The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt by Stephanie Laurens
Thank heaven.
She’d stiffened, trying to hold firm, but as he continued to fondle, evocatively knead, her spine softened. She leaned back against him. “Perhaps we might experiment, and see.” He rolled her nipple between finger and thumb, lightly squeezed. Spine bowing, she gasped, “About my headache, I mean. Whether it goes, or stays.”
He touched his lips to her temple. “We can experiment as much as you like.” Turning her, lowering their linked hands, he drew hers down. “Because I haven’t lost interest in you.” He molded her palm to his erection. “To having you—multiple times.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Then her lids lowered, and those jade eyes grew sultry. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lower lip. “I see….”
The absentminded murmur was filled with speculation.
“No, you feel.” Bending his head, he took her lips, her mouth, kissed her long, lingeringly, hungrily, but not ravenously. When he raised his head, her lids were down, her eyes concealed. “So what do you feel? What do I make you feel?”
She felt as if she were stepping off a cliff. Deliah raised her heavy lids enough to see his face, to note the intentness in his expression, his absolute focus on her.
How long would it last? When would it fade?
How was she going to feel when it did?
Worse, when they returned to Humberside and went their separate ways, and she heard on the grapevine that he’d married? Married some entirely eligible country miss with no scandal in her background, and a soft, sweet disposition. A lady totally unlike her.
She hadn’t thought of those questions before today—until half an hour ago. She’d tried to step back, but…he was here, in her bedroom, and she was in his arms.
And he was all she’d ever wanted.
How did he make her feel?
Chin firming, she closed her hand. “Wanton. Abandoned. You make me feel…” Desirable. “Lustful.”
His lips curved, sculpted, utterly mesmerizing. “Good. That’s how I want you to feel. Wanton, abandoned, and”—he bent his head—“helplessly lusting for me.”
Eleven
The kiss ripped her wits away, left her heated and yearning. There was nothing relaxed about the exchange, nothing languid, nothing tentative. His tongue found hers, stroked heavily, probed, dueled when she responded, then he settled to vanquish and claim.
Straightforward, blatant, direct.
Genuine, honest, and true.
A true expression of what he wanted from her. How he wanted her.
A declaration of possession, passionate and intense.
She sank her hands in his hair, gripped, clung, held him to her as her wits reeled and her senses spun.
His fingers found her laces, then her bodice sagged. His hands claimed her breasts, hard palms kneading, molding. Fingers clamping, squeezing, sent sensation searing through her.
Then he broke from the kiss and set his mouth to her flesh.
And devoured.
As she gasped and drank in each evocative caress, every provocative, possessive touch.
As her wanton self savored, wallowed and rejoiced.
There was no hesitation—not on her part or his—when, heated beyond bearing, they broke from the embrace to dispense with their clothes. No barriers, no shields. In seconds they were naked, a heartbeat later skin to skin.
Two heartbeats later, he lifted her and they joined.
She sobbed her joy, wrapped her arms about his shoulders, locked her legs about his hips and let him fill her. Let him stand before the fire and move her upon him until she thought she’d lose her mind.
Then she did, in a scintillating cascade of sensation.
Before it ended, he’d walked to the bed and tumbled them both upon it.
Before she caught her breath, he rose over her. His hips wedged between her widespread thighs, he thrust heavily, deeply, into her.
Then he rode her, fast, hard, determined.
Determined to wring every last gasp of surrender from her.
To take her, complete her, possess her, brand her.
With his passion, his need, his irresistible desire.
His desire for her.
Simple, intense, so strong it stole her breath.
So demanding, so commanding, she could do no other than yield.
Completely, absolutely.
To the depths of her soul.
Del looked down at her face, wracked with rapture as ecstacy claimed her. Felt her let go, felt her fly.
Felt her vulnerable and accepting beneath him.
And he took. Seized and claimed in the most fundamental way. Thrust deep, then yet deeper, driven by a lust more primitive and compelling than he’d ever known.
A lust more commanding, and fulfilling.
A lust driven by an emotion even more powerful, one that subjugated all he was, that made him the supplicant and she the conqueror as he threw his head back and, on a long groan, gave himself, commited all he was and ever would be, to her.
December 17
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire
Del entered the breakfast parlor early the next morning to find most of the other men already there.
Everyone, it seemed, had hearty appetites.
Taking the chair next to Devil, at the table’s head, Del joined them in assuaging his immediate need.
Devil glanced at Del’s plate, piled high with ham, kedgeree, two sausages, bacon, mushrooms, onions and a portion of roast beef, and grinned. “You didn’t eat so much at dinner. I take it the activities of your night exceeded those of yesterday.”
Del grunted.
Already finished, Gyles, sitting opposite, pushed aside his plate. “So, what are your plans for the lovely Miss Duncannon?”
Del frowned at his plate, poked at a mushroom. “Women—ladies in particular—are damned confusing.”
The others, to a man, laughed.
“There’s nothing you can tell us about that,” Demon stated.
“Mind you,” Richard said, “they do have a logic of their own.”
“Indubitably.” Gervase nodded. “It’s just that it’s so alien—”
“Not to mention convoluted,” Tony interjected.
“That it’s devilishly hard to recognize,” Gervase continued, “and near impossible to follow.”
“My advice,” Vane said, “such as it is, is not to try. Perseverance, in my experience, usually wins.”
Devil scoffed. “And your wife is called what? Patience.”
Vane grinned, and responded.
Del let the resulting exchange of jocular insults fly past him. The night had been eventful, although matters hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned—something that happened frequently when Deliah was involved.
Something had made her uncertain, tempted her to play safe and try to back away from him, to play down their relationship, yet the night’s interludes had left him even more convinced that not only was she the lady for him—the one and only lady he wanted by his side, a helpmate and partner as they constructed their joint future—but, all uncertainties aside, that he was the man for her.
What had caused her uncertainty and made her unsure, he didn’t know, but how she could miss, not see, not correctly interpret her own passionate response, her own strength and inner fierceness as she’d clung to him, soft and giving and so elementally all he would ever want in a bride, he couldn’t understand.
She was his.
He’d set out to prove that last night. To demonstrate it in actions impossible to misconstrue or misinterpret. But it had been she who had proved his point. She who, at the end, had conquered him by being everything his soul wanted, and all his heart desired.
She’d proved that he was hers.
Regardless, she didn’t seem to view their relationship with the clarity he did. With the conviction, the absolute acceptance. Presumably, she hadn’t yet thought things through to the same extent he had. She would, he assumed, but the question was when. How long would it t
He wasn’t of a mind to give her too long, to wait too long to formally claim her. His response to her retreat—the intense vulnerability that had reared its head and left him uncertain, unsure…almost wounded—wasn’t a feeling he wished to feel again. It had affected him on a level on which he hadn’t known he was susceptible, and left him beyond uneasy.
He wouldn’t have peace of mind, would not function at his best, if he was distracted by the prospect of her slipping through his fingers and somehow becoming “not his.”
That was a prospect he wasn’t willing to consider, let alone countenance.
Chasing the last of his kedgeree around his plate, he made up his mind. His original plan had been to wait until his mission was complete before he made an offer, but the hallmark of a good commander was an ability to rescript plans on the run, whenever circumstances changed.
Looking up, he discovered the others had progressed to discussing the likely hunting in coming months. He waited for a lull, then turned to Devil. “What do you know of Wolverstone?”
Devil arched his brows, sat back, and gave him a potted history of the man Del had heard of only as Dalziel. Devil wasn’t given to exaggeration, yet his description painted a picture of a nobleman of imposing abilities, a man of action like them, yet one who had, through necessity, been equally active in the political field.
Tony and Gervase volunteered their own views, colored by a closer professional acquaintance.
“I’d trust him with my life,” Gervase concluded. “And even more telling, with Madeline’s and my children’s lives.”
Tony merely nodded. “Your mission couldn’t be in better, safer, or more effective hands.”
Devil added a short description of Minerva, Wolverstone’s duchess, and ended with a word sketch of Elveden Grange, Wolverstone’s nearby estate. “It’s thirty miles due east, this side of Thetford. His visits there are frequent, but irregular—the family normally spend Christmas at Wolverstone Castle in Northumbria.”
“So there’s no reason Ferrar, even if he knows of him, will expect Wolverstone to be at Elveden,” Del said.
Devil nodded. “As soon as the snow thaws enough, I’ll send a rider to Elveden to ask Royce what he wants us to do next. Presumably that’ll rest at least in part on whether your other friends have reached our shores.” He looked at Demon. “Possibly tomorrow, do you think, if we get no more falls?”
Demon, living at Newmarket, knew the area in question best. He nodded. “I should be able to make it across tomorrow. Not sure I’d trust anyone else to do it, but I’m happy to go.”
Gabriel snorted. “You just want to escape another morning with your brats.”
Demon grinned. “And I can.”
A footstep sounded on the floor above. They all exchanged glances, then Devil pushed back from the table. “That sounds like our other halves are up and about. Might I suggest we retire to the billiard room?”
Chairs scraping on the floor was all the answer the others made. In a general exodus, they made their way out of the door.
Passing through it beside Del, Lucifer caught his eye. “Any chance of examining that scroll-holder? I’m curious as to the construction—it sounds unlike anything I’ve seen.”
Del had heard that Lucifer was now something of an expert on antiques and curios. He nodded. “I’ll fetch it and meet you in the billiard room.”
Lucifer inclined his head.
Del went with the others down the corridor, then parted from them and went up a secondary stair to his room.
Ten minutes later, Del strode into the billiard room. At the sound of his footsteps, all conversation ceased. Gyles, bent over the billiard table, about to place a shot, froze, then straightened. Devil and Richard, standing by the table, cues in hand, swung around, alerted.
All eyes locked on Del as he halted just inside the doorway.
Grim-faced, he met their questioning gazes. “The scroll-holder’s gone.”
There was silence for a moment, then Devil asked, “How?”
When Del shook his head, Lucifer asked, “Where was it?”
“In the top drawer of the tallboy in my room. It’s not there, nor anywhere else in the room now, and Cobby hasn’t seen it since yesterday.” One hand rising to his hip, Del plowed the other through his hair. “Before, until Royston, either Cobby or Mustaf—one of my staff—carried it with them, strapped to their body. Once we reached here, there didn’t seem any reason not to leave it in the room.” He looked at Devil. “How in all Hades did the Black Cobra reach it?”
“Are we sure it’s him?” Gabriel asked. “Could the scroll-holder itself have attracted a thief?”
“Unlikely,” Gervase replied. “I wouldn’t have said it’s all that special.”
“It isn’t,” Del said. “It’s at best a curiosity. I don’t think anyone would imagine it had any intrinsic value.”
“So the letter is the only attraction.” Gyles met Del’s gaze. “But who could have taken it? Could someone unknown have slipped inside?”
“Given the snow, I doubt it.” Vane looked at Devil. “But before we go further, perhaps we should check?”
Devil nodded. “Let’s go up to the tower and see.” Laying down his cue, he headed for the door.
His cousins fell in in his wake. Del, Tony, Gyles, and Gervase all exchanged mystified glances, but the Cynsters strode forward with purpose, so they followed.
Into the central part of the mansion, then up a narrow spiral stair that led up and up, eventually opening into a small square room. Del looked around as he stepped out of the stairwell, and realized they were at the top of the tower that stood high above the Somersham Place roofs. The wide windows on all sides gave magnificent views over the surrounding lands.
It was a tight fit with all nine of them in the tower room. They stood shoulder to shoulder, and looked out. Over an unbroken blanket of white.
“The snow fell the night before last.” Devil stood at the windows facing south. “Anyone see any tracks, footprints, signs of a horse?”
“None to the east,” Demon said.
“Nor the west,” Gabriel said.
“The north is untrammeled, too.” Vane glanced at Del. “Whoever took the scroll-holder, they arrived before or on the same night you did, and, most importantly—”
“They haven’t left.” Devil swung to meet Del’s eyes, and smiled in wolfish anticipation. “Buck up, lads—the scroll-holder’s still here, and now we get to go hunting.”
They repaired to the library to consider the suspects and plan their strategy.
Del paced before the fire. “It has to be one of the staff. The Black Cobra is inventive, relentless, and entirely without morals—the thief might be someone we would normally trust, but they’ve been threatened, or, as is more frequently the case, their family has been threatened. That’s the Black Cobra’s style.”
“Let’s start with the obvious,” Gervase said. “How well do you know Miss Duncannon?”
Del stopped pacing, stared at Gervase, then shook his head. “No—it can’t be her. Her part in this, her appearance in Southampton, had to have been in train, passage booked at least, before MacFarlane even found the letter.”
“But are you sure she is in fact Miss Duncannon?” Tony asked. “The lady you were supposed to meet?”
Del thought of all the snippets of their past lives they’d shared, her intimate knowledge of Humberside and the Wolds. “Yes, it’s her. I’ve known her family since childhood, and I even recall her, albeit distantly, and everything about her fits my picture of what she should be like too closely for her to be an imposter.”
“Very well. Not her, then,” Gervase said. “If she is who she’s supposed to be, then the enemy couldn’t have had any knowledge of her before you met her in Southampton, and so couldn’t have had any chance of subverting her.”
“By the same standard of when the opposition would have known about people currently under this roof,” Tony said,
“What you’re effectively asking,” Devil said, “is how secure Wolverstone’s plans are, and you’d know that better than I.”
Tony grimaced. “More secure than the Crown jewels.”
“And in organizing all this”—Devil waved at those gathered around—“nothing was written down. Wolverstone rode over with Minerva—outwardly one of the occasional social visits we exchange when they’re in residence in Suffolk. Nothing to alert anyone, even had they been watching, but how the Black Cobra could have guessed what was going on months ago…” Devil looked at Del.
Who shook his head. “That’s drawing an altogether-too-long a bow. Wolverstone communicated with me by letter, but that was long before we found Ferrar’s letter.”
“And as for Royce’s security,” Gervase said, “while he’d be the first to tell us not to count on anything, he was the one we—all his operatives—constantly relied on for absolute secrecy, and he never let any of us down. Why his security would be breached now, by someone who, no matter how brutal, is really not in his league experience-wise…” He shook his head. “I really can’t see it.” He met Del’s eyes. “We’ll have to look elsewhere for our thief.”
“I agree.” Tony looked at Del, too. “That leaves your staffs—yours and Deliah’s. Let’s take yours first. How can you be sure none of them have been subverted?”
Del’s impulse was to shrug the question aside, but the matter was too grave. He forced himself to consider what to him was the unthinkable. “Cobby…he’s been with me for years, from long before Waterloo. I don’t think anyone here could imagine him being subverted by the enemy, in this case an enemy of England.”