A Devil's Bargain

"May I ask where we are going, sir?"

The question was asked with impressive dignity for someone so obviously out of their depth and undoubtedly apprehensive over their future. Devon could feel her slim body quiver in a slight shiver.

"I have a house not far from here," he told her with as little inflection in his voice as possible. "This island is as pretty a place to live as any I have seen, once—of course—you are away from town."

"Perhaps." Her features were delicate, and the blue of her long-lashed eyes rivaled the sparkling waters of the turquoise sea. She gave a small muffled laugh that had obviously nothing to do with mirth. "Normally I suppose I would find this place lovely, but as things are…"

He slowed his mount as they skirted several stand of palm trees. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "But under the circumstances you merely wish to know why I bought you and what I intend to do with you."

"Do you blame me?"

At that soft, half-whispered question, he glanced down at the woman in front of him. Half-turned so she sat sideways on the saddle in her current state of undress, disheveled, with dirty feet and a smudge on one porcelain cheek, she nonetheless managed to have an aura of dignity despite the fact he felt her tremble again.

"No," he agreed coolly, "I don't blame you. But I think the very first thing you need to resign yourself to, Lady Isabelle, is that all the rules you are used to are suspended here. Forget civilization, forget drawing room manners and gentlemen on their knees with flowers in hand. I am not a gentleman—don't make the mistake of expecting anything from me of that sort. If that is clear between us from the start, we will deal better with each other."

They passed a bank of pink blooms that hung in a mass over a half-decayed wall of some hapless plantation home that was probably destroyed by a hurricane years ago. She didn't even seem to notice the brilliant color or sweet fragrance but stared up at him. "Deal with each other in what way?"

"What would be your guess?" Devon lifted his brows a fraction.

She might be young and have led a sheltered life, but the color that swept into her face told him she wasn't completely naïve. She stammered, "One of the other young ladies that was captured thought most of the men there wanted to purchase a…mistress. But there were women bidding also, so I thought maybe you might need a maid, or a cook…"

"The women bidding were brothel owners wanting to obtain new whores for their profitable establishments, my lady. You would have been a most popular attraction, I'm sure."

"Brothels?" The color drained abruptly from her face. "Dear God. What kind of horrible place is this?"

"I do not frequent them myself, but I'm told many of the girls service close to twenty men a day. And do not fool yourself. White slavery is not endemic to this small part of the world. London has its share of houses of ill-repute. You've just been sheltered from knowing they exist."

The horror in her lovely eyes made him feel a twinge of guilt, though what he said was perfectly true. He added neutrally, "Quite frankly, I have a hard time imagining you on your hands and knees scrubbing a floor. I would be equally surprised if a pampered aristocratic lady could whip up a culinary delight, so in direct answer to your question, no, I do not need a maid or a cook."

"Why would you need to purchase a woman for that?" she asked with what seemed to be flattering but panicked sincerity. "You are young and handsome enough that surely—"

"I'm partial to blondes," he interrupted smoothly, "and this will be convenient. I like the idea of you being available to me at all times. Like any man, I have needs that I think you can satisfy very well."

The very beautiful Lady Isabelle seemed to be struck speechless by that bland declaration.

The house came into view, set back from the sea by a long roll of beach, the park around it dotted with palms and other tropical plants that gave the grounds a lush, wild feel. Stately and large, the structure was made of brick and timber, with long wide verandas on both the first and second story and wide sets of French doors open to the ocean breeze. Devon guided his horse up the long drive and a young boy came back from the stables at his whistle. Dismounting, he lifted his reluctant guest from the saddle and led her inside with his fingers firmly clasped around her cold ones.

His housekeeper, Renata, a mulatto with beautiful coffee colored skin and big dark eyes, glided across the foyer. She bowed as she always did even though he'd told her to dispense with that formality years ago.

"This is Lady Isabelle," Devon told her succinctly. "She needs a bath and I would guess something decent to eat."

Renata gave him a glimmering look of consternation, and it was no wonder, for he guarded his privacy, and certainly never had he brought home a stray aristocratic English lady in a state of almost complete undress.

Yes, the situation was unique in every way and he had all intentions of taking advantage of it.

"Put her in my room," he said with a dark smile. "That is where she'll be sleeping."

That's where he'd fuck her.