Lord of Temptation by Lorraine Heath

claim what was due him.
    Unfortunately, he suspected she was headed for
heaven, which was barred to him.
    Rubbing her neck, Tristan listened to her soft
breathing. Her arm was bared, and his gut again clenched at the sight of the
mottled flesh where he’d grabbed her. She’d have a nasty bruise by tomorrow. If
he could only touch it and draw it upon himself, he’d gladly do so. He doubted
she’d ever been so brutally handled.
    He was truly the barbarian that the Londoners
considered him.
    He was also—in spite of wearing a coat out into the
storm—damp and chilled. If she’d not been drowning in her own misery she might
have noticed and insisted he change into dry clothes. Not that he would have
with her awake. But with her asleep . . .
    He eased his hands away from her. She didn’t stir.
As gingerly as possible he rose from the bed and crept to a chair where he
removed his boots. Then he grabbed a linen towel and rubbed it briskly over his
wet hair, before finger combing the strands back. He was exhausted. Every muscle
ached from fighting the storm.
    What he truly wanted was to lie in his own bed,
curl his arm around her, and sleep the sleep of the dead. But he supposed for
tonight it was either the floor here or a hammock in the area where his men
slept.
    Wearily, he forced himself to his feet and wandered
over to the chest where he kept his extra clothes. He dragged his shirt over his
head and tossed it aside, before lifting the heavy lid.
    “Oh, dear God, whatever did they do to your
back?”
    He froze, fighting against the need to hide the
unsightly latticework of scars that marred his back. He forced a casualness into
his voice that he was far from feeling as he grabbed a shirt. “I thought you
were asleep.”
    “No, only drifting about. Those are lash marks,
aren’t they?”
    He slammed down the lid and shoved his arms into
his shirt, before jerking it down over his head and shoulders, welcoming the
knowledge that with the material in place, the ugliness was once again hidden.
“They’re nothing.”
    “They must have hurt terribly.”
    “For a short time, yes,” he gritted out.
    “But the pain long remembered, I should think.”
    Shoring himself up to ignore the pity in her eyes,
he gazed over at her. She was sitting up, clutching the blanket high at her
throat with both hands, as though that could protect her from him. Her eyes were
wide damp saucers. Damnation but he never flaunted his scars and he hated that
she’d seen them. “I believe that’s the point, Princess.”

Chapter 8
    H e was angry at her, furious in fact, judging by the tautness in his features. And so profoundly proud, standing there so magnificently, almost rebelliously, trying to show that the scars didn’t matter, that they were nothing. She wished she hadn’t seen how terribly he’d been hurt. But she had and she couldn’t undo what she’d seen. She felt sicker in her stomach now than she had during the worst part of the storm.
    He’d been a lad when he’d gone to sea, seeking adventure, not much younger than Mouse. Had he been as slender, as vulnerable? Had he been near that age when he felt the bite of the whip? Had he screamed? Had he cried? Had he begged them to stop?
    “How can men do that to another?” she asked.
    “It’s standard practice on a ship when someone isn’t behaving . . . quite properly,” he bit out.
    “Do you take the lash to your men?”
    “No, but then none were forced aboard my ship against their wishes. They share in the bounty. They work together because it adds coins to their pockets.”
    “You said you went to sea for adventure. Were you forced—”
    “No,” he interrupted before she could finish her question.
    A knock sounded, and relief washed over his face as though the disturbance would bring a natural end to this conversation, which he obviously loathed. She watched as he strode across the room, his hair freely grazing over his wide shoulders. She wondered what he would