“Witch,” he said harshly.
Virginia grinned and kissed him.
He cried out, grasped her and hauled her up the bed, and she found herself on her back, her legs spread, with Devlin fiercely intent and as fiercely poised to enter her. “Wicked little woman,” he said.
She laughed and pulled him closer, until her laughter died.
IT WAS MIDMORNING.Devlin sat at his desk in the library, an empty Scotch glass in front of him. Virginia had fallen asleep at dawn and he had quietly left her then, knowing he would not be able to sleep.
He was grim, torn, confused. It was hard to breathe. Tension filled his body as if he had not been sexually sated a single time. He did not have to close his eyes to see Virginia lying in his arms, smiling warmly at him, love shining in her eyes.
What was happening to him?
When he had discovered her being mauled by Tom Hughes, he had actually seen red, wanting to kill the man for daring to trespass on what was his, for daring to hurt her. His murderous rage had had nothing to do with his father’s murder and everything to do with his feelings for Virginia.
He trembled violently now. He was no fool. Virginia was not his and she never would be his. Yet he had never touched or kissed any woman the way that he had done last night, and insist as he might to himself that it all meant nothing, in his heart he knew differently. Somehow, his admiration for his captive had become something far more—something far worse.
He reached for his Scotch and found the glass empty. Grimly he stared at it. No amount of Scotch would erase what he had done—from the very first, when he had taken Virginia as his hostage, intending to use her so callously as a tool of revenge, to this last devastating plan to flaunt her in society as his lover.
The moment he had first seen Virginia in the hold of theAmericana,he had known that he should not abduct her—with the finely honed instincts of a true warrior, he had known he should jettison his plan and avoid her at all costs. Instead, he had held true to a fatal course, she the mighty storm and he the tiny sloop. And now their course was run, having come to this final, singular moment in time.
He lurched to his feet with a curse. He could no longer subject her to his whims. He could no longer use her in his terrible scheme. He wished, desperately, that he had not made love to her, not ever. Family and love werenotfor him.
Eastleigh would still have to pay—Devlin’s revenge was hardly complete—but Virginia had paid far more than she ever should have, and now he hated himself for all that he had done.
He strode to the hearth, where last night’s embers glowed. He had received his new orders and he was leaving shortly for America. Before then, he needed to free her and he would take her home. At Sweet Briar, there would be no malicious slander to haunt her. In fact, she would probably forget all about him in the span of a few months.
Inside his chest, it almost felt as if the devil were ripping his heart in two.
Are you in love with this girl?Tyrell had asked.
He wasnot.He had never experienced the emotion, and he never would. He knew that for a fact.
Devlin returned to his desk, trying not to contemplate the fact that once Virginia had returned to her plantation, their paths would never again cross. Almost ill, he began to pen instructions to his solicitor to purchase Sweet Briar anonymously from Eastleigh on his behalf. He would give her the plantation in a very futile attempt to make amends. He did not seek forgiveness—he did not deserve it.
And then, when Virginia was gone, he would finish Eastleigh, one way or the other.
Because the stakes had forever changed and now there was nothing left to lose.
VIRGINIA HESITATED OUTSIDEof the closed library door where she had been told that Devlin was. It was almost noon and she had recently awoken. She could think of nothing other than her lover. Last night he had madeloveto her. She knew it the way she knew that the air she breathed was filled with oxygen. Everything had changed between them. She hardly knew why—she only knew she had to race back into his welcoming arms, to make sure the night had not been a dream.
But she hesitated because their long history had taught her how ruthless and unpredictable he could be. A part of her recalled every slight and hurt, every single rejection, and that part of her was almost faint with dread. But last night hadnotbeen a dream.
She smoothed down her lovely gown and knocked on the door. “Devlin?”
There was no answer.
Virginia opened the door and glanced inside. The room was empty. She saw a stack of letters on his desk, one unsealed, and a cup and saucer. She walked in, and at the desk, saw that the teacup was half-full. She touched the cup and found it warm—he had only just stepped out.
And then her gaze fell onto the letter that lay open in the center of the desk. Her gaze widened and she glanced up, but Devlin had not appeared in the doorway. Somewhat guiltily, she lifted the letter and read.
Lord Admiral St. John to Sir Captain Devlin O’Neill
Waverly Hall
Greenwich
November 20, 1812
