Devil's Bride (14 page)

There was dew on the grass; it was heavy going, particularly for little Mary. Devil grunted and lengthened his stride—Honoria flung herself at him again. “No!” She glared furiously and pressed him back under the trees.

Devil glared back. “They'll get wet feet—I can carry two of them.”

He gripped her waist: Honoria clung to his shoulders. “They'll guess you know where they've been—they'll guess you watched. It'll spoil it for them. A little water won't hurt them—not if they're true Cynsters.”

A gleam marked Devil's reluctant smile. He waited, grudgingly, until the children disappeared through the side door, then, her hand locked in his, strode for the house. The children were still negotiating the stairs when they reached the foot. Devil went straight on, treading close by the wall. When they reached the upper landing, the children were only partway up the next flight—Devil yanked Honoria into an alcove.

She gasped as she landed against his chest. One arm locked about her; hard fingers lifted her face. His lips were on hers before she drew breath; she tried to hold firm, but beneath the pleasure he lavished upon her, her resistance wilted, then melted away.

To be replaced by something so insidious, so soul-stealingly compulsive, so innately enthralling, she couldn't pull back. He was hungry—she sensed it in the leashed passion that hardened his lips, that, when she opened to him, set him plundering more rapaciously than before. The tension investing his every muscle spoke of rigid control; the turbulence behind it frightened and fascinated. His tongue tangled with hers, intimately enticing, then settled to a slow, repetitive, probing rhythm. Her mouth was his; his possession set her senses whirling—no man had touched her like this. A warm flush rushed through her, a sweet fever unlike anything she'd known. Beyond that and the shocking intimacy of his caress, she knew only one thing. He was ravenously hungry—for her. The sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to give herself to him, to assauge that rampant need, shook her to the core—and still she could not pull back.

How long they stood locked together in the dark she had no idea; when he lifted his head, she'd lost touch with the world.

He hesitated, then brushed her lips with his. “Do I frighten you?”

“Yes.” In a way he did. Wide-eyed, her pulse tripping, Honoria searched his shadowed eyes. “But it's not you I'm frightened of.” He was making her feel, making her yearn. “I—” Frowning, she stopped, for once lost for words.

In the dark, Devil smiled crookedly. “Don't worry.” He took her mouth in one last, searching kiss before putting her from him. “Go. Now.” It was a warning—he wasn't sure she understood.

She blinked up at him through the dimness, then nodded. “Good night.” She slipped out of the alcove. “Sleep well.”

Devil nearly laughed. He wouldn't have a good night—he wouldn't sleep well. He could feel another headache coming on.

N
ext morning, Honoria attended Sunday service in the church in the grounds, then strolled back with Louise Cynster. Tolly's mother thanked her for helping her son; Honoria politely disclaimed. With little encouragement, Louise spoke of Tolly and his relationship with Devil. Hero worship seemed the most apt description.

The object of Tolly's reverence had not seen fit to attend church. When the ladies reached the breakfast table, it was apparent he'd been there before them. Honoria made quick work of tea and toast, then headed upstairs.

Devil, she felt sure, would have gone riding. It was a perfect day—he would be out surveying his fields astride his cake-eating demon. Which should leave nearer precincts clear.

It was the work of three minutes to don her stylish topaz riding habit. Her clothes were the one item she'd always insisted lived up to her Anstruther-Wetherby background. She flicked the feather on her matching toque so that it draped rakishly over one temple, then headed for the door.

There was no one in the stable yard. Unperturbed, she entered the main stable. The stall walls were high; she couldn't see over them. The tack room was at the end—she stepped purposefully down the aisle.

A large hand reached out and hauled her into a stall.

“
What . . . ?
” Warm steel encircled her. Honoria focused—and realized her danger. “Don't you
dare
kiss me—I'll scream if you do!”

“And who do you imagine will rescue you?”

Honoria blinked—and tried to think of the right answer. “Anyway, you won't be able to scream while I'm kissing you.”

She parted her lips and hauled in a deep breath.

By the time she realized that was not a wise move, it was too late—he'd taken full advantage. A vague notion of struggling wafted into her mind—then out, as heat, warmth and insidious pleasure burgeoned within her. His lips moved on hers, arrogantly confident; his tongue slid between in a deliciously languid caress, an unhurried caress that went on and on, until she was heated through. Honoria felt the fever rise—she tried to tell herself this was wrong—scandalously wrong—while every sense she possessed purred in appreciation.

She couldn't think or hear when he kissed her. She made that discovery when Devil finally raised his head; up until the instant his lips left hers, her mind had been thought-free, blissful in its vacancy. The sounds of the stable rushed in on her, compounding her breathlessness. Her bones had lique-fied, yet she was still upright—then she realized it was due to him that she was so. He was holding her against himself; her toes only just touched the floor.

“Great heavens!” Blinking wildly, she lowered her heels to earth. Had she labeled him dangerous? He was lethal.

“Good morning, Honoria Prudence.” His deep purr sent a shiver down her spine. “And where are you headed?”

“Ah . . .” Gazing, wide-eyed, into his too-knowing green eyes, Honoria marshaled her wits. “I was looking for a horse. Presumably you have more than one?”

“I believe there's a hoity, wilful mare that should suit. But where were you thinking of riding?”

“Oh—just out about the lanes.” He was holding her too securely for her to pull away; she tried to ease back—his hold gave not an inch.

“You don't know this country—you'll get lost. You'll be safer riding with me.”

Dispensing with all subtlety, Honoria reached behind her and tried to pry his arms loose. He chuckled and let her tug—all to no avail. Then he bent his head and feathered delicate kisses about her left ear.

Breathless, quite ridiculously flustered, Honoria glared. “Whoever called you Devil had the right of it!”

“Hully?”

Honoria blinked, directly into his eyes. “Mrs.
Hull
gave you your nickname?”

He grinned—devilishly. “She used to be my nursemaid. I was three when she christened me ‘That Devil Cynster.' ”

“You must have been a tyrant even then.”

“I was.”

A furious clearing of a throat spared Honoria the necessity of replying. Devil looked around, then released her, turning so he hid her from view. “What is it, Martin?”

“Sorry t'interrupt, Y'r Grace, but one of the flanges on the North Number One's split—Mister Kirby was a-wondering if you'd swing past that way. He was hoping you'd check the lay before he reset the blade.”

The message made no sense to Honoria; she peered around Devil's shoulder. A workman, his cap in his hands, stood waiting in the aisle. She glanced up—and discovered his master's green gaze on her.

“Tell Kirby I'll be there within the half-hour.”

“Yes, Y'r Grace.” Martin hurried out.

Honoria straightened. “What was that about?”

“One of the windmills is out of action.”

“Mills?” Honoria recalled numerous windmills dotting the fields. “There seem to be a lot about.”

Devil's lips twitched. He reached for her hand. “This is fen country, Honoria Prudence—the mills drive pumps which drain the land.”

“Oh.” Honoria found herself being towed down the aisle. “Where are you taking me?”

He raised both brows at her. “To find a horse. Wasn't that what you wanted?”

Ten minutes later, atop a frisky chestnut mare, Honoria clattered out of the stable yard—in Devil's wake. The notion of a surreptitious detour occurred only to be dismissed; he'd overtake her in an instant.

They left the park by a different route from that which led through the woods; beyond the park walls, the clack of windmills became noticeable, steadily increasing as they headed north. The mill in question was a large one; Devil dismounted in its shadow to confer with his foreman.

For Honoria, their discussion held little interest. As they cantered back to the Place, she took the devil by the horns. “Have you any idea who the ‘highwayman' might be?” It seemed a clear enough question.

His response was a dissertation on the mechanics of fen drainage. By the time they reached the stable yard, Honoria had heard enough to verify the adage about Cynsters being as passionate about their land as they were in their other pursuits. She'd also gained a very firm idea of what her host thought of her interest in his cousin's murder.

The next morning, she watched from her window until she
saw
her nemesis ride out. Then she headed for the stables. The grooms saw nothing odd in her request that the mare be saddled again. When she passed under the arch leading out of the park, Honoria whooped with delight. Smiling inanely, she headed for the wood.

She ended going the long way around via the village. It was an hour and more before she finally reached the straight where Tolly had been shot. The mare seemed to sense the fatal spot; Honoria drew rein and slid from the saddle, tethering the horse some yards down the lane.

Brisk and full of purpose, she crossed the lane—the rumble of hoofbeats reached her. Halting, she listened; the unknown horseman was heading her way. “Damn!” She whisked about and hurried back to the mare.

She couldn't remount. In disbelief, Honoria looked right and left. The hoofbeats drew steadily nearer. In that moment, she would have traded her entire wardrobe for a suitable log; none was to be found.

The unknown presence was likely some local no more threatening than Mr. Postlethwaite. Honoria stepped to the mare's head and assumed a haughty, nonchalant expression. If she wished to stand beside her horse in the lane, who had the right to gainsay her?

The oncoming horse rounded the curve and burst into view. The rider wasn't Mr. Postlethwaite.

The black demon halted beside her; Devil looked down at her. “What are you doing here?”

Honoria opened her eyes wide—even wider than they already were. “I stopped to stretch my legs.”

He didn't blink. “And admire the view?”

They were hemmed in on all sides by the wood. Honoria narrowed her eyes at him. “What are
you
doing here?”

Devil met her look, his expression implacable, then swung down from the saddle. Jaw set, he knotted the reins about a tree; without a word, he turned and strode to the spot where Tolly had fallen.

Honoria marched determinedly in his wake. “You don't believe it was a highwayman any more than I do—and it certainly wasn't a poacher.”

Devil snorted. “I'm not daft.” He shot her a piercing glance, then looked away, flexing his shoulders as if throwing off some restraint.

Honoria watched him study the ground. “Well? Who do you think did it?”

“I don't know, but we'll find out.”

“
We'll?
” Honoria was perfectly certain he didn't mean
her
and him. “You're all searching, aren't you—you and your cousins?”

The look he cast her brimmed with masculine long suffering; his short sigh underscored it. “As you've so accurately deduced, it wasn't a highwayman; nor was it a poacher—Tolly was murdered. Behind such a murder there must be a reason—we're looking for the reason. The reason will lead us to the man.”

“From what I heard, you haven't any clue as to what the reason might be.” His glance, razor-sharp, touched her face; Honoria tried not to look conscious.

“Tolly lived a full life. While I'm going over the ground here, the others are quartering London—the balls, the hells—anywhere a Cynster might have been.”

Recalling the assignments he'd delegated to his cousins, Honoria frowned. “Was Tolly particularly partial to cats?”

Devil stared at her, his expression utterly blank.

“The catteries?”

He blinked, slowly, then his gaze, devoid of expression, met hers. “The salons. Of the
demimonde
.”

Honoria managed to keep the shock from her eyes. “He was
only
twenty.”

“So?” The word dripped arrogance. “Cynsters start young.”

He was the archetype—presumably he knew. Honoria decided to leave that subject—Devil had stepped into the undergrowth. “What are you looking for? A gun?”