The Prize (39 page)

Virginia
sighed, beginning to shiver. She
should hate him for holding her a prisoner yet again. She should hate him for
planning to flaunt her as his mistress. She should hate him for a lot of
things, but she didn't hate him at all. She felt sorry for him, deeply so. She
felt sorry for the small boy who had

seen his father
murdered, and she felt sorry for the man that boy had become.

She got out of the
bath, wrapping herself in a towel, and went to stand before the fire in the
bedroom.

Virginia
stared at the dancing flames but
only saw Devlin. Now, as before, she had no choice but to play his game his
way and see where it led. She was strong enough to do so. Devlin had been
partly right. She did not care what society thought of her—or not very much.
Then she stiffened.

But why not be more
clever than he?

Why not play his game
to
win?

Stunned with her
thoughts,
Virginia
began to dress, thinking very
carefully. She wanted her freedom and she wanted Sweet Briar, but that was not
what she wanted most. Did she dare admit to herself what she really wanted?

Unfortunately, what she
desired most was her captor.

Her heart lurched as
she realized exactly what it was that she wanted from him, and she felt faint,
her knees buckling.

Dressed only in her
chemise and pantalettes,
Virginia
gripped the mirror and stared at
her reflection there. Her violet eyes were huge and bright hot spots of soft
pink marred her complexion. She wanted Devlin to think her beautiful, to be
overwhelmed by his passion, and most of all, she wanted him to love her.

She wanted his
love.

Terrified,
Virginia
managed to find the chaise,
where she sat, shaking. Most people who knew him would claim he was incapable
of love. How could she be such a fool?

Did she dare even
hope for the impossible?

And more
important, did she dare try to make him love her?

Virginia
bit her lips, tears forming in
her eyes. She wasn't even beautiful, although he clearly found her attractive.
She wasn't a lady, either, which he already knew. How could she think to entice
such a man?

But what was the
alternative? To be ransomed and set free, so she could go home or stay and
marry his brother?

Virginia
trembled and it had nothing to
do with being wet and cold. Somehow, sometime, somewhere between the
Americana
and Wideacre, she had fallen in love with
Devlin O'Neill, and nothing was ever going to be the same. There was no
choice. She was going to have to do whatever she had to do in order to save his
soul—and make him love her, too.

As
Virginia
went downstairs, she was very
preoccupied and very somber. Her terrible new comprehension—and her new
plan—consumed her thoughts, and her steps were faltering and filled with
trepidation.

"Is there
anything that you need, Miss Hughes?"

At the sound of Mrs.
Hill's firm voice, at once condescending and obsequious, she started, turning.
"My blue day gown and the matching pelisse need laundering, if that is at
all possible,"
Virginia
said with a pleasant smile.

"Of course. I'll
send the maid up." She smiled tightly at
Virginia
. How strained her expression seemed.

And her dark eyes
were twin mirrors of disapproval.
Virginia
smiled back, said thank you, and added, "Where is the captain?"

"In the
library," she said.

Virginia
met her regard and thought that
it was far too knowing, as if she suspected that
Virginia
wished to find her captor for a very
illicit and carnal reason. As
Virginia
walked away, she was disturbed.
She was surprised to realize that she did not like being judged and
disliked—but she reminded herself that she did not care what people thought of
her and the housekeeper's opinions meant nothing. After all, everyone had
looked down on her as a country bumpkin at the Marmott School, and she had not
given a damn.

But it was terribly
familiar, the condescension. Her entire

childhood she had
been accused of being more like a boy than a girl, of being a wild child in her
britches and on horseback. Those asides and snide glances had bewildered her
then, although there was nothing bewildering about the rigid housekeeper's
thoughts now.

Virginia
quickly dismissed the unpleasant
memories. Her childhood was far behind her and only a very uncertain future
remained. Not to mention an even more tenuous present, she thought somewhat
grimly.

She passed the open
doors to a shabby salon with a faded gold velvet sofa, the draperies a sober
mustard color, the chairs a grim brown paisley. The next door opened to a study
where a medium-size desk was in one corner, a dark green sofa facing the
fireplace. All of the walls were lined with bookcases crammed with books, and
with the dancing fire and the sun setting outside behind the overgrown lawns,
the room became a pleasant one.

Except for Devlin,
sitting on the sofa, a glass of Scotch hi his hand. He had been staring as if
entranced into the hearth; now he turned and their gazes locked.

Her heart careened
and crashed. Oh, ho, his mood was dire, indeed, and what did it mean? She went
on alert. Worse, he continued to stare, his expression quite harsh and very forbidding,
and then his gaze dipped and slipped over her, causing an instant tightening
within her, and a heightening of her already profound tension. "You are in
a fine kettle," she murmured, standing in the doorway, not brave enough
to enter.

Did she really
think to play his game and win? Did she really think to make him fall in love
with her?

But he stood and inclined
his head. "Care for a Scotch? I'd offer you wine but the stuff in the
cabinet has turned."

She thought about the
sip or two of Scotch she'd shared with him in his cabin on the
Defiance
.
"No, thank you." She smiled
cautiously at him.

His eyes widened and
she knew he sensed some purpose on her part; then he eyed her with far too much
speculation, like a big, slothful lion sunning himself—not quite sated and not
quite starving, but very capable of pouncing for his evening meal. "Are
you no longer inclined toward good Scotch whiskey, or are you suddenly afraid
of me, Virginia?"

She stepped into the
room, never one to refuse a challenge. "I am sure your Scotch is
fine." She smiled again. "I remain taken aback," she said, and
it was true. "Not only can I not fathom you, your impossibly dark humor
has somehow become even darker."

He merely gazed at
her, as watchful as before. He had shed his uniform and wore only a silk shirt
of the finest quality and his britches and boots. As usual, the britches fit
far too suggestively and he had left the shirt carelessly unbuttoned at the
throat. "The Earl of Eastleigh hardly brings out my best mood."

"You are not
enjoying the hunt? You are not enjoying stalking a poor, fat old man?"

He eyed her as he
moved to the sideboard, a huge and heavy piece of furniture that was simply
ugly. "I am enjoying the hunt. Of course I am enjoying it. But if you
dare to pity that murderer, I suggest you keep your feelings to yourself."
He handed her a glass of Scotch.

"I don't pity
him," she said softly. "It is you I feel sorry for."

For one moment he
stared and she expected Ms temper to flare. It did not. Instead he shrugged and
said, "You have said so before. If you think to arouse me, you will not.
Feel what you will and do sit down. I won't bite. Besides, the servants are
expecting you to enjoy my company." He drained his glass and poured
another one.

"I am only
joining you because there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to do,"
she said quietly, sitting on the far

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side of the sofa,
although that was as far from the truth as could be.

He finally smiled at
her and sat as well, his big body dominating the sofa, the room, herself.
"Really? Frankly, I believe you enjoy my company," he said. His gaze
became hooded. "Although I cannot think why," he added in a silken
murmur.

Virginia
started and became even more
rigid and more breathless. "Are you in your cups, Devlin?"

He saluted her.
"Only a little."

"Only a foolish
woman would want and enjoy your company," she said, flushing, aware of
how many women must leap at his beck and call.

"Then many women
are foolish, I suppose," he returned evenly. Another half a glass of
Scotch had vanished.

Was he trying to
become inebriated? And if so, why? But more importantly, how many women did he
mean? "How many?"

"How many
what?"

"How many women
have enjoyed your company?" she dared—for she simply had to know.

"I beg your
pardon?" His eyes widened and he looked torn between disbelief and
laughter. "Are you asking me how many women I have had in bed?" He
now choked.

"Yes, I think I
am," she said, clasping her hands tightly in her lap and blinking
furiously. She felt her cheeks begin to burn.

He began to laugh.
His laughter had that rough, raw, unused quality, but it was not unpleasant.
"I think what I like most about you is your rampant curiosity," he
said, "as it is so unique." His laughter died. But he smiled now with
real mirth and her heart lurched wildly. She had never seen such a handsome man.

"No, strike
that, I like your outspoken manner. Has it ever occurred to you not to reveal
your every thought, wish and desire?"

She blinked,
trembling. Not only had she made him laugh, really laugh, he was flattering
her—he liked her curiosity, her manner! Did he know what he was doing? Was this
another game, or was she finally glimpsing him relaxed, his guard down, the
truth allowed out due to the Scotch he had imbibed?
Did he like her just a
little bit?
"How much have you drank, Devlin?"

"A Scotch or
two," he said softly. "Very well, this is the third. No, the fourth.
I am not drunk,
Virginia
. I do not get drunk."

"I think you
are," she said, and somehow their gazes met and held. His eyes had become
soft, with no hint of ice, as if he was feeling warmly toward her now. She was
so elated she could not breathe properly. "No one likes my outspoken
manner. Even my parents despaired."

He smiled again.
"You are unpredictable—I never know what you shall say or do. It is
interesting."

Her heart raced.
"So you like me, a little, after ah
¹
?" Dear God, had that
been a hopeful tone in her voice? She prayed not.

He tore his gaze from
hers and slowly got to his feet, the slumbering lion preparing to feed. He gave
her a seductive glance, sidelong and direct, and slowly began to pace. "So
many questions," he murmured. Then he added, "I sent Tompkins to the
Defiance
for some wine. The cook has prepared
venison and I think a hearty cabernet will do. But I know you prefer white, and
I asked him to bring some, too." He paused, facing her, leaning one slim
hip against the sideboard. The posture was at once indolent and suggestive.

She leapt to her
feet. "Don't change the subject."

His lashes lowered.
"There have been many women, Virginia, and I do not count," he
murmured.

How clever he now
was, avoiding the subject she so wished to discuss. "It is hardly the end
of the world if the

great and oh-so-cold
Captain O'Neill actually likes another human being," she said.

His lashes lifted,
revealing the gleam of silvery eyes, and then he looked away. "You are
like a dog with a bone. What is it that you want me to say? That I find you
beautiful? That I yearn for your kiss? That I cannot live without you? I'm
afraid that while I do find you unpredictable and interesting, I am not the
kind of man to grovel over a woman, to yearn for true love or any other such
nonsense. Leave it alone."

She stared,
swallowing, for he was too astute, and it was almost as if he knew her thoughts
and feelings. "You started this," she began. "And we both know I
am not beautiful, so I am not asking you to find me so. We also both know it
takes little to arouse you, so clearly you yearn for my kiss—or something along
those lines. And as for living together? Are you madder than I previously
thought? Of course you can live without me—without Sean—without anyone! You are
an island, Devlin, an island unto yourself and the whole world knows it."
She was very pleased with her brisk tone and how firmly she had rebutted him.

For a long moment he
stared, so intensely that she backed away. "No, I'm afraid that you
started this,
Virginia
, by wanting something from me
that I cannot give." His tone was soft but firm and very sincere.