Brazen Bride (12 page)

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

“T
his 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.

Six

December 13, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

H
e’d tried to do the right thing, but Linnet had turned the tables on him.

The next morning, Logan sat at the breakfast table outwardly listening to a general discussion of the day’s planned activities while inwardly brooding on his reversal of the night.

His foxy hostess—she of the fiery hair, peridot eyes, and incredibly fine white skin—had neatly manipulated him with her demand—one he couldn’t very well decline, given it was entirely within his ability to comply—to repay her by teaching her more about the pleasures to be had when a man and a woman joined.

If it had been nothing more than physical pleasure—the giving and the taking—he wouldn’t be so . . . uneasy. But he was too good a commander not to see the problems looming. They were who they were, yet . . . she might come to mean, might even have already started to mean, too much to him.

He’d known she was different from the very first instant he’d laid eyes on her—his angel who was no angel. From the moment he’d slid into her willing body in his dream that had been no dream, he’d known she was special, that she held the promise, the chance, the hope of more—that she, somehow, resonated with some need buried deep within him, one he hadn’t yet articulated but that somehow instinctively she fulfilled.

All well and good, but until he recalled who he was, what he was doing, and where he was supposed to be, any relationship between her and him was . . . stifled. For all he knew, it might be strangled at birth.

She might not want him even if he wanted her.

“Stop frowning.”

The words from his left, in typical bossy vein, had him changing his absentminded frown to a scowl and bending it on her.

Linnet pulled a face at him. He’d been in a strange mood ever since he’d come downstairs. “I’ve been thinking about where you might have come from—where you might have been in recent months.”

He raised his brows, listening. At least his scowl was dissipating.

She looked up as the other men rose. She acknowledged their salutes with a nod, waited until they’d passed out of hearing before looking again at Logan. “Your hands are very tanned.”

He looked at them, then slanted her a midnight blue glance, no doubt realizing why the darkness of his hands had stuck in her mind. She could still see those strong hands traveling over her very white body.

Shifting, disguising the movement as turning to face him, she pointed out the obvious. “You’ve been in the tropics—somewhere hotter, much sunnier. You’re a cavalry officer. Perhaps if you look at maps, something might strike you.” Rising, she touched his shoulder. “Wait there—I’ll fetch our map book.”

The Trevission map book contained an excellent collection of maps of all the countries, coasts, and shipping routes around the globe—all those involved in trade. Linnet set it on the table and opened it to a map of the western Channel. “Here’s Guernsey.” She pointed. “Here’s where the ship wrecked, and that particular storm blew from the northwest.” With her finger she drew a line from the western cove out to sea. “Your ship was traveling somewhere on that line, which means it was most likely headed for Plymouth, Weymouth, Portsmouth, or Southampton. Given it was a merchantman, and looked to have been of reasonable size, Plymouth or Southampton are the more likely, with Southampton most likely.”

The children leaned across the table, looking. Geography was the one subject in which Buttons never had to work to hold their interest.

“Plymouth or Southampton—if either was the destination, where was the ship coming from?” Logan glanced up at her.

Linnet turned to the front of the book, to a huge map that folded out, showing all the major countries and shipping routes. She pointed to the relevant ones, of which there were many. “Southampton’s England’s busiest port. Your ship could have come from the Americas, but given the current situation there, more likely that it came from the West Indies.” She looked down at Logan. “There are British soldiers there, aren’t there?”

Logan looked at the map, grimly nodded. The information was there, in his brain. “But we have troops over half the globe—in many countries from which ships would pass Guernsey to Plymouth or Southampton.” He pointed to the map. “Aside from the West Indies, even though the war’s long over we still have troops in Portugal, and even some in Spain, and there’s detachments through North Africa, and whole regiments in India.”

He stared at the map, then sat back and looked up at her. “There’s another possibility. I
was
a cavalry commander—I’m sure of that—but I might not be one now. I might be a mercenary.” He waved to the map, indicating a broad swath across the middle. “And there’s mercenaries fighting over much of the world.”

When he looked down again, frowning at the map, Linnet inwardly grimaced. She gave her attention to the children, seeing them off to chores or lessons, then looked back at Logan—still wracking his brains.

Reaching out, she folded the large map, then shut the book.

Met his dark eyes as they lifted to her face. “Come and help me with the pigs. You haven’t met them yet. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll inspire you.”

Rising, she waited pointedly until he rose, too, then she led the way out.

L
ater that morning, certain that no other occupation would suit him as well, Linnet had Gypsy and Storm saddled, and with Logan rode out toward the hills, then cut back to the coast above Roquaine Bay.

Her destination was a small stone fisherman’s cottage nestled in a hollow at the top of a cliff, looking out to sea. Old Mrs. Corbett, a longtime fisherman’s widow, lived there alone.

“She had a bad fall last month, but she won’t leave here, even though she could live with her son in L’Eree, further north.” Linnet drew rein at the top of the cliff; the rocky descent to the cottage was too steep for horses. “I suppose we all understand, so we try to keep a neighborly eye on her.”

Already on the ground, Logan halted by Gypsy’s side; before Linnet realized his intention, he reached up, grasped her waist, and lifted her down. Being held, trapped, between his strong hands, that instant of helplessness sent memories of the night surging through her mind.

When he set her on her feet, she had to haul in a breath, quiet her thudding heart.

He looked down at her, but then released her. “I’ll wait here with the horses. She might feel imposed upon, overwhelmed, if I come in.”

Just the thought of Mrs. Corbett coping with such a large masculine presence in her small house . . . the old woman would be thoroughly distracted. With a nod, Linnet handed him her reins and started down the steep path.

The cottage door opened. Mrs. Corbett came out, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Good morning, missy—and as there’s no storms brewing, it is a good morning, too.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Corbett. How’s the hip?”

“Aching some, but I can manage.” Mrs. Corbett’s gaze had fixed on Logan, now seated on a large rock at the head of the path and looking out to sea. Glancing back, Linnet saw the sea breeeze ruffling his black hair, the pale glow of the sun playing over his chiseled features.

“Be he the one who washed up in your cove?”

“Yes, that’s him. His memory hasn’t yet fully returned.”

“No doubt it will in time. But come you in and have a sit down—I’ve griddle cakes made this morning.”

Linnet followed the old woman indoors. She sat and they chatted about the little things, the mundane things that made up Mrs. Corbett’s world, then moved on to local gossip. As many locals looked in on the widow, she often had the latest news.

Eventually satisfied Mrs. Corbett was coping, Linnet rose. “I must be going. Thank you for the cakes.”

Seizing a cane that rested by the door, Mrs. Corbett followed her outside. “Always a pleasure to have you drop by.”

Linnet paused at the foot of the steep upward climb.

Halting beside her and looking up at Logan, the widow murmured, “Could he possibly be as good as he looks?”

Lips twitching, Linnet followed her gaze. Felt forced to reply, “Very likely, I should think.”

Mrs. Corbett humphed. “You might want to think about hanging onto him, then. A lady your age, with your responsibilities, needs something to look forward to at night.”

Linnet laughed and started up the path. As much as she appreciated Logan, especially at night, she wasn’t about to forget that when his memory returned fully, he would leave. Would have to leave, because clearly there was somewhere he was supposed to be, something he was supposed to be doing.

Behind her, Mrs. Corbett leaned on her cane and raised her voice to call to Logan. “You’re not a sailor, are you?”

Logan rose to his feet, politely inclined his head. “No, ma’am. I can sail, but I’m not a sailor.”

“Good.”

Reaching the top of the path, Linnet allowed Logan to lift her to Gypsy’s saddle. Gathering the reins, she watched him fluidly mount, then looked back to salute Mrs. Corbett.

Hands folded over the top of her cane, the old woman looked up at her. “You remember what I said, missy. Sometimes life drops apples in your lap, and it never does to just toss them away.”

Linnet grinned, waved, and turned Gypsy’s head for home.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” She kicked Gypsy to a gallop, sensed Storm surge, coming up alongside. She glanced briefly at Logan, then looked ahead.

Much as she might wish it, hanging on to him—holding on to a man like him—wasn’t a viable option.

O
n the way back to Mon Coeur, they fell in with Gerry Taft, her chief herdsman, and his crew, who were rounding up the cattle and driving them down from the low hills to the more protected winter pastures. Logan hadn’t met the herdsmen before; she performed the introductions, then she and Logan joined the effort to keep the normally wide-ranging herd together and moving in the desired direction.

With the fields so large, with so few fences and the ground broken by rocky outcrops and the occasional stand of wind-twisted trees, what should have been a simple matter wasn’t easy at all.

They rode and checked, constantly shifting direction, patroling and enforcing the perimeter of the loosely congregated herd, urging them with shouts and yells to keep moving. And within five minutes, apparently unable to help himself, Logan was giving orders.

Linnet, at least, recognized he was, but his approach was such that neither Gerry nor his men had their noses put out of joint. Command was her forte, yet she looked on with reluctant appreciation as Logan asked questions, clearly valuing the men’s knowledge, then made suggestions, which the men therefore saw the sense in and immediately implemented.

The mantle of command rode easily on Logan’s shoulders, very much second nature to him, something he didn’t have to think to do.

As she skirted the herd, wondering how she felt about that, she noticed the herd’s matriarch had been hemmed in by their shepherding. She pointed with her whip, yelled, “Clear her way—get her to lead them.”

Logan was closest to Linnet. He looked, and changed his previous orders to implement her direction.

She continued to ride nearby, and he continued to defer to any countermand she made.

By the time they drew within sight of the herd’s destination, she had to admit he knew what he was doing in this sphere of command as much as in the bedroom. He was one of those rare men who was so settled in his own skin, so confident in his own strengths, that he didn’t have any problem deferring to others; he didn’t see others’ status as undermining his own.

He didn’t see taking orders from a female as undermining his masculinity.

Thinking of his masculinity, of its innate strength, made her shiver.

Damn man—he really had got under her skin.

As Gerry and his men turned the herd through the gate into their winter quarters, Logan drew near. “Back to the house?”

She nodded, waved to the others, then turned Gypsy’s head homeward. Logan settled Storm to canter alongside.

They rode through the morning, the rising wind in their faces. One glance at his face told her he’d returned to wracking his brains, trying to remember his present, and his recent past.

Unbidden, Mrs. Corbett’s words echoed in her mind. Prophetic in a way; if he was an apple fate had dropped in her lap, she’d already taken a bite. And intended to take more. Until he remembered who he was, and left.

The thought effectively quashed the budding notion that, as he seemed a man capable of playing second fiddle to a female, she might, just might, be able to keep him.

She couldn’t regardless, because he wouldn’t stay. Almost certainly couldn’t. His nighttime lessons stood testimony to considerable experience in that sphere; for all she knew—all he knew—he might have a wife waiting for him in England.

No thought could more effectively have doused any wild and romantic notions that might have started germinating in her brain. She had to be realistic; he would remember and go . . . and that any wild and romantic notions had even occurred to her proved that her wisest and most sensible course was to do all she could to help him remember. So he could leave before she started yearning for things that could never be.