The Prize. Brenda Joyce

after another, past vases and artwork others had chosen, past a piano that was never played, aware that not one item in the house—other than his books—gave him pleasure. But he hadn’t bought the house for pleasure. He had bought it for a single purpose—revenge.

      A maid met him on the threshold of his bedroom. She was flushed and perspiring, a pretty thing with brown hair and pale skin, and briefly Devlin thought of inviting her into his bed. But she turned a brighter shade of crimson upon espying him and then fled past him and down the hall with a gasp.

      Devlin glanced after her, amused and wondering what had caused such a swift retreat. Had his intentions been that obvious? He was horny, certainly, but not aroused.

      And then he entered the master bedroom and understood.

      A blond Venus arose from the midst of his massive bed, a sheer undergarment caressing and revealing full, billowy breasts with large dusky nipples, round, lush hips, plump thighs and a dark ruby-red delta between.

      Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes smiled at him. “I received your message and came as soon as I could.”

      His loins filled as he looked at her. She belonged to his mortal enemy, a man he was slowly but surely wreaking his vengeance upon, and she aroused him as no other woman could.

      Elizabeth was very pretty, and now her green eyes moved directly to his swollen groin. “You are in need of attention, Captain,” she murmured.

      He moved forward, red-hot blood filling his brain, removing his shirt as he did so. With the raging blood came raging lust—blood lust—savage and uncontrolled. The beast always chose this moment to walk the earth. Devlin mounted her as he mounted the bed, pushing her down, unfastening his britches, thrusting his massive hardness inside.

      Elizabeth cried out in pleasure, already hot and wet. He moved as hard and fast as he could, images of Eastleigh filling his mind, gray of hair, fatter and fifty now, and then fourteen years ago, slimmer, younger, crueler. His hatred knew no bounds. It mingled with the lust. His mouth found hers and he thrust there deeply, hurtfully, grinding against her, until he had become the beast itself. Elizabeth never knew. She gripped his sweat-slickened back, keening wildly in her ecstasy.

      He wanted to release himself, too, but the hatred, the pleasure and the lust were so great and so satisfying that he refused, pounding deeper, harder, but ugly memories rode him now as he rode her…ugly, bloody glimpses of a dark and terrible past, rising fast and furious—a small boy, a headless man, a severed head, sightless eyes, a pool of blood.

      He forgot the woman he rode as the wave preceding his climax, a wave of intense, growing pleasure, turned into one of anger and pain, and he was swept forward, against all will, a wave that now unfurled like a topsail, hard and fast. Behind that wave the memories chased him. His father’s furious, sightless eyes accused him now. You let me die, you let me die. Devlin sought now only to escape, and when he climaxed, he did just that.

      There was no moment of peace, no moment of relief. Instantly he was conscious, aware of the woman he lay upon, aware of the man he was cuckolding—aware of the gruesome memories that he now must bury, at all cost. Devlin flipped over, away from the countess, breathing harshly. In that instant a painfully familiar emptiness emanated from deep within him and consumed him entirely. It was so huge, so hollow, so vast.

      Devlin leapt to his feet.

      “Good Lord, one would think you’d been without for an entire year,” Elizabeth murmured with a satisfied sigh. Then she eyed him with a small, pleased smile, her gaze lingering on his narrow hips and muscled thighs.

      Naked, Devlin hurried across the bedroom, hardly aware of her words, quickly pouring a glass of wine. He downed it in a gulp, shaken, as always, by the memories he had vowed never to forget. He drained the glass and fought the beast until it finally returned to its lair.

      “Nothing ever changes, does it, Devlin?” the countess asked, sitting up.

      He poured another glass of wine and approached her, aware of his manhood stirring. Her gaze moved to his groin and she smiled. “You are becoming terribly predictable, Devlin.”

      “I could change that easily enough,” he remarked casually, handing her the wine. As he did, he paused to admire her breasts. “You haven’t changed,” he added.

      “And you remain a gentleman, in spite of your reputation,” she said, but she was smiling and pleased. “I’m a year older, a bit fatter and lustier than ever.”

      “You haven’t changed,” he said firmly, but now he noticed the slight wrinkles at her eyes and the equally slight thickening of her waist. Elizabeth was several years his senior, although he wasn’t really certain of her age—he had never cared enough to learn what it might be. She had two adolescent daughters, and he thought, but wasn’t sure, that the eldest was fourteen or fifteen. Neither daughter belonged to Eastleigh.

      “Darling, would it ever be possible for you to lie quietly by my side?” she asked, setting her glass down and stroking his inner thigh.

      He hardened like a shot. “I have never pretended to be anything but what I am with you. I am not a quiet man.”

      “No, you are His Majesty’s Pirate, for that is what I hear you called from time to time, when your exploits become dinner conversation.” Her hand drifted upward, its back brushing his phallus as she toyed with his thigh.

      “How boring those dinners must be.” He couldn’t care less what he was called, but he didn’t bother to say so. The countess loved to chat idly after their various bouts of lovemaking. She had been the source of much of his information about Eastleigh for the past six years, so he usually encouraged her chatter.

      Now she murmured, “I have missed you, Dev.”

      There was simply nothing to be said; he took her hand and placed it firmly on his swollen shaft. “Show me,” he said.

      “Spoken like a true commander,” she said hoarsely, lowering her head.

      He hadn’t meant to give an order, but it was his nature now. He didn’t move, waiting patiently for her to nibble and lick him, watching her dispassionately as she did so. One day Eastleigh would learn of their affair—he had only to decide which moment to choose.

      Suddenly she lifted her head and smiled up at him. “Will you ever tell me that you have missed me, too?”

      Devlin tensed. “Elizabeth, there is a better time for discussion.”

      “Is there? The only time we are together is in moments like these. I wonder what beats beneath your chest? Sometimes, Dev, I do think your heart is cast of stone.”

      His erection had been complete for some time, and talking was actually painful. But he said, “Have I ever made you any promises, Elizabeth?”

      “No, you have not.” She sat up, facing him. “But it’s been six years, and oddly, I have become quite fond of you.”

      He did not respond. He did not know what to say, for once in his life at a loss.

      “I may be in love with you, Dev,” she said, her gaze riveted to his.

      Devlin stared at her attractive face, a face as enticing as her body. He carefully considered his words. He felt nothing for her, not even friendship; she was a means to an end. But he didn’t dislike her—it was her husband whom he hated, not Elizabeth Hughes. He preferred for things to remain exactly as they were—he did not wish for her to be hurt, and not out of compassion. He was not a compassionate man. The world was a battlefield, and in battle, compassion was a prelude to death. He did not want to hurt Elizabeth only because she remained so useful to him; he wanted her at his disposal, on his terms, not hurt and angry and spiteful.

      “That would not be wise,” he finally said.

      “Can’t you just pretend?” she asked wistfully. “Lie to me, just once?”

      He didn’t hesitate. He rubbed his thumb over her lips, ignoring the tear he had just glimpsed forming in her eye, and then