The Untamed Bride Plus Two Full Novels and Bonus Material

by Stephanie Laurens

  Rake him.

  Until, at the last, he shuddered, and sleep thickened and closed about him again, and pulled him down into a deeper realm, one where satisfaction and content blended and soothed, cradling him in earthly bliss.

  Linnet lay beneath her fallen angel, his dead weight an odd comfort as she struggled, battled, to regain the use of anything—wits or limbs. Even her senses seemed frazzled beyond recall, as if she’d drawn too close to some flame and they’d singed.

  Oh. My. God was her first coherent thought, the only one she could manage for several long minutes. Finally, when she’d regained sufficient control of her limbs and sufficient mental acuity, she gently nudged, eased, prodded, and managed to stir him into shifting enough to let her slide from beneath him.

  He slumped, heavy and boneless, beside her, but she no longer feared waking him up. If their recent exertions hadn’t, nothing would, not soon. And he hadn’t woken, of that she was sure. She’d seized the moment, taken the risk—and it had paid off.

  Magnificently.

  At last able to fill her lungs, she drew in a huge breath, let it out long and slow.

  Staring up at the ceiling, she whispered, “Damn—that was good.”

  Then she glanced sideways at the man—her fallen angel—lying facedown in the bed beside her. “I might have to rethink my policy on men.”

  Two

  December 11, 1822

  Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

  Linnet woke when she usually did, which in December meant an hour before dawn. Oddly relaxed, unusually refreshed, she stretched, savoring the unexpected inner glow, then raised her lids—and found herself staring at a stranger’s throat.

  Tanned. Male. Incipient alarm was drowned by wariness as full memory of the previous day, and the night, flooded her mind.

  She jerked her gaze upward.

  To a pair of midnight blue eyes.

  Propped on one elbow, he was looking down at her, his regard shrewd, assessing, and curious.

  “Where am I?”

  His voice matched the rest of him—disturbing and deep. Just a little gravelly, with the hint of an underlying burr.

  “More importantly,” he went on, “what are you doing in my bed?”

  She struggled to sit up, thanking her stars that before she’d fallen asleep the second time, she’d had the sense to pull down her nightgown, tie her robe tight, and stuff the extra, blanket down between them, a barrier between his body and hers. “Actually, you’re in my bed.”

  When his winged black brows flew high, she hurriedly added, a touch waspishly, “You were injured, unconscious, and it’s the only bed in this house long enough, and judged sturdy enough, to accommodate you.”

  For a moment, he said nothing, then murmured, “So there are other beds?”

  She was tempted to lie, but instead nodded curtly. “I was worried by your continuing chill, and decided it was wisest to … do what I could to keep you warm through the night.”

  Flicking the covers aside, she slid out of the bed, tugging her robe and gown firmly down as she stood.

  He watched her like a predator watched prey. “In that case, I suppose I should thank you.”

  “Yes, you should.” And she should go down on her knees and thank him—not that she ever would. Cutting off the distracting memories, she glanced at the bandage around his skull. “How’s your head?”

  He frowned, as if her question had reminded him. “Throbbing … but not, I think, incapacitating.”

  “You’ll feel better after you eat.” Crossing to her armoire, she opened it and looked in, ignoring the weight of his steady blue gaze. He hadn’t remembered—she felt sure he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort of man to hold back if he had.

  As she pulled out a gown, he said, “You haven’t yet told me where I am.”

  “Guernsey.” She glanced back at him. “The southwestern tip—Parish of Torteval, if that means anything to you.”

  His frown darkened. “It doesn’t.” His gaze drifted from her.

  Shutting the armoire, she opened a drawer and drew out a fresh shift. Turned back to him. “What’s your name?”

  “Logan.” He looked at her, after the barest hesitation asked, “Yours?”

  “Linnet Trevission. This house is Mon Coeur.” Turning back to her chest of drawers, she added stockings and chemise to the pile in her arms, then crossed to where she’d, left her half boots. Picking them up, she glanced at the bed. “So—Logan who?”

  He looked at her, looked at her, then he softly swore. Swinging his legs from beneath the covers, he sat up on the edge of the bed.

  Well-shaped feet, long, muscled calves dusted with black hair, broad knees, taut, heavily muscled thighs. Linnet gave thanks for the corner of the sheet that draped across his lap. Unconscious, with half his torso hidden by bandages, he’d been an impressive sight; awake and active, his impact was mind-scrambling.

  She needed to get out of the room, but … she frowned as he dropped his head into his hands, fingers gripping tight.

  “I can’t remember.” The words were ground out. Then he looked down, at the bandages about his chest and abdomen. Lowered a hand to trace them.

  “You were on a ship—most likely a merchantman. There was a storm the night before last, a bad one, and the ship wrecked on the reefs not far from here.” Linnet caught his dark eyes as they rose, as if in hope, to her face. “Do you remember the name of your ship?”

  Logan tried—tried to dredge some glimmer of a memory up from the void in his brain, but nothing came. Nothing at all. “I don’t even remember being on a ship.”

  Even he heard the panic in his tone.

  “Don’t worry.” His gorgeous erstwhile bedmate—and wasn’t that a terrible fate, to have slept like a log with all those mouthwatering curves within easy reach, and not have known?—studied him through pale emerald eyes. “You’ve a nasty head wound—most likely from a falling spar. You were incredibly lucky to have got onto a broken-off section of the ship’s side before you lost consciousness. You had a firm grip on the planks—that’s what got you to shore and into the cove, and stopped you getting smashed up on the rocks. More smashed up.” She nodded at his bandaged head. “The blow to your skull would have rattled your brains. Most likely your memory will come back in a day or two.”

  “A day or two?” He watched her cross to a dressing table against the far wall and pick up a brush and comb. His gaze shifted to the rippling fall of her red-gold hair. Even in the dim light of predawn, it looked like fire; his fingers and palms tingled, as if recalling the silky warmth. He frowned. “‘Most likely’? What if I don’t remember?” The thought horrified him.

  “You will. Almost certainly.” She headed for the door but paused, glanced at him, then detoured back to the large armoire. “But you shouldn’t try to bludgeon your brain into remembering. Best to just let it be, let your memory slide back of its own accord.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re a doctor?”

  She arched brown brows at him, gaze distinctly haughty, then turned to look into the armoire. “No, but I’ve been around enough men who’ve had their heads thumped to know. If you’re alive, and can walk, your memories will return.”

  Logan frowned at her. Not even a healer, but she’d been around enough men.… “Miss Linnet Trevission of Mon Couer—who’s she?”

  Closing the armoire, taking a few steps his way, she flung a quilted woollen robe at him. He caught it. She nodded at it. “That was my father’s—my late father’s.” She met his gaze. “So among other things, I’m your hostess.”

  Before he could respond, she swung to the door. “There’s a water closet at the end of the corridor.” She pointed left. “There’s a bathing chamber next to it. I’ll have shaving gear sent up for you, and whatever clothes we can find—my aunt is seeing what she can salvage of your things, but until then, some of my father’s might fit.”

  Linnet paused with her hand on the door and looked back. Grasped an instant to d
rink in the sight of the gorgeous naked male sitting on her bed. “You can rest here as long as you wish, then when you feel up to it, you can join us downstairs.”

  Opening the door, she went through, then reached back, and drew the door shut behind her. She paused, staring at the panels but seeing him … feeling him …

  Exasperated, she shook free of the recollection, blew a strand of hair from her face, then continued down the corridor.

  She’d been right. He was going to be trouble.

  More than an hour later, Logan made his way down a long oak staircase, looking around as he slowly descended. Mon Coeur. What kind of man named his house “my heart”?

  Regardless, Linnet Trevission’s father had been no puny weakling; his clothes fitted Logan well enough to get by. The shirt and coat were a trifle tight across his shoulders, and he’d had to button the breeches one button wider at the waist, but the length of sleeve and leg were almost right. Linnet herself was tall for a female, so it was no great surprise her father had been tall.

  He’d found the clothes waiting in a neat pile on the bed when he’d returned from shaving. After using the water closet—its existence an indication that Mon Coeur wasn’t some small farmhouse—he’d looked into the bathing chamber and found a shaving kit neatly laid out. He’d availed himself of it. He’d been halfway through removing several days’ growth before he’d realized he knew what he was doing.

  He’d lathered chin and cheeks, then picked up the sharp razor and applied it as he had countless times before, in a pattern he’d worked out a presently unknown number of years ago.

  His panic over not being able to remember things—lots of things—had receded as the fact that he remembered lots of other things, like what Mon Coeur meant, as well as things he did by rote, had sunk in.

  When Linnet had informed him he was on Guernsey, he’d known instantly what that was—had known it was an island in the Gulf of St. Malo, that it enjoyed special privileges as a property of the English Crown. He didn’t think he’d been there before, even elsewhere on the island. As he recalled—and he savored the fact he could—Guernsey wasn’t large.

  All of which he took as a sign that his memory lapse would indeed prove temporary.

  He knew how to dress himself; he knew how to shave. He knew he—whoever he was—hadn’t entirely appreciated his hostess’s haughty superiority.

  But he didn’t yet know who he was. Didn’t know what sort of man he was, or what he’d been doing on the ship.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and having seen enough to confirm that the Trevissions were, at the least, the Guernsey equivalent of landed gentry, he made his way down a corridor toward the sound of voices.

  Children’s voices. The sound tweaked a memory, but the instant he halted and tried to bring it into focus, it slid away, back into the void. Suppressing a grimace, he continued on—to a long, comfortable parlor running down one side of the house. Although a fire was burning in the hearth, there was no one in the parlor, but on walking in, he saw a pair of open double doors in the rear wall and a bright, airy dining room beyond.

  The chatter filling his ears was coming from there. It sounded as if half a small army was gathered about the long table.

  He paused on the threshold. Seated at the head of the table, Linnet looked up, saw him, and beckoned. “Good. You’re on your feet.” Her gaze passed, critically assessing, over his face. “Come and sit down, and have some breakfast.”

  She waved to an empty chair beside her. He moved forward, scanning the other occupants. Children, as he’d thought—two lasses, three lads—and a middle-aged gentlewoman, plus an older lady seated at the table’s foot. Recalling Linnet mentioning an aunt, he inclined his head politely. “Ma’am.”

  The older lady smiled. “I’m Muriel Barclay, Linnet’s father’s sister. Do sit down and break your fast, Mr.…?”

  Closing his hand on the back of the chair beside Linnet’s, Logan smiled, a touch tightly. “Just Logan at the moment, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t remember the rest.”

  Drawing out the chair, he glanced at Linnet. Her lips had thinned a fraction, but clearly she hadn’t informed her household of his lack of recall.

  “Don’t you know all your name?”

  The question, in a loud, childish voice, drew Logan’s gaze down to the small girlchild seated to his other side. Wide cornflower blue eyes looked up at him. Subsiding into his chair, he let his smile soften. “Not at the moment, poppet.”

  “Not to worry.” Mrs. Barclay’s brisk tone was a more moderate, less autocratic version of her niece’s. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you shortly. Now I expect you’d like some ham and eggs, and perhaps a few sausages?”

  Logan nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “I’ll let Mrs. Pennyweather know you’re here.” Mrs. Barclay rose and headed out of another door.

  Now that he noticed it, Logan heard, distantly, the clang of pans and other kitchen sounds. Manor house, his mind decided. Which presumably made his hostess the lady of the manor.

  He glanced at her to find her waiting to catch his eye. Having done so, she directed it around the table. “This is Will, and that’s Brandon beside him.” The two older lads bobbed their heads and smiled. “They found you yesterday morning, and Chester”—she indicated the youngest of the three boys—”came running here to fetch me.”

  Logan nodded to all three boys. “Thank you—I’m grateful.”

  “And beside Chester,” Linnet continued, “is Miss Buttons—Buttons to us all. She endeavors to teach this horde their letters and numbers.”

  Logan inclined his head to the middle-aged woman, who smiled back. “Welcome to Mon Coeur, sir,” she said, “although I daresay you would have preferred to arrive in a less painful way.” She nodded at his head. “Does it hurt very much?”

  “Not as much as it did.”

  “It’ll fade through the day.” Mrs. Barclay returned in the wake of a little maid, who smiled shyly as she set a plate piled high with succulent eggs, bacon, sausages, and ham before Logan.

  He thanked her and shook out the napkin he found beside his plate.

  “Jen—please pass Logan the toast rack.” Linnet waved at the last two at the table. “These two young ladies are Jennifer and Gillyflower—Gilly.”

  Logan smiled and thanked them both as they passed him the toast. There was a curious dearth of men about the table, but there were four plates already used before four vacant chairs. Will, the oldest boy, looked to be about fifteen years old. As the others all returned to their meals, Logan buttered a slice of toast, crunched, and realized he was ravenous.

  Picking up his knife and fork, he cut a piece of thick ham, chewed, and almost groaned in appreciation. Opening his eyes, he glanced across the table.

  Will caught his eye. “We searched all yesterday, up and down the coves, but we didn’t find any other survivors.”

  “Just the two dead bodies we found near you,” Chester added.

  “Two dead?” Logan glanced at Linnet.

  “The bodies are here, in the icehouse. Two sailors. The boys will take you to view them later, in case you know them.”

  If he remembered them. She didn’t say it, but he saw the thought in her eyes. He merely nodded and attacked the ham. It tasted like the food of the gods.

  The boys chattered on. Apparently no one had yet gleaned any clue as to the name of the ship, where she’d been from, or whither she’d been bound.

  Jennifer started talking to Buttons. Linnet spoke to Gilly about some chicks. Conversation rose around Logan, gradually returning to its earlier pitch, with many conversations running all at once, voices interweaving, an underlying, warmth blossoming in a laugh here, a smile and a teasing comment there.

  This wasn’t a standard family, yet a family it was—Logan recognized the dynamics, felt inexpressibly comfortable, comforted, within its warm embrace. As he set down his knife and fork and reached for the cup of coffee Linnet had—without asking—poured
for him, he wondered what this pervasive sense of feeling so much at home here said of his life, of the life he was used to.

  The boys had finished their meals and were eagerly waiting on him. He drained his mug, then nodded to them. “All right. Let’s go.”

  They grinned; poised to leap to their feet, they glanced at Linnet.

  She nodded, but said, “After showing Logan to the icehouse, I want you back to do your chores.”

  With promises of obedience, Will and Brandon leapt up. Chester had already been reminded he had a lesson with Buttons. He’d pulled a disappointed face, but, Logan noticed, didn’t argue, or even grouse.

  Linnet looked up at him as he rose. “I left a heavy cloak for you by the back door.” She studied his face. “Nothing more’s returned?”

  He met her green eyes, shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Will and Brandon led Logan past the kitchen. He looked in to thank and compliment Mrs. Pennyweather, a bright-eyed, flushed, but jovial woman, then followed the boys to a short hall by the back door. While the boys donned coats, Logan found the cloak Linnet had left and swung it about his shoulders, then they stepped out into the winter morning. The air was chill, crisp; their breaths fogged as they followed a path through what he assumed was the kitchen garden. The neat beds lay largely fallow under a white lacing of frost, with berry and currant canes cut back and tied.

  Beyond the garden, a stand of trees screened what proved to be a large stable, with a barn flanking it, a cottage to the, side, and numerous outbuildings arranged around a sizeable yard. Beside the boys, Logan walked into the yard and was immediately hailed.

  Halting, he waited as a heavily built man of middle years and average height came forward. His gaze shrewdly assessing, carefully measuring, the man offered his hand.

  “Edgar Johnson—estate foreman.”

  Logan gripped, shook. “Logan—I’m not sure of the rest yet.”

  “Aye, well, you took a nasty knock, and you’ve that gash, too. How’s it healing?”

  “As long as I don’t reach too far with my left arm, the gash isn’t a great problem. The head’s still throbbing, but I have it on good authority that that will fade.” Logan smiled easily as three other men and two older lads, who had emerged from various buildings, came to join them.