by Sharon Page
“Just stop,” she repeated. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
It ruined everything. The sensual memories. Now, when she imagined licking his cock in front of the cheval mirror, or daringly tonguing his bottom, she didn’t grow hot and excited. Or rather, she did, but she hurt too. It hurt to know she was not enough.
And she felt like a fool because he was enough for her. She would be willing to marry him, even though it would mean she would have to lose her family. Venetia and Maryanne would hardly be able to receive her. Would her mother abandon her? Her mother might be in Italy with Rodesson, but she knew her mother had wanted her to make a good, respectable marriage. Her mother had wanted her to have the things she could not.
It would come as no surprise to the haughty and cold Countess of Warren. Grace was already despised by her mother’s family.
But she was not enough for him. She crossed her arms over her breasts and drove her gloved fingertips into her arms. How dare he? He had kidnapped her! He had been the one to claim he could not exist without her. She had been willing to fight to forget and live her life without him, but he had inflicted himself within it.
“What’s wrong, love?” Devlin asked, apprehension written clearly on his face. He moved to sit opposite her, not beside her, and though he chose to put the distance between them, she told herself she didn’t care.
She stared at his handsome face in disbelief. “How can you ask that? What on earth do you think is wrong? Do you think I am so dim-witted I wouldn’t understand what you were truly saying?”
Her bold pirate suddenly looked wary. “What was I really saying?”
“You told me that I am too dull and too boring and that marriage to me would be far worse than risking Newgate prison. And yet now, you act as though you did nothing wrong at all. I should—”
“I meant you no insult, sweetheart. The problem is that I’m not good enough for—”
“Stand and deliver!”
At the brusque shout from the road, the carriage halted immediately and Grace found herself thrown toward Devlin. As he caught her, she fought his embracing arms.
He looked completely astounded. He drew them both to the window. His arms were like iron bands, his chest hard and moving with his rapid breaths. “What in blazes is happening?”
“It appears, my infamous highwayman,” Grace snapped, “that we are about to be robbed.”
15
“I should blow your bloody head off.”
Grace let out a sharp cry as Lord Wesley pointed his pistol at Devlin’s heart. She saw the snout of the weapon sway slightly. Wesley’s words were slurred. He was drunk. Mad with rage.
Good heavens, had he followed them from the Isle of Wight? Why?
She glanced desperately up and down the lane but a close copse of trees shielded them from the main highway, and she could see no houses close by. Nothing surrounded them but a stretch of fields and meadows, flat planes of gray that disappeared into the ominous black line of the woods.
Wesley had forced them to drive onto this lane off the high road with his gun pointed at the coachman, but Grace sensed Wesley had only succeeded in halting them and moving them because Devlin wanted to do this. He could have rode on; he could have done something, she was certain. He seemed to have surrendered too easily.
Now she stood at Devlin’s side on the quiet lane, her gaze trained on the muzzle of a drunken madman’s pistol.
“Put your hands in the air, you bastard! You damned criminal!” Wesley shouted.
Without even a pause, Devlin obeyed and lifted his hands, but Grace flinched at the cold anger the moonlight revealed in his eyes. She had always been the dramatic one of her family, the one given to scenes and outbursts of temper, but she now saw that men were far more dramatic than she could have ever hoped to be. And dangerously so.
One of these men was going to kill the other!
Was that why Devlin surrendered—to have the chance to confront his brother? To possibly kill him?
“You know I’m a damned good shot,” Wesley blurted.
“Now, now, brother,” Devlin answered in a low and dangerous voice, “If there’s anyone who deserves retribution—”
“Shut up,” Wesley snapped.
“What’s this about, Wes?” Dev’s voice cut through the night, a night filled with hoots and howls, with ominous creakings and wails as branches blew in the wind, with the nervous pawing of the horses on the dry dirt road. “Is it about that spanking?”
“Goddamn you!”
Grace winced, her throat so dry she could barely draw breath. Why on earth would Devlin goad his brother while he waggled a loaded pistol at them? The wind tipped Wesley’s high beaver hat forward, shadowing his face so she could no longer see the rage there. The breeze ruffled his pale blond hair and threw Devlin’s golden hair back in the wind.
Grace glanced back and forth from one man to the other so quickly it made her nauseous. Devlin wore no expression at all, the way a man might look when he gambled. Wesley looked to her and leered; his gaze felt like spiders crawling upon her. And she knew the gesture was deliberate.
Welsey wanted to anger Devlin. To make him attack and give a reason to shoot.
But Devlin lowered his right hand, boldly, and clasped her hand in a gesture that she couldn’t understand. Was he trying to give her strength or irritate his half brother?
“You took a young lady’s innocence, Wes,” Devlin said, “and I intend to plant my boot in your hide and give your arse a good solid kick.”
“Devlin!” She gave a soft cry and he squeezed her hand. His dark blue eyes caught the silvery moonlight as he shot her a quelling look.
Was he bluffing? Bluffing with a loaded gun pointed at his heart? Why—why be willing to risk his life to distract his foxed half brother?
To protect her? She swallowed hard.
Wesley straightened his arm, the way Rogan St. Clair had when he’d threatened to shoot, and Grace felt the world shimmer and dip around her. She fought not to give in to hysterics, a swoon, or general terror.
“I could shoot you,” Wesley snarled at Devlin. “It would be so easy to claim that you had robbed me, that I shot you to defend myself, you damned blackguard.”
She scuttled closer to Devlin, to protect him, and his hand rested on her waist, strong and secure but also controlling. When she’d tried to move too close, he’d eased her away.
“And why do you want to see me dead, brother?” Devlin asked. “Do you really believe my father preferred me to you?”
Wesley’s face blanched and Grace heard a soft peep escape her lips. He snapped around to face her, his eyes blazing in the dark. “Come over here, Grace, or I’ll blow a hole through your lover’s heart.”
With his hand resting on her warm back, Devlin shook his head. “It’s all right, love,” he said. “Stay with me.”
Wesley took a menacing step forward. “Then you die, Sharpe. Come here, Grace!”
Devlin grasped her hand again and held tight. She struggled to break his strong hold—now almost crushing the bones of her hand—as she took a shaky step toward Wesley.
“Stay here, sweetheart,” Devlin barked.
She dearly wished she could. But to go to Wesley might buy them time. Her heart was in her throat, for she knew that Wesley wanted to use her to torment Devlin—he had heartlessly used her once, and she had no choice but to let him do that again. She had to make Devlin understand that.
She’d caused all this with her wanton behavior. It was her fault and she couldn’t bear to have Devlin pay the price.
“No,” she murmured in warning to Devlin. “I can’t. What if he does shoot you? He is a marquis’ son. He can do whatever he wishes, including killing you, and he would never be brought to justice.”
“Aye, which is why I want you to stand behind me, love.”
“Bloody hell,” Wesley snapped, “Bring your arse over to me, Grace.” He lifted the pistol, leveling it with Devlin’s forehead.
She tried again to pull free of Devlin’s grip. “I do not dare disobey.”
For the first time since they’d stepped down from the carriage, she saw the anger in Devlin’s eyes replaced by pain and fear. “You can, love. You do not have to do what he says. He is not the power here.”
His eyes narrowing to dangerous, shadowed slits, Devlin let go of her hand. She shuddered but knew she had to be brave and go to Wesley. But before she could move, Devlin began to saunter toward his drunk, enraged half brother.
Shocked, Grace reached out, but her fingers slipped off Devlin’s greatcoat. Devlin had hooked his fingers in the waistband of his trousers and wore a mocking grin. “You can shoot me, brother,” he called out congenially, “but I’m a legend, now, aren’t I? The infamous pirate and highwayman, untouchable for my grand and noble service to the British Navy. I’ll always be more famous than you—”
“Shut up!” Wesley thrust the pistol forward and he took a step toward Devlin. But Devlin would not stop; he continued to advance.
Grace looked around desperately, toward the coachman, toward the groom. Were they not armed? Or did they not care if Devlin was shot, simply because Wesley was a peer? She was too afraid to try to speak to them, too afraid her plea for help or even the sound of her voice would force Wesley to shoot.
Her sister Venetia had cleverly thwarted an attacker when she had faced danger at Marcus’s side. And Maryanne had bravely fought her way out when a madman kidnapped her. Both her sisters had used their wits and imaginative weapons.
But her sisters were the creative ones. She had never had anything to rely on except her looks.
No—now was not the time to wax dramatically about her plight. Now was the time for action. Intelligent action.
Grace looked around. Tree branches? Something from the carriage? But how could she get to anything without Wesley noticing?
Her chest was rising and falling with frantic breaths. She glanced down. Her breasts. Wesley had been only attracted to her breasts before. What if she suddenly bared them? Could she distract him?
Since she was supposed to be wanton, it would be fitting, wouldn’t it?
Her fingers fumbled with the covered buttons of her pelisse.
“That’s it, you tart,” Wesley shouted out, and his voice echoed. “Take your clothes off for me. Would you fuck me here, on the ground, to save Devlin? Would you drop to your knees and suck me?”
Grace recoiled and her fingers froze on the buttons. She couldn’t understand why he was so hateful to her. She’d been the one to be ruined, to be destroyed. She’d lost the chance to marry, to have a family. She had lost everything to this man. Why should he want so much to humiliate her?
She stormed forward, wild with rage. “You filthy, disgusting piece of garbage!” she screamed. For that’s what he was. He wasn’t her better. He was no better than steaming horse droppings. “Shoot me if you like, you coward! You pig!” She launched forward, determined to scratch out his eyes.
Then, to her shock, Devlin pushed her backward. She stumbled, waving her arms to catch her balance. Devlin spun back toward Wesley and his arm flashed out.
Had he thrown something?
An explosion deafened her, sent birds screeching up to the heavens, and brought screams from the horses.
Devlin!
She fell backward, heels caught in her skirts, and she landed hard on her bottom. Her hands flew behind her, smacking the gravel. Devlin!
Shouts rose up around her—at last the useless coachman and groom were racing forward. It was too late! Wasn’t it? She choked on fear and blinked her eyes. Damned tears—why were they coming now, why were they blinding her when she needed to see?
Was she delirious?
Devlin was striding toward her, silhouetted against the streams of moonlight. He was a huge, dark shape and his coat was flapping behind him.
He reached out to her. “Grace, love, are you all right? I’m sorry I had to push you.”
She couldn’t lift her hands; all she could do was blink at him. The pistol had fired. She’d seen the flame, heard the roar. How could Wesley have missed?
But he had, hadn’t he? Was she delirious? Dreaming?
Devlin dropped to one knee at her side and she watched her hand waver toward him. Her fingers, in torn, flimsy gloves, pressed against his warm skin. Against his cheek. She skimmed her hand down toward his jaw to reach his throat. She wanted to find his heartbeat.
His breath washed over her hand as her fingers passed his lips.
“You’re alive?”
“Of course, love.” But he winced.
She looked down and saw his hand clamped to his side. Oh God, Wesley’s shot had hit him. In his stomach—she knew enough to know that a stomach wound would slowly kill a man.
“It grazed me, sweetheart. That’s all.”
Wesley! She looked around frantically for him but couldn’t see him. Then she heard a powerful rhythmic sound, the sound of hooves striking hard ground.
Devlin gave her a big grin. A grin that flashed endearing dimples and made her want to cry. “I threw a blade, love. I keep a few in various places—one in my waistcoat, one up my sleeve, a couple in my boots. It hit him in the arm and threw off his aim.”
“Thank God.” Grace gulped as the trees seemed to suddenly take flight around her and the world tilted to the right. What was happening?
Devlin’s arm slid around her. “He jumped on his horse and took off, love.”
“We need to bandage you, Devlin.” What if it was not just a graze? She met Devlin’s blue eyes and looked for clues that he was hurt more seriously. But he gave her his lovely smile.
“We’re close to my home, love. We’ll head there. So you’ve got your way after all.”
He stood, holding her, and she forced herself to get steady footing. If he could do it with a wound, she could certainly have courage. “Devlin, I don’t want my own way,” she snapped. “All I want is to keep you safe.”
16
“But you are injured, Devlin, and supposed to be resting. I’m not going to lift my skirt for you!”
With the laudanum racing through his system, making his head buzz, Devlin laughed at Grace’s concern and indignation. She stepped back from his bedside, to where he couldn’t reach her without bringing on severe pain, and wagged her finger.
“Sweetheart, I’m going to pass out soon from the laudanum, but first I want to put my tongue to use. I’m hungering for you.” He lusted for her in a way that was madness. Was it because he could have been shot and killed? Facing death normally aroused him, but he’d never taken a woman while wounded.
His earlier worries—that he had no right to be trying to seduce her, not when he had to let her go—could not conquer his need now. His blood was on fire; his brain flooded with desire to the point of madness.
Grace frowned. “Are you certain that Mr. Kennedy is a good doctor, that he knows what he is doing?”
“He’s patched me up dozens of times. I trust him and pay him well. Now come here and don’t make me get out of bed.”
Her words still echoed in his head. The lovely, soft, beautiful tone of them was like a song. All I want is to keep you safe.
No woman had ever said such words to him. No one ever had.
Grace pushed aside his green velvet bed hangings and returned to his side. Her knuckles gently brushed his bare shoulder. She slipped her hand around to caress him with her palm.
He kissed her fingertips, tasting the slight rose flavor of soap—given his house was filled with women, it had been simple to find soap for Grace. Beneath the bandage his side ached, but laudanum dulled the pain. His only thought had been indulging in sensual pleasure, but then he saw the shadowed worry in her eyes. “What’s wrong, love?”
“Lord Wesley tried to kill you and he will escape without punishment, won’t he? It’s madness, utter madness, that he should not pay for that.”
“I lodged a dagger in his arm, love. If I do not have to pay for tha
t, I’ll be content.” He flashed a grin, hoping it would prompt her to smile.
“Do you think he will come after you again? Or bring the magistrate on to you?”
Devlin rubbed his jaw, considering. He was getting tired, and he had something he sorely wanted to do before he drifted into sleep. “Wesley won’t, love.” He fought a yawn.
She chewed her lip, the gesture so innocent and sweet. “I heard what you said to Lord Wesley—”
“Don’t bother using his title with me, sweetheart.”
“What you said about being a legend whereas he is not. Is that why you became a pirate? Is that why you rob carriages? To be a mythical man that people serenade in stories?”
The drug dragged at him, pulling him down into sleep, but Devlin fought to focus and give an answer. Grace deserved an answer. “I became a pirate because I got drunk one night, extremely drunk, and woke up in the hold of a ship.”
“You were pressed?”
“No, that’s the navy, love, and I was swift enough, even piss drunk, to avoid them. But I owed Captain Jack Hawk for the large quantity of fine French brandy that I’d quaffed.”
“He blackmailed you into becoming a pirate?”
“No, I was more than willing—I wanted to escape to the sea. The Black Mistress had a reputation for speed and its captain had one for being more than just a ruthless thief. Hawk plundered ships for the pleasure of it, for the sport, and I learned just how powerful it is to do what you love.”
To his surprise, she nodded and her eyes were frank with understanding. “You discovered where you belonged.” She sighed. “Everyone I know has done that. My father always knew he intended to pursue his art and that nothing would stand in his way. But now he has realized that he wishes to pursue my mother, so my mother is now pursuing freedom in Italy with him. My sisters had talents, and they have the freedom to pursue them. But I do not know where I belong, Devlin.”
“Sometimes it’s more than just finding a place to belong, Grace. It is having the courage to carve your own path. I thought that seducing well-bred ladies would make me a happy man, but it was like jabbing poison-tipped arrows into my heart. I was fighting for what I could not have.”
