Devil's Bride (41 page)

Only then, deploying every ounce of his considerable expertise, did he open the door and introduce her to all that might be. With lips and tongue, he pressed on her caresses that sent her soaring, anchoring her with an intimacy that could not be denied. Again and again, she rose to the heavens; again and again, he drew her back. Only when she could take no more, when her breathing grew frantic and every muscle in her body quivered, begging for release, did he let her fly free, filling her with his tongue, feeling her hands clench tight in his hair—then relax as ecstasy washed through her. He savored her, taking pleasure in the warm piquancy that was her, letting her essence sink to his bones. When the last of her rippling shudders had died, he slowly rose over her.

Pressing her thighs wide, he settled between—with one slow, powerful thrust he filled her, feeling her softness, slick and hot, stretch to take him, feeling her body adjust to his invasion, to being his.

She was fully relaxed, fully open; he moved within her, powerfully plundering, unsurprised when, scant moments later, she stirred and, eyes glinting beneath weighted lids, joined him in the dance. He watched her until he was sure she was with him, then, closing his eyes, letting his head fall back, he lost himself in her.

The explosion that took them from the mortal plane was stronger than any he'd felt before—just as he had known it would be.

Hours later, he awoke. Honoria lay soft and warm by his side, her hair a tangled mass on his pillow. Devil allowed himself a smile—a conqueror's smile—then carefully edged from the bed.

In her room, the candles were still burning. Warmed by recent memory, he padded, naked, to the tantalus before the window. Watered wine had been left waiting, along with suitable sustenance. He poured a glass of wine and swallowed half, then lifted the lid of the serving dish, grimaced and replaced it. He was hungry, but not for food.

On the thought, he heard a sound behind him—turning, he watched Honoria emerge, blinking, from his room.

Wrapped in one of his robes, her hand shading her eyes, she squinted at him. “What are you doing?”

He held up the glass.

Lowering her hand, she came forward, holding the robe closed with one hand. “I'll have some, too.”

In the garden below all was silent and still. From the distant wilderness, six pairs of startled eyes fastened on the lit window of the duchess's bedchamber, screened by lacy gauze. Six men saw Devil turn and raise his glass in salute; all six lost their breaths when Honoria joined him. The idea of what was happening in that brilliantly lit chamber exercised all six minds.

They watched, breath bated, as Honoria, cloaked in a flowing robe, her hair an aureole about her head, took the glass from Devil and sipped. She handed the glass back; Devil drained it. Setting the glass down, he lowered his head as Honoria went into his arms.

Eyes on stalks, six watched their cousin and his wife share a lengthy, amazingly thorough kiss; five shifted uncomfortably when it ended, then were struck to stillness, paralyzed anew, when Honoria raised her hands and let her robe fall. Her shadow merged again with Devil's, her arms about his neck, his head bent to hers as they resumed their kiss.

Silence filled the wilderness—not even an owl hooted. Then Devil's head rose. His arm about Honoria, their shadows still one, they moved away from the window.

“
God!
” Harry's stunned exclamation said it all.

Richard's eyes were alight. “You didn't seriously imagine Devil married purely to ensure the succession?”

“By the looks of it,” Gabriel dryly observed, “the succession's in no danger. If they've got that far in five hours, then St. Valentine's Day's odds-on for our wager.”

Vane's deep chuckle came out of the dark. “I hesitate to mention it, but I don't believe Devil started from scratch five hours ago.”

Four heads turned his way.

“Ah-hah!” Lucifer turned to his brother. “In that case, I'll sport my blunt on St. Valentine's Day definitely. If he's got a head start, then he'll have more than three months to accomplish the deed—
more
than enough.”

“True.” Gabriel fell into step beside Lucifer as the party turned toward the house. Their impromptu stroll had been unexpectedly revealing. “Given Devil's reputation, it's fair to assume anyone could guess as much, so we don't need to be overly concerned about taking bets against St. Valentine's Day as the limit for conception.”

“I think,” Richard said, following in Gabriel's wake, “that we should be rather careful about letting any of the ladies learn about our book—they're unlikely to appreciate our interest.”

“Too true,” Harry replied, joining the straggling line back through the bushes. “The female half of the species has a distinctly skewed view of what's important in life.”

Vane watched them go, then raised his eyes to the blazing windows in the east wing. After a moment, he shifted his gaze to the unlit windows of the large bedroom at the end of the wing. Silent and still in the dark, he considered the sight, his grin deepening to a smile. Hands in his pockets, he turned—and froze. His eyes, adjusted to the dark, picked out the square figure of a man moving slowly through the wilderness, heading toward the house.

Then the tension left his shoulders. Hands still in his pockets, he strolled forward. “What ho, Charles? Getting a breath of fresh air?”

The heavy figure came to a sudden halt, swinging to face him. Then Charles inclined his head. “As you say.”

It was on the tip of Vane's tongue to ask whether Charles had caught the ducal exhibition; Charles's propensity to lecture kept the words from his lips. Falling into step as Charles gained the path back to the house, he asked instead: “You planning to stay for a few days?”

“No.” Charles walked a few steps before adding: “I'll be returning to town tomorrow. Do you have any idea when Sylvester plans to return?”

Vane shook his head. “I haven't heard it mentioned, but I'd be surprised to see them up before Christmas. It's to be held here as usual.”

“Really?” There was genuine surprise in Charles's voice.

“So Sylvester intends to take on the role of ‘head of the family' at all levels?”

Vane sent him a cool glance.

“When has he not?”

Charles nodded vaguely. “True—very true.”

W
hen, years later, Honoria looked back on the first months of her marriage, she wondered what benevolent fate had ordained they would marry on December 1. The season was perfect, fine-tuned to her needs—December and January, cold and snowy, kept society at bay; the week of Christmas, when the whole family descended, was a happy interlude. Those quiet winter months gave her time to find her feet, to assume the mantle of the duchess of St. Ives, to learn what she needed to go on.

Taking up the reins of the ducal household was of itself easy enough. The staff was excellent, well trained and well disposed; she faced few difficulties there. However, the decisions it fell to her to make were wide-ranging, from cows to flower beds to preserves to linens. Not just for the Place, but for the three other residences her husband maintained. The organizational logistics were absorbing. Within the family, she was expected to play the matriarch, a demanding yet satisfying role.

All this and more fell to her lot in that first December and January, yet throughout that time, the aspect of her life that commanded her deepest attention remained her interaction with Devil.

Quite what she'd expected, she couldn't have said—she had come to her marriage with no firm view of what she wanted from it beyond the very fact of laying claim to the role, of being the mother of his children. Which left, as she discovered during those long quiet weeks, a great deal to be decided. By them both.

Time and again, as their wills crossed in daily life, their eyes would meet and she would see in his an expression of arrest, of calculation, consideration—and know the same emotions were visible in her eyes.

There were adjustments in other spheres, too. Like finding time to be alone, to be easy in each other's company, to discuss the myriad matters affecting their now-mutual life, all within the framework of who they were and what they were and what they could both accept. Some adjustments came easily, without conscious effort; others required give-and-take on both sides.

And if their nights remained a constant, an arena where the lines had already been drawn, where they'd already made their decisions, even there, while their physical need of each other continued, a steady, unquenchable flame, with each night that passed, their involvement deepened, became more profound, more heavily invested with meaning.

By the time January waned and the thaws set in, they were both conscious of, not only change, but the creation of something new, some palpable entity, some subtle web within which they both now lived. They never discussed it, nor in any way alluded to it. Yet she was conscious of it every minute of the day—and knew he felt it, too.

“I'm for a ride.”

Seated at a table by one window, a pile of chandler's accounts before her, Honoria looked up to see Devil strolling across the back parlor.

His gaze swept her, then returned to her face. “The going will be heavy—very slow. Do you care to chance it?” The ice in the lanes and the general bad weather had vetoed riding for the past few weeks. But today the sun was shining—and if he was the one suggesting it, riding had to be safe once more. “I'll need to change.” Forsaking her accounts without a second thought, Honoria rose.

Devil grinned. “I'll bring the horses to the side door.”

They were away ten minutes later. In perfect amity, they rode across his fields, taking a roundabout route to a nearby rise. They returned by way of the village, stopping to chat with Mr. Postlethwaite, as ever in the vicarage garden. From there, their route home was via the track through the wood.

Gaining the straight at the top of the rise, they fell silent, slowing from a canter to a walk. They passed the spot where Tolly had fallen; reaching the track to the cottage, Devil drew rein.

He glanced at Honoria—halting beside him, she held his gaze. He searched her eyes, then, without a word, turned Sulieman down the narrow track.

In winter, both cottage and clearing appeared very different. The undergrowth was still dense, impenetrable, but the trees had lost their leaves. A dense carpet of mottled brown blanketed the earth, muffling hoofbeats. The cottage was neater, tidier, the stone before the door scrubbed; a wisp of smoke curled from the chimney.

“Keenan's in residence.” Devil dismounted and tied his reins to a tree, then came to Honoria's side.

As he lifted her down, she recalled how distracted she'd felt when he'd first closed his hands about her waist. Now his touch was reassuring, a warmly familiar contact. “Will he be inside?”

“Unlikely. In winter, he spends his days in the village.”

He secured her reins, and together they walked to the cottage. “Is it all right to go in?”

Devil nodded. “Keenan has no real home—he simply lives in the cottages I provide and keeps my woods in trim.”

Opening the door, he led the way in; Honoria followed. She watched as he crossed the small room, his ranging stride slowing as he neared the raised pallet on which Tolly had died. He came to a halt at its foot, looking down on the simple grey blanket, his face a stony mask.

It had been a long time since she'd seen his face that way—these days, he rarely hid his feelings from her. She hesitated, then walked forward, stopping by his side. That was where she belonged—sometimes he needed reminding. With that aim in mind, she slid her fingers across his palm. His hand remained slack, then closed, strongly, firmly.

When he continued to stare at the uninformative bed, Honoria leaned against him. That did the trick—he glanced at her, hesitated, then lifted his arm and drew her against him. And looked frowningly back at the pallet. “It's been six months, and we've not got him yet.”

Honoria rested her head against his shoulder. “I don't imagine the Bar Cynster are the sort to accept defeat.”

“
Never
.”

“Well, then.” She glanced up and saw his frown deepen.

He met her gaze, the tortured frown darkening his eyes.

“That something I've forgotten—it was something about
how
Tolly died. Something I noticed—something I should remember.” He looked back at the pallet. “I keep hoping it'll come back to me.”

The intensity in his eyes, his words, precluded any light reassurance. A minute later, Honoria felt his chest swell, felt his arm tighten briefly about her, then he released her and gestured to the door. “Come—let's go home.”

They rode slowly back through the gathering dusk. Devil did not mention Tolly's killer again; they parted in the hall, he heading for the library, Honoria climbing the stairs, considering a bath before dinner.