Till Dawn with the Devil

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Reign started to shrug out of his coat. “Mayhap the floor.” He did not sound as if he cared about the bullet’s final resting place.

  Stephan stood and staggered toward Sophia. He stiffened as he reached her. “Rainecourt, I believe I have found the bullet.”

  Something in her brother’s cool inflection caused her to glance down at her bodice. Inches above her left breast, Sophia saw the bright red blotch of blood blooming and expanding as she stared in numb horror. “Dear heavens, I have been shot!” she exclaimed, and then she did the most sensible thing a lady in her situation could do.

  Sophia fainted.

  Sophia’s eyes flew open the second Reign pressed the brandy-soaked cloth over the wound. Sucking in her breath, she tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down onto the cushions of the chaise longue.

  “A vinaigrette under my nose would have sufficed,” she snapped waspishly, which only made him smile. “Leave it to a man to rouse a lady from a faint by sticking her with hot pokers and needles.”

  “She’s delirious,” Stephan declared, earning him a glare.

  “No, just furious!” Sophia replied. Her lashes fluttered open as she recalled what had happened. “Good grief, I have been shot.”

  Sophia clutched Reign’s wounded arm, causing him to wince. She immediately released his arm and murmured a hasty apology. Ravenshaw had done a decent effort bandaging his arm while Reign had torn open his wife’s bodice and inspected the damage done by the bullet.

  His wife’s lower lip quivered. “I hurt. Am I dying?”

  Reign had asked himself the same question as he had gathered Sophia into his arms and carried her across the room to the chaise longue. He had left the task of rousing the servants from their beds to Ravenshaw. No one was going to tend to his wife but him.

  “More than a scrape to a knee,” he said, brushing an errant tear on Sophia’s cheek away with the pad of his thumb. “Less than the hole I wanted to put in your brother’s head when I realized he had left you bound to that damn chair while he checked my wounds.”

  “It really was not his fault, Gabriel. I ordered him to check you first,” Sophia said, recalling those frightful minutes when no one had responded to her shouts. “I could not bear to think that—that—”

  Reign leaned forward and kissed her roughly on the mouth. “Do not dwell on it. I will heal. So will you, wife. You were damn fortunate the bullet tore through my flesh first.”

  “Pardon me if I do not see you getting shot as something that I should count my blessings over,” she said crossly.

  Reign grinned. Sophia was delightful when she was vexed. He favored the tiny indentation that formed between her brows whenever she was on the verge of scolding him. Reign placed a small chaste kiss on the dent. “It slowed the bullet down,” he explained as he picked up the ragged edge of her chemise and corset. “The boning in your corset protected you further.”

  Reign began to lift the cloth to show her that most of the bleeding had stopped, but decided against it. Sophia had seen enough blood. “Trust me when I say that you will be back on your feet in a day or so.”

  Then he and Sophia would return to London. Reign longed to put some distance between the house and the memory of Sophia tied to a chair with a madwoman aiming a pistol at her head.

  His mother.

  Christ. It was going to take some time for Reign to think of that troubled woman as his mother.

  Lady Colette had had every intention of killing Sophia, and she might have succeeded if his wife had not distracted the countess long enough for Reign to lunge for the pistol.

  Reign looked up and met Ravenshaw’s solemn eyes. The two men had come to a tentative truce for Sophia’s sake. He did not particularly like Ravenshaw. The brash young lord had often reminded Reign of his father in temperament, so he had despised the man on principle. It had been one of the reasons why Reign had gone out of his way to provoke the man.

  “Gabriel,” Sophia said, attempting to sit up, only to be forestalled by her husband’s hand. “You might think you have distracted me, but I will not be dissuaded. What of Lady Colette? Was she hurt in the struggle?”

  Only Sophia would care about the fate of a murderess. Reign’s throat hurt as he stared down at his wife’s beautiful face. He idly wondered if he could pour enough brandy into her that she would sleep.

  “Lady Colette is dead.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Dead.”

  The word had been echoing in Sophia’s brain since Reign had dispassionately explained that Lady Colette had broken her neck. Her husband had not been forthcoming with the details, and Sophia could not help but think Reign might have used his bare hands to end his mother’s suffering.

  Reign pulled the white nightgown over Sophia’s head. After he had told her about Lady Colette, he had carried her up to her bedchamber, insisting that she needed to rest. “There is no point in dwelling on it.”

  “It is not a matter of dwelling . . . ,” she said, scowling in frustration as Reign swept her exposed legs under the bedding. He was treating her like a child, and she resented it. “We need to talk about this.”

  “Do we?” Reign gently pushed her back into the pillows, and pulled the sheet high above her breasts. “I would rather not.” He turned away as if searching for something. He found what he desired on her dressing table.

  “Here, drink this.”

  Sophia grimaced as the brandy burned her throat. “Ugh, no more,” she said after a few swallows. “Horrid stuff.”

  “It will help you sleep.”

  “I do not want to sleep!” Sophia shouted at him, surprising both of them with her outburst. “Gabriel, I am not a child. Stop treating me like one!”

  Reign plucked the glass of brandy from her hands and emptied it. “My apologies, madam. I thought I was being considerate.” With a guttural cry, he pulled his arm back and smashed the glass against the opposing wall.

  Sophia flinched, but she preferred her husband’s temper to the detached automaton. “Please, we have to talk about what happened.”

  “Do we?” Reign sneered. “What precisely do you want to talk about, wife? Shall I tell you how helpless I felt when I saw you tied to that bloody chair while a madwoman stuck the muzzle of a pistol in your ear? Or do you want to talk about our family histories?”

  “Gabriel,” she said sadly.

  “Let’s talk about how my father might have attacked your mother.”

  Reign thought to shock her with his ugly revelation. Sophia bowed her head. “I think your mother was a very jealous and confused woman.”

  “You may be correct,” he said, unimpressed with her calm demeanor. “My father once told me that he had fancied himself a little in love with Lady Ravenshaw, but the truth is, my father was incapable of loving anything but himself.”

  Sophia shuddered. “Your mother was very ill, Gabriel.”

  “Yes,” Reign said, staring at her with an inscrutable expression.

  Sophia sighed and sought to change the subject. “You left this evening to confront my brother, did you not?”

  Reign’s face darkened. “I do not want to talk about Stephan.”

  “Then what do you wish to discuss?”

  “What do I wish to discuss?” Reign echoed, his voice vibrating with anger. “Well, let me ponder this a moment since there are so many fascinating choices. Oh, I have a grand notion! Why do we not talk about my mother, Lady Colette . . . who has risen from the dead like some modern-day Lazarus!”

  “Hardly dead, Gabriel,” Sophia retorted. “She may have been walking the Rainecourt lands as a ghost, but her deadly deeds were quite real.”

  She peeled back the sheet covering her and sat up. How could she talk to her husband when she was cowering in the bed like an invalid?

  “Damn you, stay in bed!” Reign roughly seized her by her elbows and gave her a hard shake. Sophia squeaked in protest, and it was enough for him to recall her injury.

  Instead of releasing her
, he pulled her closer and hugged her. “Forgive me. I keep hurting you . . .”

  “No . . . no,” she murmured, her face buried against Reign’s chest. “None of this is your fault.”

  The wound above her breast burned and throbbed at the contact, but Sophia ignored it. She relished the feel of Reign’s strong arms around her. For the first time since she had awakened and found herself bound to that blasted chair, she felt safe.

  Sophia tipped her head back and tenderly touched her husband’s cheek. The pain in his eyes cut through the mist and shadows that obscured her vision. “I am not fragile, Gabriel.”

  The corner of his mouth curved almost into a smile. “So you keep telling me.”

  “And I will continue to nag you until you believe it!”

  Reign leaned closer, pressing his lips against her temple. “By God, it sounds like an impossible task.”

  “I expect it will take years and years, my lord,” Sophia said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Fortunately, I am steadfast when the endeavor is worthy.”

  Reign lifted his head as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms. Awareness and heat flared to life in his dark blue eyes. “Oh, Sophia, I need—” he murmured achingly before slanting his mouth over hers.

  Sophia parted her lips, and Reign deepened the kiss. His tongue tangled with hers, claiming and demanding more of her. She grabbed the front of his shirt and held on, opening herself up to his ravenous sensual onslaught.

  Reign instinctively rocked his hips against her as he blindly reached for the hem of her nightgown, and missed. Sophia knew what her husband needed. He wanted to cover her, claim her, and lose himself in the soft sweet depths of her body. After everything they had endured, Reign craved a physical declaration that Sophia still belonged to him.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly.

  He had discarded his coat and cravat hours earlier when Stephan had helped to bandage his upper arm. There was a bold spot of blood on the left sleeve of her husband’s shirt, reminding her that the bullet could easily have struck his heart or some other vital organ. However, Sophia refused to drive herself as mad as Lady Colette dwelling on things that had not come to pass.

  Reign was fine, and so was she.

  Sophia tugged at Reign’s shirt to get his attention. Choking on laughter, he released her long enough to pull the unbuttoned shirt over his head. Her gaze lingered on the bloodied bandage on his left upper arm before it dropped to the front of her nightgown. Since it was only fair, Sophia mirrored his efforts and discarded her nightgown.

  “My God, wife, are you trying to kill me?”

  Sophia laughed as she watched her husband hastily unfasten and strip out of his trousers, stockings, and drawstring drawers until there were no more barriers between them. The man could move fast, and the long, rigid staff rising from the thick patch of hair between his legs left no doubt in her mind that Reign was properly motivated.

  It was only when his brooding, dark gaze drifted to the strip of bandages he had fashioned above her breasts that Reign hesitated. Sophia brazenly circled her fingers around his swollen manhood and said, “Little more than a scratch . . . remember?”

  Reign shuddered as she stroked him from his testicles to the tip of the hard, commanding length. “I remember,” he said huskily.

  Effortlessly, he lifted her up, and Sophia wrapped her legs around his waist. Her mouth sought his, and Reign responded by crushing his lips to hers. With his manhood prodding her bottom, he carried her toward the bed. Reign placed his knee on the mattress, and in one fluid motion she felt the mattress cushion her back as his manhood filled her.

  “Forgive me, love,” Reign said, grasping her hips and deepening the penetration until she arched her back to ease the stretching fullness of his claim. “I am rushing you. But I need—I need.”

  No explanation or apology was required.

  “Yes,” Sophia said, scraping her fingernails across Reign’s lower back. She was rewarded with a low growl.

  Their coupling was rough and frenzied. It was unlike anything Sophia had ever experienced in her husband’s embrace, and she reveled in it. She was discovering that she liked this side of Reign’s nature. He was wild, enthusiastic, and it thrilled her all the way down to her toes that she had caused him to abandon the reins on the admirable control and patience he seemed to exude on her behalf.

  Pleased with herself, she craned her neck forward and bit Reign on the chest. Hard. His response was swift and full of delicious retribution. Reign pulled out of her, and before she could protest, he flipped her over onto her knees, shoved her onto all fours, and mounted her from behind.

  This was the scandalous gentleman the ton called Reign. One of the decadent Lords of Vice who indulged all of his appetites, and was drawn to the forbidden.

  Uncertain of her part, Sophia clutched a fistful of the bedding as Reign pounded his manhood into her welcoming heat. He spoke low, guttural words of approval and carnal promises. He cupped her uninjured breast and squeezed. Her breasts, much like the womanly folds between her legs, were swollen and ached to be touched.

  Sensing her need, his hand slid down her flat belly until his fingers found the sensitive nubbin within the drenched folds. Sophia bit her lip as he lightly pinched and rolled the hidden flesh. Her nipples hurt and she longed to rub away the dull pain.

  “Gabriel . . . please!”

  Reign’s thrusts pummeled her backside. The musky scent of their lovemaking filled Sophia’s nose as she listened to the energetic slap of flesh against flesh. She tightened her grip on the sheets and leaned into each thrust, needing to feel the full measure of him.

  And, oh, how Reign filled her! Well-endowed and thick, his manhood stretched her while her slick arousal beckoned him to bury himself to the hilt.

  “You know what I want,” Reign growled. “Give it to me.”

  Sophia felt his manhood expand inside her, the telltale sign that Reign’s release was upon him, and the awareness triggered her own. Pressing her face into the bedding, she cried out as her womanly sheath convulsed with wave after violent wave of sensation. She barely heard Reign’s low keening response as his rhythmic thrusts disintegrated and his grace and strength left him. He seized her hips in a bruising grip and shuddered, surrendering his seed and passion.

  Sophia smiled as she savored Reign’s weight on her back. “If this is your reaction, I will have to bite you more often.”

  Her cheeky comment earned her a hoarse chuckle from her husband.

  “I intend to hold you to that promise, wife.”

  Reign could not leave her.

  He had not planned on remaining in Sophia’s bed. His wife needed rest and patience while she recovered from her ordeal. Instead, Reign had torn off his clothes and mounted her like a mindless brute. He might have summoned some disgust over his behavior if Sophia had not matched his lust.

  With Sophia curled up against him sound asleep, her head using his chest as a pillow, Reign rubbed the mark she had left with her teeth and grinned. His back stung from the scratches she had made with her fingernails, and the mild discomfort made him long to wake her so they could continue their love play. The tireless flesh between his legs seemed to agree. His cock twitched just contemplating the thought of plunging into Sophia’s snug channel.

  “You should be sleeping,” Sophia murmured and placed a kiss against his bare chest.

  Reign tried to quell the rising excitement that Sophia might crave him again. “I thought I had done a fine job tiring you.”

  “An impressive effort, Lord Rainecourt.” She yawned. “I confess, one of your best.” Sophia stretched her arms and sat up. “However, when I close my eyes, I keep seeing Lady Colette. I was dreaming of her.”

  Leave it to Sophia to mention the one person who could shrivel his cock and his lust with one stroke.

  “Do not think of it.”

  Even before the words were out of his mouth, Reign knew he was demanding the impossible. His dead mother h
ad managed to leave an impression on both of them. Fortunately, it would be her last.

  While Reign had been tending to Sophia, her brother had summoned the magistrate. Eight years earlier, the man had been summoned to the house to rule Beatrice’s death an accident. This evening, he declared a woman the world had believed long buried, officially dead. After listening to everyone’s statements, the magistrate pulled Reign aside and quietly told him that he had no interest in stirring up old scandals. His parents and Sophia’s parents were dead. The fact that Lady Colette had died twice did not alter the fact that justice had been served, albeit late. Tomorrow his mother would be buried, and hopefully the past with her.

  “The magistrate was correct. What happened between your parents and mine, happened a long time ago. We know the truth now, and that is all that matters.”

  Reign rubbed Sophia’s back and frowned at the tension he felt beneath his fingertips. “Sophia?” He sat up when she sniffed into her hand. “What is it?”

  She swiped furiously at her cheeks to get rid of her tears. “Oh, Reign, when the magistrate asked for my statement, I told him something . . . something I have not had a chance to tell you about your mother.”

  Reign moved closer so he was positioned behind her. He slid each leg to fit her backside between his legs. Sophia was dressed in her thin nightgown again. She insisted on putting the garment on because she loathed being caught by the servants without her clothes on. Her explanation amused him since he was the one responsible for her shameful behavior, and he had no intention of behaving himself.

  Sophia leaned against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “Tell me.”

  “Lady Colette knew Beatrice was leaving you for—” Sophia took a deep breath, reluctant to utter the name of the gentleman who had sired the child Reign had believed was his.

  “Enright,” he succinctly supplied.

  Reign despised Enright, and his tenderhearted wife knew it. The only thing that had prevented him from putting a bullet into Enright was that he, too, had been betrayed by Lord and Lady Burrard. If the couple had considered the man worthy enough to marry their daughter, Beatrice would not have been forced to whore herself to a man she would never love.