The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  He drew a deep breath. “If we take the next step—”

  “I don’t want to discuss anything further. Not beyond the next step. I don’t want to consider consequences—if this,if that.” She framed his face with both hands, looked into his eyes. “I want you to make love to me, no strings, no expectations. I want it simply to be you and me together—I want to learn what could be, what we might have between us—honestly and openly, you, me, and our passions—and I can’t have that, we can’t be that, if you’re going to hedge us in, surround us with contingencies.”

  She drew breath. “I need this—I need you. Now, tonight. And I don’t care what the risks are—I’m willing to take them and pay whatever their price.” She held his gaze. “Are you?”

  She could have been him. She could have been Reckless. She spoke directly to that side of him—and to all the rest, too.

  His hands were firming about her waist, his head lowering to hers even before he said, “Yes.”

  She met him halfway.

  Their lips touched, brushed, locked. Fused.

  And they were lost.

  Why it should have been different just because he’d let his resistance fall he had no clue, but the desire that surged, the passion that leapt so hungrily in its wake, was nothing short of need incarnate. The slaking of abstinence, however long enforced, had never been this powerful. This overwhelming.

  Her lips parted under his, welcoming, inviting, and he took. Supped, sipped, then settled to plunder. Her hands sank into his hair and she gripped and kissed him back, equally hungry, equally urgent.

  His grip on her waist eased; he spread his hands, holding her to him. Urging her closer. She pressed closer yet, her body all evocative curves and alluring feminine heat, sliding, then fitting snugly against him, a deliberate provocation of his ravenous senses.

  Between one heartbeat and the next desire ignited. Passion flashed, soared, hot and greedy. His arms locked about her, seizing, holding. He angled his head and deepened thekiss; in a tangle of tongues she met him, flagrantly challenged and dared him. Heat rose in a wall and bore down on them, crashed into them, filled them, overflowed, and swept them on.

  “Clothes.” Loretta tugged at his collar. “You have too many on.” Her gasp was a command; desire sang in the sound. Her breasts were already aching, her senses flushed and needy, and she wanted him naked.

  His lips closed over hers again; he found her tongue, stroked, sucked as if the taste of her was an ambrosia he had no intention of ever giving up.

  But his arms released her. Even while he plundered her mouth, in a rush of grasping, greedy hands he and she together wrestled him out of his coat, out of his waistcoat, stripped off his cravat.

  He had to let her go and step back to haul his shirt off over his head.

  She seized the moment to dispense with her robe.

  His eyes gleamed through the moon-drenched shadows as, flinging his shirt aside, he reached for her.

  Lips throbbing, she let her robe fall where it would and reached for him.

  They came together in a clash of sensual fire that left her mentally reeling. Inwardly gasping as her hands met his bare chest, as the weight and resilience of the heavy muscles banding it screamed male to her giddy senses, as his strength wrapped around her and he took control of the kiss, as his hand found her breast and kneaded.

  In that instant she realized they’d stepped beyond some boundary, that he’d taken her at her word and come to her honestly, openly, just him, her, and their passions—with no reserve, nothing held back, nothing to mute his aggression and power.

  Nothing to mute the delight that filled her, the certainty that welled, swelled and rushed through her. His. Mine. Two sides of the one coin, this was what she yearned for.

  Grasping his head again, she wildly kissed him back,dropped every last fading link to convention and gave herself over to him, to this, to her Michelmarsh self.

  To bold and passionate pleasure.

  It swirled around them, swept over them, slid through them, sending insidious heat licking over every square inch of skin they exposed. Every square inch of her he reverently caressed, every inch of him she gloried in.

  Exploration she’d called it. To her reeling mind the description was apt. But the lead changed between them, leaving her wallowing in long moments of mind-stealing sensation as he feasted on her breasts, only to have him still, eyes closing as with lips and tongue and wicked little nips she returned the pleasure.

  She’d never thought to feel so free. So free to feel, to exult in the physical, to reach for pleasure with such uninhibited abandon, to feel so moved to lavish pleasure and delight in return.

  He sat and pulled off his boots, then stood and drew her to him. He divested her of her nightgown with a touch that spoke of reverence.

  At her insistence, he allowed her to unbutton his breeches, then stepped back and stripped them away.

  Her mouth dried as he straightened, as he stood bathed in moonlight, a golden god, the gilt wash glinting in the fine blond hairs that dusted his arms and legs, the deeper golden brown of the curling hair that swept across his chest, then arrowed down to his groin, casting mysterious shadows and drawing her eye.

  Her breath caught. Her lungs seized.

  He stood before her, his rampant erection declaring his desire. It was she who moved closer, drawn. She closed her hand about the rigid length, and felt him shudder.

  He shifted nearer. His hands slid around her hips, skin to naked skin; he bent his head and took her mouth again, but he didn’t deny her—didn’t draw her hand away but allowed her to claim him, to with her hands trace and learn and know….

  Passion rose with their heartbeats, a crest of silent thunder rolling in and taking them under.

  Hands gripped, slid away, stroked, then returned to claim again. A flush spread beneath her skin as touch transmuted to sensation, and sensation was all pleasure.

  Their breathing harried, still they dallied, wanting each moment, stretching each scintillating second, drinking each other in.

  No rush, no hurry. This night was theirs.

  Rafe had never before felt such fascination, as if this were fresh, uncharted territory. As if this was the first time his fingertips had ever glided over a woman’s naked thigh, the first time he’d gripped and felt sleekly rounded flesh fill his palm.

  The unexpected novelty held him in thrall.

  His heart beat in a cadence he didn’t recognize, heavy with lust, yet deliberate and slow. Slow so his senses could take in the wonder, the absolute delight of the woman in his arms.

  Yet beneath the slow dance of tactile possession, the heat still built.

  And built.

  Until on a gasp she broke from the seething conflagration the melding of their mouths had become, her fingertips sinking into his upper arms, her head tipping back as her body arched to his in need, in want, in unspoken entreaty.

  He swept her up in his arms, laid her on the bed, and covered her. Spread her thighs with his and settled between. Caught her mouth with his, caught her hands and pinned them one on either side of her head, held her down as desire erupted, raged, and ripped through them.

  Ravaged them.

  She kissed him back as ferociously, as temptestuously as he kissed her. Her body arched beneath his, hips tilting in primitive evocative invitation.

  One touch confirmed she was ready.

  He set the aching head of his erection to the slick entrance of her sheath. Felt the nails of her freed hand score his back. Felt her desperation, felt her need.

  Felt his own need swamp him.

  One thrust, and she was his.

  The sudden sharp pain shocked her. Loretta clung for one second, her shriek muted by their kiss. She hovered, for that instant caught between two worlds, but then passion closed around her, tugged, and she let go, let herself sink into the heated tide once more.

  Her body softened around his, accepting the heavy intrusion, his presence at her core igni
ting a flame that burned hotter than any she’d felt before.

  The sudden tension eased, and he drew back.

  In flaring panic, she clutched. “No!”

  She heard a raspy chuckle as he reversed direction.

  “Not a chance.”

  Those were the last words they exchanged. The last words either was capable of uttering.

  Whatever her imagination had prepared her for, it had never come close to this.

  Possession. Possessing.

  Giving and taking in a rush of heat and flames, of sharp desire and scintillating passion.

  Of a communion of the physical that reached to the soul.

  And touched it.

  Intimacy. She’d never thought it could encompass all this—the closeness, the yearning, the vulnerability.

  The feel of his body moving over hers, the weight of him crushing her into the mattress, the rough abrasion of his hair-dusted limbs and chest over her sensitized flesh, over her tightly peaked nipples, the sensitive inner faces of her thighs.

  The shivery reality wrapped around her, held her, impressed itself on her through the thrust of his flesh so deep inside her, the instinctive clutch and cling of her sheath, the rocking of her body as she cradled him.

  As she held him and gloried, and surrendered and claimed.

  Pleasure and delight welled, and overflowed, spiced with a blossoming joy unlike any she’d felt before, a giddy feeling verging on euphoria.

  And over and through it all sensation swelled, pressure and friction, slickness and heat.

  Pressing her on, driving her higher, filling her until she thought she would burst.

  Until her nerves and senses imploded, the climax both familiar yet not. Deeper, brighter, a cataclysm of sensation that shattered her, shredded her, hollowed her out, then flung her into some void.

  Open and empty, naked and helpless, she clung, then was swept away on a tide of ecstasy.

  Rafe gritted his teeth, eyes closed, held on, but he couldn’t hold back, couldn’t keep himself from her, from sealing their implicit pact and giving himself to her. His body was no longer his but hers. Her sheath rippled, clutched, clung, and he surrendered.

  Thrust deep and, on a long muted groan, emptied himself into her.

  He collapsed on top of her, unable to move. Stripped of every last iota of strength, of will, of resistance, by a glory so deep it transcended ecstasy.

  Only when his heart had slowed, when his blood had cooled to a mere simmer, could he summon the strength and wit to move, to force his weak arms to push his body up from hers.

  He looked into her face. An angel’s face filled with unshielded bliss. Her lashes fluttered. He saw the glint of her eyes, then her lids lowered. Her lips curved.

  She raised one hand and weakly patted his chest, then reached up and stroked his cheek. “Lovely.”

  Her tone made the simple word golden.

  She wriggled. He withdrew and lifted from her and she turned on her side, nestling her cheek on his pillow.

  It was his bunk, and narrow. He managed to wedge himself against the wall, pulling up the covers, gathering her against him, spooning his long body around hers.

  With a sigh she settled in his arms.

  He brushed his lips to her temple. “Sweetheart, you’ll have to go back to your cabin.”

  “Hmm.” A whisper of sound. “Later.”

  He looked down at her. Later.

  He tried to make himself insist—tried to find the experienced lover who would have charmingly urged her up and steered her to her own bed.

  Couldn’t find him.

  He lay down, gathered her close, and accepted what he knew to be fact.

  He wasn’t going to let her go.

  Not now, not willingly.

  Not ever.

  She woke in the small hours. He sensed her start of surprise, relished the all but instantaneous acceptance of her position in his arms.

  Relaxing again, she lay still, silent.

  Eventually, he raised his head and brushed a kiss to the edge of her jaw. “We need to get you back to your cabin—the crew get up early.”

  She sighed, hugged his arms around her for an instant, then slipped from the bed. He followed.

  He pulled on his breeches, then, ignoring the chill air, helped her into her robe; she’d already donned her nightgown.

  Loretta found her slippers and slid her cold toes into them.

  Taking her hand, Rafe led her to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glanced back at her.

  He studied her eyes, then softly said, “I don’t want to argue with you, but as far as I’m concerned, the upshot of the last hours is that we will wed, as soon as we’re safe in England.”

  She studied him in return, replied, “We’ll see.”

  His eyes narrowed. “There’s no seeing about it. You wanted to know, to learn, to experience, and I gave you what you wanted. Now—”

  She held up her hand; frowning, he stopped. “No arguing, remember?” she said.

  His expression hardened. “Loretta—”

  “You’re rushing me. I learned, I experienced, and now I have to think about what I learned and experienced.” Not least because she’d experienced something more than she’d expected. More than she’d anticipated, and she wanted to know if that unexpected element was what she thought and hoped it might be.

  She smiled placatingly and patted his chest, her fingers lingering on his bare skin. “I’m not disagreeing with you, but you’re jumping ahead several steps and I prefer to go slowly.”

  When he simply looked at her, she stretched up and touched her lips to his. “This isn’t an end, but a beginning. Now open the door.”

  He did.

  She whisked past him, looked back at him. “My cabin is two steps away. I won’t get lost.” She let the warmth that lingered around her heart infuse her smile. “Go back to bed, and dream of me.”

  With that, she slipped into the shadows of the corridor.

  Rafe remained at his door. He heard her door open, then quietly shut.

  Slowly, he shut his cabin door. Stared at the panels.

  Dream of her?

  Clearly he wasn’t going to get any more sleep.

  Twelve

  Rafe stood in the nave of the Mannheim cathedral and watched Loretta’s face as she gazed at the windows high above.

  There was nothing all that striking about the windows, nothing to account for the dreamy expression that all through the morning had haunted her face. Whenever she caught him looking, her eyes smiled and her lips curved, as if she knew something, understood something, he didn’t.

  That look, that smile, were unsettling.

  “I’ve seen all I wish to.” Quitting the altar, Esme glided toward him.

  Loretta joined her, Rose and Gibson falling in in her wake.

  Rafe stood back and waved them on. Hassan was waiting by the main doors. Rafe scanned the side chapels as he followed the women up the nave. Although the crew of the Loreley Regina had reported a quiet night and neither he nor Hassan had detected any sign of cultists, they weren’t about to let down their guard.

  The ladies reached the door and Hassan led the way down the stone steps to the street. They hadn’t bothered with a carriage; the river and wharf were only a short stroll away.

  Esme, Loretta, and Gibson paused on the steps, turning back to look up at the intricately carved façade. Theypointed and exclaimed, then consulted Esme’s guidebook. Rose walked on to join Hassan on the pavement.

  Emerging from the shadows of the cathedral’s maw, Rafe halted at the top of the steps and scanned the street. It was midmorning. There were no other visitors in sight, but a smattering of locals walked briskly past, intent on their business. There was no one loitering … other than a man, a European, possibly a local, lounging in a doorway opposite the cathedral, shoulder propped against the wall, his stance radiating the impression he was waiting for someone.

  Except that he was watching the t
hree women on the steps.

  Rafe didn’t consider that suspicious. Loretta looked striking in a dark gray pelisse trimmed with periwinkle blue, a matching blue cap perched atop her dark hair. The coat was expertly cut to showcase her figure. Esme, too, with her exquisite style, still drew appreciative glances.

  Rafe waited for the man’s lingering gaze to move on.

  It didn’t. And the longer Rafe watched, the more definitely he sensed that the man was specifically and intently watching the three women.

  Slowly, deliberately, Rafe descended one step.

  The movement caught the man’s attention; his gaze deflected to Rafe.

  They stared at each other, then the man straightened, looked away, then stepped out of the doorway and walked briskly off, away from the cathedral and away from the river. Rafe watched until the man turned a corner and disappeared, then, inwardly frowning, continued down the steps to where the three women were concluding their study of the cathedral’s stonework.

  Esme shut her guidebook as he approached.

  “If you’ve seen all you wish …?” Rafe glanced at Hassan. For once his friend had failed to notice the watcher; he’d been too absorbed talking with Rose.

  “Yes, indeed, dear boy.” Esme handed the guidebook to Gibson, and tightened her grip on her cane. “We’ve had a most satisfactory morning.”

  “In that case, let’s head back to the boat.” Rafe’s every protective instinct was on high alert. The man might have gone, but to where? To whom?

  Most importantly, why had he been watching them?

  The cult?

  Yet the man had spared barely a glance for either Rafe or Hassan.

  Shaking aside the confusing conundrum, Rafe shepherded his flock back to the wharf. The Loreley Regina was due to depart in half an hour. Regardless of the nature of the man’s interest in them, they’d be gone before he could organize anything.

  Later that afternoon, Esme patted Rafe’s arm as they left the ornate Augustinekirche in Mainz. “Thank you, dear boy.”