Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Momentarily stunned, more by her vehemence than her words, Devil stared at her. Then, his frown deepening, he shook his head. “No.”

  Honoria frowned back. “No what?”

  “No to all the above, but most especially no, you do not have a duty to assist me in hunting a murderer. As my wife, you have no duties other than those I deem proper. In my eyes, there’s nothing—no duty, no reason whatever—that could justify you placing yourself in danger.”

  Their faces were six inches apart; if Honoria had not sensed the throttled fury investing his large frame, radiating from it, she could not have missed the jagged edge to his words. Her eyes narrowed. “That I do not accept.” She was not about to bow before his rage.

  Devil’s lips curved slightly; his voice, when he spoke, was mesmerically low. “That you will accept.”

  It was an effort not to shiver, to submissively shift her gaze from his, so penetrating, so compelling, it resembled a physical force. By sheer will, sheer stubbornness, Honoria met that intimidating gaze levelly. “You’re wrong on all counts. I’ve lost others before, to forces I could not influence—I couldn’t help them, couldn’t save them.” Her jaw set; momentarily, her teeth clenched. “I will not sit by and let you be taken from me.”

  Her voice quavered; flashes of silver lit Devil’s eyes. “Damn it!—do you think I’m going to let myself be taken?”

  “Not intentionally, but it was me who detected the poison.”

  Devil waved that aside. “That was here.” He studied her face, her eyes. “Within this house, you may watch over me to your heart’s content, but you will stay away from all danger. You spoke of duty—it’s my duty to protect you, not yours to protect me.”

  Honoria went to shake her head; Devil caught her chin on the edge of his hand and trapped her gaze with his. “Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”

  Honoria drew as deep a breath as her tight chest would allow, then shook her head. “No—leave duty aside—we spoke also of reasons, a reason to justify my doing all and anything to safeguard your life.” She spoke quickly, breathlessly; she had to make him understand. “My reason is one that will stand against any objection.”

  Devil’s face hardened. His hand fell; he drew back. Her eyes locked on his, Honoria clung to the contact, refusing to let him withdraw totally behind his mask. She drew a swift breath, and let it out on the words: “I love you—more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I love you so profoundly it goes beyond all reason. And I could never let you go—let you be taken from me—that would be the same as letting life itself go, because you are life to me.”

  Devil stilled. For one, heart-stopping moment, he looked into Honoria’s eyes; what he saw there locked his chest. He wrenched his gaze free and swung away. He paced toward the door, then stopped. Hands in fists by his sides, chest swelling, he dropped his head back, and stared at the ceiling. Then exhaling, he looked down. He spoke without turning.

  “Your reason’s not good enough.”

  Honoria lifted her chin. “It is to me.”

  “Damn it woman!” Furious, Devil turned on her. “How by all that’s holy do you imagine I’m supposed to function, knowing that, at any instant, you may be courting heaven knows what danger—all in the name of keeping me safe?” His voice rose to a bellow that literally shook the chandelier. Gesticulating violently, he paced viciously, like some trapped jungle cat. “Do you have any idea what I felt when I learned where you’d gone today?” Brilliant with accusation, his eyes raked her. “Can you even conceive what I felt when I walked in that tavern door?” He halted directly before her.

  Honoria caught her breath as his eyes locked on hers.

  “Do you know what might have happened in such a place?” His voice had lowered, his tones chillingly prophetic.

  Honoria didn’t move.

  “They could have knifed Sligo and Carter—killed them without a qualm. Then they’d have raped you—one after another. If you’d survived, they’d have slit your throat.”

  Devil spoke with deadpan conviction; it was the truth—a truth he’d had to face. The muscles across his shoulders rippled; he tensed, holding back his reactive rage, clinging grimly to the reality of the woman standing slim, straight, and unharmed before him. A second later he caught himself reaching for her—abruptly, he swung away, pacing again, then he stopped.

  His back to Honoria, he dragged in a deep breath. “How the hell do you think I would have felt then?—if anything had happened to you?” He paused, then flatly stated: “I cannot countenance you putting yourself in danger over me. You can’t ask that of me.”

  Silence fell; Devil looked back at Honoria. “Will you give me your word you will not knowingly go into danger?”

  Honoria held his gaze, then, slowly, shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He looked forward immediately, his fury clearly delineated in the rigid lines of his back, clearly expressed in a single, violent expletive.

  “I simply can’t.” Honoria spread her hands. “I’m not trying to be wilful, but you must see I can’t—” Her words were drowned out by a half-strangled roar; the next instant, Devil flung open the door. Honoria stiffened. “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Don’t you dare leave.” If he did, would he come back? “I haven’t finished—”

  His hand on the doorknob, Devil turned, his green gaze impaling her. “If I don’t leave, you won’t sit comfortably for a sennight.”

  Before she could react, he slammed the door shut. Honoria listened to his footsteps, uncharacteristically heavy, retreat. She stood before the fire, her gaze fixed unseeing on the panels of the door, for a very long time.

  Reaching the library, Devil flung himself into an armchair. An instant later, he sprang up and fell to pacing. He never paced—the action was too indicative of lost control for his liking. If he kept on as he was, he’d wear a track in the rug.

  Uttering a long-drawn groan, he halted; eyes closed, he dropped his head back and concentrated on breathing, on letting his impotent rage settle. Into the morass of emotions that swirled inside him, all called forth by the woman he’d taken to wife.

  Both jaw and fists clenched; then again he forced himself to relax. One by one, tensed muscles uncoiled; eventually, he stood easy. Eyes still closed, he looked inward, sifting through his reactions to what lay beneath.

  When he saw what it was, he wasn’t impressed.

  Honoria was dealing with this unexpected development far better than he. Then again, she’d been through it before, albeit unhappily. He’d never experienced the like before.

  He hadn’t, in fact, known real fear, even on the battlefield. He was a Cynster; fate took care of Cynsters. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sanguine enough to assume fate’s benevolence extended to Cynster wives. Which left him battling a fear he’d no idea how to combat.

  Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes. Spreading his fingers, he studied them. They were almost steady. His muscles, tensed for so long, now felt chilled. He glanced at the decanter, then grimaced. Switching his gaze to the flames cheerily dancing in the hearth, he paused, then, deliberately, opened the door of his memory. And let Honoria’s words warm him.

  He stared at the flames for so long that when he heaved a long sigh and turned to the door, they still danced before his eyes.

  Honoria shivered beneath the unfamiliar covers of her bed. After much mental debate, she’d returned to her apartments, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. She hadn’t had any dinner—not that it mattered; she’d lost her appetite. Whether she’d find it again was moot, but if she could relive her scene with Devil, she would not change one word she’d said.

  Her declaration had been necessary—she hadn’t expected him to like it. She had no idea how he viewed her confession—he’d turned from her the instant he’d seen her words confirmed in her eyes.

  Frowning, she stared into the dark, trying, for the ump-teenth time, to make consistent sense of his reaction. On the surface, he’d appe
ared his usual tyrannical, domineering self, insisting without quarter that she fall in with his dictates, resorting to intimidation when she stood firm. Yet not all he’d said fitted that image—the mere thought of her being in danger had agitated him to a remarkable degree. It was almost as if . . .

  The nebulous thought went round and round in her head, and followed her into sleep.

  She woke to find a very large, dense shadow looming over her.

  “Damn fool woman—what the devil are you doing here?”

  His tone made it clear the question was rhetorical; Honoria valiantly stifled a giggle. He sounded so put upon—poor aggrieved male—not one of the most powerful men in the land. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw him, hands on hips, shake his head. Then he leaned over her.

  He loosened her covers, then pressed down on the soft mattress and slid his hands under her. He lifted her easily; Honoria played dead.

  “And a bloody nightgown.”

  The disgust in his voice made her jaw ache.

  “What the hell does she think she’s about?”

  He shouldered through the door into the short corridor; seconds later, very gently, she was deposited in his bed. Honoria decided a murmur and a wriggle were required for authenticity.

  She heard him humph, then listened to the familiar sounds of him undressing, her mind supplying what she could not see.

  The relief she felt when he slid into bed beside her, curling around her, warm, hard, reassuringly solid, made her chest ache. Carefully, he slid one arm over her waist; his hand gently pushed between her breasts, long fingers draping possessively over the lower.

  She felt him heave a long, deep sigh; the last of his tension left him.

  Minutes later, before she could decide whether or not to “wake up,” his breathing deepened. Smiling, still wondering, Honoria closed her eyes.

  Chapter 23

  The next morning, Honoria woke late, alone, Devil long gone, up and about his business. His unflagging energy struck her as unfair—the events of the night had left her drained. Her gaze, unfocused, fell on the swath of ivory silk adorning the richly hued carpet. Her nightgown.

  They’d engaged in a midnight tussle—half-asleep, she’d been reluctant to relinquish the gown’s warmth. He, however, had insisted, then compensated admirably. Even now, she felt pleasurably aglow, inside and out. Smiling, she sank deeper into the bed, luxuriating in the lingering sense of warm fulfilment.

  Who’d made the first move she neither knew nor cared; they’d turned to each other and let their bodies seal their unvoiced commitment that, regardless of any differences, they remained man and wife, their alliance rock-solid, as enduring as the Place.

  The door from her apartments cracked open; Cassie peeked, then bustled in. “G’morning, ma’am.” She swiped up the nightgown. “It’s nearly eleven.”

  “Eleven?” Honoria blinked her eyes wide.

  “Webster asked if you wanted any breakfast kept. Having missed dinner and all.”

  Honoria sat up. “We ate later.” An hour after her nightgown had hit the floor, Devil’s mind had turned to food. She’d been sound asleep again; he’d made a trip to the kitchens, then ruthlessly harried her awake, insisting she eat morsels of chicken, ham, and cheese, all washed down with white wine.

  “There’s kedgeree, boiled eggs, and sausages.”

  Honoria wrinkled her nose. “I’ll take a bath.”

  The bath suited her mood: lazy, disinclined to move. She stared through the steam, reviewing the previous evening—and heard in her mind, in the depths of the night, her husband’s deep voice as, sated, replete, he’d slumped beside her.

  “You can’t fear losing me half as much as I fear losing you.” It had been a grudging admission; he’d thought her already asleep.

  Why would he fear losing her even more than she feared losing him?

  The minutes ticked by, the water grew cold, and still she could find only one answer. As she rose from the bath, her spirits soared—she spent the next half hour sternly lecturing herself on the unwisdom of leaping to conclusions, especially conclusions like that.

  She retired to the morning room but couldn’t settle, idly drifting between window and fireplace, consumed by a longing to see her husband again. To look into his face; to study his clear eyes. Mrs. Hull brought up a pot of herbal tea. Grateful, she accepted a cup, but it grew cold while she stared at the wall.

  Louise and the twins provided a welcome diversion; they came to lunch, the girls eager to describe their latest gowns. Honoria toyed with a portion of steamed fish and listened with half an ear. She’d canceled all her other engagements, although the news that the new duchess of St. Ives was indisposed was certain to lead to speculation.

  In this instance, speculation would be accurate. She’d hesitated to let the thought form in her mind, but it now seemed beyond question. Her dullness every morning, her fragile appetite, all testified to the fact.

  She was carrying Devil’s child.

  The very thought made her giddy with happiness, with eager anticipation tinged only by understandable apprehension. Real fear had no chance of intruding, not with Devil and his family so constantly about her.

  As if to emphasize that last, with the twins on the front steps, Louise glanced at her affectionately. “You’re looking well, but if you have any questions, there’s me or Horatia or Celia—we’ve all been there before you.”

  “Oh—yes.” Honoria blushed—she hadn’t told Devil; she could hardly tell his aunts first. “That is—” She gestured vaguely. “If . . .”

  Smiling, Louise patted her arm. “Not if, my dear. When.” With a nod and a wave, she left, the twins falling in behind her.

  Climbing the stairs, Honoria debated just how to tell Devil the news. Every time she imagined doing so, the specter of his would-be murderer intruded. They were closing in; before he’d left that morning, Devil had told her that he and Vane were searching for proof, precisely what he hadn’t said. He’d promised to reveal all tonight. The last thing they needed now was a distraction—announcing the impending birth of his heir would create a major stir, focusing society’s rabid interest on them.

  Entering the morning room, Honoria inwardly shook her head. She would inform Devil of his impending fatherhood after they’d caught his would-be killer. Until then, his safety consumed her—not even his child meant more to her than he. Besides, she wanted the telling to be a happy event, a memorable moment between them, not overshadowed by a killer.

  As she sank onto the chaise, Webster knocked and entered. “A message, ma’am.” He proffered a silver salver.

  Lifting the folded sheet, Honoria saw black lettering, conservative, precise, not her husband’s extravagant scrawl. “Thank you, Webster.” Breaking the plain seal, she returned the knife to the tray and nodded a dismissal. Webster left as she unfolded the note.

  To Her Grace, the duchess of St. Ives:

  Should you wish to learn more of he who intends your husband ill, come at once to No. 17 Green Street. Come alone—tell no one of your errand, else all will be lost. Most especially destroy this note that none may chance upon it and follow you, scaring away the little bird that would whisper in your ear.

  A Well-wisher.

  For a long moment, Honoria stared at the note, then she reread it. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she sank back against the chaise.

  Devil wouldn’t want her to go. But if she didn’t?

  There was clearly a potential threat to herself, but that she dismissed out of hand; far more relevant was how Devil would react. Not, of course, that such a consideration would sway her—her fear was more compelling than his.

  Glancing at the note’s thick black script, she grimaced. Devil’s words of the night replayed in her mind; if she understood them correctly, then his fear was a mirror image of hers. There was only one emotion which gave rise to such fear. That emotion, if he felt it, demanded her consideration, her care. The same emotion impelled her to go to Green Street. Ho
w to do both?

  Five minutes later, she stood and crossed to the escritoire. Fifteen minutes later, she shook sand across her letter, folded it, and sealed it with the seal Devil had given her—the Cyns-ter stag rampant imposed on the Anstruther-Wetherby chevrons. Blowing on the wax, she rose, crossed the room, and tugged the bellpull three times.

  Sligo answered her summons. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Honoria glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Nearly three o’clock. “Where is His Grace at present?”

  “At White’s with Master Vane.” Sligo almost smiled. “He didn’t try to lose the men I set to follow him today.”

  “Good.” Honoria held out her letter. “I want this delivered into His Grace’s hands with all possible speed.”

  “Right away, ma’am.” Accepting the letter, Sligo turned for the door.

  “And have Webster call up a hackney for me.”

  “A hackney, ma’am?” Sligo turned back, his expression watchful. “John Coachman can have the carriage around in a trice.”

  “No.” Honoria let authority tinge her tone. “A hackney. I’m only going a short distance—there’s no need to get the carriage out.” With a regal nod, she dismissed Sligo. “Tell Webster I wish to leave in ten minutes.”

  Sligo departed. Honoria picked up the letter from her “well-wisher.” She glanced at it again, then, folding it neatly, headed upstairs.

  Ten minutes later, arrayed in her golden pelisse and clutching an ivory-beaded reticule, she settled in one corner of the hackney. The footman bowed and started to close the door. It was wrenched from his grasp—Sligo bundled himself into the carriage, then shrank back in the other corner. Honoria stared at him. “Where’s my letter?”