Page 46 of Lord of Temptation
She squeezed his hand. “I hate that they hurt you so badly.”
He didn’t want her sympathy. It made him feel weak, not quite the man he knew himself to be.
“It all worked out satisfactorily in the end.” He turned to face her. Her hair was loose, flying in the wind. The moon was full, and her features were limned by its pale glow. Touching her cheek, he felt the dampness of her cooling tears. “But what am I to do about you?”
She smiled sweetly. “Remember me, perhaps.” Her inflection was that of a question, doubt, insecurity.
“That I most certainly will do.”
He captured her mouth, relishing the taste and feel of her. That she scared the bloody hell out of him was something to be dealt with another day, another night. For now, he was greedy for whatever more she would give him. He would leave her in port. He would watch her march away, disappear into the fog-enshrouded shadows—
He would be left behind, but this time it was what he wanted. He wanted to sail the seas. He wanted to command his ship, his men. He wanted only memories of her.
She would waltz in ballrooms, walk through parks, and flirt with gentlemen. She would be sought-after, desired. She would have a husband and children. She would possess everything that he had no aspirations to own.
So it was with a measure of regret for what he could not give her that he swept her into his arms and returned to his bed for what he could bestow on her.
Tristan, Tristan, Tristan.
She murmured his name as she nibbled on his neck and ear while he carried her to his cabin as though she weighed little more than a cloud hovering on the distant horizon. How strange that she had never thought he looked like a Jack to her, had never called to him by what she thought his name was until after they’d made love.
And only then to discover that his true name was Tristan. It suited him. Jack was too common. But Tristan belonged with the dashing sea captain.
He shouldered his way into his quarters and kicked the door closed without releasing his hold on her. He set her on her feet near the bed. She quickly undid the buttons on her gown and let it slide down her body. It was all she’d bothered to put on before seeking him out on deck.
She saw his eyes darken with appreciation just before he dragged his shirt over his head. He unfastened his trousers and dropped them. Would she ever tire of the sight of him straining with desire for her?
When he made a move to come in for another kiss, she stayed him with a hand on his chest. “Not yet.”
She knew once he claimed her mouth again, she would be lost to the sensations and would allow him to steer the pleasure. “I want a moment at the helm.”
He flashed a purely masculine predatory grin. “By all means.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it dim when she eased behind him.
“Anne—”
“Shh, Tristan.” She studied the crisscross of lines marring his back. “How many? How many lashes?”
“The first time or the second?”
His voice held no emotion. He might as well have been asking if she preferred marmalade or jam. “It happened more than once?”
“I had a lot of anger in me.”
She trailed her finger over the longest, thickest welt. Crimson Jack. Covered in blood. “How old were you?”
“Princess, this is hardly conversation that will lead to seduction.”
“How old?”
She felt him tense beneath her touch, heard him swallow.
“Fourteen.”
She slammed her eyes closed. She hoped she’d been wrong. That he’d been a man better able to withstand the pain and humiliation of it. She pressed her lips to the center of his back, for the boy he’d been, the man he was.
“Is he still alive ... the man who did this to you?”
