The Bride Thief

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  He glanced at Miss Briggeham, who was studying the portrait with great interest.

  "I gather you see the resemblance," he said, bracing himself for the inevitable comparison, even as he again told himself it didn't matter. The resemblance was only physical.

  "Actually," she said, turning to face him, "I don't."

  Confusion assailed him. "You don't? Everyone says I look like my father."

  She tapped her fingers on her jaw and studied him with a serious frown. "Physically, I suppose."

  "What other way is there?"

  A blush stole over her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. Rising, he moved to stand in front of her. The fire's glow backlighted her, casting her countenance into shadow. Reaching out, he lifted her chin with a gentle fingertip until their eyes met.

  "Tell me," he said, perplexed by the strange need to know what she meant. "Please."

  "I only meant that your father seems… that is, he appears to have possessed a… harshness to his character. It's there, in his eyes. Around his mouth. The way he holds himself. You don't have that severity of spirit."

  "Indeed?" He refused to examine the slow roll his heart performed. Or the pleasure her words washed through him.

  His surprise must have shown on his face, for she immediately looked stricken. "Forgive me, my lord. I fear I'm far too outspoken, but I meant no offense. What I was really trying to say is that you are much the handsomer."

  "I see." The corner of his mouth tipped up and he couldn't resist teasing her. "You think me handsome, Miss Briggeham?"

  Her eyes widened, and her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. "Well, yes. I'm certain most people would agree that you're… pleasing to the eye. Certainly most female people."

  "Ah. And you are undeniably female. But you are quite nearsighted are you not?"

  "Yes, but-"

  He cut off her words by giving into the urge that had gripped him since the first time he saw her, and slid her spectacles from her nose. Retreating several paces, he asked, "Now what do you think, Miss Briggeham?"

  She squinted at him, then pressed her lips together as if suppressing a grin. "I'm certain you're still handsome, however, I can't see you clearly."

  "Then come closer."

  She took a hesitant inch-long step forward, then squinted again.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "I'm afraid you're still blurry, my lord. But scientific logic would indicate that your appearance is unchanged."

  "Ah, but in science, one must always test theories." He drew one step closer to her. "Can you see me now?"

  Her lips twitched. "Still a blurry blob, I fear."

  Another step closer. No more than two feet now separated them. He gazed at her, prepared to see nervousness, expecting to see anxiety, hoping to see desire flare in her eyes. Instead, she simply stared at him steadily, with what appeared to be cool detachment, her brows slightly raised, as if he were some sort of… scientific specimen. Bloody hell! "Am I still a… what did you call me? Oh, yes. A blurry blob?"

  "You're getting clearer, but you're still fuzzy about the edges."

  "Well then, why don't you simply tell me when I'm in focus." He leaned forward, slowly, watching her intently, willing her to react to the heat he knew simmered in his gaze. He knew the exact second he came into focus. No more than six inches separated their faces. She drew in a sharp breath and her pupils dilated.

  "Can you see me clearly now?" he asked softly.

  She swallowed and nodded. "My, yes. There you are. Right… there. So very… close." Her voice held a breathless, husky note that stroked over him like a caress. And her eyes… yes, they now shimmered with awareness, with the dawning heat he wanted. Reaching out, he gently grasped her wrist, pleased that her pulse raced beneath his fingertips.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth and desire hit him low and hard. The sweet scent of honey wafted over him, befuddling his senses. He simply had to know if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. Had to. Just once.

  Before he could recall all the reasons he shouldn't, he lowered his head, brushing his lips lightly over hers. Soft. Honey. A hint of sherry. His curiosity not nearly satisfied, he drew her into his arms and kissed her again, his lips circling, teasing, tasting hers.

  Warm. Sweet. More. Had to have more.

  With the tip of his tongue, he traced her full bottom lip, coaxing her to open for him. A tiny, breathy sound escaped her, sending a rush of her warm, sherry-scented breath over him. With a groan, he slipped his tongue into the silky velvet of her mouth.

  Heat. Honey. Heaven.

  Her sweet taste filled him, and everything faded away except her. God, she tasted good enough to eat and the urge to simply devour her overwhelmed him. He gathered her closer, pressing her lush curves to him, savoring her softness, ignited by the breathtaking way she fit in his arms. As she'd fit against him when he'd abducted her. Only this embrace was so much more. Because this time she returned it-with a hesitant wonder that grew into a rapidly increasing enthusiasm, dissolving any remaining control he imagined he possessed.

  She mimicked his every action, tentatively at first, like a student presented with a new puzzle, but she caught on quickly. With devastating results. As he tasted her, she explored his mouth with the same slow thoroughness, her soft tongue sliding against his. Even as his fingers delved into her silky hair, scattering pins, her fingers sifted through the hair at his nape. When his arms tightened around her, she drew up on her toes, lifting her mouth higher for him.

  A low groan rumbled between them. His? Hers? He didn't know. All he knew was that she felt incredible. Tasted incredible. And that he wanted more.

  With one hand holding her head, the other skimmed slowly down her back, reveling in her soft, womanly curves. He caressed his palm over her buttocks, then pressed her closer to him, knowing she had to feel his arousal. But instead of backing away, she strained closer to him.

  A maelstrom of heat flashed through him, like a brush fire on dry kindling. His pulse roared through his veins, pounding in his ears, obliterating everything but her. The texture of her hair. The fragrance of her skin. The taste of her in his mouth.

  More. Had to taste more. Dragging his lips from her, he pressed a trail of kisses down her neck, savoring the vibrations against his lips as she expelled a long, low, moan.

  "Samantha…" Her name whispered past his lips, unable to be contained. He touched his tongue to the frantically beating pulse at the base of her throat. Honey. God, did she smell like honey everywhere? Taste like it all over? An image of them, naked, in his bed, flashed in his mind. Her, eyes glazed with need, legs splayed, wanting. Him, grasping her hips, touching his tongue to her moist flesh…

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had to end this insanity. Now. While he still could. Drawing a shaky breath, he forced himself to straighten and end their kiss.

  He looked down at her and swallowed a groan. Damn it, she was as aroused as he. Shallow breaths puffed from between her moist, swollen lips, which remained slightly parted, begging him to kiss her again. Her eyes were closed, and crimson colored her cheeks. His gaze dropped to the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her throat, then lowered to her breasts, which still pressed against his chest. He imagined her nipples were tight and hard, and he ached to slip his fingers inside her bodice, to touch her.

  Her eyelids fluttered open, and his resolve nearly crumbled at her dazed, languorous expression. A tremor shuddered through her, and his arms tightened around her, absorbing the shiver, inducing one of his own that tingled down his spine. He brushed a tangled chestnut curl from her flushed cheek and waited for her slumberous gaze to focus on him. When it finally did, he gritted his teeth against the guileless wonder shining from her eyes.

  "My heavens," she said. "That was…"

  "Delicious. Delectable. Delightful." A smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. "So many'd' words to describe one woman. Or perhaps 'l' words would be better."

  "I cannot deny that lightheaded comes to mind
."

  A chuckle of pure masculine satisfaction rumbled in his throat. Touching his fingertip to that beguiling freckle at the corner of her upper lip, he murmured, "I was thinking of luscious. And lovely."

  She went completely still. All vestiges of desire slowly faded from her eyes until she stared at him with a completely blank expression. No, not completely blank. Shades of disappointment shadowed her eyes. He could almost hear her saying I'm not lovely. You're just like all the others who have spent the past weeks spouting insincere compliments.

  Her expression filled him with an ache he could not name. Before he could figure out a way to erase that disillusioned look from her eyes, she pressed her lips together, then stepped back, out of his embrace.

  "May I have my spectacles, please?" she asked in a flat voice.

  "Of course." Reaching behind him, he picked her glasses off the mantel, then placed them in her outstretched palm. She quickly slipped them on, then wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill. She drew several deep breaths, then she lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely.

  Guilt smacked him like a brick to the head. Damn it, what was he thinking, kissing her in such a passionate manner? Kissing her at all? A gentleman would never do such a thing, and he knew he should heartily beg her pardon. But how could he apologize for something that had felt so… right? And how to make her understand that he thought she was lovely? Achingly so.

  Before he could decide, she said, "I think it would be best if I fetch Hubert and leave now, Lord Wesley."

  She was right. Things between them had gotten totally out of hand, and he accepted full responsibility. But still an acute sense of loss flooded him at the coolness in her tone. As he watched her leave the room, his hands clenched. Yes, it was best that she leave. But damn it, everything inside him wanted her to stay. He couldn't deny it.

  But what the hell could he do about it?

  Chapter Nine

  From the London Times:

  The annual masquerade ball held at Countess Ringshire's country estate in Devon was, as always, a fabulous affair. Several gentlemen costumed themselves as the infamous Bride Thief, which led many guests to laughingly speculate that the real Bride Thief might be among them. Would he possibly be that daring? Many guests further noted that the Bride Thief has not been heard from for several weeks. One cannot help but wonder when and where he might strike next. Yet with every able-bodied man in England eager to collect the seven-thousand-pound price on his head, the Bride Thief's next kidnapping will most certainly be his last.

  Eric tossed the newspaper onto the cherry wood table in the drawing room and heaved a sigh. All this speculation and interest in his activities was a double-edged sword. While it brought the plight of women who were bartered away in marriage like household possessions to attention, it made his efforts at rescuing them ever more dangerous. A reward of seven thousand pounds? No one could resist that. If he made even the smallest mistake, his life was over.

  How was the investigation proceeding? Had any additional clues to the Bride Thief's identity been discovered? Arthur hadn't reported anything, but perhaps it was time to go directly to the source. Yes, a casual chat with the magistrate might be a wise plan. He and Adam Straton were long-standing acquaintances. Perhaps he'd ride into the village today or tomorrow. And on his way home…

  His gaze wandered to the honey-filled glass jar set on the table next to the carelessly folded newspaper. Miss Briggeham had forgotten the jar in her haste to leave last evening. He'd considered reminding her, but had discarded the idea. Returning the jar to her was the perfect excuse to see her again. And as much as he wished otherwise, it was inexplicably necessary to see her again.

  Rising, he paced across the parquet floor, his brows pulled down in a frown. Damn it all, how could a mere kiss-one that had lasted only a few moments-affect him so profoundly? He recalled every second of it. Every nuance of her taste, the imprint of her body pressed to his. The way her soft curves fit his hands.

  Bloody hell, over the years he'd spent countless hours enjoying the sensuous charms of other women. Always, once their passion was spent, once the act was completed, he'd simply… forgotten them. Yet the kiss he'd shared with Samantha, that heated, breathless mating of mouths was embedded in his memory, as if branded there.

  He'd barely slept last night. Lying in his bed, his body painfully aroused, he'd relived their kiss over and over. Then he'd further tortured himself by imagining what might have happened had she not left. With a groan, he grasped the mantel with both hands, then lowered his head to stare blindly into the dancing flames.

  The images he'd tried all night to banish bombarded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing them away. Instead he saw himself slowly removing her gown, exposing her soft skin inch by inch, her beautiful eyes at first wide with wonder, then drooping shut as he kissed her long and deep, their tongues intimately dancing. Carrying her to the sofa, he opened the jar of honey and dipped his fingertip inside. He then slowly blazed a golden circle around her distended nipple. With her husky moans echoing in his ears, he licked the delectable treat he'd just created. When he finally lifted his head and again dipped his finger into the jar, she looked up at him, a devilish gleam shining through the desire fogging her eyes.

  What do you plan to taste next, my lord?

  All of you. And then we 'll-

  A knock sounded on the door, jolting him from his erotic daydream. He dragged his hands down his overheated face. Looking down, he shook his head at the bulge tenting his breeches. Damn. The seemingly never-subsiding, Miss Briggeham-induced erection.

  With a grimace he adjusted his confining breeches, then all but limped back to the sofa. Lowering himself to the cushion, he grabbed the newspaper and strategically arranged it across his lap. "Come in."

  A footman entered, extending a silver salver bearing a sealed letter. "This just arrived, your lordship. The messenger indicated it was urgent and that he would wait for a reply."

  Eric took the letter, his insides freezing when he recognized his name written in Margaret's distinctive, elegant hand. He dismissed the footman with a nod. "I'll ring when my reply is ready."

  The instant the door closed behind the footman, Eric broke the wax seal. His hands trembled with dread as he unfolded the thick vellum. Had that bastard Darvin dared to hurt her again? If so, he's a dead man.

  His heart beating hard, he quickly read the letter.

  My dearest Eric,

  I am writing to inform you that Darvin is dead, killed Wednesday last during a duel. His younger brother Charles will move into Darvin Manor as soon as his affairs are settled. Charles has indicated I may continue to live here, but I wish to leave as soon as possible. I am hoping the offer you made me still stands and that I might be welcome to stay at Wesley-at least until I can make other living arrangements.

  I anxiously await your reply.

  Yours, Margaret

  The tension slowly eased from Eric's shoulders, and he blew out a long breath. Crossing to the desk, he extracted a piece of stationery bearing the Wesley crest and carefully penned two words to his sister.

  Come home.

  Sammie sat on her favorite flat rock, her chin resting on her up-drawn knees, her bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem of her comfortable old dark green gown. She contemplated the calm lake water for several seconds, then skimmed a handful of pebbles across the glassy surface. Dozens of rings fanned out, marring the indigo stillness, crisscrossing each other in a watery echo of the myriad emotions rippling through her.

  Vivid images of last evening flashed through her mind, filling her with a contradictory combination of elation, disappointment, and embarrassment-emotional ingredients that mixed to create a recipe for aching confusion.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to erase the memory of him… him touching her. Looking at her. Kissing her. Making her feel more alive than she ever had, while never-before-experienced sensations whirled through her, heating her body
in that exhilarating way that rendered her breathless. Aching. Burning. Wanting more.

  Then the cold slap of disillusionment.

  With a groan, she turned her head, resting her cheek against the sun-warmed muslin of her gown. Perhaps "I" words would be better. I was thinking of luscious… and lovely.

  He had flattered her, very much like the false admirers who had spent the last several weeks seeking out her company under one pretext or another to question her about the Bride Thief. Nearly all of them had slathered ridiculous compliments on her, calling her everything from adorable to gorgeous. She'd endured them all, somehow managing not to roll her eyes.

  Lovely. Why, oh why, had he called her lovely? It was such a blatant lie. Did he think she didn't know she was as plain as a white wall? But somehow, hearing him utter that single word had had the effect of a bucket of icy water on her, bringing her abruptly, cruelly, to her senses.

  Lovely. Yes, Lord Wesley had chosen the very word one of her new admirers, a Mr. Martin, had used to describe her at the very beginning of her newfound popularity. For one insane, surprised, pleased instant, she'd believed the young man… until she'd overheard him an hour later, laughing with another gentleman near the French windows, where she'd stepped outdoors for a breath of much-needed air.

  "Homely as a burlap sack, that Miss Briggeham is," Mr. Martin had said.

  "Oh, but I heard you call her 'lovely,'" his companion said with a chuckle.

  "And never has a more glaring lie ever passed my lips," said Mr. Martin. "Nearly choked me to utter it."

  And now the earl had called her lovely.

  A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she impatiently rubbed it away. She simply hadn't expected such falsehoods from him… from the man who had set her foolish heart aflutter almost from the start. She'd thought he was different, but clearly insincere words dripped from his lips as easily as they did from all the others'.

  For the first time in a long while, she indulged in the useless exercise of wishing she actually were lovely. The sort of woman to attract the attention of a man like him. She'd ruthlessly buried such futile feelings long ago. It was illogical to waste time wanting the impossible.