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lark.
    Jamie hadn’t found it funny. And he hadn’t forgotten. Somehow he had to convince Sheff his gift was being well used so that Sheff would seek his own sport elsewhere.
    Then he had to spirit Brighid away from here. She was not safe. Jamie knew as soon as he was gone, Sheff would do whatever he chose with her. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, Jamie couldn’t let that happen. For now, however, he was a player on a stage. He needed to remember his lines.
    “That’s better. Just relax.” He spoke aloud for the benefit of his audience. “I will try to give you pleasure if you let me.”
    “Tis only shame you’ll bring me.” Her voice quavered. “You’re sure of that, are you?” He drew her earlobe into his mouth, nibbled the exposed flesh of her neck. He felt her quick intake of breath and knew she was not sure.
    But he felt no sense of triumph, only fury at the circumstances. When Sheff had said he had a special gift for Jamie, Jamie had thought perhaps Sheff was giving him a pup from one of his prized bitches or a fantastically expensive bottle of cognac. Then the servants had opened the door, and she’d walked forward out of the dim hallway, a look of terror on her young, pale face. At once, Jamie had been struck by two overpowering emotions.
    The first was rage as hot as any fire in hell. He’d never imagined Sheff could treat an innocent maid like a whore, like chattel to be given away against her will. The second emotion was lust as primal as the ocean tide. Dressed in a gown of light blue silk, the dusky rose of her nipples visible behind the lace of her bodice, she was the most desirable woman Jamie had ever seen. He’d wanted her then.
    He wanted her now.
    He set her from him, removed his stock, began to unbutton his waistcoat.
    She clutched her chemise to her breasts, looked at the floor, stepped away from him.
    “You are beautiful, Brighid. But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.” He tossed his waistcoat carelessly onto a nearby chair, bent to loosen the buckles at his knees. Why he should waste time on such words was beyond him—he wasn’t really making love to her, after all. Then again, he’d only spoken the truth.
    “Father Padraig says beauty is a curse for Irish women.” There was fear in her voice, but her words were lilting, her accent enticing.
    Jamie removed his shoes and stockings, tossed them aside. “Then you are likely the most cursed woman I’ve ever seen.”
    Her head snapped up. There was anger in her eyes, behind it desperation. “Tis no laughing matter, my lord. I am here against my will, a prisoner.” “I’m not laughing.” Jamie reached for the fall of his breeches, began to unbutton them. “And I’m no lord.” She looked at him curiously for a moment before her gaze fell to what his hands were doing. She gasped, looked away.
    Jamie pulled his breeches down over his thighs. They joined his waistcoat on the chair. Then he realized the men in her life were likely unable to afford linen for drawers. She probably thought he was standing before her bare from the waist down.
    He removed his shirt, tossed it aside. “Brighid, look at me.”
    She shook her head.
    He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, tucked a finger beneath her chin, forced her to meet his gaze. “You’re trembling again.”
    “ I . . . I cannot help it. I’ve ne’er been so near a man. I want to go home.”
    Her fear, her unhappiness tore at him. “How old are you, love?”
    “Almost eighteen.”
    “In all your years, has no man ever kissed you?” His fingers sought the pins that held her hair, began to remove them one by one.
    She shivered. “No.”
    “Has no man even tried?”
    “A few have tried.”
    Her hair fell in a glorious mass to her hips, thick, dark, and soft as silk. The warm scent of roses filled the air. The feminine sweetness of it was torture. “And did you make them suffer?” He ran his fingers through her tresses.
    Her eyes closed. “M-my brothers