the first guard yanked her against his chest, slapped a palm
that smelled of sweat and gunmetal across her mouth, and dragged her, kicking
and struggling, toward an ominous, ramshackle deck house garbed in peeling
paint and smoky grime, through which someone had drawn an obscene network of
graffiti.

Gwyneth fought
madly, ineffectually kicking out at the guard with one foot.  Her hand was
wrenched cruelly behind her back, and the guard, laughing, hauled her toward
the sagging door of the deck house.  Didn't anyone
see
her, and what was
happening?

Help!
 
Her voice was a muffled cry against the guard's palm. 
Somebody help me!

Several other
guards lounged against the deckhouse and railing, not saying a word, some
pretending interest in the harborfront, others merely grinning and watching
with high amusement.  One of them yanked open the door, sending it banging back
against the wall, and Gwyneth's captors hauled her inside.