The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  That having enjoyed the sight of her bent before him, her body offered up, his to fill, that he take this, too, savor this, too—the inexpressible delight of having her wrap him in her arms, welcome him into her body, and take him to her heart.

  He wanted to be there.

  Reckless assured him this was the way.

  He stripped in seconds, then joined her beneath the covers. Settled her amid the mound of pillows, spread her thighs wide and sank between. A small remnant of sanity was howling from some distant corner of his mind that this was dangerous; he blocked it out, ignored it.

  This was important, watching her as she crested again, as she opened to him again and, knowing it was him, accepted and embraced him, and let him possess her.

  Reaching down, he drew one of her knees up, curled her leg over his hip. As he settled himself on his elbows, his chest abrading her breasts, she drowsily, languidly, raised her other leg and draped it over his thigh, raised her arms to his shoulders, slid one hand to his nape.

  Her lashes fluttered, barely opening as she lifted her face and drew him down, offered him her lips.

  He dipped his head and took, devoured, kissed her until they were both heated and reeling again.

  With one thrust joined their bodies, and felt their tension leap, felt the inexorable rise of desire, the rake of its claws as he thrust deep into her mouth, deep into her body, and rode her.

  Deep, powerfully, hard, but not fast. There was no rush; he wanted to savor every scintilla of her surrender.

  Wanted to experience every nuance of the joy of her warmth, her welcome, her unalloyed, unrestrained acceptance.

  She held him, undulated beneath him, rode with him into paradise.

  The way was clear, untrammeled and easy. All he had to do was follow the path, and let the flames have him.

  Surrender to them as they licked over his flesh, burned away all inhibitions and reached for his soul.

  He broke from the kiss, breathing ragged, eyes nearly blind.

  Their breaths gusted and mingled, heat to heat, sweetness and passion. They rocked unrestrained, both reaching, racing. The musky scent of their loving rose and embraced them, clouding his senses, racking his arousal one notch higher.

  From under weighted lids, he glanced at her face, saw the faintest of smiles curving her lips.

  Saw unalloyed delight in her expression.

  Saw it tighten as passion laid hold and she tensed, then arched beneath him, nails digging in, scoring as, head back, she shattered.

  As beneath the covers her thighs gripped his flanks and her sheath clamped tight and drew him on.

  Into the maelstrom of sensation, of sharp, biting, slicing pleasure. Into the explosion of consciousness that soared through his body, streaked along every nerve, pounded down every vein to take him. Shatter him.

  Empty him and remake him.

  That, at the last, left him wracked, wrecked, and struggling for breath, hanging over her.

  Her arms tightened, tugged, and pulled him down.

  With a grunt, he gave in, surrendered.

  Felt her arms close around him, felt the gentle stroke of her hand.

  Felt peace sink into him and take him.

  He woke in the night. Found himself lying beside her, with her head on his shoulder, her body cleaving to his.

  Bliss still lapped him. Certainty dwelled within him.

  He didn’t want to be anywhere but where he was.

  Then she stirred, sleepily wriggled, glanced up, then stretched up and kissed him. One sleek thigh rose to slide across him.

  She held him to the kiss, and the kiss went on.

  He knew it was dangerous.

  He no longer cared.

  A storm had blown up. Clouds had swallowed the moon. Wind raked the river, then strafed hail across the deck.

  The savagery, the howls, and drumming rain were a distant counterpoint, a contrast of sounds as in the cocoon of her covers they gasped and clung, loved again, came together and rose and shattered again.

  Slumped again, sated beyond imagining, secure and satisfied in each other’s arms.

  She slid back into sleep, snug in his arms and transparently content.

  He held her, and wondered where his plans had gone.

  Less than a mile away, the Lorelei was reputed to have lured sailors to her—to their deaths, to their loss, to the ultimate surrender.

  Tonight, in the shadow of the siren’s rock, Loretta had done the same. She hadn’t had to sing; she’d simply had to be. He hadn’t been able to resist her lure.

  So now he lay in her arms, his defense in tatters. Facing the reality he’d fought to deny, had thought to deny forever.

  But she knew, now—he’d sensed it in her kiss, in her touch, in the way her eyes had held his, in the soft caress of her hand on his cheek as she’d given herself to him again. As he’d given himself to her. Again.

  And now that she knew, he knew, too.

  The truth, it seemed, couldn’t—wouldn’t—consent to be hidden. Locked away.

  He’d have to get used to it. He’d have to find a way.

  Because he couldn’t retreat. Couldn’t let her go.

  He couldn’t imagine his life without her.

  Fifteen

  As soon as the fog thinned sufficiently the next morning, the Loreley Regina got underway. Still determined to see what sights there were, Loretta took Esme’s guidebook into the enclosed bridge.

  “Boppard.” Standing at the helm, Julius pointed to the left. “See the twin towers? That is the St. Severus Church.”

  Standing by the window, Loretta peered through the murk, and picked out the twin spires. Noticing the boat was heading for the bank, she glanced at Julius. “I thought we weren’t stopping.”

  “We aren’t, but I must swing this way to come around the next curve—it is almost … how do you English say it?—a dog-leg?”

  Loretta tried to look ahead, to follow the banks, but they disappeared into the low-lying mist.

  By the time they’d negotiated what Julius informed her was the largest bend along the entire Rhine, Rafe had joined them and the mists were lifting, blown away by a crisp breeze.

  Although Rafe paused to exchange comments with Julius, the only member of the crew on the bridge at that moment, Loretta was acutely aware of him—of the glance he cast her, of the weight carried in every heartbeat during which their gazes locked.

  Then Julius spoke, and Rafe turned to him.

  She drew breath, calmed her giddy heart. Great heavens! This was worse than before. She was at a loss to understand why their most recent engagement had affected her—and him, too, it seemed—to such a degree. As if, between them, some shield had fallen, been stripped away, leaving them … more sensitive to each other, their nerves more alive to the other’s nearness, the other’s thoughts, their awareness excruciatingly heightened.

  It was unsettling … and exhilarating.

  Eventually Rafe left Julius and approached her. His blue eyes held hers for a moment, and again she was conscious of the thud of her own heart, then he glanced at the guidebook.

  “So …” He lounged against the window beside her. “What can we expect to see today?”

  She told him. Lahneck Castle was soon visible above the right bank, but what they could see through the lingering wisps of mist was not impressive. Soon, however, on the left as they approached Coblenz, they saw a much more eyecatching edifice towering above the river.

  “Stolzenfels Castle,” Loretta pronounced. By the time she’d read out the description of the multiple walls and battlements, and the towering keep, Coblenz itself was sliding toward them.

  Rafe shifted nearer so he could read the guidebook over her shoulder. Again their gazes met, just for an instant, and a shiver of awareness streaked over her skin, yet it wasn’t the same as before. The novel sensation suggested closeness, something more private, more personal, something neither he nor she had ever shared with any other.

  Why she
was so sure of that she didn’t know, but as she drew in a tight breath, raised her head and stared unseeing out at Coblenz—and Rafe did the same—she was sure, to her heart sure, that he hadn’t been down this road before.

  Such closeness stunned and amazed her. That indefinable sense of drawing near a large and potentially dangerous beast, one who had grown addicted to her touch. Who was skittish rather than nervous, wary of her intentions yet who was willing to chance them just to feel her touch again. Just to gain what soothed his beast’s soul … her lips curved at the imagery; she straightened them, but the notion, she sensed, wasn’t that far off the mark.

  He darted a glance at the guidebook, then pointed. “That must be the fortified wall.”

  She read, nodded. A minute later, she pointed, “Those towers must belong to the Basilica of St. Kastor, and that building over there must be the Church of St. Florian.”

  They continued picking out sights as they sailed past Coblenz.

  “And that"—Julius pointed ahead to the left—"is the Moselle River. It marks the northern boundary of the town.”

  Rose and Hassan emerged onto the forward deck, looked around, then spotted them and came hurrying into the bridge.

  “Right brisk it is out there.” Rose blew on her hands. She peered out through the windows. “Is there much to see?”

  They continued playing “spot-the-castle,” as Rose put it, then repaired to the dining room for an early luncheon. They dallied over the platters, exchanging stories of strange meals in strange places. The tales Rafe and Hassan told trumped anything Loretta or Rose had experienced. Both women hung on every word, then exchanged glances and demanded to hear more.

  A mizzling rain had closed over the river, although as Julius had predicted the currents remained swift and the winds in the right quarter to carry the Loreley Regina rapidly on.

  Eschewing the grayness outside, they went into the salon. Swapping the guidebook for the pack of cards, they played several games of enthusiastic whist, then a crewman looked in to convey a message from Julius that the sights looming ahead were worth seeing.

  Rescuing the guidebook, they trooped up to the bridge, and spent what remained of the afternoon watching picturesque villages slide past. The gorge now lay behind them and the mountains had drawn back from the riverbanks, leaving the river cutting a northwesterly swath through a fertile plain.

  They’d passed Linz am Rhein, and the town of Remagen with its shrine to St. Apollinaris overshadowed by a last, towering castle, when, leaving the wheel to another crewman, Julius came to speak with Rafe.

  “You said you feared your enemies—this cult—would have watchers at Bonn?”

  Rafe nodded.

  Julius grimaced. “We must put in there—we are low on supplies. But we are making good enough time for us to anchor here for the night. We are far enough away from the town to be safe, yet close enough that tomorrow we will reach the dock just after daybreak, and be away soon after. Our business will not take long.”

  Rafe hesitated, then nodded. “If we must, we must, and better there than further along. The closer to Rotterdam we get, the more likely we are to encounter cultists in greater numbers.”

  “After this halt we will not need to tie up at any town before Rotterdam. If the winds stay fair, and in this season there is no reason to think they won’t, we will be there as you wished, on the nineteenth of the month.”

  Rafe smiled. “You’ve done well. We’ll stay below tomorrow morning until Bonn is behind us.”

  That evening, they dined quietly, discussing Bonn and the reality of the danger looming ahead. To alleviate the tension—or at least hold it back—they played whist for an hour, then forsaking even that, retired.

  Rose followed Loretta into the stateroom, then halted.

  Loretta glanced back, saw Rose clasping and unclasping her hands, and arched a brow.

  “I thought to mention,” Rose blurted out, “that Hassan and I … we’ve decided to tie the knot. After this is all over, of course, and after you and Mr. Rafe wed, but …” Blushing, Rose waved vaguely at the stateroom door. “In case you’d noticed … I thought I should say.”

  Loretta beamed. “That’s wonderful, Rose—and thank you for telling me. Not that I wondered—in the circumstances, what you wish to do is for you to decide—but … oh, I’m so sincerely happy for you.” Whisking back, she enveloped Rose in a hug. “Good luck to you both. He’s lucky to find such a treasure as you.” She paused, then added, “If you’re sure he’s the one?”

  “Oh, I am—I am.” Rose hugged her back. “And good luck to you and Mr. Rafe, too.”

  “Thank you.” Loretta stepped back, tugged her gown into place. Lips quirking, she nodded at the door. “You can go. I won’t need you again tonight.”

  Rose’s face lit. “If you’re sure?”

  “I am. Go.” Loretta shooed.

  Her face wreathed in smiles, Rose turned and went, slipping out of the door and closing it quietly after her.

  Loretta stared at the door, her own smile fading.

  If you’re sure? Luckily, Rose hadn’t asked her that question in relation to Rafe. However …

  “I am.” She murmured the words, felt them resonate inside her. She was sure, yet …

  She knew—in her heart, to her soul, knew that he felt that something special for her. She’d sensed it, tasted it, felt and experienced it last night, had seen it—or the effect of it—in his eyes that morning.

  Had felt the evolving, deepening, and strengthening shift in the current that had linked them throughout the day.

  What she still didn’t know was whether he knew.

  Whether he recognized the feeling, the emotion, for what it was.

  It was important that he did.

  After you and Mr. Rafe wed.

  She no longer doubted that they would. Yet until he acknowledged what it was that linked them, what power it was that would underpin their marriage, some inner instinct warned that she’d be wise to withhold her final agreement.

  Men like Rafe Carstairs were the epitome of stubborn, at least when it came to subjects they wanted to avoid.

  Her vision of him as a wary and wily beast returned to her mind. If he could gain the succor he craved yet remain unleashed, he would.

  If she let him.

  She nearly snorted, then remembered something she’d packed away … its time had clearly come.

  Swinging around, smiling in suddenly eager anticipation, she walked into her cabin and shut the door.

  Ten minutes later, Rafe tapped on the stateroom’s door. He’d gone up on deck to check that the spot Julius had chosen in which to anchor was reasonably safe. Reassured on that point, he’d come straight back down.

  Straight to Loretta.

  He was willing to wager that Rose had already tripped her way down the corridor to Hassan’s cabin. Hassan had told him of their plans, and while he wished them nothing but happiness, he wished his own future was equally definite.

  The thought had sent him striding to the stateroom’s door to knock almost imperiously. When no answer was forthcoming, he frowned, opened the door, and looked in. The sitting room was empty, the lamps unlit, but a sliver of lamplight glowed along the base of the closed door of Loretta’s cabin.

  Entering, he shut the main door, then crossed to the last door between him and his intended. Halting before it, he raised his hand, hesitated enough to restrain his impatience, then rapped lightly.

  “Come in.”

  The faintly sultry, decidedly languid tones rushed over him like a caress, and set every instinct on high alert.

  He hesitated, then, jaw tightening, grasped the doorknob, turned it, and walked in.

  She was lying on her side across the bed, propped on one elbow facing the door, a smile of welcome on her face, her long, luscious body encased in a confection composed of feathers, wisps of satin, and scraps of lace.

  Beyond his control, his gaze swept from her shoulders, the ivory curves peeking thro
ugh a froth of lace and feathers, past the ripe curves of her breasts outlined in sheening satin, past the indentation of her waist, the evocative curves of hip and stomach, the long svelte lines of her thighs, to her calf, half revealed beneath a ruffle of lace and feathers, to the tiny feathered slippers on her feet.

  Lamps on side tables flanking the bed cast a warm, loving glow over her dark hair, her porcelain skin. Gilded her curves.

  His mouth had dried. Breathing was difficult. He managed to shut the door behind him. Cleared his throat, gestured. “Where …?”

  “Esme. Paris. What more need I say?” Her smile was an open invitation.

  He took one step foward. Halted. Seized the moment to get his baser self under more rigid control.

  Her eyes on his, she moved, slowly, sinuously, rising to her knees.

  Revealing to his fascinated senses that the nightgown was even more alluring than he’d thought—almost insubstantial across her upper breasts, leaving the ripe mounds to beckon and tease behind a shifting drift of feathers anchored on open lace. At her sides, panels of the same lace framed two slits that ran up her thighs, up the sides of her hips to just below her waist.

  Whoever had designed the nightgown knew a great deal about men. Whatever Esme had been thinking when she’d bought the garment for Loretta, he didn’t want to know.

  On her knees, Loretta, all siren, beckoned him to the side of the bed. His feet moved of their own accord, and took him to her.

  “This time,” she murmured, fingers closing around his lapels as she drew him the last inch closer, “I get to lead.”

  He couldn’t think of a worse idea but, as her lips pressed, all voluptuous temptation, to his, he gathered she wasn’t interested in his opinion.

  His reservations.

  He clung to the latter, but he couldn’t deny her as with those delicate lips and the tip of her wicked tongue she lured him into the exchange, until he accepted her brazen invitation, and sank into her mouth and claimed.

  All she offered. That reality, as ever, sent his senses reeling, set his desires aflame, his passions slavering. His hands closed about her, satin shifting seductively under his palms, teasing his fingers with the tactile promise of what lay beneath. Skin so fine it made satin seem coarse.