Free Devil's Mistress by Heather Graham

eyes and she fought hard not to cry. Yes! Yes! She promised herself. She would escape Treveryan, and she would get to the Powells! It was a promise she made to herself, a vow. It was all she could do to hang on to the shreds of her pride—and her life—and to still the misery in her heart.
    And so she continued to stare as the distance and night swallowed the shore. The pain of her heart began to fade like the shoreline, dimmed by the succor of exhaustion. It was impossible that one day had held so much. Impossible that Pegeen was dead, impossible that her fate was in the hands of an arrogant Welsh lord—whom she had come to know far too well. But he didn’t own her! And if he thought she would be waiting for him, that she would ever allow him to touch her again—he was crazy!
    A gentle shudder touched her, warm and aching. In all her dreams the man to have claimed her, loved her, would have been of a gentler sort—more determined to woo and please. But he might have stood as tall as Sloan, and he might have had his muscled, agile form. His eyes would have had such a touch of steel—or of fire that made her tremble at their gaze, too weak and stunned to do other than relish his touch.
    She smiled, bitterly, sadly. The girl she had been was gone. Her world of independence had crumbled. But she would have it again, she promised herself. She would have it again …
    All she had to do was escape Sloan Treveryan. When and where, she couldn’t know yet, but she would use her time wisely and well.
    Brianna stared out the window again. There seemed to be nothing but clouds, obscuring all vision of land, even all vision of the seemingly endless sea.
    Scotland was gone, but maybe not forever.
    But Pegeen was dead.
    Brianna took a deep, shuddering breath. Tears fell from her eyes in a sudden cascade of loss and misery. They fell, and fell, and fell, and she could not control them. She shuddered and gave up. Perhaps they could cleanse her soul and take away the terrible edge of pain.
    I will cry tonight,
she promised herself, and then I will cry no more.
    She realized that she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of the sea, not of fire, not of anything. She was just weary. Numbness and exhaustion at last took their toll upon her. She slipped out of consciousness rather than into sleep.
Chapter Five
    Sloan slowed his footsteps as he neared his cabin. He hesitated, then quietly twisted his key in the lock and silently slid the well-oiled door inward. His tread was silent as he moved toward the bunk, and he stood still again, gazing upon her by the muted light of the moon. She was curled upon the lower section of the bunk with no pillow beneath her head. Watching her, he thought of how he had first seen her lying upon the bed at the tavern. Then, he had been fascinated by her. And he still was.
    He bent to see her closer, and noticed the tears that had dried upon her cheeks. A strange feeling of tenderness assailed him as he watched her; how horrible it must have been for her to see one she loved murdered so cruelly, and to know that the same fate awaited her.
    Sloan straightened. It was over. She was in his care now and there she would have to stay. She was so desperately fighting him that she could not see her own danger. She didn’t realize that she was condemned without a trial. He could not bring her to her family because Matthews would find her.
    He sighed and strode the few steps to his desk, where he pulled out the captain’s chair, sat, and stretched his booted legs comfortably over the teakwood corner. From the bottom left drawer he drew out a pint of Caribbean dark rum and drank a long draft from it, wincing slightly as the potent brew burned down his throat.
    Rubbing his temple, he began to think of his own future, and of the business that had brought him to Glasgow. Ostensibly, he had been selling tobacco. In truth, he had been sent by a London delegation to ferret out the political climate in the city.
    The same English