The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Let me plan.

  Emily met his dark gaze, hesitated as something within her clenched, a primitive reaction to the clear promise skating beneath his words. But…lips lightly curving, she tipped her head his way, and slowly, langorously, relaxed back against the pillows, noting the way his gaze hungrily traveled from her shoulder, to breast, to hip, to thigh as she did.

  Her heart was thudding, steady and sure. There was no chance of her cooling, not with his eyes on her.

  Not with him swiftly stripping, garment by garment revealing more of the fascinating musculature of his chest and abdomen. Tossing aside his shirt, belt already gone, he unbuttoned the flap of his breeches as he turned and sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots, giving her the chance to study his back, the long, defined muscles bracketing his spine, the wide heaviness of his shoulders.

  Mouth watering, unable to stop herself, she shifted, reached out and touched. He jerked, flung her a dark look, but said nothing. Let her stroke, let her test the incredible resilience of his skin and the steely muscles beneath.

  Let her be seduced anew by his heat. He was burning.

  One boot hit the floor. Seconds later its mate joined it.

  She drew back her hand. Breath bated, mouth abruptly drying, she waited for him to stand and turn.

  He didn’t. He rose up, slid his trousers past his hips and sat again to pull them free of his long legs.

  She barely had time to register the maneuver before his trousers hit the floor and he turned, and was on her.

  Sunk in the bed alongside, propped on one arm, he loomed over her.

  She knew why he’d done it. He was now too close for her to see anything beyond the wide expanse of his chest. Naked and delectable though that was, she’d had further expectations.

  Eyes narrowing, she opened her mouth to inform him she had three married sisters—

  He kissed her. Filled her mouth with the potent taste of him, with power, passion, and promise.

  Swept her away—effortlessly—on a tide of rising need, driven by an escalating, clawing sense of urgency.

  His hand closed, hard, over one silk-clad breast. Possessively weighed, caressed. His thumb found her nipple and circled, stroked, teased…until she gasped through the kiss, body arching, pressing her flesh more firmly into his demanding hand.

  That seemed all the encouragement he needed.

  His hand roved her body, heavy, male, flagrantly demanding and commanding, drawing responses from her she’d never known she’d had it in her to give.

  She’d thought she’d been heated before.

  Now she burned.

  Then he broke from the kiss, slid down and bent his head, licked, laved. Silk clung to her breast, to her tightly furled nipple. He drew back enough to see, then bent his head once more—and drew the turgid bud into his mouth.

  And suckled.

  She shrieked, fought to mute the sound. Fought to ride the wave of sensation he sent crashing through her. He continued to feast, until she was breathless, until she shifted and moaned.

  Then his hand slid between her thighs and one blunt fingertip stroked her through the sodden silk covering her there.

  She sobbed, clutched his head, holding him to her as she tilted her hips, wordlessly begging.

  The blunt fingertip found her entrance and pressed in, just a little, the wet silk an excruciatingly frustrating barrier preventing real touch, deeper penetration.

  She wanted…she knew more than enough to know exactly what she wanted.

  Freeing one hand from the tangle of his dark hair, she reached down…and found him. Hotter than flesh should be, velvet over steel. Her fingertips reached just far enough to touch, to reverently trace the broad head.

  He’d stilled the instant she’d made contact. Stretching, she reached further, curled her fingers and lightly stroked upward.

  He shuddered, softly swore, his breath an exhalation washing over her tortured nipple.

  Then he moved.

  She just managed to stifle a shriek as he rolled, taking her with him so she landed atop him in a flurry of silk. One large hand palmed her head and he dragged it down, dragged her down into a kiss so rapaciously possessive it literally curled her toes.

  His other hand was busy. She only realized when the night air coolly caressed her naked back, then the gauzy blouse parted at the back. His hands helped it slide down her shoulders. She lifted one hand and forearm, then the other, stripped the garment off and flung it away, uncaring of where it landed.

  Caring much more about being skin to skin with him, her breasts, full and achingly swollen, brushing, then pressing against the heavy muscles of his chest, her tight nipples tantalizingly abraded by the crisp black hair that adorned it.

  She’d barely absorbed that sensation when she felt the tug as the silk harem pants slid down and over her hips.

  Expectation leapt; anticipation skittered through her veins.

  Nerves tensed, alive to every touch. Waiting as he drew the silk steadily lower, so it no longer screened her belly from his. She held her breath as he shifted, lifting her as he drew the garment down her thighs.

  Her mind racing ahead in giddy delight, she remembered the ankle cuffs.

  Just as he rolled again, pinning her beneath him.

  Hands clutching his arms, she gasped at the sensation of being surrounded, trapped, by hot, hard male, then he kissed her—a forceful, demanding, conquerorlike claiming that left her reeling.

  Gareth seized the moment to pull back from her and deal with the cuffs at her ankles, then strip the flimsy harem pants away.

  He gave himself only one brief instant to drink in the sight of her lying rumpled and aroused, her rich brown hair disarranged and flung across the pillows, her lids at half mast, her lips swollen and sheening, her body lush and ripe—and all his.

  Then he stretched over her and let his body down on hers. Thrilled to the sensation of firm curves, supple skin, feminine softness cushioning him, the demon within all but slavering with delight.

  Small hands braced on his chest. He found her eyes with his as she pressed, wasn’t entirely surprised when she protested, albeit weakly, “I want to see you.”

  “Not now.” The reply was a categorical growl. He didn’t think he could stand the torment—not without reacting. Not while maintaining the control necessary to go slowly. He’d stake his life she was a virgin, so slowly was mandatory. Not that he’d had any experience in that precise arena—under his code virgins were not fair game—but so he’d always heard.

  Despite her state, her jaw started to firm.

  “Later.” Inspired, he added, “Next time.” Perhaps.

  He didn’t wait to see if she agreed, but bent his head and kissed her again.

  The heat between them hadn’t waned in the least—now it leapt to life, flames roaring, then escalating rapidly as hands touched and found nothing but hot dewed skin, as he shifted over her, nudging her thighs apart, as she parted them willingly and he settled between.

  As she wriggled, accommodating him, then tipping her hips…

  He sank into her, had pressed in the first inch even before he’d meant to.

  And then there was no holding back.

  She was tight. Tight enough to make him shudder. To back the breath up in his chest as he pressed in, and on. As inch by inch he filled her, and her sheath stretched to take him in.

  And sure enough, the barrier was there. Every muscle clenched, locked tight under absolute control, he withdrew almost to her entrance, felt her hands clutch frantically, trying to tug him back.

  He flexed his spine and thrust powerfully in, forging past the fine barrier to seat himself fully within her, to press deep, to the hilt.

  And stop. Holding himself steady, every sense locked on her.

  Beneath him, held trapped in the kiss, she’d made not a sound, but she’d frozen.

  An instinctive reaction against a sharp pain. He waited; lips on hers, he prayed he hadn’t hurt her too badly
, that she—

  He broke off the thought as she eased beneath him. As gradually, bit by bit, the pain-induced tension fell from her.

  Beneath it, supplanting it, he sensed something in her that for all his experience he’d never previously encountered. It took him a moment to find its name.

  Fascination.

  She was utterly enthralled. Not just with his body, but with the sensation of their joining, of him being sunk so deeply within her.

  He kissed her gently, and moved, drawing back slowly, then thrusting in again, and sensed her excitement, that fascination, flare.

  Instinct, and the dance, took over.

  Emily gave herself up to it, up to him, to the swirling exhilaration of their joining, wholly and completely embracing the act. Her mind couldn’t contain her joy, her delight, the inexpressible relief that as last she was here, with him, and it was all so much better than she’d ever imagined, than her sisters had ever been able to describe.

  She reveled, and urged him on. Did all and everything she could to meet him, match him, and learn what pleased him, to grasp every chance to share the abundant pleasure he was lavishing on her, and return it.

  Loving was a sharing—she knew that to her bones. She threw herself into it, searching for ways to use her body to pleasure him just as he was using his to pleasure her.

  And if they wrestled, she suspected he enjoyed it as much as she did. Their lips remained fused, but in the brief moments they parted she delighted in the ragged sounds of their breathing, in the urgency that so patently gripped him, and her, and made them strive, body to body, heart to thudding heart.

  And then they would dive back—into the kiss, into the flames, into the rising indescribable heat. Even if this was her first time, she was eager to make it count, to welcome the glory, make it hers and search for more…

  Until it sizzled in her veins, streaking through her, until it whipped the flames racing over her skin to a conflagration. One that sank deep, then coalesced, that drew in and tightened, inexorably, unrelentingly focusing…

  He groaned through the kiss and thrust hard and deep, and an explosion of sensation rocked her. Shattered her, shards of pleasure so sharp they glittered flying down every nerve, every vein.

  Until she flew, free of the earth, wholly taken by the glory.

  For two heartbeats, Gareth savored her release, teeth gritted held desperately on, but the ripples of her sheath, tight and powerful, milked him, and drew him irresistibly on.

  Release swept him, deeper than any he’d ever known.

  Surrendering, letting his shuddering body have its way, he let go, and followed her into ecstasy.

  Bliss. Emily decided there was no other word to describe the sensation.

  Lying on her back in her rumpled bed, Gareth a hot heavy weight slumped on his stomach alongside her, she stared at the ceiling, a smile on her face, an unusual sense of peace in her heart.

  So this was what the aftermath was like. Her sisters had never been able to find words; they’d told her she’d know when she was there.

  Gareth stirred. He seemed to be having difficulty finding the strength to move. She knew the feeling. She sincerely doubted she could lift a toe.

  He’d slumped upon her at the end, but had roused enough to move off her rather than crush her into the mattress. Not that she’d minded; she’d rather liked the feel of his body all but boneless on top of hers.

  Perhaps because she’d been responsible for reducing it to such a state.

  Moving slowly, he propped himself on his elbows, then he turned his head and looked at her, a long assessing gaze. His hair was delightfully tousled, his features still rather slack, lacking their usual focused determination.

  She felt her lips start to curve, let herself smile as sunnily as she felt. “That was rather wonderful.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then uttered a sound between a grunt and a humph, and shifted onto one elbow the better to look down at her. His expression had sharpened into his customary commanding mein. “We’ll get married when we reach England, of course.”

  She held his gaze, not the least surprised by the decree. She’d expected something of the sort—no formal proposal, no down on one knee. Certainly no swearing of undying, enduring love.

  But if she’d gained one thing from the night, it was absolute and unequivocal confirmation that he was, beyond all doubt, her “one,” the one gentleman above all others she should marry.

  Her response to his decree was, therefore, already decided. However…looking deep into his dark eyes, giving thanks for the strong moonlight that allowed her to do so, she realized that, courtesy of the begum and her seductive outfit, she and he had leapt ahead several steps.

  She knew he was her “one,” but did he know she was his?

  That was a critical question, one she couldn’t go forward to the altar without answering. Without knowing exactly why he wanted to marry her.

  He was a man for whom honor was a real and tangible entity. That he would seek to use honor as a screen for marrying her was predictable, but she wasn’t about to allow him to hide behind it. If he loved her as she loved him, as she hoped and prayed he did, then he should, and would, have the courage to own to it.

  If he truly loved her.

  For her, nothing else would do.

  Eyes on his, she smiled, light and sweet. “Perhaps.”

  Lips still curved, she closed her eyes, reached out and patted his chest. “We need to sleep.”

  It was too warm for the sheet. She settled in the bed, let her limbs go lax.

  Gareth stared at her, then, as she no longer could see, allowed his inner frown to materialize. Perhaps? What the devil did that mean?

  To his mind, the matter was simple. He wanted to marry her—he’d known that since he’d first laid eyes on her in the officers’ bar in Bombay—and now she’d given herself to him—all but seduced him—that, to his mind, settled that.

  Frown darkening, he turned onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling. She’d been a virgin, she’d wanted him, and had got what she’d wanted. Marriage was the natural end of that tale.

  Why perhaps?

  His mind circled a thought he really didn’t like, prodding the latent potential sore spot. Had she really wanted MacFarlane, but, when fate denied that, decided to try him as her second choice? Her second best? Was that why she wasn’t sure?

  He remembered. Wondered. Finally asked, “Why did you follow me to Aden?”

  She answered immediately, without shifting or opening her eyes. “Because I thought that this”—she raised a hand and waved it to indicate them and their state—“might be in our cards, and I needed to get to know you better first. Before.”

  Before? He continued to frown. Did that answer his question? His real question?

  Opening her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. He wiped the frown from his face before she saw it.

  Her expression told him she was still floating in the aftermath.

  She studied his face for a moment, then, lips still curved, waved again. “Does this always make one so…lethargic? Sleepy, but not quite the same? I feel as if I haven’t a bone to my name.”

  He felt a spurt of satisfaction that was almost pride. “Yes—that’s how it should feel.”

  And given she did feel that way, there was no point pressing her for the right response to his decision on their future now. They had a journey to complete, and he knew how to persuade.

  Raising his arm, he shifted closer, reaching across to lift her and slide his arm under her shoulders, turning her to him so she settled against his side, her head on his shoulder. “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He may as well seize the chance to establish the procedures he intended to adopt from now on.

  Especially as, at the moment, she seemed entirely amenable. She wriggled and settled, then relaxed.

  He felt the tension that had returned to him leach away.

  He looked down at her head, then dropped a kiss on
her hair. “Go to sleep.”

  He felt more than heard her soft humph, but she complied. He listened to her breathing slow.

  Head back, he closed his eyes and inwardly smiled. They were going to be together for several more weeks. And, he vowed—a quiet vow in the fading moonlight—that by the end of their adventure she would be his. He wouldn’t be letting her go.

  Not ever.

  Twelve

  19th November, 1822

  Early morning

  Still in my bed, but now alone

  Dear Diary,

  WELL! It happened. Finally. And yes, I can enthusiastically report that lying with a man—the right man—is every bit as wonderful as I’d imagined. Indeed, my imagination was sadly lacking in several pertinent respects, but no matter—the reality was better than my dreams.

  Of course, there was—as my sisters have indeed warned me so often happens when dealing with a man—a caveat. A matter that did not go quite according to my plans. Namely Gareth’s consequent declaration, not of undying love, but that we will marry.

  Yes, we will—that being my now unwavering goal given the night confirmed beyond question that he is indeed and absolutely my “one”—but before we face any altar, I am determined to gain some assurance that he knows he loves me, some acknowledgment that in the same way he is mine, then I am his, that the emotion that binds us is mutual, and not all on my side alone.

  I am hopeful that that is indeed the case, however, his declaration of last night stemmed from honor, at least he couched it in those terms, and thus it tells me nothing of what he feels.

  He will need to do better than that—especially now that I have made my own declaration so plain. I have given myself to him, and actions, as we all know, speak much louder than mere words.

  So that is where we stand. I am now his regardless and forever, but before I allow him to put his ring on my finger—my ultimate goal—I require his love to be declared. Simply stated aloud will do.