Devil's Bride (16 page)

Honoria nodded. “So when are we going there?”

Devil flicked her a glance. “
We
aren't—any more than we're going to the other towns.”

Honoria narrowed her eyes at him—only to see his lips twitch.

“I'm too well known to ask questions without inviting comment. St. Ives is different—it's the family town and has few other major families living close. And
you
can't ask either. But my grooms can chat up the ostlers over a pint or two and learn all we need without anyone being the wiser.”

“Hmm.” Honoria eyed him suspiciously.

“I'll send Melton to Cambridge.”

“Your head stableman?”

“So to speak.”

Honoria had yet to sight the man. “He doesn't seem to be much about.”

“Melton is
never
around when I need him. It's a point of honor with him.”

Honoria stared. “Why do you put up with him?”

Devil shrugged. “He's old.”

“That's it? Because he's old?”

“No.”

Intrigued, Honoria watched the hard face soften, not a great deal, but enough to show.

“Melton put me on my first pony—you could say he taught me to ride. He's been at the Place all his life, and no one knows more about horses—not even Demon. I couldn't turn him out to grass, not after a lifetime in the position. Luckily, his son-in-law, Hersey, is a sensible man—he's my understableman and actually does all the work. Other than on special occasions—and with handling Sulieman—Melton's position is purely titular.”

“But he never turns up when you bring Sulieman in.”

“Or when I take him out. As I said, it's a point of honor with him.” Devil glanced at Honoria, his lips twisting wryly. “To make sure I don't forget all he's taught me. According to him, just because I'm a duke doesn't excuse me from currying my horse.”

Honoria choked, then gave up and laughed unrestrainedly.

Devil cast her a disgusted glance—and drove on.

She was wiping her eyes, still racked by the occasional giggle, when he checked his team. They were a mile or so short of Somersham; Honoria sobered when Devil turned the horses off the road, eased them along a narrow lane, then swung onto a wide grassy patch and reined in.

“Behold—north Cambridgeshire.”

She could hardly miss it—the county lay spread before her, a tapestry of greens and golds, edged with the darker hues of woods and hedgerows.

“This is the closest we come to a lookout in these parts.”

Honoria studied the landscape—while her wariness escalated in leaps and bounds. They were on a grassy plateau, a stand of trees screening them from the road. Essentially private.

“Over there,” Devil pointed to the right, “you can see the roofs of Chatteris. The first dark green line beyond is the Forty-Foot Drain, the second is the Old Nene.”

Honoria nodded; she recalled the names from his earlier lecture on the fens.

“And now . . .” Devil secured the reins. “It's time for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Honoria swung around, but he'd already leapt down from the curricle. An instant later, she heard him rummaging in the boot. He reappeared, a rug in one hand, a picnic basket in the other.

“Here.” He tossed the rug at her. Reflexively, she caught it—then caught her breath as his free arm snaked about her waist and he swung her to the ground. He smiled down at her, pure wolf in his eyes. “Why don't you chose a suitable place to spread the rug?”

Honoria glared—she couldn't speak; her heart was blocking her throat, her breathing had seized. She barely had enough strength to whisk herself free of his encircling arm. Marching across the grass as determindedly as her suddenly shaky limbs allowed, all too aware he prowled close behind, she spread the rug over the first reasonable patch, then, remembering her parasol, returned to the safety of the curricle to retrieve it.

The move gave her time to calm her senses, to take a firm grip on her wayward wits—to remind herself of how safe she really was. As long as she didn't allow him to kiss her again, all would be well.

She could hardly be held responsible for the previous kisses he'd stolen—like the buccaneer he reminded her of, he'd surprised her, captured her and taken what he wished. This time, however, while she might unwittingly have walked into his trap, she did know it was a trap. He hadn't sprung it yet—as a virtuous lady it was clearly her duty to ensure his planning came to nought.

His kisses, and the desire behind them, were far from innocent; she could not, in all conscience, indulge in such scandalous dalliance.

Which made her role very clear—circumspection, caution, and unassailable virtue. She headed back to the rug, repeating that litany. The sight of the repast he'd unpacked—the two wineglasses, the champagne, cool in a white linen shroud, the delicacies designed to tempt a lady's palate—all bore testimony to his intent. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You planned this.”

Lounging on the rug, Devil raised his brows. “Of course—what else?”

He caught her hand and gently tugged; she had no choice but to sink, gracefully, onto the other half of the rug. She was careful to keep the basket between them. “You didn't even know I was going to join you.”

His answer was a single raised brow and a look so outrageously patronizing she was literally lost for words.

He grinned. “Here.” He reached into the basket. “Have a chicken leg.”

Honoria drew in a deep breath. She looked at the portion he held out, the bone wrapped neatly in a napkin—then reached out, took it, and sank her teeth into it.

To her relief, he made no effort to converse. She shot a glance his way. He lay stretched on the rug, propped on one elbow as he worked steadily through the basket. Honoria took a long draft of champagne—and focused on distracting them both.

“Why,” she asked, “did Tolly come by way of St. Ives rather than Cambridge? If he wanted to see you, why didn't he come by the faster route?”

Devil shrugged. “All of us travel via St. Ives.”

“For obvious reasons?”

He grinned. “We do, of course, feel a certain link with the town.” He caught Honoria's eye. “One of my ancestors built the bridge-chapel, after all.”

The chapel she had entirely forgotten to demand a glimpse of. Honoria humphed. “As a penance, no doubt.”

“Presumably.” Devil sipped his champagne.

Honoria returned to her cogitations. “When did Charles arrive at the Place?”

“I don't know—Vane said he was there when he arrived, late that evening, just before the worst of the storm.”

Honoria frowned. “If Charles followed Tolly from town, why didn't he come upon us in the lane?”

“Charles wouldn't come that way.”

“I thought all Cynsters travel via St. Ives?”

“All except Charles.” Sitting up, Devil started to repack the basket. He glanced at Honoria, then reached for her glass. He drained it in one gulp. “Charles, in case you hadn't noticed, is not really one of the pack.”

Pack—a good word to describe them, the Cynster pack of wolves. “He does seem . . .” leaning on one arm, Honoria gestured, “in something of a different mold.”

Devil shrugged. “He takes after his mother in looks
and
in disposition. Barely a Cynster trait to be discerned.”

“Hmm.” Honoria settled more comfortably, a warm glow spreading through her. “When did his mother die?”

“Twenty or so years ago.”

“So your uncle remarried almost immediately?”

The basket repacked, Devil stretched out, crossed his arms behind his head, closed his eyes—and watched Honoria through his lashes. “Uncle Arthur's first marriage was little short of a disaster. Almira Butterworth did what no other has in the history of the family—she trapped a Cynster into marriage, much good did it do her. After twelve years of marital discord, she died of consumption—Arthur married Louise a bare year later.”

“So how would Charles, not being a dyed-in-the-wool Cynster, have come to the Place? Did he drive?”

“He doesn't drive—don't ask me why. He always comes via Cambridge, hires a horse, then comes riding up the main drive. He once said something about a master always coming to the front door, rather than the back.”

Charles, Honoria decided, sounded as insufferable as she'd thought him. “So it's unlikely he saw anything?”

“He said he didn't see anyone about.”

Honoria tried to think, but could find no focus for further questions. It was pleasant in the sunshine. Her parasol lay furled in the grass beside her; she should open it, but could not summon the strength. A deliciously warm, relaxed sense of peace pervaded her—she was loath to break the spell.

Glancing at Devil, she noted his closed eyes, black lashes feathering his high cheekbones. Briefly, she let her gaze skim his long frame, conscious, as always, of the deep tug she'd never previously experienced, never felt for any other man. A
frisson
of pure excitement, it heightened every sense, sensitized every nerve, and set her pulse racing. Simultaneously, at some fundamental level, it drew her like a magnet, a potent attraction all too hard to deny. Every instinct she possessed screamed he was dangerous—specifically dangerous to her. Perversely, those selfsame instincts insisted that with him, she was safe. Was it any wonder she felt giddy?

Yet the last was as true as the first. Not even Michael eased her mind to the same degree nor conveyed the same certainty of inviolable protection. The devil might be a tyrant, an autocrat supreme, yet he was also to be relied on, predictable in many ways, rigid in his honor.

Her eyes once more on his face, Honoria drew in a slow breath. He was dangerous indeed, but the basket sat, large and cumbersome between them. Lips gently curving, she looked away, into the soft haze of the early afternoon to the green fields of his domain.

No field came close to the pale, clear green of his eyes.

She'd reached that conclusion when the horizon abruptly fell, leaving her flat on her back, gazing up at the cloudless sky. An instant later, half the sky vanished, replaced by a black mane, hard, angular features and a pair of eyes that saw far too much. And a pair of long, mobile lips, their contours reflecting the same laughing triumph she could see in his green eyes.

The basket was no longer between them. Nothing was.

Honoria's breath caught—her gaze locked on his. Her heart thudded wildly; an uncharacteristic panic streaked through her. Could he read minds? It seemed that he could—the green gaze grew more intense, the line of his lips deepened. Then his lids lowered; slowly, deliberately, he bent his head.

Anticipation rose, an insidious temptation, stealing through her, unlocking her defenses. Honoria felt the fever rise, felt the longing grow. Each time he kissed her, it waxed stronger, more willful, harder to deny. She felt herself sinking under its influence, her lips softening. “No.” The word was a whisper—all she could manage. Her heartbeat filled her; her pulse all but deafened her.

He heard her and stopped, eyes glinting from under heavy lids. “Why not?” His brows quirked—his smile grew as he searched her eyes, her face. “You like it when I kiss you, Honoria Prudence.”

Her name, uttered in his deep, velvety dark voice, the ‘r's gently rolled, was a sensual caress. Honoria struggled to hold back a shiver—she lost the fight when he raised one finger and traced her lower lip.

“You like my kisses—and I like kissing you. Why deny ourselves such innocent pleasure?”

Innocent?
Honoria's eyes widened—she might be safe with him, but his notion of safety and hers were not the same. “Ah . . . that's not the point.”

The curve of his lips deepened. “Which point is that?”

She hadn't the faintest idea. Honoria blinked blankly up at him—and saw his pirate's smile flash. His head swooped—his lips covered hers.

This time, she ought to struggle. The thought flashed into her mind—and was lost in the same instant, as anticipation exploded and wiped her mental slate clean. Further thought was beyond her; his kiss connected with some other being—a sensual, sensate being—hidden deep inside her. It was that being who reveled in the long-drawn caress, in the hard pressure of his lips on hers, that being who opened her lips, brazenly inviting him beyond, to taste, to sample, to plunder to his heart's content.

Other than through his lips, and the long fingers that framed her face, he did not touch her, yet she was surrounded by his strength, by his will, bent like a reed to his passion. Her body—skin, quivering flesh, even her bones—was achingly aware of him—of his strength, of the tense, sharply defined muscles mere inches away, of the hardness to match her melting softness.

Their lips melded, their tongues twined, sliding sensuously together. The kiss was as heady as the fine wine they'd drunk, as warm as the sunshine about them. He shifted, leaning over her as he deepened the kiss; Honoria tasted his desire. The compulsion to feed his hunger rose, flaring like a fever, an impetus steadily growing with each deep beat of her heart, a driving need to twine her arms about him, about his shoulders, his neck—to run her fingers through his thick hair. Her fingers literally itched. One hand had fallen on his upper arm, the other on his shoulder; clinging to caution, she flexed her fingers, sinking them deep in a desperate bid to deny the urge to touch, to feel, to explore.

Instead, the steely feel of him, harder than she'd imagined, something akin to warm resilient rock, seduced her; caught by her discovery, she flexed her fingers again, enthralled when his muscles shifted beneath her hands.

Immediately, his lips hardened; in a heartbeat, their kiss changed from merely hungry to ravenous. He was closer, his weight tantalizingly near yet not upon her; Honoria's senses leapt. Their lips parted; she hauled in a gasping breath. Before she could open her eyes, he took her mouth again, commanding, demanding, ravaging her senses.