The Prize (60 page)

Virginia
held on to the headboard,
gasping.

Clasping her buttocks
in each hand, his tongue washed over her sex, swift and intent.

Virginia
felt faint. "Oh, I can't
manage," she gasped. "Do not stop now!"

He laughed as he
tormented her, more deeply, more explicitly, than before.

Virginia
felt her terrible climax begin
and she grabbed his hand, squeezing it; he understood and before she knew it,
he had pulled her down, and he was surging up into her; a moment later he had
flipped her over and he was riding her hard.

She looked up into
his beloved face and began to weep in pleasure. And he held her tightly,
whispering, "Yes, my darling, yes."

Devlin sat in the
chair by the fire that barely blazed in the hearth, fully dressed in his naval
uniform, his black hat on his knee. He stared at his bride.

Virginia
slept deeply, a soft smile on
her lovely face, a few diamonds still clinging to the masses of her curling
hair. She lay on her side, her back bare where the hair revealed it, the covers
pulled only to her waist. He had made love to her for two nights and the day in
between, and he still wanted her again.

It was
5:02 a.m.
, December 14. In another fifty-eight minutes
he would set sail for
America
. He did not want to leave his
bride; he did not want to go.

He did not want to
go.

He stood, hat in
hand. What nonsense was this?
What
was happening to him? He was a
warrior, it was all that he knew, and of course he wanted to go to war yet
again.

She sighed in her
sleep.

His heart ached
suddenly, hugely, then. Good God, he was going to miss her—he missed her
already and he had yet to leave.

The ever-present
fear, a monster lurking behind him threatening his very life, came closer,
reaching out.
What nonsense was this?
He had a war to attend. He might
be married now, but his bride could not make him soft, she could not change
his character or his choices. All the other emotions he had been feeling since
their wedding, both soft and huge, were not for him. He was not in love. Love
was not for him. Once he set sail, once he became a part of the wind and the
sea, his legs braced firmly as he rode the deck of the
Defiance
,
he would not be feeling like such a romantic
fool and he would not miss her, not at all.

Which meant that it
was time to go, now, before his foolish brooding unmanned him.

But the leave-taking
was so hard.

And he thought of a
hundred past bloody battles and a weariness claimed his soul—a weariness he
could not deny.

Abruptly Devlin
walked over to the bed. He made no move to wake her, but he stared at her
angelic face, aware that he wished to memorize it. And for one moment, he
thought about waking her.

But he did not. Her lure
was too strong. Instead, he pulled the covers up to her shoulders. She sighed
again in her sleep, and this time she smiled.

His heart lurched,
aching within him.

The monster of fear
came closer and seized him with a vengeance.

This woman was his
wife.
This marriage could change
everything.
He stared down at
Virginia
and realized that in spite of
all logic in his heart he wished that he were not leaving.

Which meant that it
was time to go. Abruptly Devlin turned and left his sleeping bride, his strides
hard and determined.

Later, his regret
would be vast.

Virginia
dreamed that Devlin was gone.

She was in a sweet,
happy place, warm and beloved, and

suddenly she was
chilled to the bone. Suddenly she was not in her bed, but she stood on some
sandy shore, watching the
Defiance
as it sailed away. Horrified, afraid,
Virginia
cried out.

She blinked and found
herself awake, quite naked and sitting up in bed. "Devlin?" She
realized she had had a nightmare and relief washed over her.

But as she threw off
the blanket, she saw that she was alone. "Devlin?" She began to feel
hollow inside and sick with apprehension. She slid to the floor, beginning to
shiver. The bronze clock on one bureau said it was half-past five that morning.

It was December
14.

Devlin was due to set
sail that morning.

But he could not have
left yet, without saying goodbye! Tearing a blanket from the bed and wrapping
it around her,
Virginia
rushed to the sitting room, but
it was vacant. Horrified, she raced into the bathing room and grabbed her wrapper.
She saw a bowl of soapy water and his wet shaving brush sitting on the vanity;
in the act of belting the robe, she froze.

The horror of her
nightmare returned.

Virginia
ran to the armoire and threw it
open, dressing as quickly as she could without help. Clad in a pale green
dress, shoes and stockings in hand, she ran downstairs, barefoot.

A housemaid was
passing through the hall. "Rosemary! Where is the Captain? Has he
left?"

The maid appeared
surprised by her question. "He left a few minutes ago, madam."

Virginia
stood there, shoes and stockings
dangling from her hands, stunned. He had left? He had left like that, without
a word? But why hadn't he said goodbye?

"I need the
carriage," she said sharply, her heart seeming quite wedged now in her chest,
a painful, congealed lump.

Acid burned. She sat
down in a chair as the maid rushed out, pulling on her stockings and putting on
her shoes.

So many memories
assaulted her now—his smile, his soft laughter, the way he called her
"little one" and "my darling," the light of amusement as it
sparked his eyes, the blaze of lust, and his lovemaking, at times hard and
rushed, at other times soft and gentle. She thought of how he had held her as
she fell asleep in his arms. She recalled his declaration that he would be a
good husband to her.

She brushed away her
tears. Why hadn't he awoken her? Why hadn't he said goodbye?

Another terrible time
came to mind, a time when she had been loved by him with both urgency and
tenderness, only to find him cold and indifferent the next day.

She was ill, about to
retch. There was no possible way that Devlin could retreat now to that other,
horrid place, a cold and heartless place where he had once before lived. The
thought was unbearable—it could not possibly happen again.

She had to find him.
She had to say goodbye. And she had to see him smile tenderly at her one more
time, to know that they had passed safely through a terrible storm and that the
light of a bright, gentle new day awaited them on the other side.

She could not survive
the next six months otherwise.

A half an hour later
her coach raced through the shipyard, passing stored containers, loaded wagons,
cranes and crates. Longshoremen, civilians and sailors were busy everywhere.
Virginia
strained to see out of her window,
and when her coach paused a moment later, she almost catapulted out.

A huge ship she did
not recognize faced her. Other ships lined the docks, but none were the
Defiance
.
And one berth, in their midst, was terribly
empty.

Her heart hurt her
now.
Virginia
raised her hand to her eyes to
shield them from the rising sun. She looked past the docks.

And she cried out.

She knew the
Defiance
by heart—she always would. Perhaps a
hundred yards distant, it slowly eased out of the channel, heading into the
open harbor.

And there was no
mistaking the tall, gallant figure standing hatless on the quarterdeck.

Virginia
ran.

Holding her skirts,
she ran down one dock, waving frantically. "Devlin! Devlin!" she
screamed.

But the ship
continued to move away, toward the horizon, and he never turned once to look
back.

Virginia
's steps slowed and faltered.

She paused, out of
breath, panting hard. He still didn't look back and he would never hear her; it
was hopeless. She stopped at the very end of the dock, staring desperately
after the departing ship.

It sailed into the
harbor, and once there, the main sails were unfurled. They quickly billowed and
the frigate picked up speed, now flying across the seas, now flying away.

Virginia
watched it disappear.

Devlin stood on the
quarterdeck, the oddest urge to look back at the retreating shipyard within
him. It was his habit to stand at the helm and search the horizons ahead;
still, he could not shake the need to look back, as if in doing so he might
glance at his bride one last time.

"A fine day for
sailing, Captain," Red said, his hands on the helm. His grin was stained
and yellow.

"Yes,
indeed." They had a fresh breeze of about eighteen or nineteen knots,
causing the seas ahead to foam with dancing white horses. They would make good
time today, and after being on land for so long, he should be thrilled with the
departure. He was not. Finally, Devlin sighed and looked back.

490                          

But the shipyard was
just a jumble of shapes and colors now. Then a flash of light from the deck
below caught his eye. Devlin turned—as a seaman pointed a musket at him.

Time stood still. He
knew an assassination attempt when he saw one and he knew he would die. And as
he told himself to dive, sensing it was futile, he knew that the assassin had
been sent by his mortal enemy, the Earl of Eastleigh.

And as the shot rang
out, the ship lurched with a sudden gust of wind. Devlin was already diving
across the bridge, a burning sensation along his upper arm.

He had just used
up another life.
And
as he slid across the wood deck, savage anger filled him. The assassin had
missed, but only because of the fresh breeze. Still on the deck, Devlin drew
his pistol, shouting, "Seize that man!" He rolled to his side,
quickly loading the gun, glancing in the direction of where he thought the
assassin might be, and he was right. The man was frantically reloading.

From behind, Gus and
another sailor were charging the assailant.

Devlin got to one
knee as the assassin aimed again and almost simultaneously, they fired at each
other.

The assailant was
struck in the lower leg and he cried out, falling. Devlin threw his pistol
aside, drawing his saber, racing across the quarterdeck and leaping down to
the main deck. "I want him alive," he shouted as Gus and the second
sailor seized the wounded man.

He was struck over
the head and his hands were shoved behind his back but he remained
half-conscious, on his knees, bleeding all over the deck.

Devlin paused before
him, filled with jury.

"Captain?"
Gus cried, as more sailors encircled them. "How badly are you hurt?"

"It's a
graze," he said grimly. With his boot, he kicked the assassin under his
jaw, snapping his head back, hard enough

to flip him onto his
back but not hard enough to break his neck. Gasping in pain, the man stared up
at him with wide wild eyes. "Mercy, Captain, sir! I only did what I was
told to do! What I was paid to do! Have mercy, I beg you, I got a wife, three
boys, all hungry, please—"

Devlin stepped on his
chest with most of his weight.

Ribs cracked. The man
screamed.

"Who sent
you?"

Frantic eyes met his.
"I don't know. He never said his name! Wait—"

Devlin stepped on him
again.

"I suggest you
think very carefully," Devlin said.

"He never told
me his name," the man panted. "Wait!"

Devlin decreased the
pressure of his foot. "Continue."

"But I know who
he was! It was a lord, Captain, sir, a lord—I saw the coat of arms on the
coach, and I asked, I asked who it was after he was gone!"

"Who was
it?"

"
Eastleigh
, it was Lord Eastleigh, Captain.
Please, please spare my life!"

Devlin coldly debated
the request. "Put him in the brig. Have the ship's surgeon attend
him."

"Aye, sir,"
Gus said.

Devlin turned away.
He was inwardly shaken—and furious with himself. He had been mooning over his
bride like a school-age boy, thinking about her bed, thinking about love and
almost feeling joy, when he had a blood enemy to destroy. His behavior had
almost cost him his life.