Devil's Bride (50 page)

“Your reason's not good enough.”

Honoria lifted her chin. “It is to me.”

“
Damn it woman!
” Furious, Devil turned on her. “How by all that's holy do you imagine
I'm
supposed to function, knowing that, at any instant,
you
may be courting heaven knows what danger—all in the name of keeping
me
safe?” His voice rose to a bellow that literally shook the chandelier. Gesticulating violently, he paced viciously, like some trapped jungle cat. “Do you have any
idea
what I felt when I learned where you'd gone today?” Brilliant with accusation, his eyes raked her. “Can you even
conceive
what I felt when I walked in that tavern door?” He halted directly before her.

Honoria caught her breath as his eyes locked on hers.

“Do you know what might have happened in such a place?” His voice had lowered, his tones chillingly prophetic.

Honoria didn't move.

“They could have knifed Sligo and Carter—killed them without a qualm. Then they'd have raped you—one after another. If you'd survived, they'd have slit your throat.”

Devil spoke with deadpan conviction; it was the truth—a truth he'd had to face. The muscles across his shoulders rippled; he tensed, holding back his reactive rage, clinging grimly to the reality of the woman standing slim, straight, and unharmed before him. A second later he caught himself reaching for her—abruptly, he swung away, pacing again, then he stopped.

His back to Honoria, he dragged in a deep breath. “How the hell do you think I would have felt
then
?—if anything had happened to you?” He paused, then flatly stated: “I cannot countenance you putting yourself in danger over me.
You
can't ask that of
me
.”

Silence fell; Devil looked back at Honoria. “Will you give me your word you will not knowingly go into danger?”

Honoria held his gaze, then, slowly, shook her head. “I can't.”

He looked forward immediately, his fury clearly delineated in the rigid lines of his back, clearly expressed in a single, violent expletive.

“I simply
can't
.” Honoria spread her hands. “I'm not trying to be wilful, but you must see I can't—” Her words were drowned out by a half-strangled roar; the next instant, Devil flung open the door. Honoria stiffened. “Where are you going?”

“Downstairs.”

“Don't you
dare
leave.” If he did, would he come back? “I haven't finished—”

His hand on the doorknob, Devil turned, his green gaze impaling her. “If I
don't
leave, you won't sit comfortably for a sennight.”

Before she could react, he slammed the door shut. Honoria listened to his footsteps, uncharacteristically heavy, retreat. She stood before the fire, her gaze fixed unseeing on the panels of the door, for a very long time.

Reaching the library, Devil flung himself into an armchair. An instant later, he sprang up and fell to pacing. He never paced—the action was too indicative of lost control for his liking. If he kept on as he was, he'd wear a track in the rug.

Uttering a long-drawn groan, he halted; eyes closed, he dropped his head back and concentrated on breathing, on letting his impotent rage settle. Into the morass of emotions that swirled inside him, all called forth by the woman he'd taken to wife.

Both jaw and fists clenched; then again he forced himself to relax. One by one, tensed muscles uncoiled; eventually, he stood easy. Eyes still closed, he looked inward, sifting through his reactions to what lay beneath.

When he saw what it was, he wasn't impressed.

Honoria was dealing with this unexpected development far better than he. Then again, she'd been through it before, albeit unhappily. He'd never experienced the like before.

He hadn't, in fact, known real fear, even on the battlefield. He was a Cynster; fate took care of Cynsters. Unfortunately, he wasn't sanguine enough to assume fate's benevolence extended to Cynster wives. Which left him battling a fear he'd no idea how to combat.

Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes. Spreading his fingers, he studied them. They were almost steady. His muscles, tensed for so long, now felt chilled. He glanced at the decanter, then grimaced. Switching his gaze to the flames cheerily dancing in the hearth, he paused, then, deliberately, opened the door of his memory. And let Honoria's words warm him.

He stared at the flames for so long that when he heaved a long sigh and turned to the door, they still danced before his eyes.

Honoria shivered beneath the unfamiliar covers of her bed. After much mental debate, she'd returned to her apartments, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. She hadn't had any dinner—not that it mattered; she'd lost her appetite. Whether she'd find it again was moot, but if she could relive her scene with Devil, she would not change one word she'd said.

Her declaration had been necessary—she hadn't expected him to like it. She had no idea how he viewed her confession—he'd turned from her the instant he'd seen her words confirmed in her eyes.

Frowning, she stared into the dark, trying, for the ump-teenth time, to make consistent sense of his reaction. On the surface, he'd appeared his usual tyrannical, domineering self, insisting without quarter that she fall in with his dictates, resorting to intimidation when she stood firm. Yet not all he'd said fitted that image—the mere thought of her being in danger had agitated him to a remarkable degree. It was almost as if . . .

The nebulous thought went round and round in her head, and followed her into sleep.

She woke to find a very large, dense shadow looming over her.

“Damn fool woman—what the devil are you doing here?”

His tone made it clear the question was rhetorical; Honoria valiantly stifled a giggle. He sounded so put upon—poor aggrieved male—not one of the most powerful men in the land. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw him, hands on hips, shake his head. Then he leaned over her.

He loosened her covers, then pressed down on the soft mattress and slid his hands under her. He lifted her easily; Honoria played dead.

“
And
a bloody nightgown.”

The disgust in his voice made her jaw ache.

“What the hell does she think she's about?”

He shouldered through the door into the short corridor; seconds later, very gently, she was deposited in his bed. Honoria decided a murmur and a wriggle were required for authenticity.

She heard him humph, then listened to the familiar sounds of him undressing, her mind supplying what she could not see.

The relief she felt when he slid into bed beside her, curling around her, warm, hard, reassuringly solid, made her chest ache. Carefully, he slid one arm over her waist; his hand gently pushed between her breasts, long fingers draping possessively over the lower.

She felt him heave a long, deep sigh; the last of his tension left him.

Minutes later, before she could decide whether or not to “wake up,” his breathing deepened. Smiling, still wondering, Honoria closed her eyes.

T
he next morning, Honoria woke late, alone, Devil long gone, up and about his business. His unflagging energy struck her as unfair—the events of the night had left her drained. Her gaze, unfocused, fell on the swath of ivory silk adorning the richly hued carpet. Her nightgown.

They'd engaged in a midnight tussle—half-asleep, she'd been reluctant to relinquish the gown's warmth. He, however, had insisted, then compensated admirably. Even now, she felt pleasurably aglow, inside and out. Smiling, she sank deeper into the bed, luxuriating in the lingering sense of warm fulfilment.

Who'd made the first move she neither knew nor cared; they'd turned to each other and let their bodies seal their unvoiced commitment that, regardless of any differences, they remained man and wife, their alliance rock-solid, as enduring as the Place.

The door from her apartments cracked open; Cassie peeked, then bustled in. “G'morning, ma'am.” She swiped up the nightgown. “It's nearly eleven.”

“Eleven?” Honoria blinked her eyes wide.

“Webster asked if you wanted any breakfast kept. Having missed dinner and all.”

Honoria sat up. “We ate later.” An hour after her nightgown had hit the floor, Devil's mind had turned to food. She'd been sound asleep again; he'd made a trip to the kitchens, then ruthlessly harried her awake, insisting she eat morsels of chicken, ham, and cheese, all washed down with white wine.

“There's kedgeree, boiled eggs, and sausages.”

Honoria wrinkled her nose. “I'll take a bath.”

The bath suited her mood: lazy, disinclined to move. She stared through the steam, reviewing the previous evening—and heard in her mind, in the depths of the night, her husband's deep voice as, sated, replete, he'd slumped beside her.

“You can't fear losing me half as much as I fear losing you.” It had been a grudging admission; he'd thought her already asleep.

Why would he fear losing her even more than she feared losing him?

The minutes ticked by, the water grew cold, and still she could find only one answer. As she rose from the bath, her spirits soared—she spent the next half hour sternly lecturing herself on the unwisdom of leaping to conclusions, especially conclusions like that.

She retired to the morning room but couldn't settle, idly drifting between window and fireplace, consumed by a longing to see her husband again. To look into his face; to study his clear eyes. Mrs. Hull brought up a pot of herbal tea. Grateful, she accepted a cup, but it grew cold while she stared at the wall.

Louise and the twins provided a welcome diversion; they came to lunch, the girls eager to describe their latest gowns. Honoria toyed with a portion of steamed fish and listened with half an ear. She'd canceled all her other engagements, although the news that the new duchess of St. Ives was indisposed was certain to lead to speculation.

In this instance, speculation would be accurate. She'd hesitated to let the thought form in her mind, but it now seemed beyond question. Her dullness every morning, her fragile appetite, all testified to the fact.

She was carrying Devil's child.

The very thought made her giddy with happiness, with eager anticipation tinged only by understandable apprehension. Real fear had no chance of intruding, not with Devil and his family so constantly about her.

As if to emphasize that last, with the twins on the front steps, Louise glanced at her affectionately. “You're looking well, but if you have any questions, there's me or Horatia or Celia—we've all been there before you.”

“Oh—yes.” Honoria blushed—she hadn't told Devil; she could hardly tell his aunts first. “That is—” She gestured vaguely. “If . . .”

Smiling, Louise patted her arm. “Not if, my dear.
When
.” With a nod and a wave, she left, the twins falling in behind her.

Climbing the stairs, Honoria debated just how to tell Devil the news. Every time she imagined doing so, the specter of his would-be murderer intruded. They were closing in; before he'd left that morning, Devil had told her that he and Vane were searching for proof, precisely what he hadn't said. He'd promised to reveal all tonight. The last thing they needed now was a distraction—announcing the impending birth of his heir would create a major stir, focusing society's rabid interest on them.

Entering the morning room, Honoria inwardly shook her head. She would inform Devil of his impending fatherhood
after
they'd caught his would-be killer. Until then, his safety consumed her—not even his child meant more to her than he. Besides, she wanted the telling to be a happy event, a memorable moment between them, not overshadowed by a killer.

As she sank onto the
chaise
, Webster knocked and entered. “A message, ma'am.” He proffered a silver salver.

Lifting the folded sheet, Honoria saw black lettering, conservative, precise, not her husband's extravagant scrawl. “Thank you, Webster.” Breaking the plain seal, she returned the knife to the tray and nodded a dismissal. Webster left as she unfolded the note.

To Her Grace, the duchess of St. Ives:

Should you wish to learn more of he who intends your husband ill, come at once to No. 17 Green Street. Come alone—tell no one of your errand, else all will be lost. Most especially destroy this note that none may chance upon it and follow you, scaring away the little bird that would whisper in your ear.

A Well-wisher.

For a long moment, Honoria stared at the note, then she reread it. Then, drawing a steadying breath, she sank back against the
chaise
.

Devil wouldn't want her to go. But if she didn't?

There was clearly a potential threat to herself, but that she dismissed out of hand; far more relevant was how Devil would react. Not, of course, that such a consideration would sway her—her fear was more compelling than his.