Fever Dreams

by Nicole Jordan

  She stared at him as if stunned, and Ryder stared back—fiercely. He hadn’t meant to declare his intentions so baldly, but her announcement had forced his hand.

  “If you were to wed me, you wouldn’t be pressed into a marriage repugnant to you. I’m wealthy enough now to care for you and your family in style and comfort.”

  “Oh, Ryder,” she whispered softly. Her eyes lowered. “That is exceedingly kind of you, but I could not accept.”

  “Why not?”

  When she made no reply, Ryder took a step closer. “I could take you away from here, Eve. We could elope.”

  She managed a faint smile. “The thought is tempting, I admit.” She shook her head and gave a quiet laugh. “It is foolish for me to even contemplate, especially now that it is too late. Papa has already accepted a settlement from Lord Hayden, and he cannot go back on his word.”

  She offered him another smile, this one bright and brave. “Come now, Ryder, you needn’t feel pity for me. It won’t be so bad, being the wife of an earl. Certainly not repugnant. Lord Hayden is considered a prime catch. He is handsome and charming and moves in the first circles of society, and he has vast estates in Hertfordshire and a mansion in London. I intend to make the best of it. I will make a fine countess, don’t you think?”

  She was trying to lighten his savage mood by teasing him, but it had the opposite effect; Ryder wanted to strike out at something.

  “Is that why you won’t accept my proposal?” he demanded. “Because I cannot make you a countess?”

  “Mama is set on my marrying a title, true, but it is not merely that—”

  “It’s because your parents consider my gains ill gotten.”

  Eve gave a helpless shrug. “I could not create a scandal by eloping with you, Ryder. My family would be devastated, and my sister and brother would only suffer for it.”

  He understood all too well. She could not buck her family—indeed, all of society—and run away with a lowly mercenary, no matter how wealthy. It would brand her a social outcast and taint her family in the process.

  His resentment was unfair to Eve, Ryder knew, but it galled him to see her being forced to pay the price for her damned father’s excesses, and his bitterness couldn’t be controlled. He took a final step toward her, closing the distance between them. He’d always been careful to resist touching her, to avoid temptation, but now he reached for Eve and pulled her into his arms, hard against him.

  He intended to kiss her, needed to kiss her in order to express his helpless rage. He couldn’t stop himself; it would have been easier to stop his own heartbeat.

  Eve’s lips parted in a gasp an instant before Ryder brought his mouth crashing down on hers. Her body went rigid with shock at his unexpected assault, but he went on ravaging her mouth, his tongue thrusting deep into her warmth, as if by sheer force of will he could compel her to change her mind and accept his offer of marriage instead of the one her parents had decided for her.

  For a long moment, she remained frozen, paralyzed. And then suddenly, miraculously, she melted against him, reaching up to clutch at his shoulders. She returned his kiss with fervor, stunning Ryder to his core. At last, after all these years she was in his arms, surrendering to his passion.

  Devouring her mouth, he sank with her onto the grass, struggling for breath as he strove to control his primitive urges. He felt desperate, hungry for the taste of her, for the incredible feel of her. Helplessly, he moved his hand over the jacket of her riding habit and covered her breast. She moaned at his touch, responding as passionately as he’d known she would.

  The husky sound ignited a raging fire inside him. Driven by the need to possess her, he reached for the hem of her riding skirts and pushed up the fabric, dragging his palm along her bare thigh. Somehow he hoped to prove to Eve that she didn’t want a cold-blooded marriage to a rich lord. That she wanted him. But when his hand reached the naked juncture of her thighs, she went rigid with shock.

  “Ryder, no! We can’t…”

  Frantically she shoved his hand away and squirmed to break free from beneath his heavy body. When he released her, she scrambled to her feet, looking dismayed.

  “Eve…God, Eve, I am sorry.”

  She clapped a hand over her passion-bruised mouth and shook her head. “We can’t,” she whispered again.

  Turning, she practically ran to her horse and pulled herself into the sidesaddle. With one last despairing glance at Ryder, she spurred her horse into a canter and fled the meadow, leaving him staring after her retreating form, a cold knife blade twisting in his gut.

  Cursing the memory as he stood at the drawing-room window, Ryder ran a hand raggedly through his dark hair. If Eve hadn’t stopped him, he would have taken her there in the meadow like a common doxy, with no thought for her innocence.

  He should have been flogged for acting so savagely. Perhaps, he’d brooded afterward, he didn’t deserve her after all. And not merely because he had blood on his hands.

  Society deemed him a killer with a tarnished soul, yet the state of his soul had never seriously troubled him before. He couldn’t honestly regret his choice of becoming a mercenary, since it had been his way out of poverty. He’d sold his services to various private armies, true; his father had been a grenadier in the British army and had taught him the principles of explosives from a young age. Ryder had purposely become an expert at firearms and in devising explosive weapons—valued skills in the deadly art of warfare.

  He knew a hundred ways to kill…yet he also knew how to protect. Foreign royalty paid well to remain safe from the threat of spies and assassins. It was while acting as personal bodyguard to a Russian prince that Ryder had earned his first lavish reward, which had become the seed for his future wealth.

  But haughty aristocrats such as Eve’s parents could never accept a former soldier of fortune for their precious daughter. And Ryder had seen the wisdom of moving beyond his mercenary past, at least in the eyes of society.

  It was his behavior toward Eve that day, however, that had jarred him and left him with a driving need to make something more of his life. To become a better, worthier man. As a result, he’d turned his skills to a far greater cause than protecting rich royalty: He’d joined the Guardians of the Sword, a centuries-old order dedicated to a noble ideal, which publicly operated as a minor arm of the British Foreign Office headquartered on Cyrene.

  Ryder had been grateful for his new purpose, more grateful still to be given his first mission and a reason to leave the island, for he refused to stay and watch Lady Eve wed another man.

  In the six years since, he’d dedicated his life to serving the order’s cause. He had found fulfillment with the Guardians, and his avocation had become a passion.

  In all that time, he’d worked hard to convince himself that Eve no longer meant anything to him. Yet if he were entirely honest, he would admit that his longing for her had never fully diminished.

  And now she had become a widow. And everything had changed.

  Ryder couldn’t deny the heavy thud of his heart or the restless ache welling in his chest.

  He still wanted Lady Eve for his bride.

  And he meant to win her. She epitomized everything he’d ever yearned for. Symbolized everything he’d had to fight for all his life because of his common origins and questionable past. He intended to prove to her aristocratic world that he was good enough to aspire to their elite ranks.

  Most important, with Eve as his wife, he could finally satisfy his long-held desire for her.

  Yet he would have to proceed carefully, Ryder knew. Eve would likely offer him resistance. But he would succeed this time.

  Abruptly Ryder turned to stride from the drawing room. He had plans to make.

  He would allow Eve a proper period of mourning, of course. But in the meantime he would do everything in his power to clear his path. To remove any outward objections to his suit. He would make certain that he was not only welcome in polite society but moved in her same vaunted c
ircles.

  He would call in every favor ever owed him, take advantage of every obligation, all his wealth, ill gotten or not.

  And then nothing and no one would stop him from winning Eve Seymour for his bride.

  Chapter

  One

  London

  April 1816

  “What I cannot understand, Eve,” Cecil said, spearing a kippered herring on his breakfast plate, “is why you don’t wish to marry again. Since we arrived here for the start of the Season, I must have counted at least a dozen gentlemen who are eager to court you.”

  Caught off guard by her brother’s unexpected choice of topics, Eve drew a sudden breath and regrettably wound up choking on her morning coffee. Blindly setting down her cup, she groped for her napkin and pressed it to her lips to stem her fit of coughing.

  But if she hoped to avoid answering, she was doomed to disappointment, for Cecil waited with stubborn patience for her to be able to speak again, even to the point of ignoring his forked kipper.

  “One marriage was enough, thank you,” she finally rasped.

  “Seriously,” Cecil prodded with a frown, “why don’t you want to remarry?”

  “If you were a woman, you might understand why a widow would cherish her independence,” Eve replied vaguely.

  “But I’m not a woman—or a widow—so it doesn’t make any sense to me unless you explain.”

  Holding back a smile at his earnestness, Eve busied herself with taking a bite of soft-boiled egg. Cecil regularly puzzled over the “inexplicable workings of the female mind.” But because it would be impossible to make her younger brother understand how she felt when he had no concept of what some married women endured, she wouldn’t even begin to attempt to explain.

  Thankfully, though, Eve reminded herself with joyful relief, after six interminable years of marriage and one of widowhood, she finally had a glimpse of freedom and independence. And she would allow nothing and no one to spoil it. She would never, ever marry again.

  “It does seem a contradiction,” Claire said in her soft, melodic voice, “since you are insisting that I marry.”

  Eve cast her sister a sympathetic glance. “Because marriage is the only viable option for a young lady of quality. But I promise you, dearest, no one will force you to accept any man who is not your ideal match. We will find you a husband who can make you happy. You have my most solemn word on that.”

  Claire gave a rueful sigh. “Doubtless you will, since you are such a splendid matchmaker. But it does seem a trifle ironic that you delight in arranging suitable matches for everyone but yourself.”

  “I am perfectly content to remain a widow,” Eve insisted, managing a careless smile.

  At her declaration, she spied the twins exchanging a long, meaningful glance. “Why this sudden interest in my remarriage?” she asked, her smile fading to a frown.

  “Oh, no reason,” Claire replied, her tone perfectly innocent.

  Eve’s gaze narrowed as she looked from one twin to the other. Her siblings were up to something, although what she couldn’t guess. Before she could probe further, however, she heard the sound of carriage wheels outside the breakfast-room windows.

  Fortunately her brother’s attention was similarly diverted, and he turned his head to glance out.

  “Look, there is Sir Alex at last!” Cecil exclaimed, tossing down his fork. Jumping up from the table with no thought whatever to gentlemanly behavior, Cecil crossed to the window for a better view. “I told you he intended to take residence today.”

  With effort, Eve controlled the urge to leap from her chair and rush to the window herself. Her heart had suddenly quickened, but she refused to be seen gawking like her nineteen-year-old brother.

  She and the twins were alone in the breakfast room, which overlooked Bedford Square. Sipping her coffee, Eve contented herself with glancing casually across the tree-shaded, grassy expanse that separated her elegant town house from the others in the square. A dashing curricle had just driven up and halted before the imposing mansion opposite hers.

  “What a bang-up rig that is,” Cecil declared, admiring the red and yellow sporting vehicle. “I cannot wait to try it. Sir Alex promised to take me for a drive this week and let me handle the ribbons.”

  Ignoring the curricle, Eve instead found her gaze riveted on the driver, who was dismounting and tossing the reins to his groom. Even from a distance she recognized Ryder’s tall, hard-muscled form. His shoulders filled out his bottle-green coat to perfection, while his buff breeches and polished Hessian boots molded his long, powerful legs.

  It was her first sight of Alex Ryder in seven years, but there was no excuse for the sharp little leap her heart gave. Perhaps it was merely the surprise of seeing him dressed as a fine gentleman. When she’d known him on Cyrene, he had rarely worn a coat or cravat, just shirt and breeches, since the Mediterranean island was far warmer and much less formal than London.

  Or perhaps her quickened pulse was due to anticipation at again encountering the handsome rebel who had at one time both fascinated and unnerved her.

  Like his body, Ryder’s face was lean and hard, possessing a dangerous masculine appeal. It was the face of a man who didn’t cater to anyone—utterly compelling and perhaps a little sinful. What she remembered most about Ryder, however, was his smoldering intensity. He possessed a pair of breathtakingly intense eyes, the hue of dark mahogany, just like his hair. And the air of danger that surrounded him only added to his forceful impact.

  Eve thought she had prepared herself to contend with Ryder again, but seeing him in the flesh was more of a jolt than she’d bargained for. And so were the unexpected feelings her remembrances of him aroused.

  Silently scolding herself, Eve brought her coffee cup to her lips to hide her deplorable flush. She should have banished her memories of him long before now. It seemed a lifetime ago when they had been friends on Cyrene. A lifetime ago when she’d harbored a girlish infatuation for him during their final summer together.

  Then again, she doubted that any woman could ever forget Alex Ryder. Certainly any woman who had ever been fiercely kissed by him, as she had.

  Ryder had already created quite a stir in the short time he’d been in London. Mercenary turned hero. The papers were full of gossip and speculation about him.

  It was strange to think of him as Sir Alex, though. He’d always been simply Ryder to her.

  Even more strange, they were to be neighbors again, since he had hired the house directly across the square from hers for the Season. Workmen had been traipsing in and out all week in preparation for his arrival.

  She suspected her brother had something to do with the odd coincidence, but she hadn’t wanted to seem overly interested in Ryder by asking about his plans.

  “Do sit down, Cecil,” Eve told her brother as Ryder disappeared inside his house. “There will be plenty of time to admire Sir Alex and his curricle after you finish breakfast.”

  Cecil gave an impatient sigh but complied with her request, much to Eve’s relief. She was well aware that Ryder was her brother’s idol.

  Admittedly, Cecil’s obsessive case of hero worship worried her a little. A whirlwind of energy, he was capable of getting into enough mischief and mayhem on his own, without having a former soldier of fortune to pattern his behavior after. Cecil was here now only because he’d behaved so outrageously at Oxford that he’d been sent down for the rest of the term. In his defense, he had wanted to be with his twin when Claire made her bow to society—to offer her moral support and provide her with an escort if she couldn’t manage to find any beaux on her own.

  It was exasperating, trying to rein in Cecil’s admirable but misguided chivalrous instincts, yet Eve had cherished having both her siblings with her during her final months of mourning.

  She had lived quietly in Hertfordshire for the past year, not merely out of respect due her late husband Richard, but because she much preferred the freedom offered her in the countryside to the starched formali
ty of town life. Then three weeks ago, she had opened the London house for the Season and moved in with the twins, to begin Claire’s society debut.

  Richard’s widowed aunts—Drucilla, Baroness Wykfield, and Lady Beatrice Townley—had accompanied them. The aunts were elderly dowagers of exalted birth and fortune and influential enough with the ton to significantly aid Claire’s comeout.

  Since their arrival, Eve had spent much of the time commissioning a wardrobe for Claire, sparing no expense to outfit her sister in the height of fashion in the hope that beautiful gowns would bolster the girl’s confidence when she faced the judgmental arbitrators of the ton. Additionally, Eve had found it necessary to refurbish her own wardrobe, since she’d finally put off her black and gray widow’s weeds.

  She had also spent time renewing old acquaintances and was gratified to be welcomed back enthusiastically, more for Claire’s sake than for her own. Richard had been very popular with London’s fashionable set, for his public persona was far more congenial than his private one. Eve was planning on resuming her place in society in order to give her sister every possible chance at success.

  At Claire’s pleading, however, they had forgone a formal court presentation. Instead, the aunts had held an elegant dinner earlier this week in her honor, so Claire was officially “out” now. They had not yet attended many evening functions, but invitations were pouring in, and Eve expected to have a full social calendar for the next several months.

  She was listening with only half an ear when Cecil addressed his twin with his usual youthful enthusiasm. “Mr. Ryder has invited us to tour the London sights with him, Claire. He wants to see the Tower tomorrow. I mean, Sir Alex. I sometimes forget to call him by his new title.”

  The girl brightened. “Oh, I would enjoy that immensely.”

  “What would you enjoy?” Lady Wykfield questioned as she swept into the room. Tall, elegant, and silver-haired, Drucilla was the elder and more sharp-tongued of Richard’s two aunts. Trailing in her wake was Lady Beatrice—a softer, fluttery version of her sister.