Devil's Bride by Stephanie Laurens

as an adjutant. They’d seen death many times; familiarity didn’t soften the blow. In a voice devoid of emotion, Devil recounted all he knew. He related Tolly’s last words; Charles, his expression blank, hung on every syllable. Then came a long silence; in the bright light spilling through the open door, Tolly’s corpse looked even more obscenely wrong than it had the night before.
    â€œMy God. Tolly !” Charles’s words were broken. His features crumpled. Covering his face with one hand, he sank to the edge of the pallet.
    Devil clenched his jaw, his fists. Death no longer possessed the power to shock him. Grief remained, but that he would handle privately. He was the head of his family—his first duty was to lead. They’d expect it of him—he expected it of himself. And he had Honoria Prudence to protect.
    The thought anchored him, helping him pull free of the vortex of grief that dragged at his mind. He hauled in a deep breath, then quietly stepped back, retreating to the clear space before the hearth.
    A few minutes later, Vane joined him; he glanced through the open door. “She found him?”
    Devil nodded. “Thankfully, she’s not the hysterical sort.” They spoke quietly, their tones subdued. Glancing at the bed, Devil frowned. “What’s Charles doing here?”
    â€œHe was at the Place when I arrived. Says he chased Tolly up here over some business matter. He called at Tolly’s rooms—Old Mick told him Tolly had left for here.”
    Devil grimaced. “I suppose it’s as well that he’s here.”
    Vane was studying his bare chest. “Where’s your shirt?”
    â€œIt’s the bandage.” After a moment, Devil sighed and straightened. “I’ll take Miss Anstruther-Wetherby to the Place and send a cart.”
    â€œAnd I’ll stay and watch over the body.” A fleeting smile touched Vane’s lips.
    â€œYou always get the best roles.”
    Devil’s answering smile was equally brief. “This one comes with a ball and chain.”
    Vane’s eyes locked on his. “You’re serious?”
    â€œNever more so.” Devil glanced at the pallet. “Keep an eye on Charles.”
    Vane nodded.
    The sunshine outside nearly blinded him. Devil blinked and squinted at the log. It was empty. He cursed and looked again—a terrible thought occurred. What if she’d tried to take Sulieman?
    His reaction was instantaneous—the rush of blood, the sudden pounding of his heart. His muscles had already tensed to send him racing to the stable when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
    She hadn’t gone to the stable. Eyes adjusting to the glare, Devil watched her pace back and forth, a few steps to the side of the log. Her dun-colored gown had blended with the boles of the trees, momentarily camouflaging her. His panic subsiding, he focused his gaze.
    Honoria felt it—she looked up and saw him, bare-chested still, the very image of a buccaneer, watching her, unmoving, irritation in every line. Their gazes locked—a second later, she broke the contact. Nose in the air, she stepped gracefully to her right—and sat primly on the log.
    He waited, sharp green gaze steady, then, apparently sat-isfied that she’d remain where she’d been put, he headed for the stable.
    Honoria ground her teeth, and told herself that he didn’t matter. He was an expert in manipulation—and in intimidation—but why should that bother her? She would go to this Place of his, wait for her boxes, and then be on her way. She could spend the time meeting the Dowager Duchess.
    At least she’d solved one part of the mystery plaguing her—she’d met her elusive duke. The image she’d carried for the past three days—the image Lady Claypole had painted—of a mild, unassuming, reclusive peer, rose in her mind. The image didn’t fit the reality—the duke called