“It is Mrs. Hamilton to you. The formality, I find, keeps a necessary distance.”
“Mrs. Blackmon.” He scowled. “Yet you keep your flesh and blood husband far.”
“That was a brief madness, a means to an end.” Her eyes never left his.
They hung in frozen silence, his eyes darker green, as if engaged in swordplay with every thrust and every feint, a matter of life or death. She must remain in control.
“You are mistaken, sir. I regret to say I could never be your wife.”
“Regret you say. Then what is this?” He held up her hand and pinched the gold ring. “We were bonded and wedded. A condemned man I was, and as fate would have it, here I stand.” Claire bristled. “You have my utmost sympathy. You risk too much in what you require. You are in my judgment foolhardy, unreliable and selfish. Do not confuse what you want from me to be given on whim or intimidation.”
“You struggle with that hidden part that disallows you to be a woman, afraid to see the beauty you are, dismissing your intelligence, and lacking confidence then trying to shore it up with wit. Perhaps you shrink from being a woman because you are weak, imperfect and afraid to be accountable to your promise. Be courageous, Claire. Be bold.”
He seized her wrist in a grasp of iron and pinned it behind her back.
“Martyrdom does not suit you.” His voice came hard, fierce and biting. “I only tolerate such behavior for so long.”
His mouth came down on hers. He wanted to hurt her, to make her pay. He was hurting with wanting her; fueled with anger toward a world where he struggled for survival and for desiring her. Then his senses fled him, but inside he knew he couldn’t…wouldn’t…do any more than kiss her.
Except he hadn’t anticipated he would have a reaction to this kiss, particularly when Claire leaned into him, holding onto him for support, her soft full breasts flattening against his chest. He brought his own experience to bear, coaxing, gently persuading, enticing her lips to open, and when they did, he swooped in and claimed her sweetness. He reached down and pulled her tight against him. Her stiffness relaxed, and she melted into him. He thrust his tongue deeper, to wield her passion. Devon took full control. He breathed her, tasted her, and savored her. His mouth brutal on hers, twisting, bruising, rousing, his tongue thrusting through her like a brand, searing her, having her.
A part of him wondered what had come over him. He only meant to subdue her.
But another part of him, the hard part of him, understood his motives well. The kiss was more than just bending her to his will. He wanted total possession.
He stood on the precipice of desire. Any longer and they’d both be lost.
Claire felt nothing but shock in those first few seconds, then fear. She feared that her feet weren’t touching the ground; with her hair gripped back in a savage grasp so she couldn’t avoid the ravenous onslaught of his mouth, her body behaved wantonly, crushed to his. She gave up struggling, clinging to his arms.
She didn’t like what he was doing to her. His kiss felt like a punishment, ravishing and confusing her. The arm holding her up was going to crack her ribs. Her own struggle did not loosen the smallest bit. Breathing was impossible and she felt she would expire from suffocation.
Her hands groped to his chest, firm healthy male flesh tingled beneath her fingertips. Her mind desired to touch him everywhere, to explore every part of him. She brushed her fingers over muscle, heat, moisture then slid her arms around his neck, sighing.
With every touch, he made her realize how very female she was. A wild sensuality stirred to life inside of her and she recognized it for the dangerous sensation it was. A wealth of hidden feelings leaped from her, blossoming, exploding.
His lips left hers. She seemed to slide until her feet touched the ground, her arms clasped to his neck to steady her.
He drew away. The gap between them gave way to chill. Claire managed to gulp in sweet air, her bosom still heaving. He rested his head against hers.
“Is it so bad to be a woman?” he asked, leaning back to study her.
Golden eyes were puzzled as he stared at her for a moment−then they filled with fury. “I hate you.”
“So you’ve said. But tread wary, my wife, someday I will collect on your promise.”
“And what of me,” she spat. “Revenge is your master. Lust your resolve. To be married to a dirty slave−so selfish of you to lay me in everyone’s scorn. Is that my punishment because you decided to betray the King? You have no home to provide, no commitment, no freedom−” She laughed sardonically. “You don’t even have a country.”
She twisted free and ran, then stumbled through the trees until she reached the road. Sobbing uncontrollably, she mounted her horse. But he was there beside her.
“One night of conjugal rights, no more, no less.” He slapped the back of her mare, and it sprang forward with a jolt, his taunt echoing in her ears.
“Hear ye! Hear ye! His magistrate, Lord High Governor of the Caribbean holds court this 15thday of February in the year of our Lord, 1686.” The crack of the gavel boomed throughout the courtroom. The governor remained seated through the clerk’s recitation. Devon worked on the governor’s rheumatic feet, taking in the day’s proceedings.
He hated the poverty of spirit and sordidness of slavery. Seized with an overwhelming sense of loneliness, he allowed his mind to drift to an image of her. Since their meeting in the rainforest, he’d done everything to erase her from his memory. A test. Some demon determined to test his mettle. He was going to fail.
He had wedded a woman and kissed her. An unfamiliar ache haunted him and a taste of her clung to his mouth. He ground his teeth. She was right in everything she said. Who was he to demand her attentions? A slave. No home. No country.
But he wanted her. Like nothing he could have imagined, like nothing that was proper and good, he wanted her. He had never been so disgusted with himself.
