Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

being who she was, used to being obeyed herself, such an attitude did not sit well.

Finding her eyes once more glued to his back, entranced by the fluid flexing of his muscles, Honoria caught herself up. Irritation flared-she clung to its safety. He was impossible-in every way.

He glanced back and caught her black frown before she had a chance to wipe it from her face. His brows quirked; his eyes met hers, then he faced forward. "Nearly there."

Honoria released the breath that had stuck in her throat. And indulged in a furious scowl. Who the devil was he?

A gentleman certainly-horse, clothes, and manner attested to that. Beyond that, who could tell? She checked her impressions, then checked again, but could find no hint of underlying unease; she was perfectly certain she was safe with this man. Six years as a governess had honed her instincts well-she did not doubt them. Once they gained shelter, introductions would follow. As a well-bred lady, it wasn't her place to demand his name, it was his duty to make himself known to her. Ahead, the dimness beneath the trees lightened; ten more steps brought them into a large clearing. Directly in front, backing onto the wood, stood a timber cottage, its thatch in good repair. Honoria noted the opening of two bridle paths, one to the right, one to the left. His stride lengthening, her rescuer headed for the cottage door.

"There's a stable of sorts to the side. Tie Sulieman in there." He flicked a glance her way. "To something unbreakable."

The glare she sent him bounced off his broad back. She quickened her pace, egged on by the rising whine of the wind. Leaves whirled like dervishes, clutching at her skirts; the black monster trotted at her heels. The stable was little more than a rude shack, built against the cottage wall.

Honoria scanned the exposed timbers for a hitching post. "I don't suppose it's what you're accustomed to," she informed her charge, "but you'll have to make do." She spied an iron ring bolted to the cottage wall. "Ah-hah!"

Looping the reins through, she hung on the ends to tighten the knot. She grabbed the jacket and was about to turn away when the huge black head swung toward her, one large eye wide, its expression strangely vulnerable. Briskly, she patted the black nose. "Stay calm."

With that sage advice, she picked up her skirts and fled for the cottage door. The storm chose that precise moment to rend the sky-thunder rolled, lightning crackled, the wind shrieked-so did Honoria.

She flew through the open door, whirled, and slammed it shut, then slumped back against it, eyes closed, hands clutching the soft jacket to her breast. Rain drummed on the roof and pelted the panels at her back. The wind shook the shutters and set the rafters creaking. Honoria's heart pounded; on the inside of her eyelids she saw the white light she knew brought death.

Catching her breath on a hiccup, she forced her eyes open. And saw her rescuer, the youth in his arms, standing beside a pallet raised on a crude frame. The cottage was dark, lit only by dim remnants of light leaking through the slatted shutters.

"Light the candle, then come and set the covers."

The simple command prodded Honoria into action. She crossed to the table that dominated the single-roomed abode. A candle stood in a simple candlestick, tinder beside it. Laying the jacket aside, she struck a spark and coaxed the candle into flame. A soft glow spread through the room. Satisfied, she headed for the pallet. An odd assortment of furniture crowded the small cottage-an old wing chair sat beside the stone hearth, a huge carved chair with faded tapestry cushions facing it. Chairs, bed, and table took up much of the available space; a chest and two rough dressers hugged the walls. The bed stood out into the room, its head against one wall; Honoria reached for the neatly folded blankets left on its end. "Who lives here?"

"A woodsman. But it's August so he'll be in the woods by Earith. These are his winter quarters." He leaned forward, lowering his burden, as Honoria flipped the blanket out along the bed.

"Wait! He'll be more comfortable if we remove his coat."

Those unearthly eyes held hers, then he looked down at the body in his arms. "See if you can ease the sleeve off."

She'd been careful not to catch the coat when she'd secured their improvised bandage. Honoria gently tugged; the sleeve shifted inch by inch.

Her rescuer snorted. "Silly clunch probably took an hour to get into it."

Honoria looked up-this time she was sure. His voice had shaken on the "clunch." She stared at him, a dreadful premonition seeping through her. "Pull harder-he can't feel anything at the moment."

She did; between them, by yanking and tugging, they managed to free one arm. With a sigh of relief, he laid the body down, drawing the coat off as he eased his hands free. They stood and stared at the deathly pale face, framed by the faded blanket.

Lightning cracked; Honoria shifted and glanced at her rescuer. "Shouldn't we fetch a doctor?"

Thunder rolled, echoing and booming. Her rescuer turned his head; the heavy lids lifted, and his strange eyes met hers. In the clear green-timeless, ageless, filled with desolate bleakness-Honoria read his answer. "He's not going to recover, is he?"

The compelling gaze left her; his black mane shook in a definite negative.

"Are you sure?" She asked even though she suspected he was right.

His long lips twisted. "Death and I are well acquainted." The statement hung in the suddenly chill air. Honoria was grateful when he elaborated: "I was at Waterloo. A great victory we were later told. Hell on earth for those who lived through it. In one day I saw more men die than any sane man sees in a lifetime. I'm quite certain-" Thunder crashed, nearly drowning out his words. "He won't see out the night."

His words fell into sudden silence. Honoria believed him; the bleakness that hung about him left no room for doubt.

"You saw the wound-how the blood kept pulsing? The ball nicked the heart-either that, or one of the big vessels close by. That's why we can't stop the bleeding." He gestured to where blood was staining the thick pad. "Every time his heart beats, he dies a little more."

Glancing at the youth's innocent face, Honoria drew in a slow breath. Then she looked at her rescuer. She wasn't sure she believed the impassive face he wore. His very stoicism fed her suspicion; compassion stirred.

Then he frowned, black brows slashing down as he held up the youth's coat. Honoria watched as he examined the button opposite the bloody hole. "What is it?"