Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  She lost patience before they reached it. “What steps are you taking to apprehend your cousin’s killer?”

  “The matter will be dealt with—rest assured of that.”

  He felt her glare. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “That is, however, all the answer you need.”

  She stiffened, then sweetly inquired: “Has anyone informed you, Your Grace, that you are without doubt the most arrogant man in Christendom?”

  “Not in those precise words.”

  The comment robbed her of speech long enough for him to lead her up the summerhouse steps. He halted in the pavillion’s center, releasing her. Shafts of moonlight streaked the floor, patterned with the shadows of the leaves. Through the dimness, he saw her breasts swell.

  “Be that as it may—”

  Honoria’s words ended on a half squeak; one instant, her tormentor was standing, loose-limbed and relaxed, before her—the next, long fingers had firmed about her chin. And he was suddenly much closer. “What are you doing?” Her eyes had flown wide; she was breathless. She didn’t try to free her chin; his grip felt unbreakable.

  His lids lifted; his eyes, even paler in the weak light, met hers. “Distracting you.”

  His deep murmur was certainly distracting; Honoria felt it in her bones. Other than on her chin, he wasn’t touching her, yet she felt herself sliding into his hold. He drew her upward and she stretched, her head tilting further; her heart tripped, then started to race. His eyes held hers, mesmerizing in the moonlight, ageless, seductive, all-knowing. His head slowly lowered—her lips softened, parted.

  She could not have pulled back had the heavens fallen.

  The first touch of his lips sent an aching shudder through her; his arms immediately closed about her, drawing her against him. Hardness surrounded her; muscles with less give than steel caged her. His head angled; the pressure of his lips increased.

  They were hard, like the rest of him—commanding, demanding; a heartbeat later they were warm, enticing, seductively persuasive. Honoria stilled, quivering, on some invisible threshold—then he tugged and she plunged forward, into the unknown.

  It was not the first time she’d been kissed, yet it was. Never before had there been magic in the air, never before had she been taken by the hand and introduced to a world of sensation. Pleasure rose, warm and enthralling, then whirled through her, a kaleidoscope of delight, leaving her giddy. Pleasurably giddy.

  What little breath she managed to catch, he took, weaving his web until she was caught beyond recall. The tip of his tongue traced her lips, a beguilingly artful caress. She knew she’d be wise to ignore it; he was leading her into realms beyond her knowledge, where he would be her guide. A most unwise situation—a dangerous situation.

  His lips firmed; heat welled, melting all resistance. On a sigh, she parted her lips farther, yielding to his arrogant demand.

  He took what he wanted—the intimate caress sent sensation streaking through her, a bolt of lightning striking to her core. Shocked, Honoria drew back on a gasp.

  He let her retreat—just so far. Stunned, her wits reeling, she searched his face. One black brow slowly arched; his arms tightened.

  “No.” Honoria braced against his hold—or tried to; her muscles had the consistency of jelly.

  “There’s no need to panic—I’m only going to kiss you.”

  Only? Honoria blinked wildly. “That’s bad enough. I mean—” She hauled in a breath and tried to focus her wayward wits. “You’re dangerous.”

  He actually chuckled; the sound shredded her hard-won control—she shivered.

  “I’m not dangerous to you.” His hands stroked soothingly, seductively, down her back. “I’m going to marry you. That puts the shoe on the other foot.”

  Had her wits been completely addled? Honoria frowned. “What shoe—and which foot?”

  His teeth gleamed. “According to all precepts, Cynster wives are the only beings on earth of whom Cynster men need be wary.”

  “Really?” He was pulling her leg. Honoria tried to whip up her indignation, an impossible task given he had bent his head and was gently nibbling her lips.

  “Just kiss me.” He whispered the words against her lips as he drew her hard against him. The contact set her nerves quivering again; his lips, lightly teasing, left her mind in no state to quibble.

  Devil kissed her again, waiting with the patience of one who knew, until she yielded completely. Her melting surrender was all the more sweet, knowing as he did that she would prefer it was otherwise. Too wise, too experienced, he did not push her too far, keeping a tight rein on his passions. She lay softly supple in his arms, her lips his to enjoy, the sweet cavern of her mouth his to taste, to plunder, to claim; for tonight, that would have to be enough.

  He would much rather have claimed her—taken her to his bed and filled her, celebrated life in that most fundamental of ways—a natural response to death’s presence. But she was innocent—her skittering reactions, her quiescence, spoke to him clearly. She would be his and his alone—but not yet.

  The reality of his need impinged fully on his mind; Devil mentally cursed. Her softness, pressed from breast to thigh against him, was a potent invocation, feeding his demons, calling them, inciting them. He drew back; chest swelling, he studied her face, wondering . . . even while he shackled his desires. Her eyes glinted beneath her lashes.

  Her mind still adrift, Honoria let her gaze roam his face. There was no softness in his features, no hint of gentleness, only strength and passion and an ironclad will. “I am not going to marry you.” The words went directly from her brain to her lips—an instinctive reaction.

  He merely raised a brow, irritatingly supercilious.

  “I’m going to send for my brother tomorrow to come and escort me home.”

  His eyes, silver in the night, narrowed fractionally. “Home—as in Hampshire?”

  Honoria nodded. She felt unreal, out of touch with the world.

  “Write a note for your brother—I’ll frank it tomorrow.”

  She smiled. “And I’ll put it in the post myself.”

  He smiled back—she had a premonition he was laughing at her though his chest, so close, was not quaking. “By all means. We’ll see what he thinks of your decision.”

  Honoria’s smile turned smug; she felt quite lightheaded. He, Cynster that he was, thought Michael would support his cause. Michael, of course, would agree with her—he would see, as instantly as she had, that for her, marrying Devil Cynster was not a good idea.

  “And now, if we’ve settled your immediate future to your satisfaction . . .” His lips brushed hers; instinctively, Honoria tracked them.

  A twig cracked.

  Devil raised his head, every muscle tensing. He and Honoria looked out into the night; the sight that met their incredulous eyes had him straightening. “What the . . . ?”

  “Sssh!” Honoria pressed her hand to his lips.

  He frowned and caught her hand, but remained silent as the small procession drew nearer, then passed the summer-house. Through moonlight and shadow, Amelia, Amanda and Simon led the little band. Henrietta, Eliza, Angelica and Heather with Mary in tow followed. Each child carried a white rose. Devil’s frown deepened as the dense shadow of the trees swallowed them; of their destination there could be little doubt. “Wait here.”

  Honoria stared at him. “You must be joking.” She picked up her skirts and hurried down the steps.

  He was on her heels as they slipped from shadow to shadow, trailing the small band. The children halted before Tolly’s freshly filled grave. Honoria stopped in the deep shadows beneath an oak; Devil stopped behind her. Then his hands gripped her waist; he lifted her to put her aside.

  She twisted in his hold and flung herself against him. “No!” Her furious whisper made him blink. Her hands gripping his shoulders, she whispered: “You mustn’t!”

  He frowned at her, then lowered his head so he could whisper in her ear: “Why the hell not? They’re no
t frightened of me.”

  “It’s not that!” Honoria frowned back. “You’re an adult—not one of them.”

  “So?”

  “So this is their moment—their time to say good-bye. Don’t spoil it for them.”

  He searched her face, then his lips thinned. Lifting his head, he looked at the contingent lined up at the foot of the grave but made no further move to join them.

  Honoria wriggled and he let her go; she turned to watch. The chill beneath the trees penetrated her thin gown—she shivered. The next instant, Devil’s arms came around her, drawing her back against him. Honoria stiffened, then gave up and relaxed, too grateful for his warmth to quibble.

  A conference had taken place at the graveside; now Amelia stepped forward and threw her rose on the mound. “Sleep well, Tolly.”

  Amanda stepped up. “Rest in peace,” she intoned, and flung her rose to join her twin’s.

  Next came Simon. “Good-bye, Tolly.” Another rose landed on the grave.

  One by one, the children added their roses to the small pile, each bidding Tolly farewell. When they were done, they looked at each other, then re-formed their procession and hurried back to the house.

  Honoria held Devil back until the children passed by. He sent her an unreadable, distinctly Cynster look when she finally let him loose, then took her hand; together, they trailed the children back to the lawn.

  There was dew on the grass; it was heavy going, particularly for little Mary. Devil grunted and lengthened his stride—Honoria flung herself at him again. “No!” She glared furiously and pressed him back under the trees.

  Devil glared back. “They’ll get wet feet—I can carry two of them.”

  He gripped her waist: Honoria clung to his shoulders. “They’ll guess you know where they’ve been—they’ll guess you watched. It’ll spoil it for them. A little water won’t hurt them—not if they’re true Cynsters.”

  A gleam marked Devil’s reluctant smile. He waited, grudgingly, until the children disappeared through the side door, then, her hand locked in his, strode for the house. The children were still negotiating the stairs when they reached the foot. Devil went straight on, treading close by the wall. When they reached the upper landing, the children were only partway up the next flight—Devil yanked Honoria into an alcove.

  She gasped as she landed against his chest. One arm locked about her; hard fingers lifted her face. His lips were on hers before she drew breath; she tried to hold firm, but beneath the pleasure he lavished upon her, her resistance wilted, then melted away.

  To be replaced by something so insidious, so soul-stealingly compulsive, so innately enthralling, she couldn’t pull back. He was hungry—she sensed it in the leashed passion that hardened his lips, that, when she opened to him, set him plundering more rapaciously than before. The tension investing his every muscle spoke of rigid control; the turbulence behind it frightened and fascinated. His tongue tangled with hers, intimately enticing, then settled to a slow, repetitive, probing rhythm. Her mouth was his; his possession set her senses whirling—no man had touched her like this. A warm flush rushed through her, a sweet fever unlike anything she’d known. Beyond that and the shocking intimacy of his caress, she knew only one thing. He was ravenously hungry—for her. The sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to give herself to him, to assauge that rampant need, shook her to the core—and still she could not pull back.

  How long they stood locked together in the dark she had no idea; when he lifted his head, she’d lost touch with the world.

  He hesitated, then brushed her lips with his. “Do I frighten you?”

  “Yes.” In a way he did. Wide-eyed, her pulse tripping, Honoria searched his shadowed eyes. “But it’s not you I’m frightened of.” He was making her feel, making her yearn. “I—” Frowning, she stopped, for once lost for words.

  In the dark, Devil smiled crookedly. “Don’t worry.” He took her mouth in one last, searching kiss before putting her from him. “Go. Now.” It was a warning—he wasn’t sure she understood.

  She blinked up at him through the dimness, then nodded. “Good night.” She slipped out of the alcove. “Sleep well.”

  Devil nearly laughed. He wouldn’t have a good night—he wouldn’t sleep well. He could feel another headache coming on.

  Chapter 7

  Next morning, Honoria attended Sunday service in the church in the grounds, then strolled back with Louise Cynster. Tolly’s mother thanked her for helping her son; Honoria politely disclaimed. With little encouragement, Louise spoke of Tolly and his relationship with Devil. Hero worship seemed the most apt description.

  The object of Tolly’s reverence had not seen fit to attend church. When the ladies reached the breakfast table, it was apparent he’d been there before them. Honoria made quick work of tea and toast, then headed upstairs.

  Devil, she felt sure, would have gone riding. It was a perfect day—he would be out surveying his fields astride his cake-eating demon. Which should leave nearer precincts clear.

  It was the work of three minutes to don her stylish topaz riding habit. Her clothes were the one item she’d always insisted lived up to her Anstruther-Wetherby background. She flicked the feather on her matching toque so that it draped rakishly over one temple, then headed for the door.

  There was no one in the stable yard. Unperturbed, she entered the main stable. The stall walls were high; she couldn’t see over them. The tack room was at the end—she stepped purposefully down the aisle.

  A large hand reached out and hauled her into a stall.

  “What . . . ?” Warm steel encircled her. Honoria focused—and realized her danger. “Don’t you dare kiss me—I’ll scream if you do!”

  “And who do you imagine will rescue you?”

  Honoria blinked—and tried to think of the right answer. “Anyway, you won’t be able to scream while I’m kissing you.”

  She parted her lips and hauled in a deep breath.

  By the time she realized that was not a wise move, it was too late—he’d taken full advantage. A vague notion of struggling wafted into her mind—then out, as heat, warmth and insidious pleasure burgeoned within her. His lips moved on hers, arrogantly confident; his tongue slid between in a deliciously languid caress, an unhurried caress that went on and on, until she was heated through. Honoria felt the fever rise—she tried to tell herself this was wrong—scandalously wrong—while every sense she possessed purred in appreciation.

  She couldn’t think or hear when he kissed her. She made that discovery when Devil finally raised his head; up until the instant his lips left hers, her mind had been thought-free, blissful in its vacancy. The sounds of the stable rushed in on her, compounding her breathlessness. Her bones had lique-fied, yet she was still upright—then she realized it was due to him that she was so. He was holding her against himself; her toes only just touched the floor.

  “Great heavens!” Blinking wildly, she lowered her heels to earth. Had she labeled him dangerous? He was lethal.

  “Good morning, Honoria Prudence.” His deep purr sent a shiver down her spine. “And where are you headed?”

  “Ah . . .” Gazing, wide-eyed, into his too-knowing green eyes, Honoria marshaled her wits. “I was looking for a horse. Presumably you have more than one?”

  “I believe there’s a hoity, wilful mare that should suit. But where were you thinking of riding?”

  “Oh—just out about the lanes.” He was holding her too securely for her to pull away; she tried to ease back—his hold gave not an inch.

  “You don’t know this country—you’ll get lost. You’ll be safer riding with me.”

  Dispensing with all subtlety, Honoria reached behind her and tried to pry his arms loose. He chuckled and let her tug—all to no avail. Then he bent his head and feathered delicate kisses about her left ear.

  Breathless, quite ridiculously flustered, Honoria glared. “Whoever called you Devil had the right of it!”

  “Hully?”

  Honor
ia blinked, directly into his eyes. “Mrs. Hull gave you your nickname?”

  He grinned—devilishly. “She used to be my nursemaid. I was three when she christened me ‘That Devil Cynster.’ ”

  “You must have been a tyrant even then.”

  “I was.”

  A furious clearing of a throat spared Honoria the necessity of replying. Devil looked around, then released her, turning so he hid her from view. “What is it, Martin?”

  “Sorry t’interrupt, Y’r Grace, but one of the flanges on the North Number One’s split—Mister Kirby was a-wondering if you’d swing past that way. He was hoping you’d check the lay before he reset the blade.”

  The message made no sense to Honoria; she peered around Devil’s shoulder. A workman, his cap in his hands, stood waiting in the aisle. She glanced up—and discovered his master’s green gaze on her.

  “Tell Kirby I’ll be there within the half-hour.”

  “Yes, Y’r Grace.” Martin hurried out.

  Honoria straightened. “What was that about?”

  “One of the windmills is out of action.”

  “Mills?” Honoria recalled numerous windmills dotting the fields. “There seem to be a lot about.”

  Devil’s lips twitched. He reached for her hand. “This is fen country, Honoria Prudence—the mills drive pumps which drain the land.”

  “Oh.” Honoria found herself being towed down the aisle. “Where are you taking me?”

  He raised both brows at her. “To find a horse. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

  Ten minutes later, atop a frisky chestnut mare, Honoria clattered out of the stable yard—in Devil’s wake. The notion of a surreptitious detour occurred only to be dismissed; he’d overtake her in an instant.

  They left the park by a different route from that which led through the woods; beyond the park walls, the clack of windmills became noticeable, steadily increasing as they headed north. The mill in question was a large one; Devil dismounted in its shadow to confer with his foreman.