The Ideal Bride

  Caro blinked, studied his eyes. “And you?” From the tension she sensed rising through him, he wasn’t enjoying the discussion, but was grimly determined to see it to its end.

  “The same holds true. I need…you, and a family, to anchor me—to give me a base, a foundation—a sense of personal purpose. I want you as my wife—I want to have children with you, to make a home with you, found a family with you. That’s what I need—and I know it.” His jaw tensed, but he went on, “If passing up this chance at the Foreign Office is the price I have to pay to have you as my wife, I’ll pay gladly. The post doesn’t matter as much to me as you do.”

  She searched his eyes; no matter how hard she looked she could see nothing but brutal honesty. “I really mean that much to you?” Not just a surprise, but something beyond her wildest dreams.

  He held her gaze, then quietly said, “My career is at the periphery of my life—you are at its center. Without you, all the rest is meaningless.”

  The admission hung between them, stark and clear.

  She felt compelled to ask, “Your grandfather—your aunt?”

  “Strangely enough, I think they’ll understand. Magnus, at least.”

  She hesitated, but had to ask, “You really want me that much?”

  He clenched his teeth. “I need you that much.” The intensity of the words shook him as much as her.

  “I…”—she searched his blue eyes—“don’t know what to say.”

  He released her. “You don’t have to say anything yet.” Lifting his hands, he framed her face. Let his thumbs cruise the fine skin of her jaw, then brought his gaze to her eyes. “You just have to believe—and you will.”

  He tipped up her face, lowered his head. “However long it takes, I’ll wait until you do.”

  The vow resonated between them, shivered through them.

  He kissed her.

  Whether it was the touch of her hand on the back of his, or that they’d spoken so blatantly of their needs, or whether it was simply him owning to his—to that force that compelled, that beat in his blood, pounded through his veins, surged through his body—whichever or all, they ignited him. Cindered the last of his restraint, left him with undisguised hunger raging through him. A potent, driving, primitive desire to show her beyond doubt, beyond confusion, what she truly meant to him.

  How elementally deep his need for her ran.

  Caro felt the change in him. She was already adrift on an unchartered sea; his words had ripped her from the rock her past had chained her to, and whirled her into the surging waves of the unknown. Onto the flood tide.

  The raging currents sucked her down. Dragged her into some dark inferno where he waited for her, ablaze with hunger, with greedy need.

  Their tongues tangled, but he was the aggressor, openly, dominantly so. He shifted into her, steering, then pressing her against the wall beyond the window; his hands released her jaw, one reaching further to slide through her hair until his strong fingers wrapped about her nape, holding her steady so he could plunder. So he could feast on the softness of her mouth, so he could brand her with the heat that seemed to pour from him. Then his other hand found her breast, and the flames leapt.

  She pushed her hands up, gripped his shoulders as her world, her senses, spun, as his hand closed possessively, as he kneaded and she ached, and want and need spilled like an elixir down her veins.

  His or hers, she wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell.

  Then his fingers found her nipple and she moaned. He plunged deep into her mouth, tightened his fingers—her lungs seized. She sank her fingertips into his shoulders, came up on her toes to meet him, to urge him on.

  The resulting duel sent heat and fire raging through them both, hungry, ravenous, surging and building. Her skin burned; his was even hotter, stretched over tensed muscles, scalding, branding her wherever he touched. Her peignoir and negligee were no protection; pressing her to the wall, his hands roved, searched, flagrantly explored, possessed.

  Abruptly his hard hands rose to her shoulders; he stripped off her peignoir—discarded, it drifted to the floor. Her gauzy negligee was designed to be an erotic temptation; when he bent his head and through the fine material licked and laved her nipple, then closed his mouth over it and suckled fiercely until she cried out, she was no longer sure who was tempter, who the target.

  He used the material, shifting it over her excruciatingly tight nipples, sliding it over her heated skin, veiling his caresses, sensually distracting, disconcerting. Then he pressed closer, one hard thigh parting hers, forcing hers wide enough so hard muscle rode against her mons. He pressed, rocked, aroused her until she was gasping through their kiss, clinging to his shoulders, reaching to twine her fingers in his hair.

  To anchor her against the fire and the yearning, the achingly empty sensation growing inside her, the welling, burgeoning, all-consuming need.

  One hand at her hip, anchoring her against the wall, he eased back, pressed a hand between their bodies, reached down. Found her curls through the distracting gauze and stroked, then reached further. Through the shifting gossamer silk he caressed her, traced her swollen folds, parted them, probed, pressed a finger, encased in gauze, into her, deeper, then deeper still, pulling the material tight over her mons.

  He stroked, pressing in, easing back, each successive movement shifting the filmy material over the sensitive bud hidden between her folds. Over and over. Breaking from the kiss, he leaned into her, holding her against the wall while he pleasured her. His head was beside hers; she felt his gaze on her face. Could barely think through the haze of escalating sensations.

  She cracked open her lids, found his eyes waiting to trap hers. She moistened her lips. Managed to find breath to say, “Take me to the bed.”

  “No.” His voice was dark, deep. “Not yet.”

  There was something in his tone, something in his face that was harder, clearer, more defined. She studied it, understood more by instinct than reason, shuddered and closed her eyes.

  Felt her senses close in, felt them start the now familiar giddy climb.

  “Michael…” She pushed back on his shoulders; he moved not an inch.

  Ruthlessly pushed her on.

  “Here. Now. Let go.”

  She had to. He gave her no choice, stroking again and again deep inside her until the glory took her and she broke apart.

  Sagging against the wall, she felt his hand leave her—expected him to step back, sweep her up in his arms, and carry her to the bed.

  Instead, she felt him pull up her gauzy skirts, gathering the fabric above her hips; the night air, warm and redolent with the scent of night stock, caressed her flushed and heated skin.

  He shifted, and his silk robe gaped open; wrapping his hands about her thighs, he lifted her.

  Braced her against the wall, and pushed into her.

  She gasped, raised her head as he pressed deeper, as her slick and still-throbbing flesh surrendered, stretched and took him in. She felt every inch of his penetration as he impaled her, thrust powerfully up and filled her.

  Without instruction, she wrapped her legs about his waist, desperate to gain some solid hold in a world that was suddenly whirling.

  Then he moved and the flames flared again. Within seconds he’d driven her deep into the conflagration.

  She sobbed, wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clung, held tight as he sent her rocketing into that fiery sea, with each powerful thrust sent the twin currents of passion and desire raging ever more hotly through her.

  Until she burned.

  Until she felt sure even her fingertips were pulsing with flame.

  Then he slowed. Continued moving heavily, powerfully surging within her, but not hard enough, not fast enough.

  His head, until then alongside hers, lifted; he drew back enough to look into her eyes. With an effort she opened them, knowing he would wait….

  He caught her gaze. Moved once, twice, within her. Leaned closer. Their breaths mingled, their breathing
ragged and harsh. His gaze dropped to her lips, then his lashes lifted and their eyes locked again.

  “I will never, ever, turn from you.” The words were guttural, low, resonant with the weight of a vow. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not in fifty years.” He continued to move within her, his thrusts punctuating his words. “Don’t ask it of me. Don’t expect it to happen, don’t imagine it ever will. It won’t. I won’t.”

  His gaze fell; her lips throbbed.

  He covered them.

  And the firestorm took them. Melded them. Fused them.

  Yet when, driven far beyond the world, she shattered, fractured by the pulsing glory, he didn’t follow. He hung back, anchoring her, driving rhythmically into her—drawing her back.

  When she finally drew in a shuddering breath and lifted her head, bracing her arms, straightening her spine, opening her eyes to look at him in disoriented puzzlement, Michael clamped a desperate hold on his raging passions, felt her contract about him, confirming he’d yet to seek his release.

  Before she could speak, he withdrew from her, slowly lowered her. “First act.” His voice was so gravelly he wondered if she would even make out the words. He waited while she unwound her legs, then swept her up into his arms. Carrying her to the bed, he caught her gaze. “Tonight, I want more.”

  Much more.

  Her widening eyes suggested his meaning—primitive, basic, less than civilized—had reached her. He didn’t feel anything like his smoothly sophisticated self as he tumbled her onto the bed. As he followed her and swiftly arranged her as he wished, bent over her knees before him.

  His facade, his mask, had long gone as he pushed her nightgown up to her waist, as he ran his hands over the dewed globes of her bottom, then opened her and eased his throbbing staff into the hot haven between her thighs.

  He heard her sob, catch her breath, felt her silent gasp as she instinctively tightened, then surrendered and let him in. He pushed further; her sheath stretched, easing in welcome, then clasped about him, a scalding lover’s caress. Closing his hands about her hips, anchoring her before him, he adjusted her position as he worked deep and filled her.

  Then he rode her.

  As he had told her, demanding more, wanting more, needing more. And she gave without reservation. Her already sensitized nerves leapt to every explicit caress; her nightgown simply added another layer of sensual taunting.

  Her hips rocked as he rhythmically thrust, angling to penetrate as deeply as he could—and she met him. Sensuously shifted, wanton in her passion, riding each movement, taking him in, pressing her bottom into his groin as he joined with her.

  He heard her pants, heard the soft moans she struggled to suppress, then surrendered and let free. The sound of female abandonment added yet more impetus to the primal passion driving him. He could no longer think. Didn’t need to. Instinct had claimed him, decisive, urgent, and commanding.

  Reaching forward, he filled his hands with her breasts, ripe and sumptuous, the nipples hard pebbles he rubbed and taunted, then squeezed. She cried out, lifted, and felt his hand on her back holding her down, only then realized her inherent helplessness.

  With a gasp understood, then gave herself over to it.

  Let go as he’d asked, gave herself up to the turbulent tide, let it and him sweep her where they would. Let him take all he wished of her—give all he wished to her. Show her all.

  He employed no restraint, no finesse, simply dropped all pretense and let her feel what she was to him, feel the primitive urges that whipped through him, that she and only she evoked.

  Let her sense through him, through the power that drove him, all she meant to him, all she called forth in him. All that she controlled in him.

  Whether she recognized that last or not, he didn’t care. His need for her transcended any logic, any consideration of self-protection. There was no longer any existence for him but with her.

  The driving, pumping rhythm had escalated beyond his control or hers. Desire roared; passion lashed out and caught them in its fiery embrace.

  And they burned.

  When she fell from the peak, she took him with her—this time, he went willingly. Surrendering to the glory. Surrendering to her.

  Surrendering to the power that bound them, now and forever.

  He stirred her again in the deep watches of the night.

  Caro woke as he shifted behind her. She lay on her side; he must have moved them onto the pillows and dragged the covers over them. The power of their extended joining pulsed, a faint echo in her bones. Hours must have passed, yet she still felt wrapped in the moment, in the passion, the raw hunger, the urgent desire.

  Not just his, but hers.

  Despite the many times they’d come together, enjoyed, indulged, and shared, she hadn’t understood—hadn’t truly comprehended from what source the power that commanded him, that compelled him and drove him, sprang. Yet this last time…even though she hadn’t been able to see his face, she’d felt that power, so strong it had been palpable, surrounding them, holding them, welding them. Until there’d been just them—not him or her, but one entity.

  She felt his hand on her thigh, felt him raise the back of her nightgown, drawing the material to her waist. He caressed her bottom; she reacted instantly, her skin dewing, heating. His hand slipped lower, pressed between her thighs, found her. Fondled, probed, then, pushing her upper thigh higher, he opened her, and slid in.

  She’d wondered if he’d known she was awake; he certainly knew as he sank into her to the hilt and she arched, a soft gasp falling from her lips as, head back, eyes closed, she savored that incredible moment.

  He held still, let her enjoy it fully.

  Then, when she eased, very gently, rocked.

  Into her, about her, with her.

  He slid his hand, palm splayed, over her stomach, holding her against him. She spread her hand over the back of his, murmured, caught her breath as he pushed deeper still.

  The familiar heat rose within them, between them, poured through them. The tide rose and she went with it, whirling gently, senses aware, into its sensuous sea.

  No urgency this time, just a long, slow, unhurried loving, one neither was eager to rush.

  For her part, just the feel of him, hard, hot, unforgivingly rigid, drawing out of, then pressing back into, her body was bliss. As the minutes ticked by and the tempo remained severely restrained, she felt certain he knew.

  But the slow pace allowed her mind to function, to drift, to snag on the question. “Why?” She was sure she wouldn’t need to elaborate.

  Propped on one elbow behind her, he leaned close, nuzzled the curve of her throat.

  “Because of this.” His voice was low, deep, a male promise in the dark of the night. “Because of all the women I could have, I want you—like this.”

  He slowed, let her feel again how much he wanted her, let their loins come together as he sank deep. “Like this. Lying naked beside me in my bed, mine whenever I wish.” His voice deepened, darkened. “Mine to have, to fill with my seed. I want you to bear my children. I want you by my side when I grow old. Because at the end of all the explanations, it comes down to this—that you are the only wife I want, and for you, for that, I’ll wait forever.”

  She felt her heart swell, was so glad he couldn’t see her face, see her eyes as tears welled and silently fell.

  Then he picked up their rhythm, the tempo escalated, and there were no more words, but a wordless communion. An age-old melding; he held her tight, his chest to her back as she crested the peak and fell through the stars. He followed immediately, with her—as he wished, as she wished—when they found their distant shore.

  21

  Michael left the house the next morning feeling for the first time in weeks as if he were walking in mental sunshine rather than fog. As if a miasma had blown away and he could finally see clearly.

  Caro was all that truly mattered to him. It wasn’t just sensible but completely justifiable to devote himself wholly, si
ngle-mindedly, to her protection. To set aside all other concerns and concentrate solely on that, for she was the key to his future.

  He’d left her still sleeping, sated and warm in her bed, safe in his grandfather’s house. He headed for the clubs and scouted through his contacts; none had anything to report. After lunching at Brooks with Jamieson, who was still puzzled and uneasy over the break-in, not so much over it happening but because he couldn’t see why, Michael headed for Grosvenor Square, confident there was no piece of accessible information he’d overlooked.

  Devil had summoned him to a meeting at three o’clock; Gabriel had turned up something odd among the legatees that Lucifer agreed needed to be investigated. The meeting was opportune; Michael could report his findings, or lack thereof, and Devil would have news of Ferdinand and his doings.

  Devil’s butler, Webster, was waiting to admit him; Michael surmised Honoria had not been informed a meeting was taking place. His brother-in-law had deeply entrenched prejudices against involving his wife in any potentially dangerous game. He now shared—fully—those same prejudices, and other similar reactions and emotions to which he’d never thought to fall prey. Thinking of Caro and all she made him feel, he wondered that he’d been so self-blind.

  Devil and Lucifer were waiting in the study; Gabriel arrived as he sat in one of the four armchairs facing each other across the empty hearth. As Gabriel sank into the last, Michael glanced around at the faces; he’d grown close to all the Cynsters. Since Honoria’s marriage they’d treated him as one of them; he’d come to regard them in the same light. Helping each other was an unwritten Cynster code; it didn’t seem odd, even to him, that they’d put aside other things and devoted time and effort to aiding him.

  Gabriel looked at him. “Let’s hear your news first.”

  Michael grimaced; it didn’t take long to summarize nothing.

  “Leponte has been lying low,” Devil said. “Sligo’s certain he hired someone to watch the Foreign Office buildings, but he’s been careful to work through intermediaries. However, for the night in question, we can’t place Leponte anywhere. He might have remained within the emabassy all night—then again, he might not.”