The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

by Stephanie Laurens

  The begum’s expression darkened, tending moody. She glanced at Gareth. “This is true?”

  Before he could answer, Emily stated, “Yes, it’s true.” The instant the begum looked back at her, she continued, “And in your case, when attending a European court as the bey’s wife, you will need to maintain the strictest level of decorum, if on no other count than self-defense.”

  Confusion, and a touch of concern, flared in the begum’s eyes.

  Aha! Emily thought, and plowed on, “You will need to be on guard against any would-be seducers, for the only European gentlemen, married or not, who would approach the wife of a visiting potentate with a view to dalliance would have only one thing on their minds—either to discredit your husband by creating a scandal—you know how men are—or to learn more about your husband’s business through you.” Frowning, she tilted her head. “Or perhaps to blackmail you.”

  She refocused on the begum. “Well, that’s more than one thing, but you can see the danger.”

  Abruptly realizing her approach had been less than complimentary, she hurriedly added, “It would be totally different if you were there unofficially, not linked to your husband but just as yourself.” Pausing to draw breath, she added sincerely, “You are a very lovely woman, after all, and I’m sure you would find many gentlemen willing to dally with you, but”—she shook her head—“not this time. Not while you are traveling as the bey’s wife.”

  The begum’s expression had grown increasingly despondent as Emily’s lecture had progressed. The silence lengthened as she stared at Emily, then she glanced at Gareth. “You—”

  “Neither the major nor I dally with others.” Emily made the statement definite, definitive—it was true enough over recent times. She didn’t look at Gareth, but caught the begum’s eyes as she turned back to her. “I should perhaps add that in European cultures it is customary for the gentleman to make the first approach.”

  “But…” The begum looked thoroughly disgusted. “What use is that? One might be waiting forever.”

  “Indeed.” Emily managed not to glare at Gareth as she said it. “However, now we’ve told you—warned you—about dalliance in our societies, I believe it’s getting late, and we should thank you for your hospitality and return to our guesthouse.” She shifted to unwind her legs from their cramped position.

  The begum made a distinctly unladylike sound. “So,” she grumped, “although I will walk in your ballrooms and drawing rooms, I will still be as cloistered as I am here at home.” She looked up as Emily managed to get to her feet. The begum narrowed her eyes, then pointed at Emily. “Aha! Now I understand the reason for your gowns—why you dress so, all covered up, when you go into your society. Why outside your home, you dress like a nun, rather than a wife.”

  Emily bit back the information that they dressed in the same manner in the home as out of it.

  With fluid grace, the begum rose in all her barely clad beauty. She waved her hands. “Let me see this gown. I have not one like it.”

  Emily slowly pirouetted. She glanced at Gareth as she did. He’d risen as she had, but his face was, even to her tutored eyes, an impenetrable mask. She had no clue what he was thinking.

  The begum frowned, then met Emily’s eyes as she faced her once more. “So I will need to get my seamstresses to make up gowns like this, or my husband will be displeased and made ashamed when we reach the European courts?”

  Emily hesitated, misliking the calculating gleam in the begum’s dark eyes, but with no alternative, she nodded.

  The begum smiled. “In that case, Majoress Hamilton, you will be doing me a great service if you will exchange gowns with me. We are much of a height and size—as a great favor to me, you will swap gowns, will you not?”

  Emily tried not to look at the diaphanous creation the begum was draped in. Alongside the calculation, there was something else in the begum’s eyes—a need to take something from this meeting. Something positive she could show others…Emily had heard that the begum lived in the harem, that she was the first wife, true, but just the first among many…

  Emily nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, Gareth followed Emily through the gate into the courtyard of their guesthouse. With a brusque nod, he farewelled the captain, pushed the gate shut, and latched it.

  Striding after Emily as she crossed to the salon door, he picked out Mooktu in the shadows, raised a hand in acknowledgment, but didn’t slow. Not knowing how long they would be at the palace, the others had divided the watches for tonight between them. He didn’t need to concern himself with that tonight—besides, thanks to Emily, they now had the begum, traditionally the city’s ruler in her husband’s absence, firmly on their side.

  Emily’s cloak fluttered as she gathered it about her and climbed the shallow steps into the salon. Embroidered silk ankle cuffs and tassels peeked from beneath the cloak, and an ankle chain glinted in the moonlight, before she released the cloak and the gloom within swallowed her.

  Every muscle locked tight, Gareth grimly followed. He’d never been so grateful for a lady’s cloak in all his life. While Emily and the begum had retired to swap clothes, foreseeing the result and the danger therein, he’d hunted up the eunuch and asked for the cloak, left at the too-distant entrance, to be fetched.

  Luckily the eunuch had returned with the cloak before Emily had reappeared. When she’d finally followed the begum, rendered reasonably presentable by Emily’s gown, into the room, he’d sucked in a breath, held it, and tried not to react. At all.

  A superhuman feat, one he hadn’t achieved.

  But Emily’s blushes had abruptly focused him on something other than his own pain. He’d shaken out the cloak and held it up. She’d all but dashed across the room, anklets tinkling, to take refuge beneath the soft woolen folds.

  Once covered, her chin had risen; her confidence had returned. She’d taken her leave of the begum with genuine smiles and courtesy all around.

  The subject of gowns apparently united all women.

  Still holding the cloak about her, Emily started up the guesthouse stairs. She glanced back as he stepped onto the lowest tread, smiled fleetingly in the moonlight. “That ended a great deal better than I thought it would.”

  No thanks to him. Gareth’s jaw tightened. A chaos of roiling emotions condensed into a hot knot inside him, then rose slowly, inexorably, up his throat. “I’ll buy you another gown.”

  His tone was angry, irritated—frustrated.

  Stepping into the upper corridor, Emily glanced back. “Don’t be nonsensical.” She kept her voice down in deference to the others, who would by now be asleep. She continued along the narrow corridor. “It was just a gown. I have more—more than enough.”

  “Nevertheless, when we reach England I’ll arrange to replace it.”

  Reaching her door, she halted and swung to face him. Even through the dimness, she could see his stubbornness in the set of his jaw, could sense the…was it disapproval? radiating from him as he halted before her. Eyes narrowing, she tipped up her chin. “I did what was necessary to get us out of there without causing ructions—ructions we can’t afford.”

  A muscle worked at the side of his jaw. “If you’d just left it to me—”

  “If I’d left it to you that woman would have—” Realizing her voice was rising commensurate with her temper, she uttered a muted sound of frustration, flung open her door, grabbed his jacket front in one fist and jerked, then towed him into the privacy of her room.

  She couldn’t have moved him if he hadn’t obliged, but presumably he was as keen as she to continue their discussion. The walls and door were sturdy enough to permit them to indulge in the “discussion” bubbling through her. How dare he not appreciate her saving him from a fate worse than who-knew-what at the hands, and various other parts, of the begum?

  Releasing him, she swung to face him, all but nose to nose in the bright moonlight pouring through the open shutters. Her temper was well flown; b
elligerence had taken hold.

  He’d turned to send the door swinging shut. As he turned back to her, she stretched up on her toes and locked her eyes on his. “Listen, you—I got us out of there tonight without losing anything vital—more, while keeping the begum’s favor. What fault can you possibly find in that?”

  His eyes, dark and narrowed, locked on hers. “It’s my job to keep you safe.”

  “By whose decree?”

  “Mine. It’s the way things are—everyone knows that.”

  He was serious, she could see it in his face, but she wasn’t about to back down. She wanted to forge a lifelong partnership with him, and she intended to start as she meant to go on. Folding her arms, catching her cloak in them to hold it in place, she kept her eyes on his. “Regardless of any and all accepted practice, the only way we’re going to survive this—your mission and this unexpected joint journey—is to work together and protect each other. Tonight I was better placed to deal with the begum than you, so I did, and we walked away unscathed.” Eyes narrowing, she gruffly stated, “You should be grateful.”

  Her tone gave Gareth pause. There was a hint of upset, of being upset because he wasn’t applauding her actions, her quick thinking in rescuing them. He let his mind skate back, reliving the moments…his too-intense reactions flared anew and crashed through him again. His face hardened to stone. “Regardless—don’t ever do that again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Put yourself between me and danger.” When she frowned, not understanding, he gritted his teeth and ground out, “When we first walked into the begum’s presence, you stepped between her and me. Later, you kept deflecting her attention from me to you.”

  “I was protecting you!”

  “I know. But—again—it’s my job to protect you.”

  “Again, I wasn’t under threat. You were!”

  His jaw was going to crack. “Be that as it may—”

  “Arrgh!” She flung up her hands. Her cloak slid from her shoulders. “You ungrateful man!”

  With a soft thump, her cloak hit the floor.

  She stood in the moonlight shafting through the open window, clad in gauze so fine he could see every curve lovingly outlined by the moonlight.

  Abruptly she stepped close, face tilted to his, glaring at him from mere inches away. “Or did you want to lie with her?”

  “Of course not…” His words faded along with the ferocious scowl he’d intended to reinforce them. Beyond his control, his gaze had lowered, locking on her body, on the curves and mounds and tempting hollows imperfectly concealed—tantalizing revealed—by embroidered gossamer silk.

  His mouth watered. His fingers curled.

  His face, his features, had blanked. He couldn’t have summoned an expression to save himself.

  When the begum had worn the outfit, he hadn’t had a problem. After the first glance, he’d felt voyeuristic and uncomfortable, and had had no difficulty averting his eyes.

  But Emily in gossamer silk, Emily’s body…

  “The only woman I want to share a bed with—”

  He stopped, shocked. He’d said that aloud.

  And even he could hear the lust thickening his voice.

  His gaze remained locked on the pale, subtle curves of her breasts.

  The silence stretched.

  He had to think, but couldn’t. Lust had suborned his brain.

  “Yes?” A soft, expectant—hopeful—prompt.

  He dragged in a tight breath, looked up, met her eyes—saw in the mossy hazel understanding and…

  Enough blatant encouragement to knock his defenses flat.

  He swore, and reached for her, hauled her to him.

  Bent his head, crushed her lips beneath his—and kissed her with all the pent-up fury, frustration, and sheer need inside him.

  She grabbed his head and kissed him back, equally fierily, equally hungrily.

  The clash of emotions made his head spin. Transmuted anger and frustration to potent passion and powerful, spiraling desire in one short heartbeat.

  Made him achingly hard, every muscle turned to steel.

  Releasing her arms, he set his hands deliberately to her silk-clad body, and felt his pulse leap.

  He closed his hands about her waist, and sensed her heart thud.

  He’d been furious not just because she’d put herself in danger, but because he would have been helpless to protect her had things gone badly. Yet he’d had to let her handle it—he hadn’t known how to, so he’d had to sit and keep silent, and let her risk…

  Angling his head, he sank into her mouth, ravaged, plundered.

  The countering pressure of her lips, the evocative taste of her, the hunger in the passion that rose to meet his, reassured him as nothing else could.

  She’d pulled it off, and they were safe. Alive.

  And both of them now wanted, each of them needed…

  The other.

  The rational remnant of his brain quibbled that this was a typical reaction to triumphing over danger. He shouldn’t take advantage—

  He shut out that chiding voice. He didn’t understand her motives, but he couldn’t, wasn’t strong enough to, deny her. Or himself. To hold back from what they both so openly, and blatantly desperately, wanted.

  Needed.

  Had to have.

  He flexed his fingers, felt silk shift, sliding against skin equally smooth. Beneath his palms, the material had heated. He let his hands slide, glide over her back, felt the gossamer silk shift over silken skin in evocative, provocative temptation.

  Spreading his hands over the long supple planes, he pulled her to him. Stepped into her as he did.

  Gathered her—all warm womanly curves encased in featherlight silk—against him, locking her to him.

  And she came.

  Eagerly, wantonly, Emily pushed her arms up, stretched up on her toes the better to meet his lips, the better to return the increasingly fiery kiss. Winding her arms about his neck, with an abandon born of absolute certainty, she plastered herself to him.

  She—her senses—leapt, then rejoiced as his arms locked and tightened, steel bands trapping her against his hard length. Obeying the dictates of her racing heart, she sank into him.

  Gave herself up to the intoxicating heat, to the swirl of her senses, the giddy thud of her pulse.

  Wanted—she wanted.

  Even as, high on her toes, leaning into him she yielded her mouth and knowingly taunted him to take, she desperately wanted.

  More.

  All.

  Now.

  Here in this room, bathed in moonlight, she wanted him with a certainty that blazed through her veins.

  An absolute longing, one she’d never felt before, one far too vibrant, too acute to be questioned.

  Her need simply was, just as she was his.

  Just as he was hers.

  Nothing else mattered. Nothing else held the power to break the compulsion—one she wholeheartedly embraced.

  His hands slid, palms burning, over the sensitive skin of her back, the silk a tantalizing, senses-teasing barrier. It whispered of sultry nights, promised heated delights as it shifted over her skin, caressing not just where his hands pressed, but elsewhere, further, sending prickling awareness washing over her.

  Sending heat sinking into her. He angled his head and plundered her mouth anew, reclaiming her attention, his tongue sliding heavily over and along hers as, with a blatancy she found impossibly arousing, he feasted.

  Hot, heavy, his hands traced her hips, slid down, around, gripped.

  He lifted her against him, molded her hips to his. The insubstantial silk did nothing to mute the thrilling male hardness of him, the solid rod of his erection that pressed through his breeches to impress itself against the taut softness of her belly.

  With reined deliberation, he shifted against her, an evocative, provocative thrusting that made her fingers curl.

  Heat streaked through her, an eruption of sweet warmth that spread beneath h
er skin, then slid sinuously down to pool low.

  To swell. And throb.

  On a gasp she broke from the kiss, desperate to breathe, and caught a glimpse of his face, of the dark fire in his eyes.

  Her hands had found his hair, her fingers tangling in the soft locks. Forcing her heavy, passion-weighted lids wider, she stared, oddly aware of her lips hot and swollen, slicked from their kiss, of her harried breathing, of the tightness of her chest.

  Of the giddiness of her senses, the yearning in her blood.

  Of the need that beat an irresistible tattoo in her veins.

  Her eyes searched his, and she saw in the dark depths the heat ease back a notch. Saw rationality and a stubborn, bone-deep honor fight to rise above the heated compulsion, to transcend it and reclaim him.

  Yet she stood on the brink. Teetering. So aware…

  Of the heat that rose beneath every inch of her skin. That made itself known in the throb of her lips, and even more insistently in the throb of the soft flesh between her thighs.

  For the first time she knew, felt, fully experienced the telltale greedy fire that flooded her and made her yearn. That made her body soften, melt. Made it long for a completion she’d never known with a violence that made her ache.

  She caught and held his gaze. “Don’t. Stop.” Her tone would have done the begum proud—command, demand, wrapped in sultry, lustful, open greed.

  The heat in his eyes flared anew. His chest swelled as he fought—the damned man fought!—to contain it. To suppress it.

  But he didn’t succeed.

  Every muscle in his large, hard body grew hotter, harder. Forged steel, tempered and scalding, powerful and unyielding.

  But if she wanted him tonight, she would have to fight, too.

  Fight him—his too-noble nature.