Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Equally important, she was uncommonly level-headed, not given to flaps or starts. That had been clear from the first, when she'd stood straight and tall, uncowering beneath the weight of the epithets he'd so freely heaped on her head. Then she'd favored him with a look his mother could not have bettered and directed him to the matter at hand.

He'd been impressed by her courage. Instead of indulging in a fit of hysterics-surely prescribed practice for a gentlewoman finding a man bleeding to death in her path?-she'd been resourceful and practical. Her struggle to subdue her fear of the storm hadn't escaped him. He'd done what he could to distract her; her instantaneous response to his commands-he'd almost seen her hackles rising-had made distracting her easy enough. Taking his shirt off hadn't hurt, either.

His lips twitched; ruthlessly he straightened them. That, of course, was yet another good reason he should follow fate's advice.

For the past seventeen years, despite all the distractions the ton's ladies had lined up to provide, his baser instincts had remained subject to his will, entirely and absolutely. Honoria Prudence, however, seemed to have established a direct link to that part of his mind which, as was the case with any male Cynster, was constantly on the lookout for likely prospects. It was the hunter in him; the activity did not usually distract him from whatever else he had in hand. Only when he was ready to attend to such matters, did he permit that side of his nature to show.

Today, he had stumbled-more than once-over his lustful appetites.

His question over underdrawers was one example, and while taking off his shirt had certainly distracted her, that fact, in turn, had also distracted him. He could feel her gaze-another sensitivity he hadn't been prey to for a very long time. At thirty-two, he'd thought himself immune, hardened, too experienced to fall victim to his own desires.

Hopefully, once he'd had Honoria Prudence a few times-perhaps a few dozen times-the affliction would pass. The fact that she was Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby's granddaughter, rebellious granddaughter at that, would be the icing on his wedding cake. Devil savored the thought.

He hadn't, of course, told her his name. If he had, she wouldn't have fallen asleep, restlessly or otherwise. He'd realized almost immediately that she didn't know who he was. There was no reason she should recognize him. She would, however, recognize his name.

Her peculiar profession would make keeping up with ton gossip imperative; he had not a doubt that, had he favored her with his name, she would have made the connection and reacted accordingly. Which would have been trying for them both.

Convincing her that she had no reason to fret would have taken a great deal of effort, which he did not, at the moment, have to spare. He still had Tolly's murder to contend with-he needed her calm and composed. He found her directness, her unfussy, almost wifely matter-of-factness, refreshing and strangely supportive.

The fire glowed, gilding her face. Devil studied the delicate curve of her cheek, noted the vulnerable softness of her lips. He would confess his identity in the morning-he wondered what she would say. The possibilities were, he judged, wide-ranging. He was mulling over the most likely when she whimpered and stiffened in her chair.

Devil opened his eyes fully. And simultaneously became aware of the renewed ferocity of the storm. Thunder rolled, rumbling ever nearer. The wind rose on a sudden shriek; a sharp crack echoed through the wood.

Honoria gasped and came to her feet. Eyes closed, hands reaching, she stepped forward.

Devil surged from his chair. Grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her away from the fire.

With a wrenching sob, she turned and flung herself against him. Her arms slipped about him; she clung tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest. Reflexively, Devil closed his arms about her and felt the sobs that racked her. Off-balance, he took a step back; the old chair caught him behind his knee.

He sat down; Honoria did not slacken her hold. She followed him down, drawing up her legs; she ended curled in his lap. Sobbing silently.

Tilting his head, Devil peered at her face. Her eyes were closed but not tightly. Tears coursed down her face. She was, in fact, still asleep.

Trapped in her nightmare, she shuddered. She gulped down a sob, only to have another rise in its place.

Watching her, Devil felt a sharp ache twist through his chest. The tears welled from beneath her lids, gathered, then rolled slowly, steadily, down her cheeks.

His gut clenched. Hard. Gently, he tipped up her face. She didn't wake; the tears continued to fall.

He couldn't stand it. Devil bent his head and set his lips to hers.

Engulfed in sorrow so black, so dense, not even lightning could pierce it, Honoria became aware of lips warm and firm pressed against her own. The unexpected sensation distracted her, breaking the hold of her dream. Blackness receded; she pulled back and caught her breath.

Strong fingers curved about her jaw; the distracting lips returned. Warmth seeped into her bones, her skin, driving out death's chill. The lips held to hers, reassuringly alive, a link from one dream to the next. She made the transition from nightmare to a sense of peace, of rightness, reassured by the strength surrounding her and the steady beat of a heart not her own.

She was no longer alone in misery. Someone was here, keeping her warm, holding the memories at bay. The ice in her veins melted. Her lips softened; tentatively, she returned the kiss.

Devil caught his baser instincts an instant before they bolted. She was still asleep-the last thing he intended was to scare her awake. The battle to resist his demons, clamoring for him to deepen the caress into something far from innocent, was furious, as ferocious as the storm. He won-but the effort left him shaking.

She drew back. Lifting his head, he heard her sigh softly.

Then, lips curving in a distinctly feminine smile, she shifted, settling herself in his lap.

Devil caught his breath; he bit his lip.

Pressing her cheek once more to his chest, she slid into peaceful slumber.

At least he'd stopped her tears. Jaw clenched, Devil reminded himself that that-and only that-had been his aim. Thanks to fate, he'd have time and more to claim recompense for the pain she was causing him, to claim a suitable reward for his remarkable rectitude. His halo, for once, ought to be glowing.