10
Liam prowled the night-dark deck of his ship. The wind was strong and steady now, a fine sailing wind, and it whipped his face, his body. He paused at the bow, in a circle of mellow moonlight, allowing sharp slivers of icy water to spray his face.
His jaw was tight. He was rigid, tension delineated in every line of his body. He felt as tightly strung as an archer’s well-prepared crossbow.
Her weeping, her curses, her accusations, echoed in his ears.
He was not like Shane O’Neill. Goddammit, he was no murderer, no rapist. He plundered for the queen, never without her implicit approval. His targets were always political. Few men died in those battles, far less than in most wars. It was his standard practice to free the crews of the ships he seized, while he took the booty, keeping it or disposing of it as he saw fit. And he had never raped any woman—and he never would.
Liam shook. He had been with many women. Many. Some had been, like Katherine, innocent victims, captured by him at sea in consequence of his piracy. But he had never attempted to seduce any woman who was without some experience, or who had not given him a sign that she was interested.
Until Katherine.
Liam had decided to seduce Katherine in spite of her lack of experience, in spite of her obvious unwillingness.He knew that he should stay away from her, because of her unwillingness, because of her inexperience. But he could not.
She was an unusual woman—an extraordinary woman, a woman much like her infamous mother, Joan Butler FitzGerald. Her pride, her defiance, her independence, it did not repel him. To the contrary. Knowing her somewhat now, he wanted her more than ever. Other women paled in comparison to Katherine.
But Liam did not want to be like his father. Taking where he was not wanted, as he willed. And Katherine was determined to resist him. Liam knew he could seduce her and bring her to the point where she begged for him to go inside her. But now he suspected she would hate him even more if he did such a thing.
It occurred to him that a forced seduction might be close enough to rape to make him very much Shane O’Neill’s son.
Liam gripped the wet, wooden railing of his ship. What in hell should he do?
A moral man would release her to Hugh Barry. Liam knew he was not moral enough to be that kind of man.
He was furious. He was furious with himself, for wanting her so obsessively. He was furious with her, for pushing him past his limits, for showing him just how much like his father he really was. And he was ashamed.
For acting like a beast, becoming a savage beast, in front of Lady Katherine FitzGerald—an animal no different than his father.
Katherine stood at the porthole in Liam’s cabin. Her eyes widened. She saw land. She saw, quite distinctly, the wild Irish coast.
A day had passed, during which time she had sewn her poor abused gown together. Already washed and dressed, now she hurried from the cabin, flying up the narrow stairs. Out of breath and mindless of it, she crossed the deck to the rail. She smiled, staring at her homeland, which she had not seen in six long years. Her smile widened as she watched the pale strip of beach at the base ofcliffs growing broader as they approached. She threw back her head and laughed exultantly.
“Good morning, Katherine.”
Her laughter died and she turned to face Liam. She had not seen him since the night before last, when he had almost succeeded in seducing her completely. He was unsmiling, but so was she. His gaze moved swiftly over her face, pausing on her mouth, then it slipped briefly to her breasts. There was no doubt about what he was thinking. Katherine felt her color rising. Her own gaze had inspected him as thoroughly; she had been helpless to prevent it. If only that horrible, intimate night had not happened. “Good morning,” she managed, turning away from him to face the coast, trying to ignore his proximity.
She had been hoping that he would no longer have any effect upon her.
“You are so pleased to see me,” he murmured. “I had hoped that a brief separation might make you somewhat fonder of me?”
Katherine stared straight ahead. “I am fond of one man—and he is not you.”
“Ah, yes, your long-lost lover. Or should I refer to him as long dead?”
She turned, her gaze fierce. “I would prefer that you do not speak of him at all.”
“But that is impossible.” His gray gaze held hers. “As I am consumed with jealousy at the mere thought of you with Hugh.”
Katherine could not move.
His tone lowered. “But surely you know that, Katherine.” It was a husky caress.
Her pulse had quickened. “I know only that you are a conscienceless rogue, one as adept at seduction as you are at mayhem and murder.”
He smiled lazily. “I spill my heart to you and you toss it back in my face. You are cruel, Katherine.”
“You spill naught but nonsense,” she cried. She wanted to leave the railing now, to leave him, but sensed that he would stop her if she tried.
