The swift change
of thought, the quick move from pleasantry back to cutting rudeness, was enough
to bring Gwyneth's head up and her color right along with it. She fixed him
with what she hoped was her most militant glare.
"What I
want
,
Lord Morninghall, is a tour of your ship, with the intention of condemning it
to the hell you so proudly proclaim yourself to have crawled out of. Shall I
entrust you to accompany me, or your more affable midshipman?"
"Frankly,
my lady, I am not inclined to give you a tour, and Mr. Foyle has other, more
important duties to occupy him. You may leave anytime you wish. For that, I
would be most happy to
escort
you."
Booted leg
crossed casually over his knee, he let that icy-hot gaze of his slide heatedly
over her bosom, leaving Gwyneth feeling as though he'd just stripped her naked
and ravished her without laying a hand on her suddenly warm flesh. Then, as
though the sight failed to interest him, he let out a bored sigh, rose, and
went to the window, where he stood gazing out over Portsmouth Harbor with his
back to her.
And a broad,
beautifully shaped and tapered back it was, too — the kind usually possessed by
princes, warriors,
kings
.
Gwyneth stared
at him. "You are unforgivably rude, sir," she said, clutching the
strings of her reticule and trying to keep her voice even.
"So I have
been told."
"You are
also vain beyond tolerance."
"Yes, I've
been made aware of that, as well. Pray, tell me something I
don't
know."
She clenched her
fists, gritted her teeth, and privately cursed him, but he did not turn
around. All the while she noted that his hair was dark and glossy, swept back
off his forehead and curling against his white collar, and that she had a
sudden, insane wish to run her fingers through it.
"Very well,
then," she said stiffly. "Address the wall if you wish, as I'm sure
it's the only thing you
will
have an effect on. I, for one, am going to
seek out your second in command and get some answers from
him
."
That
brought him around, as she knew it would, and in his face she had a quick
impression of sensitivity crushed by something dark and malevolent running just
beneath the surface. But that sensitivity was just a fleeting impression, so
fleeting she wasn't even sure she'd seen it; it was all too apparent that this
man had absorbed hard lessons in life, or maybe no lessons at all, for within
that angel-devil's demeanor lurked a dark carnality which made her want to back
away from it, as a winter traveler moves close to a warm fire and suddenly finds
it too hot.
Very slowly, he
put down his glass, impaling her with those diabolical eyes.
"And do I
have an effect on
you
, Lady Simms?"
"A most
disagreeable one," she snapped, chin high as she unflinchingly met that
glittering stare. But she could not hold it, and a hot flush stole over her
cheeks almost immediately. She jerked her gaze away and moved across the
cabin, running a gloved finger over the back of a chair so that he wouldn't
notice her deteriorating composure. Not that he could fail to.
She paused,
looking disdainfully at the carved bed with its maroon-and-gold curtains, the
freshly painted deckhead, the plush rugs which softened the deck planking.
"Your rudeness aside, I find it most upsetting to see that you live in
such splendor compared to what those poor wretches beneath your feet are forced
to endure."
"You expect
me to endure those same conditions, do you?"
"I expect
you to improve the conditions those prisoners are kept in. How you live your
own life is not my concern, nor interest."
"Pity, Lady
Simms. I'm sure you would find my life quite fascinating," he murmured,
but there was an undercurrent of sarcasm and bitterness beneath the elegant,
silky words.
"Yes, as a
matter of fact, I would. For example," she said, drawing herself up,
"why do you, a peer of the realm, continue to serve in the navy when you
have political duties and responsibilities to your government to
fulfill?" She tried raking him with her own stare, but it had no effect on
him whatsoever, only raising a slight, infuriating smile and his dark, wicked
brows, as though he knew quite well what she was up to. "After all, you
are a
marquess
, for heaven's sake."
"Perhaps I
like my post," he said faintly, lifting his glass and carefully watching
her over the top of it.
"You're a
peer of the realm. Don't tell me you enjoy the shame of being relegated to a
job normally reserved for the lowliest of lieutenants."
"I don't.
In fact, I loathe the navy, and I curse to hell the day I entered it."
"An obvious
fact, given your recent record." He darkened with anger, but Gwyneth
ignored him, refusing to be cowed. She picked up a book that rested on the
table, a thick, well-worn volume about medicine and health complaints. She
thumbed idly through it, tossed it contemptuously aside, and gazed at the
marquess, only to find him regarding her with thunderous fury. "So why
don't you get out of the navy, then, if you hate it so much?"
He did not
answer, but merely let fire come into those cold, ruthless eyes.
Gwyneth was
persistent. "And why aren't you out at sea?"
"What is
this, question-and-answer time?"
"I see I've
struck a nerve," she said, refusing to back down.
"Indeed you
have. I happened to kill my admiral's son in a duel. The admiral returned the
favor by assigning me to this most
noble
command. A fitting reward,
wouldn't you say?"
"Only if
said admiral's son was less vile than his killer."
"I can
assure you that he was. A mere cockerel strutting around the barnyard of the navy,
pink-cheeked, idiotic, and irritating. He should have known better than to
have challenged me."
"And you
should have known better than to get on the bad side of your superiors. But
then, that seems to be your style, is it not? And the reason why you find
yourself in charge of a mere prison hulk when others of your rank are out
commanding dashing frigates and bringing glory and honor to Britain's
bosom."
"If Britain's
bosom wants glory and honor, it would be wise to attach someone other than
myself to its tits."
"Such
vulgarity! You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
sir
!"
"And you,
madam, ought to be minding your own damned business."
Gwyneth's
nostrils flared with rage. For a moment, she wished William were here; but no,
she could handle this ill-tempered knave without any help from anyone.
"Lord
Morninghall," she said smoothly, lifting her chin and regarding him with a
coolness she didn't feel, "I hope you know that I can make your life very,
very difficult. It would behoove you to treat me with a little respect."
"I treat
people with as much respect as they deserve. You, my dear, quite imperiously
demand to come aboard, you threaten me, and now you stand here insulting me.
Personally, I see no reason why you deserve any of this respect with which you
wish to be treated. But go ahead, wave your magic wand, bring the entire admiralty
down on my head if you so wish. I can't sink much lower than this, now, can
I?"
"You'd be
surprised," she said, with steel in her voice.
"Indeed I
would. Now if you'll kindly remove yourself from my quarters, madam, I would
be
ever
so obliged."
"And if
you
would kindly hear me out and then provide me with a personal tour of the
prisoners' cells,
I
would be ever so obliged."
He put the
wineglass down. Then he moved toward his bed and leaned suggestively against
one carved post, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his broad chest.
One hand came up, cradling his chin, the forefinger and thumb absently
bracketing his mouth and making those eyes the focus of his face as he stood
gazing at her.
Assessing her.
Gwyneth felt an
involuntary tremor beneath that malevolent scrutiny.
"You really
are the venerable shrew they say you are, aren't you?"
Gwyneth smiled.
"I mean, I
thought you'd be older," the marquess mused, absently rubbing his chin and
mocking her with his faint smile. "You don't look a day over one and
twenty years. Are you certain you're
the
Lady Simms, the same one who
married an old goat for his money, lobbied Parliament for prison reform, and
upset all of England with your endless squalling about the fate of miners'
orphans?"
"I am. And
are you really
the
Lord Morninghall?" she countered. "The one
who was sent down from Oxford, court-martialed for insubordination, and what
was it? — oh, yes, last night —" she matched his mocking smile — "
visited
by that gallant rescuer, the Black Wolf? A marvelous escape he effected,
rescuing those Americans right out from under your nose . . ."
Lord Morninghall
lowered his hand and straightened up to his full height. A blood vessel
throbbed in his temple.
Undaunted,
Gwyneth raised her chin and looked airily out of the window. "I think I
should dearly like to meet this Black Wolf, as I'm sure we could entertain a
very nice partnership. Why, between my efforts at reform and his at rescuing
hapless prisoners of war, we'll have every poor sufferer off of this boat in no
time, won't we?"
The marquess
loomed over her, tall, angry, and threatening. "I think you had better
leave . . . if you know what is good for you."
"Oh, I intend
to leave, my lord, just as soon as I have this tour that I've promised myself.
I can assure you, I find both being aboard your ship and being in your presence
equally odious."
"I said,
get
out
."
"What, are
you one of these superstitious captains who objects to a female on your ship?
Really, Morninghall, such foolishness —"
"Oh, I
don't object to females in the least," he murmured, beginning to move
forward. Gwyneth's heart flipped over and began to pound out a frantic
warning, but she stood her ground. He came right up to her, until his
handsome, malevolently beautiful face loomed inches above her own and she was
leaning backward in her effort to retreat without giving up an inch. "In
fact, I
enjoy
them quite a bit."
"Do not try
to intimidate me," she said, defiantly meeting his gaze.
"By the
look of you, I'd say you are intimidated without my even trying." He
grazed her cheek with the back of his hand, letting her have the full effect of
those devil's eyes; up close, she could see that the irises were a clear,
transparent blue-gray, ringed by a darker circle of slate; up close, she could
just see the gold that radiated around each pupil, as though his maker had
tried to interject a bit of godliness in him and, failing, given him up to a
darker force. She jerked her head back, staring at his still-upraised hand.
"You
are
intimidated, aren't you, my dear?"
"Never!"
But Gwyneth stepped back — and felt the bulkhead against her spine.
His head moved
closer, and there was nowhere left to go. His hand cupped her nape, his thumb
dragged sensuously down over throat. She caught the scent of sandalwood, of
male heat and male power, and her knees went weak beneath the touch of those
adroit hands, the power of that cunning smile. Gwyneth did not slap him. She
did not say a word, merely holding his gaze and feeling fury rising up in her
breast.
"Really, my
lady," the marquess said, letting his voice drop to a smoky murmur as his
lips neared hers, "before you seek to cross swords with the devil, you
should know that he can be very dangerous . . ."
The hand moved
up, pushing her hat aside and off, dragging the stray gold curl down from her
coiffure. He ran the silky tress between thumb and forefinger, twirled it
around the latter, and holding her thus ensnared, pulled her close.
"Very
dangerous, indeed . . ."
His mouth came
down on hers, and Gwyneth felt the ruthless force behind it, caught the dark,
sensual taste of him. The kiss was hot, male, and it immediately turned her
bones to water. Oh, God, yes, she had every reason to fear him, every reason
to defend herself before it was too late —
She acted.
In a single,
brutal motion, her knee jerked up, and several layers of skirts and petticoats
were not enough to blunt its force against the marquess' groin. Cursing
savagely, he stumbled and fell, clutching the leg of the table for support, the
breath rasping through his lungs as he fought for air.
He looked up at
her, his eyes burning with something worse than fury.
And Gwyneth
stood gazing down at him, a triumphant, haughty little smile playing across her
face.
"I would
beg you, Lord Lucifer, to remember just
who
is the dangerous one here,"
she said smoothly. "And by the way, don't bother escorting me off the
ship; I can see to it myself."
She picked up
her hat. Then, leaving him to his agony, she sailed to the door and slammed it
in his face.
Chapter
3
He hadn't
expected her to be so young. He hadn't expected her to be so dauntless.
And, he hadn't
expected her to be so damned
beautiful
.
He shouldn't
have been fooled by the sweetness of that heart-shaped face; behind those wide,
violet eyes was a hellcat. Damon could still taste her on his lips, could
still feel the throbbing ache in his groin where she'd kneed him. Medusa had
no right to be such a beauty. Medusa was supposed to have snakes as her
crowning glory, not thick piles of shimmering gold hair; Medusa wasn't supposed
to have a neck like a swan's, or skin so deliciously white that even a freckle
would've looked foreign on it; Melissa wasn't supposed to have rosy soft lips
and flashing violet eyes that had not quailed with fear even under the devil's
most deliberate intimidation.