On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 17

Men!

Thank heavens she was stubborn. Stubborner than he.

Toiling up the stairs to the top floor of the Chase, Amelia silently berated her lord and master. He of the masculine persuasion who, in this one matter, was proving to be unbelievably dense.

She couldn't believe he could be so stupid as not to comprehend what was in front of his nose!

After what had occurred on that overhot afternoon, anyone would think the true state of affairs between them ought to be obvious. They loved—were in love. She was in love with him; he had to be in love with her. She couldn't see any alternative — any other way it might be. Any other possibility to explain all that had occurred, and all that had flowed from it.

However, it was now two days—forty-eight hours—later and Luc had said not a word, given not a single sign.

What he was doing was watching her, carefully, which had ensured she'd said not a word.

She didn't dare.

What if the damned man really was so stupid that he didn't see the truth? Or refused to see it — that was much more likely. But if either was the case and she mentioned the word "love," she'd lose every last inch she'd fought so hard to gain. His shields would go up, and she'd be shut outside.

She wasn't silly enough to take the risk. The truth was, she had time; only days ago she'd been congratulating herself on having got so far so fast with him. She — they'd — now gone even further, deeper into the mysterious realm that was love. The mysterious realm love was proving to be. Yet they'd only been married nine days.

It wasn't even the end of June.

So there was no justification for taking any risks by trying to force his hand.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she didn't bother to mute her, "Huh!" As if she could force him to anything.

She'd just have to be patient and stick to her sworn path, cling doggedly to her goal.

"I'm twenty-three!" wailed in her mind.

Resolutely shutting the words out, she headed determinedly down the corridor that ran above the master suite.

"Higgs, have you seen her ladyship?"

The housekeeper was bustling down the corridor, her arms full of fresh linens, two parlor maids in tow.

"Not since just after luncheon, my lord. She was in her parlor, then."

Amelia wasn't in her parlor now; Luc had just been there. Frowning, he turned toward the front hall.

The second parlor maid skidded to a halt and bobbed. "I saw her ladyship going up the main stairs, m'lord. When we was on our way to get these." She lifted the folded linens in her arms.

"That would be about fifteen minutes ago, my lord," Higgs called back.

"Thank you, Molly." Luc strode for the stairs.

As he climbed, he slowed. Wondered why Amelia had gone to their apartments, wondered what she'd be doing when he found her.

Wondered what he would say — what excuse he would give for his appearance.

Reaching the first floor, he paused, then shook aside his reservation. He was married to the damn woman — he had a right to join her whenever he wished.

He strode straight to the bedroom, opened the door — one quick glance told him the room was empty. Disappointment tugged; he looked at the connecting door to her private rooms, then stepped into the bedroom and shut the door. She might have heard his footsteps in the corridor; if he came from this direction, it would appear he was just looking in on her.

But when he sauntered into her sitting room, that, too, was empty. Frowning, he returned to the bedroom, then checked his private room, a place he rarely used, but she wasn't there, either.

Returning to the bedroom, his gaze fell on the bed. Their bed. The bed in which, ever since that afternoon they'd spent in it, they came together without so much as a veil between them emotionally or physically. What reigned in that bed was the truth — what he didn't know, couldn't tell, was whether on her part it meant love.

For himself, he no longer doubted it, but that only made his uncertainty greater, made his question more crucially important.

If what she felt for him was love, then he and their future stood on rock-solid ground.

If it wasn't love… he was in a hideously vulnerable position.

There was no way he could tell. No matter that he'd watched her like a hawk, he'd yet to see any outward sign that she loved him, any evidence that what she felt for him when she took him into her body was more than purely physical.

He stared at the bed, then turned away. For other men, perhaps that — her physical giving — would be assurance enough. Not for him. That belief was one he'd lost long ago.

From the door, he glanced back at the bed. What it now embodied both frightened and buoyed him. At least he had time — a few months. Until the end of September. No need to panic.

Marriage lasted for a lifetime — nothing in his life was currently more important than convincing Amelia to love him, and show it, at least enough so he would know. So he could feel confident, and emotionally safe, again.

Quitting their room, he headed back to the stairs, then paused, nonplussed. Where was she? Intending to descend, he reached for the balustrade — and heard a sound. Faint, distant; he couldn't place it. Then he heard it more definitely, looked up.

A second later, he left the downward flight and took the stairs up to the top floor.

The door off the gallery stood open. Beyond it, looking out over the valley, lay the nursery. He approached the door; courtesy of the runner, Amelia didn't hear him. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her.

She was half turned away, facing a large cot standing between the windows. Taking notes.

The sight made his heart catch, had him quickly calculating… but no, not yet. The emotion that had surged was familiar; in the face of her occupation, it had scaled new heights. He wanted to see her with his babe in her arms — that want was absolute, intense, now an integral part of him. And, thankfully, one facet of his love for her he didn't need to hide.

She lifted her head; he considered the note tablet in her hand. As yet unaware of him, she read what she'd written, then slipped tablet and pencil into her pocket.

Leaving the cot, she moved to a low dresser under one window. She pulled out two drawers, peered in, then slid them shut. Then she looked at the window, studied it, reached out and tugged at the bars set into the frame.

His lips curved. "They're solid. I can vouch for it."

Releasing the bars, she glanced at him. "Did you try to break out?"

"On more than one occasion." Straightening, he strolled to join her. "Me and Edward both. Together."

She looked at the bars with new respect. "If they withstood the pair of you, they must be safe."

He halted beside her; she didn't turn and meet his eye. "What are you doing?"

She gestured, went to step away, but he caught the hand that waved, slid his fingers around her wrist. She frowned, vaguely, at those fingers, then briefly at him. "I've been making a list of all that needs doing. Higgs and I missed these rooms when we went around earlier." She glanced about, waved with her other hand. "This needs refurbishing, as even you must see. It's been what — twelve years? — since there were babies here."

He caught her gaze, trapped it, without looking away, raised her wrist to his lips. "You would tell me, wouldn't you?"

She blinked. "Of course." Then she looked at the window. "But there's nothing to tell."

"Yet." He kept hold of her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers.

After a moment, she inclined her head. "Yet."

His gaze remained on her face, on her profile. Her jaw was set. "When there's anything to tell, you will remember to mention it, won't you?"

She glanced at him. "When there's anything you need know—"

"That's not what I said."

Chin rising, she looked back at the window; he stifled a sigh. "Why weren't you planning on telling me?"

It didn't really matter; if he was capable of keeping track of complicated investments, he was capable of working it out on his own, especially now she'd reminded him. But the fact she hadn't intended to tell him immediately… what did that say of how she viewed him?

"As I said, there's nothing to tell yet, and when you need to know—"

"Amelia."

She stopped, lips compressing. After a moment, she went on, "I know what you'll be like — I've seen all the others, even Gabriel, and he's the most sensible of the lot. And as for you — I know you — you'll be worse than any of them.

I've seen you for years with your sisters. You'll hem me in, confine me — you'll stop me from riding, even from playing with my puppy!" She tugged, but he didn't let her go; eyes flashing, she glared at him. "Can you deny it?"

He met her gaze squarely. "I won't stop you playing with the puppies."

She narrowed her eyes but he didn't flinch, didn't shift his gaze. After a moment, he said, "You do realize that if you were carrying my child, I would want to know, that I would care — not only because of the child, but because of you as well? I can't help you carry it, but I can — and will — keep you safe."

Amelia felt something inside her still. There was a sincerity in his tone, in his eyes, that reached her, touched her.

Under her scrutiny, he grimaced, but his eyes remained on hers. "I know I'll be obsessive, or at least that what I'll decree will seem so to you, but you have to remember that when it comes to pregnant wives, men such as I feel… helpless. We can order our world much as we wish, but in that one arena… everything we want, everything we desire, so much of what's at the core of our lives, seems to be placed in the hands of fickle fate, not only beyond our control, but even beyond our influence."

He'd spoken from the heart. Such a simple admission, one she knew was true, but one men like he so rarely made. Her heart leapt. She turned fully to him—

A commotion outside had them both glancing at the window; they stepped closer and looked down. A large traveling coach rocked to a halt before the front portico; a procession of smaller coaches rolled up in its wake.

Figures streamed from the house; others jumped down from the coaches. The Dowager Lady Calverton, her four daughters, and their entourage had returned from London.

Luc sighed. "Our privacy is at an end."

He looked at her. Amelia met his gaze, sensed his desire to kiss her, a desire that quivered in the air. Then his long lashes swept down; he released her and stepped back, waved to the door. "We'd better go down."

She turned, but instead of heading for the door she stepped closer, stretched up, and set her lips to his. Felt his immediate response, treasured the sweet moment, then she drew back.

Reluctantly, he let her.

She smiled and linked her arm in his. "Yes, I will tell you, and yes, we'd better go down."

"We went to Astley's Amphitheatre and Gunter's, too. And the museum." Portia twirled before the windows of the drawing room; her hours in the coach had in no way dimmed her boundless enthusiasm for life.

"We went to the museum twice," Penelope informed them. The light glanced off her spectacles as she looked up from her seat on the chaise.

Luc glanced at the slight, frail-looking figure sitting beside Penelope. Miss Pink appeared exhausted, as well she might — it sounded as if she'd been dragged all over London several times in the few days his younger sisters had spent in the capital.

"We could hardly waste the opportunity to see all we could."

Luc looked at Penelope; she gazed back at him, brown eyes steady — as usual, she'd read his mind. It was, in his opinion, one of her least attractive habits.

"We all thoroughly enjoyed our time at Somersham," his mother put in, "and although the last days in town were busy with shutting up the house, it was a pleasant and eventful interlude." Minerva sat in her customary armchair, sipping a cup of tea. Her gaze rested briefly on Emily, seated alongside Miss Pink, then she raised her eyes to meet Luc's.

He surmised he'd be hearing more about Lord Kirkpatrick shortly.

"I'm so glad you could all come to Somersham for the wedding." Amelia sat in another armchair, likewise sipping tea.

"It was perfect — just perfect" Portia continued to twirl. "And seeing everyone again — well, we've known them all for years, but it was lovely to catch up and learn how people have got on."

Luc leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece — surrounded, as he'd been for the past eight years, by a sea of females. He was fond of them all, even Miss Pink, although they often laid siege to his sanity. And now he'd added another. One who threatened to be the most unnerving of the lot.

Portia was the most predictable. Ceasing her twirling, she swung to him. With her dark hair and deep blue eyes, she was the most physically like him; she'd also inherited the longer bones of his mother's family — she was taller than Emily, Anne, and Penelope. "I'm going to visit the puppies. They must have grown enormously in the past two weeks."

She bobbed a curtsy, then headed for the French doors giving onto the terrace and lawns.

Luc inwardly grimaced, but felt compelled to say, "The largest male is already adopted — don't set your heart on him." Portia halted and looked back at him, brows high. "I thought he looked a potential champion — have you claimed him, then?"

"No." Luc nodded at Amelia. "I gave him to Amelia."

"Oh!" Portia's smile was genuinely delighted — in more ways than one. She beamed at Amelia. "What have you called him?"

Luc shut his eyes fleetingly, inwardly groaned.

"He seemed very set on questing." Amelia returned Portia's smile. "He's Galahad of Calverton Chase."

"Galahad!" Portia gripped the back of the chaise, her face alight. "And Luc agreed?"

Amelia shrugged. "The name hadn't been used before."

Portia looked at Luc; from her expression she was busily making connections he'd much rather she didn't. Her eyes narrowed, sparkling with intelligent conjecture, but all she said was, "Capital! I'm off to see this phenomenon."

She strode for the French doors.

Penelope set down her cup, swiped up two biscuits. "About time, brother dear. Wait for me, Portia — I have to see this, too."

With a nod to their mother and Amelia, Penelope hurried out after Portia.

The energy level in the room subsided to more comfortable levels. Everyone smiled, relaxing a trifle more. Luc hoped Amelia, at least, imagined Penelope's comment referred to the puppy's name; he was fairly certain his irritating littlest sister had meant something more pointedly personal.

Minerva set down her cup. "Of course, there were a few other events of interest during the past week beyond Astley's and the museum." Together with Emily and Anne, she filled Luc and Amelia in, passing on the good wishes of various hostesses. "When you return to London later in the year, you both, along with Dexter and Amanda, can expect to be besieged."

"With any luck, some scandal will by then have reared its head, deflecting the interest of the fickle." Luc straightened, adjusting one cuff.

Minerva shot him a cynical look. "Don't wager on it. Given Martin and Amanda took refuge in the north, and you married at Somersham and headed immediately up here, the hostesses will be waiting for their moment."

Luc grimaced; Amelia smiled.

Miss Pink, sufficiently restored from the rigors of the journey, rose and quietly excused herself; Emily and Anne, having finished their tea, decided to retire to their rooms.

"I've set dinner for six," Amelia said, as they bobbed to her.

"Oh, good!" Emily said. "We'll be famished by then."

Anne smiled softly. "It's so good to be home."

The instant they'd quit the room, Minerva glanced at Luc. "You may expect a letter from Kirkpatrick — by my guess, within the week."

Luc raised a brow. "He's that serious?"

Minerva's lips twitched. "Impatient, my dear, as I would have thought you'd appreciate."

He let that comment lie.

Minerva added, more seriously, "An invitation to visit here would be appropriate, but I didn't want to say anything until I'd consulted with you."

Her gaze had shifted to Amelia — who suddenly realized the implication; she waved. "Of course." She glanced at Luc. "Late July or early August, perhaps?"

He met her gaze. "Whatever you decide. We'll be here until late September."

Amelia looked back at Minerva.

Who relaxed in her chair. "We can decide once he writes — he definitely will." Her lips curved. "So that's Emily all but settled." Minerva glanced at Luc, then back at Amelia, her smile deepening. "I won't ask how you two are getting on — I'm sure you've been settling in and finding your feet without any great difficulty. Has it been very warm up here?"

Cursing her memory, which immediately focused on that long afternoon she and Luc had spent rolling on their bed, Amelia prayed she wouldn't blush. "We did have a day or two when it was quite hot." She fought not to glance at Luc.

Minerva rose. "The chaos must have subsided by now. Time for me to go up and rest for an hour or so. Six, you said?"

Amelia nodded.

Minerva inclined her head to them both. "I'll see you in the drawing room."

She glided toward the door, then halted. Turned back, frowning. "Actually, while we're alone…" She glanced briefly at the door, then continued, her tone serious, "While I was packing, I found I was missing two items. A grisaille snuffbox — you know it, Luc — and a perfume flagon with a gold collar. They're both small things, but old and quite valuable." She looked at Luc. "Both were in my sitting room, and yes, they're definitely gone, not misplaced. Do you have any ideas?"

Luc frowned. "We haven't taken on any new staff."

"No. That was my first thought, too, but what with running shorthanded for years, everyone still with us has been with us all those years. It seems inconceivable it could be anyone within the house."

Luc nodded. "I'll check with Cottsloe and Higgs — it's possible we had someone through for the chimneys, or something similar."

Minerva's face cleared. "Of course — you're quite right. That's sure to be it. Still, it's a sad day when one has to guard such items every time someone unknown steps over the threshold."

"I'll look into it," Luc said. Minerva nodded and left.

Amelia set aside her empty cup and rose. Both she and Luc remained standing, watching until his mother had passed out of sight beyond the open drawing room door.

Then they glanced at each other; their gazes met, held. They stood a foot apart. Luc reached out, sliding his fingers down over her wrist to twine with hers.

This close, in this light, and because he let her see, the desire that prowled behind his dark eyes was impossible to mistake.

Again she sensed his welling need to kiss her, to touch her — to take her in his arms; like a wash of heat against her skin, it awakened her, drew her to him. A shimmering aura, desire hung between them until, once again, she sensed him rein it in, suppress it.

His gaze still locked with hers, he lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "I'd better go and check what's going on in the kennels. Portia and Penelope have their own ideas about everything, and they're both termagants at heart. And then I really have to do some work in the Office."

She accepted what he was telling her with an easy smile, but when he released her hand, she linked her arm with his and turned toward the French doors. "I'll come to the kennels with you — I want to make sure your sisters don't spoil Galahad."

When they stepped onto the terrace, she murmured, "Let's go via the shrubbery."

It was the longer way to the kennels; Luc hesitated, but acquiesced.

She let him lead her into the courtyards surrounded by the high hedges. Let him lead her past the fountain, to the courtyard where the pool lay limpid under the last of the day's sunshine, where fish flickered and swished, silver flashes in the water.

Convinced him that taking her in his arms and kissing her — just for a little while — was something that despite the advent of his sisters could, with a little determination, still be squeezed into his schedule.

That evening, the magnitude of what Luc faced within his family became clear.

Sitting at the end of the long table, now comfortably filled, Amelia watched, and learned, and, despite having to struggle to keep her lips straight, felt for him.

He was out of his depth.

She'd never imagined seeing him like that — that such a situation could ever be — yet here he was, manfully trying to cope with four very different females, all of whom were under his protection. He was their guardian.

And his evening had got off to an unsettling start.

Handing a platter of beans to Emily, seated on her right, Amelia noted again the abstracted quality of Luc's eldest sister's gaze. Emily's thoughts were very definitely elsewhere, dwelling on exceedingly pleasant memories.

She'd had her suspicions of just what such memories might be; a nonchalant question when they'd gathered in the drawing room earlier and she'd drawn Emily a little apart, concerning Lord Kirkpatrick and Emily's feelings for him, had elicited such a glow in Emily's eyes, and her words, as to confirm just how definite matters had become between Emily and his lordship. Hardly a problem given Minerva was expecting an offer any day.

Squeezing Emily's hand, she'd smiled with feminine comprehension, then turned — to find Luc's dark blue gaze fixed on them. He'd excused himself to his mother and Miss Pink, and come prowling over; she'd been ready to step in should he attempt to interrogate Emily, but that damsel, a light blush to her cheeks, simply put her nose in the air and refused to be meek.

Instead, greatly daring, Emily had confessed that she found his lordship quite manly, indeed, all she could wish for in a husband.

Amelia saw Luc clench his jaw, probably wisely biting back a demand to be told all. She doubted he'd enjoy hearing it.

Emily's comment, and the fact she'd looked at Luc in its wake, evoked the inevitable comparison. Kirkpatrick was well enough, well set up and decently handsome, but to rhapsodize him when one had grown up with Luc — that was a clear demonstration of Emily's state.

It was Luc who was masculine beauty personified — grace, elegance and aristocratic polish doing nothing to hide the hard, sharp, darkly menacing qualities of steely strength and inflexible, arrogant will. It was Luc who had always sent a shiver down her spine. And still did.

He'd noticed — his gaze had swung to her, sharpened. "Dinner is served, my lord, my ladies." Cottsloe had bowed in the doorway, struggling not to beam. The whole family bar Edward was here, at home once more, and all was perfect in Cottsloe's world.

She'd been grateful for the interruption. Placing her hand on Luc's sleeve, she'd let him lead her in. Let him seat her at the end of the table, at the place she hadn't occupied since their wedding night.

The touch of his fingers trailing over her bare arm evoked a memory of past thrills; she'd considered sending him a frowning glance — instead, she got distracted, wondering… Luckily, the meal provided a diversion, especially with Portia and Penelope present. Portia, fourteen, was a hedonist, bright, cheery, and sharply intelligent. With her looks and her tongue, and her quick wits, she was so much like Luc that of the four, he found her most difficult to deal with.

Portia tied him in knots. At every opportunity.

Despite that, the affection that flowed between them was apparent. It took Amelia most of the meal to realize that Portia had set herself to play the role of Luc's nemesis, at least within the family, making sure her eldest brother never got too arrogant, too above himself with masculine condescension.

No one else would dare, at least not to the extent Portia did. She herself would never have opposed Luc so definitely as did Portia — not in public. In private… in reality, she had more power than Portia over Luc, more chance of altering his entrenched behaviors where they needed adjustment. She wondered how, given that Portia was only fourteen, she might explain, might suggest that Portia could now leave her brother's arrogance in the delicate hands of his wife.

For unknowingly — Amelia was quite sure unintentionally — Portia was also grating on something else in Luc — the very thing that made him what he was, but which also gave rise to the worst instances of what appeared to be his masculine high-handedness.

She could see it, and was mature enough to value it where Portia did not.

Luc cared deeply for his sisters — not just in the general way of duty, because they were in his care, and had been for the past eight years — but in a manner that went to the heart of family, and what family meant to him.

As she watched him frown and snipe intellectually with Portia, Amelia was reminded of his earlier words about their potential offspring.

He would have to know — she would have to tell him as soon as she herself was sure. It was simply that important to him. So important it was the first thing he'd deliberately revealed now the barriers between them had come down. He'd asked, admitted more than he'd needed to — a confidence she knew how to value and knew she needed to return.

That unwavering, unreasoning, unconditional devotion was there in his expression, in the effort he made to cope, to remain as far as he could in control of his sisters' lives. With or without their consent.

Emily was almost at the point of stepping out of Luc's care, but he'd deal with that by passing her hand to Kirkpatrick. Until he did, however… Amelia made a mental note to suggest to Emily she avoid giving her brother any potentially inflammatory information he didn't need to know.

Then there was Anne, who remained so quiet that everyone was forever in danger of forgetting she was there.

Anne was seated on Amelia's left. She smiled at her, then set herself to learn how Anne had found her first Season. Anne knew her, trusted her, confided in her easily; while she absorbed Anne's reactions, Amelia felt Luc's dark gaze resting on them and dutifully made mental notes.

She was more than socially adept enough to, while listening to Anne, also glance at Penelope, the youngest, seated in the next chair. In terms of the number of words she uttered, Penelope could well have been judged "quieter" than Anne. No one, however, was at all likely ever to forget that Penelope was present. She viewed the world through the thick lenses of her spectacles — and the world knew it was being weighed, measured, and judged by a shrewd and highly intelligent mind.

Penelope had decided at an early age to become a bluestocking, a woman for whom learning and knowledge were more important than marriage and men. Amelia had known her all her life, and could honestly not remember her ever being otherwise. Presently thirteen, brown-eyed and brown-haired like Emily and Anne, but possessed of a decisiveness and confidence her older sisters lacked, Penelope was already a force to be reckoned with, but just what she planned to do with her life, no one had as yet been informed.

Portia and Penelope got on well, as did Emily and Anne, but the older sisters were forever at a loss when it came to dealing with their juniors. Which threw an added burden on Luc's shoulders, for he couldn't, as a male in his position normally would, rely on Emily and Anne, or indeed on his mother, to keep the younger two within bounds — bounds neither Portia nor Penelope truly recognized.

And they encouraged each other. Where the elder girls shared aspirations, so, too, did Portia and Penelope. Unfortunately, their aspirations did not lie within the areas generally prescribed for gently bred young ladies.

As things presently were, the pair of them looked set to turn Luc's black hair grey. Amelia glanced at Luc's dark locks, inwardly frowned.

A moment later, she caught Luc's eye. She smiled, and reminded herself she was, after all, his wife.

Which meant she had a right and a duty to ensure his black hair remained just the shade it was for the next several years.

She'd come to that conclusion, made the resolution, by the time she climbed into their bed that night. Snuffing out the candle, she lay back, and considered the hurdles she'd decided to face with a welling sense of rightness.

One of those hurdles was gaining his agreement, his understanding, his acceptance of her help, but she was too wise, when he joined her half an hour later, to mention the matter.

He himself brought it up; halting in the dimness by the side of the bed, he reached for the tie of his robe. "Did Anne give you any indication of how she felt about the Season — the ton?"

Eyes and the better part of her mind fully absorbed as he loosened the robe, then shrugged out of it, she murmured, "If you mean how she feels about the subject of a husband, I don't think she does."

He frowned, knelt on the bed, then slumped down beside her, propped on one shoulder on top of the silk sheet that covered her to her shoulders. "Does what?"

"Have any real thoughts of a husband." She twisted to face him. "She's only what? Just seventeen?"

He raised his brows at her. "You think she's too young?"

She met his gaze. "Strange though the thought may be to you, not every girl dreams of being wed as soon as she's out."

A moment passed, then, his gaze steady on her face, one dark brow arched higher. "Didn't you have girlish dreams of being wed?"

She wondered if she dared tell him that the only dreams of marriage she'd ever entertained had transformed into reality. He was the only gentleman she'd ever dreamed of marrying. Nevertheless, as she felt between them the inexorable rise of the compulsion that now ruled them here, in their bed, where neither any more pretended otherwise, she was very glad — gave thanks to the gods — that she'd waited until she was twenty-three to tackle him.

"I'd be surprised if Anne doesn't have dreams of marriage, of what she wants her marriage to be. But I sincerely doubt — no, I know — that she's not yet thinking specifically about stepping into that sphere. She will when she's ready, but it won't be yet."

He studied her face, then lightly shrugged. "There's no need for her to do anything in that arena until she wishes to." She smiled. "Precisely."

She lay still, watching, waiting, letting her gaze roam his face while heat and desire welled and swelled and grew between them. Waited for him to make the first move, confident that whatever route he chose to take, the outcome would be novel, and as exciting, fascinating, and enthralling as she wished. In this sphere, his imagination had, she suspected, no bounds. His understanding of what she would find thrilling and pleasurable had proved, thus far, to be one hundred percent reliable.

After a long moment, his lips curved; his teeth flashed as he smiled. Then he leaned closer, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.

He didn't touch her in any other way, simply kissed her — while they both lay naked with only the flimsiest barrier of silk between their heating bodies.

And the temperature steadily escalated. Rose as he demanded her mouth, then took rapaciously when she offered. Yet with not so much as a finger did he touch her.

His body was like a flame, a source of pure heat beside her; she could feel that heat, warm, alive and so well remembered, all down the length of her. Her skin itself seemed to yearn — to burn with the need to touch, and be touched.

A yearning that only grew.

Then he drew back, looked down. Hooked one long finger into the sheet, now tight about her swollen breasts; crooking his finger between her breasts, he didn't so much as graze her skin as he drew the sheet down, easing it down to her waist.

His gaze touched her face, then he bent his head. And set his lips to her nipple. He didn't touch the soft skin of her aching breasts, but only the aureole — tortured the tightly budded peak until she arched and gasped.

The instant he released her, she slumped onto her back, giving him access to her other breast. He bent his head and repeated the exquisite torture until she cried out and reached for him.

He caught her hands before she touched him, locked them both in one of his. Anchored them above her head as he reached again for the sheet, and tugged it still lower.

To her hips.

This time, when he bent his head, his tongue touched her navel. Probed, circled, probed again.

She'd never truly considered that one of those spots that could make her weep with need; with her skin on fire, with her body burning with the need to feel him against her, with that confined, restricted caress, he proved her wrong.

When he next raised his head, he drew the sheet all the way down and away. Releasing her hands, he grabbed two pillows, simultaneously moving down the bed.

"Lift your hips."

She did, knowing full well what was coming when he stuffed both pillows beneath her. She expected him to run his hands up her legs, to caress them. Instead, he grasped her knees — lifted them up and wide as he settled between, and bent his head to her.

Covered her with his mouth, caressed her with his tongue.

She smothered her cry, suddenly unsure.

He lifted his head to murmur, "No one can hear."

She hauled in enough breath to ask, "Even if I scream?"

Dark satisfaction rumbled in his voice. "Even then."

He bent to his task; she lay back, and let the fire wash over her. Her skin was aflame, her nerves leaping, even though he was only caressing her there, at her core. He held her knees so wide her thighs didn't touch him; she could have reached the top of his head, but it seemed more important to close her fists tight in the sheet beneath her, as if she could thus cling to her wits, to the world as he wound her tighter and tighter.

Notch by steady, knowing notch… until she fractured.

She saw stars, felt the heat and the force swirl through her body. Felt his satisfaction in the way his mouth worked on her, the way his tongue filled her.

Then the pillows were gone and he surged over her.

And he was inside her, all around her, surrounding her with heat, fire and flaming passion. He drove into her and she ignited; her skin, so long denied, like white-hot lava merging with his, her entire body hungry and greedy to touch, to take, to consume and be consumed.

She grabbed him, held him tightly.

Luc felt her nails bite as she writhed beneath him, riding the wave of ecstasy he'd conjured, as she strove as passionately, as desperately as he to reach the next pinnacle of promised delight.

Their bodies knew each other deeply, completely; they merged and fused, unrelenting in their need.

Consumed, consummating in that moment of absolute trust, of abject surrender.

And then they were there, at the highest peak of earthly delight, and the inferno took them. They gave themselves up to it, bathed in the flames, and let the glory fill them.

The moment stretched, held, then slowly faded as, locked together, they tumbled back to reality. The fire waned, until it was nothing more than glowing embers, buried inside them.

It would never be anything less — their shared hearth would never be cold, never lonely; the fire that now smoldered within would always keep them warm.