The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Yes, she wanted him, inside her, buried to the hilt within her, but she wanted, as she’d told him, that deeper experience, that greater intensity.

  Instinct insisted. Why she wasn’t sure, but she wanted him like that, unfettered, unrestrained, unleashed.

  She was wondering how to lead him to that, wondering what the path might be, when he raised his head and kissed her again, blatantly sank into her willing mouth again. Conquered again, languid and assured, then he drew back and murmured, his breath an intoxicating caress over her throbbing lips, “Will you stand naked in the moonlight for me?”

  “Yes.” The word had passed her lips before she’d thought. Then she did. “Why?”

  His lips returned to hers, and she didn’t think he would answer, but then he drew back and trailed kisses along her jaw. “Because I ache to see you.” He whispered the words by her ear. “To know you … like that.”

  On the words, he straightened, raised his head. His hands cupped her shoulders and eased the gaping nightgown off.

  She raised her lids, looked into his eyes. Held by the naked passion in his gaze, she lowered her arms, let the sleeves of the gown slide, felt the material glide in an evocative caress down her back. He followed the fall with his hands, brushed her hips and sent the garment sliding down to puddle about her feet.

  He took a half step back.

  The storm had rushed past, whipping the clouds before it. Leaving the moon to sail free in the winter sky, its radiance steadily strengthening. Slanting through the porthole to his right, moonbeams played over her naked body.

  She should have felt chilled, but she didn’t.

  His gaze heated her as, with slow deliberation, he surveyed what he’d revealed. Like a gossamer caress, his gaze traveled over her bare shoulders, over her breasts, peaked and swollen, heavy with that increasingly familiar ache. Unshielded, his gaze swept over her midriff, over the indentation of her waist, over her belly, then swiftly down her legs to her feet before, slowly, wending back up to come to rest on the dark curls shadowing the apex of her thighs.

  Her breath tight in her chest, her eyes, her entire attention, fixed on him, she felt like a piece of precious porcelain, or some creature spun out of the finest crystal, something so delicate and rare and exquisitely beautiful that she—her body—of itself possessed the power to ensorcel him.

  He, his gaze, all she saw in his face made her feel … that powerful.

  The tension that held him, the desire darkening his eyes, were a revelation. Possessiveness and more lived in his face, plain for her to see. Along with something else—something more akin to worship and reverence—that elusive something she sensed in his touch, that called to her heart and her soul.

  For one instant, in the wavering moonlight, she could almost touch it.

  Then he moved.

  To her, yet he made no move to seize her. Instead, raising one hand he set one fingertip to her shoulder, then traced lazily around the curve and down, laying a tracery of fire beneath her skin, over the swell of her breast, down its side, slowly down her body.…

  She broke. Closed the distance, threw her arms about his neck, threw herself against him and kissed him.

  Passionately.

  With a demand Rafe felt to his soles.

  His senses reeled at the contact. His hands closed about her waist, but before he could even catch his breath she pulled back and commanded, “Now you.”

  He would have chuckled, but desire had sunk her talons deep. All he could manage was, “As you wish,” in a voice so gravelly he wondered if she would make out the words.

  Not that she’d waited for them. She was already wrestling with the ties at his throat. He dealt with those at his wrists, then leaned back and stripped the shirt off over his head.

  Before he’d even freed his hands, she fell on the buttons at his waist.

  He caught her hands. “Boots first.”

  It took him less than a minute to ease both off; she all but jigged with impatience. The instant he straightened, her small fingers caught the last button at his waist and slid it free.

  The flap of his breeches fell open. His erection sprang free, proud, fully engorged.

  The look on her face distracted him; the sheer fascination investing her features made him inwardly blink.

  Her eyes fixed on the object of her interest, she waved vaguely at his breeches. “Take them off.”

  He complied, thanking his stars he’d had the sense to ease the closures on the ends of the legs earlier, so all that was required was for him to strip them off one leg, then the other.

  The instant he straightened, she reached out and closed one small hand about his erection.

  One glance at her face, at the expression in her eyes, had him shutting his, then biting back a groan.

  Her fingers eased, then drifted. Her other hand joined in.

  Exploration. Learning.

  Every muscle tensed to unbending iron, shackled under an inflexible will, he waited out her curiosity. Gritted his teeth, spine rigid, raised his head, and bore with the delicate touches, the gentle caresses.

  Eventually he realized she was watching him, his face, as she stroked, then lightly squeezed.

  He cracked open his lids, just enough to see …

  Joy. Fascination. Delight.

  She saw him looking, smiled—a madonna’s smile full of secrets and yearning—then she eased one hand from his turgid member, raised it, and, still holding his throbbing erection in one hand, with the other stroked his shoulder, his chest, traced lovingly down to the tight disc of one nipple …

  He broke. Reached for her. Seized her arms and hauled her against him.

  Felt her shock as if it were his—that indescribably erotic jolt of sensation when naked female body met naked male.

  Loretta trembled—with soaring, searing anticipation. She’d wanted to, had needed to, learn, and she was learning. Feeling, experiencing, seeing.

  Starting to know, to understand, but as she melted into his arms, into him, felt the sensuous glide of her body against his as, one hand still closed about his erection, she stretched up against him, wound her other arm about his neck and gave him her lips, she wanted yet more.

  She offered her mouth and he took. Plundered.

  Gone was all restraint, yet he was still in control. He knew what he was doing, was too experienced in this to harm her in any way, yet the sheer strength in his hands, the way he molded her body so flagrantly to his and rocked into her hand, was both a thrill and a warning.

  She’d come to him, offered herself to him, blatantly encouraged him to take—and now he would. Now he would take what he wished of her, physically possess her, fill her and make her his.

  She couldn’t wait. Could feel the compulsive beat in her blood, could swear she felt it echo in him. Through the kiss, through the evocative, provocative thrusting of his tongue, through his bold, explicit caresses, through his touch that was no longer gentle but driven, it gave notice of what was to come.

  Then one hard hand eased its grip on her bottom. Skating that palm over flushed and dewed skin, he reached between them, pressed against her belly, then his fingers tangled in her curls, stroked through them and reached further.

  Probed the hot, slick wetness between her thighs.

  Left her sensually reeling, gasping as with just the right pressure, just the right touch, he sent fiery need arcing through her. The furnace deep inside her yawned, empty and molten and aching.

  Needing. Wanting.…

  He drew his hand from her, caught her wrist, drew her hand from him. Broke from the kiss and in the same breath closed his hands about her hips and hoisted her up.

  “Wrap your legs around me.”

  Even before the gravelly order ended she had. Instinct had her firmly in its grip, an age-old anticipation searing her nerves, heightening and tightening at the flex and slide of naked skin, at the exquisite abrasion of harder, hair-dusted limbs against her silken flesh.

  He held
her against him, their faces almost level. His eyes locked on hers, he eased her down, so the throbbing flesh between her thighs parted and slowly eased over the engorged head of his rampant erection.

  She shivered at the first touch, eyes wide, held her breath as he eased into her, forging steadily deeper as he drew her down. She caught her breath on a hitching sob, senses slowly splintering at the feel of him filling her, hard and heavy and oh so real; quivering on the cusp of delight, she clung as he sheathed himself in her surrendered body.

  He thrust in the last inch, seating himself fully within her. And it was more—a clearer, harder, more unrelenting sensation, an even more undeniable possession.

  A moan shuddered in her throat. Swallowing it, from beneath heavy lids she forced herself to meet his gaze, to look deep into his desire-darkened eyes and see … his jaw tightened and he lifted her hips.

  Raised her until she almost lost the fullness of him, then brought her down, thrust up and in, and filled her anew, stretching her as a sound of surrender and entreaty combined escaped her.

  He heard. He understood. Hands gripping her hips, he lifted her and brought her down again, setting a steady pace, one she discovered she had no ability to influence. All she could do was wrap her arms about his neck, cling and clutch and allow him to fill her, pleasure her, as he willed.

  As he wanted, as he wished.

  And he did.

  Pleasure rose in a hot wave and washed through her, flooded her and filled her and still he continued to relentlessly press the potent combination of desire and delight, of passion and possession, upon her, into her, through her.

  Until she thought she would die, drunk on unadulterated glory.

  That her body would implode under the sheer weight of sensation—under the swirling mass of tactile stimulation and the underlying emotions that, with every heated breath, every powerful thrust, only swelled and heightened.

  They were both panting, gasping, lungs burning. Caught in the conflagration of their needs, in the powerful, merciless vise of their joint passions. Blind and deaf, she clung, aware only of the pounding pace, of the accelerating, relentless drive to completion.

  In talons of steel, it gripped her, gripped him, and forced them on.

  Desperate, she forced open her heavy lids, saw the glimmer of blue beneath his lashes. Saw the same yearning desperation she felt, the same raw hunger reflected in his face, in his harsh features.

  Locking one hand about his nape, she levered up in his hold, and kissed him. Crushed her lips to his, plastered her body to his and deliberately sank down hard as he thrust up.

  The change in angle was the trigger.

  He hit a spot inside her that made her cry out. Knife-edged pleasure lanced through her, sundering her fragile hold on reality, flinging her up and out into a featureless void, sending her senses careening, her nerves unraveling as she soared on a crest of near violent pleasure.

  Fingers sinking deep, head flung back, her body a taut arc, she soundlessly screamed.

  Ecstasy erupted, welling from where they joined. It poured up and overflowed, sweeping her from the pinnacle of fractured need into an uncharted sea of blissful, golden satiation.

  Rafe clung to her, held on, but couldn’t deny her call—couldn’t hold back from the rippling contractions of her sheath, the siren’s call that ruthlessly beckoned him on …

  She was delight; she was life. She was the promise of all he’d ever dreamed he might have, the embodiment of his future.

  Head bowed, muscles straining, he held her hips immobile and thrust deep, groaned, and felt his reins slip.

  Let them go, held her tight. Sunk to the hilt in her body, her limbs wrapped about him, he surrendered and let her have him, let her take him and possess him as he had her.

  Let the circle close. Felt it click.

  He shuddered, acknowledging the change, the capitulation, the reality, felt the knowledge sink to his bones.

  She was his and he was hers, and nothing but death could now part them.

  Long minutes passed. All he could hear was the rasp of his breathing, the thready sibilant race of hers.

  All he could feel was the golden aftermath of pleasure, the heady glow of receding ecstasy.

  She lay slumped in his arms, limp and heated. He’d slumped back on the bed, still holding her close.

  Eventually she stirred, tried weakly, ineffectually, to wriggle.

  Summoning the dregs of his strength he lifted her from him, tumbled her onto the bed, then followed her down, spooning around her, wrestling the covers up and over them.

  He lay beside her and sleep dragged them down.

  An hour or so later, Rafe surfaced from the warm wings of slumber as he usually did—in good time to leave the lady’s bed and find his own for the rest of the night.

  Except …

  Opening one eye, he saw a delicate shoulder, ivory satin peeking through a broken veil of dark silk, and relaxed. With his senses reached for the body wrapped in his arms, registering its warmth and softness, then he allowed his limbs to fall leaden once more.

  He closed his eyes on an inward, quietly gloating smile.

  They were in his bed, and he had no wish to let this lady—his lady—go, not until dawn tinged the sky and he was forced to.

  Surrendering to the pleasure still fogging his mind, he let his thoughts free, let them roam.

  Wondered, fleetingly, what progress he’d made—whether the night’s interlude had strengthened the sensual bonds with which he sought to bind her to him. Enough so she would accept his suit without further argument … that led to the question of what had happened, and where they were now … what had changed …

  It didn’t require much consideration to reveal the uncomfortable truth.

  He might have succeeded in further enthralling her, but not without cost.

  Ignoring the truth, the reality of what he felt, had just grown immeasurably harder.

  Fourteen

  I’ve made up my mind and I will not be swayed.” Seated in one of the salon’s armchairs, Esme looked up at Rafe.

  He stood before her, his mind scrambling in the wake of her latest decree.

  Her lips lifted faintly. “I’ll be perfectly safe, dear boy.” With a wave, she indicated the plump, matronly nun seated in the other armchair. “You can trust dear Henny to make sure of it.”

  Dear Henny—Henrietta Wimplethorpe, apparently an old and dear childhood friend of Esme’s, now the abbess of a nearby convent—beamed cherubicly. With her soft blond hair and apple cheeks, she looked more like a Helga—or her convent’s patron saint, Hildegard of Bingen.

  Dragging a hand through his hair, Rafe decided the second allusion was more apt. There was a shrewdness behind the twinkling blue eyes regarding him. Measuringly.

  “Esme’s right, you know.” Hildegard—Henny—aimed her sunny smile at him. “The convent’s impregnable—it’s withstood sieges, marauders, and all manner of attackers through the ages. And we still keep the place locked up tight. It’s a closed community, which"—she glanced at Esme—"sounds like just what’s needed.”

  “And you’ll do much better without me, dear boy. Especially on this last stretch, when you will have to travel faster, and possibly have to duck, weave, and scuttle to avoid cult pursuit. At my age, ducking, weaving, and scuttling is beyond me.”

  “But …” He didn’t know why he was arguing. Esme was right in that her relative lack of mobility might become a liability the closer they got to England. Yet …

  As if she could read his mind, she continued imperturbably, “And you said it yourself—it’s possible Manning will persevere, that he will learn that the Prussian failed him and have another villain in his pocket to throw against me. On this penultimate leg of your mission, you can’t afford the distraction of having to defend me against Manning’s hired thugs.”

  He exhaled through his teeth. “It’s just …”

  “That you accepted the mantle of Esme’s protector in Buda, and
your honor and loyalty make you reluctant to yield it up.” Henny spoke with the authority of one used to guiding others. “Entirely understandable, indeed, to be lauded. However, in this case, you need to bow to the greater call on your devotion—completing your mission successfully must take precedence over all else.”

  Looking into Henny’s eyes, old and wise and very sure, he had to acknowledge that an abbess would unquestionably know all about devotion.

  He dragged in a breath. Forced himself to incline his head. Tried not to think of what accepting Esme’s plan would mean for him and Loretta. Parting now, after last night and the night before, after what he’d realized in the still depths of the night when he’d woken and found her in his arms … just the thought caused a painful wrench somewhere inside him.

  Lips compressed, he shifted his gaze to Esme, fighting the urge to glance at Loretta seated on the window seat to his right, and nodded. “Very well. Hassan and I will see you to the convent, then go on alone.”

  Esme opened her eyes wide. “No, no, dear boy—you misunderstand. Only myself and Gibson will remain here—Loretta and Rose must go on with you.”

  Battling the urge to clutch his head with both hands, Rafe stared at her. “That’s …” Perfect, Reckless purred. “Not possible.” He glanced at Henny. “Such a situation would be highly improper.”

  Henny pursed her lips. “Irregular, perhaps, but not out of the question, and in this instance, with Rose by her side, Loretta’s reputation wouldn’t be at risk.” Henny blinked up at him. “The circumstances are rather difficult, after all.”

  “But …” Rafe ran his hand through his hair again. “What possible reason could there be for Loretta to travel on, rather than wait here with you?”

  “Because,” Esme replied, her tone suggesting she was explaining the obvious, “without Loretta to bear witness to my wishes, how do you imagine prevailing on my man-of-business to act against Charles Manning? Dear Henny has agreed to provide me with safe refuge for the nonce, but I cannot remain—indeed, much as I adore Henny, do not wish to remain—in the convent forever. My safe release will depend on removing the threat Manning poses, and to accomplish that, you will need to persuade my representatives to act in my absence.”