My Angel

by Christine Young

Angela buried herself beneath the covers of the bed and watched in silent dismay. Finally he stopped in front of the window, his hands clasped behind his back, and watched the rolling ocean, the calming weather.

  Silence dragged on for what seemed an eternity. She could not stop herself from looking at him, could not stop wishing he'd believe her.

  The door opened, light from the hallway spilling into the cabin.

  "Alexi?" Misha's voice called out. "There are men who need you. The captain has fixed our location and would like to know where you want to put into port for repairs."

  "Coming," Alexi said. Before he left, he walked to her and, kneeling by the bed, ran his fingers along her jaw. "A very determined jaw you have." He closed his eyes thoughtfully. "Sleep, little one. You need to rest. Please do not fear me. I would never hurt you." His voice was gentle and full of grave concern. "Soon you will understand that I want only the best for you--for the two of us."

  Angela knew his words for the lie they were. He had already hurt her deeply. Nothing he could ever do, save marry her, could heal the pain he'd inflicted upon her. Worst of all, he didn't understand, might never understand.

  ~ * ~

  The clock chimed midnight before Feodora collected enough courage to leave her bedroom and make her way down the narrow servants' staircase to the outside. With each step the wooden planks creaked and groaned their protest.

  She held her breath, thrilled with the excitement. Before this night ended, she'd have Ivan in the palm of her hand. She'd have him begging for her favors.

  Her heart sped out of control with anticipation of Ivan's big, strong arms around her and the delightful things she knew he'd do to her. He was the best lover she'd ever had. Her insides quivered like jelly with the thought of seeing him naked. She'd never seen him completely bare, but tonight she meant to see all of him. She giggled.

  Deep inside her most feminine parts she ached and dampened with desire for him. He'd put every other man she'd known, intimately or not, to shame. Thoughts of him driving into her, licking and nipping her breasts and her secret feminine folds drove her wild with desire.

  Sweet Jesus, but she could hardly stand the wicked anticipation. It had taken all the control she had to wait for Natasha to finally go to bed. Then watching the hands on the clock for the entire hour she gave herself just to make sure no one would see her leave had her hot and panting with need. She was ready for him right now.

  She risked a great deal. Of course, that was part of the thrill.

  She touched a finger to her lips and let her tongue moisten the tip, thinking of Ivan and the little drop of moisture that would inevitably spill from his shaft just before he drove inside and satisfied her. She ran the palms of her hands across her breasts, keeping her flesh sensitive and alive with the heady passion she felt for him.

  Outside the house a sliver of moon sat low on the horizon, giving little light. She didn't need light, the path to Ivan's bed ingrained in her memory.

  Looking both ways and seeing no one, she lifted her skirt and dashed across the back lawn to the darkened stables. Ivan would have doused the lights, but he'd be up waiting for her. She pictured him in his bed, naked, his hands behind his head, a knowing grin on his gorgeous face.

  Another giggle slipped from her at the surprise she had planned for him. Her bare nipples swelled and budded against the silk shirt she wore. She wanted to touch herself again but decided to wait for the master's caress. At the thought of Ivan stroking her, her stomach muscles and those farther down clenched tightly. Her body felt swollen and damp with need.

  She slipped through the stable to the back room where Ivan slept and ate. The room smelled of hot coffee and wild male animal. The door stood open, the bed vacant. She gasped, frightened for a moment by the hand that closed over her mouth.

  "Be still. It's only me," Ivan told her, his warm breath whispering softly across her heated skin.

  She'd know his voice and the feel of his powerful chest anywhere. He smelled like unleashed power and hot desire, and she loved his wild virility. She leaned into him, pressing her back against his chest, letting his forearm rub against her breasts. His thumb caressed her lips, and one finger ran down the column of her neck.

  She shivered, her womanly impulses quivering with anticipation of the erotic delights awaiting. Her tongue flicked out to touch the palm of his hand, and she delighted in the masculine rumble deep inside his chest.

  With his free hand, he flicked open the buttons on her blouse, her breasts spilling free. He turned his attention to the fastenings on her skirt. After a few seconds, the fabric pooled on the ground. She stood before him naked, completely exposed and vulnerable.

  He would never be able to resist her siren's call.

  "Are you still intent on marrying Alexi?" Ivan asked, his breath hot and sultry against her cheek, his tongue gently exploring her ear, tracing the shell she'd exposed by pulling her hair back. He nipped her ear.

  She groaned, pressing herself closer to him, reveling hi the unleashed power of the man.

  "Are you?" he asked again after several minutes of silence. He tongued kisses down her throat, across her shoulder. With both hands he lifted her breasts, pushing them together, caressing them with the callused pads of his fingers.

  "Yes..." she whimpered.

  He pushed her away, his lip curling hi haughty disdain. "Even if you carry my child?"

  She felt the chill sweep between them. "You can't offer me what he can."

  "I haven't proposed anything, nor will I. When you carry my child, you won't lie with anyone except me unless I say different."

  It was an arrogant command--one he couldn't enforce. Anger as well as passion replaced the chill until she burned with unleashed fury.

  "Bastard," she said silkily, shifting her hips so her breasts swayed, inviting his touch once more. She knew she was beautiful and irresistible. All her lovers had told her so. "No one, not even my father, tells me what to do. Especially not a lowly stable hand," she taunted, one hand on a hip, a pose she meant to entice him with.

  "Bitch," he told her. "I will tell you what to do, and you'll do what I say, even if I have to tie you to my bed to enforce my demands."

  He gave her a swat and pointed to the bed. She walked to the only chair in the room and sat down. She draped one leg casually over the arm of the chair.

  She beckoned him with one finger, posturing. Ivan leaned against the door frame, watching her, his eyes roving with an appreciative gleam. Already he was under her spell.

  "I told you to go to the bed, wench." His voice softened. "But if you mean to disobey..." The threat hung in the air, his smile wicked as his gaze traveled the length of her.

  She shuddered at the implication. "Have you forgotten so soon? I do what I please. There isn't a man on earth who can command me, least of all you," she repeated, then moistened her lips, her top white teeth tucking her bottom lip beneath in a seductive gesture.

  Ivan didn't move, yet his muscles coiled and he looked primed and ready to attack. She loved and hated him all at the same time. She knew she'd gone too far, taunting him the way she had. But he needed to understand that he was a hired hand and she was about to become the mistress of the estate. His job--his livelihood--depended on her approval.

  One dark eyebrow quirked upward. "Is that so?" He still didn't move. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his voice low. The smile she'd seen on his face earlier no longer curled his full lower lip.

  "Yes." She tilted her chin upward, but her reply sounded weak. He would heel to her before this night was over, she vowed. The princess and her stable master, yes, she liked the sound of that.

  Feodora put her hands under her breasts and pushed them up and out. Momentarily his gaze dropped to her breasts then back up. She ran her hands down her naked body, posing for him.

  "Come to me," she purred.

  "You must be cold," he told her. "When you're ready to climb into my bed, I'll pleasure you. Otherwise I'll take you w
hen and if the whim hits."

  Ivan turned his back to her and walked out the door into the stable.

  "Ivan!" Her cry was hoarse, and she hated him at that moment more than she'd ever hated anyone. He'd just rejected her offer. How dared he. She wanted to strike out at him, wanted to leave and show him he couldn't get away with this uppity manner.

  She heard the whisper of his footfalls, the soft sounds he made to the horses to calm them. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine his touch upon her. He'd smell like the stable when he returned--if he returned.

  She shivered and looked to the bed, knowing what she wanted, yet unwilling to give him the upper hand. Her teeth gritted together hard; she was determined she would not back down in her quest to tame the stable hand. A cold draft suddenly spilled through the crudely made walls of his room. Once more she stared at his bed and the plush warm quilt that lay atop it, stared longingly. Goose bumps rose on her arms and legs, and her nipples became taut little buds.

  Suddenly she felt vulnerable and at a great disadvantage. He'd done that on purpose. "Damn you, Ivan," she shrieked, and didn't care how witchy she sounded.

  She rubbed her arms and her legs. Still determined to win this battle, she didn't move. Instead she looked for her clothes.

  They were gone, vanished into the blackness of the stables. "Bastard," she grated out, knowing full well Ivan was responsible for their disappearance. He must have kicked them out of the way when he strode from the room, defying her. Petty revenge, she told herself. They would surely be just around the corner, just outside.

  Feodora scrambled on hands and knees, searching through the straw and dirt of the stable for her clothes. He'd done something with them. In the suffocating darkness she found nothing.

  "Well, what a tantalizing sight for my senses," Ivan said.

  His laughter infuriated her.

  At the same time he spoke, she felt his hands on her naked bottom, squeezing her gently, caressing her intimately. A whimper escaped her before she could push the sound back. She tried to stand, but one hand on the small of her back held her in place.

  "You aren't going anywhere," he told her. "I suddenly feel like having you."

  "Ivan, I can't find my clothes."

  "For what I've planned, you don't need them."

  He gently caressed the tips of her breasts. "Ivan..."

  He was behind her. "That's what I like to hear. My name on your lips. Say it again, sweetheart, and perhaps I'll show a bit of mercy."

  She stiffened, realizing how quickly she'd lost the upper hand. One long finger, then two, delved inside her, his thumb teasing her, seeking her pleasure. For a moment he withdrew from her and she almost cried out to him. Then behind her she felt the coarse wool of his trousers upon her back, the worn material of his shirt, and now she felt his arousal, hard and probing.

  He thrust inside her, his hands hugging her breasts, his lips brushing light kisses down her spine. "You are mine until I tell you differently. Don't ever refuse an order.'' His whispered words warmed her neck; his kisses nipped across her shoulders. "You can't ever win."

  "Ivan... please."

  He prolonged the ultimate satisfaction, taunting her, playing with her. "By the time Alexi arrives home, you'll be huge with my child," he told her. Grabbing hold of her hips he thrust again and again, deeper each time until she could hold nothing back from him.

  She cried out in pleasure.

  He emptied himself deep inside her and held himself there. Minutes later he withdrew, and, sweeping her into his arms, he walked with her to his bed.

  "You will get under the covers and you will stay there," he told her, his meaning clear.

  She nodded and obeyed, unable to do anything else. Feodora wanted him again, and it shamed her that she could not control the man. He was only a lowly stable hand, nothing more, but he gave orders as if he'd had years of training, as if he'd been born to command.

  She fell asleep in his bed without the warmth of him next to her. She awoke alone in his bed, the sun shining through the dirty, streaked window. Her clothes lay neatly folded on the chair. She dressed quickly and, sweeping her hair into a knot on top of her head, she dashed across the lawn to the narrow, dark stairway and headed for her room.

  ~ * ~

  From a downstairs window Natasha and Ivan watched Feodora.

  "You really think this will work?" Natasha's whole body trembled with fear for her grandson and worry for her friend who was ill. "I will not sit by and watch Alexi fall prey to that witch."

  Ivan nodded thoughtfully. "This plan of ours will work. Don't worry about the trip you've planned. You have to go. You've waited far too long as it is. That friend of yours needs you at his side."

  "I can't help but worry."

  "Don't. There is nothing Feodora can do here. Misha and Alexi will be home in a few days time."

  "But--"

  Ivan held up his hands to stop Natasha. "No arguing. Feodora can do no harm. And in the meantime I will enjoy the satisfaction of sweet revenge."

  Feodora had a lot to answer for where his family was concerned. Her father had waged war on his people, and had all but annihilated them. She sailed artlessly through life, never thinking of anyone but herself. She was a spoiled, greedy little brat.

  Yes, Ivan had plans for her, and if Feodora refused to cooperate, she would find herself abducted and settled into a harem--from which she would never escape.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun had just cast its first golden spires of light upon the ocean when Alexi stepped onto deck. Over a week ago he'd spent the better part of his days standing by while his men wenched and drank in the taverns along London's waterfront. Unable to keep his mind from thoughts of Angela's soft golden hair and her lithe young body, he'd returned to his cabin a few minutes after midnight.

  When he'd looked in on Angela, she had been asleep in his bed, her hair in careless disarray across his pillows. Dressed in a soft white nightdress buttoned all the way to her neck, she had unknowingly invited him, beckoned for his touch. He'd given in to his baser urges, and without further thought had walked to her. He'd held a few silken strands in his fingers, touched her cheek and let his imagination play havoc with his heart.

  And during that same week, while the ship was in for repairs, he'd tormented himself and everyone around him. His anger at the smallest things had sent most of his men scurrying if he merely looked their way. Even Misha had wisely kept his distance.

  Nothing had helped. He could not seduce her. She still said no, and he still slept on deck, away from Angela.

  Several days ago they left London. Two hours ago they'd rounded the corner of Spain, heading into the Mediterranean Sea.

  She was such a stubborn little spitfire. How on earth could he convince her that he wanted only the best for her? He inhaled a ragged breath then let it out slowly.

  Today was a beautiful day. High, feathery clouds floated whimsically in the sky. They sailed in the Mediterranean, a deep sapphire blue--the color of Angela's eyes--the same color as the precious gems in her ears.

  Dolphins swam alongside the clipper ship, playing in the wake then darting in front of the bow. The smell of sea spray lay heavy in the air. Calm water lay ahead of them as far as the eye could see. It would be smooth sailing for all aboard except Angela and himself.

  He would have to change his strategy where Angela was concerned. Obviously she didn't realize or understand what a great honor he bestowed upon her by asking her to be his mistress, to share her life with him. He must convince her.

  "She is still asleep, Alexi." Misha materialized by his side. Alexi wasn't surprised. He'd asked his friend to look after Angela in his absence and report back.