A Lady of His Own

CHAPTER 17

CHARLES HAD TO BE CONTENT WITH THAT. ASIDE FROM ANYthing else, Nicholas was exhausted and needed to rest.

Returning with Penny to her room, he checked that no villain was lurking, then locked her in and went to check on his patrols. All was quiet, yet the silence was rife with anxiety. After chatting to the four men presently on watch, he slipped back into Penny’s room, stripped, and slid under the covers.

She turned to him and tugged him close. He went, found her lips with his, kissed. Grumbled, “What is the matter with your family? It’s never your story, and you all want twenty-four damned hours…”

Penny looked into his dark eyes, softly smiled. “It’s not us-it’s you. It’s obvious that once we tell you, all control will be out of our hands.”

He humphed, and kissed her again.

She let him, met him, then encouraged him. Not just invited but dared him to take her, to give himself, let her give back to him and so reassure them both. To touch again and share the comfort they now found in each other, through the physical to reach further once again, onto that other plane.

Responding, accepting, he rose over her, pressed her thighs wide, sank between, and with one powerful stroke sheathed himself in her softness, joined them, and set them careening on their now familiar wild ride. She gasped, clung, and rode with him, absorbed, drawn wholly into the moment, yet dimly aware of the contradiction between his nature and his behavior with her.

He never pushed, cajoled, pressured; he never had. In this arena, he’d always been the supplicant, and she his…not mistress, but perhaps empress, dispensing her favors as she chose. As she decided and deemed him worthy.

And he’d never once argued with that. Never once sought to change their status quo, to demand or simply seize control and take.

A wall of flames rose before them, a surging, greedy conflagration; they plunged into it, rode through it, fell into it. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they let the fire have them, consume them, weld them, leaving them at the last clinging to the edge of the world. Gasping, shuddering, gazes meeting, locking, holding…

Then that too-brief instant of absolute communion faded; lids falling, all tension released, they tumbled headlong into the void.

They settled to sleep, him sprawled beside her, one arm slung possessively over her waist. Her thoughts circled, spiraling down, yet despite her languid state, they didn’t stop.

His breathing deepened and slid into the cadence of sleep.

Her mind continued to drift.

His willingness to cede the reins to her, to allow her to dictate their play, continued to nag, to register as, if not suspicious, then certainly significant, but in what way she couldn’t tell. She’d already asked him why. He’d replied with words she’d interpreted as a challenge: Whatever you wish, however you wish. I’m yours. Take me.

She mentally paused, through half-closed eyes stared unseeing into the darkness as she replayed those words in her mind. What if they hadn’t been a challenge, but instead an honest reply?

Her instinctive reaction was to scoff, but she could hear his voice in her head; he hadn’t spoken lightly. What if…?

The possibility shook her, tightened her nerves, sharpened her wits. Her mind whirled and drew another puzzle piece into her mental picture.

The link that had opened between them, that emotional communion that had somehow become an integral part of their joining, was still there, consistently there, and very real. She’d been stunned initially, shocked that he of all men would reveal so much of himself in such a way. That first moment, so intense, had taken her aback, left her momentarily uncertain. Now, however…she needed and wanted to learn more, to explore that connection and see where it led, learn what it meant.

He wanted her, not just physically but on some deeper, more emotion-laden level. That was what that connection, by its very existence, conveyed; she’d seen the yearning, the longing, woven through it.

She accepted he couldn’t pretend to such emotions; she couldn’t recall that he ever had, not with her. But he could conceal; he was a past master at hiding what he felt, one of his most spyworthy talents. While she could sense and be sure of his wanting her, of the sincerity of his belief that he needed her, she couldn’t see what was driving it, what lay behind it. What, indeed, had given rise to it.

One thing she knew beyond question. At twenty, he’d neither wanted nor needed her, not as he did now. She’d been right in defining how the years had changed him-at twenty, the superficial, the obvious, had been all there was; now he was a complex, complicated man, one with hidden depths, still ruled by intense and powerful emotions, but those emotions were now harnessed, controlled, often screened.

The man behind the superficial mask had grown in many ways, had developed depths he hadn’t previously possessed. What drove him to want her was new, one of those facets the years had wrought in him. But what was it?

Her thoughts continued to circle, examining that question from every possible angle…until sleep crept up on her and dragged her down.

The next morning, Nicholas remained confined to his bed awaiting a visit from Dr. Kenton, who Penny had summoned over Nicholas’s protests to check his wounds. When Nicholas appealed to Charles, wordlessly man-to-man, Charles met his gaze stoically and refused to countermand Penny. If it made her feel better to have the doctor call, so be it.

They left Nicholas still weak, but now sulking. Charles hoped he’d grow restless and consent to speak sooner; he was very conscious of wasting the day. He filled the morning writing reports; the first, to Dalziel, he dispatched by rider, the second, a succinct note to Culver informing him of the attack on Nicholas, he left on Norris’s salver.

Culver would be shocked. He would sit in his library and tut-tut, then retreat into his books. He was one person whose reactions Charles could predict with confidence. Not so others in this game.

Once both reports were gone, there was little else for him to do. Dr. Kenton came and went, gravely noting how lucky Nicholas was that neither knife thrust had nicked anything vital. After commending Em’s ointment and Figgs’s bandaging, Kenton advised Nicholas that rest was all he required for a complete recovery.

After seeing Kenton off, Charles prowled around the house. Penny was still in conference with Figgs. He wandered through the library, now cleared of the debris from the smashed display cases, then circled the ground floor, growing ever more restless and edgy. The combination was familiar, the prelude to battle; patience had never been his strong suit.

Yet the battle to come would not come today. Everyone at the house was alert, watchful, careful, very much on guard. While he might have thought to surprise them by returning last night, the French agent-Charles felt confident in dubbing him that-would not call today. Soon, yes, but not yet; he’d wait, hoping they’d relaxat least a little of their vigilance.

To pass the time, he walked through the shrubbery, confirming his memories of the villain’s favorite escape route. He’d been right in not following the man into its shadows in the black of night. The shrubbery was old, its trees and shrubs thick and dense; it would be child’s play for anyone fleeing into it to circle any pursuer and return to the house, leaving said pursuer chasing shadows, unaware.

He walked out of the shrubbery and saw Penny on the terrace. She saw him and waved, then descended the steps and headed his way.

They met in the middle of the lawn; smiling, she linked her arm in his and strolled by his side. He listened while she told him of the household’s reactions, of the staff’s determination to hold firm against the unknown attacker who had taken one of their own, then dared to violate their domain.

Lifting his head, Charles looked at the house. With the staff so resolute and guards in place, Nicholas was safe; he could have so many hours to think. For himself, he wanted to keep Penny with him, which meant keeping her occupied. Nothing from London would reach the Abbey before the afternoon…“If I don’t get out of here, I’ll start badgering Nicholas.” He caught her eye. “Why don’t we take a picnic and ride to the castle? I haven’t been there in years.”

She blinked, then her eyes lit and she nodded. “You get the horses. I’ll order a picnic, then change. I’ll meet you in the stables.”

He let her draw away. Smiling, she headed for the house, clearly eager despite her tiredness. They’d got precious little sleep last night, but more, battling an unidentified assailant was inherently draining. He was accustomed to it, she wasn’t, yet she was holding up well.

Better than most females would, but then he’d always known there was a spine of tempered steel concealed within her slender form.

He watched that slender form cross the lawns and reenter the house, then he stirred and strode for the stables.

Distraction was what they both needed.

It was noon when they reached the ruins of Restormel Castle, dramatically perched above the Fowey valley with sylvan views over field and estuary to the distant cliffs and the sea beyond. A favorite picnic spot for the surrounding families in summer, today it was theirs alone.

Built by the Normans from local gray stone, the castle was a rarity-perfectly circular. Disused for centuries, the curtain wall and outer bailey were long gone; they rode across the dry ditch and into the courtyard of the inner keep, a place preserved out of time.

Dismounting, they exchanged glances. Every child from both their families had run wild here; it was a special place, a well for the imagination to draw on. As he tied Domino’s reins to an ancient ring in the wall, Charles recalled battles he and his brothers had staged there, in the courtyard, their boots scuffing on the stones as they fought with wooden swords, high-pitched voices echoing from the walls. Their parents and sisters had looked down from the battlements, and laughed and smiled.

Penny, too, had her own hoard of memories, in similar vein, happy moments bright with the magic bestowed by childhood’s eyes. She handed her reins to Charles, looked around while he tethered her mare. “Leave the picnic for now.” It was stored in their saddlebags. “Let’s walk the battlements first.”

He nodded. Taking her hand, he led her to the flight of steps that gave access to the now empty hall; from there they took another flight up to the crenellated outer wall.

She stepped onto the stone walkway and paused to look around, to confirm that the building below them, the inner keep, was still as she remembered it, then she turned and let her eyes drink in the sweeping views.

The wind was cool yet soft with the promise of summer, the air fresh and clean, the sun warm but not hot. White wisps of clouds streaked across a cerulean sky. It was an idyllic place, soothing to the soul.

“I don’t know why,” she said, tucking back wisps of hair the breeze had teased free, “but I feel as if the villain, whoever he is, can’t penetrate here. Simply can’t exist here.”

Charles squeezed her hand gently; they started to stroll. “I used to think this was one of those faerie places our nurses used to whisper about. A place that was of this world, but also of the other-a spot where the real and the faerie worlds met, and time didn’t behave as it does elsewhere.”

She shivered delicately, but it was a delicious shiver. “An enchanted place-yes, you’re right. But it never felt haunted to me.”

“No. I decided that was because no bad battles, or betrayals, happened here. It’s as you said. This place has always simply been, and bad things aren’t allowed to happen here.”

Glancing at him, she saw the self-deprecatory smile playing about his lips. She smiled, too, and looked ahead.

Noting the various landmarks, they unhurriedly circled the keep. Nearing the hall once again, Penny paused to glance out one last time. To the left across the river and a little way southeast lay the Abbey; Wallingham Hall lay to the right, farther away and concealed behind a spur of the escarpment.

“Where will we eat?” Charles asked.

Hiding a smile, she turned and followed him down the steep stairs.

They spread a rug under a tree that had sprung up by the side of the dry ditch. The spot still gave them views, albeit more restricted, but also protection from the stiffening breeze. In their oasis of comfort, they munched their way through the delicacies Em had packed into the bags. There was a bottle of wine, but no glasses; Penny laughed and accepted the bottle when Charles opened it and, with a flourish, offered it. They passed the bottle back and forth while commenting on this and that, all matters of local life.

Nothing to break the spell.

When Charles had demolished Mrs. Slattery’s game pie, and between them they’d finished Cook’s almond tart, they drained the bottle, then packed everything away. Hand in hand, they walked back to the courtyard.

Charles attached the empty bags to their saddles. Penny handed him the folded rug; he tucked that away, too. “It’s too early for any courier, isn’t it? They won’t have reached the Abbey yet.”

Charles glanced at her. “Unlikely.”

“In that case”-she looked up at the rooms giving onto the courtyard-“let’s explore.”

Anything to prolong their time in this place, this haven from the world; Charles fell in with her wish without quibble, inwardly acknowledging his own inclination. Outside a murderer might stalk their families’ lands, but while here, time and place were theirs, sacrosanct, inviolable.

He caught up with her in the hall and took her hand. Together, they ambled through the rooms, recalling incidents from earlier times, laughing, smiling at their younger selves. Restormel was a shell keep, the various rooms built around the courtyard. They were traversing the armory beneath the south battlements when Penny glanced out of an arrow slit-and stopped. “Charles?”

He was beside her in an instant.

She pointed. “Isn’t that Gerond?”

A tiny figure on horseback was trotting along the road to Lostwithiel; it was, indeed, Gerond. He was wearing a caped riding cloak.

“He’s alone,” Penny murmured.

“Hmm…I wonder where he’s been.”

“That cloak…” Penny glanced up at him. “You kept that scrap your knife caught last night. Couldn’t we check to see which of them has a torn greatcoat?”

“We don’t need to check-the answer is none.”

She frowned. “Because he would have got rid of it?”

He nodded. “And in this season, it’s perfectly reasonable for a gentleman to go visiting without a greatcoat.”

Staring at the dwindling figure was pointless; it reminded him of their lack of success in identifying the villain thus far. He nudged Penny. “Come on-let’s go on.”

They did, passing through the rest of the chambers, some still roofed, others open to the elements, eventually reaching the ladies’ solar. A small chamber built on a mezzanine level above the main hall, it faced southwest and was bathed in sunshine for most of the day. Its roof was intact. A stone platform worn smooth over the years filled the space beneath a series of thin vertical windows, each narrow enough not to be out of place in a keep, yet the mullions had been cunningly shaped so that, from inside, the series appeared as one large divided window spilling golden light into the room.

As usual, the chamber was invitingly pleasant. Penny stepped onto the stone platform and felt the warmth seep through her boots’ soles. For her purpose, this was the perfect setting. Walking to one window, she looked out; long, thin, and open, the windows stretched from above her head to a foot above the platform. “I used to sit here and stare out, and imagine I was the lady of Restormel Keep, waiting for my husband to return from some typical male military endeavor, like chasing off a band of outlaws.”

Charles came up behind her. He stepped close, then his hands slid around her waist, and he eased her back against him. It felt wonderful to stand there, supported and surrounded by his strength in the sunshine; she leaned back, relaxed, closed her eyes, let her senses unfurl.

And sensed a sudden sharpening of his attention. Opening her eyes, she immediately saw what had caused it. Another of their three suspects, Fothergill this time, was striding across a field, heading west. “He must have been out looking at birds.”

“Hmm.” Charles’s response came as a low growl. “At least he’s heading away from here.”

So he wouldn’t disturb them in their enchanted place. Penny smiled. She had no difficulty following Charles’s thoughts; leaning back against him as she was, it was apparent in which direction they’d gone.

Fothergill marched steadily on, then disappeared over a rise. They’d seen no one else; no one else was likely to stop by. They were as alone and as safe as they could be.

Memories and questions hung suspended in her mind. Possibilities beckoned.

She swayed, just a little, against Charles, then turned sinuously in his arms. He met her gaze, arched a brow as she draped her arms over his shoulders. His hands firmed and he drew her close, her hips flush to his thighs. “So what else did you think of when you sat here, all those years ago?”

His voice had lowered to a tone she thought of as distilled seduction. Her lips curved, but she kept her eyes on his. Wondered for one second if she truly dared…decided she did. Would. “I thought about us.”

“Us?” One brow arrogantly arched. “You and me?”

She nodded. “Yes, even then. I used to think about you being half-Norman, and the other half French, very much like your ancestor who came over with the Conqueror.”

Eyes locked on his, she knew when he picked up her train of thought. He started to follow it, not quite sure…

“And, of course,” she continued, “I’m Norman with a healthy dash of Viking, enough to make me interesting, more of a challenge to a French-Norman lord.” She opened her eyes wide, stared into the midnight depths of his. “Don’t you agree?”

His hold on her firmed. “As a French-Norman lord, I definitely agree.”

He bent his head; before she could stop him he covered her lips with his and demonstrated, amply, just how interesting he found her. For an instant, the rising tide of desire threatened to sweep her before it-the gloriously familiar heat of his mouth, the flaming brand of his tongue, the silkily slow, sensuous claiming of her senses-then she remembered her goal.

He was holding her too tightly, too close to break away. Reaching up, she grabbed a handful of his thick locks and tugged.

Lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes, he looked his question.

She managed to find enough breath to ask, “Don’t you want to know the rest of what I thought about?”

He stilled. Not a freezing type of stillness but one even more absolute, a predator holding perfectly steady so as not to frighten its prey. Not a cold-blooded stillness but an elementally hot-blooded one, one that set their pulses pounding.

His eyes, dark and intense, bored into hers; he searched, confirmed-went to answer…and hesitated.

She felt that hesitation like a rein snapping taut, holding him back. Tilting her head, she studied his face, then returned her eyes to his. “What?”

He held her gaze for a moment, then pressed his lips tight, closed his eyes, and murmured, “I…don’t know if I dare.”

Charles not accept a dare? She could barely believe her ears.

As if expecting that, he opened his eyes and looked at her-wordlessly warning her not to say what she was thinking.

It was her turn to look inquiringly at him.

He heaved a deep sigh and rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know what you might be about to say, but…” After a moment, he raised his head and met her eyes. “You do know that I’m not entirely sane when it comes to you, don’t you?”

It took a minute of searching his face, his eyes, for her to be sure she’d correctly interpreted what he was not very clearly trying to tell her. The look she bent on him was chiding. “Charles, you won’t hurt me-you never have.” He opened his mouth; she cut him off. “Yes, all right, except for that once, but that was inevitable, as you should by now realize-I don’t hold that against you. I do wish you’d forget it!”

Especially if that sensitivity was going to interfere with what she had in mind. Before he could respond, she sank against him, let her fingers trail across his cheek to his lips, followed her fingers with her eyes.

His hold on her firmed again.

“Please…?” She infused just the right amount of coercion into the word.

He sighed, then drew breath. “So what else did you imagine?”

“Well, if I was the lady of Restormel Keep, then obviously”-she lifted her gaze once more to his eyes-“you were my lord.”

He swore softly in French. “Do you really want to venture there”-bending his head, he nipped her lower lip-“lady?”

She laughed softly and drew him back to her. “Oh, yes.” She breathed the affirmation over his lips, then kissed him voraciously, then drew back. He let her, just.

“So,” she said, moistening her lower lip, her gaze lowering to his lips, “you’re my lord, and you’ve just returned from chasing brigands, and I’ve been waiting for you here.” She swayed in his arms, swishing her hips side to side against him. “You’ve just ridden in and come up, ordered my ladies from the chamber, and here I am, in your arms.” She lifted her gaze to his. “What would you do next?”

His eyes had darkened, their expression more intense; the planes of his face seemed harder-more, indeed, like the lord of legend she’d painted him.

“What I do next…would depend on a number of things. Such as…” One hand slid down and around; cupping her bottom, he jerked her up and to him, so the vee at the junction of her thighs cradled his rigid erection. His eyes held hers, watching her reaction as he evocatively rocked. “Have you been obedient? Or not?”

Her nerves were already unraveling with anticipation; it was an effort to cling to enough wits to respond appropriately. Holding his gaze, she arched one brow haughtily. “Me? Obedient? I’m part Viking, remember?”

“Ah. I see.” His gaze, hard and ruthless, raced over her face. “So you haven’t yet been tamed?”

“Oh, no,” she affirmed. “Not yet.”

She pretended to push him away, to wriggle from his hold; he didn’t budge. Relentlessly he held her close, pressed her to him; on a gasp, she turned her head as if spurning him. Locking her to him with one arm, he raised a hand to frame her face, not gently yet as he forced her face to his, there was neither violence nor the threat of it in his touch.

He looked down at her, deep into her eyes.

She glimpsed him behind the ruthless mask, sensed his hesitation. “Don’t stop.”

A whispered plea, it sent a faint shudder through him.

His lids flickered, then he locked his eyes, intent and burning, on hers. Slowly bent his head. “I’m not even sure I can.”

His lips covered hers. Firmed, then forced hers apart. He surged into her mouth, claiming, branding, devastatingly commanding, and passion, unleashed, swept them away. Within seconds she was reeling, unsure if the turbulent tumultuous tide came from him or herself. Or them both. It was her imagination that had scripted the scene, but her words, her fantasy, had struck a chord in him.

Struck a deeply buried vein of ruthless possessiveness and sent it raging.

His hands raced over her, impressing even through the plush velvet of her habit, in some strange way even more erotic than if he’d stripped her naked. She shivered, a reaction that came from her bones. His tongue whipped fire down her veins; his hands roamed, claiming, kneading, flagrantly possessing, and she wondered what she’d invited, what degree of surrender he’d demand.

Realized she didn’t care. She’d asked for this, wanted it, needed to know of it, of him and what, once stripped of the restraint of civilization, lurked within him when it came to her.

So she played her part, simultaneously acquiescent, for no lady could deny her lord his rights to her body, yet also holding back, denying him the ultimate surrender, making him work for that, demanding he conquer her before she would yield that, too.

A dangerous game; the last remnant of sanity remaining to her knew it, yet equally knew that with him, despite him being the very source of the danger, or perhaps because of that, she was safe.

She had nothing to fear and everything to gain. And a great deal to learn.

Such as how desperate he could make her, that simply through the combination of his heavily shielded if blatantly explicit caresses and the voracious demands of his lips and tongue, he could reduce her to a state of sobbing need. To where her blood thundered in her veins, to where her skin burned and her flesh throbbed, and a telltale empty ache blossomed inside her.

Their kiss turned savage, primitive and demanding, then he broke from it and growled, “Do you want me inside you?”

“Yes,” she gasped, breathless, the word faint. “Now.”

His hands closed about her bottom and he moved provocatively against her. “As my lady desires.”

The words rang with maleness, arrogant and sure, dominant and demanding.

He’d been holding her high on her toes; he eased her down so her feet touched the stone slab. Relief flashed through her; she reached up to twine her arms about his neck-he released her, caught her hands and spun her around, then locked her against him, her bottom to his hips, her back to his chest.

“First things first.”

The gravelly words brushed her ear; releasing her hands, he reached for the buttons of her short jacket. He opened it and pressed the halves wide; she used the moment to catch her breath-lost it again when his hands closed over her breasts and kneaded possessively, then he set deft fingers to the buttons of her blouse. The change in protection from velvet to fine linen had made her senses spin, but then he spread her blouse wide, with two tugs stripped down her chemise. A breeze threaded through the window slit before her, caressing her flesh with cool fingers, then his palms cruised over the swollen mounds; his hands closed, hot and hard, taking possession. They kneaded, then his fingers found her nipples and she gasped.

Arched as he knowingly played. She was suddenly brutally conscious of the flaring need to have him inside her, to take him into her body, already ripe and waiting. Wanting.

As if he knew, he released her breasts, caught her hands, drew them forward until her arms were straight, then pressed her hands palms down against the beveled edge of the window slit before them, where the carving in the stone formed a small ledge at hip height.

“Your hands stay there.”

An absolute order. Reflexively, she gripped, wondering; the stone was at least solid beneath her hands. She was half-bent forward; before she could think, she felt him gathering the back of her skirts, felt the rush of cool air across her heated skin as he lifted them. He pushed them to her waist as his hand boldly roved, making free with her body as a lord might with his lady’s. His hand caressed, blatantly claiming; his fingers probed, tracing her softness, opening the swollen folds, then sliding into her, pressing in, then explicitly stroking until she sobbed with frustrated need.

“How disobedient have you been, lady?”

She tried to catch her breath, tried to think-couldn’t, not with his fingers playing so evocatively. “Ah…”

“Never mind.”

She felt him shift behind her.

“You still need to be tamed.”

He thrust into her. In one smooth, powerful, relentless invasion he filled her to the limit, until she could feel him beneath her heart, in her throat, throughout her body.

Then he rode her that way.

Hands locked about her hips, he held her immobile and repetitively filled her, the fabric of his breeches against her bare bottom an added stimulation, emphasizing that to him she was exposed, vulnerable-his for the taking.

And he took.

He’d entered her from behind before, but only in their bed; she’d had no idea it could be this…primitive. This powerful, this erotic. Far beyond breathless, she clung to the stone, arms braced, her body riding his thrusts as he filled her again and again. Lids falling, she gave herself up to the moment, to the experience, to the building excitement as he expertly pushed her sensually further, then further still.

Until she gasped, “Why here? Like this?”

Instinct told her that was important to understand.

“So when you scream my people in the bailey will hear and know of your surrender.”

It took a moment for her reeling mind to digest the implications, to assess the intensity of the sensations buffeting her. “I don’t scream.”

“You will.”

Charles volunteered nothing more, his mind totally engrossed in ensuring she did. Her fantasy, the fact she’d so long ago had the thought of him as her lord…any chance of him retaining even a semblance of control had flown the moment she’d told him. The role she’d created for him was so close to the one he wanted, to the one he needed to claim; had any other lady made the suggestion he’d have thought she was insane to tempt him so, yet with her…it was one of the reasons he had to make her his.

Her breathing had fractured into sobbing gasps; arms braced, she rode his thrusts instinctively, her scalding sheath closing about him, clasping, clinging, drawing every ounce of sensation from each strong stroke, from each powerful penetration. She was close to the edge, the tension inside her coiling ever tighter. He pressed even deeper, freed one hand and reached for her breasts.

Swollen and firm, the heated flesh filled his palm. He played briefly, his thumb roughly circling her aureola, then he caught her nipple between his fingers and squeezed. Hard. Then he synchronized the squeezes with the movement of his hips.

And she shattered.

Screamed.

The sound, purely feminine, intensely evocative, sank into him like a spur and shattered what little control he had left. He thrust harder, deeper, then held still as she convulsed around him; eyes closed, head back, he savored her release.

But it wasn’t enough.

The instant the last of her tension left her, he withdrew from her, letting her skirts fall as he swung her into his arms, then went to his knees. He laid her back on the warm stone before him, arranging her as he wished.

From beneath heavy lids, she watched him, her eyes storm-wracked gray glittering in the aftermath of the tumult she’d just weathered, her lips swollen and parted, her bared breasts rising and falling dramatically. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed wildly.

Her voluminous riding skirts had spread across the slab, the old gold velvet sheening in the sunshine, the back trapped beneath her, protecting her from any abrasion from the stone. Raising the front hem, he tossed the heavy skirt back, exposing her long legs, the damp triangle of fair curls at the apex of her thighs, the white curves of her hips.

He could hear the blood pounding in his head, could feel it pounding throughout his body, echoing the compulsion that drove through his veins. Grasping her thighs, he spread them wide and knelt between. His phallus rose rigid and urgent from the open placket of his breeches. Running his hands up the backs of her thighs, he gripped her lower hips, and lifted her to him.

Slid slowly into the scalding haven of her body. Watched her as he did, sensed her body rise to meet his, welcoming him in, her softness easing about his hardness, accepting, wanting him as much as he did her. When he’d fully impaled her, he withdrew halfway, then thrust deeply in.

Her breath tangled in her throat. Her eyes locked with his, for one long moment she was with him as he rocked deeply into her, then on a shuddering sigh, her lids fell and she wrapped her long legs about his hips and let him have his way. Let him use her body as he wished for his pleasure, ultimately for hers, too. The time came when she could no longer remain passive, when desire rose again and whipped her back into the dance.

And then she matched him. Strove with him as the dance whirled ever faster, as they joined ever more deeply, ever more completely. As they started up the last rise to the pinnacle, she sobbed and reached for him.

He spread his hands beneath her back and lifted her, let her clutch his arms, then bent his head and feasted on her breasts.

The tempo escalated, then whirled out of control.

She screamed again, clutched his head to her breast, arching wildly. Eyes closed, he clung to her, clung until her contractions faded, then eased her back, gripped her hips in an unforgiving grasp and with a series of short, deep thrusts, joined her. Pumped himself into her.

Untold moments passed; his head spun. Eventually, he withdrew from her, slumped beside her, and let oblivion close over him, overwhelming and complete.

Penny wasn’t sure why she woke; her senses stretched, but there was no one else there, just the two of them slumped on their sides on the stone slab, the sunshine pouring over them in gentle benediction.

Peace and stillness enveloped her. Her body felt limp, gloriously so; the passion Charles had wrung from her had left her deliciously weak. Lips curving, she closed her eyes and let her mind range over their recent engagement. It had been far far better than even her wildest dreams.

Gradually other thoughts spun into her mind. Thoughts of him, her unresolved questions, possible answers. In the bliss of aftermath with her mind clear, relaxed, open, it was impossible not to see what the last hour had proved.

Charles lay behind her, deeply asleep, his arm heavy across her waist. She hesitated, then slowly, supplely pushed up from the floor, drawing her legs up and swiveling so she was sitting, her skirts twisted but not yet pulling, still within the circle of his arm, which slid down to cradle her hip.

She looked down at him. For long moments, she studied his face, the features she’d known since childhood, the lines the last decade had etched. It was still a very strong face. She let her gaze roam downward. Still a very strong body, one her own responded to in a flagrantly wanton way. Still.

Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his face, then, drawing in a deep breath, she clasped her arms about her calves, rested her chin on her knees, and looked out over the fields.

How foolish she’d been to imagine she could somehow suspend loving him, could somehow keep her heart from him. Her heart had been his all those years ago; it had never changed, never vacillated no matter what her intellect had dictated. Yet she had changed.

At sixteen, she’d loved him; she could remember what it had felt like-a mere wraith of emotion compared to what she felt now. In the last hour…connecting past with present had revealed how much her love had matured, into something stronger, more vibrant, impossible to suppress, let alone deny. It might have been born long ago, but it was of the here and now, not the past; it was very much a woman’s love, confident and demanding, not a young girl’s fantasy.

She was no longer afraid that he might break her heart-if he hadn’t destroyed it years ago, then he couldn’t now. The years had changed him, but they’d changed her, too; she was now much stronger.

She refused to regret or in any way step back from what had, this time, grown between them. Last time, she had in effect run away, drawn back from loving him because he hadn’t loved her. Not this time. This time, she’d learned what not just love but loving was, how deeply satisfying it could be; she wasn’t going to give up the glory of loving him of her own accord. This time, if anyone was to step back, it would be he.

But would he?

Eyes narrowing, she looked again at his sleeping face, shuttered and closed. She’d assumed that in seducing her he was looking for an affair, a lover for the weeks he was here investigating. She’d stepped into his arms believing that, built her vision of what he was about on that basis.

But her vision was wrong.

He grew suspicious when facts didn’t fit; so did she. The emotional link that had grown between them, that he’d allowed and encouraged to grow between them, didn’t fit with a fleeting affair. Nor did the way he’d dealt with her, until today.

With her eyes, she traced the lines of his face, the sensuous lips, the squared chin. In the last hour, she’d deliberately set out to shake him free of his self-imposed restraint, to see what lay behind it. She’d succeeded well enough to learn what she’d needed to know; the wolf hadn’t changed his pelt for a curly fleece. Regardless of what he allowed to show, underneath he was a conquering French-Norman lord, dominant and domineering, and blatantly, ruthlessly possessive, at least with respect to her.

So why, so consistently over their recent enounters, had he taken the supplicant’s role?

There was only one answer; he wanted something from her. Specifically, he wanted her.

The damned man was wooing her.

That explanation was the only one that fitted; reviewing his behavior, she could see nothing that argued against it. Indeed, he’d even told her she was his perfect bride. He’d been fixed on marrying her from then, but with her mind flatly disavowing any such likelihood, she hadn’t caught the admission in his words.

At some point, he was going to ask her to marry him. She knew him; he would ask in such a way that she wouldn’t be able to avoid giving him an answer. So how was she going to reply?

Inwardly she swore, relieved her feelings by scowling at him, thankfully still sleeping, then looked away across the fields.

Why did he want to marry her? A critical question to which the answer might be a host of partial reasons. He’d mentioned some in declaring her his perfect bride; none was a reason she would accept.

She loved him, but she didn’t know what he felt for her. If it was some mild, impermanent emotion, affection laced with lust and desire, even now she would rather live the rest of her life an old maid than see affection fade and die, know her love was no longer wanted, and have them both grow bitter.

If they weren’t married, then if and when her love was no longer enough for him, they could part; if they were married, they’d be doomed. She could easily see herself as his longtime lover, but tied to him in marriage? Not without love on both sides.

But did he love her? Thirteen years ago, she’d been sure of the answer. Now…her uncertainty felt very strange, but it was real. Worse, not knowing-not knowing what gave rise to his emotional need of her-left her trapped, unable to accept him yet equally unable to refuse him, not until she learned the truth-was love one of the mature emotions he kept hidden behind his mask?

Not for anything this side of hell could she let that question lie unanswered. She’d put away her dream of loving him and having him love her, and all the rest her youthful heart had assumed would follow, thirteen long years ago. She’d never found another dream with which to replace it. Until now, she hadn’t had to face what that meant, that being his wife, lover, and friend was still the only future she truly wanted.

Now…eyes fixed unseeing on the distant sea, she felt that reality to her bones.

Eventually, he stirred; the hand lax about her hip tensed, gripped. Turning to him, she put her thoughts away. She had a week or more, until they caught the murderer, before he would ask, and she would have to answer.

His eyes opened; deepest sapphire blue in the afternoon sunlight, they looked into hers, then he smiled. He reached for her and drew her back down, into his arms, into a succession of increasingly intimate kisses-until she drew him over her, parted her thighs, and wordlessly welcomed him into her body.

Into a slow, heated dance, with his weight moving over her, against her, into her, with her clasping him and holding him close, of her fractured cries as she climaxed, of his low groans as he sought his pleasure in her, of the warmth that flooded her when he found it, of the shattering sensations that sped down her veins, then dissipated in pulsing glory.

The glory slowly faded, leaving, as she was learning it was wont to do, her emotions exposed, at least to herself. She’d never had any choice but to accept them; they were immutable, unswerving. Holding him close, idly stroking his hair, she reminded herself she had time to learn his secrets, to find some way of reading, not just his mind, but his heart-before he demanded hers.