Devil's Bride, Page 3

  She counted seven rolls of thunder before he returned. As the door closed behind him, the tension gripping her eased. Then she noticed he was dripping wet. “Here.” She held out the largest of the cloths she’d found and reached for the kettle. She busied herself by the fire, setting the kettle to boil, quite sure she didn’t need to watch him drying that remarkable chest. The kettle hissed; she reached for the bowl she’d set ready.

  He was waiting by the bed; she considered ordering him to dry himself by the fire, then decided to save her breath. His gaze was fixed on the youth’s face.

  Setting the bowl on the chest by the bed, she squeezed out a cloth, then gently sponged the youth’s face, removing the grit and dust of the lane. Cleanliness emphasized his innocence, and highlighted the obscenity of his death. Pressing her lips together, Honoria bent to her task. Until she came to the badly stained shirt.

  “Let me.”

  She shifted back. Two well-judged rips, and the left side of the shirt was free.

  “Give me a cloth.”

  She squeezed one out and handed it over. They worked side by side in the flickering light; she was amazed by how gentle such large hands could be, was moved by how reverently one so powerfully alive dealt with the dying.

  Then they were done. Settling another blanket over their silent charge, she gathered the soiled cloths and loaded them into the bowl. He preceeded her to the fire; she set the bowl on the table and straightened her back.

  “Devil?”

  The call was so faint she only just heard it. Honoria whirled and flew back to the bed. The youth’s lids fluttered. “Devil. Need . . . Devil.”

  “It’s all right,” she murmured, laying her hand on his brow. “There’s no devil here—we won’t let him get you.”

  The youth frowned; he shook his head against her hand. “No! Need to see . . .”

  Hard hands closed about Honoria’s shoulders; she gasped as she was lifted bodily aside. Freed of her touch, the youth opened glazed eyes and struggled to rise.

  “Lie back, Tolly. I’m here.”

  Honoria stared as her rescuer took her place, pressing the youth back to the bed. His voice, his touch, calmed the dying man—he lay back, visibly relaxing, focusing on the older man’s face. “Good,” he breathed, his voice thin. “Found you.” A weak smile flickered across his pale face. Then he sobered. “Have to tell you—”

  His urgent words were cut off by a cough, which turned into a debilitating paroxym. Her rescuer braced the youth between his hands, as if willing strength into the wilting frame. As the coughing subsided, Honoria grabbed up a clean cloth and offered it. Laying the youth down, her rescuer wiped the blood from the boy’s lips. “Tolly?”

  No answer came—their charge was unconscious again.

  “You’re related.” Honoria made it a statement; the revelation had come the instant the youth opened his eyes. The resemblance lay not only in the wide forehead but in the arch of the brows and the set of the eyes.

  “Cousins.” Animation leached from her rescuer’s harsh face. “First cousins. He’s one of the younger crew—barely twenty.”

  His tone made Honoria wonder how old he was—in his thirties certainly, but from his face it was impossible to judge. His demeanor conveyed the impression of wordly wisdom, wisdom earned, as if experience had tempered his steel.

  As she watched, he put out one hand and gently brushed back a lock of hair from his cousin’s pallid face.

  The low moan of the wind turned into a dirge.

  Chapter 3

  She was stranded in a cottage with a dying man and a man known to his intimates as Devil. Ensconced in the wing chair by the fire, Honoria sipped tea from a mug and considered her position. It was now night; the storm showed no sign of abating. She could not leave the cottage, even had that been her most ardent desire.

  Glancing at her rescuer, still seated on the pallet, she grimaced; she did not wish to leave. She’d yet to learn his name, but he’d commanded her respect, and her sympathy.

  Half an hour had passed since the youth had spoken; Devil—she had no other name for him—had not left his dying cousin’s side. His face remained impassive, showing no hint of emotion, yet emotion was there, behind the facade, shadowing the green of his eyes. Honoria knew of the shock and grief occasioned by sudden death, knew of the silent waiting and the vigils for the dead. Returning her gaze to the flames, she slowly sipped her tea.

  Sometime later, she heard the bed creak; soft footfalls slowly neared. She sensed rather than saw him ease into the huge carved chair, smelled the dust that rose from the faded tapestry as he settled. The kettle softly hissed. Shifting forward, she poured boiling water into the mug she’d left ready; when the steam subsided, she picked up the mug and held it out.

  He took it, long fingers brushing hers briefly, green eyes lifting to touch her face. “Thank you.”

  He sipped in silence, eyes on the flames; Honoria did the same.

  Minutes ticked by, then he straightened his long legs, crossing his booted ankles. Honoria felt his gaze on her face.

  “What brings you to Somersham, Miss . . . ?”

  It was the opening she’d been waiting for. “Wetherby,” she supplied.

  Instead of responding with his name—Mr. Something, Lord Someone—he narrowed his eyes. “Your full name?”

  Honoria held back a frown. “Honoria Prudence Weth-erby,” she recited, somewhat tartly.

  One black brow rose; the disturbing green gaze did not waver. “Not Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby?”

  Honoria stared. “How did you know?”

  His lips quirked. “I’m acquainted with your grandfather.”

  A disbelieving look was her reply. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I look like him?”

  A short laugh, soft and deep, feathered across her senses. “Now you mention it, I believe there is a faint resemblance—about the chin, perhaps?”

  Honoria glared.

  “Now that,” her tormentor remarked, “is very like old Magnus.”

  She frowned. “What is?”

  He took a slow sip, his eyes holding hers. “Magnus An-struther-Wetherby is an irascible old gentleman, atrociously high in the instep and as stubborn as bedamned.”

  “You know him well?”

  “Only to nod to—my father knew him better.”

  Uncertain, Honoria watched him sip; her full name was no state secret—she simply didn’t care to use it, to claim relationship with that irascible, stubborn old gentleman in London.

  “There was a second son, wasn’t there?” Her rescuer studied her musingly. “He defied Magnus over . . . I remember—he married against Magnus’s wishes. One of the Mont-gomery girls. You’re their daughter?”

  Stiffly, Honoria inclined her head.

  Wetherby. What the deuce are you doing here, gracing our quiet backwater?”

  Honoria hesitated; there was a restlessness in the long limbs, a ripple of awareness—not of her, but of the body on the pallet behind them—that suggested conversation was his need. She lifted her chin. “I’m a finishing governess.”

  “A finishing governess?”

  She nodded. “I prepare girls for their come-out—I only remain with the families for the year before.”

  He eyed her with fascinated incredulity. “What in all the heavens does old Magnus think of that?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve never sought his opinion.”

  He laughed briefly—that same throaty, sensuous sound; Honoria suppressed an urge to wriggle her shoulders. Then he sobered. “What happened to your family?”

  Inwardly, Honoria shrugged. It couldn’t hurt to tell her tale, and if it distracted him, well and good. “My parents died in an accident when I was sixteen. My brother was nineteen. We lived in Hampshire, but after the accident, I went to stay with my mother’s sister in Leicestershire.”

  He frowned. “I’m surprised Magnus didn’t intervene.”

  “Michael informed him of the deaths, but he
didn’t come down for the funeral.” Honoria shrugged. “We hadn’t expected him. After the falling-out between him and Papa, there’d been no contact.” Her lips lifted fleetingly. “Papa swore he’d never ask for quarter.”

  “Stubbornness is clearly a family trait.” Honoria ignored the comment.

  “After a year in Leicester-shire, I decided to try my hand at governessing.” She looked up, into far-too-perceptive green eyes.

  “Your aunt wasn’t exactly welcoming?”

  Honoria sighed. “No—she was very welcoming. She married beneath her—not the mild mesalliance the Anstruther-Wetherbys got so heated over but truly out of her class.” She paused, seeing again the rambling house filled with dogs and children. “But she was happy and her household was welcoming but . . .” She grimaced and glanced at the dark face watching her. “Not for me.”

  “Fish out of water?”

  “Precisely. Once I came out of mourning, I considered my options. Funds, of course, were never a problem. Michael wanted me to buy a small house in some safe country village and live quietly but . . .”

  “Again, not for you?”

  Honoria tilted her chin. “I couldn’t conceive of a life so tame. I think it unfair that women are forced to such mild existences and only gentlemen get to lead exciting lives.”

  Both black brows rose. “Personally, I’ve always found it pays to share the excitement.”

  Honoria opened her mouth to approve—then caught his eye. She blinked and looked again, but the salacious glint had disappeared. “In my case, I decided to take control of my life and work toward a more exciting existence.”

  “As a governess?” His steady green gaze remained ingenuously interested.

  “No. That’s only an intermediary stage. I decided eighteen was too young to go adventuring in Africa. I’ve decided to follow in Lady Stanhope’s footsteps.”

  “Good God!”

  Honoria ignored his tone. “I have it all planned—my burning ambition is to ride a camel in the shadow of the Great Sphinx. One would be ill-advised to undertake such an expedition too young; governessing in a manner that requires spending only a year with each family seemed the ideal way to fill in the years. As I need provide nothing beyond my clothes, my capital grows while I visit various counties, staying in select households. That last, of course, eases Michael’s mind.”

  “Ah, yes—your brother. What’s he doing while you fill in your years?”

  Honoria eyed her inquisitor measuringly. “Michael is secretary to Lord Carlisle. Do you know him?”

  “Carlisle? Yes. His secretary, no. I take it your brother has political ambitions?”

  “Lord Carlisle was a friend of Papa’s—he’s agreed to stand as Michael’s sponsor.”

  His brows rose fleetingly, then he drained his mug. “What made you decide on governessing as your temporary occupation?”

  Honoria shrugged. “What else was there? I’d been well educated, prepared for presentation. Papa was adamant that I be presented to the ton, puffed off with all the trimmings—paraded beneath my grandfather’s nose. He hoped I’d make a wonderful match, just to show Grandfather no one else shared his antiquated notions.”

  “But your parents were killed before you were brought out?”

  Honoria nodded. “Lady Harwell, an old friend of Mama’s, had a daughter two years younger than I. After putting off black gloves, I broached my idea to her—I thought with my background, my preparation, I could teach other girls how to go on. Lady Harwell agreed to a trial. After I finished coaching Miranda, she landed an earl. After that, of course, I never wanted for positions.”

  “The matchmaking mama’s delight.” An undercurrent of cynicism had crept into the deep voice. “And who are you coaching around Somersham?”

  The question returned Honoria to reality with a thump. “Melissa Claypole.”

  Her rescuer frowned. “Is she the dark one or the fair one?”

  “The fair one.” Propping her chin in her hand, Honoria gazed into the flames. “An insipid miss with no conversation—God knows how I’m supposed to render her attractive. I was booked to go to Lady Oxley but her six-year old caught chicken pox, and then old Lady Oxley died. I’d declined all my other offers by then, but the Claypoles’ letter arrived late, and I hadn’t yet replied. So I accepted without doing my usual checks.”

  “Checks?”

  “I don’t work for just anyone.” Stifling a yawn, Honoria settled more comfortably. “I make sure the family is good ton, well connected enough to get the right invitations and sufficiently beforehand not to make a fuss over the milliner’s bills.”

  “Not to mention those from the modistes.”

  “Precisely. Well”—she gestured briefly—“no girl is going to snare a duke if she dresses like a dowd.”

  “Indubitably. Am I to understand the Claypoles fail to meet your stringent requirements?”

  Honoria frowned. “I’ve only been with them since Sun-day, but I’ve a nasty suspicion . . .” She let her words trail away, then shrugged. “Luckily, it appears Melissa is all but spoken for—by a duke, no less.”

  A pause followed, then her rescuer prompted: “A duke?”

  “So it seems. If you live about here you must know of him—sober, reserved, rather reclusive, I think. Already tangled in Lady Claypole’s web, if her ladyship speaks true.” Recollecting her burning question, Honoria twisted around. “Do you know him?”

  Clear green eyes blinked back at her; slowly, her rescuer shook his head. “I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Humph!” Honoria sank back in her chair. “I’m beginning to think he’s a hermit. Are you sure—”

  But he was no longer listening to her. Then she heard what had caught his attention—the rattly breathing of the wounded youth. The next instant, he was striding back to the bed. He sat on the edge, taking one of the youth’s hands in his. From the chair, Honoria listened as the youth’s breathing grew more ragged, more rasping.

  Fifteen painful minutes later, the dry rattle ceased.

  An unearthly silence filled the cottage; even the storm was still. Honoria closed her eyes and silently uttered a prayer. Then the wind rose, mournfully keening, nature’s chant for the dead.

  Opening her eyes, Honoria watched as Devil laid his cousin’s hands across his chest. Then he sat on the pallet’s edge, eyes fixed on the pale features that would not move again. He was seeing his cousin alive and well, laughing, talking. Honoria knew how the mind dealt with death. Her heart twisted, but there was nothing she could do. Sinking back in the chair, she left him to his memories.

  She must have dozed off. When next she opened her eyes, he was crouched before the hearth. The candle had guttered; the only light in the room was that thrown by the flames. Half-asleep, she watched as he laid logs on the blaze, banking it for the night.

  During their earlier conversation, she’d kept her eyes on his face or the flames; now, with the firelight sculpting his arms and shoulders, she looked her fill. Something about all that tanned male skin had her battling a fierce urge to press her fingers to it, to spread her hands across the warm expanse, to curve her palms about hard muscle.

  Arms crossed, hands safely clutching her elbows, she shivered.

  In one fluid motion he rose and turned. And frowned. “Here.” Reaching past her, he lifted his soft jacket from the table and held it out.

  Honoria stared at it, valiantly denying the almost overwhelming urge to focus, not on the jacket, but on the chest a yard behind it. She swallowed, shook her head, then dragged her gaze straight up to his face. “No—you keep it. It was just that I woke up—I’m not really cold.” That last was true enough; the fire was throwing steady heat into the room.

  One black brow very slowly rose; the pale green eyes did not leave her face. Then the second brow joined the first, and he shrugged. “As you wish.” He resumed his seat in the old carved chair, glancing about the cottage, his gaze lingering on the blanket-shrouded figure on the bed.
Then, settling back, he looked at her. “I suggest we get what sleep we can. The storm should have passed by morning.” Honoria nodded, immensely relieved when he spread his jacket over his disturbing chest. He laid his head against the chairback, and closed his eyes. His lashes formed black crescents above his high cheekbones; light flickered over the austere planes of his face. A strong face, hard yet not insensitive. The sensuous line of his lips belied his rugged jaw; the fluid arch of his brows offset his wide forehead. Wild locks of midnight black framed the whole—Honoria smiled and closed her eyes. He should have been a pirate.

  With sleep clouding her mind, her body soothed by the fire’s warmth, it wasn’t hard to drift back into her dreams.

  Sylvester Sebastian Cynster, sixth Duke of St. Ives, known as That Devil Cynster to a select handful of retainers, as Devil Cynster to the ton at large and simply as Devil to his closest friends, watched his wife-to-be from beneath his long lashes. What, he wondered, would his mother, the Dowager Duchess, make of Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby?

  The thought almost made him smile, but the dark pall that hung over his mind wouldn’t let his lips curve. For Tolly’s death there was only one answer; justice would be served, but vengeance would wield the sword. Nothing else would appease him or the other males of his clan. Despite their reckless propensities, Cynsters died in their beds.

  But avenging Tolly’s death would merely be laying the past to rest. Today he had rounded the next bend in his own road; his companion for the next stretch shifted restlessly in the old wing chair opposite.

  Devil watched her settle, and wondered what was disturbing her dreams. Him, he hoped. She was certainly disturbing him—and he was wide-awake.

  He hadn’t realized when he’d left the Place that morning that he was searching for a wife; fate had known better. It had placed Honoria Prudence in his path in a manner that ensured he couldn’t pass her by. The restless dissatisfaction that had gripped him of late seemed all of a piece, part of fate’s scheme. Jaded by the importunities of his latest conquest, he’d come to the Place, sending word to Vane to meet him for a few days’ shooting. Vane had been due to join him that evening; with a whole day to kill, he’d thrown a saddle on Sulieman and ridden out to his fields.