The Untamed Bride

lift it from her shoulders.

The pale green gown she wore beneath, another of Madame Latour’s creations, fitted Deliah’s lush curves exceedingly well; he’d admired the result throughout the evening. He vaguely recalled paying a pretty penny for the gown, and considered it money well spent.

He laid her pelisse over a chair. Her back to him, she glanced at him over her shoulder, then glided into the room.

“This morning…” She said nothing more, but crossed to the dresser. On its top, he saw the two colorful scarves he’d used to secure her to the bed. She picked them up, slowly ran the silk through her fingers as she turned to, across the dimly lit room, regard him.

She tilted her head. “You tied me up.”

Despite his conviction that all was well, more than well, and settled-definitely settled-between them, his stomach contracted at her distant and chilly tone. But…lips thinning, he nodded. “I had to. If you’d been at the cathedral when the fiend, or even Larkins, was there…”

He inwardly shuddered at the thought even now.

Her brows rose. “I would have distracted you?”

He nodded. “I would have been thinking about you-focusing on you, and not on what I was doing.”

“Hmm…that’s what the others said.”

“The other ladies?”

When she nodded, he eased out a breath, and walked forward, closing the distance to halt just before her.

She studied his face. “They also said you…fussing protectively over me was a measure of how much I mean to you. Were they right in that, too?”

Some part of him squirmed, literally squirmed at the thought that she-and the other ladies-saw through him so easily. But he forced himself to nod, albeit curtly. “Yes.”

She smiled. “In that case, all else they said on that subject is presumably correct, too.” She pulled the scarves taut between her hands.

He suddenly felt exceedingly wary. “What else did they say?”

“Actually, it was Minerva who recommended the…procedure. As you might imagine, we spent some time after dinner discussing what recompense would be most appropriate to demand for your high-handedness in tying us all to our beds. A piece of male arrogance that, as you might expect, we were not, individually or collectively, inclined to let pass unanswered. Unremarked on. Unpaid for.”

He was perfectly sure he didn’t want to know the answer, but had to ask, “What is this procedure?”

“It’s very simple.” Her smile was the epitome of feminine triumph. “It’s along the lines of, ‘What’s sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander.’”

“Ah.” He looked down at the scarves she kept tugging taut between her hands. “I…see.”

“I’m told it works best if you first remove your boots and stockings, coat, waistcoat and cravat.” Stepping back, she gestured with a wave to the bed. “So if you will?”

He eyed the bed, glanced briefly her way, then relucantly shrugged out of his coat. Laying it aside, he set his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, rapidly assessing her tack, her options, the likely outcome.

It wasn’t all bad.

Dispensing with his waistcoat, he caught her eye. “Just promise me one thing-you won’t leave me tied naked to your bed in the morning.”

She laughed, a distinctly sultry sound. “We’ll have to see how well you perform in fulfilling your penance.” She turned to survey the bed, as if measuring him lying upon it. Then she walked toward it. “Just console yourself with the thought that every man who sinned is paying the same price.”

“They are?”

“Well, of course.”

That cast the matter in a completely different light. Del inwardly grinned, wondering what comments he, Devil, and the others would be sharing tomorrow morning.

Tossing his cravat aside, he followed her to the bed, where she was lacing the scarves through the ornate headboard, just as he had that morning.

She straightened and turned as he neared.

He caught her in one arm, bent his head and kissed her soundly.

Lifting his head, he looked into her jade eyes, already hazed with rising passion. “I’ll do anything you ask of me-anything and everything-just as long as, come the morning, you’ll still be mine.”

She looked into his eyes, studied them, then smiled. “Always.” Her smile deepened. She raised a hand, laid her palm to his cheek. “Always and forever.”

A heartbeat passed, then she lightly patted his cheek. “Now get on the bed.”

He did, and gave himself up to her torment.

To giving his all, and accepting hers in return.

The night rolled on as passion roiled about them, as desire surged, then, sated, waned. Only to wax anew, and take them again.

They found new ways to use the scarves, experimented and laughed, then fell silent as desire and joy twined again, crested again, wracked them again.

At the end they lay entwined, his arms around her, their legs tangled, and traded whispers and hopes, thoughts and ideas of what their joint life would be like once the Black Cobra was brought down.

Ultimately, sleep crept in on quiet wings and enfolded them.

Deliah’s last thought was that for her part in Del’s mission she’d gained a reward far greater than she ever would have-ever could have-imagined. She’d gained the love of an honorable, courageous, handsome, and passionate gentleman-something she’d been so often told, and had for so long believed, she could never have.

He was with her now, hers now, and she was his forevermore.

She closed her eyes, hugged that glorious truth close, and let sleep claim her.

Del listened to her breathing slow, felt her warmth filling his arms, and knew he’d already gained the greatest reward he could possibly expect from this mission. He’d defined and secured his future-their future.

It lay waiting for them, just ahead on their road, a shared life in which she would be his-his wife, his lover, his helpmate, his heart-while he would be hers, her husband, her protector.

Even if he had to pay a penance every time he exercised the latter right.

His lips curved as sleep tugged him down. He surrendered as one last thought slid through his mind.

Home.

He was finally there.

Home for him lay in Deliah’s arms.

December 19

Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

In the darkest hour of the long night, Roderick Ferrar strode up to the back door of the house in Bury St. Edmunds that the cult had made its own.

The door opened before he reached it. He strode in, fighting to keep the shivers that racked him at bay. He went straight through the house to the drawing room, barely noticing the silks now draping the walls, the incense permeating the air, the servants and cultists who bowed low as he passed.

Alex and Daniel were waiting, playing cards at a small table set between two armchairs angled before the hearth. They looked up as he entered. Stiffly, he walked to the hearth, and bent to warm his icy hands at the blaze.

One look at Roderick’s face, and all expression leached from Alex’s. “You’re exceedingly late. What happened?”

Roderick straightened, drew a tight breath, then faced them. “It was a trap. They turned Larkins’s brilliant plan into a trap, and Larkins walked right into it.”

Alex blinked, slowly. “Where is Larkins?”

Roderick snorted. Gripped the mantelpiece. “He’s dead. He’d been seen by a bevy of them-St. Ives was there, for heaven’s sake! And Chillingworth. And a host of others of that ilk-including Delborough, of course. They all saw Larkins take the scroll-holder, open it, read the letter, then pocket it-then, of course, he moved to silence the boy.