Devil's Daughter (Devil 2)
“A childhood friend, a viscount,” Arabella said. “I know little else.” A memory, vague and misty from Arabella’s earliest years, rose unbidden in her mind, a memory of her mother’s old nurse teasing her mother about her father’s ruthlessness in taking what he wanted. “Aye,” she could hear the woman saying, “he’d take you again, my pet, and devil take the consequences.” Arabella shook away the senseless memory, aware that Kamal was speaking.
“It is likely that you are truly ignorant of what happened. Are you so certain that your mother did not play your father’s whore until he finally married her?”
“That is impossible. My mother is a lady.”
“You spin amusing tales, my lady,” he said, “but they have no substance. It is time for you to change your thinking, just as you have changed your clothes.”
“I have no intention of changing my thinking.” Arabella stared at him. She said slowly, “I asked you why I was sent here. I am bait, am I not? I am to lure my father here?”
He nodded and looked away for a moment, unable to bear the anguish in her eyes.
“I will not allow that,” Arabella said calmly. “You will have to kill me first.”
“Kill you? Pride sits ill on a woman’s shoulders. Consider yourself a slave—my slave. I am your master and you will obey me.”
“Master. I would as soon call a jackal master. And what would you now, master, force me, as would an animal?”
“Why should it matter? You gave your body willingly enough to all the foppish gentlemen in Naples.”
“That is another of your mother’s lies.”
“If it is a lie, it could be easily disproved, could it not?”
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
“If I did not know of the harlot’s blood flowing through your lovely body, I would be much moved by your virgin’s performance. As it is, I only hope that you are not diseased.”
She stared at him, not comprehending.
“Cease your playacting,” he roared at her.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, remembering Adam’s words. “You mean the pox.”
“Yes, the pox.”
 
; “What is it?”
“Enough.” He stretched out his long legs toward her. “Come, slave, and remove my boots. I grow tired of both your foolish pride and your lies.”
“The only thing I would remove is your black heart.” She grabbed the knife and scrambled to her feet.
Kamal did not move. He looked at her eyes and saw naked fear, despite her show of bravado. He rose slowly, unwilling to frighten her more. “Give me the knife,” he said, and held out his hand toward her.
Arabella shook her head, beyond words.
He frowned at someone behind her and shook his head. Arabella whirled about. In the next instant, her wrist was twisted back and the knife fell from her fingers to the carpet. He had tricked her so very easily. The grip on her wrist eased.
“Now why don’t you become the soft, pleading woman,” he said. “I will go easy with you, if you prettily beg my pardon and admit to your lies.”
He could not see her face, for her head was bowed. “You search for gentle words, my lady?” He slid his hands up her arms, drawing her closer to him. “I am accounted a good lover, and since you are no blushing innocent, I expect you to do more than spread your legs for me. It will pass the time until your father arrives.”
She flung herself at him, striking her fists at his face, kicking at his legs. She felt his arm go around her, choking off her breath, but still she fought him. She kicked him in the shin and his hold eased.
Her fingers closed about her heavy silver wine goblet and she brought it against his head with all her strength. She heard the satisfying thud. In the next instant she was on her back on the carpet.
Kamal shook away the pain from his temple. He held himself away from her, knowing if he touched her he would likely break her neck. She was staring up at him, and he knew that she expected to die, that she had known he would kill her when she attacked him. Her jacket was ripped and he saw the white flesh of her breast. He also saw the marks from his fingers on her upper arms. She bruises easily, he thought.