He snapped the book shut and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair. Tension built in his shoulders as he gripped the wooden arms. Damn Vivian Thorne for her sins, and damn Elizabeth Thorne for forcing him to pay for them! Where was the justice in that? The Blackburn males had shed enough of their blood over the ages.
Mercy needed to find forgiveness in her heart. By God, he didn’t want to force her hand with the love potion, but he would do it for his nephew if he must. Still, his heart would rest easier if she came to the decision naturally.
“I’ve yet to give up hope,” he said, capturing her penetrating stare. He could break down her defenses and warm her frigid heart. “You won’t break the curse for me, but what of an innocent child?”
She looked away, focusing on the coal-burning stove. “Do you think me a simpleton? You don’t have a son, and your sister has not borne a child in over ten years of marriage. The Blackburn curse ends with you, and justice will finally be served.”
He pulled his mother’s letter from the inside of his jacket and handed it to her, offering no explanation. She read the contents quickly. He could guess by her wide eyes the moment she read that Cora had given birth to a healthy son. Jumping to her feet, she tossed the letter back at him and strode to the single porthole.
He imagined the knots of indecision forming in her gut. Less than two months separated her from realizing the revenge she’d sought her entire life. She wanted him to pay with his own blood for murdering her mother. He didn’t begrudge her that wish. But he could not allow the curse to transfer to his nephew.
She leaned her forehead against the window and drew in a hasty breath. He felt the waves of frustration and anger vibrating through her body as though they were a living force.
“This changes nothing,” she said, squaring her shoulders to face him. “Do you hear me?”
Red-hot anger coursed through his veins, and he stalked toward her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “This changes everything! By God, you’re a woman. Where is your heart? Has it shriveled in your chest? My nephew is innocent in all of this. He’s a wee babe. I understand why you can’t forgive me, but you must find it in your heart to break the curse for him. I’m begging you, Mercy. Please, don’t force my nephew to carry this burden. By all that’s holy, do not.”
“The child is not my kin,” she said, her voice wooden . . . lifeless. “I cannot turn my emotions on and off like a faucet.”
But he saw the battle raging between her mind and heart. Her eyes reflected the turmoil. She was human beneath the stony façade and capable of feeling deep emotions; she wasn’t a machine.
“You can find mercy in your heart for an innocent child. What if your son were cursed to die? Think on that, and then, perhaps, you will discover your heart still beats in your chest.”
His words were ruthless, designed to shame her into submission. But he no longer cared about his methods of securing her assent.
“Label me a heartless bitch if you must, but I feel no empathy,” she cried, turning her back to him. “How can I when my son will never fall victim to the Blackburn curse?”
Her admission killed every shred of humanity he held on to. She would bend to his will on this matter. And there were many ways to skin a cat. All of them quite unpleasant. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her roughly against him, caging her in his embrace. His heart thundered against her back, and he squeezed.
“Are you certain, Mercy? I can give you a son.” He ground his loins into her buttocks, driving home his message. “And then he would inherit the curse. Is that what it’ll take for you to see reason?”
Struggling to break free from his iron hold, she glared over her shoulder. “Are you threatening rape?”
“That’s what pirates do,” he said, growling with laughter. “And we both know you want me burrowed deep between your thighs.”
Shock and horror burned in her eyes as she pierced him with a look of pure hatred. He snaked his hand up her chest, grasping the edge of her décolletage. She might hate him, but after their kiss in the tavern, he knew she lusted after his body. Her heart beat frantically against his hand, and she heaved in a breath. In one swift movement, he whirled her around, slamming his mouth hard against hers. He curled his fingers into her hair, holding her head steady as his tongue plunged into her mouth, cutting off her protests.
She clawed at his face, twisted her body in an effort to escape, but he didn’t care. Her outburst was no match for his strength, and he wanted her to experience defeat . . . feel true desperation and hopelessness . . . taste a fraction of the fear he lived with daily. When she gave up the fight, he pushed her away and wiped his mouth.
Disgust and triumph warred inside his chest as he gazed at her disheveled appearance. It had only been a rough kiss, but his feelings of desperation were so great, he might’ve taken it further had he not promised Dominick to leave her untouched. God have mercy on his soul for stooping so low, but he would make her see reason by any means available to him.
Chapter Fourteen
Fear cleaved Mercy’s heart in two, and she lost all sense of decorum.
“What kind of monster are you?” she cried, pounding her fists against his chest. “You would force me to lie with you and bear your children? Have you no conscience whatsoever? You beast!”
His green eyes darkened into pools of determination, and he shoved her aside, striding to her abandoned carpetbag. He clawed through the contents, tossing her clothes absently onto the bed, until he pulled out the wooden box containing her potions. Her heart stuttered a moment when he opened it, revealing vial after vial.
“I have a conscience that batters me daily,” he said, plucking one of the vials from the box. “But you leave me no choice!”
He held the cylinder to the light, and although it appeared empty, Mercy knew better. The contents were expensive and, by far, the most sought-after potion of meddling mamas of the ton.
“I do believe the gods are on my side,” he said, reading the label. “Serum eau de Freya.” A vindictive smile curled his lips up. “Freya is the Norse goddess of love and fertility. Your love potion is amber, so methinks this little gem promises fertility. What say you?”
She felt the blood drain from her face as he sauntered back to her, his confident swagger back in full force.
He cupped her chin, rubbing his thumb over her cheek. “Enough said.”
“You can’t force the serum down my throat.”
“No, I don’t suppose I can. But there are other ways to gain your cooperation, and I’m quite motivated.”
He collected the Tome of the Accursed and her wooden box. Striding to a davenport desk in the corner of the cabin, he lifted the lid and stowed the spell book and her potions inside.
“Come here, Mercy,” he said, crooking a finger.
With clenched fists, she stomped toward him. Oh, she had the courage to ignore his command, but he might make good on his earlier threat and use her precious spell book for kindling.
He turned his hand palm up. “Empty your pockets.”
She stepped back and tamped down the burning desire to slip her hand inside her pocket and retrieve the vial of sleep serum. “I beg your pardon! There’s nothing in my pockets.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” His hand shot out lightning fast and captured her wrist, drawing her to him. “I felt something hard when we kissed, and it wasn’t me. Either empty them yourself, or I’ll take great pleasure in doing it for you.”
No doubt he would. She turned out her pockets, securing the vial in the palm of her hand, and lifted her brow in triumph. But he only grinned and snatched the vial from her. His jaw tightened as he read the label. With a grunt of disgust, he tossed the vial into his desk and locked the lid.
“This is the only key,” he said, turning to face her. “Do not attempt breaking into my desk, or you’ll suffer the consequences. I assure you the punishment will be severe and one you will not enjoy, though I most certainly will.”
His fingers entwined in the simple ties of his shirt at the base of his throat, and he tugged them loose. The shirt fell open, revealing a thatch of black hair on his chest. He bent over and pulled off one boot, and then the other, followed by his stockings.
“What are you doing?” she asked, backing away.
Was he offering her a glimpse of the type of punishment he threatened?
“I’m undressing.”
He unbuttoned his trousers next as he walked toward the bed.
“Cease this instant! You won’t gain my cooperation this way.”
His trousers fell to the floor, and she gasped, covering her eyes with her hands. Her heart thundered. Would he strip naked before her? She had thought herself safe from his wicked plans.
“I’m immune to your rantings, witch. It’s late,” he said, his voice muffled. “And I’m tired. It’s been a long day, the storm rages on, and I must relieve the captain in a few short hours.”
Peeking through a slit in her fingers, she caught sight of his round buttocks encased in snug-fitting long johns. She studied his sleek leg muscles, so unlike any man she’d ever seen in the tavern. His muscles flexed under the task of pulling his damp shirt over his head. When he was free of the garment, her gaze traveled north, traversing the expanse of his broad shoulders.
A painful knot lodged in her throat. His back was an intricate web of thick scars from waistband to neck and shoulder to shoulder. She dropped her hands from her face, taking in the full measure of the damage.
Victor was a child of ten years, abducted and tortured himself, and acting under duress of the Butcher.
Although Cecelia had often preached the same as Eveline, Mercy had not given either woman’s claims an ounce of credence. But the evidence before her was irrefutable. Victor had been savagely beaten. On multiple occasions. A vague memory of the Butcher slashing a knife across the boy’s back before he stabbed her mother assailed Mercy, and she heaved in a breath.
Victor glanced over his shoulder, and his eyebrows knitted. There was a glimmer of comprehension in his eyes, and he grunted. “Don’t waste your pity on me. I haven’t suffered anything I didn’t deserve.”
“Did the Butcher do that?” she asked.
“Why do you care?” he growled, turning to face her. “You would have me die a brutal death. Or have you forgotten?”
Why did her stomach quake so violently? He spoke the truth. She wished him dead. Her gaze roamed over his chest and corded stomach, unscathed and so utterly beautiful. He was a study in male perfection from the front. But his back . . . She could not fathom the level of pain he’d endured, nor what lie ahead of him under the Blackburn curse.
“You may hate me,” he said, his tone a smug sneer. “But you want me between your thighs. The way you stare at me sometimes . . . ” His heated gaze traveled the length of her body, devouring her inch by inch as he settled onto the bed. “Like I’m a slice of apple tart and you haven’t eaten dessert in a long while. Come here and eat, sweetheart.”
He patted the empty space next to him on the bed. A lascivious grin split across his face, and he laughed.
The man was horrid! Pompous. Arrogant. Vain. Why had she felt even a speck of sorrow on his behalf? Remaining in the same quarters with him was out of the question. She stomped to the cabin door. The knob rattled under her hand but would not open. Balling her hands into fists, she pounded on the door.
“Help me!” she screamed. “Someone help me, please!”
After five minutes of shouting her throat raw, she slumped to the floor.
“No one will rescue you, I’m afraid,” Victor said, folding his arms behind his head. He stared at her through hooded eyes. “I already promised the captain I won’t ravish you against your will. Pitiful yet true. But you’re welcome to have your dirty way with me, if that’s your wont.”
Her mouth gaped open. But what of his earlier threats? He had wanted to rape her, had acted rough and course. And yet he’d pushed her away the moment she surrendered. What was this game he played?
“Oh, you’re intolerable!” She sat in one of the chairs and hugged herself.
“Why lie to yourself, Mercy? I’m not ashamed to admit I find you attractive and wouldn’t mind a tumble under the sheets with you. I’d let you rake those sharp little claws down my back in ecstasy.” He purred low in his throat. “Admit it, kitten. You secretly wish I had sampled your love potion last week.”
She pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face between them. Heat flamed in her cheeks from equal parts shame and desire. She had never denied the fact that she found him pleasing to gaze upon. Physical cravings were driven by basic human instinct, not rational thought, hence she could not be held accountable.
He was a reprobate for throwing it in her face. And she would never think about apple tart the same again. Had he watched her eat the delectable confection during her breaks at the tavern?
“You’re absolutely despicable.” She glared at him. “Why can’t I have my own cabin?”
“You know why,” he said with a snort. “Given time or resources, you’d concoct an elixir meant to shrivel my bollocks. I think not.” He made a great show of pulling the covers over his body and then leaned over and turned down the bedside lamp. “It will be colder than an icebox when the coals die in the stove. I don’t envy you. You’re welcome to lie with me should you change your mind.”
“Not bloody likely,” she muttered, pulling her wool wrap snugly around her body.
He chuckled and slapped his pillow into shape. “Excellent! I’m betting on it.”
Why didn’t that surprise her? Well, he underestimated her desire to escape his company. The bloody fool had left his pants on the floor near her feet, and as soon as he sawed logs in his sleep, she’d be gone.
“Oh, and Mercy?” he said with a yawn. “The keys are stowed in my long johns. After you’ve searched my trousers, you have my permission to frisk me.”
Freya, help her. Closing her eyes, she inhaled and exhaled, shoving all thoughts of exploring his toned body far from her mind.
One hour later, she lifted her head, peering through the darkness to the bed, where Victor’s soft snores penetrated the cabin. All of her muscles ached from sitting in a balled position in the chair, and her poor toes had long since numbed from the frigid air. She would not sleep a wink in her present state. Hadn’t Eveline said the journey would take five days? Could she survive four nights without sleep?
With a heavy sigh, she stood and crept toward the bed. Henry had the right of it when he called her stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid. There was no reason why she should suffer in the cold—other than her wounded pride. Victor had vowed not to rape her. And for some insane reason, she believed him.
At least he slept on the far side of the bed, so she could lie down without disturbing him. Peeling back the coverlet, she crawled in and pulled the warm blanket over her shivering body, melting against the mattress. Within seconds, he rolled over and pulled her snug against his hard form, wrapping his arm around her waist.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she lay still, willing him not to wake. His body heat seeped through the thin fabric of her gown. The sensation far surpassed the sheer delight of her bed warmer in the dead of winter. She inched a tad closer, eliminating the gap between their knees, soaking in his heat.
“Bugger me,” he murmured against her hair. “I owe Hatchet two shillings. You were supposed to hold out until morning. Perhaps you’re not as stubborn as you seem. Or shall you have your wicked way with me, after all?”
She rolled her eyes. Even half asleep, the big oaf couldn’t resist teasing her. He imagined himself quite the comedian. In truth, he was infuriating.
“Serves you right!” she said through gritted teeth. “And don’t flatter yourself. I will always hate you.”
“Yes, I know,” he muttered, his tone losing its playful edge. His broad hand wrapped around her frosty fingers. “Still, you may share my heat without fear,
Mercy mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
VICTOR SLATHERED ORANGE MARMALADE ON THE BISCUIT WHILE IT WAS STILL WARM AND GOBBLED THE CONFECTION DOWN WITHIN SECONDS. THE SWEET, STICKY JAM CLUNG TO THE CORNER OF HIS MOUTH. WITH THE TIP OF HIS TONGUE, HE LICKED IT AWAY, SAVORING EVERY LAST DROP.
HE WANTED MORE. THE RICH AND CREAMY BUTTER. WARM, DOUGHY BISCUITS THAT MELTED ON HIS TONGUE. BUT MOST OF ALL, THE RARE AND FRAGRANT ORANGE SPREAD. HE INHALED THE HEAVENLY SCENT AND REACHED FOR ANOTHER FRESHLY BAKED BISCUIT.
MRS. DUNCAN SLAPPED HIS HAND AWAY. “AWAY WITH YE, LAD. YOU’LL NO‘ BE HUNGRY FOR SUPPER IF YOU INHALE ANOTHER ONE. WHAT’LL YER MOTHER SAY?”
HE GRINNED AT THE HOUSEKEEPER THEN STARED LONGINGLY AT THE BASKET. “ONE MORE BISCUIT FOR A STARVING LAD. PLEASE, MIMI.”
SHE WINKED AND TURNED HER BACK TO HIM, BUSTLING TOWARD THE PANTRY. “AWAY WITH YE, I SAID. BY THE TIME I RETURN, YE’D BEST BE GONE.”
VICTOR GRABBED ANOTHER BISCUIT AND TORE IT APART. HE HAD THIRTY SECONDS BEFORE SHE’D BE BACK. AS HE DIPPED THE KNIFE INTO THE ORANGE MARMALADE, A LOUD BANG SOUNDED AT THE KITCHEN DOOR.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
HIS HEAD SHOT UP, AND HE GLANCED AT THE PANTRY. MRS. DUNCAN CONTINUED TO HUM AS SHE RUMMAGED THROUGH THE GOODS STOCKED ON THE SHELVES.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
WHO WAS BANGING ON THE DOOR? THE KITCHEN WAS OPEN TO EVERYONE. VICTOR COULDN’T RECALL ANYONE EVER BANGING ON THE DOOR.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Victor startled awake, his heart pounding. The scent of sweet oranges filled his nostrils, and he glanced down to find Mercy’s hair tickling his nose. He lifted the covers and inched to the edge of the bed. She rolled instinctively toward him, drawn to his heat. Her thick curls tumbled over her cheek, hiding her beauty. He wanted to bury his fingers in that mass of silken curls and—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He closed his eyes and inhaled one last time before jumping out of bed. Why must she smell so inviting, so much like home? He stumbled toward the door. Christ, it was damned near freezing. Four hours wasn’t enough sleep, but it would have to do. He rubbed his eyes and fumbled for the key tucked in his pocket. After a few missed attempts, he cracked the door open.
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 9
