Devil's Mistress

by Heather Graham

Genres: Historical Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

HE IS A MAN POSSESSED—BY A WOMAN WHOSE BEAUTY DRIVES MEN TO MADNESS.
 
If there was ever a devil who could lure and seduce the innocent, Lord Sloan Treveryan is that man. Captain of the Sea Hawk and bound to the king’s business, Treveryan may be a lord but he is no gentleman. Yet even he cannot ignore a lady in distress—or the temptation she provides.

Bewitched by Brianna MacCardle’s beauty, Scottish inquisitors have called her the devil’s own. Though Treveryan saves her from the witch-hunter’s clutches, how can she be grateful? He has carried Brianna off to America, claimed her, and taken her innocence. She vows that he will never capture her heart. But against her will she begins to fall in love—while swearing to reap revenge against the arrogant lord who has made her the devil’s mistress.

Release date: February 1, 2012

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1
Glasgow, Scotland: August, 1688
 
 The sky was ominously gray. People lined the common and the streets, their faces resembling that silent, brooding sky. Oh, there were those with bloodlust in their eyes, but most of the spectators awaiting the execution were as somber as the air with its hovering expectancy, as grave as the death pall around them.
 
“She comes! She comes! Blessed saints preserve us!” The cry went out as the procession came forward led by fat old Father Timothy, his jowls heavy, his rheumy eyes bleary with tears, for he was a kind old man, only carrying out his duty. Behind him walked Matthews, a tall handsome man, with broad shoulders, wearing his tall hat and cape with an arrogant air. His intense eyes were as dark as his hair and filled with determination and the wrath of God. His face was young, his eyes as old as death. Following him was the cowled executioner, the man who would light the flame.
 
And then … came the witch.
 
The woman in the rickety cart that was made more unsteady by the mud and pockmarked road and was surrounded by the official witchfinder’s lackeys, was not ranting or raving. She did not stare at the spectators with fire and brimstone in her eyes. She threatened no repercussions upon those who so self-righteously abused her. Instead, her beautiful blue eyes were filled with sadness and pity for those about her. Her eyes were about all that was left of her once great beauty!
 
Torture was illegal in these times. But a murmur went through the crowd, for it was obvious that she had, indeed, suffered serious abuse while the court sought her confession. Her gown was stained with blood, her complexion more pale than a summer’s cloud, and she could barely stand.
 
“God bless you and keep you, lady!” a voice called out.
 
The witchfinder stopped in his tracks, his eyes raking over the crowd. His silence created a tension as still as the day, as terrifying as the portent of lightning.
 
Nothing else was said. He began to walk again.
 
The cart drew up before the stake. The kindling set below the stake was raw, damp, and thick. The region executioners’ duty was abhorrent to them; therefore they had done everything in their power to assure that dense smoke would rise quickly, asphyxiating the poor lady before the flames touched her flesh.
 
A sob suddenly broke the stillness but was quickly hushed. To sympathize with one condemned for witchcraft was a quick path “to inquisition by the witchfinder. And once the witchfinder had pointed his finger, there was little chance of remaining alive.…
 
Pegeen MacCardle, her midnight hair caught by the wind, tried to stand. “Help me, good sir,” she told her executioner with quiet dignity. The man’s body spoke of his fear. Beyond the ashen gray of her features Pegeen offered him a beautiful smile. “If they would burn me, good sir, they must first attach me to the stake.”
 
The witchfinder nodded to the executioner. Pegeen was carried and tied to the stake. She offered no resistance as she was bound. Her crimes and sentence were read to the assembled crowd; then she was given her last chance to speak.
 
“Pray for me, friends,” she said, her voice gentle yet ringing clearly through the somber air and rising tension. “Pray that I meet my Maker quickly, and that I may abide with Him, as I will pray for you that He may guard all of you from the demons that walk the land under the order of a pathetically misguided king. I do, even here, pray for our sovereign James, that he may see the error of his ways, and find his own welcome in the home of our merciful God.”
 
“Enough!” roared the witchfinder. Merciful God, he wondered, could he not get this over with! He was not a man immune to temptation, and he had fallen prey to her great beauty himself. He had fallen into wicked ways, for she had bewitched him. He would have saved her—oh, God, he would have saved her—had it not been for her pride, and surely for her lust for the devil. He had been so bewitched he had almost forgotten his commitment in life, his determination to fight the devil. He had begged to take her into his own bed, to take her away, and she had denied him. When he looked at her, he saw his own failure, the weakness of his own flesh. Die! he cried out silently. Die with your carnal lust for the devil in your heart, and leave me in peace.
 
The witchfinder nodded his head gravely toward the executioner.
 
The masked man was trembling. Pegeen closed her eyes tightly for a minute. “Before God!” she said, weeping quietly. “Light the flame! Let it end!”
 
The fire was lit.
 
“Burn, witch! Burn!” The cries rang in a chanting crescendo.
 
The flames rose in an outer ring, soaring to touch the sky, but not brushing Pegeen. In between the angry flashes of blood-red, bright orange, and brilliant yellow, her face could be seen, her eyes staring upward, a blue as beautiful as the sky. Then her face was blotted out by a wall of flame.
 
She emitted one high-pitched, shattering scream that rent the air as cleanly as the stroke of a knife. Its echoes held the spectators in a haunting silence.
 
She was dead before the flames touched the hem of her skirt, asphyxiated by the pummels of dense smoke that turned the gray air almost black.
 
She was spared the hungry consumption of her flesh by the fire, but the spectators were not. The terrible scent, acrid, permeating, embraced them, held them in a grip of mortal terror. It stung the eyes, it filled the lungs, it hideously pervaded their senses and their souls. Many were held in the dark grip of their conscience, ready to cry out now against the horrible death. But it was too late.
 
The crowd remained silent. Pegeen, the witch, the lady, the healer, was gone. To move, to speak now, could do nothing for her. She was in God’s hands while they were still alive. Matthews and his men watched for any reaction with sharp eyes.
 
But suddenly, from the rear of the crowded throng, a scream rang out, again and again, shattering, haunting echoes of the first, wave after wave of agony, of despair, of abject horror. The screams were, in fact, so similar to that first one emitted by the witch, that even Matthews was seized for a moment by chills that tore through his spine. It was as if the witch were still alive, mocking him.
 
He shook off his trembling and started walking through the crowd, searching out the perpetrator who had momentarily terrified him. It was difficult even for his determined stalking frame to pass through the people who hovered there in confusion, looking about. The smoke was very thick; people hacked and wheezed; ladies brought little sachets of fragrance to their noses in futile attempts to escape the stink of death.
 
Finally, the witchfinder saw the girl.
 
Again the chills of trembling terror temporarily debilitated him. He was stunned; caught motionless by fear. For as her screams had mocked him, had haunted him, so did her appearance.
 
Her hair was black, as black as a moonless night, so very dark and glossy that it might have been indigo. It was loose, and it waved in curls over her shoulders, down the length of her back.
 
Her skin was as pure as snow, as smooth as marble. Her coloring was ashen at the moment, but beneath her pallor lurked a complexion of ivory and rose. Her tense, white lips were full and shapely. Matthews could imagine, as he stood in his paralyzed state, that when she laughed her mouth would be like a rose, red and soft, and would taste like wine, sweet and potent.
 
She was the witch! Oh, sweetest Jesus! He had burned the witch, but she had come back. The devil had taken her from the flames, given her succor, and brought her back to haunt him, tempt him, beguile him, rob him of his senses and his manhood.
 
The townspeople knew who she was. This was no ghost to haunt them, but merely Brianna, Pegeen’s niece. She had lived in the forest with her aunt, growing wild and beautiful beneath Pegeen’s gentle tutelage.
 
Those who had opposed the execution, and those who had held doubts, no longer wavered. They had watched one die in the flames. Enough. They saw Brianna now—in the wake of that terror—for what she was: young, with all the loveliness and freshness of youth. She was one of them and they were proud of her exceptional beauty. Perhaps they hadn’t the nerve to risk their own lives, but if they could, they would help her.
 
Matthews kept staring at her, trembling inwardly.
 
She looked like Pegeen MacCardle but she was much younger. She was a girl still, but a maiden as tempting as ripe fruit, in the full bloom of youthful grace. In a plain dress of simple gray homespun she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen walk the earth.
 
Something stirred within Matthews’s state of spellbound fear. That something was desire, as riddling and gripping as the fear.
 
The look she gave him was of the most contemptuous disgust and horror he had ever witnessed. He was, he knew, from the clear message in her crystal-blue eyes, more heinous to her than the lowest of rats or snakes.