Brazen Bride (18 page)

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 he 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.

It was. He’d got his past back, every last bit.

The good news was that there was no impediment to him returning to Linnet, and remaining with her for the rest of his life.

The bad news . . .

Looking across the hearth, he met her green gaze. “I have to get to Plymouth.”

Eight

T
hree hours later, Logan followed Linnet up the stairs. During those hours, he’d talked and answered questions, satisfying as much of the household’s curiosity as he could. The only elements he’d omitted were the grim details of the atrocities the Black Cobra cult had committed, presumably was still committing, in India; those were the stuff of nightmares.

The children had gone up after the first hour, chased to their beds by Buttons, who had later returned to sit with Linnet, Muriel, Edgar, and John as he’d outlined his mission, which explained why he had to reach Plymouth as soon as possible. According to the orders he’d memorized months ago, he was already two days overdue.

Linnet had, too calmly, assured him she would help him arrange his onward journey tomorrow. He would have to cross the island to St. Peter Port, the deepwater port on the east shore where oceangoing ships put in, and hire one to take him to Plymouth.

He brooded on that, on the part she’d have to play in arranging his departure, how his leaving so abruptly—having to leave immediately now he’d remembered all—sat with their earlier discussion in the wood, while he trailed her to the children’s rooms, propping in the doorways to watch as, exactly as he’d imagined, she tucked them in, kissing them even though they were asleep.

As was now his habit, he’d followed her on her rounds downstairs, assuring himself that all was indeed secure, doubly important now he’d remembered who was after him. He hadn’t again mentioned his concern that cultists might follow him there; Linnet would only dismiss it as she had before. The best way he could protect the household was to leave as soon as possible.

Which was why he’d followed her to the upper floor, knowing this would be the last chance he would have for some time to watch her tuck her wards in. His last chance—until he came back—to watch the softer side of her that she only allowed to show around the children.

He’d wanted that memory to add to his stock, to balance out some of the horrors.

To remind him why—give him a specific reason why—his mission was so important, why his unwavering determination to see it through was the right and proper course. Why James’s death had to be avenged, why evil—a real and present evil—had to be defeated.

So the good could live.

So women like Linnet could tuck children who weren’t theirs into bed at night.

So those children could grow up safe and secure, never knowing terror, never seeing evil’s cold face.

Linnet straightened from Gilly’s bed, then, picking up the candlestick, came toward him. He straightened from the doorjamb, stepped back into the corridor to let her past, then followed her down the stairs to her room.

Leading the way in, she set the candlestick on the tallboy, then crossed to her dressing table and sat before it.

Closing the door, he paused, watched as she reached up and started unpinning her chignon. It was the first time he’d seen her tend her long hair; when the mass of rippling tresses fell loose, veiling her shoulders and back in red-gold fire, he drew in a breath, then walked to stand behind her.

Sinking his hands into his pockets, he watched as she plied a brush, drawing it through the silky strands, then he met her gaze in the mirror. “Tomorrow. I’ll have to hire a ship, but, as you know, I don’t have any funds here. I’ll need to contact London, but that will take days.”

Her lips curved lightly. “Don’t worry. I know a captain who will take you on account.”

Logan wondered what he was supposed to make of that. Was this unnamed captain a rival, or simply another of Linnet’s male acquaintances? He’d noticed that, presumably because of her peculiar status as queen of her realm, her interactions with men—the vicar leapt to mind—were different, as if she were more lord than lady.

She’d refocused on her hair, on the soothing, repetitive motion of the brush down the long tresses.

Unable to help himself, he reached out, closed his hand around hers and lifted the brush from her fingers. Ignoring her questioning look, he settled behind her, settled to brush her hair.

Another memory he wanted—of the brush sliding smoothly down, the black bristles stroking the gleaming curtain of fire, making it gleam even more.

Another image to hold on to, to know he would return to.

Linnet watched him, watched the concentration in his face as he steadily worked through the heavy mass, laying each brushed strand down as if it were in truth the red-gold it resembled.

She tried to ignore the gentle rhythmic tug, the subtly soothing, almost hypnotic caress.

Felt her lids grow heavy, seduced nevertheless.

He’d be on his way tomorrow, and although she would be going, too, this would be the last night they would share here—in her bedroom, at Mon Coeur.

No matter what he said, she knew he wouldn’t be back.

Reaching up, she caught his hand, took the brush, and set it down on the dressing table. Then she rose, stepped around the stool, and turned.

And boldly went into his arms.

He was waiting—waiting to close his arms around her, to bend his head and take the lips she offered.

To kiss her long and lingeringly, deeply and possessively—as she wished, as she wanted. Tonight she was determined to claim one last lesson, and she knew what she wanted to learn.

Logan sensed her intent, her focus. Felt her determination when she pushed his coat open, then down his arms. Breaking off the kiss, he let her go and drew his arms free of the sleeves, tossed the coat aside. By the time he had, she’d opened his waistcoat and fallen on the buttons closing his shirt.

He wasn’t averse to letting her undress him—to a point.

Somewhat to his surprise, with his shirt dispensed with, she pushed him around to pick at the knot securing the bandages around his chest.

“I need to examine your wound.” She tugged, and the bandages loosened.

As she unwound them he almost sighed in relief. The long wound, the stitches she’d so neatly set into his flesh, had been itching like fire all day. A good sign, he knew, but he was more than happy to lose the constriction, the restriction.

She freed him of the long bands, then tugged him to a position where the candlelight played over his side. He shifted his left arm out of her way as she poked and prodded, swiftly scanning down.

“Good.” She straightened. “It’s good.” She met his gaze. “It’ll be some days yet before the stitches can come out, but you can do away with the bandages, at least for tonight.”

Her hands had come to rest at his waist. Eyes locking on his, she slipped the buttons there free.

He sucked in a shallow breath and took a step back. “Boots.” He took two more steps back and sat on the end of the bed.

Eyes narrowing, she followed, her navy skirts flicking about her legs, her stride reminding him of a stalking cat. “All right.” Hands going to her hips, she watched him ease off the tight boots. “Just hurry. I want you naked on my bed—now.”

He nearly laughed. She thought he’d argue? But . . . he glanced up at her. “What about you? Are you going to take off your clothes, too?”

She frowned, obviously not having worked out her scenario to that extent. “Possibly. Probably.”

After a moment’s cogitation, during which he tossed first one boot, then the other, to the floor, she stepped between his knees and turned, giving him her back. “Help me with these laces.”

He did, swiftly undoing the laces at her back. By then she’d undone the ones at the side of her waist.

She stepped away. Waved a hand at him. “Now strip and lie on the bed.”

Pulling her gown up and over her head, she moved away.

Watching the show, he rose and unhurriedly complied with her orders. Settling—naked as requested—on his back in the middle of her bed, his head and shoulders on the mound of pillows, he crossed his arms behind his head and watched her pull off her warm shift, lay it aside with her gown, then roll down her stockings, removing her garters and slippers, too.

Finally, in just her chemise, the cotton so fine it was translucent, she returned to the bed, came to stand at its end. She looked at him, surveyed him with a proprietorial air guaranteed to have him standing at full attention, then she smiled and climbed onto the bed.

Crawled up it to his side. The candlelight struck through her chemise, revealing every svelte line, every luscious curve, every tantalizing hollow.

She stretched out, propping on one elbow and hip beside him. She resurveyed his body, then lifted her gaze to his eyes. “I want you to lie there, your hands where they are, and let me . . . satisfy my curiosity.”

He studied her face, read the not-so-subtle challenge in her green eyes, nodded. “All right. I will. But first . . .”

In one smooth surge, he had her flat on her back, his chest held over hers. “Before we get started, there’s a few matters I’d like to get clear.”

Once she commenced her game, he’d be in no state to discuss anything, and she would be in even less state to hear.

Her brows had flown high, her gaze coolly haughty. But she inclined her head slightly. “Very well. I’m listening.”

He had to smile, but the expression faded as he looked into her eyes. As he marshaled his arguments. “I’m not married.” That was his first point. “But I can’t offer to share my life with you until I know I’ll have a life to share.” Point two, his only hesitation. “The mission I’m involved in is deadly dangerous. Those opposing me would be happy to see me dead—as my wound so eloquently illustrates. And as you rightly foretold, I have an outstanding commitment, one I can’t break, to see the mission through to a successful end—or die trying.” The reason behind his hesitation.

“
But
”—he held her gaze—“my commitment to completing this mission is the only commitment of any sort I have. Once the mission is over, assuming I survive, I’ll be coming back here. To claim you.”

He saw her lips tighten, saw not refusal of the prospect but refusal to believe cloud her eyes. His own lips thinned. “I can see that for some reason—which I don’t comprehend—you don’t believe I’ll return. But one thing I can and I will swear to you: If once this mission is over I still have a life worth sharing, I’ll be coming back here to lay it at your feet.”

She blinked once, twice. She studied his eyes, then an unusually gentle smile curved her lips. Raising a hand, she laid it along his cheek, but the disbelief didn’t leave her eyes. “I value your words—don’t think I don’t. But I’ve been me, myself, for too long not to face reality, and my reality is that no matter what you say, in the end, you won’t be back.”

He opened his mouth—

Placing her fingers over his lips, Linnet silenced him. Stopped him from saying anything more to wring her heart even more than he already had. She spoke as strongly, as decisively, as she could. “No—this is our last night together here, and I don’t want to waste it arguing.”

Lowering her gaze to his lips, she drew her hand away, then boldly raised her eyes again to his. “I want to spend tonight loving you. I want you to lie back and let me.”

One hand on his shoulder, she pushed.

Openly exasperated, he held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed through gritted teeth and rolled back to lie as he had before.

Letting her come up on her elbow and hip alongside.

His dark eyes glittered as he crossed his arms behind his head. “So what now?”

She looked down over his large body, over the expanse of delectable male flesh, solid muscle, heavy bone, taut skin. Crisp, crinkly, black-as-night hair scattered across his chest, arrowing down to his groin. Where he was still fully erect.

She smiled, raised her gaze to his eyes. “Now you lie there, and let me feast.”

He obeyed. She had to give him that. Even when she pressed him to the very brink of breaking, he fought to remain supine and let her have her way.

Let her caress him, first with her hands, spreading them wide to sweep over his shoulders, over the bunched muscles of his upper arms, then down over the contours of his chest, lovingly outlining the broad swath before heading lower, over the rippling strength of his abdomen, over the concave hollow of his waist, over his flat belly to the rock-hard mucles of his cavalry officer’s thighs, the solid length of his calves, and his large feet, before returning, sweeping up his body again to take his member between her hands and caress, fondle, stroke.

Examine, weigh, assess.

She continued to touch him there, where he was most sensitive, where he most liked to be touched, while she rose up over his chest, found his lips with hers, and kissed, long, lingeringly, as openly possessive as he was with her, before drawing back and sending her lips to trace the path her hands had already forged.

Outside, the storm that had been threatening all day finally rushed in. It rattled the windows, lashed at the house, pelted rain in drumming fury on the glass. She heard it, but distantly, too wrapped in the warmth, in the pleasure as, finally, she rose up on her knees and straddled him, and, with his help, his direction, took him in.

Her head fell back on a gasp at the sensation of him filling her. Excitement skated over her skin as she realized that this time, all—everything she felt—was under her control.