Cornwall
1843
People in these parts still talk about the ruination of Miss Sydney Eloise Windsor, a lovely professor's daughter from London.
Her downfall had been Wicked DeWilde's saving grace.
Some of the older villagers swore she was the spirit of a drowned Burgundian princess. They said she had been brought back to life by an ancient warlord whose ghost haunted the cove of St. Kilmerryn. The desolate knight had waited for centuries for this woman. On foggy nights his figure stood sentry on the cliffs, searching the sea for her lost ship.
Sydney looked nothing like a Burgundian princess. At least not until the warlord gave her the gold torque, which she only wore to bed, with nothing else, to seduce her husband.
Still, this was Cornwall, the land of maidens turned to stone on the moor for dancing on Sundays, the land of giants and the Secret Folk. Anything could happen here, and often it did.
People in these parts did like to talk over a furze fire, and DeWilde Manor with its unconventional master and mistress had provided plenty of fodder for that.
There was that great black dog who adored her ladyship for one thing, and the terrifying stories that poured from Lord DeWilde's pen. Not to mention the demon that her ladyship had ghost-layed in a burial cairn, and the duel his lordship had fought, over her honor, in his drawers.
With only an apple pie as a weapon.
It had all started with a shipwreck.
Sydney had been taking a nap when Jeremy had run the yacht onto the rocks. So, apparently, had Jeremy, or he would have been paying more attention. But the four passengers were wide-awake now, wondering if they were to be drowned or dashed to death on a spine of submerged rocks. Sydney thought of her family and how they would miss her.
She didn't have time to be afraid when they ran aground. She was too busy bailing water out of the yacht with a soup tureen. She could hear her friends, trapped somewhere above, shouting for help. Twilight had just fallen. A wave of icy water knocked her across the cabin. She fell into the wall and started to lose consciousness.
Her last impression was of a blue light flooding the cabin and the sense of a man's gauntleted hand lifting her to safety.
She never saw his face. Nor did the others when she thought to ask them about it. The light had disappeared by the time the yacht had washed ashore, and she decided she'd probably imagined the whole thing after all.
It had been a recipe for disaster, Sydney thought as she fished her soggy reticule from the wreckage: a full liquor cabinet and four young fools in a racing yacht blown off course by a squall into a treacherous crosscurrent on the Cornish coast. Her friends might be good fun, but they had a total disregard for common sense, and Sydney was never going to get in a situation like this again.
"Who put all these rocks here where I couldn't see 'em?" her friend Jeremy, Lord Westland, shouted.
Jeremy's young wife, Audrey, a trim blonde whose father owned the yacht, gave him a shove. "Freddie's lying in his cabin half-dead. Save him and stop that shouting like a woman."
Sydney shoved her dripping hair from her face. "He isn't half-dead. He's half-drunk. I tried to lift him, but he refuses to be budged. I left his head resting in the commode. At least he can get air."
"It's a wonder we weren't all killed," Audrey exclaimed, emptying water from the tiny heels of her fashionable silk shoes.
Her cousin Freddie popped up between the ruins of mast and auxiliary sails. "I say, did we beat His Grace?"
"Not only did we not beat him, Freddie, but we're shipwrecked," Jeremy said.
"Shipwrecked?" Freddie stared in disbelief at the ocean breakers crashing over the damaged wooden hull. "Well, blister me. I had no idea."
Sydney picked a path across the silk-tasseled cushions and splintered timber to take refuge on the rocky shore. "My father predicted something like this would happen."
"Well, if you knew we were going to be shipwrecked on the godforsaken coast of Cornwall, you should have warned us," Audrey said sourly.
Freddie wobbled up between the two women, a bottle of gin under each arm. "Exactly where on the godforsaken coast of Cornwall are we?"
"The locals call it Devil's Elbow," a deep voice said behind him.
"Devil's Elbow?" Jeremy scratched his head. "I don't suppose they have a decent supper room or hotel here."
"They do not," the deep voice said, openly amused this time.
"Who said that?" Sydney whispered.
"Maybe it was the devil," Freddie ventured. "After all, this is his elbow."
The foursome turned in unison, heads lifting to the bleak wall of diff that rose before them. Fog drifted in swatches across the cove. Dusky shadows distorted shapes and made everything look out of proportion.
The dog sitting on the shelf of overhanging rock, for example, looked like the mythical monster Cerberus guarding the gate to the underworld.
Audrey gasped and backed into her husband.
Her husband rubbed his eyes at the apparition, or whatever it was.
Freddie took a drink, gaping like a carp.
"Oh, dear," Sydney said, hiccoughing loudly.
The dog wagged its tail and began to bark.
"Look," Audrey whispered, "there's a house on the cliff. The dog must belong there."
A brooding granite Georgian mansion with corner turrets sat on the cliff edge in lonely grandeur. Gaslight glowed behind the leaded windows, creating an aura of seclusion and mystery.
"Civilization," Freddie said, sighing in relief.
"That," the deep voice said dryly, "is a matter of opinion."
The tall form of a man detached itself from an unseen path carved into the cliff. He wore an unbuttoned black overcoat with narrow trousers and polished boots, and he moved with power and purpose. His lean face tightened in amusement as he came close enough to examine the four survivors.
Sydney suppressed the urge to stare at him and marvel over his athletic build. They were going to need a strong man to repair the yacht. The fact that he was as handsome as sin was completely irrelevant. She was betrothed to another man, and she had no business noticing such things as a square jaw and compelling gray eyes and shoulders of granite.
"What good luck that you've found us, sir," she said energetically. "Our yacht is—"
"—ruined." He strode around her, poking his ebony cane at a brass chandelier that glinted like a mermaid's offering in a tidal pool. " Ruined beyond the slightest hope of redemption."
"Does that mean we're out of the race?" Freddie said, lowering his bottle.
Jeremy blinked, suddenly sober. "Do you mean she can't be fixed?"
"Not by me," the stranger said. His gaze cut back to Sydney, lingering for several seconds on her pale face before it dropped to the bloodstains that had blossomed on her wet skirts.
A wave crested on the shattered hull and threw cold spume into the air. The sea sounded suddenly calm and rhythmic, as if by ruining the yacht some unseen spirit had been appeased.
"Where is that blood coming from?" the man demanded in a voice one could hardly ignore.
"I banged my knee up a bit when we ran aground," she said meekly, responding to his masterful tone.
Audrey looked at her in concern. "Sydney doesn't weigh a shilling. She flew across the cabin when we ran aground, but she's too well-mannered to complain."
"Or too drunk," Freddie said.
The stranger came up to Sydney, gently lifting her skirts up to her knee. Sydney knew she ought to protest this impropriety, but no sound came out of her throat. Audrey was watching her in horror. But all Sydney could think was, Oh! His touch is making me tingle all over, and what luck I'm wearing my new stockings.
Sydney realized mat she wasn't behaving like a young woman betrothed to a duke should behave. She rarely did behave in a proper manner, which made it all the more a mystery why Peter wanted to marry her in the first place.
She knew why she had wanted to marry him. Her fiance was young, wealthy, and as charming as a prince when he chose to be. He brought Sydney's ancient aunt little presents. He took her sisters on outings, but lately she'd been disturbed by the way his eye lingered when he spotted a pretty shopgirl, and she would have to be a total idiot not to have noticed the long, meaningful look he'd exchanged with Lady Penelope Davenport at last month's Mayfair dinner party.
Sydney realized she wasn't sophisticated. Her father had recently retired from the university. She and her three sisters now lived with their parents in Chelsea, comfortable but certainly not well-off. Sydney knew she didn't have much experience with the opposite sex. She had definitely been swept off her feet by the Duke of Esterfield. But what girl wouldn't have been, especially when she would probably have ended up as a governess otherwise?
Still, even a girl who had no worldly experience, so to speak, sensed certain things, and although Sydney had never breathed a word of this aloud, she wasn't totally persuaded that Peter loved her with his whole heart, or that she even loved him at all.
The yacht race, away from Peter, had given her time to reconsider their engagement. It was actually a relief to escape him because lately he was always finding fault with things she said or did, and his friends weren't much better. They were thoughtless, fickle, and amusing, but Sydney wasn't thinking of marrying them so their flaws were really neither here nor there.
"Does this hurt?" the stranger asked, his deep voice jarring her thoughts. He pressed his thumb into the back of her knee.
She sighed. "No. It feels wonderful."
"Sydney!" Audrey said, scandalized.
The man smiled faintly. "And this?"
"Oh," Sydney cried, flinching as he fingered her kneecap. But the deep pain soon dulled in contrast to the warmth she felt when his fingers slid down her stockinged calf, and he seemed to know what he was doing even if Sydney had relinquished complete control of the situation.
He had strong, competent hands and the devil's own eyes, full of humor and self-confidence. Sydney sighed again.
"Are you a physician?" Jeremy asked, frowning at this peculiar turn of events.
"No." The stranger lowered her skirts, straightening to regard the shipwreck with a resigned look. "I suppose I shall have to offer you lodging. This woman should have a doctor look at her knee. It's deeply gashed and that swelling is only going to get worse."
"I am Jeremy, Lord Westland," Jeremy said, prompted by a poke from Audrey. "This is my wife Audrey."
"Freddie Matheson," Freddie said, stomping his sodden shoes to get warm.
The stranger looked at Sydney. "And you are—"
"Sydney. Sydney—" She hiccoughed, her other hand flying to her mouth.
"Sydney Hiccough." He raised his eyebrow. "What an unusual name. I don't think I'm liable to forget it."
Sydney shivered as a gust of cold air chased across the cove. "It's Windsor, actually. Your name, sir?"
"I know who you are," Jeremy said suddenly, pointing his index finger up at the man's face. "You're Lord DeWilde. We shared Henley's opera box last summer."
Freddie gasped. "One of the DeWilde brothers?"
"The literary DeWildes?" Sydney asked, so impressed that for a moment she forgot she was freezing to death and had just allowed a man to peep under her skirts. "One of the three brothers famous for writing tales of the Wondrous and Terrible?"
Freddie gaped up at him. "Why, I stayed up all night reading Confessions of a Scottish Corpse. Nearly scared myself to death."
"My personal favorite was A Ghost Chats from the Grave," Sydney said warmly. "Oh, golly, this is an honor, Lord DeWilde."
Only Audrey remained unimpressed, studying the dark stranger in cynical silence.
Sydney nudged the woman, annoyed at Audrey's lack of enthusiasm. "Audrey, I know for a fact that you couldn't sleep an entire week after reading The Elixir of Death. Isn't that a fact, Audrey?"
Audrey blinked. "Yes. It's a fact. But I'm wondering which DeWilde brother—"
The rest of her sentence was lost in a sudden clamor of bells ringing across the cove from the parish church. The deafening sound reverberated against the cliffs. It throbbed to a painful pitch in the air.
The dog on the rocks above them threw back its head and let loose an unholy howl in protest.
"Ye gods." Freddie groaned in pain. "Bells."
"Hell's bells," DeWilde said, clapping his hands over his ears.
Sydney raised her voice to a shout. "What do they mean? Are we being invaded by the French navy?"
DeWilde took her hand to guide her over the rocks and shipwreck debris. Almost as an afterthought, he looked back to motion the others to follow. "The bells were meant to warn you," he said as he drew her into a relatively quiet crevice in the cliff.
"Warn us?" Sydney said, shoving a strand of dripping hair from her face. She wished she had a comb. Imagine looking like a drowned mouse when you were rescued by a man like Lord DeWilde. "Warn us against what?"
He stared at her in amused concentration for several seconds. He seemed to be contemplating his answer.
She smiled to show she wasn't intimidated, which of course she was. She was spellbound, drawn to the magnetism of his dark gray eyes. His gaze bespoke a depth of experience and a self-control she could only envy. Sydney was sure her own emotions were written all over her face. She could never hide her secrets from anybody, but then again, she didn't have any secrets to hide.
"The cove looks harmless, but it is not," he said, his voice low with mischief. "There is a treacherous cross-current in the channel. It doesn't take much to run aground. A strong wind, a miscalculation—"
"Or four foxed idiots in a yacht," Sydney said ruefully.
He laughed. The low vibration of his voice did amazing things to Sydney's system. The sexual resonance gave her the shivers and made her feel as though she'd just drunk three glasses of brandy in a row.
"The villagers would tell you that the ghost of the Blue Knight lured you here," DeWilde said. "Well, perhaps he did. The bells were meant to warn you away, but it's too late now."
Too late. He turned. His words echoed in Sydney's mind as she limped after his tall figure onto the cliffside path. She couldn't say why, but she understood he was talking about something more than the shipwreck. He was every bit as intriguing as his novels, as those tales of the Wondrous and Terrible, and if she was sensible, she would have closed this book before she was drawn in any deeper.
She should have taken his warning to heart. She should have resisted. She definitely should not be clambering after him in the shadows with this delicious sense of adventure, wondering how the chapter would end.
Rylan Anthony DeWilde, Baron DeWilde of Harthurst, strode ahead of the struggling group, whistling in a carefree fashion. He didn't usually whistle after shipwrecks. But then again, shipwrecks usually didn't wash beautiful young brunettes with soulful brown eyes to his shore. No one he'd ever rescued before had made such a powerful impression. Small, sweet, a lovely girl.
Miss Sydney Hiccough would have to stay in his house until her knee felt better. Knees were tricky joints. They took a long time to heal, and relapses were common. She'd need looking after. In bed.
He whistled louder.
His dog brushed against his long legs, begging for a run across the moor. Rylan knelt and took the hound's ugly face in his hands.
"Listen to me, you spoiled beast. No frightening off that young lady back there like the last female who was brave enough to come visiting. I rather fancy Miss Sydney Hiccough."
The dog stared at him in plaintive silence.
"All right," Rylan said. "Frighten the others if you must. But be gentle with the lady."
The dog bounded off like a rocket toward the dark expanse of moorland that stretched beyond the cliffs.
Rylan straightened. His angular face amused, he watched the four unsteady figures weave their way toward him. He shook his head as his gaze lit on the woman. There was something soft and uncomplicated about her. She had an openness that could be used as a weapon or a weakness. It would depend on the man she gave herself to.
Rylan knew without doubt he was that man.
He smiled to himself, watching her eyes widen as she looked up at him, whatever she'd been saying to her friends forgotten. She might know it, too. She didn't bother hiding what she felt. For no reason at all, Rylan felt more hopeful then he had in a long, long time.
Audrey and Jeremy were supporting Sydney on either side, depriving Rylan of the chance to offer his help. She was such a slight thing, he could have carried her up the cliff without taking a breath. In fact, it was a wonderful idea—a stroke of genius—and quite the gentlemanly thing to do.
He turned, strode right up to Sydney with his cane under his arm, and swept her up off the sand. Audrey couldn't manage a single word; she elbowed her husband in the side, and Freddie just stood there, looking half-hopeful, as if DeWilde would offer to carry him, too.
"Honestly, this isn't necessary," Sydney said, not quite able to hide a grin.
"But you are hurt, and I don't want you to fall. The path is steep."
He reached the top of the cliff long before the others. His footsteps were certain and he knew this path, walking it alone for inspiration when his work wasn't going well. Still, in all his months here, he'd never imagined anything quite as wonderful as the woman who weighed practically nothing in his arms.
"I shall set you down here," he said.
"Do you know something, Lord DeWilde?"
Rylan stared down into her face. "I know many, many things, Miss Windsor." However, at the moment, he couldn't recall a single one of them.
Sydney smiled. "It has always been my secret wish to meet you."
It was unexpected, the power of her honesty, her innocence, and the way he reacted. She might as well have reached into his chest and torn out his heart. He was hers from that moment on, and, naturally, being an arrogant DeWilde, he didn't doubt the favor would be reciprocated.
He kissed her lightly, lingeringly, on the mouth before he set her down on the sandy grass. Sydney just stared at him, speechless, but not for one instant was he sorry for what he'd done. If he was sorry about anything, it was only that her three friends had finally reached the top of the path, and he couldn't kiss her again.
He glanced over his shoulder at the somber Georgian mansion, thinking of the privacy it afforded. He'd lived there for thirteen months now. Thirteen months to reassess the unsatisfying course he'd charted for his life. Thirteen months of penance for losing his temper and almost killing another man, who clearly deserved to be killed, but not at Rylan's hand.
Time enough to brood over a new book and search his soul, to realize he didn't need constant excitement or dangerous women to make him happy. Pursuing pleasure alone had never appealed to him, but somewhere there had to be a balance between boredom and self-destruction.
He'd chosen this isolated Cornish parish for his self-exile because it suited his purposes to research superstitious lore. Some of the legends he'd begun to investigate predated pagan times. There was magic here, if one believed in it, which he didn't.
The villagers claimed that no outlander was washed ashore by accident. Ghosts, they said, lured the seafarers onto the rocks. St. Kilmerryn was said to be haunted by an ancient knight who grieved for a lost princess.
The church bells might have sounded too late to warn the woman.
But Rylan thought she had come just in time for him.
"It's too late for what?" Freddie kept asking Sydney after Rylan gently deposited her on the path to his house. "And did he say something about a ghost?"
The effects of the alcohol they'd so freely imbibed was wearing off. The chilly sea air cut through their wet clothing. The high spirits of an hour ago were rapidly deflating. She felt like belting Freddie for the sheer hell of it, which wasn't at all like Sydney, and she couldn't stop thinking about that kiss, which had probably meant nothing at all to DeWilde, but she certainly wasn't liable to forget it.
"It's too late for what?" Freddie said again, huddling against her.
"It's too late for tea," Sydney said crossly. Her knee ached. Her head pounded, and she was still perplexed by Audrey's cryptic response to the fascinating man who strode ahead of them, and by her own response to him. She was tingling all over.
"Why were you so rude to him, Audrey?" she asked. "It's a great honor to be rescued by a DeWilde."
Audrey snorted. "If one ignores the fact that he examined your knee in public and carted you up the cliff like a captive."
"Tea?" Freddie sniffed. "I should hope not. I want something much stronger."
"Wait here a moment," DeWilde called over his shoulder. "I need to make sure the other hounds aren't running loose. We weren't expecting visitors."
"No wonder," Freddie said, frowning up at the atmospheric Georgian manor house that seemed to have been spawned from the rocks forming its foundation.
The estate was edged with thorn-laden brambles and Cornish elms that the wind had twisted into weird shapes. A loose shutter banged in the wind. A hound howled. The gables and leaded windows gave the house a gothic appearance.
"Egads," Jeremy said. "I'm not surprised he comes up with those warped stories, living in a creaking old tomb like this."
"Does it have a laboratory in the cellar, do you reckon?" Freddie whispered.
"If it does," Sydney said, "I shall ask his lordship to grow you a brain and have it immediately implanted inside the hollow cavity of your head."
"Hush," Audrey said. "He's coming."
Lord DeWilde hurried down the overgrown path toward them. "It's all right now," he said. "The infamous Danger Hounds are secured in their kennel."
"The Danger Hounds," Sydney murmured. "Goodness, not the very dogs that hunted down Squire Elliot in Sinner from the Netherworld? Not the bloodthirsty dogs who did their master's evil bidding?"
"What evil bidding?" Jeremy asked.
"I don't know," Sydney said. "I was too frightened to read that part."
Freddie looked around the grounds. "We're not going to get ate, are we?"
DeWilde raised his brow. "Not by me."
An hour later they were comfortably ensconced before a cheerful fire in a large gaslit drawing room. The middle-aged housekeeper, Mrs. Chynoweth, served hot tea and scones with clotted cream.
Sydney sat on a black silk sofa, her second cup of laudanum-laced tea in her lap. Lord DeWilde had sent for a physician. He must have suspected she was in pain even though she tried to cover it.
"I expect Peter is halfway to the Lizard by now," Jeremy said, slouched on the sofa in his rumpled suit with his cravat twisted to one side.
Freddie reached for another scone. The hound, planted in the middle of the carpet, growled in warning. Freddie drew his hand back to his lap. "Peter will fetch us, won't he, Sydney?"
Sydney was staring across the room at Lord DeWilde. His dark hair was brushed back onto his shoulders. He seemed to be looking into the fire. But every now and then, Sydney caught him studying her with an intensity that made her toes curl. Which, of course, she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been sneaking peeps at him and wondering why he'd kissed her in the first place and why she had read so much into what was probably an impulsive gesture on his part.
Handsome man, she thought with a sigh. The laudanum had begun to take effect. Brilliant writer. Why does he live alone in this broody old house? Does he have a wife? Her thoughts were blurred. She started to close her eyes only to open them wide and look directly into his gaze. Awareness jolted through her like an arrow.
He gave her a slow personal smile. No one else in the room noticed it, thankfully, but it set Sydney's nerve endings on fire. She wriggled back against the sofa.
And sent her teacup frying to the floor.
"Oh, goodness."
"It's all right," DeWilde said, not quite suppressing a grin.
Sydney leaned down to get the cup, feeling a blush creep up her neck. "I hope our shipwreck hasn't disturbed Lady DeWilde," she said impulsively.
Conversation stopped. Lord DeWilde's head lifted from the hearth. Audrey shot her an annoyed look. Sydney, after all, was not really one of them. She was a professor's daughter, practically of the working class. Trust her to put her foot in her mouth.
"Alas, there is no Lady DeWilde," Rylan said, looking more amused than saddened by this announcement.
Sydney felt rather stupid, but she felt relieved too. "Well, I—"
Freddie's voice interrupted her, undoubtedly saving her from saying something even more socially unforgivable. "I said, 'Do you think Peter will come and fetch us?1"
All of a sudden Sydney looked down and saw that the dog had settled itself at her feet. "Well, hello," she said softly. "You're not really a big beast, are you?"
DeWilde smiled. "You've made a friend, Miss Windsor. Consider yourself honored. That hound would rather bite off someone's head than behave."
"I like animals," Sydney said.
And that animals liked her didn't surprise Rylan. She'd had that same effect on him. He'd probably run and fetch a stick if she asked him.
"That dog is a demon," Freddie whispered. "And you never did answer my question about Peter."
Sydney tore her attention away from DeWilde's face. He made her feel so self-conscious. "Peter?" she said, trying to rebalance her empty saucer on her good knee.
"Peter, the Duke of Esterfield," Audrey said sharply. "Peter, your beloved and betrothed, your One and Only. You do remember him, Sydney?"
"Gadzooks," Freddie said. "Do you think a spar thwacked her on the skull?"
Sydney noticed something flicker in DeWilde's eyes. A cold glitter of regret or disdain, she didn't know, but it told her he didn't approve of her engagement.
"Of course I remember Peter," she said in a crisp voice. "And, yes, he'll probably fetch us." She bit her lip, and added, "If he thinks of it, that is. He isn't exactly known for his charitable instincts. We have a better chance of being rescued by my father. Papa will probably swim here to rescue me."
Silence fell over the small group. DeWilde pretended to poke at the fire. Sydney knew he was pretending because the fire was perfectly fine as it was. He was pretending just so he wouldn't have to look at her again. She stared, rapt, at his brooding profile and thought again of his eyes and the wonderful stories he wrote that frightened and uplifted her at the same time.
Mrs. Chynoweth came in to clear away the dishes. She brought in Lord DeWilde's outercoat and cane, her voice low with concern. "Must you go out again tonight, my lord? Samhain is almost here, and there are dangerous wicked spirits in…"
Sydney lost the end of the sentence. She was eavesdropping and couldn't very well ask the woman what sort of wickedness Lord DeWilde might encounter. Where was he going this late at night anyway?
It seemed to be a regular ritual. The hound was already at the door, whining to get out.
"Where's he off to at this hour?" Freddie whispered in her ear.
"No doubt he's a practicing necromancer," Sydney said dryly.
DeWilde turned at the door, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. Shadows hid his expression from Sydney. Yet she knew he was looking straight at her. "I have business on the moor and won't be back until after dawn. Mrs. Chynoweth will see you to your rooms. And Miss Windsor, don't be alarmed if the physician arrives late tonight. He has a long ride to reach us. I do not think your injury is serious, but one must be careful. If you wish to write a letter to your papa, I will have it posted in the morning."
Then he was gone, leaving Sydney staring at the door with a strange compulsion to follow after him and the realization that her life was about to be changed forever.
The worst part was, she couldn't wait to learn how.
Rylan galloped across the bleak moonlit moor. He cantered around the circle of standing stones, the black dog running at his side.
If he could ride off his anger, he would have to keep going until the sun rose and he rode to the lonely cliffs of Lizard Point.
The Duke of Esterfield.
He bellowed a string of curses into the air.
The beautiful woman he coveted belonged to one of the biggest swines in all of England. Charming on the outside, Peter was one of the most amoral and unprincipled men Rylan had ever met. Yet most people did not see Peter's dark side. They were besotted by his wealth and boyish charisma.
He could see why Peter had fallen in love with Sydney, defying convention to marry a woman beneath his class. Sydney was in a class of her own, and wasn't black attracted to white, the perverse to the pure?
Oh, Rylan knew plenty about Sydney's betrothed. He'd avoided any personal association with Peter, though, aside from almost killing Peter's cousin in a duel.
It hadn't exactly made them best friends.
What nasty secrets Rylan knew about Peter had come from researching a private club of noblemen that had recently sprung up in London and was rumored to be based on the Hellfire clubs of the previous century. Not that there were any Black Masses or murders, but there was a lot of drinking and seducing of young women and the lewd behavior that Prince Albert bemoaned.
Rylan felt sick at the thought of Sydney falling into the hands of a man who would defile her innocence.
He slowed his horse, and his anger simmered down into resolve. The matter was settled. She wasn't leaving his house. He didn't know yet how he'd keep her, but he'd figure it out. A man didn't write tales of the Wondrous and Terrible without having a devious mind, and Rylan's plot twists left his readers biting their nails to the quick.
He came to the base of a hill where a bonfire blazed and cloaked figures danced in a circle, chanting into the night.
Witchcraft. Demons. Supernatural wonders. He had set out to prove that there was no such thing as magic. Yet the heathen rituals he had witnessed here in no way resembled the cruel tendencies of human nature.
He slid off his horse and moved into the shadows of the hill where he could watch the pagan ceremony.
Rylan was really beginning to believe there was no real magic to be found. Only the fantasies and imaginings and wishful thinking of deluded people. He'd traveled the world over searching for proof, for inspiration. The closest he'd come to magic was the sight of Sydney Windsor washed up in his cove and spilling her tea on his carpet
He leaned against a boulder and stared up into the undulating flames before he opened his saddlebag. It held a meat pie, pen and paper, a pistol. He had to smile. The weapon had been packed by his housekeeper, who was concerned that a Samhain spirit would possess her master's soul. Or that the villagers might rough him up if they caught him observing their secret practices.
He wasn't worried about his life being threatened at all. He'd won a wrestling match against the three strongest men in the village his first week here. Hell, he'd barely exerted himself. And since then he'd not only commanded respect but made some new friends.
Mrs. Chynoweth kept warning him that the strange goings-on after midnight on the moor were another matter. She said even the gentlest souls were subject to bewitchment. And how did anyone know it wasn't Lady Tregarron or Squire Pendarvis dancing about for the devil under those silk hoods?
Rylan wasn't worried about supernatural things either. Interested, yes, for research purposes.
He was more worried about how to break the news to Sydney that she wasn't going to be the Duchess of Esterfield after all. He hoped she didn't have her heart set on living in a big manor house or on attending royal functions.
If he could ensnare her with magic, he'd do it in a second. For now, though, he'd have to fall back on the age-old spell of male-female attraction.
Fortunately, he thought with a grin of pure arrogance, there appeared to be more than enough of that between them. Sydney hadn't taken her beautiful eyes off him all evening, and if they had been alone, he would have satisfied her curiosity in more ways than one.
"What kind of business could DeWilde have on the moor?" Freddie wondered aloud.
"Perhaps he's going to dance naked with a coven of witches," Sydney said irritably. "The man is a writer. Who are we to question where he finds inspiration?"
Jeremy stood from the sofa and stretched. "As long as he didn't use us for his research. Anyone else for bed?"
Audrey looked across the room. "Miss Hiccough is. She can barely keep her eyes open. Go on up, Sydney. We'll wait here until the doctor arrives."
"Just in case it's Dr. Frankenstein," Freddie said, throwing his arms up to limp around the sofa with a hideous grin. "In case he wants to perform a nasty operation on our hapless Miss Windsor while she lies, drugged and helpless, in the body snatcher's bed."
Sydney didn't argue. She was too drowsy to tell them they were behaving like proper idiots. They'd just argue back that it was time she started behaving like an aristocrat and not a social mushroom, seeing that she would become a duchess in two short months.
"A duchess," she said to herself as she limped from the room. "Can you believe I'm going to be a duchess?"
Mrs. Chynoweth appeared out of the shadows, mumbling under her breath. "You could believe anything, miss, after living with Lord DeWilde for over a year."
The doctor came and went, having examined Sydney's knee under the eagle-eyed supervision of Audrey and Mrs. Chynoweth. Sydney slept, strangely relaxed in the unsettled atmosphere.
The doctor told Audrey at the door, "She's to stay off it for a week. Apply liniments of deer grease twice a day. Dulse tea will improve her circulation. It's good for constipation, too."
"I am sure Sydney will appreciate that very much," Audrey said in a tart voice. "Are you sure she can't walk?"
"No weight on that leg for at least two days," he said. "She'll be feeling the pain of it in the morning."
"Two days," Audrey murmured. "It will be too late then. Oh, poor Sydney. There's no hope to save her, it would seem."
As soon as the doctor left, Audrey hurried back downstairs where Jeremy and Freddie were helping themselves to liberal amounts of his lordship's port and sausage pies.
Freddie sprawled across the sofa with a bottle balanced between his bare feet. Jeremy was examining the bag of Celtic runes he had found on the card table.
Freddie yawned in boredom. "What does his lordship do for proper entertainment? This ain't rustication. It's embalmment. This place is as lively as a crypt."
Audrey swept into the center of the room, bristling with agitation. "The doctor just left. We have a genuine crisis on our hands."
"Has Sydney gone fatal on us?" Freddie asked in alarm.
Jeremy's mouth dropped open. "Good God. I didn't know a knee injury could turn deadly. Well, not that quick anyway. What are we going to tell Peter?"
"Sydney is perfectly fine." She paused for effect. Then she looked around, lowering her voice. "Our host is another matter. He isn't what you think. Or whom."
Freddie bunked. "He isn't a DeWilde?"
"He is a DeWilde," Audrey said, glancing uneasily at the door. "But there are three brothers—Valentine, Geoffrey, and Rylan. Valentine and Geoffrey are invited everywhere, but Rylan, well, the name Rylan DeWilde is synonymous with scandal. The man does just as he pleases."
Jeremy tossed the runes on the table. "As long as he's a DeWilde, I don't see what all the drama is about."
Audrey compressed her lips. Sometimes she couldn't believe what a clot he was. "He almost killed Peter's cousin Edgar in a duel last year over a shopgirl who claimed she was carrying Edgar's bastard."
Freddie burped. "Is that all? I thought you were going to tell us DeWilde was a vampire."
"The whole affair was hushed up by Peter's family," Audrey said. "Nobody really knows how Rylan got involved, or why. Rumor has it that the shopgirl's unborn child was a DeWilde."
"Do you think I should get one of them pedicures?" Freddie asked, examining his toes.
Audrey sighed. "Of course, rumor also has it that the same child was sired by Peter."
"I thought Peter's cousin fathered the creature," Freddie said in confusion.
Jeremy snorted. "I'd like to meet this shopgirl. Imagine getting impregnated by three men at once."
"I can't imagine getting impregnated at all," Freddie said.
"Peter was Edgar's second in the duel," Audrey said quietly. "He hates Rylan."
"Well, we won't sit them together at the supper table, or ask them to dance with each other," Freddie said.
"Are you both as thick as a brick?" Audrey said. "Don't you understand what this means?"
The two men glanced at each other, then said, "No," in unison.
"If Peter won't stay in the same room with DeWilde," she said slowly, "he's not going to be delighted that his fiancee and three best friends are having a cozy holiday in Cornwall together. Is he?"
Jeremy and Freddie exchanged alarmed looks. Peter was not only the social link that connected them to the upper, upper crust, he was the purse that paid the way.
"I see what you mean," Jeremy said grimly. "We do owe Peter our loyalty."
"Not to mention several thousand pounds," Freddie said.
Audrey turned from the fire. "Therefore, being Peter's dearest friends, we must leave the house of his enemy."
Freddie sat bolt upright. "In the middle of the night?"
"Where will we find a carriage?" Jeremy asked.
"Well walk," Audrey said resolutely.
"Walk?" Freddie gazed in horror at his pampered white feet. "Across a moor? And to where, I ask."
"To the village," Audrey said. 'This is Cornwall, you dolt, not darkest Africa."
"Is there a difference?" Freddie asked.
A door slammed somewhere behind them, echoing through the house. Jeremy nibbed his haggard face. "Does Sydney know any of this? Does she know that Peter was carrying on with a shopgirl?"
Audrey glanced away. "No. She doesn't know about him and Lady Penelope either."
"That's still going on?" Freddie said in shock. "God."
"Yes," Audrey whispered. "And we're not going to breathe a word of it to our little Sleeping Beauty upstairs, or she'll break off the engagement and end up marrying someone awful like a clerk or a retired sailor. Then Peter will end up marrying someone deadly dull, and we'll be cut off like poor relatives."
Jeremy looked bewildered. "What do we do, then?"
"We rescue her." Audrey tossed Freddie his socks. "We spirit her as far away from DeWilde as we dare. One night in his house, and she'll be ruined whether he lays a hand on her or not."
Rylan held the hound by the scruff of the neck. Master and dog stood together in the unlit hall, eavesdroppers in their own home.
"Stay," Rylan said, his voice low and gruff. "You might have a chance to indulge your killer instincts later, but not yet."
He ducked his tall frame under the stairs as the three conspirators in the drawing room tiptoed out into the hall.
Rylan would have been amused by their idiotic antics if he weren't so furious. He'd be delighted to show them the door, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow them to abduct a half-drugged and inexperienced young woman.
They weren't going to take Sydney back to the man who was more of a monster inside than the tortured characters Rylan and his brothers had created.
He was just going to have to protect her. He hadn't realized how urgent a problem it was until he'd overheard the conversation in the drawing room.
Ruining Miss Windsor's reputation wouldn't just clear the field for him to capture her. It would probably save her from making the biggest mistake of her life.
"Wake up, Sydney." Audrey leaned over the bed.
"I can't find her clothes," Freddie said, bumping into the bedpost.
"Lord, Audrey, the woman is harder to move than a beached whale."
"She never looked that heavy," Freddie said. "She's so little."
"Sydney, wake up."
Sydney surfaced from her dream long enough to scowl at the three familiar faces that hovered about her.
"What?" she whispered.
"We're leaving," Audrey said. "Get up. Get dressed."
"Leaving where?" Sydney whispered, burrowing like a caterpillar under the covers.
"Leaving Lord DeWilde's house."
"Lord DeWilde." Sydney smiled a mysterious smile. "Lovely man. Did you see the cleft in his chin?"
"As lovely as Lucifer," Audrey muttered, tugging the quilt off the bed. "Sydney, your very life is at stake."
Sydney sat up, frowning into the dark. "Am I dreaming this?"
Audrey tried to pull her off the bed. "No. Now hurry up before he comes home."
"I like Lord DeWilde." Sydney rolled herself back into the quilt. "Go away, all of you. I need to sleep."
"Did you know he's known as Wicked DeWilde?"
"I didn't know that," Sydney said, yawning loudly. "But I do now. Go away."
Audrey dropped onto her knees beside the bed. "He sailed naked down the Nile with three native women!"
Sydney forced one eyelid open. "On a barge?"
"On a barge, or a steamship, who cares?" Audrey said impatiently. "What matters is that he was naked with the Nubians."
"Naked," Sydney murmured, staring at the ceiling. "That must have been a sight."
Audrey shook her. "Listen to me. The man is a scandal. He shocked Venice last summer by entertaining an exiled prince and his concubine in his apartments."
"Were they naked, too?" Freddie asked.
"How should I know?" Audrey hissed.
Sydney was drifting back to sleep. The laudanum had proven too powerful for her system. She wanted to slip back into the delicious dream she'd been having about Lord DeWilde. He'd dedicated a book to her, and she wanted to thank him.
Audrey dug her nails into Sydney's shoulders. "Sydney, we have to leave before he comes back."
Sydney tried to poke Audrey in the eye. "That isn't polite."
"Never mind polite," Audrey practically shouted. "DeWilde isn't what he seems. There are three DeWilde brothers, Sydney. Rylan is not merely a coauthor of those lurid tales, he's the one upon whom Valentine and Geoffrey have based their most notorious villains. His wild past has been their inspiration. His misdeeds are legend."
Sydney just smiled.
"I think she's gone round the bend," Freddie whispered.
Jeremy opened the window to the windy night.
"Those hounds are howling to raise hell. Let's get out of here before someone comes."
"The Danger Hounds of DeWilde Manor." Sydney sighed. "It's just like the book. How exciting."
Audrey stared at her in desperation. "Don't you understand what I am saying? DeWilde is not the sort of man one can safely associate with. He's Peter's sworn enemy. Your reputation will be ruined if you don't escape tonight. He's a villain, Sydney."
Sydney tried her hardest to awaken. Her head felt as if it were stuffed with wool. Her thoughts kept drifting away before she could hold them. Suddenly she saw herself sailing down the Nile with DeWilde and they were both—
"Naked," she whispered. "Oh, golly."
Audrey and Jeremy joined forces to hoist Sydney from the bed. Then Freddie tried to help, but instead of helping, he fell on Sydney's knee. She let out a yowl of pain that could be heard across two continents.
There were footsteps coming up the stairs, hard and determined. The door shook as someone pounded it from the other side.
DeWilde's voice broke the stunned silence in the room. "What is going on in there? Miss Windsor, are you all right?"
"My God." Freddie turned chalk white. "The body snatcher is back. What do we do?"
Jeremy threw his leg over the ledge. "We escape. Come on, Audrey. I'll catch you."
"What about me?" Freddie said.
"Catch yourself," Jeremy said before he jumped.
"Oh, Sydney." Audrey looked over her shoulder in regret. "We really did try."
Audrey and the two men had just landed in the garden when DeWilde broke through the door. For a horrible moment, when he saw the open window, he thought they'd taken Sydney with them. Then Frankenstein trotted over to the bed and licked the small hand dangling from the bed.
Sydney slept, a smile on her lips, a Sleeping Beauty blissfully unaware of the evil world around her.
Rylan strode over to the bed and reassured himself that she wasn't hurt. The sight of her lying there with her limbs entangled in his sheets almost stopped his heart with desire. His eyes grew dark as he studied her sensuous curves and thought of waking up beside her every morning. Which he would.
He examined her with the proprietary satisfaction of a man who had been entrusted with a rare treasure. He looked forward to the pleasure and privileges of ownership.
He knelt at the side of the bed, resting his chin on her shoulder.
She looked so sweet and defenseless. But wasn't his Sleeping Beauty cold? He frowned in concern, nudging Frankenstein away. Sydney had kicked off the covers and her skin felt too cool. She needed to be warmed up.
He reached for the heavy quilt, then stopped, transfixed by her sensuality. The strings of her night rail had become untied, revealing her shoulder and the swell of her breast.
He needed to touch her. Just once. He was shaking at the thought.
He traced his forefinger over her plump breast. His breath quickened as the nipple hardened, thrusting against the thin linen. Dusky as a rosebud, so responsive to his touch. His gaze lowered to the juncture of her thighs, to the shadowed delta there.
He needed to be inside her. His mouth curved into an unconscious smile of anticipation and for a minute he felt as if had just caught fire.
He closed his eyes. He imagined how it would feel to make love to her, to be so deeply embedded in her body he could not move. A low growl broke in his throat, disturbing the silence.
Sydney stirred, whimpering in her sleep, as if she could sense his restless energy, the male hunger that possessed him. As if she sensed the threat. He smiled tenderly.
"Hush," he murmured, stroking her hair with infinite gentleness. But the impulses he fought were feral and unrefined. He was not surprised she could sense them.
She would never belong to herself again, but to him.
Rylan could hardly wait. He took a breath for self-control.
"It's all right," he whispered, allowing himself to run his hand down her arm. "You're safe here." Then he reached up to pull the quilt around her, protecting her not from the cold but from his own black desire.
She smiled at him in her sleep. Then, just as he tried to pry himself away, she curled her arms around his neck.
"Stay," she ordered him in the softest, the sexiest whisper.
His body responded with a surge of raw arousal that made him suck in his breath.
"You're too good for a snake like Peter, duke or not," he said in a determined voice. "You're going to forget he even existed."
"DeWilde." She gave a sigh. "You have a nice chest, do you know that? So strong."
He swallowed, not certain what to do. So he just stayed in that dangerous position for several seconds, breathing her faint soapy scent, mingled with liniment, feeling the softness of her skin. His body throbbed until the suspense of holding her became unbearable.
"What are you doing?" she whispered groggily.
"Letting you go back to sleep." Lord, his voice sounded rough, but he was so hot for her, he ached with it and could barely force the words from his throat.
"Did I hear Audrey's voice?" she murmured, cuddling against him.
"She jumped out the window," he said distractedly, trying to pry her hands away before he ended up on top of her.
"Jumped out the window?" She made a little snorting sound against his shoulder. "You're teasing me."
"Actually, I'm not," Rylan muttered. "I'd like to, but this probably isn't the time."
She tilted her head back. "I had the oddest dream."
Her mouth was soft and inviting. He wanted to taste it in the worst way. He wanted to brand every inch of her delicious body with his kisses. "Did you?"
"Umm." Her hands tightened around his neck. Rylan looked down and saw her night rail slide down again off the slope of one ivory shoulder. The sight made him instantly hard.
"I dreamed about you." She gazed up at him. "You touched me."
"I didn't." He gave her an innocent grin while his body went on the warpath.
"You did." She sighed, and he realized she was still half-asleep, too relaxed to censor her thoughts. The quilt slid to the floor. Sydney curled her knees into her body.
"And where did I touch you in this dream?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
"I'd be embarrassed to say," she breathed, lowering her eyes.
"Did you like my touching you?"
She smiled against his shoulder, whispering, "Yes. I did, now that you ask."
Rylan swallowed, his face stark with self-denial. He was so aroused it hurt to breathe. "I didn't kiss you, did I?"
Sydney hesitated, and twisted her fingers in his hair. "I—"
"Not like this—"
And his mouth covered hers in a kiss that was only a prelude to all the naughty things he planned to do to her. He kissed her with such devastating skill that she quivered, breathless, in his arms. He teased the corners of her mouth with his tongue, easing her back onto the bed.
"Oh," Sydney said. "Oh."
Her lips were pouting, swollen and red when he finished. A pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat, and he lay against her, a man in torment and loving every second of it.
He kissed her neck and shoulders until she lay gasping with pleasure. He tugged her night rail down to her belly, exposing her creamy breasts. His face intense, he studied her as he squeezed and pinched her distended nipples between his fingers. Then he tormented each tip in turn with sensuous licks of his tongue. He took his sweet time teasing her. Sydney arched off the bed in shock and anticipation.
She took shorter breaths, letting him have his way. She gave a moan in her throat. The sound sent a shiver of lust down his spine.
"Am I dreaming this?" she whispered.
"I don't know." His voice was hoarse. "It's possible we both are."
"Good," she breathed, "because if I weren't dreaming, I really would have to stop you."
He ran his palm over the mound of her pubis, pressing hard. She drew a breath. He leaned down and kissed her there, tantalized by the scent of her arousal. Musk of virgin. She went still as he raised his head to stare at her.
"I want you very, very badly," he whispered.
"I like this dream," she whispered back. He hesitated before reaching down for the quilt. He could so easily take advantage of her, but there wasn't much pleasure in seducing a half-awake woman, no matter how badly his body throbbed to possess her.
He wanted her to be fully aware when he loved her.
He wanted her to always remember the moment he'd made her his.
"Go back to sleep," he said.
"Hmm," she said, closing her eyes.
The hounds in the garden below were howling again. He settled Sydney back in the bed and got up to investigate. From the window he could just make out three shadowy figures running hell-for-leather toward the moor.
"That takes care of that," he said grimly.
He'd gotten rid of his first obstacle.
"Don't dream about anyone else but me, Sleeping Beauty," he said from the door.
Sydney awakened and heard the wind whistling outside the window. She'd heard the hounds too, but she was too achy and drugged to investigate. Besides, it was still dark outside, and she could hear the sea, restless and rough.
She touched her forehead, wondering if she had developed a fever.
DeWilde's virile scent hung in the air, dangerous, erotic. The scent of brandy and male desire. His face rose in her thoughts, tauntingly sensual, and she began to shake. Why did she ache and flush with these bewildering sensations? Her breasts felt engorged, and her mouth was so tender.
She sat up on her elbow, frowning into the dark.
Odd voices kept echoing in her brain. She shouldn't have read the first chapter of The Elixir of Death before falling asleep. Fear was playing tricks on her imagination.
He sailed naked down the Nile…
Your reputation will be ruined …
The door creaked open slowly.
Sydney peered up through her eyelashes, hesitant to breathe. She pulled the cover up to her neck.
A dark bulky shape pushed into the room. It panted and paddled over to the bed like a horrible beast.
He's a villain, Sydney. A villain . . .
"Frankenstein," Sydney whispered in relief. "What do you want?"
The dog stared at her for several seconds with pleading eyes. Then it jumped up on the bed and settled on Sydney's chest, breathing doggy breath in her face before laying down its head.
Sydney grinned and closed her eyes again, knowing somehow that both the dog and its master would take care of her through the night.
She limped down the stairs late the next morning and found Lord DeWilde alone in the drawing room. Papers, books, and pens sprouted in piles on the sofa and at his feet. The house appeared to have been furnished in a most haphazard manner. But he looked like a man who spent as much time outdoors as at his desk. That powerful body could have been honed only by hours of hard riding or, to judge by the size of his shoulders, possibly by lifting boulders twice a day.
She stared at his strong forearms in fascination. The sleeves of his white shirt were pushed up to allow him to write. His long, elegant fingers swept across the paper in bold strokes.
Sydney was embarrassed at how easily she could almost feel those fingers stroking her skin, leaving a wake of wonderful shivers instead of words.
She tiptoed up behind him. "Goodness, is that your latest masterpiece?"
The pen stopped. A secretive smile crossed his face as he swiveled around. "I was struck by a sudden inspiration late last night. I've decided to write about a succubus."
"A succubus?" Sydney said in a startled voice.
"It's a female demon who seduces men in their sleep," he explained. "She—"
"I think I should wait to read it when it's published," she said hastily. "I wouldn't want to spoil the suspense."
"You were my inspiration," he said with a low chuckle, looking her in the eye.
"Me?" she said, her voice a squeak of shock.
He rose from the desk, towering over her. He was so blatantly masculine that Sydney stepped back in self-defense. He looked even larger in this cluttered room than he had last night on the beach. His virility had not seemed as intimidating outside against the backdrop of rugged cliffs, and she hadn't spent an entire night in his house.
Something had happened, but she wasn't sure what. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, or what she would do when she found out.
An expectant silence fell. Sydney felt a flush crawl over her body. There was a sizzling tension between them which she had noticed yesterday, although not to such a degree. She could practically taste the change in the air.
This was alchemy.
This was trouble.
"Have you ever sailed naked down the Nile, my lord?" she asked him without thinking.
Rylan dropped his pen in surprise. Then he started to laugh so hard that Frankenstein, who had followed Sydney downstairs, ran to hide behind a chair.
Sydney felt like joining the dog to cover her embarrassment. Where on earth had that question come from?
"I was only half-naked, actually," Rylan said when he managed to get his amusement under control.
Sydney restrained herself from asking which half of him had been naked. In fact, she was wishing she'd never asked such a strange question at all. She didn't know what she'd been thinking, but the thought had to have come from somewhere.
He shook his head, surveying her from top to bottom. That wicked smile kept lurking on his lips. It unsettled Sydney. He seemed to know something she didn't, and she was certain he would use his knowledge to disarm her, although he wasn't the kind of man who would deliberately hurt a woman. He didn't seem to have Peter's hard streak.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, looking amused all over again.
She blushed without knowing why. "I must have."
"Why do you say that?" he asked with a grin.
Sydney frowned. "Why shouldn't I say that?"
He came around the desk. Dark mischief danced in his eyes. She looked even better to him now than she had last night in bed. He wondered if she was just pretending that nothing had happened. "You don't remember your… dream?"
She blinked in disbelief. "Are you telling me it wasn't really a dream, the kissing and the—" She just couldn't finish.
"Of course it was a dream, if that's what you want to believe," he said in a patronizing voice that made her want to throttle him. "A dream come true."
She edged toward the door, but Rylan apparently wasn't going to let her escape with any dignity. He moved behind her, settling his big hands on her shoulders in a proprietary hold.
She froze on the spot, staring down at her shoes. His breath raised a row of goosebumps on her neck. She swore she could feel the power of his hands all the way down her spine, and the only thing she could think about was him sailing down the Nile in the altogether.
"Don't you remember anything?" he said in a hopeful voice.
She ground her teeth as his lips brushed her nape. His touch was bringing back all the details that she'd lain in bed this morning musing over in privacy. Only it had really happened, and if she wasn't careful, it was going to happen again.
"Of course I don't remember," she retorted.
His chuckle was annoyingly smug. "Sydney, are you telling me a fib, or is this just a ploy to get me to refresh your memory?"
She spun around. "I'll tell you what needs refreshing—it's your manners. I've never met such an overbearing man in all my days."
His mouth curled into another teasing grin. "Not even in your dreams?"
"Good heavens," she said.
He slid his hands down her back. "I don't think you should be on your feet," he said gently. "The doctor wants you to rest."
"I feel perfectly fine." But she didn't. Her knee throbbed. Her head felt hot and giddy, and even worse, she half wished he'd keep rubbing her with his big hands.
She backed away.
He followed.
Then somehow, by hoping to evade him, she ended up flush against his hard body. Somehow his mouth captured hers, and the world dissolved in a dreamy mist. The floor rushed up to meet her, and he caught her in an iron grip, saving her the humiliation of falling at his feet.
His features blurred. His mouth demanded more and more. Shivering, she tasted the guttural growl of pleasure he gave as he backed her into his desk. She was drowning in his kisses, dying in little breaths between them, living for the next.
She hesitated for a moment, her gaze lifting to his. Rylan raised his brow questioningly. Then, to his delight, she softened and let her body relax, giving him the permission he needed.
He felt the world dissolve around him in a red mist. The floor rushed up to meet him, and the lust he'd kept at bay all through the night unleashed itself like a gale. He hadn't been sure that she'd really felt the same way as he did, but now that he knew, nothing on earth was going to stop him.
He didn't waste a second in taking advantage of the situation. He wasn't going to give her a chance to change her mind.
He practically devoured her with kisses that left her gasping in surprise and pleasure. He supported her with one hand while the other was busy unbuttoning her jacket. He ate at her mouth until she clung to him, until she would have done anything he asked her then and there.
They danced around the desk, locked in a heated embrace. They knocked his books and papers to the floor, months of research lost in a moment. They kissed their way in carnal combat across the carpet and ended up entangled together on the sofa, breathing hard, with Frankenstein playfully jumping up to join them.
"Go," Rylan shouted, waving the hound away as he nibbled his way down Sydney's neck. "We're busy."
"No, we're not," Sydney said, coming up for air.
She took a deep breath. Rylan's knee had gotten wedged between her skirts. Her unbuttoned jacket dangled from her wrist. And then he was leaning over her, looking beautiful and wild and downright dangerous. He was a master at this.
There eyes locked in a battle of wills.
"Do you want me to carry you back up to bed?" he said, his voice tender and persuasive. He traced his forefinger across her wet, trembling mouth.
Sydney thought she was about to experience a fatal heart seizure. A violent tremor went through her. She was ashamed to admit to herself that it wasn't a socially acceptable tremor of mortification.
It was more like a tremor of unadulterated lust.
"I am perfectly capable of walking on my own," she said, her heart pounding in her ears. "Furthermore, I am engaged to marry another man."
He leaned dowen even lower and stared her in the eye. His scowl let her know in no uncertain terms what he thought of that statement. Sydney couldn't help thinking how stunning a specimen of maleness he was, even though she was scared to death of what he was going to do. And of what she would let him.
"If you belonged to another man, you wouldn't have been shipwrecked on my cove," he said coldly.
She raised her chin. "My fiance can hardly control the weather."
"He obviously can't control you either," he said, "or you wouldn't be sprawled on my sofa with my knee lodged between your sweet thighs." He cupped her breast in his palm, staring at her with a knowing smile. "You're mine now anyway, and I'm not about to let you take such dangerous risks with your life."
There was a rattling sound of a tea cart outside the door.
Sydney gasped, pulling her jacket back on. "Good Lord, if my friends see me, they'll die."
"Friends?" He grunted, allowing her to wriggle to her feet. "What manner of friends would abandon a helpless woman to the mercy of a man with my reputation?"
"Abandon?" Sydney said. "What are you talking about?"
He frowned. "You really don't remember?"
She shook her head. She did recall snatches of a disjointed conversation with Audrey, and that wicked business with Rylan on the bed, but nothing more. The laudanum had obviously addled her senses.
Mrs. Chynoweth knocked at the door. "Tea, my lord."
Rylan regarded Sydney with a ruthless smile. It was time to tell her the truth so that she would understand what he'd saved her from. "Sit down, Sydney. We're going to talk."
Sydney frowned at the teapot. If she understood DeWilde correctly, she didn't need something as weak as tea to drink. She needed a full bottle of his most potent port.
"Are you saying my friends abandoned me?" she demanded.
"Like rats on a sinking ship," Rylan said, holding back a grin. Hell, was it his fault if things were going his way? He hadn't pushed the stupid blockheads out of that window. "They knew I'd fought a duel with Peter's cousin. They figured it would be disloyal of them to stay in my house."
"Well, now I'm unchaperoned," Sydney said, "and I just woke up in the bed of the man who tried to kill my betrothed's cousin. Could it get any worse?"
"I didn't try to kill him," Rylan corrected her. "If I'd tried to kill the worm, he'd be dead. I tried to wound him."
Sydney gave him a sour look. "Does Peter know about the duel?"
"Hell—pardon me for swearing—Peter was the worm's second in the duel. I'll say he knows."
"This is dreadful," Sydney said.
"Isn't it?" Rylan tried to make a sympathetic face, which didn't quite counteract the delighted gleam in his eye. "But what can one do?"
"It's your fault," Sydney added, glowering at him.
"My fault? It's my fault that you were shipwrecked and I, out of the goodness of my heart, gave you shelter in my house?"
"No." She was getting upset, and it didn't help that she hadn't recovered from their sensual tussle on the sofa. "But it is your fault you wounded the worm—oh, good grief—Peter's cousin, I mean."
"That wasn't my fault, either." Rylan's voice had grown brittle. "Edgar practically begged me to fight him. In public, I might add. I couldn't very well walk away from that, could I? This isn't the first duel that Peter and his cousin have fought, by the way."
Sydney stared down at the carpet. Her father had warned her that Peter had a dark side, that he liked to drink too much and lost his temper too easily, that he had a reputation as a ladies' man. But Sydney had been so swept up in all his power and attraction that she'd ignored her own instincts—the same instincts that were drawing her to DeWilde.
A coal shifted in the grate. She glanced up and caught Rylan staring at her intently.
"What were you dueling over?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated.
"Was it a woman?" she said, clasping her hands.
"Yes."
Sydney's eyes widened. "All three of you were fighting over the same woman?"
Rylan chuckled. "Well, I wasn't personally involved with her myself. I'd never met her until that night."
"You risked your life for a stranger's honor?" Sydney said dryly.
"There's more to it than that," he said. "At first I believed she was carrying my brother Valentine's love child. Valentine was out of the country at the time." He paused. "As it turns out, the child could also belong to Edgar or even Peter. All three men apparently slept with her in the same month. Valentine, however, is paying the support."
Sydney went deathly still.
Rylan realized he had revealed a secret that had upset her, but he would rather hurt her now than have her ruin her life being married to a man who was more shallow and self-serving than someone like her could imagine. Sydney didn't understand what lay ahead of her. She had no idea how unhappy she'd be as the wife of a man who cared only for his own pleasure.
"I believe Peter must have conducted this affair before we were engaged," she said in a stilted voice.
Rylan snorted at her naive faith. There had been numerous other affairs and, according to Audrey, Peter showed no signs of allowing matrimony to shackle his uncontrollable sex drive.
He looked directly at her. His chiseled face was devoid of any gentleness. "I chase after demons and I write about man's darkest vices and quest for cosmic power. I write about men who make pacts with Satan. It's true that I have a certain reputation, but at least I'm not a hypocrite and I haven't hurt anybody on purpose. I can't say that for your fiance."
Sydney smiled without humor. "That's preposterous. He's a duke, for heaven's sake, and he hasn't hurt me."
Rylan wanted to shake some sense into her. "Not yet he hasn't," he said, his voice rising. "I saw Peter in a private club when I was researching The Elixir of Death. He had a half-naked woman on his lap, and he took her home in his carriage."
"How do you know he took her home? And how do you know it was him?"
"It was him!" he shouted.
Sydney was frightened by his intensity. "You don't even know Peter!" she shouted back.
"I know all of Esterfield I can stomach," he said in contempt. "He's a cad and a womanizer. The man is sowing his wild oats all over London, and shows no sign of stopping, not even for you, Sydney."
"Are Audrey and Lord Westland devil worshippers too?" she said sarcastically. "Is Freddie really a werewolf in a fat man's body?"
He crossed his arms over his broad chest, unmoved by her response. There was no understanding in his heart where another man was concerned. "I've shocked you and now I've hurt you. It was necessary, Sydney." His beautiful mouth lifted in a beguiling smile. "But I am perfectly willing to make your hurt go away."
Sydney scooted to the other end of the sofa. "What about my friends? Don't you want to warn me away from them too?"
"As far as I know, stupidity and selfishness are the worst crimes they've committed," Rylan replied.
She stood decisively. "Thank you so terribly much for all you've done, but I don't think we have anything else to discuss, so if it's all the same to you, I'll be on my way now. Would you be kind enough to make travel arrangements for me into the village?"
"Well," he said, rubbing his chin to control his annoyance. "I'd offer you a horse and carriage, but your friends stole my horses when they ran off last night."
Sydney put her hands on her hips. "How far is the village?"
"Ten miles or so across the moor. A little longer if you take the moorland path to enjoy the scenery. The church is on the cliff, but the bell ringer is a bit mad."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you telling me there's no way for me to leave this house?"
He didn't look at all upset by her predicament. In fact, Sydney thought he was taking her social ruination in stride.
He lifted his large shoulders in a shrug. "If you insist, I can drive you in the coal cart to the village. Of course, the journey across the moor, taking in the ponies' temperament, will probably take two days. And two nights. Three if it storms."
"Two nights?" Sydney said in horror.
He shook his head. "Spent alone together. Isn't it terrible?"
"You're saying we'd have to sleep on the moor?"
"We might find a cave to share."
There was a pause.
"Wicked DeWilde," Sydney said through her teeth. "I remember now. That's what Audrey called you."
"I won't lie to you," Rylan said. "I have been called that in the past."
"I don't wonder why."
"I led a reckless youth," he said. "I did not develop a conscience until after I reached my majority."
"Some men never do," Sydney said.
"Oh, Sydney." His mouth curled in the sexy smile that sent fire down her spine. "I don't know how someone so adorably naive ended up engaged to a snake like Esterfield, but isn't it a good thing I saved you?"
Mrs. Chynoweth came in with a fresh plate of scones, bustling between them to make room on the tea table.
She gave them both a friendly smile as if she were totally oblivious to the chill in the air. Sydney lowered her voice.
"Are you insulting me, Lord DeWilde?"
He reached for a scone. "Actually, I was complimenting you. You don't have the qualities to hold a snake like Peter for long. He would grow bored with your sweetness and lack of sophistication."
"That was definitely an insult," Sydney said. "You're a smug, opinionated man."
"Now that was an insult," he said, pointing his scone at her with an accusing grin.
Sydney backed away from the sofa. "You've been kind to shelter me, but under the circumstances, I can't stay in your house any longer."
Rylan and Mrs. Chynoweth exchanged alarmed looks. They both wanted Sydney to stay. "Where will you go, miss?" the housekeeper asked in concern.
"She can't go anywhere far on that leg," Rylan said confidently as Sydney limped to the door. "And she can't go anywhere because there's nowhere else to go."
Sydney was upset. She threw all her belongings into her valise and hobbled down the stairs. She wasn't as furious with Lord DeWilde as she was with her so-called friends for abandoning her to the overbearing man. They should have stayed to protect her, or at least to offer their support.
The housekeeper and her husband met her at the bottom of the stairs. Sydney braced herself against their well-meaning concern.
"Where are you going, miss?" Mrs. Chynoweth asked in dismay.
Sydney caught a glimpse of Rylan in the drawing room, standing by the fire. He looked straight at her with a knowing smile that sent every thought from her head. Then he blew her a kiss. She glared back. She would show him she was immune to his charm.
How could the man suggest she place herself at his mercy when her reputation was at stake?
A scoundrel like DeWilde probably didn't give a farthing for what the world thought. Why, hadn't all three brothers been denounced by the clergy for their Faustian ventures into a realm that was morally forbidden to man? The DeWildes had always done as they pleased.
"I would like to hire your husband to drive me into the village," she announced loudly.
"He can't do it, miss," the housekeeper said.
"How much?" her husband asked.
Mrs. Chynoweth gave him a discrete little kick in the ankle. "It will take you two days to walk to the village of St. Kilmerryn."
"Three days. Possibly four," Rylan called from the drawing room. "She'll get lost on a bog track or meet up with a local ghost. I predict disaster."
Sydney raised her chin. She would show them all what a Windsor could do when forced to the wall. "I shall find my way."
Rylan dropped onto the sofa, lacing his hands behind his neck. He grinned as he heard the door slam. His Sleeping Beauty wasn't going anywhere. There wasn't anywhere to go. It should take her at most an hour to realize that. He'd welcome her back into his bed with open arms. He'd bring her tea and sympathy, and he wouldn't say "I told you so" when she realized he'd been right all along. He might even take a nap while he waited so he'd be refreshed for their reunion.
A frown banished his complacent grin. Of course, Sydney didn't know there wasn't anywhere to go. He couldn't bear to think of her getting hurt, hobbling around on her knee. She needed him to take care of her. Sooner or later Esterfield would show up, demanding his bride-to-be. It undid Rylan to think of that snake destroying her innocence. Rylan had spent enough of his life studying human nature to predict that Peter would seek pleasure outside the marriage bed.
Rylan would guard her heart and worship her body. However, it seemed he might have to do something about taming her independent streak first, or he'd never get the chance.
He jumped up from the sofa, Frankenstein at his heels. The two of them would just have to follow Sydney until the stubborn darling realized she had only one place to go.
Back to him, where she belonged.
The ruined yacht. Good Lord, the intrepid woman hadn't wasted her time wandering around on the moor. She'd gone and taken refuge right in the shipwrecked yacht that sat in the cove below the house, flaunting her independence under his very nose.
Score a point for Miss Windsor's resourcefulness.
Rylan shook his head, his gray eyes ruefully amused. It could be worse, he told himself. At least he could keep an eye on her every move, even if he couldn't touch her, and he would go insane. But he did worry about the weather, unpredictable at this time of the year.
He wanted her back.
He missed her terribly.
He paced to the edge of the cliff path and stared up at the sullen morning sky. Clouds massed on the horizon. A gale could blow up and dislodge the yacht before she knew it. The rising wind smelled of a storm.
Sydney could be washed out to sea during the night and lost to him forever, just as the Burgundian princess of legend was lost to the lonely warlord who was said to haunt this very spot. Rylan was beside himself with concern. He wouldn't rest until he brought her back home.
All of a sudden Sydney popped out of the cabin, a cloth in her hand. She waved gaily up at the cliff from the splintered deck. Her long brown hair danced in the wind. Rylan felt a tug of longing deep in his gut. She made him feel so good.
"Good morning, Lord DeWilde!" she shouted. "We're neighbors now—in a manner of speaking. Perhaps you'll pay me a proper visit after I tidy up a bit. This place is—a wreck."
His mouth tightened in an unwilling smile as he hurried down the path toward her. "What do you think you're doing?"
Sydney walked unevenly over the listing deck to grin down at him. He stared at her moist pink mouth, remembering the taste of it. "How nice of you to come calling, my lord," she said. "Unfortunately, I'm not receiving visitors today."
"I miss you, Sydney."
"I'm sorry to hear that." She was really delighted.
"I haven't eaten a thing since you've been gone," he said.
She tossed her hair back. "It's only been two hours, Rylan."
He gave her a heart-melting grin. "I'm wasting away to a mere shadow of myself."
She made a show of eyeing him.
It was difficult to muster up much sympathy for six feet two inches of solid muscle and sinew.
"Frankenstein misses you, too," he said. As if on cue, the dog dropped its heavy head down on the sand between its paws. "He wants to sleep beside you again tonight. So do I."
He managed to look forlorn for several seconds. Sydney steeled herself against this subtle but potent method of seduction.
"Frankenstein is welcome to sleep in the cabin tonight," she said sweetly. "You, however, are not."
He folded his arms over his chest, and what a masculine chest it was, she couldn't help noticing. The rising breeze lifted his straight black hair from his shoulders.
He stood like a pirate with his powerful legs planted apart, looking arrogant and ready to plunder. Sydney realized she might have quite a fight on her hands, and most of it with herself.
"You can't stay here," he said, frowning.
"Why not?" She bit her lip to break the spell of his sinful appeal. "Do you own the beach, Lord DeWilde? Would you like me to pay you for harboring this ship— shipwreck—in your cove?"
"Come back to the house with me," he said, holding out his hand.
She clutched the cloth to her chest. She wouldn't show him how tempted she was to go anywhere he would take her. "Why?" she asked warily.
"You won't be safe here," he said, tsking in concern. "I'm worried about you."
She backed up against the railing. "You said yourself that there's nothing around here for miles."
"Sydney." He spoke her Christian name with a sensual smile that she almost could not resist. "You might get cold during the night. The sea air. The fog. You're a delicate woman. You need to be sheltered from the elements."
"I'll use an extra blanket."
Rylan gave her a worried look. "What about the ghost?"
"Ghost?" Sydney felt gooseflesh ripple down her forearms. "What ghost?"
"The warlord's ghost. He haunts these cliffs searching for his lost princess."
Sydney shivered as she remembered the strange blue light during the shipwreck, and the gauntleted hand that had saved her. "Perhaps he's a friendly spirit. And what would a warlord's ghost want with me?"
Rylan arched a thick eyebrow. "He might want to mate with you—in an otherworldly sort of way."
Sydney scoffed at this dramatic nonsense. Imagine having sexual relations with a spirit.
"It's the sea that poses the greatest risk," he added gravely. "A storm could dislodge the yacht and drag you back into the waves. You'd sink before I could reach you."
"Save such dire imaginings for your next novel," Sydney said calmly. "I shall be perfectly safe in my little shipwreck."
Rylan had planned to ride to the moorland burial cairn that night to observe the villagers' attempt to exorcise the warlord's ghost the following morning. The people of St. Kilmerryn blamed the ghost for their poor fishing harvests and stormy weather. The ghost-laying was to provide inspiration for the next scene in The Raven Never Sleeps, which Rylan would complete in a rough draft for Valentine and Geoffrey to edit.
But he had no horse. And he was obsessed in watching Miss Windsor from his window with a pair of field glasses.
How could he think about corpses and tormented creatures when that woman was driving him to distraction? Not that he didn't enjoy the distraction. He'd been working too hard lately. A few more months alone in this house and he'd become a permanent eccentric.
His eyes narrowed. "Lord," he said to himself. "She's hanging her stockings out to dry on the mast." And instantly he pictured her undressing for bed in that draughty little cabin. He saw her pointy breasts and heard the helpless sighs of pleasure she had uttered on the sofa. He wanted to feel her legs wrapped around his waist. More than anything he wanted to sink inside her and stay there forever.
He growled aloud, as irate as a caged beast.
Mrs. Chynoweth gave a sniff of disapproval behind him. She'd gotten used to hearing him growl when his writing went wrong, so she didn't jump in horror as she had her first days in this house. " 'Tisn't right, my lord. That young woman alone and unprotected in the ruined cabin. She ought to be sleeping here tonight."
"Indeed she should," he said heartily, although they were both thinking about Sydney's sleeping arrangements in an entirely different context.
He and Sydney would wake up in the middle of the night holding each other. Rylan would make slow, gentle love to her until dawn. He'd kiss her from head to toe and everywhere in between and ask her advice on the scene where his creature seduces a schoolmistress because she was so sweet and innocent and caring, which was exactly the sort of woman Rylan's heroes couldn't resist.
They might discuss their plans for the future and how he'd always hoped to have a big family. He decided to keep her away from his brothers until after the wedding—the private wedding. The practical jokers would probably try to abduct her and hold for hostage.
The sky had turned gray. A gust of wind banged at the shutters and a few drops of rain splattered against the windowsill.
"I knew a storm was coming," he said. "She can't stay in that wreck."
Mrs. Chynoweth put down the coal bin she'd brought to the hearth. "My husband took her some hot tea and pasties. Miss Windsor seemed quite determined to stay by herself." She paused. "The villagers are saying that she's the spirit of the Burgundian princess who was drowned at sea while her betrothed waited on the cliff. They think the warlord is going to come and get her tonight."
Rylan threw the field glasses on his chair. "Well, he's not going to take her away from me. I'm bringing her home even if I have to drag her here."
Dusk had fallen over the cove.
Sydney sniffed with emotion as she read the last page of the story; the ending never failed to touch her heart. It was a book with startling perceptions and profound insights that provoked the mind.
The story of the corpse's return to the otherworld after trying to redeem his soul would haunt her for a long time. She felt his need for forgiveness and understanding.
Only a man with deep passions and compassion could write like this.
She closed her moist eyes. She pictured DeWilde's sinfully handsome face. She felt his dangerous male energy. She didn't care if all the villains in the DeWilde books were based on his character. She had developed a weakness for villains.
"Brilliant." She reached blindly for a handkerchief to blow her nose. "The man is not only beautiful but brilliant."
She gave her nose a noisy blow, not hearing the man himself answer from the unhinged cabin door.
"Thank you. I'm glad you liked it."
She clasped her hands over her chest, sniffing loudly. "He speaks to my secret heart."
"Sydney."
She sat up slowly. "I can even hear his voice."
"It is my voice, you nitwit."
Sydney suppressed a shriek. Her brain went into shock. In her unfastened gown, with bare feet and unbrushed hair, she wasn't prepared for his visit. An empty teacup and an embarrassing mound of gnawed apple cores were strewn on the sofa.
She jumped up to confront him.
He was dressed in a white shirt and snug black velvet breeches that were molded to his powerful thighs. His long black hair was tangled from the wind. His lean face wore an expression of chilling urgency. He was the most dangerous thing that she, having had a relatively sheltered life, had ever seen.
"Oh, golly," she whispered.
She realized she was trapped. Not only by his physical superiority, but by her own imagination. She tingled all over with the thrill of anticipation that reached to her toes.
Shipwrecked… and now seduced!
"I think we should talk about this first," she said, bumping into the wall.
"We don't have time to talk," he shouted. "We're going to die if we don't act now. Nature doesn't wait for a tete-a-tete before unleashing herself."
Sydney's heart dropped at that. She wasn't sure she could withstand a session of Nature unleashed in the form of Wicked DeWilde. The very foundations beneath her feet seemed to tremble. Blood roared in her head, and she lost her sense of balance.
She closed her eyes. "I realize that a man like you experiences dark passions. And even though I may appear to be a sophisticated woman—"
"You appear to be a cork-brain, Sydney!" he roared.
She gasped as he lunged at her, or at least she assumed he lunged at her. Actually, he was thrown by the impact of a wave against the yacht. Her thought processes stopped as his body slammed into hers. They pitched backward onto the sofa, and stars exploded behind her eyes.
"Tell me this is another dream," she said with a groan, disentangling their limbs.
Rylan picked an apple core out of his hair. "Neither of us is going to live long enough to worry about dreaming if we don't get out of here," he said.
A blast of wind broke through the cracked porthole. The candles in the girandole on the wall went out, plunging the cabin into darkness.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"The sea. There's a storm moving in even faster than I expected. Didn't you notice it?"
Sydney's eyes widened as she felt the violent pounding against the yacht. "I was too caught up in Confessions of a Scottish Corpse."
He grabbed her arm, wrenching her toward the door. "We are going to be genuine corpses if we don't get out of here."
A wave crashed against the cabin door, spraying a spume of water into the air. A rock appeared behind the porthole.
"Hell's bells," Rylan bellowed. "We're being washed out to sea!"
Sydney stared down at the cold seawater rushing around their feet. "I think you might be right."
The cabin floor lurched to the left. Sydney stumbled back into the solid blockade of Rylan's body.
He clasped her against his chest. "Does that convince you we're in danger?" he demanded.
She stared up into his face. His chest felt like steel. "Oh, I'm in danger, all right."
He steered her toward the door, only to force her back down on the sofa as an enormous wave flooded the cabin. Within seconds chilly water gushed up to their waists. Sydney began to shiver at the shock of the cold.
"Take off your clothes," he ordered her.
"Why?"
"We're going to swim," he said in exasperation. "I can't have your petticoats dragging you down."
"Swim?"
He nodded and ripped off his boots. "If we get pulled into one of the caves, we're lost. The undercurrents are too strong to fight."
"It's so dark outside, Rylan. What happened to the sun?"
He tore off his cravat. "I'm going to tie this rope around your waist and mine. Be strong, Sydney. This isn't called the Devil's Elbow for nothing."
Rylan stripped down to his drawers. Sydney shed everything except her chemise and pantalettes.
She couldn't believe she was going to swim for her life in her unmentionables with Lord DeWilde in a Cornish sea.
Half-naked, bound together at the waist they escaped through the door and plunged into the witch's cauldron of wind-swept sea. The sky was almost black. The storm had already tossed the partially submerged yacht into the current, and Sydney would never have made it out of the cabin without Rylan's strength fighting to keep her at his side.
A small crowd witnessed the rescue.
In a year the story would become legend in St. Kilmerryn.
Farmers on ponies waited to be of assistance, wondering aloud if the Blue Knight had struck again. Ropes and life preservers were lowered from the cliff. Hounds howled over the roar of the dying wind and rain. Housewives held up lanterns whose golden light was reflected on the cove.
Rylan hauled Sydney onto a rocky ledge and took a breath. The yacht bobbed out to sea, truly ruined this time. Sydney stretched out on her side like a waterlogged mermaid and moaned.
Rylan stared down at her wet, shivering body and decided he was no better than an animal. Only an animal would consider having sex at a time like this. Her chemise was torn at one shoulder. Her pantalettes were soaked to the skin. Even in the dark he could see the perfect contours of her breasts and the cleft of her shapely backside. The way her underwear was sheathed to her skin was more sexual than sheer nudity.
And she was still bound to him at the waist, a position he found wildly erotic and to his liking.
He touched her shoulder. He couldn't help it. Then he leaned down and kissed her, rubbing his cheek in her hair. Now that he wasn't worried about saving her life, he felt the most peculiar mingling of gratitude and lust, and he realized he loved her as he'd loved nothing before. He thought suddenly about the Blue Knight and wondered if he'd ever even existed, and for the first time he felt a stirring of sympathy for the man.
"I'll have to carry you the rest of the way. Sydney, do you hear me?"
Sydney was too exhausted to move. His lips felt wonderful, and she welcomed the warmth of his body; even the spark of desire deep inside her felt good because it told her they were still alive. "My life is ruined," she said, letting out another loud moan. "How will I explain this?"
"I can't let him have you back," he said, leaning down even lower. "I'm sorry."
He shook his head for emphasis, but in fact he didn't look particularly sorry about the situation to Sydney. If anything, he looked pleased with himself, as if he'd plotted everything from the shipwreck to the storm, as if her life were another chapter in one of his infamous books and he'd created her for his private enjoyment.
"Has it ever occurred to you that I might love him?" she asked in annoyance.
He grinned. "Not for a moment. Not after the way you snuggled up to me last night."
Sydney flushed, tempted to shove him off the rock. She surveyed his wide shoulders and bare chest with a sigh. He'd thrown his leg over her hip as if to anchor her. She had a feeling he wasn't ever going to let her go, that he meant what he'd said. She had never felt so safe and so threatened at the same time.
"I doubt any duke in his right mind would want me if he saw us sitting on a rock together in our drawers," she said with a sigh.
"I want you." He laid his hand on her belly. "Very, very badly."
She sat up slowly, trying to pretend she hadn't heard him. "I think my toes are turning blue."
Rylan kissed her again, slow and deep.
Sydney shivered and kissed him back, hauling him back down on top of her. "But only because I'm freezing," she whispered.
The small crowd on the cliffs cheered in the rain.
The kiss had added spice to the legend.
Rylan learned something that night.
He discovered how difficult it was to carry a woman up a cliff when he had an erection. Her breasts kept bobbing against his bare chest, and her head was wedged under his chin. Her wet body was plastered to his. Torture, every step was sweet torture.
She had wrapped her legs around his waist to keep from sliding, her ankles locked together behind his back.
Under normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed her stranglehold on his private region. But it was bone-numbing cold, and he was, after all, ascending a precarious path carved into a cliff in total darkness.
He plunked her down amid the brambles and twisted elms outside the house. She was an adorable mess. "Do you want me to run in and get you a cloak to cover you up before anyone see us?"
Sydney clenched her chattering teeth together. "N-no. T-too cold."
"Oh, Sydney," he said. Then he kissed her again because he didn't know when he'd have another chance. He kissed her until neither of them felt the bitter wind blowing through the garden. He rubbed his large hands possessively down her back, over her breasts and her soft little bottom, and Sydney didn't even try to stop him because she was a lump of melting ice and his touch was bringing her back to life.
A low chuckle of victory escaped him. The reluctant grin on her face reassured him again that she felt the same way he did, that she knew they were made for each other. She'd been washed up on his beach by a power stronger than either of them could fight.
And he would fight to keep her.
He just didn't realize the chance would come as soon as it did.
There was no one in the house. The Chynoweths had presumably been standing on the cliff with the others to watch the rescue and probably everyone was still there talking about it and embellishing the story.
Sydney said a silent prayer of gratitude to be spared the embarrassment of parading through the hallway like Adam and Eve. She couldn't imagine how she'd explain this to Peter—or to her parents, for that matter.
She ran upstairs to hide. Rylan made a detour into the kitchen for a few meat pasties, a bottle of brandy, and a huge apple pie.
He burst into the bedroom a minute after Sydney did, humming in good humor. He kicked the door shut behind him, locked it, and laid his feast on the night-stand.
He was grinning from ear to ear, obviously delighted with the way everything had turned out. At least Sydney assumed he was grinning. She couldn't tell for sure because she was hiding under the covers.
"Hungry?" he said.
Rylan peeled the covers from her clenched fingers. She was right about the grin. The good-looking devil obviously thought almost drowning was an experience to laugh about.
"Rylan, you're going to catch your death. You're still in your drawers."
"I know." He winked at her. "But I really don't see any point in getting dressed." Then he gathered Sydney in his arms and kissed her, his powerful arms bracketing her body as he began the complicated process of lowering her inhibitions.
Sydney sank into the quilt. His kiss was so deep and intimate that she couldn't defend herself. He drew her lower lip between his teeth, biting gently. Her whole body softened, and a melting sensation swirled in her stomach. His mouth plundered hers until she felt like she was drowning all over again. Only this time Rylan wouldn't save her; he was dead set on ruining her.
"Oh, Sydney." His husky voice was the most arousing sound she had ever heard. "I knew I would make you mine the moment I saw you at the cove."
"Don't say that, Rylan," she whispered.
He rubbed his palm over her breast, squeezing the pink tip between his thumb and finger. It puckered at his touch. "Why not?"
"Because—oh, just kiss me again."
Rylan didn't need to be asked twice. He took her face in his hands, and his mouth claimed hers, tasting her sweet little sigh of surrender. Kissing was only a prelude to what he wanted. It only whet his appetite for more. He thrust his tongue against hers. He needed to be inside her, the deeper the better.
He released a groan into her mouth and wedged his knee between her long white legs. She shuddered at the contact, realizing how vulnerable she was. He slipped his hands under her bottom and molded her body to his, whispering, "That's better. Oh, God, Sydney," he said thickly. "I have to feel you against me. I can't get close enough."
They fit together so well. Sydney waited and wondered why she didn't give way to panic.
"Don't do that, Rylan," she whispered, twisting upward into him.
"Why not?" he said hoarsely.
"Because it feels too good."
He chuckled. "I know what feels even better."
"Rylan."
He moved his mouth down her arched throat to her breasts. He suckled on one nipple through her silk chemise, drawing the peak between his teeth. Sydney's breath caught on a sob. And when he began to move his mouth down to her belly to the cleft between her legs to taste her, she couldn't find the strength to breathe at all. She shook and felt sensations too intense to fight. She was powerless to stop him.
"Sydney?" He raised his face appealingly to hers. The raw sexuality in his deep blue eyes ravaged her to the core. He knew that she would let him do anything now he wished. "Isn't this nice?"
She stifled a whimper. She was trembling too much to talk, she could barely think, and her flesh was throbbing where his tongue had teased her. A door slammed downstairs. She could hear the Chynoweths in the kitchen, and Sydney knew that she would be a thoroughly ruined woman when she saw them again.
"Let me eat you, Sydney." His smile was both angelic and sinful. "Please."
She would probably faint of shame before the night ended… if she didn't faint of pleasure first.
She closed her eyes, groaning. "Go away, Rylan."
"I can't go away." He traced his forefinger down into the slit of her pantalettes, probing the folds of her flesh. His finger slid into her damp crevice. Her belly quivered in response. "This is my house."
"Then leave the room," she said, biting her lip to keep from whimpering again, which would only end up encouraging him.
"I can't do that either. I don't have anything on except my drawers. My housekeeper is a decent woman."
"So was I until I came here." She sat up with a moan of remorse. "And I'm an engaged woman. In fact, I'm still wearing Peter's ring—a priceless family heirloom."
Rylan reached up for her hand, lightly tugging at her finger. The ring came off. He flicked it in the air and it went flying out the window, landing with a loud plink in the rocks below. He grinned in surprise. "Oh, dear. Look what happened."
His arrogance amazed her. "That was my betrothal ring."
His white teeth nipped her thigh. His tongue quickly soothed the stinging bites he left behind. Sydney clutched his shoulders, pressing the soles of her feet into the bed. "The ring didn't fit you, or it wouldn't have come off like that," he said with a matter-of-fact smile. "Mine will be there to stay. Forever."
He lowered his head. Sydney's moan of self-pity was cut short by the muted clamor of bells ringing across the cliffs.
It was a frantic, wild sound, a warning in the wind.
"What is that?" she whispered.
Rylan looked up to the window, but he didn't loosen his possessive hold on her hips. His eyes were glazed with pleasure. His expression said he didn't give a damn what happened beyond this bed.
"Just another unwary outlander being led to ruination," he murmured, his mind on other, more interesting matters.
"Another shipwreck?" Sydney's eyes widened. "Aren't you going to take action?"
"I will if you'll hold still long enough."
She wriggled off the bed and ran to the window to look outside. Rylan sighed, reaching for the bottle of brandy. His body pulsated with arousal, but it looked as if he still had a little work to do before he wore down her defenses.
"It's too dark to see if there's a ship in distress," she said. She paused, deep in thought. She looked delicious with her long hair drying in serpentine curls over her scantily clad body. Rylan ground his teeth to keep from dragging her back on the bed. He could smell her on his skin and on his sheets.
She sighed. "I suppose the best thing to do is to be honest with Peter. I'll beg his forgiveness."
Rylan frowned, lowering the bottle from his mouth. The only begging she would do was to him, tonight. "Like hell you will. Do you really think that I brought you to my bed so that a snake could have you afterward? I don't even want to hear you say his name again."
She looked at him over her shoulder. "How did I get myself in this mess?"
"Come back to bed, Sydney," he said, rising to draw her back against his broad chest. He began to massage her neck with his hands. There was magic in his touch, and she responded to it.
"I'll join a nunnery," she thought aloud. "Do they take ruined Protestants into convents nowadays?"
He ran his bare foot up and down the inside of her calf. The friction made her feel faint. His long fingers circled her belly button, tickling her and teasing. Sydney couldn't hold out much longer.
She began to shake. The bells were pealing wildly now. She wondered if they were prophesying her downfall, which appeared to be imminent. "I'll throw myself at the Mother Superior's mercy. I'll say I was seduced by the devil—"
He walked her backward into the bed. She fell straight back and he followed, pinning her down beneath him. His eyes glittered in the dark, proclaiming victory.
"You'll have to put some clothes on first," he whispered, blowing in her ear. "You can't go to a nunnery naked."
Sydney blinked. "That's a good point."
Naked or not, she wasn't going anywhere at all, he thought arrogantly. But women needed soothing at a time like this. They needed gentling.
"Poor Sydney," he said. "I'll make everything all right. I'll take care of you."
She closed her eyes. They were both exhausted from fighting the storm.
Rylan glanced at the pendulum clock on the night-stand. Almost eleven. He doubted that the ghost-layers would meet tomorrow on the moor. The storm would probably keep them away.
The damn bells were still ringing, though. He frowned, watching the wind stir the curtains. He ought to investigate, but he couldn't tear himself away from the bed. He wouldn't leave until Sydney was bonded to him in every way, and she was so close to trusting him.
He lowered himself next to her and wrapped her securely in his arms. "You probably shouldn't touch me again," she whispered. "Not if I'm going to become a nun."
"You're not," he said, smiling at the thought.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Sydney gasped and opened her eyes in alarm. Rylan kept her locked firmly in place.
"My lord?" It was the housekeeper. "Is all well with you? Do you want tea and towels?"
"What do we do?" Sydney whispered.
"Pretend to be asleep." Rylan gave a loud unconvincing snore.
"This is so embarrassing," Sydney whispered, staring at the door.
There was a long pause.
"Shall I launder the clothes you dropped on the kitchen floor, my lord?" the housekeeper asked in a curt voice that told them she knew exactly what was going on in that room.
Sydney smothered a snort of laughter. "She knows," she whispered. "You'd better leave right now."
Rylan grinned, refusing to move. He was silent as the housekeeper finally walked away, obviously resigned to the situation.
Rylan didn't intend to leave, and he didn't want anybody to intrude on what he had just found. God help him, he wanted to keep Sydney to himself as long as he could.
This lonely, wind-swept cove was his retreat from the world. So was the woman who had been brought to him. He had everything he needed now to be happy.
For three more hours he was in heaven. He made love to Sydney with words and with his hands and mouth. He kissed every inch of her body until there wasn't a nerve ending beneath her skin that didn't respond to his sensual expertise.
He rubbed his unshaven cheeks across her breasts like a caress. He explored the secret places of her body without inhibition, preparing her for pleasure.
"I'll never be a nun now," Sydney said with a sigh.
"No." Rylan pinned her down and spread her legs wide, his own body so ready he hurt with it. "But you'll be my wife, and I'll take you naked and ruined any time you ask."
Then he lowered himself between her legs, and the matter was taken out of her hands. There was nothing but the power of his body and the sexual initiation he showed her. There was nothing but a rush of sweet pain as he embedded himself inside her, piercing so deeply that for a moment a red haze filled her mind and stole her breath. Then slowly it eased.
He kissed her face, murmuring tenderly. He laid his cheek against hers and told her how sorry he was that he'd hurt her. Then Sydney dared run her fingers up his chest, tracing the iron-hard muscles that tightened at her touch. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, moving inside her again, deep sensual strokes that pressed her into the bed. For a moment Sydney felt as if he would impale her with his shaft. He was big, and she felt herself stretching to accept him. Her back arched before she could stop the instinct. He raised his head, growling in approval, past listening to anything she might have said.
He slid his hands under her bottom, forcing their bodies even closer together. He ground his mouth down on hers and tasted the groan she gave. In a hazy corner of his brain he knew he must be hurting her again. But he couldn't control the pumping of his hips any more than he could control the waves that pounded the cove.
He was driven to possess her, and he'd never felt anything as good as her tight little body in his life. She was shaking and laughing and sobbing, but he didn't stop. He just moved slower. He sank inside and pulled away, setting a pattern that left her whimpering with pleasure. He teased her like this until she stiffened, and then convulsed in a climax that was the most sensual act Rylan had ever seen.
"Oh, my God, Sydney." He grinned in triumph; he felt every spasm that rocked her. Her response drew him over the edge; he too was falling, ready to explode. He was trembling and pushing inside her, not able to bury himself deep enough. He was thrusting and groaning like a man possessed.
His orgasm shook him to the core. He pumped and pumped, compelled by a force so powerful he knew he would frighten her. But it was Sydney who had unleashed the beautiful fury. It was sweet innocent Sydney who had shown him that every sexual encounter he'd ever experienced before had been a shadow, a charade, compared to this.
Sydney listened to the waves crashing outside the window. She heard the deep, satiated rhythm of Rylan's breathing. She felt the heavy warmth of his leg locked over hers. He didn't want her to forget, even in his sleep, that she belonged to him. Not that she could. There wasn't any inch of her body that didn't bear his brand.
The bells outside had just stopped ringing.
Some poor soul had probably been washed ashore to ruination.
And Sydney had just been rescued from marriage to a man she did not love and who, evidently, had never loved her.
She touched Rylan's face, snuggling against his muscular chest, her solace and seductor.
It had taken the first shipwreck to bring her to the man of her dreams.
The second shipwreck had brought her to her senses.
She hadn't been asleep for long, maybe only a few minutes, when Sydney heard a voice calling her name. She ignored it for as long as she could. Rylan had worn her out, and she did not want to move.
She opened her eyes, wondering drowsily if he were calling her in his sleep. His relaxed body imprisoned her: his huge leg was locked over her at the knee, his arms were hooked around her waist, and his chin rested on her shoulder. She shivered as she remembered how fiercely he had possessed her. She, who had never been touched by another man, had been taken from head to toe.
"Sydney!" the insistent voice called again. "Sydney, are you up there?"
It was Peter standing below the window. Sydney eased out of bed, full of dread, and hurried to look. He was standing between the rocks and boulders below, drenched to the teeth.
"Let me in the house, Sydney," he demanded when he saw her shocked face. "I have come to rescue you."
"Oh, dear." She glanced in trepidation at Rylan stirring in the bed. "Can you come back in a few hours, Peter?" she whispered. "It's the middle of the night."
"Come back?" he said indignantly. "Audrey has told me everything. I'm not going to leave you in this den of vice another minute. Meet me at the door, Sydney."
"Keep your voice down, Peter. You'll disturb his lordship's hounds."
Rylan sat up, rubbing his eyes. For a moment Sydney was distracted by the sight of him, a big sensual beast who had made her his own a short while ago. A frisson of desire went through her, disturbing in its power. She remembered the way she had responded to him during the night. The way she responded now as his gaze traveled over her body in patent ownership. She quivered, aware of the sweet throbbing between her thighs, evidence of his possession.
"I love you so much," he said with his irresistible grin. "Come back to bed. I'm missing you."
"Sydney," Peter whispered through his teeth. "Get down here now."
"Just a bloody minute," she said, turning back to the window.
Rylan raised a dark eyebrow. "Cranky, aren't we? Come back to bed and eat some apple pie. You're going to need your strength for what I have in mind."
The sheet slipped off his shoulder, revealing a sinewy torso of steel. He gave her a heavy-lidded look. Sydney caught her breath, seduced by the primal desire in his eyes. The man had far too much power over her. But she would learn, she vowed. She would make him plead for her touch, too.
"I'll feed you, Sydney," he said in a husky voice.
"Are you coming or not?" Peter hissed.
She swallowed a groan. "I have to put on my robe first."
Rylan gave a chuckle. "What for? And why are you shouting, Sydney? You'll have the Chynoweths pounding at the door to rescue you."
Sydney looked down at Peter again.
He was hugging himself in the wind. His face looked blue. She could practically see icicles forming on his ears. "S-S-Sydney."
She shut the window and approached the bed. "Rylan, what would you do if Peter showed up on the doorstep and demanded I go away with him?"
He took a deep swallow of brandy. His eyes gleamed with anger. "Kill him on the spot."
She nodded slowly. "That's what I thought. Rylan, I'm going to run downstairs for a few minutes."
He hooked his fist around her knee and drew her to the bed. "Why?"
"To—to get plates for the pie."
He pulled her onto her knees beside him. He ran his callused fingertips up and down her spine. Sydney drew a breath, shaking with desire. "I don't know if I can stand being away from you that long," he whispered in her ear.
A pebble bounced off the windowsill. Rylan glanced up, his eyes narrowed.
"Listen to that wind." Sydney slid off the bed and grabbed her dressing robe before she could succumb to him again. "Wait here."
He stretched back on the bed like a muscular animal awaiting its prey. "I don't have anything to wear except my drawers. Bring some clothes from my room on your way back, Sydney. And hurry. I want you back soon."
She threw on her robe and rushed downstairs. Frankenstein greeted her at the bottom of the stairs, tail thumping in recognition. The animal, accustomed to its master's nocturnal ramblings, obviously thought they were going to have an adventure.
The dog's friendly demeanor turned to one of aggression, however, when Sydney opened the door to let Peter in from the cold.
He pushed around her with impatience, going straight to the port decanter on the sideboard. His straight blond hair was slicked back from his scalp. His frock coat and tweed trousers were sodden and clinging limply to his lanky frame.
"How did you get here?" Sydney whispered.
"In my yacht." He looked at her, his mouth pinched white. "Which ran aground, I suspect, in the same cove as Jeremy's. I swear I was lured there by a fiendish blue light. This is the devil's own cove."
Sydney couldn't suppress a shiver. "Didn't you hear the bells warning you away?"
"What bells?"
He took two drinks before he could control himself. Then he turned to her, frowning in surprise. "Why aren't you dressed?" He eyed her in suspicion. "You look like a harlot with your hair like that, as if a bird were making a nest on your head."
"It's two o'clock in the morning," she said, her heartbeat loud and uneven.
"Another night in this house." He cursed. "How could you be so stupid, Sydney?"
Sydney frowned. "Lower your voice."
"The hell I will."
"You'll be sorry if you bring his lordship downstairs," she said. "He's… a very physical man."
"A physical man, is he?" Peter lowered his glass. He looked her up and down again. "How do you know what kind of man he is?"
Sydney pulled her dressing robe together. Frankenstein was eyeing Peter like a Sunday pork roast. "Don't use that tone of voice, Peter. You're getting on the dog's bad side. He doesn't much like people."
"Damn the dog," Peter said.
"Sydney?" Rylan's deep voice rumbled from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you so long? Are you all right? It's lonely up here without you."
Peter stared at the opened door in shock. "Oh, my God. Audrey was right. You've been ruined, haven't you?"
Sydney reached down to grab hold of Frankenstein. "Yes, Peter, it's true," she said. "I've been ruined. Only a short while ago, actually. It was a lovely experience, and I don't regret it. Your timing is terrible."
Peter swore at the top of his lungs. He came up to Sydney and gripped her chin between his fingers. "I should have known not to look for a bride in the gutter. You're practically a peasant—a professor's brat, a nobody." He pushed her away, breathing hard. Sydney thought he actually looked hurt by her betrayal, as if the cad hadn't deserved it.
"A peasant?" She was incensed at this insult to her respectable background and her hard-working father, who had always warned her Peter was no good. She let go of Frankenstein and folded her arms in satisfaction as the dog bounded forward to bite Peter on the ankle. He hopped backward into the sideboard and knocked over the crystal decanter.
The glass shattered on the polished wooden floor, and port spread in a puddle. Frankenstein lunged in the air and leapt onto Peter's chest, shoving him into the sofa.
Pinned to the cushions by the massive dog, Peter let out an unearthly yell.
"Shut up, Peter," Sydney said. She couldn't imagine how terrible it would be if he refused to leave. "You're frightening Frankenstein."
Peter made a strangled noise in his throat. "Frankenstein?"
Sydney hauled the dog off the sofa. "He was only trying to protect me."
An angry male voice joined the conversation. "He was doing what he was trained to do."
Sydney spun around, still holding the hound by the scruff of the neck. Peter struggled to rise from the sofa. Frankenstein's tail wagged like a windmill.
Rylan stood in the darkness of the doorway, looking as intimidating as a man can look when he's wearing only a pair of drawers and holding an apple pie. Fury cut deep lines in his face.
Peter stood up slowly, straightening his trousers. "DeWilde. I see you haven't changed your habits at all."
Rylan glanced at Sydney. "Neither have you. You're still the same snake you always were."
"And you're as debauched as ever," Peter said in a contemptuous voice. "Living in this grave of a house, writing about demons and ghosts." He stared at Sydney. "Ruining young women. My friends warned me not to marry beneath my class, but I suppose I had to witness it with my own eyes. Only a whore would have let this happen. I can't blame it all on you, DeWilde, as much as I'd like to."
Rylan strode up to the sideboard. "If you say another word about Sydney, I'll break your jaw. I've told her what I know about your late-night vices."
"What has he told you, Sydney?" Peter demanded.
She drew a breath. "He said you're a snake and… that you take women home in your carriage."
Peter managed a smile. "Champion of lurid literature and fallen women. What a calling." He turned to Sydney. "And you believe him. How could you do this to me? You didn't exist until I found you."
"Peter." She faced him squarely. "You were always trying to improve me, to change my clothes and the way I behave. I was never good enough for you—"
"You're more than good enough for me," Rylan interrupted.
"Thank you for that," she said. "Now be quiet, Rylan. I want to tell Peter what I think."
"How could you do this to me?" Peter said again, sounding really baffled. "How could you give up a man like me for someone who makes a career of creating ghouls and monsters? He's so… different."
"I know about you and your paramour Lady Penelope," Sydney said with a hurt dignity that Rylan couldn't help but admire. "You are a liar and a philanderer, Peter."
Peter glared at Rylan. "You told her this?"
"No." Rylan's eyes narrowed. "But if I'd known, I probably would have. She deserves the truth. She deserves to know what a snake you are."
Peter grabbed Sydney's hand, examining her bare fingers. "What happened to my betrothal ring?"
"Well, I—"
"I threw it out the window," Rylan said.
"The window?" Peter said in horror. "You threw my great-grandmam's heirloom out the window?"
"When Sydney and I were in bed," Rylan said, pulling her hand away from Peter. "It was getting on my nerves when I was trying to—"
Sydney dapped her hand across his mouth before he could finish.
"I've had enough of you, DeWilde." Peter began to circle him.
Rylan began to circle too, Sydney caught in the middle. "Snake," Rylan said. He made a hissing sound. He wiggled his hand up and down. "Serpent. Asp. Adder. Viper. Cobra."
"Python," Sydney added.
Rylan grinned at her. "Thank you."
"I belong here," Sydney said to Peter, who wasn't listening at all. "I was shipwrecked that night for—oh, golly, you're not going to fight over me, are you?"
Peter threw the first punch.
Sydney ducked.
Then Rylan threw the pie.
Sydney had never seen two grown men fight before. She expected it at least to begin on a note of chivalry, but this was an embarrassing spectacle, not at all romantic like knights jousting in a tournament over a lady's honor.
It was more like two bears wrestling in the woods. They grunted like gladiators. They called each other dreadful names. They swung and missed, knocking into furniture. Rylan practically pushed her across the room to clear the field. Then he went into action, his sculpted body moving with raw power. Sydney had never seen such a display of strength.
She caught a Wedgwood plate that bounced off the bookshelf. Mrs. Chynoweth, running in to investigate the noise, rescued an inkpot before it ruined the carpet.
Sydney was reluctant to break up the fight. She didn't want to ruffle Rylan's pride, and, more important, she didn't want to get hurt by a flying fist.
They were destroying the room, though. Rather, Rylan was destroying the room, using Peter's head and shoulders like a plough. She winced as Peter crashed into the card table, staggering around to swing at the air where Rylan had stood seconds before.
Mrs. Chynoweth watched in dismay, but she didn't interfere either. Broken furniture was a small price to pay for his lordship's happiness. The housekeeper worried that he spent too much time chasing ghosts and ghouls. In her opinion he should be chasing his own children and telling bedtime stories.
A wife would bring balance to his life. A wife would keep him home at night performing husbandly duties, instead of his dangerous midnight investigations on the moor. Mrs. Chynoweth firmly believed that the dead should be left alone.
"Smack him a good one, my lord," she shouted, banging her fist into her palm.
Sydney looked at her in disbelief.
It didn't take Rylan long to emerge as conqueror. He'd wanted to impress Sydney with his strength, and it would have been too easy to knock Peter out cold with the first punch. He'd needed an outlet for his anger, and Peter's face served that purpose well.
Sydney didn't look all that impressed. Rylan wondered if it had something to do with the fact that he was wearing only his drawers. It tended to put the situation in a peculiar perspective.
"Did you kill him?" she asked anxiously, peering down at Peter.
Peter grunted, spread out flat on the carpet.
"I guess not," Rylan said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.
He started to look for the port decanter, but stopped as someone pounded loudly at the door. The sound echoed in the silence.
"Who the hell—"
A few seconds later Mrs. Chynoweth ushered a dozen or so of St. Kilmerryn's populace into the darkened drawing room. The housekeeper lit a lamp, and a rosy-gold glow illuminated the battle scene.
"Who are these people?" Sydney whispered in bewilderment, backing into Rylan, whose arms shot out to engulf her without hesitation.
"That's the Reverend Ellis, miss," Mrs. Chynoweth said. "That's Lewis, the stonecutter, and—"
"What is everyone doing in my house at this hour of the morning?" Rylan demanded.
The Reverend Ellis cleared his throat. "What are you doing entertaining company in your drawers, my lord?"
" 'Tis Samhain morn, my lord," Lewis said, taking a seat on the crowded sofa. "You were to lead the expedition to exorcise the warlord's troubled ghost from its grave."
"Samhain," Rylan said. "I thought the storm would keep everyone in bed."
Which was where he certainly had wanted to be.
Mrs. Chynoweth twisted her hands together. "Surely you'll not pursue this folly now that you and Miss Windsor are—"
"—engaged to be married," the Reverend said forcefully. "I'll be performing a November wedding, I see."
The housekeeper turned to Sydney. "Please tell his lordship to abandon this dangerous plan to release the warlord's spirit."
"The warlord?" Sydney asked. "Are you talking about the Blue Knight?"
Lord Tregarron answered her question from the sofa. "Yes, miss. The medieval warlord who watched from the cliffs for the princess who never arrived."
"Her ship was lost at sea," Lewis added, settling his grubby self into the cushions.
Mrs. Chynoweth gave a sigh. "The lady was the love of his life."
"How sad," Sydney said. "What happened to him?"
"He locked himself up in the castle that used to stand on this very cliff," Lewis said. "He brought all manner of wizards and witches from Wales and Scotland to bring her back. He cast spells in the cove to summon her from her watery grave."
Mr. Chynoweth snorted. "A loose screw, I say."
"Why don't you let the poor man rest in peace?" Sydney asked Rylan.
"He isn't in peace," the Reverend said. "His soul is in torment."
Rylan shook his head. "This isn't my idea. I'm just going along to witness a supernatural event for research purposes. I neither believe nor disbelieve in these things."
"The warlord's spirit is caught between two worlds," Lewis explained. "He's haunting the cove and causing all these accidents at sea. Seven people have died so far this year."
Peter sat up, cradling his jaw. "Oh, God," he said. "I'm mortally wounded."
"Who are you?" Lewis asked in astonishment.
Peter wiped a wedge of pie off his face. "The Duke of Esterfield."
Lewis snorted. "And I'm the Queen of England."
Sydney leaned down to whisper to Peter when Rylan wasn't looking. "If I were you, I'd stay out of Rylan's way. There's no telling what he'll do once he gets his clothes on."
"Where will I go?" Peter asked in bewilderment.
"I don't really know," she whispered. "I don't think I care, either."
Mrs. Chynoweth began to bustle around the room, assessing the damage. She looked up as Sydney offered to help her.
"I feel responsible for the fight, Mrs. Chynoweth."
"Bless you, miss." The housekeeper lowered her voice. "But I'll clean up in here. You just take care of his lordship. Persuade him to stay home. 'Tis dangerous to one's soul to be in a graveyard at cockcrow. Use your influence to keep him safe."
Sydney didn't say anything to this suggestion. She simply slipped out of the room when the housekeeper wasn't looking. Peter had taken her advice to escape, and all she could say was good riddance to the snake. Rylan had already rushed upstairs to his room to dress in something more suitable for a ghost-laying.
Sydney had the same idea. She yanked on her rose woolen gown and jacket. She jammed on her half boots. She wasn't going to miss a supernatural event for anything in the world.
Besides, she felt an inexplicable empathy for the poor warlord who had grieved to death for the woman who'd almost been his wife.
Sydney didn't know why, but she had to be present when his soul was given release. Her engagement to Peter was a thing of the past, and she felt free to do something dangerous if she liked. She wasn't going to be a duchess, and if she wanted to lay a spirit, that was her affair and no one else's.
The ghost-laying party walked by the light of tin lanterns across the treeless moor in the eerie aftermath of the storm. Sydney rode the Reverend's pony, imagining that someone—something—was observing their every move. The hair on her nape prickled, and she sensed a restless energy in the air. Her knee barely hurt, and she kept her attention focused on Rylan standing beside her.
It was dark, and the wind whistled around the stone circle they passed. They trampled over dead cotton grass and gorse. The villagers walked in a solemn group. No one uttered a word.
This was dangerous business, this disturbing the dead, and Sydney was in the center of it. She sensed she was going to play an important part.
At the top of Holy Hill was the chambered burial cairn which, legend said, contained the remains of the lonely warlord. Because it was believed he'd been possessed by demons at the time of his death, he'd been denied a resting place in the churchyard.
He'd lived such a long time ago, and he'd slain giants to please the king, but his own people had buried him in this prehistoric place. No wonder he couldn't find peace.
No one had ever been able to stand for more than three seconds on the rocking stone that guarded his grave. Children and daring young people had tried over the centuries, only to be thrown off balance to the ground. It was as if a malevolent spirit resided within the lichen-covered granite. A few victims swore they'd felt a powerful hand push them away.
Yet when Sydney stepped upon it, the rocking stone remained still.
"Dear lady," the Reverend said in alarm. "Pray come down off that devilish contraption."
Sydney tossed back her hair. She didn't feel the least twinge of fear, but something compelled her toward the chambered burial cairn. She had to get inside. A power stronger than common sense called her.
"What are we going to do?" she shouted down to the others.
Rylan took out his pen and notebook, standing apart from the others in his black cape with the heavy dog at his side. He was the largest man in the group.
"Come down, Sydney," he said, frowning up at her. "You're going to fall."
The villagers crowded in a nervous circle around the hill, watching the sky for the first glimmer of dawn. A farmer's wife had brought a phial of water all the way from a holy well in Ireland. The church bell ringer had carried a large silver bell, presumably to ring at the ghost. An old man crossed himself. Rylan recorded every detail.
"Come down, Sydney," he said again, his frown deepening.
She shook her head. "I don't want them to hurt him."
"Don't be silly," he said. "He's a ghost. He can't be hurt. He's already dead."
She sighed. The wind stirred her hair into her face, and her skirts whipped around her ankles. A tingle of foreboding crept down her spine. The burial cairn beckoned her.
"I think someone should warn him," she said. "Poor ghost."
"For heaven's sake, Sydney." Rylan started to climb up after her, looking annoyed. "You've been reading too many of my novels."
"I wouldn't go any nearer that burial chamber," the young minister said in panic. "The creature might turn violent if you block his return to the grave. He might take it on himself to possess your body."
Rylan raised a brow at the thought of a warlord possessing Sydney's body. It would make her an interesting wife and bedmate.
He put away his pen and notebook. "Sydney, you're going to falL Come down this instant."
"I can't," she said. "He wants me."
"I want you, too," he said sternly, irritated by the distant look in her eye.
"Well, you can have me," she called down. "Later."
He started after her. Sydney threw him a grin and disappeared down into the tunnel that twisted into the underground cairn.
The stone rocked crazily when Rylan stepped on it, but he jumped down after Sydney, dropping into a dark vault that smelled of earth and mold. He didn't know what had gotten into her, but all of a sudden, he was frightened and—well, hell, he was jealous, although he didn't know why.
"Sydney?"
He followed her down into a hidden chamber. In the false twilight he saw her standing before a huge stone block that barred further exploration. The tomb of the warlord was believed to lie beyond this closed door. It had been sealed for centuries.
A series of loud thuds sounded behind him. Lewis and the Reverend had braved the rocking stone to join them. The two men landed only inches behind him in the musty crevice between the burrows. Sydney was standing a few feet in front of them, the strangest look on her face.
"This is as far as anyone has ever gone," Lewis said, out of breath and rising stiffly. "That block wouldn't budge for the Lord Himself."
"Move aside, Sydney," Rylan said, eyeing her warily as he approached the cairn. "You'll not want to get bumped when we break into the tomb. This is men's work."
He braced his shoulder on the sealed block and shoved with all his might. The two other men added their support. The block didn't give an inch, men or not.
"Well, that's it, then," the Reverend said, sounding relieved. "I'll sprinkle the holy water here and hold the ritual on the hill. 'Tis almost cockcrow. Hurry, my lord. If we fail, we must endure another year of the warlord's wrath."
"Come on, Sydney," Rylan said, reaching for her hand. "The so-called Hour of Demons is here."
"Demons," she said to herself. "He wasn't a demon at all."
The Reverend climbed back up the stony crevice and began reciting in Latin from the top of the hill. His voice sent a hollow echo through the cairn. Sydney was staring at the sealed block of stone.
"We're going to miss it," Rylan said, curious despite himself. "Let's climb out."
"I'll be right there," she said.
She wasn't though. The moment Rylan left, she touched the stone block that barred the way into the cairn. A jolt of electricity shot through her arm. The block swung open beneath her tingling fingers, and the stone suddenly heated to such a degree that she pulled her hand back in reaction. She stared in awe into the black musty tumulus.
"Rylan," she said in a low voice.
He looked back over his shoulder, halfway up the stones that led outside. The Reverend's voice boomed like a thunderbolt. The wind blew through the standing stones above like a warning. A strange tension vibrated in the air.
He saw her standing at the entrance to the tomb, and for an instant he felt the invisible power that pulled her inside. His fear returned in force. Something was taking her from him. The warlord, or whatever lived inside that grave.
"Sydney," he shouted. "Don't go in there."
The Reverend's voice rose into the wind. Daybreak loomed a breath away. Some of the villagers raised their clubs and pitchforks to protect themselves against the ghost who would be forced to return to his grave.
"Don't be silly," Sydney said. "I just want to look."
He jumped down to stop her, but he was too late. She had stepped into the shadowed chamber. Whatever waited for her in that darkness was claiming her, and Rylan couldn't reach her.
The Reverend's voice grew louder. "In the name of the Father and of the Son…"
The earth rumbled for endless seconds. The sky took on an unearthly burgundy-gold glow. The wind rose to a howl. Somewhere outside a woman fainted, and everyone was convinced that Good and Evil were battling for a soul, with the outcome undecided.
"Satan, be gone from this man and let his tormented spirit rest!" the Reverend said in a trembling voice.
"Lord be with us!" Lewis shouted in fright.
Rylan scrambled down the dirt and rocks and reached the stone block just as it swung shut on Sydney. He caught a breath of the air within, stale and redolent of decay. He saw her standing in the tumulus with a smile on her face before darkness claimed her. It was the smile of a woman who was asking for trouble.
"No," he shouted, throwing his whole weight into the block. "No."
Sydney was surprised at how bright it was inside the burial chamber. She'd heard the block swing shut behind her. Yet she wasn't frightened. Her heart was beating rapidly, though. She thought it was more from anticipation than fear.
She wasn't frightened even when the figure of the ancient knight materialized out of the brightness, outlined in blue radiance. She had known he was waiting for her, that he had saved her during the shipwreck. She'd wanted to thank him.
He was handsome, she thought. He reminded her of Rylan with his long black hair and powerful warrior's build. He wore a blue tunic that buckled at the shoulder with a scrolled brooch. Yet his smile was infinitely sad, full of centuries' worth of sadness.
"Are you the Blue Knight?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "Aye, lady, that I am, to my eternal sorrow."
"They're trying to send you away," she whispered. "They mean well. They want to release your spirit."
He heaved a weary sigh. The light of his presence grew fainter, like a candle at its end. " 'Tis time. I am truly ready to find rest."
The stone block groaned open behind Sydney. Rylan burst into the chamber, looking from Sydney to the apparition in disbelief. He didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't this. He was excited and on edge, and somewhere deep inside he sensed that he never would have been allowed to witness this phenomenon if not for Sydney.
"Who—"
The Blue Knight held out a circlet of hammered gold to Sydney. " 'Tis for you, lady, blessed by the magician Merlin himself. Wear it as you wish. I have kept it hidden all these years for my bride."
Rylan moved protectively in front of Sydney and took the piece of jewelry from the ghost's gauntleted hand.
"Say 'thank you' to him," Sydney prompted him.
Rylan stared at the Celtic torque he held. "Thank you." He glanced up, suddenly feeling the creature's torment and wishing he didn't because he was never going to look at anything in the same way after this. "We meant you no harm."
"Nor did I mean harm," the Blue Knight said. "But I have caused trouble with my torment. Tis time to go."
He faded before their eyes until only a faint blue glow illuminated the cairn.
"Wait," Rylan said, seeing the chance of a lifetime disappear before his eyes. This was the kind of thing he wrote about, and now he realized he really didn't understand the supernatural at all. He'd only scratched the surface. "Wait. I want to know so many things about dying and the spirits—"
"I brought her to you, friend." The low melancholy voice sounded weak. "Cherish her. And you, lady," he said to Sydney, "pray for my soul."
Only Lewis and the young Reverend had been brave enough to remain on the hill while the earth shook and the sky took on an unholy hue. The others had scattered across the moor, not willing to come face to face with a genuine ghost. What had seemed exciting in theory was damned frightening in fact.
A peaceful light rose over the hill. The wind had died.
Rylan helped Sydney climb out of the cairn, his hand grasping hers so hard her fingers went numb.
"It is done," the Reverend said in an unsteady voice.
Lewis pulled out a flask of gin and offered it all around. Only Sydney accepted. " 'Twas the finest ghost-laying I've seen in all my days," he said with a pleased grin.
Rylan stood alone with Sydney on the hill for a few minutes after that. He examined the torque in the light.
"It has a Latin inscription," he said, rubbing his thumb across the tarnish.
Sydney peered over his shoulder. "'Vivit post funera amor.'"
"Love lives beyond the grave." Rylan frowned. "I am jealous of a ghost," he said, "and grateful to him at the same time. If that shipwreck hadn't brought you to me, Sydney, I might as well have been buried in that cairn beside him."
Tears stung Sydney's eyes. She knelt, burying her face in Frankenstein's neck. She wasn't the weepy sort at all, but she felt a deep sense of relief and renewed faith.
Rylan knelt beside her and touched her cheek. "Can I take you home now?"
Rylan and Sydney were married three weeks later in the tiny chapel of St. Kilmerryn by the sea.
Church bells rangout across the misty cove, but not in warning this time. They pealed in celebration.
The villagers watched the newlywed couple in awe. By now word of the ghost-laying on the moor had reached as far as Penzance. If Rylan had stirred up a little gossip in the sleepy parish before, he was a full-fledged scandal now.
So was Sydney. The difference between her and her husband, though, was that everybody liked her. They respected Rylan—he had friends—but most people tended to keep a polite distance from the big man with his devil dog.
Sydney had a surprise for her husband on their wedding night. She wore the Celtic torque around her throat, and nothing else. Rylan nearly fell out of bed when she appeared before him. He had never seen such an enticing sight in his life. His dark gaze examined her with a thoroughness that made her turn pink. From her sweet face to the tips of her toes, he studied her in possessive appreciation.
He unfolded his big frame to close the window on the foggy November night. He kept one eye on his wife the whole time. Her long hair tumbled over her full breasts and back. She looked like a pagan Venus, washed up from the sea for his pleasure alone.
"Don't close the window all the way," Sydney said. "I like to hear the waves when I fall asleep."
Rylan grinned, pulling off his shirt. "Who said anything about sleeping?"
Sydney sighed in anticipation as his strong arms locked around her. She couldn't wait to make love with him again. She was really trying to control herself. Perhaps it was the torque she wore. It must be giving her pagan urgings. She had the most powerful desire to explore Rylan's body. A mischievous smile lit her face.
"That smile is going to get you into trouble, Lady DeWilde," Rylan said. "It's too alluring by half."
He pulled her into bed beside him. They cuddled for a few minutes. Then Rylan kissed her, and once that happened, Sydney no longer had any control of the situation.
She was his.
And he was hers.
Her fragrance was the strongest aphrodisiac Rylan had ever known. It drugged his senses. He ran his hands over her body, unable to believe she belonged to him. But she did. Her soft breasts overflowed his palms. The gold circlet at her throat made her look pagan and ripe with sexual power.
He couldn't wait to get her pregnant. A hot rush of blood surged through him at the thought of her slender belly swelling with his child.
"How sweet you are, Sydney." He nuzzled her shoulder. He slipped his fingers between her legs, probing gently. "How wet and warm in there. I want to be inside you."
Sydney closed her eyes, trying not to gasp. The sensations he aroused made her shudder. She twined her arms around his neck and bit his shoulder. The torque was making her wild. She bit him again.
"God," he said, laughing. "That hurt." He played with her in utter enjoyment, groaning as her excitement grew. He teased her until he was shaking as badly as Sydney. His jaw clenched, he straddled her and thrust inside, sheathing himself in the depths of her body.
Sydney's heart pounded in her chest. She grabbed his shoulders and held on for dear life, lifting herself to meet his erotic thrusts. He braced his hands under her hips as if he couldn't get deep enough inside her. She groaned in satisfaction as he penetrated her to the hilt, driving inside her until neither of them could repeat their own names if asked to do so.
He taught her so much that night. He taught her that love between a man and a woman was a more precious intimacy than she'd ever imagined possible. He was both tender and demanding in bed. She was so glad he'd ruined her.
"Rylan, hold still," she whispered, scooting back against the pillow later that night. "There's something in your hair."
"Lord," he said. "A bug. I'll bet I caught it from Peter."
"No. Not a bug. Snakes don't have bugs, do they? It's a silver hair."
"No wonder." He grunted. "I aged ten years when you vanished into that tomb. Why did you do that to me?"
"I had fun," Sydney said, yanking the shining hair out by the roots.
"Ouch." He sat up, rubbing his head.
"It was rather cruel of you to make Peter walk all the way across the moor to the next village, Rylan," she said, glancing at the window.
He grunted again. "It was kind of me not to kill him."
"I'm sending another letter off in the morning to my parents," she said thoughtfully.
"Do you think they'll like me?" he asked.
"I don't know." She paused. "I have to admit that Papa thinks the books you write are devoid of literary merit. I believe he said you were morally reprehensible."
Rylan scowled at that.
"But Mama thinks you're brilliant, and so do Aunt Agatha and her six children. Did I mention that I want to invite them all to come for Christmas? My grandparents will probably come, too." She ran her fingers through his hair. "No more strands of silver."
Rylan sighed. "Look again after I meet your father."
Sydney knew then why she'd fallen in love with Rylan. It didn't have as much to do with his sinful beauty (although that didn't hurt) or his fame as it did with the kind of man he was.
He was the kind of man who cared about her so much he'd grow a gray hair over worrying if her father would hate him. He was the kind of man who'd rescue and ruin her in the same night.
Dangerous and dependable. She couldn't ask for more.
Over the years, their romance became a legend. Mrs. Chynoweth never tired of retelling their tale, even when she reached her retirement, and she would sit at the coal fire with his lordship's children and the family's dogs, descended from Frankenstein. The four little DeWildes loved hearing about their beginnings, about how Mama had been shipwrecked, not once but twice, and how Papa had rescued her.
"Such a story could only have come true in Cornwall," Mrs. Chynoweth would always conclude, sitting back in her chair. " Tis the land of King Arthur and all manner of mystical things, and there's nowhere like it in the entire world."
Rylan never wrote about his strange experience with Sydney in the warlord's burial chamber. It was too personal to share with anyone else. As time passed, all he could remember of the Blue Knight was his advice.
"Cherish her."
Which Rylan did, with all his being, and the family of three sons and a daughter she gave him. He loved them more every day, and his life was full of simple pleasures and the usual little struggles.
They never saw the ghost again, although Sydney and her children remembered him every night in their prayers. There was never another shipwreck on St. Kilmerryn's shores, not even during the worst storms. Sailors marveled at how they were guided around the rocks to safety as if by an unseen hand. An aura of peace and protection encircled the brooding house on the cliffs.
The same people who once whispered that the cove was haunted now smiled and said it was enchanted.