Stephanie Laurens: Devils Bride

Honoria grimaced. "A pity perhaps." When he glanced her way, green eyes strangely empty, she gestured helplessly. "In the circumstances, I mean-a slow death, rather than a fast one."

He said nothing but continued to frown at the button. Honoria pressed her lips together, trying to deny the impulse, and failed. "But?"

"But…" He hesitated, then went on: "A clean shot through the heart with a long-barreled pistol-small bore, so it wasn't a shotgun or even horse pistol-at reasonable range-closer would have left more of a burn-is no mean feat. Pulling off such a shot takes remarkable skill."

"And remarkable cold-bloodedness, I imagine."

"That, too."

Rain beat against the walls, the shutters. Honoria straightened. "If you light the fire, I'll heat some water and wash away the worst of the blood." The suggestion earned her a surprised look; she met it with implacable calm. "If he has to die, then at least he can die clean."

For an instant, she thought she'd shocked him-his gaze appeared truly arrested. Then he nodded, his permission so clearly implied she could not doubt that he considered the injured youth in his care.

She headed for the hearth; he followed, soft-footed for such a large man. Pausing before the fire, Honoria glanced over her shoulder-and nearly swallowed her heart when she found him directly beside her.

He was big-bigger than she'd realized. She was often referred to as a "Long Meg"; this man towered over her by a full head, cutting her off from the candlelight, his dramatic face in deep shadow, his black hair a dark corona about his head. He was the Prince of Darkness personified; for the first time in her life, she felt small, fragile, intensely vulnerable. "There's a pump near the stable." He reached past her; candlelight glimmered on the curved contours of his arm as he lifted the kettle from its hook. "I'd better check Sulieman, too, but I'll get the fire going first."

Honoria quickly shifted to the side. Only when he had crouched before the hearth, laying logs from the woodbox in the grate, did she manage to breathe again. At close range, his voice reverberated through her, a decidedly unnerving sensation.

By the time he had a blaze established, she had her attention firmly fixed on the dressers, discovering clean cloths and a canister of tea. She heard him move past; reaching high, he lifted a bucket from a hook. The latch clicked; Honoria glanced around-he stood in the doorway, bare to the waist, silhouetted by a searing flash of light-an elemental figure in an elemental world. The wind funneled in, then was abruptly cut off; the door shut and he was gone.

She counted seven rolls of thunder before he returned. As the door closed behind him, the tension gripping her eased. Then she noticed he was dripping wet. "Here." She held out the largest of the cloths she'd found and reached for the kettle. She busied herself by the fire, setting the kettle to boil, quite sure she didn't need to watch him drying that remarkable chest The kettle hissed; she reached for the bowl she'd set ready.

He was waiting by the bed; she considered ordering him to dry himself by the fire, then decided to save her breath. His gaze was fixed on the youth's face.

Setting the bowl on the chest by the bed, she squeezed out a cloth, then gently sponged the youth's face, removing the grit and dust of the lane. Cleanliness emphasized his innocence, and highlighted the obscenity of his death. Pressing her lips together, Honoria bent to her task. Until she came to the badly stained shirt.

"Let me."

She shifted back. Two well-judged rips, and the left side of the shirt was free.

"Give me a cloth."

She squeezed one out and handed it over. They worked side by side in the flickering light; she was amazed by how gentle such large hands could be, was moved by how reverently one so powerfully alive dealt with the dying.

Then they were done. Settling another blanket over their silent charge, she gathered the soiled cloths and loaded them into the bowl. He proceeded her to the fire; she set the bowl on the table and straightened her back.

"Devil?"

The call was so faint she only just heard it. Honoria whirled and flew back to the bed. The youth's lids fluttered. "Devil. Need… Devil."

"It's all right," she murmured, laying her hand on his brow. "There's no devil here-we won't let him get you."

The youth frowned; he shook his head against her hand. "No! Need to see …"

Hard hands closed about Honoria's shoulders; she gasped as she was lifted bodily aside. Freed of her touch, the youth opened glazed eyes and struggled to rise.

"Lie back, Tolly. I'm here."

Honoria stared as her rescuer took her place, pressing the youth back to the bed. His voice, his touch, calmed the dying man-he lay back, visibly relaxing, focusing on the older man's face. "Good," he breathed, his voice thin. "Found you." A weak smile flickered across his pale face. Then he sobered. "Have to tell you-"

His urgent words were cut off by a cough, which turned into a debilitating paroxym. Her rescuer braced the youth between his hands, as if willing strength into the wilting frame. As the coughing subsided, Honoria grabbed up a clean cloth and offered it. Laying the youth down, her rescuer wiped the blood from the boy's lips. "Tolly?"

No answer came-their charge was unconscious again.

"You're related." Honoria made it a statement; the revelation had come the instant the youth opened his eyes. The resemblance lay not only in the wide forehead but in the arch of the brows and the set of the eyes.

"Cousins." Animation leached from her rescuer's harsh face. "First cousins. He's one of the younger crew-barely twenty."

His tone made Honoria wonder how old he was-in his thirties certainly, but from his face it was impossible to judge. His demeanor conveyed the impression of wordly wisdom, wisdom earned, as if experience had tempered his steel.

As she watched, he put out one hand and gently brushed back a lock of hair from his cousin's pallid face.

The low moan of the wind turned into a dirge.

She was stranded in a cottage with a dying man and a man known to his intimates as Devil. Ensconced in the wing chair by the fire, Honoria sipped tea from a mug and considered her position. It was now night; the storm showed no sign of abating. She could not leave the cottage, even had that been her most ardent desire.

Glancing at her rescuer, still seated on the pallet, she grimaced; she did not wish to leave. She'd yet to learn his name, but he'd commanded her respect, and her sympathy.

Half an hour had passed since the youth had spoken; Devil-she had no other name for him-had not left his dying cousin's side. His face remained impassive, showing no hint of emotion, yet emotion was there, behind the facade, shadowing the green of his eyes. Honoria knew of the shock and grief occasioned by sudden death, knew of the silent waiting and the vigils for the dead. Returning her gaze to the flames, she slowly sipped her tea.

Sometime later, she heard the bed creak; soft footfalls slowly neared. She sensed rather than saw him ease into the huge carved chair, smelled the dust that rose from the faded tapestry as he settled. The kettle softly hissed. Shifting forward, she poured boiling water into the mug she'd left ready; when the steam subsided, she picked up the mug and held it out.

He took it, long fingers brushing hers briefly, green eyes lifting to touch her face. "Thank you."

He sipped in silence, eyes on the flames; Honoria did the same.

Minutes ticked by, then he straightened his long legs, crossing his booted ankles. Honoria felt his gaze on her face.

"What brings you to Somersham, Miss…?"

It was the opening she'd been waiting for. "Wetherby," she supplied.