The Brazen Bride

Five

Donkeys, Logan learned, were integral to life on Guernsey. They were the favored beasts of burden, better than horses on the rougher island lanes, more agile than bullocks, and, so he was informed, essential for transporting goods up and down the steep streets of St. Peter Port, the island’s main deepwater port, capital, and center of commerce.

Wrapped in Linnet’s father’s cloak, he trudged with Linnet and Vincent across frost-crisped fields, counting the shaggy brown-gray beasts.

When they finally returned to the stable yard, Vincent clapped his gloved hands, his breath fogging around his face. “I make that twenty-maybe twenty-two-we can send to the fair.”

Linnet had been making notes in a small ledger. “Let’s send the twenty-two. We’ll sell them for certain, which is better than us having to carry any extra through to next spring. Our breeding stock’s sound-we don’t need to adjust this year.”

Vincent nodded. “I’ll get the boys to bring them in to the holding pens next week-spend the weeks after that making sure they’re in prime shape and looking their best for the fair.”

Linnet grinned. “You do that.” Shutting her book, she glanced at Logan. Her eyes scanned his face. “Now we’re out and about, we may as well check the goats.”

He merely arched a brow and, resignedly saluting Vincent, who grinned in reply, trudged obediently in her wake as she headed back out of the yard, taking the track along which the boys had driven the wagon to market.

Lengthening his stride, he drew level with his bossy hostess. “Where does this track go?”

“A little way along, it joins the main road that runs along the south coast, then turns up to St. Peter Port.” She stopped at a gate in the fence, unlatched it, then led the way through.

He followed, relatching the gate before tramping after her. The paddock was rougher, more rocky. A wooden-beamed structure, a long, low, open-sided shed, nestled in a dip ahead, a stand of trees behind it. “So you breed goats, too?”

“Not so much breed as husband.” She halted on a low rise and pointed to a herd grazing some distance away. “Goats have always run wild on the island, and in large part still do. Most fences aren’t high enough to keep them in. But in winter they come down from the heights for feed and shelter.”

“They’re golden.” Logan studied the unusual coat color displayed by most members of the small herd.

“Most of that lot are Golden Guernseys.” Linnet had her book out again. She looked down as she made a note. “The color comes and goes depending on how much they breed with the other goats-there are several varieties on the island.”

“Do you send goats to market, too?”

“Some, but usually not as many in a year as donkeys. We take what we need, and then whatever seems appropriate to cull goes to market in St. Peter Port. Given there’s so many goats about, it’s only in the larger towns that there’s any real demand.”

They walked a number of the rougher paddocks, counting numbers. In one field, Linnet wanted to get a closer look at some kids.

Hanging back and watching as she coaxed the young ones to her, Logan heard a snort, looked, and saw a buck lower his head, paw the ground.

Linnet fell back as Logan abruptly appeared beside her, startling the kids away, but then she saw that his right hand was wrapped about the horns of a twisting, irate buck-who had been about to butt her.

She blew out a breath as Logan shoved the animal away. The buck snorted, eyed him evilly, but then harrumphed and turned away.

“Thank you.” She caught Logan’s eye. “I’d forgotten about him.”

He frowned. “I take it you usually do this-checking the animals-on your own.”

“Generally.”

“So what happens if one of them mows you down?”

“I pick myself up, brush myself down, and put salve on the bruises later.”

Falling into step beside her, he shook his head. “Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to land on their arses in goat shit.”

“Gently bred ladies aren’t supposed to sleep with strangers, either.”

That shut him up. Head high, she led the way on and around to the pastures where the dairy herd grazed.

While she walked among the animals, checking their condition, noting which calves were showing most promise, he stood to one side, watched.

“I didn’t see a dairy among the outbuildings.”

“It’s a separate building.” She waved to the north. “It’s on the other side of that hill.”

“All part of your estate?”

When she nodded, he asked, “How many people does the estate employ?”

“Outside the house, fifty-three.”

Logan knew that was a significant number-fifty-three outside employees would translate to forty or more families dependent on the estate. Not a small number. “That must make the estate the biggest employer in this region, if not on all of Guernsey.”

“Both.” She looked up, smiled pointedly. “Hence my comment about Queen Elizabeth.”

He inclined his head. She saw herself as responsible for the welfare of a large number of people, and in fact she was. Logan didn’t know why, but he understood that-the concept of duty.

Letting his eye rove over the cows, placid and large, he said, “The cows and cattle around Glenluce are different breeds-Ayrshire for dairy, Black Galloway and Belted Galloway for beef.”

“I’ve seen Ayrshires, and the Blacks. Are the Belted much different?”

“Other than the white band, not that I ever heard.”

Eventually they trudged back to the house. It was the smells that stayed with him the longest, that teased his memory the most. He’d been familiar with the scents of donkey, goat, and cow, but… his memories suggested much drier, dustier versions, but that made no sense, not if those memories came from Scotland.

He felt Linnet’s gaze on his face, glanced up and met it.

She searched his eyes, then looked toward the house. “At least you’ve had some fresh air.”

Luncheon was being served as they walked in. Logan spent the meal chatting with the men, mostly about land and farming.

When the meal ended and the other men rose and left, Linnet cocked a brow at him. “You’re not a farmer.”

Although she’d been talking with the children, she’d lent an ear to his conversations with the men.

He grimaced. “I know only the general things one knows from growing up in the country-the rhythm of the seasons, the weather. But I don’t feel any connection to farming itself, the mechanisms, the details.”

“Your hands aren’t the hands of a farmer.” Linnet pushed back her chair and rose. “I’m going to go out riding.” She met his gaze as he got to his feet. “Given the distance you walked this morning, you should probably rest.”

One black brow arched. “On your bed?”

She ignored the suggestion in his eyes. “Riding might jar your head, and it will stress the wound in your side. It’s healing nicely-no need to tempt fate.”

He held her gaze, the midnight blue of his eyes pronounced as a frown formed in the dark depths. “I want to ride.” He shook his head slightly. “Don’t argue-I’m fairly sure I ride. A lot.”

Not a little exasperated, she held his gaze, searched his eyes… read his determination and the underlying need to remember. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “But first you have to let me rebandage your chest.”

Logan suffered through the rebandaging-anything to get on a horse. The more he thought of riding, the more he wondered that he hadn’t thought of it before.

He felt as eager as a child anticipating a treat when, finally, he strode beside Linnet down the long central aisle of the stable.

“We’ve plenty of hacks-we all ride. You can-”

“This one.” Logan halted before the door to a large stall containing a massive gray stallion.

Linnet backtracked to halt beside him. “That’s Storm. My father bought him as a colt, but never got to ride him. We use him mostly for breeding.”

“But he’s been broken to the saddle.” Logan unlatched the stall door, pushed it open.

“Yes, but he’s not been ridden much. He’s so damned strong, even Vincent has to wrestle with him.” Linnet frowned as Logan walked straight to the big stallion’s head, placed a hand on the horse’s long nose, then reached up to scratch between his ears.

Logan flung her a glance. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m damned strong, too.”

Not a point she could argue. Resisting the urge to waste her breath lecturing him, trying to get him to choose a safer mount, she shook her head and stepped back. “The saddles are through here.”

Vincent was busy saddling her roan mare, Gypsy. Before she could stop him, Logan selected bridle and saddle and carried them back to Storm’s stall.

She leaned on the stall door and watched as he readied the big horse-who gave every sign of cooperating, almost certainly eager to run-and gave thanks she’d insisted on bandaging Logan’s chest again. Yet his movements as he settled the bridle, then hefted the saddle to the gray’s broad back, were practised and economical; he’d clearly performed the task countless times.

Vincent came up, leading Gypsy. He raised his brows when he saw Storm saddled. “That’ll be interesting.”

“Indeed.” She hoped it wouldn’t prove too interesting. Logan getting thrown wouldn’t help at all.

But as he led Storm out of the stall and into the yard, and she followed with Gypsy, she sensed in him nothing but supreme confidence. Then he planted his boot in the stirrup, swung up to Storm’s back, gathered the reins as the big stallion shifted under his weight-and even she ceased to doubt.

He grinned at her. Grinned like a boy.

Blowing an errant strand of hair from her face, she climbed the mounting block and clambered into her sidesaddle. She preferred to wear breeches and ride astride, but increasingly no longer did. She missed the freedom. Leading the way out of the yard, she was conscious of a spurt of envy.

Storm and his rider easily kept pace as she headed out along the track. Storm tried a number of his usual tricks, but each time was immediately brought into line; encountering an invincible hand on his reins, he quickly desisted and settled to the steady pace.

She glanced at Logan, found him riding easily. “We’ll be able to gallop once we turn into the fields.”

Expectation lit his face. “Lead on.”

She did, through the soft light of the winter afternoon, with pewter clouds scudding across the gray sky. Following her usual circuit around the estate’s perimeter, checking the fences and gates, they galloped several times, cantered for most of the rest.

He grew more and more silent, more clearly absorbed with his memories.

When, with the light fading around them, they clattered into the stable yard, and Vincent and Young Henry came running to take the horses, he halted Storm and, for the first time in over an hour, met her gaze. “I was in the cavalry.”

She nodded, then wriggled and slid down from her saddle. He dismounted, handed over Storm’s reins, then fell in beside her as she walked to the house.

When she glanced at him, arched a brow, he frowned. “It’s not like with the dirk-this time it’s coming in bits and pieces, lots of snippets. Like bits of a jigsaw that I have to arrange to see the whole picture.”

She looked ahead at the house. “Just let it come. And if you can’t make sense of one piece now, set it aside for later, when you’ll have more pieces to work with.”

He grunted, and followed her into the house.

When, washed and in a fresh gown, she came down to dinner, she found him in the parlor, standing before the sideboard where they’d left his dirk, the saber, and the wooden cylinder. He had the saber in his hand, was experimentally wielding it. He looked up, met her eyes. “This is mine.”

She merely smiled, and with her head directed him into the dining room.

He remained quiet and withdrawn during dinner, stirring himself only to apologize to Gilly for not hearing her question. The others understood he was wrestling with his memory and largely left him to it.

But at the end of the meal, when they all rose to repair to the parlor, he halted behind his chair, blinked.

She paused beside him, laid a hand on his arm. “What is it?”

He looked at her, refocused on her face. “The mess-I remember. I used to be in the officers’ mess.”

“You’re a cavalry officer.” She didn’t make it a question; the guise fitted him all too well.

Slowly, he nodded. “In the Guards-I’m not sure what regiment.”

She patted his arm. “Come and sit by the fire, and tell us what you can.”

Somewhat to her surprise, he fell in with that plan. He sat in the armchair to one side of the hearth, the one opposite hers, with the children sprawled on the floor between them.

Logan looked at the eager, innocently inquiring faces looking up at him. “I’m a cavalry officer in the Guards.” Or was, yet he felt the occupation was still his. “I don’t know what my current rank is, but I was a captain during the Peninsula Wars.”

“Did you fight at Waterloo?” Will asked.

He nodded. He could remember that terrible day, still hear the screams of men and horses, the obliterating roar of cannon. “I can’t remember all the details yet.” He felt sure he eventually would. “We were, at one point, caught up in the defense of Hougomont, but otherwise… it was a very… messy day. Most major battles like that are.”

“Were you in Spain?” Brandon’s eyes were huge.

Logan nodded. “Both early on-before the retreat from Corunna-and later, when we returned.”

Linnet stirred. “My father captained one of the ships that helped with the evacuation at Corunna.”

Logan glanced at her. “It took a lot of ships to get the army-what was left of it, at any rate-away.” Without prompting, he drew them a word sketch of what it had been like-the panic and confusion, the horses that had had to be left behind.

Recalling and retelling it embedded the memory more firmly in his mind-back into the slot where it belonged. Encouraged, he told them of subsequent battles, after they’d returned to hold Portugal, then fight their way across Spain-Talavera, Cuidad Rodrigo, Badajos, Salamanca, Vittoria, the crossing of the Pyrenees, the battle outside Toulouse. “We returned home after that, but then went back for Waterloo.”

He frowned, then shifted as Muriel handed him a cup of tea. Thanking her, he sat back and, grateful, let Linnet, who had noticed his sudden halt, distract the children.

Once the children had gone upstairs, and Muriel and Buttons had followed Edgar’s and John’s lead and left, too, Linnet arched a brow at him.

He grimaced. “I don’t know if it’s simply that Waterloo was a hellish nightmare-that the day was disjointed, with us being sent first here, then there-but…” He drew in a breath, let it out in a frustrated sigh. “I can’t see the faces. I know I fought alongside men I knew-who I knew well, comrades for years-yet I can’t see their faces, not clearly. And I can’t remember any names.”

Linnet studied him for a moment, then rose. “As you’ve just proved, your memory is returning. The details may be hazy and incomplete, but with time they’ll come clear.”

When he didn’t respond, just frowned at the floor, she inwardly sighed. “I’m going to do my rounds. I’ll be back in a moment.”

She headed for the dining room.

When she returned from checking the windows and doors on the ground floor, he was sitting where she’d left him, but was now turning the wooden cylinder over and over in his hands.

He glanced up, then returned to studying the cylinder. “I’ve run into another black wall. What the devil does this thing mean? What have I been doing since Waterloo? And with whom? For whom am I carrying this”-he waved it-“and what does it contain? Or is it just mine, for storing valuable papers?”

He was like a dog worrying a bone. And the intensity driving him was starting to worry her.

“Nagging at things rarely helps.”

When he sent her a black look, she laughed. “Yes, I know, easier said than done, but it’s time to go upstairs. After all our riding, you’ll need your rest.” Or at least distraction.

Grudgingly, he rose, carried the cylinder back to the sideboard, then followed her from the room.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, through the shadows met his eyes. “I’m going up to check on the children. I’ll join you shortly.”

He nodded. As she climbed the next flight of stairs, he walked slowly toward her room.

Logan stood by the window looking out on the wintry dark. A gap between two of the encirling trees offered a glimpse of moon-silvered sea rippling beneath an obsidian sky.

The more he remembered, the more he recalled of himself, of his past, the better he sensed what manner of man he was. Which, here and now, left him in a quandary. He was an honorable man-tried to live his life by that overriding precept-so was sleeping with his hostess, a beautiful, gently bred female with no effective protector-taking advantage of her, as most would deem it-the action of an honorable man?

To the man he now knew himself to be, the answer was a clear-cut no.

Last night… he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking; he’d responded to the challenge, the intrigue, the necessity of learning whether the night before had been dream or reality. But in satisfying his curiosity, he’d started something else-something he didn’t understand-for Linnet wasn’t just any woman, not to anyone, but most especially not to him.

The door opened. He turned. He hadn’t bothered to light the lamp.

The soft glow of the candle Linnet carried preceded her into the room. She entered, looked around and saw him, turned to set the candlestick on the tallboy and close the door. Then she walked toward him, the skirts of the fine green woollen gown she’d donned for the evening swaying enticingly about her long legs. The fabric clung lovingly to the sleek curves of breast and hip, reminding him of how those firm curves felt undulating beneath him.

Fisting one hand, he pushed the tantalizing memory aside. She’d made up her mind to be unattainable and, bastard-born, he had his own road to follow-wherever it might lead. There was no benefit to either of them in allowing whatever it was that had flared between them to deepen, to evolve.

He knew that, recognized and acknowledged that, knew that simply ending the budding liaison here and now was the honorable thing to do, yet…

She halted, close, too close to pretend that they hadn’t been-weren’t-lovers. Despite the nearness, she was tall enough to meet his gaze easily. She studied his eyes, then said, “I’ve a proposition for you.”

He arched his brows. Felt immediately wary, but whether of her, himself, or what might be coming he couldn’t have said.

Her lips curved. “I don’t believe it will hurt.” She paused, then went on, “I want you to educate me in the ways of the flesh. In every erotic, sinful pleasure.”

Lustful anticipation slammed through him.

Equally instinctive, the honorable part of him held firm. He tightened his jaw, tightened his hold on his baser impulses. “It might, perhaps, be wiser if we didn’t further indulge.”

Linnet’s brows flew high. So he could spend all night obsessing about what he couldn’t remember? “Hmm… no. That won’t do. It occurs to me that you are presently without coin or other material means to repay my hospitality.”

His lips firmed. “I’ll help you with your donkeys. And the goats.”

She laughed, her eyes never leaving his. “Not enough-not nearly enough.”

“Throw in the cows-and I’m a dab hand with horses.”

“Now you’re getting desperate-and, if you think about it, just a touch insulting.” She shifted nearer, held his gaze unrelentingly. “Stop arguing.”

His eyes narrowed on hers.

Holding his gaze, she lowered one hand and boldly closed it about the solid rod of his erection.

He hissed in a breath, closed his eyes.

“Tell me,” she purred, “why is it you don’t want to fall in with my plan?”

She knew the answer: Because he was the sort of man the last days had shown him to be, and he would therefore feel compelled to retreat to a position of conventional honor. She’d seen that coming and, discerning no benefit to either of them in his taking that tack, had devised a way around it by making his falling in with her plan an equally mandated act. He would want to repay her; she’d shown him the way.

His lips grimly set, he opened his eyes, looked into hers. “Do you really want that? To be taken, possessed, your body used in ways you’ve never even imagined?” His voice lowered. “Do you truly want to put yourself in my hands, in such a way, to that extent?”

Primitive threat underscored his tone, smoldered in the midnight embers of his eyes, and sent an evocative shiver down her spine. Sadly for him, that had the opposite effect to what he’d intended.

She thrived on challenges, the riskier, the more exciting, the more tantalizing the better. Smile deepening, she tipped up her face, and closed what little distance remained between them. “Yes. Take me.” Her eyes on his, she categorically stated, “However you want, however you wish-take me now .”

Logan’s lips were on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth, his hands fisted in her hair before he’d thought. And then… he couldn’t.

Think.

All he could hear were the words of her taunting order.

Take me now.

Indeed he would.

However you want, however you wish…

As he held her face steady and ravaged her mouth, he remembered he was supposed to teach her, to repay her… by opening her eyes to all that could be within the realm of sensual pleasure.

She’d tied his honor in knots, so not even that could excuse him denying her.

So yes, he would do as she commanded. But how?

As per her sultry order, he consulted his fantasies, swiftly rejecting this one, that-those he couldn’t envision her in. Couldn’t imagine placing her in; she might have agreed to every erotic and sinful way, but she was a relative innocent with no real idea of what that encompassed.

But… yes, that one. He immediately knew it would work-that she would enjoy being taken, possessed, like that.

Wrenching his mouth free, he looked down at her face for a brief instant, then grabbed the hand still cradling his erection and towed her-dragged her-across the room. After one shocked gasp, she caught up her skirts and kept up easily enough.

Reaching the end of the bed, he yanked her to him, raised his arm over her head, and twirled her, twirled her-then brought her to an abrupt halt before the cheval glass in the corner.

He looked over her head at the reflection revealed in the glow from the candle she’d left burning on the tallboy.

The light washed over her, enough for them both to see her wide eyes and the soft flush tinting her alabaster skin, while he, in dark coat, black breeches, and black boots, with his black hair and tanned skin, appeared as little more than a dark presence behind her.

Perfect.

“This is a performance.” Closing his hands about her shoulders, he bent his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the point where her exposed nape met her shoulder. Head still lowered, he lifted his gaze to the mirror, trapped her eyes. “An erotic performance, and you are the one who’ll perform.”

She drew in a huge breath, breasts swelling beneath her dinner gown. As she opened her lips, he laid a finger across them. “First rule of this classroom-no talking from you. I will give orders, and you will obey. Other than that, you may moan, sob, even scream-and believe me, you will-but at no point will any word pass your lips. Not even my name.” He held her gaze, then softly asked, “Do you understand?”

She opened her mouth, saw his rising brow, closed her lips and nodded.

“Excellent. So let’s begin.”

The first thing he did was pull pins from her hair. Linnet expected him to take all of them, but no-he picked out one pin here, one there, concentrating on laying first this tress, then that, over her shoulders, trailing yet others to drape her neck. She stood and watched him in the mirror; she could only see what he was doing, where his darkly tanned hands were heading, once they came forward of her shoulders. Only then did the light reach them well enough for her to see.

She was wishing she’d brought up a candelabra rather than a single candle when he lost interest in her hair and focused on her breasts. She felt the shift in his gaze, felt the heat on her breasts-felt them tightening, peaking.

In the mirror she watched her nipples pebble beneath the fine wool of her gown.

“Undo your bodice.”

This is a performance, an erotic performance, and you are the one who’ll perform.

She finally understood. Even as her hands rose to do his bidding, she wondered what she would learn from this lesson. Her green gown fastened down the front, a row of pearl buttons closing the bodice; she slipped the first free, eager to find out.

His gaze followed her fingers as they worked steadily lower. She paused when she reached the raised waist-looked at him.

“Keep going.”

She could feel the heat of him down her back, sense the solidity, the strength, the masculine power, all held in check mere inches behind her. Primed, ready for action, but utterly controlled. She wouldn’t mind breaking that control, splintering it, fracturing it, but that, she suspected, was a lesson for another day. Tonight…

Reaching the end of the row of buttons, level with the line of her hips, she halted. Went to ask “What now?” but remembered in time.

“Slide the gown off your shoulders, free your arms and hands, and let it fall to the floor.”

She did as she was told; as the gown slid to puddle about her feet, she realized why he’d let only a few tresses of her hair free. Her hair was long, nearly reaching her waist, and thick and wavy; if he’d let it all down, it would have screened her upper body from his sight.

Merely having her naked clearly wasn’t his aim.

His next order came. “Take off your shift, and hand it to me.”

Her shift reached below her knees. She bent to grasp the hem and her bottom met his groin. He didn’t shift away. Losing the contact as she straightened and drew the shift off over her head, a strange frisson of awareness streaked through her.

Her arms free of the garment, with one hand she offered it back, over her shoulder. He took it, his fingers brushing over hers as he did.

Another odd shiver threatened.

She expected to be told to remove her chemise in the same way, but instead, he drawled, “Now, let’s see…”

Her breasts were already swollen, achy, even though he hadn’t touched them, not even brushed them. Her nipples were furled so tight they hurt.

“Open the buttons.”

The chemise had a front placket that reached to her navel, closed by tiny flat buttons she never bothered undoing. One by one, she slipped them free. The placket gaped as her hands descended, revealing the creamy whiteness of her skin, the valley between her breasts.

By the time she reached the end of the line, her nerves had tightened, expectation gripping.

“Draw the sides apart and show me your breasts. I’m your audience-display them for me.”

Curling her fingers in the fine material, she boldly, brazenly, drew the sides wide, baring her breasts to his hot gaze. She could feel it moving over her exposed flesh.

“Keep your eyes on your body, not on me.”

She obeyed, shifting her gaze from the darkness behind her to the white glow of her breasts-and found the peculiarity of seeing and feeling simultaneously strangely arousing. She saw the light flush spread beneath her white skin, felt the telltale warmth spread, saw her nipples tighten even more as sensation heightened and her breasts grew heavy.

“Very good.” The raspy murmur washed over her ear. “Keep watching.”

His hands came around her and lightly cupped her breasts. Too lightly at first, but within a minute his touch had changed-to one of flagrant possession. His tanned hands and fingers stood out in stark contrast against her white skin as they surrounded her breasts, as he captured her nipples, rolled, then squeezed-and her knees went weak.

“Stand straight-don’t lean back.”

She swallowed and tried to comply. His body was close behind her-mere inches away, given the heat bathing her back. His strong arms reached around her, a steely cage, yet only his hands-those wicked, hungry hands-were touching her.

She wanted more, her body burned for more, yet for long minutes his hands remained on her breasts, kneading, increasingly explicitly claiming, spreading fire beneath her skin, turning the taut, swollen mounds rosy-until, head tipping back, she moaned, careful nevertheless to keep her eyes on the mirror. In truth, it would have been hard to wrench her gaze away; a fascination she’d never imagined might exist kept her eyes locked on her body.

On his hands making free with it.

A shiver slithered down her spine.

“It’s time to show me what else you’re hiding beneath your chemise.” The gravelly whisper tickled her ear. Briefly, his lips cruised the delicate whorl, a trickle of fire, a promise of more. “Use both hands and lift the hem. Show me.”

Her heart thudding heavily, she did. Drew the fine fabric up, exposing her upper thighs, then higher, revealing the red-gold fire of the curls at the apex of her thighs.

Dragging in a breath, she raised the hem still higher, to the curve of her belly.

“Excellent.” His purr was almost guttural.

She still had on her garters, stockings, and slippers, but he didn’t seem concerned with those, and in truth, neither was she. She couldn’t tear her gaze from his hands. While one continued to play, firmly and possessively, with her breasts, the other skated down, over the rucked edge of the chemise, to stroke her curls.

He touched them, ruffled them, played until she hauled in a tight breath and shifted. Then he chuckled and said, “Let’s see.”

He angled his hand so she could watch as he pressed one long finger into the shadowed hollow beneath her curls.

She dragged in a quick, too-shallow breath, held it as the sensation of his touch, of each successive deliberate caress, married with the vision in the mirror.

The impact only escalated as she instinctively eased her feet wider apart, and he reached further, deeper, and the combined stimulation rolled in wave after wave through her.

She bit her lip against another moan, saw the flush of arousal deepen and spread until her skin glowed rosy in the candlelight. Felt the dew of desire break like a fever across her exposed skin.

And still his hands worked her flesh-her breasts, the swollen slickness between her thighs. And still she watched, unable to look away as the fires inside grew, as he stoked them relentlessly.

“Put your hands on mine.” The gravelly command was barely comprehensible. “One on each-close your palms over the backs of my hands and feel what I’m doing to you.”

She obeyed-because she had to. Because she couldn’t stand not to, not to know what might come.

She wasn’t prepared for the instantaneous heightening of her senses-through his hands, their tensing movements, she knew what would come an instant before it happened. Now she knew, saw, felt; anticipation was added to the sensual tumult burgeoning inside her.

Gasping, panting, barely able to remain upright, she couldn’t take much more…

His hands slowed. “Tsk, tsk-you still have your stockings and slippers on.”

Because he hadn’t told her to remove them yet. She bit her lip against the tart rejoinder she suspected he was waiting for.

His chuckle said she’d guessed aright, but then he said, “Release my hands.”

She did. To her dismay, he drew his hands from her. She felt bereft to have lost the contact.

“Pull your chemise off over your head.”

She rushed to do so, realizing as she did that he’d moved. Even as she refocused on the shadows behind her, he set the straight-backed chair that had stood beside her dressing table down on her left, its seat toward her.

She stared at it. Before she could figure out what he would have her do, he rapped out, “Face forward. Keep your eyes on your body.”

Yes, he’d been a cavalry officer. She snapped her gaze back-and felt something inside quiver. She rarely used her mirror, had never used it to view herself naked.

“Drop the chemise.”

Realizing she was still holding the garment in her right hand, she released it, forgot it as it floated to the floor.

Forgot everything as she looked at herself-naked and on display-as the knowledge he was doing the same washed over her. A shiver she couldn’t hide racked her.

“Are you cold?”

Despite the fire burning in the nearby hearth, she should have felt the air’s chill, but the heat in his gaze, the warmth suffusing her skin, left her immune. She opened her mouth, then remembered and shook her head.

“I didn’t think you would be.” Experience, knowledge, rang in the words.

His hands appeared on her shoulders, lightly touching. Then they moved.

Over her. He touched, caressed, stroked, explored-every inch of her skin, all he could reach.

She was reeling, senses drowning in the tactile pleasure of his too-knowing touch when, largely out of sight behind her, he caressed her derriere, explored, stroked, weighed, then kneaded-knowingly, firmly, openly possessively.

In keeping with his orders, she’d kept her eyes on herself-startled, then mesmerized by what she’d seen in her face. Had she always been this wanton, this sexually abandoned?

Had she just been waiting for him to be herself? For him to show her herself?

He shifted closer, his dark head dipping by her ear, even though his strong hands continued to fondle her bottom. “Put your left leg up on the chair, bend over, and slowly roll down your garter and your stocking. Leave them and your slipper on the chair, and wait for my next order.”

Breathing had grown difficult; she felt giddy as she complied, couldn’t think as she lifted her left foot to balance it on the wooden chair, then, grasping her garter, she slowly rolled it down, bending over as she did.

Two long, hard fingers slid into her sheath. Her hands on her calf, she froze, bent over, inwardly shuddering as one callused hand caressed her bottom while the fingers of his other hand explored her intimately.

Recalling his order, she struggled to roll her garter and stocking all the way down, to slide off her slipper, then, bent over her knee, hands on the chair seat, wait, wait…

She was panting, all but sobbing, nerves excruciatingly alive, aware to her bones of every touch inside and out, when he gave her the order to straighten, then he shifted the chair to her right, and instructed her to repeat the exercise with her other garter, stocking, and slipper.

It took every ounce of control she possessed to comply-to give herself up to such intimate exploration.

But she wanted every touch, gloried in every deft stroke of his hard fingers inside her.

She knew he could make her shatter with just his fingers, expected him to do so, yet even as she felt herself inexorably tightening, he drew back. Drew his hands from her.

“Stand up.”

Lowering her right leg, she did, blinking as she focused on her reflection in the mirror.

More of her hair had tumbled down, a river of fire lacing over her flushed skin. Her lips were parted; her tongue came out to moisten them. Even in the dim light, her eyes glittered emerald green. And her body…

Was that her?

“Time for the rest of tonight’s lesson.”

Before she could think, he gripped her waist, spun her to face him, then lifted her, turned, and tossed her on the bed.

She landed with her head almost on the pillows, bounced once. He reached around her, dragging the pillows down to either side of her.

“Wait.” He stripped off his coat, unknotted the neckerchief he’d worn about his throat. Tossed both aside, sat to haul off her father’s boots, strip off his stockings.

Then he came up on the bed on his knees, walked himself closer. His gaze had locked on her lower body. Reaching out, he grasped her calves and spread her legs wide apart.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Nearly sobbed with resurging need.

He looked down at what he’d revealed. His face was a harsh mask of stark male desire. Releasing one leg, he reached down, trailed one long finger up through the sopping wetness. His lips curved in pure masculine anticipation.

He reached for the pillows, scooped her hips up in one arm, and stuffed the soft padding beneath her, raising her hips as he slid down to lie between her spread legs.

His shoulders kept her legs forced wide as he brought his mouth down on her, as he sucked, suckled, and she shrieked.

In seconds he’d reduced her to a writhing mass of wanting.

Within a minute she needed- needed -release.

Yet no matter how much she moaned and sobbed, how much she thrashed and wordlessly pleaded, even when she sank her hands in his hair and tugged, he kept pushing her tighter only to let her fall back again, up and back, up and back, until she thought she’d go mad.

Then he took her with his tongue and she soared over the precipice, straight over that indefinable edge.

She’d thought she’d known what he could do to her, but this time she saw stars. This time she felt the cataclysmic shock all the way to her soul.

By the time her senses, drowning in glory, had resurfaced enough to be aware, he’d stripped out of his shirt, out of his breeches. Naked but for the bandages she’d wrapped tightly about his torso, he looked like a wounded god as he returned to kneel between her legs again, hooked his arms beneath her thighs so the back of her knees lay across his bent elbows, then closed his large hands about her hips.

And lifted her, drew her hips up and to him.

He set the head of his erection at her entrance, looked up and caught her gaze, then thrust powerfully in, hard and deep.

Looking down, he withdrew and repeated the process. Helpless to do otherwise, she watched as he held her hips immobile and thrust himself into her, relentlessly plunging deep to her core, harder, faster, hotter, deeper.

The friction was shattering.

She came apart on a wild cry, but he continued to use her-use her, fill her, take her, possess her-until she shattered again, more completely and deeply and soul-wrenchingly than she ever had.

This time he followed her.

Unable to resist any longer, to hold out against the powerful, milking contractions of her sheath, Logan gasped, closed his eyes, dropped forward to prop on one braced arm above her as his hips bucked helplessly, and he pounded into her, then with a muted roar, he thrust one last time and spilled his seed deep within her.

Her body clutched, clung.

Held him.

As the bright nova faded, he became aware of small hands weakly stroking his body, gently tugging. Dredging up the last of his strength, he pushed aside the pillows, then let himself down. Onto the one female body that cradled his perfectly. He let himself slump into her embrace.

Later, much, much later, when he finally stirred enough to lift from her and, pulling up the covers, settle beside her, Logan had a moment of not unaccustomed crystal-clear clarity; in most situations, this would be the point when he left the lady’s bed.

He wasn’t leaving Linnet’s bed.

The determination behind the thought, the innate stubbornness, stood in direct contradiction to what rational thought suggested the eventual outcome would be.

At that moment, the notion that any future between them was doomed didn’t seem able to impinge. The knowledge, the certainty, that him remaining in her bed like this would inevitably lead to emotional difficulties didn’t seem to matter.

The only thing that did matter was that he was there, and she lay beside him, taken, possessed, and sated to her toes.

He couldn’t think beyond that, beyond the wonder he’d felt in her body, the completeness, the triumph he’d found in possessing it. In drawing so much closer to her.

That last was dangerous, but he no longer cared.

If she demanded, he would give, and would keep giving until she no longer wanted him.

Regardless of honor, of safety, of danger, that was his new reality.

Sleep tugged. Confident there was no point in further thought, he gave in and let it drag him under.

December 12, 1822

Close to midnight

Shrewton House, London

“This really is a beautiful room.” With a negligent wave, Alex indicated the delicate white-and-gilt moldings, the pale blue silk wallpaper, the French Imperial-style chairs upholstered in the same blue silk. Turning to the large bed, Alex raised approving brows. “The counterpane, too. Nothing but the best for our dear sire’s offspring.” Regarding Daniel Thurgood as he shut the door, Alex added, “Even if we were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

Daniel’s lips curved. “It was a nice thought to use Shrewton House as our London base. Might as well enjoy our sire’s hospitality, even if he never knows.”

“How fortuitous that he winters at Wymondham.”

“Indeed.” Shrugging off his coat, Daniel laid it over a chair, then bent to warm his hands at the fire in the hearth. The room had been chosen and readied by his man, Creighton, and Alex’s houseman, M’wallah. Watching Alex circle the room examining the various expensive trinkets placed here and there, Daniel mentally blessed Creighton. A pleasantly distracted Alex made life much less stressful.

And their lives, unexpectedly, had taken a stressful turn.

He, Alex, and their half brother Roderick had formed a close-indeed, closed-circle years before. While Roderick was the present Earl of Shrewton’s legitimate son, he and Alex were illegitimate, yet both were of decent birth and thus able to pass in society. London had been their playground for some years, but when Roderick’s position at the Foreign Office had resulted in the chance to visit India, all three of them had jumped at the opportunity-and what an opportunity it had proved to be.

Roderick had requested and been granted a posting to the Governor of Bombay’s staff, a position that had made him privy to the details of many of the trade caravans. Once Alex and Daniel had joined him, they’d quickly set about exploiting the situation.

The outcome had been the Black Cobra cult-a creation of their own making that had satisfied the vicious appetites the three of them shared in ways not even they had dared dream. For the last several years, the Black Cobra cult had delivered to them a steady diet of money, sex, sadistic pleasure, and, above all, power.

All three had grown adept at manipulating and exploiting the cult members-hardly innocents-to shore up, then steadily expand, the cult’s activities. For several years, they’d pursued their hedonistic purposes without any serious hindrance from the authorities, represented by the Honorable East India Company. As the Earl of Shrewton, their dear father, was a member of the board, and as the Governor of India, the Marquess of Hastings, was beholden to the Prince Regent-who in turn was deeply indebted to the earl-there had seemed no reason to fear any threat from that quarter, or at least none they couldn’t easily see off.

That had all changed one day in late August, when a letter written by Roderick as the Black Cobra, signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark but, by unfortunate ill luck, sealed with Roderick’s personal family seal, had fallen into the hands of a cadre of officers Hastings had, months before, dispatched from Calcutta with specific orders to expose the Black Cobra.

Roderick, Daniel, and Alex had laughed off the officers’ efforts until then, but the realization that the letter could, if it reached the right hands in England, bring Roderick down-thus compromising the ability of the Black Cobra cult to prey on the caravans, the primary source of Daniel’s and Alex’s wealth-had sobered them. Even though it was Roderick alone at risk, Alex had agreed that to safeguard the cult’s continuing prosperity, Daniel and Alex should return to England with Roderick, to assist in seizing the letter and dealing appropriately with the officers responsible.

Such threats to the Black Cobra couldn’t be allowed to go unpunished.

Unfortunately, by the time they’d learned of the letter and the threat it posed, the four officers had copied the letter, then separated and fled Bombay. Which of the four was carrying the real letter-the original with Roderick’s incriminating seal, the only letter they needed to regain-was anyone’s guess.

By luck and good management, they’d reached England before any of the officers.

Annoyingly, an attempt two days ago to kill the senior officer, Colonel Derek Delborough, when he’d landed at Southampton had been foiled by some interfering female.

Daniel and Alex had just parted from Roderick after a short conference during which their efforts, past and present, to stop the officers and regain the letter had been discussed and reviewed.

Straightening from the fire, Daniel turned as Alex drew near. “Now that Delborough’s here, in London, and holed up at Grillon’s, how do you see our campaign progressing? Can we rely on Larkins to get the job done?”

Larkins was Roderick’s man-an Englishman with a sadistic streak. He had managed to infiltrate a thief into the colonel’s household with the express purpose of stealing the letter-copy or original-that the good colonel was carrying.

Alex halted beside Daniel, smiled into his eyes. Whereas Daniel had his mother’s coloring-dark hair and brown eyes-Alex and Roderick had inherited the earl’s distinctive pale blond hair and pale blue eyes. In Alex’s case, ice-blue eyes. “Larkins knows the price of failure-I’m sure he’ll manage, one way or another. I’m more concerned with the others-while I’ve allowed Roderick to think he’s in charge, M’wallah is, as usual, receiving all communication from cult members first. So while what Roderick just told us is correct, and we’ve men and assassins on the trail of the other three with strict orders to inform us the instant any of them successfully reach one of the embarkation ports on the Continent, the very latest news as of an hour ago is that Hamilton has reached Boulogne.”

“I take it the Major remains in possession of his customary rude health?” Daniel started to undo his cuffs.

“Sadly, yes. However, Uncle-you know the man, the sycophant always happy to slit the nearest throat ‘to the glory and the delight of the Black Cobra’?” When Daniel nodded, Alex went on, “Uncle and his men are already in Boulogne. At this point, we must rely on them to ensure Hamilton gets no further.”

“Any word on the other two?” Daniel wasn’t surprised to learn that Alex had withheld information from Roderick. It was common practice between them, keeping their dear half brother sufficiently in the dark so that they controlled the cult. In truth, they were the power behind Roderick’s façade.

“The story with Monteith is rather better. Our men in Lisbon spotted him the instant he set foot on the dock there. He’d signed on as crew on a Portuguese merchantman out of Diu-that’s why we missed picking up his trail at that end. He’d gone from Bombay overland to Diu and was too far ahead of our trackers. But he saw our men on the Lisbon docks. Although he was alone, he managed to fight his way out of an ambush, creating such a stir that he was able to get away. He immediately grabbed passage on another merchantman bound for Portsmouth. That was on the fourth of December, more than a week ago. What the dear major didn’t know is that three assassins slipped onto the ship before it sailed. With any luck, Monteith is dead by now.

“As for Carstairs, I told you we had word he’d passed through Budapest and was headed for Vienna?”

Pulling his shirt free of his trousers, Daniel nodded.

“Since then, we’ve heard nothing, but he seems to be the slowest of the four, the furthest away. We can put off dealing with him for the moment.” Alex smiled as Daniel stripped off his shirt. “Indeed,” Alex murmured, “I believe we can put off all further discussion of the tiresome subject of Roderick’s lost letter-at least for now.”

Taking Daniel’s hand, Alex led him to the bed. “Time for dwelling on other things, my dear.”

Halting by the side of the sumptuous bed, Alex turned and went into Daniel’s arms.