The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

by Stephanie Laurens

  It was a game he could play without thinking—he’d, spent many long winters’ evenings playing with his mother and uncle. The activity gave him time and mental space to review all he’d recalled. His own childhood, the memories he hadn’t shared.

  He understood, now, why he felt so much at home here, amid the warmth and joy of a house full of children, a large house of comfort, of quiet, unadorned elegance, and a vital, almost tangible, sense of family. This was the antithesis of his own childhood—one of a lone child, the bastard son of a distant earl living quietly estranged from all family with his unwed mother on the earl’s pension. His uncle had been his only anchor, the only member of his mother’s well-connected English family who had not cut all ties.

  With an easy smile fixed on his lips, he watched the children play, helped little Gilly select her cards, and inwardly acknowledged that the reason he felt so wonderfully at peace here at Mon Coeur was not because it was in any way like his home but because this large house encapsulated and embodied the childhood home of his dreams.

  This was all he’d ever wanted—even better than, as child or man, he’d been able to imagine. Mon Coeur had it all, everything a lonely soul could want: lots of children, adult women of both the necessary generations—mother and grandmother—needed for complete care, for that all-embracing feminine nurturing. It even had older men to provide the essential male influence; Edgar and John had joined the household about the table, then followed them into the parlor. The two sat in what was clearly their usual armchairs, set in one corner back from the hearth, and quietly chatted about this and that. Male talk, discussions Will and Brandon, and even sometimes Chester, paused to listen to and take in.

  Mentally sitting back, seeing it all, absorbing it, Logan was tempted to tell Will, Brandon, Chester, Jen, and Gilly just how lucky they were. But they wouldn’t understand—wouldn’t be able to see as he could, through eyes that had always, until now, looked on this world from the outside.

  It was human nature not to value what one had until one no longer had it. He hoped for their sakes it would never come to that, not for them.

  He glanced at Linnet, felt oddly reassured. She would never allow any of them to lose this, to lose Mon Coeur.

  Mon Coeur. A name he now understood.

  “Logan!” Gilly tugged his sleeve. “Pay ‘tention. Which card should I put down?”

  He focused on the five cards she held tightly in both hands. Pointed. “That one.”

  “All right.”

  He watched as she whipped it out and laid it down.

  The others looked, and groaned.

  “Did I win?”

  Logan laughed, lightly tousled her bright head. “Yes, poppet. You did.”

  From the other side of the parlor, Muriel watched Gilly beam and bounce on her knees, watched Logan gather the cards and reshuffle them. Saw the interest in the other children’s eyes, the boys’ eyes especially, as they watched and learned.

  Much of her earlier wariness toward Linnet’s latest stray had dissipated. Yet looking at Linnet as she sat in an armchair and watched the group before the fire, Muriel wondered if her niece had ever before looked at any man as she was looking at Logan Monteith. Certainly not that Muriel knew.

  There was interest, clear as day, in Linnet’s green eyes—not a calculating interest, but a fascinated one. An intrigued attraction.

  Then Linnet stirred. Uncrossing her legs, she rose. “That’ll have to be the last game tonight.”

  The children and Logan looked up; the children all waited—looking hopefully from Logan to Linnet—but Logan merely inclined his head and turned back to deal the cards. “Last hand.”

  The children pulled faces, but no one moaned.

  Turning, Linnet walked to where Muriel sat, Buttons beside her.

  Viewing the subtle smile curving her niece’s lips, Muriel felt compelled to ask, as Linnet reached her, “What about the sleeping arrangements?”

  Logan might be a gentleman born and bred, nevertheless …

  Linnet didn’t pretend not to understand. She grimaced lightly. “Logan will have to continue in my bed—his head’s still causing him considerable pain, and there’s nowhere else he’d be comfortable. I doubt the cot in the box room would support his weight, but it’ll do for me, at least for a few nights.”

  Muriel nodded, her gaze going to Logan. “I suspect that’s the best arrangement in the circumstances. The better rested he is, the more likely he is to regain his memory.” Rising, she said, “I’ll have Pennyweather bring in the tea.”

  Linnet remained where she was, her gaze returning to Logan—skating over his shoulders, the long, strong legs stretched out before him, the clean, harsh planes of his face, his firm lips.

  She let her gaze drink him in—and thought of the small cot in the box room.

  As usual, Linnet was the last to go upstairs. Once everyone else had retired, she did her rounds; in the calming stillness, the soft, enfolding shadows, she walked the ground-floor rooms of her home, checking every window, securing every door. Mon Coeur might stand in a sparsely populated neighborhood, yet by that very fact the house was isolated, far removed from the communal safety of town or village, and was within a few hundred yards of the coast—a coast that in the past had been an occasional haunt of pirates, and was also frequently raked by ferocious and unpredictable storms.

  There was, she considered, sufficient reason for vigilance.

  Once all was secure, she climbed to the attics, looked in, on all the children. Tucked Chester’s blankets in again, then did the same for Gilly in the room she shared with Jen.

  Finally assured that all was as it should be, she descended to the first floor. The lighted candle she carried casting a warm glow on the polished wood of floor and paneled walls, she walked to the closed door of her room.

  There, she hesitated, for the first time that evening not quite sure of herself.

  The feeling, the realization, irritated. Squaring her shoulders, she reminded herself of her resolution to be wise, then raised a hand and tapped on the door. She waited, then, hearing nothing, reached for the knob, turned it, opened the door, and looked in.

  Logan wasn’t in the bed. No lamp was burning, but the curtains were open; faint moonlight laid a swath of pale silver across the untrammeled counterpane. The candle flame didn’t illuminate much of the large room; stepping inside, she set the candlestick on the nearby tallboy, turned, and saw him silhouetted against the window. He’d been looking out to sea, but had turned his head to watch her.

  Eyes adjusting, she saw he was still fully dressed. Closing the door, she frowned at him. “I thought you’d be in bed. You should be by now.”

  He regarded her for a silent moment. “Are you going to join me?”

  He couldn’t know. He didn’t know. She told herself that, again reminded herself of her resolution. “I was just going to get my robe and nightgown. I’ll sleep in the box room next door.”

  He stirred, then with long, prowling strides closed the distance between them. “You’d rather sleep with boxes than with me?”

  She fought the urge to step back as the space between them shrank. He halted with less than a foot between them, forcing her to tip up her head to meet his eyes. The candlelight cast them in deep and dangerous shadows. She held his, gaze, levelly stated, “Sharing a bed with you would, in the circumstances, be unwise.”

  “Unwise?” One devilish winged brow arched. He held her gaze for an instant, then stepped closer.

  Her nerves leapt; instinctively she stepped back—and came up against the panels of the door.

  Temper sparking, she opened her mouth to berate him.

  His head swooped and he covered her lips with his.

  Kissed her. A full, open-mouthed, lips-to-lips kiss that stole her breath and left her giddy.

  He drew back a fraction—enough for her to feel her lips clinging to his, to the taste of him, to the promise in the kiss—then he growled deep in his throat and returned,
this time voraciously. His tongue plunged in with no by-your-leave, stroking, claiming, then settling to plunder. He leaned in, commanded, demanded—and she discovered it was impossible not to kiss him back, impossible to let such flagrant, blatant demands go unmet, unchallenged.

  And suddenly they were there again, where they’d been last night, feeding and taking, giving and seizing.

  Wanting.

  It was he who, eventually, pulled back.

  Just an inch, enough to meet her eyes through the candle-glow. His were narrowed; she would swear they burned blue.

  “Last night you didn’t think sleeping with me unwise.”

  She struggled to catch her breath, to find a way to distract, to deflect. To redirect.

  His gaze dropped to her breasts as they swelled, flicked up in time to fix on her mouth as she moistened her suddenly dry lips. “That—”

  “Was you last night—the houri beneath me. The one I rode to oblivion, the houri who took me in and rode with me. I remember your taste.”

  Her brazen self was fascinated that he could, that he would; against her will, her gaze lowered to his lips. Focused on them as they curved in a blatantly masculine way.

  “It was an excellent way to warm me up. Exceedingly noble. I feel I should be … unreservedly grateful.” He’d braced his big hands, splayed, on the door to either side of her shoulders, caging her within arms she knew were corded steel. He shifted one hand, fingers catching a strand of hair that had come loose from the careless knot atop her head. He sifted the tress between his fingertips. “I remember this, too—soft as silk, warm as flames.”

  She dragged her eyes from the mesmerizing sight of him caressing her hair, fell into his eyes as he smiled, then he looked at her lips again.

  They throbbed. She fought the urge to run her tongue along the lower. Managed to haul enough breath into her lungs to say, “That—last night—was an impulsive act.”

  “So be impulsive again.” His hand shifted, drifted; he slid his long fingers between her arm and her side, hooked them in the side-laces of her gown.

  Let his thumb cruise, brushing, impossibly lightly, over her breast.

  She sucked in a tight breath as her flesh reacted, as her nipple pebbled and a wash of seductive heat swept through her.

  “I was thinking,” he said, his voice a deep, gravelly murmur, the faintest of burrs underscoring the purring quality, “that tonight I should go out of my way to thank you.”

  Out of his way?

  She stared into his eyes from a distance of mere inches, breathed in the warmth of him, sensed the latent heat of him, the muscled power, reaching for her.…

  No, no, no, no.

  But …

  Locked in his eyes, she gave in and licked her lip. “I shouldn’t.”

  He held her gaze, his eyes searching hers, then his lips slowly curved. “But you will.” He took one long step back. With the fingers crooked in, her laces, he drew her with him, then to him. Against him and into his arms, then he bent his head and kissed her again.

  Kissed her until she forgot every jot of wisdom she’d ever known.

  Until she melted.

  Until she wrapped her arms about his neck and surrendered.

  Four

  The wasn’t surrendering to him but to herself—to that brazen self who wanted to know what more of the magic he could show her. Last night had been a revelation, but if there was more to know, more to experience, she needed to know, to learn of it.

  Knowledge, experience, understanding—she’d realized from her earliest years how important those were, how crucial to leadership. Taking risks to achieve them was, to her, second nature, simply a part of who she was.

  Once she sank against Logan, wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back—as fearless as he was ravenous—her decision was made. Made and communicated; there was no going back. She never even considered it. Stepping back from a challenge wasn’t her style.

  And his kiss—this kiss, his mouth and hers joined—was the first fascination. The first flare of heat, the first taste of passion. It was more, so much more, than any kiss she’d ever shared with any of her earlier lovers; they’d been boys, mere learners, dilettantes.

  This kiss, his kiss, was one of claiming—of challenge, of blatant promise. Of sensual threat. A statement of intention, certainly—of domination. As with lips and tongue he ravaged, and sent her senses spinning, she clung and fought to return the pleasure, to match and meet his educated assault, while inwardly her brazen self rejoiced.

  Titillated, expectant, glorying in the moment.

  His arms had closed around her, his hard hands holding her, then they moved and he sculpted her curves—possessively, predatorially.

  Excitement sparked; her nerves came alive—aware, awake, as they never had been. Tense and waiting, anticipating.

  The next touch, the next flagrantly possessive caress.

  It came, his hard hand closing about one globe of her bottom, the firm curve filling his palm; his fingers kneaded as he held her to him, lifted her to her toes—then he moved, hips suggestively thrusting, the ridge of his erection riding against her mons, the hard length impressing strength, intention, and erotic promise against her taut belly.

  Setting greedy flames flaring low, swelling the hollow emptiness that had opened there.

  The emptiness she needed him to fill.

  Yet …

  She felt a tug—realized he’d undone her laces. Felt her bodice sag. In mere seconds he had her out of it, had drawn her arms free, pushed the gown down to her hips, leaving it to slide as it would to the floor, and his hand closed, hard and demanding, about her breast, screened only by her thin shift and even finer chemise.

  On a gasp, she pulled back from the kiss. Eyes closed, stretched up on her toes, her fingertips sinking into the heavy muscles of his shoulders as his wicked fingers found her nipple and tweaked. “Slowly,” she gasped.

  And immediately felt his touch ease.

  And what a thrill that was—a shiver of knowledge, of understanding, skated down her spine. She lifted her heavy lids and looked into his eyes.

  They glittered through his dark lashes, his own lids low. “Just as long as slow doesn’t mean stop.”

  The words were deep, almost guttural. They made her, smile. “No—just slow. Slow so I can …” Feel everything, every little nuance. So I can learn of myself, and even more of you. Her smile deepened. “Savor.”

  His eyes searched hers. “With that,” he murmured, “I’ll be happy to comply.”

  His hand hadn’t stopped caressing her breast, had been toying firmly, definitely, yet without the urgency she’d sensed had been about to sweep them both away.

  He bent his head and kissed her again, took her lips again, engaged with her again, and instantly she sensed, all but felt, the rein he’d imposed on his passions.

  That he maintained as, slowly, he stripped her gown, her shift, then her chemise away, and laid her on the bed, stripped off his own clothes—slowly, so she had the chance to catch her breath and admire the lines of the most magnificent male body she’d ever laid eyes on, bandages and all—then he joined her.

  Unhurriedly propped on one elbow beside her, and ran one hard, callused hand slowly over her body from her throat to her calves.

  She let herself respond instinctively, found herself arching lightly into the caress, her body, already heated and yearning, wanting more—blatantly, uninhibitedly.

  If she wanted this—wanted to know, to learn, to experience—she saw no point in inhibitions. They had no place here, no purpose between her and him.

  Something in his eyes as he looked down at her, for a moment studied her face, gave her the impression he somehow understood that, that he’d seen, taken note, and would use the knowledge, would respond accordingly.

  Then he bent his head and set his lips to her breast.

  First one, then the other, sampling, tasting, then feasting. Slowly.

  Even as she writhed, as
she gasped, then softly moaned, as her fingers tangled in his thick hair and she held him to her, helplessly offering her flesh, her body, for his delectation, she knew she’d been inspired in insisting on slow.

  Slow. The word became a heartbeat, a pulse of this loving. This seduction he waged on her flesh, on her mind.

  On her senses, on every inch of her skin.

  She came alive beneath his hands in a way she never had before—and this time she knew it, felt the change to her bones, reveled in the inexpressible pleasure, in the freedom and joy of knowing this could be hers.

  That she could have this, be this, the houri he’d called her.

  He opened her senses, and she rose to the challenge—waited eagerly to experience what next would come as he lazily—slowly—wended his way down her body, placing hot, wet kisses here, there, past her navel, over the swell of her stomach.

  Resting his head on her waist, he looked down, watching as he sent his fingers circling through the tight red-gold curls at the apex of her thighs, then he pushed past, down, and touched her.

  Parted her already slick folds and caressed her.

  Slowly. Blatantly.

  As if he had all the time in the world to feel her, touch her, stroke and caress her.

  Urgency slammed into her. She caught her breath; instinctively her thighs eased, parted—inviting, wanting.

  She felt more than heard his deep chuckle.

  “Slowly, remember?”

  “Yes, but—” She broke off on a strangled gasp as another far-too-knowing caress had her arching beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders.

  “Ah—perhaps this is what you want?”

  Before she could gather her whirling wits, his hand shifted between her thighs and he sank one long finger—slowly—into her, deeper and deeper into her sheath, until he could reach no further.

  The breath she’d drawn in and held gushed out, halfsigh, halfmoan. “Yes. Oh … yes.” Her head was spinning.

  “Good.” He stroked, slowly, deep inside her, then again, and her nerves tightened.

  Tightened.