Devils Bride

She hadn't gone to the stable. Eyes adjusting to the glare, Devil watched her pace back and forth, a few steps to the side of the log. Her dun-colored gown had blended with the boles of the trees, momentarily camouflaging her. His panic subsiding, he focused his gaze.

Honoria felt it-she looked up and saw him, bare-chested still, the very image of a buccaneer, watching her, unmoving, irritation in every line. Their gazes locked-a second later, she broke the contact. Nose in the air, she stepped gracefully to her right-and sat primly on the log.

He waited, sharp green gaze steady, then, apparently satisfied that she'd remain where she'd been put, he headed for the stable.

Honoria ground her teeth, and told herself that he didn't matter. He was an expert in manipulation-and in intimidation-but why should that bother her? She would go to this Place of his, wait for her boxes, and then be on her way. She could spend the time meeting the Dowager Duchess.

At least she'd solved one part of the mystery plaguing her-she'd met her elusive duke. The image she'd carried for the past three days-the image Lady Claypole had painted-of a mild, unassuming, reclusive peer, rose in her mind. The image didn't fit the reality-the duke called Devil was not mild or unassuming. He was a first-class tyrant. And as for Lady Claypole's claim that he was caught in her coils, her ladyship was dreaming.

But at least she'd met her duke, even if she had yet to learn his name. She was, however, having increasing difficulty believing that the notion of introducing himself had not, at some point in the past fifteen hours, passed through his mind. Which was a thought to ponder.

Honoria wriggled, ruing the loss of her petticoat. The log was rough and wrinkly; it was making painful indentations in her flesh. She could see the stable entrance; from the shifting shadows, she surmised Devil was saddling his demon horse. Presumably he would ride to the Place and send conveyances for her and his cousin's body.

With the end of her unexpected adventure in sight, she allowed herself a moment's reflection. Somewhat to her surprise, it was filled with thoughts of Devil. He was overbearing, arrogant, domineering-the list went on. And on. But he was also strikingly handsome, could be charming when he wished and, she suspected, possessed a suitably devilish sense of humor. She'd seen enough of the duke to accord him her respect and enough of the man to feel an empathetic tug. Nevertheless, she had no desire to spend overmuch time in the company of a tyrant called Devil. Gentlemen such as he were all very well-as long as they weren't related to you and kept a respectful distance.

She'd reached that firm conclusion when he reappeared, leading Sulieman. The stallion was skittish, the man somber. Honoria stood as he neared.

Stopping in front of her, he halted Sulieman beside him; with the log immediately behind her, Honoria couldn't step back. Before she could execute a sideways sidle, Devil looped the reins about one fist-and reached for her.

By the time she realized his intention, she was perched precariously sidesaddle on Sulieman's back. She gasped, and locked her hands about the pommel. 'What on earth…?'

Unloosing the reins, Devil threw her an impatient frown. 'I'm taking you home.'

Honoria blinked-he had a way with words she wasn't sure she appreciated. 'You're taking me to your home-the Place?'

'Somersham Place.' The reins free, Devil reached for the pommel. With Honoria riding before him, he wasn't intending to use the stirrups.

Honoria's eyes widened. 'Wait!'

The look Devil cast her could only be achieved by an impatient man. 'What?'

'You've forgotten your jacket-it's in the cottage.' Honoria fought to contain her panic, occasioned by the thought of his chest-bare-pressed against her back. Even within a foot of her back. Within a foot of any of her.

'Vane'll bring it.'

'No! Well-whoever heard of a duke riding about the countryside bare-chested? You might catch cold-I mean…' Aghast, Honoria realized she was looking into pale green eyes that saw far more than she'd thought.

Devil held her gaze steadily. 'Get used to it,' he advised. Then he vaulted into the saddle behind her.

Chapter 4

The only benefit Honoria could discover in her position on Sulieman's back was that her tormentor, behind her, could not see her face. Unfortunately, he could see the blush staining not only her cheeks but her neck. He could also feel the rigidity that had gripped her-hardly surprising-the instant he'd landed in the saddle behind her, he'd wrapped a muscled arm about her and pulled her against him.

She'd shut her eyes the instant he'd touched her; panic had cut off her shriek. For the first time in her life she thought she might actually faint. The steely strength surrounding her was overwhelming; by the time she subdued her flaring reactions and could function rationally again, they were turning from the bridle path into the lane.

Glancing about, she looked down-and clutched at the arm about her waist. It tightened.

'Sit still-you won't fall.'

Honoria's eyes widened. She could feel every word he said. She could also feel a pervasive heat emanating from his chest, his arms, his thighs; wherever they touched, her skin burned. 'Ah…' They were retracing the journey she'd taken in the gig; the curve into the straight lay just ahead. 'Is Somersham Place your principal residence?'

'It's home. My mother remains there most of the year.'

There was no duke of Somersham. As they rounded the curve, Honoria decided she had had enough. Her hips, her bottom, were wedged firmly between his rock-hard thighs.

They were exceedingly close, yet she didn't even know his name. 'What is your title?'

'Titles.' The stallion tried to veer to the side of the lane but was ruthlessly held on course. 'Duke of St. Ives, Marquess of Earith, Earl of Strathfield, Viscount Wellsborough, Viscount Moreland…'

The recital continued; Honoria leaned back against his arm so she could see his face. By the time names ceased to fall from his lips, they'd passed the place of yesterday's tragedy and rounded the next bend. He looked down; she narrowed her eyes at him. 'Are you quite finished?'

'Actually, no. That's the litany they drummed into me when I was in shortcoats. There are more recent additions, but I've never learned where they fit.'

He glanced down again-Honoria stared blankly back at him. She'd finally caught the elusive connection.

Cynsters hold St. Ives. That was a line of the rhyme her mother had taught her, listing the oldest families in the ton. And if Cynsters still held St. Ives, that meant… Abruptly, she focused on the chiseled features of the man holding her so easily before him. 'You're Devil Cynster?'

His eyes met hers; when she continued to stare in dumbfounded accusation, one black brow arrogantly rose. 'You want proof?'

Proof? What more proof could she need? One glance into those ageless, omniscient eyes, at that face displaying steely strength perfectly melded with rampant sensuality, was enough to settle all doubts. Abruptly, Honoria faced forward; her mind had reeled before-now it positively whirled.

Cynsters-the ton wouldn't be the same without them. They were a breed apart- wild, hedonistic, unpredictable. In company with her own forebears, they'd crossed the Channel with the Conqueror; while her ancestors sought power through politics and finance, the Cynsters pursued the same aim through more direct means. They were and always had been warriors supreme-strong, courageous, intelligent- men born to lead. Through the centuries, they'd thrown themselves into any likely-looking fray with a reckless passion that made any sane opponent think twice. Consequently, every king since William had seen the wisdom of placating the powerful lords of St. Ives. Luckily, by some strange quirk of nature, Cynsters were as passionate