And as she did so, she heard sounds moving behind it, felt the pitiful scratch of fingers on the other side.

  There was someone actually in there.

  The full horror of it all overcame her at last. Heat, shock, and the noxious fumes finally permeated her brain, and the darkness began to come down over her vision. She felt the notebook slipping from her hand, felt her knees collapsing, had a vague sense of falling backward . . .

  And then, nothing.

  Chapter 7

  It was the Marquess of Morninghall who, cursing, stepped forward and caught her.

  He stood there, the oily bilge oozing about his shoes and his adversary's body — warm, soft, a tumble of lilac skirts and frothy petticoats — filling his arms. For a moment, he could only look at her, stunned as he was from the reality of the horrors he had just seen, her golden head dangling over his elbow and exposing the throat like a pale offering, the combs already falling from her hair and dragging soft, uneven clumps of it down with them. Her lips were parted, her lashes weighty against her flushed cheeks, and as the damp heat of her body rose, he caught the scent of her soap. Peaches. Delicious, sweet, ripe, peaches —

  A host of feelings smashed the brittle veneer of Lord Morninghall's black heart.

  "Er. . . Uh . . ."

  He looked up to see the marine staring at him.

  "Best get her topside," the man finished sheepishly at Damon's glare. "Fresh air's the best thing to revive a lady from a swoon."

  "Well, lead the way then. You have the damned light."

  Easily cradling his burden in one arm, Damon paused to retrieve her notebook from where it had fallen, picking it up with two fingers, shaking the water off, and shoving the thing into his pocket. He was so angry he was shaking inside. Partly with Lady Simms for forcing him down here; partly with himself for not taking any responsibility for it; and mostly with Foyle and Radley, whom he had entrusted to keep this place clean. Foyle had made daily reports, assuring Damon that things were not this bad, but these conditions were appalling, criminal even and it was obvious the cheeky little wretch had been lying to him all along.

  Heads were going to roll, Damon thought savagely. Foyle and Radley were not going to escape the full fury of his rage.

  Just ahead the marine was trudging up the ladder now, one hand gripping his musket, the other holding the lantern behind him to light his captain's way. Lady Simms weighed less than a bundle of feathers, but Damon still found it no easy task to carry her up the steep, narrow ladder without knocking her dangling legs against the grimy wood, harder still to ignore the jeering laughter that met him without losing his carefully controlled composure.

  "Ah, look at the fancy lady! Guess she must've seen a mousey, eh?"

  "Or taken a good look at le capitain!"

  Damon walked straight through them, his arms rigid around his burden, his face devoid of all emotion.

  "Naw, 'twas Ronny's pissing against the bulkhead that did it! Probably ain't never seen a cock that long!"

  "Well, what d'ye expect? She's a lady, ain't she? Probably ain't used to seein' cocks the size of Ronny's rod!"

  "Aye, well, she ain't seen mine, then!"

  Guffaws, shouts, and laughter roared around them. Filthy bodies pressed close, staring, laughing, leering.

  "Hey, Cap'n, ye show her yers?"

  Damon kept his impassive gaze straight ahead and shoved his way through them as he started toward the next ladder.

  A hand grasped his sleeve and a dirty, grinning face filled his vision, blasting him with its sour breath. "Ye hear me, Cap'n? I asked ye if ye'd showed her —"

  He turned then, impaling the wretch with the full effect of his blazing gaze. "Sod off," he snarled, his low, dangerous voice and murderous eyes instantly shutting the heckler up.

  Immediately, the entire deck went silent.

  The prisoner gulped, spread his hands, and backed up. "Hey, look, Cap'n, I didn't mean nothin' by it —"

  "Get out of my way."

  "Really, I —"

  "Move."

  The prisoner retreated, and without sparing him another glance, Damon resumed his journey to the deck above, the silence following him all the way topside.

  There, clean, blessed, healthy air, at last. He filled his lungs with it, wanting to inhale until his chest burst, wanting to forget the nightmare he'd just left, but already prisoners were pressing and shoving to get a glimpse of his lovely armful and the guards were clearing a path through them to the door of his cabin.

  Midshipman Foyle came running. "Shall I fetch the ship's doctor, sir?"

  Damon turned on him, trembling with fury. "I will see you in my cabin in one hour. Be late, and so help me God, I'll have you whipped so severely you won't be able to sit or shit for a week, do you understand?"

  Foyle paled and backed away. "R-right, sir . . ."

  Damon strode into the cabin, kicked the door shut behind him, and deposited Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms atop his bed.

  His heart was pounding. The blood was screaming through his temples. His head felt ready to explode.

  He pressed his fingers to the sides of his brow and shut his eyes, trying to block out the things he had just seen. He changed his shirt, washed his face and neck, threw open the windows, and leaning out over the harbor, gulped great, greedy breaths of cool air. Don't think about what you saw down there. Later. Not now. There isn't a damned thing you can do right now anyhow. Don't think about it, and don't think about her.

  But if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be thinking about it.

  It was all her fault. Hers for showing it to him, Foyle's and Radley's for letting it get that way. But no, he should've gone down there before this. He was as much to blame as the others, if not more. Guilt and anguish twisted his gut. He shut his eyes on a deep, steadying breath. Opened them. Tried to get control of himself. Couldn't.

  Unable to help himself, he stormed over to the bed and stood looking down at the catalyst of this storm of emotion. He clenched his hands with impotent rage and swallowed, hard. Then he knelt before her, stripped away her dirty gloves, and chafed her wrists. No response. Annoyed now, he splashed some water on a cloth and mopped her face and neck. Such ministrations only fueled his lust, his wish to conquer this woman who had been the cause of such anguish. She had humbled and excited him with her courage, and he wanted her as much as he hated her. His breathing sharpened. Again he caught the scent of her soap, or maybe it was just her perfume . . .

  Peaches. He shut his eyes. He wanted to throw her in a bowl and sprinkle sugar and cream over her, gorge himself on her sweetness and lick her clean. Peaches. He wanted her. Here, now. He felt the blood beating in his ears and drawing back, pressed two fingers into his brow, terrified of what he was capable of, knowing he was beyond help.

  Look at her, Damon! Seduce her!

  God help him, she looked soft, delicate, lovely, sweet. Even fragile.

  Fragile, like the daffodils, the porcelain, the pretty cups he had smashed to bits beneath his rage. Sweet, like the scent of peaches clinging to her. His head began to pound violently. He hated fragility and he hated sweetness, because if you were fragile you were weak, and if you were weak you got hurt. He wanted to crush both fragility and sweetness right out of existence, annihilate them, destroy them, conquer them.

  Conquer her. Now.

  He made a fist and drove it into his throbbing brow, his erection hard against his breeches.

  Take her, damn it!

  He spied a half-empty bottle of brandy on the table and, with shaking hands, grabbed it up and poured himself a glass, somehow managing to avoid spilling the entire lot. And still, she lay behind him, across his bed like a sweet offering.

  It was no use. He started to move toward her — and with a savage curse, spun and fired the goblet across the cabin with all of the strength of his rage. It exploded against the bulkhead with a splintering crash.

  A moan issued from the bed. His hand still outstretched, Damon froze.

  She lay where he'd left her, head pillowed on a fan of disheveled gold hair, one hand resting childishly near her temple. Her eyes were open and she was staring hazily at him.

  "Why did you just destroy your goblet, Morninghall?"

  He felt like a child who'd been caught in the act of doing something naughty. Blood heated his face. He snapped upright and moved threateningly toward her, fists clenched.

  "Because I like breaking things," he snarled, defiantly.

  "Why?"

  "Because it feels good, damn it!"

  "I see."

  "You don't see a damned thing, and now that you're awake you can just get the hell off my ship before I break something else."

  He glared down at her, and Gwyneth, who was just recovering the full use of her senses, had no illusion as to what he wanted to break next. And the sight of him — looming over her in a black fury she could not understand, hands clenched at his sides, face dark as a thunderhead, and those soulless devil's eyes blazing with a hellish fire — was not exactly one that she found benign. Dangerous, yes; magnificent, yes; but far from benign.

  Her own anger made her reckless.

  Propping herself up on one elbow, she smiled sweetly, mockingly, up at him. "Why, you look shaken, my lord. Upset even. Dare I think you actually had a concern for my welfare? Or that the wretchedness of the conditions beneath your feet has finally penetrated that granite tomb containing the remains of your heart?"

  "I don't have a heart."

  "Oh, but you do. A very black one though, isn't it? Cold as the grave and just as rotten."

  His face went still. Only the eyes were alive — glittering, malevolent, dangerous. He turned away. "Impressive. You should have been a poet."

  "And you should be ashamed of yourself, Morninghall. I am ashamed to think I share the same species with you, so embarrassed and disgusted am I over what I have just witnessed below!"

  He poured himself a glass of brandy.

  "Doesn't the sight even affect you?"

  "As you said, my heart is a black one."

  "For God's sake, how can you calmly stand there with absolutely no feeling, no concern, no caring for the people who are suffering and starving beneath your feet? How can you?"

  He turned then, but not before she saw the shame in his eyes. "I didn't know it was so bad."

  "You mean to tell me you've never been down there?"

  "As a matter of fact, no, I have not. Foyle was supposed to be handling things. I trusted him to do a task, and he failed me. Lied to me. Damn you, don't look at me like that. I told you I have no wish to be on this sodding ship, I never wanted to be on this sodding ship, and I would like nothing better than to be out of this sodding navy —"

  "Then get out of it!" Furious, Gwyneth shot to her feet and faced him squarely. "Let other men who are more noble than you serve it! You are a vile and wretched beast who is so far gone in self-pity you can't even see the plight of those whose sufferings far eclipse your own petty troubles! And you know what makes that even more unforgivable? It's that you do not care!" She stalked around the swivel chair and jabbed her finger into his chest to emphasize her point. "You don't care what those poor men have to endure," jab, "you don't care what they have to eat, drink, and sleep in," jab, "you care only for your own ambitions, desires, and comforts —"

  He snared her wrists in one hand, yanking them high above her head; then, putting the brandy down, he drew her threateningly up against the wall of his chest until her angry eyes were just inches from his own. "Those men brought their sufferings on themselves," he growled, his face so close to hers that she could see the fury pounding in his brow. "They're wretched, they're prisoners, they're the enemy, damn it, they're —"

  "Human beings!" she spat, fighting to jerk free. "And they deserve to be treated as such!"

  "They will be treated as their behavior warrants."

  "No behavior warrants the treatment they are receiving!"

  "Your behavior warrants a treatment all its own, and if you don't stop your damned struggling, I can assure you you're going to get it."

  She froze, twin spots of mortified color blooming in her cheeks as she looked down and saw what he had seen. In her struggle, with her arms held high over her head, one rosy nipple had popped free of her decolletage.

  She gasped, her face aflame. She tried to yank her wrists free, but his grip might as well have been an iron manacle, so tight, so fiercely unrelenting, was it. She was suddenly aware of the bed just behind her. "Unhand me this instant, Morninghall."

  "Gladly," he murmured, his tone sending a warning screaming up her spine. "For a price."

  "I assume that price is to leave you alone and go torment some other prison ship?"

  He leaned close, oh God, far too close, his darkly malevolent face and broad shoulders filling the space above her head. "Au contraire, madam. I have no wish for you to leave me alone. You have been a married woman; don't feign stupidity. You know what I want."

  "Hell will freeze over before you get it."

  "Hell will never freeze over as long as I am in it."

  "Would that I had my pistol then, sir, for I would gladly put you there."

  "Your pistol is on the table where you left it. I invite you to retrieve it, and carry out your threat." He dragged a finger down the wildly beating pulse at her throat. "But what a waste that would be, when we could have such an enjoyable time together . . ."

  "You are a repellent creature."

  "Yes, I am. But you . . . are not."

  "I have no interest in bedding you, Morninghall."

  "Perhaps you just need a taste of what you'd be missing."

  "Your pathetic attempts at seduction are wasted on me. Let me go."

  "Wasted on you?" He leaned closer, eyes just inches from her own, burning with fury and fire beneath lashes blacker than sin. "Dare you challenge me?"

  "I am not so foolish. Nor, insane."

  "Ah, but if you consider the challenge foolish or insane, then it can be only because you know you will lose. Were you truly convinced that you could resist me, you would merely laugh at the notion and tell me to give it my best shot, if only to ridicule me for my failure, afterward." His voice lowered in pitch. "I don't see you laughing, Lady Simms."

  "Your arrogance is colossal beyond belief."

  He glanced down at her nipple. "You desire me."

  "You — you do nothing for me, Morninghall," she spat, flushing. "Nothing!"

  She glared at him. He gazed back, so close she could see the tiny flecks of gold embedded in the slate that ringed his blacker-than-Hades pupils. She was aware of his thumb stroking the sensitive underside of one of her still imprisoned wrists, the sound of her heart hammering in her chest. And then she tensed as he lowered his head, his breath whispering over her brow, his lips grazing the soft hair at her temple.

  She closed her mind to him. She would humiliate him with her lack of response to what he so arrogantly assumed was his devastating attraction. But he is attractive, isn't he, Gwyn? her conscience whispered. Not repellent at all. You want him to touch you. You hate him fiercely, but you cannot deny that you find him dangerously exciting, forbidden, wicked . . .

  He kissed her then, and she stopped thinking.

  It was a hard kiss, full of passion, anger, and raw, unrequited male hunger, a kiss that pinned her head, her spine, against the bedpost behind her and left her nowhere to go. There was no mercy in the kiss; no gentleness, no sweet seduction, no kindness, nothing but the full fury of his anger. His tongue thrust against her lips, forcing them open, and Gwyneth felt her defenses falling away, one by one. Sudden fear shot through her. This was no silly challenge intended to wound his pride. She was playing with hellfire itself, and she was going to get burned — badly. She felt his fingers whispering over her collarbone, grazing the pearls at her throat, feathering lightly over the swell of her breasts, brushing across the exposed — and mortifyingly hard — nipple. Gwyneth tore one of her arms free and caught his wrist. She felt the unforgivably hard knit of sinew, bone and muscle beneath his clean white cuff, the frightening power that arm wielded, and knew he could smash her as easily as he had that goblet.

  And just as quickly.

  He drew back then and smiled, teeth white against a face dark with malice.

  "You've made your point," she said, breathing hard. "Release me."

  "Afraid, sweetheart? You disappoint me."

  "You are . . . despicable," she said, uttering this last word as though it was a rat that had found its way into her mouth.

  He bent to kiss her again, and this time, she turned her head away, hard.

  He let her wrists go, but she was still trapped between him and the bedpost. "You make me burn, Lady Simms," he snarled, leaning so close she felt his breath against the side of her neck. "I shall enjoy making you do the same. Burn. Burn until you can no longer take the air into your lungs."

  "Go to hell," she said, and slapped him hard across the cheek.

  He drew back, furious. Never had she seen such naked anger, such menace, in anyone's eyes as she did this man's. His nostrils flared, and he let his insolent, contemptuous gaze swept over her bosom.

  "You are a cold and cunning witch," he murmured. "And you have made me angry. Very angry. Such a pity, that, because when I'm angry, I do terrible things. Perhaps it will be the prisoners who will pay."

  And then he made the mistake of turning his back on her.

  Blind rage seized her, and before she could stop herself, Gwyneth grabbed up the small brass telescope that rested on a table beside the bed and with all of her strength, flung it at his proud shoulders.

  He turned at that moment, saw the missile — and ducked. The instrument caught him just above the ear, and he fell sideways against the swivel chair, sending it crashing into the bulkhead as he went down with a heavy, sickening thud.

  For one paralyzed moment, Gwyneth could only stare at that dangerous, powerful body sprawled atop the decking, the telescope rolling across the floor away from it. If she was lucky, she had dashed his brains out. If she was not —

  She wasted no time. Without a second's more hesitation, she jumped from the bed, sidestepped the marquess even as he began to stir, and ran for the door.