The Hellion Bride Read online

  "I watched you come out here."

  He nearly jumped off the bench, she startled him so badly. It was Sophia Stanton-Greville and she was standing very close to him.

  He looked up at her, not changing expression, making no movement whatsoever now. "I wanted to rest. I am not yet accustomed to the heat and every girl in that bloody ballroom wanted to dance."

  "Yes. I understand that's what one does at balls."

  She sounded cold, very aloof. She sounded as if she disliked him. Then why had she followed him out here? It made no sense.

  He relaxed further, stretching his legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles, crossing his arms over his chest. His posture was insolent. Never in his adult life had he been so rude in the presence of a woman. He said in a voice that matched her coldness, "What do you wish of me, Miss Stanton-Greville? Another dance perhaps, since it is a ball, as you so graciously pointed out?"

  She stiffened, and. again he wondered why the hell she was even here. She looked out into the darkness. "You don't behave as most men do, Mr. Sherbrooke," she said at last.

  "Ah, by that do you mean that I don't drool on your slippers? I don't stare at your very red mouth or your doubtless delightful breasts?"

  "No!"

  "Then what is it that I don't do?"

  She turned away. He saw her fingers pleating the soft muslin folds of her gown. She was very slender, and although her gown was cut high in the new fashion made popular by Josephine, he could tell that her waist was narrow. He wondered about her legs and hips.

  She said, turning to face him, this time a ghost of a smile on her painted mouth, "You are brazen, sir. Gentlemen don't speak so baldly, surely not even in England."

  "Not even to painted tarts?"

  She sucked in her breath and he could have sworn that she actually reeled back in shock. She raised an unconscious hand to her cheek, and began to rub at the powder.

  She stopped suddenly. She dropped her hand to her side. She smiled now, and the utter control of it made his eyes gleam. "No," she said calmly, "not even to painted tarts. I had been told you had some wit. I had thought to hear it, but evidently gossip was mistaken. You are rude and a boor."

  He rose to stand over her, very close, but she didn't move away from him. "Now you draw blood," he said, "and you don't do it too badly. But not all that well either." He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly wiped it over her red mouth. She tried to jerk away, but he grabbed her about her throat and wiped her mouth yet again. He threw the handkerchief to the ground. "Now," he said, leaned down and kissed her hard on her mouth. He kissed her for a very long time. After but a moment, he gentled, and she knew his expertise was great, greater than any she'd known before. His mouth was caressing hers, his tongue seeking entrance, but not demanding. She allowed him to continue, not moving, not reacting.

  Suddenly his hands were cupping her breasts and she jumped, she couldn't help it. "Shush," he said, his breath warm and tart with the rum punch he'd drunk. "Let me feel you. Is your skin as soft and warm as I believe it to be?" Just as suddenly, as he spoke, his hands were down the front of her bodice and cupping her bare breasts. He paused a moment, lifting his head, and staring down at her. "Your heart was pounding, but not fast enough, I don't think. Your breasts are nice, Miss Stanton-Greville. Is this why you came out here in search of me? You wanted me to fondle you? Perhaps you even wanted me to take you here in the garden? Perhaps right here beneath this beautiful cassia tree? The scent is strong; perhaps strong enough to cover the smell of sex."

  She said nothing, merely stood very quietly, allow­ing him to caress her breasts. He kissed her again, deepening the kiss this time, his open palm against her heart. The heartbeat quickened just a bit and he smiled into her mouth.

  "Is that it? Do you think to compare me to your other men? You won't, you know."

  His breath was very warm, his tongue gentle and easy against hers. But she wasn't kissing him back. She was passive. He didn't understand her. He wanted a response from her and by God he was going to have it. He pulled his hands out of the bodice of her gown, grabbed the shoulders of the gown, and jerked it to her waist. In the pale moonlight her breasts showed soft and white. Not large breasts, but very nicely shaped, full and high, the nipples a pale pink. He leaned down and began kissing the warm flesh.

  It was then that she laughed, a teasing, wicked laugh. He straightened from the sheer surprise of it and looked down at her. Graceful as a dancer, she spun away from him. However, she did nothing to cover herself.

  "You are not bad, in the way of men," she said, her voice light and caressing, her breasts pale in the moonlight, her shoulders back, thrusting them outward. "No, not bad at all. You are bold, arro­gant, a man who doesn't wait for a lady to issue an invitation. You should show more restraint, sir. Or perhaps it is an invitation you want, and you haven't the patience to wait for it?"

  "Perhaps," he said, "perhaps. But I don't share, Miss Stanton-Greville. When I take a woman I am the only man whose rod comes inside her. There will be no comparisons, at least no immediate ones."

  "I see," she said, that damned voice of hers now lilting and more seductive than any woman's voice he'd ever heard in his life. "For the moment then, you may admire me, sir," she said, and he stared at her breasts as she slowly and with infinite fascination pulled the gown back to her shoulders, gently easing it into place. When her gown was straight and she looked as if she'd done nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary, she said, "No, Mr. Sherbrooke, you have moved too quickly. You have displeased me with your excesses. You demand, not ask. On the other hand, I do not dislike your arrogance. It is refreshing. You do not mince matters. You speak what you think. I will think about you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have decided that I will ride with you in the morning. You will meet me here at eight o'clock. Do not be late. I dislike waiting for men."

  He wanted to tell her to take her riding habit and her horse and her damned orders and go to hell, but he didn't. He was looking at her mouth, clean now of the damned red paint. A beautiful mouth, truly. And she was still a mystery. Ryder couldn't resist a mystery.

  He smiled at her as he reached out and lightly stroked his fingertips over her jaw. "An order for you. Do not paint your face. I don't like it. You will excuse me now, Miss Stanton-Greville."

  He left her without a backward glance. He was whistling.

  Sophie stared after him, unmoving, until he dis­appeared into the darkness. Her heart was pound­ing and she felt light-headed. She was terrified of him. She hadn't lied, he was like no man she'd ever known. She sank down on the bench and put her face in her hands. What was she going to do?

  CHAPTER

  3

  RYDER SMILED AS he looked at the ormolu clock in the main salon of Kimberly Hall. It was now fully eight o'clock in the morning. She would be looking for him to arrive momentarily, yes, any minute now, and she would expect to see him riding up to the front of Camille Hall, just as Her Highness had bade him do.

  Only he wouldn't be there.

  When it was eight-thirty, he rose and stretched and went into the small breakfast room that opened onto a side garden. Both Emile and his father were there. Two house slaves were serving them, one of them Samuel's housekeeper, Mary, and she smiled at Ryder merrily, waving him to his seat as if he were her guest.

  Ryder asked for fresh fruit and bread from the tall black man, James, who, like every black man, woman, and child on Jamaica, wore no shoes. It still disconcerted Ryder a bit. He downed the hot black coffee that tasted so rich here on Jamaica, saying nothing, for he was thinking about Sophia Stanton-Greville and trying to picture the look on her face now that she must realize he wasn't coming. He smiled as he chewed on the bread.

  "I heard it said last night that you were riding this morning with Miss Stanton-Greville."

  Ryder didn't look up at Samuel Grayson. He was afraid that if he did, he'd grin like a sinner, for Samuel sounded jealous. How many men were besot­ted with the damned girl
? And, how the devil did anyone know about the plans he and Miss Stanton-Greville had made? Rather, the supremely confident order she'd given him.

  "I would say that the persons reporting the phe­nomenon were wrong, wouldn't you? I'm here, eat­ing my breakfast. James, please tell Cora the fresh bread is quite good."

  "It was her uncle who told me," Samuel said. "He asked me if you could be trusted. He loves his niece very much and he is very anxious that no man take advantage of her."

  Emile choked on his coffee.

  Ryder leaned over and smacked him on his back. "Are you all right?"

  "I won't stand for this, Emile," his father said harshly. "You will not speak badly of her, do you understand me? You will not act the leering young man."

  "I said nothing, I merely choked."

  "Damn you, boy, I won't tolerate your damnable impudence!"

  "Samuel," Ryder said smoothly, interrupting him. "There is not a consensus of opinion on the virtue of Miss Stanton-Greville. Surely you know that."

  "It matters not," Grayson said. "I know the truth."

  "Let us speak of other matters then. There have been no further demonic spectacles. I'm disappoint­ed, and yet at the same time, I do wonder why they ceased so abruptly with my arrival."

  Emile said slowly, "It's true. Since you spent some hours in the bay before my father brought you to Kimberly, everyone or practically everyone would have known within twenty-four hours that you had arrived."

  "Which means," Ryder continued thoughtfully, "that if they were meant to cease upon my arri­val then the person responsible hadn't heard of my arrival before that first night."

  "Exactly," said Emile.

  "I am still not certain that there is a person behind this," Grayson said. "It isn't natural, all that you saw. You said yourself, Ryder, that there was no sign of the fire where you'd seen one. Perhaps it wasn't a person in a white costume, perhaps it was simply another manifestation of voodoo evil."

  "It was a flesh and blood man," Ryder said firmly. "Also, the arrow that went into my arm was shot by a very real person. Thus, there were two villains at Kimberly that first night. A question, Samuel—do you know of any man nearby who is good at archery?"

  "Good God," Emile said, startled. "I hadn't thought to ask. Yes, Father, let's think on that."

  Both men were silent for several moments. Ryder ate the chilled fresh fruit and the crusty fresh bread. He thought of Sophia Stanton-Greville, waiting. Both the thought and the bread were delicious.

  Samuel said, 'Yes, I know a man who excels in the sport of archery."

  "Who?" Emile and Ryder asked at the same time.

  Samuel waved his hands in dismissal. "No, no, it makes no sense. I was thinking of Eli Thomas, Burgess's overseer. He is noted for his skill, but again, no, it makes no sense. Why would he come here and shoot Ryder? Also, David Lochridge is a devotee of the sport as is a Mr. Jenkins, a merchant in Montego Bay. There are doubtless others in the vicinity. Certainly too many to draw any sort of meaningful conclusion."

  Ryder smiled. Another part of the puzzle brought out onto the table. Another link to that wretched little tart at Camille Hall who'd teased him and practically let him make love to her in the Camille Hall gardens with a hundred guests but yards away. He toyed with an orange slice. "Since the men who visited us that first night of my arrival didn't know I was here, why then, we can begin to narrow the list, because I met many gentlemen that first afternoon in the Gold Doubloon."

  Emile got a piece of foolscap and a pen. They listed all the names Ryder could remember.

  "Many aren't accounted for," Emile said. "More than many more. The count boggles the mind."

  "Such as two of her lovers," Ryder said easily. "We can mark off Oliver Susson."

  "Yes," Emile said, and his father threw his napkin down on the table and strode from the room.

  Ryder frowned after him. "Why does he wish to be blind to this girl and what she is?"

  Emile looked across the breakfast room to the oil painting of a sugarcane field. "He had selected her to marry me. He won't give up the idea. I think also that he is taken with her. Her wickedness teases him. You've noticed Mary, his housekeeper, is a lit­tle tease, and he is very fond of her. I tell you, Ryder, even if Sophia took him as one of her lovers, he would still defend her. You mustn't take his anger to heart. He is my father and he means well."

  Ryder nodded and continued to eat.

  Emile said after a moment, 'You were to have ridden with her, weren't you?"

  Ryder grinned at him. "Yes, but I will never allow a woman to dictate to me. I will tell her what I wish of her and when I wish it. I will do the asking, not she the telling."

  "This should prove interesting."

  "I trust so," Ryder said and drank the rest of his rich black coffee. "Do you have the time, Emile?" "Yes, it's nearly nine-thirty." "I believe I will go riding." Emile gave him a crooked grin. "Good hunting."

  "Indeed," Ryder said.

  "Where is he?"

  Sophie turned to face her uncle. "I don't know. I assumed he would be here at eight. He did not say he wouldn't come."

  "You angered him, damn you!" He raised his fisted hand, but one of the house servants was coming onto the veranda. He lowered his arm.

  He lowered his voice, but the anger was strong and vicious. "You put him off! You didn't succeed, Sophia. I am displeased with you. Must I do all the planning? No, don't say anything. I will decide what is to be done now. You've botched it and I wonder if you did it apurpose."

  He began to pace the veranda. Sophie watched him with a disinterested eye and kept silent. She prayed that Ryder Sherbrooke would have the good sense to keep miles away from Camille Hall and away from her.

  Burgess paused and approached her, sitting in a cane-backed chair close to hers. "You took Lord David to the cottage last night, did you not?"

  She nodded.

  "All went well?"

  'Yes. But he was jealous of my attention to Ryder Sherbrooke. His is not a steady character. He is childish and self-absorbed. Once he has drunk suf­ficiently, he is not difficult for me to handle, but last night his jealousy . . . well, it doesn't matter now. It turned out all right."

  'You dealt with him?"

  "Yes."

  "Grammond will be leaving next week."

  "Yes."

  "You may detach yourself from Lord David now. There is no more use for him."

  "He will not go easily," Sophie said. "He's young and arrogant and considers himself to be my stud. He will not take it kindly that I no longer want him."

  "You will think of something." Theo Burgess rose and walked into the house, leaving her alone with her endless round of useless thoughts.

  When Ryder Sherbrooke rode up some ten min­utes later she wished she could yell at him to leave, curse his male stubbornness. She knew men and she knew what he was doing. He was teaching her a lesson; he was teaching her that he would not take commands from a woman. He was punishing her, humiliating her. Well, let him try. If only he knew it was her wish never to see him again, that she would give just about anything for him to book passage on the next ship back to England. She didn't move, merely watched as he cantered up the long drive, dismounted, and tied his stallion to the post some ten feet away from her.

  He strolled over to her, leaned negligently on the veranda railing, and said easily, "Good morning."

  He frowned for she was wearing that awful paint on her face. It looked garish and tawdry in the morn­ing sunlight.

  "I told you to wash your face. You look absurd. You may be the tart, but there is no reason to adver­tise it."

  Sophie stood up slowly. She looked at him for a very long time, saying nothing. Then, in that light, teasing voice, she said, "Are you here to take me riding or to dictate terms for a surrender?"

  "Surrender," he repeated. "That sounds quite charming to me, particularly with regard to you, madam. First, go wash your face. Then I will take you riding."

  "You are near
ly two hours late, sir!"

  "Am I? Dear me, how remiss of me. On the other hand, I didn't wish to ride two hours ago. Now I do. Go wash your face. I will give you ten minutes, no more."

  "I wouldn't go to the trashhouse with you, damn you! Get out of here! Go back to England and be a boor there."

  "Mr. Sherbrooke! How delightful to see you, sir. My niece mentioned that perhaps you would be com­ing to take her riding. Sophia, where are you going, my dear? Mr. Sherbrooke surely would appreciate your charming company."

  Ryder was amused to see her so neatly trapped. "To freshen myself, Uncle."

  "Excellent. Mr. Sherbrooke and I will have a cozy chat until you return. Such a sweet girl, my niece. Sit down, Mr. Sherbrooke, do sit down. Should you like a rum punch?"

  "At this hour? No, thank you, Mr. Burgess."

  "Ah, do call me Theo. I'm not quite that old."

  "Then you must call me Ryder."

  "I understand your brother is the Earl of North­cliffe?"

  "Yes. He would have come here himself but he had recently wed."

  "Ah. Do you plan to remain on Jamaica?"

  "Only until we have dealt with the ghostly mani­festations that seem to have plagued Kimberly Hall for the past four or so months."

  "Mr. Grayson has spoken to me of these things. It's common knowledge that there are evil ceremonies and equally evil priests and priestesses on Jamaica who are capable of anything."

  "They have stopped."

  "Really? I'm vastly relieved, Ryder, but I wonder why."

  "So do I." Ryder wanted to ask him about his overseer and his archery skills but it was too soon. He wanted to keep the upper hand. He sat back in his chair and gave Mr. Burgess a guileless smile.