My Lady Enslaved

She was naked! . . . And now she knew why Lia had cut the back of her thigh, Chloe thought frantically, as she tried to twist away from the English nobleman’s hands. Only he held her pinned to his tall frame by one gloved hand tightening on her buttock. She could feel the press of his black satin evening clothes touching her naked skin from her knees to her breasts. All at once he tilted her head back roughly with his fingers on her chin. She whimpered in fear, caught helplessly against the heat of him.

“Who are you so afraid of that you would mar your own beauty so?” he asked harshly, twisting her chin higher.

Take the gag off, Chloe pleaded with her eyes. Take the gag off and I will tell you.

“Do not look at me like that,” he suddenly snarled, and then he released her, backing away. “Brandy-colored doe’s eyes on a venomous bitch!” he hissed.

Chloe watched him abruptly turn away from her and stalk to the chair where he grabbed up a black leather riding quirt from the richly padded seat. She instantly jerked helplessly against the restraints holding her wrists, seeing nothing but the wicked riding quirt as she watched him turn slowly and gracefully toward her once again. He was tapping the quirt along the outside of his muscled thigh.

“Beginning to understand, are we?” The expression on his rugged features was dangerous and lethal and Chloe clenched her eyes with a terrified whimpering sound escaping her throat.

He ought to whip her, Harrison goaded himself. He ought to flay Lia’s round sleek ass red! He ought to make her cry and whimper more. Damnation, why was she doing that whimpering, he thought viciously, as he watched her. Could she play the simpering game this long and not once express any hint of defiance, anger, or lethal revenge in her dark brandy-colored eyes? Not once! Only this fear and this helplessness?

Yes! Yes, she could. Lia was the best, he savagely reminded himself. Lia had fooled Napoleon himself. She was the consummate actress in the guise of an undercover spy. He raised the quirt and watched Lia’s incredibly lovely body shuddering as large crystal teardrops slid down over the red silk gag he had tied over her mouth. He stepped closer and she sobbed, quivering like a helpless frightened doe.

“Damnation,” he swore hoarsely, throwing the quirt across his bedchamber in a violent gesture as he stood straining like a beast against its leash, clenching and unclenching his scarred hands. He dropped his chin looking down at the black leather encasing those hands. Knowing whose fault it was. Damning himself for his . . . this weakness