Elizabeth raised her hand to slap his face, but he caught her wrist and held it in a vise-like grip while clasping her other hand behind her back. He kissed her lips and down the curve of her neck and nuzzled the swell of her breasts, and she made no move to stop him. She couldn’t. She could barely catch her breath. Then he stopped his sensual assault, looked at her and said, “Yes, gypsy girl. You’ll eventually come willingly to my bed." He released her and turned away.
While she stood staring at him in stunned silence, Damon shed his breeches, stretched out on the bunk in his drawers, and watched her with fiery eyes, his upper body propped on one elbow, like a maharajah waiting for his concubine.
Her heart pounding painfully, Elizabeth stared at the man she was legally wed to. She hated him, hated him even more than she’d hated Januz the gypsy. Yet, as she stared at his virile male body, with its hard contours sculpted by golden lamplight, and saw the fire burning in his eyes, she wanted to touch him. She hated him. Yet she wanted him.
He gestured with his hand while saying. “Take off your dress, gypsy girl. I want to make sure you haven’t stashed any weapons where I haven't searched.”
Elizabeth glared at him. “You know I haven’t. Why are you doing this?”
“Because you stole something from me that set my life back years and left my gateman dead, and I want payment for that. Watching your discomfort when you undress will give me pleasure, along with some sense of repayment, while also assuring me that, during the night, I won’t meet the same fate as my gateman.”
“I’m not responsible for the death of your gateman," Elizabeth said. "You admitted I had nothing to do with that.”
“If you hadn’t invaded my home to steal my opal, my gateman would still be alive. Now, remove your dress.” When Elizabeth made no move, Damon said, “You know how. Give me one of your provocative smiles and let your dress slip off your shoulder so I can see your breast, like you did at the horse fair. Show me. Make my blood boil and my cock grow rigid. It should give you some satisfaction to know that I’d be hard and hurting like hell with desire for you while honoring my word to your father.”
“My father would have this marriage annulled right now if he knew what you were doing,” Elizabeth said, ignoring his request to undress in front of him.
“Your father gave me permission to rein you in as I see fit," Damon said, holding her venomous gaze, "and I see fit to make sure you don’t stick a knife in my heart. Now, remove your dress. I’m an honorable man. I won’t force you to copulate with me.”
Elizabeth looked at the door, prepared to flee, but before she could make a move, Damon said, "You could leave, but where would you go? To another man’s bed? I’m sure you’d be welcome; you’re a desirable woman. But then you’d have to copulate with him. At least you're legally wed to me. That makes it respectable. Now, undress gypsy girl. Pay me back for stealing my opal and condemning me to live in that hellhole called India until I can clear my name and claim my birthright.”
“It was not your opal. It belonged to the gypsies.”
“Only because they stole it in the first place. But I paid a king’s ransom for it, everything I’d saved to clear my name. I was within a month of returning to England when you took it from me. Now remove your dress or I’ll rip it from you and it won’t be worth wearing when I’m through. If you don’t believe me, stand there and do nothing and you’ll learn early on in our sham of a marriage that I do what I say.”
Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath through flared nostrils and stared him down. When she made no move to undress, he started to rise. She quickly turned her back to him and began unfastening her dress. Slipping it off her shoulders, she let it drop to the floor, then she pulled on the silk ties of her corset, letting it slip away. She stood in her camisole and drawers—lacy garments so sheer, she knew they'd hide nothing should she turn around. She'd been mortified when she'd discovered the filmy undergarments that had been packed in her trousseau, undergarments she was certain her father had instructed her step-mother to include as a means of getting her to submit to her wifely duty. But the only way she'd submit to Damon would be if he held her down and took his pleasure against her protests.
“Turn around," Damon demanded. "I want to see if you’re armed.”
"I am not," Elizabeth said. "And you know it."
"I know you lie and steal when it suits your needs. Now turn around or I'll rip those clothes from you. It wouldn't take much."
Elizabeth turned, and when she looked at Damon, his eyes darkened with the kind of desire that had nothing to do with love. His chest began rising and falling with his heavy breaths, and the bulge in his drawers rose up, leaving no doubt as to the urgency of his need. But as she gazed at him, she too became aware of a pressing need low in her belly, a raw, potent desire she couldn’t justify, knowing it was caused by a man she detested.
Damon stood and walked over to stand in front of her, then loosened the tiny silk ribbons holding together the front of her camisole. The garment gaped open. He pushed it off her shoulders and it slid down her body and lay in a puddle at her feet. Like a slave master inspecting his property, he walked around her, moving so close she could feel his heated breath wafting against her bare breasts, and fanning over her shoulder, and tickling the back of her neck as he slowly came around. He stopped in front of her and his eyes fastened on one puckered nipple then moved to the other. She hated how her breasts reacted to his heated gaze, swelling and tingling and puckering at the tips as if beckoning him to touch them. She hated her body for betraying her. And she hated him for causing it.
She lifted her chin. “Are you convinced that I’m not armed?” she said scornfully, determined to take her mind off hedonistic thoughts of a time when she'd welcomed his touch, and the wildly erotic sensations it brought.
“I’m convinced of a lot of things,” Damon said, slowly tracing a finger down the curve of her neck and along her collarbone, “one being that I want you in my bed.” His finger moved down her breast to brush a puckered nipple. “You make my blood boil, gypsy girl.”
She shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
He grasped her wrist and held it. “I have a legal right. I gave your father my word I would not consummate this marriage for three months, but until that time I will touch the woman I’m legally wed to, where I want, when I want. Now put on your night dress and go to sleep.” He stripped the blanket from the bed and tossed it at her feet, followed by the pillow, then stretched out on the mattress, turned his back to her and said nothing more.
Totally humiliated, Elizabeth slipped into her night dress, made up a pad on the floor and spent a restless, fitful night listening to Damon’s easy breathing, furious that he was sleeping, while images of his intense gaze, and the path of his finger left her feeling an urgency, low and deep, that she couldn’t ignore anymore than she could quit breathing or stop the erratic beating of her heart. And still, she wished the man who was her legal husband would die a slow, agonizing death, while she had the pleasure of watching.
***
The following morning, Elizabeth opened her eyes to the sight of Damon standing at the wash stand, bare-chested and in his drawers, peering into the mirror while shaving off his whiskers. He’d cut off his beard with scissors and was scraping away the stubble. How she’d managed to slip into a sleep so deep she hadn't heard him get up was beyond her. But then, she'd spent a fitful night, twisting and turning against the thin blanket palette she'd prepared on the bare wood floor, all the while pondering Damon's impassioned gaze as he'd slowly circled her, and his finger brushing her nipple after he came around . So disturbed had she been by her unwanted reaction to his touch that by the time she’d drifted to sleep, dawn was breaking.
Seeing Damon's near-naked body in the close confines of the stateroom brought the same unwanted reaction below her belly that had come the night before. But this time, the lustful thoughts invading her mind and awakening her body were tempered by rage, resentment, a
nd a deep seething hatred for the man she’d wed, a man she wanted out of her life. As soon as she recovered the opal, he would be. It seemed that day would never come.
She sat up, pulling the blanket with her, and stared at the beardless face that was again familiar to her. It bothered her that she found his face attractive, handsome in fact, and that she enjoyed looking at it. And it riled her that she wanted to run her palms down the sleek solid length of his muscular body and push him down on the bed and press the length of her naked body to the length of his, even knowing she wanted him out of her life.
He caught her looking at him in the mirror, and said without preamble, “When was the last time you had a man, Elizabeth?” His question took her by surprise, and for the span of several seconds she stared at him, wondering if he'd read her thoughts. His eyes holding hers, he said, “It’s a simple enough question, gypsy girl. When did you last spend the night with a man between your thighs?" He went back to shaving while waiting for her response.
Elizabeth edged her way backwards, pressing the blanket tighter against her chest. “I’ve never been with a man at all, in the way you mean," she said, wondering how long he'd continue to humiliate her, dreading the kind of unconsummated acts he'd demand of her for his prurient gratification. She would, however, continue to defend her virtue, compromised though it was. "You are the first and last man who ever kissed me or touched me the way you do," she replied.
“You must take me for a cretin," Damon said, turning from the mirror to glance over his shoulder. "You know your way around a man's body, how to tease and excite him, how to send all the right signals. When you kissed me in my bedchamber it was not the kiss of a virgin. It was the kiss of an experienced woman skilled in the art of seducing a man. You had your legs wrapped around me, knowing I was aroused and ready for a woman, any woman would have done. If my housekeeper hadn't happened by, you would have been that woman. You were as ready as I was. The only thing stopping us was the barrier of clothing between us, and even that didn't keep you from moving and twisting and thrusting yourself against my cock until you'd satisfied your own need.”
Elizabeth felt her face grow hot, not from embarrassment, but from the raw fury brought on by his coarse description of something she'd revered over the years, a kind of initiation into womanhood that he'd given her. It had been her naïve innocence that allowed it to happen. She'd been fascinated by the sight of his lips, so fascinated she'd attacked his mouth and practically devoured it. And when his tongue began sparring with hers, and she found her legs wrapped around him, and felt something hard against her privates, everything became a blur of hidden delights and sensual pleasures that culminated in a rush of sensations coursing through her. The lure of it had haunted her ever since. “I didn’t know what I was doing," she said. "It was an impulsive move on my part that I can't explain, even to myself, other than I was a stupid, idiotic, naive fool who was beginning to care for you, and who had idealistic notions of being your—”
“Mistress?” He stopped shaving and looked directly at her. "If you'd stayed around longer you would have been. I was so consumed with passion for you I would have given you anything you wanted, your own bungalow, a buggy and a pair of fine horses, priceless jewels, anything a prized mistress would demand to keep her warming my bed."
Elizabeth blinked several times, lowered her eyes from his and said just above a whisper, ”Not your mistress. Your wife. Like I said, I was a naive fool.”
“Naive enough to expose your breasts, at the horse fair, to a man you’d never met? You were clearly offering yourself to me then, and you'd never even met me.”
“I was not offering myself in that way," Elizabeth said. "I was doing whatever it took to get you to buy a dyed horse so you’d feel cheated and come after me so I could convince you to let me work as a servant in your house, where I could recover the opal, as I had been instructed to do. But I never expected to fall... to have... feelings for you.”
Damon resumed shaving. “Those feelings didn’t stop you from stealing my opal and making my life a living hell.”
“No, they didn’t, because I had my own life and my own problems," Elizabeth said. "But I doubt you’d know what it’s like to live by your wits, to hate the life you’re leading because it made you feel cheap, and dirty, and worthless.”
A long silence stretched between them, and during that time, Elizabeth saw the expression on Damon's face change from anger, to puzzlement, to something akin to... empathy? Something she’d said touched him, made him more accessible. Still, he wasn’t a man to whom she wanted to pour out her heart. “You seem at a loss for words,” she said. “Is it so surprising to learn that I detested living the life of a gypsy?”
Damon’s mind raced back to a time when he’d seen sparks dancing in her eyes as she’d talked about whimsical nymphs and clever undines and lithe spirits whirling in the flames of the campfire. And the joy he’d felt just having her in his presence. “You never gave any sign you hated it," he said. "You talked with enthusiasm about living in your wagon and hearing the rain on the roof and the wind in the trees and the frogs croaking.”
“That part I loved," Elizabeth admitted. "But the rest... The gypsies despised me because I was half-gorgio, an untouchable among untouchables. And you blue bloods saw me only as worthy of being a man‘s mistress, never a wife, which was why my father guarded my Hindu heritage. I’m sure he didn’t tell you about it. That alone would have been reason to demand a higher bride price because you'd be getting inferior goods. Yet, my father also made certain I went to finishing school so I’d become a properly educated misfit.”
Damon felt like she’d just stuck her ivory-handled knife in his gut because her assessment was so accurate. England’s fops and dandies would be appalled if they knew Elizabeth Sheffield was half-Indian. Yet, that night two years ago, when he’d come upon Eliza Shirazi’s lone figure dancing around a lantern, and saw her slender body snaking and twisting with passionate intensity to the strains of distant violins, he’d been enchanted by her, his beautiful exotic bird that shouldn’t be captured and tamed. But now she was poised and polished and made into someone who didn’t fit into either world. And he’d confirmed her self-loathing by condemning her to being nothing more to him but an exalted whore. He wondered now if she was the chaste maiden she held herself out to be. Being caught between two worlds, not accepted by either, she might be just as she claimed.
And he’d shamed and humiliated her by forcing her to strip for his pleasure. If anyone should have self-loathing, it was he. But he still had questions that demanded answers before he'd allow himself to fall into another of her traps. “If you hated that life so much, why didn’t you return to England and your father?" he asked. "He would have taken you back.”
Her fingers flattened against the covers, pressing them against her chest like a shield. She looked exposed and vulnerable as she stared at him, and replied, “After he lied by telling me that my mother was dead, I hated him more than I hated living as a gypsy." She pinned him with eyes glistening with tears. "And I hate being called gypsy girl!”
For the first time since he’d learned who Elizabeth Sheffield was, Damon had a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her as a husband would console a despondent wife. Until now he’d been so filled with anger and bitterness because of her betrayal that he’d directed that anger towards lusting after her and having her naked body in his bed to do with what he pleased. Knowing that any attempt to console her now would not be welcome, he dismissed that idea, and said, “Your father lied to protect you from the truth.”
Elizabeth looked at him with a start.
“Then you know about my mother?”
“I know your father sent her away.”
“Do you know why?”
"No, but maybe in time I could find out."
"In time?" Elizabeth let out a rueful laugh. "In three months I’ll be out of this marriage, and you’ll be out of my life, so whatever happened when I was eight that was
so horrifying that I've blocked it from my mind won’t matter a rat’s ass to anyone but me.”
Damon looked at her troubled face. Although he too knew that something grave had taken place at Shanti Bhavan years before he'd moved there, he'd never been able to glean from the servants what it was, and after a while he no longer cared. Now, his old curiosity had returned, but he wasn't so certain it involved Elizabeth. "What makes you believe you were caught up in whatever happened?" he asked. "You could have blocked everything out of your mind because you thought your mother was dead."
“I know something terrible happened," Elizabeth replied. "And I know it involved me. And that’s the only reason I’m going through this sham of a marriage, so I can return to Shanti Bhavan where maybe I can recover my lost memories, not because I care whether you get your opal back. Nor do I feel any remorse over taking from you something that was stolen in the first place. It’s your own fault that you purchased stolen goods from a crooked gem dealer. You should be going after him, not me. But I’ll get your opal back if the gypsies have it, not because I give a damn whether you clear your name and claim your inheritance, because I don’t, but because I’ll get the deed to Shanti Bhavan. And as a woman with property, I won’t have to be subservient to any man, ever again.”
Damon studied her for a few moments, and when she added nothing more, he said, “I’ll leave now, Elizabeth. You can have your privacy.” He slipped on his clothes and left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
To Elizabeth's relief, Damon did not return to their stateroom that day, but after missing both breakfast and lunch, she decided to venture up to the dining room for dinner. If at all possible, she would sit alone and refrain from talking to anyone. She had no idea where Damon had spent the day, or whether he had let it be known that he was a married man, so the less interaction she had with the other passengers, the better.
Her Master's Touch Page 12
