Catherine didn’t understand the implication of her question. She only knew it made him angrier, his eyes darkening to a dangerous gray.
“You’ve had a lover?” he asked in a tightly controlled tone.
“Oh, several.”
“Several?” His response was a rough choke of disbelief.
“Yes, did you wish an exact count? It would take me a few moments for I’m not certain if you just wish my lovers, or the few stable boys I dallied with from time to time.”
“Stable boys?”
“Yes, well, the need strikes at the oddest times.”
“Your father —” he asked, unable to complete his question, so confused was he by her actions.
“My father? Good heavens, no! My tastes don’t run to the perverse.”
“Damn it, woman, I didn’t mean that,” he yelled. “Your father, he knows of these liaisons?”
Catherine retained the false smile with difficulty and hoped the answer she chose would suit the situation. “Yes, indeed he does. You see there were one or two times that necessitated my father compensating a gentleman in return for his silence.”
Lucian was shocked into silence.
Bravely Catherine pushed on. “Have you changed your mind, Captain? I’m sure you’ll find me entertaining enough. My lovers have often commented on my extraordinary skill.”
Lucian lunged forward, grabbing her by the arms and roughly lifting her up to him.
She was inches from his face. Her heart beat wildly. She had gambled and lost. Now he would take her and discover her lies and then what?
You can’t give up, Catherine. You can’t.
He brought his face closer to hers. She could feel his warm breath. Smell the dampness of his blood-red hair, see the anger in the depths of his cold gray eyes, and taste, oh, God, she could almost taste his lips full and wet with anticipation.
Her eyes grew hot and languid, her mouth opened invitingly and she prayed. Oh, how she prayed she would say the right thing.
“Taste me, Captain. Please taste me.”
Lucian felt as though he’d been skewered by a cutlass, so sharp was the pain. He released her hastily as though in disgust, pushing her back upon the bed.
Catherine couldn’t speak. Her emotions were strung taut and about to burst. She wouldn’t even direct her gaze his way.
He stood staring at her, seeing his weapon of revenge dissolve before his eyes. The anger that had shimmered beneath his controlled surface erupted and spewed forth. “I should have known that the Marquis of Devonshire’s daughter would be a whore.”
He walked from the room, slamming the door behind him.
“I’m not a whore,” Catherine whispered, and with relief buried her head in the pillow and cried.
Chapter Four
Lucian stormed into Santos’s cabin, slammed the door behind him, and walked to the table secured to the far wall. A single chair rested beside it. His powerful body took the seat like a dead weight, the wooden legs creaking in protest. His eyes instantly captured Santos’s dark ones.
Santos stood a safe distance from him, but still he took a hasty step back, his legs bumping against his berth. He had been privy to that strange look many times. Lucian had worn it often during sea attacks or when he had questioned captives even remotely associated with Abelard.
His eyes narrowed, the scant specks of blue flared like icy sapphires and his voice?
Santos shivered recalling the calm control with which Lucian spoke before issuing orders. His frigid tone rang with the indifference of a man who possessed no soul. Santos made a hasty sign of the cross.
“She’s a whore.”
“No! Impossible,” Santos said, defending the young beauty while a chill raced up his spine.
Lucian’s voice was as calm as the sea before an angry gale. “She looks like an angel. Innocent and pure of heart.”
Lucian leaned his head back against the wall and laughed, a low timbre that rumbled deep in his chest like the roar of a mighty predator out for a hunt. “She’s far from pure. She’s even sampled her father’s stable boys.”
Santos shook his head more to satisfy his own disbelief than to convince Lucian. “She plays a game with you.”
“No!” Lucian yelled, and slammed his fist down on the table. The aged wood trembled from his mighty blow.
His head remained flat against the wall and his eyes slowly closed shut when he spoke. “Her body was made to give and receive pleasure. Her breasts are plum and ripe.” His eyes drifted open and stared at his hand on the table. He cupped his fingers. “She would spill over in my hand so plentiful is she. Her skin is a creamy white like that of rich thick cream you want to lick until full to bursting with its sweet taste. She was fashioned to drive a man to madness—and she knows precisely how to produce insanity.”