Devils Bride (Cynster 1)

Honoria didn't move.

"They could have knifed Sligo and Carter-killed them without a qualm. Then they'd have raped you-one after another. If you'd survived, they'd have slit your throat."

Devil spoke with deadpan conviction; it was the truth-a truth he'd had to face. The muscles across his shoulders rippled; he tensed, holding back his reactive rage, clinging grimly to the reality of the woman standing slim, straight, and unharmed before him. A second later he caught himself reaching for her-abruptly, he swung away, pacing again, then he stopped.

His back to Honoria, he dragged in a deep breath. "How the hell do you think I would have felt then!-if anything had happened to you?" He paused, then flatly stated: "I cannot countenance you putting yourself in danger over me. You can't ask that of me."

Silence fell; Devil looked back at Honoria. "Will you give me your word you will not knowingly go into danger?"

Honoria held his gaze, then, slowly, shook her head. "I can't."

He looked forward immediately, his fury clearly delineated in the rigid lines of his back, clearly expressed in a single, violent expletive.

"I simply can't." Honoria spread her hands. "I'm not trying to be wilful, but you must see I can't-" Her words were drowned out by a half-strangled roar; the next instant,

Devil flung open the door. Honoria stiffened. "Where are you going?"

"Downstairs."

"Don't you dare leave." If he did, would he come back? "I haven't finished-"

His hand on the doorknob, Devil turned, his green gaze impaling her. "If I don't leave, you won't sit comfortably for a sennight."

Before she could react, he slammed the door shut. Honoria listened to his footsteps, uncharacteristically heavy, retreat. She stood before the fire, her gaze fixed unseeing on the panels of the door, for a very long time.

Reaching the library, Devil flung himself into an armchair. An instant later, he sprang up and fell to pacing. He never paced-the action was too indicative of lost control for his liking. If he kept on as he was, he'd wear a track in the rug.

Uttering a long-drawn groan, he halted; eyes closed, he dropped his head back and concentrated on breathing, on letting his impotent rage settle. Into the morass of emotions that swirled inside him, all called forth by the woman he'd taken to wife.

Both jaw and fists clenched; then again he forced himself to relax. One by one, tensed muscles uncoiled; eventually, he stood easy. Eyes still closed, he looked inward, sifting through his reactions to what lay beneath.

When he saw what it was, he wasn't impressed.

Honoria was dealing with this unexpected development far better than he. Then again, she'd been through it before, albeit unhappily. He'd never experienced the like before.

He hadn't, in fact, known real fear, even on the battlefield. He was a Cynster; fate took care of Cynsters. Unfortunately, he wasn't sanguine enough to assume fate's benevolence extended to Cynster wives. Which left him battling a fear he'd no idea how to combat.

Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes. Spreading his fingers, he studied them. They were almost steady. His muscles, tensed for so long, now felt chilled. He glanced at the decanter, then grimaced. Switching his gaze to the flames cheerily dancing in the hearth, he paused, then, deliberately, opened the door of his memory. And let Honoria's words warm him.

He stared at the flames for so long that when he heaved a long sigh and turned to the door, they still danced before his eyes.

Honoria shivered beneath the unfamiliar covers of her bed. After much mental debate, she'd returned to her apartments, undressed, and climbed between the sheets. She hadn't had any dinner-not that it mattered; she'd lost her appetite. Whether she'd find it again was moot, but if she could relive her scene with Devil, she would not change one word she'd said.

Her declaration had been necessary-she hadn't expected him to like it. She had no idea how he viewed her confession-he'd turned from her the instant he'd seen her words confirmed in her eyes.

Frowning, she stared into the dark, trying, for the umpteenth time, to make consistent sense of his reaction. On the surface, he'd appeared his usual tyrannical, domineering self, insisting without quarter that she fall in with his dictates, resorting to intimidation when she stood firm. Yet not all he'd said fitted that image-the mere thought of her being in danger had agitated him to a remarkable degree. It was almost as if…

The nebulous thought went round and round in her head, and followed her into sleep.

She woke to find a very large, dense shadow looming over her.

"Damn fool woman-what the devil are you doing here?"

His tone made it clear the question was rhetorical; Honoria valiantly stifled a giggle. He sounded so put upon-poor aggrieved male-not one of the most powerful men in the land. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw him, hands on hips, shake his head. Then he leaned over her.

He loosened her covers, then pressed down on the soft mattress and slid his hands under her. He lifted her easily; Honoria played dead.

"And a bloody nightgown."