Untamed Bride

  “What did Wolverstone say?” Del asked.

  Demon grinned wolfishly. “Short and sweet. By all means proceed, then we’re to come on to Elveden with whatever prey we manage to trap. He’ll be waiting.”

  Del felt satisfied expectation bloom in his chest. A familiar feeling, one he’d often experienced on learning he’d see action soon. “Any word on the other three couriers?”

  “Yes, and no,” Demon replied. “You’ll be the first to reach Elveden, but another of your comrades, Hamilton, has landed in England. He’s in Surrey at a safe house there.”

  “Probably Trentham’s estate,” Gervase said.

  Demon nodded, swallowed. “That was the name.” He looked at Del. “Now that Royce knows you’re about to land on his doorstep, he’s sent word to Hamilton and his escort to come on. According to Trentham, Hamilton has a Miss Ensworth with him.”

  Del choked, coughed, then managed to wheeze, “The governor’s niece? How the deuce did she come to be with Hamilton?”

  Demon shrugged. “Royce doesn’t know the details. Sounds an interesting tale. Apparently she’s been with him since Aden. He came up through Alexandria, then Marseille to Boulogne, where apparently they ran into quite a bit of action, but eventually they got to Dover, where two of your crew”—Demon nodded to Gervase and Tony—“nabbed them and whisked them into hiding.”

  “Hamilton’s a good man,” Del said. “Any word of the other two?”

  “Not that Royce mentioned,” Demon replied. “I took it to mean he hasn’t yet heard.”

  After dinner, the men gathered in the billiard room.

  Devil looked up as Vane, the last to join them, came in and closed the door. “How are we situated?”

  Vane gave him a wry grin. “We’re safe enough for the moment. They’ve got their heads together, doubtless planning an early morning jaunt.”

  Del had been wondering if Deliah might attempt such a thing. Now he looked his horror. “Not all of them?”

  Devil just looked at him as all the others with wives nodded. “Every last one, which brings us to what we need to plan now. How to stop them.”

  “We only need to delay them for a few hours,” Richard pointed out. “Long enough to make sure they can’t reach the cathedral in time.”

  “We could lock them in their rooms,” Demon suggested.

  “Alathea can pick locks,” Gabriel said.

  “So can Francesca, I think,” Gyles put in. “Whatever we do has to hobble all of them, and effectively, or those who get loose will release the rest.”

  “What about blocking their access to transport—in this case, horses?” Lucifer suggested. “Order the stable staff to sleep in. The ladies can’t follow us if they can’t get beasts saddled or horses put to.”

  Demon humphed. “Flick can saddle anything with four feet. And she’s perfectly capable of organizing the others to put horses to gigs.”

  “Catriona can, too,” Richard said. “Forget that tack.”

  They all thought. Hard. Some of their suggestions were wildly fanciful. By and large, all were impractical.

  Devil drummed his fingers on the billiard table. “We only need to stop them from following us and arriving early morning, before or during the action. It would be useful, in fact, if they arrived at Ely after the excitement, say by ten or so. That way we could go on to Elveden all together—an inclusion to salvage some hope of our continuing felicitous matrimonial existence.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Vane admitted, “That’s a serious consideration. No need to court unnecessary retribution by excluding them from sharing whatever triumph we reap.”

  “What we need,” Gyles stated, his gaze locking with Devil’s, “is to stop them from leaving their beds before dawn.”

  Lucifer waggled his brows. “Surely we can manage that.”

  Gabriel snorted. “Sadly, determination can overcome a great deal. We can’t rely on exhaustion to accomplish what we need. We have to have something more certain.”

  “Indeed.” Devil’s tone was decisive. “And as we’ve just demonstrated, when it comes down to it, there really is only one way.”

  Fourteen

  December 18

  Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire

  Later that evening, Del made his way to Deliah’s bedchamber, Devil’s strategy for dealing with the pending problem posed by the ladies wishing to join them circling in his brain.

  It was, by any measure, an outrageous proposition, yet it would work, and he couldn’t think of anything else that might.

  Every male linked with one of the aforesaid ladies had sworn to do their part. Only Tony and Gervase were excused. Yet while all the others—being married to their respective ladies—were in a sound position to weather the resultant and inevitable storm, he stood on significantly less firm footing.

  Unless he took steps to shore up his position before he put Devil’s plan into action, he would risk losing all. Losing her. That was not something he wished to contemplate. It was certainly not a situation he would accept.

  Ergo, it was now imperative that he take the necessary steps—to offer for her and secure her, and through that gain the right to protect her at all costs. Once she’d agreed to be his, she couldn’t argue with him doing everything—and anything—necessary to protect her.

  She might try, but then it would be she standing on shaky ground.

  Reaching her door, he paused, conscious at some deeper, rarely stirred level that, aside from all else, it was somehow now fundamentally important for him to know she was unquestionably his—declared to be his—and that she was safe. He needed her to somehow balance him; she was now essential to the framework of the life he wanted to live.

  She was crucial to his future, and not having her agreement to be that critical and necessary part of it wasn’t a situation he could any longer accept.

  Before he went out to face the Black Cobra, he needed to know she would be there—his—when he got back.

  Determination hardening to resolution, he reached for the knob and opened the door.

  Firelight flickered inside. A single candle was burning on the table by the bed. Beyond its glow, the rest of the room lay in deep shadow.

  Deliah was waiting, already in her nightgown with a warm shawl draped about her shoulders to defeat the winter chill. Arms folded, she’d been standing before the hearth gazing at the fire. She turned as he entered, and smiled.

  That smile embodied everything he wanted, not just for tonight but for every night for the rest of his life.

  He returned it as he crossed to halt before her. He looked into her eyes as he drew her into his arms.

  She held his gaze. Searched it.

  Read something in his eyes—saw something of his resolution, his purpose. Head tilting, she parted her lips—

  He bent his head and kissed her. Gathered her closer as, after an instant’s surprise, she responded. Ardent as always, instantly willing to follow his lead, to waltz into the fire and the flames with him.

  To let mutual passions flare and burn.

  The last thing he needed was for her to ask questions—not yet, not now. So he kissed her to distract her.

  Then he realized, and kissed her to persuade.

  To convince.

  To woo.

  She was supple and giving in his arms, all feminine curves and lush challenge. Raising her arms, she wound them about his neck and kissed him back, enticing and provoking. His arms locked as she pressed against him, into him, and his world narrowed and condensed.

  To just this. To her, and all he’d found in her arms.

  To her, and all he felt for her.

  Sunk in her mouth, his tongue dueling with hers, he seized the moment, used it to show her.

  What she meant to him.

  How much he needed her, wanted her, desired her.

  Deliah read his message with ease, but when he lingered, holding her in the kiss, letting the exchange stretch until her wits and senses spun, some
part of her wondered.

  Some tiny rational part of her mind looked, and saw. Sensed and felt with every heartbeat something deeper. Some element she hadn’t seen, or hadn’t noticed, hadn’t felt before. It didn’t feel new, just…more.

  Even as she sensed it, and wondered, he pressed deeper, tasting her, inciting her to taste him, to drown in the flavors she now knew so well—him, all heady masculinity and passion, strength, desire, and the promise of possession.

  All there, all familiar, yet there was a deeper thread running beneath all. A powerful current that fed all the rest, that gave the rest life.

  For the first time she could touch it.

  Stroke it, know it.

  Welcome it as his hand closed over her breast and, pulling back from the kiss, she gasped.

  Eyes closed, head back, she drew that novel power in with every racing beat of her heart as his hands, hard, possessive, sculpted her curves. Arousing, yet not driving.

  This was lovemaking with a different slant. With something else in the mix. Something he was letting rise up and fill him, and pour into her.

  It was glory of a different degree. It took desire and passion, hunger and need, and gilded them. Made them shimmer with meaning, with purpose.

  She drank it in, focused on each and every caress. Every explicit act of claiming. Reveled in the heat, the deeper warmth that suffused every inch of skin, and sank to her bones.

  Raising her heavy lids, from beneath her lashes she studied his face. His features were set, harshly passion-etched, his lips a firm, unyielding line, yet his eyes as he surveyed the bounty of her breast, filling one of his hands, held an expression of…reverence.

  Possession, too, but there was a deeper joy, a deeper appreciation beneath.

  Before she could concentrate and identify the impression, he saw her watching him. He bent his head and took her lips again.

  Again swept her away on the familiar tide…but slowly.

  As if their heartbeats were counting the bars, marking time.

  He waltzed her to the bed, but before he could tug away her shawl, she stopped him with a hand on his chest. He paused, but didn’t break the kiss.

  She seized the moment, and slowly—still keeping to that deeper, slower, compulsive beat—pushed his coat off his shoulders. Unwound his cravat and let it fall from her fingers, unbuttoned his waistcoat and pushed it away. Spread her hands over the fine linen of his shirt, traced, unlaced, then pulled the tails from his waistband, slid her hands beneath to find his heated skin, and stroked, caressed.

  Del broke from the kiss, and drew the shirt off over his head. Watched as her eyes fastened on his chest, watched them gleam, watched her lips curve with feminine greed and blatant anticipation.

  She touched him. Spread her small hands and possessed.

  He let her, captive to some compulsion he didn’t fully understand, yet he was the one who had let it free. His pulse drummed in a slow cadence—powerful, controlled, all passion and driving need held subservient to that greater force.

  Together, they dispensed with his trousers, his stockings, his shoes, until he stood naked before her.

  He reached for her, needing the promise of her body against his. She came, but with one hand on his chest, stayed him from locking her against him. Looking down, she closed her other hand about his jutting staff.

  Caressed, possessed.

  Deliah traced his heavy erection, took it in her palm and stroked down, up, then she ran her fingertips around the bulbous head.

  And he shuddered.

  She glanced up, and their eyes met. Gaze to gaze in the candlelit gloom, the dark pools of his eyes drew her in. Held her. Even as she cradled him. Then she felt him tug at her shawl; this time she let it go. Let him divest her of shawl and nightgown, let him pull back the covers, lift her and lay her down, and join her.

  He drew the covers over them, creating a cocoon of warmth, a cave, a place that, with the firelight flickering over the walls, was safe and theirs. She’d expected him to join with her immediately, but he propped himself on his elbow beside her, leaned over her, captured her mouth once more with his, filled it, her mind and her senses, then set his hands once more to her body.

  Stroked, caressed…worshipped.

  There was no other word to describe what she felt, what she sensed through his touch. He’d never made her feel less than desired. This night he made her feel…

  Loved.

  Cherished.

  Desired not just in a physical sense but on some deeper emotional plane. While one part of her mind scoffed at such thoughts, at such an interpretation of his motives, another part saw, and knew.

  She felt it in her heart, recognized it in every slow beat of his.

  Sensed it in the rise of their pulses as desire thundered anew.

  As passion rose and claimed them, and he lifted over her, spread her thighs with his, and filled her.

  Completed her.

  As she took him in and gloried.

  Del wasn’t holding the reins. He’d given them over, ceded all control, surrendered to the compulsive force that was the reality of what he felt for her.

  That was the reality of why he needed her.

  Giving that reality free rein had been easier than he’d thought—showing her, letting her see. But now it whipped them both, raged through them both, leaving them blind, deaf and consumed, victims to the fire raging in their blood. To the molten heat, to the need to be one, caught in the inexorable drive to consummation.

  Their blood pounded in their veins, and glory beckoned.

  Desire lifted them on a wave of raw, exquisite, mind-numbing sensation.

  Ecstacy sharpened, heightened, brightened, then exploded.

  And they shattered, fragmented.

  She screamed his name as she clung and fell.

  He smothered a roar in the curve of her throat as he followed.

  They spiralled back to earth through the fading brightness, to the comfort of that familiar golden sea, to satiation and completeness.

  And, he suspected—he hoped—to a deeper understanding.

  Never had he felt so utterly wracked with pleasure.

  Never had the act been so deeply fulfilling.

  Never had he felt so vulnerable—as if he’d placed his heart and his soul in her hands.

  Deliah didn’t immediately sink into sated slumber. Sated she was, to her toes, yet…curiosity niggled. What had changed? And, more importantly, why?

  He’d dropped his guard completely, lowered all inner shields, and given her honesty—emotional honesty. With a compelling sincerity he’d shown her what he felt.

  But why? Or rather, why now?

  From the depths of her mind surfaced the thought that tomorrow might well see the end of his mission. If, as she suspected he would, he decided to stay in Cambridgeshire to wait for his friends to reach safety, he might well send her north with an escort.

  Once his mission was over, there would no longer be any further danger to her, no further need to keep her with him.

  Was this—tonight—their last time? The last night they would share?

  A species of dark panic bloomed inside; she felt it grip her throat, black and strangling.

  His fingers touched, traced her forehead, her temple, her cheek.

  She opened her eyes, and fell into his.

  Searched them frantically. Waited, breath bated, for him to tell her their time together was over.

  His gaze remained unwavering, rock-steady and sure.

  “I want you to marry me.”

  She opened her mouth, arguments jostling on her tongue—then his words registered.

  And her world spun.

  She blinked at him. “W-what?”

  He frowned, then tried, not entirely successfully, to banish the expression. “You heard me. You can hardly be surprised…” His frown deepened as he studied her face, her eyes. His jaw firmed. “I want to offer for your hand—whatever the correct form of words is, consider it sa
id.”

  She gaped at him.

  Del gave up trying to lighten his frown. “Why the devil are you so surprised?”

  Surprise, shock—utter astonishment—were writ large in her eyes and invested every line of her face.

  “Ah…” Finally she found her tongue enough to say, “I wasn’t expecting you to propose—that’s all.”

  “All?” He blinked at her. If she hadn’t been expecting…his frown turned to a scowl, and he came up on one elbow so he could glare down at her. “We’ve been sharing a bed for nearly a week. What sort of gentleman do you take me for?”

  “The usual sort.”

  He stiffened, but then she waved as if to erase the words. “No—wait. Let me explain.”

  “Please. Do.” He bit off the words.

  He felt almost insulted when, wriggling up on the pillows the better to meet his glare, she vaguely patted his chest as if to calm him.

  She stared down the bed, unseeing for a moment, then slanted him a glance—one filled with such uncertainty, such vulnerability, that he nearly weakened and gathered her to him to comfort her.

  But he needed to hear what she was going to say. Needed an explanation. Needed her answer to his offer.

  Needed to make sure she accepted.

  “What?” he prompted.

  She bit her lower lip—such an un-Deliahlike action that he nearly broke. “Are you really…I mean, did you really mean…what you just said? That you want me as your wife?”

  There was some problem; he could see it in her eyes. Feeling grimmer by the second, he nodded. “I wouldn’t have uttered the words if I didn’t. Why?”

  She drew in a breath. Held it for a second, then in a rush said, “Are you sure?”

  “Deliah—” He held on to his frustration with an effort. Nodded again. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Oh.”

  When she stared at him, perplexed, he drew patience to him. “Earlier, you said you thought I was the usual sort of gentleman—implying that the usual sort of gentleman wouldn’t want to marry you. Why did you say that?”

  “Because they don’t. Gentlemen—the usual sort—never marry ladies like me. I’ve been told that more times than I can count. And—”