The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

With a half laugh, half groan, Pierce pulled her over him, covering her teasing mouth with his. “Not for long, Snow flame. Not for long.”

14

DAPHNE SLEPT LIKE A contented child, curled trustingly in her husband’s arms.

Pierce sifted his fingers through her hair, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Today had been a monumental day, a series of events exploding one after the other, leaving no time for assessment.

He’d begun the day determined to make Daphne his betrothed. Instead, he’d made her his wife.

Overall, the outcome was a vast relief. He’d, removed her from Tragmore’s poisonous hands, legally taken over responsibility for her protection and safety, and ensured that she was his, in body and fact, for the rest of their lives.

The problem was that, in effecting the unplanned immediacy of their wedding, he’d allowed himself no time for preparation in certain critical areas. For example, how was he going to deal with Daphne’s questions about his plans for her father? How much was he going to relate of the part Tragmore had played in his past?

And last, but most important, was the delicate matter of his other life. How was he going to incorporate the nocturnal activities of the Tin Cup Bandit with marriage to a very bright, very curious young woman?

Pondering Daphne’s heroic view of the bandit, Pierce had to grin. Doubtless, she’d be thrilled to learn she was wed to the masked marauder of the rich, that the two men she was drawn to were, in fact, one and the same. No, Pierce was quite certain he needn’t fear his wife’s condemnation, should she discover the truth. Nor had he any reservations as to her loyalty. She would keep his secret unconditionally and proudly, applauding him each time the bandit embarked on a nightly excursion.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell her. The danger was too great. He, better than anyone, recognized the risk he took each time he invaded a nobleman’s home. But, for him, it was a risk well worth taking, assumed with the absolute fearlessness spawned by having lived in hell and survived. Now he was coldly unthreatened by anything life might dole out.

No, it was one thing for him to defy the law, challenge the odds, and, someday inevitably lose. But not Daphne. Never Daphne.

Although his innocent wife had demonstrated herself to be quite resourceful for an amateur, Pierce reflected. He stifled a chuckle as he relived the scene in Thompson’s store. Daphne had managed to locate just the right man: a somewhat shady though reputedly high-paying jeweler. Then, she’d determinedly held out for the best price she could get for her brooch.

And all so the parish children could eat.

Pierce’s smile vanished, a tidal wave of emotion engulfing his heart. Until Daphne, he’d never witnessed such selflessness, never even believed it existed. But exist it did. He was holding the proof of it in his arms.

Christ, these feelings were more than he’d anticipated, Pierce admitted to himself, gazing down at his sleeping wife. He’d perceived the wealth of spirit and passion burning within her from the moment they’d met, but he hadn’t perceived how profoundly their emergence would affect him, especially in bed.

Bed? That was a laugh. They’d never even made it past the sitting room.

From dusk till dawn he’d made love to her, drowning in the relentless passion that welled up between them when they touched, devouring her, again and again, until exhaustion compelled them to sleep. Even then, he’d drifted off for but an hour, awakening to the scent and feel of her, his body achingly aroused before he’d even opened his eyes.

It was damned disconcerting.

Never in his wildest dreams had Pierce imagined either the staggering intensity of their lovemaking or his own decimated self-control. A control, he reminded himself grimly, that he’d never regained throughout their long, torrid hours together. In truth, he’d abandoned all thought of withdrawal. Pouring himself into Daphne was both celebration and compulsion, as natural and necessary to him as breathing.

He buried his lips in her hair, watching narrow slices of dawn peak through the drapes. In a short while he’d have to awaken her to talk. They had much to accomplish today: moving Daphne to Markham, providing safe living arrangements for her mother, facing Tragmore, and establishing ground rules the bastard wouldn’t violate.

Devising those rules and resolving how much of the past to tell Daphne were Pierce’s current dilemmas.

Dilemmas he needed to resolve posthaste.

Daphne stirred, frowning at the abrasiveness of her bedcovers. She shifted, seeking a softer spot, and was startled into wakefulness by the fervent protest of her aching muscles.

Memory exploded l

ike fireworks.

Pushing herself up on one elbow, Daphne tossed her hair back and surveyed the room with sleepy disorientation, searching for Pierce.

She spotted him not ten feet away, clad only in his trousers, staring intently out the window.

“Pierce?”

He turned, a tender look in his eyes. “Good morning, Snow flame. I was just about to awaken you.”