He uncrossed his leg and spread his knees wide. "Kneel down." It was said softly but it carried a weight of demand with it.

  Clutching the towel at her breasts, Bailey dropped as gracefully as she could to her knees. She fastened her attention on the sharp crease that ran along his pant leg.

  "Look at me."

  Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her eyes to his. What she saw made her chin tremble. His face was expressionless but there was anger in the depths of the gray orbs looking back at her.

  For a long time he said nothing, just stared at her. It was unnerving and her heart was slamming against her ribcage. She feared what he would do, what he would make her do. When he finally spoke, she flinched as though he had lifted a hand to hit her.

  "Did you enjoy his kiss, wench?"

  Terror flooded Bailey's soul at those words. He knew she had been with Doyle, that the Resistance leader had kissed her.

  “H…how did you know he…?”

  "Answer me," he snapped, his eyes flaring.

  She shook her head. "No, Milord."

  "No you didn't enjoy it, or no you didn't allow that scum-bag to put his mouth on yours?"

  There was in his question absolute fury but it seemed to be firmly in check. Though the words were harsh, they had been spoken quietly. She watched something

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  dark, lethal, flare in his gaze.

  "Answer me, wench!"

  "I did not enjoy his kiss, Milord," she replied quickly, fearing his wrath.

  He leaned forward and snaked out his hands to grab her shoulders and pull her toward him. She had no choice but to hobble on her knees as close to the chair as possible, feeling trapped between his spread legs.

  "Put yours hand up on my thighs," he ordered.

  She obeyed, all too aware that his face was just inches from hers. When he leaned back, she let out a wavering breath.

  "Since Doyle was lying in wait for you I can not blame you for what the bastard did," he said softly. "However had you told me you enjoyed it, I might well have taken a blade to him before the day was out and spilled his worthless guts for the buzzards to peck at."

  Her heart seemed to stop beating at the callous way in which he'd made that statement. Without realizing it, her hands tightened on his thighs.

  He looked down at her hands, at her thumb digging into the insides of his thighs but made no comment. Instead, he put a hand to her cheek and gently cupped her face, ignoring the wince that creased her lovely face.

  “You asked how I knew he’d kissed you,” he said. “I have men watching you for me. That’s how I knew.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” she said, trembling. “I swear I haven’t.”

  “I know you haven’t.”

  “Then why are you having me followed?” she asked and winced at her temerity.

  "Because you belong to me," he said and as her green eyes widened, he nodded slowly. "Your uncle has handed you into my keeping."

  "No, Milord," she said. "He…"

  He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her lips, cutting off what she had been about to say. "You are mine," he stated. "Accept it for that isn’t going to change."

  "But why?" she asked, her fear of him intensifying to make her voice break.

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  "Why did he give you to me?" he asked, caressing her cheek. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Because I wanted you." He leaned forward. "Without a dowry of any kind."

  That stunned her. What man could possibly want her without the money and land that should have accompanied the deal? In her world, a woman was worth only what could be offered her betrothed to take her off her parents’ or guardian's hands. It was unheard of for a man to accept a female without due compensation unless…

  The blood drained from Bailey's face. "You want me for your whore," she said, her lips quivering. "Not as your wife, but as your…"

  He once again stopped what she'd been about to say but it was not with his thumb. This time it was with his lips. He took her mouth firmly, expertly, and it was the most soul-shattering experience of her life. He tasted of sweet wine and his tongue was a wicked tease that flicked across her lips and thrust knowingly into her the warm recess of her mouth. He took her breath away with that kiss and when it ended, she stared into silver eyes hot with passion.

  "I want you, wench," he said. "It's as simple as that."

  He gave her no chance to reply to that declaration. He swept his arm around her back, bent forward, and twisted so he could hook his other arm under her knees and lifted her as easily as if she had been a toddler. She had no choice but to put her arms around his brawny neck. With purposeful steps he carried her from the living area down the hallway and into her bedchamber.

  It was happening so fast Bailey's mind could not comprehend it. She felt his arms around her, his hard chest, his warm breath fanning across her chest where the towel did not reach. She had a sense of his alluring male smell that befuddled her senses and sent waves of something heavy to pool between her legs. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples tingling, swelling, and moisture was gathering in the folds of her vagina.

  Striding to her bed, he placed her on the coverlet then straightened up. His hands went to the buckle of his black leather belt and Bailey began to tremble. She watched with stricken eyes and quivering lips as the belt came off and he began to tug the silk shirt from the waistband of his pants.

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  She knew it would do no good to plead with him. Neither women nor men ever denied a Modartha what he desired. It was a deadly thing to even contemplate. What he wanted, he would get and to fight him would be suicide. All she could do was lie there-rigid and trembling--as the shirttail came out of the pants and he began unbuttoning it.

  He surprised her when he smiled for his entire face changed. For the first time she realized how devastatingly handsome he was when he wasn't scowling.

  "You look like a sacrificial lamb lying there, wench," he said as he shrugged the shirt from his shoulders.

  His chest was sculpted with pectoral muscles that looked as though a master sculptor had cast them. Likewise his abdominal muscles were ridged, chiseled from the same tawny stone. A thick matting of hair spread across his upper chest and tapered down to a thin, tantalizing line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. He unhooked his fly and eased the zipper down before turning and sitting down on her bed to pull off his boots, dropping them to the floor.

  With his back to her, Bailey saw the infamous tattoo that all Modartha had emblazoned on their bodies. Reaching from his left collarbone to the flange of his right hip, the large black tat was a stylized whorl of a dragon in flight, fire flaming from its open mouth, its leathery wing-tips stretching from shoulder to shoulder, the spiked tail curving around his hip, the end of it hidden by the front of his pants. It must have taken the tattoo artist hours to do the intricate swirls and knots that constituted the complex drawing and much of it--she knew--had been done on sensitive parts of his flesh. When he stood up to push his pants from his hips, she blushed to see the dragon's claws cupped his buttocks, the wicked talons seemingly digging into his flesh. As he turned around, she looked quickly away for the dragon's tail flanged down and around his hip to curl suggestively around his penis, the barbed tip drawn on the soft head.

  "That must have hurt," she said before she thought.

  "Like a motherfucker," he replied with a snort. "It hurt to pee for days."

  She instinctively moved over to allow him to stretch out beside her. Very conscious that the only thing between her naked body and his was the towel wrapped

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  around her, she kept very still.

  "You won't be my whore, wench," he said. He had one leg crooked as he laid there, one arm over his chest and the other lying between her and him.

  "Then what will I be, Milord?" she risked asking him as she felt him reach for her hand and then thread his fingers through hers.

  "My wife," he said. "There was never any doubt of that."

  She turned her head to look at him. "What?"

  He shrugged. "Unless you prefer being my whore," he replied.

  "No, Milord!" she said and felt her face burn with heat.

  "You could do worse," he said and shifted so he was lying on his side facing her. He propped his head on his hand. "Being the lady of a Modartha does have its perks."

  Bailey had never wanted to marry. She enjoyed her freedom too much to be at the beck-and-call of any man. The few stolen kisses and quick feels she'd had in her secondary years at school had been unfulfilling and simply underscored the notion that males wanted one thing and one thing only from females. She reasoned she could do without the sex, and having children was not something she even contemplated for she didn't believe she'd make a good mother.

  She hadn't counted on her uncle wanting to get rid of her bad enough that he would hand her over to a licensed killer.

  "What worries you, wench?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he slid his free arm over her belly and tugged at the towel. "You can talk freely to me."

  Talking freely to a Modartha was something she knew could be dangerous. Though his voice was soft and his fingers were lightly squeezing hers, she could sense the coiled menace lurking just beneath his civilized exterior.

  "You hurt me, Milord," she said and could have bitten her tongue off for voicing such a thing to him. Modartha were above the law and he had every right to do whatever he felt like to her.

  Van Byrne winced. She was looking at him with reproach, with apprehension that had settled deep in her pretty green eyes. Like everyone else, she was in mortal fear of

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  him and he could sense that--almost smell it on her.

  "Wench," he said. "I'm going to do something I've never done before in my life." He held her reluctant gaze. "I wish to apologize to you for what I did in the alley."

  Bailey blinked, amazed at what he was saying. Modartha never showed contrition, never asked for forgiveness, or expressed regret at anything they did. To hear him apologize shocked her. When he continued, all she could do was stare wide eyed at him, her lips parted in amazement. What he was doing was completely unheard of.

  "It was wrong what I did and my only explanation was that I was attempting to frighten you into staying away from Doyle and his merry band of conspirators. The man is dangerous and, sooner rather than later, he will hang for his crimes. What I told you about the dungeon was true. I wasn't exaggerating. Such things would have happened to you had you been caught in the net waiting to snare Kona Doyle." He lowered his head.

  "I am sorry."

  Stunned, Bailey just shook her head. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. Tears filled her eyes. "It isn't right."

  Van drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly before answering. "I was assigned to do a job for Senator Flynn and I did it." He cocked one shoulder. "I didn't count on that assignment backfiring on me."

  Her forehead crinkled. "I don't understand."

  He had not been looking at her but at her bedspread--thinking how pretty it was-but he lifted his head at her question. "I couldn't get you out of my mind. I had your scent on my uniform and it beckoned to me all evening. I deliberately didn’t wash my hand so I cold smell your scent clinging to my fingers.”

  Bailey’s face burned so hot at his unseemly words that she felt her ears tingle.

  “I thought about you all night, all the next morning. When I met with your uncle and he offered you to me, I jumped at the chance to have you for my own. If he hadn’t offered you to me, I would have informed him I was taking you anyway."

  Unease flowed through Bailey but she knew there was nothing that could undo what her uncle had set into motion. She now belonged to the Modartha whether she liked

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  it or not. She was his chattel, his property, his possession. That thought made her groan.

  "I will be good to you," she heard him say and for the first time saw a flicker of uncertainty in his silver gaze. She also thought she detected a trace of vulnerability and that surprised her even more.

  "I won't ever hurt you and I won't allow anyone else to hurt you," he said.

  If she had to be married, she supposed being Joined to a man as powerful and influential as a Modartha would have its perks as he'd said. Without realizing it, she looked around her cramped bedroom with its institutional beige walls she was not allowed to paint, at the beige drapes she'd not been allowed to change. The only true mark of her own personal taste was in the vibrant mauve, teal green and rose coverlet she had purchased to add a touch of color to the otherwise bland room.

  He saw where she was looking and reached out a hand to cup her cheek.

  "Whatever you wish to do to my quarters, I will allow for it will be your quarters, too. I will not gainsay you, wench. I…"

  "Bailey," she said softly, searching his handsome face for a touch of gentleness.

  "My name is Bailey."

  He almost smiled. "Bailey," he repeated and her name on his lips sent a chill down her spine.

  She knew she had no choice and what she did from that moment forward would determine what her life with the Modartha would be like. Dredging up all the courage she had, resolved that she would be more than just his plaything, she lifted her hand and laid her palm over his hand that still cupped her cheek.

  Her touch was like liquid lightning flowing up his arm and it was all he could do not to throw himself upon her and claim what was rightfully his. He had to stamp down the desire that was raging at him to take her. He knew she was a virgin, had never lain with a man, and he wanted her first time to be a memory she would not regret. Along with that reflection was the recollection of how he had shamed her in the alley.

  "You hurt me," she had said.

  "Forgive me," he whispered. "For humiliating you as I did."

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  It wasn't just shock at his words that made Bailey stop breathing. It was the look on his face. His gaze was searching hers for that absolution he sought. Men like him did not do this. They did not seek pardon for their transgression. That he did unnerved her. It somehow made him more human in her eyes.

  "We won't speak of it again," she said, not knowing what else to say.

  He nodded and his hand slid from her cheek to the top of the towel tucked in at her breast but before he tugged at it, he lifted his gaze to hers as though seeking permission. That, too, completely astonished her and all she could do was nod. She lowered her arm to her side--completely aware that his right hand still clutched hers between them and that he was half-lying on their arms.

  Very gently he pulled at the terry-cloth material until the tuck came undone. He tugged the material toward him then carefully reached between her side and his to pluck at the edge of the towel that hid her breasts from his view. He laid it aside to entirely reveal her lush beauty.

  Self-conscious at a man seeing her unclothed for the first time in her life, Bailey turned her head away from him to stare blindly at the drapery clad windows. She felt his fingers tense on hers as he put his free hand to her neck, spanning it with his warm, calloused palm. She tensed, going as rigid as stone.

  "Relax," he whispered. His hand was stroking the column of her neck softly.

  His attention was on her perfect breasts that were rising and falling with each ragged intake of breath. When she still lay there unyielding to his gentle touch, he bid her look at him.

  Bailey moved her head on the pillow to do as he ordered and when their eyes met, she found herself drawn into the silvery maelstrom swirling there. For just a split second she had seen something dark and lethal then it had dissolved and what she watched as his face came closer to hers was something she could not identify.

  It was desire--stark and driving and undeniable--as Van lowered his lips to hers and took possession of her mouth. He swept over her and pressed his chest upon her bare breasts. The tickle of his chest hair abraded her nipples and sent wave after wave of

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  intense longing through her body. His tongue was dueling with hers and pulling her down into the abyss from which there would be no return. He nibbled on her lower lip, swept his tongue across her upper teeth, and thrust that wicked muscle deep into her mouth.

 

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