The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  He could take her there, she knew it. Would take her there. That was the promise implicit in the hard body pinning hers, in the heavy rigid rod of his erection pressing against her hip.

  With wild abandon she embraced that promise, embraced him, and drew him on.

  She heard her own heartbeat thudding in her ears in the same instant he reached down and his hand cruised her calf, skin to skin. Her breath suspended as that questing hand rose, beneath the fall of her nightgown rose inexorably higher, gliding over her knee, up the quivering tautnessof her thigh, to brush, then touch, the curls covering her mons.

  Her body quivered on the cusp of revelation.

  Anticipation streaked lightning fast down her nerves.

  The heated emptiness within her swelled, a compelling imperative.

  She grasped his face between her hands and kissed him. Drew his tongue into her mouth and caressed.

  His fingers firmed, slid further, past her curls, dipped between her thighs.

  He touched her there, gently yet insistently exploring the soft flesh. She sensed slickness that made his fingertips glide, slip, slide over her, around and over the increasingly sensitive lips.

  Until on a gasp she eased her thighs wider.

  He stroked deeper. Pushed in, pressed, and her world shook.

  His questing finger probed, then retreated, and she thought she’d lose her mind.

  She couldn’t breathe but through him, through their kiss. Her heart thundered. She was clinging to reality by a gossamer thread.

  With a deliberation that curled her toes, he slowly, heavily, intently pushed that single finger deep inside her.

  The sound she made was half sob, half moan. It echoed in her head even as her body arched, begged.

  He gave her what she wanted, what she hadn’t known she did. His hand flexed between her thighs, his finger thrust, steady and sure, within her sheath, and her world changed. Her senses expanded. Reality was suddenly all sharp-edged sensation, gilded and glowing.

  Overflowing.

  Sensation rushed through her, caught her, buoyed her, then propelled her up and up …

  On a smothered cry she shattered, senses fracturing into shards of cataclysmic brightness, the eruption of a sensual nova.

  As it faded, undiluted pleasure poured through her. Washed through her.

  Leaving her floating on a golden sea, his lips on hers her only anchor to reality.

  Rafe inwardly gloated. Unrepentantly, arrogantly triumphant. She’d given herself to him, and now she was his. All his.

  His to pleasure, his to savor.

  He reached for the belt of her robe, tugged …

  She was wearing a robe?

  A tap on his calf finally registered as a slipper.

  Slippers, too?

  A moment of giddy disorientation ensued before his mind realigned and he grasped the unwelcome truth. Once again nightmare had converted to dream, and then, to his utter disbelief, into reality.

  Her lips still clung to his, her mouth a lush cavern of enticing delights. Even as, shocked, stunned, he desperately grappled, fighting to releash impulses he hadn’t known he would need to contain, her body arched to his, inviting, inciting.

  He groaned, and she swallowed the sound. Her hands—small, feminine, greedy hands—stroked and slid, setting fires searing beneath his skin.

  The scalding wetness of her arousal burned his hand.

  Another second and he’d be lost.

  A second more and she would be, too.

  Where he found the strength he didn’t know, but he managed to pull his hands from her. Managed to ignore the evocative perfume that sank to his marrow, wreathed his brain, and threatened to overwhelm his good intentions.

  Sinking his palms into the bedding, he braced his arms and dragged his lips from hers.

  Straightening his arms, he hung half over her, his breathing harsh, beyond ragged, and stared down at the luscious phantom who’d proved to be flesh and blood.

  Hot flesh, hot blood.

  Closing his eyes, he hung his head, fighting to wrench his thoughts from their obsession.

  Two heartbeats passed. Opening his eyes, he glanced at her face.

  Her lids had risen to reveal eyes darkened by passion, sultry with banked heat. Her expression was all languid pleasure.

  She caught his gaze, stared at him for an instant, then fractionally tilted her head. Smiled like a siren. “Don’t stop.”

  Her hands shifted on his skin again. Before he could react they drifted lower. She stroked, and he all but hissed.

  “Don’t stop?” The words were guttural, choked. He shifted to seize her hands, found he couldn’t without crushing her again; he gave up and pushed back instead. “We shouldn’t even have got this far.”

  Shifting, twisting around, he sat up as well as he could, infinitely grateful for the sheets twining about his waist.

  Feeling as if he’d been clouted over the head, he ran a hand through his hair. Clutched tight as he realized. “Damn it! This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not yet.”

  “But it has, so stop arguing.”

  Although her tone was the epitome of lazy reason, even in the dimness, even without looking, he could feel her frown.

  After an instant’s fraught pause, she went on, “I know there’s more. I know what should be and I want it all. Now.”

  Lips compressed, he shook his head. “No. This can’t happen yet. You’re not sure—you can’t be. We first spoke of this less than twenty-four hours ago. You can’t have considered adequately and made a logical rational decision yet.”

  He paused, stunned at what he’d just said. She was offering and he was refusing … why?

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Now her tone snapped. “I know what I’m saying. I know what I want.”

  “No.” He looked at her, all but glared at her. “You might know what you want, but have you thought of the consequences? ”

  The part of him that was Reckless groaned. What was he doing? She wanted him, and he was denying them both?

  She struggled up on one elbow and definitely glared; he could feel the heat of her rising temper. “You might have spoken about it—alluded to it—first, but did it ever occur to your overwhelmingly arrogant mind that I might have already been thinking about it—about us, the possibility, about you and me—about this?”

  If he let her argue, she would win.

  Time to roll out the heavy guns.

  He narrowed his eyes on hers. “Listen, and listen well.” He’d summoned his commander’s voice. He wielded it like a weapon. “If we go on with this, if we go further, the result will be marriage. No question. No option. If I bed you, we will wed. There is no other outcome that I will accept—that I could accept. And marriage is not an issue that should be decided in a moment of lustful madness.”

  Inwardly he blinked. That hadn’t sounded like him.

  Refocusing on her face, he saw she was eyeing him belligerently.

  “I’m twenty-four. One year away from being declared an old maid.” Her tone was cutting. “We are not under my guardian’s roof, or your roof. You know perfectly well that if I wish it, there’s no reason—”

  “Which just goes to show how much you know.”

  Was it possible for a man to be honorable and cowardly at the same time?

  He wrestled with the sheets, dislodging her. Finally managing to fully sit up, he swung his legs out of the bunk. Dragging the sheets with him, he stood, wrapping them about his waist. Anchoring them with one hand, he grabbed her hand with the other and all but yanked her off his bed. “Come on.”

  She tumbled and rolled and came to her feet, hair tousled and wild, her nightgown still gaping, giving him a totally unnecesary view of the flushed mounds of her breasts. “What—”

  “Here.” He tugged at the side of her robe. “Do this up.”

  Her glare reached volcanic proportions. Her expression was all smothered fury as she slapped away his hand, but to his intense relief she yanke
d her robe closed and rebelted it. “So you’re refusing me?”

  “No. I’m denying you—defying you. Delaying you. It’s for your own good.”

  The sound she made reminded him of an irate tigress about to tear her prey limb from limb.

  “Come on.” Setting his free hand to her back, he propelled her to the door. “You need to get back to your cabin.”

  She had no option but to move her feet. She halted facing the door. “Why are you doing this?”

  He didn’t like to think. Didn’t want to think, because if he did he would see, and what he would see meant … “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  The glance she threw him informed him she wasn’t impressed by his snarl. “You are going to regret this.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. Reaching around her, he opened the door, gestured her through. “Off to your own bed, Beauty.”

  The look she bent on him would have scorched steel. “You are the most vexing, irritating man I’ve ever met.”

  With that, thank heaven, she stepped into the corridor. He hung in the doorway, watched her stalk to the stateroom door, open it and, without a single glance back, pass through. The door softly clicked shut.

  He sagged. Relief was not what he felt.

  Confusion, yes. Plus a very wary, very vulnerable feeling in his gut.

  He’d been reckless all his life, yet when it came to her, to her safety, to her future, to her feelings … to doing whatever it took to have her in his life as he wanted her …

  “Damn!” Gritting his teeth, he stepped back and closed the door.

  He’d finally met a woman who could tame Reckless.

  Nine

  December 10, 1822

  The following morning, Rafe stood at the rail on the main deck and watched Ulm draw near. He scanned the banks as the captain maneuvered the Uray Princep to come alongside the wooden wharf.

  Moving to where the gangplank would roll out, he fervently prayed that everyone aboard had put the tension that all but vibrated through him down to concern over what his party might encounter in the town.

  Loretta knew better, but she was keeping her distance, quiet and tense herself—in her case from reined temper. The glint in her eyes whenever they met his made her mood abundantly clear.

  It took effort and considerable concentration to focus on the matter at hand, on the possibility of danger lurking in Ulm’s streets, and on getting his party to safety within one of the town’s hotels.

  He’d already made his farewells to the captain and crew, had tipped them generously, sincerely grateful for their services. The instant the gangplank touched the wharf, he went down it and swiftly scouted the area. Finding nothing to cause alarm, he returned to help Hassan assist the four women ashore.

  Unable to avoid it, he offered Loretta his hand to help her off the raised gangplank. He wasn’t sure she wouldn’t reject his help. Instead, she gripped his fingers, let him steady her down the two steps, then released him.

  Leaving him feeling the phantom touch of small, smooth hands sliding across his skin.

  He hadn’t thought he could get more tense. He’d been wrong.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned his attention to their luggage. Once everything was piled onto a cart pushed along by a porter, with Esme on his arm, he led the way off the wharf, through the wide gate in the town walls and into the cobbled streets.

  It was no great distance to the Wurttemburg Arms, the hotel Esme’s guidebook declared to be the best the small town had to offer. A largish rectangular structure in good solid stone, the inn met with his approval.

  As Esme had predicted, with winter closing in there were few other travelers about. Little by way of cover in the streets, but against that he had no difficulty securing the best rooms at the hotel—a suite at the front for the ladies, an adjoining room for their maids, and flanking rooms for him and Hassan.

  “We are delighted to welcome you to our town.” Standing by the door to the suite’s parlor, their host, a genially rotund man, bowed low to Esme. “Anything you wish, my lady, please ask.”

  Esme smiled. “An early luncheon, I think. Once we’ve had a chance to sort out our luggage.”

  “Our dining room is at your disposal. Shall we say in half an hour?”

  Esme glanced at Rafe, who nodded. “Thank you.” The manager bowed himself out, shutting the door behind him. Esme looked at Rafe. “Luncheon, and then what?”

  “Then while you all relax here in safety, I’ll go and organize a carriage to take us on.”

  That had been his plan, but Esme, it transpired, had another idea. Sadly, a better idea—one he couldn’t easily argue against.

  He’d still tried.

  And lost.

  Half an hour after they’d finished a surprisingly tasty lunch, Rafe strolled the short distance to the hostelry the innkeeper had recommended—with Loretta on his arm.

  Stiff with the effort of not reacting to her in any overt way, not responding to the pervasive awareness of her that permeated his senses, he guided her along the pavement of Ulm’s main street.

  Although she hadn’t suggested it, she’d been quick to support Esme’s contention that if he were to venture on the streets, then he needed his disguise as a courier-guide, and that meant taking Loretta with him. Alone, he was more likely to attract the notice of any cultists lurking in the town.

  He hadn’t wanted to spend any more time than absolutely necessary close to her, not until the events, the sensations, and the temptations of the previous night had faded from both their minds. He’d suggested taking Rose or Gibson instead, but Esme had decreed that to appear at all authentic he had to take Loretta, or her. And she really ought to rest.

  So it was Loretta on his arm as he neared the open doors of the hostelry. Somewhat to his surprise, she appeared to have put aside her earlier displeasure. She was doing an excellent job of appearing oblivious to any undercurrents between them.

  Jaw firming, he strove to follow her lead.

  They turned into the hostelry and halted. A boy working on readying a carriage saw them, bobbed his head, then turned and shouted for his master.

  A large, heavyset man came out from a tack room.

  “Good afternoon.” Rafe’s German was passable, whatever Esme might think. “I wish to hire a carriage to convey a party of six to Strasbourg.”

  Negotiations ensued.

  Although Loretta didn’t speak German, she could follow well enough. The stableman suggested a large traveling coach. She and Rafe went deeper into the stable to inspect it. When Rafe arched a brow at her, she nodded her approval; the carriage would hold them all, and was comfortable and clean.

  The stableman assured Rafe that with the horses he would have put to, his driver would deliver their party to Strasbourg in an easy day’s journey. As the three of them walked back to the stable door, Rafe arranged for the carriage to call at the inn at seven o’clock the next morning. He also arranged for four outriders as guards.

  Halting by the open door, Loretta drew her hand from his sleeve to allow him to step into the tiny office beside the stable to negotiate the charges. She could still hear the exchange; the amounts involved made her mentally raise her brows. Although Rafe was good at bargaining, the overall outlay was considerable. Especially with the four guards.

  When he and the stableman emerged from the office, she accepted Rafe’s offered arm and they took their leave of the stableman and started back down the street.

  She hadn’t forgotten the previous night, but had decided she was in no mood to let his idiocy distract or deflect her. She would set him straight on that subject later. Now, however … frowning, she glanced at his face. “I must remind Esme to repay you for the monies you’ve outlaid on our behalf.”

  He’d been scanning the street; his watchfulness seemed an ingrained habit. He met her eyes. “No need.” He looked away again. As she opened her lips to argue, he added, “Consider your company, and that of your outrageous relative, rec
ompense enough.”

  Eyes forward, she tapped her fingers on his sleeve while deciding how to broach what might be a sensitive subject. “You were an army captain. I’ve always understood that a captain’s stipend isn’t all that much.”

  “I believe I mentioned I’m as rich as Golden Ball.”

  “I thought you were exaggerating.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  That caused her a moment’s pause. Allowed curiosity to come to the fore. “How?”

  “The five of us who went to India were Hastings’s—the Governor-General’s—personal appointees. Aside from a significantly greater stipend, that also gave us considerable scope for trading on our own behalf. We invested in several highly successful ventures. By the time we quit India, we were all extremely wealthy.”

  His gaze touched her face, then he went on, his voice lower, “I’m more than warm enough to stand the reckoning, and you, Esme, Rose, and Gibson have provided Hassan and me with a disguise good enough to get us this far without any major clash with the cult. To me, that’s invaluable. Added to that, you’ve tended my wound diligently and all of you have provided us with company of a sort we wouldn’t otherwise have had.”

  Still she frowned. “All that may be so, yet this was Esme’s trip.”

  “Which she’s allowed me to appropriate for my mission.” The Wurttemburg Arms lay just ahead. Slowing, he caught her gaze, for a moment searched her eyes, then to her surprise he ducked his head and kissed her—too briefly for her to properly react. “Let it go.” He mumured the words as he straightened. “That’s a battle you’re not going to win.”

  Steadying her nerves, quelling the warm, fluttery anticipation his kiss had provoked, she shot him a more direful frown, humphed, but let him guide her to the inn door.

  She pretended not to notice the smile that curved his lips.

  Decided that ignoring it, and the subject of their discussion, would be in her best interests.

  Because he was right. She needed to save her powder for the more important engagement—the private tussle brewing between him and her.

  Late that evening, in a highly dissatisfied mood, Loretta paced her room. Arms folded, she halted before the fireplace, fixed her gaze on the flames, and felt like growling.