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  “No,” she whispered, trying with all her might to pull away from his mesmerizing gaze.

  His arm, strong and powerful, went around her waist, pulling her to him, bending her backward into an arc.

  Weakly, she fought against him, wanting so much to defy him, to prove to him that she was her own person, but his touch, his lips on hers, drove her senseless.

  “You’ll do what I say, love,” Travis growled, lifting her off the floor, his lips nuzzling her neck. “You’re mine for as long as I want you.”

  Closing her eyes, leaning her head back, giving her body completely to his touch, she had no idea of escaping this man who controlled her so easily. When she heard the sound of tearing cloth, and felt her chemise give, she began to struggle once again.

  “Mine,” Travis whispered. “I found you, and you’re mine.”

  There was no time for her to think as Travis pushed her back against the wall, her small body pinned there by the strength and size of him.

  His kisses became ravenous, as if he meant to devour her. Her own breath was coming faster and faster as her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingertips digging into his flesh through his shirt, trying to pull him close enough to crush her.

  One of Travis’s hands lustfully traveled down her bare hip, stroked her thigh, and lifted her leg so that it rested on his hip. Eagerly, Regan grasped his body with her legs, her ankles hooked behind him, her weight supported by him as he stroked and caressed her bottom.

  His hands moved excitingly, teasingly, driving her to a passionate frenzy. When his clothes fell from the lower half of his body, she didn’t know. Only when he lifted her, his hands about her waist, and set her down on his manhood did her eyes open, but only for an instant.

  She was completely in his power, unable to move on her own, her back to the wall, her legs clutching his hips, as he began to lift her, to control her movements, guiding her. Feeling his body against her, the undulations of his hips under her thighs, the driving force of him threatened to drive her insane. Clutching his hair in her fingers, she pulled as Travis leaned harder into her, threatening to break her, to merge his flesh with hers, to consume her. With his might he easily picked her up and lowered her, again and again, faster and faster, until she screamed under the pressure of her sweet torment. Crushingly, Travis’s mouth came down on hers as he collapsed against her, her legs like a steel vice about him, her body shuddering, weak and helpless, sated, exhausted.

  Gradually, she began to become aware of where she was and who she was, her body pliant, boneless against Travis’s proud muscularity. He was kissing her damp neck lovingly, his arms under her bottom, supporting her. Carrying her like a child, he took her to the bed and laid her down as if she were the most precious, most delicate substance ever created.

  Tiredly, as if he too had no bones left, he removed his shirt and lay beside her. “No supper tonight either,” he murmured, but there did not seem to be any regret in his voice. With his last bit of strength, he pulled Regan to him, their skin sticking together from their mutual sweatiness.

  “How could I ever let you leave me?” he whispered before they both fell asleep.

  Chapter 8

  IN THE MORNING, REGAN COULD HARDLY MEET TRAVIS’S eyes. The way he looked at her—so smug, so sure of himself—made her want to toss a knife at him. He seemed to think he knew everything about her, that he had complete control over her, that he merely had to crook his finger and she belonged to him.

  How very much she’d like to wipe that expression off his face; just once she’d like to see him not get what he thought was his.

  As they were eating, Sarah Trumbull gave a quick knock at the door before entering. “Oh! Excuse me,” she said. “Usually the two of you are gone by this time.”

  “Have some breakfast, Sarah,” Travis said, smiling smugly, and looking at Regan as if he understood exactly why she was avoiding his eyes.

  But Sarah was more interested in a torn piece of muslin that yesterday had been a dress she had just made the day before. Chuckling, giving Travis a mock look of reprimand, she said, “Travis, if you’re going to treat all my handiwork like this, there’s no need for me to keep on sewing.”

  Running his hand through his hair, glancing quickly at Regan’s averted face, he laughed. “I’ll try to control myself. Now I need to help on deck. The captain is a bit short-handed this trip. Although,” he grinned, “I may not have much energy left.” He kissed Regan’s cool cheek before he left the cabin.

  A sigh to rival a hurricane escaped Sarah as she gazed longingly at the closed door. “If there were any more men like him, I might be tempted to get married.”

  If Regan had known any foul words, she would have used them. “Don’t you have work to do?” she snapped.

  Regan’s tone didn’t phase Sarah. “I’d be jealous too if he were mine.”

  “He isn’t—!” she began hostilely, then stopped. “Travis Stanford belongs to no one,” she said at last, before beginning to clear the breakfast dishes and put them on a tray.

  Sarah decided to change the subject. “Do you know that man in the cabin across from yours?”

  “David Wainwright? We met, but that’s all. Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve been in your cabin for two days now, sewing on your new clothes, and I’ve never heard a sound from him. I thought perhaps he was helping with the men who are ill.”

  Frowning, Regan decided to investigate, excused herself to Sarah, and left the cabin. Even though she worked in the stench every day, the smell that hit her when she opened David’s cabin was overpowering. The heavy darkness of the room caused her to pause for quite some time on the threshold, her eyes searching for Mr. Wainwright.

  Finally, in what looked like a heap of filthy rags, she found him huddled on the window seat, his body shivering. Crossing to him, she saw immediately that he had a fever, that his eyes burned dangerously bright, and, by the tone of his ramblings, that he was delirious.

  A noise at the door caused her to turn to see Sarah looking at the room in horror. “How could anyone live in this?”

  “Would you tell Travis to send down some hot water, please?” Regan said firmly. “Tell him to send a great deal of it—and I’ll need washing rags and soap, too.”

  “Of course,” Sarah said quietly, not envying Regan the task she had ahead of her.

  Sunlight filtered through the windows in David Wainwright’s cabin, touching on Regan’s hair, showing the golden strands intermingled with the darkness. More sun glistened on her soft, sweet-scented muslin gown, highlighting each of the minute, embroidered golden rosebuds. A book was held lightly by her, and as she read from it her words were as soft as the picture she presented.

  David lay back against freshly laundered cushions, propped on the end of the window seat, his arm in a sling, his snowy shirt open at the throat. It had been a month since that time Regan had found him alone and ill in his cabin. At the first movement of the ship, he’d become seasick and returned to his cabin. Hours later, he’d fallen from his bunkbed and landed in such a way that he’d broken his forearm. In pain, nauseated, weak, helpless, he was unable to call for help. In an attempt to return to his bunk, he fell again, and with the new pain he lost consciousness. When Regan found him he had no idea who or where he was, and for days after the bone was set no one was quite convinced he’d live through the ordeal.

  And through everything, Regan had never left his side. She scoured the filthy cabin, washed David, sat by him, coaxed him into eating a broth made from salt beef, and, by sheer will-power, kept his spirits up. He was not a good patient. He was sure that he was going to die, that he’d never see England again, that America and Americans were going to be responsible for his death. He spent hours telling Regan how he’d had a premonition that these were going to be his last few days on earth.

  For Regan, she was glad of an excuse to get away from Travis’s overpowering presence, glad for once in her life to be needed by someone, not