Devil Takes A Bride (26 page)

“Leave the ladder! Just drive!” he ordered Ben, his tempestuous profile silvered by moonlight as he shot a hurried glance at his servant.

Lizzie righted herself on the soft leather squabs. Barely a minute later, he stepped into the coach, pulling the door shut as the thing started moving. Ben drove the horses out from the cover of the trees and turned the coach down the lane. Devlin locked the carriage door, then pulled down the canvas shades. Her heart pounded; she flattened her back tensely against the seat. The shades blotted out the moonlight, and now she could not see him at all in the darkness, could only hear the rhythm of his breathing, feel him moving closer, sense his heat.

She reached her trembling hands behind her head to untie her gag, then nearly screamed into the breath-moistened silk when his fingers closed around her wrists.

“No,
chérie
. Not yet,” he whispered.

Her pulse beat like native war drums as he captured both her wrists and slowly moved them up slightly over her head. She protested as he slipped her hands through the leather hand loop above the carriage window and used it to bind her wrists together.

Her emotions churned in a flutter of fear, with an edge of terrible excitement. Her bindings were not painful; Devlin's fingertips glided along the line of her bare arms, exquisitely gentle. She remembered the way he had held her down in bed, how wickedly she had enjoyed it. She vowed to herself that she'd die before she'd let him know he aroused her even now, angry as she was at him.

“I do regret that you make these measures necessary,
my lady
.” He emphasized the term. “But now that I have you suitably restrained, let me make a few things perfectly clear.” He closed the small space between them, moving up behind her.

She tried to jerk away, but he pressed gently on her belly and her thigh, stilling her, his hands resting with casual dominance atop the thin white muslin of her night rail.

“Shh. There's no use fighting me. You know it's meant to be.”

Her heart hammered with mingled fear and thrill, her eyes adjusting gradually to the deeper darkness inside the coach. The warmth of his breath tickled her earlobe.

“Yes, that's better. You listen well, my lady,” he ordered in a whisper as his hand stroked her thigh, up and down, slowly. “There's not going to be any bookshop in Russell Square. You're going to marry me and be a proper viscountess whether you like it or not, and if your precious Knight brothers want my blood, let them try me. By then you'll already be mine.” His sly touch glided up between her legs. He cupped his hand possessively over her mound. “After all—” His hand traveled higher, claiming every inch of her for his own, until it came to rest firmly on her stomach. “You won't think of trying to back out of it when I've planted my babe in your belly.”

She shuddered with desire, but shook her head stubbornly, refusing him with all her strength.

“Yes,” he breathed. “You can't fight it. You want it. I want it…and you should know by now that I always get what I want. Don't I?” He bent his head and kissed the crook of her neck, resuming in a low, wicked whisper. “Do you know what I want right now, Miss Carlisle?”

She was trembling with passion now, and trying very hard to hide the fact, willing herself to hold perfectly still.

“I want to make you
come
,” he whispered slowly.

She moaned through the gag as he cupped her breasts.

Her skin was fevered, her head reeling as though she had drunk too much wine. She was overwhelmed by the sweet torment of her yearning, ashamed to the core for her wanton response, but glad, ever so glad of the bindings that made her his prisoner, and the length of silk that stopped her from demanding what she did not really want—for him to stop.

“You are going to be my wife, sweet. It's right that you should accustom yourself to my touch. Yes, that's good,” he whispered hoarsely, watching her beginning to take pleasure in his caresses, for she could no longer fight it.

She tilted her head back, clay in his hands as he raked his fingers through her hair.

“My God, you are the rarest pearl, all pure and white…with skin like virgin snow.” His shaky whisper trailed off. He slipped the silk gag down from her mouth, moving smoothly to the front of her, but his hand trembled as he grasped her face, and she did not fight him at all when he took her mouth.

He kissed her with drugging depth and held her ardently, running his hand up the curve of her spine, as if he could not gather her close enough to satisfy him. She was not satisfied either, pulling against her restraints with her need to wrap her arms around him.

“Free my hands,” she whispered, panting, when he let her come up for air.

“Why? So you can fight me?” he taunted.

“So I can touch you.”

“No,” he breathed, and gave her a darkly sensual smile. He bent his head by degrees, deliberately teasing her. He pulled off his shirt and ran a grazing touch down his chest, inviting her to look at him. Dying to get her hands on him, she pulled against the leather strap, which succeeded only in tightening the knot.

He laughed at her panting frustration, then relented at last, kissing her again with tantalizing slowness.

She whimpered for more when he stopped; as he slipped behind her again, she glanced hungrily at his body and saw what appeared to be a healing gash two or three inches long on his side.

“What happened to you?” she murmured, nodding at it.

“All in a night's work, love. Never you mind.”

“You are an infuriating man.”

“So I'm told.” The hem of her night rail skimmed her thighs as he lifted it, sinking onto his knees behind her on the carriage floor. She was unable to stop him as he lifted the muslin high, exposing her to the cool caress of the night air, while his warm breath tickled against her skin.

Then all thought fled as he trailed sensuous kisses down the small of her back and bent his head lower, nibbling each round cheek of her backside.

Ah, the man was driving her insane. His fingertips explored the cleft of her derriere, bringing the most curious little bursts of delight at the strangeness of his gentle probing. Then she gasped when he slipped his fingers inside her sex; she heard his low growl of pleasure to find her already sopping wet. She dropped her head back, blissfully acquiescent; she was utterly at his mercy as he began pleasuring her with a ruthless determination.

Her breathing came shallow and fast. God, she had needed him for so many weeks, had dreamed of his hands on her body, and now it was real, exceeding her fantasies. She shivered, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to absorb the sensations that began spiraling through her. She rocked her hips in time with his expert stroking, beginning to drown in a flood of blissful sensation.
Harder.

He responded as though he had read her mind, giving exactly what she craved.
God
.

His hoarse whisper filled her world, urging her toward the cataclysm. “Give in, sweeting. Let go for me, love.” He bit her hip, and she groaned wildly. Her chemise was tangled about her; her skin slick with a fine mist of sweat. She felt marked by him, smeared with his scent.

Every nerve ending tingled with readiness; her body quivered and strained against her bonds, lifting, arching in needy longing, until suddenly, the shattering climax crashed through her. She flung her head back with a wanton cry, her flesh pulsating with release. Her heart pounded wildly as the fiery bursts racked her body and then faded slowly.

Caught up in sensation, she was barely aware of him gently untying her bonds. He scooped her limp body into his arms and cradled her against his chest, kissing her fevered brow. She could feel his heart pounding, however, and realized the effort he was making to hold his own need in check.

It was beyond her power to help him at the moment, in any case. She rested, spent, in his embrace. “How are such things possible?” she panted after a long moment.

She felt him smile against her brow. “I trust that is a rhetorical question.”

She laughed weakly.

“You see?” he murmured. “Being married to me won't be all bad.”

She considered protesting, but did not have the strength. He reached across the coach for his discarded jacket and covered her with it.

“There, sweeting, I don't want you catching cold.” He tucked the ends around her sides with a tenderness that rather amazed her.

She watched him with a bemused expression. “I'm impressed,” she said after a moment.

“By?”

“Your restraint.”

He smiled and languidly rested his cheek on his knuckles. “No wife of mine gets deflowered in the back of a carriage. My viscountess deserves better than that.”

She looked away with a small sigh of mingled yearning and distress. What a rogue he was. Perhaps they were well matched in
some
respects, she admitted to herself. Perhaps she did find him unbearably attractive. Perhaps he challenged her as no man ever had.

But that still did not mean she had agreed to marry him. That still did not mean that a marriage based on money was a good idea, or that she deemed it wise to shackle herself to a gazetted rake.

Really, a man should not be allowed to simply invade a lady's chamber and haul her off like a sack of grain. He had tranquilized her with this delicious haze of sensuality, but his words had pierced her trance with the jarring recollection of the real reason he wanted this “marriage.”

Five hundred thousand reasons sterling, to be exact.

The coach barreled on toward Scotland. She moved the canvas shade aside, glancing worriedly out the window. Heavens, when had they merged onto the Great North Road? There was a hayrick, an occasional barn. The fields were outlined by thick hedgerows, but the countryside looked unfamiliar.

“What's the matter, sweet?”

She looked over and saw him studying her. She was weakened infinitesimally by the tender look on his chiseled face, sculpted by shadows.

Husband,
she thought dazedly.
Husband?

She turned away from him and forced her gaze out the window again. “I need to stop.”

He scanned her profile until she glanced impatiently at him, blushing.

“Pardon, but I need the loo. If it's not too much to ask?” she insisted with what she hoped was a guileless expression.

“Very well.” He lowered the window, called his instructions to Ben, and then pulled his shirt back on.

If she had expected him to take her to a roadside inn, she was sadly mistaken. His indulgence for her claim of bodily needs ran upon decidedly more primitive lines.

She stared at him in dismay when he pointed her toward a stand of trees shrouded by tall bushes off by the roadside. “Surely you jest.”

“No. What did you think I meant?” he asked in surprise as he held the carriage door for her and waited for her to step down.

“A coaching inn!”

“You're not dressed.”

“Thanks to you! Is this the accommodations you provide for your ‘viscountess'?” she berated him. “At least a proper outhouse—”

“Do you want to stop or not? I am not taking you to a public inn, because I know you'll try to escape.”

“Fine!” Yanking his black coat more securely around her scantily clad body, she jumped down from the carriage, letting out an expletive as sharp gravel on the road pricked her bare feet. “I will never forgive you if you look,” she warned as she hobbled across the highway toward the tall grasses waving along the roadside.

His elegant frown was full of reproach. “Really, what do you take me for?”

“A kidnapper, to start,” she muttered, then ventured cautiously into the nearby field while Ben checked on the horses.

“Don't worry, I'll wait right here,” he called as she climbed over the hedgerow stile.

You do that, Dev dear,
she thought, gloating slightly as she embarked on her escape. She stole one look back at him as she climbed down the other side.

He stood tall and proud in the moonlight, but true to his word, he turned around and faced the coach, giving her her privacy.

Heart pounding, she stole off into the field. The knee-high grasses were cool and dry; twigs crackled, but she ignored the small jabs here and there as they broke beneath her running feet. Thankful for his black coat that helped conceal her in the dark, she slipped behind the cover of the tall bushes and kept running, dashing through the grove of trees, past a tranquil farm that slumbered under the silvery moon.

“Everything all right?” he called.

She glanced back over her shoulder but kept running. He was still standing on the road, his back politely turned. She knew her lack of a response would alert his suspicion, but she dared not answer for fear of revealing her whereabouts. She just kept going, scanning the landscape for a hiding place. Her pulse pounded as she realized that in moments he would be after her.

“Lizzie?”

Though the distance she had already put between them muffled his deep voice, she could hear the note of worry in it.

“Lizzie!”

She dropped into a crouching position beside one of the farm's outbuildings. A flurry of low, worried cooing from within told her that the little shed was a dovecote.

“Lizzie!”

He's coming.

His voice grew louder. “Ben, look sharp! She's run off!”

Nervous fear darted through her. She swallowed hard, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the dovecote. She knew if he caught her, he would not fall for a similar trick again. This was her only opportunity to escape.

“Lizzie, stop this foolishness!” he yelled into the darkness. “Use your head! You're marrying me, and that's final!”

A flicker of motion caught her eye, drawing her gaze to the white of his shirt. He was stalking toward the bushes that he had actually expected a lady like her to use for an outhouse! Oh, that man. She crept around from the dovecote to survey her exit route. As she edged up to the side of the little shed and peeked around the corner, her eyes flared with sudden hope. A plump sorrel pony stood lazily resting its jowls on the top rail of its paddock. Its tapered ears flicked forward as it listened to Dev's stormy calls with a look of pleasant curiosity.