Brazen Bride (4 page)

It didn’t go as she’d planned.

Instead of finding him smiling at her in lazy masculine triumph, ready to accept her surrender, she barely had time to register that his eyes were shut, his expression still blank—that even if she’d woken, he had not—before one hard hand slid into her unbound hair, palming her skull, and his bandaged head shifted and his lips closed on hers.

Ravenously.

Greedily.

As if he were a man starved and she all his succor.

Heat hit her in a crashing wave, passion and hunger and want and need all churning in that burning kiss. An instant conflagration erupted between them. She felt like she was melting, muscles taut yet turning passive, fluid and giving, emptiness—a hollow ache—burgeoning at her core, yearning to be filled.

Primal. Urgent. Demanding.

He was all that—and he made her feel the same.

Her hands skimmed his shoulders. Even as she battled to regain her mental feet, she registered the warmth spreading beneath his still cool skin.

If nothing else, the exchange was heating him up.

If he’d been awake, her turning would have made him pause long enough for her to douse his flame. Instead, his unconscious, his dream-mind, had read that sinuous slide to face him as encouragement and agreement. As surrender.

By the time she’d realized that, he’d laid claim to her mouth and every one of her senses with a primitive passion that curled her toes.

He plundered, his tongue mating with hers, and her body came alive as it never had before. Yet he was . . . dreaming?

Even as she wrestled with that conclusion—tried to think what it meant, what she should do—he tore his lips from hers, ducked his head, and set his mouth to her breasts.

Took a furled nipple into his mouth and suckled.

Hard.

Her body bowed; she fought to stifle a scream—the first of pure pleasure she’d ever uttered. He pushed her onto her back and loomed over her in the dark. She gripped his shoulders, gasps tangling in her throat as, head bowed, he continued to feast, to lave and suckle her breasts.

Even asleep, he knew exactly how to make her body come quickly, rapidly, roaringly alive. Make it sing, make it burn.

She’d had three lovers—had “made love” precisely three times, once with each. Those experiences had convinced her that the activity was not for her, not something she was suited for.

As she was never going to marry, she’d seen no reason to learn more.

Now she faced a choice she hadn’t expected. Even as pleasure lanced through her again and her body arched beneath him, evocatively into him, she knew she could stop him, her fallen angel, but she’d have to wake him up to do it. Even wounded and weakened, he was too damned strong for her to simply push him back and soothe him deeper into sleep. Yet her reasons for not indulging with him didn’t apply if he remained asleep. If he didn’t know—wouldn’t recall when he awoke . . .

His lips drifted down, his hands firmed about her sides, and her body thrummed—enthrallingly alive, hungry and needy. His hands, hard and callused, sculpted, shaped her curves, slid down and around to cradle the globes of her bottom, long fingers kneading, stroking, caressing.

For the first time in her life, she felt . . . overwhelmed. Just a touch helpless. Not truly so—not frighteningly so—but the strength of him surrounded her, managed her, controlled her . . . as far as she allowed.

And then he moved over her, fully atop her, his hard, muscled thighs spreading hers wide so he could settle his hips between.

Her breath hitched. She had to decide
now
. The heavy length of his erection brushed her inner thigh, sensation and promise, evoking a flaring curiosity, splintering and fracturing her earlier resolution.

Would it be different with a fallen angel?

Every nerve, every inch of her, wanted to know.

But would he wake? Was it possible for him to reach the inevitable end without breaking free of Morpheus’s hold?

Finding out . . . what a risk! But all her life she’d thrived on challenge—on taking calculated risks and winning.

He lifted his head, body surging over hers, and locked his lips on hers.

Invaded her mouth, reclaimed, reconquered—and she raised her hands, closed them about his bandaged head and kissed him back.

Deliberately plunging into the heat, into the fray, seizing the moment, taking the risk.

She kissed him as ravenously as he’d kissed her—as she’d never kissed any other man. No man before had dared to devour her, nor invited her to devour him.

For heated, frantic moments they dueled, then he shifted, his spine flexed, all reined power, and she felt the marble-hard head of his erection part her folds. He pressed inexorably in, through the slickness of an instinctive welcome.

He hadn’t even touched her there, yet she was ready—ready, willing, and wantonly eager to feel the length of him, to experience the strength of him, the sheer power and weight of him as he forged steadily into her, then, at the last, thrust deep to her core.

Stretching her, filling her as she never had been before. She’d never felt so invaded, so utterly posssessed.

So complete.

Then he moved, deep, sure thrusts that rocked her beneath him . . . within seconds, she’d never felt so taken, never felt taken before at all, yet he unquestionably took, took all she would give, could scramble to give, and give she did—he gave her no choice.

Then somehow the scales tipped, and it was she who sank her fingertips into his buttocks, gripped and clung, urgent and demanding. And he who gave, unstintingly lavishing all his power, his passion, driving sensation into her, through her, building the glory higher, and yet higher—forcefully riding deep within her until she shattered.

Until the glory imploded and sensation fractured into glimmering shards and she broke apart on a muted scream.

Logan heard it, that inexpressibly evocative sound of female completion, and let his reins fall. Let the dream sweep him on into the familiar heat and fire, surrendering to the primitive driving urge, jettisoning all hope of lingering to further savor the heated clasp of his lover’s slick sheath, the ripples of her release barely fading as he drove harder and harder into her body—his dream lover who clearly knew him so well.

Who had let him ride her, then ridden him. Who had met his demands, and matched them, countered them.

Who had led him to this—the pinnacle of erotic dreams.

He sensed release nearing, felt it catch him, sweep up and over him. With one last thrust, he sank deep within her, and surrendered. Let it take him.

Rake him.

Until, at the last, he shuddered, and sleep thickened and closed about him again, and pulled him down into a deeper realm, one where satisfaction and content blended and soothed, cradling him in earthly bliss.

Linnet lay beneath her fallen angel, his dead weight an odd comfort as she struggled, battled, to regain the use of anything—wits or limbs. Even her senses seemed frazzled beyond recall, as if she’d drawn too close to some flame and they’d singed.

Oh. My. God
was her first coherent thought, the only one she could manage for several long minutes. Finally, when she’d regained sufficient control of her limbs and sufficient mental acuity, she gently nudged, eased, prodded, and managed to stir him into shifting enough to let her slide from beneath him.

He slumped, heavy and boneless, beside her, but she no longer feared waking him up. If their recent exertions hadn’t, nothing would, not soon. And he hadn’t woken, of that she was sure. She’d seized the moment, taken the risk—and it had paid off.

Magnificently.

At last able to fill her lungs, she drew in a huge breath, let it out long and slow.

Staring up at the ceiling, she whispered, “Damn—that was good.”

Then she glanced sideways at the man—her fallen angel—lying facedown in the bed beside her. “I might have to rethink my policy on men.”

Two

December 11, 1822

Mon Coeur, Torteval, Guernsey

L
innet woke when she usually did, which in December meant an hour before dawn. Oddly relaxed, unusually refreshed, she stretched, savoring the unexpected inner glow, then raised her lids—and found herself staring at a stranger’s throat.

Tanned. Male. Incipient alarm was drowned by wariness as full memory of the previous day, and the night, flooded her mind.

She jerked her gaze upward.

To a pair of midnight blue eyes.

Propped on one elbow, he was looking down at her, his regard shrewd, assessing, and curious.

“Where am I?”

His voice matched the rest of him—disturbing and deep. Just a little gravelly, with the hint of an underlying burr.

“More importantly,” he went on, “what are you doing in my bed?”

She struggled to sit up, thanking her stars that before she’d fallen asleep the second time, she’d had the sense to pull down her nightgown, tie her robe tight, and stuff the extra blanket down between them, a barrier between his body and hers. “Actually, you’re in my bed.”

When his winged black brows flew high, she hurriedly added, a touch waspishly, “You were injured, unconscious, and it’s the only bed in this house long enough, and judged sturdy enough, to accommodate you.”

For a moment, he said nothing, then murmured, “So there are other beds?”

She was tempted to lie, but instead nodded curtly. “I was worried by your continuing chill, and decided it was wisest to . . . do what I could to keep you warm through the night.”

Flicking the covers aside, she slid out of the bed, tugging her robe and gown firmly down as she stood.

He watched her like a predator watched prey. “In that case, I suppose I should thank you.”

“Yes, you should.” And she should go down on her knees and thank him—not that she ever would. Cutting off the distracting memories, she glanced at the bandage around his skull. “How’s your head?”

He frowned, as if her question had reminded him. “Throbbing . . . but not, I think, incapacitating.”

“You’ll feel better after you eat.” Crossing to her armoire, she opened it and looked in, ignoring the weight of his steady blue gaze. He hadn’t remembered—she felt sure he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort of man to hold back if he had.

As she pulled out a gown, he said, “You haven’t yet told me where I am.”

“Guernsey.” She glanced back at him. “The southwestern tip—Parish of Torteval, if that means anything to you.”

His frown darkened. “It doesn’t.” His gaze drifted from her.

Shutting the armoire, she opened a drawer and drew out a fresh shift. Turned back to him. “What’s your name?”

“Logan.” He looked at her, after the barest hesitation asked, “Yours?”

“Linnet Trevission. This house is Mon Coeur.” Turning back to her chest of drawers, she added stockings and chemise to the pile in her arms, then crossed to where she’d left her half boots. Picking them up, she glanced at the bed. “So—Logan who?”

He looked at her, looked at her, then he softly swore. Swinging his legs from beneath the covers, he sat up on the edge of the bed.

Well-shaped feet, long, muscled calves dusted with black hair, broad knees, taut, heavily muscled thighs. Linnet gave thanks for the corner of the sheet that draped across his lap. Unconscious, with half his torso hidden by bandages, he’d been an impressive sight; awake and active, his impact was mind-scrambling.

She needed to get out of the room, but . . . she frowned as he dropped his head into his hands, fingers gripping tight.

“I can’t remember.” The words were ground out. Then he looked down, at the bandages about his chest and abdomen. Lowered a hand to trace them.

“You were on a ship—most likely a merchantman. There was a storm the night before last, a bad one, and the ship wrecked on the reefs not far from here.” Linnet caught his dark eyes as they rose, as if in hope, to her face. “Do you remember the name of your ship?”

Logan tried—tried to dredge some glimmer of a memory up from the void in his brain, but nothing came. Nothing at all. “I don’t even remember being on a ship.”

Even he heard the panic in his tone.

“Don’t worry.” His gorgeous erstwhile bedmate—and wasn’t that a terrible fate, to have slept like a log with all those mouthwatering curves within easy reach, and not have known?—studied him through pale emerald eyes. “You’ve a nasty head wound—most likely from a falling spar. You were incredibly lucky to have got onto a broken-off section of the ship’s side before you lost consciousness. You had a firm grip on the planks—that’s what got you to shore and into the cove, and stopped you getting smashed up on the rocks. More smashed up.” She nodded at his bandaged head. “The blow to your skull would have rattled your brains. Most likely your memory will come back in a day or two.”

“A day or two?” He watched her cross to a dressing table against the far wall and pick up a brush and comb. His gaze shifted to the rippling fall of her red-gold hair. Even in the dim light of predawn, it looked like fire; his fingers and palms tingled, as if recalling the silky warmth. He frowned. “ ‘Most likely’? What if I don’t remember?” The thought horrified him.

“You will. Almost certainly.” She headed for the door but paused, glanced at him, then detoured back to the large armoire. “But you shouldn’t try to bludgeon your brain into remembering. Best to just let it be, let your memory slide back of its own accord.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re a doctor?”

She arched brown brows at him, gaze distinctly haughty, then turned to look into the armoire. “No, but I’ve been around enough men who’ve had their heads thumped to know. If you’re alive, and can walk, your memories will return.”

Logan frowned at her. Not even a healer, but she’d been around enough men. . . . “Miss Linnet Trevission of Mon Couer—who’s she?”

Closing the armoire, taking a few steps his way, she flung a quilted woollen robe at him. He caught it. She nodded at it. “That was my father’s—my late father’s.” She met his gaze. “So among other things, I’m your hostess.”

Before he could respond, she swung to the door. “There’s a water closet at the end of the corridor.” She pointed left. “There’s a bathing chamber next to it. I’ll have shaving gear sent up for you, and whatever clothes we can find—my aunt is seeing what she can salvage of your things, but until then, some of my father’s might fit.”

Linnet paused with her hand on the door and looked back. Grasped an instant to drink in the sight of the gorgeous naked male sitting on her bed. “You can rest here as long as you wish, then when you feel up to it, you can join us downstairs.”

Opening the door, she went through, then reached back and drew the door shut behind her. She paused, staring at the panels but seeing him . . . feeling him . . .

Exasperated, she shook free of the recollection, blew a strand of hair from her face, then continued down the corridor.

She’d been right. He was going to be trouble.

M
ore than an hour later, Logan made his way down a long oak staircase, looking around as he slowly descended.
Mon Coeur
. What kind of man named his house “my heart”?

Regardless, Linnet Trevission’s father had been no puny weakling; his clothes fitted Logan well enough to get by. The shirt and coat were a trifle tight across his shoulders, and he’d had to button the breeches one button wider at the waist, but the length of sleeve and leg were almost right. Linnet herself was tall for a female, so it was no great surprise her father had been tall.

He’d found the clothes waiting in a neat pile on the bed when he’d returned from shaving. After using the water closet—its existence an indication that Mon Coeur wasn’t some small farmhouse—he’d looked into the bathing chamber and found a shaving kit neatly laid out. He’d availed himself of it. He’d been halfway through removing several days’ growth before he’d realized he knew what he was doing.

He’d lathered chin and cheeks, then picked up the sharp razor and applied it as he had countless times before, in a pattern he’d worked out a presently unknown number of years ago.

His panic over not being able to remember things—lots of things—had receded as the fact that he remembered lots of other things, like what
Mon Coeur
meant, as well as things he did by rote, had sunk in.

When Linnet had informed him he was on Guernsey, he’d known instantly what that was—had known it was an island in the Gulf of St. Malo, that it enjoyed special privileges as a property of the English Crown. He didn’t think he’d been there before, even elsewhere on the island. As he recalled—and he savored the fact he could—Guernsey wasn’t large.

All of which he took as a sign that his memory lapse would indeed prove temporary.

He knew how to dress himself; he knew how to shave. He knew he—whoever he was—hadn’t entirely appreciated his hostess’s haughty superiority.

But he didn’t yet know
who
he was. Didn’t know what sort of man he was, or what he’d been doing on the ship.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, and having seen enough to confirm that the Trevissions were, at the least, the Guernsey equivalent of landed gentry, he made his way down a corridor toward the sound of voices.

Children’s voices. The sound tweaked a memory, but the instant he halted and tried to bring it into focus, it slid away, back into the void. Suppressing a grimace, he continued on—to a long, comfortable parlor running down one side of the house. Although a fire was burning in the hearth, there was no one in the parlor, but on walking in, he saw a pair of open double doors in the rear wall and a bright, airy dining room beyond.

The chatter filling his ears was coming from there. It sounded as if half a small army was gathered about the long table.

He paused on the threshold. Seated at the head of the table, Linnet looked up, saw him, and beckoned. “Good. You’re on your feet.” Her gaze passed, critically assessing, over his face. “Come and sit down, and have some breakfast.”

She waved to an empty chair beside her. He moved forward, scanning the other occupants. Children, as he’d thought—two lasses, three lads—and a middle-aged gentlewoman, plus an older lady seated at the table’s foot. Recalling Linnet mentioning an aunt, he inclined his head politely. “Ma’am.”

The older lady smiled. “I’m Muriel Barclay, Linnet’s father’s sister. Do sit down and break your fast, Mr. . . . ?”

Closing his hand on the back of the chair beside Linnet’s, Logan smiled, a touch tightly. “Just Logan at the moment, ma’am. I’m afraid I can’t remember the rest.”

Drawing out the chair, he glanced at Linnet. Her lips had thinned a fraction, but clearly she hadn’t informed her household of his lack of recall.

“Don’t you know all your name?”

The question, in a loud, childish voice, drew Logan’s gaze down to the small girlchild seated to his other side. Wide cornflower blue eyes looked up at him. Subsiding into his chair, he let his smile soften. “Not at the moment, poppet.”

“Not to worry.” Mrs. Barclay’s brisk tone was a more moderate, less autocratic version of her niece’s. “I’m sure it’ll all come back to you shortly. Now I expect you’d like some ham and eggs, and perhaps a few sausages?”

Logan nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’ll let Mrs. Pennyweather know you’re here.” Mrs. Barclay rose and headed out of another door.

Now that he noticed it, Logan heard, distantly, the clang of pans and other kitchen sounds. Manor house, his mind decided. Which presumably made his hostess the lady of the manor.

He glanced at her to find her waiting to catch his eye. Having done so, she directed it around the table. “This is Will, and that’s Brandon beside him.” The two older lads bobbed their heads and smiled. “They found you yesterday morning, and Chester”—she indicated the youngest of the three boys—“came running here to fetch me.”

Logan nodded to all three boys. “Thank you—I’m grateful.”

“And beside Chester,” Linnet continued, “is Miss Buttons—Buttons to us all. She endeavors to teach this horde their letters and numbers.”

Logan inclined his head to the middle-aged woman, who smiled back. “Welcome to Mon Coeur, sir,” she said, “although I daresay you would have preferred to arrive in a less painful way.” She nodded at his head. “Does it hurt very much?”

“Not as much as it did.”

“It’ll fade through the day.” Mrs. Barclay returned in the wake of a little maid, who smiled shyly as she set a plate piled high with succulent eggs, bacon, sausages, and ham before Logan.

He thanked her and shook out the napkin he found beside his plate.

“Jen—please pass Logan the toast rack.” Linnet waved at the last two at the table. “These two young ladies are Jennifer and Gillyflower—Gilly.”

Logan smiled and thanked them both as they passed him the toast. There was a curious dearth of men about the table, but there were four plates already used before four vacant chairs. Will, the oldest boy, looked to be about fifteen years old. As the others all returned to their meals, Logan buttered a slice of toast, crunched, and realized he was ravenous.

Picking up his knife and fork, he cut a piece of thick ham, chewed, and almost groaned in appreciation. Opening his eyes, he glanced across the table.