Breathing hard, he cupped it in his hand.

  You're mad, Lady Simms. Utterly, barking mad. But you challenged me, and so I'll challenge you. I'll give you what you want. Then we'll see if you let me down as everyone else has in my life.

  He pressed down on her mound, grinding his palm and the heel of his hand against her until she moaned softly.

  Let's see if you really are as different as I so desperately want you to be.

  And then, dipping his head once more to savor the sweet bud of her breast, he drove the blade of his hand between her thighs.

  She arced back against the chair. "For heaven's sake, Damon, prove it!"

  It was enough.

  Still suckling her breast, he slid his fingers through those damp curls, parted the slick petals of flesh, and then, rubbing the hard bud of her clitoris with his thumb, slid his middle finger deep inside of her, all the way to the knuckle.

  She cried out and bucked, and he felt her hot climax contracting the flesh all around his hand.

  This is just the start of it.

  With a savage growl, he swept her up and carried her to the bed.

  Chapter 18

  Triumph.

  Gwyneth was dimly aware of a sinking sensation, of falling into and then being embraced by thick, silken pillows and a bed as soft as clouds; tousled sheets and then Morninghall's crushing weight, his darkly beautiful face, as he lowered himself atop her. She felt his powerful length covering her, felt their clothes crumpling between their straining bodies. His hand skimmed down her ribs and hips, untying one garter, then the other. As he peeled her filmy stockings down her knees, her calves, her ankles, she was deliciously afraid, wondrously excited, unable to think of anything but this dark and beautiful lord. Her slippers were already gone, though she did not know when she had lost them; her body was still throbbing from that exquisite pleasure-pain he had brought her to, begging shamelessly for more and already thrusting upward, toward him, of its own accord. She looped her arms around his neck, met his hungry kisses, and closed her eyes as his tongue hungrily, desperately invaded her mouth.

  Somewhere, maybe in the back of her imagination, maybe somewhere else, Gwyneth heard a low, rising, rumbling sound, like a gathering of mighty force.

  But no, it was only Damon's hand on her breast, Damon's fingers squeezing, stroking, massaging her flesh, Damon's hard mouth grinding against hers, Damon's heady, suddenly gentle and teasing kisses.

  "Wait!" she gasped. "There is something I must tell you —"

  "No more of your prattle, woman, or I swear I'll go mad!"

  She put her arms around his shoulders and pulled his head down to hers. She kissed the side of his jaw, then raised herself up to nuzzle his ear. "Deep in your heart, you know you're really a kind and gentle man, and you're going to prove it to me," she whispered.

  He pulled back and made a noise of high amusement.

  She drew his head back down. Amused he might have been, but he could not hide the fact that he was intrigued and listening avidly. Growing bold, she put her tongue in his ear, swirling around the folds of flesh until he groaned with delight. "You must admit it, Morninghall, because if you can, I'll tell you a little secret of my own."

  "Anything you say, Lady Simms. . . I admit it."

  "Good. Because, you see, I am a virgin, and I wouldn't want anyone but a kind and gentle man to make me a woman."

  "A what?" he cried, pushing back and away from her.

  "A virgin."

  "But — but you were a married woman!"

  "Married, but untouched. I trust you'll be gentle."

  He was pulling back, shaking his head, his face going white with horror. "Oh, no. This changes things entirely. I'm not making love to a virgin, no way in hell, no matter what you want of me."

  "Damon!"

  "For God's sake, I'll probably break something —"

  "Isn't that the idea?"

  He merely stared at her, stunned and shocked, his eyes unguarded, confused, and disbelieving. Then she saw something else coming into them: respect. For in backing off and refusing to touch her, he had just proved to her — and more importantly, to himself — that he was indeed not the wretched beast he believed himself to be.

  She stretched her arms up toward him in silent invitation but saw the indecision warring with want in his eyes, the tortured look on his face. He took a deep and steadying breath, and then lowered himself back down, refusing to seduce her, wanting only to hold her.

  But in that stunned and wondrous moment, they both heard the roaring noise that Gwyneth had thought she'd imagined just moments before. Except now it was punctured by a gunshot, a shout, a rising cacophony of yelling voices. Morninghall leaped off her with a violent curse and lunged for the pistol on his table at the very moment the door crashed open and a crowd of dirty, rage-maddened prisoners burst into the room, all shouting like madmen.

  There were at least thirty, maybe forty of them, with several hundred more shoving from behind.

  Gwyneth screamed and leaped from the bed.

  "Get back, Gwyneth!" the marquess roared, throwing himself protectively in front of her and squeezing off a shot. One of the wild-eyed men at the front of the pack stumbled and fell sprawling. His demise did not deter his companions, though, who trampled straight over his body as they rushed into the cabin, howling and shrieking like a legion straight from hell. Gwyneth saw it all in flashes that would haunt her worst nightmares for years to come: the tide of crazed, murderous men storming into the cabin, the deck beyond them a blur of movement and streaks of scarlet as the guards tried desperately to contain the prisoner uprising; gunfire all around; the wild clangor of alarm bells somewhere outside, screams, shouts. And Lord Morninghall, his pistol spent, his last noble act to shove her desperately toward the window before the mob fell on him, pulling him down, burying him beneath their leaping bodies and brutal fists, their savage, kicking feet and unholy shouts of triumph and rage. She screamed and tried to race past the frenzied tangle for help, unable to escape the sound of fists against flesh, against bone. She saw one of Morninghall's arms flailing beneath the clamoring horde, just the arm and nothing else, heard their enraged curses and yells, saw their flying fists, saw the arm relax and go still. Hands grabbed at her as she tried to run past, and she was jerked up against a filthy chest, smelling tooth rot as a mouth crashed over hers. She heard her own screams, felt her arm nearly ripped from its socket, then saw Lieutenant Radley's wild face as he hauled her from the melee and out of the cabin, across the deck and to the rail. She screamed Damon's name, felt a bullet whiz past her head, heard gunfire at close range —

  And then only empty space as she tumbled over and over again before hitting the shocking icy water of the harbor.

  The impact drove the breath out of her. Hissing bubbles of silence enclosed her and she felt herself sinking, the loose curtain of her hair swirling about her face and blinding her, the weight of her skirts dragging her down . . . down . . . down into the cold, black depths. Blissful, terrifying silence. Raw, aching cold. Give it up and die. Then someone snared her upthrust hand and she was yanked forcefully to the surface, which she broke sputtering, coughing, and crying. Something hard smacked across her ribs and wood smashed against her cheek before she realized she'd been tossed into a boat. She opened her eyes and found herself staring up into the handsome face of the seaman who'd been rowing the dead body ashore.

  The body was gone and she lay in its place.

  "Get down, woman, things have gone mad," the man said urgently, picking up his oars as the angry pops of gunfire broke the air above.

  "I can't leave! I must go back! Lord Morninghall, he tried to save me, the prisoners overwhelmed the ship, they'll kill him, for God's sake, take me back!"

  Her rescuer flung down his oars and grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh to calm her hysteria. He stared hard into her eyes. "There is nothing you can do!" Then, wasting no time, he began rowing with all his strength toward shore, sending a wake of ripples fanning out from astern. Shots rang out from the prison hulk, and Gwyneth heard the agonized screams of dying men and splashes as bodies were hurled off the ship.

  "You can't just leave him to their mercy!" she cried in anguish. "They'll kill him!"

  The sailor kept rowing, desperate to get them away from the hulk.

  "Damn you, take me back!"

  He ignored her until he was satisfied they were well clear of the danger. Then he laid down the oars, and as the sea streamed past the boat and the sounds of gunfire echoed across the water, his eyes met hers. They were wise, those eyes, too wise for such a youthful face, and in them was a deep and sympathetic sadness. Very quietly, he said, "If they haven't killed him yet, they will certainly have done so by the time any of us can get to him." He reached out and gently took her hand. "It is too late, my lady."

  It is too late.

  Gwyneth stared at him for a moment, the awful truth breaking over her in crushing waves of pain; then she bent her head to her hands and let the deep, racking sobs consume her.

  ~~~~

  Jack Clayton roared and bashed his way through the howling mob that was bottlenecking outside the captain's quarters in his desperation to get inside. Blows fell on his head and on his beefy shoulders, but he did not feel the pain, only a blinding, crazed need to get to the marquess. Trained to respect his betters, unswerving in his loyalty to those he served, he gripped the stock of his musket in both hands and used the weapon like a pike, driving it into a spine here, the back of a skull there, making halting but steady progress toward the cabin. His face was grim, but the bodies that fell beneath his stabbing, swinging blows were no longer individuals, no longer human, just part of a surging, bloodthirsty mass of moving faces, writhing arms, screaming voices, crazed eyes. His friend Al Cavendish was back to back with him, and together the two guards, now joined by their mates as they too barreled their way through the fracas, fought their way toward the broken, open door.

  Out of the corner of his eye Clayton caught a glimpse of that sniveling coward Radley, his face contorted not so much with terror but with crazed excitement as he ran back from the rail where he'd thrown Lady Simms overboard.

  "Watch it, Jack!" yelled Cavendish, and Clayton hurled himself sideways, colliding with an enraged prisoner who came at him with a bloody knife. He jerked the musket savagely up, clipping the wretch under the jaw and instantly breaking his neck, and the fellow slid bonelessly to the deck, there to be trampled by hundreds of running feet.

  "Get back, you bastards!" Clayton roared, driving the butt of his musket into the shoulders of the men who blocked the door as he fought his way forward. "Get the hell back!"

  Just off to his right he saw the young marine Paul Mattson clinging to a nearby shroud and aiming a blunderbuss at the knot of prisoners who pushed and shoved at the cabin door as they cheered on whatever grisly horror was going on within. Flames shot from the weapon in one deafening explosion, and the prisoners fell like a row of dominoes.

  Howling in rage, Clayton vaulted over their bodies and into the cabin. Men stampeded toward and past him in a wave of humanity gone mad, desperate now only to escape the cabin, the ship. Somewhere outside, the blunderbuss roared again, screams filling the air. Clayton chopped and clubbed his way through the advancing mob, through which he could just see glimpses of Lord Morninghall's overturned table and chairs, the rug, and there, on the deck, a hand, a shoe, a white shirt soaked in blood — oh, shit — before the sight was blocked once more by the massive exodus.

  Almost there, he thought, and as the last of the prisoners tried to charge past him, he saw that one of them was the troublemaker Armand Moret, his hands stained with blood, his mouth an insane grin of triumph in his bony skull. Without pity, thought, or care, Clayton brought his musket to full cock, jerked the weapon up, and aiming it point-blank at the Frenchman's chest, fired.

  The explosion rocked the cabin, obliterating the sickening thud of Moret's body hitting the deck, the sound of china crashing from a nearby cupboard, the maelstrom just outside. For a brief, awful moment the cabin went as still as the tomb. Then, as the smoke cleared, Clayton, coughing, tossed down his musket and charged forward, knowing he was already too late.

  He saw the upended legs of the table, the overturned swivel chair, a lost shoe, and there, lying facedown in a widening pool of bright red blood —

  Lord Morninghall.

  The marquess was completely still, and there was a dagger sticking out of his back..

  Clayton turned away with a pent-up exhalation of defeat. He passed a shaky hand over his face, wiping away the sweat and the grime and the sight of the carnage before him, and met Cavendish's horrified eyes.

  "Oh, shit," he said again.

  ~~~~

  The bedroom was dark and quiet as a tomb, shadows reaching into the very corners. Only the window and the cushioned seat below were illuminated by the faint moonlight sifting down through the heavy, fast-moving clouds that filed in from the sea. No candle burned on the bedside table; only embers glowed in the hearth. A cool breeze moved through the room, sighing in from the window like the breath of a spirit, lifting the gossamer white curtains on an invisible hand then letting them drift down over the bent head of the woman who sat huddled on the seat below them.

  An untouched cup of tea had gone cold on the sill beside her, and her still-damp hair was caught at the nape of her neck in a black velvet ribbon. Her knees were drawn up under her chin, her arms anchored about them. Through tragic eyes Gwyneth gazed out the window at the distant harbor, silent and still beneath the clouds, where she could see the prison ship lit up in a blaze of light.

  It hurt to look at it, yet she could not look away. Out there in the distance, beyond the dark shapes of the hedges beneath her window, beyond the newly budding roses and the crowded brick houses that fell away toward the black vista of the harbor, she could see the lights of boats carrying various naval officials to and from the prison hulk.

  She wondered which boat had carried Morninghall's body away from the carnage, and pressed the damp handkerchief to her nose, the back of her throat aching with tears.

  They came anyhow, trickling silently down her cheeks.

  Her rescuer — his name escaped her, though she thought it was something like Kiernan or Connor, something like that, something Irish, it didn't matter, really — had landed her safely on shore, then promptly disappeared into the frantic press of rushing naval officers and seamen, all running to and fro in their haste to respond to the alarm out in the harbor. No one had paid her any attention. No one could help her. No one had answered her pleas to be taken out to the prison ship, to Damon. She had finally been escorted to some room in some naval office, questioned, interviewed, and told to wait. She had sat dazedly on a bench for God knew how long before a gentle hand had touched her shoulder and she had looked up to see the compassionate face of Maeve, Lady Falconer. Her friend had promptly ushered her out of the crowded building, into her own private carriage, and, as the sun began to sink from the sky and the clouds to sweep in from the sea, brought her home.

  The rest of the evening had passed in a dull haze of numbness. Brief vignettes of it hung suspended in her mind. She remembered Maeve murmuring something to her sister as they'd entered the little house; she remembered Rhiannon enfolding her in her arms, leading her up the stairs and to the hot bath the maid was already drawing; she remembered the hot tears slipping down her cheeks and pattering softly upon the carpet as Rhiannon quietly stripped the wet clothes from her trembling body.

  "He was worth saving, Rhiannon," she'd cried brokenly as she'd sat in the warm tub and bent her head to her hands in grief. Her little sister had said nothing, only squeezing warm, peach-scented bubbles out of a sponge and over her back. "I saw the goodness in him, Rhiannon, the compassion, saw it at last, and now it is too late and I can't see anything but his arm, his hand, falling still, over and over and over again . . ."

  "I know," Rhiannon had whispered. The water had sounded sad and lonely as it trickled back into the tub.

  "He didn't even have a chance . . . no, he had only one chance, and he gave it to me."

  "Hush, Gwyn. It will be all right."

  "He's dead, Rhiannon. It's not all right."

  Rhiannon had retreated into silence. Nothing had remained but the broken trickle of the water, sluicing back into the tub.

  Dead.

  Now, the curtains lifted in the breeze once more, whispering over Gwyneth's face and the back of her neck. She wondered if Morninghall's spirit was in the wind, if this was his way of coming to say good-bye.

  Her eyes filled once more, and she shut them on a great, trembling breath. The tears leaked silently from her eyes, ran brokenly down her cheeks.

  Damon.

  She wanted the numbness back, all of it, not these flashes of agony.

  She remembered stepping out of the bath, Rhiannon placing a thick, plush wrapper around her shuddering body and leading her toward the dull glow of the fire. She remembered sitting there on the stone hearth, staring into the embers as the last light faded into gray beyond her window. And as the day died, and the night out there went black and one by one, the stars came out, Gwyneth told herself it made no sense to be sitting here sobbing over the death of someone she didn't love. But, perhaps, she had indeed loved Morninghall, loved the man he'd been on his way to becoming, and it was her deepest and most agonizing regret that she had not had the chance to tell him so. He would have laughed, of course, he might have done something rude and impossible to try to convince her there was nothing about him worth loving, but there would have been that brief flash of vulnerability across his cold gaze, that sudden, fleeting proof that he was indeed worthy of, and desperate for, that which he deserved no less than anyone else.

  Love.

  And now it was too late.

  Dead.

  Gwyneth sniffled and rested her brow in her hands, her hair splaying around her fingertips. Outside, the stars made hard pinpricks of light in the gaps of moving cloud cover, here one moment, gone the next. Wind rustled through the lilac bushes, through the tops of the nearby trees; a lonely, mournful, empty sound that tore at her heart. From downstairs came the low murmur of Maeve's and Rhiannon's voices, the faint scents of cooking meat and freshly baked bread; from somewhere out in the night came the distant, approaching clatter of a horse's hoofbeats. The fire popped in the hearth, dying, and again the wind came, keening through the trees and making them bend and sigh and whisper.