Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Honoria stared. "Why do you put up with him?"

Devil shrugged. "He's old."

"That's it? Because he's old?"

"No."

Intrigued, Honoria watched the hard face soften, not a great deal, but enough to show.

"Melton put me on my first pony-you could say he taught me to ride. He's been at the Place all his life, and no one knows more about horses-not even Demon. I couldn't turn him out to grass, not after a lifetime in the position. Luckily, his son-in-law, Hersey, is a sensible man-he's my understableman and actually does all the work. Other than on special occasions-and with handling Sulieman-Melton's position is purely titular."

"But he never turns up when you bring Sulieman in."

"Or when I take him out. As I said, it's a point of honor with him." Devil glanced at Honoria, his lips twisting wryly. "To make sure I don't forget all he's taught me. According to him, just because I'm a duke doesn't excuse me from currying my horse."

Honoria choked, then gave up and laughed unrestrainedly.

Devil cast her a disgusted glance-and drove on.

She was wiping her eyes, still racked by the occasional giggle, when he checked his team. They were a mile or so short of Somersham; Honoria sobered when Devil turned the horses off the road, eased them along a narrow lane, then swung onto a wide grassy patch and reined in.

"Behold-north Cambridgeshire."

She could hardly miss it-the county lay spread before her, a tapestry of greens and golds, edged with the darker hues of woods and hedgerows.

"This is the closest we come to a lookout in these parts."

Honoria studied the landscape-while her wariness escalated in leaps and bounds. They were on a grassy plateau, a stand of trees screening them from the road. Essentially private.

"Over there," Devil pointed to the right, "you can see the roofs of Chatteris. The first dark green line beyond is the Forty-Foot Drain, the second is the Old Nene."

Honoria nodded; she recalled the names from his earlier lecture on the fens.

"And now…" Devil secured the reins. "It's time for lunch."

"Lunch?" Honoria swung around, but he'd already leapt down from the curricle. An instant later, she heard him rummaging in the boot. He reappeared, a rug in one hand, a picnic basket in the other.

"Here." He tossed the rug at her. Reflexively, she caught it-then caught her breath as his free arm snaked about her waist and he swung her to the ground. He smiled down at her, pure wolf in his eyes. "Why don't you chose a suitable place to spread the rug?"

Honoria glared-she couldn't speak; her heart was blocking her throat, her breathing had seized. She barely had enough strength to whisk herself free of his encircling arm. Marching across the grass as determindedly as her suddenly shaky limbs allowed, all too aware he prowled close behind, she spread the rug over the first reasonable patch, then, remembering her parasol, returned to the safety of the curricle to retrieve it.

The move gave her time to calm her senses, to take a firm grip on her wayward wits-to remind herself of how safe she really was. As long as she didn't allow him to kiss her again, all would be well.

She could hardly be held responsible for the previous kisses he'd stolen-like the buccaneer he reminded her of, he'd surprised her, captured her and taken what he wished. This time, however, while she might unwittingly have walked into his trap, she did know it was a trap. He hadn't sprung it yet-as a virtuous lady it was clearly her duty to ensure his planning came to nought.

His kisses, and the desire behind them, were far from innocent; she could not, in all conscience, indulge in such scandalous dalliance.

Which made her role very clear-circumspection, caution, and unassailable virtue. She headed back to the rug, repeat

ing that litany. The sight of the repast he'd unpacked-the two wineglasses, the champagne, cool in a white linen shroud, the delicacies designed to tempt a lady's palate-all bore testimony to his intent. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You planned this."

Lounging on the rug, Devil raised his brows. "Of course-what else?"

He caught her hand and gently tugged; she had no choice but to sink, gracefully, onto the other half of the rug. She was careful to keep the basket between them. "You didn't even know I was going to join you."

His answer was a single raised brow and a look so outrageously patronizing she was literally lost for words.

He grinned. "Here." He reached into the basket. "Have a chicken leg."