Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens Read Free Book Online Page B

Covering his face with one hand, he sank to
the edge of the pallet.
    Devil clenched his jaw, his fists. Death no longer
possessed the power to shock him. Grief remained, but that he would handle
privately. He was the head of his family—his first duty was to lead. They'd
expect it of him—he expected it of himself. And he had Honoria Prudence to
protect.
    The thought anchored him, helping him pull free of the
vortex of grief that dragged at his mind. He hauled in a deep breath, then
quietly stepped back, retreating to the clear space before the hearth.
    A few minutes later, Vane joined him; he glanced
through the open door. "She found him?"
    Devil nodded. "Thankfully, she's not the
hysterical sort." They spoke quietly, their tones subdued. Glancing at the
bed, Devil frowned. "What's Charles doing here?"
    "He was at the Place when I arrived. Says he
chased Tolly up here over some business matter. He called at Tolly's rooms—Old
Mick told him Tolly had left for here."
    Devil grimaced. "I suppose it's as well that he's
here."
    Vane was studying his bare chest. "Where's your
shirt?"
    "It's the bandage." After a moment, Devil
sighed and straightened. "I'll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to the Place
and send a cart."
    "And I'll stay and watch over the body." A
fleeting smile touched Vane's lips. "You always get the best roles."
    Devil's answering smile was equally brief. "This
one comes with a ball and chain."
    Vane's eyes locked on his. "You're serious?"
    "Never more so." Devil glanced at the
pallet. "Keep an eye on Charles."
    Vane nodded.
    The sunshine outside nearly blinded him. Devil blinked
and squinted at the log. It was empty. He cursed and looked again—a terrible
thought occurred. What if she'd tried to take Sulieman?
    His reaction was instantaneous—the rush of blood, the
sudden pounding of his heart. His muscles had already tensed to send him racing
to the stable when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
    She hadn't gone to the stable. Eyes adjusting to the
glare, Devil watched her pace back and forth, a few steps to the side of the
log. Her dun-colored gown had blended with the boles of the trees, momentarily
camouflaging her. His panic subsiding, he focused his gaze.
    Honoria felt it—she looked up and saw him, bare-chested
still, the very image of a buccaneer, watching her, unmoving, irritation in
every line. Their gazes locked—a second later, she broke the contact. Nose in
the air, she stepped gracefully to her right—and sat primly on the log.
    He waited, sharp green gaze steady, then, apparently
satisfied that she'd remain where she'd been put, he headed for the stable.
    Honoria ground her teeth, and told herself that he
didn't matter. He was an expert in manipulation—and in intimidation—but why
should that bother her? She would go to this Place of his, wait for her boxes,
and then be on her way. She could spend the time meeting the Dowager Duchess.
    At least she'd solved one part of the mystery plaguing
her—she'd met her elusive duke. The image she'd carried for the past three
days—the image Lady Claypole had painted—of a mild, unassuming, reclusive peer,
rose in her mind. The image didn't fit the reality—the duke called Devil was
not mild or unassuming. He was a first-class tyrant. And as for Lady Claypole's
claim that he was caught in her coils, her ladyship was dreaming.
    But at least she'd met her duke, even if she had yet
to learn his name. She was, however, having increasing difficulty believing
that the notion of introducing himself had not, at some point in the past fifteen
hours, passed through his mind. Which was a thought to ponder.
    Honoria wriggled, ruing the loss of her petticoat. The
log was rough and wrinkly; it was making painful indentations in her flesh. She
could see the stable entrance; from the shifting shadows, she surmised Devil
was saddling his demon horse. Presumably he would ride to the Place and send
conveyances for her and his cousin's body.
    With the end of her