The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Sure enough, she stepped onto the observation deck to find Rafe leaning on the rail in his usual spot, where the shadow cast by the bridge concealed him while he kept watch on the river and the banks sliding past.

  She had no real plan for the encounter; she walked across the deck and halted alongside him.

  He’d watched her approach, but had given no sign. The shadows cloaked his face, hiding his expression.

  Placing her hands on the rail, she drew the night air deep into her lungs. Without looking at him, she asked, “What are you planning to do once you’ve completed your mission?”

  Rafe blinked. One boot resting on a coiled rope, leaning on the rail, he turned from her to face the night once more. “I … haven’t given the matter much thought.”

  “But you have family at home, waiting for you.”

  His lips twisted. “I have family, yes, but as for waiting for me, being in expectation of seeing me again and taking me to the familial bosom … no.” He caught the glance she threw him, answered the question in her eyes. “I’m the youngest of four sons with two older sisters and one younger. I’ve been away campaigning for over a decade, and I haven’t beenhome—back to Henley Grange—in all that time. I honestly doubt they’d recognize me, not at first.”

  He paused, imagined walking into Henley Grange at Christmas. Raised his brows. “As for all my nephews and nieces, I can barely name my oldest brother’s heir, let alone all the rest. Regardless, given the inherent danger, I decided not to tell them I’d be back in England until I was.”

  She settled on the rail. “Aside from catching up with your family, what do you imagine doing with your life? Given you can’t survive one afternoon of inactivity, living the idle life of a fashionable gentleman won’t suit. You must have something in mind.”

  He grimaced. “Until you asked, I hadn’t given it a thought. I haven’t been thinking past completing my mission. However, you’re right—although courtesy of my sojourn in India, I’m wealthy enough to rival Golden Ball, sitting back and counting my pennies—even wagering my gold on this or that—won’t satisfy.” He paused, then said, “A house, I suppose. Somewhere within easy reach of Henley Grange.”

  He met her eyes. “Once the prodigal brother returns, I’ll be expected to remain within reach, at least for a while, and the country thereabouts suits me. Good riding, good hunting. Not so far from London that I can’t dash down now and then.”

  “You’ll need an estate—just a house won’t be large enough to keep you busy.”

  “I have to be kept busy?”

  “You need people to organize, to order about. Perhaps some estate that includes a small village or two might be best.” She glanced at him. “A man like you needs people to watch over. To protect and defend, to encourage to grow and succeed.”

  He saw it—instantly saw himself in such a role, and knew she’d put her finger on the essence of what he needed. He’d gone into the army because as a fourth son there was no preordained role for him to play. But in the army he’d also missed place. Missed being settled, having roots.

  That, too, was important to him.

  The realization that she was right—that he would need to find both a place and a role for himself back in England—left him feeling vulnerable, knowing that even after his mission was complete, he would still have that challenge before him. That until he met it, he wouldn’t have a life, not one he would enjoy living.

  He glanced at her. “But what about you?” He shifted to watch her face. “What will you be doing with your life once we return?” Brazenly he asked, “A beau, a fiancé? Wedding bells and keeping house. Children?”

  “None of the first two, ergo none of the third, fourth, or fifth.” Loretta knew she should discourage such impertinence; gentlemen did not ask young ladies such questions, and proper young ladies certainly did not answer. Yet she’d already jettisoned the prim and proper creed. She lifted her face to the cool night breeze. “I’m here, traveling with Esme, precisely because I’ve rejected so many suitors.”

  A moment ticked by, then he asked, “How many?”

  “Eight.”

  Even without looking, she knew he was struggling to keep a straight face.

  “I’ve been out of society for over a decade, yet even I know that’s not …”

  “Normal? Customary? It’s also not acceptable.”

  “Acceptable to whom?”

  She waved. “The ton at large, or so I’ve been told.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “In England, I lead a rather quiet life.”

  She could feel his gaze on her face, sense him considering her.

  “By choice. You live retired, out of society, because you prefer to.”

  “Not retired, not out of society.” She glanced briefly at him. “I just avoid the glittering whirl, the balls and parties, the endless, all too often mindless, entertainments.”

  Rafe could understand that. “I’m not a great fan of mindlessentertainments myself.” After a moment, he asked, “So … why did you reject eight suitors? I assume they were eligible by the usual ton standards—weren’t they quiet enough for you?”

  She frowned. “Actually, they were quiet. Staid and straitlaced, rigid, conventional. They … wouldn’t have suited me. They thought I was … someone I wasn’t—prim, proper, demure, and decorous.”

  He thought of what he’d seen of her—the tigress flinging prayer books at an attacker, or beating one off with a cane or a chalice, the bossy female who insisted on tending his wound, the incisive and decisive card player who had challenged him at piquet—and smiled. “You’re none of those things.”

  “I know.” She sounded grim. “But in my rejected suitors’ defense I have to admit that I used to pretend I was. It was excellent camouflage, and allowed me to avoid the worst of the social whirl.”

  “You used to pretend you were prim, proper, demure, and decorous?”

  She nodded. “It worked, too. For years.”

  “But not now?”

  She sighed. “No. Now my convenient façade has come tumbling down about my ears. Rejecting my eighth suitor caused a near-scandal, so when Esme came calling, I escaped with her. Presumably by the time I return the scandal will have blown over, or been superseded by something juicier.”

  Leaning on the rail, he searched for a way to ask what he most wanted to know. “In what way did your suitors not suit?”

  “Because they thought I was someone I wasn’t, their expectations of me as their wife didn’t match the reality. If I’d accepted any of their offers, I would have been miserable, and I would definitely have made them miserable, too. So I declined.”

  Thank heaven. The thought came out of nowhere, but resonatedstrongly. He let it lie, and edged on. “So what sort of life do you want when you return? Different, more suitable suitors? Or do you envisage some other path?”

  Was she against marriage? The notion seemed ridiculous; in his experience, all young ladies were brought up to imagine marriage as their sole acceptable goal in life, yet with her … he’d already learned not to make assumptions.

  She straightened. Chin rising, she looked out at the night. “I don’t actually know what I want. That’s why I agreed to accompany Esme. I wasn’t so concerned with the scandal, but saw the chance of traveling and seeing more of the world as an opportunity to consider my options and define what I want—what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

  He nodded. He, too, looked out into the blackness of the banks.

  Impossible not to notice the similarities between them. They’d reached this place, this hour in time, by widely different routes, yet there they stood, facing the same challenges. Asking the same questions of themselves.

  Seeking answers.

  The same answers?

  He wondered … glanced at her through the deepening shadows.

  Just as she stirred. She drew in a deep breath. He struggled to ignore the swelling of her breasts, and the unsubtle effect the sight had
on him.

  Then she glanced his way, inclined her head. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He murmured a quiet “Good night” in reply, and watched as she walked to the stairs and went down.

  Eight

  December 9, 1822

  Rafe had had plenty of time through the silent watches of the night to think and consider and ponder. His cogitations, however, constantly circled back to Loretta—to what she thought, what she wanted.

  Finding out had become his latest challenge.

  While the more sensible part of him still argued that he should leave all such exploration for later, another stronger, innate compulsion prodded him to pursue the subject.

  They were, after all, stuck on a boat in the middle of a river, free of immediate threat and going nowhere fast.

  As usual after breakfast, taken in the dining salon with the rest of their party, Loretta insisted on tending his wound. He dutifully followed her down to his cabin. Leaving the door open, he shrugged off his coat, dispensed with his waistcoat, then raised his shirt enough to draw his injured arm free. Sitting sideways on the edge of the bunk, he let her unpick the knot securing the bandage neatly tied about the stitched gash, then unwind the long strip.

  Laying the bandage aside, she peered at the wound, then gently palpated the flesh on either side. “How does it feel? Does it still hurt?”

  “No. It’s just tight. The skin pulls.”

  “That will wear off.” Stepping back, she crossed to the small washstand built onto the cabin wall. Picking up the towel he’d left there, she dampened a corner in the ewer, then returned to blot and gently clean the stitches.

  Looking along his shoulder, he couldn’t stop his eyes from dipping to the lush swells of her breasts, round and firm beneath her bodice, couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering on the shadowed valley between.

  Only when, frowning at his wound, she straightened, did he look away. Thankfully he was sitting, and had draped his waistcoat over his lap.

  He cleared his throat. “How is it?”

  “Healing quite well.” She lifted her gaze to his. “The apothecary was right. Twice a day treatments are the trick.”

  She picked up the pot of salve from the stand beside the bed, opened it, and dipped her fingers in.

  He steeled himself. Clenched his jaw, and his right fist, and fought to remain still while she delicately smeared the ointment across and around the wound.

  He exhaled when she finally stepped back—and received a sharp glance in response.

  Setting aside the salve, she picked up the long bandage, inspected it. Approved it. While she wound the long strip about his arm, he swiftly canvassed the field.

  As Esme had pointed out, now their party were the only passengers on board, there was a far greater degree of privacy. The others had all remained on the salon deck. He would hear anyone coming down the stairs.

  Until someone did, they were the only ones on the cabin deck.

  Alone. Private.

  “There.” She patted the knot she’d put in the bandage and stepped back.

  He rushed to push his arm back through the sleeve.

  “If we keep on as we are, I doubt there’ll be any further problem.”

  His hand slid through the cuff. He looked up, and found her heading for the door. Reaching out, sliding an arm around her waist, he reeled her back.

  She staggered slightly, fetched up with her hips between his spread thighs, her hands spread on his shirt, the thin material no real barrier to the sensation of her touch.

  Her eyes had widened. They locked on his. “What—”

  “I realized I haven’t thanked you.” He raised a hand to cup her nape. “You’ve thanked me a number of times. I thought I should at least …” Her gaze had dropped to his lips. Slowly he lowered his head. “Return the sentiment.”

  He breathed the words across her lips, then, holding her head steady, still moving slowly, covered those luscious lips with his.

  They’d kissed four times before, but this was the first time he’d initiated the caress.

  The first time he’d admitted, to her or himself, that he wanted to kiss her.

  He did.

  Ravenously.

  But he couldn’t devour her—not yet. There were formalities to be observed, even in this arena. So he kissed her slowly, tempting her until she parted her lips. He slid his tongue slowly past the pliable curves, pressed inside, savoring the taste of her, tart and tantalizing, apples and brandywine.

  She made his head spin.

  Slowly, sensually. Made his heart beat faster, made it thud.

  The long-drawn caress sent desire snaking insidiously through his veins, heating, then turning molten and racing.

  Demand grew; desire kept pace.

  Until he had at least one answer to the questions crowding his brain.

  He wanted her.

  He’d known she aroused him, but that might have simply been because she was a delectable female and he hadn’t had a woman in more months than he wanted to count. But what she stirred in him was more than that.

  Stronger than mere desire, more vivid than simple passion.

  He felt need grow, unfurl, stretch. Like a powerful beast, it unsheathed its claws.

  Scratched.

  She shifted her hands, skating them, palms flat, up over his chest, to his shoulders, then further. He felt one small hand cover the sensitive skin at his nape, felt her other hand slide into his hair, and grip.

  Another question answered: she wanted him.

  He felt his muscles harden in response.

  In reaction.

  He recognized the signs well enough, but with her, his responses were stronger, the drive they fed more potent, more insistent.

  Angling his head, he thrust deeper into her mouth, claimed, took, albeit with reined ferocity. He didn’t want to frighten her, even though fear seemed far from her mind as she shifted closer.

  Her breasts brushed his chest.

  Loretta felt her breath hitch, then tangle in her throat. Felt her breasts swell, then ache. Her nipples tightened, heating, sensitive.

  Her senses were alive, stretching, reaching … she wasn’t sure for what.

  Both his hands now clasped her waist; the long fingers of one flexed, eased … then his hand skated upward, palm to her gown.

  Her senses focused, waited, teetered….

  Smoothly his hand rose and closed, gently, about her breast. About her heavy, aching flesh.

  Sensation streaked through her, rich, warm, enticing.

  He squeezed, still gentle, almost reverent, and excitement flashed.

  Her breath hitched again, tighter, more constricted, then she was kissing him back, pressing her lips to his, sending her tongue to tangle with his.

  The tenor of the kiss changed. Intensity flared, awareness closed in.

  All she could think about was seizing more, tasting more, experiencing more, learning more. Recklessly demanding more.

  Her hand at his nape tightened; she leaned closer, pressing her breast into his hand.

  It closed more firmly, possessiveness riding the edge of his hunger. She tasted it on his tongue, sensed it in the increasing firmness of his lips as they pressed hers wider and he settled to plunder.

  Her wits were waltzing, gloriously reeling—

  Suddenly he wrenched his mouth from hers.

  Lifted his head. Looked over hers.

  Toward the door.

  Suddenly she was standing two feet away from him. He’d picked her up and lifted her as if she weighed nothing and set her down, then retreated, leaning back against the bunk. His expression unreadable, he looked down, smoothed down his sleeve, tied the laces at the cuff.

  She’d just caught her breath when Rose walked past the open door, then halted, stepped back and looked in.

  “There you are, miss. Lady Congreve wondered where you were—she wants to speak with you if you’ve finished down here.”

  “Yes.�
� Loretta swallowed, cleared her throat. Without turning, she spoke over her shoulder. “I’ve … done all I can for the moment.”

  Rafe raised his head, slanted her a glance, then his lips curved. He inclined his head. “Again, thank you.”

  She forced herself to nod briskly, bit her tongue against the urge to reply—God only knew what might come out of her mouth—then turned and made for the door.

  Rafe watched her go.

  Listened to her footsteps climb the stairs. Wondered some more.

  He wanted her in his bed—not just as a woman, but specificallyas her. Wanted her, her unusual, quirky, original self, beneath him.

  Yet where they were heading—and they were definitely heading that way—then given she was a gently bred young lady, that destination customarily meant marriage.

  In the past, just thinking that word had been enough to have him backpedaling. Running if necessary. Yet with her …

  He frowned. Was it really her, herself, that he so craved? Or was this change in his wants, his needs, more a function of his situation? Or perhaps his age? Was their discussion the previous evening, his recognition that he needed to find a role and a place—marriage and a home—to be fulfilled, coloring his perception? She was, after all, the only potential bride currently in his orbit; if his inner yearnings were predisposing him to marriage, then she was the only candidate for his needs, his lusts, and his eyes to fix upon.

  Leaning against his bunk, he picked up his waistcoat, shrugged it on. While doing up the buttons, he considered, weighed. He didn’t believe his recent deliberations on his future had influenced him all that much, at least not with respect to his desire for her. That had been strong, unexpectedly strong, from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her.

  “So.” Standing, he reached for his coat, drew it on.

  Frowned.

  He needed to decide why he wanted her before he allowed matters to progress further. He liked her in a way he couldn’t recall liking any other female; the last thing he wanted was to hurt her in any way.

  He had to be sure. First.

  Before he or she gave into their natures and precipitated the next engagement.

  The morning continued overcast and rainy. Esme had taken up residence in the salon, reading a novel, then writing letters.