Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Honoria paled. For one instant, her heart stopped; her chest squeezed so tight, she couldn't breathe. Then she realized the body wasn't Devil's-relief hit her in a dizzying wave. The next instant, her husband strolled over his threshold, ineffably elegant as always. Vane followed.

Vane was carrying three swords and his walking cane.

Devil was carrying his silver-topped cane. The cane was streaked with blood; the back of his left hand was bright red.

Honoria forgot everything and everyone else. In a whisper of silk, feathers scattering in her wake, she flew down the stairs.

Sligo and two footmen had the unconscious groom in charge; Webster was closing the door. It was Vane who saw her first; he jogged Devil's elbow.

Devil looked up-and only just managed not to gape. His wife's peignoir was not transparent but left little to the imagination; the soft, sheer silk clung to gently rounded contours and long sleek limbs. Abruptly, his face set; biting back a curse, he strode for the stairs. He only had time to toss his cane to Webster before Honoria flung herself against him.

"Where are you hurt? What happened?" Frantic, she ran her hands across his chest, searching for wounds. Then she tried to draw back and examine him.

"I'm fine." With his right arm, Devil locked her to him. Lifting her, he continued up the stairs, his body shielding her from the hall below.

"But you're bleedingl" Honoria wriggled, trying to pursue her investigation of his hurts.

"It's just a scratch-you can tend it in our room." Devil gave the last three words definite emphasis. Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced down at Vane. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Vane met his gaze. "Tomorrow."

"Is the wound on your hand or your arm?" Honoria half tipped in Devil's hold, trying to see.

Devil swallowed a curse. "On my hand. Stay still." Tightening his hold, he headed for their chamber. "If you're going to work yourself into a frenzy waiting up for me, you'll need to invest in more suitable nightwear."

The terse comment didn't even impinge on Honoria's consciousness.

Resigned, Devil set her down in their room and surrendered to the inevitable. Obediently stripping off his shirt, he sat on the end of the bed and let her bathe his cut. He answered all her questions-truthfully; she'd hear the details from her maid tomorrow anyway.

Mrs. Hull appeared with a pot of salve and bandages. She joined Honoria in clucking over him. Together, they bandaged the cut, using twice as much bandage as he deemed necessary. However, he kept his tongue between his teeth and submitted meekly; Mrs. Hull cast him a suspicious glance as she left. Honoria rattled on, her voice brittle and breathless, her gaze skittish.

"Swords! What sort of ruffians attack gentlemen with swords?" She gestured wildly. "It shouldn't be allowed."

Devil stood, caught her hand and towed her across the room. He stopped before the tallboy, poured two glasses of brandy, then, taking both in one hand, towed Honoria, her litany of exclamations gradually petering out, to the armchair before the fire. Dropping into the chair, he drew her down onto his lap, then handed her one glass.

Taking it, she fell silent. Then she shivered.

"Drink it." Devil guided the glass to her lips.

Cradling the glass in both hands, Honoria took a sip, then another. Then she shuddered, closed her eyes and leaned against him.

His arm about her, Devil held her close. "I'm still here." He pressed his lips to her temple. "I told you I won't leave you."

Dragging in a breath, Honoria snuggled closer, settling her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

Devil waited until she'd drained her glass, then carried her to their bed, divesting her of her peignoir before putting her between the sheets. Moments later, he joined her, drawing her into his arms. And set about demonstrating in the most convincing way he knew that he was still hale and whole, still very much alive.

Honoria slept late the next morning, yet when she awoke she felt far from refreshed. After tea and toast on a tray in her chamber, she headed for the morning room. Her head felt woolly, her wits still skittish. Settling on the chaise, she picked up her embroidery. Fifteen minutes later, she'd yet to set a stitch.

Sighing, she put the canvas aside. She felt as fragile as the delicate tracery she should have been creating. Her nerves were stretched taut; she was convinced a storm was brewing, roiling on her horizon, poised to sweep in and strike-and take Devil from her.

He meant so much to her. He was the center of her life-she couldn't imagine living without him, arrogant tyrant though he was. They were growing together so well, yet someone was not content to let them be.

The thought made her frown. She might think of the murderer as a black cloud, billowing ever higher, yet he was only a man.

She'd woken early to find Devil sitting beside her on the bed, stroking her hair. "Rest," he'd said. "There's no reason you need be up and about." He'd searched her face, then kissed her. "Take care. I won't approve if I find you peaked and wan." With a twisted smile, he'd stood.

"Will you be about?" she'd asked.