Brazen Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  She was reeling, senses drowning in the tactile pleasure of his too-knowing touch when, largely out of sight behind her, he caressed her derriere, explored, stroked, weighed, then kneaded—knowingly, firmly, openly possessively.

  In keeping with his orders, she’d kept her eyes on herself—startled, then mesmerized by what she’d seen in her face. Had she always been this wanton, this sexually abandoned?

  Had she just been waiting for him to be herself? For him to show her herself?

  He shifted closer, his dark head dipping by her ear, even though his strong hands continued to fondle her bottom. “Put your left leg up on the chair, bend over, and slowly roll down your garter and your stocking. Leave them and your slipper on the chair, and wait for my next order.”

  Breathing had grown difficult; she felt giddy as she complied, couldn’t think as she lifted her left foot to balance it on the wooden chair, then, grasping her garter, she slowly rolled it down, bending over as she did.

  Two long, hard fingers slid into her sheath. Her hands on her calf, she froze, bent over, inwardly shuddering as one callused hand caressed her bottom while the fingers of his other hand explored her intimately.

  Recalling his order, she struggled to roll her garter and stocking all the way down, to slide off her slipper, then, bent over her knee, hands on the chair seat, wait, wait . . .

  She was panting, all but sobbing, nerves excruciatingly alive, aware to her bones of every touch inside and out, when he gave her the order to straighten, then he shifted the chair to her right, and instructed her to repeat the exercise with her other garter, stocking, and slipper.

  It took every ounce of control she possessed to comply—to give herself up to such intimate exploration.

  But she wanted every touch, gloried in every deft stroke of his hard fingers inside her.

  She knew he could make her shatter with just his fingers, expected him to do so, yet even as she felt herself inexorably tightening, he drew back. Drew his hands from her.

  “Stand up.”

  Lowering her right leg, she did, blinking as she focused on her reflection in the mirror.

  More of her hair had tumbled down, a river of fire lacing over her flushed skin. Her lips were parted; her tongue came out to moisten them. Even in the dim light, her eyes glittered emerald green. And her body . . .

  Was that her?

  “Time for the rest of tonight’s lesson.”

  Before she could think, he gripped her waist, spun her to face him, then lifted her, turned, and tossed her on the bed.

  She landed with her head almost on the pillows, bounced once. He reached around her, dragging the pillows down to either side of her.

  “Wait.” He stripped off his coat, unknotted the neckerchief he’d worn about his throat. Tossed both aside, sat to haul off her father’s boots, strip off his stockings.

  Then he came up on the bed on his knees, walked himself closer. His gaze had locked on her lower body. Reaching out, he grasped her calves and spread her legs wide apart.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Nearly sobbed with resurging need.

  He looked down at what he’d revealed. His face was a harsh mask of stark male desire. Releasing one leg, he reached down, trailed one long finger up through the sopping wetness. His lips curved in pure masculine anticipation.

  He reached for the pillows, scooped her hips up in one arm, and stuffed the soft padding beneath her, raising her hips as he slid down to lie between her spread legs.

  His shoulders kept her legs forced wide as he brought his mouth down on her, as he sucked, suckled, and she shrieked.

  In seconds he’d reduced her to a writhing mass of wanting.

  Within a minute she needed— needed —release.

  Yet no matter how much she moaned and sobbed, how much she thrashed and wordlessly pleaded, even when she sank her hands in his hair and tugged, he kept pushing her tighter only to let her fall back again, up and back, up and back, until she thought she’d go mad.

  Then he took her with his tongue and she soared over the precipice, straight over that indefinable edge.

  She’d thought she’d known what he could do to her, but this time she saw stars. This time she felt the cataclysmic shock all the way to her soul.

  By the time her senses, drowning in glory, had resurfaced enough to be aware, he’d stripped out of his shirt, out of his breeches. Naked but for the bandages she’d wrapped tightly about his torso, he looked like a wounded god as he returned to kneel between her legs again, hooked his arms beneath her thighs so the back of her knees lay across his bent elbows, then closed his large hands about her hips.

  And lifted her, drew her hips up and to him.

  He set the head of his erection at her entrance, looked up and caught her gaze, then thrust powerfully in, hard and deep.

  Looking down, he withdrew and repeated the process. Helpless to do otherwise, she watched as he held her hips immobile and thrust himself into her, relentlessly plunging deep to her core, harder, faster, hotter, deeper.

  The friction was shattering.

  She came apart on a wild cry, but he continued to use her—use her, fill her, take her, possess her—until she shattered again, more completely and deeply and soul-wrenchingly than she ever had.

  This time he followed her.

  Unable to resist any longer, to hold out against the powerful, milking contractions of her sheath, Logan gasped, closed his eyes, dropped forward to prop on one braced arm above her as his hips bucked helplessly, and he pounded into her, then with a muted roar, he thrust one last time and spilled his seed deep within her.

  Her body clutched, clung.

  Held him.

  As the bright nova faded, he became aware of small hands weakly stroking his body, gently tugging. Dredging up the last of his strength, he pushed aside the pillows, then let himself down. Onto the one female body that cradled his perfectly. He let himself slump into her embrace.

  L ater, much, much later, when he finally stirred enough to lift from her and, pulling up the covers, settle beside her, Logan had a moment of not unaccustomed crystal-clear clarity; in most situations, this would be the point when he left the lady’s bed.

  He wasn’t leaving Linnet’s bed.

  The determination behind the thought, the innate stubbornness, stood in direct contradiction to what rational thought suggested the eventual outcome would be.

  At that moment, the notion that any future between them was doomed didn’t seem able to impinge. The knowledge, the certainty, that him remaining in her bed like this would inevitably lead to emotional difficulties didn’t seem to matter.

  The only thing that did matter was that he was there, and she lay beside him, taken, possessed, and sated to her toes.

  He couldn’t think beyond that, beyond the wonder he’d felt in her body, the completeness, the triumph he’d found in possessing it. In drawing so much closer to her.

  That last was dangerous, but he no longer cared.

  If she demanded, he would give, and would keep giving until she no longer wanted him.

  Regardless of honor, of safety, of danger, that was his new reality.

  Sleep tugged. Confident there was no point in further thought, he gave in and let it drag him under.

  December 12, 1822

  Close to midnight

  Shrewton House, London

  “T his really is a beautiful room.” With a negligent wave, Alex indicated the delicate white-and-gilt moldings, the pale blue silk wallpaper, the French Imperial-style chairs upholstered in the same blue silk. Turning to the large bed, Alex raised approving brows. “The counterpane, too. Nothing but the best for our dear sire’s offspring.” Regarding Daniel Thurgood as he shut the door, Alex added, “Even if we were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  Daniel’s lips curved. “It was a nice thought to use Shrewton House as our London base. Might as well enjoy our sire’s hospitality, even if he never knows.”

  “How fortuitous
that he winters at Wymondham.”

  “Indeed.” Shrugging off his coat, Daniel laid it over a chair, then bent to warm his hands at the fire in the hearth. The room had been chosen and readied by his man, Creighton, and Alex’s houseman, M’wallah. Watching Alex circle the room examining the various expensive trinkets placed here and there, Daniel mentally blessed Creighton. A pleasantly distracted Alex made life much less stressful.

  And their lives, unexpectedly, had taken a stressful turn.

  He, Alex, and their half brother Roderick had formed a close—indeed, closed—circle years before. While Roderick was the present Earl of Shrewton’s legitimate son, he and Alex were illegitimate, yet both were of decent birth and thus able to pass in society. London had been their playground for some years, but when Roderick’s position at the Foreign Office had resulted in the chance to visit India, all three of them had jumped at the opportunity—and what an opportunity it had proved to be.

  Roderick had requested and been granted a posting to the Governor of Bombay’s staff, a position that had made him privy to the details of many of the trade caravans. Once Alex and Daniel had joined him, they’d quickly set about exploiting the situation.

  The outcome had been the Black Cobra cult—a creation of their own making that had satisfied the vicious appetites the three of them shared in ways not even they had dared dream. For the last several years, the Black Cobra cult had delivered to them a steady diet of money, sex, sadistic pleasure, and, above all, power.

  All three had grown adept at manipulating and exploiting the cult members—hardly innocents—to shore up, then steadily expand, the cult’s activities. For several years, they’d pursued their hedonistic purposes without any serious hindrance from the authorities, represented by the Honorable East India Company. As the Earl of Shrewton, their dear father, was a member of the board, and as the Governor of India, the Marquess of Hastings, was beholden to the Prince Regent—who in turn was deeply indebted to the earl—there had seemed no reason to fear any threat from that quarter, or at least none they couldn’t easily see off.

  That had all changed one day in late August, when a letter written by Roderick as the Black Cobra, signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark but, by unfortunate ill luck, sealed with Roderick’s personal family seal, had fallen into the hands of a cadre of officers Hastings had, months before, dispatched from Calcutta with specific orders to expose the Black Cobra.

  Roderick, Daniel, and Alex had laughed off the officers’ efforts until then, but the realization that the letter could, if it reached the right hands in England, bring Roderick down—thus compromising the ability of the Black Cobra cult to prey on the caravans, the primary source of Daniel’s and Alex’s wealth—had sobered them. Even though it was Roderick alone at risk, Alex had agreed that to safeguard the cult’s continuing prosperity, Daniel and Alex should return to England with Roderick, to assist in seizing the letter and dealing appropriately with the officers responsible.

  Such threats to the Black Cobra couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

  Unfortunately, by the time they’d learned of the letter and the threat it posed, the four officers had copied the letter, then separated and fled Bombay. Which of the four was carrying the real letter—the original with Roderick’s incriminating seal, the only letter they needed to regain—was anyone’s guess.

  By luck and good management, they’d reached England before any of the officers.

  Annoyingly, an attempt two days ago to kill the senior officer, Colonel Derek Delborough, when he’d landed at Southampton had been foiled by some interfering female.

  Daniel and Alex had just parted from Roderick after a short conference during which their efforts, past and present, to stop the officers and regain the letter had been discussed and reviewed.

  Straightening from the fire, Daniel turned as Alex drew near. “Now that Delborough’s here, in London, and holed up at Grillon’s, how do you see our campaign progressing? Can we rely on Larkins to get the job done?”

  Larkins was Roderick’s man—an Englishman with a sadistic streak. He had managed to infiltrate a thief into the colonel’s household with the express purpose of stealing the letter—copy or original—that the good colonel was carrying.

  Alex halted beside Daniel, smiled into his eyes. Whereas Daniel had his mother’s coloring—dark hair and brown eyes—Alex and Roderick had inherited the earl’s distinctive pale blond hair and pale blue eyes. In Alex’s case, ice-blue eyes. “Larkins knows the price of failure—I’m sure he’ll manage, one way or another. I’m more concerned with the others—while I’ve allowed Roderick to think he’s in charge, M’wallah is, as usual, receiving all communication from cult members first. So while what Roderick just told us is correct, and we’ve men and assassins on the trail of the other three with strict orders to inform us the instant any of them successfully reach one of the embarkation ports on the Continent, the very latest news as of an hour ago is that Hamilton has reached Boulogne.”

  “I take it the Major remains in possession of his customary rude health?” Daniel started to undo his cuffs.

  “Sadly, yes. However, Uncle—you know the man, the sycophant always happy to slit the nearest throat ‘to the glory and the delight of the Black Cobra’?” When Daniel nodded, Alex went on, “Uncle and his men are already in Boulogne. At this point, we must rely on them to ensure Hamilton gets no further.”

  “Any word on the other two?” Daniel wasn’t surprised to learn that Alex had withheld information from Roderick. It was common practice between them, keeping their dear half brother sufficiently in the dark so that they controlled the cult. In truth, they were the power behind Roderick’s façade.

  “The story with Monteith is rather better. Our men in Lisbon spotted him the instant he set foot on the dock there. He’d signed on as crew on a Portuguese merchantman out of Diu—that’s why we missed picking up his trail at that end. He’d gone from Bombay overland to Diu and was too far ahead of our trackers. But he saw our men on the Lisbon docks. Although he was alone, he managed to fight his way out of an ambush, creating such a stir that he was able to get away. He immediately grabbed passage on another merchantman bound for Portsmouth. That was on the fourth of December, more than a week ago. What the dear major didn’t know is that three assassins slipped onto the ship before it sailed. With any luck, Monteith is dead by now.

  “As for Carstairs, I told you we had word he’d passed through Budapest and was headed for Vienna?”

  Pulling his shirt free of his trousers, Daniel nodded.

  “Since then, we’ve heard nothing, but he seems to be the slowest of the four, the furthest away. We can put off dealing with him for the moment.” Alex smiled as Daniel stripped off his shirt. “Indeed,” Alex murmured, “I believe we can put off all further discussion of the tiresome subject of Roderick’s lost letter—at least for now.”

  Taking Daniel’s hand, Alex led him to the bed. “Time for dwelling on other things, my dear.”

  Halting by the side of the sumptuous bed, Alex turned and went into Daniel’s arms.

  Six

  December 13, 1822

  Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

  H e’d tried to do the right thing, but Linnet had turned the tables on him.

  The next morning, Logan sat at the breakfast table outwardly listening to a general discussion of the day’s planned activities while inwardly brooding on his reversal of the night.

  His foxy hostess—she of the fiery hair, peridot eyes, and incredibly fine white skin—had neatly manipulated him with her demand—one he couldn’t very well decline, given it was entirely within his ability to comply—to repay her by teaching her more about the pleasures to be had when a man and a woman joined.

  If it had been nothing more than physical pleasure—the giving and the taking—he wouldn’t be so . . . uneasy. But he was too good a commander not to see the problems looming. They were who they were, yet . . . she might come to mean, might even have already
started to mean, too much to him.

  He’d known she was different from the very first instant he’d laid eyes on her—his angel who was no angel. From the moment he’d slid into her willing body in his dream that had been no dream, he’d known she was special, that she held the promise, the chance, the hope of more—that she, somehow, resonated with some need buried deep within him, one he hadn’t yet articulated but that somehow instinctively she fulfilled.

  All well and good, but until he recalled who he was, what he was doing, and where he was supposed to be, any relationship between her and him was . . . stifled. For all he knew, it might be strangled at birth.

  She might not want him even if he wanted her.

  “Stop frowning.”

  The words from his left, in typical bossy vein, had him changing his absentminded frown to a scowl and bending it on her.

  Linnet pulled a face at him. He’d been in a strange mood ever since he’d come downstairs. “I’ve been thinking about where you might have come from—where you might have been in recent months.”

  He raised his brows, listening. At least his scowl was dissipating.

  She looked up as the other men rose. She acknowledged their salutes with a nod, waited until they’d passed out of hearing before looking again at Logan. “Your hands are very tanned.”

  He looked at them, then slanted her a midnight blue glance, no doubt realizing why the darkness of his hands had stuck in her mind. She could still see those strong hands traveling over her very white body.

  Shifting, disguising the movement as turning to face him, she pointed out the obvious. “You’ve been in the tropics—somewhere hotter, much sunnier. You’re a cavalry officer. Perhaps if you look at maps, something might strike you.” Rising, she touched his shoulder. “Wait there—I’ll fetch our map book.”

  The Trevission map book contained an excellent collection of maps of all the countries, coasts, and shipping routes around the globe—all those involved in trade. Linnet set it on the table and opened it to a map of the western Channel. “Here’s Guernsey.” She pointed. “Here’s where the ship wrecked, and that particular storm blew from the northwest.” With her finger she drew a line from the western cove out to sea. “Your ship was traveling somewhere on that line, which means it was most likely headed for Plymouth, Weymouth, Portsmouth, or Southampton. Given it was a merchantman, and looked to have been of reasonable size, Plymouth or Southampton are the more likely, with Southampton most likely.”