Devil's Embrace by Catherine Coulter

closed door.
    “After you, Cassandra,” he said as he opened the door, and stood back for her to enter.
    Cassie stepped into a shadowy cabin, aware of the tangy scent of lemon polish and sandalwood. She dully noted the rich mahogany paneling and the elegant furnishings. It was a cabin fit for a captain and an earl. She whipped about at the sound of a key turning in the lock.
    He turned to face her, a broad-shouldered man, who now seemed a dangerous stranger to her. His eyes appeared black in the soft afternoon light of the cabin, darker than she remembered, almost as black as his arched brows and his thick hair.
    “Would you care for a cup of tea?” he asked.
    She stared at him, and shook her head out of habit.
    “Forgive my lapse of memory. You do not care for tea, do you? Most un-English of you, Cassandra.”
    She watched warily as he crossed the cabin, his steps noiseless on the deep pile of the blue carpet, and eased himself onto a high-backed leather chair, one of four that stood about an elegant circular table.
    “Will you not sit down?”
    Cassie forced her feet forward to stand behind one of the chairs, and clutched at its carved back.
    “How stupid of me to have forgotten,” she said finally, forcing her voice into momentary calm. “I saw your yacht once, long ago, at Clacton.”
    “Perhaps you did, but then her name was not The Cassandra. She is lovely, is she not? Even Farmer George wanted to purchase her, but of course, I refused.”
    She waved away his words. “If you would not mind, I should like to know the meaning of your senseless behavior.”
    “My behavior is never senseless, Cassandra. In this particular instance, perhaps, I was forced to employ some rather rough and ready methods to secure your presence.”
    “Damn you, my lord, tell me the meaning of this.” She drew a deep breath and swallowed the growing lump in her throat. “You are an English peer, my lord, an earl. I did not believe that gentlemen of your rank and wealth indulged in white slavery. Are there other young English ladies aboard your yacht?”
    Anthony Welles blinked at her, then threw back his head and laughed aloud, his white teeth contrasting with his tanned face. “White slavery. Good God, Cassandra, what an imagination you have. A slaver in the English Channel.”
    “In that case, my lord, there is much that requires my attention at Hemphill Hall, for I am to be married tomorrow, as you know since you are an invited guest. You will please set me ashore at once.”
    The humor fell from his face, and he sat forward in his chair. His rugged features softened as his eyes rested intently upon her face. “You are not going back to Hemphill Hall, Cassandra.”
    “I do not understand you,” she said slowly. “I have been told that your wealth is great, thus I cannot credit that you wish to hold me for ransom. I ask you again, my lord, what is your purpose?”
    “My purpose, Cassandra, is to make you my wife.”
    She jerked back at his softly spoken words and stared at him in shock. “I do not believe you, my lord. And I find your jest repellent. Set me ashore, I demand it.”
    He was silent for what seemed an eternity to Cassie, and she rushed on in furious speech. “My family will miss me. They will mount a search when I do not return and—” Her words died in her throat, and she felt herself go white.
    “And, Cassandra,” he finished for her, “they will findyour boat smashed upon the rocks. You know yourself that the tides in this area are vicious, unpredictable.”
    “They will believe me drowned, dead.” She raised wide, uncomprehending eyes to his face. “But this makes no sense. Why are you doing this to me? I have always believed you to be my friend, that you liked me.”
    “Indeed, I am your friend, only now I will be much more to you.”
    Cassie stared into his face, a face that many ladies she knew admired, one that over the past few years even she had come to think harshly beautiful. Now, in his