The Hellion Bride

by Catherine Coulter

"I won't become your lover until you do."

  "Surely you are a bit overenthusiastic in your demands, Ryder. Surely it isn't up to the lady to make herself more appealing to the gentleman, I am already appealing; you should be slavering over me even as we speak. You should be begging me to allow you in my bed."

  He laughed, a rich, deep laugh. "Sophia, let me tell you something. You are pretty, yes, even with the absurd paint on your face, but understand me. I have bedded many women whose beauty reduces yours to mere commonplace, to nothing out of the ordinary. From what I have seen of your body, it is pleasing enough. But understand me, 1 won't play your games. I won't wait in the wings while you spread your legs for seemingly every gentleman in the vicinity. I am not an uncontrolled boy, anxious to plow every female belly he can manage. I am a man, Sophia, and I have developed standards over the years."

  "Years! What are you, twenty-five, twenty-six?"

  "I had my first sexual encounter when I was thir­teen. What about you?"

  In that moment, he saw anger in her, at him, and it was barely leashed. He saw uncertainty then, as if she were arguing with herself whether or not to cosh him on the head if she could manage it. Then she smiled at him, that coy, teasing smile that made him hard as a rock.

  "In short, Miss Stanton-Greville, get rid of the others—all the others—or I will never bed you. I find I am already losing interest quickly."

  "Very well," she said. "I will dismiss Oliver. Will you come to the cottage tonight? At nine o'clock?"

  "Are there any others?"

  "No."

  "Ah, you already dismissed Charles Grammond, the poor fellow who lost all his money to Lord David?"

  "That's right."

  Ryder found that he was brooding, picking, but knowing at the same time that she would elude him. She would show him glimpses of herself, but she wouldn't drop her guard unless he pulled something totally unexpected, caught her completely off guard, like baring her breasts or pulling up her skirt.

  He rose to stand beside her. He said nothing, merely stared down at her. He grasped her upper arms in his hands and pulled her up against him.

  "Perhaps I don't wish to fall into the same bed that has held so many other of your men. Perhaps I would like to sample what you have to offer me right here, right now."

  He kissed her, but she jerked her face away and his lips landed on her jaw.

  He merely smiled down at her, clasped his arms beneath her hips and raised her, pressing her belly hard against his groin. He was hard and he knew she could feel him.

  "Put me down, Ryder."

  Her voice was calm and controlled. He didn't stop smiling. "On the other hand," he said close to her mouth, "perhaps I don't really wish to come into you right now. Perhaps what I really wish to do is pay you back. Give you a taste of retribution. Yes, that's exactly what I want to do."

  He carried her to the water's edge. She knew his intent and began to struggle. He laughed as he waded out into the water, ruining his soft leather boots and not caring. He waded until the water lapped around his thighs.

  She was screaming at him, pounding her fists against his chest, his arms, his shoulders.

  He lifted her high in his arms and hefted her a good four feet into deeper water. She landed on her back, arms flailing wildly, and sank like a stone.

  "There, you hellion," he shouted when her head cleared the water. Her chestnut hair was matted and tangled over her face and shoulders. She looked quite pathetic. "Don't attack me again unless you want to pay more reparations."

  He laughed again and strode back to his horse. "I mean it, Sophia. I am a gentleman most of the time unless circumstances dictate another behav­ior. Understand me. I will never allow you to do your worst to me again without complete and utter retaliation."

  As she stumbled through the water, her skirts dragged her first to one side and then to another. Her boot went into a hole and she went down on her face. She managed to regain her balance and rose, shaking her fist at him. He was on his horse's back, riding away down the beach. He was still laughing.

  He stopped and she heard him shout over his shoulder, "Tonight. Nine o'clock. Don't be late! Ah, and make certain the place is aired out."

  Sophie paced the cottage, aware that her uncle was watching her from the corner of his eye. She said finally, "I'm afraid of him."

  "Don't be a fool," Theo Burgess said. "He's just a man, a young man, not all that experienced, surely."

  "You're wrong. I get the impression he's slept with more women than there are on Jamaica. Him and his damnable standards."

  Theo shrugged. "Get him drunk. You know how to do it. It's nearly time for him to arrive. I'll be close by. You know what to do."

  "Yes," she said and wished, quite simply, that she could drop to the ground and die.

  But that would leave Jeremy alone.

  She stiffened her back, but the fear wouldn't go away. She had to get control, she had to manipulate him. She was good at it, for she was bright, and the good Lord knew she'd had a lot of practice.

  At exactly nine o'clock, there came a light tap on the front door of the cottage.

  Sophie opened the door. He stood there, giving her a lazy smile.

  As he stepped past her into the cottage, he said, 'Tour attempt at a seductive gown is more of a success than not, I should say. However, harlot-red really isn't your color. I think a soft green would be more the thing. To avoid laughter, you should avoid any shade of white. Also, the whalebone pushing up your breasts is an artifice I deplore. A woman has breasts or she doesn't. A man who knows women isn't fooled. But you will learn. Come into the light so I can see your face."

  Sophie followed him dumbly. She was right to be afraid of him.

  He clasped her chin in his long fingers and raised her face into the full candlelight. "Ah, no makeup, or hardly any. I am pleased that you wish to satisfy my demands. Now, should you like to strip for me now or should we talk for a while? Who are your favorite philosophers, for example? Ah, I can see by your expression that you have read the great minds throughout all the centuries. Yes, there are so many you are very likely completely conversant about. Let's select only the second half of the last century. French."

  She drew back, moving away from him to stand behind a wicker chair. "I like Rousseau."

  "Do you now? Do you read him in French or do you read him in English?"

  "Both." She turned away from him and quick­ly poured him a glass of rum punch. She handed it to him. "It's warm tonight. While we speak of Rousseau, why don't you drink a bit."

  "I don't like Rousseau. I find him nauseatingly imprecise in his thoughts and rather foolish, truth be told, in his aspirations of the earth's possible perfection in his hands, using, naturally, his absurd methods."

  Ryder raised his glass and toasted her. He drank it. It was tart and cold and quite delicious. He hadn't realized he was so thirsty. He didn't particularly care for rum, but this didn't taste all that much like rum. He took another drink. It was really very good.

  "I think Rousseau is a gentle man, one who wishes what is best for both men and women. He believes that we should quit the infamy and decadence of the world and return to a simpler life, return to nature."

  "As I recall, this matter of nature was never defined."

  Ryder drank more punch. It slid down his throat, tasting better than anything he'd ever drunk in his life. He finished the glass and handed it back to her. She poured him another.

  "As I said, the fellow is a fool. What he should have preached is that men must control women or they will lose all sense of what and who they are, for women can control men through sex. The more skilled the woman, the more dangerous she is to a man. You, for instance, Sophia. I wonder what you want from me. I wonder what I have that you could possibly lust after, other than my body, of course. It is true that I am a Sherbrooke and thus the planta­tion belongs to my family, however—" Ryder broke off. He felt suddenly quite warm; he felt, really, quite wonderful, relaxed, but yet t
he need for her was growing hot in his blood. She looked soft and sweet to him, so willing, so anxious to please him. Now she was holding out her arms to him and she was speaking to him, but he didn't understand her words, which was odd, but he really didn't care. He downed the rest of the rum punch, rose from his chair, and walked to her. He took her into his arms and began kissing her. Her breath was warm and sweet and she opened her mouth to him and he reveled in her. His hands swept down her back to cup her buttocks. As he had that afternoon, he lifted her against him and moaned at the delightful sensation.

  He released her for a moment, then stepped back and began to pull her gown from her shoulders.

  She laughed softly, so very sweetly, and slapped his hands away. "No, Ryder, you'll rip the material and it was expensive. I had it made just for you. I am sorry that you dislike the color. I will have another made in the shade of green you deem proper for me. Now, let me remove it. Let me become naked just for you. Yes, sit down here and watch me. Tell me what you want me to do. Here's another rum punch to cool you whilst you watch me."

  Ryder took one sip of the rum punch. He leaned his head back against the chair cushion. His eyes were slitted as he watched her, standing in front of him, her hands on the buttons at the front of the harlot-red gown.

  It was the last thing he remembered.

  "He's unconscious."

  "Excellent," Uncle Theo said, stepping into the cot­tage. He walked to Ryder and examined him closely. "Yes, this is excellent. No, Sophia, don't leave. I would like you to see him. It is quite possible that being the sort of man he is, he will question you, and you must be prepared. If there is a mole or a birthmark on his thigh, why then, you must be able to remark upon it."

  She stood back as her uncle dragged Ryder Sherbrooke to the wide satin-sheeted bed. He un­dressed Ryder swiftly, for he'd had a lot of practice. When Ryder was sprawled on his back, quite naked, Theo laughed. "My God, he's still aroused. Look at him, Sophia. Didn't I tell you he was an excellent specimen?"

  She didn't want to, but she did look. She sup­posed he was beautiful, for he was lean and nicely muscled, light brown hair covering his chest and thinning out to his belly, but she found him ter­rifying, particularly his sex, which was thick and hard. Uncle Theo turned him over on his stomach. His flesh was smooth, his back long, the muscles deep and firm. There were no moles or birthmarks.

  Uncle Theo turned him again onto his back. "Ah, he is ready because in his mind it's you he will bed." Theo turned and called out, "Dahlia! Come in now, girl."

  A very beautiful young girl, no more than six­teen, with light brown skin and brown eyes, stepped into the cottage. She sauntered over to the bed and stared down at the naked young man. She stared a good long time.

  "He be a treat," she said and gave Theo Burgess a big smile even as she lightly touched Ryder's belly.

  "Excellent. I won't have to pay you then."

  "He not that much a treat," she said. She slipped out of her dress. She was naked beneath, her breasts pendulous and very large, her hips round and supple. Sophie turned away only to have Uncle Theo grab her arm. "I think you should watch, Sophia. Again, he might ask questions, make comments and—"

  "I won't!" she yelled in his face, jerked free of him, and ran from the cottage.

  She heard Dahlia laughing softly, heard her say in an utterly happy voice, "Ah, look at how much bigger he get and all I do is touch him with my fingers! Ah, yes, massa, this nice boy be a treat."

  Sophie fell to her knees. She felt nausea roil in her belly but she wasn't sick. She was beyond being ill. At first she would have been, but not now. No, too much time had passed. She'd seen too much. She hugged her arms around herself and rocked back and forth.

  She heard Dahlia crying out in the cottage, heard her laughing and groaning and encouraging Ryder to come deeper into her, to caress her breasts. She wondered if Uncle Theo were standing there, watch­ing. She knew he'd done it before. She wondered if he'd taken Dahlia to bed himself. She heard Ryder then. Heard him moan, heard him yell. Oh God, it was too much.

  She crept away.

  CHAPTER

  5

  RYDER WOKE SLOWLY. His first reaction was one of incredulity, for he felt both slightly drunk and sated. He also felt utterly relaxed, but strangely vague. But it was morning, he knew that, and he was drunk? He'd never been drunk in his life upon waking. It made no sense. Nothing made any sense at the moment.

  He sat up in the strange bed, and held his head in his hands, trying to understand. He realized then that he was naked, and remembered where he was and what he had done here in this bed for most of the previous night. Actually, he should be complete­ly exhausted but he wasn't.

  He'd been in this bed with Sophia Stanton-Greville.

  God, she'd been incredible, her skills beyond the ability of any woman he'd ever bedded before. He rose slowly, shaking his head to clear it. The front door opened and an old female slave came in, giving him a wide toothless grin, saying in just short of a cackle, "Good morning, massa. Aye, 'tis fine you be this mornin'." He started to cover himself, but the old woman merely shook her head. She couldn't have cared less if he was wearing a gentleman's morning wear or was as naked as the Sherbrooke Greek statues he and his brothers had gawked at when they'd been boys.

  She offered him a bath and breakfast.

  True to form, Sophia had left him alone.

  He was just one of many. She hadn't cared enough to stay with him. Oddly it hurt and made him angry, in equal parts. He was just another man and she'd not cared.

  He eased himself down into the bath. He tried to remember the previous night in detail, but most of the specifics eluded him, which was surely very strange. He remembered kissing her at first, then he could almost feel again her mouth caressing him expertly and he shuddered with the memory. He remembered her riding him hard and fast, his hands kneading her large breasts, caressing them, lifting them, and he'd screamed like a wild man when his climax had hit him.

  She'd screamed as well. And she'd spoken to him, urged him on, telling him what she liked, telling him what a man he was. He remembered it quite clearly, her voice soft and deep. He remembered her breasts in his hands and how they'd thrust forward when she'd arched her back over him.

  Ryder didn't remember pleasuring her though, and that was odd for he hadn't lied to her. He was an excel­lent lover. He never left a woman unsatisfied. But he hadn't taken her in his mouth as she had him. He couldn't remember kissing her either, except at the very beginning of the evening, and surely that was even more odd, for Ryder loved kissing, sliding his tongue into a woman's mouth, stroking her, bringing her closer and closer as he used his hands on her body to heighten her pleasure.

  Why hadn't he kissed her? Was she so abandoned that she could climax with him simply inside her? He hadn't even fondled her with his fingers, at least he couldn't remember doing so. He shook his head again, shaking away a slight dizziness. He still felt mildly drunk and he hated it, and the damnable vagueness.

  He rose from the bath and the old slave handed him a towel. She didn't show any interest in his body at all. No, he thought, the anger building stronger than the drunkenness, she was so used to seeing naked men here—Sophia Stanton-Greville's men— that she didn't even pay attention anymore.

  He dressed in freshly pressed clothes—good God, did the cursed woman think of everything?—and ate fresh fruit and warm bread. He shook his head at the offered rum punch. Jesus, he thought, watching the old slave drink it when she thought he wasn't looking. The drinking here was beyond good sense and control. He should know, he'd done enough of it the previous night.

  When he left a few minutes later, he turned in the doorway of the cottage and looked back toward the bed, now freshly made up by the old slave. The interior still smelled of sex.

  He hated himself for what he'd allowed her to do to him. She'd obviously kept control the entire time. He again remembered her shriek of pleasure and wondered if it had been feigned. Odd, for he wasn'
t certain and surely that couldn't be right. Ryder knew women. No woman could feign pleasure with him. But she could have and he simply didn't know. He remembered then the glasses of rum punch he'd drunk when he'd arrived the previous evening at the cottage. How delicious it had been, how cool and refreshing, and then all he remembered was the warmth he felt, the hard arousal, the urgency, the incredible sex that had gone on and on until he'd finally fallen like a good soldier in battle.

  He walked to his horse. Sitting beneath a mango tree was Emile, chewing on a piece of turtle grass, his hat pushed to the back of his head.

  "So," Emile said only, rising, and dusting off his breeches. "Are you ready to go home?"

  "Yes," Ryder said. "I'm more than ready."

  Emile asked him no questions. As for Ryder, he was cold sober now, his head so clear it ached. The more he tried to remember each detail of the previ­ous night, he found he simply couldn't call it forth. Except that he'd spewed his seed in her mouth, his back arcing off the bed the release had been so powerful, that and her sitting astride him, riding him hard, her hands busy on his body, pushing him until he couldn't bear it, and again, he'd screamed his release.

  Something wasn't right. In fact, something was very wrong. He was still frowning when he and Emile rode down the long Kimberly Hall drive. Ryder listened with half an ear to the rhythmic humming and singing of the slaves as they worked in the fields.

  "Emile," he said finally, "have you ever seen a crocodile in the middle of the road in the mangrove swamps?"

  "Yes, I have. It's terrifying, really."

  "Something is very wrong," Ryder said.

  "What do you mean?"

  Emile was dancing around the issue. He didn't want to call Sophia Stanton-Greville a whore if Ryder was now enthusiastic about her. He was uncertain; he was trying to be diplomatic.