The Brazen Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Be careful if you go down to the rocks,” Edgar said. “Tide’s on its way in.”

  Linnet nodded and strode for the door.

  Behind her, she heard Muriel ask Logan, “Did you like the biscuits?”

  Linnet could feel his gaze already locked on her as he replied, “Yes, thank you, ma’am. They were delicious,” then he followed her.

  Muriel watched Linnet and Logan leave, then sighed. She looked at Buttons. “I don’t know. Perhaps not the right spice.”

  Rising, Muriel headed for the kitchen. “Pennyweather?”

  L innet stood at the top of the path leading down to the west cove. It was the third and last of the coves on this narrow face of the island, and like the other two, it was devoid of anything but the smallest slivers of debris.

  She scanned slowly one last time, then shook her head. “If anything other than you and those two bodies was washed in this direction, the waves battered it to smithereens on the rocks before it had a chance to reach shore.”

  Logan stood beside her, his hands in his pockets as he looked out to sea. “I gathered there are submerged rocks out there.” With his chin, he indicated the choppy, broken sea well out from the headlands.

  “There’s reefs aplenty, and when the waves are high and the troughs between them deep, they stick out like jagged teeth. They’ve ripped the hulls of more ships than anyone will ever know.” Turning away from the surging sea, Linnet started back, electing to take the longer route through the wood southwest of the house.

  Logan fell in on her heels, his eyes on her cloak’s hem, his mind retreading their conversations through the day, dissatisfying as they had been. Being subtle wasn’t working. She could too easily deflect any point he tried to make. He needed to be more forceful. More direct.

  Silence descended as they walked beneath the first trees. Registering the lack of even bird calls—with the scent of a storm in the air, animals and birds had already sought shelter—Logan looked around, noting the relative stillness after the building ferocity of the wind out on the cliffs.

  The trees were old, their branches entwining, with saplings pushing up wherever they could, filling in the gaps where their fellows had fallen or been harvested for firewood. The tang of the sea was countered by the scent of cypress, of fir. Shadows pooled to either side of the path, at one with the gloomy day.

  Linnet strode on, her stride even and sure.

  Further along, deep in the wood, a clearing opened to one side of the path. The roughly circular space hosted a pair of flat stones surrounded by splintered wood, now damp.

  No one would be coming to chop wood, not today.

  He caught Linnet’s arm, halted her. When she faced him, he released her, locked his eyes on hers. “We can play games, circle the subject forever, but it won’t change anything. Won’t achieve anything.”

  Comprehension showed clearly in her green eyes, but she wasn’t going to help him. He searched for words, for the right tack forward. “There’s no point in pretending that what is, isn’t.”

  She tensed slightly, faintly arched a brow.

  Drawing breath, he held her gaze—took the plunge. “To me, you’re a drug, an addictive ambrosia—I’m not giving you up. I might have to leave, to deliver that wooden cylinder to whoever or wherever it’s supposed to go, but I will be back.” He paused, let every ounce of his determination color the statement “I’ll come back for you.”

  Green flashed as her eyes narrowed. “You can’t know that—you can’t say that. You absolutely cannot promise that.”

  He felt his jaw clench, felt temper stir. “I know what I want— you . I know what I’ll do to get you.”

  “Do you, indeed?” Her tone was sharp, incisive, and as hard as her darkening eyes. “If you think you’ll return here, to me, to us, after you recall what you haven’t yet and go back to continue your life in England, then you know yourself less well than I do.”

  He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “Don’t argue! You’re the type of man who makes commitments and sees them through. Am I right in that, or not?”

  Lips compressed, he could do nothing but nod.

  “Exactly.” Looking down, she folded her arms, took one step off the path, then turned and paced back, crossing before him. “What do you think it would take to make you walk away from a commitment made, a vow solemnly sworn?”

  He gave no answer.

  Swinging around, she inclined her head; his silence was answer enough. “You won’t break a vow, an undertaking. That would run counter to everything you are.” Halting before him, she looked up into his face. “So how can you swear you’ll come back when you have no idea what commitments you already have on your plate?” She gestured. “Back in England, or wherever you’ve been?”

  She met his gaze, his determination, toe to toe. “You already know you’re on some sort of mission—you’re a courier for someone, taking that cylinder somewhere, doubtless for some excellent and very likely important reason. And once back to your previous life, who knows what other commitments you’ll discover you already have? Commitments that take precedence over any you can make here and now.”

  Holding his gaze, she drew in a deep breath, her breasts swelling above her folded arms. “So don’t tell me you’ll be back, don’t swear, don’t you dare make me—or the children—promises you have no idea if you can keep.”

  Inwardly railing, he met her irate gaze. He wanted to sweep the past aside, to declare that she and here took precedence, regardless, over anything that had gone before . . . but he couldn’t.

  She wouldn’t believe him even if he did.

  His jaw was locked so tight, he was grinding his teeth. “So . . . what? We go on as we have been, and wait and see?”

  “No. We go on as I stipulated at the outset. In return for my material aid, you teach me what I want to know.” She tipped up her chin, looked him in the eye. “That’s all that exists between us—a barter. That’s all it was supposed to be—all it can be.” Her eyes flashed. “That’s all I’m offering you.”

  Violent reaction surged. Fists clenching, he quelled it. Searched her eyes, saw that she meant every word. He forced himself to nod. Once. “Very well. If that’s all you’ll allow . . . I’ll take it.”

  Before she could move, he seized her elbows, pulled her to him. Bent his head and kissed her. Dipped his head, forced her lips wide and tasted her.

  Backed her as he did.

  When her spine met the bole of a tall tree, she pulled back on a gasp, eyes wide. “What?” She glanced to either side, then met his eyes as he released her arms, grasped her waist, and stepped closer.

  “Another lesson. Alfresco.” He wedged one thigh between hers.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders, whether to hold him back, or to her, she didn’t seem sure. “Here?”

  “Right here.” Locking his eyes on hers, he pushed her cloak wide, reached down, and drew up her skirts. “Right now.”

  “But . . .” She licked her lips, stared into his eyes.

  Lifting her skirt and shift out of his way, he reached beneath, slid his hand under the hem of her chemise, and found her curls. Reached past, and found her.

  He watched her lips part, heard her breath hitch, felt her tense as he cupped, stroked, and stoked her passion. Watched her gaze grow unfocused as her all but instant response coated his fingers in slick heat.

  With his other hand he undid his breeches, then withdrew his fingers from between her thighs, pushed aside her clothes, and reached beneath to close his hands about her bottom and lift her.

  To just the right height.

  Linnet gasped, braced her hands on his shoulders, eyes wide as she looked down into his eyes, at the hot blue flames flaring in their depths. She struggled to breathe, to assimilate the sensation of the hard head of his erection poised at her entrance.

  To assimilate just how ready, how wantonly willing her body was, how eager to receive him. To have him fill her and stretch her, pound into her and pl
easure her.

  His eyes held hers; she couldn’t look way. His hands kneaded, his grip shifted, tilting her hips. She surrendered to impulse, raised one leg and curled it around his hip.

  Brazenly, she licked her lips, looked at his.

  Wordlessly dared.

  His lips twisted, half grimace, half acknowledging smile. “This won’t be slow, and it won’t be short. You can scream as much as you like—no one’s going to hear.” He shifted his hips, teasing her with the promise of the rigid rod riding at her entrance; anticipation shivered through her, sharp as any knife. He repeated the movement and her eyes closed; her breath caught. Her fingers slid over his shoulders and dug in.

  Logan leaned closer, angling his head to whisper as he pressed into her just a little way, “I’m going to take you thoroughly, and I guarantee you’ll scream.”

  Opening her eyes, she looked into his. “All right. Show me.” She arched her brows. “It’s the least you can do.”

  He shut her up. Filled her mouth with his tongue and silenced her.

  Ravished and took, knowing it was precisely what she wanted. That she would revel in the heat, in the passion and the hunger.

  He thrust deep and filled her, and simply let go—let all he was free to engage, unfettered, unleashed, with her. It was what she wanted—and after her little lecture on him and commitment, it was what he needed.

  He needed to imprint himself on her soul.

  Linnet clung and let his passion take her. Felt her own rise to meet it, to taunt and challenge and boldly mate, to give and take in a storm of sensations.

  Felt heat and desire surge and merge in a fiery wash of grasping, greedy need.

  Hungry need.

  Frenzied greed.

  Their lips clung, mouths mating as thoroughly and completely as their bodies. She held him to her, moved against him as they raced for the distant peak.

  As he’d promised, it wasn’t a short ride.

  But it was fast. Hard, powerful, exhilarating.

  He took her breath and gave it back. She arched against him, demanding more.

  Commanding more. Whipping him on, driving herself as much as he drove her.

  Pulling back from the kiss, she tipped her head back, gasping, struggling to find enough air to breathe. Fighting to expand her senses to take it all in.

  To fully appreciate the heavy bucking thrust of his hips between her thighs, the forceful repetitive surges that rocked her against the tree. Pinned her there as he filled her, and took his fill of her.

  The tempo built, and built. She caught his nape and locked her lips on his—and gave. Gave.

  Felt the rush as they reached the last stretch, the surging power as they raced up the rise.

  Higher and higher, faster and harder.

  She flung back her head and breathlessly screamed.

  In the indescribable moment of brain-scrambling glory as together they crested and flung themselves high—over the precipice and into the void.

  L innet knew the engagement had been at least partially fueled by anger—his that she hadn’t believed him, perhaps that she hadn’t begged him to return, hers because he was all she’d ever wanted and yet knew she could never have.

  She didn’t care.

  Head back against the tree, eyes closed, she wondered when she’d be able to fill her lungs again. He lay against her, slumped, his head on her shoulder, his shoulders pinning her chest, his hands still beneath her bottom, supporting her.

  He didn’t seem able to move any more than she could.

  So she let her lids rest closed, let her lips ease into the satisfied smile they wanted to form, and savored. Absorbed.

  Stored up all the little details of having him out there, in the wild. In her wild, in her wood.

  He’d surprised her, yes, but at no point had she been averse to another of his lessons. She needed to—should—take all he would give her while he was still there.

  She had a strong premonition his time there, with them, with her, was coming to an end.

  The winter’s dark had closed in by the time they made it back to the house; they’d had to wait in the clearing until she’d been able to command her limbs enough to walk.

  He’d offered to carry her. She’d declined. Quite aside from seeing no need to feel that helpless again so soon, she worried that his recent exertions might have harmed his stitches.

  When she’d said as much, he’d looked at her, then reminded her that he hadn’t screamed.

  She glanced at him as they stepped free of the trees, pulled a face at him that he didn’t see. Damn man—he annoyed her so much by the way he made her feel.

  He was looking grim. Grim because she hadn’t let him sweep her away into his impossible dream. What irritated her most was that, even though she knew how futile and unutterably stupid it would be, she felt ridiculously tempted to let him do just that—just to see him smile.

  Just to make him happy.

  That she could contemplate such an action, even knowing it was pure delusion and would only lead to emotional devastation far worse than anything she would, as things now stood, feel, was a real measure of just how dangerous to her he’d grown.

  Never had she imagined feeling for a man as she already did for him; never had she imagined that her emotions could be this deeply involved.

  They entered the house through the kitchen door. No one used the front door; she’d never known why—the back door had been the door for all her life. As they paused in the small hall to remove and hang up their cloaks, a rich aroma of blended spices wafted out from the kitchen.

  She breathed in; the exotic smell made her mouth water. “Pennyweather hasn’t made curry for months.”

  She glanced at Logan—and froze.

  He’d frozen, too, caught in the act of hanging his cloak on a peg. Arm raised, he stood stock-still, his eyes unfocused, his expression not blank so much as not there.

  Her heart thudded, one painful thump. She waited a moment, then, her mouth suddenly dry, asked, “What is it?”

  But she already knew.

  Slowly, he returned, animation reinfusing his features, then his gaze refocused on her face.

  Eventually he met her eyes, and he said the words she’d known were coming. “I’ve remembered. All of it.”

  I t was like floodgates opening—a roiling, tumbling powerful river of facts and recollections rushing in. Logan felt overwhelmed, close to drowning, at first.

  Seated at the dinner table surrounded by the rest of the household, all eager and excited to hear his news, he started with the most important—most pertinent—facts. “I’m Major Logan Monteith, late of the Honorable East India Company, operating out of Calcutta under the direct orders of the Marquess of Hastings, Governor-General of India.”

  Absentmindedly eating the curry-stew and rice placed before him, he frowned. The missing pieces had arrived, but not in any order; he had to sort them, fit them into the right blank spaces, before he could see a cohesive whole.

  At the foot of the table, Muriel was beaming, thrilled that what had apparently been her stratagem to use smell to jog his memory had worked. He was sincerely grateful, yet he’d sorted through enough to know he didn’t need to burden them—the innocents of this household—with all he knew.

  After one searching glance at him, Linnet waved the children, all bubbling with questions, back. “Let him remember it all first. The faster you clean your plates, the sooner we’ll go into the parlor. Logan can tell us what he’s remembered then.”

  The children looked at him, then applied themselves diligently to their plates.

  He was grateful to them all. There was so much to slot in, to realign and confirm.

  To acknowledge.

  His instincts hadn’t been wrong in presaging approaching danger. He’d been right in thinking that the assassins who had attacked him on the ship were part of a greater whole, and that their colleagues wouldn’t have given up.

  The more he remembered, the grimmer h
e felt, but he forced himself to go through it all, to examine and verify that each segment of memory was now clear, consistent, no longer had holes. That what he remembered rang true.

  The memory of his last sight of his friend and close colleague, Captain James MacFarlane—the sight of James’s body, of the torture he’d endured at the hands of Black Cobra cultists before he’d died—that, above all, was blazoned in his mind.

  That, and the knowledge that he and James’s three other close friends, Colonel Derek Delborough, Major Gareth Hamilton, and Captain Rafe Carstairs—all of whom Logan regarded as brothers, having fought alongside them for more than a decade—were ferrying vital evidence to England, evidence that would bring the Black Cobra cult’s reign of terror to an end.

  That—his commitment to that—took precedence over all else.

  Movement around him had him refocusing. Discovering that he, like the children, had cleaned his plate, not just of the main course but also of the coconut-flavored blancmange that had followed it, he laid down his spoon as Molly and Prue arrived to clear the table.

  He glanced at Linnet.

  She caught his eye. “Let’s go into the parlor.” Pushing back her chair, she rose. “And you can tell us what you’ve remembered.”

  He nodded. Hung back as she, Muriel, and Buttons went ahead, trailed by the children, heading for their places before the hearth. He followed them in, Edgar and John, equally curious, on his heels.

  Setting foot in the parlor, his gaze went to the wooden cylinder lying on the sideboard. The scroll-holder it was his duty to ferry to the Duke of Wolverstone. Walking across, he picked up the holder and carried it to the armchair he’d occasionally occupied—the one facing Linnet’s across the hearth. The place that, in just a few short days, had come to feel like his.

  The children swung to face him as he sat. They watched, eyes growing round as, with confident flicks, he opened the six brass levers in the top of the cylinder in the correct order, then lifted the cap of the cylinder free.

  Reaching inside, he drew out the single sheet the scroll-holder contained, unrolled it, and glanced over it, verifying that that, too, was as he remembered.