The Hellion Bride Page 5

  A house slave brought lemonade at Mr. Burgess's request. It was delicious. Ryder noted that Miss Stanton-Greville had far exceeded her ten minutes. He finished his glass of lemonade and gently set the glass down on the polished mahogany-topped table next to him. He rose and extended his hand to Theo Burgess.

  "I fear it grows late, Theo. Evidently your niece has become occupied with more important matters than riding with me. Good-bye."

  He walked away, whistling, nonchalant as a clam.

  Theo Burgess stared at him, then yelled, "Sophia!"

  Ryder didn't pause. He strolled out onto the drive toward his horse. He heard a noise from above, and curious, looked up. She was standing on the balcony some twelve feet up and in her hand was a basin. He moved, but not quickly enough. A good amount of water whooshed down in a thick arc and landed squarely on the top of his head.

  He knew he heard a laugh, but then she was crying out. "Oh dear, what have I done? Oh, Mr. Sherbrooke, how could I be so very careless! Dear me, I really should have looked. Do forgive me, sir. Do come in and I will give you a towel. Oh dear, oh dear."

  He would give it to her. She'd gotten him quite nicely.

  He called back, "Thank you, Miss Stanton-Greville;. Actually the water feels very good in this heat."

  "I will be right down with a towel, sir." She added with a voice of gentle sweetness so false he was forced to grin, "And do call me Sophia."

  He turned back to the veranda and saw something very unexpected. It was Theo Burgess's face and it was ugly and mean and something very frightening moved in his pale brown eyes. Then, suddenly, what­ever Ryder thought he'd seen was gone, and Burgess was distraught and concerned and waving his hands as he moved quickly toward him, even wringing his hands, exclaiming, "Come here, Mr. Sherbrooke, do come here and sit down. Ah, my niece was careless, but surely she will make it up to you."

  "I have no doubt she will try," Ryder said.

  The brazen jade.

  Sophie had washed only the most vulgar of the makeup off her face. But Ryder Sherbrooke's face was shiny and dripping with nice clean water, She smiled at him, her eyes glittering her triumph even though the words that came out of her mouth would do justice to a contrite nun. She prattled nonsense like a brainless twit. She hung about him, offering to pour him more lemonade, offering him four more towels, perhaps even five for he was so very wet, even offering him a comb for his hair, even offering to comb his hair.

  Finally, Ryder said, "No, thank you, Sophia. I feel quite dry. No more of your ministrations. I do hope that the bucket you accidently spilled on me con­tained fresh water and only fresh water?"

  She blinked rapidly, her face paling creditably, then flushing, and settled finally into a patently false mask of chagrin. "Oh dear, I think so, but you know ... oh certainly Dorsey must have changed it and cleaned out the bucket, but then again, some­times she is lazy so perhaps not. Wait, sir, and I will ask." Then she struck a pose. "But you know, if Dorsey didn't clean it out, she would never adroit it. So we will never know. Oh dear." She jumped to her feet and as she passed him, she sniffed rather loudly and wrinkled her nose.

  She was quite good.

  He rose to stand beside her. "Sniff again, Sophia. Yes, is there anything untoward? No? Excellent, I see that your face must weigh a bit less than it did. There are still cosmetics, but not enough to make me send you back to your room. Further, you have no more water to wash your face with, do you? Perhaps I now have some of your powder on my head? Come, let's go riding before it becomes too hot."

  A boy appeared leading a beautiful bay mare with two white stockings. She nipped Sophie's shoulder. Sophie laughed, and patted her nose. "You naughty girl! Ah, you are ready for a gallop, aren't you?"

  Ryder frowned. A completely different voice and a low, quite charming laugh.

  He didn't help her to mount. She expected it, he saw that, but he merely mounted his own stallion and waited, not even looking at her.

  The boy gave her a foot up. She looked over at Ryder, her expression as bland as his sister Sinjun's when she'd managed to beat him at a game of chess.

  "Where would you like to go, Mr. Sherbrooke?"

  "Since I am to call you Sophia, why don't you call me Ryder?"

  "Very well. Where would you like to go, Ryder?"

  "To the beach, to that very cozy little cottage I've heard so much about."

  She didn't miss a beat, but he would swear that he saw her eyes widen, just a bit, in shock. But she said very coolly, "I think not." She gave him a seductive smile and a toss of her head. Her riding habit was of pale blue, her hat was a darker blue with a charming feather that curved around her face. It was very effective, that feminine head toss. "Besides, I do believe the cottage is perhaps still occupied. My uncle lends it out, you know. Yes, one never knows just who might be there."

  "Oh? Your uncle, you say?"

  Sophie kicked her mare, Opal, into a canter and off they went down the long, wide drive of Camille Hall.

  She was brazen. There wasn't an ounce of shame in her.

  He followed her, content to let her take the lead. They rode onto the road, following it only for a half mile or so, then she turned off it toward the sea. When they broke through the thin stand of mango trees, Ryder sucked in his breath. He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

  There was a stretch of beach that went on and on, disappearing around a bend a goodly distance to the east. The sand was stark white, pure and clean. The water was a light turquoise. The mango trees gave way to coconut trees that lined the perimeter of the white sand. The tide was going out and the different hues of the sand and water were startling in their beauty.

  "It's incredible," he said before he thought to cen­sor and give her only what he wanted her to hear. "I have never seen anything quite like it."

  "I know. It is my favorite stretch. I swim here a lot."

  He got control of himself and raised a brow at her. "Would you like to swim now?"

  "I normally swim in a sarong. I don't have one with me."

  "No matter. I really would like to see you. I already know that your breasts are quite adequate. Not all that large, but fine, really. No man I know of would complain about their size or their weight or their softness. But there is the rest of you—your hips, your belly, your legs, and your woman's endowments. I think a man should be able to see what he'll be getting himself into before he takes the plunge, so to speak."

  She turned her head away, but for only a moment. "Oh? And do you believe a woman should have the same consideration, sir?"

  "You may call me Ryder since it's likely we're going to become quite close. Why, certainly women should be given every consideration. Would you like to see me naked, Sophia? Now?"

  He thought he'd gotten her, but not a moment lat­er he knew he was wrong. She gave him the hottest smile he'd seen in his adult life. She ran her tongue over her lower lip and leaned her upper body toward him. "Why, I think that would be nice, Ryder. Per­haps you could pose for me. I could sit over there beneath a coconut tree and tell you which way to turn so I could gain every perspective I wished of you. A man's buttocks, flexed, you know, are some­times quite delightful."

  Good God, he thought, picturing exactly what her words had conjured up in his mind.

  He flushed. He actually turned red to the roots of his hair.

  Sophie saw that flush and her satisfaction wasn't at all subtle. She shook her finger at him. "Really, Mr. Sherbrooke, it's never wise to bait your hook when you don't know what you'll catch." It was difficult, but she'd managed it. She'd won for the moment. She'd been so outrageous she'd made him blush. She knew she must be the first woman to have accomplished such a feat, for he was polished, this Englishman with his clear blue eyes, polished and cynical and very sure of himself. But she'd known exactly what she was saying, for the first time she'd taken Lord David Lochridge to the cottage, he'd already been three-quarters drunk. He'd stripped off his clothes, eager to show her that his body was f
irm and muscled, much nicer than that old man, Oliver Susson's, and how once she saw him, she'd dismiss all the other men. He'd posed for her, even turning his back to her and flexing his buttocks, and thus it was he she was seeing when she'd said those words to Ryder Sherbrooke.

  Ryder was furious with himself. He was so furious with himself that he wanted to howl. He wanted to dismount and kick himself. But he didn't. He wouldn't allow her the upper hand. Ha, she had it. He had to get it back. It was intolerable that a woman, a damned tart, could do him in.

  "I enjoy taking chances, Sophia," he said finally, creditably in charge of himself and his voice again. "I haven't yet caught a shark or a piranha. Per­haps I've hooked an angelfish and the good Lord knows they're quite enjoyable to eat." He gave her an intimate smile, but Miss Stanton-Greville merely looked at him, one eyebrow arched, and Ryder would swear she had no clue as to what he was talking about. No, impossible, she was just toying with him again, pretending to innocence this time.

  She said on a laugh, "Perhaps I should show you a rooster-tail conch. They're quite lovely but some­what dangerous. They can cut you when you least expect it. Then there is the trumpet fish who is quite loud to other fishes and they avoid him. All in all a rather boorish fellow, one would say."

  "I'm at a distinct disadvantage in this," Ryder said. "You could continue indefinitely whereas I have used up the sum of my marine life knowledge."

  "Again, it isn't wise to bait your hook—"

  "Yes, I know. I wouldn't want to hurt a tender mouth. However, some fish have tough little mouths and even tougher minds. As for their bodies, who can say? I wonder about their taste. Sour, do you think? Perhaps even deadly? Surely not sweet and juicy."

  "Your similes are drifting rather far afield. Let's canter up the beach. There are some rather inter­esting caves in the low cliffs just beyond that bend ahead."

  He followed her, appreciating the sea breeze that cooled him. He was angry with himself, not with her. She was what she was. The only problem was he wasn't certain exactly what that could be.

  She dismounted, shaking her skirts, and led him up a narrow path that skirted jutting rocks and nar­row crevices. There were gnarled bushes along the way. Finally, both of them panting from the heat, she stopped and pointed. There was a narrow open­ing into the side of the hill in front of them. Ryder stepped into the black stillness then out again. "So there really are caves. Have you explored it?"

  "Yes. It's deep and has no other opening that I could ever find."

  "Have you supplies in there?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, things like blankets, perhaps a sheet, a bot­tle of rum or two? Champagne to toast a successful completion?"

  "I see. Do I come here occasionally with other people, that is what you're wondering." She looked momentarily thoughtful, nothing more. "No, not to date, but it isn't a bad idea. As I told you, it's quite possible there is a guest in the cottage even as we speak. It would be nice to have another place avail­able to one, don't you think?"

  "I think a man would have to be pretty desperate to be naked as a snake in a cold, damp cave, despite the skills of his companion."

  "On the contrary. I have found gentlemen to be much alike. They tend to forget themselves entirely. They could be on the moon and dismiss it as unim­portant when they are otherwise occupied."

  Ryder suddenly remembered telling his brother that he would forget his very name once he was inside a woman, forget everything for the pleasure was so intense. Once again, he flushed. This time he managed to control it enough so he prayed she wouldn't notice. If she did, she didn't say anything. Damn her.

  "To keep many men content when each knows about the other tends to support your theory."

  "Crying uncle, Mr. Sherbrooke?"

  "No, those are facts. A man has to be stupid not to face up to facts. My name is Ryder. I shouldn't like it if you screamed Mr. Sherbrooke when you have your first orgasm with me. It would make me feel very strange."

  She didn't look a bit embarrassed. What she looked was appalled and utterly scornful. He merely smiled at her. "Would you like to go back to the horses? Incidentally, do horses get sunburned?"

  She gave a lilting laugh.

  It was late in the afternoon. Sophie sat in her bedchamber, wearing only a light shift for the air was heavy and still. She sat very quietly in a cane chair that faced the sea, in front of the open balcony. She was utterly silent. She felt utterly defeated.

  She wouldn't be able to handle Ryder Sherbrooke. He wasn't like any other man she'd ever met, any other man she'd manipulated and seduced. It was true that she did him in, but that was because he'd simply never met a woman who spoke so baldly before. But he was already accustoming himself to her.

  What to do?

  She knew her uncle was in her bedchamber even though she hadn't heard the door open.

  "Tell me what happened."

  She still didn't turn to face him. She said in a flat voice, "We rode. I showed him Penelope's Beach and one of the caves. He is a man, Uncle, but a man unlike the others. He made no move to kiss me, no move of any kind, but he spoke frankly of sexual things."

  "You will seduce him. Perhaps tomorrow night."

  She turned then to face him. He was sitting on her bed, his back against the headboard. His face was framed by the mosquito netting, and for an instant, just the veriest instant, he looked good and kind and gentle, the man and mask he presented to the world now one and the same.

  "You don't understand. He does what it is he wishes to do. He will tell me when he wants to bed me, not the other way around. I could probably walk around him naked and if he felt he didn't have complete control over me, over the situation, why, he would smile, say something outrageous, and stroll away. He would not even bother to look back to see my reaction."

  Theo Burgess frowned. She was right. He'd spo­ken to Ryder Sherbrooke long enough that morning to see her point. It was valid and it irked him.

  "Fine," he said, rising now. "We will simply get him to the cottage another way."

  She said nothing. She felt very cold suddenly, very cold and very weary.

  "Did he say anything about his wounded arm?"

  She shook her head.

  "He isn't a stupid man. I imagine he inquired as to who hereabouts could shoot a bow and arrow. He plays a game, but you and I, Sophia, we are the ones, the only ones who know the rules."

  She hated the rules. They were his rules, not hers.

  That evening she had to tell Lord David Lochridge that she wanted nothing more to do with him. She had no idea how to accomplish it, for he was young and filled with himself, and she knew that he wouldn't be able to imagine anyone not wishing for his wonderful self anymore.

  Theo Burgess came up with the way to do it. For the first time in a very long time, Sophie laughed.

  It was very late. Sophie arrived at the cottage. David's horse was tethered outside. When she entered he saluted her with a rum punch. He didn't appear too drunk yet. That should make it easier.

  He rose immediately to embrace her. She danced away from him, laughing, her hands in front of her. "No, David, first we must talk."

  "Talk," he said blankly. "How very strange you've become. Why talk?"

  "I have something to tell you. It's only fair that you know the truth since I am very fond of you. I don't want you to be hurt, to perhaps go mad as many do, I am told."

  Lord David drank the rest of his rum punch. "This is talk," he said, "talk that is very curious. What do you mean, Sophie?"

  "I have the pox."

  He turned utterly white. "No!"

  "Yes," she said in a low, very sad voice. "The pox. There is no doubt."

  "You didn't get it from me, damn you!"

  "Oh no, certainly not. If I had, I wouldn't have to warn you, would I now?"

  "Oh God," he said and actually moaned. "What if you've given it to me?"

  "I don't think that would have been possible, not yet. You are still safe. But
I fear it wouldn't be wise for us to continue as lovers."

  He looked wildly about the small cottage where he'd spent a good dozen nights over the past two months. He looked at her, wondering, wondering at the strange fancies, the odd fragments of dreams, as he sometimes did when he was sober enough to assemble his thoughts coherently. But now, those fancies were nothing, less than nothing. Jesus, the pox!

  "I'll go now, Sophie. I'm sorry. Good-bye."

  "Good-bye, David. Don't worry. You'll be all right."

  She watched him grab his hat, smash it on his head. He was actually running from the cottage, then galloping as if the great green serpent itself was after him. In this instance, Uncle Theo had been quite right.

  She wondered if he was also right about David's reaction once he calmed down.

  "He won't say a word to anyone. We needn't worry about that. No, he'll fear ridicule if he does. When he finds out that he hasn't caught anything, why then he'll look at the other men and just smile and wish them the worst. That is his character, you know."

  "He's that kind of man," Sophie said.

  Before she fell asleep that night, Sophie wondered how Ryder Sherbrooke would have reacted had she told him she had the pox. She had an idea he would search her face for the truth then demand to exam­ine her himself.

  He was that kind of man.

  CHAPTER

  4

  EMILE TOLD Ryder upon his return from Montego Bay late the following morning that Lord David Lochridge was no longer one of Sophia Stanton-Greville's lovers.