Part 17 (2/2)

She reached for his face, thras.h.i.+ng beneath him. ”Hurry,” she begged.

He looked again at her erect nipple, at her small, plump breast, and desperately fought the increasing pressure in his loins, the red haze growing in his head, the frantic urgency. He was out of control. Stunned, he pulled her dress up, covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and somehow stood.

What in h.e.l.l had just happened?

This woman had brought him to a point he had never before reached.

He was a master of self-control-but she had shattered it.

Not looking at her, not daring to, he started swiftly from the room.

He heard her sitting up on the floor. ”Devlin,” she gasped. ”Come back. Please.”

He ground his jaw down and did not falter.

”You can't leave me like this!” she cried.

He bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Then he strode down the hall. By the time he reached his bedroom door, he felt as if he had regained some semblance of control-but not all of it.

He was very disturbed.

Because Virginia had just had power over him-and he could not, would not, ever let anyone have any power over him, not in any way, and not his very own prisoner.

He entered his room, quickly shutting the door, shrugging off his navy coat. His erection still raged and he tugged uselessly at his britches but found no relief.

”Oh, do let me help with that.” Fiona stepped forward, resplendently naked.

He stopped short, staring in surprise, for he had completely forgotten about her.

She was smiling as she came forward, her pendulous b.r.e.a.s.t.s swaying, and before he could even a.s.similate that she was present because he had told her to be so, she dropped onto her knees, unfastening his britches deftly.

He inhaled hard as he sprang free, then inhaled again as she took his entire length into her mouth and down her throat.

Huge violet eyes, unfocused and glazed with desire, filled his mind as his own eyes closed. He gripped Fiona's head tightly, and as she sucked his engorged shaft as if she wished to swallow him whole, his treacherous mind envisioned a different woman on her knees performing the very same act, a woman small and dainty, impossibly beautiful, outspoken and defiant. The thick straight hair in his hands became soft, silken curls. The large tongue became small and pointed. Full, tender rosebud lips now stretched taut around him. With his hands, he encouraged Virginia to hurry and finish him off.

The dam broke. He cried out and when he was done, he moved to the bed, where he sat, breathing hard and stunned by the intensity of his release. She moved against him from behind. Suddenly aware of the huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his back, he stiffened, realizing that Fiona was in his bed, that Fiona had just performed f.e.l.l.a.t.i.o upon him, not Virginia Hughes.

Very seductively, she began rubbing herself against him. ”The night has only begun, my lord,” she purred.

He sat there almost laughing at himself. How could he have thought, even for an instant, that Virginia could perform such an act? It wasn't even a matter of her innocence, it was a matter of her-and his-size.

But the incipient amus.e.m.e.nt vanished. He had never experienced such pleasure before. And recalling it, images of Virginia returned to him full force and instantly his manhood rose to the occasion.

”I knew you would return to me, my lord,” Fiona said.

He had a choice-dismiss her or take her. Devlin turned, pus.h.i.+ng her onto her back on the bed. And closing his eyes, he mounted her.

HE PACED THE MANOR, disturbed.

The events of the past few hours were haunting him.

And a ghost seemed to follow him, the presence as disquieting as that entire evening had been.

It was as if Gerald had followed him from the docks of Limerick, refusing to release him.

A bottle of fine French brandy in hand, Devlin stared at the gun rack that was mounted on the wall. Once, ages ago, he had found his father's gun rack empty in a terrible time of need. That rack had been destroyed in the fire set by Eastleigh's troops so long ago. Although there was no need, modern muskets filled the brackets-it would never be left empty again.

When will you let our father rest in peace?

Devlin drank. Half the bottle was gone, and he was going to pay for it on the morrow. He hated thinking about Gerald, he hated each and every memory, the good being far worse than the bad-which was why he never came home.

Sightless eyes filled with fury turned mocking.

”Go away,” Devlin murmured. ”Your time will come.” He paused drunkenly before a huge fire roaring in the ma.s.sive hearth.

The halls seemed to s.h.i.+mmer in the shadows, but no one answered him. Not that he had expected an answer, and besides, he didn't believe in ghosts.

Still, the room felt heavy and full. He did not feel alone.

Vengeance belongs to G.o.d, not you...you do this only for yourself!

”Christ,” Devlin gritted. He drank some more, and now his stomach burned from the excessive consumption of liquor. Images of Virginia taunted him, standing on the deck of the Americana, the wind whipping her hair, aiming that silly pistol at him. Her face changed, smiling brightly, her eyes sparkling as they had at supper, enchanting his brother with her humor, her wit, her conversation, and then there was Sean, dark and angry, claiming to be falling in love.

You will have to destroy her...how can you live with yourself? How?

Devlin stalked about the great room, wondering if, on this cold and windless night, his conscience had decided, finally, to make an appearance in his life. The hall had been furnished with blood money. Elegantly appointed, it was a testament to the hundreds of s.h.i.+ps he had attacked, seized and destroyed at sea, the thousands of crew taken prisoner, the hundreds left behind, dead and buried by the sea. His home was as elegant as any lord admiral's, as fine as Adare's. His next intention was to begin reconstruction of the old keep in ruins behind the manor house. Once, family myth had it, a great pirate ancestor of his had lived there and loved a most extraordinary woman, the daughter of the infamous traitor, Gerald FitzGerald, the one-time Earl of Desmond.

Now he had the funds-his last prize, loaded with bullion, had made him a very rich man.

Enough! Give up.

Devlin stiffened as if shot. He could have sworn he'd just heard his father's stern, angry voice echoing in the room. He slowly looked around the huge hall, almost expecting to see someone materializing in the shadows, but the room was still and silent. Through one tall gla.s.s window, he saw stars and the night. He was alone. His imagination was playing tricks upon him-either that, or he did have a d.a.m.ned conscience after all.

But the odd feeling of not being alone at all remained.

Give up.

Devlin flinched. Was he actually hearing a voice, or was it his drunken imagination and nothing more? Still, the advice was good. Prowling his home in the wee hours of the coming dawn was as useless as sailing into the wind. He started for the stairs. The sensation remained however, dark and disturbing-the sensation of being watched.

He refused to look back.

And his last waking thought before drifting to sleep as dawn broke over the Irish countryside was that he would never give up, not ever, not until Eastleigh was dead.

CHAPTER TEN.

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