The Windflower (13 page)

She
had
figured it out in the long, feverish wait when she had achingly mated bolt and crossbow. "I wish to leave alone and unmolested in the small boat that 1 was brought here in."

"Can you sail it?"

"Yes," she lied—not that it was any of his concern. She knew it wouldn't be easy just because Cat had make it look that way, but then, it hadn't been easy to prime the bow either. It was all academic, anyway, because she had no other choice. Her gaze dropped and accidentally fixed on his elegant hand resting loose in the small flower of lamplight, and as she watched, it seemed to recede from her and return; the opium reminding her that it was still active in her system.

"We've been bearing east under full sail for three hours," he said. "How are you at navigation in the open sea?"

The hostage hours had blurred into one another, anonymous as a line of smashed pumpkins. Reorienting her scrambled senses, Merry decided that yes, the ship could be moving; but was the beautiful man before her lying through his straight white teeth about the ship's direction and how long she'd been on course? Some time ago she'd had an impression of nightfall. If it was night, then one could use the stars for direction, couldn't one? Unless there was fog. And today, at least, there had been fog. And if the night was clear, what could she do? Distinguish, if she could, the North Star, turn left, and pray that she'd eventually run into the Atlantic seaboard. She began to think of sharks and giant squid and whales and sea serpents and giant whirlpools. You couldn't believe everything you heard; much of it was probably tall tales, though, of course, there really were sharks. And squid. And whales. And other pirates.

Through fading hope and clouding vision she said, "Then they'll have to turn this ship around and bring it back toward shore."

His amusement was a thing felt, not seen. "My dear child, if you want to ask Morgan to turn the ship around, then I'll happily hold open the door for you. But if you think he's going to do it, you're dreaming. I don't blame you for trying; I'd do the same myself. The effort was fine. It's just not going to work."

"The more I think about it," she said with flaming blue eyes, "the more convinced I am that I ought to shoot you."

"Aim carefully then. It wouldn't surprise me if that was the only crossbow arrow between here and Europe."

Her arms were beginning to shiver from the bow's tearing weight. The point sagged toward the floor and was swiftly righted. It was only a matter of time before her brawnless muscles failed altogether. She estimated that she had less than five minutes to convince him that she really would do it. "By the time anyone on board discovered your death, they might have missed me on the
Guinevere.
They might be following us right now, to rescue me!"

"Probably you aren't familiar with the
Mactervish Book About the Sea for Boys.
Lesson Roman numeral one: Ship at sail leaves no trail." He lifted his hands and resettled them, heels down and fingers bent, on the desk's oak edge. Whatever he was planning to do to her was hidden from Merry behind the sugared surface of his gaze and the little smile, so warm and subtle that you could have made comfits from it and fed every widow in St. Anne's parish.

"Mary—that
is
your name, isn't it? Mary, put it down. I don't want to hurt you."

It was clearly a threat, however courteously posed. The best she could do with it was to respond as though she hadn't understood and smother her surprise that he had captured her name and retained it through the months.

"You don't want to—? I don't believe it!" she said. "If it suited you, you'd crush me in a minute. I might be a—a codfish, for all you care."

"Now we're getting somewhere. A nautical metaphor! By next week Tuesday you'll probably have learned how to stay on your feet during a ground swell. There's one coming, my dear. One learns to feel these things."

For a moment she thought it was a trick to throw her off guard. There was a long creaking pause, the sense of being suspended, and then the floor dove suddenly to the right as the ship plunged, nimble and swooping, down the side of the wave into the trough.

The bow slipped from her hands and discharged the bolt, sending it humming across the room like a flushed pigeon, to end with a cracking explosion as it ripped through a five-inch beam of solid hardwood, the shaft whipping noisily to and fro before its motion died in a dull vibration.

No doubt the noise was heard from poop to fo'c'sle. Ears tuned to the murmurings of the ship would trace the sound to its source, and Devon had to grin a little thinking of the ribald speculation it would probably cause in the crew's quarters. It was the kindest way it could have happened, but he could hardly expect the girl to realize that. She was staring at him, infuriated and frightened. Without moving Devon said calmly, "It's just as well. If you had killed me, I'm afraid Morgan would have tossed you on deck for the crew, and after they were done with you, there wouldn't have been enough left to feed the fish."

Below her lacerated wrists, Merry's hands tightened into fists. "I don't care what you say! I have the right to defend my virtue."

"I don't think Morgan would think that was a very good excuse. An unaccountable difference in attitude. You may have noticed," he said dryly, "that Morgan isn't particularly enamoured with virtue. But I'm curious. Did you learn all these high-minded sentiments in Granville's arms?"

After everything, she had to repeat the name before she remembered. "Granville?" Things were coming too thick and fast for her half-sleeping brain.

"I hear you made an unwise choice in your sleeping arrangements last night," said Devon, letting himself slowly off the desk. "I'm sure Michael is crisp and cozy in bed, but who was looking after the puppets?"

Merry's white cheeks turned scarlet. "I wasn't in bed with Sir Michael. I was in Sir Michael's bed."

"I believe we could make a nursery rhyme out of that. It has a certain cadence. ... I didn't mean to start a quibble."

A tremor of exhaustion shook her, and a lock of red-gold hair fell forward, gleaming across her cheek. "I've been beaten, drugged, thrown in the ocean, stripped at knife point, and trussed like a Thanksgiving goose. You had better think again if you think I'm going to stand here and listen to your litany of insults!"

"Poor child," he said. "Let's end it then. Go back to bed, and I'll get you something to eat. The rest can wait until tomorrow morning." It was unfortunate that she was too distraught to realize that the flash of compassion in his eyes was genuine.

"I haven't an arrow anymore," she said, "but if you touch me, I swear I'll scratch your eyes out."

He stood very still, gazing at her through the gemmed eyes. "What do you expect me to do, let you jump over the side? Not
yet.
I'm not finished with you."

"I'll die first!"

"You," said Devon, "must have execrable taste in literature. So we're back to your holy virtue, are we? I see. You think my hot blood can't support ten minutes alone with you. You're passing fair, my conceited love, but what makes you so certain I have the ambition to lie with every pretty wench I kiss when I'm drunk?" From one of Michael Granville's creatures it was what he would expect, the obligatory show of reluctance that would vanish later as she gave herself to him like a supplicant with all those hideously pretty body tricks that Michael's ladies were expert in. Michael Granville, with Satan sleeping behind the thoughtful gray eyes; Michael had sent him women before.

This one was different because she had been taken, not offered. There was something so touchingly real about the girl's resistance that it made him wonder if she was in love with Granville. If that was true, it would be vengeance in gilt to send her back raped. Even as he framed the thought his gaze fell on her, and as much as he hated the master, he wondered how much harm he would be willing to do through this poor frail vassal with the lily skin and hair richer than a sable pelt. Incredibly it seemed as though his last words had confused her more than they angered her, almost as though she hadn't understood his meaning. But then, she was young, and her resources had nearly reached their limit. Coming to her with a noiseless stride he was just in time to catch her in his arms as her knees buckled under a powerful wash of dizziness.

He caught her up, supporting her, and she leaned against him, her will suspended. She wasn't heavy for him, but she was solid, and as she leaned into him he was very much aware of her physicality; the feel of her shoulders and back, the heavy softness of her breasts against his chest, her thighs against his, the gently rounded belly against him, and the cloud of golden hair, which, as he held her, seemed to rise in his vision like a fragrant amber mist. He delicately took a handful of it and touched it to his lips.

Softly he said, "Scented of opium and roses and wintergreen."

"Wintergreen?"

"From Morgan's nightshirt, bless his foppish heart," he said. "I'm sorry they hurt you."

She forced herself to look into his eyes. "Please let me go. Please."

"Love, I can't." He brought his hand to tilt her face, his broad palm at the base of her throat; his lips were warm and dry on hers, and a few strands of her hair were caught as stinging silk in the kiss. His arm tightened her to his body, as, on her face, his thumb drifted lightly over her cheekbone, then moved to her lips and, with gentle pressure, urged them open. The blood began to pound in her throat under the exploration of his lips and fingers.

"You kiss," he said softly-into her curls, "as though each time were your first." He lifted his hands to her shoulders, feeling their soft graceful swell beneath his palms. She turned her face away, her lips throbbing, not wanting him to see as she slipped her tongue over them, trying to soothe the unfamiliar sensations she felt there.

"You've had your revenge," she whispered. "Now let me go."

"No, my dear, no. Let us see if we can make your body turn traitor. Kiss me again, and you can tell me afterward if it was worse than dying."

She kept her face away and pressed her hands against his chest. He turned her head and forced his mouth onto hers; the pressure of his hand and the searching of his lips were too great for her to resist, and their lips clung together, contact breaking, meeting, breaking. Her lips, burning and aching, needed to be soothed by a respite, and soothed again by the smooth touching of their like. Her hands opened and closed on his shirt front; her blood moved thin and hot, a molten flow through her veins. Intently he concentrated, feeling the warmth of her under his mouth, leaving her lips to touch on her warm forehead, and to taste the tears that shimmered on her long lashes, and then to return, plunging once more to dominate her lips. "Let us see," he had said, "if we can make your body turn traitor."

But there are times when, even though sick and driven, the mind is stronger. Her will forced her hands into fists, and she pummeled his chest until with quiet laughter he caught both her wrists in the grip of one hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, biting them gently.

She gasped. "I wish the arrow had pierced your black heart instead of innocent timber. And I wish you'd leave me alone."

"Oh, Lord—these challenges. It's too late for games, sweet child. Give me your mouth." And he took it again under his own, one hand at the back of her head, holding her still; and let the other ride her slowly. His sensitive fingers discovered the warmth of her below the rich linen fabric where the hidden skin lay, as fresh and finely textured as if it were made with the felting of a thousand cherry petals. It was an exercise in good manners to control one's breathing while one could, and though that small discipline had been always automatic and detached for him, he noted that the silent passage of air through his lungs was less than regular. It was rare for that to happen so quickly. The postponed reckoning from that absurdly trifling encounter in the wood wagon seemed to have heightened the desire that had, in honesty, been strong from its birth.

His palm tested the contour of her waist, as tight and narrow as a boy's, and the climb of her delicately voluptuous hips. He spread his fingers, luxuriating in the feel of her where from blood and bone and muscle had been sculpted a softness so rich he could taste it through his finger pads.

Merry cried out when his palm slid to softly cup the underside of her breast. It was shocking and queerly embarrassing, and very low down, below the pit of her stomach, her organs began to tighten into a hard laced ball that seemed to want to writhe and grow until somehow he would know how to bring her to ease. Never would she havc suspected it would be so deliriously pleasant to have a man's hand on that part of her body. His knowledgeable fingers moved, discovering the things that made the blood work harder through her veins. By the series of sharp little intakes of her breath, he knew when he found the right motion, but the combined pleasure and horror of it gave her the strength to beat again at his chest and protest.

"Dainty flower," he murmured. "You see—we don't have to hurt each other." He gently showed her his intention, his palm traveling in a slowly hot circle, letting the balm of it penetrate deeply into her drugged tissues.

It was too powerful for her, much too powerful, and she ripped herself from his arms like a cloth torn in two. She began to back away, shaking her head and choking on the nerve-storming frustration of having nothing articulate to say in self-defense. How in heaven's name did one talk a man out of these things? Her brain, reeling with opium and too-new eroticism, seemed to be jumping up and down inside her skull like a March hare; her eyes felt like a pair of wet, enormous puddles that might at any minute choose to flow out of her head. It had been bad enough to cry in front of Cat; she would rather die of a rat's bite than shed a single tear for Devon, though God knew she was the world's worst imbecile to have it matter.