Devil's Bride (2 page)

He was thoughtful, an excellent landowner, mature but not old, ready, so her ladyship assured her, to settle down and begin filling his nursery. This paragon had no faults to which any might take exception. The picture her ladyship had painted was of a sober, serious, retiring individual, almost a recluse. That last was Honoria's addition; she couldn't imagine any duke other than a reclusive one being willing, as Lady Claypole had declared this one was, to apply for Melissa's hand.

The grey tugged. Honoria kept the ribbons taut. They'd passed the entrance to two bridle paths, both winding away into trees so dense it was impossible to glimpse anything beyond a few yards. Ahead, the lane swung left, around a virtually blind curve. Tossing his head, the grey paced on.

Honoria checked for the curve, noting that their upward climb had ended. As the weight of his load lessened, the grey surged. Honoria's grip slipped—the reins slithered through her fingers. Cursing, she grabbed wildly and caught the ribbons firmly; leaning back, she wrestled with the beast.

The grey shied. Honoria shrieked and yanked hard, for once uncaring of the horse's mouth. Her heart racing, she forced the grey to a halt. Abruptly, the horse stood stock-still, quivering, coat aflicker. Honoria frowned. There'd been no thunderclaps yet. She glanced along the lane. And saw the body slumped beside the verge.

Time stood still—even the wind froze.

Honoria stared. “
Dear God
.”

At her whisper, the leaves sighed; the metallic taint of fresh blood wafted along the lane. The grey sidled; Honoria steadied him, using the moment to swallow the knot of shock in her throat. She didn't need to look again to see the dark, glistening pool growing beside the body. The man had been shot recently—he might still be alive.

Honoria eased from the gig. The grey stood quietly, head drooping; edging to the verge, Honoria looped the reins about a branch and pulled the knot tight. Stripping off her gloves, she stuffed them in her pocket. Then she turned and, taking a deep breath, walked down the lane.

The man was still alive—she knew that the instant she knelt on the grass beside him; his breathing was rattly and harsh. He was lying on his side, slumped forward; grasping his right shoulder, she rolled him onto his back. His breathing eased—Honoria barely noticed, her gaze transfixed by the jagged hole marring the left side of his coat. With every ragged breath the man drew, blood welled from the wound.

She had to staunch the flow. Honoria looked down; her handkerchief was already in her hand. Another glance at the wound confirmed its inadequacy. Hurrying, she stripped off the topaz-silk scarf she wore over her dun-colored gown and wadded it into a pad. Lifting the sodden coat, she left the man's ruined shirt undisturbed and pressed her improvised dressing over the gaping hole. Only then did she glance at his face.

He was young—surely too young to die? His face was pale; his features were regular, handsome, still holding traces of youthful softness. Thick brown hair lay disheveled across a wide brow; brown brows arched over his closed eyes.

Sticky dampness rose beneath Honoria's fingers, her kerchief and scarf no match for the relentless flow. Her gaze fell on the youth's cravat. Unhooking the pin securing the linen folds, she unwound the cravat, folded it, then positioned the thick wad and carefully pressed down. She was bent over her patient when the thunder struck.

A deep resounding
boom
, it rent the air. The grey screamed, then shot down the lane, a sharp crack accompanying the thud of hooves. Heart pounding, Honoria watched in helpless dismay as the gig rushed past, the branch with the reins still wrapped about it bumping wildly in its wake.

Then lightning cracked. The flash was hidden by the canopy yet still lit the lane in garish white. Honoria shut her eyes tight, blocking her memories by sheer force of will.

A low moan reached her. Opening her eyes, she looked down, but her charge remained unconscious.

“Wonderful.” She glanced around; the truth was impossible to avoid. She was alone in a wood, under trees, miles from shelter, without means of transport, in a countryside she'd first seen four days ago, with a storm lashing the leaves from the trees—and beside her lay a badly wounded man. How on earth could she help him?

Her mind was a comfortless blank. Into the void came the sound of hoofbeats. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but the sound grew steadily louder, nearer. Giddy with relief, Honoria rose. She stood in the lane, fingertips on the pad, listening as the hoofbeats drew rapidly nearer. At the last minute, she stood upright, turning and stepping boldly to the center of the lane.

The ground shook; thunder engulfed her. Looking up, she beheld Death.

A massive black stallion screamed and reared over her, iron-tipped hooves flailing within inches of her head. On the beast's back sat a man to match the horse, black-clad shoulders blocking out the twilight, dark mane wild, features harsh—satanic.

The stallion's hooves thudded to the ground, missing her by a bare foot. Furious, snorting, eyes showing white, the beast hauled at the reins. It tried to swing its huge head toward her; denied, it attempted to rear again.

Muscles bunched in the rider's arms, in the long thighs pressed to the stallion's flanks. For one eternal minute, man and beast did battle. Then all went still, the stallion acknowledging defeat in a long, shuddering, horsy sigh.

Her heart in her throat, Honoria lifted her gaze to the rider's face—and met his eyes. Even in the dimness, she was sure of their color. Pale, lucent green, they seemed ancient, all-seeing. Large, set deep under strongly arched black brows, they were the dominant feature in an impressively strong face. Their glance was penetrating, mesmerizing—unearthly. In that instant, Honoria was sure that the devil had come to claim one of his own. And her, too.

Then the air about her turned blue

“
W
hat in the devil's own name are you about, woman?
”

Ending a string of decidedly inventive curses, that question, delivered with enough force to hold back the storm itself, jerked Honoria's wits into place. She focused on the commanding figure atop the restless stallion, then, with haughty dignity, stepped back, gesturing to the body on the verge. “I came upon him a few minutes ago—he's been shot, and I can't stop the bleeding.”

The rider's eyes came to rest on the still figure. Satisfied, Honoria turned and headed back to the injured man, then realized the rider hadn't moved. She looked back, and saw the broad chest beneath what she now recognized as a dark hacking jacket expand—and expand—as the rider drew in an impossibly deep breath.

His gaze switched to her. “Press down on that pad—hard.”

Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he swung down from his horse, the movement so eloquent of harnessed power, Honoria felt giddy again. She hurriedly returned to her patient. “That's precisely what I
was
doing,” she muttered, dropping to her knees and placing both hands on the pad.

The rider, busy tying the stallion's reins about a tree, glanced her way. “Lean over him—use all your weight.”

Honoria frowned but shuffled closer and did as he said. There was a note in the deep voice that suggested he expected to be obeyed. Given that she was counting on him to help her deal with the wounded man, now, she decided, was not the time to take umbrage. She heard him approach, footsteps firm on the packed earth. Then the footfalls slowed, became hesitant, then stopped altogether. She was about to glance up when he started forward again.

He came to the other side of the wounded man, avoiding the large pool of blood. Hunkering down, he gazed at the youth.

From beneath her lashes, Honoria gazed at him.

At closer range, the effect of his face diminished not one whit—if anything, the impact of strong, angular planes, decidedly patrician nose, and lips that were long, thin, and provocatively mobile was even more pronounced. His hair was indeed midnight black, thick and wavy enough to form large locks; his eyes, fixed on their common charge, were hooded. As for the rest of him, Honoria decided it was wiser not to notice—she needed all her wits for helping the wounded man.

“Let me see the wound.”

Was that a quaver she heard running through that dark voice, so deep it half resonated through her? Honoria glanced swiftly at her rescuer. His expression was impassive, showing no hint of any emotion—no, she'd imagined the quaver.

She lifted the sodden wad; he bent closer, angling his shoulders to let light reach the wound. He grunted, then nodded, rocking back on his heels as she replaced the pad.

Looking up, Honoria saw him frown. Then his heavy lids lifted and he met her gaze. Again she was struck by his curious eyes, transfixed by their omniscient quality.

Thunder rolled; the echoes were still reverberating when lightning lit up the world.

Honoria flinched, struggling to control her breathing. She refocused on her rescuer; his gaze hadn't left her. Raindrops pattered on the leaves and spattered the dust of the lane. He looked up. “We'll have to get him—and ourselves—under cover. The storm's nearly here.”

He rose, smoothly straightening his long legs. Still kneeling, Honoria was forced to let her eyes travel upward, over top boots and long, powerfully muscled thighs, past lean hips and a narrow waist, all the way over the wide acreage of his chest to find his face. He was tall, large, lean, loose-limbed yet well muscled—a supremely powerful figure.

Finding her mouth suddenly dry, she felt her temper stir.

“To where, precisely? We're miles from anywhere.” Her rescuer looked down, his disturbing gaze fixing on her face. Honoria's confidence faltered. “Aren't we?”

He looked into the trees. “There's a woodsman's cottage nearby. A track leads off a little way along the lane.”

So he was a local; Honoria was relieved. “How will we move him?”

“I'll carry him.” He didn't add the “of course,” but she heard it. Then he grimaced. “But we should pack the wound better before shifting him.”

With that, he shrugged off his jacket, tossed it over a nearby branch, and proceeded to strip off his shirt. Abruptly, Honoria transferred her gaze to the wounded man. Seconds later, a fine linen shirt dangled before her face, suspended from long, tanned fingers.

“Fold the body of the shirt and use the arms to tie it about him.”

Honoria frowned at the shirt. Lifting one hand, she took it, then looked up, directly into his face, studiously ignoring the tanned expanse of his bare chest and the crisply curling black hair that adorned it. “If you can take over here and keep your eyes on the wound, I'll donate my petticoat. We'll need more fabric to bind against the hole.”

His black brows flew up, then he nodded and hunkered down, placing long strong fingers on the pad. Honoria withdrew her hand and stood.

Briskly, trying not to think about what she was doing, she crossed to the other side of the lane. Facing the trees, she lifted the front of her skirt and tugged at the drawstring securing her lawn petticoat.

“I don't suppose you've a penchant for underdrawers?”

Stifling a gasp, Honoria glanced over her shoulder, but her devilish rescuer was still facing in the opposite direction. When she didn't immediately answer, he went on: “It would give us even more bulk.”

Honoria's petticoat slithered down her bare legs. “Unfortunately not,” she replied repressively. Stepping free, she swiped up her offering and stalked back across the lane.

He shrugged. “Ah, well—I can't say I'm a fan of them myself.”

The vision his words conjured up was ridiculous. Then Honoria's wits clicked into place. The look she cast him as she dropped to her knees should have blistered him; it was wasted—his gaze was trained on the wounded man's face. Inwardly humphing, Honoria ascribed the salacious comment to ingrained habit.

Folding the petticoat, she combined it with the shirt; he removed his hand, and she applied the thick pad over her earlier insignificant one.

“Leave the sleeves hanging. I'll lift him—then you can reach under and tie them tight.”

Honoria, wondered how even he would cope with the long, heavy weight of their unconscious charge. Amazingly well was the answer; he hefted the body and straightened in one fluid movement. She scrambled to her feet. He held the youth against his chest; with one sleeve in her hand she ducked and felt about for the other. Her searching fingertips brushed warm skin; muscles rippled in response. She pretended not to notice. Locating the wayward sleeve, she pulled it taut, tying the ends in a flat knot.

Her rescuer expelled a long breath through his teeth. For one instant, his strange eyes glittered. “Let's go. You'll have to lead Sulieman.” With his head, he indicated the black monster cropping grass beside the lane.

Honoria stared at the stallion. “Sulieman was a treacherous Turk.”