Demon's Bride

Chapter 16

“What do you want?”

Anne looked from her hands to stare up at Leo. How could she answer that demand, when she could not see through the tempest engulfing her heart? She wanted to pull him close. She wanted to fling him from her. She wanted solitude and she wanted intimacy. It seemed impossible that one person could contain such a multitude of contradictions—yet she did.

She needed to test him, test herself. If she read his innermost self, what would she find there? A text of devotion, or more deceit? She did not know if she could gather the tatters of her own heart and step out into the storm. Or perhaps the silken ties that bound her to him were gone forever. One way to know for certain.

She raised herself up on her toes and kissed him. Deeply.

For a moment, he held himself still, as if afraid to respond and drive her away. Even with tension thrumming through his body, she sensed his restraint, allowing her to find what she needed to discover.

Desire flared through her, and she grew bolder. He groaned as the kiss heated. Not tender, but hungry, their mouths opening, tongues slick. She gripped his shoulders. Their bodies pressed flush against each other. Beneath the fine material of her shift, she felt his whole body—every plane and hewn surface, each sinew underneath satiny flesh. As she burned hotter, his caution ebbed. His large hands cupped her behind, bringing her tight, hip to hip.

Hunger tore through her, stronger than sense or wisdom. Her heart still ached. Words of apology and remorse might suture his betrayal, but the wound remained, and its pain throbbed in time with desire.

She never knew that one could desire someone this way—shredded by loss and sorrow, consumed with wanting. An appetite that grew even as she devoured more and more. She must learn the secrets of his heart, and this urged her on, demanding more.

Gasping, she broke the kiss. Yet she had only just begun. When she tugged him toward the bed, he went willingly, face dark, expression stern.

“Take off your clothes.” Her terse command surprised them both.

He obeyed, unhesitating. His gaze held hers as he tugged off his boots and undid the buttons on his breeches. These he peeled from his body, and then, save for the bandages, he was naked.

“I’ve never seen you this way,” she murmured. “In the light.” Nowhere to hide. Nothing to conceal or disguise.

He understood this moment’s significance. He let her look her fill, and look she did.

She discovered that her husband was stunning. Lean and muscled, his arms hewn, shoulders wide, the surfaces of his chest, scattered with golden hair, the taut ridges of his torso that led to a hard, flat stomach. The line of hair that trailed from his navel. The long, firm muscles of his thighs, the indentations above his buttocks. He was no soft aristocrat, no pampered gentleman. Years of struggle had fashioned his body into something fierce and tough.

She wanted to curse the bandages for obscuring him with their lattice. This was the body of the man with whom she had shared so much pleasure, such profound intimacy. It frightened her, a little, to see what she had known and touched and kissed, as though she had fallen asleep with a hunting dog at her feet and woken up with a wolf.

For all that, he was human, too, as evidenced by the intriguing scars and small collections of freckles. A man of flesh. Her gaze touched upon the scar on his shoulder, given to him by Lord Whitney—a reminder of the tapestry of deceit that had been woven by Leo’s hands.

Something on his calf drew her attention. More markings of flame climbed up the thick muscles.

“Why two sets of markings?”

He glanced away, and she saw the hard beat of his pulse in his throat. “Those came later. The geminus offered me more power.”

Which he did not refuse, clearly. “When?”

“After I made the other investment for your father,” Leo said. “It knew I was wavering. Sought to bind me to the Devil with further temptation.”

That was not so long ago. After the riot at the theater, after both she and Leo had been endangered by the evil he and the other Hellraisers had unleashed. Yet he had given in to the Devil subsequent to all this.

She dragged her gaze back up to his face. He looked like a man ravaged, passion and yearning and regret in his eyes.

Her resolve held. Many questions remained unanswered: what he wanted from her, whether she might salvage the care she once felt for him. She would put them both to the test.

Urging him back, she pressed him down when the backs of his knees met the edge of the bed. He sat, then leaned back on his elbows when she pushed against his shoulders.

He lay like that, braced on elbows and forearms, feet upon the floor, staring up at her with eyes the color of storm clouds. His cock strained up toward his navel. His fingers gripped the coverlet. Only his ruthless resolve seemed to keep him from leaping on her, claiming her.

She bent over him, bracing her hands on the bed, and kissed him hungrily. He reached for her. She grabbed his wrists and lowered them to the bed. His fingers curled into the bedclothes. Giving in to her demands.

For all the deception, on an intrinsic level, they knew each other. And this caused her hurt to renew itself all over again, reminding her of what had been sacrificed.

She wanted to push him as far as she could.

Pressing her body to his, she rubbed her breasts against his chest. The fine material of her chemise provided little barrier. He was solid and hot beneath her. Sensation sparked outward from the taut points of her nipples, and against her belly she felt the thick, hard shape of his cock.

“Is this what you came for?” she challenged, breathless as she teased them both. “Why you chased after me? The softness of my body when the rest of your world is hard and cold?”

With a look of tortured pleasure, he clenched his teeth. “More than this. I searched for you because I wanted you, in any way I could have you.”

She took him in her hand. His response was a hiss, and an upward push of his hips. From crown to base, she stroked him, her grip tight. The silken feel of him in her hand made her shake with desire.

Abruptly, she released him and pushed back from the bed. He stared up at her, breath coming fast and hard.

“Is this your revenge?” he rasped. “To leave me wanting?”

“If it was, would you let me go?”

“It would destroy me.”

“Yet if I needed to leave, if it was the only way to ensure my happiness, would you?”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Damn him. If he were a brute, unrepentant and selfish, this would be simpler, painless. Yet he wasn’t. He was Leo, and she loved him. After all this, she loved him still, and nothing hurt her more.

The choice to stay or go was hers. Yet she could not leave.

“If my happiness demands selfish gratification?” she pressed.

“I will give it to you.”

She climbed onto the bed, grazing her hands along his thighs. He was her supplicant now. She pushed him down, so that he lay back, his head upon the mattress. “And you’ll ask for nothing in return.”

“All I want is the chance to give you pleasure.”

With his gaze hot upon her, she braced her knees on either side of his head. Her quim was inches from his mouth.

She had never been so blatant in her demands. Her eyes challenged him as her body pulsated with need.

Prove yourself, she said to him wordlessly. Prove to me that all is not lost. His gaze holding hers, he gripped her thighs. Slowly, reverently, he brought her lower, until his lips pressed against her.

Anne swallowed a gasp, yet she could not keep silent when his tongue traced a glossy line from her opening to her pearl. He did this once more, and she cried out from the pleasure.

Though she wanted to let her eyes drift closed and float in sensation, she kept them open, watching Leo as he tasted her. With deep, lush kisses and licks, he feasted upon her, creating marvels of pleasure with his mouth. He drank from her as though she were the rarest and most precious delicacy, one he was determined to savor. And all the while, his gaze stayed on hers, burning bright.

Tremors shook Anne’s thighs as the climax built, then crashed over her. He persisted, sucking upon her. In this way, he was both worshipful and commanding, for he coaxed her to bliss over and over, and she could not stop him, did not want him to stop, needing only pleasure and more pleasure and not the labyrinth of questions and uncertainty that lay beyond pleasure’s ruby haze.

Shuddering with another release, Anne pulled away, feeling the echo of his fingers as he unclasped his iron hold on her thighs. He’d never looked fiercer with want, his eyes hot, his mouth slick with her.

“I would give you that,” he rasped. “Every day, every hour.”

“And what for you?”

“Whatever you will give me.”

She edged backward and removed her chemise. In that cool gray morning, she was as exposed as he, naked in every way. Yet she felt stronger than ever.

Her knees pressing into the bed, she straddled him. Though he thrummed with want, he stayed as he was, lying back, feet on the floor and hands clutching the coverlet until his knuckles were white.

“This isn’t a promise,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She steadied herself over him, her hands braced on his chest, the head of his cock at her opening. At the touch of her wetness, he gave an animal growl.

His eyes were heavy-lidded yet fiery as she held herself above him, savoring even this small contact. And then she could wait no longer, and sank down onto him. She moaned at the sensation, thick inches of him sliding into her, filling her.

She paused for a moment, drinking in the feeling of him inside her. Looking down at him, she expected his eyes to be closed as he retreated into physical pleasure. But his eyes were open and fixed on her face. As if memorizing her.

Hot tears gathered in her own eyes. She wanted to be selfish and think only of herself, but the slick, sleek marvel of their joining, and the look of sorrowful rapture on his face, spoke otherwise. She had sought to test him, test herself, and now had her answer: their sex could never be merely two bodies pursuing mercenary pleasure. They needed balance, giving and taking.

“Anne,” he said, hoarse. He finally released his grip on the coverlet, his hand coming up to brush away her tears.

Using the back of her hand, she wiped her eyes, forcing the tears back. She did not know how much time she and Leo had left. She knew nothing at all. Only him. Only now.

She took his hand still cupping her cheek and moved it to her hip. Uncurled the fingers of his other hand and placed it on her other hip.

“Hold tight,” she whispered.

His eyes blazed.

She rose up, and lowered herself down. Hot sensation spread through her. She moved again. And again. Each rise and fall filled her with gleaming pleasure. Watching Leo beneath her, seeing the beat of his heart under the hard curves of his muscles, and the brightness of his gaze—she had never felt such a combination of ecstasy and suffering, and the darkness brought the pleasure into stark relief.

His hands gripped her tightly, his hips rising to meet hers with thick, potent thrusts. The tempo increased, flesh to flesh. She ground herself into him, shameless in her demands. Her tight, throbbing pearl rubbed against him, and he angled himself to reach her exactly as she needed.

Sounds came from her. Wild, unrestrained sounds. They mingled with his deep growls as their pace sped. And not once did their gazes part.

“Leo,” she moaned. “God.”

“Just like that,” he answered, panting.

She dug her fingers into his chest, leaving bright red marks. Release came like a hurricane, a storm of pleasure that wracked her every part, harrowing her with sensation. She did close her eyes then, tipping her head back as she lost herself to the climax.

The pulsations had barely dimmed when she felt herself gathered up and carried easily across the room. There was a crash and clatter as Leo shoved everything, including the food he had brought, off the table. He sat her on the table’s edge. At his wordless urging, she wrapped her legs around his hips, her hands clutching his shoulders, body already primed for more.

“I feared I would never feel this with you again,” he rasped. “That I had lost you forever.”

He gripped the table, gaining leverage, and thrust. Hard. She arched into him. He plunged into her again, and once more. The table shuddered from the force of his movements, just as she shuddered, yet she was caught in a maelstrom of pleasure from the fierce heat and power of him as he sank into her over and over. He was relentless, and she reveled in it. In him.

Another orgasm tore through her, harder than the first. She cried out. A moment later, he groaned, body stilling. Head bowed, he gasped against her neck, and his breath fanned over her skin.

They stayed like that, him still deep within her, their bodies fused.

“I love you, Anne.” His voice was deep, vibrating through her. “Even if the Devil drags me off to Hell, I will never stop loving you.”

She said nothing, only wrapped her arms around him and wished for answers that would not appear.

Leo woke with a start, and found Anne curled against him, his arms wrapped around her. She was soft and warm, deeply asleep. Darkness filled the room. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to soak up the feel of her, her supple pliancy and the silk of her flesh. It had been far too long since they had lain like this, completely at ease, unguarded—yet he knew it was an illusion shaped by fatigue. Though he had loved her body with a soul-draining intensity, she would not permit him this closeness were she not exhausted.

Pain, it seemed, had a limitless supply, for he felt it anew, cutting through him. He had always taken whatever he wanted, yet there seemed nothing he could do to make Anne his once more.

A soft tap sounded at the door. This had been what had awakened him moments earlier.

Naked, he eased out of bed, grabbing his primed pistol as he did so, and padded noiselessly to the door. Likely demons would not knock, nor common thieves, but he’d take no chances.

Whit’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Livia has returned.”

Leo opened the door a bare crack. “Is she in your room?”

“She appeared for only a moment. Doesn’t like populated places like inns. We’re to meet her by the river as soon as we can.”

Leo nodded, and closed the door. He turned to find Anne sitting up in bed, already pulling on her chemise. Though he was used to dressing in the dark, she was not, so he lit a candle. It guttered, until Anne gave it a pointed stare, and the flame steadied. More evidence of her strange new power.

In the pale yellow light of a single candle, they noiselessly dressed. The air in the little room felt filled with broken glass, each inhalation a study in pain. They were two strangers who had shared the deepest intimacy. He helped lace her into her gown, now stained and limp, and she thanked him with a small nod.

Dressed in his borrowed clothes, Leo put on his brace of pistols and slung his hunting musket onto his back. He had reloaded all of his weapons, ready for whatever might come. As Anne moved past him, he gently took hold of her arm.

She gazed up at him, stronger than he had ever seen her before, her hazel eyes clear.

“However long it takes,” he said quietly. “From this life to the next. I will find a way to regain your trust.”

“You have it,” she murmured. But she held him off with an upraised hand when he stepped closer. “I don’t know if it is enough. What we had ... is broken.”

“I’ll fix it. Make it as it was.”

She shook her head. “It can never go back to what it was. That is irrevocably lost.” She glanced down at his hand on her arm. “We have to leave.”

He did not want to, but he let her go, and they both left the room. At the doorway, she turned, then waved her hand. The candle winked out, throwing the chamber into darkness once more.

Down in the taproom, he purchased some bread, cheese, and apples, and had them packed into a hamper. “You need to eat,” he explained at Anne’s questioning look.

“What about you?”

“Take care of yourself first.” He had been hungry before. It had not killed him.

The inn stood some hundred yards from the riverbank. They walked together, passing a lone cottage, and Anne ate as they moved toward the water. The night was cold and still, a thick blanket of clouds pressing down, smothering sound.

Beneath the branches of an oak, close to the water’s edge, stood Whit and Zora. They kept close to each other, hands linked and voices low in shared confidence. The distance between Leo and Anne felt wide and echoing—but he had spoken truly. No matter what it took, no matter the time, he would find a way back to her, fashioning a bridge from his bones and blood if necessary.

“Where is our ghost?” Leo asked. “Do we summon her?”

“I am not summoned,” came the specter’s voice from the darkness. Light gathered around the roots of the tree, an unearthly glow, and it gained strength as it grew.

Though Anne, Whit, and Zora seemed more familiar with the sight, Leo stared as the shape of the Roman woman emerged. There was still much of this hidden world he did not know, and it struck him again how reckless he and the other Hellraisers had been, dabbling with such potent magic, skirting the edges of unfathomable power.

“I choose to come when I so desire,” the ghost said, her voice sharper as she came into focus. Leo had seen her a handful of times in his dreams, a plaguing presence urging him to turn away from the Dark One, as she called it. He would have dismissed visitations as nothing but a restless mind had not his fellow Hellraisers confessed to having the same dreams.

Now he was awake, and here she stood. Or floated, rather. For her sandals hovered above the ground as she drifted toward him and the others. Unease prickled along his neck.

She stared at Leo, mistrust and haughtiness in her dark eyes. “The emblem of the Dark One obscures him. He is no ally.”

“He is,” Anne said, surprising him. “He has renounced the Devil.”

“Words.” The ghost scoffed. “Any child may recite them, without thought to the meaning.”

“I’m no child,” Leo rumbled. “My words are backed by my deeds.”

“He fought against demons, Livia,” added Whit. “He has proven himself.”

Leo and Anne’s gazes met, for he had proven himself to her. Yet she insisted there could be no regaining what they had once shared. God, how he hoped that was not true.

“That determination shall be made by me,” pronounced the ghost.

“Tell me what I need to do,” Leo said through clenched teeth, “and it will be done.” This was far more than wresting a place for himself in the upper ranks of Society. The opinions of a few weak-chinned aristos did not matter. Let them think him a baseborn guttersnipe. They might print the foulest slurs in all the newspapers, create belittling caricatures to be flung across the most distant shores. None of that carried significance.

Only now, when he stood on the brink of not only losing his soul, but the only woman he ever loved, did he understand this. His pursuit of status had been a fool’s trade. He did not even like most of the gentry, and yet he sought entry into their ranks. A hollow ambition that would leave him broken and alone.

All that would change. Had already changed.

Everyone—Anne, Whit, Zora, and Livia—stared at him now. Fissures appeared in Livia’s wariness, but all Leo cared about was Anne, and fighting to recover what had been squandered.

“This fight we soon face,” said Livia, “the stakes are far greater than the fate of a single soul.”

“I know.”

“Such confidence. Will you be so assured when your life is imperiled?”

One thing had not changed: Leo did not like to be questioned. He bristled. “Whatever is necessary. If that means my death, I accept the consequences.”

The ghost continued to stare at him, judging, assessing. Finally, she nodded. “All things have a genesis and a culmination. The journey ends where it truly began.”

“We must go to the ruined temple?” asked Whit.

“No,” said Leo. “To London. To my home.”

They rode east, passing through Chiswick, the buildings growing more numerous and closer together. And as they ventured farther into the city, signs of turmoil abounded. Broken glass and shattered wood littered the streets, and more than once they passed gangs of roving men who threw rocks and challenges, their eyes bright with wildness.

One such gang surrounded Leo and the others. “Pretty group of toffs,” the leader snarled. Torchlight gleamed on his shaven head. Sometime during the night’s rowdiness, he had lost his wig.

The leader reached for the reins of Zora’s horse, but before anyone could act, Whit had his saber out and pointed at the man’s throat. Leo aimed his pistols toward the rest of the gang.

“I can only shoot two of you,” Leo said to the mob. “Three, if you count my musket. But you might be one of the three.”

“By nature, I’m a gambler,” added Whit. “Are any of you?”

Muttering amongst themselves, the mob edged away and its leader stepped back. They retreated into the night, yet tension still hung over the street.

“Your efforts are appreciated,” said Zora. “But it would’ve been a small matter for me to reduce him to ashes.”

“A woman wielding flame like a weapon might attract undo attention,” noted Whit, “even amidst this chaos. Besides,” he added, bringing his horse up beside hers so he could lean close, “it gratifies my male pride to play savior every now and then.”

Leo glanced away as Whit kissed Zora. Seeing their ready trust and affection felt like rusty nails pounded into Leo’s heart. His gaze met Anne’s, who had also looked away from the open display of tenderness.

Spurring his horse on, Leo said with a growl, “When you’re done making love in the middle of the street, we’ve got my soul to reclaim and the Devil to thrash.”

He heard their horses behind him as they followed. Anne pushed her mount so that she rode beside him.

Passing Hyde Park and the genteel neighborhoods, the roving gangs thinned, but those who were on the streets moved quickly, heads down, as if anticipating attack. No sedan chairs were out, a rarity. A tense air of retreat clung to the wide streets and the imposing surfaces of Mayfair mansions, and few windows were lit. These were the prime hours for London’s elite to make their rounds of evening diversions, yet no music filtered down into the avenues, no laughter or voices engaged in lively conversation.

Only a night had elapsed since Leo had ridden these streets in mad pursuit of Anne. Yet it felt as though decades had passed.

Saint George’s struck the half hour as Leo and the others headed into Bloomsbury. His house was dark, save for a few candles burning in the front chambers, constituting the servants’ attempt to make life appear somewhat normal.

Leo quickly dismounted and strode over to help Anne down from the saddle. She did not flinch from his touch, but she did not lean into it, either. Still, he took pleasure in his hands around her waist, and her slight weight as he swung her down. He did not know how much longer he would have to hold her like this, so he would take from it what he could.

Two grooms warily emerged from the mews behind his house to take their horses. As the sweat-flecked animals were led away, Leo said to the servants, “Once they are tended to, remove yourself from this place at once.” He tossed them each a sovereign. The men’s eyes widened, but they nodded in agreement.

Standing at the foot of the stairs leading to his front door, Leo stared up at his house. Three years ago he had purchased it; for three years it had been his nominal home. Yet the colonnades and handsome brick exterior moved him not at all. It was a building, nothing more. Only when Anne had come to live under his roof did he feel any sense of excitement when seeing its façade, and only then because he knew he was close to seeing her at the end of a long day.

He had bought this place to serve as a dare to the elite. His challenge: You cannot make me disappear or slink off to the gutter. I am here. See me. Respect and fear me.

And the magic given to him by the Devil served to shore up his challenge. It made sense that this house—the emblem of his desire for approval from those he did not truly esteem—now was to be the battleground for the fight for his soul.

Anne stood beside him and also looked up at the house. Trepidation tightened her mouth. Yet she glanced over at him and seemed to sense the swirl of emotion within him. Cautiously, she reached out and took hold of his hand.

He stared at their linked hands, feeling a tightness in his chest that came not from fear but from wonder. Whatever happened in the coming minutes and hours, he had this, this shared moment that she had crafted. Even when her hand slipped from his, he continued to feel her strength resonating within.

When Whit and Zora joined them, Leo drew a breath. He mounted the stairs. A gaping Munslow opened the front door, all sense of professional demeanor gone in light of the strange vision standing at the top of the steps: the master of the house, laden with weapons and wearing another man’s clothing, the mistress in her torn and dirty gown, the errant Lord Whitney, and a Gypsy. Not precisely the sort of gathering one found in Bloomsbury minutes away from midnight.

The footman recovered enough to say, “Welcome home, sir.” He held the door open, and the group moved inside.

“You and all the other servants,” Leo said. “Gather your belongings and leave immediately.”

Munslow stared. “Sir? Have we displeased you?”

“Not at all. But this place is not safe, and in a few minutes, it will be even less so.” He handed the footman a key. “This is to my strongbox in my study. Take all the money you find there and dole it out amongst the servants. I’m trusting you to be fair in its distribution.”

“Yes, sir,” Munslow said, his face still frozen in shock.

“And if I’m still alive in the morning,” Leo added, “I’ll be happy to give anyone a character so they may find further employment. Go now,” he said when the footman could only gawp at him.

Wearing a look of utter bafflement, Munslow headed belowstairs. Presumably to tell the other servants that the master had gone mad.

“Word will get out,” murmured Anne once the footman had gone.

Leo understood. Servants told tales amongst themselves, and gossip spread from household to household. What one servant might learn would soon reach the ears of their masters. By the time lords and ladies made their morning calls the following day, everyone would know that Leo Bailey had lost his mind. Which could imperil future trade transactions. No one wanted to do business with a madman.

“I can’t find it in myself to give a damn,” he answered.

The chandelier overhead was unlit, and a single candle illuminated the entryway. Shadows engulfed the house, swallowing up the expensive trinkets and costly furnishings. A clock on a mantel measured time in relentless ticks. He thought of all the chambers in this house, chambers in which he had hardly ever ventured, rooms full of objects but empty of life. His house was a sugar sculpture that decorated the dining tables of the elite—ornate, extravagant, utterly useless. Existing only to be admired, but never truly used.

He never saw, not until this moment. “How did you stand this place?” he asked Anne now. “Hour upon hour, day upon day.”

Her eyes were dark but clear. “If I wanted the man, I endured the house.”

The things he made her suffer, the strength she had to weather it all—it was a wonder he could stand to be within his own skin.

Though his heart beat hard at the thought of the struggle to come, resolve was iron in his spine. Soon, the servants would be gone. When they were, Leo would take back what he had foolishly squandered. He might not survive, but he had never backed down from a fight. And none was so important as the battle that lay ahead.