Devil's Embrace (Devil 1)

“You will have no further need of your hat. I have never really liked them, you know. Your face should be tanned golden by the sun.” She blinked, and before she could respond, he turned abruptly away from her.

“Dilson, is the bow firmly secured?”

“Aye, captain.”

Scargill stepped from her side to stand beside the earl. Cassie gripped the bronze railing and watched as her small sailboat lurched clumsily through the waves, drawn forward by the yacht.

“Harden up a little, Angelo,” she heard him order the helmsman. “No nearer, the rocks are treacherous. Keep her so.” She saw him turn and nod to the sailor, Dilson, and the little man climbed like an agile monkey over the side and down the ladder to her boat. He drew a sword and with several powerful strokes hacked through the wooden mast. It teetered an instant and fell, shrouded in its white sail, into the water.

“No!” She rushed forward, without thought, to climb over the side of the yacht.

She felt a strong hand on her arm and turned in her fury to strike him. He efficiently clasped both her wrists in one large hand.

“I am truly sorry, Cassandra. I know that you love your sailboat, but it must be done.”

He shaded his eyes with his free hand, took in their distance from the clumps of outjutting rocks near shore, and commanded suddenly, “Cut her loose, Dilson.”

Dilson’s sword sliced through the looped rope about the bow. In an instant, he scrambled back to the ladder and pushed off the sailboat with his booted foot.

“Please do not,” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. “The tide will smash her against the rocks.”

“Yes, I know, but you will not witness it.” He turned to the helmsman. “Lay the course, Angelo. Come, Cassandra.”

Chapter 7

Cassie walked beside him down the deck to the companionway, vaguely mindful of low-pitched sailors’ voices blending with the sounds of flapping sails overhead. He drew her to a halt below deck in front of a closed door.

“After you, Cassandra,” he said as he opened the door, and stood back for her to enter.

Cassie stepped into a shadowy cabin, aware of the tangy scent of lemon polish and sandalwood. She dully noted the rich mahogany paneling and the elegant furnishings. It was a cabin fit for a captain and an earl. She whipped about at the sound of a key turning in the lock.

He turned to face her, a broad-shouldered man, who now seemed a dangerous stranger to her. His eyes appeared black in the soft afternoon light of the cabin, darker than she remembered, almost as black as his arched brows and his thick hair.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” he asked.

She stared at him, and shook her head out of habit.

“Forgive my lapse of memory. You do not care for tea, do you? Most un-English of you, Cassandra.”

She watched warily as he crossed the cabin, his steps noiseless on the deep pile of the blue carpet, and eased himself onto a high-backed leather chair, one of four that stood about an elegant circular table.

“Will you not sit down?”

Cassie forced her feet forward to stand behind one of the chairs, and clutched at its carved back.

“How stupid of me to have forgotten,” she said finally, forcing her voice into momentary calm. “I saw your yacht once, long ago, at Clacton.”

“Perhaps you did, but then her name was not The Cassandra. She is lovely, is she not? Even Farmer George wanted to purchase her, but of course, I refused.”

She waved away his words. “If you would not mind, I should like to know the meaning of your senseless behavior.”

“My behavior is never senseless, Cassandra. In this particular instance, perhaps, I was forced to employ some rather rough and ready methods to secure your presence.”

“Damn you, my lord, tell me the meaning of this.” She drew a deep breath and swallowed the growing lump in her throat. “You are an English peer, my lord, an earl. I did not believe that gentlemen of your rank and wealth indulged in white slavery. Are there other young English ladies aboard your yacht?”

Anthony Welles blinked at her, then threw back his head and laughed aloud, his white teeth contrasting with his tanned face. “White slavery. Good God, Cassandra, what an imagination you have. A slaver in the English Channel.”

“In that case, my lord, there is much that requires my attention at Hemphill Hall, for I am to be married tomorrow, as you know since you are an invited guest. You will please set me ashore at once.”