Devil's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Honoria stepped back—a woodchip went flying past her face.

  “What the—!” Richard, axe in hand, glared at her, then raised his head. “Devil!”

  He didn’t need to explain what the problem was. Devil materialized and frowned at Honoria. “What the devil are you doing here? Sit down.” He pointed to the log across the clearing—the same log he’d made her sit on six months before. “Over there—safe out of the way.”

  Six months had seen a lot of changes. Honoria stood her ground. She looked past his bare chest and saw Vane, with one blow, smash a rickety stool to pieces. “What are you doing with the furniture?”

  Devil sighed. “We’re going to bring this place down about Charles’s body—we need lots of fuel so the fire burns hot enough to act as his pyre.”

  “But—” Honoria stepped back and looked at the cottage, at the wide half logs of the walls, the thick beams beneath the eaves. “You’ve got plenty of wood—you don’t need to use Keenan’s furniture.”

  “Honoria, the furniture’s mine.”

  “How do you know he isn’t attached to it by now?” Stubbornly, she held his gaze.

  Devil pressed his lips together.

  Honoria’s chin firmed. “It’ll take two minutes to carry it out. We can use the blankets to cover it, then Keenan can take it away later.”

  Devil threw up his hands and turned back into the cottage. “All right, all right—but we’ll have to hurry.”

  Vane simply stared when Devil explained. He shook his head, but didn’t argue. He and Devil shifted the heavier pieces; Honoria gathered the smaller items into baskets and pails. Harry and Lucifer returned—and couldn’t believe their eyes. Honoria promptly conscripted Lucifer; Harry escaped on the pretext of fetching Devil’s and Vane’s horses and taking them upwind of the cottage.

  While Richard and Gabriel weakened the joints, the pile of Keenan’s possessions grew. Finally, Harry, whom Honoria had collared and sent to clear out the stable, came back with an old oilcloth and dusty lamp. He put the lamp on the pile, then flicked the oilcloth over the whole.

  “There! Done.” He looked at Honoria, not in challenge, not in irritation, but in hope. “Now you can sit down. Out of the way.”

  Before she could reply, Lucifer pulled the big carved chair out from under the oilcloth, picked up the tasseled cushion, and plumped it. Coughing furiously, he dropped it back down and made her a weak but extravagant bow. “Your chair, madam. Please be seated.”

  What could she say?

  Her slight hesitation was too much for Gabriel, strolling up to hand his axe to his brother. “For God’s sake, Honoria, sit down—before you drive us all demented.”

  Honoria favored him with a haughty stare, then, sweeping regally about, she sat. She could almost hear their sighs.

  They ignored her thereafter, as long as she stayed in the chair. When she stood and strolled a few paces, just to stretch her legs, she was immediately assailed by frowning glances—until she sat down again.

  Swiftly, efficiently, they pulled the cottage down. Honoria watched from her regal perch—the acreage of tanned male chests, all gleaming with honest sweat, muscles bunching and rippling as they strove with beams and rafters, was eye-opening, to say the least. She was intrigued to discover that her susceptibility to the sight was severely restricted.

  Only her husband’s bare chest affected her—that particular sight still held the power to transfix her, to make her mouth go suddenly dry. One thing that hadn’t changed in six months.

  Between them, little else was the same. The child growing within her would take the changes one stage further—the start of their branch of the family. The first of the next generation.

  Devil came over once they’d got the fire started. Honoria looked up, smiling through her tears. “Just the smoke,” she said, in reply to his look.

  With a sudden “swhoosh,” the flames broke through the collapsed roof. Honoria stood; Devil put the carved chair back under the oilcloth, then took her hand. “Time to go home.”

  Honoria let him lead her away. Richard and Lucifer remained to ensure the fire burned out. Harry rode off, Charles’s hired horse in charge. The rest of them made their way back through the wood, riding through the lengthening shadows. In front of Devil, Honoria leaned back against his chest, and closed her eyes.

  They were safe—and they were heading home.

  Hours later, chin-deep in the ducal bath, soothed by scented steam, Honoria heard sudden mouselike rustlings.

  Cracking open her eyes, she saw Cassie scurry out, closing the door behind her.

  She would have frowned, but it was too much effort. Minutes later, the mystery was solved. Devil climbed into the bath. It was more than big enough for both of them—he’d had it specially designed.

  “Aarrghhh.” Sinking into the water, Devil closed his eyes and leaned back against the bath’s edge.

  Honoria studied him—and saw the tiredness, the deep world-weariness, the last days had etched in his face. “It had to be,” she murmured.

  He sighed. “I know. But he was family. I’d rather the script had been otherwise.”

  “You did what had to be done. If Charles’s deeds ever became known, Arthur’s life, and Louise’s, would be ruined, let alone Simon, the twins and the rest—the whispers would follow them all their lives. Society’s never fair.” She spoke quietly, letting the truth carry its own weight, its inherent reassurance. “This way, I presume Charles will simply disappear?”

  “Inexplicably.” After a moment, Devil added: “Vane will wait a few days, then sort out Smiggs—the family as a whole will be mystified. Charles’s disappearance will become an unsolved mystery. His soul can find what peace it can, buried in the woods where Tolly died.”

  Honoria frowned. “We’ll have to tell Arthur and Louise the truth.”

  “Hmm.” Devil’s eyes gleamed from beneath his lashes. “Later.” Lifting his arm, he reached for the soap, then held it out to Honoria.

  Opening her eyes, she blinked, then took it. Softly smiling, she came up onto her knees between his bent legs. This ranked as one of her favorite pastimes—soaping his chest, washing his magnificent body. Quickly raising a lather in the crisp mat of hair on his chest, she splayed her hands, caressing each heavy muscle band, lovingly sculpting each shoulder, each arm.

  I love you, I love you. The refrain sang in her head; she let her hands say the words, give voice to the music, infusing every touch, every caress, with her love. His hands rose in answer, roaming her curves, unhurriedly possessing every one, orchestrating an accompaniment to her song.

  She’d only let him use the soap on her once; the room had ended up completely flooded. To her abiding delight, his control was stronger than hers.

  One large palm splayed over her gently rounded belly. Looking up, Honoria caught the gleam of green eyes beneath his lashes; she frowned.

  “You knew.” One brow lifted in his usual arrogant way; his lips slowly curved. “I was waiting for you to tell me.”

  She raised her brows haughtily. “Tomorrow’s St. Valentine’s Day—I’ll tell you then.”

  He grinned—his pirate’s grin. “We’ll have to devise a suitable ceremony.”

  Honoria caught his eye—and struggled not to grin back. She humphed and clambered over one rock-hard thigh.

  “Turn around.” She soaped his back, then lathered his hair and made him duck to rinse it. She’d returned to sit before him, between his thighs, her back to him, soaping one long leg, when Devil leaned forward, his arms closing around her. He nuzzled her ear. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m perfectly well, and so’s your son. Stop worrying.”

  “Me stop worrying?” He snorted. “That’s a fine thing coming from you.”

  Dropping his leg, Honoria smiled and leaned back, luxuriating in the feel of the warm, hard, wet wall of his chest against her shoulders and back. “Oh, I’ve given up worrying about you.”

  Devil gave vent to an
excessively skeptical sound.

  “Well—just consider.” Honoria gestured with the soap. “In recent times alone, you’ve been thrown from a disintegrating phaeton, poisoned, attacked with swords, and now shot through the heart. And you’re still here.” Dramatically, she spread her arms wide. “In the face of such trenchant invincibility, it’s obviously wasted effort to worry about you. Fate, as I’ve been told often enough, quite clearly takes care of the Cynsters.”

  Behind her, Devil grinned. She would stop worrying about him on the same day he stopped worrying about her. Closing his hands about her waist, he lifted her, drawing her hips back against him. “I told you you were fated to be a Cynster wife—an invincible husband was obviously required.” He underscored his emphasis by nudging the softness between her thighs, his erection sinking a tantalizing inch into that familiar haven.

  Dropping the soap over the edge of the tub, Honoria arched—and drew him deeper. “I warn you, the staff are going to start wondering if we have to paint the downstairs ceiling again.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  She grinned. “Yes.”

  He chuckled, the sound so deep she felt it in her bones.

  “Not a single splash,” she warned him.

  “Your desire is my command.”

  It was; he rose to her challenge—in every way—rocking her in the cradle of his hips until she thought she’d go mad. His hands roamed, fondling her swollen breasts, teasing her aching nipples. The slight ripples caused by their movement lapped at the sensitive peaks, a subtle, thoroughly excruciating sensation. Sweet fever blossomed, heating her skin, making the cooling water seem colder, impressing her with her own nakedness, sensitizing her skin to the crisp abrasion of his hair-dusted body rubbing so intimately against her.

  Steadily, the fever built; Honoria shifted her knees to the outside of his. She tried to rise higher—he held her down, his hands firming about her hips. “No splashing—remember?” She could only gasp as he pulled her lower, his hot hardness pressing deeper. Three restricted yet forceful thrusts later her fever exploded. She gasped his name as her senses soared; eyes shut, she savored the flight, hung briefly in the selfless void at the peak, then drifted gently back to earth.

  He hadn’t joined her; his arms came around her, holding her safe as her senses returned. Blissfully content, Honoria smiled and inwardly embraced him as possessively as he embraced her. He hadn’t said he loved her, but after all that had happened, she didn’t need to hear the words. He’d said enough, and, like any Cynster, his actions spoke loudest.

  She was his; he was hers—she needed nothing more. What had grown between them, what was growing within her, was theirs—their life from now on. As her mental feet touched earth, she concentrated and caressed him, expertly, intimately—encouragingly.

  And felt his muscles lock. Abruptly, he lifted her from him; the next instant, he stood and scooped her into his arms. As he stepped from the bath and headed for their bedroom, Honoria’s eyes flew wide. “We’re still wet!”

  “We’ll dry fast enough,” replied her thoroughly aroused spouse.

  They did, rolling, twisting, tangling amidst their silken sheets in a glorious affirmation of life, and the love they shared. Later, as he lay flat on his back, Honoria slumped fast asleep on his chest, Devil’s lips quirked.

  True Cynsters—all the male ones—died in their beds.

  Stifling a chuckle, he peered down at his wife. He couldn’t see her face. Gently, he shifted her to the side, settling her against him; she snuggled closer, her hand sliding across his chest. He touched his lips to her temple, and closed his arms about her.

  “To have and to hold” was the family motto—it was also in the wedding vows. One of his ancestors had paid a horrific sum to put it there. Having married Honoria Prudence, Devil could understand why.

  The having was very nice; the holding—the loving, the never letting go—was even better.

  Epilogue

  Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

  September 1819

  The Bar Cynster was in session.

  They were all there, lounging about the library, languorously at ease like so many well-fed predators. Devil had pushed the chair back from his desk and propped one boot on his knee to make a makeshift cradle for his heir. Sebastian Sylvester Jeremy Bartholomew Cynster. The star attraction of the present gathering of the clan had been baptized several hours before; he was now getting his head wet in a different temple.

  Vane was in the armchair by the desk; Gabriel and Harry occupied the chaise. Lucifer lay sprawled in one armchair by the hearth, Richard a mirror image in its mate. Each held a brandy balloon well filled with His Grace of St. Ives’s best; a somnolent air of deep male satisfaction permeated the room.

  The staccato click of feminine heels in the hall was the first intimation of impending fate. Then the door flew open; Honoria swept in. One look at her face, one glance at her flashing eyes, was enough to inform them that someone was in deep trouble.

  Secure in the knowledge that, whatever was exciting her ire, he had to be innocent, Devil gave her a vague smile. Honoria returned it with a brief, ominously serious nod; when the others made to rise, she waved them back to their seats. Skirts swishing, she marched across the room, then whirled before Devil’s desk. Crossing her arms, she faced them, her gaze impartially distributing her ire. Only Devil was safe.

  “It has come to my notice,” Honoria intoned, her words clipped and precise, “that a set of wagers—I believe the term is a book?—was run on the question of, not the date of Sebastian’s birth, which would have been bad enough, but on the date of his conception.” Her gaze settled on Gabriel; she raised her brows. “Is that correct?”

  Gabriel eyed her warily; a tinge of color crept into his lean cheeks. He flicked a glance at Devil, who merely raised his brows back. Frowning, Gabriel looked at Honoria. “Your information is accurate.”

  “Indeed?” Honoria’s eyes flashed pure steel. “And exactly how much did you—all of you—win?”

  Gabriel blinked. To his left, Sebastian gurgled—there was no point looking to Devil for help; His Grace of St. Ives was besotted with his son as well as his wife. At the edge of his vision, Gabriel saw colors gathering in a phalanx by the door—Honoria’s supporters, their mothers. Nearer to hand, he sensed Harry’s tension. Vane shifted, uncrossing his legs; Richard and Lucifer both slowly sat up. Gabriel had no dif-ficulty interpreting their silent message.

  Which was all very well—they weren’t the ones facing Her Grace of St. Ives’s fire.

  “Seven thousand, six hundred and forty-three pounds.”

  Honoria’s brows flew. Then she smiled. “Mr. Postleth-waite will be pleased.”

  “Postlethwaite?” Richard’s tone reflected their escalating unease. “What’s he got to do with it?”

  Honoria opened her eyes wide. “The village church needs a new roof. Mr. Postlethwaite’s been at his wit’s end—good lead is becoming so costly. And, of course, as we endow the chapel here, he didn’t like to approach us.”

  Gabriel glanced at Vane; Vane looked to Richard, who was looking at Harry. Lucifer bent a look of disbelief on his brother. Jaws aching, Devil kept his head down, his gaze locked on his son’s cherubic countenance.

  It was Vane who stepped into the breach. “So?” The single syllable was steeped in unchallengeable superiority; with any other woman, it might have worked.

  Honoria merely turned her head, looked Vane in the eye, then turned back to Gabriel. “You will donate the entire proceeds from your enterprise, with any interest accrued, to Mr. Postlethwaite, to use as he sees fit. As you were in charge of this infamous book, I will hold you responsible for collecting the funds and conveying them to the vicar.” Her tone was that of a magistrate pronouncing sentence—it left no room for argument. “Furthermore, as a final penance, you will all attend the dedication.” She paused; her gaze swept the gathering. “I trust I’ve made myself clear?”

  Her eyes challeng
ed them to gainsay her; each considered it—none did.

  Briskly, Honoria nodded.

  Sebastian cried, an eloquent warning of impending hunger. Honoria immediately lost interest in wagers, lead roofs, and indelicate speculation. Turning, she held out her arms commandingly; Devil handed his son over, an unholy smile lighting his eyes, lifting the corners of his lips.

  With Sebastian at her shoulder, Honoria headed for the door, utterly ignoring the five large males she passed. She swept straight out of the room, the ladies closing ranks behind her.

  Six males watched her go—one with glowing pride, the other five with uneasy trepidation.

  They paid up without a whimper. Mr. Postlethwaite was delighted.

  One month later, they attended the dedication; each uttered a prayer that fate wouldn’t, just yet, turn her attention their way.

  Unfortunately for them, fate wasn’t listening.

  About the Author

  Romances set against the backdrop of Regency England were the first STEPHANIE LAURENS ever read, and they continue to exert a special attraction. On escaping from the dry world of professional science to carve out a career as a writer, Stephanie published eight Regency romances, then turned to longer historical romances set in the Regency period. Her first was Captain Jack’s Woman, published by Avon Books in 1997. Subsequent books have told the tales of the Bar Cynster-a group of masterful, arrogant cousins of the ducal Cynster dynasty. Devil’s Bride, A Rake’s Vow, Scandal's Bride, A Rogues’ Proposal, A Secret Love, and All About Love have documented the inevitable surrender to love of the devastatingly handsome Cynsters. All About Passion extends the series.

  Residing in a leafy bayside suburb of Melbourne, Australia, Stephanie divides her free time between her husband, two teenage daughters and two cats, Shakespeare and Marlowe. Stephanie loves to hear from readers. Letters can be sent c/o The Publicity Department, Avon Books, HarperCollins Publishers, 10 E 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022-5299, or via email to slaurens@vicnet.net.au, or via Stephanie's website at www.stephanielaurens.com. Updates on the continuing Cynstar series can be found on the website.