His eyes were on her, his face an inch or two from her own. “Do not dowhat?” he asked quietly, although he had to admit, he was not feeling as calm as his voice sounded. The little witch had his blood burning. “You will not tell me who you are. I can only assume you were on the ship to satisfy the men’s needs. Now you will satisfy mine, English whore.”
“I amnota whore,” she snapped, the tears coming.
“Then who are you?”
Her jaw worked furiously as she struggled not to weep. He could tell that part of her wanted to tell him, but the defiant English part of her, the stubbornness, would not allow it. He shifted, wedging his legs between her slender white ones, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. The other, a massive mitt, was free to roam and it moved to her hip, suggestively.
“Nay,” she gasped. “Please… please…”
He fingered the flesh at her hip. “Tell me and I may show mercy.”
She was weeping loudly by now, terrified. But in spite of her fear, she kept her mouth shut. He watched her face, the tightlyclosed eyes and rivers of tears, before moving a hand to her belly, stroking the fabric and the flesh beneath.
“Nay,” she begged tearfully. “Please stop. Sweet Jesus, have you no sense of decency?”
“Nay,” he said flatly. “I am an animal, remember?”
She opened her eyes, looking at him. “I… I did not mean it,” she whispered urgently. “Please forgive me. I did not mean it at all.”
He lifted a red eyebrow at her, now dipping his head to lick the soft skin of her cheek. “I forgive you,” he said. “But you will tell me your name.”
She was back to weeping again, closing her eyes tightly and turning away. His response was to suckle the flesh of her chin, feeling her squirm beneath him. She was soft and sweet, much more than any woman he had ever known. He had only started the game to coax forth her name, but now the game had overtaken him and he was lost in a haze of the most powerful lust he had ever known.
But he controlled himself.
He didn’t want to be that animal she accused him of being.
“Tell me your name,” he breathed, his voice quivering with desire. “I want to know who you are and why you are here. I promise I will not hurt you if you tell me the truth.”
She gazed up at him, so terrified that she could hardly speak. But she could not allow her stubbornness and pride to be the cause of her downfall. It was time to push that all aside to save herself from this terrible folly.
“Do… do you swear it?” she asked.
“I swear it if you will tell me your name.”
“I am Lady Emllyn Nesta Isabella Fitzgerald,” she whispered after a moment’s hesitation. “My brother is the Earl of Kildare and it is his fleet that the Irish destroyed this night.”
He gazed down at her, believing every word. She was far too fine and beautiful to be anything other than a noblewoman. Still, his lust had the better of him and the hand moved back to her hip moved, stroking it gently. There was something terribly personal about his touch, enough to have her quivering with terror.
Or perhaps it might even be desire.
It was difficult to know.
“Your brother is the Earl of Kildare?” he repeated in a ragged whisper.
“Aye.”
“I find it difficult to believe that your brother would allow you to sail, considering this is a battle fleet.”
Emllyn was terrified that hand on her hip was going to move somewhere more personal even though he’d not made the attempt.
Yet, anyway.
“He did not allow me to sail,” she said. “I… I came without his permission.”
His brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”
She hesitated and he could see the stubborn streak rear itself again. The hand on her hip moved slightly, just to remind her what could happen if she didn’t cooperate.
